A Big Night Out with the Micro Maidens
They bill it as “The world’s one and only little person burlesque show.” This is a reach. And no, I did not intend to make that pun, but I’m happy I did. When one thinks burlesque, what comes to mind is seductive choreography, feats of sexual prowess, a nod to yesteryear’s pinup girls, sirens pulling you into a subdued desire with their slow and calculated gyrating hips and arched backs. A peep show, a strip tease for the well-mannered crowd.
Micro Maidens is not that. Micro Maidens is an aggressive strip club with pasties.
A lot of modern burlesque shows have a theme where they take a piece of pop culture and fetishize it. The Empire Strips Back, Heauxs of Hogwarts. They take a gimmick and add kink to the class. The gimmick at Micro Maidens is dwarfism. And for the faint of heart, the fearful, and the prude, it can be unnerving. But for the brave, adventure-seeking type, it’s big fun. (As much fun as puns, apparently, for this writer.)
My friend and partner in doing fun stuff, Rory Zacher, and I attended a Micro Maidens performance at Joliet’s The Forge and it was everything I didn’t expect. Rory sent me a link to the show a few weeks earlier and said, “We’re doing this.” I flinched and said, “I dunno…” But, of course I was in. I’ll do just about anything for the sake of the experience—for the sake of the story. I don’t like the music of the band Phish, but I’d gladly attend a show with a friend who does enjoy that kind of noise. I’d attend a Trump rally despite my disdain for the man at the podium. I’ll even attend your gender reveal party, though I will not keep my mouth shut about the difference between gender and sex, sure to point out that this gathering is actually a sex reveal party. But I admit that I was a little afraid to attend this Micro Maidens show. Because dwarfism gives me The Feeling. That sense of overwhelming discomfort where you can’t quite put your finger on what’s uncomfortable about it. But I’m brave. And I enjoy burlesque. And Rory and I do fun things. So, yeah. “Let’s do it.”
We bought the second tier VIP tickets, which ensured we’d have good seats and gave us the opportunity to take a photo with the girls after the show. We were going to make a night of it. Rory and I also have a monthly barbecue club called Ribbed for Our Pleasure (The most handsome BBQ club in the land). It’s just the two of us. Each month, we meet and choose a different bbq joint to try. We’re in our sixth year and there’s only one place that left us disappointed to the point it’s not worth mentioning. If you ever eat there, you’ll know it. We were due for our monthly Ribbed meeting so Rory found a place a short drive to The Forge. (Pun!)
He picked me up on Friday afternoon at 3:30. On the way to Joliet with hair and heavy metal blasting—Rory’s preferred genre, and, unironically, the preferred genre of many a strip club—he kept commenting how far Joliet was from Chicago. “Yeah, it’s a different city. Not even Chicagoland.” He’d never been there. Joliet was as foreign soil to Rory as the Moon is to the astronauts of Artemis II. We smoked a small joint, timed perfectly for the munchies to kick in as we arrived at Chicago Style BBQ. We placed our order: half slab of ribs; large tips and six chicken wing combo; a pork link; two waters, and a bottle of Dr. Pepper for him and an orange Fanta for me.
We took a seat at one of the three tables there and waited for our order to come up. Two TVs were playing National Treasure. The weed made its way and we enjoyed zoning out with this entertaining Nic Cage vehicle. By the fourth commercial break, we realized that it had been nearly forty-five minutes since we’d ordered. Where was our food?
“I’m fine,” Rory said. “We have time. And I have a movie to watch. I’m fine.”
“Yeah, I’m fine, too. Just hoping they didn’t forget about us.”
They were short staffed and, of course, busy with Friday night to-go orders. I popped a piece of gum. Rory passed on the offer. Eventually, Rory stood up to stretch his legs and the guy running the place whistled at him and said, “You’ll be up in five minutes.”
Great.
It was another half hour before our food was ready. We dove into it like savages stopping only when another customer, an older black man sitting near us who had been there when we arrived laughed and said, “You’re doing it right. Just get in there. Was it worth the wait?”
I turned to him and smiled what I’m sure was a clown-like grin with bbq sauce smeared all over my face. “Yes. Yes it was,” I said with my mouth full.
I wasn’t just being friendly. This food was some of the best bbq we’ve had. Not sure what makes it Chicago style, but who cares. Good bbq is always worth it. Great bbq is a religious experience. And that’s what we had. Which, I’d soon learn was needed. Because I was going to need God with me as we headed to The Forge for the Micro Maidens show.
Dwarfs aren’t proportionate. The human equivalent of an early 2000s McMansion. Their condition can appear to leave them with a reduction in points of articulation. That is to say, some walk like toys… don’t say this to be insulting. It’s just my neurotic privilege finding discomfort in the disproportion. I feel the same way about early 2000s McMansions.
