My Big Gay Life....

...or, can a Real Girl be a Drag Queen....?

I'm thinking of using that title--or some variation thereof--for some sort of autobiographical (yet funny/comedic) solo performance-type theatrical piece yet-to-be-created.

I think--no, scratch that, I know--I need to create this, because first of all, if I don't some other straight-yet-fabulous chick will, and I'll be sitting there fuming and kicking myself, wondering why I didn't strike while the iron was hot and creatively exploit my status as a Fairy Princess (of which, I might add, I am fiercely proud).



I also--most importantly--have the experience of a Life Lived Gay. Or Gay-ish. Or Gay-like.

I mean, how many 42-year-old straight women celebrate their birthdays at a gay club (having eaten sushi beforehand with primarily gay attendees--to whom my father fondly refers as "my court") in honor of World AIDS Day, get spanked by one of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, and win a raffle prize consisting of a Christmas Crafts Kit and an Anal Bumper ass dildo?

Together?

And who is now considering joining the Sisters in some capacity as a helper (apparently, straight women can do this)--if only to put my helpless energy around HIV/AIDS to some practical, altruistic and pro-active/productive good use??

I recently saw "The Nutcracker" and during the "Mother Ginger" scene, my mind drifted briefly but deliciously to an idea for a fantasy sequence in the piece I want to write wherein I am Mother Ginger, my face made up in heavy drag, and when I open my voluminous skirts, instead of a gaggle of merry children, out run a gaggle of Queens clad in tight leather shorts, harnesses and Doc Martins.



It would be so, so appropriate, you do not even know.

Well, certainly some of you do.

I'm sure one could go to town with a Freudian Analysis of such a scene, or of the very desire to create such a scene. That's okay. I'm used to the perplexed sidelong glances and random lifted eyebrows associated with my Haggish proclivities (from both straights & gays), and I no longer feel any compunction to explain myself. I had a friend in Minnesota say to me, "I hate to break it to you, but you're really not a gay man. You're an ally, and we need our allies."

My dreams of Honorary Queen-dom were smashed to bits; I was heartbroken and crestfallen. All this time, I'd really thought of myself as a gay man in women's clothing. In so many ways.



But then, I came back to Portland, and just last night, one of my friends said he totally disagreed with that assessment. He said, "You're not an ally. You're family. You get it."

I was flattered and touched and took it for the truly heartfelt compliment I knew it to be. This particular friend of mine would not say anything merely for the sake of filling dead air. He is not a gushy, superficially complimentary sort; that's why it was so meaningful to hear.

So I think it's time this Real Girl writes a piece about her exploits as honorary "family."

Starring, of course, ME.

Work it.