All dressed up for the drag marathonI thought I’d imagined it, but then it happened again – this time with a bit more force; something was being brushed against my groin.
I looked down to see a large peacock feather being wafted against my nether regions. Startled, I traced a path along the feather and up the hand and arm holding it, and found myself staring into the face of a six foot transvestite wearing 7 inch high heels. She/he fluttered her long eyelashes, smiled sweetly, held up a ruffled hand and whispered huskily (the emphasis being on the huskily):
“Perdona.”
Laughing, I moved aside. Well it served me right. I’d been blocking the access to the fuel supply for this years’ ‘Mascarita Ponte Tacón’ (High Heels Marathon). In other words, I was in the way of the free beer provided by Puerto de la Cruz’ Ayuntamiento for the contestants in what has become one of the most popular and funniest events of Carnaval on Tenerife.

It’s a nice touch; plying the high-heeled beauties with beer just before the race. Some were struggling to walk on heels as it was; throw in alcohol to mess with balance and co-ordination systems and a series of platform-shoe unfriendly obstacles along the length of the course and you’ve got a recipe for mayhem. The very least that’s going to get broken is some elegantly painted fingernails. The whole thing is a hoot.

Missing an essential piece of costumeThere were over 200 entrants this year and the registration took a good two hours; a marathon in itself, but it did give me time to have a good look at what fantastic, imaginative and lewd and rude costumes were on show; which was almost as much fun as the race itself.
There were flowerpots, Xmas trees, cowgirls, Madonna’s, Paris Hiltons, scantily clad weightlifters, scantily clad overweight and underdressed mock tourists, whole shops (yep, really – people dressed as shops; figure that one out), cacti and even someone in a functioning bath and shower. This year’s lot weren’t quite as un-PC as in previous years, but here were still enough ‘shocking’ touches (the usual model penis’ barely concealed by short dresses, exposed buttocks etc) to shock any conservative and sensitive, unsuspecting visitors in the thirty-odd thousand strong crowd.

After my dalliance with the towering tranny, I decided to retire to a more strategic spot and let the stars of the show get on with the fun, nonsense and general razzmatazz.
God knows how the ‘marathon men’ feel today after running an assault course in their stilettos and platforms, but I know that my legs are stiff from just standing and watching, and my jaw muscles are aching from an overdose of laughing and smiling.

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