So the Valentine's Day cabaret was a smashing success. Tons of people came, we raised tons of money and everyone had ... um ... tons of fun. And my solo drag debut seemed to be a huge hit. It went so well, in fact, that people came up and started handing me money -- as fans of real drag performers are wont to do. Unfortunately, I wasn't expecting to be handed money, and the process of accepting it graciously and incorporating it seamlessly into my number didn't go so well. I got so befuddled that I actually forgot my words and stood like a big dumb linebacker in a dress in front of the microphone for a few moments. But I recovered and everyone cheered so I guess everything went just fine.
And while nobody seems afraid to flirt with a man in drag, I did NOT want to meet a guy while I was looking all quasi-womanly -- it's a dangerous precedent to set, especially on Valentine's Day -- so after I was done I quickly removed my costume and what I thought was all my makeup and I spent the rest of the night as a guy with a serious case of wig hair.
Later that evening, I met a distractingly hot man (whom we'll call Mr. Abs) at Sidetrack and spent a good two hours chatting and flirting and accidentally brushing up against (and even necking a little bit with) him. And it wasn't until I was home brushing my teeth in front of the mirror after the bar closed that I noticed just how much clumpy mascara I still had on. So Mr. Abs had spent the evening either being blinded by my bubbly personality, exercising an extreme level of politeness or just delightedly living out his guy-with-clumpy-mascara fetish.