We were dancing when I turned and saw a man wearing a wig. It was long and red. Not a natural red, a blatant red. The red a girl would cut out of a magazine, bring to her hairdresser and say, “but not this red”. Bangs were cut straight across the forehead.
“This your first time here?” He asked. He wasn’t dancing as much as shifting his weight and bopping, catching every other beat.
“Beauty Bar or New York. Beauty Bar? Yep. Sure is.”
“Mine too.” Then he asked me, “Do I make an attractive woman?”
He looked like a 50-year-old N.C. State fan had pulled on a wig and a skirt for an approving guffaw from old fraternity brothers. He was overweight and short, and his boobs were a good cup size larger than mine. He could have used more foundation.
“Very. You’re hot.”
He beamed. “What’s your name?”
“Erica,” I said and fist-pumped my support of the DJ’s mash up of American Girl. “What’s yours?”
“Christine. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you. You like wearing women’s clothes, Christine?”
“What?” he yelled over the crowd.
“I said, ‘Do you enjoy wearing women’s clothing?’”
“Oh yes! I love it. It’s the most fun. The shoes, the skirts…I just love it all.” He pulled both hands through tangle-free hair, plopped equal halves down his shoulders and smiled. “Feel my breasts,” he said and grabbed for my hand.
“No, thanks.”
“No really, feel my breasts,” He placed my hand on his fat deposits.
“Hmmph. Feel real. Congratulations.”
“I know. Don’t you just love wearing a bra?” he asked.
“No. Not at all.” And with that, I turned my back. The man had much to learn about being a woman.
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