Last night was the big drag party that a friend decided to have. No one was supposedly allowed in unless in drag. Two guys turned up not dressed up so they were promptly draped in a feather boa each. My friends and I decided to go all out. I got some killer heels, fishnets and wig. Another friend who is a fashion designer whipped up what is hopefully his trashiest creation for me, describing it as Barbie’s younger sluttier whore sister and we got our makeup done by a professional drag queen, the very talented (and quite hot out of drag) Amelia Airhead.
So, take one freshly shaved headed Aussielicious Brenton, stack on enough makeup to bankrupt a small African nation, put on an ensemble with not a natural fibre in sight (hair included), whack on some sky high stilettos and she was born… I’d like to introduce Anna Phylactic.
I don’t know how I didn’t break my neck in the shoes, but at one point I was doing high kicks in them with no drama. It’s amazing the confidence your own bodyweight in vodka will give you. Some friends who are normally very quiet at parties were in their element. Put on a costume, take on a different persona and they were the belle of the ball. There were some great costumes and even better names. A friend, dressed as a nurse, was Sister Sue Positary, another guy, bodypainted black was Ash Wednesday and my shy friend, whose outfit was quite elegant was Audrey Hep-B