Now we begin chronicling the lively adventures of a new kind of hero, a daring dilettante whose weapons are nothing more than good fashion sense, a flair with make-up and a gargantuan exhibitionist streak. Our heroine's name Aeon (no relation to Flux) ... Aeon Trix, part drag queen (though not as tall) and part Anime chick (but with smaller breasts). She's the gal with the superstar moves and traveling ego show. She's the girl that you're never sure if she digs girls, boys or is just looking for the perfect hermaphrodite.
An incident at the Chamber in Atlanta early in her rockstar life made Aeon aware of her drag-queen superpowers. She had slipped into something black, mesh-oriented and, for all intents and purposes, see-through, and went out for some dancing and people watching. Whilst sizing up potential conquests, a 50-some year old man, who was plainly a new convert to the god of Plastic Surgery, staggers up to her. As she wonders who this poor, dumb bastard thinks he's fooling, the man leans in real close, smiling from his liquid courage and slurs, "I just gotta know if you're the real thing?"
She ponders a moment thinking as to whether he means Dr. Pepper or Coke and replies, "How do you mean?"
"I've been enjoying the show all night and I gotta make sure you're for real. I'd hate to think that all this wasn't for real." Translation: I gotta make sure you're really a woman because otherwise, my sexuality will be threatened.
Ms. Trix (Ms. Jackson, if you're nasty) grabs her crotch to make sure. "Guess I must be a woman."
As the guy staggers away, more than a little confused at the utter failure of his perfect pickup line, Aeon rates the attempt. While it had originality, it was completely pathetic in its implications -- a 2.5 (the only line worse than that was when a beefy dork introduced himself as "Milk" because he'd "do" her body good). It was after the Chamber incident that she decided to use her powers for good ... if that was convenient.
Case in point: Not too long ago, our valiant heroine decided to brave the night life of Tallahassee (the city with "ass" in the middle). It was a casual night for her -- simple pleather pants, platforms and a top knot to be festive. She hit one of her favorite Ladies' Night spots and was greeted with the DJ's perfect mesh of 80s rap and dance music, with some current hip-hop to keep it interesting. Our glamour girl got her groove thing going good. So good in fact, that some boy tried to tip her, not once, not twice, but three times. He just stood there waving around a $1 bill. Don't think that it didn't cross our conniving coquette's mind to take the poor sap's money -- tax free. But a dollar's cheap for her wares, and drinks are the preferred currency.
Thus begins the Adventures of Aeon, a gal always ready for chance to wear a short skirt and great make-up, trying to make this world a safer, better place for the fashionably gifted.
Tune in next week when Aeon decides to wear out her dressless strap.
It was an odd week for our valiant vixen to say the least. Or maybe it was a week and a half. Or maybe two weeks. Really, time and space haven't much basis in Aeon's reality as of late. The time/space continuum started shifting a couple of Tuesdays ago when she decided to wear pink makeup as a Gothic pronouncement. No real reason why -- she was in a pissy mood yet wanted to wear pink because, well, "she's pretty in pink." That night turned out delightful ... the DJ was in rare form and so were her dance moves. To make the night absolutely primo, she finagled two free shots ... something fruity and something else with vodka. As if it mattered what they were -- they were free and that's the important thing.
It was the next night when things started to get strange. She again was going out, this time taking advantage of the privileges of her sex: cheap covers, free booze, good clothes. Except this night, strange forces were aligning against her; her night was not going as planned. She had a schoolgirl outfit and couldn't get her ponytails straight. What good was a schoolgirl outfit with lopsided ponytails? She might as well write "dork" on her forehead with her liquid eyeliner and then stand upon a scaffold all night to have her peers jeer and mock her. But Ms. Trix is no quitter. She paused, called upon Blair, the goddess of vanity, and put those ponytails up nice and perky. She gathered her lollipops and was off like a prom dress.
When she got to the club, they weren't even playing the type of music she wanted to dance to. She was all hyped to hear techno (or whatever they're calling it these days (post-hypo-jungle-bass-trip-hop-acid-jazz-and-dark- trance-rhythm-house-funk) but the spins had more of a hip-hop, top-40 flavor to them. Definitely dance-worthy, but not what she had her precious trifling heart on. And then she broke her shoe ... Whatever, Heather! Despite this handicap, she successfully kept herself occupied until 4:30 a.m.
Next night was, of course, the Seinfeld finale ... duh! She was disappointed with that. It had no flair, no flash. She consoled herself getting free passes to yet another club and again, taking advantage of cheap drinks. The time-space continuum shifted again. Some cute little girl tells her, "Not to be queer, but your dancing is lovely." Perhaps Aeon was mistaken but if that little hottie meant the statement the way Aeon thought she meant it, the it was queer -- at least as queer as a football bat.
Her weekend got lost completely in that nexus of time shifts and space collapsing. She remembers something about acrobatics, a trapeze swing, and Saran Wrap, not necessarily in that order. The phrase NC-17 kept running through her head, but it was all mostly lost in that vortex where all lost weekends and mates to socks go. And the only thing that ever escapes that black hole of personal time is lint and anything caught on film.
Before the crazy fortnight was up, she managed to attend not one, but two 80s nights. At one, people were even dressed for the period (what a novel idea)! She kept expecting Molly Ringwald to come walking out sporting her little redhead brat-pack pout.
Aeon also remembers wearing one of her super-fly rubber outfits somewhere for one of her all-nighter nights but she's not sure where ... it was dark, she remembers that. Really, she's just got to start taking more pictures. What good are outrageous outfits and triumphant nights if she didn't have proof of them happening? Life is too short not to keep Kodak moments and Polaroid episodes.
Aeon stretched herself awake and felt smugly happy. It was Memorial Day weekend and that meant two things -- sales and parties. Realistically speaking, the two really did go hand in hand ... a good party needs a good outfit and a great party always falls fast on the heels of an awesome sale. And there would be plenty of both this weekend for our little Trix. The Memorial Day sales couldn't have come at a better time for our dashing darling; her wardrobe was becoming so five minutes ago. And she must be on the cutting edge of fashion or as close as she could get in this town. Besides, looking good is what she did best. Well, one of the things she did best, and it certainly was one of the most legal.
Friday seemed to have lead feet -- it dragged and not in a RuPaul way. She was anxious to get out in the thick of the holiday festivities. She knew of at least two parties that should be still be going strong when the city rolled up the sidewalks. The night should provide plenty of diversions for the winsome wench.
But what to wear? It was this question that got her through the doldrums of the day. She turned over infinite possibilities of clothing and accessories in her fertile, fervid imagination. The perfect outfit was crucial, something stylish and sleek yet comfortable, for those Friday nights that don't end until Monday. So the nine-inch spikes were out of the question.
Finally, it was Friday night. Time to bar hop, time to dance. The main dilemma now was the theme for the night. She liked to know her motivation. One flip of the TV remote and the MTV gods voiced their proclamation ... "Little Red Corvette." Not the bad aspects ... she was inexpensive but not cheap. But the ride was as smooth as a limousine and her red cheerleader skirt fit the bill.
And with that final, vital detail decided and in some creative, oriental inspired make-up (thanks Kevin Aucion for the tip!), the night was a go. Miss Thing couldn't have picked a more appropriate theme song for the night. In the midst of music and people, Friday became a very late Saturday morning, and awesome Aeon drug her ass home for a power nap before her shopping expedition.
The mall was alive with the electricity of sales and Aeon herself was all a-tingle with pheromones (among other substances). She hunted those cheap prices down like a redneck looking for supper on the road. She fought her way through to dressing rooms, wrestled for that perfect bra, and endured lines at the cash register like a trooper. But it didn't stop with clothes. Oh, no. Aeon's tastes are far reaching. She bought CDs, too, along with the obligatory mall cookie (for energy) and was ready to take on yet another sassy Saturday night in Tallahassee. Which, in turn, melded into Sunday which meant more shopping, which meant a new look for Sunday night which, consequently, meant yet another evening that ended in the afternoon of the next day. These were the days dreams were made of.
True, we all have our fair share of adversity, but it just seemed to Aeon that she had an inordinate amount of conflama (conflict plus drama with a bit of trauma thrown in for good measure). Not that she was complaining – it made life in 'Ass at least mildly entertaining. And not that she could change it. Sooner ask Tallahassee to host a strip joint than get Aeon for forgo the conflama... she was part drag queen (drama being the body and the blood) and part Anime (and what's an Anime flick without conflict?).
Yes, she's flamboyant, very in your face, but it was part of her genetic make-up. True again, that her ego was that of ten men but she meant no real harm ... not really. Besides, she didn't rule with an iron platform – she wasn't bad, just drawn that way. Yet the fashion disabled were a dense bunch and just sometimes couldn't understand her dazzling nature and magnaminity for sharing her glory.
Her latest conflama was extraoridinarily convoluted, all to do with a boy that was rightfully (by his own volition) Aeon's. The main villians were a catty acquaintance (we'll call her B) and a jealous queen (we'll call him S). Well, he really didn't have enough fashion sense (he dressed like a straight man) or presence to be a queen ... he wasn't even snazzy enough to be a run-of-the-mill fairy or tall enough either. He was short and stocky (like many a man in 'Ass) and had a bad blonde dye job to boot. In short (pun intended), he was a troll. Naturally, our heroine is Aeon. But enough with the exposition, onto the plot.
The night began innocenly enough. Aeon donned one of her "tough" looking outfits ... not exactly butch but certainly not girly. When the fantastic femme fatale arrived at the club, what to her wandering eyes appear but the sight of B attempting to filch Aeon's latest prospect.
A little explanation here, Aeon didn't exactly like B. She was way too inhibited and insecure for our rambucious rockette, but times being what they were (indifferent), Aeon made do with what the environment provided until boredom set in (which it always did). Consequently, she wasn't hurt by the betrayal. Au contrare mon frare, it was amusing to see poor B's futile and infantile flirting and teasing techiniques. The fact that Aeon would have gladly shared her tasty treat only added to the hilarity of the scene.
Enter S. He wanted that boy bad. He wanted all of Aeon's boys bad ... his tough luck for picking straight boys. Only he didn't play fair. He liked to get boys in an altered stated and then into an uncomfortable place. Or so the story goes. And we all know how rumors are. In this case at least it's, in a twisted sense, fair, poetic justice if you will – he liked to spin tales about other people and right now, he was spinning some outrageous yarns about Aeon, all for a straight boy who didn't want him.
All night the silliness dragged on. Accusations flying, bitchy looks glaring. Many would have retreated to less hostile ground, even the strong would have given up hope, but not Ms. Trix. She has the infallible ego, clad in iron and steel at its core. She also had an ace up her sleeve ... her superpowers. On the dancefloor, she's god. She is, as they say, The Bomb. And she was.
Later that night, despite the desperate attempts of B and S for foil her fun, Aeon got to show her new treat why Trix isn't for kids anymore.
Cuddle up children and you shall hear me tell another sizzling story about our dazzling damsel. Aeon's her name and fun's her game, whether on the dance floor or in cyberspace, this girl is all about partying and the chase.
In this week's episode, we find our hip chick at home. No, she hasn't taken to wearing a housecoat and putting her hair up in curlers -- that's only for a white trash party and even then only when out of Aquanet and when her trophy Bon Jovi T-shirt (from years ago) is dirty. No, she hasn't gone straight edge or even celibate (not exactly). After the past month of constant partying had mostly receded into a haze, Aeon decided one wacky evening to stay home, for a change of pace. And there she stumbled across the wonders of cyberspace.
Her latest adventure began when she went shopping on-line. It turns out that a computer is a girl's best friend (next to her credit card, of course), especially in 'Ass, which is sadly lacking in the way of fashion. Through her computer, our gallant gal could buy fetish wear and drag queen-esque costumes in one seating, in one hour even. She could get a latex skirt and a yellow plastic outfit with faux fur trim. But it's not shopping that's kept our girl at home. No, no, something far more diabolical.
While wandering around the labrynthine lay of her laptop, Aeon found quite a few interesting sites. She didn't realize there were so many uses for Crisco and duct tape. And where do people find spotters for positions like that?
But our Aeon's no bystander, innocent or otherwise. Mere viewing left her wanting. She found chat rooms much more ... productive. First, it was the anonymity that drew her in. She could be anything, anyone at anytime. She could be a boy or a girl (and at a few places, both). She wasn't content with just one on-line name; she had at least six.
Yet it was the ease of the whole affair that hooked her. No fuss, no muss. No aching jaws, no explanations, apologies or expectations. She didn't have to worry about her fab clothes tearing or her lipstick smearing. She was as perfect as she wanted to be.
She began logging on for hours at a time, applying the dedication she devoted to her make-up and the selection of her shoes. She became cyber-crazed. Then, odd an phenomenon occurred. I think it's technical term is virtual megalomania. The more she logged on-line, the larger her ego became (if that's possible). She wanted to conquer the sites, dominate them, become the queen/king bee wherever she chatted. She envisioned a world full of cyber slaves just for her. She became the Sexzilla of cyberworld, raging for cyberlust.
Lucky for the internet, our erratic Aeon is not noted for her consistency. She realized one evening that there was cyberspace booty that she hadn't even worn ... thigh-high seven-inch platform boots, leopard print corset, Manic Panic lipstick. It dawned on her that she had been neglecting her 'Ass slaves, er ... fans. And that very evening she was back on the streets, using the cyberspace as more of a salad than as a main course.
As jet set as Aeon's life often was, it wasn't a non-stop party. Aeon enjoyed taking time to reflect upon her life, her adventures, her make-up. These moods often struck her when she drank coffee ... especially after a pot of coffee that was an aperitif for a series of rather tortuous and, eventually, somewhat opaque nights. She assumed these bouts of thought were brought on by the sheer act of drinking coffee. Sitting and drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes seemed so intellectual, so damn European -- she just had to think while partaking of the sacred bean.
On this particular day, Aeon was pondering the intricate world of the dance club. Honestly, the rites of the club are very complex, worthy of intense anthropological study. The play for territory and the mating rituals are quite fascinating. Aeon began pondering her experiences at clubs and noticed that there were, indeed, universal phenomena that held strong no matter time nor place.
The first obvious trend that stuck out in her mind was that bad dancers seemed to travel in gaggles. Not only did they travel in gaggles but they danced in circles; this circle dancing seemed to be innate for bad dancers, an instinct even. Aeon noticed that not only did the worse dancers have the larger circles but that the more crowded the dance floor the more and the larger the circles of the rhythmless nation.
