Alone, drinking at the bar while waiting for my fellow revelers to arrive. The life of a lush-cum-piker magnet continues. By 5pm I'm on my third vodka cranberry and the parade doesn't start till around 7.30pm.This is the third night in a row I've been slushing around Oxford St aka Sydney's gay Mecca. Until I get my own damn parade I'm going to make this one mine. But please - whatever you do - don't call me a fag hag. I hate that term. I'm not a prude and am constantly amazed and impressed by Todd's use of the word cunt but the word hag just brings me back to the association of an ugly evil-looking old woman. I think it has to do with a line Macbeth. Anyway, much to my chagrin my friends have settled on the term handbag - at least it's not hag.
Thursday night turned into not going to work on Friday but in the evening I got a call from MNH - My New Hero inviting me to go out. No arm twisting required there. Friday night turned into a 1pm Saturday breakfast with MNH eating designer cup cakes so really I only had 3 hrs to clean my apartment in preparation for my friend staying over, get ready, and go pick up the Mardi Gras tickets. Enter the Garbage Grouch (see previous post).
Luckily I found some solace in slapping on the brightest shade of red lipstick I could find. It's amazing what a whorish shade of red can do for a girl's ego. Alas, it's Mardi Gras and unless you are baring you arse in a pair of chaps or budgie smugglers* no one's a lookin'.
I marveled at the beautiful bodies strutting around. Structural wonders created by hours spent at the gym, tanning, waxing, and dance rehearsals. Some are physical feats that make ones mouth water not to mention other parts. It's hot. Men dressed as cowboys, cops, firemen all in a drunken and drug induced haze some wandering some prowling the streets of Sydney.
The personal training industry is probably rubbing it's hands together awaiting calls from parade attendees who didn't quite get enough arse over the weekend. It kind of guilts you into a gym membership. If I owned a gym I'd certainly be there doing a little marketing exercise to get the punters in.
The parade was a champagne soaked event. Yes, my friend who agreed to go out on Oxford Street post parade and stay at mine piked. Another one bites the dust. Oh well.
But all was not lost thanks to a sexy French man for his drunken interest in moi- nothing like getting a cat call in Francais as you walk by. It's the red lips I tell you. Maybe he thought I was a lipstick lesbian and I would be shocked by his advances. He'd be wrong...Ooh la la!
*Aussie slang for Speedos - a budgie is a small bird other terms for Speedos are 'dick stickers.'
4 comments:
Nothing wrong with the term Fag Hag.
And do tell re this French boy!
We prefer the term "cock dodgers." Next tim eyou sniff a piker, you shoot me an email. I have a professional team of party goers who are forbidden from piking. Sure they will get you out but they may just leave you stranded at 7:30am in the downstairs section of Arq but by this time you will be beating off offers from random blokes who work at Cargo and don't belong in gay bars. Mardi Gras post forth coming when I recover from a loss of a day...
Holy hell I just peed myself re: speedo slang.
A had a budgie when I was a child and I will never think of him fondly and innocently again.
Cherry,
You be a hag and i'll be a bag or maybe i'll convert to a 'cock dodger' :)
Raunchy,
I always knew you'd come to my rescue!
Claudia,
Maybe you'll be able to think fondly of your pet again when you see the tanned abs of steel above the Speedo. Lucky little birdie - budgie heaven, really.
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