It was clear before we even stepped foot into the venue that this was not a burlesque show. The music was loud and heavy. We could hear the announcer hyping up the crowd in that prototypical strip club way. “Aaaaaaalright, guys! It’s time to show some love for your Micro Maidens! Here they are, taking the stage… give it up for Bridget! Sassy Cassee! Tinee Boo! Firefly!...”
Inside, the place looked like the personality of a thrice-divorced guy with two grown children he doesn’t speak to and a six-year-old daughter who has yet to discover that her dad is not the hometown hero of Joliet but a man who is one DUI away from days picking up trash along the Des Plains River and nights in the clink. The vibe was raucous. I was into it.
Rory and I were ushered to our seats, three folding tables away from the stage, which were covered with sheer plastic table cloths. We were close to the action but our seats were right behind a large support pole, which required me to crane my neck around like Mr. Fantastic. The show’s emcee, 4’6” Lila Hart was not a dwarf, but a leggy standup comedian with spina bifida, which stunted her growth to just 4 ft. 6 in. She vamped as the Maidens made their way out. And this is where The Feeling kicked in. The Maidens’ were dressed in flight gear holding lighted wands that airport ground crew use to direct planes. “Highway to the Danger Zone” burst from the sound system. And for the first time that I can remember, I wasn’t driven to plug my ears. I was too focused on the Maidens. And The Feeling. And I forced myself to understand where this feeling of discomfort and fear was coming from.
It’s that dwarfs aren’t proportionate. The human equivalent of an early 2000s McMansion. Their condition can appear to leave them with a reduction in points of articulation. That is to say, some walk like toys. It’s a similar discomfort I get from the wax figures at Madame Tussauds. They look enough like standard humans, but they’re not. They’re just frozen. Stuck. Unable to operate like the human beings they almost are. Yes, I know that wax figures are not actual humans whereas dwarfs are. It’s not a totally fair comparison, but that’s the thing about fear: It’s often completely unreasonable. I don’t say this to be insulting. It’s just my neurotic privilege finding discomfort in the disproportion. I feel the same way about early 2000s McMansions.
One could make the argument that attending a Micro Maidens performance is engaging in exploitation. Not so. These women are using what God gave them to earn a living. And they do. Bridget Powers used to perform in adult videos under the moniker Bridget the Midget. No doubt she made good money doing that. Supply and demand applies to kinks and fetishes, too. And the way the crowd showed up for these women was remarkable. A mix of men and women, couples and bachelor parties, and a good handful of old lesbians.
Each girl had her chance to work the stage with the audience encouraged by the announcer to “make it rain” and other strip club aphorisms while cleverly working in jokes about their size. “Empty your pockets! Maybe one of the girls will hop into it.” Things like that. Most of the people showering the Maidens with cash were men. But the old lesbians got in on the action, too. Eagerly. One woman, who looked like Snoop Dogg with heavy breasts, sat in front of us. Her phone was out the entire time filming the Maidens with her zoom pushed all the way in. In any other setting, it would have screamed, “PERVERT!” but this night, at The Forge, it was as benign as recording your unborn child’s sex reveal party.
Tinee Boo was the first girl to dance for the crowd. The 4’5” Tinee is billed as having the “biggest booty of all time,” and you best believe it. Despite her Barbie Doll-like walk, Tinee could shake it. If this had been a twerking competition, she’d win all the medals. Her skin and fat rippling like a raging ocean. It was impressive. And the audience was lined up to throw dollar bills onto the stage. She immediately became Rory’s favorite.
“If you want a dance from Tinee, raise your hand with twenty dollars and one of our girls will bring you on stage to take a seat in the little chairs,” the announcer hyped. Rory’s hand shot into the air. Another Maiden, 3’7” Tink Tynk, aka Obsidian Tynk, found him and ushered him on stage. The aforementioned chairs were little. A dozen or so chairs you’d find in a preschool classroom lined the stage. The men looked comical sitting in them, waiting for Tinee to pull them up and either set them in another little chair on the small stripper pole stage, which was a riser about one foot off the ground with a four-foot stripper pole in the center, or lay them on the stage where Tinee twerked and motorboated each one. That’s the treatment Rory received.
For about thirty seconds, Tinee twerked and grinded on Rory’s crotch as he clapped and made the rock ‘n’ roll symbol with his hands, pumping them toward the ceiling offering gratitude to God himself. At one point, Rory gently paddled a drum beat on Tinee’s flapping ass, and she scooted back, throwing her butt cheeks across his face cheeks the way a barber might splash aftershave on you following a close shave.
