Memoirs of a Cleavage Stuffer

During the early days of television, when all broadcasts were live, a special job was created for the medium, one that has been long out of existence. For want of a better name, I now call it The Cleavage Stuffer.

I was the original Cleavage Stuffer on the first of the late-night shows, NBC’s Broadway Open House, starring Jerry Lester and Dagmar. Today I cannot find a job in television because there is no demand for my expertise, that of a kind of peripheral backstage handyman. 

As a Cleavage Stuffer, I would position myself in the wings or behind some scenery with the tool of my trade— box of tissues—and inspect the cleavage of every woman who was about to appear on camera. After Makeup had powdered their faces and touched up their hair, the young women in the dancing line, as well as any noted woman guest star, would stand before me for cleavage inspection. 

For a young man attending college by day and working in television at night, I was given tremendous power. By today’s standards, I was sanctioned to cross the boundaries of political correctness, without shame. But in those hurly-burly days of live vaudeville-style song-and-dance shows, it was an accepted unwritten rule of propriety. Hollywood had its Hayes Office, and network television its Cleavage Stuffer.   

My trade brought me into contact with some of the most beautiful and glamorous women in the world. The gowns and dresses they wore were created by famous designers, and were probably priced at thousands—or tens of thousands—of dollars. But as the Cleavage Stuffer, I had the final say as to whether the American public would be allowed to see them from neckline to hemline. 

I especially enjoyed working with the women in the chorus line. They would linger and joke around until the last minute, pulling and stretching their necklines, daring me to stuff the tissue. The band would start to play, and I would frantically stuff tissues as each woman passed before me, dancing her way into living rooms and bedrooms across North America. 

I always respected and complied with the wishes of anyone who did not want my assistance in covering their cleavage. I would willingly dispense a tissue to her, letting her decide how she wished to stuff it. Only one woman ever refused the cleavage tissue, and, needless to say, she appeared on camera in either a facial closeup or a shot that did not display her from the neck down. And while so many things have changed over the years, including television’s willingness to display cleavage, the unnamed lady has never lost her Hungarian accent. 

Dagmar was the Dolly Parton of early television. Blonde, buxom and statuesque, she was endowed with a guileless charm that was the main attraction on Broadway Open House. Lovely, yes, but it was her undeniable wit and sense of humor that teased America into staying up late to watch TV. 

Noted designers—well, known New York department stores, and lesser-known couturiers—all vied for the opportunity to gown and clothe Dagmar. They did so for free, just to hear Dagmar say, “Do you like my dress?” as the opening line to her routine. After the audience roared its approval, she would mention the designer’s name. 

One night, a beautiful black sequined strapless gown was delivered. I accepted the dress, hung it in Dagmar’s dressing room, then went about my business of cleavage-stuffing. Dagmar arrived later than usual and had not tried the dress on before the show. 

The show was minutes away from airtime when Dagmar let out a yell for me to rush to her dressing room. An emergency had arisen: The dress did not fit. It was not only too tight to fit into without bursting the seams, but the bra was several cup sizes too small. And—to add insult to injury—the bra was padded. Dagmar did not need padding. 

She had the dress half on and half off when I got there. She had pulled the dress up over her waist, but could not move it up any higher. She needed someone strong to stand behind her to pull the dress up and to zip the zipper as we moved the fabric inch by inch up and over until it was high enough to cover her cleavage. I pulled and zipped while she tore and ripped out lining, sequins, and bra padding, all while squeezing and stuffing herself into a gown sewn together for a kewpie doll.  

Meanwhile, the audience was filing into the studio and the band was tuning up. The clock was running and showtime was nearing. Jerry Lester was pounding on the dressing-room door, demanding to know if Dagmar was alone or if she had a man in there with her. He was livid that Dagmar had locked her dressing-room door and denied him access. He insisted that he be let in immediately. Dagmar and I paid him no mind, but kept working feverishly. 

It was no easy job. It took its toll in sweat and tears. I was sweating and panting; she was sobbing and exhausted. We completed our mission with dignity and good taste. There was never a moment of indiscretion or embarrassment. Dagmar thanked me and unlocked the door to let me out. I left her to face the wrath of Jerry Lester. 

When Lester saw me leaving Dagmar’s dressing room, he was furious. Why? I can only guess. Here was the most famous woman in television locked in her dressing room with the lowliest of employees, while he, the chagrined star, was left on the outside begging to be let in. 

On the next payday, NBC cleaved me from its list of employees by stuffing a pink slip into my pay envelope.