To boomers of a certain age one of the aggravating injustices of the 70’s was the failure of Playboy magazine to make Barbi Benton a Playmate of the month. Sure, she was featured in several pictorial essays, right along side those thought provoking articles, but she never attained the star status of the monthly award which of course would have put her in line for Playmate of the Year honors. Life can be so unfair.
Benton is as all-American as it gets. Her voluptuous form and cheerleader next-door looks make her attractive to men. For women, she lived a fantasy life with a doll like name and a princess kissing a toad romance with reptilian Hugh Heffner. She appealed to both sexes because she could sing and tell bad jokes. Talents that she honed on the great corn ball TV show, “Hee Haw.”
While I may have gazed upon Barbi in magazines purchased by my roommates, I never expected to meet her.
But Barbi’s path and mine crossed in Charlotte in 1981. What brought her to town was the inaugural World 600 Children’s Charity Ball. Bruton Smith, the now ancient owner of the Charlotte Motor Speedway was hosting the ball in conjunction with the Memorial Day NASCAR race.
Benton joined a roster of celebs at the ball that I assume were there for the festivities and a payday. I was assigned to go to the ball and create a happy/fun TV news story. The station I worked for even rented a tux for me.
With camera crew in tow I surveyed the old Charlotte Convention Center for a story. There was Nick Buoniconti the ex-football player turned sportscaster dancing with the kind of rhythm usually found at a white folks wedding. Over there was Linda Evans in her lost days between “The Big Valley” and her “Dynasty” stardom, looking lonely but, after seeing Buoniconti, apparently not interested in dancing.
And then there was this woman wearing the most absolutely riveting dress I had ever seen.
It was a sleeveless cross between a saloon girl outfit and a gown that would be worn in the court of Louis XVI before he lost his head.
The dress that launched a thousand stares
Latte colored diaphanous ruffles in the skirt led upward to a taunt bodice which opened up to the most memorable feature of the dress, two flame like pieces of dark copper satin and sequins that rose out of the bodice forming apparition-like hands that held up an ample bosom.
I was startled from a stupor-like fixation on this dress when my photographer asked me if I had seen Barbi Benton.
“Barbi Benton is here?” I asked in astonishment, “Where.”
The photographer pointed to the dress, it was then that I realized that I hadn’t even look at her face.
I sought to rectify my oversight by getting an interview with the Venus in a cocktail dress, Barbi Benton, fantasy come to life. But it was not to be. A clique of what had to be out of work Chippendales surrounded Barbi and scowled at anyone who approached her for a dance, small talk or an interview.
No doubt the Chippendales were honorary Fire Marshalls whose job was to keep the nosey, titillated nobodies from Charlotte, NC from getting too close to Barbi’s flame-like dress.
