One Fey's Tale - Installment 6

Frocking Fabulous
by middle

only on lifelube

Last week as I carted my tent, supplies, and faerie drag to my campsite at a gathering, I caught the eye of another man on the trail. Smiling, he paused to remark, "there you go in that girly dress," (I was wearing a short knit lavender number over my long johns and work boots,) "but you have such a butch walk behind that wheelbarrow!"

Describing the San Francisco roots of the Radical Faerie movement in The Trouble With Harry Hay, Stuart Timmons wrote, "Genderfuck, an outrageous form of costume combining exaggerated signals from male and female -- such as a beard, bouffant hairdo, and glittering kabuki eye makeup all on one person - was employed as a cultural guerrilla attack on rigid sex roles."

Right on. I’m sure not all of the faeries I encounter these days have such serious intentions. Others’ motivations are likely more personal and range from the frivolous to the profound. Perhaps their favorite frock brings out the cosmic clown inside. Maybe a particular gown simply makes them feel fabulous. The right dress can facilitate careful exploration of your feminine side or help your inner drag queen burst onto the scene.

Wearing a skirt can be sensual, whether you just enjoy the feel of the fabric or pursue a full-blown fetish. A straight guy at a very mixed party once guessed what wasn’t underneath my broomstick skirt. Professing pleasurable experience with sarongs, he intimated, "I get it - you’re walking around damn near naked."

There are practical aspects as well. Squatting over a woodland latrine, for example, is simpler in drag than in pants. Long skirts and dresses offer protection against bug bites and nippy weather without unnecessarily restricting ventilation, movement, or most importantly, access.

I remember well the first men in dresses who were targets of my gaze. One was a beautiful and extraordinarily hairy communard who favored sundresses. Another was a very smooth, well-defined twink from New York who wore a navy mini-dress. The low neckline provided a peek at his gym-pumped chest and the short hem length revealed the bottom half of his perky, pair-of-grapefruits ass. Woof!

One night around the campfire, I noticed a particular fey boy in a skirt. Other men in the circle inspired lust, but this one fascinated me. I was struck by how perfect the skirt looked on him. It wasn’t particularly flashy or cool, but it matched the color of his black hair and rode low on his waist, contrasting with his fair complexion and accenting those sexy lines that curve from the hips down to the groin. It struck me that I’d finally shed most of my crap about who wears the pants in this world.My first cross-dressing experience was in grammar school. A close friend had a 45-rpm record of David Rose’s The Stripper. He and his younger brother thought it was hilarious to act out a little routine while it played. For kicks I suggested we borrow dresses from our moms for the 6th grade talent show. We got lots of laughs, but he had no interest in the school-wide event and I signed up solo.

Mesmerized in the wings of the gymnasium stage, I watched another boy’s fiercely convincing impersonation of Flip Wilson’s "Geraldine." I asked about his make up as he came off stage, and he told me his mother had done it. Shocked, I realized I couldn’t follow that act. When they called my name, I pretended like I didn’t hear and the parade of singers and baton twirlers rolled on.

I wonder if one day in some backwoods discoteque I’ll run into "Geraldine" dancing his ass off in a fucking fabulous dress. Meanwhile if you ask me, my own number one, most important, all time favorite reason for wearing a dress is . . . because I can.

[to be continued]

Read previous installments of One Fey's Tale here.

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