I Am Ms. Wet T-Shirt . . . Taking the Trophy
Old Age, Cunning— & Work the Judges
Next time you pass me on the street, please accord me the respect I so richly deserve: I am the winner of the Ms. 2007 Wet T-Shirt Contest.
"Ha!" you say, "You were 47 then!"— but age does not void my timeless integrity. My tits rule the waves.
(C) Debra St. John. — Smoke’em if you got ‘em
The contest was held at the otherwise-tragic event known as Phyllis Christopher's going-away party in San Francisco. Phyllis was one of the legendary On Our Backs staff members, a brilliant photographer, and just one those gals from Buffalo who is a constant delight and inspiration. Her departure to England was forced, due to the relentless hypocrisy of the United States immigration "service." England would welcome Phyllis along with her British wife Helen, but the US government stymied their pleas for years.
When I first got Phyllis's invitation, she promised a Roman Orgy room, monkey dancing, a baby pool full of Jello, high-stakes poker, karaoke smack-down, and even a secret room for shy people like herself who might get overwhelmed by it all.
I wrote her right back and boasted that I would swamp the t-shirt contest.
Since my crown, many have questioned my strategy, or wondered how I pulled it off in the first place. Their doubts are legitimate! Despite all my pre-party conceit, as I stood trembling beneath the dwarf chocolate fountain, and surveyed the other contestants, my heart skipped a beat.
The first girl on our homemade stage— essentially a large box crammed into the back of a Victorian flat living room— was a champion arm-wrestler with perfect skin and perkiness that could not be disputed. She was gorgeous— and 20 years younger than me.
Our silver-throated emcee, "The Pam-inator" Russell, put the needle down on “The Stripper,” and the crowd (99% female) went wild.
(C) Debra St. John. —“The Pam-inator” Russell, emcee
The second competitor was earning applause before she even hit the carpet. Annika— her real name— was over six feet tall, and her breasts are popularly known as "The Blessings" throughout the greater Bay Area.
(C) Debra St. John. — Annika Dukes, my six-foot-tall competition, with “The Blessings.”
"My god, what am I doing to do?" I clutched my erstwhile coach, Pussy Tourette backup singer Christina Vickory.
Christina is a stunning creature herself, and I was fortunate that she wasn't entering the contest and crushing all my hopes. But she rolled her eyes at my self-doubt.
"It's simple," she said, whispering in my ear over the din. "Work the judges."
Judges? I didn't even know who they were!
Christina pointed them out to me: Roxxie Rosen and Sally Carter, who were laid out on the floor in front of the stage, staring up at the celestial nipples.
Roxxie is the founding editor of GirlJock— I had her number! I didn't know as much about Sal, but she'd just performed a killer Steve Perry imitation during the Karaoke blowout, and I surmised she could succumb to femme wiles and manipulations just as well as Roxxie. I was inspired. This contest was suddenly winnable.
(C) Debra St. John. —Sal “We Built This City” Carter, SB after the win, and Girljock impresario, Roxxie Rosen
"I need a bottle!" I yelled, charging down the hallway to grab my tshirt.
Now, as every bosomy woman knows, a wet tshirt contest is a bit of a contradiction for us. We don't look good in a man's crew-neck tshirt . . . in fact, you might say it's the worst look for anyone over a B-cup. Thank goodness I had one of my dad's old-school V-neck numbers, which was worn down to a tissue.
I was outfitted in fishnet stockings, four-inch-high black ankle boots, and a leather miniskirt that my daughter had stolen from my closet years ago. I clamped on a wiglet that made my ponytail appear to descend to my ass.
For accessories, I wore my 1980s Stormy Leather1 gauntlet glove, and my genuine 70s Playboy Bunny Club necklace.
Someone handed me a plastic tailgate cup. What? "No, no, a champagne bottle!"
Others were urging me into the shower, but I knew better. An actress has to have a prop, and if I was going to wet myself, I wanted the very best.