Aeon postulated that the bad dancing gene and the bad dressing gene were one in the same. She couldn't recall having ever seen a good dresser who couldn't dance. Granted, she had seen good dressers who didn't dance. Perhaps they had common sense in addition to fashion sense and knew their limits. Consequently, if that were the case, the dressing gene and common sense were related.
Behavior in cages (or any stage-like area) was another interesting club phenomenon. Aeon wasn't sure which was worse, a bad dancer or a cage hog. Of course, it always seems that the worst dancers end up hogging the cage. Cage hogs tend to just have the one move. For girls, it was a very bland hip gyration (with an occasional butt shake for spice). For guys, it was the hip thrust. It was as if they had all watched the same bad soft porn movie on HBO.
Moreover, not only were cage hogs bad dancers but they were also bad dressers. Aeon could theorize that they were a relation among bad dressing, bad dancing and exhibitionistic tendancies but she knew better. She was a hard core exhibitionist as well as a snazzy dresser and a damn fine dancer.
One other club creature trend was the least desirable folk pack themselves like sardines into huge pseudo-copulation pits. Aeon guessed that they thought that with all the writhing, grinding and thrusting, the unwary on-looker would be misled but wasn't that the basic idea behind beer goggling, so why go to all the trouble?
Ah, Aeon soon grew tired of this pondering and postulating. She was out coffee and cigarettes and now yearned for something more interesting to do. It was time for Trix to play some more.
As a general rule, Aeon liked her men like Kleenex – strong and disposable. Not that men could be anything but disposable (at least the straight ones) ... something in the y chromosome made it genetically impossible for them to be worth a damn for any length of time, their basic shelf life being two weeks. If you find an oddly hardy strain, then maybe a month, but by that time, you're ready to commit homicide ... or perhaps infanticide is a more appropriate term.
Regardless, Aeon preferred the set-up this way. Allowed for greater for variety with a minimal amount of clean-up. Aeon had seen enough of post-relationship gore to know she wanted none of that. If she could swing it, there was no morning after, only a casual sighting a few weeks later. Her ideal arrangement would be to have rotating schedule, by appointment. That way she could keep the flavors she liked, at least for a little while. Naturally, girls would be included but they would have a much longer rotation; they didn't have the "y" deficiency and therefore didn't spoil as quickly as males.
Unfortunately, most of the populace was not as enlightened as our fair Aeon. Particularly, those of the male species. No matter how much they profess not to want a commitment, they always tend to get fussy when they can't have their favorite toy whenever they want. And forget the concept of sharing ... a toddler has more of propensity to generosity than most men. It's a treat to see what an ass a man could make of himself. In fact, that had become Aeon's favorite pastime as of late (since taking her sabbatical from the cyber world). Perhaps it was the voyeur in her coming out, but that was what she enjoyed these days ... watching men make fools of themselves. It didn't take much, really. The recipe was easy ... take one crowded club, add a generous amount of beer and/or mixed drinks, let stew for an hour or so, then add one chick in a short skirt. Zaniness ensues.
Sometimes, it's sort of cute, these drunk guys trying to make a play. Like the one guy who was absolutely befuddled by the fact that Aeon didn't want to dance with him. "You're a beautiful woman. You know you're a beautiful woman. And you come out and dance but you don't dance with anyone. Why is that?" Obviously, the one brain cell he had left could not comprehend a girl could fun on her own.
Sometimes, it's pathetic. The other night some poor schmuck asked her to dance and then when she wouldn't, he skulked by the speaker all night, his jaw agape at her adept skills. Of course, Aeon didn't much appreciate his admiration ... he was in her way.
Only every now and again, foolish behavior did cross the line of good taste. But that's when a stilleto to the groin comes in handy. Mostly, the boys were harmless. She'd watched them try to get with her on the dancefloor; she'd see them fumble passes left and right until some drunk girl took pity on them. Then, once, she'd danced and drank her fill, she'd go home to amuse herself the old-fashioned way. Despite popular belief, a girl could have plenty of fun on her own.
Of all the colors in the world, black was the color that Aeon held in the highest esteem. Not necessarily for its darker connotations, though Ms. Trix did love the evil seductress look. No, our vivacious vixen adores black for a far more pragmatic reason ... she loves it for its versatility.
Black goes with everything. Try as she might, Aeon could never think of nor find a color that clashed with black. Black went as well with her hallucinogenic hot pants as it did with her funky blue polka dress as it did with her green China dress. Black was a wonderful accessory color and a extraordinary base color.
Aeon had toyed with the idea of using white as a base color, but white was way too boring. It simply doesn't have the zing that black does. Besides, there's that whole virginal stigma with white, and while Aeon was sure that if anyone could make white slink and zing, she was the one, she saw no reason to exert unnecessary energy when there was perfectly suitable color for her uses.
Aside from being compatible with every color under the sun and moon, the other thing about black that intrigued Aeon is the fact that it could evoke just about any mood. Black could be slick like a cat burglar (or Cat Woman, one of Aeon's very favorite comic book characters). It could be moody and mopey like The Smiths or obnoxious like Marilyn Mansion. It could be as subtle as an evening gown or just out-and-out sexy. It's a color she could obfuscate in or a color to be noticed in. In short, the color black was the alpha and the omega of colors; it was everything.
That's not to say our derelict darling wore only black. Heavens, no. That was far more consistency than she could muster. There were so many pretty, shiny colors out there. There were those pretty pale purples and sparkly blues that were all the rage now that simply had to be won. There earth tones that had to been worn when she was feeling sort Mother Goddess. There were all those lovely jewel tones ... wine, emerald, blood-red, burgundy. Then, there was slut red, probably one of the most fun colors to wear, especially with slut red lipstick (of which she had at least three shades).
All of these colors had their associations, bright red's being rather naughty. The shiny colors seemed fun in kaleidoscope way, like rave music. Jewel tones were mysterious, and if done properly, earth tones could look dangerous.
Still, none of these colors could span the spectrum the way that black could. Plus, Aeon was wise to the fact that adding the right black accessory and she could change even the most obvious stereotypes for a color. Take one slut red skirt, mix the right black shirt and shoes (and hose, naturally) and what was once something to trick in is now coolly seductive.
As far as Aeon could see, there was only one problem with the color black. That was about the only damn color people in 'Ass go out it. That and white. It was rather annoying, because she was certain that many of these people did not comprehend the truly complex and amazing nature of the color. She was positive that they were copping out, choosing the path of least color coordination. Whenever Aeon saw these poor fashionless souls selecting black out of ignorance, the weight of the knowledge of a fashion high priestess felt heavy indeed.
Though 'Ass had many fine establishments for Aeon to frequent – places for bands, places for dancing (when not too crowded), places to people watch – sometimes it's nice to get out of town and party. In part, Aeon thought, the fun of going out of town was the anonymity. Here's a fresh pack of people for Aeon to dazzle. She always felt invigorated by the challenge and salivated at the chance at fresh meat (sometimes, 'Ass seemed too inbred; everybody seems to have done everybody else and if they haven't, they at least knew who they had done. It was as bad as Big Brother).
Each city has its own personality, has its own vibe. There's also all that shopping ... clothes, make-up, toys for various perversions. Aeon had been around to a lot of different places but her two faves were Atlanta and New Orleans.
Atlanta, one of the most obvious out-of-town excursion choices, is brawling and bubbling over; it was an upstart, as irreverent as a teenager and as cunning as a vampire (mostly like Lestat, but not the Lestat from that f#$@ing movie; Lestat from Lestat the Vampire). Atlanta's wide open, a trait Aeon could well admire. Two things that make the five hour trip to Atlanta worth it are Little Five Points and the MAC make-up counter. MAC make-up had RuPaul as spokesmodel and had some of the funkiest colors known to Buddha, with names like Fetish, Fluid, Blade and Grid. It was only sold in Atlanta either in the Phipps mall (way too uppity even for Aeon's elitist tastes) and the Lennox mall.
Little Five Points had become so famous for its freaks that now there are nearly as many normal people gawking as there are freaks ... well, at least during peak tourist hours. Since Aeon can smell normality a mile a way (an acquired Darwinian technique for survival), she never has to deal with such mundane humans in Atlanta's little nook for eccentricities. Here, Aeon could get leather, latex, or gargantuan platforms; she can purchase theatrical make-up or the extra hip brand Urban Decay. Aeon can even get a burgundy wig in a kiss cut from Fifi's.
New Orleans was a different case entirely. First, it has an European allure, so casually sophisticated and so diffidently decadent. If one has a penchance to extravagance, and Aeon does, this town could be one's death. Ah but what a death! Here, one could suck the marrow out of life (or any other juices from any other part of life). This town was the one place where everything should be legal, from prostitution to absinthe.
New Orleans always seemed to be keeping a secret ... which, really, is part of the seduction of New Orleans -- that and the benets at Cafe du Monde. There's ultra fab shopping in New Orleans, and not just clothing, be it fetish, goth or just chic. There are mask shops out the ass and more magic(k) shops than you shake a talisman at. Food shops abound in plenty in the French Quarter. And if you wanted a tattoo (an idea Aeon herself has toyed with), well, New Orleans is the place to be.
Hmmm ... the more she thought about past expeditions, the more Aeon wanted to go out of town. After all, she hadn't been out of town in ages. But where to go? Some new place to conquer or a favorite stomping ground? And then, what to wear! Decisions, decisions, decisions.
Our girl Aeon has many passions ... hose & shoes, boys & girls, dips & chips, chains & whips, all the usual combos. But her flaming plaid passion was adoration. Well, also admiration and adulation (followed by a bit of undulation's always nice) -- anything really that involved Ms. Trix being the center of attention. She preferred being the center of positve attention but, like any good PR person, she knew there's no such thing as bad press; any publicity is good publicity. However, having people dote over her is the ultimate high, the ultra-mega-okay. Not too long ago she got in a fabulous fawning fix. She was out with a couple of her fave party boys (the kind that don't mind partying together as well as with her). She was, quite naturally, dressed to the hilt ... a little nothing fishnet thing, her mile-high hooker boots and just a touch of undergarments to make it all legal (after all, it's still 'Ass and Miss Thang had enough conflama for one month .... no need for anything related to cops and lawyers). This night, her make-up was a work of art. Colors galore, pink (fatal on its own but with this combo, downright mind splintering ) with bronze, green and orange – very lovely and very Siouxie-rific, perfect for one of the prolific 80s nights that had sprouted all over Tallahappy like a mushrooms in a cow field after a rainy day.
There she was, doing her usual thing ... looking gorgeous, dancing extraordinary, shining like the beacon of good taste that she is. On this night, the planets must have been aligned just right in her goddess sector because everyone was especially floored by how darling and daring and just down right diva she was. Everyone loved her outfit ... where did you get it? how much did those shoes cost ? and most importantly, how the hell do you walk, much less dance, in those things? Her favorite question was where did you buy your balls and how much did they cost?
It was universally agreed upon that her make-up was indeed magnificent and even a few queens asked for tips and name brands (one of the highest compliments known in drag world, the only higher to be given tips and name brands). People were offering her drinks, smokes, their first-born, anything just for simply existing in Tallahassee. She felt like the goddess Kali, with people bowing before her ... or maybe her ego was running a little wild. But one guy honestly wanted her to dance specifically for him ... not with him, mind you -- for him. She refused until he begged.
All night it lasted. Compliments poured from all sides ... boys, girls, that tasty nebulous bunch in between. It made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside to know that all these people were recognizing her as their empress of the night (eat your heart out, Anne Rice and watch out, Elvira!). She even pondered changing her name to "Empress Formerly Known as Aeon" but figured Michael Jackson would just steal the name "Aeon" for his next "child" just out of spite and envy. Once dawn came (among other things), Aeon slept sound, knowing that all was right in the world, the world that she ruled.
If Aeon had to pick a role model (something she was not wont to do), she would have to pick Dr. Frank N. Furter from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. She, of course, did not envy his end. Nobody wants to cry in front of people, smear her make-up and then get shot with an anti-matter beam (not to spoil the end for you, Rocky virgins). That would be so de classé, too anticlimactic.
On the other hand, she did admire his spunk, his spark, his sex drive, a glamour girl to end all glamour girls. He did it all – sex, drugs, rock 'n 'roll and space travel. Frank even found the time to build a man. He was doing fishnets before fishnets were cool. And he's been hip for 25 years. Now, that, Aeon truly believed, was star power ... enough for a whole galaxy. She hoped that she could attain at least half of that glory wearing only red lipstick, a garter and solid pair of stacked heels.
Taking into account her admiration of Frank and the fact that she hadn't been out of Florida in a while, Aeon jumped at the chance to visit the Georgia capital when a friend asked her to catch the stage version of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. At first, Aeon was going to go as Magenta. She had a French maid outfit which she hadn't much worn lately. But her love for Frank, that sweet transvestite, won out. She had a lacy bodice that looked sort of like his evening gown at the Meatloaf dinner; naturally she owned a garter, a set of fishnets and a clunky pair of platforms. All she had to do was the make-up which didn't even have to been too neat since Frank's make-up got a touch mussed during the movie (between Rocky, Janet and Brad, it was hard to keep that fresh look; it was a long night). She even did her friend's make-up – he looked fantastic just like her.
When they got to the theater, Aeon was disappointed to see that most of the audience did not dress up. It seemed that most where normal people who decided to be daring and watch "some freaks" on stage. Our tremendous Trix got over her disappointment when she found out they could get closer to the stage because they were dressed up; she was even more delighted when the guy introducing the show pointed out her costume specifically. He said something about she was welcome to come any night ... on him.
Aeon's favorite part of evening was at intermission when three pregnant women wanted their picture taken with her and her friend. When the women found out that our madcap adventurers weren't even a part of the show, they looked equally astounded and wary, the thought "Who would wear garters in public?" running through their middle-class minds. Why, Aeon of course. But not everyone knows of the mystique of Mistress Aeon.
The real fun came after the show, when they decided to go to the 24-hour Home Depot. They decided they needed two screws and a nut. The stares they got from the employees and customers were a riot but weren't nearly as hysterical as the fact that most of the store ended up following Aeon around. She wasn't sure if was the fact that she was wearing fishnets or the fact that her bodice had a thong bottom. One thing was for sure ... she got offered a lot of help to find her two screws and a nut.
Aeon is many things: a devilish dancer, a dapper dresser, a tantalizing trick. But mechanically inclined is one of the few things our maverick minx is not. She fully believes in the division of labor and fully believes that this system is ordained by the powers that be (the Goddess, Buddha, Jehovah, Bob). In her mind, some people were meant to work with their hands, some were meant to work their minds, and others, like herself, were just meant to be ... it was basically a just system, she thought. Well, until she has problems with her car. In this story it was not so much her car, but a part of her car -- her tire. The back right one, to be more precise.
