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Priscilla - Queens of the Desert

Priscilla - Queens of the Desert

Admit it now.  Every one of us at some stage has had some sort of inclination to cross dress.  Some of you may actually be wearing your wife’s frilly knickers as we speak! Don’t be shy about it. (Just remember: The thin thong part goes to the back, up your bum basically, not to the front, it’s not there to separate your balls.)

Granted, most of our little fantasies are light hearted and to be done in jest, or at least that’s what your boyfriend told you when you walked in on him wearing your Wonderbra and looking at his tucked in pecker with your make up mirror.

But if someone had told me that on Saturday I would be dressed up in a suit, and Dale in a wedding dress that was so short that every time he breathed out, his balls would peek out like little moles coming up for air, I would have said NAY! This cannot be!

I have sat Dale down on numerous occasions and made him watch The Crying Game from the exact point where the guy finds out his girlfriend (in the sexy dress) has a bigger willy than his (1hr, 12 minutes and 37 seconds) and Dale acted suitably distressed (tried to stick a pencil in his forehead while trying to poke out his mind’s eye screaming “For the love of God get it out of my headddddddddddddd!!)

So HOW did we find ourselves in this little conundrum…

We took part in a charity event on Saturday, a treasure hunt of sorts – granted it was more of a race for clues than a treasure hunt, which disappointed me greatly because I had my knuckledusters and shovel ready to blat anyone out of the way in order to dig up the Gucci handbags that they had peppered all over Hatfield. Treasure you say? I am on it like a homesick mole!

Again, no treasure, just clues and answers that we needed to collect.  And I SUCK at riddles!

I can’t even do a 10 piece puzzle,  and now you want to know the square root of a hypotenuse angle multiplied by a prime, then get that answer and it’ll be the number on the taxi driving past at approximately 12pm.  In 1998 this taxi driver’s wife left a significant ingredient out of her mothers bobotie… what was that ingredient?


So anyhoo, each team of 10 people had to dress up in a theme, ours was “The Lesbian bridal party”.  We looked AMAZEBALLS!!

We had 2 brides, 2 bridesmaids and a mother-in-law, all men dressed in drag.  Which was a disturbing sight to walk behind I am not going to lie.  Hairy legs and armpits, bulges in the crotchal area.  And I am amazed at how men begin to walk when you put them in a dress. Almost as if they have to throw their legs AROUND their ginormous testicles.

It’s ok lads… no need to walk like you have had a watermelon forced up your rectum. We know you are not actually girls, because, well, you have a beard…

Some even wore stockings.  You’d think there was some sort of drag queen bucket list they were ticking off, because there was absolutely no need to wear sheer stockings was there?

“It makes the dress look better”

"Really? But your dress is long"

“It makes my pumps not hurt my feet”

“You know what pumps are?”

*blink blink*

We even had a priest (who every time he walked outside kept looking nervously up to the sky expecting a thunderbolt to fuck slap him for disrespecting the cloth!) - But we lost him early on in the game when the team of "Lustful Nuns" came running past... all we heard was "I must tend to my flockkkkkk" and off he went.

Anyhoo, the girls had to dress like best men.  Suits, bow ties, suspenders, the works.

Now I always imagined that as a man, I would look more like this:


Sadly this was not to be, I just ended up looking like Riaan Cruywagen!


Now I don’t know if you have ever cross dressed before, but take my advice, as a woman if you are a fan of your guava and I am, Do NOT ever wear suspenders.  EVER.

Now I’m sure back in the day suspenders had their place in the world, for men, who didn’t own belts.  All they did for me however was pull my pants up to just about under my chin giving me a rather pissed off vagina on the verge of a camel toe that I will probably never recover from.  Actually what’s worse than a camel toe…?

A Moose knuckle?

That was just the first fun part of wearing those suspenders.  The part which I found particularly fun, was when going for a wee and unclipping the suspenders so I could sit down, having them fly off my shoulders like snapped elastic bands and landing right in the toilet bowl behind me.

Oh fuck my life!!

*turns around* *eyes the suspenders swimming around the toilet bowl*

*yanks wet belt*

*clip catches on toilet rim*

*yanks harder*

*yank yank yank*

*Suspender unhooks from rim of toilet shoots up and spunks me right in the eye drenching me in Hatfiled-movie-house-toilet- water*



*wipes face*

*throws suspenders in the bin* You’re dead to me muddafuckers!


So anyway, we ran around the streets of Hatfield, the “girls” getting a surprising amount of whistles and cat calls, shaking tins trying to collect money for charity.

I STILL don’t know what charity we were collecting for to be honest. For all I know we were shaking our cans to collect money for a new west wing on the organizers yacht in the Bahamas or for his wife’s new boob job.

But regardless of not knowing who we were collecting for, I used some typical examples to try cover my bases:

1)      I am collecting money for starving children *shake shake*

2)      I am collecting money for kicked puppies *shake shake*

3)      Give me money and I WONT kick a puppy  *shake shake**shake shake*

4)      Give these puppies money *shake boobs* and I won’t kick you *shake shake**shake shake*

5)      I need an operation to get these pants out of my vagina *shake shake**shake shake*

A fun day was had by all, but after a significant amount of drinking and constantly trying to pull my pants out of my qwaukkie, we eventually went home so I could hang up my fake testicles for the day and so that I could try and make amends with my vagina.

Funnily enough, when I chose to immediately put some lingerie on to wipe away the memories of the day, Dalekins stayed in his white wedding dress and longingly gazed at my lacy number.

And NOT in a “you look HOT” way, more in a “that fabric looks so soft and appealing, I wonder what I would look like in a red version…?”

Like being kicked in the Vagina, everyday!

She Lives...