Employment

Without any warning or request for privacy, Louisa Holmlund drops the straps of her green tie-dye dress. She couldn’t care less that a reporter is watching from a foot away as she stands topless in the small bathroom of her Brooklyn sublet. She’s focused on the task at hand.

She reaches across the sink for her most important accessory: star-shaped pasties with star-spangled confetti and matching tassels. Grabbing a tiny white bottle labeled “Pastie Glue” – purchased, like the nipple coverings, in a Greenwich Village sex shop – she gently applies the first pastie to her left breast. Then, she does the right.

“It’s important to make them even,” she says.

Small wonder that Holmlund, who’s 22 and from Portland, Ore., has no qualms about exposing her breasts. Lots of people will see them by the end of the night. For eight-plus hours, she’ll stand in Times Square wearing only the pasties, a ruby red mini-skirt, white boots, a cowboy hat and a smile.

And, of course, her marginally-tuned Yamaha guitar. Behold, The Naked Cowgirl.

Holmlund stands about 5 feet 9, with long frayed blonde hair – “crazy hair,” she calls it, when it’s not done up – stark blue eyes, freckles and a light tan. She moves to the bedroom and stuffs a blue blouse and jeans into her backpack – her after-work clothes – along with a pack of Marlboro Lites, a small Italian-English dictionary and a permanent marker.

“It’s important to always bring one cute outfit with you, just in case,” she says. “You never know when you’re gonna get that hot date.”

By mid-afternoon, everyone near the traffic island at Broadway and 46th Street can see Holmlund in her new role. She arrived in early September and now claims the same spot five or six days a week, strumming random chords on her guitar and singing the occasional song. Her voice is barely audible – “I just play and sing and make it up as I go,” she says – but that doesn’t matter. No one cares what she sings. Everyone does care, in some fashion, that she is practically naked in the middle of Times Square.

The allure leads to plenty of tips – $300 a night on average. Passing tourists can’t resist taking a picture with the Cowgirl, so the customers come in droves: men and women, boys and girls, single, married, old and young. After each flash of a digital camera, Holmlund turns to the person she’s posed with, then smiles at the photographer and politely says, “I’m trying to raise money for school, if anyone would like to make a donation.”

After almost every photo – at busy times she poses about every two minutes – someone stuffs cash into her boot. They know where to put it because the word “Tips” runs down Holmlund’s leg in black marker, with an arrow.

Holmlund’s job – or “lucrative occupation,” as she likes to call it – involves a number of such labels. The words “Naked Cowgirl” adorn her guitar in glued-on capital letters, punctuated with three stars: one red, one white, one blue. Below the strings, more letters spell out “Nakedcowgirlnyc.com.” Anyone who walks behind her can see “THE NAKED COWGIRL” written in marker across her back.

The act conjures “positive energy,” she says, as opposed to the seediness she associates with strippers. Erotic dancers are mostly for “dirty old men,” Holmlund says. “With me it’s more like I’m Santa Claus or a clown. See, I’m half naked, but I don’t have that bad energy … I’m not giving off the sex vibe.”

Indeed, few passersby are offended; most find her amusing. And she’s deftly learned to ignore the scumbags. When one man insisted she remove all her clothing, Holmlund said, “What kind of a girl do you think I am?” and promptly directed him to a strip club down the street. When he kept arguing, she strummed her guitar and sang, “Oh how I wish you’d just go away.” He did.

* * *

Many Time Square regulars know that Holmlund – who tells people to call her “Lou Lund,” because it’s easier to remember – is a copycat. John Robert Burck has stood in the heart of the Theater District for years in a hat, boots, and stark white briefs that say “Naked Cowboy.” In contrast to Holmlund, the Cowboy plucks his guitar and sings so loudly that everyone within a block can hear.

Holmlund decided New Yorkers should also have a naked cowgirl. She came to the city in an open attempt to emulate the Cowboy’s stardom: he has a cell phone endorsement, his own line of T-shirts, underwear and guitars, and performs at private parties.

Before heading to the Big Apple, though, Holmlund asked the Cowboy if she’d be cramping his style. He gave the go ahead – their schedules don’t usually conflict, and when they do, they play opposite ends of the traffic island.

The Cowboy, she says, gave her “a lot of good advice” – he stressed that her act would affect everyone who saw her – and “totally inspired me.” In fact, before she took up position one afternoon, she spotted her inspiration – the original – working on 45th Street.

“I’m The Naked Cowboy!” Burck blared from the traffic island, kicking one leg. As we approached, he added a lyric: “I’m The Naked Cowboy! She’s The Naked Cowgirl!”

But asked he felt about his new rival, Cowboy gave a cryptic response: “‘The artist seeks to create a world in his own image,’ said Nietzsche. And I’m all about it.”

Translation: the Cowboy has mixed feelings – her emulation undercuts his individualistic message – but he appreciates Holmlund’s guts. “I certainly wouldn’t knock it,” he says. “I’m all about her. I’m her biggest fan.”