Phyllis, the genius, handed me an empty Magnum bottle, and I filled it to the brim with cold water. I motioned to Pam, before she began my introduction, and told her to tell the crowd that I was newly released from Vaginal Rejuvenation Surgery.
The music started up again.
At that point, it's a bit of a blur. I recall holding the bottle over my head like a trophy, and cascading the ice water down my head, wiglet, and tits. I took a long swig and spewed it, geyser-style, all over the screaming audience (I learned that trick from my 1st-grade Red Cross Swimming instructor.).
I was channeling Flashdance; I had everything going except a brass pole. I realized, in a stripper-nano-second, that there's not much time you can kill pinching your nipples or cuddling your boobs. The secret is to simply be sexy, and let your tits do whatever they would normally do.
And never, ever, lose eye-contact with the judges!
© Debra St. John - I have not seen this photos until now, 2025! So thrilling. It looks like I felt. Thank you, Debra.
The song was hitting its cymbal climax when I stage-dived off the platform, right on top of Sally and Roxxie, and crushed them with my now-soaked chest. I threw them a threatening look. If you can't seduce the authorities, intimidate them!
The crowd was apoplectic. I tried the splits and nearly killed myself. I crawled off the stage feigning slinky-ness, to cover my groin injury.
Cameras were flashing everywhere— and yet, as you will note, so far I have not received a single document of the event. (Party photogs, please contact me!)2
But maybe it's all for the best. I believed I was hot, and a realistic appraisal might traumatize me.
When some of the other contestants looked downcast in defeat, I told them, "The lesson here is that making a fool of yourself is the recipe for sexual success."
That, plus old age and cunning.
I won $100, collected in a hat, and a box of homemade chocolate pot brownies, all of which I shared with my gorgeous colleagues. The other contestants included a masseuse, a real estate broker, and an Ivy League physicist who has sworn me to secrecy as to her real identity.
I've told my friends that my prize is the fulfillment of a lifelong dream, but a few people who don't know me well have looked askance. They assume I enter wet t-shirt contests all the time— that I'm not a virgin. You are so wrong!
Yes, I've attended thousands of strip shows and helped produce a few hundred of them. I've written as eloquently as I could about erotic dancers and sexual performance.
But when have you seen me on stage, peeling it off?
Never.
The thing is, I've never had the physical confidence; I've never led with my body. I envy athletes and actors who have the grace to pull it off. I was the kind of kid who was picked last for every team; I ran the wrong way around the bases. Even when I finally did sport a fetching physique, I was the last person to realize it.
My nerdiness has protected me in many respects, but like so many Marion The Librarians, I always daydreamed what it would be like to be a hunk, uninhibited, the star of the runway! Phyllis's party was my big chance, because I knew my pals would cheer me on, out of sisterhood or hilarity, if nothing else.
What did I do with my crown?
(C) Debra St. John. — SB frenching our good-bye girl, Phyllis Christopher. Still love her madly.
Well, of course, I expected there will be a press exposé that reveals my making-out with the other contestants, forgetting my underwear, and drinking too many chocolatinis. I'm only too happy to admit it all.
In truth, I vowed a solemn campaign to fight for erotic literacy throughout the land, and stand up for the radical feminist values that made these tits worth fighting for. As Sophia Loren has proven so well, girls who wear glasses and décolletage are not to be trifled with!
Stormy Leather was Londoner Kathy Andrew’s San Francisco fashion house and leather shop, the first leather tailor ever created just for women.
If any reader here has photos from this legendary party, I’d love to comp you a year subscription! Funny to think there used to be parties without cell phones.
FYI, you're favorably quoted by Sophie Lewis in her new book Enemy Feminisms: TERFS, Policewomen & Girlbosses Against Liberation.
Susie, what a hoot! This article made my week. What a truly funny story to share. I have always admired your writing. After reading this tale, I am also in awe of you as a fierce woman. The best part was when you dove off the platform, wet shirt and all. That made you a woman after my own heart. I do hope someone sends you photos.
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