Aeon has a long history of problems with tires, the first incident taking place in Athens, GA when she was tooling around in her brother's car (yes, our devil-may-care doll has siblings and even parental units; she did not, despite popular belief, spring forth full grown from the heel of a 7-inch platform or even from the pages of break). In spite of her firm believe in the division of labor, Aeon does know how to change a tire (she is, after all, a woman of the 90s), and she was about to change the pain-in-the-ass flat when a Dr. Pepper truck pulled into the convenience store where she had parked the car. The driver was kind enough to change the tire for our sweet siren.
While he was changing the tire, Aeon decided she would repay his kindness by entertaining him with some small talk. Somewhere along the way, she said something to the extent that, in the overall picture, things could have been worse (thinking, it could have been raining, she could been on the outskirts of town, she could've broken a nail). The Dr. Pepper driver acquiesced that it, indeed could have been worse, "It could've been a Coke man."
Since that fateful day, Aeon has had about four more flats, far more than her fair share. Somehow, our girl always manages to have someone around to help her out in her time of need, something she had taken for granted. She was Aeon, and it was her job to look good, not to engage in manual labor. It was as it should be.
However, last weekend, her luck with tires took a darker turn. She was on the highway without her cell phone, quite a ways from the great city of 'Ass and horror of horrors, she got a flat tire! She pulled over to the side of the road, flipped on her hazards (she's no dummy) and checked out the damage.
It was definitely a flat tire, and she was in no mood nor outfit to change a tire. But there she was, on the highway, cut off from the modern world, and there was nothing to do but change the damn thing. About the time Aeon hunkered down to try her hand at the "Fix-A-Flat" she's had rattling around her car for the past six months, a tow truck pulled off the side of the road in front of her car. Aeon wasn't pleased. Granted, she didn't relish the idea of changing the tire, but she sure loathed the idea of paying a towing fee.
As she was scheming her way of this mess, two Hispanic guys got out of the truck and walked over to her car. She explained that she thought she was all right, so long as she was working this "Fix-A-Flat" correctly. Both guys squatted down near her tire, one guy adjusting the can and the other pointing at the hole that was hissing air.
The first guy turns to Aeon and says, "Spare?"
Yeah, Aeon's car, Siouxie, had a spare. She scurried over to the trunk to extract it.
The guy looks at the spare and says, "Jack?"
Yeah, Siouxie's got that, too. But, of course, Aeon had to locate that. The car manufacturers always mange to hide those things deep in the bowels of the trunk. After a bit of a search, she found it snugly hidden in the side of the trunk.
Now equipped with all the necessary components, Aeon's two roadside angels changed Aeon's tire, mostly in silence with the occasional short exchange in Spanish (unfortunately, all Aeon could remember from high-school Spanish was "Donde es el bano?" --a phrase that had its uses, but not in this instance).
Viola! Her tire was changed. When she offered her two saviors what little cash she had on her (cash was so plebian ... she preferred credit cards), they both shook their heads.
"No," says one of the guys. They walked back to their truck and were off.
All that was left for Aeon to do was to find a reputable tire place and get a new tire, which she did, flirting with the cashier to ensure good service and a nice discount. The order of things had been reestablished and Aeon felt secure in this fact. The system works (at least for her).
Above all else, Aeon's a pragmatist, and while she believes in useless shoes, she does not believe in useless people. Not to sound manipulative but all people must serve a function in her life, be it for shopping, dancing, interior decorating or for more basic needs. And when a person ceases to serve that function in her life, that person ceases to exist. Not that Aeon was into anything so passé or as tiresome as having a person "rubbed out." Hits were far too messy, and hit men were only called in for extreme cases. No, Aeon simply denies people the honor of existing in her life; she will, in effect, erase them and all traces of their former existence.
There's a sundry of reasons why a person would be erased by our predacious prima donna. Some are quite humanitarian, such as the loss of fashion sense; it's best if the unhip (who once were hip) are no longer allowed to associate with our transcendent Trix. It would only pain them to see the glory they can no longer have. Aeon even allows a 12-month grace period during which, if a the miracle of reborn hipness occurs, the fallen can again regain the graces of the glamour goddess. Such instances are rare but if anyone can inspire a miracle, it's Aeon.
The main reason Aeon has for expunging people from her life related to sex. She often wished that humans were more like the praying mantis who exterminates her mate once he's served his purpose in life. However, laws being what they are about murder, blood being such a bitch of a stain, and poison being hard to come by, Aeon stood by her method of erasure. The reasons for liquidating a trick are profuse. If they ever fall below Aeon's standard of performance, they're shown the door before their heads can hit, well, much of anything. If they dressed badly, danced badly or in any shape, form or manner displayed un-hip behavior, they are immediately and irrevocably annihilated. Losing one's looks can result in the same punishment.
There are also the reasons of being too old or too young. True, Aeon has been known to dabble in the playpen for a kick or with the more chronologically-challenged for the monetary benefits of age though these ends of the spectrum always lose their luster of novelty after a few days, weeks, whichever. On the one hand, you can't teach an old dog new Trix and no amount of money can make up for a paunch. On the other (let's say, infantile) hand, the children have nothing new to offer our quintessential queen; like good puppies, they have to be trained, and Aeon simply doesn't have time for class. About the only thing she ever learned from one of her excursions with a moppet (not to be confused with a muppet, which can go all night) was how to spit a proper loogy ... a handy trick for foiling foes on the dance floor but hardly worthy of the continuation of association.
Sheer spite is another major reason for extermination. While Aeon is known for her revenge tactics (the best is sleeping with an ex's ex or sibling, especially if the latter was better looking), but all in all, few are worthy of the expenditure of her creative energy unless she just so happen to be inclined as such. The best and most just punishment for any offense against Aeon is to be denied the prestige of her presence. Aeon knows her power as diva, and she damn sure knows how to use it.
More and more our piquant pop tart was realizing that she was, in fact, a worldly accepted icon. The realization was due, in part, to the fact that no matter where she went, people sensed her superstar nature. When she went clubbing, she always had admirers (the ratio tended to be five to three ... five guys for every three girls; there may have been more than that on both sides, but they were more subtle in their worship).
Her clothes, and especially her shoes, received an abundance of compliments and recognition of the superior fashion sense that selected the ensemble. She was beginning to expect little flower girls preceding her, throwing a path of rose petals ahead of her so that she wouldn't have to trod on unholy ground. She even was toying with the idea of investing in a portable shrine so that people could leave her offerings wherever she went. But then again, she'd prefer free recreational toys to sticks of incense or flowers. However, it wasn't simply the fact that she was wholly adored no matter where she went. (OK, so maybe not wholly; as with any icon, there were people who simply could not appreciate her genius. But these people were slugs and unworthy of even a modicum of consideration.) No, there was also the number of foreign tricks she had enamored to take into account. And there just wasn't one specific region of the world these victims, uh ... interests came from. It wasn't merely a European phenomenon, it wasn't merely a Western civilization thing -- it was world wide, damn it. From Greeks to Arabs, Brits to Slavs, our femme fatale lured them all with her charm. Be it Madagascar or Laos, Australia or Antarctica, Aeon was an equal-opportunity temptress.
Only just recently was this concept reaffirms. She was out dancing, as usual, when she spied this very tall and very cute boy. She kept her eye on him all night, waiting to see what he'd do. Aeon sometimes graces a catch by initiating the contact but generally she like to watch them squirm until they find the courage to brave the dangers of speaking to her, Goddess Aeon.
It was rather late in the evening when the boy made his move. She had just sat down to view her domain and to see if there were any dances moves she could steal from the peasants, when the boy extended his hand to her. As a general rule, she didn't dance with guys (they couldn't keep up), but she'd make an exception this time -- he was awfully cute. Besides, his approach was unusual and took guts.
After a bit of dancing, he informed her that where he came from, people don't dance like her. She retorted, "They don't dance like me from I come from, either." She detected an accent and was thrilled. She loves foreign tongues.
It turned out he was from the Netherlands and was, consequently, Dutch. He was also from Amsterdam, the place where everything is legal. Ms. Trix was impressed with herself, since Amsterdam is our vixen's valhalla. To top it off, he was 6 foot 5 inches -- nice proportions for any culture. As the night wore on to its inevitable Aeon end and all its trickery, our delectable darling realized that Dutch boys don't just hang around dikes.
There are many things that annoyed our gracious goddess ... bad dressers, poor dancers, and weak drinks. There are even things she believed should be outlawed ... sandals with socks, nylon jogging suits, people that page with a 911 (although 69 was just fine), things that are "FYI" and a very Brady anything. However, the one thing that gets on her last gay nerve, the one thing that really should have been aborted before the bad idea got any worse, was capri pants.
In Aeon's opinion, this fashion trend has gone way out of control. That's all she sees whenever she goes shopping, whenever she goes out. The damn things are even infiltrating her dreams. They are depleting her quality of life ... the fashion equivalent to CFC. Really, Aeon wonders, what are they? Stretch pants that lacked ambition? True, capri pants were quaint on Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face but then again, so were those eyebrows and who wants to go back to that?
Not only are these pants kissing cousins to high waters (which is a back step for fashion and big step toward geekdom), but the women who wear them most frequently never have attractive ankles or calves. In fact, these poor misled souls tend to have some of the ugliest lower legs our piquant pinnacle of panache has ever seen. She just wants to take the girls aside and explain to them, using small words, that one just does not accentuate the aesthetically weakest part of one's body. Well, so Ms. Trix assumes. She really doesn't have an ugly part of her body nor does she have "bad side." Just a wicked side. But that is beside the point.
The other irksome aspect of these ubiquituous pants is that they are invariably paired with the same thin, unflattering tank top. Do all these girls subscribe to the same magazine? Or do they all have a microchip in their brain compelling them to dress like Peg Bundy? Not that Aeon has a problem with Peg Bundy or her dress code. Aeon always did like an early slut, but that style just doesn't work on insecure little girls with bad posture who don't know how to deal with anything over three inches. Then, there's the fact that these glorified stirrup pants seem to only come in one color ... black. Aeon loves the color black as much as the next person (well, perhaps a little more so ... while she is 1/2 drag queen and 3/8 Japanimation, she is 1/8 Goth), but there is such thing as overkill.
Besides, with capri pants, one has to have the whole scene set up perfectly. One must be driving down a curvy road in a Ford Farlane wearing big Hollywood diva sunglasses and a scarf in a very Isadora Duncan manner (minus the back tire) while smoking a cigarette out of a cigarette holder. Going to the Wal-mart in capri pants just doesn't get it. It's like wearing your latex to clean house ... inappropriate and should be punishable be imprisionment.
More and more, our chic chick realized how hard it was to be a forward-minded fashion fiend, especially in a town like 'Ass were outfits don't clash ... they rage all out war.
To be brutally honest, Aeon adored being herself. There simply wasn't a down side to her existence. She found the perpetual partying to be pleasing, the forever fawning to be fabulous, the constant copulation to be Caliguliaesque. Style was easy and the people easier, and with such long nights, eternity was elementary. You do the math ... who wouldn't want to be Aeon?
Sometimes, though, Ms. Trix wanted to be little more. Sure, she was being all she could be but she'd like to be more. Like maybe a superhero. She'd given much thought to this prospect. Like many girls her age, she used to watch Wonder Woman religiously (okay, so it helped that she had a crush on Linda Carter but that's not the point). She found Wonder Woman's powers to be fascinating (she also loved her gadgets which led to her later toy fetish).
As a child, she could envision herself righting the world of wrong and saving the innocent ... she never bothered to figure out from what she was saving the innocent, only that she was gracious enough to do it. Now that she's older and wiser, she knew what she would save the from ... the unfashionable. There was no greater crime than a crime against fashion (well, maybe murder like in the Versace case), and she believed in her heart of hearts that she should be a superhero who would champion this cause.
First, she had to have a name. She felt her own name was already inundated with super power potential so she decided she needed a more "normal" name. She wasn't very good at thinking in a "normal" way but she thought Heather sounded fairly unassuming (and there was that great movie of the same name with Christian Slater in it and that definitely gave the name ultra spiff points). She decided that she should take the surname of Carter in honor of one her first crushes.
Next was her costume. Since she was to be the champion of the fashionable everywhere the outfit had to be downright devastating. A short skirt was a must and shirt that showed off her perky breasts was also a definite. Possibly a corset but that was uncertain -- they did have the tendency to block the flow of breathing and she was pretty sure that breathing was an essential part of a crime fighter's diet. She was thinking red would be a crime fighting color but she wasn't sure which red ... blood red, fire engine red, crimson, scarlet, or hoochie red. She did know spike heels were an absolute necessity. In fact, it would most likely be in her contract as a crime fighter. Look at all the women of the X-men. She was also thinking that heels should be some sort of boot but she had to decide between thigh-highs and knee-highs. She had to be sure that the boots didn't look too much like Cat Woman's. Aeon wouldn't want to offend the only character worthy of Michelle Pfeiffer's sex appeal.
The third step to her transformation was the selection of super powers. What to choose, what to choose.... She was thinking that being able to match nail and hair color (only brilliant colors, thank you) would be quite handy. She assumed an Enthraller Ray would be vital in fighting the aggressively unfashionable -- that way she could hold them captive with her good looks. She liked the American Maid's idea of throwing shoes but she didn't want to be a copy cat ... and she had expensive taste in shoes. Perhaps changing polyester to rayon would be beneficial as well; she would add that to her list.
Finally, she had to snag a cute little comic boy to draw her super hero self. By rights, it had to be a male ... only they can exaggerate the female figure to such unrealistic and unreachable proportions.
Our terpsichorean Trix loved dancing no matter when and, more often than not, no matter where. As long as the beat was danceable, she was there, be it old school rap or eighties pop, hip hop or trance, jungle or house (or any of the sub-subspecies). The only two types of music she could never even fathom dancing to were country or "bootie" music. Where was the challenge in those two? They were designed for people who needed a map to find the beat.
Yet our Trix knows there's a certain strategy to scoping out, sizing up, and conquering bars. Clearly, frequenting a bar on a near religious basis makes its subjugation and domination absolute. But one has to build up to that. Aeon, unlike most night creatures, doesn't mind going to bars early, especially those she'd never been to before. Without all those people there, it makes casing the joint a simple process. She could spot the best people watching spots, the best showcases for her dancing, the cutest bartenders. Most importantly, it gave her chance to plot out the positioning of the fans and air conditioning ducts (a must on those muggy, body heat steeped nights).
