I recently walked into a vault of sexual obscurity and gender anonymity with nothing but a stamp on the back of my hand and my favorite socks on my feet. I left this temple of flamboyance with a dollar bill in my pocket, thrust into my hands by a common audience member. This is not what I expected when, two hours previous, I was reading a selection about medieval warfare for my peace and conflict class the next morning.

I didn't know what drag was until I was a junior in high school. I didn't know that queer clubs existed until about the same time. I was always curious about how men could perform in heels and GoGo boots and women in baggy jeans, vests, and neck-chains. I decided to satisfy my curiosity the other night.

Believe me — I was not disappointed.

I will leave the names of the performers and their performance venue out of this article. Don't mistake this for a lack comical titles and pure talent. The performances were only complimented by what the dancers call themselves, and the countless singles they bit out of people's mouths.

Now about not being an "official performer."

I decided to take a short video of one segment of the show to send my friends in order to enrich their unvaried lifestyles. Shortly after I pressed "Send", I was face to face with the epitome of a drag queen. Before I had time to react, my flannel shirt was being transferred from my ownership to that of this sinful temptress. In return for my clothing, I received a dollar bill, but it may be possible that I was supposed to give this to the queen that was using my flannel as a simple taunt.

I did get my shirt back, thankfully, after being applauded by the followers of depravity. I was not scared, I was not angry. I was not sad, and I was not frightened. In fact, I don't think I've ever been more confused by having a good time.

This queen was not the last person to assume that my clothing belonged to them, in fact there were two more (including a drag king).

I left this mausoleum of corruption at about 2 a.m., and returned to my dorm room 90 minutes later. I then woke up six hours later to get ready for the day, in which I was no longer an unwilling performer but my actual occupation — a student.

I am fully aware of the social stigma around the activity of "drag shows". Until recently, the subject was more or less taboo. It is still unclear to me, however, why this is the case. The actions of these performers and those in the audience have no impact or ramifications on what most of us would call the "real world." I didn't see anybody who was unhappy or distressed as a result of watching the show, and if you paid the entry fee you know what was in store for you.

In summary, these people are living their lives, and I suggest that the rest of us do the same (tight skirt and wig not included).