“The great tragedy of his life,” my friend once drunkenly announced on the roof of my old apartment, “is that he’s straight.”
Not that I felt as such, surrounded by male friends wearing black silk, layers of makeup carefully plastered onto my face. I also didn’t feel straight with feminine composure, as per my friend Abby Smith’s instructive words, “Stand up straight. Weight on your hips. And boobs. Boobs. Always boobs.”
I was uncomfortable. The tight clothing left me feeling vulnerable—naked, even. I informed everyone repeatedly that I was in desperate need of a drink.
Lucky for me, the order of the evening was Boom, land of karaoke and seven-dollar triples. I asked Abby if she’d stop at the bank with me. She smiled and said, “Girls stick together.”
A face-reddening “sweetie” from the coat-check lady, and I was in. Even with my sunglasses on, I could see all the grinning faces, spastic dancing, and a man growling along to “Bullet-Proof.”
I grabbed onto the side of the bar and wouldn’t let go. I buried my face in the karaoke book. As bad as I had felt with friends, I was infinitely more uncomfortable surrounded by strangers. I elbowed Abby into buying my drink because I was too embarrassed to speak.
We rejoined our friends and a man approached me. He twirled a finger through my wig, a bright blue Halloween affair, and we spoke for a bit. I avoided eye-contact. Was I being hit on? The big smiles on my friend’s faces said yes.
That wasn’t my only encounter that night. Everyone loved my hair and I was getting far more attention than I’m used to.
Television says I’m manly because I’m slovenly and attracted to women. By those same standards, however, I’m not because I’m emotional and I smoke like a Parisian. Consciously I know there’s no correlation between sexual orientation and “manliness.”
So, why did I begin this article by clarifying that I’m straight? Why would I be so desperately concerned that a single night in drag is going to make people think I’m gay—even more so, why should any of that matter to me?
Gender conventions are a security blanket, a cheat code to a tangible identity. Wearing women’s clothing, I couldn’t rely on those to affirm my identity. I really was naked. Everyone is afraid of being misunderstood, and your sexual nature being in question is something a lot of people, myself included are afraid of. But wearing women’s clothing had done nothing to change who I actually was.
The non-existent correlation between “manliness” and sexual orientation was finally removed from my mind. Wearing male clothing doesn’t make me straight any more than female clothing could make me gay, it’s just who I am.
No one at Boom cared that I was in drag. It hadn’t changed who I was. At one point, a lady tapped me on the shoulder and asked for a hug. As we embraced she whispered, “I hope you have an amazing night.” And I did.
As I dropped my baggage at the edge of the dance floor, the tight clothes ceased to feel restricting. Instead, I was empowered by a deeper understanding of who I really was. I felt free. I could swing and shake and slide and sing along to all the songs without fear. I have never enjoyed dancing quite as much as I did that night.
At the end of the evening, when I got up on stage and sang “Somebody Told Me” by the Killers—I thought it appropriate, I fell to my knees and sang face-to-face with the raving crowd. I was utterly alive.
I don’t think I need to dress up as a woman to feel that way.
