The Authentic Life: Drag queen

My plan for the conference was simple. I would casually bump into a literary agent who would immediately recognize me and sign me up on the spot. It would be exactly like those old black and white movies where the film director, innocently sipping his coffee, is suddenly struck by the beauty of the young waitress framed in soft-focus and shouts “Kid, where have you been all of my life?” but with less sexual tension and more color. I had business cards imprinted with my website address. I was prepared.

The target market for the conference was women, which didn’t faze me because A) aside from lesbians, we tend to like the same things B) The gaggle of literary agents would all ask “Who’s that man?” and most importantly C) My shy bladder could escape to the quiet solitude of the men’s restroom alone.

Here is something you should know if you are one of the few men at a women’s conference. You have the uneasy sense that there is something stuck between your teeth, but that thing is not in your teeth, it’s approximately two feet below. I might have been more comfortable in drag, but Paul always told me that I would make an ugly woman. I wasn’t willing to take that risk.

You should also know that these women are serious about promoting their blogs. In fact they become their blogs.

“I’m Mommy needs Xanax. What’s your platform?” A disheveled woman in her late forties asked me.

I searched my business card as if it might have the answer written on it.

“You must have a platform. Without it you’re nothing,” she said impatiently.

“I was chosen as a ‘voice of the year’,” I replied, confident that this would trump the lack of a platform.

“Oh, you wrote that piece about the beige coat!” She perked up.

“No, someone else wrote that. I wrote about the two lesbians.”

“Doesn't ring a bell, but that one about the beige coat, yeah that one was really good.”

“Thank you,” I replied and considered asking her for a Xanax, just to smooth out the edges.

During the question and answer period women confidently stepped up to the microphone and asked the only question that seemed to matter.

“Hi, Mommy needs Vodka here,” a young perky woman introduced herself and took a quick curtsy while the other women whispered “That’s her!”

“How do I market my platform?” she asked the speaker.

One by one, Martinis and Minivans, Mama Loves Moonshine, Margarita Mommies, Mommy is Moody and Mental Mama all probed the speaker for insight into their brands. If one thing was certain, they all had a platform, even if it was a rickety thing propped up with liquor and broken dreams.

I retreated to the men’s restroom and met Tyrone, a maintenance worker leaning against the sink and staring into his reflection.

“Tough day?” I asked

“Man, you have no idea. All these women. They a mess!” he replied

Just then, we heard a woman, I can only assume it was Mommy Needs to Pee, shout into the bathroom “Anybody in here?” Tyrone’s eyes grew big as an army of women stormed the men’s room.

“Sorry, line's too long in the ladies room,” Mommy’s Gonna’ Bust a Gut shouted as I quickly zipped up my fly. Tyrone ran.

By the end of the day it was clear that without a platform I was never going to attract an agent. Somewhat dejected I joined thousands of women in a large hotel ballroom with a small illuminated stage on one end and endless rows of seats. There was a buzz and excitement in the air. Queen Latifah would soon appear to host the reception and recognize the “Voices of the Year.”

Time dragged on. The Queen was M.I.A. and the excitement was beginning to morph into disappointment and frustration. Women were tweeting using the hash tag #WhereTheBitchAt? I searched the room for exits, having witnessed firsthand the stampede effect of impatient women.

Suddenly the lights grew dim and music filled the room. Queen Latifah sauntered onto the stage, dabbing her mouth with a napkin and shouting something about Chicago’s best pizza. The room exploded into applause and screams. And that is when it struck me. If I were to dress in drag, this is exactly how I would do it; all big hair, flawless skin and swagger. I’d take my sweet ass time eating pizza while people waited for me. My stage name would be Billoncé.

And then I was on my feet applauding.

There in the dark, women stood on the platform and weaved stories of despair, happiness, laughter, love and joy that joined together forming a chorus of life discovered through words. There in the dark we were all the same-no big hair, make up or any other trappings. There in the dark, I found my light, my platform “The only way out is in.” Into that place where we all connect, singing of that thing that makes us human, authentic.

