The Femulators of Flamingo Court

Every Wednesday at 10 a.m. sharp, the retired men of Flamingo Court gathered at the community center for coffee, stale danish and intense games of competitive grumbling.

They were proud old-school gents—gray slacks, orthopedic shoes and enough nasal hair to knit a throw blanket. Their leader, by sheer volume and mustache alone, was Stanley, a former insurance adjuster known affectionately (and loudly) as “Stanley the Manley.”

But Stanley had a secret.

When not playing backgammon or lecturing teenagers on proper lawn mower etiquette, Stanley was Stana—a proud femulator with a passion for pencil skirts, floral blouses and reading Vogue while eating frosted mini-wheats.

One day, he arrived late to the meeting wearing suspiciously well-shaped eyebrows and a hint of shimmer on his cheekbones.

“Stanley,” grunted Arnie, peering over his bifocals, “you’re looking… glossy.”

“New moisturizer,” Stanley lied, sipping his coffee with pinky extended. “Also, I’ve discovered something that may change our lives.”

“Is it a blood pressure medication that doesn’t cause spontaneous naps?”

“No,” Stanley said, standing dramatically. “It’s femulating.”

The room fell silent.

“Femulating?” asked Donny, who still called Netflix “the internet movie box.”

“Yes,” Stanley beamed. “It’s the art of dressing and behaving like a refined lady of culture. And I happen to be… quite good at it.”

He whipped off his blazer to reveal a flowing lavender blouse with pearl buttons.

Murray dropped his cruller.

Arnie clutched his chest—not from offense, but from the sudden realization that Stanley’s shoes were really cute.

“I know it sounds wild,” Stanley said, fluffing his short auburn wig, “but being Stana is the most relaxed, confident, fabulous I’ve ever felt. And I think all of you could use a little… zhuzh.”

There was a long pause.

Then Donny mumbled, “I’ve always wanted to try one of those silky robe things.”

By the following Wednesday, something miraculous had happened.

The Flamingo Court Gentlemen’s Club was now The Flamingo Femulators’ Fellowship.

Gone were the gray slacks and orthopedic monotony. In their place: scarves, cardigans, tasteful jewelry and surprisingly decent contouring skills for men with tremors.

Arnie became Arlene, known for her statement brooches and uncanny ability to walk in kitten heels with a walker.

Donny became Dawn, and insisted on being called “Madame Treasurer” while managing the snack fund.

Murray, now Marlene, wore bold lipstick and refused to answer to anything else.

They took a field trip to the mall in a minivan blaring ABBA. They started a book club that only read romance novels with shirtless pirates. They got kicked out of bingo night for “excessive sass and feather boa shedding.”

And Stanley? He stood at the center of it all, hands on hips, pearls shining, proud as a peacock in a paisley pantsuit.

“Gentlemen,” he declared one Thursday during tea, “we have not lost our manhood. We have simply… accessorized it.”

And nobody ever went back.

Except Frank. Frank tried to, but came crawling back after two days in khakis, muttering, “I miss the breeze under a skirt.”

The Flamingo Femulators had found their calling. And their signature shade of lipstick: “Sunset Sangria.”

Wearing Ann Taylor

Bartek Kasprzykowski imitating Eugeniusz Bodo femulating Mae West on Polish television’s Twoja Twarz Brzmi Znajomo.