Aretha Franklin's voice wails and beats out of black box speakers into the din and clamor of the beaded, baubled, swanky-assed, stiletto-heeled crowd. Her voice dips and broods and winds its way into the consciousness of every person at the ball. They come here because it is safe. They come here because they are accepted. They come to find love. But above all, gay men and women come to this tiny club in Eugene, Oregon, to be embraced by a deep respect for the individuals they are and the individuals they have fought so hard to become.

Diva and Velour are working the crowd. Milo and Megan sit at the corner of the bar comparing hair colors and swatting each other with their fans. Velour snakes through the crowd, easy long-legged strides on three-inch heels made graceful by years of practice. She glides, tosses her mink-rich mahogany hair over her shoulder and passes a manicured hand through the gray threads of an admirer's hair. She loses a nail. Damn.

Diva saunters up to the bar, leans in, stretches her arms out in front of her, then squeezes just a bit. Her cleavage is a touch tawdry tonight, but she likes it just fine. So does the bartender. "A rum and Coke, sweetheart," Diva says. Her voice is a husky silk that wraps around smooth then whispers away. She's in her sequined fuchsia minidress. It's tight in all the right places. She takes a long draw on the rum and Coke. She's up soon. She fingers her Diana Ross hair out of her eyes with a frosty nail, looks out over the crowd and moves in for the kill.

The crowd quiets. The silver ball above the black and white checkered dance floor twinkles against the glittered New York City backdrop. Music comes up. Velour is in the back room, pacing. Diva is on the edge of the dance floor, focused. Diva waits. Time, time, hold, now. She's on. Diva grinds, slithers and lip syncs her way through Alanis Morissette's "You Oughta Know." She hits her stride. The timing of each choreographed gesture is as tight as the minidress that slides its way up and over her curves. The crowd lets loose during the last chorus and sings it with her. They push toward the dance floor, three deep, dollars in hand, waiting for Diva. She turns her back to the crowd, spreads her legs long, throws her head back and mouths the last line. Sweet-ass sizzle.

While Diva gathers her tips, Velour moves through the club and waits in the wings. Regal and quiet, Velour waits out the testosterone buzz then glides onto the floor and stands center. She's in a low-cut tuxedo with a glamour-girl black corset and suede pumps. She spreads her legs and places her hands on her thighs. She bows her head, moves her hands slowly along the hills and valleys of her lithe figure, then stops. The crowd stops too. If Diva rocks hot, Velour rocks cool with a capital C. Barbra Streisand's "I'm Still Here" comes up and floats over the crowd. Velour pumps and pushes, sways, prays and Rockettes her way through the song. The crowd is with her, caught up in the message: Despite all odds, I made it, I'm proud and I'm still here. As I am. The crowd roars the roar of the satisfied and the united. Velour takes a bow and is escorted off the floor. But Velour Montana isn't the belle of the ball. Rather, she is a Queen -- a drag queen.

Drag queens were once relegated to back alley basement clubs -- out of sight, out of mind, out of danger. Society continues to label Queens as deviants and degenerates. Even the gay community, of which they are part, ostracizes Queens, deeming them an embarrassment. Although many gay men applaud drag queens on stage, few, it seems, are comfortable seeing them in daylight, under the gaze of the media. But like it or not, the cameras are on them, and a slow yawn of understanding has begun to overcome mainstream society. Drag queens have made it to the big screen.

Hollywood, traditionally predisposed to entertaining the masses without ruffling too many common denominator feathers (read: dollars), has taken on the task of introducing Queens to middle America by casting them in sympathetic and humorous roles. Recent films, such as The Birdcage and To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar, make light of "drag" and "gay," splashing fun and color across cineplex movie screens. But just because Wesley Snipes and Patrick Swayze play "drag queen" doesn't mean society accepts men who dress as women. It simply means Hollywood has found yet another character to exploit. Like all things in the proverbial Hollywood closet, these colorful characters have been shaken out, dry cleaned and put under hot lights, exposing their lives, choices and culture to society. What these recent reams of Celluloid do not do, however, is paint the truth.

To be a drag queen is risky. To be a drag queen is painful. But to be a drag queen is to play out the ultimate fantasy. Under the illusion of a masquerade, the drag queen is grander, bolder, wiser and funnier than the man as a man could ever be. Living the illusion, the boy gets to be the girl. Mark gets to be Velour.

