Welcome, fellow SWiSH-ers! This is my first stab at chronicling my usually unbelievable but 100% true fag-hag adventures (outside of my college journal, which spontaneously burst into flames around 1997 or so) so I hope that you will all bear with me. I was a little nervous about putting these stories down for posterity, but then figured why should only startled bystanders and my friend Jason’s co-workers (Monday morning is traditionally “what dumb-assed thing did Jamie do this weekend” at his office) get to enjoy them firsthand? So here we go.

Isn’t my logo absolutely pinch-it-til-it’s-black-and-blue adorable? Shandy, our brilliant webmaster, made it for me in homage to one of my favorite “you can’t be serious” tale, which I have christened “The Raspberry Margarita Incident.” I don’t know if I’ve had one since—not only is the alcohol content pretty lethal, they were almost literally lethal in my case. Of course most people don’t usually shower with them.

Pardon, you say? Okay, let me back up a hair. My best friend and favorite fag Athain had gone off to Germany for a week and had left his apartment in the care of his then-boyfriend Michael. Mikey invited me over for the duration, not wanting to spend the week rattling around the house with nothing but his reflection for company. (Though Michael is rather fond of his reflection, so I’d think that would’ve been more than enough.) I happily bounced uptown after work, toting a small suitcase and a large bottle of tequila, and by seven-thirty we were gloriously and unrepentantly drunk.

I really enjoyed hanging out with Michael. He’s a former model, and a sun-kissed California boy through and through, with the carefree attitude to match. Michael could have happily walked naked down Fifth Avenue with a great big smile on his face and been shocked as hell when the cops rolled up. I’m sorry, but people who think like that are a national treasure. We’re all too damn worried about our perceived imperfections, inside and outside. Back then I was a bit of a prude—sure I’d drink anyone under the table (still can) but I wasn’t about to dance on one. Michael had a challenge in loosening me up, but he rose admirably to the occasion.

So there we were, sucking down raspberry margaritas like they were going out of style, and then—bink!—the lightbulb goes on over Mikey’s head. Do you ever notice how drunk people all of a sudden take it into their heads to DO things? Like you can’t just sit there and watch infomercials until you pass out, you have to regrout the bathroom tiles or sort all your socks by pattern and color or something. Michael decided to do his laundry. The man was barely conscious but he gathered up all his dirty clothes and stumble-staggered down to the laundry room, me bringing up the rear with the margaritas in tow. This process took approximately three hours, what with us forgetting when the cycle finished, and Michael having a yelling match with a mean Jamaican lady over a dryer. I did not help matters at all by standing off to the side laughing hysterically and spilling margarita all over the place.

By this time, the margarita had simply become an extension of my hand, so it made perfect sense that when we finally sorted and folded all the wash and made our unsteady way back upstairs and Michael suggested a shower to wash off the Jamaican lady’s blood (kidding), I would take my drink along. I mean, God forbid I should be without alcohol for five seconds. Crap, I’m channeling my mother again. I hate it when I do that. Anyway, I think I also brought the drink along because I was a little leery of showering with another person, even if that person was gayer than springtime. But after a few minutes of us splashing around like two very tipsy ducks, I forgot about my shyness. I also forgot about my drink, resting oh-so-innocently on the lip of the tub. Mikey started fooling around with the shower nozzle and got me good, right between the eyes. I flailed around for a second, lost my balance and fell heavily to the floor of the tub with a pronounced THUD-CRUNCH. Um, this can’t be good. Hmmm. I shook my head dazedly and reached for my margarita, but alas, it was no more. Apparently as I went down, I’d swept the glass off the tub, and the shattered remnants lay firmly wedged beneath my butt.

For a minute Michael and I just looked at each other, two silly drunk people trying to process what the hell had happened. I managed to get to my feet and turned around to survey the damage, which was considerable. It looked like Jaws had been in the tub with me, no joke. Amazing waves of unreality started spiraling across my vision, like I was trapped in a funhouse. I’m not one of those people who flip out at the sight of blood, but believe me, it’s a whole different ballgame when it’s yours! What an absolutely moronic way to die, for Christ’s sake. Does the ass have arteries? I could just see my poor mother trying to explain this at my funeral and people spraying canapés across the room with laughter. I burst into ridiculous baby tears and fell sprawling out of the tub into Michael’s arms. Keep in mind we are still both naked as jaybirds here.

We got to the hospital after the fifth taxi that passed us by finally stopped; apparently the bloody semi-conscious woman hanging on to her escort for dear life put off the drivers. And they say New Yorkers are rude and unhelpful! A calm and efficient triage nurse took control of the situation once we arrived, settled me down and got me into an examining room. She was so relaxed and unfussed as she gently peeled off the duct tape holding the washcloths in place (okay, we were in a bit of a rush!) that I began to relax the tiniest bit and gave Michael a shaky little smile. Maybe this wasn’t as bad as it looked. Maybe I might not be scarred for life. Maybe—

“OH MY DEAR SWEET JESUS IN HEAVEN!!!!”

Are nurses supposed to say that? I don’t think nurses are supposed to say that.

After actually seeing my wound the damn woman practically did everything but call a Code Red. I was slung onto a gurney and hustled into Emergency with a battalion of nurses and candy stripers in hot pursuit, all of them importantly waving charts and bottles after my gashed, flapping-in-the-breeze behind. I felt like Di and Dodi in the tunnel. Someone shoved a pair of aspirin-size pills in my direction and I obediently downed them both. The next thing I knew I was grinning foolishly up at Dr. Hu, an impertinently cute resident holding a clipboard and frowning mightily at my ass. Jeez, Doc, cut me a break. It didn’t always look like this.

Michael was beside himself, convinced he’d be boyfriendless by dawn. I tried to reassure him, which was no easy feat with Percocets and an untold number of margaritas fogging up my noggin. By this time I was totally without shame, rolling over to expose my naughty bits to anyone who requested it. It was Wednesday night, apparently a slow one, and I was the talk of the wing. People kept coming over to ask how I’d done it, how I was feeling, what would I tell the parents, if I told them at all. I swear someone even took a picture. Call me sick, but I WAS LOVING IT. I’d become a full-on attention whore. As Dr. Hu methodically stitched up my rear end, I propped myself up on my elbows and chatted with Mikey about the upcoming Pride Weekend and what we would wear. Yes, I was a great big jackass. Yes, my butt would probably never look the same. Yes, I’d saddled myself with a $1500 doctor’s bill. But dammit, I was having a ball! And I’d made a friend for life. And I was half-naked in a room full of admiring (well, sorta) strangers. What’s not to like?

I spent the next few days fielding a stream of “no you DIN’T” exclamations from my stunned friends, eating Vicodin like Pez, and enduring daily anointing of my stitches (a total of fifty) by Nurse Michael. Funnily enough, from beginning to end, I never had a single moment of pain. Not one. Maybe there aren’t any nerve endings in the buttcheeks. Or maybe I was just beginning to embrace the part I seem destined to play from here on out, that of court jester to the masses. A trick up my sleeve for every occasion, a tumble down the stairs to coax a smile. I’m a total goof, have been since I was old enough to fall down. All limbs, all lurching about like Frankenstein’s monster. The years have smoothed out some of my rough edges, and I’ve traded shapeless cardigans for see-through blouses. But I’m truly happiest cavorting like a newly born foal with my beautiful boys, making them laugh, utterly guileless and dorky and full to bursting with my love for them and anyone else with their phasers set to stunning. Dancing on tables? Shee-it. These days, the table should BE so lucky.

Yours in hagdom,

Jamielah