Mid-October some friends and I elected to attend “A Vampire Affair” at the W Hotel in SOMA, SF. The W Hotel primarily subsists far outside the post-graduate, newly-financially-independent scope. However, through our meager connections we attained tickets (normally $60 apiece) to this costumed extravaganza. When dressing myself for the evening, somehow the disguise-yourself-as-a-vampire concept neglected to input within my brain. I dressed in what I, an intermittent attendee of such hotels and events, deemed suitable for such swanky ness: some green silk dress contrivance paired with black spandex (all the fashion, you know), and black boots (very low heel so killing myself would be a possibility as opposed to a certainty). I inputted my green silk-clad self into the cab confident I at least looked the part of one with more than $300 in checking, and I departed the taxi goading. I adore dressing up and didn’t process the vital fact for my first (and probably last) appearance at the W everyone costumes themselves in fake blood, black lace, and pointed vampire teeth for the event.
My friends and I, plastic red keg cups in hand (classy, I know), vacated the cab and resided on the sidewalk a few minutes until the oh-so-delicious Screwdriver + Sprite in keg cups adventure ceased. A costumed woman, stumbling friend in tow, and a row of firefighters presently surfaced in our consciousness. The cabbie had released us twenty steps from the W Hotel, paradoxically directly before a fire station. Fifteen uniformed (dark blue pants, suspenders, and SFFD-insignia-crusted shirts, black boots) firemen positioned in one row observed us and the two thirty-something women. Some firemen leaned against their glistening red fire truck, other stood erect, arms crossed. Composed Woman, enclosed in black, exhibited white plastic fangs as she summoned a limousine. Stumbles’ attire was complete with fangs, three-inch red heels, black fishnet stockings, red lace garters and bra, and black shawl. Composed conversed with driver, motioned to Stumbles, opened limo door, and retreated, door agape. Stumbles gaudily gestured in the firemen’s direction and pursed her lips, bowing forward, arms compressed, enhancing her white bust.
She turned, lurching, and bent to access the limo. As she did so, she evocatively lifted what I had assumed to be her black shawl, revealing a red lace thong and two white butt cheeks. Our giggles overwhelmed firemen’s whistles while Stumbles penetrated into limo and flounced around, shutting the door with a brazen smile. Enthused by inebriation and Stumbles, we linked arms and pranced into the W, intoxicated by images of what the night might comprise.
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