Cynthia's DIVA Review

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This posting is from: Cynthia
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I had a few moments to spare this morning so I thought I'd dash off a
few lines to let you all know what a great time I had at DIVA.

"A Sweet Afternoon" - Part One
(excerpted from a work in progress)

The bus lets me out at the stop directly in front of 'Bahama Breeze'. I
step onto the sidewalk and walk over behind an electrical box, hoping to
hide from the traffic long enough to pull off my track shoes and slip my
black heels on. They hurt like hell even though I've been practicing in
them for months. the pain is worth it, though; the sense of femininity
they give me is more than enough to override their biting bark. "F*k
the pain," I tell myself, "I look pretty, and when I look pretty, I feel
pretty; and when I feel pretty, life is complete!"

I walk across the parking lot and approach the front steps, pausing for
an instant to readjust my purse and grab a handrail. Stepping up the
three risers to the entry, I stomp my heels down hard on the wooden
planks: "clomp", "clomp", "clomp". I want to make it plain to anyone
watching and listening: "Cynthia is here." I pause another moment to
capture my reflection in a pane of glass, pat my hair, throw myself a
little kiss for vanity, and swing that door open.

Payoff time is now. Months of planning and preparation and years of
closeted hibernation are about to be justly rewarded. The butterfly is
emerging from it's cacoon where once a lowly caterpillar slept in
lonliness and despair of spirit. "I'm out!!" Oh, happy day!" "I'm
out!" "I did it!" "Oh joy of joys, I finally did it!"

I'm finally out in dress, in drag, in a beautiful woman's clothes, made
up like a Babylonian whore and "dressed to the nines". (I have the
origin of that expression, by the way, if anyone would care to know it)
The maitre'd greets me and I manage a little smile for her. "Where are
the DIVA girls", I ask her? She points me to the veranda; "right that
way, honey," she says, politely.

I stop for a moment at the entrance to drink it in - a sight to behold -
seemingly hundreds of beautiful peacocks and parrots and exquisitly
feathered birds of all type and degree, singing and chanting in a
mirthful frenzy of exhuberance and exhilleration. I think its as close
to a garden of earthly delight as is possible to achieve outside of
heaven itself. I move in, park my bag, and immediately wade into them,
grabbing hands, pushing my big toothy, stage prop smile into their
faces, and proclaiming proudly, "Hi, I'm Cynthia; who are you?" I'm not
fooling around anymore, I'm in this for real, and I want them to know
it. The first responses I get are surprised but friendly, and it works!
A short conversation here, a sweet greeting there, and I'm off,
flitting about the room, singing and strutting among them like a big
beautiful bird. I give them warmth and heartfelt affection, and recieve
the same in return.

Oh happy day. My first day in the sunshine has arrived.

There she is, the beautiful Jane from Iowa, sitting there at a table, in
a gorgeous sky blue gown and looking up at me with a glowing smile. I
step up to her and proclaim, loud enough for all to hear: "Look at you,
Look at you, you're so pretty!" She stands, and we embrace one another
in affectionate greeting. I step back and take her hands in mine and
look her up and down, "You are so damn pretty!" She tells me the same
and we embrace again.

If ever there were a championship prize to be won for dressing - a blue
ribbon for achievment in our art - Jane would be the grand winner. She
has accomplished and perfected dressing to a degree that sets a standard
for the rest of us. She has pedigree. I want to court her and take her
home with me so badly, but I don't want to appear overbearing and
desperate, so I move on and circulate again. "Time to change partners,"
I remorse.

Beverly stands before me and I recognize her instantly, we quickly
embrace and exchange admiration. I hold her in the highest esteem; I
have been corresponding with her over the internet Group line. "Are you
a bevy of beauty," I tease her? She has been dressing and gendering
probably longer than anyone else among us; she started as a teen, she
tells me. She has organized events and gatherings in past years, and
has given lectures at colleges and universities to students interested
in gender studies. While I was ensconsed in a college library only
reading about transgendering in journal articles, she was out and about
in the real world, organizing and speaking, and touching lives with
truth and love. She has power, real power; she holds high rank among
us.

I wander along, smiling, touching, greeting, getting higher by the
minute. I work my way around the bar, breaking in on conversations,
catching them off guard, upsetting their little apple carts. I don't
care what they think of me as long as I can see them up close, touch
them, smell them, and drink in their beauty. I am almost too high and
must stop and order myself a drink to slow down a bit, which is unusual
because it usually works the other way around. I wander down to the
main floor where I notice Eva Marie, standing alone, looking about; I've
met her Wednesday at Sarona's Open House, and must stop to speak to her.
She is a senior member from Montana - where God lives - and I ask her
what she is doing all alone? She say's she is looking for a table, so I
tell her, "well, you just come along with me and we'll find us one and
you can sit with me." We find an empty table on the veranda and make
ourselves at home. Someone has opened one of the big front windows, and
a sweet afternoon breeze wa fts in from over the shrubs out front,
circulating among the tables, calming our frazzled urban nerves and
kindling our burning inner joy. end, part One.

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(This posting was entered by Cynthia, an external user of MyDLV.)