However, prior to the swimsuit competition, David Johnson and I took a short cut that turned into the most embarrassing moment of the contest. I call it "the elevator incident." Thinking we could save a few steps and the embarrassment of walking through the crowded hotel lobby in our Speedos, David and I thought we’d take the elevator to the ballroom. We got into the elevator with three female conventioneers and a busboy with a cart full of used dinner plates. The women tried unsuccessfully to pretend that we weren’t almost naked and made small talk. The elevator lurched and stopped between floors. "It’s been doing this all day," the busboy whined. "You’re telling us this NOW?" I said, knowing we had to be on stage in a few minutes.

David pulled a fork from one of the trays and stuck it between the metal doors. We managed to pry them open with brute force. Having less than a two-foot space, David climbed out first. He pulled me out after him, giving the conventioneers a great view of two very tight buns in spandex. We assured them we’d send help for them. They applauded us and wished both of us good luck in the show. Amazingly, we made it back to the stage just in time.

The swimsuit competition was the crowd’s favorite part of the show. Surprised? Over eight hundred screaming, frenzied women all the "boys will be toys" attitudes were ready to ogle some hot male flesh. But, it was all in fun, and you could also feel the strong support coming from the audience. The women were pulling for each and every one of us. We were told from the very beginning, "No thongs, no g-strings. This is not a male burlesque show!" Some contestants breathed a sigh of relief at that rule, while some of the other less inhibited men would have completely stripped naked, if they could have.

I was already somewhat of a pageant veteran, having competed in "The Search for the Most Romantic Man in America" on the Joan Rivers Show talk show. I was picked for the show partly due to my less than monumental appearance in playgirl, while I was managing a grocery store. Later, I was named "Sexiest Grocer in America" by a national trade magazine. The Rivers show liked the hook and I did the show wearing only a gravity defying loincloth and a smile. Our show was to be a ratings grabber for sweeps week. Naked men always pull in large female audiences. The loincloths we wore almost didn’t make it past the network sensors.

That’s where I learned the "less is more" pageant ethic. After being handed a small strip of cloth and told to arrange our assets accordingly by a Rivers staffer, I watched in amazement as my fellow contestants ripped and cut the postage sized loincloth even smaller. Not to be outdone, I followed suit. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

A few minutes before the swimsuit competition at the RT Convention was to begin, one of the guys dropped to the floor and started doing push ups for a last minute pump. Like dominos, the rest of us hit the floor as well. We all stood like prize winning show dogs waiting for a blue ribbon. Everyone seemed to come together at this point.

Maybe it was because without our clothes, we were at our most vulnerable. Even more male bonding took place, and I didn’t think that was possible. All the contestants were shaking hands and high-fiving it, wishing each other well with genuine sincerity. I was really proud to be a part of that group then.

All my years of bench pressing and countless sit-ups and not to mention hair growth were about to pay off. I watched as each contestant strutted his stuff down the runway to a wildly appreciative audience. Luckily for me I was given the perfect spot on stage, front and center. I got on CNN that way!

Bonus points were given for ass shaking. That’s where the male strippers in the group had the advantage. I asked on of the judges after the show how she graded the "beefcake." She said, "I voted on butt. If you had a nice butt, you got my vote." So much for "strength of character" and "Historical Costume."

Some of the guys altered g-strings to get by the rules and one contestant’s trunks were so sheer and tight you could tell his religion. I stared in disbelief as one of the contestants came out in his Calvin Klein underwear. (I thought this was supposed to be a swimsuit competition!) He was protruding quite noticeably from the front of his Calvin’s. My jaw dropped, but the smile never left my face as looked out into the audience to see the entire crowd transfixed on his crotch. The prominent bulge was sticking out like the Washington Monument, and it was no accident. I was later asked by pageant staffers, "Did that guy shove a teapot down there? You were backstage. Who stuffed?" I didn’t notice any padding of "baskets" backstage. There weren’t any rules against it anyway. But I can’t say it didn’t happen. Nobody said to me, "Hey can I borrow and extra sock?" Besides, I was too worried about how bad my butt looked in purple spandex to be concerned about anyone else’s shortcomings.

Don’t get me wrong. This wasn’t a Boy Scout Jamboree. I learned from both competitions I participated in that some of these guys were out for blood and wanted to win at all costs. We were dealing with dozens of male egos and there were a few conflicts and confrontations. One contestant in particular managed to piss off just about all of us. He seemed hell bent on turning the pageant into a male strip show. To the annoyance of everyone, he kept changing his name and his dialogue moment by moment. When his name was conspicuous by its absence when the names of the four finalists were read, he left in a huff.

I was told by pageant insiders from the beginning that being the minority blonde, my chances were good to be one of the top four. We all held our breath as the names of the finalists were read. Not a blonde in the bunch. The smile never left my face as I Ieft the stage waving to an adoring crowd. The guy I picked from the beginning, David Alan Johnson, was crowned "Mr. Romance Novel Cover Model" and I couldn’t have been happier. Okay, I could have been a little happier, but he was the perfect choice. We still keep in touch.

After the show, I was inundated with questions from women, such as "Did you feel exploited? Like a piece of meat?" And ""now you know how women have felt all these years!" I can honestly say I didn’t feel exploited. It was a means to an end for me. I did tell one of the inquisitive women, "I don’t remember ever seeing anyone holding a gun to the heads of the Miss America contestants..and they get scholarships!"

Eventually I made it back stage and joined the rest of my fellow contestants. I tried to soothe as many bruised egos as I could. Jokingly, I said to one of the guys, "What a big bunch of losers we are!" He turned to me with a most serious look and said, "We’re not losers. We’re winners! Just by the experience of being here." And you know, he was right!