Arriving early also gave her a chance to take advantage of those cheap or free club entries. She did have the benefit of being female and ladies nights always guarantee something cheap or free. If it isn't the cover, it's the drinks. Of course, Aeon knows how to advert both nightclub perils. A giggle and a talk and a wiggle and a walk is generally all it takes.
She never finds the dead time for early entry into bars to ever be dull. She knows many ways to while away time that inevitably enhanced her evening's pleasure. If all else fails she can just go back to her pad -- there are many time-killers there. However, our devilish diva prefers to stay at the venue of her choice when arriving early. She requires much space when she dances and once the floor's packed, there are many of her favorite moves she can't do, unless she find a nice platform. Most people didn't think platform and dancing mixed, but she knows better.
Once Aeon stakes out the place and already marks the dance floor as her territory, she can enjoy watching the patrons stream (or trickle, depending on the night) in. She checks out their outfits, what drinks they buy, whether they hover around the dance floor hoping for someone else to be the first on it or skulk in the dark corners. Our intrepid Trix revels in the captive audience of an early, nearly sober bar crowd. They're always appreciative of her courage and they're always thankful she gives them something to watch other than people getting drunk while they themselves endeavored the same.
Her favorite time to dance though is at the end of the night when most people are too drunk to dance (she's never too incapacitated to dance). This time is the final stage of her domination of a bar. No one can forget that vivacious vixen who dances for an hour solid as the bar shuts down. And the DJ always comes down for a chat, generally offering up an amiable after-hours plan. Because the whole point of a mastering a bar is an after-hours conquest ... they're the best.
October ... one of Aeon's favorite months. It signified so many things. The advent of fall with the leaves changing colors and designers changing lines of clothing. Autumn meant an entirely different angle to her wardrobe, not that she wore any more clothing when she went out ... she did have a trick status to uphold. But it did mean she could wear all her phat coats ... like her thick, fuzzy pimp jacket and her authentic seventies leather trench coat that matched her authentic seventies go-go boots. The cool weather also meant that when she actually decided to cool off from dancing in one of the many under-ventilated clubs around 'Ass, she stood a chance of some relief just by stepping outside. That's when short skirts and skimpy tops paid off.
Fall also meant the advent of lots of holidays, the most important being Halloween. Some of you may have expected it to be Christmas (very presumptuous about our glorious gal's religious preferences) since our materialistic minx knows it's far more satisfying to get than to give. Others may have expected New Year's Eve since Aeon is the epitome of party central. But, no, All Hallow's Eve is our chameleon chick's favorite festivity. Why? Well, because of the outfits. Truant Trix revels in tricking out, and while she doesn't like competition, Halloween is so convivial, so carnival, that it gives Aeon the warm fuzzies to see so many people striving to go beyond their normal lives and attire.
Halloween is also a prime time for her to see how much further she can push the envelope, to test the waters just to see how whacked-out her outfits can get. There is, too, the fact that Aeon gets to choose at least three different costumes for All Hallow's happenings. Parties abound and every bar has got some gimmick. It's how every weekend should be.
Above all else, Aeon enjoys the challenge of selecting costumes. Since she never needs an excuse to dress funky, Aeon realizes she must outdo her general attire, which for the normal human might be difficult but not for our tremendous Trix. Every costume every year has been better than the last. She's been a racy devil in latex and thigh-high boots and a futuristic geisha girl. Sometimes, she's demure (she is incognito after all) and dresses as a serene medieval maid. This year, though, our girl is having some slight difficulty. She's actually a bit stumped as to what she'll be for this Halloween. Maybe something along the lines of a Japanimation girl, but where's the acting in that? That is part of her true nature. She could go as a drag queen, but again, it's not far from the truth. And her outfit has to be smashing ... everyone is depending on her. She is the beacon of extraordinary taste.
She could go for a look that was more shocking than aesthetically pleasing but that would ruin the magic of Halloween. While Aeon's always gorgeous, this is the night of nights to be drop-dead beautiful, and she relishes that.
It's a bit of quandary -- there's nothing left to do but to go shopping. Check out the stuff at Target and Wal-mart, maybe an arts supply place, to get some ideas. And if all else fails her, Aeon knows there are always out-town sprees. They always get her juices flowing.
Whenever our adventurous Aeon travels, she takes quite an entourage, mainly of clothing and shoes but she has a few grunts to carry the luggage (why pay valet when you can bring your own?). Wherever our parlous princess goes, it's an event. Something like, "The Aeon Trix and her Traveling Ego Show." It's nothing unusual for people to crowd up as the bar is closing (because Aeon always closes the bar -- it keeps the rioting down), asking for her name, asking her number, asking to touch the hem of her mini-skirt to cure the drip. It doesn't matter if she's in a club she's never been in before or one that she used to frequent when she lived there but has not graced in a while (no, our Aeon has not lived in 'Ass all her life; in spite of her young age, she's conquered many a city in her time).
The responses to her dazzling display of diva-tude are a motley crew. If she's going Goth, many ask to be her victim that night, convinced that her charisma is, as Anne Rice would say, "preternatural." She has at least one couple a night asking her to preside over their procedures for the night. One of her shining moments was when a beautiful drag queen asked how she got to be such a super star. That was when terrific Trix knew she had something special in her, something she should share with the world. Despite the cornucopia of compliments and the ass-load of adulation she always receives, Aeon had never considered how far reaching her star power was, the light years it could travel. That is, until a few nights ago.
She was, quite naturally, out dancing. Now, what was she wearing? Oh, yes, her girl scout outfit (quite handy to have when she feels like selling her wares). It wasn't an authentic outfit ... that would never be flattering enough. But it was a close enough facsimile (a thrift store jewel ... only a dollar), and she knew how to work the cookie power, especially with Wonder Twins ponytail panache. But on with our story ... Aeon was out in girl scout regalia, dancing with devilish aplomb. At this point in our narrative, she had taken a break to get a drink off the bartender or perhaps a willing bar patron. She walked past this guy who was obviously star struck by her super nova glamour. "Excuse me," he manages to ask, "but have you always lived here?
"Why?"
"Because you look just like this girl who always danced at this bar I used go to all the time." He named the town and the bar, and sure enough, it was our Aeon. It had been a number of years, two or three since she had lived there (which translates as a decade in Aeon years) but yet he still remembered the amazing Aeon. "Wow, I mean, I thought you were the same girl, but I mean what are the chances? I mean, you could have a twin, but I mean, wow ... I can't believe it's really you."
At that moment, in the light of such idol worship, Aeon realized two things: a.) she truly could conquer the world and b.) she'd found her ticket to drinks for the night.
Well, the leaves had begun to change and Aeon, being such the outdoorsy type, decided it was time to go to the mountains and see all the pretty leaves change color. Of course, when she said mountains, she meant mountain-ish and yet also meant something with potentially cool shops. Which obviously meant Helen (where she hadn't been since she was a wee lass), which meant being near Atlanta, which meant she also could swing by that rave she wanted to attend when she got through with getting in touch with her primal side. Such were the thought patterns of our illustrious Aeon.
Now, gentle readers, I would like to clarify something. Aeon had no intention of "roughing it." Roughing it to her was having to listen to tapes instead of CDs while her CD player was in the shop. Consequently, she didn't even have the slightest intention of "camping." RuPaul forbid. If you thought the princess with the pea got little sleep, wait till you see tantalizing Trix trying to sleep on the cold, cold ground. No, Aeon was thinking more along the lines of hiking for a bit (in a state park since they have bathrooms to refreshen in), swinging by Helen for some jewelry, and then hitting the rave, eventually crashing with her friend, and soon to be hiking conspirator, Tre Spiff.
Off went Aeon on a wild hair to Helen/Unicoi State Park (it won the coin toss) dragging Tre along with her on this quest to get back to nature. She thought she had everything ... waterproof boots, jeans, t-shirt topped with a flannel shirt (yes, our Aeon did do the grunge thing but only with authentic dad and brother stolen items ... and that was years ago, nearly a decade); she felt rather butch really. She had a bag, a CD player, CDs, and a video camera so she could remember how much fun she had.
She and Tre stopped off and got a rotisserie chicken, some cheese and crackers (colby-jack, since brie would have been so obvious), some fruit, juice and water. After lunch, they dropped the CD player and the carnage of the meal off at the car (you didn't think she'd hike with the player, did you?). They took a short scenic hike to see waterfalls as a warm-up and then commenced with the real deal, a 10-mile jaunt.
It began reasonably enough. Aeon and Tre kept the witty banter up for the camera. They appreciated the glories and splendor of nature -- the trees, the water running through the woods, the beauteous bosom of the mountains. Well, they appreciated them aloud until the roots of the trees started jutting up out of the ground like creatures from the grave in a bad horror movie, until the water kept cutting off the trail and drowning out their witty banter on the video and until the mountainous terrain got a wee bit too rocky for their tastes. Then, they longed for their pretty paved path to their watery waterfalls. There were trees and rocks there, just not in their way. They were about twenty minutes into the hike.
Never fear, sweet readers. Our adventuresome Aeon was only too happy to admit she's a creature of the city. She decided she should stick to fluff hiking and malls for future reference. And with that flurry of insight, she and Tre did an about-face and changed their goals from getting in touch with nature to getting supplies for rave that night ... with a brief stop off in Helen for some cute jewelry for Aeon, of course.
The ultimate party season had began for our trick du jour, and she started it off in style. She and her best friend, Lance Rodley, decided to throw the first party of the season. It was going to be a cocktail extravaganza with food and party favors for all. It also doubled as a house-warming party for Lance, his tremendous new place and his delicious new couch (Aeon's apartment functioned best as a lair, drawing visitors into their inevitable but quite agreeable end). It wasn't exactly a costume party. The invites read, "Costume or nakedness desired." Aeon preferred clothing-optional locales. That way everyone knew what they were getting out of the situation or what they were getting into.
Personal invitations were handed out to only the most fabulous of people (naturally). Aeon has her standards. People from all over trekked to take part in the festivities, Georgia, New York, Arizona, Tibet. Yet somehow, a few errant invites mysterious found their way to the mass populace. Perhaps Aeon had dropped a few at the bars when distributing to friends. Or perhaps, she left some at the restaurant when she and Lance were going over the layout. Or maybe it was due to the Aeon web site. Who knows how these things happen? Call it fate, call it destiny, call it Aeon's cunning. Doesn't matter ... in Aeon's mind, the larger the party, the bigger the hunting ground, the better the prey.
Aeon and Lance began the party as Edie and Patsy from Absolutely Fabulous (not that either of them intended on keeping their clothes on for the duration of the night). Patsy was a woman Aeon could identify with, could even admire. They had the same goals, the same talents. Patsy could be Aeon's spiritual mother. And Aeon could appreciate Patsy power in the fashion world. It needed more women like Patsy. Lance's Edie was impeccable ... "La Croix, sweetie, La Criox. " Even more wonderful than the costumes was the fact that they were going to grace Lance's X-mas cards for the year -- what a way to start the Yuletide season, with the debauchery of the pagan new year.
Most of the guests showed up in costumes. There was a plethora of 80s icons ... Adam Ant, Boy George, Madonna and an especially gorgeous Annie Lennox (Aeon made a mental note of her ... a sort of bookmark to come back to once she was through socializing). There were devils a plenty (but we knew that already). There were a number of concept pieces. One fellow showed up as an epitome ... of what Aeon wasn't sure, but since he didn't reek of cigarette smoke and had no teenagers hanging all over him, she assumed he wasn't the Tally coffee shop of the same name. A few brave souls began the night in nothing but body paint and nipple tape.
As the night wore on, and liquor flowed like the Niagara, more and more articles of clothing found their way to the floor. The Party was in high gear when a travesty occurred. There was no bottle opener for the wine (they started on the liquor then were moving on to wine, because "liquor then wine, you'll be fine"). Where on earth would they find an opener? Aeon remembered Lance's cute neighbor who, to Lance's chagrin but, as it would turn out, to Aeon's favor, was decidedly not gay. Aeon valiantly offered to don her cheetah bra and hot pants to prettily beg for an opener. She came back with the opener an hour and a half later. He needed some coaxing, she explained.
Now, that Aeon was fully primed, she moved onto to that Annie Lennox, the main course. The next day she and Lance surveyed the carnage ... and it was good. More bottles than a liquor store and more underwear than Frederick's. They both agreed that it was a damn good thing everything was Scotchguarded.
Another Halloween that was a smashing success for our quintessential queen of fashion. For starters, her party got everyone in mood for tricking and for treating. It really got the ball rolling for the raucous behavior that was to fill this holiday most favored by Ms. Trix.
But the party didn't just function as a springboard for the festivities and as an occasion for scrumptious hors d'oeuvres. It also provided Aeon with something tasty outside of the food world ... a gal pal, someone to go hunting in the clubs with. The chick dressed as Anne Lennox was everything Aeon had hoped and so much more.
The entire week before All Hallow's Eve was filled to the brim with excesses in the extreme, even for extravagant Aeon. Every night there was something or someone to do and every day was spent recuperating from whatever it was that amused her the night before. Aeon saw every sun rise and didn't bother stirring until well after sunset.
While the wide array of parties and clubbing was delightful and the addition to Aeon's entourage was dandy, these were not the things that made this year's Halloween memorable for our mistress of mayhem. It was her costumes that made this year's ghoulish eve a total triumph. She did do a repeat of a costume, her geisha girl outfit, but this time she added a parasol to the assemblage which took the garb to glorious new heights. The parasol also added a garishly demure new aspect to her dancing. One 80s night she pulled out her best in pirate-wear to be like the original Ant, Adam. Yes, it was a derivative costume but nobody can Adam like Aeon ... especially to the "Strip" song.
However, these were minor outfits, things to occupy her time until the big night, until her consummate costume of the century (well, that is, until next year). How to describe this crafty creation? It began when Aeon and Lance were out shopping out of town. They stumbled across a vintage clothing store. Generally, Aeon preferred her clothes new. There was something so pedestrian about buying someone else's clothing (stealing clothing as a trophy was a completely different genre of action in Aeon's book). Nevertheless, Aeon found a winsome white wig (new, of course). It was a sort of beehive but it looked more like, at least in Aeon's mind, something from the court of the Sun King (Aeon's a expert in fashion of the ages). When she mentioned this impression to the saleslady, she brought out this stunning black velvet bodice thing with puffy sleeves, a long train and two bustles to boot.
