Located not so long ago in the 20th Century, the story goes like this - a young boy finds lust and love in the company of a classmate at the ashram where he holes up with a brood of other boys and manly monks.
Honestly, he’d have preferred to read a book, or perhaps sketch. The male form was his specialty.
Muttering under my breath, and ignoring a steadily mounting headache, I carefully slipped on my gown. The bell was still buzzing, and it had been a straight ten minutes!
Be warned, these might not be the glamorous answer you were looking for. But even though my stones aren’t real diamonds, they sparkle more brightly.
I for one try not to hate people for finding drag uncomfortable, because hate is a useless and damaging emotion. I see this story instead as an attempt to build conversation around the phobia.
In my 27 years of existence, I’ve embodied various personas and roles. Even today, I behave slightly differently in the office, around parents, at a party and when I’m alone in my room.