Curiouser and Curiouser

By Staff Reports | Thursday, March 1, 2007

It began with a show of hands. Which freshmen would like to volunteer during Winter Carnival? The flow of cheap beer and pizza had dulled our naïve sensibilities and several arms slowly approached the ceiling. Indeed, while we pea-greens were legally bound as willing participants, the tale that follows could hardly be classified as consensual.

These three dapper gents approached the Carnival with a festering sense of unease that would rapidly be consummated as opening night approached. We assembled as a delightfully jovial posse, composed of Mike “DJ Skanque” Edgar, and Nick “(MD) 20/20 Vision” Hawkins, and an Anonymous Coward (hereafter referred to Skippy), oblivious to the nature of the ensuing debauchery. Our hosts, the most devious gaggle of succubae Dartmouth could procure, afforded us a delicious variety of spirits to be imbibed in the hours of preparation. “Out with it, good fellow!” you exclaim, “Preparation for what?” Well, my friend, these gents would be gents no longer; our paths would lead us to the Drag Ball that fateful night.

That’s right, the Drag Ball. Home to the most dreadful sexual practices and horrifying displays of deviance, the ball is sponsored each year by the Dartmouth Rainbow Alliance in a bit of perverse Winter Carnival cheer. Rest assured: our worst fears realized and our will to resist deadened by 80-proof lubricant, we hardened our resolve to take down the house. Our lovely lady friends would make sure of it—they had spared no expense, as we learned when they unveiled our outfits.

— Somebody got lucky. —

Like giddy schoolgirls donning their first prom dresses, we attacked the task of dress with the force only master drag queens could muster. After mastering the fine art of pantyhose (atop our boxers, no less) our focus turned to the habiliments of the fairer sex. On went blush, mascara, nail polish, eye shadow, and untold varieties of makeup the likes of which we had never encountered. Off went the oppressive clothes of heteronormative dominance, and our dignity soon followed.

Mike’s garb included a trendy black skort and a matching, skin-tight shirt featuring a couple embraced in passion on the front. Matched with gratuitiously large breasts and a fair bit of unshaven stubble, he was the very embodiment of a drag queen. Skippy raised eyebrows with his midnight-black spaghetti-strap dress, curled hair, matching handbag, and air of femininity. Nick enjoyed an all-too-short skirt and a dazzling white vest exposing a fair bit of cleavage (and chest hair). A cat fight over the purple heels broke out, but Mike emerged victorious. Cameras flashed as the transformation slowly took hold; gone were Skippy, Nick, and Mike — in their stead walked the deliciously named Stormy, Amber, and Santa Maria. Tonight, we thought, would be truly epic.

The rush from the Gold Coast to the Collis Commonground happened in a flash, in more than one sense of the word, as we learned the limitations of our newly donned vestments. Mike quickly regretted his fight for those “damn heels,” which treated him to the first of a number of awe-inspiring spills that undoubtedly left scarring on a number of levels. No matter—the path to immortality lay just along the Mass Row. Arriving on-scene initially shivering, they quickly warmed at the sight of a heated dance scene and thumping beats.

Amber, wary of his surroundings, decided to case the scene while enjoying the delectable smorgasbord of treats provided by the Rainbow Alliance. Santa Maria, thoroughly confused, bounced repeatedly from the “men” and “women,” struggling to determine whom he was supposed to be hitting on. Stormy, in hoping to keep with his namesake, fell right into mingling with his fellow compatriots in questioning. Distraught by the journey to the ball, his perky breasts had lost support and sagged regrettably. He quickly rectified the situation however, after commissioning the aid of a friendly young lady, after reassuring her he expected a dinner following their intimate stuffing tryst. The jury’s still out how he worked that into getting her number. The awkwardness ceased upon the arrival of Lesbians on Ecstasy, as well as the headlining band of the same name.

Oh yes, the band was here. It was time to dance. And dance we did. As handily as their footwear and BACs allowed, the transvestite trio busted a stupendous move and put fellow drags to shame. Skippy’s penchant for class overwhelmed his alternative lifestyle as he treated a dashing young “fellow” to a swing across the dance floor following a difficult interlude in determining who would lead. Nick was a sight to behold, wantonly grinding upon any and all bystanders, and Mike showed no restraint in his pelvic thrusts of Earth-shattering force.

— Strutting toward immortality. —

Before things grew too heated, however, Santa Maria felt the need to make his move during a brief interlude between songs. Despite all hopes to the contrary and idle musings of ménage-à-trois possibilities, he was dismayed when the Lesbians on Ecstasy reassured him that yes, they were in fact lesbians, and no, he was not close enough. They wouldn;t even give him any ecstasy. And people called us fake!

No stranger to collective rejection, Maria weaved his way back to the dance scene only to find the most staggering of events unfolding before his eyes: Skippy had taken it to a new level and breached the invisible barrier leading to the runway. Truly, there was no turning back now. His purse thrown to the wind and breasts sagging once more, Skippy’s inhibitions were checked at the door and initiated a pole-dancing striptease satisfying camera owners throughout the room. Making sure to emphasize his thorough cleavage and flash the eager crowd with a shot of his boxer-hose, the crowd was floored. Nick felt upstaged though and demanded to defend his honor with a one-word declaration: “Walk-off!”

Indeed, never before has the time-honored tradition of the Zoolander walk-off been so sullied. Not expecting a belated cameo by David Bowie, Mike resigned himself to officiating, his head hung in shame. The two ladies strutted and healthy competition drew out Skippy’s bitch side unlike ever before. Nick’s use of body hair, however, accentuated his visual appeal, drawing approval from the crowd in the form of bewildered applause. We had already quickly learned the limiting nature of pantyhose in earlier, futile attempts at breaking the seal, and so the climax would not come with miraculous undergarment removal. Instead it would be sprawled about on the dance floor as Nick missed the landing of his pirouette and became well acquainted with the hardwood surface.

After the night peaked on that disastrous note, we scattered, our girlish get-ups and dignity in tatters. By now we recognized our presence was becoming all the more unwelcome as the agitated crowd thirsted for blood. Fearing stern lectures about the dangers of heteronormativity and perhaps a slap fight or two, we sought asylum with Caleb Chaplain ‘ 07 who showed us to the backdoor. Nick was nowhere to be found but the mantra “leave no man behind” no longer applied as Skippy and Mike dashed to the Gold Coast to put the night behind them.

Spurning their hose and heels, the two gents struggled to regain their masculinity as they ventured off into the night. Mike struggled yet could do nothing to the whorish makeup job smattering his face and would enjoy his fresh nails for days to come. Skippy had thought ahead and needed only to rub off a smattering of blush before taking on the night. Nick’s story ended on a far more somber note though, as a friendly S&S officer truncated his trip. As such, Nick made wonderful friends with a sporting fellow named Dick and later passed out in a bed in his House. Slut.

Curiouser and Curiouser

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