Dude Looks Like a Lady

You might have read my post last week all about how my life in the film industry ruined my ability to shop my future husband into the poor house. A blessing in disguise? Perhaps. Yet it brought forth some other warmer memories that I wish to share with you. It also will illustrate how totally suggestible I am.

On this one film I worked on part of my job was following a half dozen drag queens around the set making sure they were happy and healthy little campers. I helped them open their Diet Coke cans as they had very long false nails and couldn’t do it themselves. I also stole straws for them from the Starbucks to they could drink their Diet Cokes without ruining their lipstick. I had a little area all cordoned off where they could hang their feather boas and replace their platform shoes with comfy sneakers in between takes. I cinched up corsets and zipped up dresses. Basically I was their bitch.

I have to say I have never worked with a more delightful group of people. They were unfailingly polite and thankful for my assistance. These guys would come in at the crack of dawn every day and slather on a full face of make up, style and don a towering wig and wear laced up undergarments and impossible high heels that would make a regular lady weep. And they did it with a smile on their faces and never a complaint. They were constantly cracking jokes which made me spew root beer out of my nose every day. I, frankly, fell totally in love with them all.

I wish I could post photos of them as I would love you to see how gorgeous each and every one of them was but I have no way of contacting them to get their permission. Let’s just say they did “women” better than women did. I would come to work and feel so drab and unladylike and, well, butch next to them. Their charm was so infectious I slowly found myself starting to become a drag queen myself.

I started to seriously believe that I needed a wig or three. DESPERATELY needed. I spent many a day off browsing online for Perspex platform shoes. Fishnets tights became almost irresistible to me. I am the proud owner of not one but TWO feather boas. Hot pink and brilliant orange. I found myself shocking friends and family repeating all the risqué banter I heard everyday on the set. I began to think about what singer I could lip sync to and dress up as. Cher or Madonna? Bette or Liza? Hmmmmmm… Who do I look like most?

After the film ended I slowly lost these urges and returned to my normal regular make-up wearing ways. I didn’t buy false eyelashes or Marilyn Monroe halter dresses. I stopped going to drag shows and calling everybody a C*NT. (Those drag queens have filthy mouths.) I became a boring old girl again. Being a drag queen is a lot of work.

I think I’ll leave the dressing up to the guys.