Your girl has a date tonight. And not just any date, but a date with a werewolf.
Scratch that. A hot werewolf.
I tell you what, life as part of the supernatural community is pretty damn cool. It's like being in a movie.
Except that in the movie, the girl would look all pretty in a fresh kinda way. Innocent doe going out with the hot, nasty and recently reformed werewolf bad boy. You know the cliché.
Well, not this girl. Not that I’m not fresh—I am, in fact, looking pretty smoking tonight. But this ain't no reinvention of Beauty and the Beast or the other plethora of innocent girl and monster-type stories.
Speaking of looking hot, I have a very specific strategy when it comes to fashion and dating. In fact, it’s the exact opposite of my dressing strategy when it comes to work.
When I start a new job, I go in looking virtually normal. I have even been known to waltz into a new job wearing a suit. I know, hard to believe, but true. I then gradually introduce my very particular brand of style. By the time I’m coming to work dressed in my normal clothes, I’m usually fed up and ready to move on, at which point my employer is usually also ready for me to leave. It’s a good system. A tried and tested approach honed over the many (many, many) jobs I have left over the years.
But back to dating. When it comes to dating, I have the opposite strategy. I always go to a first date all guns blazing in terms of fashion—meaning as outlandish as I can possibly manage. And trust me when I say that I can manage a great deal.
The reason I do this is twofold. Firstly, there is absolutely no sense in advertising myself as anything other than what I am. What is the point in dating someone who is attracted to women who dress standard, given what I’m like? Best policy when it comes to dating is to be as upfront as possible about who you are.
The second reason is that there is one characteristic in men that is a total and utter turnoff for me. If they get embarrassed easily or are overly concerned about other people's opinions.
If a man can't handle being seen in public with me when I'm really going all out on the clothes front, he just ain't for me. Just like I’m well aware that I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.
Maybe this is why my love life has been dotted with rather… unusual partners. My brother Nick used to tease me that dating wasn’t supposed to be charity work. My other brother, Harry, used to joke that I collect stray men the way my mother collects stray cats.
Which is where Rick makes for a nice change. He’s not an emotionally damaged but intense artist, he doesn’t live in a squat without running water, and given his swanky pad, he’s also unlikely to rob me of all of my cash and disappear. It’s rare for me to be interested in someone considered a catch by society.
But let’s see. Given my ability to sniff out the damaged and complicated cases, I wouldn’t be surprised if he wound up fitting my usual pattern. And anyway, it’s far too early for all of that. For now, I’m just looking forward to my date with a werewolf. A hot werewolf.
I’m en route, and as I walk, I fluff my neon pink tutu to make sure it's as bouncy as it should be. When I say neon pink, I mean it looks like it was coloured in with a pink highlighter.
To clash with the Barbie-worthy tutu, I have on black tights woven with a repeating pattern of crucifixes. Très goth. Then over-the-knee leather boots, around which I have wrapped metal chains. They jangle jauntily as I walk. The boots are chunky platforms as well, adding a good couple of inches to my already tall frame.
And then my top half is pure disco. A purple glitter crop top that—well, let's be honest now. It's such a small top that it's little more than a bra. But hey, I've been working out religiously recently, and my abs are looking positively fabulous. And if you've got it, well honey, you really should flaunt it.
Especially when going on a date with a hot werewolf. I know, I’m repeating myself. I’m just so jazzed about tonight.
To finish the look, an oversized long-haired jacket that only goes down to my waist but looks like it was made from a yeti. My purple hair is in bunches far back enough to accommodate the left side of my head, which is shaved. Black glitter sunglasses are pushed up on the top of my head. Not to wear, just as a hair accessory. Oh, and my hair matches my purple glitter bra.
And that, my dears, is a Priscilla-worthy first date outfit.
I'm meeting Rick at a bar near my house—a bar that I've never heard of. More interestingly, the name doesn't come up on Google. That probably means something related to magic. Rick sent me the name of the place and a pin on the map via text. He also refused to tell me anything more about where we’re going, which is both fantastic and infuriating: I love surprises, but I’m next level impatient.
I've been biting down on said impatience for the last few days, and I’m now hurrying eagerly along—playing cool be damned. I’m itching to see where we’re going.
The bar’s called The Drowned Saxophone, by the way. Epic name. And according to my phone map, I'll be arriving just after I turn this corner.
Eeeeep, I can’t wait!