Alas, alack there was no bottom to it, but that was no problem. Miss Thang had a fertile fashion mind. To her, the top portion screamed for hot pants and her seven-inch platform, thigh-high, patent leather, zip-up boots. To complete the assemblage, Aeon hunted for a blood red lace fan, which she, of course, found. On Halloween, she donned her leather black widow mask that she bought in New Orleans a few Halloweens ago. And poof, she was the Spider Queen. There wasn't a costume within a fifty mile radius that could match her costume. Therefore, it was the best Halloween ever.
It happened again. Someone recognized our lissome lass. It was a girl this time. She and her husband had just relocated (she was also quick to add that they had an "open marriage") and she remembered Aeon from "back in the day."
"I can't believe it's you. You're such a beautiful dancer. I was always afraid to approach you ... you're just so beautiful. I was afraid you would just be like ... you know, you just wouldn't talk to me."
Aeon smiled graciously. Of course, she would have spoken to her -- a little idol worship was always welcome. No supplicant was denied by the Goddess of Glamour, so long as they had the proper gifts and the proper groveling position down pat. Our Aeon, the Divine Diva, was a benevolent godhead (when the mood struck her).
This recurring theme of Aeon enthusiasts recognizing her from other clubs, other towns from years ago, months ago, weeks ago was beginning to make Aeon realize a very significant thing. She had a cult following. Like Patsy or Frank N. Furter or Blair from The Facts of Life.
She had people who saw her and her devilish dancing from across the room, and though they were overwhelmed by her supernova stardom and couldn't approach her for fear of being burned by her beauty, they remembered her long afterwards, keeping the image of Ms. Trix close to their hearts (or groin, which every part she enflamed the most). That, she thought, was charisma.
Even more delicious was the fact that it was entirely up her as to whether or not she exalted them beyond their wildest visions or destroyed them utterly. Her devotees may love her but that, however, didn't create in her a sense of obligation -- she was Aeon, after all, and being a bitch was her prerogative.
Nevertheless, the immensity of her magnitude did make her think. Perhaps she should take this on the road -- "Aeon and her Traveling Ego Show." That way the masses could have a taste (they wish!), if only for an hour or so, of royalty. Perhaps she could, by example, show them the True and Righteous Path of Fashion, guide them to their higher selves, to the diva that was waiting to be born in all of them.
Perhaps she could start a movement in which everyone cast aside their lackluster apparel and arraigned themselves in The Gorgeous Garb of Glory, the Scintillating Dress of Style. With Aeon at the helm, the US could be transformed into a Mecca of the Chic -- screw the snobby French with the phlegmy accent and their bad teeth (or was the bad teeth the British?).
She could see it all, and the rush was orgasmic (truly, our Aeon was not Egalitarian Aeon but more of Egomaniac Aeon). Aeon was clever; she knew she just couldn't start touring the world immediately. She had to begin creating the myth (well, there was nothing mythical about it ... she was that fabulous) and disseminating her glory among the people. Her past migrations, her penchance for travel and her numerous friends throughout the country created a good springboard for the conversion of the States and the eventual domination of the world, but she would have to reach more people without as much effort. The web, of course, was the answer.
She must get to work immediately on her own web page. Ambitious Aeon wasn't exactly sure what she'd have on her page. Pictures of her outfits, maybe links to good fashion sites. She definitely had to put her e-mail address on it. She still had that gorgeous demi-god boy up in New York who was now a graphic designer...perhaps she'd give him a call ... make a trade of services....
Aeon had heard all the major lines, from "I'll just be a sec" to "The effects only last a couple of hours." She'd even used a few herself -- "Of course, I'll call"; "Mm-hmmm, I'm listening"; and, her all-time fave, "Wow, I've never done this before."
Her favorite lines, though, are ones that display some amount of groveling for her gratification and glorification. Not that lines necessarily get the poor saps anywhere. The ultimate destination is always completely up to the whims of our truculent Trix. But out the mouths of idiots always come something humorous to reflect upon. It also proves an easy gauge for Aeon star power for that week, month, millennia.
She remembers how one guy became hopelessly enraptured with her as a result of her dexterity with an ice cube. In a moment of desperation, honesty and futile optimism, he asks, "Is it OK if I fall in love with you?" The piquant pixie's response -- "Take a number." Her captive was a bit befuddled but continued buying her drinks.
She also recalls this other boy who said she was like milk. Well, she was smooth and she did do a body good, but she wasn't real sure about how much of the daily calcium requirements she filled.
Then there's that misguided oaf who was a little confused as to what city and what kind of bar he was in. He slaps down a $10 bill on the platform that Aeon had commandeered. He exclaims, attempting vainly to sound in charge, "Come on, let's play." Aeon actually pauses, mid-move, at his idiocy. She glances down at the $10 bill and says, "Baby, I'm worth more than you'd make in two lifetimes. Go find someone in your budget."
This memory inevitably leads to another recollection involving a grunt and a cage. In this story, our dazzling damsel is off partying in North Carolina and had just seized control of one of the club's cages. A grunt jumps in the cage with her, grabs her waist and actually growls, as if it were some ancient mating ritual, as if he were a "real man." Aeon merely pushes him off with an obvious and flamboyant display of disgust. He slinks away with his tail between his legs.
Women tend to be a bit more subtle, since they have the word "tact" in their vocabulary. One potential sugar momma went on for about five minutes about how big Aeon's eyes were (well, she is part Anime -- of course, our girl has big eyes, the better to cruise you with).
But all of these were just lines, things people said to lure in our lascivious lass. What they fail to realize is that they can't play a player. Aeon is the master; she always wins because she knows which fish to throw back and which to fry up.
One holiday down, two more to go ... Aeon always thought it was unfair that so many holidays came so close together. First Halloween, then Thanksgiving followed fast by your various winter festivals and brought to a big finale with New Year's Eve. Sure, she loved the fact that a bushel of parties could be packed into the last month of the year. It certainly killed the winter blahs, but it left such a long stretch of time without holidays. Schools and businesses close for Thanksgiving, Christmas (sometimes the other holidays as well) and New Year's but when was the next major holiday? Not Valentine's Day, since it wasn't a national holiday. President's Day wasn't a guaranteed time off, nor MLK Day. No, the only sure bet was Memorial Day, and May was a long way away from January. At any rate, Aeon didn't have time to mull over the injustice of the spacing of the holidays. She had miles to go before she could party.
First off, she had cards to send. With so many out-of-state friends, Aeon had made it a custom to send out seasonal cards. She had no particular affinity to any one specific holiday or religion or culture, so all were fair game. She'd send out Hanukkah cards with Kwanzaa stamps, Christmas cards in Spanish, Korean or Pig Latin (depending on what was available) or just some pretty or odd set of cards that she found half -off half-off. This year, the cards were going to be, as they say, "The Bomb." They were gorgeous -- cream-colored envelopes with gold foil on the inside and cream-colored cards with delicate gold foil lettering that declared "Thank You For Your Business." It was going to be hard to top those cards next year.
Next, our femme fete had to plan her Yule/Kwanzaa/Hanukkah/Saturnalia party. One of her favorite boys was flying in from New York, and she wanted to showcase him. However, she had to be very selective who she invited. She didn't want to cut off chances with some other tasty treats she had her eye on. Aeon didn't have to worry about her girl, Secret ("'cause she's strong enough for a man but made for a woman"). This one was too beautiful not to share with her best gal pal.
Then, there was the dispersion of the boys for the holidays. At the present time, Ms. Trix had a couple of boys on call. A decision had to be reached as to who would receive the honor of being her first boy of the year. She normally made most of her decisions with the help of a quarter but for this instance, she was going to choose who would spend the most cash on her. What would New Year's be if it wasn't gurgling with champagne?
A little further down on her to-do-list was, quite naturally, shopping. With all the pre-X-mas, X-mas day and after-X-mas sales, she was bound to rack up on some supreme scores and a bountiful bundle of buys. If there was time, she would squeeze in some purchases for the family.
Finally, our gala gal had to prepare for all the festivities she would be invited to. She had to make sure she never wore the same outfit twice (with her acres of attire, this shouldn't be a problem). There was new make-up to acquire to ensure her look was cutting edge. Her New Year's dress was the most important assemble since it would set the mood for the entire year. Perhaps she would check out some of those fashion sites she saw in break -- a girl's work was never done!
Another year under her belt and Aeon still looked great (not that she was old or anything like that). It was difficult for her to say good-bye to 1998. It had been so much fun; she almost began fretting as the appropriate way to bid '98 a fond adieu. Luckily, her New York boy dangled New Orleans on New Year's Eve before her (all expensives on him), which meant at least 1998 would die in style, and 1999 would begin with a blast. As a bonus, there would be sugarcubes to help the year go do easier. Mary Poppins was right, as usual.
This week's episode opens up on our party princess in the French quarter during the last gasping breaths of the year, choosing an appropriate outfit, reminiscing about past the year. Ms. Trix is prone to nostalgia, at least when comes to the parties she's attended and the people she's conquered. It's less nostalgia and more basking in the reflected glow of her glory like the moon soaking up the sun's rays. Mainly, she was thinking about the last month (partially to recall which attire was off-limits for the big night).
December is always packed with so much fun. Aeon wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or just the sheer insinuation of cold that made people so eager to grope and make-out. Her favorite memory was of her own Yule/Kwanzaa/Saturnalia/Hanukkah/X-mas party (Aeon has always been an equal opportunity reveler). The fondness of this party was a result of the fact that she had to be the center of attention since it was her party. Everyone brought her stuff ... vodka, cookies, rare wine, rum. Then, there was the fact that since she had a clothing optional party and since she was the hostess with the mostess, she was mostly naked all night. After a couple of driedel drinking games using wassail (potent stuff ... a gallon of wine AND two cups of rum with only a gallon of cider), there were a quite a number of people who took advantage of the clothing optional rule. Needless to say what adventures that flesh and alcohol led to.
As fun as it was to reminisce, our flawless flirt forced herself to focus forward. After all, the first night of the year set the tone for the rest of the year. Perfection was imperative. After much deliberation, she chose her wine-colored, beaded and fringed flapper dress. The color was dark enough to be seductive without be a redundant echo of the endless sea of black clothing that pulsed throughout New Orleans. Plus, the dress matched her Color Stay Raisin lipstick, imperative for impeccable make-up after that midnight smooch.
It was, quite naturally, a night to remember. With that Mississippi mist encasing New Orleans, Aeon felt like she was in that Concrete Blonde song "bloodletting." Even her partner in crime was good looking enough to be a Anne Rice vampire. Since Aeon fully believed the first night of the year reflected in microcosm what would happen the rest of the year, our tantalizing temptress knew as she watched the first sunrise of the year, that 1999 was going to be amazing, filled with great clothes, beautiful babes and lots of alcohol.
There is a theory put forth that men are merely deficient women. This hypothesis states that the Y chromosome is, quite simply, a defective X chromosome. Consequently, men are, by definition, inferior to women. This theory is the center of this week's story ... the characters for this week's adventure: our precious protagonist, Ms. Trix; her girl, Secret; two of their friends, Deviline and Sassy; and a moronic male, Brain Cell (not his real name but aptly chosen).
As the story unfolds, Brain Cell, a silly surfer new to the scene, was after all four girls, concurrently and attemptly furtively. A difficult endeavor considering they were all friends and a Herculean task considering that Brain Cell was not the sharpest tool in the shed.
Now, it's a widely know fact that most human males can think with three organs: the stomach, the liver and the "naughty part." It would appear Brain Cell was thinking with the latter organ. He decided to utilize the divide and conquer method -- while pursuing each diva, he'd tell each he wasn't interested in the others.
First, he began propositioning Deviline. When his eye "accidently" wandered to Aeon, he assured Deviline he thought Aeon was "slutty." Later, he vouched to Aeon that he and Deviline were "just friends." Our seasoned siren smelled a rat. He used one of the great lies, ranking up there with "the check is in tha mail" and "I swear I'll pull out." Both women strung him along while covertly aligning forces.
Next, he moved to Secret, proclaming he didn't want to be sexual with either Deviline or Aeon, promising the "let's be friends" speech to both. He managed to lecture to Aeon, but was taken aback by her nonchalant retort, "That's fine. I've got plenty of boys. I don't need another." Supposedly, fear held back Deviline's lecture. Suppose Deviline hexed him?, he importuned Secret.
Enter Sassy. Despite rumors of him, Secret and a hot tub, he was never interested in her, he and Deviline were buddies, and Aeon was just mad because he wouldn't "do" anything with her even after she beggged him (begged?!?!?!). Meanwhile, he's telling everyone and their mother that he and Sassy knew each other "in the biblical sense."
No dullards, our heroines -- they quickly devised a plot to teach the boy a lesson if his one cell was capable of instruction as well as basic motor functions. In one day, they each went on a date with him, ensuring that things got a bit "hot and heavy" and that each left her mark. The final date was saved for Secret and Aeon (what heterosexual boy could resist two for the price of one?) and many yards of rope.
Once tied up, they all appeared, confonting him with his subterfuge and then ridiculing him for his lack of brain and his lack of his other thinking organ and for his overabundance of gut. Cue Trick, a drag queen friend. Imagine the horror that slowly crept across Brain Cell's face as he realized things were not as they seemed. Many Polariods later (of compromising but not necessarily illegal positions), they all released him into the world a broken man. Sic semper idiots.
Little known fact ... Aeon Trix is to fashion what the groundhog is to weather.
On February 2, whether or not Ms. Trix sees her shadow decides the fate of fashion for the rest of the year. Scientists and structuralists alike are studying the correlation between the capricious cutie's shadow and the trends in fashion; there's even a very hush-hush government project devoted to this matter.
Until these experts determine the factors that affect this situation, we simply have to rely on Ms. Trix's shadow. Unfortunately for us, glamour puss Aeon doesn't always get out of bed before the sun sets. Such was the case last year. After partying non-stop since January 30, a Friday, she finally got to a bed shortly before sunrise on February 2, a Monday. So intense was her beauty rest, she didn't wake up until well after dark on the third. As a result, fashion was not at a pinnacle in '98.
Our ineffable elf is fully aware of her power over fashion and resolved, for the sake of mankind and for the sake of her shopping sprees, not to sleep through Groundhog Day this year. It was, after all, 1999, that infamous year of debauchery and reckoning. Aeon couldn't have us facing the imminent possibility of the annihilation of the human race, nay of the world, with bad style! Good fashion sense is the key to otherworldly delights and sensible shoes are a one-way ticket to hell or, at the very least, a never-ending Avon convention (that was as far into theology as Aeon ever ventured; the present was far too intriguing to waste time or thought on the afterlife).
