Dressed to Kill
New in town and happy for an opportunity to "see some of the sights" as promised by George, I accepted a Thursday night date. We would be going to a place downtown that didn't serve alcohol and had "stage" shows which were "very entertaining" he assured me. It sounded safe, interesting, and I was really looking forward to seeing the downtown area. George was sweet, funny, dark haired, tall and handsome. How could I lose? When he arrived to pick me up he told me I was over-dressed. I eventually put on blue jeans, and a man's shirt that he had brought along ... "just in case I didn't have one." He then convinced me to remove my makeup, pull my hair back into a pony tail, and off we went. Upon arrival there were many different aged folks and lots of excitement in the air. There was indeed a stage, candle-lit tables seating four to each, and, just as the lights started to dim, George excused himself. The first musical cord struck, the spotlight splashed on the sparkled curtain, and a woman that looked like Liza Minnelli stepped from behind it. She belted a song that rocked the house. George still hadn't returned. I thought I heard his voice in the crowd. I went to the bathroom. In every stall, except the empty one I went into, there were two sets of feet. There was a knock at the door of mine. I said, "Someone is in here." They said, "I know" and giggled. After washing up rather hastily, I ran back to our table. Still no George. I was starting to get very nervous. Out walks "Diana Ross" and I hear George giggle and say something about having to get back to his table. He was somewhere close by ... my eyes pierce the darkness of the room ... I focus on where the sound is coming from ... I stand up ... walk toward a couple ... I hear him again ... I see him ... or should say them ... there ... the man with a woman in a white dress … she's on his lap ... the woman is George! He had a beautiful satin and sequined low cut gown on and was wearing white satin heels. I ran from the place, pushing through the crowd, gasping for air and hailed a cab parked just outside and got in. As we drove away, I looked back to see George holding up his gown and waving frantically to the cabbie to stop. He was calling out to me to come back, yelling, "What's wrong?"
— Diane, 43