The Wake

Camille stands naked, save for a nude thong and the metal rings piercing her navel and each nipple. A heavy bass pounds through the floor and into her rectangular dressing room as she slides into a black cocktail dress dripping in sequins of black and red, gold and white; sequins in the form of giant playing cards strewn across her hips and waist and chest; sequins that seem to leap under a stage light’s unfaltering glare.

Next, she slips two chicken cutlet-shaped pads over her flat chest and under the sparkling dress, glides a brush through her lengthy blonde locks, and steps into gold heels. She’s ready for the stage.

Except that she is not really a she. Camille is a man. A man who, for six nights a week, dresses as a woman and performs in drag shows at the Gay ‘90s in downtown Minneapolis.

“This is my career, this is how I make my living,” Camille said.

At 38, she’s the longest running cast member of La Femme, the troupe of queens who lip synch to Cher and gyrate to the Black Eyed Peas for raucous crowds and the dollar bills in their pockets.

Gay ‘90s is blasted on message boards across the net for catering to a predominantly straight crowd. But on any given night, the labyrinth of bars and dance floors connecting the three-floor warehouse hosts a mix of homos and heteros, drag queens and wannabes.

Gaggles of high schoolers from the suburbs descend on the club for 18-plus nights each Wednesday, Thursday, and Sunday. Mid-week, a group from Minnetonka sits in a burgundy booth lining the wall; the boys decked in the heterosexual uniform of collared button ups or tees, the girls in candy-colored halters and tanks.

Two booths down is Didi, hair flipped out in a dramatic white-blonde swoop. Sipping a drink, Didi perches on her seat as Roxy Marquis’ lean frame jerks and sways to “Hung Up,” a Madonna dance track that tugs at each tendon until your legs bounce and head bobs in sync with the infectious beat. I wish I had a body like that, Didi thinks. I wish I could do that.

Did I mention Didi’s a straight man with a wife at home?

On-stage, Camille finally struts forward on five-inch stilettos. Her mile-long legs rival Heidi Klum’s. Except in the knees, knobby lumps just a hair too large, betraying a masculinity that can’t be masked by the stroke of a razor or swish of a skirt.

As “Luck Be a Lady” thunders from the speakers, Camille’s deep red pout mimes, “Luck if you’ve been a lady to begin with.” Her arms, a little too muscular, swish grandiosely through the air. A man in a flannel shirt clenches a dollar bill between his teeth and leers up into Camille’s eyes, which are shrouded in a black fog of eye shadow and faux lashes.

A long bar stretches from the stage toward the door. A business man, with a carefully coifed tuft of hair spiked up in front, stands with a petite blonde in a University of Minnesota sweatshirt. To their left, a man with a paunch and a beret gambles on a video screen jutting from the dark wood surface. An antique Model-T hangs from the ceiling directly above, strings of Christmas lights illuminate shelves of alcohol, and two bartenders scramble to pour drinks renowned for their ability to knock customers off their stools.

“Mix your milk with my cocoa puff, milky milky cocoa,” lip synchs Nina DiAngelo, Gay ‘90s (unimpressive) entertainer of the year, as Fergie’s mantra to her lovely lady lumps thumps forth.

Resembling a Dallas Cowboys’ cheerleader after a brutal attack from a renegade be-dazzler, Nina’s bead-encrusted bra quivers for the hooting crowd. Her humps may be artificial, but they produce the same affect as any XX chromosome woman.