hallowiener

I don’t typically enjoy Halloween. The costumes, the candy, the too-many children—not really my thing. Call me uncool, or unfun, but it’s true. But last night’s party did much to convince me the holiday has its place and its purpose, and should be appreciated for the absurdity it inspires and the hilarity that inevitably ensues on its account. Halloween, you have earned my respect.

I arrived at the party fashionably late, and was applauded for my apron bearing the image of Michelangelo’s David with all his important parts positioned appropriately on my body—a costume chosen for its ease-of-wear and the lack of effort required from me. (Special thanks go out to Leah and T, who saw the naked apron in Rome a few years ago and knew I just had to have it.) I spent most of the evening making the men in attendance uncomfortable by parading around with my perfectly sculpted penis completely and unabashedly exposed, occasionally groping myself and claiming my (temporary) maleness alone gave me license to do so at will—a claim to which none of the men objected, recognizing my excuse as their (all-too-often-employed) own.

At some point—and after copious amounts of whiskey—I engaged in a philosophical discussion with a scantily-clad male Care Bear, whose intended-for-a-child costume left little to the imagination, and a lot to be seen. He schooled me on the differences between Zen and Vipassana Meditation, urged me to give Yoga a try, and attempted not to inadvertently expose himself while we spoke. Pointing to my penis, I told him I wasn’t worried.

In the midst of my talk with the Man Whose Care Bear Costume Has Officially Tainted My Childhood, I was approached by a ample-breasted he masquerading as a she—drawn to me because of my gender-bending apron-donning—who asked me to dance and offered me tequila in appreciation for my outfit. Soon, I was salsa-ing with the plastic-racked (wo)man, in a dance that—in spite of its oddity—drew a surprisingly few number of stares and seemed somehow appropriate for this particular party. Plus, it’s hard to compete with a half-naked, philosophically-inclined Care Bear.

For the rest of the night, I flirted shamelessly (and drunkenly, no doubt) with Dino (of Flintstones fame) and a snuggly-spandexed Wolverine, while facing repeated pressure to “sack up” and drink more, which I—in accordance with my anatomy that evening—foolishly proceeded to do.

Eventually, I ditched the David, appeasing the unnerved-by-my-apron party-goers, and sought out my Man-friend, who happily walked me back to his place, where the kissing and canoodling commenced. (Soon to be followed by the passing out from (over)consumption of alcohol.)

Definitely an excellent party. Nudity, philosophy, delicious adult beverages. And going home with the most attractive man there. A hard-earned and worthwhile hangover, for sure.