Tuesday, November 04, 2003
It's a strange kind of a string of days, the kind when you think everything is under control, yet you have a vague suspicion that not quite everything's all right -- there is a tremor underneath, and any second now your life may be in for another roller coaster ride.
Or maybe it's just coffee withdrawal symptoms. I've resolved to take care of myself better -- a new start for a new school semester. And this time, I'm serious.
Ehem.But I had a great, great Halloween.
For the most part. It's fascinating how in hindsight things become colored by totally different emotions than the ones you really had going into
the situation: what I choose to forget now is the palpitation going into my five o'clock rendezvous last Friday -- that was my appointed time to go to M.'s place, where I was supposed to undergo a metamorphosis from Mr. Ian Rosales Casocot, butch literature teacher, to somebody this side of
To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar.
Did I say palpitation? How crude and totally inappropriate that word is! Let's say
earthquakes of doubts instead -- with all sense of patriarchy and machismo bearing down on me, giving me a headache and a bellyache not even Tylenol could cure.
What was I thinking, agreeing to go to Laurie's party as a drag queen? Oh. My. God. But the instructions were quite clear, as precise as the LCD display on my cellphone's interface: "Guard or Drag Halloween Party, Friday, my place, 7 p.m. Bring a date!" Other instructions entailed a reversal of sex roles, at least sartorially.
"M---," I told M. while we were on bed watching
Oprah, "Laurie says we must go to the party in drag."
"Oh, goodie. I've always wanted to see you as a woman," M. smiled wickedly.
"Are you crazy?""Hehehe. I
can see you now as Marilyn Monroe. Remember
The Seven Year Itch? When she steps into that pavement above the subway, and then her white dress floats up as the train passes by?"
"Are you crazy?""Oh, goodie."
Arrrgggh.M. says he was going to the party as Aquaman, in tight Speedos.
No, as Rumpestiltskin.
No, as Frankenstein's monster.
No, as a dead guy in barong.
The last one was the last minute choice, precipitated by my brother Dennis's calling me on the mobile that he was soon on the way, to pick us up and deposit us at the party in Silliman Village. I needed my brother to traffic me all the way -- I couldn't very well be seen by the whole world in fuschia eye shadow!
Fuschia eye shadow courtesy of L., M.'s sister -- who hovered over me like a butterfly armed with color palettes and soft swabbing sticks and what-not, wanting to create make-up perfection with me. Ma'am G., M.'s mother, meanwhile, fussed to find me
the perfect outfit. She finally chose a black ensemble for me. "It brings out your figure," she said.
Arrrgggh. But I nodded, anyway. Besides, it was the only one that fit.
L. refused to lend me the mirror -- but all of them declared I was beautiful.
(I have great in-laws!)
Later, finally spotting a mirror, I learned the horrible truth: as a woman, I'm a young
Bella Flores. All that arched eyebrows! All those glitters around my eyes! All that foundation and blush! All that lipstick, overdone to make my upper lip seem full and rosy! I am mortified --
but also secretly titillated. What the hey, I told myself, let's try everything at least once.
Ma'am G. still fussed, and finally said: "You still walk like a man. Maybe you could relax a little bit.
Swish."
But I thought: that's the point of drag, isn't it? To subvert the feminine by underlining the masculine?
Later though, I became the hit of the party. Laurie told me to ditch my sneakers, and gave me some high heels. And slowly, I got into the game, becoming more swishy, and frightening most of my lady friends who could not separate this spectacle from the butch persona they know and love.
Ack. I kept telling myself: be Tony "My Name's Daphne" Curtis in
Some Like It Hot. Always end each sentence with a pucker. That worked like a Rupaul sexy leer!
My friend Wednesday came in late for the party, saw me, could
not recognize me. "Ian, is THAT you?" For a few minutes, she refused to come near me, like I had the plague or something.
"My name's not Ian," I said dramatically, "I'm Dianne. Goddess of the Night."
Later, I thought: Oh, but how do women endure this torture everyday? I had to keep reminding myself to keep my thighs closed, like a proper lady. That meant clenching my thigh and crotch areas all through the night. "I could see your package, Dianne," Ric said, laughing. "Don't mind me," I replied. "That's a huge French tickler." My high heels kept on slipping out, so I had to clench my feet as well. Then somebody told me to suck in my belly, so I clenched that, too. The thick make-up also was doing the same thing to my face: it clenched in everything -- like Botox. I soon got tired of puckering my lips and walking slowly so as not to slip.
"So, tell me, what's it like to be a woman?" Bing asked me.
"Two words," I said, breathlessly. "Mental corset."
It's hard, dammit!The next day, I got rashes from the gown's fabric. Turns out I'm allergic to drag. Thus ends the short, beleaguered life of Dianne, Halloween Drag Queen.
This will never happen again.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
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