So I went to a drag show. A place where men dress up in frillies, make-up and dresses, and then tuck up their bulge somewhere around their asshole for fear of their wiener slipping out and ruining the entire masquerade.
And what a time it was.
As the years have gone by I’ve distanced myself from my humble, small-town beginnings. Today, I find myself more and more open to these types of events, pushing past my previous barriers and cheering on all the dudes with glittery, fuck-me eyes. It’s not that I get off on this type of entertainment. No, I go to these events because it makes me extremely uncomfortable.
A wise man once said: “Give a man a fish, and feed him for a day. Teach a man to stare at drag queen's ass for an entire evening and make him question his sexuality for a life time.”
I kid, I kid. I’m honestly about as straight as they come. On the Gay Richter Scale I rank at about a 0.5: There might be a bit of a rumble in the jungle, but the thought passes in seconds and I go on about my day praying to the Lord Almighty that Lululemons will never go out of style.
Nope, I’m a straight guy (ladies..). I find very little attractive about the male form, and the only eggplant [insert emoji] that I ever plan on putting near my mouth is the one that’s been sitting in my fridge for the last week.
How long do those last anyway?
MY HISTORY WITH THE LGBT COMMUNITY
I graduated in 2004 never having met an openly gay person. I thought they were like this imaginary thing hiding beneath bridges, preying on the souls and dicks of any all passersby.
Words like fag and homo floated around our school hallways and hockey dressing rooms so casually that no one even batted an eye. I don’t even think we knew what those words meant or, rather, what kind of effect they could have on other people. It was just a part of our language. We never even thought twice about it.
And then in 2005, my close friend, at the time, told me he was gay.
The first thing that came out of my mouth was: “Okay. So . . . like . . . are we gonna do this, or what?”
I wish. What actually came out of my mouth was worse. I said, “Okay, man. But I’m not.”
I can’t remember exactly what my friend said after that, but it was something along the lines of, “Don’t worry. I don’t find you attractive,” to which I could only imagine he was lying to me. There is not a single person on this earth that is not attracted to me.
But deep down, I was super uncomfortable. I didn’t know how to deal, and for a while it fractured our relationship. I think a big part of it was the fact that he was busy trying on wieners, seeing if they fit and learning his size, while I was sitting at the bar with my dick in my hand having lost my numero-uno wingman. A rational person might think that we should have just gone to the bar together and found our preferred poisons in harmony. But the fact is, in my community back in 2005, there was no gay community to speak of, and if you were gay, it was something everyone talked about, so hanging out at the bar with your straight friend, looking for another gay dude was next to impossible. Being gay was almost as faux pas as bestiality is today, but then again people are starting to come around to that these days too. Just look at the United States. The entire country is currently being fucked by a sun-tanned porpoise wearing a toupee, and a lot of people are just watching it happening, many of them smiling and jerking themselves off while casually browsing the InfoWars website.
Fast-forward my life to the early 2010’s. There was very little shock when a close family member of mine came out of the closet, and this time I was fucking ready, baby. I’d gone through the gay obstacle course, mostly unscathed too.
At the time, I had been living the big-city life in Edmonton for a number of years, had spent a few glorious years at the University of Alberta, and my tolerance level for gayness had sky-rocketed to orgasmic proportions. A liberal arts education did more for me than unleash my passion for self-deprecation on my own website. It taught me that being someone in the LGBT was normal, it didn’t fundamentally change who the person was, and all of the prejudice and hate the community received was just a giant fucking waste of everyone’s time. You can’t change who people are inside, and that simple realization was everything to me in my understanding.
So when my sister came out, instead of being upset or worried, I was excited and happy for her for having the strength and courage to do so. I was also relieved that I would never have to beat the shit out of some meaty muscle head, or stare daggers at some douche bag across the Thanksgiving dinner table. I knew that if any of her girlfriends were really pissing me off I could just make fun of flannel clothing, SUVs and shit all over Ellen Degeneres as a comedian.
But with all of that said, the LGBT community still makes me uncomfortable at times. It has nothing to do with their genitals being proudly displayed in their leotards. If I could rock that with the guarantee of no high-school boners I very well might. No, it has everything to do with me and my upbringing, and so let me get back to my original story and tell you why I go to these events.
