Wednesday, July 26, 2006 | by nathan

Seriously, What Would You Have Done?

On my MySpace profile I mention that I once beat up a drag queen. This may be a bit hyperbolic; it’s not like there was this drag queen lying broken and defeated at my feet, or that I was handed the Golden Chalice of Deren’Thor when it was all over or anything. But I get a lot of comments and emails asking about it, so here is the story.

There is this drag queen in Oklahoma City; fairly successful as far as drag queens go, I suppose, as most of the gay people with whom I associate know her both in drag and out. Many of them have had experiences with her similar to the one I am going to share (except without the beating up part), so keep that in mind. Also, keep in mind that I usually really like drag queens.

So just after I returned to Oklahoma City in 2002 I was still trying to make friends in the local gay community. I did not know very many people, I was brokenhearted and looking for some new friends. So I went out to Angles one night in the spring of 2003 and had one or two social cocktails.

This drag queen - who will not be named - kept walking up to me and, let us be charitable and say she kept complimenting me on my appearance. It was nice and all, except that a) she was not attractive in the least, and b) she kept trying to kiss me. I’m not really that kind of a guy, and so rebuffed her constantly but more or less played it off. As the night wore on I got a bit more inebriated, as did the drag queen, who began walking up to me and shoving her hand directly down my pants.

Okay, what guy do you know who likes having his junk grabbed by someone wearing four-inch nails? Wait, don’t answer that.

It happened several times and I kept pushing her away, each time more forcefully, less polite. I think people in the club started to think that I was with her, which was also incredibly irritating, as I was getting some unsavory looks. I wanted to get on the P.A. and announce how pissed off I was getting.

So the club closed, and by this time I had sobered up. I stepped out front to have a cigarette and the drag queen strolled up to me once more, and quickly shoved her hand down my pants again.

I shoved her away - for probably the eighth or ninth time - and was like, "Hey, man. Stop." Very firmly.

Queen kinda stumbled around a bit - she was drunk - and pulled me close to slur in my ear, "You should come back to my place. This is my car right here." Followed by a profane string of incredibly dirty things that she presumably wanted to do to me. Then she shoved her hand down my pants again.

Rage exploded inside me. "This is your car right here?" 

"Yeah. You’re coming home with me."

In a movement much quicker than I usually think myself capable, I pulled her hand out of my pants, grabbed the back of her neck with my other hand, and slammed her forehead on the hood of the car. She stood up quickly and stumbled around for a sec; I swear there were little cartoon birds swarming around her head for a moment.

"You don’t have to be a bitchabboudid," she slurred, sounding as if she had bit her tongue.

"Yeah, I think I do," I said loudly. "Don’t stick your fucking hand down people’s pants."

I turned and walked away; a few of the gay boys who were standing around were looking at me in surprise. I was surprised with myself.

A couple years later that same drag queen locked a gay boy I knew in his closet and raped him, and any remorse I may have had about that night kinda vanished, if it was ever there to begin with. Which I am not sure it was.  

Heaux-Meaux, It's Not Right But It's Okay