When you say Happy New Year! I naturally think Transvestites.
During my college days, I sometimes dated a girl named Laura. We went together for a few hours a night, a few days a month. We were very close friends, during those few hours, and had a good time together, except for one uncomfortably embarrassing evening. Our date-nights usually began with me breaking through the Anti-Male Defensive System of the woman’s dorm. A pipe must have overheated that evening because we were sans-clothing at the memorable moment. A loud knock at the door and the voice of an anger old woman, had Laura and I sitting up and taking notice, eyes and mouths frozen wide-open by the shocking jolt of fear. The old Dorm Mother never liked being pulled away from her smoldering Camel and bottle of rye whiskey. Like a three-legged James Bond, I made the instant survival decision of heading out through the adjoining bathroom of the suite. I slowly, quietly opened the door. And there she was, somehow unimpressed, according to the lack of smile on her wrinkled face, as I was obviously happy to see her. Things went downhill from there.
I spent that following summer with my Aunt and Uncle in Las Vegas, Nevada. Sin City. Laura had an old High School friend, from their hometown in Michigan, who now lived in Vegas. She gave me her friend’s phone number and suggested that I call Kim, as she could show me around town, making my transition to the Big City a little easier.
I grew up in a small town. We didn’t have race issues, or gender identity issues, or any of those big-city problems of the Real world. You plowed a field, canned some green beans, and took a bath every Saturday night before the barn dance. So I was about to go from John Mellencampville to a weenie roast in Caligula’s backyard.
Kim was expecting my phone call that evening and had made plans for a night out on the Town, clubbing with friends. It was New Year’s Eve and everyone was in a partying mood. I arrived at her apartment that night all Spic and Span and on my best behavior. Kim lived with her Mom, who was primping for a date of her own as I politely waited on the sofa, my hands nervously holding my kneecaps. Kim’s Mother offered her daughter a half of a Quaalude, her logic being that it was going to be a long night of partying and she didn’t want to enter the Twilight Zone too early. Mother and Daughter bonding over illegal drugs washed down with liquor drinks, seemed so lovingly…nice?
We arrived in the dark parking lot of a nightclub called Disco Quinn’s. We entered through the double doors into another world, the world of Saturday Night Fever, except that John Travolta wasn’t working that evening. Disco Balls spun rays of glitter to the loud thumping of bass speakers, as a packed-house full of platform shoes and high heels bounced on the illuminated dance floor. Just like a Sadie Hawkins dance back home, except for the Apple Martinis and Egos.
After three “Just be yourself and act natural” Double Gilbey’s and Tonic with a twist of lime, I struck a confident power-pose by holding onto a stand-up cocktail table near the bar. Kim, and her little electric butterfly self, floated themselves around the club, pollinating her field of friends. During a pity break, she stopped by my table, her little butterfly lips still flapping…
“That bartender…Greg…he is So hot…but he’s gay…I’d totally do him…Oh!…see that woman over there…the one that looks like Dolly Parton…that’s a guy…can you believe it!?…weird, huh?”
(Which One? The One with the Adam’s Apple? Yea, that’s weird.)
“Listen, Kim. I think that I’m going to call a cab and call it a night”
As I walked back across that parking from which I came, I could hear Mick and Keith singing in the backwoods of the Blue Ridge Mountains…
“But come on, come on down Sweet Virginia…”