This was supposed to be posted yesterday for Memoir Monday, but after breaking my neck from vigorous shacking out over the weekend, on top of coming down with the flu, I had to post pone it a day. Nethertheless…
What is it about the month of October that makes you wanna wear a wig? BIBLE, last year my friend Nick and I went as Britney and Christina from the VMAs (not that anybody got the outfit), and in the same month rocked up to Torture Gardens in full drag. Apart from at chill outs, I very seldom work a pair of heels-

‘What about that time at Shadow Lounge?’
Erm, it was my birthday.
‘But what about that time at Floridita?’
Erm, it was Pride.
‘But what about that time at WAR?’
Okay, so I occasionally rocked a pair of heels in the past. But rarely as woman. Just as an androgynous mess, and that phase is behind me now. But when October comes, the urges to go all-out, like free drugs during sex with a dealer, are there whether you like it or not. Let’s take it back one year, we’re hosting at Torture Gardens…

“Girl, we ain’t gonna get a decent man that ain’t got some kinky fetish, so we might as well go as women and just have jokes”. This was where it started. My great idea. Also thinking that I wouldn’t know anybody, so after I got lick up and my weave got ratchet, what would it matter?

I’m waiting around at the train station for Nick (late as usual, ’cause she on black peoples time init). When an decrepit old man approaches me… well, I asked him for the time – then he approached me.
“What’s your name?”
“Ben”. AS IF I was giving her my real name.
“Where are you from?”
“Croydon” – I weren’t given her no true info. The convo continues; where are you going, who with etc etc. Then,
“Do you want money?” What? Did I look that cheap?
“No, I don’t need money”.
“I’m not a weirdo, you can come to my house if you want?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“Do you want some Whiskey?” Offering me a hip flask from his jacket. Was this bitch for real? Either, I actually looked like a rent boy, (that hangs around the train station for clients) or he was just a dirty old perv. Totally the latter. So if he’s a perv, I should totally teach him a lesson.
“Actually, I do need money…” I’d rapidly changed my mind on that earlier offer. He holds a tenner in one hand and offers the other one up to me like a courteous princess. A quick scan around to make sure I wasn’t getting papped, and I pecked his ratchet old hand and snatched the £10.

This was the first, and only time, I ever prostituted myself. And I was worth ten quid. Gutting. At least all I did was kiss the back of his hand.

The incident caused for copious amounts of Smirnoff to get the memory of his veiny and withered paw under my pouting lips forgettable. So that we did.

Anyway, back to the drag. We get glammed/tranned up, Nick as Yasmine – a sketty, skinny, feroshe supermodel with more chains around her neck than morals, while I was Jessie – a busty, lusty slutty glamour girl, with more tits than brains.

I should probably mention that I was carrying a couple extra pounds that day, so had decided to recruit the help of my sister’s girdle. An all-in-one, pinching me in from chest to arse.
So we get to TG, and we’re totally working it. Men are buying us champagne, we’re giving out numbers – who knew we were so hot as women? Apart from stumbling out of the toilet cubicle, with my brown wig half way off my head and my blonde fringe fully on show.

“What’s through there?” I asked pointing towards an unknown doorway.
“It’s the couples room…” we were totally intrigued, so we took each other by the hand and walked in as a tranny couple. It was well dark, and people are getting all frisky up in here. Nick shit a brick and left, I downed my drink and stayed. And took residence on a seat next to a cute ‘straight’ boy. We started kissing, and before long I had ‘it’ whopped out through the fanny hole in the bottom of the girdle.

Have you ever heard of such a dreggy tranny? It was like Bridget Jones and her granny pants meets Edie (from Ab Fab) and her alcohol problem… Not hot, girl.
So we’re having a little fumble, and as the champagnes kicking in, I get a little lost in the moment.
So lost in fact, I’m biting my lip in ecstasy and pulling my weave off before throwing it down on the floor. Silence. The boy looked as though he’d just seen his granny take out her teeth for the first time; a combination of pure shock and utter horror.

“PutTheWigBackOn! PutTheWigBackOn! PutTheWig…” Alright! I get it! He could put his hand up my girdle, but not without the illusion of curly hair? So I’m scrambling around the sticky floor, cock still hanging out  the bottom of my body stocking, in the pitch black, fumbling around for my synthetic hair. After running my hand over split drinks, chewing gum and probably salmonella – I finally found it and threw it back on my head in a state of emergency. It was, of course, on backwards and I now had a ponytail hanging from my forehead.

Needless to say, he left.
Fuck my life. A girl can only endure so many humiliating experiences in one night, even if he is a boy underneath. More vodka?
Hell yes.
This year we’re gonna don the weave and hit up Wig Party – it is for charity after all, but rest assured they’ll be no five knuckle shuffles going on. Not in public, dressed as a woman anyway.