I'm not the girl next door. In fact, for every Halloween that I could recently recall with some modicum of clarity, I remember channeling my inner "sexy" something or other. One extra poignant image is the Go-Go Dancer costume I wore on my first Halloween with my other half. Dating him only a short time, I unequivocally had to make a statement--and a loud one at that. In fact, I managed to literally pour myself into this metallic blue mini liquid latex number that was unforgiving and permitted nothing short of a birthday suit underneath. I topped of this legally-questionable and possibly not street-prudent attire with over the knee man-eater heels and some Debbie Gibson curly hair. This was a sight to behold. You couldn't tell me anything--I really thought I was something fierce.  Ergo, to say I'm "out there" would be an understatement.

Nevertheless, I struggle to find the meaning in some of the attire being donned at the Pride Parade yesterday. Apparently, it is acceptable to wear tighty-whiteys with only hot pink nipple tassels and platform cowboy boots. Or, as some hyper-flamboyant men preferred, a dainty leopard g-string gently cradling some perfectly man-scaped junk. Bottomless chaps, anyone?  What am I missing here? How precisely is this sexually charged and perhaps slightly pornographic attire meant to further the ultimate aim of the parade?  There's also been some reports of rampant lady-lump clutching all throughout the event. The combination of heightened arousal, a few too many alcoholic beverages and being surrounded by an excess of flesh apparently sends some people into a bosom-grab fest with some here and there motorboating thrown into the frenzy. 

I never thought I'd be the one to miss out on such festivities, but, it's probably best that I steered clear of the TSA-type tactile scanning and body cavity searches. Instead, I opted for the more innocuous activity of going for a long walk. Little did I know I'd witness a spectacle that I could only explain as being remnants of a mating ritualistic dance or something much akin to a peacock puffing up its plumage to not only seduce a beautiful mate, but most probably to stroke that peacock's own ego. Picture this: an admittedly attractive petite blond store clerk with delicate golden hair falling ever so daintily on her tiny, dancer frame with just a hint of brown lacquer around her almond eyes and a swift dab of pink highlighting her perfectly high cheek bones. Of course this angelic vision was dressed in some nauseatingly neutral tones--that only she and the Virgin Mary could pull off--and she looked like the quintessential tofu-loving, tree-hugging, green goddess. My walking partner was verklempt at the very sight of this specimen. 

Having sent him (let's call him Mr. G) into the store to buy a present, I knew that after he spotted this gazelle, his mission was long-forgotten. In fact, his mind was probably hypnotized with images of doing some sort of un-saintly deeds with this Juliet. Much like watching a driedel spin out of control, I had to step in and save him from his own oogling, bumbling self--at least before he hurt himself. As we picked out a present and approached Aphrodite to pay, Mr. G actually looked himself over in a side mirror. I thought to myself, what in creation is he doing? Will he whip out a can of Just for Men right there in the store to give him that extra edge? When he approached the counter--and this is the kicker--Mr. G actually held in his breath and tried to make his spare tires disappear. Sweetheart, sometimes you rival the Michelin man, seriously, you cannot hold in an extra 50 pounds, at least not for the 10 minutes we were standing in front of her. There he was, nonetheless, smoothing out his shirt over his terribly inflated, almost blimp-like upper body as he touched what only he could consider his "flat stomach." I wondered if the Goddess saw all this. Was this charade all to get her attention? To make himself look like the dapper don that he thought he was? I couldn't help but poke Mr. G in the stomach to let the air out of his belly--but I resisted the urge. 

I'll never understand men. On the bright side though, if you just stand back and watch, they put on a great show.