Crushing on the Drag Queen

My life will never be the same!

WARNING - ADULT CONTENT AND MORE THAN LIKELY TOO MUCH INFORMATION - IF YOU'RE A PRUDE - DO NOT KEEP READING.

SERIOUSLY.

I AIN'T KIDDING HERE.

ALRIGHT, IT'S YOUR FUNERAL.

You know it's a good bachelorette party when you come back with a broken baby toe and you fancy yourself in love. Last night was Amber's birthday/bachelorette party.  It was  an existential, gender-bending, re-evaluating my sexual psyche, kind of evening.  It proved to be one of the most mind-expanding nights in my life.  Why Heather, please elaborate.  Did you discover transcendental meditation, or hot yoga?  No, I discovered the true art of drag queens and I shall never be the same.

We went to the drag clubs on Church Street and I saw some amazing performers.  Nikki Chin at Crews and Tangos - stunning, funny, wry, crass, self-deprecating and a great dancer.  And then Vitality Black at Zipperz  who is  a teeny tiny Tina Turner with more spit and fire and fun than you would think could fit into such a little body.
 

The Fabulous Vitality Black

But then everything changed.  Heaven Lee Hytes took the stage.

Heaven Lee Hytes

I found myself transported to an alternate-reality version of Victor/Victoria, with me in the James Garner role, but instead of me lusting after a woman pretending to be a man pretending to be a woman, I found myself lusting, not for the spectacularly stunning drag queen Heaven Lee is, but rather the man underneath the drag queen.  I have NEVER IN MY LIFE experienced anything as psychotropic as what I experienced last night.
I was smitten.  L.U.S.T.  In bold capital letters.  That's right.  LUST.  My mind is still blown, and this is why...   Heaven Lee Hytes  is one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen.  A Lucy Lawless-esque statuesque brunette with piercing blue eyes who does NOT remotely resemble a dude.   She is a goddess in her own right.  A performer who has perfected her craft for a decade and is a paragon in the realization of her stage persona. GORGEOUS.  WITTY.  TALENTED.

But all I could see?  The man.  The man underneath the sequins and pancake and falsies.  The man beneath the scarlet lipstick, eyeshadow and stilletto stripper boots.  I found myself crushing on this guy in the least platonic way of my life.  I looked at him, who I should be calling 'her' out of respect for how brilliant he is at being 'her,' but honestly?  All I saw was the man.  There was something about the breadth of his shoulders that let me visualize him not as a perfect female impersonator but rather as a cross-dressing man.  And for the first time in my life, I could understand cross-dressing and I thought it was HOT.

To quote my friend Big Gay Jay... So there I was, wanting to hump the leg of a drag queen... I was lusting for the tall, dark, handsome, GAY man who stole the breath from my incredulous lungs.  My mind IMPLODED.  Looking at 'her' but seeing only him.  This man had me imagining things.  Dirty, decadent, ridiculously-cliched, romance novel things.  Him, dressed as a highway man in Regency England, his long hair tied back in a black velvet ribbon, sporting jodpurs and riding boots and some sort of great cloak. Riding a frickin' horse.  Preparing to... board my carriage and perhaps steal my... jewels... if you know what I mean.

And what did you do on YOUR Thursday night?

I'm older than Mrs. Robinson!!

While reading Wired this morning at breakfast, there was a photo for Marriott (EXPERIENCE the world of MARRIOTT!)  with 40-somethings laughing and using an IPad to show how hip and 'Now' they are while enjoying glasses of red wine.  Two gentlemen - one with a greying, well-groomed beard and another with trendy glasses + a woman, I'm guessing early 40s - looks kinda like Robin Wright in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.  And I thought:  GOOD GOD!  THAT'S MY DEMOGRAPHIC!!! THIS AD IS AIMED AT ME!!!!  I am THAT old now.

Think back to when your parents would have cocktail parties - remember those?  When you would stay up, maybe sneak to the first landing on the staircase to listen in?  They'd be all dressed up...  smoke and drunken laughter would fill the living room?  Remember that?   Remember how OLD they seemed?  Well, more than likely, they were only in their 30s.