WHY BEING UNCOMFORTABLE IS FUCKING AWESOME
As I said earlier, I went to this Drag Show to make myself feel out of place. I’m a white, middle-class man, so there aren’t many venues in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada where I’ll feel out of place. But a room full of drag queens is one of them.
I get there early with a close girl friend of mine. It’s literally us two, another table of dudes in the back, and twenty or so drag queens. These ladies range anywhere from the age of 20 to 70, and it’s a literal shock to my straight-man system. I’m feeling a little out of place, and I worry that no one else is going to show up and I’ll be the only one a-hootin’ and a-hollerin’.
I think: "They're gonna think I'm gay, aren't they?" And then promptly puff out my chest and start talking about sports cars.
Half an hour later, more friends show up, other people start funnelling in and the bar is packed. My anxiety goes down, especially when a few of the drag queens come over to the bar and chat with us. I find out that one of the ladies is actually straight man that owns a construction company. I'm blown away. Another drag queen works night and day for the group to make these drag shows possible, somehow holding down three jobs to keep herself afloat, and then uses all of funds acquired at the events for charitable organizations that support the LGBT community.
Like what the fuck, right? Who gives that many shits about anything these days? Sometimes I struggle to get off the couch and take a poop. This person has to poop AND do all that other stuff. Mind boggling.
So the show starts. The ladies put on their own individual shows one by one, dry-humping men and women, blacks and whites, straights and gays, and, as they lip-sync to top forty that I’ve obviously never heard before, the crowd is going nuts and getting fucking wasted. I’m sitting back, kind of tucked away in the corner with my Jameson whiskey neat in hand, and I realize that my anxiety has disappeared completely. I’m having fun. Like a lot of fun.
There’s a break in the show, and I go out for a cigar and some fresh air. All the drag queens are outside with me, and they make a few casual jokes about me being a fresh piece of meat. I laugh casually, tell them I’m straight and saunter back inside, all the while they’re cat-calling. I have now become a target.
I lose my tucked-away seat at the bar, and now all of a sudden I’m front and center. All is well at first, and the show continues on as planned. That is, until a fucking leopard shoots herself out of the ladies bathroom and starts crawling around the bar.
Money is literally raining on this drag queen. She’s probably 50-60 years old, just rockin’ the joint and sending everyone into a tizzy, and eventually she steps down from the table and we lock eyes.
She walks over to me on my bar stool and I clamp my legs together that like a nun at Burning Man. However, you have to remember that this woman is actually a fucking man under all the makeup and bra-padding, and she grabbed my knees, opened me up like a Swiss army knife and gave me a good ol’ fashioned lapper in front of everybody. Eventually I came around and started cheering, accepting my fate. And it was then that the geriatric leopard pounced and pinched my tallywhacker through my jeans.
The look of shock on my face must have been priceless. She casually walked away as the crowd cheered, and I looked back at my friends and the motherfuckers were all laughing, slapping their knees and asking me if that really happened. I nodded, smiled and then burst into laughter myself, and just like that every ounce of shame from the moment was erased. It was as if the leopard had told us an awesome fart joke instead of being a penis-pinching savant.
I talked to her later, and I swear these were her words:
“I’m sorry about the little pinch. All for the show, honey.”
I responded in a drunken stupor: “All good. Just don’t let it happen again.”
To which she said in her most womanly tone: “No problem . . . bitch,” and then promptly walked away, all grin and attitude.
This might sound like a nightmare to some, but life's too short to worry about that kind of shit. Besides, it kicked off an even greater drag queen after-party. My group hit up a gay bar, I danced in a cage with some hot Asian chick, laid down on the conspicuously white couches and proceeded to wingman for a girl that I was with to help her find a lady of her own. I failed her miserably, but I’m happy to say all my hard work paid off in the end . . .
The lesson here? Put yourself out of your comfort zone. Explore the unknown. It’s the key to self-growth, understanding and a whole lot of fucking fun.
Many people are better at this than me, so I invite you to message me about it HERE (anonymously if you like) or post in the comments about a time you went out of your comfort zone and reaped the rewards.
And no, your story needn’t involve a dick-pinching from a drag queen.