The Dress

The Dress that is all of its traffic-stopping bright even-more-fushia-than-fushia-pink pink, in its silky softly flowing material that would probably distangle in its entirety before your eyes should you even snag it on as much as your fingernail.

The Dress that smacks of glamour and, fantasy and, sex and, hard partying in 4-inch bling bling stilettos and drinking out of a champagne flute with a Brad-Pitt lookalike hanging unto your every word and other Orlando-Bloom lookalikes trying hard to catch your eye across a crowded room.

The Dress that gives you the license to walk down Orchard Road and kiss every boy - black, yellow, white, red, blue, green - that you walk past, and the policemen who are after you, they want you for your kisses, and not to lock you up in a four-by-four prison cell.

Alas, it is also The Dress that is too good for me.

Especially as I stand in the fitting room in my bare feet on a dodgy carpet which is a cross between the colours beige and grey, hair bunched up in a pony tail, and frantically trying to fit my unsubstantial boobs into the dress' bustier.

I have neither the 4-inch heels with a celebrity's name plastered in the inside of the shoes, nor the dazzling bag with its very own name, nor the diamonds-emeralds-stones-and-rocks jewellery that goes with The Dress.

Neither do I have the panache, the glamour puss lifestyle, nor the male eye candy (Ozymandias where are you?) to match the dress. Needless to say, I don't have sex often enough and with sufficient numbers of male bodies to meet The Dress' very stringent Glam criteria as well.

I feel forlorn and my self-esteem has burrowed into the floor of the dressing room as I face The Dress in all its magnificence and all its grandeur, put on against its wishes on my unmagnificent and drab body. The whole room is reeking of The Dress' disdain and extreme condescension. I can hear it thinking, "What? Me, with her? Pui!"

I don't want to do this either you Stoopid Pink Dress! I guess we just have to pretend to like each other and put up a good show in front of everybody. Because I'm, sob, gay (the pink-coloured version)!

I can't wait for the Gay Event of the Year to be over. So I can rip off the dress, and hang it up on its very own gem-studded hanger, and leave it feeling smug in its own bright-pink beauty, into tha bck of my cupboard.

Until the next gay event that is.