Taffy in Drag Pt. 1
July 26th 2006 13:14
Sometimes, when things get really bad, it helps to dress up as a drag queen.
While tensions were slowly spiderwebbing cracks through our otherwise cheerful and amorous relationship, Taffy and I decided to let off steam with another night on the town, visiting all our favourite haunts in that fishbowl of delights, Oxford St.
And she, being the dashing and daring girl that she is, decided to go in drag. Really, it takes some courage to be a girl, dressing up as a boy who is dressing as a girl. It’s a little bit confused and twisted, and not seen much aside from romantic comedies on Elizabethan theatre.
It takes courage because the straight boys will be uneasy and suspicious. The gay boys will be uneasy and suspicious. The other drag queens will hate you, both for your natural endowments and the implicit mockery of their efforts and their pastime. And the girls will probably laugh at you and not be consumed by lust, except maybe for your red velvet, stacked heeled, glittery buckled shoes.
So, strength of mind, fortitude, and a healthy sense of humour.
Taffy’s costume was elaborate, from the outrageous violet taffeta mini-dress (complete with swooshy ankle-length train, resembling nothing more than the tail of a comet when in motion) to coiffed blonde wig, and perfectly planned to the last detail, from pink glitter-spangled false eyelashes to aforementioned bizarre yet lust-worthy shoes.
In fact, bizarre yet lust-worthy nicely sums up the entire effect. The exaggerated femininity of her accoutrements actually lent a masculine cast to her profile. If certain things hadn’t jiggled provocatively with every step, she might really have been taken for a man in drag.
And who could predict what reaction a man-woman in drag would get from the straight world on a chilly Sunday night? Car horns and wolf whistles were bound to be the least of it.
While tensions were slowly spiderwebbing cracks through our otherwise cheerful and amorous relationship, Taffy and I decided to let off steam with another night on the town, visiting all our favourite haunts in that fishbowl of delights, Oxford St.
And she, being the dashing and daring girl that she is, decided to go in drag. Really, it takes some courage to be a girl, dressing up as a boy who is dressing as a girl. It’s a little bit confused and twisted, and not seen much aside from romantic comedies on Elizabethan theatre.
It takes courage because the straight boys will be uneasy and suspicious. The gay boys will be uneasy and suspicious. The other drag queens will hate you, both for your natural endowments and the implicit mockery of their efforts and their pastime. And the girls will probably laugh at you and not be consumed by lust, except maybe for your red velvet, stacked heeled, glittery buckled shoes.
So, strength of mind, fortitude, and a healthy sense of humour.
Taffy’s costume was elaborate, from the outrageous violet taffeta mini-dress (complete with swooshy ankle-length train, resembling nothing more than the tail of a comet when in motion) to coiffed blonde wig, and perfectly planned to the last detail, from pink glitter-spangled false eyelashes to aforementioned bizarre yet lust-worthy shoes.
In fact, bizarre yet lust-worthy nicely sums up the entire effect. The exaggerated femininity of her accoutrements actually lent a masculine cast to her profile. If certain things hadn’t jiggled provocatively with every step, she might really have been taken for a man in drag.
And who could predict what reaction a man-woman in drag would get from the straight world on a chilly Sunday night? Car horns and wolf whistles were bound to be the least of it.
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