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060707
My friend Heather and I, we love to get drunk. We do lots of other things together, too, but it seems to me that, in terms of our capacity for drink and willingness to imbibe, getting drunk is what we do best.
So, anyway. We were drunk a couple of months ago when she dropped the Sexcamaids bomb on me. Heather, it turns out, had brainstormed this entire idea for the Mermaid Parade, in which several girls would dress as different sexual fetish-themed mermaids and parade, in the dancing/stepping New Orleans-style, around Coney Island.
"So, wait. Who would you be?" I asked her.
"Well, like, maybe a golden shermaid, or a merminatrix," she replied.
"And what would I be?"
"Anything you want, as long as it's some kind of sexual fetish."
"Like, if I wanted to dance to Whitesnake exclusively and call myself the Tawny Kitermaid, I could do that?"
Remember, we were drunk.
I didn't think much of it as the conversation took a turn towards excited plans that I, for one, had absolutely no intention of fulfilling-rigging a giant paper mache jaguar hood to my outfit, for example, so that my sexcamaid could writhe around in proper "Here I Go Again" video style. I did, however, offer Heather copious amounts of encouragement to pursue her idea. Such copious encouragement that now, three weeks before the 25th anniversary of a parade I've never been to, I find myself shopping at Spandex World and copying out tail and flipper sewing patterns in LES puppet studios, all whilst in the company of such esteemed cohorts as the Preggermaid, Transgendermaid, Golden Shermaid, Merminatrix, Furmaid, Pin Up Girmaid, Victoria's Secermaid, Necromancermaid, Catholic School Girmaid, German Bermaid, and a couple that have slipped my mind as of this writing.
And, dude, I'll be the first to admit to feeling a little ambivalent about the whole thing at first, but I am having FUN. Working on the Sexcamaids is the mental equivalent of reading a Jacqueline Susann novel-engaging and addictive and, at times, comprehensively challenging. I am hanging out with this giant gaggle of girls that I never would have met otherwise. I am learning how to hand-bead my own Whitesnake tee. I am counting 5, 6, 7, 8 while practicing awesome step-march dance moves that we refer to as "I'm a star and you're not" and "Hips and Tits." I'm listening to an incredibly diverse lexicon of trashy music.
And, for the first time in ages, I really feel like I'm part of something. Me and all these girls, we hang out and drink too much and talk too much and smoke too much, and somehow, after we've practiced our dances and cut our fabric and tried on all the wigs, we've suddenly bonded. As a one-friend-at-a-time type of girl, I've never placed a lot of confidence in groups of ladies; often have I scoffed at the Sex In The City-generated bonhomie of women whose love of one another is but a thin veneer masking their competitiveness. The Sexcamaids experience, however, is eroding my cynicism. And, I might add, getting me drunk on a regular basis.
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