Pretty in pink
Pretty in pink
Isn't he? --- The Psychedelic Furs
Okay, so I was tired, but that's not to say I didn't see what I thought I saw.
It's actually taken me a few days to write about this. I was that disturbed. Or intrigued. I'm not quite sure which yet. All I can say is that on Sunday night, after a night of much dancing, I witnessed an act of... ahem... flexibility. Curious? Concerned? If you've answered yes, proceed to the next paragraph. If you have a weak disposition or are in the least bit prudish, please come back next week where I'm sure I'll be more demure. A little. Not much, but certainly better than this.
And without further ado, here is my latest blog entitled "My evening with a contortionist" or "If you wear pink frilly skirts, have a penis and can flip your legs over your head, you won't have to ever leave your house. Ever."
Did I give it away? Oh probably, but the entertainment part is in the lead-up. Given that Monday was a holiday and Sunday is meant for the holy act of dancing, my friends and I ventured downtown to a house music event of epic proportions - it was the Mixed Signal's 5th anniversary bash at The Mod Club (College and Bathurst area) - complete with big name house music DJ's and one of the best bands I've ever heard (let alone seen) to play live house music (check out King Sunshine). But I digress and this sighting is too important to get off topic.
After dancing for almost five hours straight (with the occasional venture out for "fresh" air on the smoking patio), we said goodbye to our friends (existing and ones we made throughout the evening) and ventured out into the night to walk the 5 miles back to where we parked the car. My friend Buddha had run ahead to grab some apres-dancing veggie dogs and said he'd meet Wen, Zen and me back at the car. We remembered where we parked and actually found it so we praised our good karma. Until he showed us his pink skirt.
Don't ask me how (or why) but I discerned that the fabric was cotton. And it was pink. With frills. And he'd teamed it with a zip-up hoodie. In pink. I couldn't tell what was on his feet as I was more distracted by what else he was NOT wearing. Underwear.
There's more. Oh yes, there is more. It was like a train wreck. You saw it, saw that it was catastrophic but couldn't tear your eyes away. I mean, after he flipped his legs over head you pretty much knew was coming next (no pun, don't even go there. Not. One. Inch.) and still we couldn't look away. Sure, we locked all the doors, the sunroof and made sure all the windows were up, but we still could. not. look. away.
A debate ensued whether we should call 911 or grab the cell and start videotaping. By the time we got the video camera working, he was up and off, jetting down a path leading up to someone's house. We figured out it wasn't his. The reason for the quick exit? While had no problem showing three girls his prowess, he didn't want to expose it to the guy walking down the street. One minute later and he was back, this time on the porch, legs up and over his head and his hands and... um... mouth working in unison. We didn't stay around for the finale, and neither did he. Last we saw, he was running through some alleyways to ensure he was not caught by the patrolling po-po (police for those who don't speak urbanese). While he laughed, Buddha was not really disappointed he missed out on that spectacle.
Needless to say, The Flexiboner was the topic of conversation for the rest of the long weekend, with even Wen phoning me up the next day to verify that her eyes (or mine) were not deceiving us. Friends who did not join us for the evening were kind enough to point out that I was the common denominator (thanks a lot!), for it seems whenever I venture into the Big Smoke as of late, I run into perverts: contortionists and an unfortunately smelly man yelling "Yummy Boobies" for two blocks past Union Station, not to mention my list of stalkers (Nutty Buddy, you know who you are!).
I'm just hoping I don't go blind for this one. Wait, isn't it the pervert who goes blind or has hairy palms, or... One thing is for certain, if most of my male friends had that ability, they would never leave their house. And they would certainly not be walking the streets of Toronto looking to demonstrate to a group of post-dance divas.