Originally, Aeon planned on just staying up all night and greet the sunrise, and her shadow, with the conviction that she had the saved the world further experiments with 80s shoulder pads and clog shoes. It shouldn't have been a difficult task, especially with a little help from her friends....
Nevertheless, even the best laid plans of minxes and men often go awry. She and Secret found themselves a delicious treat to share which took up most of the night. The problem became, since Aeon kept her sanctuary as dark as pitch to protect her slumber, how was she to know when the sun rose?
With stern determination, our devoted damsel set her alarm, something quite out of character; it took her a minute to recall the whole process of alarm setting. Yet, even within this plan lay a hidden snare -- the snooze button. Yes, she set the clock for 2:30, giving her a blasé eight hours sleep, but instinctually, she hit the snooze; over and over again, barely stirring out of dreams. Aeon eluded the waking state.
Regardless of our laggard lass, this story has a happy ending ... thanks to Aeon's deep imbedded fear of ugly clothes. Aeon dreamed she was in a lime green colored room with only Lazy Boys for furniture. Everyone in the room was wearing capri pants. All the men had shag haircuts, and all the women had mullet cuts. Aeon awoke with start, very nearly breaking a sweat. It was then that she remembered her mission ... to see her shadow. She quickly donned her favorite negligee (it nearly covered everything) and a pair of sunglasses (no diva leaves home without them) and went to check the mail. As she looked down and saw her beautiful shadow , she knew we would all greet 2000 in style.
Tune in next time ... as Aeon snares a feast fit for the gods.
Our omnivourous imp is usually of the opinion that the fastest way to a man's heart is by ripping a hole through his rib cage -- after all, the heart is of the utmost importance.
Nevertheless, there are times (rare to the point of extinction) when the savvy scamp wants to dabble in the affairs of the heart in a quasi-traditional manner. When this couple-caprice catches Aeon, she generally feels the urge to exlore her more domestic side, her Donna Reed side if you will. In such an instance, she endeavors to cook dinner for her victim, uh ... her guest, since the stomach's the second fastest way to a man's heart.
Alas, Ms. Trix, being the culinary Antichrist, is not a dynamo in the kitchen. Necessity is the mother of both and invention and skill; therefore, there's never been a reason for her to learn to cook. There's always a volunteer who offers to either cook or buy her meals. Why waste valuable primping or shopping time on something so trivial, so easy as food? As a result, most of her own dinner creations bear a striking reseblance to those seen on "The Snoopy Thanksgiving Special" -- popcorn, dry toast, roasted marshmallows, a few little Debbies and, of course, hard liquor (Aeon is a major proponent of the Patsy liquid diet).
This explains our quixotic quidnunc's latest quandry. She wanted to present a delectable dinner for her sexy swain but didn't want to kill him ... just yet. It was time to call in the big guns, her best friend, Lance Rodley and his new and nearly legal boyfriend, Donnie Natrix (no relation to Aeon).
They fixed a fantastic feast for our femme fatale: duck a l'orange, poached asparagus, baby new potatoes and a few more French dishes for good measure. They considered using the paltry amount of frozen brains from Aeon's last domestic dalliance but settled on a creme brulee instead, on the off-chance the idiocy of one boy could be deferred to the next by way of ingestion.
The combination of a superb supper and ravishing ambiance (candlelight, lusciously low music -- the whole bit minus the bear skin rug) quelled our quirky queen's quarry. So impressed was he that he decided Aeon was the girl to help him purchase a new bed (on account that his last bed was now property of an ex-girlfriend that had crossed to the "otherside").
The next day, Ms. Trix and her beau began their hunt for a proper mattress and boxspring. Mattress shopping's not to be to taken lightly. One must lie on the prospective mattress long enough to gauge its firmness and/or softness. The springs must be tested for appropriate flexibility and endurance. Certain balance and counterbalance must be taken into account. Luckily, our illustrious elf is a pro. No one knows beds better than Aeon.
After much trial and error and many, many dry runs, they found a firm yet giving mattress, one that would stand much abuse. Aeon's shopping fairies were in effect as well; they got a king-size bed for the price of a double. As an added bonus, the store would deliver that night. The temporary couple could continue their mattress studies late into the night.
Tune in next time ... as Aeon encounters her archenemy, Mirak the Avenger.
Afternoon sunbeams streamed in and Aeon Trix, Vogue Ninja awoke.
She stretched -- "Another day to fight the fashion crimes of the world," she thought triumphantly to herself. While last night's conquest fixed breakfast for two, Superdiva Trix donned her crime fighting gear ... her thigh-high red bitch boots, her black-and-red barely body suit complete with silver belt and matching silver bracelets (paying homage to her precursors, the prima donnas, Wonder Woman and Aeon Flux).
The boots could lead her either to any fashion faux pas in the making or to any killer sales that were in process. The bracelets were specifically designed to be slung at style smudgers, knocking sense into them. The body suit just looked great and the belt accentuated her tiny waist.
Trained in the dark arts of Ninja and MAC make-up and gifted with the power to not only burn garish garb off the body without singeing a single hair but also to replace the offending outfit with dapper duds, our Übervamp was also an ace with accessories and a pro with a brush and styling gel. She was a formidable foe to fashion miscreants everywhere.
After finishing her love slave's meal, Aeon Trix, Vogue Ninja was ready to redress the wrongs of rakishness and, with luck, make way for a flawless evening for all. Her fierce fashion sense picked up problems at the tag office. Like the wind, she flew only to find a creature with a patchy beard, a half-tucked shirt, flip-flop sandal monstrosities and rolled-up jeans that seem to be preparing for the final flood.
Aeon quickly relieved him of such hideous attire, allowing only a mere minute's worth of nude embarrassment, and garbed him in normal casual clothing. Not a fashion plate by any means but at least he was presentable and clean-shaven -- Aeon knew not all could handle the charge of the chic.
However, she couldn't bask in her triumph, there was trouble on the Interstate.
Hovering over the highway, the great gamin beheld the gaudy, ill-gotten bastard of a star-crossed car love affair, a flagrant disregard of aesthetics, practicality and the laws of nature -- a stretch Land Rover.
Aghast at such audacity, tantalizing Trix quickly changed the poor motor-vehicle into a pure-bred Land Rover while simultaneously eradicating the owner's credit, alleviating the risk of another ostentatious purchase.
Our divine damsel then gravitated toward the mall. Instinct and past experience taught her that there would be plenty of sins against fashion underneath the mall's placid facade. Many an unwise purchase did she prevent. She foiled clog and Capri pants purchases, guaranteed mark-downs, and quieted pushy sales people.
As Aeon walked through the hallowed halls of the mall, surveying the territory, she walked past a Structure. She felt a shudder pass through her entire magnificent body. It wasn't a sign of mall mayhem, though she checked the store to be sure. No, this seemed to be a warning of a different sort, a precognition of danger.
Once night fell, Aeon began her party patrol, an effort to ensure modish reveling. There were really only mild transgressions to the fashion laws through the land.
Until midnight.
Through her fashion sense, transadental Trix received a vision of a man dancing horribly in black pleather pants with a white print that suspiciously resembled giraffe print. She rushed to apprehend the offender and soothe those who had to endure the sight.
Once at the location, she recognized him as an old crony of an ex. Immediately, she got that eerie shudder again. She gracefully whirled around and was staring dead into the eyes of her arch-nemesis and former adorer, Mirak the Avenger, Structure model gone bad and Calvin Klein poster boy with an attitude, her and fashion's now sworn enemy.
Tune in next time ... for the frenzied fashion fight to the finish.
As our dynamic diva peered into the eyes of the malevolent Mirak, she recalled the incident that set him on the "Dark Path of Fashion."
It was at Old Navy show. Magic had promised to let Mirak wear the black cargo pants. There a mix-up in wardrobe and Marcus got to wear the black cargo pants while Mirak had to wear the khaki. As he walked onto the catwalk in those ill-fated pants, something in Mirak snapped. He literally busted through the pants and the tight tee he was wearing as if he were The Incredible Hulk.
As he stood there in nothing but his Calvin Klein underwear, his sculpted chest glistening with dewy sweat, he cried, "Death to all Fashion!" Models rushed out to restrain him, assuming he'd had too much nose candy. Mirak fought them all off in a flurry of fists and kicks (many models ended up with black-eyes and were out of pretty-boy-commission for several days). He rushed out of the building, unscathed and at this point, unhampered since no else wanted to ruin either their good looks or good clothes. He swore to avenge his travesty on the runway.
As a side note, Aeon thought Mirak had been a bit of a drama queen and greatly aggrandized the situation. Granted, khaki is not the most resplendent color in the box (in fact, she couldn't recall Crayola having a khaki crayon), but he was modeling for Old Navy. What was he expecting ... a real fashion statement?
So here he was, dress in black jeans, a tight black tee and black boots, trying to thwart our humanitarian honey's effort for a fashion plate evening for the whole of Tallahassee -- it was hard enough end to achieve without an arch-enemy around! Ms. Trix was ticked to say the least. Thus, ensued the fight scene, complete with "Bam," "Bop," and "Boff" bubbles.
First, Aeon tried to knock some sense into Mirak with her bracelets. He did the "wax on, wax off" moves and deflected them. Next, she tried burning off his clothes, hoping a little public nudity would bring him round. However, no matter how hard she focused she could get nary a singe mark on The Avenger's garb. Damn, she thought, he must have dipped his clothes in Stiff Stuff, the only thing my powers are useless against. Which left for our formidable foes with only the choice of a straight-up fight scene -- Bruce Lee style, of course.
After many punches, kicks, parries and thrusts, they also began utilizing insults:
"Where'd you get those boots, Aeon? Salvation Army?" taunted Mirak.
"No, did someone cut your hair with a Flowbie?" retorted tart Trix.
Back and forth and back and forth went the gibes, until agile Aeon had Mirak momentarily in a headlock. She remembered something her mother once said, "You'll catch more flies with honey than vinegar." So Aeon resorted to her secret weapon ... her glib tongue. "You know, baby, black really is your color," she cooed in Mirak's ear.
"You think so?" She felt him melt instantly. She poured on the sweet talk and coaxed him back to her place to win him over to the Light and to persuade him to use his powers for good not for evil. Besides, she had better uses for that pretty mouth then for jeers....
Afternoon sunbeams streamed in and Aeon Trix, break glamour girl, stretched herself awake from her curious dream. She wasn't sure if it meant Mirak would soon be in town, if she really should begin a fashion patrol or if she should endeavor to find an artist boy for her comic book. As she pondered these options, she spied a crumbled black tee on the floor and felt that familiar shiver.
Aeon is a girl of many vices. While our erratic elf did not have habits per se (she found any sort of routine cumbersome), she did have, shall we say, certain predilections. Since she is part drag queen, she is both a clotheshorse and a drama queen. Add this to her anime heritage, and her predisposition for these two inclinations are of a racy vein.
Our voracious vamp also has a penchant for excess. She does everything to the hilt ... eating, smoking, partying, drinking. In drinking, she is quite the rapacious rascal. If it's liquid and a depressant, stimulant, what-have-you, she's there -- mixed drinks, shots, absinthe, wine, coffee ... especially coffee.
For some reason, our edacious Aeon adores this black elixir (perhaps it's a result of her other more prurient proclivities) and the stronger, the better. In fact, she likes her coffee not just strong but downright belligerent. Which brings us to our present story.
Our delicate demimonde, out and about with her club companion, Moncrief, needed a cup of joe to cure her ills. It had been a long weekend. Their separate home resources had been depleted and neither of them felt like braving the dangers of the grocery store aisles. Nor did they feel like even bothering with more than the merest modicum of dress criteria; after not partaking of the sleep ritual in days, they both decided to at least pay homage to Morpheus by wearing pajamas out.
Every coffee shop was filled to the brim. Every coffee shop and restaurant had at least a 15 minute wait. Divas may rest but they never wait. As they tooled around town, the search for coffee now reaching the status of a quest, Moncrief suggested Waffle House. Generally, a choice of late night hours, Aeon acquiesced.
Once in the Awful Waffle (as it is affectionately termed), poring over the laminated menus, the glamour girls discussed the benefits of their choice of venues. First, their pajamas fazed not a soul. In some of the more snooty shops, the host person viewed them with an eye of disbelief, blatantly ignorant to the fact that diva, like groove, is in the heart. Yet, here in the comforting orange-and-brown decor, Moncrief's turquoise flip-flops and Aeon sexily smudged eyeliner were par for the course.
Moncrief liked the fact that there was no houty-touty attitude. Sure, the waitress called you "honey" and got your meal wrong about three times, but she always refilled your coffee cup. Besides, the place was so cheap that there was extra fundage left over for continuing the weekend well into the middle of the week.
Aeon favorite thing about the Waffle House was, quite simply put, the coffee. There was nothing fancy about it. You didn't have to choose from ten different blends or decide if you wanted a latte, a cappacinno, an americano, or an espresso.
Espressos, as a rule, annoyed Aeon; they were for wimps. For her money, she wanted the strength of an espresso in three times the size. Leave those little cups to the Europeans. Waffle House coffee would send espresso drinkers into caffeine conniptions. And it's bottomless.
The lauting ladies finished off their fourth cups and began planning the continuation of their weekend escapades, renewed by the modern soma, the true drink of immortality ... coffee.
Say what you will but our Aeon is a beneficent beauty. She rarely toys needlessly with her prey; she never misleads them unless it's positively, absolutely lucruative for her to.
Case in point, the event known as Valentine's Day ... Ms. Trix makes sure she's always out of pocket on February 14th. Some may think it's to make sure she never had to exert any unnecessary energy or to live up to an misguided fool's expectations of such a monetary-motivated and ever so marketable holiday, you know like buying mawkish cards or stale candy. Yet when you really analyze the matter, isn't it the kindest thing not to let minions get their hopes up too high?
There was nothing wrong with receiving favors pre- or post- 14th, but Aeon isn't about to permit anyone to associate even the very idea of Aeon, her sacred Aeon-ness, with such a sentimental day. Divas don't do mush.
Additionally, the matters of jealously and rivalry must be avoided. Our concupiscent cutie couldn't have any one of her virile vassals feeling slighted. Besides, how to choose who would receive the honor of her presence on such a day? They all had their talents.
As Black Sunday fast encroached, Aeon wondered what she would do to pass the time. The more she felt the pressure of keeping herself clean of the red gaga that is Valentine's Day, the more she felt the urgency that whatever it was, it had to be astronomical ... it's the year 1999, all things must be divine.
This predicament perplexed our pretty, pretty princess until one morning while probasculating over a cup of coffee, Aeon glanced at the calendar and realized that Valentine's Day was just before Fat Tuesday.