Then I got to thinking about Cary Grant.  Who, even now, when I re-watch Notorious, is the most mature and debonair man on the planet.  He has always seemed so much older and world-wise than I could ever hope to be in my lifetime.  He was only 43 years old when he made Notorious. That's a year younger than I am now.  Which means that I'm older than Cary Grant.  This makes me ache with such a sense of defeat, because there's just no way that I can compete.  I can't ever be that together, that deep that grounded.   I can't ever move the way he did.  I'll never be that graceful!  He moved like a freaking cat.  And yes, I know he's a dude, but let's say there was a classic female actress in her 40s - which is laughable  because it just didn't happen then.  I mean think about it.  Maybe Bette Davis in All About Eve - she was cast as a 'fading' star at the ripe old age of 42.  Actresses of a certain age just didn't get screen time then.  If you were over 40 you were relegated to the crazy roles, the mother roles, the spinster roles or the over-the-hill rolls.  And you know something?  Anne Bancroft when she starred in The Graduate was only 36 years old!!!  I'm older than Mrs. Robinson!  HOLY CRAP!  And what's worse?  Most kids don't even know who the hell she is!

Oh look!  There's Dustin Hoffman at the window of the nave! 
Whatever is HE doing there?
If only I'd had my own leopard hat and coat!

"Let me be your Mrs. Robinson."
"Who?"
"Seriously?  You don't know who Mrs. Robinson is?  What about Simon & Garfunkle?  Have you heard of them?  OH GOOD GOD!  How 'bout this?  We'll skip any sort of inappropriate sexual come on... Let me be your teacher of iconic cultural moments?"
"I could be down with that."

OY.

Stoned on Chocolate

Yep, I'm thinking exactly what you think I'm thinking!

I went to SOMA with Margo and Jon.  For the uninitiated, SOMA is a  Chocolatemaker in  Toronto's Distillery District.  What they serve?  SEX in cacao form.

Porn for foodies

It's pretty much always an expedition verging on the indecent.  I frequently feel as if I've been caught having sex in public while enjoying SOMA's delicacies,  and yet I revel in the exhibitionism of the act.  Today I had multiple mouthgasms - at least three of them.  The Bergamot, the Douglas Fir and the Passionfruit w/ Coconut truffles.  OH.  SWEET. MOTHER.  Not to mention the few spoonfuls of the salted caramel gelato that I stole from Jon that made me stop talking (quite the feat) for at least a good 30 seconds while I took the time to catch my breath.  Then, before I left, the Fleur de Sel Caramel...

Fleur de Sel Caramel is on the right... just remembering it right now... I need a sec...

 
This is chocolate that makes a girl clench... DEEP DOWN INSIDE.  If you're not a chocolate person, you might not understand the thrill it poses, but for those of you who are...  and if you live ANYWHERE close to Toronto...  GO.  Savour each and every bite.  Sip water, or enjoy fruity gelato in between bites, to cleanse your palate before the next morsel has you falling to your knees calling the Chocolatier Master/Mistress, willing to sell your body for the next hit.  I'm not really even hyperbolizing here folks - it is THAT GOOD.

The three of us walked out, completely stoned on chocolate.  I could feel it behind my eyes, that dopey, post-sex, wanting to snuggle under the duvet until spring, kind of feeling.  I'll warn you, it ain't cheap, but it is totally worth it and gives a girl almost as much punch as the Hitachi Magic Wand.  Seriously.

F%*k Me Pumps...

I have a thing for shoes.  Not quite a fetish, but close.  I used to have lots and lots and lots...  before I got pregnant and developed duck feet.  'Cause after you've had a baby, your feet aren't the same size.  If you look at my feet when they're not touching the ground, they look fine, I won't say dainty, but with a nice toe polish they look... fine.  Then I actually put weight on them and - ta-da! - DUCK FEET.  They spread.  They're not webbed or anything, but they DO have a slightly flipper-like quality to them now.  I think that this is on account of the fact that I gained 50 lbs with Rissa.  Bad idea.  For so many reasons.  The duck feet are only one of those reasons.

One of my favourite books as a child

I should take a survey of women who gained, say only 20 lbs, with their pregnancies, and ask them about their feet.  Like everyone in my Mom's generation.  Because, there were decades and decades when you were only allowed to gain 20 lbs with your pregnancy.  And then all hell broke loose.  When I asked my midwife how much weight I should gain, she said "Well, some women gain 15 lbs and grow a healthy baby and some gain 60 lbs."  Which end of the spectrum did she think I would choose?  Bring on the mini buttermilk donuts!!  Bad choice.  Bad choice.

