Gone are the drear, dread days beyond recall when we were led to believe that showgirls had a pretty bad time of it in the sunshine-and-health department -- late hours, smoke-filled rooms, nightclub pallor, and other offenses to God and man. Today, tongue-clucking do-gooders would find it a tough task convincing us that the life of a showgirl (in Las Vegas, anyway) is anything but Reilly. Look at Felicia Atkins, if you haven't already. She spends her nights in the chorus line of the sumptuous Hotel Tropicana, gladdening the eyes of all beholders with her finely fashioned five-feet-seven-and-a-half-inches. By day, she sleeps late in a swank suite of the same hostelry, eats a mountainous breakfast, then squeezes into a bikini and slips out to soak up a skinful of Vitamin C and splash about in a cool pool until it's time to dry off the corpore sano and get ready for the evening's extravaganza. For this, mind you, she gets paid. Another nice thing that's happened to felicitous Felicia is her appearance as our Playmate for the month of April. It's nice for us, too.
Like the well-known mad dogs, Englishmen and other eccentrics, full-bodied Felicia disrobes behind some friendly flora and then brownly basks in the noonday sun.
Like the well-known mad dogs, Englishmen and other eccentrics, full-bodied Felicia disrobes behind some friendly flora and then brownly basks in the noonday sun.
The bracing blue of the Tropicana's pool beckons to the lovely lady.
Right: she emerges, cool as a julep.
Miss April Playboy's Playmate of the Month
As showtime nears, Felicia ties up her tresses and makes with the paint and the powder.
