What A Drag! (pun intended)
Sex deprived due to a selfish Papa Noel who kept my present (A 6 ft tall Dutchman) to himself and gloomy at the thought of having only two years left to live (Haven’t you seen 2012?) I welcomed 2010 in pyjamas on my balcony; looking at drunken Spaniards stuffing their faces with grapes.
Standing there, I wondered where 2010 would take me. Cold, I shouted Feliz Año Nuevo to the hooker on my corner, waved her goodbye, closed the windows and made some tea. On the kitchen table, there was a wig. I had never seen it before. It was wrapped and the label indicated that it was made from real hair. Who could have put it there?
I didn’t resist temptation long. I ripped the plastic, put the wig on and ran to the bathroom mirror.
Looking at myself, pouting my lips and lip-synching to the lyrics of “I will survive” I realised what my friends had been banging on about: I could be pretty good at this! I draped a sheet around my waist and borrowed a bra from my flatmate – away for the holiday. A hand on my hip and a brush in the other, I starred in my own show to the tunes of Rupaul’s latest album. I put the bass in my walk and while trotting my stuff decided that I needed some heels. Rummaging through my flatmate’s wardrobe once more, I found some size 6 heels (I’m a size 11) and makeup. Things quickly got out of hand and I turned into a Lily Savage on drugs right in time for Rocio Jurado’s Como Yo Te Amo. I had first heard it sung in A NOITE (Calle de Hortaléza 43) by an Almodóvar inspired creature who sang her heart out while fisting the air. Sitting amongst middle aged queens and their toy boys, F.H. and I had tried to enjoy our drinks in the badly lit cabaret, home to what was known as the best drag shows in town, but ended up spending the night bitching about their lack of charisma, their poor dance skills and appalling make-up. We spent the following months searching for a decent drag act… We gave up on a sorry night of November when a 6ft 5 Afro-American rugby player took the stage dressed in a Katy Perry outfit to sing (not lip-synch) Duffy’s Mercy leaving us begging for some. The club however should remain nameless even if Long Play is a sight for sore eyes.
So in this un-shattering world of transvestites (Do they deserve the title of drag?), should one take a stand and show them how it’s done? My neighbour and fairy godmother (every good fairy tale needs one), Billy W. thought so and by a flick of his wand, he renamed me: Chérie Bakewell. I was ready to hit the stage...
P.S: What am I doing?
