Twisted

For the 6 months prior to starting graduate school I held two jobs so that I could save money. The evening job involved going to bars and clubs around South Beach and giving out free packs of Camel cigarettes. Pretty easy work and sometimes fun. There were quotas involved, but it’s not that difficult to give out free cigarettes in a party town.

One night mama was particularly clingy, so I told her she should come do my cigarette rounds with me. She of course was thrilled that I wanted to spend time with her and got completely dolled up for the evening: A tight spandex top with purple glittery designs and a pair of slim jeans and pink sneakers (she was 64 at the time) and oodles of make up. Consequently when we walked into mama’s first gay bar, Twist, everyone thought she was a drag queen. One drunk boy saw her walking by and said, “Hola, señora, ¿como está?” Mama was about to say hello back, even though she didn’t know the guy, but he reached out and grabbed her breasts, rotating them in his hands as he celebrated, “Qué sabrosa esás, sabrosisima!” And by the way, that translates to “Hello darling, how are you?" and "You're delicious, darling, delicious!”

It was like liberation came face to face repression (and grabbed her tits). Mama was in such a state—she couldn’t speak. For a while she walked around Twist with her purse clutched in front of her chest. I assured her the guy didn’t enjoy it sexually; that it was just a way of greeting another person. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she looked like a dude in drag.

Why do drag queens get felt up all the time, anyway? Is it the desire to test their authenticity that leads to so much touchiness? Or the desire to feel a man in woman's apparel?