Dating and other bad habits.

For a minute I thought I was still drunk.

Bleary eyed, I’d stumbled into the shower and into my dress and off to brunch with my mother and my aunt.  Since they were the original rock stars who taught me how to live fast and take chances, they seemed to approve of my desire to hide behind big sunglasses and mainline coffee.  I thought the coffee was just beginning to kick in when…

“Our waiter is hitting on you,” Denise smirked in my general direction.

Me? The girl who looks like a bag of assholes?  The one who danced her ass off all night before fighting off a creepy-old-purse-stealing-man?  This seemed a bit out of line (even though I had brought my breasts to the party).

“Mmmhmm, baby girl,” Mama cooed in a southern twang. “He’s sweet on you!”

Him? The guy in the wig? The one with lips drawn on in eyeliner? The dude wearing 6″ heels and panties over his striped tights? This seemed a bit too hard to believe even for a girl who often attracts the odd.

But it was true. He came back to the table over and over again, and not just to fill the coffee.  He told me he liked my eyes. He asked if I would leave him my number. He told my mom he’d take good care of me.

A man in drag hit on me in front of my mom.

And again, for good measure–a man in DRAG hit on me in front of my MOM.  My mom who, by the way, was really into this whole idea, encouraging me every time he left the table to leave my phone number behind.

So I did. It was too much to resist. Blame David Bowie and that gorgeous velvet ballgown. Blame the booze still working it’s way through my system. Blame the fact that he was wearing the same skull and cross bones panties outside of his clothes as I was wearing under mine. Blame it on the rain or any other bad pop song.  But how could I say no?

It’s the ballsiest thing I think anyone has ever done. And a man that brave deserves a phone number.