There I was, standing in front of Loehmann’s department store on Sixth Avenue at 16th Street, waiting for Braden Chapman to arrive following his morning shift at Grey Dog. A few minutes behind schedule, he rounded the corner, wearing a pair of baggy jeans and a black Ramones t-shirt that did little to conceal his expanding waste line. He short brown hair and pale complexion were in sharp contrast to the last time that I had seen Braden, when he had been covered in feathers and sequins in order to evoke the essence of his alter ego, drag sensation Mimi Imfurst.
“Honey, you need to learn to be fashionably late,” he said, as he leaned in to give me a hug.
And so we entered Loehmann’s, heaven for a drag queen according to Chapman, because everything is both designer and cheap. After looking at bedazzled sunglasses for 20 minutes or so, we found our way to the shoe section, and suddenly Chapman’s eyes lit up.
“Baby, let’s try some on,” he said, as he dragged me towards the shelves that were lined with hundreds of pairs of women’s shoes.
Try them on, I thought? Absolutely not. What saleswoman would allow a man as large as Braden Chapman to try on a pair of heels?
As he walked me up and down the aisles, he told me all about the dos and don’ts that every proper queen must follow. For example, queens should never wear sandals because they accentuate larger feet.
“Only some little screaming twink could manage to wear these,” he said, pointing to a pair of Egyptian-themed sandals that looked as though they had been taken straight from Elizabeth Taylor’s Cleopatra-era closet.
He then turned his attention to my feet and said, “Oh dear, you certainly can’t pull off sandals, you’ve got bulky man logs.”
Upon seeing the ballet flats, he rushed by because according to Chapman, they are quite taboo in the world of a drag queen. From what I gathered, if it doesn’t have a heel, it isn’t worth wearing.
Finally we arrived at a table covered with pumps, which he said were the perfect accessory to any queen’s wardrobe. He reminded me that as a drag queen, my feet would be wider than the “anorexic twats” who would normally purchase the shoes that were being displayed in front of me, and I would need to find a wider pump in order to remain comfortable.
“Trust me, after singing your ass off in heels all night long, you’ll thank me for that recommendation.”
Just then…
“Would you like to try them on?” asked the saleswoman.
“Excuse me?” I responded, probably looking absolutely appalled that she would dare assume that I wanted to try on a pair of woman’s shoes.
“I said, would you like to try your shoes on?”
I stared back, unsure how to respond. Luckily Braden saved me by butting in and asking the woman if she had a pair of purple satin Mary Jane pumps. Without batting an eyelash, she took the shoe from Braden and wandered off to find him a 12-wide. He must have noticed my confusion.
“Oh please, I know that you can’t be a prude! Don’t look so surprised.”
“That’s why I’m confused,” I responded. “That didn’t even faze her.”
“Listen to me doll, first of all you’re in New York fucking City. And second, you’re in Chelsea, the hub of American faggotry. For Christ’s sake, that woman has probably helped men pick out everything from heels to panties.”
And after a short pause… “Which reminds me, I need to find a few new bras. Don’t want the titties to get all saggy.”
An hour later we left Loehmann’s, with three pairs of shoes and a set of push up bras, as well as some of the gaudiest pairs of sunglasses that I have ever seen. Apparently gaudy is good in drag land. Who knew?
During the short walk to our apartment building, Braden first noticed my walk.
“Honey, do you really call yourself a homo?” he asked. “You look like the abominable snowman when you walk.”
I laughed, feeling severely awkward and not knowing how to respond. Luckily, our landlady was sitting on the stoop in front of our building and immediately engaged us in a conversation about our mutual dislike for the family in 3C; their children tend to be screaming at all hours of the day, especially during the key hangover hours. Upon reaching the second floor, Braden bid me farewell, but first gave me my first bit of homework: try walking for an hour in women’s shoes in order to improve my posture. I joked and probably blushed, but seconds later he handed me a pair of black patent leather, lace-up shoes. I shivered with fear.
Next week’s assignment: actually try them on.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Night Three: Logan
Wow, so this is what a real drag queen looks like during the "in between" phase...
Mind you, she only tore her wig off after the countless shots of tequila. Never again.
