When asked to help at the ladies Spring Tea, I said sure, thinking it was to serve. Not to serve but be part of the entertainment, dressed as a drag queen, performing in front of the audience to the song ‘Bette Davis Eyes’. I couldn’t say no, could I?
Later, Sheila and I scurried around to gather appropriate duds such as a black ruffled skirt, a black bedtime girly-doll top with rather modest cups with falsies to be stuffed in later and a long-haired auburn curly wig that radiated kinky sex. The black panties were to go over or under the panty-hose, not certain which way yet. No shoes to fit so it was up to Value Village where I found a silver pair of high-heeled sandals.
I swear I have never cross-dressed in my life but I have considered it a few times. This opportunity to do it, not in the closet, but in public, made it far more transparent than a dirty little secret. Maybe my looks improved adorned as a glamorous female. Maybe it could continue on … ! No way, one time only, just to see how it feels to a be a femme fatale. The trick is to get all this stuff on without rips, wrinkles and runs. Also, to walk straight in heels while keeping the boobs straight as well. The wig had to be positioned just so and the eyelashes, fingernails and killer lipstick perfect. A choker, necklace and earrings the accessories, as was a long red boa, one end around my neck and my right hand to erotically twirl the other. My left will have a cigarette holder and cigarette, inseparable from the great actress Bette Davis giving her an air of sophistication. She had a gift for creating characters on screen. I can’t picture me being that credible.
The morning of the day arrived and I was a nervous wreck. It was the first competition for Miss Whitewater Township. The others had great music to dance to whereas I had ‘Bette Davis Eyes’ a slow but sultry melody. I went overboard on my eyes; varying shades of make-up to give a smoky look, topped off with long eyelashes. Lipstick and eyebrow shadow rounded out my sensuous face – expect one eyebrow was higher. For balance, I tightened my heels with silver ribbon and two-way tape on the inside of the shoes. My skirt now had a risky high-cut slit on the left.
The curtain opened, I stepped forward, bent my left knee for leg exposer, took a long pull on my cigarette and exhaled slowly with rounded pouty lips. I grabbed the skirt at the right exposing even more leg, turned and walked across the stage so proud and confident. It was on the hall floor with so many people watching that my routine went to hell in a hand basket.
Was I to wave my skirt, give a wiggle or walk with the jiggle of a trollop? I was so panicky I couldn’t follow the music anyway. I tried to manage but not in the sequence I had practised.
My left ankle went over twice, the red boa around my shoulders caught on my hair but I got it off without losing my hair. I did float the boa across the front of someone. When she gave a frightful scream, I thought, “Oh no, not a sexual harassment charge!”
At the next table I sat on someone’s knee but did it so awkwardly I slid off – but recovered quickly and moved on before she realized who it was. My composure returned as I headed for the stage but too late to earn marks for flair and grace. I think I heard one person say I was pretty. That was cool.
Now all six contestants lined up on stage, flashing their numbers, their behinds, lifting skirts and dresses, all in an effort to earn the vote of each table. The long-lasting announcement of the runner-up and winner was in. My name wasn’t one of them.
I knew representing a drag queen would be a challenge, with hard choices about clothing and accessories and the pressure of the competition. I lost my chance to win when I blew my routine but no matter I had the time of my life.
