Support your local drag queen
What’s up beautiful people? If you have been lucky enough to be close friends with a drag queen, then you know they can be some of the most loving, bitchy, generous, self-absorbed assholes ever. Most drag queens are a bit bipolar with a smidge of ADHD and a completely unjustified amount of self-confidence (mostly undiagnosed but the signs are there).
Trust me; I speak from experience.
Doing drag takes an amazing amount of bravery. In our safe spaces — like our night clubs and show bars — we own the night. And part of every day! (I sang that last part like “Rock and Roll All Night” by Kiss).
With the onslaught of drag brunches and other daytime gigs, sometimes we are fully fledged Daywalkers. I know, scary! But the amount of courage — dare I say, BALLS! — it takes to walk into a space not used to our kind is immense.
Leaving the house in full drag, or even just a painted face, is a gamble, because you just never know what will happen to you. I have a huge fear of being pulled over or having a wreck while in full drag.
I did actually get pulled over in drag once. The cop walked up to my window, saw me, said “NOPE,” got back in his car and drove away. I was equal parts offended and relieved.
I usually travel with an entourage to the gigs I have to go to in drag. My entourage usually consists of one of my besties or my husband. On special occasions, I might have two or three homos with me.
I cannot express to you all how much that means to me. Just having that one Good Judy with me when I go out looking like a lashed and lip-lined clown boosts my confidence in a way that makes me feel like I can sashay into any room tits first, head held high.
On the rare occasion I have to go to a booking alone, I still walk with confidence — like I own the world. But biiiiiiitch! I am faking that walk so hard that I start to believe it. That shit can be scary as fuck.
I remember once years ago, I was booked at something … I don’t remember what it was, but it was at the Plaza of the Americas downtown. I had to drive there, park and find my way through the mall area to get to some ballroom — all during the busiest time of the day. I was wearing a way-too-short dress that barely covered my ass and my meaty tuck, and a double stack bubblegum pink wig. Very subtle.
And of course, back then I wouldn’t be caught dead going anywhere in flats, so I had on those horrible clear stripper heels. I had worn them so much the little heel tip was completely gone, and the metal screw was exposed, so when I walked it sounded like the toenail of the velociraptor clicking on the kitchen floor in Jurassic Park, but somehow louder and scarier.
Of course, I entered on the wrong floor. So I had to take the longest, slowest escalator that ran the length of the ice rink — an ice rink full of children. At one point I swear I actually heard the sound of a needle being ripped off of a record player then near total silence as everyone got an eye-full of hair, heels and attitude.
Fingers were pointed, pearls were clutched and at least one old lady fainted. But my fake confidence never wavered. I just kept click-clacking along like I was about to buy the entire mall.
I showed up, did my job, collected my coins and strutted back the same way I came. It wasn’t until I was back in the car on the way home that I allowed myself to exhale.
I absolutely HATE going to a gig in drag by myself, but sometimes you don’t have a choice.
Somedays you just gotta tuck it back, suck it up and do whatcha gotta do — an entourage of me and my personalities.
So, if a drag queen asks you to escort them to a booking, you really should take that as a compliment. That means she trusts you and loves you enough to feel safe and protected with you around. Even if you end up bored in a corner without a cocktail, just knowing that you are there gives her a real confidence she would have to fake without you.
Drag queens are fickle, weird creatures that are a lot like those peanut butter-filled pretzel bites — hard and salty on the outside but soft and slightly sweet on the inside.
For the price of a cup of coffee, you too can adopt a drag queen in need. (“In the Arms of an Angel” plays as pictures of sad drag queens tug at your heartstrings.)
Okay. That’ll do, pig. That’ll do. Remember to always love more, bitch less and be fabulous! XOXO, Cassie Nova