* * *

When Holmlund was 3, she wandered out of her Portland house naked and walked down the block, where a neighbor found her and brought her home. “Even at age 3,” says her mother, Cathy Holmlund.

“Nothing she does surprises us anymore,” adds Cathy, who is – go figure – the officer manager at a Presbyterian church. “Having Louisa as a daughter, you can’t be a prude.”

Nineteen years later, sipping an Americano at Starbucks, Holmlund says, “I like being naked. In my apartment, I just walk around naked all day. It’s so free. It feels so good. It’s just liberating, kind of comfortable.”

After graduating high school a semester early, Holmlund went to Arkansas to work for Heifer International, an organization that provides farm animals to impoverished villages. She returned to Portland for commencement, briefly sold cars, worked at a bed and breakfast on Maui. Two years later, she moved to a small town in Bavaria for a job as a hotel receptionist for the U.S. military. She traveled Europe, fell in love with Italy, engaged in random affairs, got used to nude beaches.

Meanwhile, Holmlund’s older brother had heard about the Cowboy and fired off an e-mail. “‘You need to go to New York City and be the Naked Cowgirl,’” he wrote. She mulled it over for about five seconds and then decided, “I guess I’m going to New York.” Within days, she ditched her hotel job and snagged a flight back across the Atlantic.

Few in the family’s conservative circles know of Louisa’s latest gig. Cathy says she’ll pass the word on a need-to-know-basis. Louisa’s father, Kevin, is apparently somewhat torn.

“I’m sure he’d be happier if she were a teacher,” Cathy says of her husband, a project manager for a construction company. “But I think he’s grown accustomed to all these adventures our children have. He’s adapting. I think it’s hard for him to have his own daughter with a Web site, wearing pasties.”

Cathy was really more concerned about safety than taboos. But she visited her daughter in September and was somewhat reassured to find the new and improved Times Square, not the blighted spot she remembered from her previous visit 30 years ago.

And there are lots of cops, she points out, who all know her daughter’s name.

Indeed, one Friday night around 6:30, two of those cops were in Holmlund’s way. She was itching to throw off the green tie-dyed dress she wears to work every day so she could play and make some cash.

But two of New York’s finest blocked the subway grates on Holmlund’s traffic island, where she likes to stand because the air shooting up from the tracks keeps her warm.

“Come on, this is my zone,” she said.

“Absolutely not,” said Officer Jim Fills. “If you wanna be warm, you shouldn’t be naked in Times Square.”

Cops tease Holmlund all the time. After a few more pleas, they agreed to give back her spot. “All right,” Fills said. “Get naked.”

And with one quick motion, the dress flew off and Holmlund was on. A cluster of cops at the tip of the island, asked about the legalities of naked guitar playing, offered several ideas. One said the pasties make it legal. Another said New York law allows women to go topless in public. Bottom line, the Cowgirl doesn’t cause trouble, so they leave her alone. “We’re just cops,” said Officer John Rigalos. “We don’t really know the law.”

* * *

The following Tuesday night, after a full day of show biz, Holmlund isn’t sure what to do. Her new fling, a 20-year-old Italian, is supposed to meet her. But he hasn’t shown and it’s approaching midnight.

Then, he appears – Leandro Martinucci, wearing a tight, white shirt and Diesel jeans. He leans in and kisses Holmlund. They met Saturday, while she was on the job. His Uncle Georgio, balding and older, accompanies him.

The Italians don’t speak English. At all. But Holmlund says she understands them a little from her European travels. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because she thinks Leandro is “gorgeous.” After a few pleasantries, it’s time to party.

They quickly settle on O’Flaherty’s, an Irish pub on 46th Street. They grab two tables overlooking a pool table; in the back of the bar, a real guitar player blasts his renditions of rock classics. Holmlund drinks chardonnay while Leandro sips rum and coke. Uncle Georgio has a beer.

Holmlund spends a good hour holding Leandro’s hand, letting him kiss her every five minutes. Georgio just stares straight ahead, or draws pictures on napkins in an attempt to communicate. After a few smoke breaks and a round of pool, the group emerges from the bar and walks down 46th Street, en route to Leandro and Georgio’s hotel.

Leandro and Holmlund walk arm and arm, heading for his hotel. Holmlund insists this isn’t typical; normally, she just takes a cab home and counts her tips. Though a couple weeks ago, there was that Spanish guy – the “most beautiful man I’d ever seen in my entire life,” she said, until Leandro took the title.

The Cowgirl and the Italians finally arrive at the Best Western President Hotel a few blocks away. Holmlund gives a look that says, “Ciao.” Turns out some things are off-limits after all.

But for now, Holmlund will wake up around noon. And then she’ll do it all again. Holmlund says she wants to go to college – Leandro has reinvigorated a desire to study Italian – but also claims the Naked Cowgirl will play for the next 10 years.

“It was a big risk, I would say … it was a bold move,” Holmlund says, reflecting on dropping everything to play Broadway. “I love new adventures … spontaneous things.”

As it gets colder, she’ll play for shorter stints. In January and February, it’s off to Spain for vacation. Come March, more skin in Times Square.