Night of the Party Moms, An Accomplice: NY Adventure (First in a series)

Standing on my particular corner of the urban theatrical experience that is Accomplice: New York, I’m waiting on a large group of women to come my way, the third group of the day. The neighborhood is busy, tourists are everywhere. It’s summer, hot humid and sticky. There is no breeze on the sidewalk under the scaffolding so I also have a nice sheen of sweat all over. I’m wearing faded jeans, work boots, a black tank top, the orange mesh worker vest and the yellow hard hat. In my opinion, I do not look like a burly construction dude, I am an homage to 70’s gay culture oiled up and ready for delivery.

The group gets to the corner across the street. I get into character, prepare to ignore them and throw them off the trail. As they cross the street I size them up. It’s important to figure out the nature of the group. You’d think everyone who pays for the experience would be in a good mood and want to play along but that isn’t always the case. Some are tired or hungry. Sometimes the groups don’t all get on well with each other. In any event, I have to decide how to play with them so they all have a good time.

One quick look says it all; Party Moms. Damn, why did it have to be party moms? The Suburban Party Mom is a class unto itself. They are the women who are usually stranded at home with kids in the summer and are pulling their hair out looking for an escape. They are out for a good time and quick to have a drinky drink and start dancing on tables. This far into the tour they have either had a drink or twelve, have to pee or are getting hungry. This makes them very lose and uninhibited. The husbands are congregating in someone’s garage or bar or boat doing suburban man things and so the moms, all hot and sweaty and whooping it up, are unchained and heading my way.
They get to the site, check it out for clues and facts like good little amateur detectives. They look around, toy with the lock on the gate and knock on the plywood to make sure it’s a real site. Then one spots me. I talk on the phone to whoever is in my mind at the time. Right now it’s Johnny Style and we’re talking about hot rods. With the other ear I listen for their progress.
“Maybe it’s this guy, he’s the only one standing around”, says one. “And who does construction on a Saturday?” offers another. “And what construction worker has a purple phone?”

NB: I happen to like purple. So what if my iPhone case is purple? Some of the coolest muscle cars of the era were painted Plum Crazy Purple. Very manly. Look it up.

They continue, “And look at his boots; they’re in too good of a shape to be real”. And then it all goes to a weird place: “Go ask if it’s him”. “Mmmm, look at his muscles, ask him to take off his shirt”. “Hell, ask him to take off every thing!” And soon I am surrounded by sweaty over sexed middle aged women who are now pawing at me like I’m choice sirloin slathered in A-1. One woman on my right with dyed red hair and massive jugs is running her hand up and down my arm telling me, not asking me if I’m the guy they’re supposed to meet. Another on my left is snuggling up to me feeling my meager musculature and a third is getting it all on film. They have decided in their wanton lust that I am the guy. Even if I’m not, I am the guy. A confirmatory pinch of my nipple though the flimsy shirt further stimulates their interest.

It should be noted here that some may find this a tad over the top. Some have said it’s not appropriate for people to grope the talent. Not me, baby. You throw me into a gaggle of horny drunk party moms who paid for the meat and I am ready for action. Who am I to shatter their fourth wall illusions?

I go though my routine in character, a 15 minute private comedy/improv show for the receptive group who collectively hoots and whoops as I pick on them individually. We exchange the necessary information and I start to wrap it up. They don’t want to leave because they are having so much fun disproving my previous though about being a gay icon. If they have fun, I have fun. I’m making them happy, my bosses happy and my ego happy. Win/win all around. Alas, though I love to please, I must send them on their oversexed way. We part with blown kisses, the odd grope to my posterior and a few flirtatious suggestions from the Moms. I’m wondering if I can count this collective moment as one more notch on my belt.

I am a wild party.