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Tomboy Tales: Pants Party
I could write about politics but I reckon you’d rather read about my sexual fantasy-themed housewarming party from last week. A saucy photo of Penny Wong did make it onto the fantasy photo wall, but that’s about as political as the party got.
In preparation for the event, my gf and I turned our apartment into a red-light district by covering all the lights with red cellophane. She compiled the ultimate sleaze-o-rama playlist featuring such ear-pleasers as Ginuwine’s Pony – “My saddle’s waiting. Come and jump on it” ladies – to Azealia Banks’ super-catchy 212.
Speaking of stuff gettin’ eaten, a creative friend arrived bearing a labia-shaped receptacle of homemade crimson beetroot dip. So wrong. So right.
Said friend also came dressed as a golden shower which fortunately didn’t put anyone off the dip. She carried a golden hose and shower nozzle with gold tinsel spewing out of it. A definite costume highlight.
But the competition was fierce. A couple rocked up as fat fetishists – one half was the eater while the other was a human-sized hamburger. Genius.
Even lesbian sex symbol of the moment, Alex Vause from Orange Is The New Black, showed up in a stylish prison jumpsuit. Her partner, not Chapman, came as a glory hole – a costume which required a trip to Bunnings and actual construction. Points for effort.
Other TV star fantasies included Sarah Lund, the sexy detective from Danish crime drama The Killing, Coach Taylor and Tami from Friday Night Lights and a super buff Marc Fennell, as himself.
Bruce Springsteen brought a welcome dose of rock star hotness.
There were your more typical cop, schoolgirl and bondage mistress fantasies, alongside the esoteric. A kilted-Scotsman with a rubber chicken down his pants or a clean cut bible-carrying Jehovah’s Witness, anyone?
It was a night of dizzying highs and an unfortunate fall. One party-goer slipped on a spilt drink which resulted in an ambulance being called.
Princess Leia greeted the female ambulance officers at the door, who in their official uniforms could well have been another wave of sexy party guests. They carefully attended to our injured friend and didn’t blink an eye when I slid across the floor in my socks and undies to see if I could help. Just another Saturday night on the job.
Me? Risky Business.
The night climaxed when a very unrepressed Sigmund Freud performed a salacious strip tease around a chair and gave one lucky party-goer a lapdance. It was at this point – when fantasy became a reality – that we called it a night.