![]() ![]() Winter 1997: I receive an Xmas fax from Xaviera, full of upbeat news. Still, I can't resist considering it.Ī voice, bellowing from the centre of my brain: 'Are you crazy, ya stupid schmuck? This shiksa will eat you for breakfast, then reach for a toothpick!' (The voice in my head is Jackie Mason, the Jewish comic, who functions as my sort of Fairy Godfather). I need sound, lights and a stage manager. It's a proper play in which I act out all 14 characters. My show cannot be performed in a front room. I mumble something noncommittal and flee in a taxi. I am being commanded to perform in the home of the Happy Hooker. This is the woman who scaled the heights of the American sex industry, who rose from novice call girl to madam of New York's best-connected brothel, who wrote the ultimate porn bestseller. Now I remember! They used to crown a column in Penthouse magazine: monthly advice on every imaginable sexual permutation. You will perform your show in my front room for 60 people.' There is something familiar about those vixen eyes. Her sexual energy shimmers through a rainbow-hued tent dress.Īn offer/demand is tendered in Dutch-accented English: 'My name is Xaviera Hollander. It has to be right away!' Pacing the street outside the Assembly Rooms is a fabulously upholstered grande dame with vixen eyes and gunmetal-grey hair. ![]() I've just finished a performance of my solo show The Prince Of West End Avenue when Amelia, my demure young stage manager, appears backstage ashen-faced and trembling: 'There's a. ![]()
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