I didn’t realize I was in drag until the fire alarm went off and I hastily stripped out of my tie and suspenders. But even then I didn’t realize it. It wasn’t until the fire alarm turned off a minute later and I tweeted that “the fire alarm went off while I was practicing my drag.” that I realized that I was actually “practicing my drag.” I mean, I knew I had an idea for an outfit–something of a costume–in a masculine style–but it didn’t occur to me that deliberately dressing up in a styized male fashion, was actually drag! Especially with the whole: trying on the outfit ahead of time and having a mini photo-shoot thing.
I guess that some part of me knew it, or I couldn’t have tweeted it. But if that was drag, what made it different from the last event like this that I went to, where I constructed a stylized feminine image out of character with my normal version of gender-presentation? Was that drag too? I tried on my clothes ahead of time for that too.
I think it was. Butch drag, femme drag. Gender as performance.
I don’t think that I’m really a femme. Or a butch. I’m just me.
I’m sure I’ll feel different tomorrow.
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