I try to keep my mouth shut with advice for pregnant women.  Let them have their own experience.  Let them own it.  Don't scare the crap out of them with your harrowing birth stories.  Except for this:  I tell every pregnant woman I see, "DON'T GAIN 50 POUNDS!!!"  It took me 4 years to lose that weight.  Rissa was a big baby - she weighed 9 lbs, but that, plus placenta and other crap really only amounts to 15 lbs or so.  Which left me with another 35 to lose.  Which, I think, is why I now have duck feet.  And I'm telling you this because it explains why I had to pretty much throw out all my old shoes and replenish my collection.  Which I am still doing, 12 YEARS after Rissa was born.

Today I bought three pairs of shoes!  It was a really good day.  And before anyone gets all "discretionary spending' on me, the three pairs cost me $130 in total, so just shut up.

See, what I was looking for, was either a pair of Scarlet-Coloured F%*k Me Pumps OR a kick-ass sexy dress.  Here's why: I'm workshopping my vampire rock opera next week in Toronto.  There is a showcase performance on the last day and I have to be in front of a crowd and I don't just want to look good, I want people to salivate.  It's a vampire rock opera, so I should look a little bit vampire-y, right?  I thought "Hey, a pair of red F%*k Me Pumps would help solidify a vampire look.  I could wear a black something and then have some va-va-voom on my feet." 

So a while back, I started the search.  There are expensive shoes and there are cheap shoes.  I don't have a lot of extra money, so I prefer the cheap shoes.  Problem with most cheap shoes?  They really hurt your feet.  I tried on the cheap, skanky near-fetish shoes and they were crap.  $40, but really crap, and I couldn't imagine wearing them for more than 5 minutes before wanting to amputate at the ankle.  Then there are the expensive shoes and I'm sorry, but I cannot spend $165  (ON SALE down from $300!!!) on a pair of shoes that might not be worn more than once, just for effect.

But this afternoon?  This afternoon I found Scarlet-Coloured F%*k Me Platform Stilettos!!!   I'm pretty sure that I'm 6 feet tall in these shoes!!!  And they cost $29 and change!!  Because they were from Payless AND they were on sale,  AND they had a rub on the back of one heel for which I got another 15% off!!! BOO-FREAKIN-YEAH!   PLUS (but wait there's more!) I got a pair of Black satin (esque) (it was Payless after all) peep-toe sling-backs in case I can't learn to walk in the Scarlet-Coloured F%*k Me Platform Stilettos by next week AND (oh yes I did!!!) a pair of black satin (esque) kitten heels with fancy-schmancy pleats of fabric on the toes!!!

May never be worn outside the bedroom

Just imagine these with bright red toe nails!

Fabric detail on the kitten heels.

The first pair were the ones I 'needed' to buy.  The second pair were the emergency pair that will show off blood-red vampire-y toe nail polish in case I can't walk in the first pair.  And the third pair?  Was because I WANTED them.  I've been looking for vintage-style kitten heels for two years and I these were them.  They are perfect.  They look like they're straight out of the 50s and are perfect for my vintage addiction.  Yes, I could have bought the $15 cheaper plain kitten heels, but I did not,  and you know why?  Because the nicer ones were only $39.99 and I knew, that even buying ALL THREE PAIRS of shoes, I would still be spending less than if I had bought ONE PAIR of expensive shoes.  Yes folks, tt's Heather Logic - Hard to follow and nearly impossible to argue with.

But he was gay, and this is yoga class!!!

Warning - lurid adult content

I should have known it was a dream, because I was in a yoga classs.  I don't take yoga class.  I think I can honestly say, that apart from the impromptu yoga instruction that my friend Alice gave David, Anna and me on the beach of her cottage property, that I have never done yoga in a group.  (I don't exercise well with others - see previous blog post I DON'T GLOW)

But this dream seemed SO real.  There were a bunch of couples all taking the class and it was the warm-down portion of yoga.  Warm-down from YOGA??  Is this where your heart actually stops?  Plus, couples were doing yoga?  I should have known how the dream was going to turn out.   (Feel free to insert the 'bow-wown-chicka-wown-wown' music cue here.)

So here I am on my yoga mat, in the very dimly-lit yoga studio that is apparently at some fancy-schmancy Muskoka-like resort.  (Again, should have known it was a dream - we can't possibly afford to go to a place like that.)  And there's this friend, who is sort of an amalgam of every gorgeous gay male I've ever been friends with/met.  In the dream he's married to a woman (??),  but I'm still convinced that he's gay, and that his wife must just be oblivious to his obvious gayness.  Because he's the best dressed guy in the yoga studio and could out-panache freaking Cyrano.  And this dude is on a yoga mat beside me.