Sassee Cassee, at 2’10” with her dyed bright blue bob and tattoos, is recognized as the “world’s smallest stripper.” As she took the stage, Rory, again, headed up with a fist full of dollar bills. In exchange, she instructed him to turn around and lean back against the foot of the stage so she could rub her ass, then her boobs on his face. The amount of dwarf skin being slapped across Rory’s face was a kind of microdermabrasion for the horny. (Pun!)
Next was Firefly. Lil’ Miss Firefly. Three feet flat. A recognized circus side-show performer, who, apparently, is famous for swallowing balloons. I have not found any confirmation of this feat, though, if true, I wonder how, in her later years, when her stripping days are behind her, she might parlay that skill into being a drug runner for [INSERT CARTEL NAME HERE]. In my opinion, Firefly had the biggest personality, but was the most physically unnerving. She seemed quite a bit older than the others, but I am not sure if that’s the case. There was just a… a weatheredness to her that caused The Feeling in my gut to swell. And I must not have been alone in these thoughts because as she worked the stage, the audience stayed in their seats.
“C’mon, man,” Rory urged me with a dose of peer pressure perfected over more than three decades of friendship. “You have to get up there. Show her some love.”
“I don’t think I’m ready.”
“Go. She’s working. She needs someone to appreciate her efforts. And you need to get over your fear, or whatever.”
He was right. I needed to get past The Feeling. I needed to confront this odd body dysmorphic disorder that I was projecting onto the Maidens. Strength, real growth, is only achieved through pushing the limits of what you thought you were capable of. It was time to grow. (Pun!)
I walked to the stage. Unlike the other Maidens, there was no receiving line. Just a straight shot with all in attendance at The Forge watching me as I broke the seal to throw dollars at Firefly. I tossed a few bucks on the stage and smiled at her. I said something, I think it was, “You’re doing great!” As I was about to return to my seat, she signaled for me to lean back so she could rub her nearly bare body parts on me. When she finished, I said, “Thank you,” then threw more money on the stage. She blew me kisses. I blew kisses back. By then, a line had formed to get the Firefly treatment.
Success. The seal was broken, my fear faced and overcome. The Feeling had left my body completely. I was now comfortably in my place of fun. Ready for anything. A pocket full of dollar bills locked and loaded, ready to be spent on more rowdy strippers.
It was time for another lap dance. A duet featuring Firefly and Cassee. Hands up! Twenty bucks! I counted out twenty singles and threw my fist into the air. Obsidian Tynk, the same Maiden who ushered Rory to the stage, claimed me by the hand, took my money, and briskly walked me backstage. “Find a chair,” she said before darting off with as much speed as her little legs would allow. For what couldn’t have been more than a minute, maybe a minute-and-a-half, but it felt like twenty—time, like size will play tricks on you at a Micro Maidens show—I was the only person seated on stage in the little chairs.
All alone, sitting in the preschool chair, stage left, not sure what to do with my hands and feeling the pull of performance, I started casually waiving and pointing to no one particular in the audience as if they were there to see me. I gave a wink and fired a finger gun at Rory. More men filled the seats. When the last seat was filled by Lesbian Snoop Dogg, Cassee and Firefly weaved—waddled—their way through the chairs occupied by relative giants and pulled me up. Or, rather, they pulled me down to the front of the stage.
I know the rules. Keep your hands to yourself. So I lay down flat, my arms at my side as if I were entering an MRI machine. Cassee placed her hands on my hips and did a handstand, impressively lifting her body up and down three or four times burrowing her face into my crotch. She then scooched her hands to my knees so she could thrust her pelvis into mine as Firefly stood over me, legs spread, gyrating her ass, shaking it like she was throwing off a bothersome fly. Like horses do. Cassee then stood up and with her back to me, slammed her ass into my crotch several times. It hurt. And not in the John Mellencamp way, just the O.G. painful way. She then swung her leg over, bent down to tap my wrist letting me know our time was up. Twenty bucks. Thirty seconds. Totally worth it.
I headed back to my seat. Rory gave me a knowing look. We do fun things. The same sort of routine was repeated with each of the men. And one by one, they left the stage leaving Lesbian Snoop. Cassee and Firefly ushered her to the little chair on the stripper pole stage and went to town on her. Her time extended far beyond thirty seconds. And Lesbian Snoop did not keep her hands to herself. It was the kind of groping usually reserved for the Champagne Room.
Someone is definitely getting hurt.
I wanted a beer and asked Rory if he wanted anything.
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
“Diet Coke? Anything?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. I’ll grab a beer. I’m also going to see if I can swap out my t-shirt for a different size.”
Earlier, as things were just getting started, the announcer said that for thirty bucks, you can buy a Micro Maidens t-shirt from one of the girls. I have a t-shirt problem. If I’m at a show and there’s a t-shirt for sale, there’s a 97 percent chance I’ll buy it. We passed the merch table on our way in and I told myself that I didn’t need another black t-shirt—which I don’t. But buying one from the comfort of my seat as a Maiden hand delivered it to me was too good to pass on. Even with The Feeling boiling up. They one I had was an XL. I needed an M.