Mind you, she only tore her wig off after the countless shots of tequila. Never again.
Night Three: Logan
After last week’s class, I realized that there were a significant number of unanswered questions that needed to be answered before I could actually sit down and make a significant claim about the drag subculture in New York City. Yet again, I returned to Barracuda (which reminds me: go somewhere new next week!) in order to get to the bottom of some of the most important lingering questions about the world of drag.
On my way to Barracuda, I somehow managed to pick up two very lost but friendly and obviously drunk gay guys. Without even giving me their names, they decided we were going to be best friends. I mentioned my assignment to them, and suddenly their eyes widened: they had magically transformed into my fairy godfathers, because it just so happens that they were roommates with Logan Hardcore, one of the top queens in the show.
Once we arrived at Barracuda, we made our way to their reserved couch and waited for people to arrive. And they do. Soon, Logan arrived, and we became the hot couch in the place. Logan was without a doubt the queen bee of our little circle. To my admittedly amateur eye, she seemed perfect. Her wig was flawless, her makeup just barely over the top enough to be drag-appropriate. There was no one here with as much glamour as she could bring. My new friends introduced me to her, and told her about my project. “Yeah,” she smirked. “I guess I could help.” I was in! One of my two new friends asked for my phone number, to pass on to Logan. I acquiesced happily, grateful for the opportunity.
And so a few nights later, I met Logan again at Barracuda for drinks. It was still early, around 7:00 pm on a Saturday. I was the first to arrive, so I sat down and ordered a Tanqueray and tonic. Logan arrived about 15 minutes later, decked out in a blond wig, with black tights and an extra-large gray t-shirt that seemed to have been transformed into a dress. She informed me that it was her night off, but she still needed to “dress to impress.”
How do you become a good drag queen?
Listen sister, you can’t just wake up one morning and say, “Hello world, I’m ready to be the queen bee.” It takes poise and practice. Honestly baby, I don’t know if there is any one correct answer to that question. My advice though is be big and over the top in anything that you do. Big hair. Big make up. Big opening number. And naturally, big titties.
Why do you perform in drag instead of merely performing as a gay man?
BORRRRING! (She screams it over and over again, banging her hands against the bar, prompting the bartender Colin to deliver us several shots of tequila. Ugh, I hate tequila.) It’s just plain old boring! There is something fun about getting up on stage and being unrecognizable. Being someone so completely different from the man that you’ve been for the greater part of the past 24 years. And plus, some queens can make between $800 and $1500 per night! In cash! Hot damn, that’s good money, right? And unless you’ve got an expensive seamstress, that money is tax free and all yours!
What do you outfits costs you?
Not much – I make my own clothes, so it depends on the price of the fabric. And sometimes, I’ll just go to Forever 21, get something tragic and slutty, and fabulous-it-up with some glitter and pizazz. Some queens spend hundreds though. Hundreds.
What do you admire in other queens?
Guts. I admire a hot cunt who doesn’t mind getting out on stage all dolled up in sequins and feathers who will give it her all, sing her heart out and just be fucking fabulous. She doesn’t have to be RuPaul, she can be some little no-one newbie, but as long as she’s got heart then she’s golden in my book.
Is there a hierarchy among queens?
Of course there is! While I’d love to say that it’s all about talent, it’s actually about how many fags you’ve got wrapped about your finger. (Which reminds me: I need to speak with the regular men in the audience to see what attracts them to drag queens.) Popularity darling, popularity. For example, see Busty down there (referring to Busty LaRue, a red headed drag queen at the opposite end of the bar dressed up as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz), if I ever see you talking with her, I’ll cut your cock off faster than you can say John Wayne Bobbitt. (She says with a wink, and a squeeze of my thigh, which prompts...)
So, do you sleep with men or women?
Honey, wouldn’t you just love to know. (Which is then followed by a wink, another shot of tequila, and a kiss on the check. Oy vey. Tequila is evil.)
And with that shot of tequila – our seventh, thank god for tape recorders – it is now 9:00 pm, and Logan wants me to join her and another queen, Miss Sheneeda Drink, as well as a few gay buddies for some more drinks and dancing at Therapy in Hell’s Kitchen. So, the seven of us head off to Logan’s apartment so that she can change for the evening, and so that we can pre-gaming. (Wait, didn’t we already pre-game? Ouch, my liver.)
