‘Sexy, Sexy Drag Queen’: Drag as Liberation, Drag as Fetish, Drag as Shame
At 17 years old, I was sexually advanced upon by another man for the first time in my life. To make matters complicated, it was the same day that I first left the house in drag. Since then, I have grappled with the messy entanglements of gender, sex, fetishism and shame that come with being a liberated queer and a fetishized object in the same moment. Here, I attempt to put some of those concerns to bed once and for all.
Brighton Pride 2014 was a day of firsts for me, marking two historic occasions in my own personal timeline. It was on this day that I did drag properly for the first time. Having spent so long mustering up the courage to finally take the leap, I’m still astounded by the ensemble I threw together for my first outing. My drag education was at the messy, grotty, rough and ready end of drag — Divine, the Tranimals, Leigh Bowery, Christeene. Taking inspiration from legendary drag terrorist Fade-Dra Phey, I put together an ensemble that could be described as ‘Suburban Housewife Acid Trip meets Leatherface from Chainsaw Massacre’. In lew of makeup, I pulled a pair of tights over my head, with holes cut out to reveal only one eye and my lips, which were smeared with eyeshadow and lipstick in two or three hard strokes. I wore the most hideous blonde wig (planted sideways), a floral polyester dress cut short and ragged so my whole arse was exposed, and marigold gloves with acrylic nails attached (for the necessary hint at glamour). I was a sight, a terrifying, stream of consciousness nightmare — and I loved it. But the reaction I garnered was something I could not have prepared for. In fact, I was so overwhelmed by the sheer amount of attention (which ranged from ecstatic to slightly miffed) that I ended up getting the bus home at 3pm, stilettos in hand, sobbing quietly out of pure sensory overload. It was a character building exercise for sure, but a formative one.
However, the day also marked a historic first of a very different sort. As I was watching the parade, a man sidled up beside me and whispered in my ear: ‘Do you want to come with me, and find somewhere we can fuck?’ — before stroking my bare leg, with two days-worth of stubble (funny how the one time I went full punk club kid was the only time I’ve ever shaved my legs for drag). At 17, this was the first time I had ever been hit on by another man. In fact, the first time anyone had ever shown any sort of sexual interest in me at all. Now if you recall what I was wearing, this may sound a little unlikely. That’s certainly what I had assumed. Part of my reasoning for getting into drag was that I was tired of coming into conflict with my own terrible self-body image every time I tried to look ‘attractive’ out of drag. ‘Ugly drag’ seemed to be a completely liberating substitute, a way of presenting, showing off and showing out without ever having to worry if I was being perceived as attractive. So for this man to so brazenly proposition me, in a public place (and yes, I know, at Pride this is hardly rare), when I was certain in the knowledge that I looked completely un-fuckable — as far away from fuckable as one could possibly be, in fact — simultaneously heralded my arrival into the world as a person with a perceivable sexual identity, and at the same time completely upturned any assumptions I had made about sexual attraction up to that point. In the intervening 6 years, as I have continued to do drag on and off, and even as I have developed an understanding of my own sexual and gender identity, it is still a question I grapple with — why are people sexually attracted to me in drag, when I feel completely sex-less? Why does that prove to be such a point of discomfort for me? And is to be perceived as sexually attractive in drag a liberating position, or a subjugated one? After 6 years, I wish to put some of these questions to bed.
“Sheela-Na-Gig, you exhibitionist
Put money in you idol hole”
Sheela-Na-Gig, PJ Harvey
If you look for answer to any of these questions in the literature around drag, I’m afraid you’re going to come up short. I’ve recently spent a lot of time sifting through academic papers about drag — positive, negative, and everything in between — for a university project, perhaps with some vague ulterior motive of finding an answer to this question. But the literature, from any standpoint, keeps making the same basic misassumption, which is that ‘drag’ is a sexual identity equivalent to homo/bi/asexuality. Even Judith Butler — perhaps the first, and certainly the most emphatic, champion of drag’s social and political power within the academy — falls prey to this line of thinking. This is somewhat caused by a basic lack of understanding (the literature also makes no reference to trans performers, or subgenres of drag such as club kid) but it would be remiss to say that drag and sexuality don’t have any sort of correlation. Sexuality plays a huge role in many a performers persona, and in the UK at least, drag and burlesque communities intersect so much as to be almost indistinguishable in certain cities. Visit any local drag show and you’re likely to experience performances of sexuality at some level — whether that be the crude jokes spat out by drag queen DJ’s in any popular gay bar, or the plethora of burlesque and sex positive performers in alternative and underground drag spaces. If you can’t make it to a local show, watch any season of Rupaul’s Drag Race, and tally up the number of times ‘sexy’ or any variation thereof is used as a descriptor. Therefore, though drag may not be a sexual identity, it certainly has a close connection to a performers sexual identity in a high number of cases.
