If there’s one thing I’ve learned from frequenting gay bars, it’s that dragqueens can do “diva” better than any vagina-sporting bitch I know.
They’re six-foot-something, looming beasts, armed with a concept of ‘femininity’ that could leave Nicki Minaj perplexed. The bigger the hair- the better. The smaller the dress- the better. The longer the lashes-the better. The smaller the bulge- the better.
Watching performances, it often appears they’re in a competition of “Who can flail their arms around the most”, while proving that they can own the shit out of a classic Celine Dion chest-pound.
Now, I don’t want this to come across as an “I hate dragqueens” post, because I feel quite the contrary. I think they are fabulous and I gurgle with joy when I see a man in a dress. What I’m most bamboozled by (yes, that’s a word! It means baffled! The world is an exciting place!) is the abundance of titty-grabbing that occurs when a man is dressed as a woman.
Let me explain.
On more than one occasion, I have been minding my own business in the ladies’ room at a bar when suddenly a towering vision of glitter and weave appears behind me in the mirror. There is something about a 6’7” ‘woman’ that makes me both excited and terrified. So, let’s assume for the sake of this story that I was drunk. I know it’s a long shot, but try to imagine it, folks. So there I am, fixing my face and practicing my “I’m not drunk, I’m just sassy” face, when this superfab tower of glam approaches me. I smile, contemplate throwing a ‘love the outfit, girl!”, or a simple “WORK”, her way, but decide I’m not fabulous enough to pull it off. She begins adjusting herself and I took this as my cue to leave. Sooner than I could say “Where’s my drink?” the queen spins around, looks me in the face and grabs my nipples.
Had this man not been head to toe in glitter, sequins, and eau-de-hoe, I would have thrown a slapbomb so hard he would’ve been a she for realz. But the combination of hair and glamour threw me for a loop. She exhaled and let out some loud, enthusiastic variation of “honk honk” and I just stood there- nipples pinched and wide-eyed, still sporting my drunken smile. I leaned over, picked up my purse and let out possibly the most awkward laugh of all time. I stumbled out of that bathroom shamed, confused and a little aroused.
So, next time you’re alone in the bathroom with a dragqueen, remember to guard your nipples- or she’ll come a-honkin’.
These are life lessons, people.