Ah, Mardi Gras, a tradition she could admire. The unabashed decadence, the unending revelry. Granted, she knew it had something to do with a "farewell to the flesh," some sort of purging of party demons before a period of abstinence. Abstention of any sort the salacious siren could not advocate or barely tolerate, but the virtues of profligacy she could endlessly extol.
There was a mild snare in her plan ... the hotels had surely been booked for months now. But that could be easily remedied with one of a few courses of action: a.) crash with some of her friends who live near the Quarter; b.) find someone when she was in the Quarter to crash with; or c.) don't sleep. The last option would not be too hard to rig ... in fact, it seemed to embody the very nature of Mardis Gras.
Well, the sleeping arrangements can be figured out once in New Orleans, reasoned our risqué rounder. Aeon loaded up her bags (one for shoes and the other for clothes and make-up, a light load for her) and she headed for the highway (to Aeon, a whimsical method of transportation but it provided also a back-up plan for sleeping quarters). Ms. Trix was going to take on the Big Easy again.
So our fantastic fish finds her feet planted in the French Quarter again, this time to bid farewell to the flesh, to celebrate the most decadent of festivals, Mardi Gras. True, she was about as Catholic as Aleister Crowley (and just as prone to abstinence); however, our party girl didn't think a little matter of religion (or lack thereof) should get in the way of her revelry.
Bear in mind, gentle readers, that our impulse imp had yet to procure a night's lodging in the fair city of New Orleans. She simply drove straight into the heart of the Quarter, found reasonable parking and hit the streets, trusting in her divine diva charisma to provide a place to lay her weary head.
First, Aeon hit Bourbon Street. Yes, it is the most "touristy" of the Quarter's grid but that was the point. Locals were not nearly as amusing as the folks vying drunkenly for beads and breasts. This odd choice of starts turned out to be quite serendipitous for our sexy siren, for it is here she found her bed and breakfast.
The street was packed and it wasn't even Fat Tuesday yet. It was only Sunday. Truculent Trix trembled with titillation at the thought of Tuesday.
As she pondered this future frenzy, some tipsy tourists detained her, mistaking her for an Anne Rice vampire character(she did look the part in her blood-red velvet ensemble and black leather trenchcoat). She deigned to delight them with a pose or two. After the last flash, what to her wandering eyes should appear but a god of a man grinning her way.
Ever seizing the moment by the scruff of the neck, Aeon flashed that demurely risqué smile of hers, the one that melts away traffic tickets, cover charges, and any other mindless technicalities of life.
Next step, the Southern charm (a girl with as much id as Aeon could only be of Southern descent ... i.e. RuPaul). He was a college professor, visiting to the Big Easy and a bit lost in all this ruckus but eager to suck the marrow of the city (that part was a given). Never fear, Aeon's here, ready to be a personal guide to all the gifts that the gorgeous city has to offer.
Aeon graciously led him through the throng and through the Quarter, showing him the delicate and dark jewels of debauchery central. Aeon revealed to him to the liquor of royalty, Grand Marnier, and the rush of beignets and black coffee in the first rosy rays of dawn. In return, Aeon got a balcony view of the Quarter ... and an equal slice of whatever vice she unveiled to her apprentice. Oh, yes, and a darling bike dyke hat and a vinyl snake-skin print dress.
Of course, she didn't do it all in one night. It took until Wednesday before they had sufficiently explored all ephermeral essences of the Big Easy and its outlying and inner areas. Needless to say, the fair professor was quite sorry to see our girl go. It certainly didn't help that he'd met her near Valentine's Day.
But she cooly promised to visit him and gave him one more kiss to dream about. She then stowed away all her beads (all won with a wink and a smile, no more) and the other bounty and was back on her way to 'Ass, invigorated by her VD jaunt. Just one question ... what's a girl to do with fifty strands of Mardi Gras beads?
Our vanquishing vixen loved a challenge, from snagging a shy trick to out-drinking a fellow reveler. One of Tallahassee's audacious idol's favorite conquests was that of cities. Infinite Aeon made a pastime of traveling to different cities (preferably big ones), frequenting the hip clubs and dazzling the clientele with her sterling style and virtuoso dancing. She felt it was her duty to spread the Diva Doctrine to as many corners of the country as she possibly could. Sometime, she'd leave on a whim, with nothing but a trace of a trail of bar worthy of her Trixter transcendence and the knowledge of the infallibility of the Supreme Diva. For this adventure, Aeon targeted Tampa.
Our jaunty jewel had visited Tampa a few times before but not for subjugation purposes. She felt it was high time for Tampa to feel the power that is Aeon Trix. She allotted a few days in her scintillating schedule for the Trix's Taming of Tampa and split like gymnast.
Some might think that Aeon would need a battle plan or at least a city seduction plan but the eager enchantress knew better. She had full faith in her fantastic flair. Nothing more than the right outfit and her usual dancing panache would be required to ensnare any club -- she had superstar power.
First night of the Tampa Invasion, Aeon decided to go gentle on the city, to sort of ease them into her reign. She proceeded in first gear diva, meaning her outfit didn't reveal too much supple flesh nor did she go off the Richter scale for color -- basically a black and white outfit, the pants black with a sort of peacock feather design in white, a white see-through top and a black bra. She left the color for her face -- a teal motif. Her outfit subtle but daring and not too mention versatile ... it looked as at home in a gothic regime as in a dance club.
Aeon found a precious, hole-in-the-wall techno bar. The DJ was sizzling and the atmosphere begging for her dominance. She waited an hour, biding her time, watching the crowd and smoking her cigarettes. When the DJ switched to a jungle bent, she knew her moment arrived. The dandical darling stepped onto the dance floor like a parading princess and began the blitzkrieg.
When she took a break to refresh her drink and to consort with her helots, the manager of the bar introduced himself. He said, "Tonight's drinks are on me. I just want you to know that you made the night." After him, many more people sought her presence, expressing their gratitude for Her Grace's Presence, begging for Her Beneficence and Her Beauty.
After a few shots and doing more damage to the dance floor, satisfied in her victory, omnivorous Aeon knew it was time to move on. Sure, she had a passel of fawning fans and a free tab, but the night was young and she had entire an city to quell. This was no time to sit on her laurels.
Next week ... the further tales of Tampa's capitulation.
High from her spoils of war, ambitious Aeon left her first conquest in search of a more cagey quarry, a goth club.
Gothers are infamous for their supercilious mein. Whether their reticence is caused by diffidence, hauteur or simple xenophobia is hard to say, but they are a hard lot to win over. It takes a certain finesse and pulchritude to bag a dark wave disciple. Our sublime siren was up to the challenge ... she was a devastating doyenne at conversion to her cult of charisma.
The angst and turmoil of the club was nearly palpable, hanging dank in the air. The coffin critters enacted their anguish on the dance floor in forms of kicks and dramatic sweeps of the arms. There were acres of crushed velvet and miles of latex and more collars than a kennel. The clothing encompassed every shade and hue of black known to mankind. Yes, Aeon had found Death Rock at its most moody and most morose. Truly this would require some deft maneuvers.
Our dauntless damsel began her attack by ordering her favorite drink, "F#@% me in the Graveyard." A stout mix this, with a higher alcohol content than that of a recently relapsed AA group. Its name and lovely dark purple hue made it the diva of gothic drinks. As Aeon casually drank (not sipped, not guzzled) her beverage, the kohl-encrusted kids subconsciously knew this Trix was a force to be reckoned with.
Once our heroine's favorite Goth classic came on, she traversed to the dance floor. A hush fell across the spectators as they realized this goth princess utilized not only the standard Florida goth moves but goth moves from at least four other Southern states. Never before had they seen such an immaculate combination of the kick-kick-turn move with the pull-pull-back arm gesture. She incorporated arm flips, leg dips and body swirls with infinite ease. To top all, intermingled with a nonchalant grace with all of the High Goth posturings were other breeds of dance moves ... a little raver there, a smidgen of hip-hop here and just a touch of bootie shake for that feel of the risqué. All the while, Aeon's white shirt glowed in the black light like a beacon, her teal make-up ominous in its color.
Suddenly, from one side of the dancefloor comes the flailing queen of the club, her ire roused by the Trix's threat to her domain. It was obvious there was to be a dance to the death (or at least the first black eye) as she zoomed in on our dancing darling.
The club's reigning diva, ensconced in yards of lace, thrust at Aeon a well-trained side arm flip. Aeon performed a well-timed pirouette. The dark demon threw kick after punch after dip at Aeon in an effort to drive her from the floor, all the while Aeon moving around each advance with nearly choreographed eloquence.
Finally, the frenzied fiend lunged for Ms. Trix's throat in a final effort to rid her realm of this quarrelsome quinunc. Aeon clocked her in the head with a well-placed backhand flip and punch combo. The quodam queen of the gothers lay on the floor, knocked out cold.
The coffin critters, now free of The Laced One's tyranny gathered around Aeon in awe ... another notch in her lipstick case.
Tune in next week when Aeon scores further spoils of war.
Attacking the stores was aggressive Aeon’s third wave of the Tampa Take-over. If a girl could conquer the merchants of a city, she could quell any other municipal quarry. To up the challenge, Ms. Trix decided to give herself a handicap or two.
The first ... to cut off her homefield advantage. That’s right, boys and girls, she swore off the malls. Everyone knows that our magnificent minx is the mistress of all malls. There is not a single shopping center in existence that she can’t subdue with her shopping savvy. Besides, most malls are homogenized to the point of redundancy and it is a short day’s work for Aeon to swoop down on succulent pieces from sale racks.
Her second handicap was that the shopping spots would be randomly selected. No research, no questioning the natives, no surfing the net. Our delicate darling could only rely on her finely honed sassy sonar in her quest for Tampa’s finest apparel. In this way, when the city’s shops succumbed to her mastery, it would be through the debutante of dabauchery’s diva domination skills alone.
Her first prey on her Tampa shopping safari was some little designer shop, which, as the gods ordained, just happened to be holding their biannual blow-out sale. Our foppish fiend found bargains by the armful. An outrageously orange and perfectly purple little jersey dress was the first of her superior spoils. Was it go-go girl glam or raver ripe? It didn’t matter ... it was $5! She finagled a fine flapper find that doubled as great gothic garb ... a crushed velvet fringed dress. Two-two-two looks in one! She spotted a sweet swing dress bejeweled with diamonds of black and white and ferreted it out a nasty muddle of clothes with such finesse one wondered at her grace. She discovered several other select pieces, a 40s style skirt, a checkered top and plenty of discounted hose. She even helped herself to some make-up on sale. With a sigh of victory and shopping bags in tow, Mistress Trix marched off to track her next game.
This time it was a little raver shop, one of those cute cubbies with a precious little tot working the register. Baggy jeans and tight tees galore met Aeon’s surveying eye as pumping break beats met her ear. Keep in mind, Ms. Trix does many styles but never does "baggy;" it simply doesn’t display enough of her assets. But hip huggers and bells, now they’re another matter entirely. They provide a visual fanfare for her nether parts. And here, in this wee little nook bursting with raver gear, she excavated the mother lode of bells and huggers, most $12 ( a special one-day only sale). Aeon even unearthed a pair CK hip huggers ... a pricing blunder, perhaps, but our perky princess profited. And, since Sketchers were specially marked that day, she picked up a pert pair of platforms. Thusly our sales sultana sauntered out with her newly secured swag.
The next site for our fabled flirt’s foray was, oddly enough, a thrift store. Yes, yes, it’s true ... Aeon not one for hand-me-downs. However, certain items can only be found from by-gone eras and today’s spree spawned such a need. To add that go-go girl flair to that gem of a jersey dress, she simply had to have a big white belt and matching earrings (finding big earrings in this day and age of the tribal piercing is a quest for the grail). Once in the thrift-o-rama, Ms. Trix made a bee line for the accessories section, which revealed not one but two big white belts. One belt was plain patent leather and the other had a silver smiley face belt buckle. The kitsch element cinched it for our knavish Nell. Naturally, she found the earrings just as easily. All that for under $4 ... it was twice the triumph.
By this time it was getting late, and Aeon knew she must prepare for the last leg of her Tampa attack. Outfits must chosen, make-up must be selected and a disco nap was most certainly in order. With her bounty of booty, our bodacious babe bid adieu to the city ... not farewell ... she would be back that night with both barrels blazing.
Tune in next week when titanic Trix topples Tampa.
Trix’s final siege with Tampa was at hand. This last leg of the town's enslavement was the most crucial as well as the most tricky. It required an abundance of bar-hopping which consequently necessitated the proper attire, an array of clothes, accessories and make-up that would sway and vanquish most any club, whatever its persuasion. Ah, she must orchestrate this particular campaign with much dexterity and strategy. All her prowess would be called into play.
The first step in planning her assault was which bars she would hit when. The order of each individual raid was key. There were logistics of the town to take into account, specials on drinks to ponder and finally, the most elusive matter, the nature of the crowds to speculate. Some bars hit their peak earlier than others; some never wind down. Aeon considered the recruitment issue as well; the larger the entourage she could muster, the more impressive the victory. With little more than a local paper and her unerring aptitude to size up the disposition of a joint from its name and ads, Aeon devised the entire tactical agenda for the evening in time it took to dry her nails.
Her next objective was to engineer the perfect projection of her persona. Again, success lay in proper planning. Her accouter must be at once acceptable at all venues and yet be nothing even remotely mundane, to blend without disappearing. Her make-up must be awe-inspiring without being coercive; groveling and supplication are fine but cowering is a bit much. Of course, she needed the right shoes to get through the night.
Thanks to her substanial wardrobe, our conquering cutie had many choices. She briefly ruminated on wearing some of her newly procured plunder but dismissed the thought. It would be too much of a humiliation to vanquish a city in its own goods. There was also the slim chance that some poor unsuspecting wench might be wearing the same dress as Dame Trix and since she, flushed with the anticipation of battle, was in too good a mood to shame anyone. This was a conquest of mercy not a brutal beating; it was best to stick to attire the likes of which Tampa had never seen.
After much debate, Ms. Trix decided that shimmer was her theme for the evening and settled on her hallucinogenic hot pants (an old stand-by) paired with a recent acquisition, a miniscule iridescent strap top, and glitter everywhere. Accessories involved silver platforms, 80s-rifiic iridescent dangle earrings and, as her crowning glory, silver and iridescent curly ribbon mixed in with her top knot. Scintillating and shiny, our sly seductress was poised to capsize Tampa.
