quizzical pussy

Tonight is the finale of RuPaul’s Drag Race Season 3. Who cares, you ask? I do. My latest brush with acute illness has left me with a lot of time on my hands. Did you know you can watch every single scintillating episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race ever produced right on logo’s website, tiny and pixelated beyond your wildest dreams? Well, you can.

To say that I lay in bed watching every episode would be a gross understatement. I also watched the extra catty web exclusives where you get to see the drag queen contestants bitch about each other backstage.

All in all, I’m excited to see who wins. I actually, really, almost and maybe even truly unashamedly am.

Part of this, of course, is research. Or maybe reverse research, because I’m actually a drag king. That’s right: I have exactly one performance to my masculine alter ego’s name (which I can’t share because I just know he’s destined to become a famous playboy and I still have a secret identity to play fast and loose with here). And I’m just a handful of days from another, if I can decide what song we’re lip-synching to.

It was once explained to me that to do your makeup as a king, you just reverse everything that queens are supposed to do. So while a man will put a white stripe down the center of his nose to make it appear narrower and create the illusion of feminine features, a woman has to draw a dark stripe instead to make the nose appear wider. I have no idea whatsoever if this is valid or not. I know exactly enough about makeup to have never bothered to learn anything and I own a book by Kevyn Aucoin that I don’t entirely understand. That’s pretty much all I can say for myself when it comes to makeup.

Really, the assumption in drag is that the genders are opposites, and have minimal overlap. If I walk like a woman I obviously can’t be walking like a man. In a recent episode of Drag Race, a queen advised a straight jock on his first flight dressed as a woman that “girls don’t point”. Like, at things, with our fingers. Which, I have to admit as a girl, I do. But what we’re dealing with in drag isn’t gender; it’s fantasy gender.

Which is why it’s so powerful and challenging and fun, really.

But this is also why there probably won’t be a reality show all about drag kings. It’s the same reason handsomeness pageants aren’t neck-and-neck with beauty pageants for popularity and scholarship opportunities. Same reason both men’s and women’s magazines have hot chicks on their covers. This is gender 101 shit. We more or less all fetishize the image and the fantasy of femininity, regardless of which gender/s we’re actually attracted to. In performing the opposite gender, women lose that double-sided edge we come to expect. We’re no longer universal visual shorthand for “sex object”.

It took drag to make me stop and wonder if guys don’t sometimes feel bad that they’re largely excluded from pretty.

Of course, I kind of also love this about being a drag king. Performing maleness I don’t feel any pressure to look sexy in the ways I’m used to failing at (big boobs, long hair, perfect figure et al.), and I think that’s why I suddenly almost feel sexy. Or something.

Or maybe I’m drunk with power because I have a big fucking packing penis.

Last year I did a whole list of sexual resolutions. In a textbook QP move, I pretty much forgot about them as soon as I typed them. I did, however, accidentally adhere to a few of them. Let’s check them out one by one, because there’s no possible way that could be demoralizing for me!

1. Flirt with strangers: This one still sounds like fun, and I still don’t do it, except sometimes by accident. I barely even make eye contact with people on my bad days. So FAIL.
2. Initiate sex with my boyfriend: Not. Really. I think I did that all of once, then we got interrupted in the middle of fucking and I felt like a loser. FAIL.
3. Admit when I’m attracted to someone: I’m getting much better at this, though I’m still not at the point where I admit to that person. DEMIWIN.
4. Fulfill three new sexual fantasies: I’ve had a fuck-ton of fucking fun this year. I had a lot of great sex. I discovered that Laramy is awesome at spanking. I got to have a foursome and a FMF threesome (both featuring the earth-shatteringly hot Rowan and Viola Sharqtipus, with my sexy Laramy in the former), but I’d have liked to have been more proactive and adventurous in general. Still, WIN. And you would totally agree if you saw the pretties I got to play with.
5. Perform in a drag show: I did this. I need to remember to tell you about it. It was amazing. WIN. So much win.
6. Try out new sex toys! With an emphasis on sharing toys with others. While naked: I tried a few new toys. I still suck at bringing them into partner play. DEMIWIN? I guess?
7. Feel okay wearing the sexy stuff in front of partners: FAIL. Just fail. I’ve realized, though, that Laramy couldn’t care less if I wear sexy underwear (he seems to think that lingerie is a superfluous middleman between clothed and naked), though he does appreciate when I wear clothes that prove I have boobies.

So, considering that I didn’t really maintain the eye of the tiger on these, at all, not a super bad showing.

Upon rereading these, I realized that most of 2010′s resolutions dealt with insecurities, which is pretty fair. So this year I’m going to keep it very, very simple and just work on confidence. In I’m going to start thinking I’m awesome or die faking it.

Damn, this is going to be hard.

Do you have any New Year’s Resolutions that involve orgasms in some way, shape or form? Or even if they don’t, I’m always curious. You can even tell me anonymously if you like.

Happy New Year! I hope this year is far better than the last for each and every one of you.

I have to confess I haven’t been doing very well lately. My health has taken a turn for the worse, much to the chagrin of my sex life (and life in general). It’s getting to where I’m just too exhausted to see my boyfriend regularly, let alone pursue madcap sexual adventures. I’m hoping this is very temporary, but in the meantime I thought I’d infuse a little positivity by posting some of the most joyous– perhaps verging on gloating– anonymous confessions to ever appear in my inbox. Read and enjoy, because these people certainly are! I’m into it.

My long distance girlfriend came to visit last week. A good time was had by all, including some fun with chocolate sauce and a basting brush. By the end of the week she was around, she was referring to me as “The Energizer Bunny” and “A God in Bed”. Even managed to make her legs give out at one point. I just had to brag a bit.

