It's Not Fair, They Don't Even Have Vaginas!
Looooong day at the ol' tattoo shop today. The construction on the facade of the building is doing NOTHING for us, I assure you. Yes, it will be unveiled as a beautiful restoration of a fine old Champaign building, and as yet another lovely gem in the crown that is the downtown area. But it's made finding us a royal pain in the ass. Here, a game for you: Where's Waldo? Tattoo Shop Edition:
Awesome.
So, anyway, here I sit, pecking away at the keyborard, slaying at Free Cell, when finally someoen wandered in. He was a nice young man who had been here before, our piercer recognized him right away. Me, still being the FNG (that's Fucking New Guy, for the uninitiated), I don't know all our repeat offenders just yet. So, anyway, not two seconds into the conversation, the piercer informs me that this young man she is chatting with is a FABULOUS drag queen. This town has a big ol' gay bar down the street. I've not been yet, but I must, as they have drag revue shows weekly. How about that. So, said queen-in-disguise whips out a cell phone and begins scrolling through his photos of himself done up for performances. Not. Fucking. Fair. He doesn't even have a vagina and he's the hottest chick EVER.
Now, granted, my time as a fag hag/club rat/fetishist/general deviant has brought me around quite a few fringe groups, drag queens being among them. And they put in an absurd amount of time and money to plying their craft. They do stuff that female models don't do to get themselves done up. So, I know that, they're prepping themselves in ways that born-women don't. But, seriously. I'm not a bad looking chick for the most part. But my best efforts and longest bouts primping doesn't deliver results that are even in the same universe of hotness of these top-line queens. I shave, wax, pluck, paint, curl, trim, masque, exfoliate, deep condition and slough like crazy, and I get, at best, good results. Now, here you take a man, with big, gooney man hands and a mushy body and facial hair and Fred Flintstone feet, and you get some smokin' hot, impossibly gorgeous chick. I'm not even talking about the ones that are pre-ops and are taking hormones. I'm talking about the kind that are just plain ol' gay guys by day who wear t-shirts and jeans and no makeup, like this fella I tattooed today. I was so cheesed.
I've been to drag clubs, Chicago's legendary Baton Lounge, for one. And that is the worst feeling ever, to walk into a room full of men dressed as women, and to know that you are THE ugliest girl in the joint. Seriously. I have a complex as it is, and seeing photos of this dude all done up just about made me psychotic about it. I'm going home to boil myself in tea leaves and milk and wrap myself in Saran Wrap and eat sand. And I don't mean that as a beauty routine, I mean I'm goint to do it as punishment for being a friggin' troll.
Awesome.
So, anyway, here I sit, pecking away at the keyborard, slaying at Free Cell, when finally someoen wandered in. He was a nice young man who had been here before, our piercer recognized him right away. Me, still being the FNG (that's Fucking New Guy, for the uninitiated), I don't know all our repeat offenders just yet. So, anyway, not two seconds into the conversation, the piercer informs me that this young man she is chatting with is a FABULOUS drag queen. This town has a big ol' gay bar down the street. I've not been yet, but I must, as they have drag revue shows weekly. How about that. So, said queen-in-disguise whips out a cell phone and begins scrolling through his photos of himself done up for performances. Not. Fucking. Fair. He doesn't even have a vagina and he's the hottest chick EVER.
Now, granted, my time as a fag hag/club rat/fetishist/general deviant has brought me around quite a few fringe groups, drag queens being among them. And they put in an absurd amount of time and money to plying their craft. They do stuff that female models don't do to get themselves done up. So, I know that, they're prepping themselves in ways that born-women don't. But, seriously. I'm not a bad looking chick for the most part. But my best efforts and longest bouts primping doesn't deliver results that are even in the same universe of hotness of these top-line queens. I shave, wax, pluck, paint, curl, trim, masque, exfoliate, deep condition and slough like crazy, and I get, at best, good results. Now, here you take a man, with big, gooney man hands and a mushy body and facial hair and Fred Flintstone feet, and you get some smokin' hot, impossibly gorgeous chick. I'm not even talking about the ones that are pre-ops and are taking hormones. I'm talking about the kind that are just plain ol' gay guys by day who wear t-shirts and jeans and no makeup, like this fella I tattooed today. I was so cheesed.
I've been to drag clubs, Chicago's legendary Baton Lounge, for one. And that is the worst feeling ever, to walk into a room full of men dressed as women, and to know that you are THE ugliest girl in the joint. Seriously. I have a complex as it is, and seeing photos of this dude all done up just about made me psychotic about it. I'm going home to boil myself in tea leaves and milk and wrap myself in Saran Wrap and eat sand. And I don't mean that as a beauty routine, I mean I'm goint to do it as punishment for being a friggin' troll.