In about 1978 my fiance and I were both in school. One of his friends had a Playboy key. We were his guests several times after ROTC military balls. I'm sure the gentlemen were kind enough to refrain from sharing with us women their manly thoughts. But it was clear that we all felt the same sense of history, a part of being in our city and proud north siders.
The Club had a discotheque at this time, of course. We girls were in our long gowns, corsages and Farrah hairdos. The place was packed but still had a table for us to enjoy cocktails. The Bunnies served and we ladies stared at them more than the guys who were old enough to drink but not suave enough to openly flirt.
My impression was this: they worked very hard on their feet as any server but were in uniforms that were akin to Scarlett O'Hara's corset. They were kind and cheerful. Most were pretty with perfect figures but I did not think any prettier than I. The job afforded them the opportunity to wear make up and hairstyles that would have looked "overdone" on civilian women.
I nursed my Seagram's 7 and 7 Up but the music called me. My fiance danced with me, his friends danced with me. A peculiar thing about Chicago at that time was that girls did not dance with girls at most clubs. Girls who danced with girls had their own clubs. I had no interest in sitting.
The floor was so crowded that I ventured out there alone. At first, I positioned myself so that it would appear that I was sharing a man with another girl. As the night wore on, I abandoned myself to the music and danced alone in the same manner I did in front of my mirror at home. The music, the ensuing endorphins and my beautiful dress left me free to express myself in my own unique way.
After 3 hours, my fiance appeared to drag me home. My hair was soaking wet and straight but I glowed. I had surrendered to the dance.
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