OddThinking

Last Thursday, I was invited to a Maskerade Cocktail Party hosted by a charity that some of my friends work for.

I was lent a mask by another friend who I have now dubbed my Fairy Godmother – she has helped me out with a number of costumes for occasions requiring fancy-dress. She was a little concerned that I wasn’t going far enough, just wearing a mask and a dinner suit.

Her fear wasn’t justified. Firstly, the mask was great. It had originally been a good quality mask, black with details picked out in gold-colour, but then she had added a flock of black and green ostrich feathers to the front.

The result was spectacular. I have a nice suit, and the combination seemed to work well. I got lots of compliments about the mask – it was one of the best ones there – and requests from the official photographers to pose for shots.

Then a gaggle of two or three women-

A gaggle of women pointed at me as I passed and nodded to each other, and summoned me to stop. There was a fashion show later in the evening. They were looking for men to escort the professional models down the cat-walk. With my mask and suit, I was selected as one of the six finalists. They handed me a tag, saying “Male Modle (sic) Search Finalist”.

Later in the night I was dragged on stage with five other men, treated like a prized pig, and voted upon by audience cheers.

Based on the cheering, I came a distant second – and almost came third.

They needed two men, so that meant I won the “privilege” of been sent into a nearby cold stairwell cum changing room to take turns to escort the bikini-clad models down the runway.

Me + crowd-attention? A dangerous mix, not to be taken lightly!

The first time down the run-way, model on my arm, I tried it straight. Ever so slightly exaggerated model walk, serious look on my face, learning the ropes, trying not to get in the way of the model as she pranced back and forth in front of the continuous barrage from the flash guns from the professional photographers.

The second time down the run-way, I pushed it further, swinging my hips excessively. I had my jacket folded over my arm, so I could twist it suavely over the shoulder as I spun around, clearly taking the piss.

I came back to the stairwell to find the other male model cowering slightly. He was too shy for all of this, and didn’t really want to go out again in front of the attention. At the same time, he was trying to be a gentleman and look in the opposite direction to the mass of perfectly-formed young female bodies each trying to get hurriedly changed from one swim-suit to another.

I thought this poor kid was missing a great opportunity. The sad part is I am talking about missing out on a fun stage experience rather than a perving opportunity! What does that say about me?

Out I went again, this time openly worshipping the model I was with, pointing at her, jaw slack and rhythmically slapping my chest to indicate my heavily-beating heart. As she paraded at the end, I dropped to my knees and bowed to the ground. Based on her comment afterwards, I think the model enjoyed that.

Not that I was paying that much attention to the models! They were all heavily made up, with their big hair similarly styled in the kind of weird, vaguely unsettling ways that you only see in fashion parades. Their make-up included a running theme of face-painted flowers next to their eyes, and bizarre flourescent dots above their eyelashes. The result was many of them looked the same to me. I accidentally insulted one by saying “Am I going out on the floor with you again?” and it turned out I hadn’t yet. Oops!

Again and again, I went out with a model on my arm, walked down the runway, tried to let the model strut her stuff without getting in her way or offending the sponsor, each time with a different theme. This was like a clown course exercise, only more so.

I sneered aggressively, arms alternatively crossed, or on my hips.

I skipped gaily.

I bopped happily to the music, Pulp Fiction-style.

I acted nervous, prat-falling and stumbling.

I had a wild time. It was a buzz and a lot of fun.

The crowd seemed to like it. As I walked around the room afterwards, there were smiles of recognition, people thanking me for the show, and invitations by women to join them on the dance floor.

I would explain, at that point, that that meant they saw my dancing style and my face without the mask. The fantasy was over and their interest waned immediately. However, I shouldn’t have to point this out! That’s the job of the the people listening to the story. C’mon people! It’s clearly not hard to poke fun at me. Do your bit!