How Lovely To Be A Eunuch

Wednesday, June 23, 2004 -
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

Reagan's funeral, the Olympic torch, and now Pride Weekend�we have shunned all public spectacle lately and I've missed opportunities to regale you with sightings of Secret Service men, Ellen DeGeneres, and Santa Monica's annual Parade of Pecs. And Woeful Tales of Traffic Jams, Stupid Parking Tricks, and Other Motorized Misadventures. But even if I had been there, I wouldn't write about the traffic�I promised myself long ago that I would not write about LA's vehicular inanities and insanities. Everybody whines about the traffic in LA, moi included. And even though I have, with enthusiasm�nay, even with joy�engaged in long conversations with other adepts, about arcane timetables and labyrinthine routes that will lend speed and ease one's journey through the Southland dystopia, I'm not gonna to share my hard-won secrets with the whole freakin' internet. Uh-uh. Nope.

Besides, I have not been behind the wheel for three months, and I won't be allowed to drive for another three months. I should, I suppose, be pleased and thankful that I haven't had a seizure since March, but at best I am peeved, and at worst. . . Well, I don't want to say I feel emasculated, because I don't believe that the vehicle makes the man�and really, walking, cycling and using mass transit are butch modes of transportation for the majority of males on this planet�and cadging rides from friends is one of the manly arts, like spitting, burping, barbecue, and the archival preservation of ancient typographic t-shirts. . .

. . . but goddammit, I feel emasculated. And this from a guy who has (on several occasions, in my gaudier youth) worn pantyhose, false eyelashes, a wig and a skirt without feeling the least bit unmanly.

I firmly believe that men, straight or queer, should seize every opportunity they can to escape the unhealthy straitjacket of approved male behavior. I try to do at least one feminine thing a day, even if its only peeing while sitting down, but oddly enough, I never felt particularly girlish while wearing drag. I learned to appreciate the tedious agony women go through just to make themselves presentable, but I couldn't seem to cross that empathetic bridge and enjoy being a girl (as quintessentially expressed by Nancy Kwan.) My boyfriend at the time, Cecil, known more famously in certain circles as Cecile St. Cynaire, said it just wasn't my thing. It was his thing, that's why I tried it. It looked like such fun, and you know, it was fun for a while.

Cecil was not transgendered or transvested, he was an all-out, old school, unapologetic drag queen. For him the show was all, but it was just that, a show. Out of his gear, he was just another guy�gay as a barrel full of monkeys on nitrous oxide, certainly, but macho to the core, just the cutest little bantam cock of a boi. In or out of a dress, he was a lovely caramel-coated treat, a French-Brazilian confection, sweet and delectable. I don't know why I'm talking about him in the past tense, he's not dead. We parted amicably enough when he fell madly in love with a doctor from Columbia whose wife ran off with a lesbian opera singer or was murdered by a drug lord or something like that, I've forgotten exactly what except I remember it seemed like something that would happen in an HBO series.

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Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

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