heading for the barn

"And here's Maxine in a beautiful yellow chiffon," he says, "Isn't she gorgeous?"
Maxine struts across the stage, shoulders thrown back, hips swinging, stockings stretched around muscular calves.
The MC is six-four with a deep voice and speaks with no attempt to raise it even half an an octave. He is dressed in a tight black cocktail dress and stiletto heels. A halfback in sequins.
I stand in the corner, a shoulder against the wall, a beer in each hand. It is two-for-one night in the Back Room. I am powerless over debauchery.
The apparition slides slowly across the room, and I see him. How could I not. The tight Danskin top, the fully formed breasts, the wig, the faciial structure. Stunning. He sees me seeing him and locks onto my eyes like a laser guided missile. He approaches slowly, a black Madonna, as self absorbed as Lady Ga Ga. He notes my panic. I am sure of this.
When he is six inches away he drops to one knee, reaches behind my legs, and picks up a small jacket that is on the floor. He rises like a serpent and looks into my eyes.
"False alarm," he hisses.
He turns in one highly erotic motion and throws the satin jacket over his shoulder.