When I was 24 I had my first birthday party. Up until then I’d never dressed in a womanly fashion. I wore shoes for comfort and therefore owned no stilettos.
The guy I’d been in love with for the previous two years bought me a $400.00 red silk dress to wear on the big day.
My husband, who I had lost my virginity to seven years earlier, bought me a hair and makeup “makeover” and arranged my childhood bestie to fly in & surprise me on the eve of the party.
As a birthday present to myself I bought this magical pair of perspex heeled, mirror glassed, sparkly stripper stilettos.
It was an absolutely awesome night. The friends who had become my true family (since I was ex-communicated from my church and my birth family disowned me) – every single one of them came. I was sure to have my photo taken with each and every one.
My two favourite photos were the ones with the men I loved so dearly but was no longer “in” love with. Or having sex with.
The boy I had fallen for (and ultimately lost my marriage for) brought his new girlfriend. She played nice. My husband brought his best mate, who had flown in from interstate (and who happened to have been the best man at our wedding). He met “the other guy” that night. Considering the circumstances, he was also very civil.
I stayed up all night, watched the Argentina vs Mexico world cup soccer game while playing pool with scary people on Oxford Street. I invited everyone back to my place for pizza when the sun came up. I didn’t even have a hangover the next day. Best birthday “ever“.
The next time I wore my stripper stilettos was a girls night out. We got drunk and talked our way into Kings Cross strip clubs for free.
At BadaBing a gorgeous brunette wearing a leather jacket and drinking a beer sat down next to me and asked if she could buy me a drink. I asked for vodka and eventually we agreed to meet in the bathroom and made out for ages. It was my first girl-kiss. It turned out that she was an off duty female police officer. We’re still Facebook friends.
A few weeks later I went away for my first ever girly weekend, up in Surfers Paradise. I doused myself in copious amounts of fake tan and those stripper stilettos walked myself and my friends right to the front of every single nightclub queue and helped us avoid every door charge. I had my first non-relationship dance with a Kiwi backpacker called Luke & took his phone number. It felt like the most bad ass thing I’d ever done.
On the next stripper heeled outing my girlfriends and I giggled in sex shops and then ended up at Showgirls (using loyalty cards we’d scored on the previous occasion). The waitresses plied us with vodka and after skolling a medicinal water I threw up on a stripper. I apologised profusely and ran to the toilets with her to help her wash off. Her name was Phoenix and we rode around together all night in the “stripper limo” which transports dancers and their watchers to their next venue booking. It was very educational.