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In Hiding

10-jul-2003

Many moons ago when I still lived in Toronto and had a full head of hair— o! real hair, how I miss you; o! Toronto, how I don’t— Buddies in Bad Times Theatre threw a Dungeon Party for New Year’s Eve. By this time, their infamous events were way more party than dungeon. Still, in an orange slip dress and matching feather boa, at a leather party, I was an exotic bird in a field of cattle.

Just before midnight I got loaded on the free champagne. When the countdown ended, emboldened by my fabulousness— I was in Canada’s largest city, attending my first party in drag, feeling liberated with anonymity— I walked against the flow of teaming shirtless bodies, kissing every man I passed. I must have smooched a few hundred in twenty minutes and still my lips didnÕt hurt. Such is the resilience of youth.

Half–way round the room, I bumped into the cross–eyed guy whoÕd tried to pick me up when I’d first arrived. He’d seemed way too aggressive when I was sober, but now I thought, Why let first impressions interfere with intimacy? Maybe I was just too hot for him to be polite. Really, whatÕs more flattering than determination?

It was panty–freezing cold outside and we were horny so we headed for the nearest warm place to snuggle. The bathroom. We waited in line ten minutes for either of the two stalls, though only one was emptying. Impatient, I peaked over the wall to see two dykes snorting lines off the porcelain. I wasnÕt one to complain. Eventually, me and Mr. Groper were also hogging a stall, making pigs of ourselves. We blew and fucked and generally pissed a lot of pissers off.

My buddy Q told me every time the bathroom door opened, he could see me from the coat–check line. My wig was bobbing above the stall wall with each thrust. It was an all–time low. Luckily, we live to outdo ourselves.

Somebody peaked to see what was taking us so long, which only seemed fair. I heard him telling the crowded room that we were fucking. Well, I was like Zorro, wasn’t I? Mysteriously in disguise.

When I stepped out of the stall, with my head held high and my wig askew, I heard a gasp. I didn’t recognize E right away in his heavy goth gear, until he shouted my boy name over and over again. E has a voice like a 5AM garbage truck. Foul, grating and disruptive. “Michael Smith! I can’t believe it’s Michael Smith!” he chanted.

Thankfully, there’s a certain anonymity that comes with a boy name like mine. All the same, I made a mental note: when doing things I would prefer to keep behind closed doors, ensure walls are closed too, because, as George Michael proved, even in private, public sex can make your privates public.