S Sense

Its a sea of women. Waves of them rolling into the bar all dolled up and looking like a million bucks. A tantalising tide of gorgeous women flooding the joint for pre-show drinks.

Theres so much oestrogen in the room I can feel my breasts growing under my suit jacket. Suits are so boring compared to frocks. Femininity is a mighty force. The air is sparking with energy. Forget uranium, behold the power of women like in 1911 when more than a million women took to European streets demanding acknowledgment of that power. The first International Womans Day. Frock power.

Here, there are older women, younger women and women who arent women. At least I assume the gal with the beard and long moustache is a man in a dress. But you never know. I wink at her anyway.

There arent many men here. (Good. Im a greedy pig and Im soaking it up.) The future is women. The bearded frock-dresser (blue flower motif, fitted bodice and gathered skirt) winks back. I have a Brokeback Mountain moment and mumble something unintelligible to my boots.

Its International Womens Day 2006 and Im at a fundraiser for the local womens health centre. Its ridiculous that this health centre which provides such valuable services for women should have to have fundraisers to get money. Youd think the government could sling them a few bucks. I mean those (mostly) men in their restrictive grey suits had enough money to line Saddams suit pocket (remember him weapon stockpiler, terrorist, kitten kicker) in a nudge-nudge, wink-wink million bucks situation. Men winking at men.

This is a wear-your-frock night. Women reclaiming the pleats. Most of the women are frocked except some who didnt have time to change and some who think frocks are so unmanly they wouldnt be seen dead in one. But I reckon a strapless number would go well with tatts, Blundstones and a crew cut.

Tonight I came with a gorgeous woman. Um, let me put that another way: I escorted a drop-dead beautiful woman to this gig. But then, suddenly, a vision glides into the room looking like some fifties fantasy. A vivacious visitation.

The room takes a collective gasp as she enters. Wow. This is a super dress. More than a frock, its a gown. A vernal vignette in cloth. An almost seditious fashion statement that sings I am woman, hear me roar! Or purrs provacatively Make my Doris Day.

Now, Im standing with two no make that 300 funky, spunky femmes. (Counting the bearded woman.)

And women did roar that night with The Frocks Deluxe making theatrically tangible the female spirit that must rise again like a frocked phoenix from the burning macho rubble to re-dress the planet. It has to.


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