On my way to Barracuda, I somehow managed to pick up two very lost but friendly and obviously drunk gay guys. Without even giving me their names, they decided we were going to be best friends. I mentioned my assignment to them, and suddenly their eyes widened: they had magically transformed into my fairy godfathers, because it just so happens that they were roommates with Logan Hardcore, one of the top queens in the show.
Once we arrived at Barracuda, we made our way to their reserved couch and waited for people to arrive. And they do. Soon, Logan arrived, and we became the hot couch in the place. Logan was without a doubt the queen bee of our little circle. To my admittedly amateur eye, she seemed perfect. Her wig was flawless, her makeup just barely over the top enough to be drag-appropriate. There was no one here with as much glamour as she could bring. My new friends introduced me to her, and told her about my project. “Yeah,” she smirked. “I guess I could help.” I was in! One of my two new friends asked for my phone number, to pass on to Logan. I acquiesced happily, grateful for the opportunity.
And so a few nights later, I met Logan again at Barracuda for drinks. It was still early, around 7:00 pm on a Saturday. I was the first to arrive, so I sat down and ordered a Tanqueray and tonic. Logan arrived about 15 minutes later, decked out in a blond wig, with black tights and an extra-large gray t-shirt that seemed to have been transformed into a dress. She informed me that it was her night off, but she still needed to “dress to impress.”
How do you become a good drag queen?
Listen sister, you can’t just wake up one morning and say, “Hello world, I’m ready to be the queen bee.” It takes poise and practice. Honestly baby, I don’t know if there is any one correct answer to that question. My advice though is be big and over the top in anything that you do. Big hair. Big make up. Big opening number. And naturally, big titties.
Why do you perform in drag instead of merely performing as a gay man?
BORRRRING! (She screams it over and over again, banging her hands against the bar, prompting the bartender Colin to deliver us several shots of tequila. Ugh, I hate tequila.) It’s just plain old boring! There is something fun about getting up on stage and being unrecognizable. Being someone so completely different from the man that you’ve been for the greater part of the past 24 years. And plus, some queens can make between $800 and $1500 per night! In cash! Hot damn, that’s good money, right? And unless you’ve got an expensive seamstress, that money is tax free and all yours!
What do you outfits costs you?
Not much – I make my own clothes, so it depends on the price of the fabric. And sometimes, I’ll just go to Forever 21, get something tragic and slutty, and fabulous-it-up with some glitter and pizazz. Some queens spend hundreds though. Hundreds.
What do you admire in other queens?
Guts. I admire a hot cunt who doesn’t mind getting out on stage all dolled up in sequins and feathers who will give it her all, sing her heart out and just be fucking fabulous. She doesn’t have to be RuPaul, she can be some little no-one newbie, but as long as she’s got heart then she’s golden in my book.
Is there a hierarchy among queens?
Of course there is! While I’d love to say that it’s all about talent, it’s actually about how many fags you’ve got wrapped about your finger. (Which reminds me: I need to speak with the regular men in the audience to see what attracts them to drag queens.) Popularity darling, popularity. For example, see Busty down there (referring to Busty LaRue, a red headed drag queen at the opposite end of the bar dressed up as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz), if I ever see you talking with her, I’ll cut your cock off faster than you can say John Wayne Bobbitt. (She says with a wink, and a squeeze of my thigh, which prompts...)
So, do you sleep with men or women?
Honey, wouldn’t you just love to know. (Which is then followed by a wink, another shot of tequila, and a kiss on the check. Oy vey. Tequila is evil.)
And with that shot of tequila – our seventh, thank god for tape recorders – it is now 9:00 pm, and Logan wants me to join her and another queen, Miss Sheneeda Drink, as well as a few gay buddies for some more drinks and dancing at Therapy in Hell’s Kitchen. So, the seven of us head off to Logan’s apartment so that she can change for the evening, and so that we can pre-gaming. (Wait, didn’t we already pre-game? Ouch, my liver.)
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