You in Drag

You were twenty-one when you tried on a dress for the first time. We’re almost the same age, so I assume that must have been around 1981. You were on vacation in Rio de Janeiro, a recently out young gay man having fun. The city had the ability to unleash many a desire, and you partook in quite a few. You enjoyed assignations with men of all colors, all persuasions, gay, straight, bi. The demarcating lines were blurred in Rio. But you did befriend a black femme boy, as one should. Even though you and Celso had little in common, you were surprised by how well you two got along, how easily you were seduced by the exoticism of his world, by its sheer fabulousness. Out of little, Celso created the divine. He called you sister. Somos irmãs, he said. He introduced you to friends, accompanied you to the local bars. You watched the Academy Awards on television together, giggling joyously as Bette Midler sent coded messages to her gay worshipers. He asked if you had ever worn drag. You hadn’t, you told him. You’d never thought about it. You must, you must.

He led you into the women’s bathroom in the back of a bar one night. Waiting for you were his friends, all in various stages of transformation. They searched through shopping bags until they found the right dress, a dark green, conservative, front-buttoned number with matching cardigan. They wouldn’t have to shave your chest or arms. Dark double nylons and no one could see the hair on your legs. No wig for you since they were expensive and not one of them could afford to lend you his. But look, a pillbox hat with a tacky goldfinch on its side and a veil that covered your eyes. They covered your face with so much makeup that you felt like a cadaver being readied for an open casket. But no, you were no cadaver; with lipstick, eyeliner, and a good foundation, they restructured your face, built another atop the one you wore. The face regarding you in the mirror was both foreign and familiar, new but ancient, a mask that covered and revealed. The girls led you into the bar, sat you on a stool, and handed you a dry martini. You took a sip, cast a glance at all the men in the bar, and you freaked.

Thirty seconds was as long as the transformation lasted. No one noticed as you rushed back to the women’s bathroom, took off everything, folded it impeccably, washed your face with an assiduous thoroughness you hadn’t thought you possessed. Out, out, damn spot. You dressed yourself in your own clothes, men’s clothes, and sneaked out of the bathroom, out of the bar, into your safe hotel room.

A gay bar was not a safe space for you, was it? How could any space be when it was peopled?

But a seed had been dropped in fertile soil. How long did it take for you to dress up again, six months, a year? Halloween in San Francisco, not only did you dress up but you shaved your chest because the cleavage of the gown you found fell almost to your belly button. The wig made you look like Elsa Lanchester. I loved the photograph you showed me. You looked young and innocent, full of hope. You sparkled. You greeted many of the one-night-of-the-year drag queens, nodding or blowing a kiss, ignoring the voyeurs. But then you saw the burly policeman. There were two cops ahead of you, a man and a woman, standing, observing, pretending they were there to keep the peace. You honed in on him, the handsome man sporting a facial contortion between an amused smile and a smirk. You went up to him, so close your fake breasts almost bumped his lower ribs, stared up at him, challenged him, and you said, “I look terrible, a disaster, don’t I?” He was stunned, pulled back a bit, confusion sculpted his face. But you—you didn’t hesitate. Both hands, ten spread fingers pointing to your face, then your magnificent though cheap evening dress. “Tell me,” you said. “It’s shit, right? I look like shit.” The policewoman laughed. The policeman blushed. “No,” he said. “You don’t look like shit. You look fabulous.” You gave him an appraising eye. “Why, thank you,” you said, turning your back and walking away.

And the diva was born. With lipstick and stilettos, you could face this harsh world. When Francine saw an old picture of you in heels high enough to make any mortal dizzy, she asked how you could bear it. You said that for her, heels were oppression, but for you, they were liberation.

How many diva incarnations have you had? Lady Orangina, Mezzanine Fleur, Agnes Day, Mimi Chaim-Furst, Gay Ally, Checka Myrack, Lotta Botox, and more, quite a few more. I almost forgot Jane Joyce, who wrote You Sissies.

One day you realized you could transform into the diva without putting on a dress or high heels. You never really needed lipstick. It was merely training wheels.