It Was Saturday Night...

Saturday Night
By Greg Morrow

At five o’clock, I was looking forward to sleep. At seven thirty I was leaving a fine Italian restaurant. By ten thirty I was leaving a drag show with a man in a dress. What happened?

I have long been a fan of the unplanned. I thrive on the ability to improvise. It’s the reason I take twenty minutes to pick out shoes; one never knows what ones getting into, right? But this wasn’t the night for that. This was the night to do nothing. Planned, nothing. My fiancé and I had worked all week and tonight, feeling old beyond our years, we wanted nothing to do with anything. That’s when the phone rang.

Phones at our household are almost always met with careful resistance. You never know when one callously answered phone could land you three states over searching out crabs in exchange for bail (long story). Despite this fear, my fiancé picked up. Theory holding true, instead of changing into sweats I now found myself trying to cram what was once a champion derriere into a pair of chinos all the while franticly sniffing my armpits debating whether that smell would waft through two shirts. Perhaps another coat of deodorant would do the trick? No time, we’re late for dinner as is. The person on the phone had been a friend inviting us out for dinner with his mother. They were at the restaurant already and were stalling the waiter. Thanks for the heads up, I think to myself. Good planning!

We arrive at the restaurant. It’s been seventeen minutes since first contact. I quietly congratulate myself on our speedy arrival and remind myself to stop twice at the light on the way back to make it up. We walk in. This or perhaps even the paragraphs before would have been a good time to clue you in on our friend being a gay man with a wonderfully proud mother. No matter, you’ll soon know the importance. We round the corner to find James’ mother dressed in a full tux with turquoise accents. A bold choice for sure but certainly no match for James in his full corset and satin skirt with matching heels, I may have finally found a situation Dockers didn’t plan for. Turns out stain defender works with red wine but is vastly inappropriate in cross-dressing situations. The only solace was that the tines on the zipper were still holding. I should do more cardio!

"Turns out corsets can poke even the savviest of men"

We make it about half way through dinner before I realize that the waiter is only referring to James via eye glance. You can see the wheels turn as he attempts to decipher the sir/ma’am debate raging in his head. I feel no pity. His pants fit fine. We finish two courses and are closing in hard on desert when James shrieks. Turns out corsets can poke even the savviest of men. I make a mental note, should I ever find myself in a similar situation. I can’t imagine what that would be, but I now know that you must hold proper posture. Kudos Greg, kudos. As the last plates are clear the waiter finally bests his mental struggle. “Anything else for you ma’am?” he questions James. I don’t know or care what James’ response was. All I know is that this small gesture bumped the tip up a Jackson (that’s twenty dollars).

My hope is that we are now headed back home. For those of you keeping score that will make two hopes dashed thus far. We leave for a show. I was not properly informed as to just what that entailed. Don’t worry, I found out. We arrive at the show at eight. This leaves just enough time to not be able to get tickets together. Normally this would be no problem; then again this was no normal show. It wasn’t a movie. It wasn’t a play. It wasn’t a concert. This was drag. This was serious. As I stand pondering what lay ahead, an uncomfortable pinch jolts me back to the more pressing matter at hand. Just two more hours zipper, just two more hours. Fearing that without rest my desire for pant integrity would become but a dream I head for the restroom, a decision that presents it own dilemma. The men are women and the women men. What door do I go in? I see three skirts head for the men’s room. Hoping for the best, I follow. Urinal secured, but I am not out of the woods yet. Can I get these things zipped back up? The question causes immediate stage fright. I’m useless at peeing if I think about it too much. The large man in the mini skirt behind me isn’t helping the situation either. Deciding to make a dry run of it I exit the stall. Stepping down I catch a gentleman to the right of me passing a bill to his friend behind him (evidently stage fright is not an issue for him). The man behind him takes a drink order. “Just give me what Joe likes” the man at the stall yells. The other man waits awkwardly in the corner. What’s he waiting for? He appears to be waiting on me. As I pass, the man (with a limp wrist) slaps me and whispers, “Joe likes ‘em stiff”. Great, I think to myself, a sex joke from a man in Mac makeup. Normally this would merit at least a small laugh. It wasn’t that bad of a joke. But this was the men’s room and he waited for me. I can’t support that! I press onward.

"If I'm going to be gay for the evening, I'm going to be taken"

Now entering the auditorium, two guys wearing enough sequins to support a Rip Taylor show approach me. I can feel their eyes scan my pants. Later I discover that an overlooked spill at the restaurant may have been the cause for this but at that time only one thought crossed my mind. My Dockers have officially failed me. Awesome. I am forced to make the tough decision that every straight man in that situation must make. Am I going to play the straight card, or am I going to improvise? I grab James’ hand. Even I didn’t see that one coming! I decide then and there that if I am going to be gay for the evening, then I am going to be taken. Without skipping a beat James kicks up his heels and we parade in. The rest of the show I am told was pretty mundane (by drag standards). Being a drag show virgin, I couldn’t really tell you if it was or not. I thought Barbra Streisand was pretty good but Janet Jackson had much to big of Adam’s apple for my liking. But that’s just my opinion.

The night certainly had not worked out the way I had planned. Maybe tit was better that way. Who cared, because of the freak out earlier it had been seven hours since I last urinated. This may not apply to you, but did you know that you do not have to use a toilet stall if in a skirt (standard hike up rules apply). I hope I never need that information. Also, even if wearing fake breasts, men can still legally show their nipples. That one may actually wind up more applicable. Through the night I realized that sometimes not doing what you want is just the way to find the adventure you need. Now if I could just find better fitting pants.

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