From SF Weekly
Seeing My Boss Naked
By Janine Brito
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
I’m writing this piece the day it’s due because a.) I’m a comedian (procrastination!) and b.) I just got out of the hospital for appendicitis (Happy 2014!)
I ended up in the ER after a doctor felt my stomach and told me to go to the hospital before my appendix burst. I was nervous, certain my appendix would rupture and that I’d die in the back of a New York taxi filled with intestinal poop toxins. Then I was called into triage by Dennis, a gay Filipino nurse, and felt completely at ease.
In my time of need, a little bit of San Francisco appeared in New York to comfort me.
San Francisco has always been great to me. It gave me my androgynous style, introduced me to kumquats, and even afforded me the opportunity to watch my boss do drag. Yes! While living in San Francisco, I went to a variety show for women of size to watch my boss perform drag with her drag-king boy-band. That happened. And everybody acted like it was as mundane as an office holiday party at Applebee’s.
The event kicked off with spoken word — because no event in San Francisco can legally begin without a passionate spoken-word poem or burlesque or somebody’s genitals. This evening included all three.
The amount of nudity throughout the event freaked me out. Not because I’m not a member of the Ya-Ya FreeToBeYouWeAreAllGaia’sChildren Sisterhood, but because I’d come here to see my boss — from my day job, where I made copies and sat in meetings (but mostly puttered around the Internet, pretending to work.) My boss’s drag boy-band was headlining the show and all signs were pointing to, “Girl, you about to see your boss’s ‘Rizzoli and Isles.'” Everyone who stepped on that stage took off some portion of clothing, even the drag kings, because this is post-gender San Francisco. A drag queen shoving an ear of corn up her “Dame Judy Dench” while popcorn shot out of her beehive wig verified my suspicions.
I’m a pretty go-with-the-flow lady. But even I can’t see my boss’s knockers swinging around on stage, then pretend like nothing happened come Monday. Because what do you say after that?
“Wow boss, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a large brown areola kinda gal. Your aura reads so peachy pink to me.”
I braced myself as they took the stage.
No tops or bottoms came off. It was just your run-of-the-mill synchronized tap-dancing drag-king boy-band show. We were able to high five on Monday without me having to picture her “Venga Boys” jiggling while we did it.
Oh, but I did get to watch her and some lady act out a lip-synched BDSM scene that took place in an office.
I made sure not to wear any leather on Monday.