Last night I had dinner with a group of ladies and then attended a musical with them in the theater district of London. It wasn't just any group of ladies, it was the ladies from the local church we attend, including the pastor's wife. The Bible study ladies, the ladies who go on weekend retreats to renew their faith, the ladies who say words like dang and heck.
There are fabulous theaters scattered all over an area of central London called the west end. They're fabulously intimate venues where you can get up close and personal with the characters on stage. These aren't echoing chambers but rather places where most seats allow you to really see the expressions on their faces and feel like you're getting your money's worth. So did we see The Wizard of Oz or The Lion King? Maybe Legally Blonde or Wicked? Phantom or Les Mis? Oh no, we had tickets for the titillating transvestite musical, Priscilla Queen of the Desert.
It was a gay man's fantasy come true, 15 on the sexy scale of 1 to 10. I wish I could wear a pair of false eyelashes like the lead character. Everything was covered in glitter, from the risque outfits to the eye makeup. No doubt I would break my neck if I tottered around on the stilettos these gentleman in drag were working. There was a lot of innuendo of the gay variety. For example, the sign on the back of the revolving bus, one of the important props through a large part of the musical, reads "Rear Entry Upon Request". That's snicker or chuckle worthy, right?
One of the things that seemed to startle our conservative group was liberal use of the F-bomb. It's not as if it was every other word, but when it did crop up in dialogue you could almost see the waves of disapproval radiating from a few of the more prudish gals in the group. The cheeky (pun intended) bit that caught my eye and found me staring a bit in amazement was some of the costuming that was a tad bare across the booty. Obviously some of the young and nubile gents in the performance have been working out on the Stairmaster because their costumes left nothing to the imagination. They were pin-up boys for Buns of Steel - yowza!
The whole thing was a bit like rubbernecking at a traffic accident, craning your neck to get a clear view of what's happening, but a bit ashamed because you're so mesmerized by it. It was full of witty one-liners, fabulous costumes and sing-along hits from the 70s complete with oversized disco ball throwing patterns on a fun-freaking audience that had a darned good time.