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In DC every year about a week before Halloween the gay bars along 17th Street hold an annual high heel drag race. Queens from all walks of life get tipsy with a few cocktails and dress up for the evening, from hardcore Renaissance court dresses replete with powdered wigs, coordinated team efforts displaying every ceremonial dress Natalie Portman ever wore in Star Wars Episode I, to low-maintenance unshaven skank drag. The drag queens parade up and down the street before the race, then line up for a 100m sprint which lasts no more than two minutes of pure transvestite joy. Itís something that started on a lark but eventually evolved into a neighborhood event where even now the mayor shows up as race marshal.

The first year I tried it in 1997 I was working at the U.S. Department of Agriculture coordinating ag training exchange tours for visitors from the former Soviet Union. I didnít have a dress handy and had never done drag before, so my only resource was my female coworkers. My lesbian friends were of no help. I asked the coworkers to bring in their tackiest dresses they never wanted to wear again. One afternoon after work I modeled the dresses for a discriminating panel of Federal Government workers. We decided on the firetruck red cocktail dress, which I later had altered to include gaudy silk frills of white, yellow and red. Add a red wig to the ensemble, a 1/4î layer of makeup, and matching size 13 pumps from Payless, and I was ready to run as the spicy Latina Ms. Salsa Juarez.

Salsa somehow managed to get second in the race after a three-queen pile-up ahead of her took out much of the lead pack. The bitch who won had stiff-armed one of the competitors, which led to the wipe-out. With a graceful leap over the casualties I crossed the line to win a $50 bar tab at JRís Bar. I was proud of my accomplishment, and it was interesting to see the reactions on some of my friendsí faces who didnít expect me to do drag. Even some of my most tolerant friends were shocked that I would do such a thing. I think itís something that every guy should try, even the straight ones, as you learn what a pain heels, makeup and dresses are. I often bring up the issue with potential dates as a litmus test. If heís got a problem with Salsa, then heíll have a problem with me. I like to fuck with gender, as people, even the gay ones, have far too many issues with gender assignment and roles.

Iím proud to note that a news clipping of Salsa from the Washington Blade is still proudly posted above the photocopy machine at my former office at the USDA headquarters. Below the clipping is a handwritten caption reading, ìFormer Employee.î

I went out for the race another year just for fun with my friend Jon and got to prance up and down the street, and half-heartedly ran with the pack down 17TH Street again without really trying. But it wasnít as rewarding as the thrill of victory I experienced the first time. I wanted to win. And I wanted to see if that bitch who kept winning every year could try a stiff-arm on ME. By then I had joined the mostly gay Washington Renegades Rugby team and had learned a thing or two on how to manage the offense while sprinting, and wanted to see if I could manage the ìwax-on, wax-offî technique taught by Mr. Miyagi, which was also useful to rugby players when dealing with a stiff-arm.

So in the fall of 2001 I began training for the next high heel drag race. Rugby practice had started in September with requisite tackle, sprint and cardio workouts. I was ready.

The events of September 11 threatened to have the race cancelled, but by October people were ready for a distraction. The mood in DC was grim, and people were still reeling from the attacks on the Pentagon and the Twin Towers, and the anthrax threats in the mail. But the gay bars and the city managed to organize and got the event going, which was a good thing. By then people needed a laugh. I needed a laugh too, and I considered it good public service to deliver a few chuckles to everyone, if only for an evening.

I encouraged all my friends to come, including the entire rugby team. I assured them I would win, and told them to position themselves early near the finish line, so they could witness my moment of victory.

Of course I couldnít go again as Salsa Juarez. Everyone loves Salsa, but I wanted to try something new. I didnít have as many coworkers in my dress size at that time, so we got a friend of a friend to show up with all her big auntís most tacky and frumpy dresses. After some modeling, we decided on the pink satin bridesmaid dress with an open strapless back and a big pink bow just above my bum. The red wig didnít go with the pink, so we decided on curly blond. A fuzzy pink purse completed the look. She had a wholesome, Midwest look to her, and everyone commented on how much she looked like Nellie Olsen from Little House on the Prairie. So Nellie Olsen it was.

The night of the race Nellie elbowed her way to the front of the pack in anticipation. Jon was nearby in scary goth drag, and I offered to hold his money and car keys in the pink fuzzy purse. I happened to realize that this wasnít the evening cocktail dress like Salsa wore, so Nellie had to hike up her dress to get the first strides that would assure victory.

Now, bridesmaidís dresses have this material underneath called crinoline. Crinoline helps the dress puff out to make it look flowing and elegant. No dress was made for sprinting events, and dresses with crinoline are even harder to run in, much less walk. When the whistle blew I extended my first stride, and in a second the heels got caught on the damned crinoline and I went flying face-first onto the asphalt.

The wig flew off, purse went flying, its contents spread across the street, and there were more than a few heel tracks on my back and on the beautiful pink dress. I was tragic drag queen roadkill. Totally humiliated, I put on my skewed wig, and gathered the contents of the purse and headed to the finish line. I finished, but the majority of the drag queens were ahead of me. I donít even know who won. I got lots of crap from the rugby team, as two other teammates in nun outfits were some of the top finishers in the race. I was beaten by nuns.

My friend Jon in scary goth drag caught up with me and asked me what happenedÖhe saw Nellie Olsenís carcass on the street as he ran by, but just kept on going. We were ready to leave, and he asked for his car keys. I dug around in the pink fuzzy purse but couldnít find them. In the shock of the roadkill tragedy I must have missed them somehow.

So I headed back towards the starting line. I found where I wiped out as there was a big pink skid mark of foundation and rouge on the street. People were still milling about as I scanned the asphalt for the keys. Then from out of nowhere this hot rugged-looking guy in hiking boots and flannel came up to me and started talking to me.

He was just my type, îHey! Arenít you Kevin?î he said to me, ì I saw you perform in Rehoboth a few years ago.î That was oddÖI never performed in drag at Rehoboth Beach.
ìUmmÖmaybe you were thinking of someone else,î I kept scanning the street for the car keys.
îNo, no, Iím sure it was you. Hey, Iím Mike. Good to meet you.î
îUmmÖIím Jim. Iíve never performed in drag other than here though.î It was starting to dawn upon me that this guy was clearly hot for Nellie Olsen. But I was focused on finding the keys so Jon and I could get home. My conversation with Mike continued, and he even helped me look for the keys, which we didnít find. Someone had turned them in at one of the bars and I got them the next day. It wasnít until I got home that night that I realized Mike was all hot for Jimbo in drag, but at the time I wasnít ready for it. I didnít manage to get his number either, which I still regret to this day. I like to fuck with gender, but aside from that and my failed racing career, thatís about as far as Iíll go with Salsa Juarez and Nellie Olsen.