"Dude, what in the hell are you thinking?!"
That is what normally goes through my brain first when I find myself in situations like this. Me, half naked, dressed in frilly girl panties and a camisole, as I strut across an abandoned NYC alley on a sunny Saturday morning. A few tourists cast quick, confused glances before speeding up their pace and the one cop I saw looked once, shrugged and went back to drinking his coffee as the photographer kept snapping away.
Yep, just another day in the big city.
So you, and most sane people, are asking me. Just what the hell prompted me to do drag in NYC? Some statement about gender? Maybe the tiara is a subtle slam on European pseudo royalty? Nope, nothing that well planned out really. Truth be told this whole idea was hatched, as many of my best ones are often, after a couple of very strong Manhattans and in the company of a pretty girl.
Why not make a photo that is just a polar opposite of the whole "well dressed male courtesan Monk"?
Something so ironic that it ends up being more than just a "ha, ha big straight guy in drag". I mean, fem drag is so not my kink. I've said before, gender bending ala Tim Curry in Rocky Horror? Hawt. Me in full drag? Nope, I just can't get into looking like a bearded Mrs. Doubtfire.
I am still sifting through proofs to find the ultimate gender-bender shot that sums up the masculine joy I had that morning, swaggering along with a cigar in one hand as I polished off a bottle of cheap bourbon.
*all shots by the awesome Eleizabeth Raab. If you are in NYC you should check her out.