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DAY 106: Stomaching dinner theatre

15 Dec

I HAVEN’T had claustrophobia since my brother and his friend stuffed me upside down into a sleeping bag and sealed off the entrance.

(See also: emptying a waste bin over my head, farting in my face, bursting into my bedroom mid-CATS-dance-routine, breaking my bike… I have a fully itemised account somewhere that’s still awaiting a fair jury.)

Upon being herded into a wedge-shaped table at Dracula’s Cabaret Restaurant, though, by a gaggle of perky drama students in white makeup and Twansylvaaaanian accents, I have an overwhelming urge to struggle and flee.

It’s partly that overtly ‘naughty’ tone of voice everyone’s using – the one that curdled my guts at the SEXPO – and partly the exhausting feeling that you should try and make the corseted waitstaff feel better on their ceaseless rounds of your table, as they’ve obviously been asked to make naughty-voiced small talk. It’s like the strip club all over again.

Still, it’s definitely not “the worst night of my life,” as one web review put it. The show’s made up of risqué musical numbers (as one performer notes, he gets to put “giant sperm” on his resumé), and bawdy stand-up routines, quite frequently with that flaming homosexual delivery that’s no doubt had people rolling in the aisles since Biblical times. Tell you what, though – the food’s good. I’d sit through the Marquis de Sade-as-flaming-homosexual skit and the “I’m horny, horny, horny, horny” song three times for just five minutes with another of those chocolate mousse coffins.

Keeper? One of our number is actually desperate to go again, and is even scheduling in Dracula’s on the Gold Coast. But for me? Now, THIS is dinner theatre.

DAY 89: Giving my libido a right flogging

28 Nov

MY wholesome task is rained off today, so I’m forced to go undercover and explore Melbourne’s seamy underbelly, where women wear open-toed PVC heels whatever the weather, and men wear roomy pants.

First stop, Sexpo: a peculiarly unarousing emporium of bare buttocks, sparkly lubes, spankings, floggings, sour-faced porn stars, strip lights and novelty penis paraphernalia — not so much Melbourne’s underbelly as its flaccid cock.

Held at the MCEC, it’s right next door to a lifestyle expo for retirees, who won’t want to be getting their show bags muddled up. Or maybe they will. “Pink or purple vibrator?” I’m asked on arrival.

Being the day of rest, there’s not much sauciness going on, other than a trapeze act and Michelle ‘Bombshell’ McGee (best known for gazumping Sandra Bullock), who’s manning a stand with no takers. Off in one corner is The Gerbil — a ghost train converted into a rolling rompercoaster of knockers, but I’m sidetracked by getting my photo taken with a giant penis, which I can’t bring myself to publish.

I have to leave when some pervert cranks up the public tannoy. Why is it the Sex Crazed insist on putting on such revolting ‘naughty’ voices?

Next up is a strip club on King Street, as it seems I’m the only person in the world who hasn’t experienced over-priced drinks and buttocks set to vibrate, despite having grown up listening to the teachings of Vince Neil. I take along Nicole and Layna, and the strippers love us. No really — they love us for who we are. Each dancer that joins us seems hugely relieved that I’ve been to Sexpo, as she gets a conversation starter of how tacky it is and how she never goes anymore — and I get to say I had my photo taken with a giant cock. Blam, everyone’s happy.

The action on the pole’s less acrobatic than I expected. The first girl does some languid, slo-mo undulations that I could easily pull off, given a gram of ketamine, while the next chick, by contrast, looks like she’s going to fly off at great speed to a dance rendition of ‘Run to Paradise’ — not ideal when you’re a couple of months pregnant. The third strips off completely and straddles some dude’s face which, quite frankly, my mum could do.

I don’t know what the men are thinking in these circumstances, but I can tell you definitively that the girls in the audience are weighing up their own qualifications. There’s a hierarchy of talent here, and I reckon I could awkwardly gyrate my way in on a lower-lower-middle rung, as do Nic and Layna — or Lulu and Mercedes, as they’d now like to be known.

