By Miles White
Edward, Craig and Brett all had wives who were pretty much cool about it now. On Saturday nights the guys went out. None of them told their wives where they were going because it was always someplace new. The women did know what the boys were going to do once they got there. That they had talked about, not that they were exactly happy to hear it. The boys had made up their minds though, so there were ground rules laid and there were lines drawn that were never to be crossed; after that everybody stopped talking about it. At least their men were not out there on a Saturday night chasing girls; they were out there walking around being girls.
Edward, Craig and Brett were pretty average guys; they had good jobs, some had kids, all of them went home for dinner every night. They never got drunk, stoned, crazy or unreasonable – Saturdays nights were the exception. Everybody got a chance to pick where they wanted to meet up, so Brett decided on the Thunderbird Motel, the sleaziest, dirtiest fuck pad in town, surrounded by the peep shows and dive bars that desperate men frequented in the dead of night. There was much apprehension by Ed and Craig, not that they did not like slumming on occasion. They had never objected to a seedy Motel 6 to get a little dirty, but the Thunderbird Motel was a different matter. The whole area was a wasteland, a theme park of the absurdity of the human condition. Brett won out; his turn meant his turn, and they were going to the Thunderbird.
When they first started getting together they only had dinner in the hotel restaurant and maybe a few drinks at the bar. After awhile they were killing it at hip-hop shows, trendy clubs and a few dangerous but very good blues bars down in the Boondocks. Brett and Craig dressed like Barney’s whores in all black – wigs, eye liner, nails, leather skirts, panty hose; Edward collected vintage polyester pleated skirts, bobby socks and polo neck sweaters from the 1950s. After much showing off of new items of clothing, new cosmetic discoveries, shoes to kill for, they dressed and headed out for dinner and drinks at the Chicken Shack, a dive in the classic sense of the word but said to have great funk bands and soul food. They got there in the middle of a house party, ordered baskets of hot chicken and cold longnecks, and Brett/Brandi met a guy. They started breathing in each other’s faces and Edward/Peggy Sue and Craig/Billie Jean started giggling like schoolgirls, watching and pretending to blush; they ordered a round of Cutty Sark.
Peggy Sue and Billie Jean got asked to dance and left Brandi kissing the guy at the table. They danced like giddy prom queens, beaming at each other and the guys they were dancing with. When they got back to their table they did not see Brandi. Billie went to check and found her behind the building fighting the guy, who was trying to rip her dress off. Billie said excuse me; the guy said fuck off. Billie grabbed him by the neck and he got off Brandi. Then he said what the fuck bitch? You think you all that and a bag of chips?, which was fine, but then he backhanded Brandi. In a heartbeat, Billie Jean grabbed him and threw him hard against the cinderblock wall and hit him with three right hands in the face. Brandi stuck two left jabs in his kidneys; he started fighting back, trading punches with them. In another second Peggy Sue came out, sized up the situation, and started throwing shots at the guy’s head with her Roc-A-Wear handbag.
The guy fell to the pavement uttering obscenities; he said something that would have pissed off even a hardcore transgender slut wannabe. A pair of Jimmy Choos and two pairs of Nicholas Kirkwood leather flats were ruined kicking his ass. They left him unconscious and went back inside. Peggy Sue said maybe they ought to leave; Billie Jean agreed, but the rule is the guy who picks the place gets to say when to leave. Brandi ordered another round of whiskey. You bitches need to man the fuck up, s/he said. That’s the best damn fight we’ve had in a month.