A friend and I have been wearing our Burning Man outfits in public lately. Mostly we have gone to restaurants but also surplus stores and junkyards. There is nothing in the world like putting a smile on peoples faces when they least expect it. Last monday our theme was post-apocalyptic. Last night it was a bit less specific. My friend showed up looking like he was from the 17th century and with his hair and glasses he appeared to be a direct descendant of the Franklin family. I am rather male in gender and showed up looking like I was ready for a night cruising the gay bars… My mannerisms have always been sort of gender neutral with some leaning towards the feminine side. Deal with it. Though not trying or meaning to be, I do believe that I came across to the crowd as the genuine article. (Oh fuck! / Yay me!) Do I care? Oh hell no.
Sweetpea is my female childcare provider (wife, ME being said child) of 14 years and recently has become my incredibly talented and eager accessorizer. How sweet is that?
_____
Note to self:
Do not wear tight shiny hiphugger bellbottom sweats with pink side stripes, silver bracelets and necklace, rabbit fur vest, and nosering into a shitkicker bar!
I met Minxy, Helga and eDude for dinner. I had said the Helvetia Tavern BUT what I meant was the Rock Creek Tavern. Sweetpea helped once again in accessorizing me and I looked great. (I am a mild narcisissist but completely harmless…)
I arrived at the Rock Creek Tavern and soon figured out my mistake. I asked the boy at the bar for directions to their competitor. He graciously obliged me and I departed directly. Upon arrival at the Helvetia Tavern I looked around and noticed the looks. Sweet! After enjoying a burger and what turned out to be the best onion rings that I’ve ever had, I realized that the looks (that had continued throughout the meal) were not as desirable as I’d have preferred. In fact, most were downright hostile. Well fuck me. I had to exit the tavern section and enter the “family” section to use the ATM. Those tight little sweats didn’t hold much besides my credit card and juicyfruit (take that any way you like it…). Evidently ladies don’t carry wallets in their back pockets! Who knew? I could feel the burning eyes of the hayseeds and the women ignorant enough to breed with them melting the silky nylon goodness that firmly contained my ass (I’m very proud of it as it has held up remarkably well over the years, unlike many other parts of my declining physique.) I held my hands tightly on the sides of the ATM being ready to mule-kick anyone who might have gotten too close for my comfort which was virtually nonexistent at that point. My $100 and my key to freedom had dropped into the pan. My paws scooped it up gratefully and I assumed that my speedy escape was virtually guaranteed. A mouth-breather in full motorcycle garb exited the restroom beside the ATM. In front of him was his dirt-headed mountain child, or his latest kidnap victim, hard to tell with that crowd. They made their way past me (I SHOULD have jumped in front of them while I had the chance) and walked slowly to the door. I emerged unscathed from the door and unconciously my hand fell to my back pocket. Imagine my surprise when I felt and remembered my little plush fox that I’d tucked in there with just its head and front paws poking out the top. Maybe they were simply admiring the overwhelming cuteness of him? I rather doubt it…
I reentered the tavern room and made my way to the register now fully aware of the unfriendly looks being gratuitously showered upon me. The cretin at the grill looked up at me with a sneer and then refocused on his greasy charges. (Does the health department really approve of a cheekful of chewing tobacco while Enos there cooks our food?) It took what seemed like an eternity for the waitress to make her way to the register. I was so glad to see her pretty face (a real cutie with an angelic smile and eyes to die for. What the fuck was she doing there? Run, girl, run!) The entire time my ass was pointing towards the patrons, er, fuckwits. I told her to keep the change, went to the table, and our party made a hasty exit. Sweetpea had said before I left the house that I’d have folks, ok, guys, chasing my ass.
Sure, they all wanted a piece of it but not in any way that I’d have found even remotely enjoyable…
Before I left my truck to begin my big adventure, I really didn’t think the low waistband of the sleek sweats would have held, let alone supported, my concealed carry holster with my sub-compact .45 automatic. A quick fitting proved that indeed they would! Always a handy thing for a guy in ladies sweats to know. I had to stop at the PO box in my shitkicker sawmill town for the mail. I tied the waistband tight and they held my handgun quite securely.
I learn something new everyday…
Don't touch my ass, cowboy!
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