Ladies Night Out

I had struck out on my own for what I hoped would be a rewarding job in an exotic locale. The job didn't work out as well as I'd hoped, but I had made lots of friends. When I told them I would be moving back home, they set up a Ladies Night Going Away Party at our favorite watering hole.

We didn't know until we got inside that it was Pajama Night -- everyone wearing pajamas got in without paying the cover at the door. Well, we weren't going home to change, so we paid the cover and went upstairs to the dance bar. Now, all of us were "Real Women" -- that is, none of us was "Model Material." Even so, we normally didn't have a shortage of men asking us to dance, and we were counting on kicking the dirt off our shoes that night. But the place was packed with gorgeous women in lingerie, and that's where all the men were lined up.

I didn't care -- I was having a great time laughing it up with my friends, and as the night went on I was feeling pretty good. Then one of them kind of casually mentioned that, doggone, she had just gone out that very day and bought a brand new negligee, and she wished she would have remembered it was still in her trunk before she'd paid the cover. Then another said, "Wouldn't it be funny if the Going Away Girl put it on?"

We all laughed, but I wasn't feeling THAT good. Not yet. They kept at it, though, and each time I thought about it a little more, until finally I thought it seemed like a really good idea. So my friend went down to her car and brought back the negligee, and I went into the ladies room to change.

Now, my friend was a tall, Plus-Sized woman, and I'm a very short, skinny girl. So of course, I was about swimming in the ankle-length, nearly-sheer, black, spaghetti strap negligee. I was feeling more silly than sexy, to say the least.

But I had my drink and I had my friends, so I figured the night was going pretty good. Besides, I was sitting at the table, so I had no problems keeping everything tucked in place.

And then the DJ called for all ladies in "pajamas" to come up to the stage and model our nightclothes. My friends egged me on to join in, until I finally caved in. I'm normally very shy, even when drunk, so I don't know what came over me, but I ran up to the stage like a loud party girl, holding my skirts up to keep from tripping, nudging my straps up to keep them from falling off, and yelling back to my friends with them hollering back to me. I must have looked a sight.

And then I looked up the line ahead of me, at the 20 men's magazine-worthy beauties smiling demurely in their baby dolls and camis. And I looked down the line behind me, at the 3 men's magazine-worthy beauties, with their come-hither expressions in their teddies and tap pants. And I thought, "Sh*t! I did NOT expect this." Oh, how naive I was!

But it got worse when the DJ announced the judging and the $100 prize. I hadn't thought of that. This being my first attendance at a Ladies Night contest, I didn't realize just how serious these ladies were. And those ladies were strutting their stuff to win that $100.

They acted like professional models at a fashion show with a bit of men's magazine teasing tossed in for good measure. They put one stiletto-heeled foot in front of the other for optimum hip-wiggle. They thrust all the important parts front and center for audience adulation. They rotated seductively, undulating as they thrust out the important parts on the reverse side. They posed and showed it all off without showing anything you can't show on TV.

And there I stood looking like a lost little waif caught in the searchlight, panic written all over my face as I struggled to keep those floppy spaghetti straps from showing more than you can show on TV, at the same time struggling to keep from tripping over the extra two feet of nearly-sheer satin tangling around my ankles as I inched my way slowly with the queue of serious contestants. All of my innocent little being wanted nothing but to take flight. But I was frozen, unable to move my bare feet more than an inch at a time (and that was only because the beauties behind me kept shoving me forward).

I must have looked a sight, indeed.

After watching transfixed as the first few contestants showed how badly they wanted that $100, I must have suffered a traumatic fugue from fear -- I totally blanked out, and the next thing I knew, the broad ... er, excuse me, the LADY behind me was shoving me forward none-too-lightly. It was my turn to go front and center.

I don't know what came over me. There must be something in my survival kit with the instructions, "When in danger, distract them with a joke." I played the clown.

I put one barefoot in front of the other ... and tripped repeatedly. I tried to thrust all the important parts front and center with a proud smile ... then looked down at my invisible chest, switched to a shocked expression, looked down inside the negligee to make sure everything was still there, looked relieved, and gave 'em a helping hand (actually two) with another proud smile. I rotated clumsily, undulating as I slipped and slid on the hem of the negligee ... and kept on spinning until my barefeet once more touched the floor. Then for the finale: I posed seductively and showed it all off without showing anything you can't show on TV.

Well, that's what I MEANT to do. What I actually did for my finale was to get the bright idea that nothing is more seductive than letting a spaghetti strap drop ever so slightly off the shoulder. Except this particular strap was so floppy I couldn't control the drop ... it just kept on going, faster than a girl's dress on prom night. In my desperation to get a hold of it, I forgot the other one ... and it, too headed toward the floor. And there I stood, showing just about everything you can't show on TV.

Cheers erupted throughout the bar. The club photographer who was there to record the contest got it all on film. I wanted to melt down into the negligee, which was now in a puddle at my feet. But instead, I smiled, curtseyed graciously, daintily retrieved that errant piece of cloth, and pulled up the skirt high enough so that I could glide gracefully back to my table. I hoped my friends would be so mortified they'd beg to leave. But no, they had to be proud to be with me!

Someone else won that measly $100, and the rest of the beauties won a place in all the men's fantasies, but all those same men were lined up to dance with me the rest of the night. Go figure!