"You lost what? How the hell did you do that? No, don't tell me - I don't want to know!" That was my wife's reply when I told her what had happened at Ron Storme's the previous night. But let me start at the beginning.
The 15th August 1998 was something of a landmark to me - it was to be my 100th tranny outing, and it so happened that it took me to Ron Storme's Club Travestie Extraordinaire in Stepney, London. This club opens its doors every second Saturday from 8.30pm 'til 2am, and Ron is always there to greet his guests personally. His parties usually have a theme, and this one was 'Anything Goes'. What a way to celebrate!
Now, my friends know that I always wear something suitably outrageous whenever I go out, but on this occasion, with the party theme having given me carte blanche to dress exactly how I pleased, I thought I'd dust off a sweet little number which I'd bought several years earlier in a fashion boutique at Gatwick Airport while en route to St Lucia, but had never yet worn. It was a twelve-inch blue lycra skirt, designed to be worn on the beach over a bikini. In addition to hugging my knicker-line, it fastened with simple ties which ensured that it hung open to the waist at one side. To show this to its best effect for Ron's party, I wore with it a pair of white french knickers and a lacy garter, and I topped the outfit off with a white tee-shirt.
I left home at around 6.30pm, and called in first on my friend Mary in Ipswich. Mary had rung me earlier in the day to say that she'd hurt her back and wouldn't therefore be going to Ron's, so after checking that she was OK, I went on to collect Rikki, then headed for London, arriving at about 9.15.
We'd been at the party for a little over an hour when I came to the unavoidable conclusion that the white platform shoes I'd chosen to wear were unsuitable for long-term dancing, so before my blisters became too painful, I returned to the car to change into a more comfortable black pair which, quite by chance, I'd brought along with me. This was the first time I'd ever been outside the club alone, but I was quite flattered by the number of motorists who hooted at me along the Commercial Road. One even screeched to a halt at green traffic lights to allow me to cross the road in front of him - he was either being extremely thoughtful, or he simply wanted a chance to study me at close range!
Returning to the club a few minutes later, I noted that Rikki had removed her white blouse and black skirt, and was now dancing in a slip-dress, although I have to say she still looked quite respectable. In any case, it seems to have become very fashionable nowadays for girls to wear underwear or even nightwear to clubs and pubs. Unfortunately, as I was wearing a very minimalist outfit anyway, there was nothing I could remove - or so I thought.
It was around midnight, and the party was in full swing when, for some inexplicable reason, one of the guys decided to take his shirt off. Now for Ron Storme's this is actually quite unusual - although a lot of the trannies, TSs and real girls regularly show more bare flesh and underwear than would be acceptable in 'polite society', it's rare for a guy dressed as a guy to do this. However, his action sparked off a minor bout of undressing amongst the other dancers, more bras and knickers (and an odd pair of underpants) were revealed, and the party began to resemble those famous scenes from the film Dirty Dancing. At this point, I was wondering whether I had the nerve to take my own skirt off as well (don't ask why, I just was, OK??) when someone at the next table slipped off a pair of dangerously-high heels, fell onto a table, and drenched me with lager shandy. Well, what could I do? I went to the ladies, rinsed and dried my tee-shirt, garter and shoes as best I could, but my skirt was too wet to be able to do anything with. It really was - you'll have to take my word for it. Smiling wickedly at my 'good' fortune, I adjusted my knickers, and returned to the dance floor carrying my wet skirt. As my handbag was full of the usual sort of crap that all true girlies never leave home without, I threw the skirt onto the ledge alongside it, and returned to the dance floor for the remaining couple of hours.
Well, two o'clock soon arrived, and the music ended. I said goodbye to all my friends, and went to pick up my stuff. I found my handbag, complete with all its contents, but my skirt was nowhere to be seen! I asked Ron, and Bob in the cloakroom, and the girls at the bar if anyone had handed it in, but with no luck. I then asked a guy who'd been sitting near us if he'd seen a blue miniskirt lying around. He looked me up and down, his gaze dwelling for a moment on my knickers, then he grinned and replied, "no, sorry sweetheart, I haven't." I thanked him anyway, and added, "just as well my car keys weren't with it, I suppose." We both laughed. I must admit that I was rather sad to have lost my new skirt, but I was also highly entertained by the prospect of having to walk through the streets of London wearing just a tee-shirt, knickers and high heels! Rikki, bless her, repeatedly tried to donate her own skirt in an effort to cover my modesty, but I wouldn't hear of it.
Fortunately - or should that be unfortunately - it was only a couple of minutes walk back to the car, and this time, Rikki and I received several bawdy comments from passing motorists. I decided not to venture into a petrol station or into work on the way home - there are certain times when it's just not appropriate to do these things! So I dropped Rikki off, and arrived home myself at 4.15am, then showered and went to bed.
In the morning, my wife asked me whether I'd had a good time - and the rest is history.
From personal notes.