I first saw Miss Kitty while she was rolling around on a bed with her girlfriend, Miss Profanity. They were on Channel 57, doing a sketch called “Baywatch Bitches” for Miss Kitty’s self-parodyingly slutty burlesque show, The Goddess Show, which airs Monday nights on Manhattan public access.
Miss Kitty (née Karina Figueroa) was doing most of the dirty talking-she’s fond of “big cock”-and name-dropping (Tommy Lee, Kid Rock). I was mesmerized. After she flashed her breasts a few times, I decided they were the best ones in New York City. I had to meet her.
Miss Kitty occasionally tapes The Goddess Show at the Cutting Room on West 24th Street. I went to a taping a couple weeks back. She sat on a stage between two Styrofoam Greek columns. She wore a white and gold wraparound chiffon dress.
“Tonight’s show, there’s something for everyone,” Miss Kitty said. “Although I’m not going to show you my tits. Not just yet, of course. Unless, of course, you applaud for me to show you my tits. ”
The several dozen audience members, mostly men, clapped.
“Stick around and wait till the end of the show,” Miss Kitty snapped. Then one of the Greek columns fell over. But she kept her cool. A stocky guy in a toga hoisted Miss Kitty into the air. While aloft, one of her boobies spilled out. The crowd whoo’d.
Later on, after the taping was over, I asked Miss Kitty myself: Did she have the best boobs in New York?
“I do,” she said. “Come look at them, goddamn it.”
I got closer. Both of her breasts were exposed, inches from my shaky paws.
“What do you think?” she said. “They’ve got a little glitter on them right now, but they’re perky, they’re beautiful, they’re just there . They speak volumes. They’re just speaking to you.”
I could barely restrain myself. Did she like it when a guy spent a whole lotta time on them, like 25 minutes?
“Actually, I really don’t like it when someone sucks on the nipple,” she said. “I like it around the nipples. If they suck on the nipple, minus 10 points. But around the nipple, 10 points for sure.”
Miss Kitty told me she was molested by a priest when she was 16, soon after trying to commit suicide. “My family called the family priest because they thought he was going to heal me, I don’t know why. So he’s going like this to me”-she massaged her nice tummy-“and he’s like, ‘I want you to see Jesus, Jesus is going to heal you.’ And he started feeling up my tits and saying, ‘Do you see Jesus?'”
Were they nice breasts at that point?
“No, they weren’t fully developed yet,” Miss Kitty said. “But they were getting there.”
A couple days later, I took Miss Kitty to a party at Steven Green’s apartment in the Essex House where Bobby Short was performing. Out on the terrace, she took off her jacket. She was wearing a denim jumper with most of the buttons on top unfastened, J.-Lo-at-the-Grammys style.
“I never wear bras anymore,” Miss Kitty said. “Bras are over.”
“Can I see them?”
Men were staring now. “All the guys are just looking at me like, ‘Thank God you walked in, baby, you saved the evening.'” She thought about just taking off her top. “I have to have a moment where the spotlight is on me and I’m ready to leave, on the way out.”
Back inside for some champagne, she ran into a waiter who recognized her from a strip club, Shakers in New Jersey (she retired from stripping a few months ago to focus all her energies on The Goddess Show , her singing career and underground-party promotion). She met style guru Montgomery Frazier, who suggested she cut her hair short for a “chic Sally Bowles” look. Mr. Frazier examined Miss Kitty’s breasts at my request. “They’re certainly real, and they’re very there ,” he said. “They’re really there.”
After the party, Miss Kitty and I stopped by a deli to pick up some veggie chips and a Whatchamacallit candy bar. “It’s good for my PMS,” she said.
Miss Kitty devoured her junk food. “Mmmmm, fucking awesome. Mmmmmm, it’s time to pig out.”
It’s time to break something else out, too, if you know what I mean, I said.
“No! You saw them Tuesday night,” Miss Kitty said. “You’ll see them again; they’ll peek out for you. All right, I feel bad. You’re making me feel guilty now. Here, here’s one for you.” She pulled out a breast. “One for the road …. If you do a good story, you get another.”
Boomer Esiason strolled into the makeup room at the CBS studios on 59th and Fifth and plopped his long legs into a chair. The former Jets, Cincinnati Bengals and Arizona Cardinals quarterback was dressed in a saffron-colored six-button silk suit and a pair of blue gator shoes, which signaled that a) he had given up football for organized crime, or b) he had become a mambo singer, or c) he had lost a bet with his CBS NFL Today colleague, the sartorial eccentric Deion Sanders.
It was c). “You’re a good-looking man!” Mr. Sanders roared when he saw the corn-haired Mr. Esiason. His Neonness was attired in a similar get-up. “This is a masterpiece that I’ve created! After this, you will not be known as the ‘insurance man.'”
“Gimme some color, baby,” Mr. Esiason said to the makeup artist. “I’ve got my bling-bling going.”
It had already been a colorful season for Mr. Esiason. In addition to his NFL Today duties, he’d been hosting his own talk show on the MSG network. A few weeks before, The Boomer Esiason Show had its first headline-grabbing controversy: Guest Andy Rooney had come on and ridiculed females working as sideline reporters in football. “I was shocked,” Mr. Esiason said. “I don’t think he realized the effect it was gonna have.”
Mr. Esiason didn’t agree with Mr. Rooney’s commentary, but he seemed pleased to be back in the news. After a promising start, the Long Island native had spent a couple of years in post-football purgatory; plucked fresh from his playing career for the Monday Night Football booth, he’d clashed with co-host Al Michaels and found himself jettisoned for Dennis Miller and Dan Fouts after two seasons. He took lower-profile jobs in MNF ‘s radio booth (which he still does) and working as an analyst for the Fox Sports Network. Once a golden boy, he’d rebuilt himself as an angry man, a pro-sports truth-teller who didn’t worry about whom he offended.
“The fact is, I’m a New Yorker at heart,” Mr. Esiason said. “I’m cynical by nature and when I do TV, I take that angle …. Those of us who are able to speak our mind and not worry about the consequences are much more likely to succeed.”
After the noon NFL Today pregame show on the plaza outside the G.M. building, Mr. Esiason headed inside and spent the afternoon watching that day’s games with anchor Jim Nantz and current New York Giant Tiki Barber, who had the day off.
“I’m telling you,” Mr. Esiason told Mr. Barber as they watched former Jets quarterback Ray Lucas chuck an interception for the Dolphins. “You look at the shit out there, it’s unbelievable.”
Mr. Esiason mentioned that Giants offensive-line coach Jim McNally had been in Cincinnati during his tenure with the Bengals. “Jimmy likes to have those guys that are robots,” he said.
“He’s the highest-paid assistant that’s a non-coordinator,” Mr. Barber said.
“Well, I know why,” Mr. Esiason said. “It’s one of the lowest-paid offensive lines in the league. All the money goes to him. He wants guys he can boss around.”
Mr. Esiason paused. “That’s the cynic in me.”
“That’s the New York in you,” said Mr. Barber. “I know. Living here has started to make me cynical, too.”