Hallo-win.

I did it.



On Sunday night I slathered on the lippy, rolled up my hair in Diet Coke cans, slipped into some black lace and showed my bum to the world (Fine. Derby.) by calling myself Laura Gaga and actually leaving the house like that. And guys, in terms of this being an experiment about slutti-ness? Oh. My. God.



Revelationary.



(SIDENOTE: The hair? I went outside for a smoke and some BITCH-ASS chick who was sheltering from the rain in the same place as we were inhaled deeply, declared that the place stunk of hairspray and then turned to me and said, "I suppose that's you then?" RUDE. So I smacked her with my huge booty and she's still suspended mid-air over Mars someplace.)





I was literally shaking as I got ready in my room. I could hear The House of Pastelle loading up on cheap vodka in the next room (hey! £7 a bottle at the kitchen table or £5 for a mixer at a bar? WE'RE NOT STOOOOPID.)



It took me five minutes to do my hair when I gave it a practice run last week. Knowing I was about to cause my own social humiliation slowed me down to 25. As I finally declared I was ready my face took on a pink hue for the big reveal to the drunkards next door. I slipped on the leotard and the tights and the leather gloves and the sunglasses.



Go.



"I've never wanted to stare at a woman more," Big Gay Cal said as I asked him to make sure that the seam on the back of my sheer tights was running up my leg straight. "But you can actually see my bum, can't you?" I asked him. He winked in reply and I downed my glass in salute to him.



Drinking helps to ease the pain, kids.



So off we went, Laura Gaga and Snow White and Wonderwoman and Jessica Rabbit. A zombie and a ball of glitter were also somehow involved, as was a man in a tweed suit. I never did figure out what he was supposed to be. But then surprisingly, PEOPLE ASKED ME ABOUT MY OUTFIT AS IF THEY HAD NEVER SEEN THE TELEPHONE VIDEO.



Come on people! REALLY? I'm Laura Gaga!



And that was probably funnier after all those drinks.



The point of this story is that after my rant about boys only being interested in sluts on a night out and never in the girl that is wearing the incredibly stylish (yet affordable!) vintage teadress who actually HAS a personality is that uh-huh. Yup. Trusies. I'm no bloody Beyonce- I'm far too dimply and squidgy for that- but I have never had so much attention In. My. Life.



Jessica Rabbit whispered in my ear as I was chatting to a bloke, "You're the most popular person here." And I did feel kind of good. Even girls were approaching me to tell me that they liked my costume and to marvel over just how much hairspray I was wearing. Hmmm. Fair enough then, that chick earlier on might have had a point.



But the thing is, when you dress like a slut, those boys? Yup. Interested in only one thing.



Scrabble.



Just kidding! That was a euphemism for sex. And some wouldn't even beat around the bush about it. Pun intended.



One guy called me over to him and told me he had been watching me all night. I laughed and told him I had only just arrived. But he saw through me and was adamant my bum and I had been around for a couple of hours already. Okay then, I thought, he's not bullshitting me. Let the man speak. How did I fancy going for a drink after? He asked me. I replied by asking his name. I'm a details girl. He asked for my number and he seemed okay, so I gave it him. To be honest, I'm just a sucker for compliments. He asked about me going back to his place. I said no. He walked away.



Huh.



An idea started to form in my mind...



Wonderwoman picked a guy from the crowds and essentially orchestrated a meet-and-greet. The conversation pretty much went the same way. "So are you coming home with me then?" he sort of commanded and I stared at him. "I don't do that," I told him. "But you can have my number, buy me dinner, and then I'll think about it," I offered. He declined. "I don't take numbers," he told me.



That idea continued to form...



Third time lucky. One guy stared at me for twenty minutes before approaching me and telling me that, "Damn girl you look good!" He wanted to take me out he said. Treat me right. Could he get my number? What was my name? And it happened again. He was only interested in taking me home, right there and then.



THAT IDEA JUST BECAME FULLY FORMED.



And the idea is this. All of those girls, then, the ones who I might envy sometimes that swing and sway all sexy, arse and boobs out, pouting and preening and getting the attention of all of the boys? They are only getting that attention for one night. ONE NIGHT. And that isn't enough. I mean, yeah. Sometimes that's fun but it is exactly how I suspected. No-one is meeting Prince Charming that way, or Mr Right. It's Mr Right Now. So there's no competition at all really, is there?



I must admit though, on the walk home I did get a kick out of stopping traffic. Literally. Some guy pulled over and was all, "I could see you from down the street, a girl with that much confidence is a girl I need to know..." and do you know what I thought? A girl with this much confidence doesn't need to go home with a stranger tonight just to feel beautiful.



And I did. I felt like the hottest, most lovely girl in the world. Even if I was all alone in my bed.



I think Gaga would have been proud. And my Mama. I did her justice, too.