Monday, July 05, 2010

Stagette Party

The stagette was a roaring success. The bride wore duct tape over her nipples under a purple lace top. She fluttered in donning Chinatown-bought feather lashes while pursing her black-tarred lips.

We watched home videos, massaged the tips of vibrating dildos, and piled into the stretch Hummer to attend a drag show.

The blight on our evening was the copious amounts of straight men at the club when we eventually arrived. I was "accidentally" bumped, rubbed, and tapped by a variety of hungry horn dogs. Does my memory fail me or has there always been this many weirdos on the prowl?

My friend Nat and I walked over to Paul's car when he texted to say he was here to pick me up. A Persian dude with a precision goatee followed us.

"Who's your friend?" he cooed.

Nat turned around: "Whose friend?"

This was, apparently, his way of trying to talk to me.

"Look," she continued. "Are you gay?"

"No."

"This is a GAY club. What are you doing here if you're not gay? She," pointing to me, "is my lover. We're GAY. GAY! Go away!"

Paul, equally amused and worried, told Nat to go back in with the girls as there were "too many desperate men out here."

The night ended with him driving my drunk ass home as I recounted my day as the "Country Cuntress", peddler of bad puns.

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