Bitches in Drag

Over an hour after their promised appearance, the starlets are still not ready for the red carpet, only half-dressed and trailed by a fussing entourage of gay handlers trying to wriggle them into couture. An expectant crowd of even more gay people loiter in the yard, chitchatting among themselves while sporadically craning their necks for a coveted glimpse of the VIPs. Some of these observers have trekked from as far as Ridgewood to be here. Oh, well — at least the weather is superb. Paper Plane cocktails glow tangerine, speckling the summer scene like mini-lanterns.

I am ordering a humble Miller High Life when someone rushes to the bar, announcing a minor emergency: One of the divas has pooped on the floor.

The offender turns out to be a delicate Chihuahua–Italian-greyhound mix named Pearl, one of the pint-size queens competing today in Singers’ 1st Annual Doggy Drag competition. Singers is “a bar but also a commune — a creative tour de force,” according to its herculean events coordinator, Erik Escobar, who has been circling the premises and tapping his phone screen, seeking the whereabouts of no-show bitches. It’s a queer hot spot in Bed-Stuy famous for its fuck-it-we-ball ethos toward events (and for begrudgingly hosting every impromptu gay birthday party in Central Brooklyn). On any given day, you might be surprised by a United Nations simulation or a rolled-up Kevin Carpet waiting to be trampled on; as Escobar informs me, allowing himself a spare minute, he recently found a board covered in pubic hair in Singers’ shed from a performance piece presented there three weeks ago.

Pride Month is go season. Up next is a lesbian sauna rave and the third edition of the viral Twinks vs. Dolls Olympics, during which fearless contestants from each subgroup suck toes, speed-inhale cigarettes, and wrestle in spaghetti to determine who is the true backbone of the LGBTQ+ community. It’s a who’s who of brain-scrambled internet microcelebrities; Blizzy McGuire, the visionary behind “Christian Girl Autumn,” was there last year standing next to shirtless himbos in pink body paint who collectively spelled out GEEP! (This, I learned later, is one of the dolls’ nicknames.)

Fatigue settles into Escobar’s face as he contemplates it all. “I need a vacation,” he says, sighing.

The doggy drag competition issponsored by Pebot, a queer-owned canine-fashion brand that contributed hound-shaped lawn décor and prizes for the top-three contestants. (Whether the company is pronounced PEE-bot or the sophisticate’s PeBEAU, no one seems to know.) Pebot’s Instagram displays a handy Pride infographic decoding every letter of LGBTQIAP+; for example, L is for lesbian and Labrador retriever, while A is for asexual and Australian shepherd. By that criterion, every pup today occupies the dubious “plus” category. This includes Chappell Ralph, a feather-boa-wrapped chiweenie wearing a tiny sombrero instead of what I imagine should be a cowboy hat, and Bouguior the Cunt, an unusually googly-eyed pug rocking body glitter and, right now, the bottom half of a ruffled, striped bikini.

Bouguior, real name Booger, had been the first pooch to arrive. “Pugs are the clowns of the dog world,” her owner and stylist, Shan, notifies me while detangling the missing bikini top. Shan is a professional clown, the third I’ve encountered in the past two weeks; their repertoire includes impersonating JoJo Siwa. This partially explains why they had the material for a “Britney Spears meets Little Bo-Peep meets Malibu” ensemble just lying around their apartment, including a miniature blonde braided wig with a hot-pink bow.

Whether these references land is up to the afternoon’s hosts and judges, the comedians Kaye Loggins and Spike Einbinder. Einbinder has such perfect credentials for the job that he declined to judge a competing doggy drag event in Chelsea to be at this one. A canine obsessive who held a Westminster Dog Show–themed birthday party as a kid, he now walks dogs for a living despite being pretty allergic. “I understand that I’m gonna get hives and have a little bit of a respiratory event, but nothing can keep me away,” he asserts with unnerving tenderness. A multi-hyphenate, Einbinder is also a drag performer with arcane, of-the-moment personae like Liza Minnelli and the slutty green M&M’s right-wing mother. He taps me later with another résumé item. “Sherita,” he says, referring to the vanished dinosaur-minx thing that once reigned over Atlantic Avenue. “I feel like that will be important for people.”

Loggins, whose sole pet is a crested gecko named Naner, is mostly here to hang. “I have no credentials to be hosting this,” she boaststo the audience when the festivities finally start a little past 4 p.m. Einbinder warms up the crowd with some customary anti-bisexual snark. “Are there any cat people in the audience?” he yells. “I’m both,” someone replies, to which he snaps, “We don’t need that representation in the audience.” (The much-maligned “bi girl with cishet boyfriend” demo will be represented today by Lady Gaga, who is not here physically but sonically, though we always carry her in our hearts.)

