Becoming a drag king was mostly an accident. 

I didn’t have much theater experience, besides playing Tiger Lily in a high school production of Peter Pan (I’d auditioned for Peter, boihood icon). The roommate of an ex of someone I play tabletop RPGs with told me about a two-day drag king workshop at a tiny theater in Boystown and I thought, hey, what the hell. I’d only seen a handful of drag king performances before, but they always seemed like they were having fun. 

The instructor was named Hamish Thesbian, a king sporting colorful tights and an impressive pompadour. They led us through various dance and lip-syncing exercises, and then we spent some time practicing makeup. All the while, Hamish encouraged us to get in touch with the kind of masculinity we wanted to embody or converse with while we were up on stage. 

“All gender is drag, hunnies,” they told us.

And I loved it. I was doing Rockette kicks. I was shaking and shimmying. 

At the end of the first day, we were turned loose in the costume department to try on different looks. It was basically a narrow hallway with several racks of costumes bending under the weight of tulle, feathers, and sequins. I brushed my hand over each costume as I walked through, wondering who I would become. 

I’ve always loved dressing up. When I was little, I stole my mom’s green button-up and belted it at the waist to pretend to be Peter Pan. Instead of disciplining me, she cut and hemmed the edges of the shirt into a zigzag and made me a matching hat. She insisted she “never liked that shirt anyway.”

Then I saw it: a gorgeous floor-length trench with impeccable tailoring. Vintage Burberry, probably. 

I pulled on the coat, eager to see myself as a Leyendecker model. Standing in front of the mirror at 5’2”, I looked, tragically, more like Columbo. 

“Women love Columbo,” Julie told me. We were fujoing out at her place. Her cat Mochi sat between us on the bed, purring. “Maybe your problem is having an idealized image of queer white masculinity.” 

The one Asian butch in the company went by Juice Lee, a black belt gymnast who flipped all over the stage for his performance. I didn’t see myself doing cartwheels anytime soon. 

“What about Bong Joon Ho?” Julie suggested. “He’s hot.” 

“Doesn’t lend himself to drag.” 

“Kim Jong Un?” 

“Mm, maybe not. Half of us are communists.” 

We brainstormed a list of possible personas based on longtime role models of mine: 

• Lighthouse keeper 
• Prince (performing artist)
• Vegeta 
• Monk (Buddhist) 
• Julie’s dad (“Ew.”) 
• Legolas 
• Monk (Franciscan) 

“I give up,” I said. 

What I liked about the art form was the aspect of performance and play, both with race and gender. And of course, the element of transformation. Up on stage, I could be whoever I wanted. This was turning out to be a problem. 

“But it’s a whole thing, right?” she said, dangling her feet off the edge of the bed. “Asian masculinity.” 

“Yeah…” 

“Do you think Asian femininity is less complex?” 

I thought for a moment. “…No?” 

She chucked a pillow at my head. “You’re not going as my dad.” 

---

My mom called as I boarded the train back to my place, and I did my best to explain my day.

“Ne, Umma. You know Rocky Horror? It’s like that.” 

“I didn’t know I could dance, either.” 

“I’m not quitting my job!” 

“Of course, I’ll get you tickets. Front row.”

---

I stayed up late scrolling through the social media feeds of various kings. They represented every gender expression under the sun: aristocrat, dandy, pirate, greaser, jazz cat, space alien. None of them called out to me. 

The next day I staggered up the stairs to the theater space, dark circles under my eyes. Hamish Thesbian greeted us with theatrical flair. 

After a few warm-up exercises, we were encouraged to find a space somewhere in the theater and start drafting our acts. Hamish walked around giving advice and offering suggestions as needed. 

I folded myself up into a corner, picking at some peeling wallpaper. 

When Hamish came by, I filled them in on my problem. 

They nodded, seeming to understand. “A gimmick isn’t everything. You can go as yourself, but more, and with a slutty name. You can have a couple different personas, too.” 

They moved on, and I was left alone with my thoughts, trying to decide who I would be as a performer. 

My earliest memories of dancing were with my mother. She’d put on a show tunes tape, and we’d groove around the living room, acting out our most dramatic emotions for each other: Éponine’s death at the barricades, the Sharks and the Jets facing off, the Darling children taking flight for the first time. 

Just as Hamish called for us to wrap up, a name floated into my head. I wrote it out, just to see how it would look. It had some problems, and it wasn’t fully me. But I felt like I could work with it. Maybe make it my own. I said it quietly under my breath. 

“… Peter Pansexual.”