A little while ago I got an invite to a friends 30th birthday and it’s a dress up party with the themes “Controversial, confronting or cou cou couture”. I wrack my brain for days trying to think of an appropriate outfit, and then one morning in the shower inspiration strikes and I have my Eureka moment. I know, I say to myself, I can finally use that African-American blow up doll that I was be quested years ago. So I fixed her leaks as best I could and bought her a shiny new outfit and we were ready to go. It was a conceptual outfit, I was either a mis-en scene called “Under age nigger getting anally raped” or, more succinctly, I could just point to myself and say “I’m a rapist”. You can see how this might cause offense.
So on the night of the party I begin packing my bags and getting ready to go. I was catching public transport there so of course I was not travelling in costume, my death wish is rather too personal to just let any body grant it at a tram stop. As I’m packing my bags it begins to dawn on me just how wrong this night could go. In my bag I have
- One blow up doll, black, with long singlet worn as a dress
- One mobile phone charger wire for tying dolls hands behind back
- One pair of underwear, small, stuffed in the dolls mouth.
- One balaclava
- Two pairs of blue surgical gloves
- Black hoodie
I realize that what I have in my bag is actually a rape kit and if I am stopped by the police I am fucked and not just ‘in a little bit of trouble’ fucked, but probably proper fucked. Understandably I start getting a little bit nervous. I smoke a joint to relax me, unsurprisingly, this does not help. “You only live once” I tell myself as I head out the door. During the whole tram ride there I am on the verge of having a full on anxiety attack, I can feel my heart racing and I am trying not to look too nervous. It does not help that like a Chihuahua I let out an involuntary yelp anytime anyone who looks even vaguely authoritarian gets on. I finally arrive at my destination and alight from the tram, basically running towards the house where the party is.
I get there and realize that I have made a terrible mistake. Instead of a room full of people dressed as abortions, which I half expected, everyone is dressed in eveningwear, there are long gloves and pearls, hats and sequins. There are, of course, a few people looking a bit odd, but nothing too outrageous. I find a room to change in. By now I am so nervous that I am quite literally sweating like a rapist. I am wearing a balaclava, a black hoodie, blue rubber gloves and tied around my waist with my ‘rape belt’ is a black blow up sex doll with underwear stuffed in her mouth and her hands tied behind her back with electrical wire. I mumble my hellos to a few people as well as apologies as I don my outfit, I take a deep breath and step out into the party where a sextet are entertaining the crowd with some classical music.
The first thing I see is a black man. The second thing I see is a lady take one look at me, gather up her child and exit. Heads turn towards me and there are a few open mouths. Sweat is pouring freely off me and I am shaking like a leaf. Generally, I don’t get nervous. Being the centre of attention is not usually a problem for me, but in this case I am not only aware of any public scrutiny but imagining it tenfold. I am so paranoid that suddenly every snatch of a sentence I hear is about me, every gesture I interpret as a warning to move on and to not come back. I am being stared at and behind my balaclava my face is a portrait of anxiety. I am, quite literally, the face of fear. By now I am sweating to such a degree that my gloves are starting to fill up with sweat, not just moisture, so much so that later I will tip them out and it will be like emptying a drink. I stand around nervously for a few minutes, desperately fighting the impulse just to turn and run.
Then the unexpected happens. A very pretty and well-dressed girl comes up and starts talking to me. She is the sort of girl that generally I would be a little bit afraid of because she is obviously quite cool and stylish and also, to be frank, quite hot. She tells me she likes my outfit and we begin chatting. A few more people come up and comment on my costume and pretty soon I have relaxed considerably. I have to take the balaclava off because no one can hear my voice and later the gloves because they get in the way. The sole black guy at the party, the main person who I am afraid of offending, comes up and we talk. He is horrified/impressed with my outfit and tells me that I am very brave. To begin with, I have the feeling that he can’t decide weather to be angry and offended or to laugh along with me. I’d say that he took the humor path because he starts circling me and then later starts trying to pick me up. He is delightfully handsome, but I say no. The night is strange enough already.
Just before I leave someone taps me on the shoulder and points to the dance floor where there is a man dressed in thigh high patent black leather lace up stilettos, a pair of tighty whitey jocks with a cock drawn on the front and “I’m expensive” written on the back, a singlet with the word “Slut” on it, a captains hat and a gas mask. I realize that the mantel of most confronting has been taken from me, for which I am glad. For the last hour, whenever I had been introduced to people they say “Oh you’re the rapist” and it had started to become a bit unnerving.
So to recap, I went to as party as interracial underage rape and made a bunch of new friends, including, a black man who took a real shine to me. I am sure there were a few people there who did not think my costume in anyway amusing, but to hell with them, they were probably really boring. I fully expected to be punched in the face, and, in truth, was kind of looking forward to being kicked out of a party, but in the end, I was welcomed and accepted for being the sick weird fuck I really am.
You know?
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