Conversation with the devil

Recently, I had the opportunity to attend a Halloween party. I haven’t been to one since I was 13, and for good reason: costume parties come with a guarantee of feelings of inadequacy. I mean, yes: a regular party can make you feel awkwardly dressed, or like a total fuck stick, but the comparison of one’s attire to another’s is a forgone conclusion at a costume party. Why did I go, then? Well, you know how much I love to hold on to things that happened 18 years ago. Besides, it was a chance to do something other than sit at home by myself on a Saturday night (which is also an inducer of feelings of inadequacy, but I digress).

To my mind, it seemed the best way of not losing was not competing, also known as the complete and utter wimp-out. I mean, honestly, I just wanted to kind of hang out, chat with some friends, and go home. I was not in it for the prizes (sidebar: I honestly didn’t even know there was an ACTUAL contest. I didn’t win anything, but then I didn’t really try either so no disappointments there). I decided to just slap on something that would be slightly revealing (this was a bear party, and if I know one thing it’s that they do like to pet me) but that would not require a lot of effort. I chose the mechanics shirt that I once greeted Al Gore in (those in the know will remember the shirt I speak of). I put on a wife-beater underneath, and was able by mysterious confluence of events to slip into my Dickies (I love my Dickies). With a pair of boots and scrunched down knee length socks my outfit was complete.

Once I arrived, I saw a variety of costumes, most of which were okay, some of which needed more covering, and a couple that I didn’t dare look at directly for fear that the image would be burned into my retinas for all eternity. Since I cannot look at a strobe light without having a seizure of epic proportions, I quickly shuffled outside, so as to avoid the implications of being unconscious in a room full of gay men. That’s when I met the devil.

I introduced myself (you may be thinking, “Why? Aren’t you already on intimate terms with your dark lord?”) and he told me his name was Charles. He seemed nice, and we had fun ripping apart everyone who was not as charmant, as well dressed, as attractive as we were. Especially if they were wearing unnecessary ass-less chaps. Anyway, eventually we were joined by another fellow, David, who was dressed as a pirate (I’m guessing butt, although he could have been another kind). After several hours of delightful conversation (and a modicum of groping), I went home alone.