Bee of Suicide Girls

The Suicide Girls Live Burlesque Tour

SuicideGirls.com is not your uncle's porno. The site, launched in September 2001 by a lass who calls herself Missy Suicide, provides a sex-positive forum that celebrates hawt tattooed and pierced chicks. Enough with the nipped-and-tucked toys with their Barbie-doll images and gross fake tans. The SG girls are vibrantly real. Visitors have access to the girls' journals, lists of their favorite things, photos (of course), and even some video footage. They're not just lust objects – they're personalities. But before you digest images of skinny, underwashed emo boys in black-framed glasses sitting in front of their laptops while bopping off to the girl with purple hair and multiple lip rings, you should know that half the SG subscribers are female.

When the Suicide Girls take their show on the road, the masses show up. All the shows on their last tour were sold out. I headed to the Knitting Factory on Friday February 6, 2004, the second of the two-night SG NY stint. I put my phone on "vibrate," stuck it in my front jeans pocket, and instructed everyone I knew to call repeatedly between the hours of 9 and midnight.

Before the show, the Girls – I think there were eight – loaded up on cocktails and traipsed hand-in-hand through us fawning plebeians. They were happy, chatty, and obviously knew they were the shit. Perky breasts, short skirts, KISS boots, and corsets were standard. Awesome. Finally, all my issues with erectile dysfunction were going to be resolved. I felt like a leper at Lourdes.

Two bands played before the Girls came out. I think they had guitars. I don't remember. The live music was as necessary as a barbecue grill in Hell.

And then, as per custom, I encountered a less-than-favorable individual. A scrawny elder man with a mostly-bald head stood behind me and spoke directly in my ear. My Creep Alarm went on high-alert. "Are you here by yourself?" he asked. (Note to self: pay someone to be seen in public with me.) Yeah. I turned around and made it obvious the conversation was over. Not so. "Can I ask you a question?" Fuck. My eyebrow went up. What came out of his mouth next disarmed me quicker than an entire police unit. I can safely say it was the most shocking moment of the entire night. He said: "What's the attraction?" Was this a trick question? Am I getting Punk'd? The attraction?

Angel of Suicide Girls

Hmm, let's see, what could possibly be attractive about beautiful nubile women with brightly colored tattoos taking their clothes off and writhing around to sexy music? I was too taken aback by his inquiry to think of some smart-ass answer. I stared at him for longer than necessary. He was completely serious. He sincerely wanted to know why I was here. Slowly, I said, "The girls?" I hesitated because I was still dumbfounded that I was being asked such a seemingly rhetorical question. What the shit did he think I was there for? A chance meeting with a psycho? I turned around again, a bit unnerved. "Can I ask you something else?" Holy shit, he was obviously in the market for a black eye. I glared back. "Do you have any… piercings?" (Note to self: research the prices of taser guns.) Okay, he officially crossed over into the Dirty Old Man category. N-no I said through gritted teeth. (What I should have said was "Yes, my scrotum is pierced and I have a silver stud through each nut. Oh, and my prostate has a tattoo of David Hasslehoff on it. Wanna see?") The man had the nerve to reply, "That doesn't help me," and glumly walked away as if I somehow shattered his dreams of doing a pierced vixen. Dirtbag.

I digress. When the strip-club music came on, all was righted. Three girls came out and did a little 1950s routine, doffing their clothes until they were left with nothing but thongs and electric tape over their nipples. (Unless a club has a titty license, nipples are a no-no.) It was hot, but it felt more like a high-school recital gone perv than anything delectably lascivious. And that was pretty much the tone of the rest of the performances. The Girls were sexy, lively, and loving every second of their time onstage. The crowd was a' flutter. The faux-lesbo antics of kissing and quickly rubbing each other's tops-and-tails were sweeter than they were naughty. It's hard to rock a wicked stiffie when you're giggling at such cheeky cuteness. (Not literal cheeky cuteness, though their cheeks were way cute, indeed.)

Each burlesque scene had a theme. There was a pimp theme, a Reservoir Dogs theme, a cheerleading theme, etc. My second-favorite performance was the white trash theme. Joan Jett's rendition of "Do You Wanna Touch Me" blared on the speakers. A Girl with a wife-beater, trucker hat, and stuffed tightie-whities trounced onstage waving her middle fingers and carrying cans of Coors Light. "He" took a seat and proceeded to rub a porno mag on the bulge between his legs. Then the bitter wifey appeared, making a stink of the porno and her no-good man. Cat fight ensues. She rips off his top, yanks down his underwear (a back-up pair was in place, damnit) and they both get doused in beer (so did the audience). Laugh riot.

The finale was one of the greatest things ever. A plastic tarp was put on the stage floor, and all the girls came out with nothing but thongs on. They were carrying bottles of chocolate syrup and cans of whipped cream. Oooh fun! But what made everyone lose their shit was the music. Of all the songs to end with, the geniuses of SuicideGirls picked to end with "Suck On My Chocolate Salty Balls" from "South Park" (as sung by Isaac Hayes, a.k.a. "Chef"). And it was on. They greased each other up like little pigs, licking, spanking, and rubbing to their content.

What warmed my heart (among other places on my body) was just how much fun the Girls were having. It was a wonderful display of sexual and soulful pride, and nothing is hotter than an army of strong, confident, almost-naked women.