or ...

A True
Faerie
Story

by ...

Philip
from
Toronto

a.k.a. ...
Geneva
from
Swisherland

an
excerpt
from

DRAGHEAD
number eleven

Photos:
Rubbermade

Blame it on the drag. That's what did it for me. Like many gay men, bitterly reconciled to making it on my own, there would be no group identity for me. I resisted enthusiastic urgings to attend a Radical Faerie gathering. When I finally submitted, it was not successful. But I yielded once more and was seduced. Not by the man-of-my-dreams, but by faerie glamour. The (apparently) casual elegance and subtle (yes subtle!) sophistication of faerie drag beguiled me. The wave of emotions unleashed on and off 'the stage' by a no-talent extravaganza swept me away in a transcendent experience, profoundly new and inspiring.

That was awhile ago. Liberating the faerie within remains a work-in-progress. A task that started with a WASPy character, well-accustomed to safely observing from the fringe; skeptically analytical, aggressively judgemental, painfully ironic and stubbornly passive - my very presence a stolid challenge to faeries ... work your magic, girls! Well ... no one took my challenge. I was left in the space I needed to construct myself. That stiff character, apart and a part of the faerie fringe with his limited flexibility decided ... to go ... shopping.

I will be completely candid ... the rest is history. I have shopped sparingly and with (dare I use the word) discrimination. OK, I was unable to resist the allure of some synthetic fabrics. I confess my most expensive and truly dearest item cost $5.00 (US). The result (unsurprisingly) is a somewhat trashy drag person(a), graphic proof that clothes make the (wo)man. Now, there have been situations where I have found myself led into startling sexual territory, that I can truly claim had not previously existed in my imagination. I maintain that this does not represent that GREAT AMERICAN ICON, personal expression, but essentially new experience. New too are the personas that I have encountered, (ex)posed in myself in the dusky, glamorous pre-dining salons of Amber Fox. From them have emerged recognizable threads of consistent identity. That poseur presenting aspects of butch sissy, blowzy bitch and forlorn floozie, while vividly recognizable as Philip From the Fringe, is an altogether other being.

S/he's the monstrous consequence of an unnatural coupling: perverse conceptualization in the bed of cast-off fashion. Not yet fully developed, s/he's struggling through adolescence - confused by mysterious body changes, ravaged by sudden storms of emotion, fearful of pressure to 'go along with the gang', and at times just plain boy-crazy. Still, a distinct entity, meriting fully the empowerment of naming.

Click to link to:
Amber Fox
Askance
Faerie Links
Pre-Geneva Diva