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Show your ass 

Sometimes you have to do it with style

I have no idea if Mike Geier would show his ass on stage again like he did last time, but I can certainly hope. Plus, I'm pretty sure he's forgiven me for dry humping him in the middle of his set at Trader Vic's in Atlanta last year (Grant informed me later how difficult it is to perform when you've got a fan stuck to you like a lovesick squid, as if he'd know).

I've proven I can pretty much behave myself. Last month when Mike's entourage, which includes his band Kingsized and the ultra-mod and campy dance troupe Dames A'flame, performed a burlesque show at Eyedrum in Atlanta, I did not even storm the stage, hardly, and there were plenty of people there making bigger asses of themselves than I did.

For example, there was one woman who kept shoving Grant's head between her huge tits and boxing his ears with her boobs. He swears he does not even know her. Thank God I don't have huge tits, otherwise I could get ideas. But as it was, I was downright demure as a Mormon school marm that night, broadcasting to Mike with my upright posture, "Looky me, the perfect audience member who will never again run up and grab the microphone out of your hand," refraining, even, from bounding up in my seat and taking off my top. That's practically a first for me at a Kingsized concert, and shows you the lengths to which I'd go to make sure I'm welcomed back.

As a reward -- and I'm sure it was a reward just for me, what with the huge effort I was undertaking -- Mike dropped his pants on stage, which pretty much blew the roof off the place. He was singing "Lonely Guy," dressed in old-fashioned prison garb, and as he reached the song's crescendo he did a Betty-Boop butt-kick kinda move and down came the pants -- not all the way, mind you, but enough to provide an ass peek that will probably last me through the wasteland that is my love life for the next couple of months.

I have to admire that. I myself have never purposefully shown my ass in public, but there was that one time I went on a date with a guy who was a member of a fraternity which, at that time, was under investigation for staging an impromptu gang rape of a girl as she lay passed out in one of their rooms after drinking too many cups of their grain-alcohol-laced party punch. I was not attending his college or even living in his country when we met, which I point to as an excuse for accepting his invitation, but it's a poor excuse, since the rape case was all he talked about that night and I let him make out with me anyway.

Don't get me wrong, he was not one of the accused rapists, he was just defending his three fraternity brothers who were the accused rapists, which is kind of quasi hardly not as bad, probably. He was our waiter at the restaurant where my sister and I had champagne-brunched ourselves into a blotto fog to celebrate her upcoming college graduation, which I was home from Switzerland to attend. That night he took me back to his restaurant, which was also a nightclub that transformed into a throbbing hive of undulating horny people at night. I wore a dress that buttoned all down the back and, after gamely sustaining lengthy gropings from this guy over the course of several Tom Collinses, I let him lead me onto the dancefloor, where I was certain everyone was staring at me because I'm such a damn good dancer. Yes, that's it, I thought, I'm in my goddamn 20s and I'm drunk and I can move with the grace of a goddamn swan, that's right you heard me, a goddamn swan.

I shimmied like that for an entire set before I went to the restroom to discover that my date had unbuttoned my dress from the waist down, and everyone had been staring at me not because I was young and hot and graceful as a swan, but because my tatty ass was hanging out the back of my dress. Yes, pretty much everyone there had seen it as I danced not like a graceful swan, but more like a flounder, I'm sure, flopping.

Even through my booze cloud I had the clarity to surmise that this is what I get for accepting a date from the Great Defender of Frat Boy Rapists. Real picky, aren't I? I bitched to myself as I buttoned my dress and left. It was not a graceful exit, either, because I stopped to throw my drink on my date and then stopped again to throw his drink on him as well and would have grabbed others if onlookers had not started to be protective of their cocktails. Then I stormed away, shrieking, "You fucker!" over my shoulder and pushing people and things from my path all the way out the door. Well, hell, I figured, if you're gonna show your ass in public you might as well really show your ass.

Hollis Gillespie will host a signing of her new book, Confessions of a Recovering Slut and Other Love Stories, Wed. Aug. 17, 7pm, at Joseph-Beth, 4345 Barclay Downs Drive, Charlotte. 704-602-9820.

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