It started badly. At four I found one of my mother’s fancy dresses in the attic and put it on. The babysitter saw me, put my younger brother in a cowboy hat and took our picture. She gave it to my mother who proudly displayed it on the piano. That only reinforced my older brother’s contention I was a sissy. I wasn’t; just not a jock.
After coming out, I was interested in men, not men who looked like women, and it was a time when gay men were being seriously masculine. None of my friends in San Francisco resembled the men in Philadelphia in caftans and clogs, and Boys in the Band was a bad dream. If a man wanted to get laid, all he needed was 501’s and a leather jacket. A waterbed helped.
Except for Charles Pierce, I never went to drag shows and neither did my friends who were too busy fucking. Sure, they’d wrap a shower curtain around their bare butt in the bathroom, but never in the bedroom. My men’s group agreed without my vote to dress as women for Halloween. A few days before, as a representative of Mayor Alioto I had to attend a meeting in San Mateo, south of the City and got there an hour early by mistake, so I went into a local Mervyns to buy a dress. The clerk was aghast even though I was clear the dress was a costume. She asked my size; I had no idea. She picked out three, and when I went to try them on she said I’d have to go to the men’s department diagonally on the far side of the store. Man with dresses walks across store to stares. The men’s department stalls had half doors and no mirrors, so I pulled a dress over my head and stepped out to look in the full length mirror. A laborer coming out of another stall was clearly uncomfortable, so now I was even more uncomfortable, and I did not like what I saw in the mirror.
I had to shave my mustache (the first time in eighteen years) for the party, and a woman who did make-up professionally spent forty-five minutes on my face, and I swear to God I looked the same, maybe uglier. Let’s face it, I am an unattractive woman. Then the dress turned me into an annoying club woman who tries to run things (the party was at my flat). I’ve never done drag since, and when pressed, I copy a hot man I saw on Castro Street one Halloween in a black slip and combat boots. Easy on, easy off, no shaving, all masculine.
I never had a drag name, and I have the same aversion to pussy or cunt. To me a man’s body is unique biological engineering, and I love every square inch especially holes. Why degrade it?
In my early days at the Stud bar on Saturday nights I’d see four or five tall men in opera stockings, fur wraps, and high heeled boots and glitter beards. Genderfuck turned me on because it’s an affront. At 4:00 AM a few years later, I stopped in the Castro for a late night snack and passed one of the Cycle Sluts, a Genderfuck rock group from LA, at the Chevron station. He looked at me and I looked back, and we ended up in the back of my van on a dead end street in the Mission where he, well equipped, showed me a very good time. I fucked a handsome blond dude wearing a wedding dress after leaving a Halloween party at the River, again in the back of my van. So, in the end, my experience with drag is a gay porno comedy.