I can’t even imagine how the language would have prospered under your creative pen (we didn’t have keyboards in those days). We needed you in Singapore back when Bugi Street was in flower. Then, just as I’m about to break out my last twenty and buy a round of Rockstar for my new friends, the show starts. I live with a man, but I’m not into the gay lifestyle.” He taps his watch. It runs at least two hours behind schedule. He explains the late starting time: “It’s a little known fact that gay time is the slowest time on the planet.
We still have to fight for our ground as the restless crowd tries to find the perfect vantage point.Ī handsome young man (dressed, oddly enough, as a man) introduces himself as Jacob. Is it possible that Cinder fella‘s pumpkin has broken down on the way to the ball? Mike and I are crowded against the back-of-the-room bar, which is closed. It’s now 1:30 a.m., and the pageant was supposed to start at midnight. Maybe they do it for the recognition and the approval of their peers, but the audience is the real winner. Last year’s winner, Nina DiAngelo, donated her prize to charity. The winner receives $1,000, almost enough to buy a pair of heels and a customized gown. The contestants, I realize, aren’t in it for the money. He has choreographed the choruses and all the individual talent numbers. Stephan Reynolds – dancer, choreographer and the promoter of the pageant – gets talking about the acts. Hmm, no wonder the start has been delayed. He points toward the middle of the club, where the walkway has been extended since that afternoon. Mike Le Duc, the designated photographer from the Folies Bergere, tells me he came at noon to get shots of the rehearsal, and the stage was still under construction.
Can’t we all just get along? Get over this prejudice against interracial dating? But hell, it’s a new century with a new president. “We dated for a while, about six years ago.” Scott’s obviously hesitant about revealing this information. “My friend Marcus is in the show,” he answers. “How did you find out about this?” I ask. I turn to Scott, a young man from Missouri, in town for a four-day weekend. Wait a minute! This is the Miss Sin City USA Pageant, Las Vegas’ beauty pageant for female impersonators. I’m standing shoulder to shoulder with more stunningly beautiful women than I can shake a swizzle stick at. The spectators are all dressed in black as if for some kind of crazy-chic, leather-and-satin retrospective. In front of the stage, clusters of mirrored balls give a techno feel to the room. The place smolders and shimmers in the dim light of huge Chinese lanterns floating like planetoids in the inky-black interior. Imagine this: A bevy of gorgeous icons, all crammed into Krāve, the cool and quirky nightclub just off the Strip.