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    I watched a platinum blonde apply false eyelashes one by one with a tweezer. She was better at it than I was. She wore black stockings and a fetching black satin merry widow, which pushed up a pair of foam hooters the size of honeydews.
    Jimbo was nearly pop-eyed. I guess he’d never realized beauty was only skin deep.
    The Merry Widow grabbed Jimbo by the thigh and said, “Oooh, you’re cute.”
    “I’m married,” quavered Jimbo.
    “That’s how I like them,” the Widow said, merrier than ever.
    Jimbo put his camera firmly to his face and started snapping. He aimed at a feather fan as big and bright as a jukebox. The sequin detail on a Bob Mackie dress. A large, sexy foot in a large, sexy shoe.
    He spent a lot of time shooting a stunning impersonator the color of creamed coffee, in a rhinestone dress just a shade darker than her skin. She wore a pheasant feather headdress and glided gracefully on four-inch heels. Most women I knew couldn’t have managed that getup. Most wouldn’t want to.
    “That’s the favorite, Chocolate Suicide,” Ralph told me. “She’s expected to win this year.”
    She looked scrumptious, but a shade too short and plump to be a beauty contestant. “She’d have to lose twenty pounds to compete in a female pageant,” I said.
    Ralph looked hurt. I didn’t fully appreciate Chocolate’s artistry. “This is one beauty contest where it’s good to be short and a little chubby,” he said. “They look more like real women. A little natural padding gives them curves and breasts.”
    I thought the female impersonator standing next to Chocolate Suicide made a better woman.Sharlot Webb was slender and wore soft makeup. Her shoulder-length hair was a natural brown. Her black velvet dress with the big shoulder bows had hardly a sequin anywhere. I could imagine wearing it myself.
    “How about Sharlot Webb?” I asked Ralph.
    He shrugged. “Sharlot’s okay, but she’s not Chocolate Suicide. Let’s go out and see some of the talent part of the show.”
    Jimbo looked relieved to leave backstage. We three made our way through the dusty velvet stage curtains to the ballroom. The stage and runway were decorated with mounds of flowers. The ballroom was jammed with folding chairs, and more people were standing.
    The audience was part of the show. At first glance, it appeared to be almost all women. At second glance, some of those women had five o’clock shadows. Others looked distressingly good. After a while I could pick out the impersonators. They were glamorous. The real women looked dowdy, like brown sparrows among the peacocks.
    A tall redhead in a black satin gown cut to there made me feel like maybe I should check into a salon for a makeover. I mean, if makeup and padding could make a man look that good, think what could be done for me with the right equipment. “Is she in the show?” I asked Ralph.
    “No. Some of the best impersonators never compete. They just do it for fun. I know one who is a banker by day. Another is an accountant. A few are hookers.”
    A brunette in a red dress slithered by. “That one has a pretty face and a beer gut,” I said.
    “That’s a real woman,” Ralph said.
    Onstage, things were dull. The talent competition was the slowest part of the evening. Many of the sets were fantastic. There were dungeons and harems and enough fake fog to cover London. But too many contestants simply lip-synched and paraded in flashy outfits. Watching men pretending to be women pretending to sing was boring. “How much longer does this go on?” I asked.
    “One more to go,” said Ralph. “You’re lucky. They scratched the Ass.”
    I blinked.
    “Maria Callous, the Ass with Class. She looks a little like Princess Di and plays on it. She wears these dresses you could wear to Buckingham Palace, with a little rhinestone bow over the butt. She’s always escorted on stage by a guy with big ears who wears a tux.
    “Last year she was Second Runner-Up. This year, she