Last Friday, I went to dinner with Julie Mason (I should have a link here to something of hers, but she’s a pussy and doesn’t want the three people who read this website to know). We were mostly talking about the promotions we’re getting at work, as we climb on the back of a nervous giggling woman. Together we are mother-fucking ruthless in the office. Really, Machiavelli would weep at our cruel dalliance, as we bring office politics to a virtual guillotine for our enemies.

Anyway, as we were talking in the far back corner of the restaurant, Moroccan music cranked from the speaker over our heads. (Incidentally, they put us in the dark corner away from everyone, so I swear we looked like a couple of timid lesbians skulking through our tryst trying to be unseen. Which is cool for me, since Julie is in her 20s and looks it, so at least while thinking us dykes, people at the place might also have been thinking, “Hey, check out that old broad, still able to hook the young chicks.”) So, the music is cranking and gets louder — da da da da dun dah! Even the waiter looked surprised. And, show time! It’s the belly dancer. The white, blonde belly dancer, who I thought might have vaguely semetic features, but Julie thought pure whitebread.

Here we are, the belly dancer and I, taken in the dark corner with Julie’s cell phone camera. I brought up the light a bit with Photoshop, but you still can’t really see the swinging red fez on my head. Not as fancy as the Shriner’s fez I had at home, but still fezzy good.

Just look and think “Check out that old broad, still able to hook the young chicks.”

(P.S. Wow, maybe I do miss M. I’m all working the gay side. Hope Julie’s fiance doesn’t get mad.)