Then this absolutely gorgeous gay friend of mine starts talking dirty to me!  Luridly, descriptively dirty.  Telling me all the things he wanted to do to ME.  I was understandably shocked because 1) he's GAY and 2) we're in YOGA CLASS.  I was also shocked because although we've been in an exhausting yoga class,  I'm not all sweaty and gross.  I look around, but nobody seems to be the wiser because the lights are low and I guess everyone is in their own 'cone of silence' and they can't hear all the incredibly descriptive things he's saying to me.  I'm thinking to myself, "I'm not flexible enough for half of what you're suggesting."

And I say to him, "Dude!  We're in yoga class.  Your wife is right over there."  Then, in possibly the sexiest voice I've ever heard since Johnny Depp said in Chocolat "I'll come round sometime and get that squeak out of your door," this guy says, "I don't care. I just want to take my (random body part) and rub it all over your (random body part)... " and he itemizes once more all the things he wants to do with my body.  And there I am, just trying to do the Cobra and mind my own business, in spite of the fact, that the guy is very, very, very attractive and even though I know he's gay and that his wife is in the room with us, and David is probably somewhere around too, I'm worried I might cave.  But I persevere.  I do not break my Cobra pose.

Then, as he's still talking to me, the dude starts to... uh... get 'friendly' with himself.  RIGHT THERE IN THE YOGA CLASS.  "Dude!!  You're in a room full of people!"  "I don't care!  All I can think about is...(many more vividly descriptive words)..."  So then he... um... finishes... STILL describing everything he wants to do to me, and there's no possibly way that people couldn't know what he's been doing, because frankly, it looks like he's had an accident with a squeezable mayonnaise bottle and... he's wearing black.  Which should have also let me know that it was definitely a dream,  because it was so much more than a teaspoon, if you know what I'm saying.  And he goes off to clean himself up and he rest of the class is looking at ME, while I'm still in Cobra pose.  And they're all giving me the "Heather, what have you done???" look.  To which I panic and say, "NOTHING!  I'm just doing my Cobra pose!"  And his wife is really not pleased with me.  And I don't know what to say to the wife of a gay man when she apparently doesn't even know that the man she's married to is gay.  I mean maybe he's never talked to her that way and she's upset that he had that much of a response to my proximity.  Then I think I was banned from yoga class in spite my objections.  "But he's GAY!!!  And I was doing the COBRA pose!  My hands were on the ground!!"

Any couch-psychologists care to analyze that sucker?

Please Sir, I want some more...

Please.  Please... someone in television land, bring back Firefly.  Please.  I'm begging.  I really need a hit of Mal.  For those who might say, "but you can see Nathan Fillion on Castle."  I know, I know - Nathan Fillion is on Castle, and it's fine...  Richard Castle is snarky and marginally sexy and all that, there are some good puns, but it's not a Joss Whedon series with Joss Whedon dialogue, and it's not Mal.  I am not craving Nathan Fillion, the actor, but rather the character Malcolm Reynolds. 

WAY darker than Castle

Don't get me wrong.  I very much enjoy Nathan Fillion.  In spite of the fact that right now I'm holding  a wee grudge against him (which I'm sure I'll get over soon) because he wouldn't pose with twine for the Bloggess - which you kinda figure he'd do, given that he appeared in Dr. Horrible's Sing-a-long Blog and didn't balk at saying "The hammer is my penis."  I'm a little disappointed, because I thought he'd have a better sense of humour, and although I get that he shouldn't have to give in to every petty plea from every crazy Comic-Con fan out out there, I just wanted him to... I don't know... take each plea on an individual basis maybe?  I kinda figured that he might give the benefit of the doubt to someone who, although she might appear completely insane in her initial request, he would realize, if he had actually read her posts, that she's not certifiably crazy and is well deserving of a picture with twine. 

I think I'm digressing.

Really, what I want, is another full season of Firefly.  Except that the movie Serenity explains the whole series, so that's probably not going to happen.   But maybe they could start AFTER Serenity is over - except then some of the characters (I won't say who, in case you haven't seen Serenity - which you HAVE to see, because it's a fantastic movie - the opening sequence alone is worth the price of admission) are dead.  And that makes me sad.  And you will be too, when you find out who Whedon killed off.

