Nothing Worse

I've been fighting the melancholy all weekend. Although there were glorious moments of respite, feelings of inadequacy and uncertainty have been hovering on the fringes of my consciousness. I have been terrorized by memories this weekend, and I can't seem to outrun them this morning.

I heard someone paraphrase a comic once. The comic had asked his audience if they realized that back in the day, women wore garter belts all the time. Then, one day, someone created pantyhose. The comic boldly declared this entrepreneur an asshole.

I always thought the joke was funny, because garters are truly amazing for the wearer AND the onlooker, and it is this reason that has led me to favor them over pantyhose, no question. You can't take pantyhose off in FRONT of anyone. It's never pretty, because having taut nylon in such close proximity to areas that need a breeze can never end well.

Stockings allow the wearer to undress with personality. There can be a little tease to it, or an indication that you're getting down to business. The best part is that a garter and stockings, with strategic underwear placement, can always be left on if there are other activities that take precedence over removal.

Fun for the whole family, so to speak.

Anyway, last night I decided to try and find refuge in alcohol. We were attending a fetish party, where vinyl would be a'shinin' and bosom would be plentiful. I, fresh off my Deadwood-viewing stint, had dressed as a red-headed Bellaunion whore. My suit-wearing "Sheriff" companion and I laughed in the face of death and went boldly where no old west whore had gone before--the ceramics aisle in the Sav-On.

The party had potential. Stuffed animal puppies were "licking" peanut butter off private parts, there was some girl there who considered herself the "Original Vampire" (whatever the fuck that means) who was offering bites on the neck, we had a couple nurses, a naughty secretary complete with boss, a boy scout who liked it from behind (trust me), and "Daddy."

The birthday boy was drunk and belligerent, never missing an opportunity to hassle my party pal for not being fetishy enough. I felt those were bold words from a man wearing a tree branch, but perhaps that's just me.

I was having trouble getting drunk. This was a strange development, as I no longer drink and should have a wonderfully low tolerance at this point. Unfortunately, when Kansas showed up with Jack Daniels in hand, I figured that I couldn't be taken seriously as a whore if I didn't take a swig. I felt nothing...until we left the party.

We decided to cruise Sunset, and that's when I had a vision of my near future. I would soon end up at home, absentmindedly clutching a small bottle of TGI Friday's margarita drink that had "Tequila is in it!" printed on the label. I would be talking to myself. Video On Demand would be on, and I would have to hide my cell phone to avoid drunk dialing my ex-boyfriend. I would forget I was wearing a long, red wig, and only take it off when I realized that the tips of the bangs were dangling in my orange juice that I held in my other hand but wasn't drinking.

In a flash, somewhere between la Cienega and Fairfax, I saw my future. It made me sad. I lost my appetite for grilled cheese and fries almost immediately. As I walked somewhat gracefully up the stairs to my treehouse, the last nail went in the coffin.

My garters would be wasted.

I stomped the last few steps into the door and started tearing off my clothes. The skirt, the corset, the wig, the contacts, the heavy eye makeup, all of it, came flying off in an impotent rage. Anger whirled in my head and overtook my senses. Soon, all that remained on my frame was the garter belt and fishnets. This might initially seem like a hot image, but let me assure you that it was not. I might as well have had dark track marks on my arms, showing ribs, circles under my eyes, and lesions of varying severity all over my torso. I felt spent.

In a perfect world, that would have been the moment where I got a phone call with a male voice on the other end saying, "I'm at the gate. Get your ass down here, beautiful."

In this world, though, the only male voice around was coming from the TV. It was the bald Jewish dude on Sex and the City, by the way. Just when I thought things couldn't get any more distressing.

So, fitful sleep followed, and here I am. Currently, the desire to eat a ham sandwich outweighs my need to whine some more. So, here I go. Happy fucking Independence day.

on rye. g