Dedragging: Mykel's Come As You Are Session
De-Dragging Portrait Session | Drag Queen Photography | Come As You Are Boudoir | Apollo Fields NYC Portraits
Dedragging: Mykel's Come As You Are Session
She has one rule, well actually She has a full list of rules because She is a boss like that, but the most important one is: “Never take off any drag until you are home and the door is closed. Serve the full fantasy and commit to the gag.”
The night is over and in the car back I am itching to regain control of my normal body functions. Since leaving the house six hours ago, all I've been thinking about is taking off the drag that has deprived me of these basic needs. My feet have lost all feeling in the spiked heel death traps I have fastened to them. I go to take them off and give myself the beginning feelings of freedom from the martyrdom that is drag, but She reminds me, “Bitch, you’ll be fine. No one wants to see a flat-footed drag queen hobbling into her building. Buck up buttercup, we’re almost home.”
After an awkward farewell from my Uber driver, who is clearly going to spend the rest of the night compartmentalizing his sexual desire for She, I grow more and more excited to de drag with every brittle step I take. I am so close to freedom I could cry. The elevator is empty. No one can see me. I go to peel off the wig and free my head from the giant band of torture elastic. “No, no, no, No. What if the sexy neighbor is in the hall? I’m not going to be a bald headed bitch.” She scolds.
The terrifying bounce of the old elevator arriving on my floor reminds me sharply that I’ve had to pee since leaving the house. Being that my penis is taped up my own ass, I have to just forget about all bathroom requirements entirely. On two dead feet and a piercingly full bladder, I full on run/wobble from the elevator down the hall, looking like a drunk freshly birthed giraffe. I unbutton her dress and let it fall to the ground, while savagely ripping off her thumb and index finger nails with my teeth.
“What are you...?” Ignoring her completely I dump out the contents of her purse, and squat like a monkey to frantically get the keys. Out of the corner of my eye I see that hot neighbor coming out of his apartment. “I fucking told you! Oh my God! Get inside right now!” I unlock the door and lunge into the entry hall while incomprehensibly stammering ‘great to see you, have a good night’.
Immediately I’m dodging my dog Tux, who has undoubtedly been sitting in the same spot since I left, plotting his triumphant fanfare of love and adoration upon my return. I leap over him and make it to the bathroom just in time to peel down five layers of Capezio tights, releasing my foam butt pads like coiled snakes in a can.
The downright emotional release that comes from ripping off the duct tape and allowing my penis to emerge into an oxygen filled environment is life changing to say the least. Also the terrifying sight of it slowly accordioning out from the cave of my pelvis is something directly from a sci-fi horror movie. “There ya go buddy! Sweet release.” She says with kindness and understanding.
There I am, suddenly a man in a beautiful wig and makeup, tights rolled down to my calves, a nude lace bra, adorned in diamonds and jewels, and fully bedazzled plastic nails on. There is nothing more powerful than straddling a toilet and peeing in six inch heels. I catch a glimpse of me, her, us in the mirror and can’t help but feel proud. “ I love being gay.”
I waddle into my bedroom while avoiding the land mines of toys, ropes, and balls lovingly set out by my dog. I pry off my heels and try to set my feet flat on the ground, but anyone who has spent any significant amount of time in heels knows that your feet are going to be frozen in place like Barbie’s plastic arches for the next few hours. “Also, good luck with your lower back pain for the rest of the week darling. You’re fucked.” She’s right. I’m fucked.
Whoever invented underwire should be burned at the stake. “For. Real. Though. Henny.” She says while taking the first deep breath of the night. The alarmingly red indent around my torso after taking off her bra is a mere battle scar. I wear it with begrudging pride. Now comes the most painful part of de-dragging, taking off the nails. There is no kind way to tear off your own cuticles. You have to find your numb happy place and just bite those claws off and spit them victoriously across the room. “Oh shit, look out, he’s butch all of a sudden.”
I stand back from the mirror, and take a good last look while blood and oxygen begin to freely flow through my body again. Even though I’m a naked man standing there, I still see the woman I made looking back at me. It’s strange to say the words “woman I made”, because in reality She is shaping me. She gives me the power to see society see me, and I am strengthened every time She takes over. She is softer in her inflections and gestures, yet She requires more physical and emotional strength that I just don’t have when I’m a man. She’s a brave boss.
We stare at each other for minute. The corner of her lip smirks, and the sassy sultry sound of her voice says, “Bitch, you look stunning.” We grab the wig, and for a moment the world is in slow motion. She gives me a final wink, and I snatch it off my head. She’s gone for now. She was fabulous tonight.
Talent: Mykel Vaughn
Photography: Apollo Fields
Location: The Denizen Co.
Half Baked: Twenty Week Bumpdate
Half Baked: Twenty Week Bumpdate | Apollo Fields Wedding Photographers
I have never been the kind of girl to try on a bunch of outfits before going out. In fact, I have always prided myself on not being that kind of girl. Now at twenty weeks pregnant, I am most definitely that girl.
