After the housekeeping witnessed fuck session (followed by a trip to The Disney Store and dinner at Bennigan’s), The Fella and I settled in early for the evening so as to get a good night’s sleep for the awe and wonder of (no longer) teen pop star Debbie Gibson the next day.

All night long I tossed and turned, like a child waiting for Santa. As The Fella gently snored, I watched the clock, counting down the minutes until we could get our big gay on and hit Halsted Street.

I was in the shower at 7 am sharp, dressed by 7:20, and shaking Tristan awake at 7:21. He stared at me through one half open eye.

“You do realize she doesn’t perform until 2:30, right?” he asked between yawns.

“Yes, but Tristaaaaaaaaaan,” I explained ever so slowly since he was obviously still in the throes of slumber and not thinking clealry, “it’s Debbie Gibson.  There will crowds, possibly even traffic jams. Debbie.”

He sighed and padded off to the shower.

One quick train ride later — unlike a certain other ‘mo, The Fella is a master of the mass transit system — we found ourselves in Boystown, epicenter of Pride 2009. As if the gaily (hee hee) colored banners and balloons festooned Halsted Street weren’t enough to assure us that we were nearing our date with Deb-stiny, the banners confirmed it:

I could barely contain myself. Debbie Gibson! (Forget that Deborah shit — she’s always gonna be Debbie to me.)

Since the songstress extraordinaire wasn’t due to perform until 2:30, we took advantage of the 3 hour wait time (I was NOT going to risk missing the genius behind ELECTRIC YOUTH!) and strolled about the street festival, taking in the sights. There were skewered lamb kabobs laying in the 90+ degree heat, a gay cheerleading squad, one of the pushiest HRC reps that I’ve ever seen (when I am looking for my boyfriend in a teeming throng of hot, sweaty gay mens, do NOT ask me if I need his permission to make a donation to a worthwhile cause, m’kay?), and a veritable shitload of saucy window displays celebrating our shared ‘mo-ness.

Seriously, who doesn’t love a genital-free three-way?

But even as The Fella and I meandered about enjoying the chance to just be us, in the back of my mind was one persistent thought: Debbie Gibson….Debbie Gibson…Debbie Gibson.

And as befitting any venue sporting Grade A talent such as my beloved Ms. Gibson, no expenses were spared.

Classy, right? (For the record, though, I must admit that the sights outside…

…were much better than those inside.)

After a quick lunch at a quaint little place I once dined at when I dated a certain older gentleman, it was off to the North Stage where I forced a path to the front of the stage and endured an hour of female drag queens (kings?).

By 2:20, there was a crowd of literally hundreds of tens, all salivating to shake their love with the pop princess of the 80’s.

I turned to The Fella. “Are you goose-bumping? ‘Cause I am SO goose-bumping,” I squealed, balled up fists making small circles in the air on either side of my jowls.

A moment later, the final drag king exited the stage and the emcee came out. I was thisclose to pissing myself in 90 degree plus weather and then standing there in my own filth. Debbie Gibson was about to perform!

But instead of introducing the greatest singer to ever write, produce, and record an album in her parents’ garage, he began announcing a change in the line-up. What? Huh? First syllable, sounds like…

It seemed that Thelma Houston had a family emergency, necessitating her needing to leave earlier than expected and ever the consummate professional, Debbie had agreed to switch slots with her and would instead be performing at 4:30.

Fuck.

Me.

Hard.

I felt as though I had been kicked in the ‘nads.

And as Thelma Who-ston — a.k.a. Big Bird — took the stage, I felt my Debbie Gibson dream slipping away…

TO BE CONCLUDED