After my second husband and I split up about four years ago, I bought a leopard dress (see 10th photo on the right) along with several other sexy dresses, pin-up girl heels, sexy undergarments, make-up...all the props a newly single lady needed to feel good about herself and attract men into her lair. Muah ha ha ha (<-- evil laugh). I love my leopard dress but it was about three years before I felt comfortable enough to wear it out and about. I've only worn it out twice - both times with great success. I say it's one of my lucky charms, but in reality I need rock solid self-confidence to wear it so of course it would be lucky because I'd be exuding self-confidence. What's more attractive than self-confidence? If I was Superman and wore my leopard dress (he wears a cape, so wearing a dress isn't that far fetched), not even kryptonite would thwart me. Did you know that, unlike Superman, Superwoman doesn't have a weakness? Maybe I'm Superwoman when I wear my leopard dress?
One night last summer, I went at Slim's Last Chance to see Hillbilly Hellcats and some other live bands. I couldn't convince anyone to go with me, so I went by myself. Armed with self-confidence (and shapewear), this was the coming out party of my leopard dress. I primped and preened, put on the leopard dress, and hit the road. After a few wrong turns even though my GPS was leading the way, I arrived at Slim's Last Chance. I parked my car, opened the driver's side door, swirled around in my car seat, and eloquently placed my feet onto the curb. It was like the bat signal was shining on me, but it was just a street lamp. I'd like to say that the light glistened on my black, patent leather, strappy, spiked heel pin-up girl shoes, but, valuing comfort over beauty, I wore black matte flip flops. Anti-climactic, I know, but who would look at my feet anyway? I wasn't out to score someone with shoe fetish. Did you know that there have been several serials killers who've had shoe and foot fetishes? One of them chopped off his victims' feet and stored them in a floor freezer in his garage and dressed them up in various high heeled shoes, unbeknownst to his wife. Anyway, I wasn't out to score anyone or anything other than an enjoyable evening of melodious (or cacophonic, depending on your musical taste) live music for my soul.
I got out of the car, and walked toward the entrance. There were at least 30 motorcycles parked along the street, a lot of them Harleys. What type of crowd was this? Should I have packed heat or a switchblade? I didn't have either, so it didn't matter. I hoped it wasn't a Wild One crowd, unless it came with a young Marlon Brando look-a-like. After a quick glance at the motorcycles, I approached the doorman, paid the $10 cover, and slinked on in. It was about 10pm and Slim's was packed. Like a slow motion mosher in a mosh pit, I eventually nudged my way through hordes of people and landed at the bar. I don't recommend elbowing folks; instead, just place your hand gently on their lower backs and lead them out of your way. Works for me.
While waiting at the bar, a man standing behind me told me I smelled so good that he couldn't continue to be near me lest he tried to molest me which would make his girlfriend none to happy. I laughed and thanked him, then gave him some unsolicited advice: buy Mediterranean by Elizabeth Arden for his girlfriend as a gift to himself. Awwww. After I had my Sailor Jerry and coke securely in hand, I checked out the scene, then wriggled my way to the far end of the bar away from all the people. My feet gave thanks to the flip flop gods as I stood there comfortably and sipped my drink.
The music was loud and fantastic. I enjoyed watching people swing dance and felt a pang of jealously because I longed to swing dance too, but, alas, I had no partner. Then I had this strange feeling that someone was watching me, so I glanced down the end of the bar. There he was. The love of my life, staring longingly at me. My soul mate. Our eyes locked in a smoldering visual embrace; imaginary stars swirled around my head; my heart felt like it would beat right out of my body! Then, as if brought together by a magnetic force, he approached me and asked me to dance. Our bodies fit together like two puzzle pieces. Six months later we were engaged! Yeah, right. I smiled at him, then turned my attention back to the music.
To be continued...
One night last summer, I went at Slim's Last Chance to see Hillbilly Hellcats and some other live bands. I couldn't convince anyone to go with me, so I went by myself. Armed with self-confidence (and shapewear), this was the coming out party of my leopard dress. I primped and preened, put on the leopard dress, and hit the road. After a few wrong turns even though my GPS was leading the way, I arrived at Slim's Last Chance. I parked my car, opened the driver's side door, swirled around in my car seat, and eloquently placed my feet onto the curb. It was like the bat signal was shining on me, but it was just a street lamp. I'd like to say that the light glistened on my black, patent leather, strappy, spiked heel pin-up girl shoes, but, valuing comfort over beauty, I wore black matte flip flops. Anti-climactic, I know, but who would look at my feet anyway? I wasn't out to score someone with shoe fetish. Did you know that there have been several serials killers who've had shoe and foot fetishes? One of them chopped off his victims' feet and stored them in a floor freezer in his garage and dressed them up in various high heeled shoes, unbeknownst to his wife. Anyway, I wasn't out to score anyone or anything other than an enjoyable evening of melodious (or cacophonic, depending on your musical taste) live music for my soul.
I got out of the car, and walked toward the entrance. There were at least 30 motorcycles parked along the street, a lot of them Harleys. What type of crowd was this? Should I have packed heat or a switchblade? I didn't have either, so it didn't matter. I hoped it wasn't a Wild One crowd, unless it came with a young Marlon Brando look-a-like. After a quick glance at the motorcycles, I approached the doorman, paid the $10 cover, and slinked on in. It was about 10pm and Slim's was packed. Like a slow motion mosher in a mosh pit, I eventually nudged my way through hordes of people and landed at the bar. I don't recommend elbowing folks; instead, just place your hand gently on their lower backs and lead them out of your way. Works for me.
While waiting at the bar, a man standing behind me told me I smelled so good that he couldn't continue to be near me lest he tried to molest me which would make his girlfriend none to happy. I laughed and thanked him, then gave him some unsolicited advice: buy Mediterranean by Elizabeth Arden for his girlfriend as a gift to himself. Awwww. After I had my Sailor Jerry and coke securely in hand, I checked out the scene, then wriggled my way to the far end of the bar away from all the people. My feet gave thanks to the flip flop gods as I stood there comfortably and sipped my drink.
The music was loud and fantastic. I enjoyed watching people swing dance and felt a pang of jealously because I longed to swing dance too, but, alas, I had no partner. Then I had this strange feeling that someone was watching me, so I glanced down the end of the bar. There he was. The love of my life, staring longingly at me. My soul mate. Our eyes locked in a smoldering visual embrace; imaginary stars swirled around my head; my heart felt like it would beat right out of my body! Then, as if brought together by a magnetic force, he approached me and asked me to dance. Our bodies fit together like two puzzle pieces. Six months later we were engaged! Yeah, right. I smiled at him, then turned my attention back to the music.
To be continued...
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