Eat Me

My childhood fantasy has come to life. The flyer read:

OOMPA LOOPY: Please join Kostume Kult in celebrating the 1971cult film “Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory” and the opening night of the Johnny Depp remake. With DJ's in two rooms, a variety of hilarious acts and Oompa Loompa face paint being offered to all, this will be a truly wild, candy-coated, black-lit, late-night dance party... Special treats for Oompa Loompas!!! Wear: blacklight-friendly or Wonka-inspired costumes.

As a kid I checked out the worn VHS copy of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory from my small-town library over and over, its hulking plastic box splitting at the seams from the attacks of grubby little hands. In church I fantasized about playing tantrum-throwing Veruca Salt clamoring in key for a goose that lays golden eggs. I sat at meetings of the Young Astronauts Club imagining myself as the gum-smacking Violet Beauregard being rolled to the juicing room by a band of cautionary Oompa Loompas. But nothing was better than Willy Wonka's edible playland where everyone ran amuck, wide-eyed and jacked up on sugar, chomping on trees or slurping cream from mushrooms the size of Barca loungers. I wanted to frolic through a universe where every mundane object was transformed into a sweet indulgence. Now I could assume my proper place as Willy Wonka’s protégé by concocting a masterpiece that would make him a proud: a candy costume.

The day of the party, plan-less, but confident, I move through Dollar One tucking five boxes of Fruit Roll-ups, a package of Twizzler's, Nerds ropes, and Lifesavers under my arm. My partner in crime for the evening is “TinkerBill,” nicknamed for his tendency to fiddle, jimmy, and create playthings from vibrators to jewelry. We sprawl on his floor and begin unrolling roll-ups--leaving their plastic backing intact--and stapling the squares together like a debaucherous post-modern quilt. I add a flourish with the Nerds Rope and cover the whole sheet in Saranwrap, minimizing stickiness and preventing others’ spontaneous munching, then make preliminary cylindrical shapes for the top and bottom. Bill--ever the gentleman--leaves the room as I wiggle into my edible ensemble and returns to staple me into it. I wrap my sandal straps with red licorice and fashion a necklace out of Twizzlers and Lifesavers, then teeter precariously out of the apartment. Bill, adorned simply with a “blacklight friendly” neon orange monkey and accessories made of yarn, hails a cab, and I balance gingerly on the edge of the pleather seat as we speed down Central Park West.

The crowd outside the swanky hotel is divided into neon-clad revelers with painted faces, and young WASPs throwing sidelong glances while heading to the other, unadorned entrance. Inside, we squirm to the dance floor amidst a throng of creepy Wonkas to find Oompa Loompas of all shapes and sizes congregated in the center of the room, squatting and bobbing in an impromptu performance. We watch until the Unofficial Brotherhood of Oompa Loompas disperses then make our way to the bar. A girl dressed as a Tootsie Roll climbs on top of a speaker to thank the organizers of the party and announce a limited number of “magic brownies” for sale. A frenzy ensues. The Oompa Loompa song resumes at high volume as the impervious crowd jumps up and down waving five-dollar-bills. During the panic, an acquaintance sidles up to me, leans over and says, "Yersonysloading."

"WHAT?!" I scream over the music. A giant, illuminated blueberry wanders by. [

"I SAID, You're YONI'S GLOWING."

I look down to see that my white panties underneath a blue roll-up--an opaque combination in natural light--have been seized by the blacklight. A glow is emanating from my crotch, not unlike the rays of light that burst out of the clouds when an angel descends from heaven.

I scurry to the bathroom through gyrating crowds and shimmy out of my underwear lest my fellow party-goers, many of whom are well-acquainted with giant edible mushrooms, decide to heed the call of the Lord. . Flush with modesty after having my yoni referenced, I forgo the fashion competition in favor of a few turns on the dance floor. After an extra-long breakbeats remix of “I Want Candy,” my outfit seems to be expanding. The warmed roll-ups are stretching like cheap plastic in a hot car, and my bustier has grown two sizes. Having anticipated alterations on the fly, Bill retrieves our emergency kit (extra roll-ups, mini-stapler, t-shirt) and cinches me in.

I mingle, making periodic pit stops for restapling and am increasingly aware that I am clad entirely in consumables. People are ogling me and licking their lips as though they are starving on a desert island and I am a walking, talking pork chop. The magic brownies must have kicked in. Snack time.

I evade hungry stares for another hour and then make my way to the exit, stopping just long enough to indulge a friend in a taste at my waist. I slide into a cab and relax, pleased that both my clothing and I survived the evening integrity intact. As we near my apartment, I fish out my keys and gather my belongings, reluctant to issue my usual late-night request to the driver to wait until I’m inside. I pay the fare and scoot out. In one instant, I slam the door, the cab pulls away, and my clothing explodes as if I am Cinderella at the stroke of midnight. My skirt, lacking the graciousness to split down a seam, pops apart, staples springing heavenward, roll-ups flying into the street, plastic oozing down my thighs. I stand, bewildered and naked from the waist down, in the middle of Twelfth Street surrounded by remnants of corn syrup and food coloring. I scoop my bags up by my forearms and waddle to my door clutching what's left of my skirt to my front, and the only thing glowing is my bare white ass in the moonlight.