Like all women who fall somewhere between "Victoria’s Secret model" and "not in an advanced state of decomposition" on the Physical Attractiveness Continuum, I've had my (small, but still…) share of unwanted attention from strangers. And again, like all women, I find the majority of these encounters creepy. But there's also a part of me that kind of loves them, for their sheer absurdity. Like that time the guy on the street sang me the Filet O' Fish jingle, or the time I pretended to be a deaf-mute with that guy in the pizza place, or when that crazy guy on the train was convinced I was a foot fetishist. Fun times. Especially when there's an audience: I was waiting for the subway one night when this guy stumbles over and makes his clumsy, drunken advances; I tell him, sorry, I have a boyfriend (which I don't, but for some reason I can never bring myself to outright hurt these psychos' feelings). He then slurs, "Well, you can't blame me for trying, right?" and proceeds, as he walks away pointing at me, to individually poll every other person on the platform, "You can't blame me for trying, right? I mean, I had to try, right?" Every time one of the people he's shouting at and consequently spitting on looks quizzically in my direction, I wave like I'm on a parade float and give them a thumbs-up. What can I say — I'm an entertainer.
But if there were ever a night for the freaks to come out and play, it's Halloween. I am a lunatic for Halloween. It's like my high holy day. I usually start planning the next year's costume as soon as I change out of the one I was just wearing. Over the past several years I have been: a Ninja, a Manson Girl (vintage '70s outfit covered in fake blood), a Hindu Goddess, a Geisha, Medusa, Pregnant Britney Spears, Dead Princess Di (I know, I'm going to hell for that one), a Vegas Showgirl, Tia Dalma from Pirates of the Caribbean, and — perhaps my all-time fave — Lara Croft: Womb Raider (Lara Croft, only pregnant and wearing a baby carrier with some "ethnic" baby dolls in it). All homemade. I'm telling you, I go ALL. OUT. The year that I was Medusa, I won a costume contest at work. The prize was $50. The costume cost me $80 to make. I still considered it a victory.
So this year I dressed up as Adam Lambert, because I secretly want to be him, and as a companion piece to my sister's Lady GaGa. We were fuckin' fabulous. See for yourselves:
And trust me, when you're walking through the Village next to a drunken, stick-thin, 6-foot blonde in fishnets and a leotard covered in sparkles, you're bound to get some attention. Especially when you're also walking in these boots:
At one point, we pass by a bunch of construction-worker-looking guys avoiding the rain under some sidewalk scaffolding. They start hootin' and hollerin', and little sister, in her semi-inebriated state, decides it would be funny to wave at them, go "HAAA-AAAYYY!" and sashay away like a drag queen on the catwalk. The guys get louder and rowdier, and I yell after her, "If they start chasing us, I'm gonna kill you! You know I can't run in these damn shoes!"
Later on we are safely ensconced in a new bar, hanging out by the floor-to-ceiling windows that open onto the street. Because I'm wearing a headset, sitting on a stool, and facing outside in order to watch the parade of crazies, people start mistaking me for the doorperson and showing me their IDs. I try to finagle a "cover charge" out of a few of them, but since I'm wasted and can't keep a straight face, this scheme sadly doesn't work.
Then this guy comes at me. After initially hitting on my sister and getting nowhere because she's too busy lurch-dancing like a spastic cripple, he's moved over to my side of the table and feeds me the old "You two are so hot, you must be sisters!" line. Now, I've been drinking steadily and running from bar to bar in the rain for hours at this point, the wig I'm wearing feels like a wet cat sitting on my head, and I can actually feel the eyeliner smeared down my face. There is no way I believe this guy actually thinks I look "hot." So, of course, I laugh in his face."No, really!" he insists. "You look so much alike!"
This is when I decide, since I am dressed like a man, to reveal to Romeo that yes, you're right, we are related, but I'm not her sister — I'm her brother.Loverboy freezes, then begins vehemently refuting my claim. "No way, you're lying. I'm not stupid." But I saw that moment of panic in his eyes. Had I been in my right mind, I should have offered to unzip my pants and prove it, just to see his reaction. I really regret not trying this out.So, boys and girls, the moral of this story, I suppose: I may not be a hot, leggy blonde, but it's reassuring to know that I at least make a pretty gay boy. ;)
