The Crowd Goes Wild

goldie peacock

Ben casts me as Trixie in Rocky Horror Picture Show. My role entails introducing the show with a lipsync and simple choreography, which should be easy enough.

“Do it like a drag queen,” is Ben’s main direction as we rehearse on our stage of a living room. One of Portland’s foremost queens, Ben There Bitch (Ben There for family-friendly events) knows what he’s talking about. Having taken ballet as a child, he demonstrates with forceful grace how he wants me to move. I do my best to mimic him, filling my limbs with the memory of each gesture, trying to feel exactly how he looks as he points and preens.

“Okay girl, let’s take five.” In choreographer mode, he twirls to the open window, flourishing out a cigarette from behind his ear. I don’t love that Ben smokes in the apartment, which he knows, but he’s the leaseholder, plus he doesn’t love that I smoke weed up in my loft. He at least blows the smoke out the window, though I can’t help but wonder if this current version is showily done for my benefit. As he turns back to me, I have the sense he’s saying, See? Out the window, just like you want. Fucking roommate of the year, amirite? Instead, he says, “Next time we’ll do it full out, with, like, actual enthusiasm. Ya sure you’re into it? You don’t have to do the show if you don’t want to.”

I pull from depleted reserves in an effort at chipper plus indignant at the suggestion I’m not into it. “Yeah I am.” I wipe Smirnoff sweat off my upper lip, gulp water from a mason jar. “I’m just a little tired from last night.” I should know better than to think I can stop after only one drink at Styxx. Taking a deep breath, I try to channel the strength of all the fucked-up performers of yore, those who did Hollywood films and Broadway musicals hungover. Relatively speaking, this casual rehearsal at our place is no big deal. Afterwards, I can crawl up to my loft and nap.

Ben is onto something, though—I’m not entirely committed to this role. As a recent arrival to town, I know I should be grateful for the opportunity. However, I can’t shake the slight resentment at having to teeter in heels while replicating someone else’s routine. I crave performance that doesn’t showcase hyperfemininity, my past burlesque schtick that now feels tired.

I started doing burlesque in college as a Fuck You to Puritanical culture. Also, to everyone who had the audacity to say I was too bawdy, slutty, thick, feminine, masculine, or otherwise wrong for being myself. Burlesque fit until it didn’t, as can happen with any costume. I realized it was a rehearsal for drag kinging—my true calling—as opposed to the main event. But this is what Ben has offered, and I figure, why not? I’m playing a role. Aren’t we all, to an extent? 

Despite my doubts, on opening night in the small cinema, it’s fun to share the crackling excitement with the rest of the Rocky cast. It’s fun to dress up: I cut strips of black electrical tape, sticking an X over each nipple; shimmy into a tight black t-shirt and plaid schoolgirl miniskirt, a perfect costume pulled from a garbage bag; glue on feathery false lashes that have seen better days; apply glossy red lipstick, covering it in craft glitter, which you aren’t supposed to use on skin but is all I have. It’s fun to climb into thrift store scissor heels and loom four inches taller, and know I look taller still, plus like a badass, with my dyed blue-black fauxhawk. Most of all, it’s fun to anticipate the kiss of the spotlight, my ideal state of being.

Fun and alchemy are two different things, though. In the mirror, my old burlesque persona stares back, a campy cartoon. Nothing’s wrong with it, per se, I’m just over it for myself. My bravado flags. I warm up by chugging a Bud Light, hoping it will remedy the disconnect I feel in this role. 

I take the stage as Trixie, thinking do it like a drag queen as I complete my little lipsync routine. When I strip to the Xs, a portion of the audience walks out, scandalized. Wait—this is Rocky Horror Picture Show, a time-honored refuge for kinksters and freaks—what exactly do these prudes expect? The applause is lukewarm, the audience nonplussed and anxious to get on with the show. 

Afterwards, Ben tells me I looked stiff, like maybe I was scared. Turns out Bud Light can’t replace stage magic, after all. Fuck this, it’s not worth it. I congratulate the rest of the cast and let them enjoy the opening night afterglow. 