When I am out in drag (or makeup of any sort for that matter), and I am approached by someone who is obviously making a move, I ask myself the same question: ‘Does this person know that all of this comes off when I get home?’ To me, this is the question that helps me decipher someone who is genuinely attracted to me despite of, or partly because of, the makeup, and someone who is only seeing the makeup, someone who is fetishizing it. My intention here is not to shame or undermine fetishes as a broad idea, but when you present as feminine it becomes imperative to recognize the difference between attraction and fetishization. The former is based on your whole person, and at its heart recognizes that the outward performance is an addition, or embellishment. The latter draws a distinct psychological line between the person and the object of desire, or separates the spark of desire — in this instance, the combination of perceived ‘masculine’ traits with hyper feminine ones — from the person it is attached too. To fetishize something is to attribute specific attention and meaning to something that does not innately carry those characteristics. To be fetishized in drag creates a strange scenario where you are presenting in a way that is powerful, liberating and at times confrontational, yet you are simultaneously being reduced down to an object of desire, which carries reduced autonomy. Even if the person under whose gaze you fall wishes to fulfil a submissive or masochistic role, you are still perceived as fulfilling a specific function or role that is based on presumptions and objectification.
With specific reference to male-identified drag queens this creates on obvious parable to the male gaze, and more broadly the fetishization of femininity. And be sure, it is femininity which is the impetus for fetishization here, even if it is in the combination of femme and masculine traits that the fetishization is crystalized. The ways in which femininity, and ‘feminine’ forms of gender expression, have been coded as sexualised is one of the founding ideologies of second wave feminism. Now rest assured, I am not claiming here that I, as a cis man, am a victim of misogyny. But it does reveal a certain discrepancy between intent and reception. Drag queens, by and large, perform exaggerated examples of femininity as a counter hegemonic act, to disperse the notion that gender identities and gender presentations must always align, and therefore draw power and liberation from femininity. It is why so many drag idols are examples of ‘hyper-femininity’ — camp, glamorous, sexually liberated women. This is a controversial statement in the view of much feminist literature, and the perceived ability to take off femininity leads many a feminist scholar to view drag as an extension of male privilege. Butler refutes this by pointing out the femininity is prescribed on women, and therefore to parody it is to parody a parody, and therefore the social commentary remains intact. The issue here is that when a feminine presenting, male identified drag artist is fetishized, it seems to undermine the power this action purports. In truth it gives some credence to the drag-critical feminist viewpoint, much as I disagree with it. In my own personal experience, this is where in part the sexual advancements of men when I’m in drag becomes an issue — if I dress in drag to feel empowered, and am perceived as an object of fetishization, it is because I am a man evoking femininity, which is perceived as overtly sexual. Not only am I left feeling like I’ve simply extended the phenomena of the subjugation of the women I idolize, but I’m also left feeling that I’ve become its logical conclusion — its poster child. It’s that potent combination of anonymity (the makeup, or in the first instance, a pair of tights) which creates the psychological divide needed to depersonalize someone so that fetishization can take place, and the presence of femininity that then creates the object of desire, an object being something that is not a person. To this end, to be fetishized in drag feels wholly disempowering, an act of violent misrecognition.
Now, most people may have seen the logical miscalculation here — that this approach only makes real sense when it is a heterosexual man, one who has fully internalized the femininity/fetishization dynamic, who is adopting the gaze. And that is true. It’s not a humble brag for me to say that I have been hit on by many straight identifying men in my time, because I don’t think that’s anything to brag about, and have learnt that it is never flattering or attractive, beyond some adolescent ‘gay boy’ fantasy. After all, the fetish comes from that merging of what is seen as ‘masculine’ and ‘feminine’, and that line is paper thin - the sexual tension it creates can so easily manifest as aggression as much it can as arousal. It would be wrong to say that queer men do not fetishize femininity, because they most certainly do. But it does manifest differently, and in a way that is less akin to fetishization and closer to true recognition. When you throw queer men into the mix, the conversation has to move on, and in many ways it has to move closer to home.
“Now I’ll lock up my heart, and throw away the key
Love had no part in my destiny”
Tenderness is a Weakness, Marc Almond
Of course, you don’t have to read between the lines too much to see that a lot of the points I’m making here are underlined by a less esoteric concern — sexual shame. This is pretty much par for the course for all queer people, at some point, in some capacity. Living in a heteronormative world as a queer person means that sexual shame, an awareness of sexual difference, filters in through osmosis, even without you knowing it. When I began to enter queer spaces, especially as a person who deemed themselves not naturally inclined towards sexuality (for a variety of reasons), I brought with me insecurities that predated my queer experience, such as issues with trust, intimacy and body confidence — and whereas the straight world may deem you inherently too sexualised, too abnormal and too immoral, this new context of the ‘gay world’ seemed to come into conflict with the predispositions when it championed sexual liberation and freedom. The central focus on sexual liberation, though vital, has been challenged from certain queer and feminist scholars, who argue that liberation through purely sexual means is not the most accommodating of vantage points. In short, sexual liberation is not an important facet of certain people’s lives. I certainly never felt like that for me. I don’t care about being sexy. I wasn’t empowered by it. So why should people keep judging me on that merit?
