Ladyman. The photoshoot reflections of a drag queen.

It takes over two hours. And this shoot was over a year ago, so I was slower then. It must've taken me four hours. To paint over the light white--yet invisible--scars left by angry school boys 20 years ago, scars of being so sure I was somehow off. To tuck away the bits and pieces that are a bit rougher--me, nonetheless very me--but indeed a bit rougher.

After. I bear new scars. From the metal boning of a corset pulled tight. Of women size 11 Mary Janes that cut a couple centimeters too short.

But I prance, and I dance. And I make you confused. And you like it. And I love it. And I smile, and I flirt. It's magic. It's the magic that we read about when we were barely old enough to read.

And I delicately touch a flower, or a leaf, or your hair, in a way that is dangerous. In a way that in another time, in another place, it would have been dangerous.

It's a privilege. I know it is. Some baby oil and a makeup wipe, and I get to put it all away. You cannot. But, if I may suggest, let's be grotesque in a way that you and I know is beautiful. In a way that cuts something open and leaves a bleeding edge and maybe eventually a little white scar. But a good one. One that leaves a question for those with seemingly such clear answers.

So when they look down at it, they're uncomfortable. And that is us.

Your version of woman is so right. My version of me is me.

xoxo,
Belle Bottoms
@missbellebottoms