I Went to a Drag Show on Father’s Day

I wasn’t dragged.

I paid for my ticket in advance and attended the show with my girlfriend and my girlfriend’s mother. But first, it being Father’s Day, I paid my due diligence. I phoned my father.

“Hi Dad! Happy Father’s Day!”

“Hi Oscar. Thanks for calling.”

“How are you doing?”

“Good as I can ever be, I suppose. You’re well?”

“Yup. Working a lot.”

“Great . . . great . . . well I’ll let you go. Thanks for calling.”

“Yeah good to talk to you.”

“Okay.”

“I love you Dad.”

“Right. Bye for now.”

I wonder how he would have responded if I had said: “Hey Dad: as soon as this call is over, I’m going to pick up my girlfriend and her mother. The three of us will climb the stairs to a seedy bar over a vegan restaurant. Then we will watch as boys dressed up as girls parade in front of us while we wave five dollar bills to encourage this behavior.”

In truth I know what he would say. “Alright then. Take care.”

The bar was dusky, primarily lit by LED rainbows shining off a disco ball. The drinks on the cocktail menu were named after the queens we were about to see. Sharon Needles, Ben-Jammin’ Buttholes, Tall Blonde, Caramel Coochie, Cynthia’s Sin-Tea. I scanned the ingredients of a Sharon Needles: equal parts absinthe and black sambuca, topped with tomato juice and a sprinkle of pumpkin spice.

If this was 2019 I would have ordered it, but I don’t drink anymore. If I have a glass of wine I’ll soon find myself sitting on the edge of a soiled mattress in a tenement house, hissing at the sunrise as I try to snort a mixture of equal parts cocaine, baking soda, and fentanyl, alongside some ruffian I make-believe to be my best friend.

My girlfriend and my girlfriend’s mother ordered cocktails. I ordered a ginger-ale. The waitress said ‘boooring’ in a tone that suggested she had never snorted bad medicine with a ruffian in a tenement house. When you’ve done things that you will both regret and never forget, boring is a compliment.

Drag queens are many things to many people, but no one has ever accused a drag queen of being punctual. The doors opened at 7. The show was scheduled at 8. Somewhere near 8:30 our master of ceremonies — Sharon Needles herself — found a microphone. “Running late. Sorreeeeeeeey. Sit tight bitches!”

I imagined myself storming to the bar to demand an explanation, like some Karen of Queer Night. “I came to see drag queens, and I want to see them now!” Given the awaiting audience, I could have been nominated ‘Most Likely to Complain’. The room was populated by queens and queers, by groups of excited young women and young gay men crossing their legs and sipping on Caramel Coochies.

I am none of these people.

At 8:47 the show began. I cannot tell you if it was typical. This particular drag show consisted of five men dressed as women, strutting from table to table to the tune of Cher and the Pussycat Dolls. In between songs these Slaysters — sisters who slay — spoke about what pride meant to them, in the vein of a Miss America pageant. Sometimes they danced together; sometimes they danced apart. Some of the queens can sing; some of the queens can do the splits.

It was loud; it was repetitive; it was clichéd. It was a myriad of mandatory applause. It was self-indulgent to the point of absurdity and artistic irrelevance.

I loved it.

I laughed over and over at the frivolous fun of it all. I especially loved when Carol — my girlfriend’s mother — stuffed a fiver into Sharon Needle’s lace garter and received a lap dance full hearty hip thrusts. I tend towards grumpiness, but I was sucked into the joie de vivre.

A few of the queens told stories of growing up in small towns, in places where a boy who wants to be a dancer is spurned by three letter f-words; where groups of concerned parents whisper the terrible possibility that one day this frolicking youngster might grow up and do sex wrong. Never mind what they would think of a boy who wants to dress like a woman, or a boy who wants to tuck his penis into skimpy lingerie and shake his ass for strangers.

The warm reception these queens received as they bound and capered through that dusky bar was far removed from that hateful universe. Here they have found a new family — a chosen family — and the whole evening, in spite of its thongs and thrusts, felt downright familial to me.

I don’t suppose drag shows are every taxpayer’s cup of tea, but in the words of Sharon Needles: “If everybody was the same this world would be really fucking boring am I right?”

Still, the experience is out there, waiting for you. I promise that if you embrace it, you’ll have a damn good time.

So there. Dad.