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How I Got My Bitch Back

[whitespace] 'Is it that obvious that I'm feelin' it?'

By C. Silo

'Damn, bitch, you look like you need a drink!" The Ambassador, a.k.a. Eduardo Parra, read me up and down--in the ratted hair, Heidi Fleiss-autographed sweatshirt, busted-out platformas and wrestler pants, I was a harrowing vision of grotesqueness. It was 2 o'clock on a Monday afternoon, and although I couldn't be bothered to alter the drag or apply my Lee Press-On face, I agreed that a modest cocktail from my local bar might reglamorize my spirit. After setting a one-drink maximum (mm-hmm, that's right), the Ambassador and I lit our cigarettes and prepared to face the brutal elements.

Four Long Island iced teas and two hours later, the Ambassador and I decided to transport our sloppy asses from the Bitterend to the Castro, where the ends are rumored to be sweeter. Luckily, I slipped a pint glass under my sweatshirt before hopping in a cab; in the fiercest glamazon moment of my life, I smashed the glass to the ground upon exiting the cab in front of The Cafe. "You bettah go, bitch," commended two leather queens passing by. That's right, honey--glamour is not in the outfit, it's in the style.

After owning The Cafe's dance floor single-handedly (the bar was empty), the Ambassador and I skipped to the Bar at Castro--a new hangout right next door to the fearsome Daddy's--and proceeded to bring loud, slurring love to all the children inside. Some were not amused and tried to kill our invincible buzz, but we proudly sucked up even more poison and showed them all that nothing can stop a maniacal binge except death itself. And, girl, how we continued to live. And for anyone who still thinks I'm a drag queen, I'll have you know I exposed my real live tits to a previously deprived world on the cab ride home and laughed my ass off all the way. Naturally, the Ambassador was not aroused but agreed that my nipples seemed real.

Again, my real live tits found an audience last weekend at Kevin Jenkins' Bulletproof Boat Party, where cheeky friend Ron Ison yanked down my prized Penelope Starr halter top just as I was feeling my groove on the dance floor. Thanks to the assistance of a few dreamy pharmaceuticals, I found the whole maneuver rather amusing and was able to work the nipple-erection theme into my "Is It That Obvious That I'm Feelin' It?" interpretive dance.

To paraphrase our English brothers and sisters (many of whom were on the boat), Kevin's party is a truly "wicked" and "mental" place to flash your tits and work your booty for several reasons. One, the Boat provides clubbers with a sophisticated means of visiting nature while avoiding all the drama that goes along with nappy meadows and craggy streams. The Boat is a noncommittal sea safari that allows you to escape the ordinary beasts ashore and maintain the essentials that nature prohibits--drinking, smoking, wearing cute clothes and listening to deep, loud music.

But most importantly, the Boat Party is where filthy, crusty-nosed Clubland transforms into Magical Utopia Fairyland. There are no evil club hoes here, wanting to knock the shit out of you with their platforms and pedal pushers for no apparent reason. No, no, on the boat everyone is supremely kind--or in my case, supremely wasted--and eager to turn their asses out on the dance floor. Definitely my kind of scene.

But the real point of the Boat Party is to prove to the rest of the world that only juicy house music and loads of Southern Comfort will save us from the banalities and Fatboy Slims of the world. Mark Farina, Rasta Que Tip, Kevin, Mike Bee and Nabiel joined turntable forces on that lovely golden-mooned eve and moved the fat, booming ass of the Burning Goddess' collective spawn--after all, if a beat isn't heavy, it ain't worth shit.

Small things often come in small packages: [email protected]

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From the May 10, 1999 issue of the Metropolitan.

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