Everyone Who Is Wondering How I Ended Up In A Gay Bar Sunday Night, Keep Reading. You Others, Move Along.

So. I have this friend, J. J is gay and, dare I say, more effeminate than I. He lives here in my neighborhood and we got to be friends when I started working at the Homeowners Association and he came in to pay his dues (instead of spending the 39 cents to mail it like the cheap bastard he is). Anyway, I immediately liked him and we started talking. First about "where are you from", then "what's your partner like", and then, eventually about Brazilian Waxes. He says he gives a mean Brazilian Wax. I'll have to take his word for it. Not because I'm afraid for him to see my Hoo-Ha, but because the Brazilian Wax scares the bejeezus out of me and I am a wussy-girl.

Eventually, it became May and I mentioned how I needed to go shopping because I wanted to buy a new dress for Bronwyn's Retirement Ceremony, at which point, he said, "Hey! Why don't you come over and you can pick out one of my dresses!"

I was rendered speechless. For longer than socially acceptable.

Finally, I spit out, "Why do you have dresses?"

"Because I'm a Drag Queen."

I think I giggled a little bit and got lost in my own thoughts imagining him all dolled up in feathers and organza, high heels and red lipstick. That cracked me up again and the giggling persisted.

When I came out of my reverie, I did not take him up on the offer of coming to look at his dresses. Not because I didn't think he'd have anything appropriate (his wardrobe includes Ann Taylor), but because of the possibility for life-altering shame if J's clothes happen to be too small for me. My delicate psyche could not handle that circumstance.

Finally, last Friday, it occured to me to ask J when his next show was. Conveniently enough, it was Sunday night and a Holiday to boot! Drag shows, drinking, AND sleeping in on a Monday! Labor Day Nirvana!

So that's what we did.

And she was awesome.