Finally the Queen asked all of the “Voices of the Year” winners to join the stage with her. Here was my chance to be noticed. As I walked onto the stage Outlaw Mama grabbed my hand and whispered into my ear “You should be up front” and pushed me into the spotlight. There amid all of the flashing camera lights and applause, Queen Latifah glanced over her shoulder in my direction. And it was exactly like one of those old black and white movies where the glamorous actress notices the young undiscovered writer, arches her beautiful eyebrow and mouths the words meant only for his eyes.

“What the fuck is that man doing all up on my platform?”

We would always pull up a chair when Ron began to tell a story. It wasn’t so much because he knew how to weave words together in a way that held us in breathless anticipation; nor was it because he was a master of the surprise ending. It was more because we wanted to be comfortable while he rambled, often losing sight of the story’s point. After a good amount of time, he would reach the end of the story and invariably end it with his signature dismissive phrase “And all that kind of stuff.” Story over.

Ron was a tall, thin man with a large nose, big heart and a warm smile. You couldn’t really mention Ron without adding “and Dean”. The two were inseparable. When Paul first introduced them to me, he referred to them as his gay fathers. They were not, in fact, related to him by blood, but they were by heart. After I met them the first time Ron issued an uncharacteristic short reply when Paul asked him what he thought of me. “He’s a keeper.”

If I can’t separate the words Ron and Dean, it is even harder to split apart the words Ron and summer. Paul and I would drive up to southern Maine on summer weekends and watch our cares wash away with the tide. The days seemed to stretch out wider than the blue sky. At night we would always meet Ron and Dean, who called Ogunquit, Maine their weekend home.

I should correct myself. It wasn’t Ron and Dean, but Ron and Crystal Chandelier that we would meet. Dean is a slight, quiet man, but his alter ego, Crystal Chandelier is like Oprah, all hair, make-up and personality; but whiter, blonder, much thinner and a vision of glitter, feathers and sequins. Ron always coordinated his suits to match and would stand tall and proud, nodding and basking in the glow.

One summer the four of us rented a cottage together. It would be the first time that I met Dean as himself. I am ashamed to admit it now, but during the early part of our relationship, I often wondered why a man would find another man who sometimes dressed as a woman attractive. While we sat on the deck on a sunny afternoon that summer, Ron began a story with twists and turns and diversions that taxed my ability to find a point. Every time I thought the story had reached its conclusion, Dean would join us on the deck with a drink; each time looking more like Crystal. When I asked Ron how long it took Dean to complete the transformation he quipped “Four hours and a bottle of booze.”

Finally, Ron reached the conclusion which was a story about the first time he saw Dean. “He was wearing only a pair of jeans, a feather boa and walked right past me. I thought, that’s the guy for me.” Just then Crystal appeared, a blinding vision, and said “If you are going to do something, it’s only worth doing if you do it all the way.” I could then see what Ron saw in Dean. It wasn’t the hair, make up or glitter. He loved him because he bloomed in the light radiated by Dean's fierce heart.

When we went into the club, people clamored to have photographs taken with Crystal. They were celebrities. Ron stood lovingly by Dean’s side reveling in the glow. At one point during the evening I began to notice more men join us offering to buy me and Paul drinks. After we left, I mentioned to Ron that their celebrity had benefits. He looked at me and flatly said “They didn't buy us drinks because of Dean. They bought us drinks because when you were in the restroom, I told them you used to be a gay porn star.”

Eventually summer ended and Ron’s own story reached its conclusion. His knee started acting up six months ago. Cancer had spread from his lungs to his entire body. He didn’t burden us with this knowledge. He simply stood in the background nodding like a sunflower until the end. But, I know something now that I didn’t know then. I underestimated Ron's ability to weave a wonderful story, capable of great humor and a surprise ending.

And all that kind of stuff.