“Will they let you do that,” Rory asked.
“I don’t see why not. And by the looks of the crowd, they’re gonna want this XL back.”
The bar had its own sideshow happening. JJ, standing at 4’0” and having a body that looked and moved the least like a dwarf, was standing on the bar dancing and slamming shots and beers. I considered getting in on the action but access to that party was at least three XL dudes thick. So I made my way to the end of the bar and ordered a Miller Lite.
JJ working the bar.
Access to excess.
No one was manning the merch table. I waited and watched the shows happening on the stage and the bar. In the back corner of the audience, just on the other side of the merch table, Tinee was giving a man a lap dance. As she had been on the stage, she was aggressive. But in the flimsy, plastic folding chairs with nothing to support her, her dance looked dangerous. Someone is going to get hurt, I thought. Then I laughed at myself for having such a mature, and, frankly, wimpy thought. She quickly bounced from one gentleman to the next with all the grace of a wrecking ball. Someone is definitely getting hurt.
After a few minutes, I realized that no one was coming to man the merch. So I picked up a folded t-shirt from the table. Size M. I folded my XL and made the trade and headed back to my seat with my t-shirt and beer in hand. As I made my way through the crowd I saw a man holding the hand of a small child, and I thought, Who the hell would bring their kid to this? Of course, it wasn’t a kid’s hand he was holding. It was the hand of Kai, a 4’2”-tall Micro Maiden. Jesus, Himmel… get your head in the game.
Back in my seat, I lost track of what was happening on stage. Some kind of mock birthing scene where a woman on a little chair was draped with a sheet as the Maidens, dressed as doctors tended to her. Bridget held up a large wrench. She shoved it under the sheet and pulled out the baby. I think it was Obsidian Tynk.
After that skit, it became a free-for-all. The Maidens roamed the audience accepting twenty bucks for a lap dance right there in your chair. Rory paid for Cassee to climb on him and do her thing. Wearing a blue bikini, she shifted around so her feet rested on his shoulders and her head was buried in his crotch. I love seeing my friends have a good time. And I think the smile that Rory displayed as I snapped a photo will be the last thing that goes through my mind just before I slip this mortal coil.
This is joy.
But Rory wanted more. Rory wanted Tinee Boo. He flagged her down. With that wrecking ball energy, she climbed onto him and began twerking against his face. Pounding her body against his. Writhing. Grinding. And then… Everything slowed down. Rory’s howling laughter twisted into silence of uncertainty as his flimsy plastic chair gave in, buckling and collapsing sending him and Tinee crashing to the floor. My first thought was, I knew it! I knew someone would get hurt! I reached down to check on them both. He was spread out flat on the floor of The Forge. Tinee was spread out flat on Rory. They were both laughing. I was wrong—sort of. No one was hurt. But that chair was done for. I helped them both up. Rory, through hearty laughter handed Tinee twenty dollar bills. It was then that I realized that Tinee kind of looked like a young Madonna.
“Did you get a picture of that?” Rory asked me.
“I didn’t. It happened too fast. I mean, I saw it happen in slow motion, but… no. I missed it.”
“We do fun things,” he reasserted.
“And how.”
We figured our VIP photo with the Maidens would be an organized step and repeat. Perhaps on the stage with the small stripper pole and the small chairs in the background. A professional photographer would be there to snap the photo. A quick print and a branded heavy cardstock frame. Like at Medieval Times. Instead, we were rushed through a disorganized huddle with the Maidens at the back of The Forge in front of an ATM vestibule. The Maidens appeared tired. Almost annoyed that they had to do this little (Pun!) extra thing for their fans. Firefly was barking at all of us in line to take the photo: “Hurry up. Let’s go. One photo. Come on! Let’s go!”
But Rory and I understood. We’re familiar with stage performances. Three hours is a long time to be that on and that physical. While we were amped up from the fun, they were tired from their job. The deserved a rest. They deserved every dollar they made.
Still, don’t rush your fans. We drove all the way from Chicago to see you. And it was worth every single single we spent.
✶
Our drive home was spent listening to more hair metal, sharing another joint, and reliving the last three hours—four-and-a-half if we include our dinner. What would be next for us? What strange, hedonistic adventure awaited? Would there be barbecue? Would there be nudity? At what point do we push the fun too far and our wife and girlfriend leave us for more sensible gentlemen?
There probably is no point. Because our women understand us. They understand fun. And they know that we’ll never short change ourselves on a fun experience. (Pun!)
And that’s the last short pun you’re going to get from me. But it may not be the last time I attend a Micro Maidens performance. There is no fear when faced with a guaranteed fun time.
