What would ______ do?

It’s Friday afternoon. I’m at my desk working. The following text shows up from my friend Jaclyn, the promoter for Friday night at The Hotel (a big night club in SLC):

Jaclyn  2:44 pm: Shorts & Stilettos PARTY 2night @ The Hotel! $250 for the sexiest outfit! It’s also the 1st round of our DJ battle! Come suport ur fav DJ’s! Text me 4 VIP!

Shorts and stilettos, eh?  In other words, a best legs contest?

Hell yes.

I’m going.

And I’m going to WIN.

The tools and the prize

In the spirit of full disclosure, I did not commit to this winning attitude without some internal struggle. There is a part of me that is always aware that when I step out of the house, I’m breaking all kinds of societal “rules”.  When you stand out like I do, you become an enhanced target for conflict. There has been some violence in my neighborhood recently, and I’m not anxious to participate in any of it. I’ve NEVER had any problems, and I expect it to stay that way, though I do stay vigilant.  But all this safety talk aside… there is a bigger concern:  my ego. There is a part of me that just doesn’t want to be made fun of. Rolling into a high end night club, dressed in half drag, entering what is essentially a best-legs contest is something that could go either brilliantly, or I could look like an absolute fool, to put it lightly.  I’m not myopic. I consider all sides of things, despite what you might think.  There comes a time when you have to take roll call, figure out which inner voices are saying what, and kick out the insecure ones. It’s hard. I only succeed at this on occasion.

On some level, I felt like The Universe was just handing me a blank check tonight. How could I, the guy who champions self expression and not-giving-a-fuck, the guy who wears heels and pantyhose out all the time, NOT enter this contest?  It would me morally wrong of me NOT to.

When I need a little boost, I think to myself,  What would Tucker Max do?  What would Neil Strauss do?  What would Hunter S. Thompson do?

Win that damn contest, that’s what. 

I donned the black shirt and tie, some super short shorts in black, hosiery (by UK hosiery maker Pretty Polly… I know, I know… it’s the perfect name, save the jokes for later. PP, I give you guys a ton of great press. We should talk about a sponsorship deal), and heels, and went out the door.

Even though I don’t particularly care for the club scene, when I roll into The Hotel, it’s like family.  I can roll in after VIP lists close and still never pay a cover. I never wait in line.  Whoever is with me comes in free, also.  I know the managers, a lot of the security staff, several of the DJ’s, and the promoter very well. 

“You look so hot”, the promoter said. “Every guy in this place wants to be you right now”.  Jaclyn is also ludicrously hot herself. I’ll take her word for it.   The contest consisted of about 10 people.  9 hot girls and me.  There were some absolutely delicious legs up there, folks. I was trying not to drool.  Though it was apparent that I was the favored candidate before the contest even started, when it came time for the audience to vote by cheering, I was not sure what would happen. Okay. That’s about 43% bullshit. There is a part of me that knew EXACTLY what was going to happen.  I saw this in my mind’s eye before I even got dressed for the night. 

It came time for me to stand up on the stage and strut my stuff.  I jumped up there, put my stiletto clad foot on a piece of white leather furniture, and ran my finger from my ankle all the way up my leg to my upper thigh, and then turned to the audience and beckoned their applause.   I’m not trying to brag, but… they pretty much loved me.  The audience made my victory clear. I walked way with $250 cash.  :-)

Okay. I’ve tried about 45 times to write a closing paragraph to this story.  I keep missing the point. I’m really glad I went out dressed up and entered the contest. It wasn’t about the money, it was about dominating a situation and making a point to myself. I had a great time!  This is the part where I start rambling off into some overly philosophical bullshit, bordering on overly self congratulatory and / or self deprecating and / or overly earnest and stupid.  CUT!   That’s all I have to say for now.

 

 

Paul Duane

Paul Duane is a photographer, writer, and talk show host based in Salt Lake City, Utah.

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