But wait — I’m getting ahead of myself. The first contestant is the aforementioned Pearl (drag name: Pearl Next Door), who brushes off her earlier oopsy and debuts to hoots and hollers in a regal floral-bouquet headpiece and corseted black gown. “You better work, honey!” a supporter cheers. She’s wearing a meticulous re-creation of Zendaya’s Givenchy Met Gala ensemble, designed by her date and spokesperson, Hannah, who’s suited up with a radish brooch like Mike Faist. (Tragically, Josh O’Connor is nowhere to be found.) As Pearl ascends the stage, her long train fluffed out and adjusted, Loggins advances with a microphone.

“Pearl, what is the biggest problem in your generation?” she probes. Pearl sniffs around, perhaps thinking herself above the question. Hannah ventures an answer: “… Not enough off-leash time at parks?” Astounding applause.

Next up is Booger — tongue out, wig on, and cradled by Shan, who reveals that Booger’s favorite things are blueberries and cuddles. Chappell Ralph proves feistier and more controversial given her intense religiosity and taste for Chick-fil-A. (Not sure how the human Chappell Roan would react to that, though I’m sure she’d piss herself laughing watching this event generally.) The contestants are overwhelmingly tiny and overwhelmingly Chihuahuas. A microscopic punk-rock biker named Fettuccine snoozes onstage, my view unfortunately eclipsed by an ill-placed inflatable disco ball. Another pop princess, the tutu-wearing Ballerina Carpenter, scampers away with her pink balloon. When she’s scooped back to place, she licks her genitals.

Could it be? Soaring to the prepubescent squeals of his hit single “Baby” is Justin Bieber, another pug whose real name is Lois. His much larger wife, Tailey Bieber (a.k.a. middle-school teacher Gabe Gordon, a.k.a. drag queen Svetlana Del Rey), has hoisted him up Simba style. Stopping to pose for the paparazzi, she tucks him under her arm like a football. A plastic cone circles Tailey’s honey-colored mane; curls of chest hair peek out from her “God’s Favorite” Praying slip dress. (“Learning how to do makeup was my sourdough-bread-making of quarantine,” Gordon told me earlier.) As per usual, Justin appears to have missed the style memo, lazing in orange basketball shorts and teeny-tiny Converse. In a mortifying faux pas, his mop of brown hair flops to the floor. One of his crew members rushes to refasten it onto his wrinkled head.

No problem. The audience Awwwws as the lovebirds lean to consult each other on Justin’s favorite New York City memory. “Ummm … 11 VMAs?” Tailey chimes.

Just when everyone thinks Tailey and Justin have it in the bag, out comes Dogatella Versace, dropping jaws in that dress, a version of the iconic safety-pin gown Elizabeth Hurley immortalized in 1994. (You can imagine Pop Crave drafting the tweet: “Dogatella stuns in Versace.”) The boxer mix struts audaciously off-leash, her black-rimmed eyes smoldering. (Au naturel eyeliner, of course.) Standing to her side is a towering Prince Charming with her strap slung around his neck like an unbuckled belt — her owner, Patrick, or perhaps arm candy she’d picked up off the street.

“Do you think that humans should be forcibly sterilized like dogs are?” Einbinder inquires.

“Absolutely — for fashion crimes,” Patrick, translating for Dogatella, replies unequivocally while everyone admires her fierce red nails.

All of this provides much to consider. The judges confer, bring out the top-three contestants, then confer again while the audience members sit at the edge of their seats.

At last, they count down to the victor. Pearl receives the Bob Barker Award; Justin and Tailey are handed the Silver Fox — which means the ultimate winner is … DOGATELLA!

The crowd erupts into cheers. Accepting her prize, the high-fashion doyenne licks the mic. Speeches are overrated.

As owners trade congratulations, and audience members sneak forward to pet the stars, the Singers staff, who have been operating regular service inside, return the tables to the yard. Everyone is buzzing. “That was the best show of my life! Dogatella deserves it,” a girl behind me screams to her friend. Unpacking their goody bag of prizes, Dogatella’s owners admit to me that they’re a little surprised by the victory given that they made her costume last minute. Justin Bieber’s Miu Miu–wearing owner attempts a bit of diplomacy but is unable to resist throwing in some (joking) shade: “It’s good for rescues to have their moment.” As the pups return home for belly scratches and treats, the only canine left at Singers is a lone dachshund balloon bobbing idiotically in the wind.

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