The paparazzi came to my party last week. One photographer captured me in a rather compromising position: showing my ass to Dr. Harry Fingerman, who spent most of the evening whipping out a bottle of lube and kitchen tongs that he must’ve mistaken for a proctology tool, using them as visual aids as he charmed the guests with his lack of medical expertise. At a “normal” party, such behavior would probably drive away some squeamish guests and throw the hostess into a panic. But when Dr. Fingerman put on a latex glove in the middle of my living room, there was no cause for alarm. Nobody screamed or blinked in disbelief, not even the guy branded with 50 gummy eyeballs. Cleopatra languished royally on the daybed while a fanged creature of Inferno dangled a bunch of grapes over her mouth. The Samurai provided cocktail jazz accompaniment on keyboard. While Eve offered an apple to several salivating Adams, but nobody bit—as far as I know. However, there was at least one vampire victim in addition to myself and the Sea Nymph was nearly devoured by a delicious French creature in a black robe.
I love Halloween. It’s the one night of the year when it’s acceptable to be scary, seductive, or just plain insane. Seductive seems to be the most popular choice in New York. Just take a look at Ricky’s costume selection: sexy pirate, sexy cop, sexy nurse, sexy Strawberry Shortcake … Since when did a fictional character for little girls become a hot muffin for adults? Halloween brings pedophilic and homoerotic fantasies to the surface. Every year, naughty catholic schoolgirls and cross-dressing men descend upon the West Village like a flock of flying monkeys. It’s a fantasy parade and nobody is judged for indecency. Conservative women can whore it up without suffering the consequences of a bad reputation. Sure, you can lick my tit! I don’t know you, but it’s Halloween! The next day, the co-worker asks, “So what were you last night?” “I was a vamp,” she replies coolly, confident that her drab office clothes can’t possibly reveal her inner slut. After all, it wasn’t she who behaved so lasciviously the night before; it was “the vamp.”
I don’t need a costume to be a vamp, but fishnets and a corset do have an influence on my personality. Think about it: Wall Street sharks wouldn’t be as slick if they wore T-shirts and jeans to work. And the frumpy woman is only frumpy until she changes her style. You are what you wear. Halloween takes this idea to the extreme. Last year, Halloween fell on a Monday, so I partied four nights in a row, wearing a different costume each night. Friday night: The Vamp had a threesome. Saturday night: Retro Pin-up Girl kissed a transvestite at a party then went to a lesbian bar where she fooled around with a dyke she just met. Sunday night: Pirate Wench went to a sex party and … Well, maybe it was just me on a sexual spree, but my costumes definitely shaped the experience. When an outfit suggests a character, irrelevant traits retreat into the background while others are magnified. It’s like acting—inhibitions fall away and you may find yourself doing things you never thought you’d do or saying things that seem to be emanating from someone else’s mouth.
On Halloween, people grow horns and sprout tails—so no wonder they act like animals. And even if you don a scary mask, monsters and other creatures of the night are exempt from any standards of human etiquette. So yes, horny devil, it is perfectly acceptable to pet the woman in a cat suit—chances are she will not sue you for sexual harassment. She may claw you though—Halloween favors female sexual empowerment. There are far more sexy costume options for women than for men. The sexiest guy costume is the classic vampire of Anne Rice lineage; if he’s handsome, I’ll offer my neck to him any day. My lust radar also indicates that mysterious masked predators have more erotic potential than the popular purple velvet pimp or shamelessly perverted character like the dude at my party who sported a robe with the words “Rub Me” printed just above his crotch. I followed the instructions and asked, “So do I get three wishes?” But he was no genie; if the words had been positioned a few inches lower, then maybe his secret wish would’ve come true. Or maybe his word placement was strategic: he was newly wed to the woman in the orange polyester suit.
Sadly, another Halloween has come and gone. Next we have Thanksgiving … nothing sexy about that. December brings cheesy music and holiday parties where people in red turtlenecks become bloated on eggnog and gingerbread cookies. How nauseating. Although last year I had a sexy pagan party … what would Dr. Fingerman do under the mistletoe? I’ll never know. He only recruits patients on October 31st.
