It’s like a whole new world I never knew existed. I mean, I knew there were drag shows. This is San Francisco. You can’t go two blocks without bumping into a queen. I just never paid attention. I’ve been living my life surrounded in a tight bubble of mist thicker than Karl on his worst day.

On stage, an Asian queen with a poufy white wig and a huge wedding dress starts singing “Freedom!” by George Michael. As she sings, she dances, her movements fluid despite the abundant clothing, but as she moves, she strips, pulling off dress after dress, and wig after wig, each one a different character, a different person, a different life even. A suit jacket and skirt, a doctor in scrubs, a sexy body suit and then—nothing.

My mind is blown. Not only by the story it tells about the things we wear, but the design that went into each outfit. She must use Velcro tear-offs or something to make them all so easily removable.

By the end of the performance, the makeup gets wiped off along with the clothes and all that’s left is naked skin, no wig, short clipped hair. He stands there, naked underneath everything. Well, not quite naked, wearing flesh-colored briefs, but alone, under the spotlight.

“Wow. I’ve never seen anything like it.” The act of undressing, of wearing a variety of outfits, combined with the lyrics of the song tell a story I never would have considered. I’ve heard the song a thousand times but never really grasped the meaning behind the lyrics.

“Damn, that hunty did good,” Fifi says from behind us.

I twist around. I didn’t hear her sit down.

She wiggles her fingers at me and I wave back before turning around again.

“Are all of the acts lip-synching?” I ask Queen Bee while the stage is cleared for the next audition.

She pats my knee. “With drag, baby, artifice is the point. Lip-synching is a perfect representation of pretense.”

“Pretense?”

“Drag is all about taking something mainstream and turning it into something uniquely queer. Drag itself is performance art, and a societal message. We’re all born naked and the rest is drag.”

My mouth pops open. “That’s beautiful. And scarily accurate.” It’s like the clothes I wear to work, the ones my mother picked out for me. It wasn’t me. It was who she wanted me to be. It was a façade.

Fifi snorts and leans in between us, putting a hand on the back of my chair. “Queen Bee didn’t say that. She stole it from RuPaul.”