If you think I’m odd, then you haven’t met some of the people I hang out with on occasion. I happened to be in a curious conversation with one of the more colourful ones earlier today about the joys of cross-dressing. This is perhaps a tad out of the ordinary, but much of the comic entertainment we derived from the conversation had little to do with the topic at hand, but instead stemmed from how serious she believed I was.
As an offhand jab at my entirely unhealthy diet during my self-imposed writing lockdown, I’d remarked that I certainly had the “breasts for the job.” Emanating from my speech-impaired lips, she got to hear this as “dress for the job.”
And the fun ensued.
My foppishness now misguidedly established, we were soon knee deep in shades of mascara and how many kisses different brands of lipstick can outlast. Not to mention, best practices for hairless legs. And, I don’t really recall the specifics, but at some point I believe there was even some critiquing of a porno involving a transgendered couple—each person perfectly looking the part and playing the role traditionally assigned to the other sex.
She did seem kinda bummed when I clarified I really didn’t have a super-secret closet filled with ultra-chic feminine clothes.
Even so, good times were had by all.