Dressed to Kill

So I’ve had this secret for a long time. I’ve always wondered, always wanted I should say, to dress in drag for a day, no, a week, nay, awhile. I’ve wanted to dress in the way, mayhaps not the way Ru Paul dresses, but perhaps in something every bit as edgy, extravagant, but not in so clearly a kind of drag queen, but a drag master, a drag temptress, a drag wizard.

In fact, forget the drag.

I want to wear the kind of things that makes people wonder what’s under my tight leather pants. The kind of look that makes you mad you hadn’t thought of it first. The kind of executive transvestite Eddy Izzard claims to be. I mean I want to be damn fine, I mean I am damn fine, but I want to be damn fine at it’s zenith, it’s damn finest. I want to be the feature act on every broadway and boulevard, every street corner and long avenue. I want men and women both to dismiss me superficially whilst desiring me, and the idea of me, carnally and lovingly. I want the masses to be provoked by my very outwardness. To be puzzled at what must be an extraordinary being, just by the looks of me. I want to give everyone the closeted secret of wanting to be me in even their most mundane moments, even mid-coitus in the clutches of excruciatingly orgasmic opulencessness.

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