I really hate pageants. Besides being demeaning to participants they
are pointless and boring. That doesn't change when you are dressed as
a knock-off Mickey Mouse. The evening started for me about four when
I had to suit up and learn what my job was. I was to escort every
other girl out for her cat-walk turn and then over for her question
and then back. The other girls went and did the same with my cute
neighbor Minnie as their guide. At five we started with the little
girls who were being trained at a young age that their bodies were
their most important assets and they were about to find out who had
the best one. The little girls when incredibly smoothly with not a
single chicken out, or panic attack. As the best cutest girl was
crowned and the others put in their place of lesser beauty the next
age group came to be judged and sorted. These girls were much more
nervous and more ridiculously made up with big magnificent hair and
makeup rarely seen out side the crack-whore industry. I had gotten
into the routine of sweating inside my suit and taking girl after
girl for her promenade when as we got to the eleven and
twelve-year-olds things started to go bad. There was some boundary in
social anxiety presented by puberty and these girls were much more
nervous about looking good and winning. There were some criers, some
hyper-ventilators, and even one garbage-can-puker. I was feeling bad
for the girls now as I had to drag some of them from one position to
the next as they locked up with fear on the stage. A girl or two were
giving some over-sized high heals a spin and more than one fell off
the side of their shoes and twisted an ankle. The next group was even
worse they were the girls 15-17 and they were nervous wrecks that
looked like they had been jumped by a gang of deranged hair dressers
armed only with the tools of ratting-up and hair spraying hair in to
big splendid concoctions of hair. They were plastered in make-up and
had their strapped down and tied up to make their bodies more
appropriate for public display. One girl in particular was so nervous
that she took the planned grip of my wrist and tricep to a hematoma
inducing extreme. She was holding on so tightly that she cut off all
the circulation to my hand and it was becoming quite painful as I
came to the point in our walk where I was supposed to turn her loose.
She wouldn't let go and walk her solo turn until I broke her grip
with my free hand and both of us stumbled a little. She walked out
and then back to me but when she came back I fended off her grip and
I held her hand at a distance to save the rest of my tender tissues.
The next day my arm and hand had several distinct finger shaped
bruises. When the last girl was judged they sent everyone home and I
got to take off my stinky head. I was talking with some friends when
a girl from the audience came to talk with me. She and I hit it off
and we decided to go out when I had a chance to get home and wash the
dirty, dirty Micky funk off of my body and change.
