Monday, August 23, 2004


I went to Memphis, TN last night. It was absolutely fantabulous. I had more fun last night than I have had in a long, long time. I was going to visit my gay momma who has been trying to get me up there for quite a while. Well yesterday, I decided to go after much flip flopping about over whether I wanted to make the three hour drive. I drank too much. I danced until about five o'clock Sunday morning (my ass and legs fell off and are killing me right now). It was just a really, really great trip. I watched a dragqueen perform. I think she got a bit confused as to what a drag performance is supposed to be all about as she performed Aerosmith's "Dude Looks Like a Lady." Yes, dude did in fact look like a lady, but we don't want dude to lip synch about it. That was, in my humble opinion, ignunt. Erbody up in there knew that she was a fuckin dragqueen. Ain't nobody need her to get up there on stage and synch some Aerosmith. It bothered me highly.

I was dressed real country boy cute Saturday night. I had on a faggy sleeveless brown plaid country/western shirt, some real faggy Kenneth Cole cowboy boots, my tight as fuck Levi ass jeans (they make my butt cute), a larger than life belt buckle with a man on a bronco on it, and my ultra fag brown and black leather cowboy hat. Don't get me wrong, I looked cute, but I was real tired of all the moths circling around my overdone flame. So I get out on the dance floor, take off my shirt, and begin to do my thing. I like to call what I do interpretive dance as you need an interpreter to understand what the hell I am doing. One second I was dropping it as though it were hot. Then, I would pick it back up as though it were not. Of course then I'd drop it right back down again because it was pretty fucking hot. You would have thought I was Juan Valdez in there as much grinding as I was doing. My ass was bouncing in so many directions Saturday night that people had to clear me a spot on the dance floor. Not one of those "go whiteboy! go whiteboy!" spots, but one of those "stop, drop, and roll" spots. I had some folks scared in that club. Never underestimate the power of my ass. So after bebopping around for a bit on the dance floor, this guy named Steve or Tom or Bobby or Billy or Ted (I am sure he had a name) decided that my bouncing ass was an invitation for him to impale me with his tongue. I dropped it. Picked it up. Did some dragqueeny spinning shit. Then BOOM! He had his tongue down my throat. I would have thought that the look of 'whatthefuck' on my face would let him know something. It did not. So I had to turn up my flame just a lil, invite just a few more moths to my flame, and do the queeniest sashay spin across the dance floor away from him. Alcohol is flamable. For Preston, alcohol feeds his little flame and turns it into some California forest fire shit. But it was still fun.

Oh I am going camping in Tennessee in a couple of weeks. Very very excited about that.

Later Consuela.