Mark always wanted to be a girl. His father already had one son, who was definitely all boy, and he had his princess girl. Mark was extra. And he wasn't the kind of boy his father could crow about. Even as a child, Mark knew he was different, but he did his best to hide it. Never slip, never draw attention, keep it down, deep down -- bury it.

Mark grew up in the small town of Anderson, Oregon, under the forearm of a logging contractor father and a quiet unassuming mother. He was meticulous, a good student, not big on sports but popular, especially with the girls. But Mark's father thought anybody who dressed or acted differently was a queer. "Faggots and queers should all be shot dead," he said. Mark was horrified by faggots and queers. He was horrified of himself. He buried his identity and tried for the next thirty years to please his father.

In 1969, drag queens spearheaded a riot at the Stonewall Inn in Greenwich Village, initiating the modern gay liberation movement. That year, Mark was 15 -- a ripe teenager busting with testosterone and desire. The desire got shoved down. The testosterone got misplaced in the military. Mark signed up for the Marine Corps and shipped out to Fort Gordon, Georgia, on Christmas Day 1973, the day he turned 19. Six weeks later he got married. Nine months and two weeks later Mark held his first child in his arms. He was a husband and a father and on his way to being a U.S. Marine Corps sergeant. He was normal. He was in control. It was bullshit. But he wouldn't acknowledge the charade through three children and eight years of marriage. He cooked, cleaned, diapered, mowed, washed, tinkered, fixed and flexed. But he never admitted.

It wasn't Mark who asked for the divorce. His facade was built strong and wide and waxed a shiny normal. Mark needed the facade. Without one, he was devastated. It was only then that all the moments he had so carefully orchestrated and controlled came bubbling up to suffocate him. He would rather be dead than one of those vile creatures that didn't deserve to live. So he tried to die. Several times.

Unsuccessful, he knew it was time to face himself square. He began to explore and accept that part of him that had always been so much of who he was and so much of who he had denied. He began the long arduous journey of self-discovery and acceptance.

For some, opening a book or watching a movie about being gay is like entering a gay club for the first time: it is an environment of affirmation and acceptance. But even today, it is safer to read about it than to be it. Hate crimes aimed at men in the gay community are on the rise. According to the U.S. National Council on Crime, an average of more than 1,000 hate crimes have been committed against gay men in the United States each year since 1993. But this number reflects only those crimes reported -- an estimated 70 percent never are. The more violent white supremacists, neo-Nazis and fundamentalist fascists take great pride in ending a gay life. It is one less degenerate.

But if being gay is difficult, being a drag queen is more difficult still. The community of which you are a part becomes smaller. The very people who embraced your courage to be openly gay condemn your choice to be a drag queen. The circle moves in tighter; the ties become more intimate, and for most, friends take on an even greater importance. They become family. Of course, every gay man is not a drag queen, and every drag queen is not necessarily gay. But for most drag queens, the decision to dress as a woman and play the charade is based as much on desire as it is on self-acceptance.

Mark has been out of the closet for nearly twelve years. He has come to terms with many things about himself, and in doing so, he has taken that extra leap of faith. He has withstood further prejudice from within the gay community and, in the ultimate gesture of self-acceptance, has become a drag queen. Mark finally gets to be the girl. He gets to be empress in a ceremony held by a court of painted Queens.

To be a drag queen, you must first be "painted" by another drag queen and come out at the Closet Ball. The ball is held for first-timers, who are judged on their dress, walk, mannerisms and performance. Candidates have their faces made up by established Queens and have sixty minutes to transform from man to woman. Drag queen Megan Montana painted Velour. Because she was the first to paint Velour, she became Velour's "mother," and Velour adopted the Montana name. Her first time out, Velour was a hit.

The annual Closet Ball inducts would-be drag queens into the court system. Started in San Francisco in 1936, the court system has spread to cities across the nation and enables the small populace of drag queens in each community to come out, socialize and perform. More importantly, courts provide a place for those with like desires to gather and wrap themselves in the love and support of others in the drag community.

