UltraSuede and I met up again this past Saturday, but I swear I had just as much fun getting ready for dancing as I did actually dancing. Four 30 something ladies got together at T’s to decide on eachother’s clothes and do our hair and makeup. It was a night where D got to wear bright pink pants with paint splotches, K wore a black tutu and Turquoise hair swatch, C wore a see-thru shirt with black bra, and T busts out her loud Come On Baby T-shirt with puffy formal shorts.Yes, we desperately want to be 16 again. There was cheap wine involved and discussions about men.
This time I didn’t get to dance with as many guys, but I gave up 2 bucks to the go-go dancers. The chick was 
doing moves that had all of us standing with our jaws dropped. And that’s when I made my decision: If I was ever to become an exotic or go-go dancer or whatever the terminology is these days, I’m doing it at a gay men’s club. They totally appreciate your bod but no one’s coming on to you. It’s a win win situation.
The downfall of the place is the freakin’ bathrooms. I think T and I hit them up quite a few times during our last visit without much waiting or much trouble. This time, I was stuck in a long line of men for no more than 3 bathrooms, and became the resident restroom know it all when every lady that came by took one look at the line and asked me,”So, there’s no ladies room?” Sorry gals, queue up with the fellas.
And I loved being questioned by the weirdo behind me,”Hey! Where’s your chaperone?”
“What chaperone? I don’t need a chaperone!” I said.
“Soooooo, girl, what line are YOU in? Are you in the hetero line? The homo line? The bi-sexual line?” To which, in classic D form, I replied,”Dude, I’m in the fucking BATHROOM line. I just gotta pee!”
Well, what do you expect? It’s Hollywood.
