There is a drag queen living inside of me. I've known this for quite a while. She first appeared when I was about five years old, just about the time I discovered the four inch red pumps in the dress up box at my grandparents house. I would put those shoes on and this fierce diva would emerge. I gave face, face, face. I would sashay, turn, and chantey. Usually I was Dorthy Gale from the Wizard of Oz, but occasionally, particularly around Christmas time, I was the Virgin Mary. And I was fucking five.
On New Year's Eve this year, I had a very interesting text message interaction from someone who clearly had the wrong number. We'll call her Shameka.
Shameka: Hey Cochina! Whatcho wearing tonight, girl?
Now, at this point, I had a choice. I could choose not to respond, or to inform Shameka that she has the wrong number. Or I could do this:
Me (as Cochina, my inner queen): Oh girl, you know I have to wear those hooker boots I got on clearance and that skirt from Nordstrom Rack that makes my ass sing.
Shameka: So, u saying that I should dress up 2, grl. I just don't no what 2 wear.
Cochina: Please girl, you always look hott. Can't wait to see how sexy we are tonight.
Shameka: I guess I can wear that black dress with the half calf heels.
Cochina: Meow... work it.
Shameka: Oh, now I'm excited! Can't wait 4 the party tonight!
Cochina: Me neither, diva. C U soon!
I thought that I would get another text message within an hour or so from Shameka that inquired who was at the other end of this phone number...but I never did. But that night I was reunited with my inner drag queen. The thought of strutting my curvaceous ass covered in thin, black material around a room kind of excited me. All the boys drooling over my heaving tits that were just half a size too large for the halter top I was wearing, made me smile. Oops, my nipple just popped out. I'm so naughty...Are you here to give me some discipline?
Over the years you lose touch with your inner drag queen. She recedes under the pressure of social acceptance. It's cute when you're five and really faggy when you're thirteen. However, Kevin and I have recently been making our way through RuPaul's Drag Race. It's a combination of America's Next Top Model and Project Runway for drag queens on the LOGO channel. And it doesn't get any more fabulous than this.
The show started out with nine drag queen superstar wannabes and each week Ru, in all her wisdom, would demand that the weakest queen "sashay away." As the competition got tougher and the number of queens were whittled down, I was increasingly impressed by the genuine talent that these girls displayed. Most bio-girls would be at a loss to keep up with these ladies.
The show was actually giving me insight into the drag community and breeding in me an understanding of what they do and the role that they play in the larger picture of queer culture. It was about week four that I had a huge realization: These men, who live quite happily as men in every other aspect of their lives, are doing what every gay kid did when they were five. The natural draw to be a superfierce diva has turned into a career for these guys, and many of them have had to endure a lot of ridicule to achieve the level of performance they have.
Some of the girls are more believable than others, but that's where the fun begins. The genderqueer, androgynous queens that blur the line between masculine and feminine have a lot to teach us about ourselves. They show us how razor thin many of those lines are and are brave enough to throw on some heels, makeup and a dress that somehow conceals the roll of quarters they're smothering between their legs, just to give a hearty "Fuck you" to the status quo. Fuck you for saying I can't, fuck you for making me feel less than, fuck you for calling me a fag, and most importantly fuck me because, bitch, I'm hot.
I may be shaving my legs this Halloween. Cochina likes them smooth.
