Last Saturday night I made a mistake and I feel really bad about it. I’m writing this post both as a public apology, of sorts, but also to assuage my embarrassment by sharing it with the public.

I was crossing 18th St. at Columbia around 2:30 a.m. when I passed what I thought was a female impersonator wearing gigantic fake breasts. It looked to me to be a shorter fellow, about 5’7″, with dark eye-makeup and a wig of straight, shoulder length blond hair. It would’ve made for pretty subdued drag if not for this person’s prodigious, (ostensibly) fake bosom. So great was the gravitational pull of her boobs that I had no other thought in my head, no other interest in our green world, then to reach over with my right hand and give the underside of her left (ostensibly) fake breast a little tap. But guess what?

That was not a drag queen. And those boobs were real.

You have to understand my state of mind. I was out with two homos and a lesbian (the entire TNG crew, actually) and was dressed as an American Apparels ad. Wearing tiny shorts, knee-high socks and green velour sweater, I had only dropped my boyfriend’s hand to avoid any heckling from the post-Millie and Al’s crowd. I thought I was radiating gay so intensely that I could’ve had intercourse with the crossing guard and she wouldn’t have minded.

Less speciously, I had just left the second of two Halloween parties where the entirety of some woman’s costume were plastic fake racks that they had worn outside their clothes. As for the gender confusion- that was a trick of the light. And feeling up a stranger? I was wasted. That’s really my only excuse. And a paltry one, I know. But it doesn’t change what I did or how she reacted.

As I stood at the corner, listening to the Tom Tom Club blare out of the Adam’s Morgan McDonald’s, my new friend whirled around, screaming “Why did you do that?” Now standing in the streetlight, it was clear that there was nothing boyish about her. It was clear that she was pissed – I would’ve been too.

She asked again why I had done that, and I was totally at a loss for an answer. I could’ve explained that her features took on severe, masculine appearance in the moonlight or that her breasts took on a elephantine, ersatz appearance under her sweater but I didn’t think either of those explanations would’ve been a comfort.

So instead I stayed silent as she told me she hated me and slapped my wrist so hard that it stung for the next hour. I deserved it.

Saturday, Oct. 27th, can now mark the day when I turned into one of those AdMo dickheads that I try so hard to avoid.

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