Drag queens sure know how to get me giddy. I love their over-the-top sequin-adorned clothes, stilettos that make them taller than the Jolly Green Giant, and wigs that poof out enough to add another six inches or so to their towering frame.
It never fails to glimpse a touch of lipstick on their teeth, glitter in the crevices of voluptuous cleavage, and eyelashes that would appear to be fake on a horse. Or maybe even an elephant.
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The sheer diva glam of a drag queen doesn’t stop with outer appearance. These women (yes, I know they are men in drag—but the appropriate pronoun is “she,” people) turn on the charm with the velocity of a fire hose as they drape themselves all over the people they just happen to be chatting with as if they were a velvety chaise lounge. As glittery clawlike fingertips circle cheekbones and chins, those elephant eyelashes get batted, and the innocent listeners—lulled by the male purring whisper coming out of a decidedly female mouth—find their face burrowed in the Dolce and Gabbana-spritzed bosom.
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Last night I day dreamed about being on the Chelsea Lately show because I was such a hot little pocket of writerly awesomeness that she booked me as a guest. In my dream, as I lean into Chelsea Handler to receive my Hollywood air kiss on both sides of my face, she exclaims, “Welcome to the show, don’t you look nice this evening?” Without missing a beat, I bat my eyelashes and inquire: “You don’t think it’s too drag queen?” Now, in my dream this goes over . . . Read more . . . .