August Aeon breezed through each bar like returning royalty. She maneuvered around on the crowded dancefloors like a pro, evitably the crowd parting for her wily ways. When Aeon took her calculated pause in her prima donna exhibition, a deluge of drinks offers poured in. Once a club’s conversion was secure, our dancing damsel would depart with newly annexed devotees defecting with her.
By the time she arrived that evening’s final target, Ms. Trix was escorted by a veritable fleet of followers. Still, this last offensive presented Aeon with the greatest challenge. It was one of the bigger clubs of the city, home to many a devastating queen. What transpired beneath its roof would decide the fate of Aeon’s ambitious campaign to capture Tampa.
When Aeon entered her final destination, there was a moment where it seemed the club held its breath, almost aware of the power that emanated off her be-glittered skin. She wasted no time and began the assault in earnest, heading straight to the dancefloor. With her kicks and twirls, she seemed a silver fury of fashion. No beat was too tricky, no song too long. Suddenly, people were thronging to have their pictures with her ... just like Mickey Mouse at Disney. Yes, imperial Aeon had laid her claim to Tampa and it had become her magical kingdom.
It was the fall of the party year of our Diva, 1999, and a close gal pal, Gigi Sparkles, procured, from an cyber admirer, an all expenses-paid weekend in New York for herself and a friend. When Gigi invited Aeon to be her cohort in crime in the Big Apple, our eminent dame knew a fantastic fate awaited her. Not only was the excellent excursion free but since it wasn’t her admirer, it wasn't her responsibility to entertain. Hence, she entered into this adventure without entanglements, with no obligations ... except to herself, of course.
Now, children, I could spin you the tale of Trix’s mastery of New York clubs and how she invoked rioting in the streets with blue lipstick alone, but we’ve heard that story before -- it’s just another day in the life of a glamour girl extradorinaire. Instead, I come to you with a far more amazing antecdote, even for Aeon ... about how our empress of enticement caught a star, a Broadway star.
It happend on a Sunday afternoon, in third row seats so graciously donated by Ms. Sparkles' sponsor. It was one of those hip new edgy Broadway plays. To be more specific, one of those hip new edgy plays with a hot cast, something Aeon could really sink her teeth in, especially once she checked out the headshot of the leading actor -- positively luscious. The plot of the play was interesting enough but what kept Aeon’s eyes glued to the stage were the lead’s well-toned torso and his tight little tuss. And, could she be mistaken, or did she catch him glancing at her? There was no mistaking the eye contact they made during curtain call. They call that electricity.
Our stunning star was already in front of the theater when Gigi and Aeon emerged from the playhouse. Midst squeals and screams of teen rapture, the tasty thespian was signing autographs and posing for pictures. The stellar swain looked up from the T-shirt he was signing to behold our breathtaking tart. As a hush settled across the clamouring teenyboppers, he says to tempting Trix, "You are incredibly attractive." She raises an exquisite eyebrow and smiles her whitest smile. He nearly blushes.
"Why, thank you. [pause] And so are you," she replies, deceptively demure, his grin broadens. She looked into his piercing blue eyes and she studied the voluptuous pout of his lips. Hmm... this celestial creature was one she wanted to savor -- it’s not everyday that a Broadway beaut blesses you with blandishments. This one should be played with a careful hand; she wanted to forever be emblazened in his memory. Her finely honed seduction skills told Aeon he needed to wait; nothing engorges the rush of desire like a slight hinderance of time. Besides, she and Gigi had a deluxe dinner date in twenty minutes.
So our brazen babe who’s never shy but often coy left him to his adoring fans with one last lingering smile. But never let the winsome witch fool you, her voracious readers, with her modest ploy; our crafty coquette had trick or two up her sleeve.
We last left our naughty nymph leaving a delectable actor to fend off ravenous fans. We now find her in the Village, carousing with Gigi and her opulent patron, whilest surreptitiously plotting designs for the aforementioned boy.
After a shopping tour of the Village and a sangria-soaked meal, Aeon took full advantage of her fetterless freedom and left her meal partners, now a petting pair, to purient plans of their own. It was time to pay her favorite leading man a curtain call visit.
Outside the theater, there was a gaggle of gangly teens with stars in the eyes (one in particular) and twitterpation in their hearts, waiting anxiously for that dynamic entertainer of their favorite broadway extravaganza to emerge. Aeon bided her time with the patience of lascivious spider.
The long anticipated actor appeared, and the shrill of teenage zeal was nearly deafening. Aeon feared her potential paramour would be pressed to death with so much pubescent gusto. But her fears were allayed and shortly, the dashing darling had signed his way through the crowd to where she stood. Once again, he looked up to behold our delicious doll. "What are you doing here?" The glimmer in his eye belied his delight.
Again, an arch of an eyebrow; then, a grin with decidely wicked bent, "A coversation. We didn’t get to have a conversation this afternoon." A paltry pretext, really; it was close enough to the truth for government work.
Her smile was contagious. "Yes, but what are you doing here?" His interest’s tweaked, the delay paid off.
"I came back for that conversation." And then some.
"Okay, let’s go have a drink." Many a long and licentious night has begun with that very phrase.
Drinking at the resturant was an adventure in and of itself. Our devilish diva had never been out and about with someone who was more renowned than her own precious self. The stunning two could barely talk for all the admiring interlopers and fastidious fans expressing their adoration to the Broadway beau. Never fear that our supercilious sweetie was discounted by her acclaimed galant’s votaries. Her celebrated luminary introduced her to every newcomer. No one could resist commenting on what a "beautiful couple" they made, which, needless to say, elated our vain vixen. She always likes to be on the winning team.
After a few Stolis (his) and a couple of glasses of wine (hers), her chivalrous escort, eager for some "quality time," offered to escourt our elegant Aeon back to her hotel. Another engimatic smile from our sexual sphinx.
A little background here. Ms. Trix was lodged at one of the poshly modern hotel in Manhattan ... very chic. So chic that they had mood lighting in each elevator. Choose your flavor: orange, green, blue or red.
When the couple got the "red" elevator, Aeon knew it was a provacative presage. To prove the point, within a minute after the doors closed, our lusty tomato and her pleasing player were making out beneath the scarlet flush. They missed their floor on several occasions, greatly extending their ride.
Sensing her partner’s erotic aspirations, Aeon switched into modesty mode one last time to stoke his arder a little harder. Looking up through fluttering lashes, she asked, "You want to come in for a little while?" Her companion, captivated, caved instantly at the insinuation of this parlance. Good things come to a Trix who waits ... and even better things come to a Trix who plots.
I It was a cool night in November, Friday the 13th to be exact, and our glorious gal Aeon was out carousing. Her cohort in crime was Chem Glints. They had converged in the great city of Atlanta. It was a celebration of sorts, not just because it was Friday the 13th and not just because they were in the closest Southern counterpart of a metropolis but also because it was the first time that Aeon and Chem were out together alone. Chem was one her closest comrade, a staunch party buddy and a beloved friend, yet in their three year career of chumming they had never ventured on a night out on the town alone. Generally, they were among a gang gallivanting through the wee hours.
Aeon and Chem decided to start things off right with cheap drinks. Sure, the club was dark and dank, and the playlist was stuck on repeat from 1995 but the shots were $1.50 (even an Alice in Wonderland, which for all intents and purposes should be considered a mixed drink but not when Aeon’s imbibing). Besides, this was a starter club, a place to get the warm fuzzies of inebriation started.
Our illustrious Aeon and her glam pal Chem Glints swilled their shots and then camped on a couch to conspire the evening’s cavorting. In the midst of their orchestration, they bespied a mighty cute boy ... an anim-esque boy to be exact, complete with a mane of black hair and super slim hips [a little known fact was that one of Aeon's "turn-ons" was a guy whose jeans she could wear. At a whopping weight of a buck and a dime (with the dimensions of 34-24-34 for those of you who were curious), he had to be a pretty damn skinny guy. Overal, Aeon thought he was damn do-able.
Perhaps Chem was thinking the same thing (who knows what passes in Chem's mind), since he and Aeon had the same taste in men. Naturally, she prefer for her boy to like girls and Chem prefers his boys to like him. One sly look to Chem and Aeon knew the onyx mop top had turned both their heads.
The question remained, which way did he swing? He was very anime, which in turn meant he go either way, technically speaking. They unconsciously placed a little challenge on themselves; he was a mighty fine catch and neither one wanted to deprive the other of that precious what-if phase. Knowing the scope of Aeon and Chem's combined gaydar, the duration of this particular pretend phase would be over within a matter of minutes for at least one of them, and depending on what he wanted out of a playmate, it might be over for the other as well. So they commenced to sit near their prey and chat convivially, a ploy not only meant to draw his attention to the pair also presented them both a lovely view of their prize.
Tune in next week to see how Aeon and Chem’s enticement plays out.
Scene: a stunningly fully and tightly dressed Aeon Trix and a shiny clad Chem Glints sittting tete-a-tete with brooding swain on an adjacent couch.
Mission: witty banter. Witty banter was never a problem around Chem Glints; he's the master of repartee., an utter professional. Then again, so is Aeon. Truth be known, he was Miranda to Aeon's Carrie.So they bantered, bathing that beautiful boy in their mutual adoration, eventually beguiling him into their interlocution.
After a toss of his shock of locks, he introduced himself as Ash Wednesday. and it was his birthday in two days ... "Ah, the Ides" Aeon quipped aloud. It was his birthday in two days ... and he was sober, not only sober but driving two inebriated buddies.
Despite popular belief, Chem and Trix had been there; they've played the role of designatated driver. It happens to all professional partiers, double D duty. While they knew it would be possible for this babalicious boy to be sober and have fun, they knew it would require their efferverscent energy. They also knew it wasn't going to happen in that particular club, (see comment about repeat 1995 playlist). Fortunately, it was only the first club on our dynamic duo's agenda. So they did the most logical thing -- they lured Ash (and drunk friends) away from that tragic scene to another club, an underground club, MJQ concourse. Literally, it's under the parking lot across from the Danger Kroger on Ponce. This factiod along with the promise of no cover and good music was all the bait they needed to tempt to the trio to the dark side.
The group split and commenced a caravan. Had Ash been flying solo, Aeon would have gladly volunteered for double d duty for that delicious dude, but the added cargo was too much for her Siouxie.
The two cars converge at the club. Aeon warns, "It's been a while since I've been here and I don't know who's working the door. I can't 100% guarantee no cover but I'll see what I can do." She took the lead and sees a strange person working the door. Before they reach the door, as Chem is looking for their IDs, Aeons fishes her mind for a name to drop that would at least grant her entrance and an effort to free the rest of the troops. But Aeon being Aeon, a familiar face appeared at the door -- not that she had a name with that face (because what are names when you remember faces?) but it was one of her favorite faces, the guy who took his girlfriend to France so they could be together and learn a language they loved better. How romantic! And he was the funk dj, the creator of the soundtrack to some of her favorite nights at the Concourse.
He remembers Aeon, “You’re normally wearing a lot less clothes; it took me a second.” And with that, they all file in, sans cover charge.
Even when they were deep in the bowels of the club, Aeon wasn’t sure of Ash’s persuasion. Chem assured her that he was all about her but she couldn't tell. Ash didn't talk to her, not in creepy or geeky or really any negative way. She imagined he was shy and since Chem was doing a bang-up job as her Cyrano, she left herself a footnote to look into the matter later. She couldn’t exactly lure him to her lair when he had plastered pals in tow.
Tune in next week for the fun at MJQ.
Now, gentle readers, I know that you’re expecting an amorous end for Aeon and Ash, and I will divulge that an ardent denouement does indeed develop for this dapper duo if but a little delayed, a year to the date in fact.
Ash’s shyness coupled with the complications of his plastered pals, nixed palpable carnal connection; the evening culminated not in osculation but in an exchange of e-dresses. The two sent e-missives to and fro until 2000 when Aeon officially became a vagabond and Ash had since moved to parts unknown. Well, unknown to Aeon. In actuality, he had moved to New Mexico, Albuquerque to be exact and these parts were known to him. Albuquerque was quite familiar to her via Bugs Bunny -- watch out for that left!
Which brings us to the next part of the tale, our intrepid Aeon headed out to parts unknown, to meet with Ash Wednesday. Not that it was public knowledge that Trix would soon be off the market; that would cause undue stress and turmoil on the mass populace. Rioting in the streets would ensue -- civilization as we know it would end (and you thought the 2000 election would do that). It was better to wait until the ink was dry before she caused mass depression. But at least a mass depression meant it would be easier to take over the world especially with this partner in crime.
Nor was it public knowledge that she had never even kissed him ... even she was surprised by this turn of events. Who knew she could be so "Leave It Beaver"? As she toyed with this moral morsel, she postulated that, in some warped anime way, she had been, all these years, holding out for love (sort of like the Pretty Woman rule of not kissing on the lips, only this rule was far, far more convoluted) she only hoped her good deed wouldn't go unpunished ... maybe Ward could be a little hard on the beaver.
So our enamored elf Aeon traversed cross continent, sans computer, sans cats, sans cell phone, taking nothing but her basic essentials and her Boy-friendly clothing (plus accessories) into two big suitcases. It was her search for truth in the desert, it was vision questing for the new millennium. It didn't get any better than this -- all that's left was that first kiss.
Tune in next for the kiss that melted Trix....
After almost of day of travel, Aeon found herself flying into the bunny infamous town of Albuquerque. She felt more than a few butterflies beating against her belly as the plane landed but these bothersome insects soon dissipated as soon as she spied Ash Wednesday. They caught each other in a deep, long embrace but Ash played somewhat coy by not including a kiss in the mix. But never fear, my dear readers because a delectable kiss is soon to come.
Ash stops in the middle of the airport, sets down all Aeon’s things, and plants a deep, long, delightful kiss upon our carnal cutie. Aeon’s brain swirled and believed that this smooch was certainly worth a year’s wait.
Aeon and Ash had enchanting month ahead of them, full of decadent delectations. Due to the dry New Mexico air, our lithe lass’s skin needed to be slathered with oil twice a day, which led to many sensual sessions for both her and her sweet suitor.
Despite the lack of humidity, New Mexico was a beautiful state. The sky was crisp, the mountains to the west majestic and the stars enormous. It was a beauteous backdrop for Ash and Aeon’s courting. Too, the watering holes in Albuquerque were plentiful and the populace intriguing. Aeon even got to star in a small budget film, Collecting Rooftops
The weeks fluttered quickly passed and before our pair realized, it was time for Trix’s flight back East. Though she was giddy for the anime boy Ash and he was quite enamored with our Aeon, neither were destined for a suburban destiny.
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