• Fri, Oct 28 2011

My Own Slut-O-Ween Story: Sexy Harlequin Clown

In the early hours of the morning, the evening came to an end. Like a scene from a French film, a man stood on a corner snapping photographs of a desolate girl. There I was, the picture of tragedy: bare foot, curls askance, the once white tutu now gray with the grime of the streets, a mask of tears and mascara covering my face.

Sounds so pretty, doesn’t it?

It wasn’t. Let me backtrack to the beginning. A few years ago, my friend convinced me to accompany him and his boyfriend to West Hollywood for Halloween. It’s supposed to be this huge event. I figured, “why not?” The plan was to go there and then head back to a friend’s house for a party.

Now, I love Halloween, completely. In recent years, I’ve decided to take advantage of my youth and firm tush and dress a tad risqué. For this particular year, I decided to go ALL OUT. I bought a naughty corset, a cheek grazing tutu, a black and white mask. Basically, I spent over $150. The look I was going for was modern day harlequin clown. I spent hours doing my hair. I wanted it to be an AMAZING Halloween.

I couldn’t wait for all the complements from my friends and acquaintances at the party exclaiming over my creativeness and how sexy and cute and original I looked. That never happened.

Stuck in the valley (a good 30 to 45 minute drive from house) I waited for my friend and his BF to get ready. This should have been a sign of bad things to come.

By the time we got to Hollywood, after midnight, most people were leaving. Not to be stopped, we carried on. Walking toward where everything was supposed to be happing, I twisted my ankle in a pot hole, TWICE! In an attempt to be even “sexier” I had forgone my glasses and forgotten to pack my contacts, so I couldn’t see. Apparently that doesn’t mix well with 5 inch heels. When we finally get to where the action was, there was none. Everything was over and there was just a few groups of stragglers, mostly people walking to their cars or waiting outside of clubs. Unable to get into the clubs, due to being just shy of 21, and having gotten separated from the group we were with, I ended up being the third wheel as we walked around for 2 hours doing nothing.

I was bored, I was sober, I had a sprained ankle, and I just wanted to be with all of my friends. The last straw was when as I stood off to the side, while my friend argued with his BF I realized that my corset was coming unlaced. As I futilely tried to lace it back up by myself, I began to cry, ruining all the hard work I had put into my face. I just kept thinking, “If I never would have come here, this wouldn’t have happened! I would have been with my friends and during one of our many trips to a CLEAN, NON PORTAPOTTY, bathrooms, they would have helped me!”

I was so disappointed with the entire evening, I could not stop crying. So, I gave up. I took off my heels, and stood there crying at 3 in the morning in front of some burger place on some nameless street in Hollywood.

This is the point where some strange man approached me and said, “Don’t move! I want to take your picture. I’m a photographer and this would work well for my next collection. I swear it’s not for porn or anything.” All I could do was glare at him, with tracks of mascara down my face, and my shoes in my hand, wanting nothing more than to scream and throw a shoe at his face. I was the epitome of “tragic clown”.

I never made it to the party.

Perhaps the best part is that I never saw those pictures – nor do I have any others from that horrible Halloween. But never fear! The Halloween spirit lives on in me. However, a word of advice, don’t let strange men take you pictures. And if you do, ask for a card first.

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