Sunday, 2 October 2011

...this a hickey or a bruise?

When you're a drag queen, certain things are inevitable. Razor rash pops up here and there. Sore feet from dancing in six-inch heels is very common. Sooner or later, you'll run out of white eyeshadow and then you're really in a jam. Most inevitable of all, however, is that when you're a drag queen, people will want to touch you.

Now then, when I say people will want to touch you, I don't mean people are going to extend a finger and give you a prod, or even a playful little pinch on the backside. I mean people are going to get downright handsy. In a way, it's understandable, because drag queens are a curious breed. We're men dressed as women. If we do it right, or rather, a certain way right, we're downright convincing. This can be particularly curious to some people. Look twice curious. Double take curious. How-the-hell-do-you-do-that-I-don't-look-that-good-and-I'm-a-real-woman curious. The misfortune is that curiosity, rather than killing the cats, inclines the cats toward copping a feel.

I've had false breasts fondled, wigs pulled at, an arse slapped so often I've lost count long ago and costumes nearly fall to pieces from poking and prodding. People make the assumption that drag queens are fair game, I suppose. We're larger-than-life mother fuckers and anything goes, so they go. They go hard. Recently, however, the whole people-touching thing was taken to a new level when I walked away from a night's work with a hickey on my neck.

A hickey. A dirty great bruise the size of an Australian 20c piece for all the world to see. It all happened so fast. I was air-kissing folks goodbye at the door when I was pinned to a pillar and positively manhandled. I simply couldn't get away and believe you me, I was handsier than the handsiest trying. Thirty odd seconds of 'Bouncers! Get this thing off me!' later, I was already turning purple.

Pardon the five o'clock shadow in the photo above, but I couldn't possibly write this piece without a little visual evidence. 

Naturally, I was incredulous. Not just that it had happened, but that the guy who'd gone and done it was one of my closest friends. Now that I come to think about it, I'm not surprised. He's that kind of friend. Mad as a cut snake, totally outrageous and capable of suction that would have the Dyson vacuum cleaner people after him if only they knew.

Naturally, I wanted revenge. So I ran straight home and uploaded a video to my YouTube channel naming and shaming. Check it out here, if you haven't already.

This morning (okay, afternoon) I got to thinking about possible remedies. There are plenty suggested on forums and YouTube videos, although none of them seemed appealing/reliable. Here's a break down:

Put a spoon in a freezer and press against the bruise.
Didn't work. At least, not for more than a minute or two. And cold spoons don't stay cold for long. Also, carrying a cold spoon around permanently pressed to your neck will likely raise more questions than the hickey ever could.

Cover the bruise with toothpaste.
Not keen. Toothpaste is for teeth, I don't care if it works. It's staying in the tube.

Apply make-up to cover the bruise.
Common drag queen misconception: we wear make-up everyday. We don't. And I don't intend to.

Wear a scarf or turtlenecked top.
Gee. Thanks. Wouldn't have thought of that.

So What Would A Drag Queen Do? I'll tell you. She'd ignore home remedies. I'm going to wear this hickey with pride. I'm going to refer people to the person who gave it to me, constantly. And I'm going to hope to high hell that it fades before my next show, because if make up won't cover it then, I'm going to have to go for a whole new look. And I don't know if I can pull off bogan-chic.

Keep calm and carry on!

VV x