Maybe if Firefly can't come back, Joss Whedon - who should have a helluva lot of clout right now after having knocked The Avengers completely out of the park - could make a NEW series.  It could really be about ANYTHING.  Doesn't need to be vampires, or sci-fi - actually I'd still like it to be sci-fi - I dig the sci-fi... but it doesn't have to have Nathan Fillion in it.  A character almost exactly like Mal, though, would be good.  Just saying.

Olympic Porn

When planning your viewing of the 2012 Olympics - you have to be wily.  You want to be able to speak with authority about the big picture.  "Did you catch Branagh at the Opening Ceremonies??  Nice Caliban cover, huh?  How about that Mike Oldfield?"

I will freely admit that my favourite part of the Opening Ceremonies had to be the video segment when Daniel Craig went to Buckingham Palace and they made it look as if the Queen was actually parachuting into the stadium.  Let it not be said that Liz doesn't have a sense of humour.

The Olympics offers you a veritable feast of weird and wonderful sports that no-one would ever watch apart from once every 4 years.  (Well, really, once every 2 years, now that they've staggered the winter and summer Olympics.)  There are so many events out there, that you don't want to laden yourself with those that are too time-consuming with little punch or pizazz.  You've got 36 large events (according to the official site) - with some of those larger categories sub-divided into as many as 48 other events, in say Athletics.  And what do people usually talk about, when it's all said and done?  The Men's 100 metre.

I like to plan my viewing based on a very specific athletic criteria: which events show well-toned men in next to no clothing.  My go-to events are swimming and diving.   One might think that men's beach volleyball would be up there as well, but as I realized yesterday morning, when I tried to watch a game - they make the men wear shirts!  Sure, the women are in what amounts to a sports bra and panties, but the men are in modest shorts and loose tank tops.  Here I was hoping for a flashback to the volleyball scene from Top Gun.  Ladies and gay men, if I can get you to reminisce with me for a moment.  Two words: Rick Rossovich.  I was 18, he was pretty much male perfection.

Rick Rossovich as "Slider" in Top Gun 1986

Plus there's that double high-five slap thingie that Maverick and Goose share.  THAT is men's beach volleyball in all its homoerotic glory.  But nope - not at these Olympics! 

"I am totally being gypped!" I complain to David.
"How so?"
"They are wearing shirts!!  What's the fun in that?  Men can ogle any number of the female beach volleyball players!  And I'm stuck with over-sized tank tops!!"  I snort.
"Do you want me to find you some swimming?" David asks helpfully.
"Yes please."
My husband is a god among men.

 And then I discover...  Ryan Lochte...   To quote Farmer Hoggett: "That'll do Pig.   That'll do."

See?  Swimmers have muscle but not too MUCH muscle.

The guy looks like a model... wait a second - he actually IS a model.  Fair enough.  I mean, sure, why not share that physique with the world and make money off it?  Plus, I heard him in an interview and he used an adverb!  Correctly.  (sigh)

Okay, I'll be honest ...  That's not really my criteria for which sports I watch - it's just that peri-menopause brings out the hormones in a gal and when fast forwarding through the day's events, I might get sidetracked by the men who look like they have a lot of sperm.

My sports are gymnastics and diving.  I used to do both.  Not particularly well, but I did them.  I could do a back walkover on the beam, handsprings on floor - could do reverse and inward dives.  Today, I had a major "Mother Bear" moment while I was watching an Egyptian gymnast - Sherine El-Zein.  This girl had braces on both wrists, both ankles, one knee bandaged and one thigh bandaged - which begs the question - what the hell was she doing competing at all??  I watched as she stumbled at the end of her first tumbling pass and then as she fell on her second one, probably having torn something underneath one of those many braces or bandages.  She saluted the judges and bowed out of the event.  This poor girl, devastated and in pain, was unable to get off the floor on her own steam and there I am, yelling at the TV:

"Where is her coach?!?  Where the HELL is her coach??" 

If I could have teleported to London and run to her myself - gathering her in my arms, I would have.  This poor kid.  Her Olympic dreams shattered and it was a good 45 seconds before her coach just sort of saunters over to her.  If I ever see this man, I mean EVER - I'm going to punch him in the face and say, "That's for Sherine you lazy coaching bastard!!"   Sure I might not be as proactive for myself, but put a young woman in harm's way - WATCH OUT!!