Gentle Reader, if you don’t know by now, I’m besotted with the Jazz Age, and I always have been – or rather, with an idealized version of it. It should be no surprise at all that after the collapse of the F. P. A., I began throwing an annual 1920’s-themed party. After all, I am the sort of fella who owns his own white suit, and there simply aren’t enough occasions in which to wear it.
This post will be picture-heavy, by the way, so be prepared, and before we get too much farther, in the spirit of full disclosure I should note that this post only nearly contains a jazz age castration. After all, it doesn’t actually take place in the 1920’s.
The first of these prohibition-themed parties was particularly fine. It was a brilliantly sunny July evening, and I’d run into a handsome gent while making the liquor run who helped me load up the car. Once the bar was fully stocked, I prepared a few hors d’oeuvres – caviar and smoked salmon, that sort of thing. My home is already decorated in period style, so there was nothing to do on that score but wait for the guests to arrive.
The gentlemen trickled in first, including our new bar friend, Mr. Leighton, who we’d only known a month or two.
This young fellow, with whom I no longer speak, looked particularly fine. This is probably because I dressed him for the occasion.
The ladies then began to arrive. There were a number of familiar faces, but we were excited to host our new friend, Miss D, whom we’d also known for only a month.
Well, the air was full of yellow cocktail music, and all that jazz. As at any good prohibition-themed party, the cocktails were also flowing freely, and everyone was in the spirit, due to the spirits. There was even some impromptu Charlestoning, the only dance that I’ll do in public. All in all, things were going swimmingly.
Mr. Leighton left early, due to arrive at another engagement. We must accept his explanation when he returned, though, that he thought he’d have a better time at my soirée, because if I thought that instead he’d just gotten lost in the rural backwater I live in, I would be very upset indeed. Just as he re-arrived, Auntie R. turned up as well, having been running late.
Well, things were swinging, until the booze ran out, as is fitting and proper. People began to trickle out the door as the final drops of champagne trickled from my glass, except for those who were overnighting – Auntie R and Mr. Leighton – as well as Miss D, who was awaiting a ride. Incidentally, this is where things get interesting.
WARNING: IF YOU DON’T WANT TO READ ABOUT A JAZZ AGE CASTRATION, LEAVE NOW.
Unbeknownst to us, at the time, Miss D suffered from occasional blackouts, where she would demonstrate violent behavior. We must forgive her, because these things are in the blood, and she never remembered any of her actions afterward. However, these episodes were exacerbated by alcohol, and Miss D
does like to did like to drink. When Auntie began talking about one of his drag shows, it was a complete shock to us all, as Miss D produced a knife from somewhere in the sleek sheath of a skirt, and proceeded to announce that she was going to make him into a woman. Mr. Leighton – miles from home in a relative stranger’s house – furiously pretended sleep. Miss D was flailing wildly, getting closer and closer to R. Auntie thought it was all a joke and a bit of a laugh, but the closer she got with the blade, the more worried he got.
I dashed to D’s side, just in time, pinning her arms, narrowly averting disaster. When she was herself again, she was profusely apologetic, but the gentlemen really weren’t at ease until her lift had picked her up.
Thus it was that a jazz age castration nearly occurred at one of my famous fêtes. It was just as well that this incident happened early in the summer, because at my next function – just a few weeks later – I was able to hide away the knives before the guests arrived, to general acclaim.