The Wild Wild West

Evelyn shares her thoughts on ladies who falsify their cup size.

Lobby card for A Night At The Follies (1947).

Everyone has prurient interests; it's a part of the human condition. Whether those interests are seasoned with psychological detritus is dependent on the person in question. As with all of the pieces that make up the pie chart of the (ideally) rounded human personality and worldview, of course, it's about finding a balance. About making sure we're not so surgically focused on one aspect of ourselves and fetishizing it, that we lose sight of all of the other important stuff that makes us us; or shutting ourselves off from other points-of-view or ideas. At the risk of sounding once-again like Joe Friday  barking at "these times", with the continuing struggle rational, progressive-minded people face in the long outmoded sexist mindset that one gender is merely a pleasure device and thusly has no place in the broader world of business and human development beyond, well, developing humans (and dinner), and the equally zealous stance of another faction that brands any form of figure appreciation baseless commodification, sex has become a sticky subject.

Of course I don't need to tell about the selling power and influence some expertly teased pulchritude or pudendum has on the buying public. It only takes a web search for, well, anything, to verify that. Porn, strip clubs–these things are more prevalent than ever. I'm not putting a moral qualifier on them, just pointing out that while floor shows and burlesque houses and under-the-counter stag loops existed in the myopically viewed "Good Old Days" that a lot of people seem to want to return to, despite all of the fallout that would occur from such a backslide, that in the age of the Internet, the lever seems to have been cranked so far in the other direction, that there isn't a reasonable middle ground anymore. 

There is such a thing a sex positivity and yes, as a heterosexual male I am able to appreciate the form of a female without reducing said female to the simple embodiment of said form, or being disrespectful about it. I know you only have my word on the matter, and in the interest of full disclosure I am probably self-biased, but there you have it.

Evelyn campaigns for nudity.

Before the draw of strip clubs became, primarily, the dancers' pole dexterity and the amount of Motley Crüe and 50 Cent on the sound system blaring in the background, or Ed Hardy Lotharios with big wads of singles sitting around pretending that they're big shots because the lap dance squad seem to be paying them a lot of attention, there was the performance art and spectacle of the burlesque routine. Where basement-level, baggy-pantsed comedians would try to amuse audiences between dance routines ranging from painstakingly choreographed dance numbers with intricate costumery and thematically linked stage dressing set to live bands, to top-tossing strip teasers disrobing to records. Yes, it was still essentially women taking their clothes off to music, but admittedly the world of burlesque dancing isn't just about sex. It requires creativity, skill and panache. It's about tease and seduction, not in-your-face anatomy.

Burlesque dried up in the 1960s, but like vinyl, is hip again; it's been en vogue for the last decade or so, and fortunately it's retained the performance art aspect and sensuality of the art form rather than being rebirthed as a kitschy cousin to the LIVE NUDE GIRLS atmosphere of a Spearmint Rhino or Tom's Jiggle Hut. There are, of course, a number of names associated with the past-time, both classic and contemporary, from Bettie Page and Candy Barr to Dita Von Teese and the Pontani Sisters, and most metropolitan areas have a thriving contemporary burlesque scene that incorporates not only traditional female performers, but LGBTQ acts as well. 

One of the big name stars of the salacious stage of yesteryear is Evelyn West. Born Amy May Coomer to a poor farming couple in Kentucky in 1921, Amy moved around quite a bit from Kentucky to Chicago to Sacramento, California, following her mother through a divorce, re-marriage  and eventual relocation for plant work during World War II. After the war, Amy began to strip in San Francisco, and eventually made her way to Los Angeles, where she appeared in the 1947 stag feature A Night At The Follies. In the fifties she returned to the midwest, where she married a St. Louis club promoter named Al Charles. When Al passed, she moved to Hollywood (Florida, that is) and spent her golden years interacting with fans online until her death in 2004.

Like most exotic dancers of the time, she supplemented her income by posing for men's magazines, similar to the way adult film stars of the 80s and 90s would appear as Penthouse Pets and double as headlining dancers in strip clubs. Or so I'm told.

Clearly Evelyn had some ideas about the male-female relationship, as indicated by the blurb in the top image. It's hard to tell how serious she was with the quote, as she reportedly had a pretty wry sense of humor and was an ardent publicity hound as well. She allegedly had her 39-and-a-half inch bust insured for fifty grand by Lloyds of London, the same company that Creature From The Black Lagoon star Julie London had her legs underwritten with. 

Whatever you think of Evelyn West and her career choice, you have to concede that it was a choice, and that even through all of her exploits, she carried herself with confidence and a self-awareness that intimated that she was a glamour girl because she was comfortable enough with herself to be one, seemingly not because she was using it as some sort of thrill-seeking psychological balm.

Evelyn West with her Lloyd's Of London contract.