She was in charge of the club
in the Combat Zone,
handed us little suits
to pull up over our juicy
thighs—warm to the touch
from layers of clothes protecting us
from the wretched Boston winter—
no zipper just stretchy material,
coarseness I still remember.
The cups for our breasts
were sized to fit, but the body part
was one size fits all. It was a job
back in college—big tips, we’d heard—
glamorous, way better than The Pewter Pot
where I’d dropped a whole dinner,
ketchup and all, on a man’s lap.
I’d be trading a chambermaid cap
for bunny ears, need only carry
a tray of drinks, bend over once in a while,
shake my bunny tail. We went, my friend
Shelly and I, for the audition. Open call
said the ad in the Boston Globe.
Bunny Mother wrapped the bow ties
around our necks, watched us walk in line
(I bought the spike heels at Filene’s for $2.99),
watched us pretend to serve drinks to fake men.
I forgot to smile, was looking for the exit
of the dark hollow club buried beneath
the Pussycat Theatre. I remember the sweat
beads between my breasts sunk inside
their latex containers, Bunny Mother reaching
down my chest to lift them up, fill out the cup,
could hear my mother’s voice, stand up straight,
my butt felt too big, and the tights they made us wear
had no crotch, just a hole to remind us.