I’m a long-time aficionado of reality competition shows, and used to enjoy the Next Top Model franchise no end. If there’s a transformation element, be it a room, a tattoo, a garment, a person’s appearance or whatever, I’m into it. But when RuPaul’s Drag Race began its first season, I saw a group of people with the skills needed for five different reality shows in one: sewing, makeup, comedy, choreography, singing – they were incredible.
What struck me most of all about the competing queens was the complete shift in their confidence once they were in drag. In the workroom many described their struggles with anxiety, sobriety, body image, families, anger, self-belief etc. but once they got into paint and heels, they became not just stars but goddesses. It was like they’d taken a shower in confidence. They often described their drag persona as a separate entity – one who took the pain and pressure of being bullied and sidelined and stomped it into shards on the runway. Once in full drag, it was revolutionary to me to hear them say, straight-up, “I feel beautiful” or “I am drop-dead gorgeous” or “You want all of this, honey”.
When I was growing up, girls were never permitted to think of themselves as beautiful without encountering social punishment of some kind. Accusations of big-headedness would follow, or immediate corrections (“She thinks she’s so pretty but she’s a hideous troll”), or attempts to find parts of the body to criticise if the face was undeniably pretty (“Yeah, but she’s got gross hair”). It simply could not stand that a girl find herself attractive and enjoy the feeling. This policing was mainly among the girls in my school but the boys definitely joined in.
I was never a beautiful kid, and I was often reminded of this. I was a scrappy, messy tomboy with big ears, lank hair and buck teeth. I had no tits for the longest time, and because the 90s was breast-obsessed, this was frequently mocked.
On the rare occasion anyone complimented me, I felt the need to deflect it immediately to avoid the above repercussions. This was particularly the case when weight came up. I’ve always been slim and in our relentlessly fatphobic society, I’ve grown to dread that being noticed. In groups, larger girls would either lash out at me with names like “bookmark/anorexic/rake” or wish aloud that they were as skinny as me, at which point I’d feel guilty for my own body, isolated from the group and needing to apologise for my physical form. This continues to this day; if a well-meaning colleague comments that I’ve lost weight, I want to vanish into the ground.
Even now, if I’m feeling good about my appearance, I don’t like compliments like “beautiful”, “sexy” or “hot”. They don’t describe me and they carry a strong weighting towards a mode of sexual confidence that I just can’t pull off. I’ll absolutely go with “cute”, “adorable” and other diminutive words, because those carry with them a dimension of personality and character, and that’s something I can lean into.
Like many oddballs, my confidence came from costumes, voices and adopting personae; just as I hate attention around my body type, I love the attention a clever or silly costume brings at a party. It’s a kind of attention I can control, and there’s comfort in that.
In this respect I completely understand the Drag Race queens’ transition once in make-up. They can read each other’s drag to filth and laugh about it, where insults outside drag carry with them uncertainty and the threat of exclusion or violence.
Kink has been my drag. I’m not pretending I’ve encountered the same pain as a queer person growing up in Alabama, but I’ve doubted myself and felt weird for most of my life (hello ADHD), and this has left me with some very deep-set anxieties. It wasn’t until I really explored my kinks and played with good partners that I felt attractive. A huge part of that has been role-play. I love the costumes, characters and collaborations – and the ability to exit at the end and just flop together. And once I’m in character as a schoolgirl or a captive or the subject of some humiliation, I feel great. There’s nothing more exciting and validating than seeing your partner getting turned on, not just because of your body but because of the energy and ideas you’re sparking, handing them tools with which to best you. I may not have a million-dollar smile or flawless skin but I’m good at reading my partner, responding to cues and improvising, and I’m interested in making a scene fun for all. Once you’re fully in role, there’s an invisible cord (and sometimes a real one, in fairness) between you that both of you can tug back and forth to steer the scene. It’s like performing onstage but there are no lines to forget, only the enjoyment of the audience, and it feels amazing.
Having feared humiliation during my formative years, it’s such a release now to be humiliated in a safe space by people who care about me, and to exorcise the fear of being ridiculed. RuPaul frequently exhorts the prettier, more poised queens to “just act the fool” in challenges, and when one manages to loosen their psychological corsets enough to goof out, it’s like unlocking a secret level in their drag.
A friend recently recommended the book You Are Worthless to me; in an age of monetised confidence and “love yourself, ladies” platitudes, sometimes what you really need is someone to tell you you’re absolute trash in such a ridiculously over-the-top way that you can’t help but laugh. Once you hear it like this, it loses so much of the power it held in your head.
It’s taken me a few attempts to work out my drag style. When I set out into Kinky Oz, I thought I had to obey a top unquestioningly, take high levels of pain and dress immaculately all the time. This is a hangover from the scrutiny of my schooldays, though it’s by no means limited to girls. I’m so glad I met a primary partner who – yes – really likes my body and my short hair, but is not a pure sadist, and gets far more out of headspace play. When I struggled to take a hard spanking, I worried about failing him or ruining his experience, but the reality was quite different: he actually enjoys the moment a girl shows she can’t take any more, regardless of when that happens.
Along the path to becoming a fully chartered pervert, and particularly through the photoshoots I do with HenryHiggins, I’ve genuinely grown to love my body. But I’m kind of glad I never grew up perceiving myself as pretty and popular, because being a bit weird has forced me to seek out my true tribe and get creative. As I amble toward 40, focusing less on physical beauty means I’m less afraid that my fun will end as my body ages. There are always new ways to play and to come, and always another costume to try on, even if that costume is nudity.