So you may have noticed I haven’t posted for about a week, which horrifies me as much as (I’m sure) it horrifies you internet peoples. This is a pretty horrifying blog, really. I try.
Anyway, I haven’t been posting because I was in . . .
A DRAG SHOW!
It was awesome.
It all started when my best friend was in a theatre production of The Full Monty. He probably doesn’t want this to pop up when potential employers google his name, so, because he looks strikingly similar to an 18-year-old Jensen Ackles (who plays the character ‘Dean’ on the show Supernatural), I’m going to call him Dean.
(Everybody say hi to Dean).
Due to being underage at the time the play was cast, Dean did not get a stripping role. Being an attractive and exuberant fellow who once cosplayed as Capt. Jack Harkness—-which should tell you everything you need to know about his personality—-he was disappointed by this lack of opportunity to cast clothing aside and be adored by the multitudes. I sympathized. Yet there didn’t seem to be anything to do about it until, dun-dun-dun-dun . . . I saw an ad wanting more performers for the upcoming drag show.
We could go take our clothes off on stage there! Stripping! In drag! Decently. Tastefully. To ‘It’s Your Duty (To Shake That Booty)’ by Lene Nystrom.
Oh yes. That was happening.
‘It’s Your Duty’ is one of our favorite songs, partly because it’s absurdly catchy, and partly because Lene is absurdly hot. Go look it up. I’ll wait. No matter what gender you are, I doubt you can actually tell me what the lyrics (other than the chorus) actually were, because she is so darn attractive. Also the chorus will now be stuck in your head all day. You’re welcome. Don’t hum it at work.
We had about a week to get a routine together. Dean was going to be a sexy secretary (sex-cretary!), complete with fishnets, wig, high heels, cat o’ nine tails whip, and disturbingly large water-balloon breasts. “I feel like Nicki Minaj,” he said thoughtfully, poking his chest. “Look at these things!”
They were like torpedoes. They bounced like drunk teens on a trampoline. If Dean stood in front of a webcam and jumped, we would never be nexted on Chatroulette. They were almost as big as my head. Despite them occasionally trying to leap wildly from his bra, Dean refused to downsize them.
Meanwhile, I was going to be The Uptight Boss, with a wig, tight boob-squashing bra, undershirt, tighty-whities stuffed with socks, and glasses to change the shape of my face a bit. They worked. I was delighted.
“How do you like my penis?” I asked my mother, having adjusted my sock accordingly.
“I dunno,” she said, contemplating my bulge. “I think you need a bigger penis. Maybe add another sock.”
I ended up sticking with my original one-sock bulge. It’s not the size of the craft, it’s the motion of the ocean. Plus two socks just looked wrong, like I was trying to smuggle some kind of exotic fruit onto a plane. Or maybe a really sleepy miniature mongoose.
Either way, you don’t want that shiznit in your pants.
As you can guess, we were not by any means the classy portion of the evening. We were the trashy-yet-entertaining-as-hell portion of the evening, a responsibility that we took very seriously. We practiced, alone, together, and at our nonplused martial arts group. Dean practiced his lady dancing, which he ended up being extremely good at. I practiced walking like a man, with mixed results. We bought supplies. Fun fact: we bought Dean’s booty shorts and bra from the Salvation Army, which probably means we’re going to hell. Sorry about that, Salvation Army. I hope you can move on.
We were also not the most convincing crossdressers known to humankind. Dean has a six-pack, wide shoulders, and is almost six feet tall. This made him The Largest Secretary Ever. In five inch heels, he towered over 5’8 me in my businesslike flats. Meanwhile, my hips persisted in their hippiness and my face kept on being decidedly ladyish. With my wig and glasses, I looked like a slightly masculine version of Velma from Scooby-Doo. Picture that, but sexy and corporate.
Now stop laughing.
Now before you start thinking we were going to have some kind of drag orgy on the stage, let me correct that. I was stripping down to tighty-whities and my tank top, and Dean to fishnets, shorts, and a crop-top. It was a pretty tame orgy. Also there was very little touching, because we’re such good buddies that it feels mildly creeptastic. Lack of drag orgy.
(Sadly, no other act included a drag orgy either).
Dean’s drag name was Miss Ida Tappthatt, a name thoughtfully provided by my mother.
Mine was Mr. Oliver Clozoff. It was between that and Mr. Randy Johnson, but Oliver ended up winning out.
So here’s me, Mr. Oliver Clozoff, sexy businessman extraordinaire. I’m doing my best Manly Look Of Manliness, which means sort of a grumpy squint-frown because I’m a terrible dude. But anyway. Feel free to bask in the raw sex.
Part two (rebellious breasts, a day-of crisis, and shakin’ it on stage) coming soon!