Part two of our strippilicious drag show extravaganza! (Yes, that’s TOTALLY a word).
The day before the drag show itself, we got together in my kitchen and did the routine a few times through in full costume and makeup.
My wig was a long and involved process. I had to wet my hair and braid it all up tightly, then pin it to my head and stretch the wig over it, risking the odd (and they were ALL odd) pin-shaped lump. I have very long hair, making the time progression of all those steps turtle-esque in nature. Meanwhile, Dean persisted in putting his wig on with the bangs fringe chilling out somewhere over his right ear—-less sexy secretary (sex-cratary!) and more recently-escaped-from-the-asylum secretary. It was not fabulous at all, and he had to endure my pursuing him grimly about with a wig brush before we could continue.
After finally getting wigs and makeup sorted out, it was time for the practice. We filmed ourselves for future reference with Dean’s cell phone propped up against a canister of tea. My mother watched our strutting and gyrating gravely, offering periodic advice, (‘Connect more!’ ‘Be more creative with the whip!’ ‘Stop SMILING!’). I have smiling issues. I usually did okay up until the end, where there was booty-shakin’ aplenty and I’d just start grinning. It’s very difficult to remain stern while workin’ them hips and trying to prevent one’s sock bulge from hitting the road.
Despite all the little glitches, everything was tripping along as planned.
The evening before the show, I scratched my jaw while transporting lumber. Damn, I thought. I don’t wanna have that there for the show, I thought. I slathered it liberally in polysporin and went off to bed.
It turns out I’m allergic to polysporin.
Alllllll around my jaw turned red and generally ouchy. I messaged Dean. “HELP! I HAVE FACE HERPES!” I freaked out about it all day while Dean and my longsuffering mother tried to convince me that it wasn’t THAT bad, and probably makeup could fix it. They had their work cut out for them. I was extremely disappointed with my facial mutiny. I covered myself in cold packs and aloe vera and was firmly crabby.
Before the show, I dipped my face in concealer and was pretty pleased with it all. It looked fine from a foot or so away. (From closer than a foot, all bets were off). We met at the venue for a sound check that didn’t end up actually happening and Dean strode manfully off to inflate his balloon-breasts in the washroom while I tried to surreptitiously shove a sock into my underwear without people nearby noticing. The backstage area was crawling with drag queens, drag kings, and their various friends and attendants. The women’s bathroom was filled with earnest moustache-and-stubble artists.
I adjusted my tie, leapt about to ensure the security of my wig, and then trickled out to watch professional wrestling on the lobby TV and wait for Dean to strap his tits on. I lent him my tank top for the show, because, as we’d discovered in the kitchen the other day, if he leaned over without a tank top his breasts would fall right the hell out and bounce around the floor. SEXY. (Actually, if you’re one of those people interested in balloons . . . I suppose it might be. Touché, Wikipedia. Touché).
(Mr. Clozoff says hi and is vaguely confused).
When Dean emerged, bodacious and triumphant, we had a run-through quietly in a corner. Absolutely everything went wrong. “I forgot to take my skirt off!” Dean announced wrathfully. I grumbled about my wig, which was trying bravely to secede from my head—-despite veritable armies of pins. My tear-away shirt was . . . er . . . tearing away. Prematurely. And when I tightened my shoelaces, one of the loops tore right off.
There was a bad moon rising, folks.
But, after a few more times, everything started to go right. We were feeling good. The event was sold out, almost completely full with people having to be installed on bar stools in the back. We watched the other acts before us and realized something: the stage was in blocks pushed together.
Uh-oh. Heel sinking a possibility. We stared at it. It sat there. Nobody else sunk a heel in it. We left off staring at it and rehearsed some more, practiced our walking, went over our entrances, and straightened Dean’s boobs. This was it. We moved over to camp out backstage, waiting for our turn to go on.
“If you lose a breast,” I suggested, “drop kick it into the audience.” Dean refused to grace my helpfulness with a reply.
The announcers read off the intro I’d written, which went as follows:
“A young woman has been rising rather quickly through the ranks . . . a Miss Ida Tappthatt. Her exact occupation is unknown, something in business, although a hint could be provided by the fact that she has been occasionally referred to as a sex-cratary.
Her new boss is an uptight man, working long hours—-a Mr. Clozoff, Oliver by name. And Ida just hates to see such a man overworking himself . . .”
People laughed. I felt validated. And then . . . it was go time.
It went snappily.
The crowd enjoyed it greatly. Besides a couple of minor things, it was smooth. The booty-shaking went over spectacularly, and the crowd screamed gratifyingly whenever we removed a new item of clothing. After our finishing pose, we scooped up whatever garments we could grab on short notice and retired, half-naked and joyful, to the backstage. We high-fived, performed some small dances of winning-ness, and struggled back into our clothes.
Friends of ours took turns posing beside Dean’s water-balloon ‘dirty pillows’, which were almost more popular than us. We were the only balloon-wielding folks there, and those suckers were fine.
(This has nothing to do with Dean’s chesticles, but it’s an entertainingly blurry picture of my afterparty outfit. I cast off my wig and shirt, although was sadly unable to ditch my compression bra. Sigh).
At the end of the night, Dean and I took his breasts out the back door and victoriously burst them, one by one, on the concrete. It took a bit of doing. I stuck close to the warm indoors and watched while Dean ran up and down the walk outside, enthusiastically applying balloon to sidewalk.
It had been a highly satisfactory evening.