The next day, I tell Ben I quit. He says that’s fine, he understands. With no hard feelings, he books me to perform in his drag show at Styxx. I can’t wait to debut a king number there.

During the following week’s full-cast Rocky rehearsal in our living room, our other roommate Wren and I watch from the kitchen table, passing a joint between us. Ben can’t say anything about our blatant weed smoking, seeing as half the cast takes cigarette breaks indoors—they try for out the window, but still.

Each week a new special guest to be featured at intermission joins rehearsal, and today it’s a world-champion air guitarist. She rocks out to “Don’t Stop Believin’,” arm a ferocious windmill. The rest of the cast chimes in with impassioned lipsyncing. And isn’t that life—everyone trying for something but unlikely to leave a trace. Wren and I stare, incredulous, our high and the trippiness of the show increasing in direct proportion. 

***

For my Styxx drag debut, I create a number to The Cliks’ cover of Justin Timberlake’s “Cry Me a River.” This queer punk rendition of an already nostalgic chart-topper is a subversive choice—my favorite. I do the best seated rehearsals I can muster up in my loft. Since I can’t fully stand in the space, I emphatically lipsync while scooting around on my knees, trying not to give myself rug burn.

At Styxx, the queens fuss over me as the sole king in the Jell-O shot scented backroom. “I’d date you,” winks a massive Divine doppelgänger. I’ve seen her here out of drag a few times, chatting up every young twink in sight, so I wink back, especially satisfied by this praise. And to think—I’m only half in drag, chest wrapped in ace bandage and sock bulge snug in my briefs. I wear nothing else but borrowed motorcycle boots.

I’ve arrived at the club in full makeup: cheekbones and jawline contoured, eyebrows and eyelashes darkened, goatee and sideburns drawn on, plus one under-the-shirt surprise. From there, I continue my transformation to over-the-top greaser: monochromatic black layers of ribbed tank top, button down shirt, and leather jacket, offset by synthetic snakeskin pants from high school. Fauxhawk gelled to the heavens, I embellish my drawn-on goatee with shaved bits of my hair stuck on with eyelash glue. An unabashedly glam king, I ring my eyes with liner for good measure. The finishing touch: silver glitter tears. The finishing finishing touch: sunglasses.

Unlike with the Trixie getup, I don’t feel forced into some outmoded version of myself. This persona is also a campy cartoon, but on a fresh frequency I crave to explore.

I capture the look with my Nikon Coolpix digital camera as the queens wolf-whistle, then snap a few shots with them—people on Myspace will love these. Nerves chill my hands, so I ditch the camera and pinch my fingers between the joints to increase circulation, a trick learned from a Butoh teacher. Even though I love performance—as opposed to being terrified of it, like some people—I always feel a pre-show surge of adrenaline. Booze dulls this feeling, but I suspect it also dulls my stage presence, so I’m doing this one sober despite temptation. As I take a deep breath to steady myself, I hear Ben say my name on the mic.

I swagger onstage, which at Styxx is the dance floor, dramatizing my angst with much fist-gesturing and head whipping. The music sounds too quiet, so I motion to the DJ to raise the volume, which he does, but the audience thinks I want them to cheer, and roars. This is a happy accident—I prefer to perform on an elevated stage, as opposed to the same level as the crowd, but their receptivity melts away any lingering jitters. My movements grow bolder, not over-exaggerated to mask stage fright but genuinely confident.

At the number’s climax, I rip off the sunglasses, melodramatically fluttering my fingers to emphasize the silver glitter tears lest anyone miss this key detail. I pantomime collecting the tears into a bucket pre-filled with Hershey’s kisses before tossing the candy into the audience to delighted screams. For the finale I peel off the jacket (more screams), then the button-down shirt (more screams still). Now in the tank top, I take a moment to do a classic strong man flex, even kissing my bicep, and the screams turn to laughter. With the song’s last pleading chorus, I rip the tank top down the middle to reveal a broken heart, drawn on my stomach with lipstick and eyeliner. The crowd goes wild.