The communal comfort of 'Dykes Do Drag'
Editorial
Every Sunday morning my girlfriend and I get brunch at grungy little restaurant in her neighborhood. The food is delicious and the coffee is strong, but the real appeal lies in the fact that every time we go there we feel like we are getting away with something. The waitresses are the height of cool—tattoos slathered across their bodies with little glints of metal protruding from every orifice imaginable. They slam down menus, slosh out coffee, and expect a quick and unwavering reply when they ask your order. We obey orders, anticipate questions, and try our best to get the fleeting smile of approval that spreads across their faces when we’ve played our part well.
This is the closest I can get to explaining how I feel when I go to
