Normal is Never Enough

October is my favorite month for a variety of reasons. Mainly my birthday, but also Halloween is my all time favorite holiday. Not only do we get to pretend to be people we aren't, we also get to dress up and gallivant around while eating candy from strangers, which is hardly ever acceptable.

This Halloween was certainly no disappointment. I decided to be my newest idol, Nicki Minaj, or so I thought. My outfit consisted of a pink wig, a set of glasses fully bedazzled so vision was completely impaired, my black shiny driving jacket and a tight black dress that I may or may not have actually worn to an event or two last year. Everyone thought I was Gaga. I think my lack of badonk was the cause of confusion, but I was willing to be confused for my previous idol, so I went with it.

Bmichelle, Bkristen and I rolled up to a party packed with graduated frat stars and expired beer. Apparently we inadvertently stumbled upon a frat house in the middle of Myers Park, but we were game because they had chili and pigs in a blanket.

A few hours later, we ended up at a bar/club downtown. I ended up ditching the wig because it was affecting my game and had a certain tussled, "drag queen" quality that I wasn't feeling anymore. It was time to hit the dance floor. Since I had recently become the 5th wheel to a 4 person party, I decided to mack on the most guido dude in view, who called himself "Lucas."

He seemed cute enough, maybe a little wrinkly, but his abs were intact and I was interested.

As we danced, I shouted my life story but when I asked for deets on his life, he declined. I asked him what he did for a living to which he replied "You know, I really don't want to talk about it, it's not exactly kosher"; when asked about his age he replied "You know, I thought we weren't going to talk about it"; when asked if I could go to the bathroom, he replied "Really? Are you still trying to talk about this?" Maybe he didn't actually hear me.

When we finally made it off the dance floor, I asked him again what he did for a living and told him that I wouldn't tell any narcs. He said, "I know you want to know, but I just don't think it's important. And don't worry, narcs don't deal with this kind of business." The only possible conclusion I came up with: he was a male gigolo, just like Deuce. Sick.

I quickly grabbed Bkristen and insisted on a swift departure, which luckily occurred. Though I had taken a bite from a stranger's hot dog on the street earlier in the night, I couldn't have been more grossed out by my choice of dance partner. There was not enough soap in the world to clean the gigolo's scent off my driving jacket, something between Axe and Abercrombie and Fitch's cologne. Ew.