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:
- 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.
- I have proportionately large ass and hips. This is not a typical male shape.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