By the time Roxanne has come over to spin us some bullshit yarn about how she had a lap dance from a gorgeous girl one night and — whaddayaknow — she signed up to be a stripper the next day, we’re all sparkly eyed thinking about being long-limbed lolitas (give or take a couple of decades), like little girls fantasizing about being princesses.

Keeper? Yep — discussing the costumes was a pleasing way to accompany a drink.

DAY 59: Mugging for a magazine cover

29 Oct

A bit like this.

OH, the number of times I’ve had to put fey ne’er-do-wells on covers of magazines and slap superlatives all over their chins. It’s about time the boot was on the other foot.

So far pretty much everyone in the office has been roped in to lounge around on the cover of this weekly, but I’ve resisted – when I’m not flaying my innards raw for a blog I’m actually intensely private, you know. But in the spirit of getting oneself out there, I go along to a top secret location and throw my best ‘come hither… no wait… where are you going?’ pose.

I’m not saying which mag it is, but if you see it do bear in mind that the bendy lens required to fit a wide scene in is bound to make my legs look a bit bandy.

Keeper? No.

DAY 42: Shaking at a detox

12 Oct

I NEARLY gnawed off my own leg to get out of this one. Nothing says “Ooooh, maybe skip it” like the thought of public speaking. And nothing says “Have a drink, why dontcha?” like the thought of public speaking at a detox.
I’m pretty sure I’m coming down with something. My eyes loom like little pissholes and my hair looks like shit. Yeah, definitely not well.

“I feel like I’d be really predictable if I cancelled,” I say regretfully to my detox setter-upper, leaving a trail of dots.

“You would be,” she answers crisply, “and it’s not about you.”

“You can get fucked,” I think. I suppose THAT’S predictable as well?

Yep.

By the time evening comes round I’m vaguer than your mum at Christmas and have been struck down by a whole raft of psychosomatic illnesses, at least one of which is fatal. I wish this stupid storm outside would break; I’m stifling in my own skin.

I used to volunteer at a detox in England, back in my most hedonistic days, and I’d always forget what side of the fence I sat on. Now, again, I feel like I’m the wayward child that needs to be guided. I shouldn’t be trusted to speak to anyone about anything.

In the TV room at the detox someone grudgingly presses mute and my voice vibrates like a freshly twanged nerve, but I resolutely get to my point and plant my flag at the summit. Afterwards people clap kindly and murmur “onya”, also forgetting which side of the fence I’m on. I guess there are no fences. The storm has cleared and I feel better. Does anybody else feel better?

Keeper: If anyone really wants a house call from Doctor Awkward, I’ll give it another shot.

DAY TWENTY-EIGHT: Zumba!

28 Sep
WORDS little-used in my world: ‘Fusion’. ‘Funky’. ‘Booty’. ‘Jelly’. And yet, and yet… tonight, at zumba class, we’ll be using them all liberally.

Zumba crept up behind us all and goosed us like a pervert last year. Originating in Colombia in the 1990s, it’s inspired cult-like fervour, blending reggaeton and variations of Latin dancing in an inanely upbeat, strangely brainwashy, supposedly sexual manner. For many, it’s clearly a great opportunity to breakout ’80s gym wear.

“We’re never gonna see these people again,” I reassure Ben and Natalie en route to Zumba World, before Natalie cunningly rolls her ankle and hobbles off.

“Tummies in, coconuts out!” yells out our instructor, who looks a bit like Shakira. In fact, strange remixes of Shakira and Lady Gaga are heard wailing from every room, presumably with backwards messages implanted. “If you start feeling sick,” our instructor says, worryingly, “just stop.”

The instructor wriggles around like an electric eel, but I can’t get the hang of this wobbling malarkey. Ben and I find ourselves ill equipped to shake what our mamas gave us – we’re more like ironing boards set to vibrate. In the jumpy numbers I feel like a grinning skull on a pogo stick.

The routines are fast, and range from unco children’s party flailing to x-rated hokey-cokey – I’m pretty sure our instructor’s making them up as she goes along. In fact, a future adventure might be to wear some undies over my tights, infiltrate a zumba class and lead it. To glory!

Keeper? Sure, next time the infomercial comes to my lounge-room.

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