But the real question is, is it true that I never cared about being sexy? In fact, the opposite is true — I cared deeply about being sexy, and hated that I didn’t feel it. If you recall, I mentioned earlier how drag was a means of presenting in public that was detached completely from sexuality. This act in and of itself is a glaring indictment of a person who carries sexual shame. It’s a classic logical manoeuvre — ‘I am self-conscious about not being perceived as attractive. Therefore, if I make myself unattractive on purpose, at least it is because that is what I wanted.’ What seemed like a rebuttal of sexiness was actually an external representation of how desperately I wanted it.
To falsely assume that the gay world is an inherently hypersexualised one is, in its own way, an act of violent misrecognition. Sure, sexual liberation is an important part of gay liberation, but when we only reduce it down to that, don’t we risk boiling the movement down into something far less than it is? Sexual liberation was not born in a vacuum — it is an intrinsic part of the fight for recognition, the rebuttal of shame. I should have been a prime target for that, but my own embedded insecurities — body image issues, trust issues, the usual — meant that I saw sexual liberation not as exciting, but as intimidating. In order to accept sexual liberation, you have to work to recognise and undo all the negative socialisation that you’ve internalised. I was not ready to do that, and I threw drag up as a wall between me and progress. To be perceived as sexual in drag was to stand me in front of a mirror and highlight that the makeup, dresses and heels were simply a suit of armour, protecting the soft, vulnerable flesh of shame underneath. The thing to remember about drag, as I said earlier, is that it comes off — how liberating can it be if it doesn’t change what’s underneath? Becoming aware of how I was using drag in fact made me aware of how dominant these insecurities were in my everyday life. And ironically, it was through drag that I started to make the first steps towards changing something.
“Daddy See, look at me, I’m a Drag Queen
(sexy, sexy Drag Queen)”
Sexy, Sexy Drag Queen, Rupaul
These are concerns that have been floating around my brain for some time. It took another couple of moments of sexual recognition to weave some of the threads together. I was putting on makeup, a drag look for Instagram (having made the smooth transition to ‘bedroom’ queen, as I lose the energy for standing around in heels all night), when I looked at myself in a full length mirror and had a realization: ‘Damn, I look hot’.´ For someone who has long struggled with feelings of sexual shame, this was a pretty big moment. Even more momentous for the fact that this was the softest, most conventionally ‘glamorous’ drag makeup I had ever done. For the first time, I felt sexy in drag and, what’s more, I felt empowered by it. For the first time, I saw maybe what other people saw, all those other people I may have rejected as fetishists — I saw confidence, self-expression, bravery. These are all sexy traits, and to recognise them is not necessarily to sexualise. It is an act of jubilant recognition.
There’s a definite distinction between intent and reception. And it’s always worth remembering that there is not always a way of influencing the latter, no matter the former. That’s much more difficult if your intention — as mine was for so long — is to present an image that is always going to be misconstrued due to a convergence of different factors. But if you can’t control other people’s perceptions, you can interrogate your own intentions. And sometimes they don’t come from a healthy place, and then you need to challenge them. Sitting and stewing the issues of sexuality and drag for so long allowed me to come to the realisation that the intention behind my drag was not the liberating intention I had envisaged. To be able to recognise myself as a sexual being in drag was not a moment of vanity, but a moment of monumental progress. Everyone has the right to feel comfortable in their own skin, and being able to take ownership of my sexuality in drag was the final piece of the puzzle. Once you recognise the insecurities that are holding you back, it unclouds your vision. I could suddenly see what other people were seeing, and it may not have been my intention, but the reception was more than I could have wanted — recognition of me.
I’d like to close out with another anecdote that brought this conversation full circle for me. In the last few months I attended an event where the impetus was to dress in a sexualised way, something that terrified me even though I agreed to it. Let’s just say, I was not wearing many clothes — doc martens and a jockstrap (and a big fabulous coat). I was standing in front of the mirror, trying to psych myself up to leave the house. It was then that it hit me, standing looking in that mirror, that old infamous saying by an equally infamous drag queen: ‘We’re all born naked, and the rest is drag.’ I was in drag. Man drag, sexy drag. And I was comfortable with it. This is the true power of drag — not in helping you run away from your insecurities, but in helping you accept them. To utilize them, throw some clothes on them and parade them about. That’s true liberation. And now I’m liberated, it’s time to make up for lost time.