(Re: June 29th confessions) Being bi is totally awesome for avoiding jealousy. My partner and I check out women or men together and we share porn all the time. (Gloat brag gloat)

I got the hood of my clit pierced a few years ago because guys had too hard of a time finding it – my clit’s too small. That’s not a problem anymore!

Last week I bound my breasts for the first time. I love being female and I love my boobs, but I wanted to know what it would feel like to have a flat(ter) chest. And it was awesome! I was bound all afternoon at work, put my (Share XL) cock on before I went to see my partner, and greeted him with a big, packaged hug.

Sometimes I get the feeling I’m easy to fall in love with. This isn’t the type of thing you can just tell people.

Got something to brag about? Or bitch about? Or just confess anonymously? Bring it all here.

Fifteen minutes after the drag show wrapped up, the performers filtered onto the dance floor and were lauded like celebrities. The queens were cooed over and asked to dance, twirled and dipped recklessly. Close up their stage makeup looked like carnival masks. Platform stilettos and male bodies made them seem like statues scaled up from life-size (life-size in a lesbian club being roughly female sized).

But the drag kings got even more attention than the larger-than-life drag queens, somehow. As they swaggered onto the floor necks swiveled. Modelesque femmes in delicate heels and frothy skirts threw their pipe cleaner arms around the kings’ popped and tie-ringed collars, or followed them around like puppies.

On my first trip to the local lesbian club, the weekly drag show pulled me away from the dance floor for as long as it lasted. As I sat through the vivid parade of gender pageantry I was transfixed by the kings. The drag queens were gorgeous and fun: tinsel and butterfly wings. But the kings were hauntingly magnetic. They tugged some blushing, stammering, boy-band loving, adolescent fangirl you didn’t even know you had in you straight out of your spleen. They made her bounce up and down, squealing, on your diaphragm until you hyperventilated a little and toddled up to the stage to give them a tribute in dollar bills. You were powerless against this. I was powerless against this.

I’ve always been fascinated by butches in a “want to be one” way as well as a “want to fuck one” way. Drag kings were butches in overdrive. And I wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Post-drag show, mid-dancing, there was a line like whoa for the unisex bathroom. As I stood there waiting a pretty young thing with a short skirt and teased hair sat on a nearby bench, weaving her impossibly long legs around each other–thighs and ankles both crossed, waiting to pounce on one of the drag kings as soon as she exited the restroom. The poofy-haired she-predator stalks its prey…

As the king emerged her confidence was almost a visible force surrounding her. Her hair was short, she wore a polo shirt and baggy pants over hundred dollar sneakers, the hip hop-loving frat boy look. She was unremarkable in terms of conventional beauty standards. She looked rather like Lance Bass, actually. As a femme she might not have gotten a lot of attention; probably not as much as that pretty young thing on the bench. But drag king Lance Bass wasn’t a femme. She was a king.

Prompted by PYT’s fluttering eyes and hair twirling, she struck up a conversation, and the pretty young thing hung on every word. PYT mentioned something about university classes, and Lance asked her major, like it somehow wasn’t the most mundane question ever conceived of. PYT’s eyes lit up to be asked anything about herself, and admitted she was undecided but leaning toward business. Lance instructed her that business was an excellent major and she should stick with it, then leaned down to PYT’s pretty young ear and whispered something that those of us in the loo line weren’t privy to, but made PYT’s eyes glow even brighter. In that moment I believed that PYT would earn a fucking M.B.A. just to impress this drag king she’d just met. After a few more minutes, Lance sauntered away with PYT’s number.

Later that night I passed PYT as she was talking to a flock of friends. “She’s probably such a player. She won’t even remember me tomorrow.” She was hoping she was wrong, but so obviously worried that she was right. I couldn’t help but think that in a typical, heteronormative high school setting (which would’ve been the reality, what, three years ago tops for these chicks?) PYT would’ve probably been too pretty and popular to say three words to Lance, who would’ve likely been in marching band. With me. Since I was the type of nerd who always nursed crushes on cheerleaders and chicks on the homecoming court, ace bandages were starting to look pretty good.

I resolved to try to harness the ineffable power of the drag king for myself. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I had, and still have, several things working against my goal. For instance:

1. My face is decidedly feminine. I have big Disney eyes and girl features. I don’t know how to avoid making highly exaggerated facial expressions. I’m hoping that makeup tricks can correct these handicaps, but the most I can realistically hope for is to look like a very effeminate man.
2. I have proportionately large ass and hips. This is not a typical male shape.
3. When I walk, I naturally sway my hips. If I consciously try not to do this I somehow end up also not bending my knees at all so I’m basically waddling like a duck. Not even necessarily a male duck.
4. Often I actually have considerable trouble walking at all because of my disability so it’s extra hard to try to learn to walk like a man when some days I barely know how to walk anyway.
5. Drag kings are at their best when they can dance a little. The only type of dance I’ve actually studied is belly dance. So not masculine.

Despite all this, I’m planning to do my first performance sometime in the next month. But I do have factors in my favor too. My boobs are small enough that they should be pretty easy to strap down. I have short hair (that’s going to get dramatically shorn for Spring all too soon) so I won’t have to hide my tresses under do-rags or hats. I’m nearly immune to stage fright. I’m used to people thinking I’m an incomprehensible idiot so “wtf?” stares don’t get me down. I have lots of swagger even if it is accompanied by a hip waggle at the moment. I think with a little practice and the right guidance I could possibly not suck at drag. I’m sure even Lance Bass had to start somewhere.