GrllsIIMen

Grrrls II Men
Drag Queens Are Out. Drag Kings Rule, and Club Chaos Is Their Local Dominion.

By Teresa Wiltz
Washington Post Staff Writer
Wednesday, January 9, 2002; Page C01

Sometimes, she says, it's all a bit much for the neighbors. Two disparate creatures occupying one body: There's Kendra, tall and doe-eyed, packing hourglass curves on her ladylike frame. And then there's Ken, tall and doe-eyed, packing pecs and a bulging pouch on a leather-clad frame.

It's Wednesday, Ladies' Night at Club Chaos in Dupont Circle. And, since it's the first Wednesday of the month, it's a special night. Drag kings night.

Ken's night.

"He" struts out of his apartment, all sideburns and swagger.

In the elevator, his mom, Oneica, an image consultant from Brazil, cocks her head, taking in the macho accoutrements of her daughter with a fond smile, looking at her in that way that only moms can.

"You're such a rabbit girl," she says tenderly.

Rabbit, explains Ken, is a Brazilian expression.

"It means you've got to pick me up and turn me upside down to see what I am."

There's a crisis in the ladies' room.

Elvis's manhood has fallen into the toilet.

Elvis, aka Hunter, will have to go onstage minus his, ahem, package.

Because a soggy softball sock does not a man make.

Neither, for that matter, does faux chest hair, shorn locks or a five o'clock shadow.

"Butch," says Carlos Las Vegas, the evening's emcee, "is all in the attitude."

Indeed. In the year 2K2, butch is in. RuPaul is soooo last century. You need look only as far as Club Chaos for proof.

Of late, it is drag kings, rather than drag queens, who are starting to attract attention. Drag kings such as Dred, who does a blaxploitation shtick, and the "sleazeball pig" character dubbed with a literary name (think Herman Melville) are regulars on the international circuit. Last summer, local grad students produced "Changing Room," a documentary on D.C.'s scene. MTV recently aired its own mini-documentary on the phenomenon, while a "Sex and the City" episode featured photos of kings at a photography exhibit.

The attention may be more recent, but the theatricalism of drag kinging certainly isn't. Marlene Dietrich donned men's suits long before k.d. lang discovered Armani, and during the Harlem Renaissance, blues singer Gladys Bentley sported a tux as she sang about "bulldaggers."

"It's entertainment," says Carlos Las Vegas. "But it also embodies politicalness."

It's showtime.

Ken, aka Kendra Guliga, stands alone onstage, resplendent in a floor-length pleather "python" coat and matching cowboy hat. His mouth opens to sing, and Barry White's soulful bass voice comes pouring out. She's the penultimate player in a 12-act lineup.

There is also the sweet-faced NoTo, with a wadded-up ponytail and razor-thin "mustache" and "beard," breasts hidden under a baggy shirt, dancing the Running Man to Bobby Brown's old hit "My Prerogative" as the crowd cheers.

The four-boy band "N'Sexy" dances in lockstep to 'N Sync's "Bye Bye Bye."

Then there's Hunter, playing it for laughs in a spangled jumpsuit and a furry mat of chest hair, rolling around the floor of the stage, one exceedingly boozy and rotund, "package-free" Elvis.

The academically inclined toss out terms like "butch realness," "gender play" and "gender illusionist" to describe the estrogen-flavored swirl of masculinity hogging the spotlight at Club Chaos. For many involved, being a drag king is a feminist act, the ultimate one-finger salute to patriarchal bores. For others, performing in male drag works out issues of sexual identity, of embracing one's inner boy. Perhaps it's all of the above. Ultimately, though, it's about finding a safe place to flaunt your own special brand of you.

Men can be drag kings; kinging is all about mastering the art of masculinity. Straight women can be drag kings. But lesbians dominate this world, as at Club Chaos.

Some drag queens dismiss drag kings as nothing more than women with facial hair. Some members of the transgender community complain that drag kings mock them; other trans boys and girls see drag kings as embracing the transgender experience. And there's the matter of whether a drag king event should be an all-female affair. (Then there's the interesting phenomenon of gay men who suddenly find themselves attracted to women passing for men and don't quite know what to do with it.)

Things can get awfully complicated.

But then again, sometimes it's simply about the dancing.

If you came to dance, so much the better, because there's nowhere left to sit. The bass line is thumping through the speakers, Bobby Brown's words forming a manifesto of sorts: It's the way that I wanna live. It's my prerogative. . . .

In this free-for-all of mack-daddy bravado, there are catcalls and crotch grabs, sly winks and stolen kisses. Women in the audience clench dollar bills between their teeth, staring down the performers and offering up a dare: Come here. Inevitably, a performer dances over, pausing his lip-syncing long enough to grab the other end of a dollar bill with his teeth. One set of teeth advances along the dollar. Another set of teeth advances closer still. Lips meet.

Later for the politics.

At this moment, it's all about having a funky good time.

Ken is the organizer and producer of drag king shows at Club Chaos, and this night her good friend Carlos Las Vegas has flown in from Winnipeg, Manitoba, to emcee.

Carlos is a self-proclaimed "high-maintenance drag king" -- after all, his last name is Las Vegas -- which means you can expect a lot of costume changes during the night: The more glitter, the better.

"We've got an awesome lineup tonight!" Carlos, a small-boned king with a certain Latin flair, tells the crowd. "These kids are hot!"

Some are hotter than others, of course. Safe to say that Simon Sezz, an oversize dude sporting stubble, scrubs, hypodermic needles and a necklace of heavy-duty chains, is the hottest of them all: As he mouths the lyrics to the Staind ballad "It's Been a While," he grabs two candles and, with a grand flourish, pours hot wax all over his arms and chest.

