it’s around noon, late October, in a small town on the northwestern edge of the Colorado Desert. The outside air is clean and fresh, almost cold. A breeze blows through an open balcony door. Indoors, a modestly sized living room is jam-packed with dazzling paraphernalia, effects from the glamorous past of the lady who lives here. She’s worked in burlesque since the early 1960s.
Heavily sequined outfits hang from a chrome-plated wardrobe rack. Feather boas of all colors. In one corner a mannequin with a blond wig and white negligee, on the walls paintings and framed drawings. (“From artists and fans all over the world,” she later explains.)
Random sparkling knickknacks, accumulated manifestations of decades working the twilight zone, pushing sensual delights somewhere out there between rhinestone hallucination and flaming reality.
This is her place. Satan’s Angel. The Devil’s Own Mistress. Queen of the Fire Tassels.
Also in this issue: Feast your eyes on “the finest, raunchiest, most teasing poster art from the world of burlesque … ”
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Queen of the Fire Tassels.