Eugene's court, the Imperial Sovereign Court of the Emerald Empire (ISCEE), was established in 1974. The court sponsors balls that set the stage for crowning a new empress, princess, debutante or one of the several titles given each year to talented Queens. The highest honor bestowed, that of empress, is given to the most regal and gracious drag queen. The Coronation Ball takes place each year, and with great pomp and circumstance, an empress is crowned. In August 1994, Velour was crowned Empress XXI. But drag queens do more than wear tiaras and perform. They raise money. And they work it hard to get it.

Each court has a governing body that establishes goals and directives to improve its community and raise money for the needy through charity balls. In the last ten years, courts have begun to funnel greater amounts of money into AIDS research, services and centers. They have become a force for change and are playing an increasingly important role in the gay community. ISCEE gives the more than $17,000 it raises each year to a battered women's shelter, an abuse outreach program, a home for abused children and HIV Alliance. Diva and Velour travel to court balls around the Pacific Northwest pumping, preening and performing. The more dynamic their performances, the more money they raise. In effect, courts "court" one another, asking performers to appear at their shows. Diva and Velour are always invited. They raise the bucks because they work the floor.

But the work isn't all glitz and glamour. Not only is it physically painful to be a drag queen -- corsets that squish, stiletto heels that pinch, tiaras that poke and hot-headed wigs that overheat tired brains -- but it is costly as well. Diva and Velour each spend more than $5,000 a year on hotel rooms, make-up, shoes, dresses, corsets, dance tights, jewelry, nails and boobs. Mrs. C's in Portland, Oregon, is the only place for wigs. Off-the-rack shoes at Nordstrom are a bargain and usually come in size eleven, sometimes twelve. Dresses and jewelry are garage sale treasures; Los Angeles is a good place to scour for the dress that kills, and the sale rack at Saks' is sometimes good for a hot bargain. The make-up counter at Meier & Frank is wonderful, but watch out for those snippies at The Bon.

In short, being a drag queen is hard work. And it's not always pretty.

For all the public attention and awareness Velour attracts, Mark is petrified his children will reject him for being a drag queen. They accept him as gay, but Mark is not ready to let them know he vacuums the house in three-inch heels to learn balance, shaves his chest for low-cut gowns and performs to raise money for people in need. He is not ready to let them know he has come full circle and accepted himself for who he is.

The show is in two hours. It is early evening. Orange has moved over and a dusty pink has swept its way across the sky. In a small one-story home, Diva, Velour and Megan have gathered to transform. "Honey, there is nothing uglier than a Queen flat on the floor with a dress over her head. Get those ugly shoes off and try these on. They have no-skid heels." Diva squeezes her tired 12 ½s into Velour's 12s. They are in the drag room, rocking out to Motown and painting it on thick. After Mark gets his eyebrows on and his lids done, he begins to be Velour, with all the gestures and flighty stinging language that is part and parcel of drag. It's only after Anthony's corset is cinched and his dance tights are on that he becomes Diva. Megan is sitting on the maroon chintz couch, legs crossed, fingering her fiery hair into place and waiting.

Diva and Velour tear through the closet digging out ensembles. A foam boob flies out, then another. Scarves, skirts, jackets and sequins litter the air; hairspray holds on heavy. The room is thick and fat with everything feminine and gaudy. They've got ten minutes.

Diva yanks on her minidress, throws her arms through the spaghetti straps and drapes a pink organza evening jacket across her shoulders. She bolts for the kitchen where her wig has been drying and pulls it over her own kinky black hair. Velour is trying to dry her nails before she has to don her wig. She rifles through the stack of boobs, shoves two into her corset and takes another look in the mirror. Perfect. Her false lashes fall at just the right curve; her brows are even, the shadow dramatic, and she has been blessed with a beautiful lip line so the red lies out all smooth and sultry. She wiggles into the black suede pumps, ducks her head into the mahogany wig and, with great care, places her crown upon her head.

As Velour, Diva and Megan make their way out the door to strut, pump and grind under hot lights, to play glamour queens and to raise money for AIDS research, Velour stops. She turns to the neighbors peeking out of their homes, gathered at their doors and windows, and stands quiet for a moment. She lowers her head, and with regal grace she sweeps her body into a low courtly bow. She is empress, after all.

By Jennifer Andrews
Photos by Kim Nguyen