Gentle Reader, for purposes of this entry, let it be the month of October, in the year 2008. My dear Miss K. is living in the house I used to rent with our mutual friend, the Colonel. Their landlady’s daughter, and her beau, B and B, are the immediate neighbours, and are constantly there. I also frequented their home, which had been christened as “Phoenix Down Hall.”
Now, it so happens that Miss K. still had in her possession a pair of polyvinyl short-shorts from her Goth days, at school. They were hilariously revealing, and she was about to throw them away, “as they’re full of fail.” I grabbed her wrist, as they were too ridiculous of a garment not to own – I demonstrated by putting them on. She offered to give them to me, but B and B had the idea of a competition – we’d keep track of mistakes, misdeeds, and misspeaking with tally marks, and whoever was “most full of fail” at the end of the month would clearly be made to wear them*. Thus, the fail-shorts were born.
All month long, every little thing was recorded – and as Miss K. and the Colonel were butting heads as room-mates, there were a lot of little irksome things. Once the Colonel was disqualified by erasing the board, we were down to three contenders: Myself, Miss K., and B. As it was the week before Halloween, clearly we’d need to have a fail-off.
It’s an odd thing, when three fully grown adults break into a school play-ground. It’s stranger still when they indulge in childhood games, like hide and seek. Nonetheless, that is what we did. The points were flying in the air like a flurry of snow, and K. had had enough of B.’s pomposity – he’s a bit much, sometimes. Miss K. threw the match so that we could get the hell out of there, and away from him.
The auspicious day arrived, and our calendar was full: We had four separate functions to attend. Given that our first few stops were near her place, and that she didn’t want any of us to have to worry about driving, my mother kindly chauffeured us about. We piled into her van, dressed thusly: I was dressed as a French nobleman, the Colonel was in bow-tie and tails, as is his custom, B. was in a frock, wig, and heels (he had shaved his legs, which were hidden by the frock, but not the chest hair poking out of his decolletage), and of course, Miss K. was in fishnets, fail-shorts, a black silk top, and leather jacket. We were set to go.
Our first three stops were fairly ordinary Halloween parties, and I shan’t go into the details here, except to note that B. (called Delores) was voted the prettiest, at one of them. Our final destination, however, was a gay bar, and as I had never yet been to one, and wanted to meet someone, damn it, we upped oars for Tacoma, and Club Silverstone.
At the Stone, there’s a grand staircase descending down, down into darkness, and labyrinthine walls caging you in and guiding you this way and that. We fought our way through the chaos, to a clearing, set with cocktail tables and captain’s chairs, upholstered in peeling, shiny, vinyl, and whose castors adhered to the mysteriously sticky carpet. My K and I took orders, and elbowed up to the bar. While in line, K – who had imbibed a fair deal at the other locations (and while she can drink all night, she’s falling down on her first drink – balance is not her strong suit) began collapsing in her hooker-boots, and so it fell to me to keep her from falling. Arms about one another, it should not have been a surprise that so many attractive young gentlemen, rather than hitting on me, complimented K and I on being so supportive of our trans friend, and her boyfriend. Through our inebriated fog, K and I were having the damnedest time trying to figure out who the devil they were talking about, until we glanced towards our table – the crush of the crowd had forced B and the Colonel – straight dudes both – uncomfortably close to one another.
Drinks and dancing accomplished, and dates lined up, we drove off into the night, without further incident.