Amy And Lillian Go To The Drag Show

Amy and Lillian have not sat idly back in the intervening year since Carl and Denis’ internment in the Ashburton Twilight Home for the Bewildered. They have sold their two family homes in Camberwell, now that the kids have grown and left the nests. Many years earlier, they had bought adjoining terrace houses in Richmond as investment properties, long before the burden of capital gains tax could hang over them. In fact, Carl and Denis invested in six terrace houses in Richmond, three each. The girls sold their million dollar Camberwell homes, and moved into the two adjoining Richmond properties, still with two more investment properties to give them an income.

The girls have been on a mission to spend the millions each of them have tucked away in the bank. “That’s what we’re going to do, live it up.”

“Disgracefully,” purrs Lillian at the mention.

The doorbell rings.

“Are you determined to go in that mini skirt, darling,” coos Lillian.

Amy goes to the door. Nephew Simon and Blake come back down the hallway with Amy. They are both dressed head to toe in black. “Your very first drag show,” announces Simon.

They are going to some place called the Greyhound.

“Is this a drag show,” says Lillian bemused. “Or the trots?”

“I don’t think any of them would be wanting the trots,” says Amy. She brakes up laughing.

“Amy!” Lillian gasps.

“In St Kilda,” says Amy, as if it is an exotic locale. Nephew Simon promised it is, practically, in the next suburb. “Have you home by midnight.” Truthfully, Amy and Lillian are just new to Richmond and their “home zone” isn’t quite locked in as yet.

“It’ll be fab!” Simon gushes.

They are packed into the back of Simon’s Alfa Romeo, the car with no headroom. “Jesus, I thought we were going to die coming over Bridge Road,” says Lillian.

“It was a little hairy,” Amy says, as she straightens her dress after alighting from the said Alfa Romeo. “A bit like the women we are going to see tonight.” Amy elbows Lillian in the ribs and brakes up laughing.

“I don’t think you are allowed to say that,” hisses Lillian.

“So what am I allowed to say?”

“Not that.”

“So are… these… transsexuals, or transvestites, or…”

“They are drag queens, sweetie, how fucken old are you trying to be?”

“What’s the difference between a drag queen and a transvestite,” says Amy.

“A drag queen only tucks, darling,” says Lillian. “When she is getting ready for the show lights to come on.”

“What do transvestites do then?”

“They usually lurk in their wives wardrobes after dark, when everybody else has gone to bed, luv.”

“This way,” says Simon ushering the chatting women along.

“A drag queen is a show girl,” says Lillian. “A transvestite is usually a pervert.”

“Oh, I’m sure that is not the case,” says Amy. “I’m sure they are just misunderstood.”



Simon and Blake lead Simon’s aunts into the Club. Amy and Lillian’s mouths are agog. “What is this, bring ya grandma day,” hisses a voice in the crowd.

“Friendly, aren’t they,” says Amy.

It is busy, but the boys manage to get Amy and Lillian seats. The music is playing too loudly to speak.

“Drink?” asks Simon.

“G&T, darling,” says Lillian.

“Oh yes, a G&T I think too,” says Amy.

Simon dashes off somewhere with Blake.

Amy and Lillian sit on their stools.

Simon appears back with drinks in his hands. Blake has drinks in his hands too. The two boys stand behind the two women.

There is suddenly a shriek next to them. “Amy!” Amy’s brother, Oliver, is standing there in tiny shorts, clearly off his face, saying, “I feel faaaaabulous.”

“Ollie,” says Amy, the years of whispers, and suspicion manifesting as confirmed in her whining tone.

Oliver dances into the crowd.

Lillian looks over at the mouth-gaping Amy, “I told you so.”

“Jesus, Lil, the whole interpretation of my family just did a spin.”



Scotty is there on a first date. Dinner and a show. “This is Chelsea. Chelsea this is Simon. And Blake.”

Lillian “Grrrrs” at Scotty.

“My mad aunt Lillian,” says Simon. “Don’t mind her.”

“Scotty, you look lovely,” says Lillian. She winks and makes kissing lip.

“Lillian,” says Scotty nervously.



The house lights go down. Scotty jumps. The stage lights come up.

There is a pin spot on a drag queens face, looking as though she may be wearing a big frock off in the shadows.

“Oh, with a beard,” says Lillian. “I can’t watch them with a beard…”

“Oh Lillian… says Amy.

“It spoils the mystique,” says Lillian.

“There’s mystique?” says Scotty.

ReJenoLust sings, “I Will Survive.” She gets a rousing applause at the end.

“Was she… er… he, she actually singing?”

“No, darl,” says Lillian. “She was lip-syncing.”

“You mean drag queens can’t sing.”

“Oh, some can, darling,” says Lillian. “The better ones.”

“1985. Paris. The Old Quarter.”

“I think her name was The Divine Latrine?” says Lillian. “And a rendition of It’s Raining Men that involved it, actually, raining urine.”

“I remember too much Pinot Grigio and a regrettable incident with a boy named Pascal.”

“Oh darling,” purrs Lillian. “Pascal was anything but regrettable.”