I wore my clear plastic hotpants, a black crop-top, black fishnet stockings, and some impossibly high open-toed ankle-strapped black vinyl heels (the sole was some hard black plastic. My toes lived at an altitude of 1 1/2"; my heels at about four inches. I'm 5'11" in the first place, so I towered). Oh, yeah, and my black leather collar.
We went to a hot bar in the city, me and Sarah. Some friends of hers came along later.
I wasn't nervous at all, no. I only dropped my lipstick about five times when we were "touching up" in the ladies room. Sarah teased me. But she told me I looked hot, so I forgave her.
More people filtered in to the club. The place was tiny. And noisy. And hot. And dancing in plastic pants--plastic shorts, even--doesn't make it better. And I didn't know how to dance in the damned heels. Gee, they hurt. Welcome to beautiful!
Sarah's friends arrived. One boy looked up at me and said "Wow, you're tall. That's so cool. I've always wanted to be tall."
The performing Girls started to do their thing. Some of them were lovely. (I mean, let's face it, I don't even get close to passing. I was way out of my league here.)
Sarah was getting it on with some cute girl (the Real Thing, if you care) who I guess wasn't wearing panties. Whoops!
During one of the breaks this tall, gangling T*girl grabbed me by the arm and dragged me over to meet her friend. I end up sitting between them. Tim (the friend) keeps touching me all over (well, almost all over) and checking me out. I chat for a while and then run away. Then somehow I have another guy chatting me up. I'm freaking out 'cause this never happens when I'm walking around dressed up all normal-like.
This third guy tells me how he really just likes women, but when he was living in East Hollywood he met a lot of performing Girls and now he really likes them. I'm thinking to myself yeah, right because like I said I hardly pass. But he was really sweet and quiet so I guess I didn't really mind. I didn't let him walk me back to the car because for one thing Sarah and everyone were there and also because I would have been out of my mind to do that. There was No Way I could tell if he was safe or some quiet-talking psycho or whatever.
So we drove home and I dropped everyone off and we hugged and my shorts were all sticky by this time but it was kind of good sticky if you know what I mean, just a lot of sweat from dancing like a mad girl.
I haven't done that in a long time. Someday soon...
I said that I didn't just wish.
So next time we went out dancing I dressed up. Damn, the fishnets have a run in them, have to get out the new pair. No time to shave my legs properly so I just sort of, um, got the worst of it off. Jett and Scott arrived and I was still fluttering about, fluffing up my hair, trying to get that damned purple eyeshadow right, pulling on a pair of loose black silk pajama pants so I don't have to drive half naked and all that.
So finally we get to the club at about midnight and the damned place is closed. I mean the private club is open but really I wanted to be seen, y'know? Not by these port-sipping lounge-lizard fags but some good god groove-happy muscleboys who can't keep their eyes off my ass. So we drive off across downtown, following the Lexus-loads of bright-eyed boys with cropped hair.
(We had to drive through this late-night music festival downtown. Sometimes when I'm dressed I see folks in their average-american gear and feel really out of place. This was one of those moments.)
We get into the club. Five dollars? Oh well. The music is good, the music is bad, the dj keeps cutting in with these boring breaks where the synthesisers all swell and there's nothing I can dance to. I stand around in the heels. I keep swaying. I mean, you try putting 170 pounds of mangirl flesh at a thirty-degree angle in open-toed shoes and we'll just see how well you do with only six hours practice.
Nobody talks to me. What a tragedy! Oh, that's all right, I get my ego strokes when Jett describes how everyone walks past, stares at my butt, and their eyes widen. I guess that dance-belt cum thong does the trick.
I get a couple of hip-shaking minutes on the dance floor. I'm getting used to the shoes again. If I give myself half a chance, I can even groove in the damned things, but people keep bumping in to me and I have to grab Scott's shoulder to keep from pitching forward on my face.
Eventually my lower body tells me it's vacation time and I go and sit in the corner, watchin' peoples. Is it just me, or is this city getting straighter? Naw, there goes that boy in the hairy pants. And there's angel-boy. And a couple of dykes fondling their butch-hag boyfriends.
Not much later, we go home.
That was fun. We'll have to do it again. Pity Scott's going to San Francisco. Of course, I could always go dancing with him there...