Dresses For Successes

It wasn’t the first time I woke up wearing a dress, but there was definitely something unique about this particular piece of attire that currently draped this far-too-manly physique I call a body.  No, it wasn’t the Vera Wang name featured prominently on the tag adorned to the back, flipped upwards, covering the nape of my neck. I’ve woken up wearing styles of all the significant designers, from  Gaultier to Betsey Johnson, I guess I’ve always been a subconsciously fashion-conscientious fella with a keen eye for trends. So the Wang moniker didn’t stand out in any which way. And it wasn’t the pervading notion that I woke up wearing a dress let alone the fact that this is an event that happens almost routinely.

 No, what stood out was the fact that the dress fit to a T.

That may sound like an otherwise trivial addition to what may already sound, I’m sure, curious to you, the reader, but let me assure you, this was a revelation that transcended my previously conceived justifications regarding these so-called “dress incidences”.

You see, up until now, every time I woke up crossing the gender-attire boundaries, what I was wearing never fit, leaving me to believe that it was all a result of the previous night’s epic obliteration of all things common sense.  Raging black outs, the consequence of a myriad of vices both natural and manmade, gave me reason to think I had, at some point during the evening’s affairs, turned into a sexual madman, quenching my insatiable thirst with no less than a harem of appealing women, my sexual conquistadors. And, I presume, during these romps, I would somehow slip into one of their evening’s wear as an attempt to maintain my reputation as a complete lunatic, permitting my ladies of the night an opportunity to laugh for all the right reasons, giving myself precious time to recover for a second, but usually a third round.

Of course, I never once took into consideration that I would wake up alone, which, of course, meant that one of my evening’s conquests did the walk of shame naked as the day she was born (save for jewelry, which, thankfully, I had not committed myself to modeling just yet). Nor did I consider that, unless I was also an obsessive-compulsive cleaner when severely under the influence, my small bachelor pad was usually found far closer to immaculate in the morning than a mid-lifer’s version of a frat house. My clothes from the night before wouldn’t be scattered throughout the 500 square foot spot, as they would have been had there been a gaggle of rambunctious and over-anxious jezebels requiring my undivided attention. No socks flung to opposite sides, no bras hanging lucidly from the lamp.  Instead, they were usually placed neatly in a paper bag next to my dresser, not the bras, as there wouldn’t be any save for the one I would occasionally wake up wearing. Interesting and suspicious, but never a cause for concern, not in my book.

But that is neither here nor there. The dresses were always way too small, the result of my preference for petite ladies to balance out my above-average frame.

But this particular gown, this one fit like a glove. It fit like a latex suit. It fit like Lincoln Navigator Hybrid and an aging yuppie still ignorant to the fact that they no longer matter.

And it changed everything…