On goes a shirt, off goes a shirt, on goes a dress, dress comes off, grab a tank top, hold it up in front of my chest, yeah that’s a no-go, throw it all on the floor in a pile. Then I’ll stand in front of the mirror half naked wondering how it is possible to barely recognize the person looking back at me. I will freeze in that frustration for a little while, then reach back into my closet for another shirt.
Rinse and repeat.
I can go way down the rabbit hole in this cycle of trying to make my tried-and-true pre-pregnancy clothes look the way they used to, but it is usually futile and ends up with me shoving them in my crawl space that I’ve now designated as the burial ground for clothes that I probably won’t see for another year or so. Another one bites the dust, then I slam the door shut.
I’ll reach for one of the hand-me-down maternity outfits I’ve been given and try to come to terms with that outfit. Leopard print. Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever worn leopard print in my entire life… am I about to wear leopard print today? Try it on-- yikes-- I am definitely not a leopard print girl. Throw that in the pile too.
So there I am, still half naked, still standing in a pile of fallen soldiers (I glance down at my favorite gray J.Crew shirt-- you were a good friend), and that god forsaken mirror reminds me that yes, my belly button just keeps getting weirder looking. “When did you get so fucking vain?” I think to myself, almost out loud.
I was deep in the struggle this morning when my husband walked upstairs and found me practically hiding in the closet like a dog on the Fourth of July. I was wearing nothing more than my underwear, a bralette, and my frustration and he just says, “You’re having a moment, aren’t you?”
Yep. Definitely having a moment and it didn’t take too long before I tried explaining how nothing fits and my whole body feels foreign and I am gaining weight in the one place that society has told me to never gain weight and someone jokingly called me ‘fatso’ yesterday but why didn’t that feel like a joke but also everyone tells me my bump is cute but maybe I should hide the bump better so people stop telling me to take it easy and not move a chair but more importantly my body is healthy and I feel great and why can’t I just be grateful that I’m healthily pregnant how many women would kill for this but I am grateful so why don’t I feel sexy??
Woof, dude. That run-on sentence was basically the word-vomit that came tumbling out of my mouth before I started crying. Or maybe I just cried my way through the whole thing but it didn’t take long before realizing that very little of this actually had to do with the way I looked or how I actually felt.
The truth is, I feel great. In many ways, I feel better than I did before we got pregnant. I have tons of energy, I eat like a monk, I’m active, I’m working, my skin has never looked better, I feel strong and I feel healthy. So what’s the problem?
The problem, as it turns out (and I shouldn’t be surprised because it is my dark shadow), is actually centered around control and power. I am afraid that by looking pregnant, people will assume that I either won’t be as good at my job or that I shouldn’t be doing it in the first place. Think this sounds like an outdated problem? Think again. I was literally reprimanded by an older Indian man at a wedding last week for shooting when I should be home resting. “Where is your husband?” he asked me, “Your husband should be taking the pictures instead. You should have an assistant”, he insisted.
My blood was boiling. Not only was I perfectly capable of working that job, but I was there to crush that gig, which I did. I plan on crushing gigs as long as I can, having this baby, and then getting back to crushing gigs. It is just what I do and who I am and that doesn’t automatically make me selfish or any less-mother.
So now I’m all revved up and high on my feminism but holy ego it’s time to check all that because Terrence reminds me that I am going to get a lot more pregnant and our priorities are going to have to shift eventually. A sobering thought for someone who derives as much of their sense of self from their ability to get-shit-done-for-themselves, but alas, he’s right. Things will change and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I have to realize that maybe I can’t wear my favorite gray J.Crew shirt for a while, but I don’t have to walk out of the house in leopard print, either.
People love to comment on women’s bodies. They especially love to comment on pregnant women’s bodies. This probably isn’t going to stop in the next few months, so it is up to me to learn how to navigate this new chapter. Unpacking my own skinny privilege and the pang of the scale every time I see the numbers climb is all valid and real, but the actual work for me comes up when I am told by a colleague, “Oh, I just assumed you wouldn’t be working now so I haven’t been sending you any leads”. That one that actually stung, and was maybe the reason I wanted to hide my bump in the first place.
Our identity is huge, and as women we forfeit a lot of that during pregnancy (and subsequently motherhood). It is not all bad: Personally, I have taken better care of myself both mentally and physically because for the first time in my life, it’s not just for me. Pushing myself to my absolute limits is no longer a badge of honor but can have very real negative effects on a baby, so I have had to find a long overdue new normal for myself. But I am still working-- I’m still shooting and I’m loving it and I really do plan on doing it as long as I can. Yes, things are shifting but at the end of the day I am still me, except now I try on clothes about forty times before leaving the house.
– Heather
