Holly Madison - The Vegas Diaries: Romance, Rolling the Dice, and the Road to Reinvention

The country here is rich and pleasant, but you must pass through rough and dangerous places before you reach the end of your journey.

L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

February 2002

T he velvet curtain raised slowly, teasing the expectant audience, as a collective intake of air seemed to still the room. Inch by inch, a decadent pair of jaw-dropping red six-inch stilettos were revealed, illuminated by a soft spotlight. Attached to these glittering heels were two perfectly toned legs that, as the curtain continued to rise, seemed to go on for miles. Seductively wrapped in silky, sheer stockings, these glamorous, glistening gams existed in a world of their own.

It was my first introduction to the world of burlesque, and I was hooked.

W RAPPED IN A BLACK vinyl dress that appeared to be painted on, a bouncing blond ball of energy had burst into a Playboy mansion buffet dinner and smacked a flyer in the middle of the table advertising a burlesque show. It was 2002 and a petite beauty named Stacy Burke began frequenting the infamous estate, where I was then living. Stacy was a popular fetish model, and in Los Angeles during that period of time, the fetish scene and the world of burlesque tended to overlap.

Itll be fun, you really should come! she repeated after meeting a bit of reluctance from Mr. Hugh Hefner. To say he was a creature of habit would be a wild understatement: He did the exact same things in the exact same order each weekand a Saturday-night cabaret show was not part of the usual agenda. Needless to say, I was surprised when Stacys charming enthusiasm did the trick: Hef announced that wed be diverting from our previously scheduled programming in order to attend this adult revue the following weekend.

The show, called Swank, was held at the El Rey Theatrean art deco movie house built on Wilshire Boulevard in the 1930s, which had since been transformed into a live venue.

I wasnt sure what to expect from the show itself. I didnt know much about burlesque at the time and was just grateful that we were doing something that was a departure from our rigid routine.

Our group arrived a few minutes before showtime, and we were led to a VIP table near the stage. Moments after we took our seats, sensuous music started pouring through the speakers, filling the room with a tantalizing, sexy beat. A spotlight hit the center of the velvet curtains, signaling the start of the show.

Each enthralling act, one after the other, topped the last. I was spellbound, my eyes fixated on the seductive performers who seemed to keep the attention of everyone in the room with such graceful ease. There was a woman called Mistress Persephone, with her skin painted blue, performing as a Shiva-style goddess; a blond tassel twirler; and the headliner, an on-the-cusp-of-fame Dita Von Teese. The raven-haired beauty spun around the stage, dancing en pointea ruby-red-clad, jewel-box ballerina come to life.

Besides the obviousthe glamour and the sex appealthere was something else that made this show utterly intoxicating: it felt like art. The skill and craft each entertainer brought to the table was undeniable. The costumes were just homespun enough to say: I made this. This is my creation. Every routine was so well-tailored to the individual performer that I had to believe each one was an original number. Every act showcased the artists individuality. These performers werent carbon copies of one another, far from it, and they were celebrated for their differences. Sitting around our VIP table was one bottle-blond fembot after the next, clad in some version of the same outlandish bustier, and all slightly dead behind the eyes. In burlesque, a woman could be both sexy and unique. In the world I was in, you were compared and judged on your ability to assimilate to a set standard of what made a woman attractive, all the while feeling ever so lucky if you were thrown a token compliment once in a while.

From that night on, burlesque became my obsession. I was desperate to see every show I heard about and read virtually everything I could find on the topic. Not having had any professional dance or stage experience, I didnt imagine taking up the art form myself, but as I learned a long time ago, sometimes fate has a funny way of putting things in your path.

During the second season of the E! reality series The Girls Next Door, Hef, the other two girlfriends, and I jetted off on a European press tour. This included a stopover in Paris and a visit to the iconic Crazy Horse, or Le Crazy, as locals call it.

Located in one of Pariss most fashionable arrondissements, the venue was lit with a simple neon sign that read Crazy Horse de Paris above white canopy overhangs. After entering the red-carpeted lobby, we descended the darkened stairway into the self-proclaimed sanctuary of glamour, an intimate cabaret filled with plush velvet chairs and banquettes swathed in the venues signature crazy red color. As an usher escorted us to our seats, I asked her about the women who performed in the show. I was surprised to learn that every Crazy Horse dancer had to be classically trained in the art, and before even stepping onto the legendary stage, each woman was required to complete another round of rigorous training. This show was not for amateurs.