A hard act to follow, that one.

Oh, but the kids, they try.

Hours before, back in that cozy Adams Morgan apartment, Ken and Carlos are getting ready for the night to come.

Barry White croons from the stereo. Ken's arty photos of male nudes line the rose walls. Miles, the cat, wanders into the bedroom, clearly bored. There's a knock on the door: It's Ken's mom, Oneica. (She asks that her last name not be used). Oneica sits in the living room, waiting as Carlos and Ken primp.

Carlos paints his face with spirit gum, a liquid adhesive, and then, ever so carefully, dabs hair shavings on his upper lip and chin. (He saves the clippings from his haircuts just for this.) His hands shake just a bit. Of course they're nervous. Stage fright strikes even the most seasoned pros.

They've been at it a while: Ken for six years; Carlos for eight. Day jobs are a necessity. (Ken works as a graphic artist; Carlos is a college student who works for a nonprofit agency.) There's no money in this. (Well, save for the dollar bills their fans throw at them.)

They do it for the passion. For the parody. And for the politics.

Says Ken, 28: "I'm mocking misogyny, patriarchy, capitalism and homophobia. . . . You have to make fun of it to educate. I'm an entertainer. The last thing I want to do is to alienate my audience."

"I'm an entertainer," says Carlos, 26, a first-generation Filipina Canadian whose real name is Clarissa Lageratera. "But I'm also a political activist.

"What we're doing is owning up to our masculinity. It doesn't mean male. Masculinity is more about what's between your ears, your brains, than what's between your legs."

But first, they've got to deal with what's between their armpits.

"That'll be the first criticism," says Carlos. "You've got boobs!"

Bosomy kings bind with Saran Wrap, then wind on layers of duct tape over the plastic. But you bind at your own risk: Cautionary tales abound of overzealous kings who've passed out from too-tight bindings and been carted away by paramedics.

Packing the all-important "package" is a considerably less arduous process. Ken prefers to stuff a sex toy down her trousers, while Carlos opts for a lifelike silicone reproduction. The really creative mix water, glue and borax soap to form a substance called "Gak."

Of course, a sock works, too.

Those desiring a crib sheet need only consult the debut issue of "Kingdom," the international drag king magazine recently launched by Carlos and Ken. On Page 8, the neophyte king will find an article penned by Carlos: "The How-Tos of Kinging: Facial Hair, Binding, Packing & The Swagger."

Six years ago, Ken saw a poster for a drag king contest. She'd always been on the feminine side, but on an impulse, she joined up -- and won.

Back in Winnipeg, Carlos was a girlie girl: Long curly hair, makeup, the whole bit. Even worked part-time as a go-go dancer at a local nightclub. She started hanging out with drag queens: She loved their energy, their shows. Eventually, they invited her to perform with them. Carlos started butching it up a bit, pulled her hair back, scribbled on a mustache, started working with a dance coach.

A drag queen friend persuaded her to go all the way.

Now she's got a dynasty. Literally. She's the ruling patriarch of the Las Vegas Dynasty, an international gathering of 52 drag kings who've all adopted the last name "Las Vegas." Carlos handpicks them. Talent is not a prerequisite. Kindness and a commitment to community service are. Ken is an honorary member.

Together, the two of them have created their own parallel universe, where gender is fluid, where a girl can be a boy if that's what she wants. Even their parents are slowly finding a way to accept their world. It wasn't always so. Carlos remembers her mom's shock when she accidentally found Carlos in full drag regalia. Now she helps out with his costumes. Carlos's dad even lends his clothes. Her parents even brag to their friends that their daughter has appeared on Maury Povich, though they don't necessarily say for what. (She's now a consultant for the show.)

Still, from time to time, Carlos's mom will pull her aside and say, "You know you're a girl, right?"

Ken's mom, Oneica, freely admits that she doesn't understand the whole gay thing. But she loves her daughter. Her son died in a jet-skiing accident a few years ago; Kendra is all she has. And that is enough for her.

"Her motives are belonging," Oneica says of her daughter. "Her family is around the world. Her brother died. Being a female, she's vulnerable. She doesn't like that feeling. I don't blame her. This society is rough on women. This [gives her] a sense of belonging, a sense of power. I respect that."

"She tells me that most of these kids are gay, abandoned by their parents. I don't think that's a reason to abandon your child. This way, we stay together."

Acceptance wasn't always so easy to come by.

In the '40s and '50s, the Jewel Box Revue, featuring the gender-bending Storme DeLarverie, regularly packed in crowds at the Apollo Theater. Like today's drag kings, DeLarverie cut her hair short, donned men's duds and took to the stage.

There was no dressing in drag offstage. Not if you wanted to stay out of jail.

"It's much easier now," says DeLarverie. "They can walk around the street in drag if they so choose. That's great. That's good."

Still, call her a drag king, and she bristles.

"I am a male impersonator," says DeLarverie, who, at age 81, works as a bouncer at a lesbian bar in Manhattan. "What I did was a forerunner for them to do this."

What she did was to sing big-band style, a handsome woman with a smoothly deep voice, crooning amid a chorus line of beautiful men dressed like women. It was all about illusion. Show biz. There was no lip-syncing, either. (As she sees it, anyone can do that.)

Even so, DeLarverie looks at today's drag kings with a certain amount of tenderness.

"I know a lot of the girls, and I'm all for them," she says. "This is their day, these young people. This is their day. Not mine."

© 2002 The Washington Post Company