I'm Worried About the Six-Foot Penis

It's only a Halloween costume. Right?

There are a lot of holidays I like, but my favorite is Halloween – I enjoy taking candy from the children. Not out of their sticky little hands, but from their dedicated stash.

I live in a New York City high rise and here, kids trick or treat going from apartment to apartment within the building, accompanied by their parents. They know which places to hit, because tenants get signs from the doorman reading, “Yes, I’d love to have an endless stream of people annoying me between the hours of three and eight.  I’m desperate to spend an afternoon saying, ‘Oh, you must be Spider-Man and that’s Spidey Mom and this must be Spidey Rescue Dog.  And now Spidey Rescue Dog has scarfed down a chocolate bar which can be fatal for doggies and Spidey Lawyer is going to sue me.’ “

You can also leave a bowl – ideally a witch’s kettle, available at the discount party store down the street – outside your door filled with mini Kit Kat and Butterfingers and Hershey bars, avoiding the kids, but assuring your place in heaven.  That’s where I get my fix. That’s because, in America, women are not permitted to go into a store and buy a candy bar – it’s announcing to the world you’re an emotional mess who has abandoned her societal obligation to be slender unto death. Sneaking a Kit Kat mini, however, is okay, provided nobody sees you.  

Anyway, this, in my eighth decade, is usually how I spend my Halloween: I schedule lots of afternoon errands, so I have lots of opportunities to steal candy from the children.

Then I take a stroll around the neighborhood. I do not go over to Sixth Avenue to watch the Greenwich Village Halloween parade because it’s too mobbed for me to get close, I just check out the costumes of people in the street. In the Village, this always includes a six-foot penis, which makes me a little sad. I have yet to see a six-foot vagina, which means the six-foot penis is doomed to a life of loneliness; unless he swings the other way, which, in the Village, is a strong possibility. It is also possible that the six-foot penis has a six-foot vagina at home, who is so depressed that the six-foot penis hasn’t touched her for a year that she is eating a one-foot Kit Kat bar.  As someone who believes that wearing a Halloween costume in jumping right into the Idmobile, the six-foot penis gives me a lot to think about.

There is also a restaurant in my neighborhood called the Knickerbocker where the waiters and the customers dress up on Halloween, but none of my friends are into it.  I went one year with a boyfriend who made the masks for the Phantom of the Opera. He arrived wearing a black cape and the white  Phantom mask and looked terrifically hot. I wore a feathery Venetian mask that covered the top of my face. We had the best sex of our relationship that night, confirming to me that we preferred fantasy versions of one another. That was it for dressing up for Halloween.

This year, however, I am very excited, because I have an actual Halloween party, with music and dancing and – for those who wish -- costumes. It’s at The Players, an old New York social club with a lot of theater people that I just joined this September. To tell you the truth, hearing that these guys love to throw parties was one of the main reasons I applied. 

This club also has a fantastic history: It was founded by Edwin Booth, the brother of John Wilkes Booth. The brothers were both actors, Edwin being the more famous, and they got along so badly they divided their theatrical tours between the North and the South, so they would never run into one another. I wonder if anyone ever comes to the party as Lincoln or if that would be considered in very poor taste.

And what do I do about a costume?  I check out my closet.  A Japanese-inspired kimono? Exotic, but too warm for dancing.  A vintage black cocktail hat, which I have had the nerve to wear exactly once?  Maybe I can pair it up with a back dress and go as a no-good film noir blond:

“My daughter!/ My sister!/ My daughter!/ My sister!”

Or would I have to repeat that all night for the costume to work?   

This requires research. I trot down the block to the Party City store on 14^th Street to see if they have anything I can work with. I also seem to remember that this time of year, they give away candy at the checkout.

What’s big this season, in the grown-up section, is Barbie and Ken in their skin-tight roller-blade outfits – a major part of Halloween is strutting the goods. You can also buy a Barbie Box if you’ve been hitting the pasta. There are lots of suggestive body suits, too.  The names, for some reason, are in French as well as English. “Bunny Kit – Ensemble Lapin.” “Sultry Shipmate – Matelot Seductrice.” “Bad Kitty Set -- Chat Mechant.” It’s a tacky selection and the outfits are much too young for me. Plus, I don’t spot any freebie candy.

I head around the corner to Reminiscence, a vintage clothing and costume store. They have a lot of wonderful Venetian face masks with feathers, but I wear glasses these days, which rules out masks. The only head-dress that doesn’t cover my eyes are elaborate ram’s horns, which, even in silver, suggest a Valkyrie maiden, ready to haul a slain Viking warrior to up Valhalla.  It’s not a good look for me and I dislike the concept. You’re a big, strong warrior, figure out your own transportation.

Then, a week later, as I’m killing time in a Bloomingdale’s outlet on West 72nd, I see it: A glittery top, with a neckline of the wild black feathers you’d see on a boa. I try it on. It’s perfect, actually kind of hot, an excellent starting piece for a costume. It’s discounted, too; $49.00, which makes it okay for goofy one-time usage. 

“For the holidays,” the woman next to me in the check-out line says, approvingly.   

“Yeah, right, sister,” I think. “Like I would wear something like this to a regular party.”

I go home, remove the tags – the consumer equivalent of “I thee wed” --  put the feathered top on a hanger and study it.

The truth is, the top is so extravagant, so girly and flirtatious, I would love to wear it to a party. I wasn’t a girly girl as a little kid; I hated dolls and anything pink and frilly dresses. But I always loved the glitz of the circus show girls with their feather headpieces and the glam of Broadway dancers. When I got older and got into Bogart and Hayworth and Garfield, I admired the ‘30s and ‘40s clothing of film noir: The seamed stockings and garters and lace slips; the men in fedoras and suits, or stripped down to boxers which revealed nothing. Sex had to be more interesting and mysterious, with so many layers to peel off.

But I hit college in the ‘60s when we wore jeans and pea coats and Frye boots and I spent the rest of my life as a reporter in pants.  El Morocco was not in the cards. My generation did not even touch dance. Once, when I was 42, a guy who dressed like a ‘40s sharpie took me to The Rainbow Room and I did have the chance to wear a spaghetti strap dress and taste my first martini and it was great. The next day, the guy told me he was going to Puerto Rico with an old girlfriend. 

That was reality, however, which has always had its failings. This is Halloween.

I put on the crazy glam top, with the black feathers. I find my vintage cocktail hat with the veil. I add back tights and heels I can dance in and the glittering, clunky ‘40s costume jewelry I’ve collected at flea markets that’s been languishing in a drawer. I put on hot red lipstick, which I usually feel is too bright for me. I am not sure what I am, but it is glamorous and sexy and ready to dance.  

Doorman, flag me an Idmobile. We are stepping out.