Faking it with the Lady Boys

On the way to my first ever Lady Boys show I’m looking forward to witnessing something wayward and grotesque. Rumour has it they're disconcertingly beautiful and the envy of natural-born women, so I've prepped myself to enjoy the irony of it all with my sex drive consciously on pause.

Tonight, though, I am no normal punter. In fact, I’m here expressly for the purpose of research. For in the next couple of days I will have my body hair shaved, my balls tucked back into a thong, be fitted with a wig and matching bikini, and then finally be taught to strut my stuff like a vixen. For I am to become a Lady Boy of Bangkok for one day. I'll not only experience my first taste of transvestism, but will have to go up against the ladyboys themselves by trying to fake it before a panel of hair and beauty experts. It's at this point I think back to something my girlfriend said, something that got me into this bizarre project in the first place: “You’ve got a very fortunate figure for dressing up as a girl.” Let’s just hope the judges feel the same way.

Its traditional venue on the Meadows is a formidable tent boasting a capacity of 600, which teams up with a travelling circus and returning fairground to create an island paradise of offbeat entertainment in central Edinburgh every August. Inside, the big top is transformed into a silky array of cabaret tables laden with wine bottles and pumping fists come performance time. When the Lady Boys finally emerge, a sense of nervous anticipation is broken by the crashing sound of boisterous applause with the odd mawkish wolf whistles. I can’t help but be enchanted by the spectacle, a flamboyant display of camp theatrics and calculated kitsch, an unhinged celebration of vanity and excess, the bane of basic decency. We’re not meant to indulge this kind of thing in this country, and the queen would certainly be appalled, but here are 16 Shebas demonstrating through their mere presence that life goes on beyond the frontiers of normality, larger and louder. But, novelty aside, will I have what it takes to step up on stage?

Day 1 – Preparation:

Sak is the Lady Boys’ artistic director and is responsible for tailoring the dances—and the dancers—to the camp tastes the show thrives on. He is a proud Lady Boy who appears in many of the numbers, but he’s not a transvestite by day and is entirely different to the girls splashed across the show's gaudy posters. Sak is short, dresses soberly, and is softly spoken. It is one of his acts, a rendition of Frank Sinatra’s 'My Way' that perhaps serves as the set’s most cerebral number, featuring an on-stage transformation of a woman, who sheds her make-up and her costume to gradually regain the form of a man. Surely, I think, upon entering the big and hauntingly empty tent, no-one is better suited to take me under their wing than he.

With nothing in the way of a most welcome pep talk, we unceremoniously take to the stark stage and start counting bars of eight. Due to the language barrier my education consists mainly of imitation. The first and most important thing to get right is the woman’s walk: chest high, back straight, shoulders level and gently swinging, with feet crossing at every step. I walk with my hips jutting forward like I’m being tugged by an invisible cord. I try again and again, strutting up and down the stage like a catwalk model, finally attempting what I imagine is a superb Gisele impression. But it doesn’t work, it’s not sexy, it’s superficial and I feel ugly. Then we practise the smile. A smile from the heart, a smile like a weapon, a smile like I desire the invisible audience before me. But my smile is just a contortion of muscle and nobody’s charmed. So after I've dismally failed to walk properly and smile like a human, we move on to the dance sequence.

The number I’ll be performing is Rihanna’s 'Umbrella', and once I’ve mastered the coquettish steps I’ll don a Hell’s Angels style, street gal outfit—one of 350 costumes that are used in the show—and try to blend my new moves into the correct sequence. Apparently it’s the easiest set piece they can realistically teach me during the brief two-hour rehearsal, but moments in it dawns on me that I'm probably even worse at dancing than I am at being a lady.

What should have been the gentle part of the learning curve turns out to be the most testing and disconcerting. One Lady Boy returns from her morning outing and passes the stage like it’s her living room, unphased by my intrusion and only vaguely curious. She returns moments later, minus a jacket, but still in her tanktop, jeans and flipflops. Without any introduction she takes up the space beside me and nonchalantly joins in with the practice as if it’s a recreational activity. At the peak of my concentration I fail to notice that another Lady Boy and then yet another have begun joining me onstage, nonchalently stepping to the beat.

It is only much later, two days after my for-real performance, that I find out Sak carefully orchestrated this gradual influx of Lady Boys so as not to overwhelm me. At the time, everything seemed casual, but that's the point I guess. After all, I was in the company of world-class illusionists.

After an hour of practice and just three run-throughs, I can confidently manage only a few of the flourishes. But that’s it, the time has come for the Lady Boys' to prepare for their own show and so, hiding my incompetance underneath a weapon-like smile like a schoolboy coyly inserting an unfinished piece of homework into the bottom of the collection pile, I thank my hosts and say my goodbyes. It’s now time to source a few cosmetic extras, namely a pair of tights, a wig, and to pluck up the courage to shave in places I barely knew hair existed.

The pair of tights are an easy find—just a quick look in my girlfriend’s top drawer—and they seem to fit me fine. The wig proves more of a challenge. I’ve been instructed to find a shoulder-length one that won’t get in the way of my dance and it can’t be black as I'm told that will steal attention away from my face. A solution finally comes in the form of a shiny auburn bob, courtesy of Costume Aha-Ha-Ha whose owner Kathy, an ardent supporter of the Lady Boys, donates the wig to what she deems a noble cause.

It takes two hours to shave my arms, legs, navel area and those dastardly crevices of my armpits, which I discover for the first time in my life. I slice my heel in the process, and as I watch the now hair-blocked bathtub fill up with bloody shower water, a pang of panic flushs over my face. Can I really do this? Quaking with stage fright and cold in places that were once protected, I try to get some sleep.

Day Two - Performance:

As I arrive at the Lady Boys encampment, I’m happy to see Sak, who has been the most temperate, stable thing in my life since this adventure began. The Lady Boys see him as their father figure, and in this brave new world I’ve ended up in, I begin to see him in the same way. He takes me to the dressing room, brings me my costume and quickly discovers I haven’t brought the crucial thong to hide my shame. Hiding any impending panic, he politely offers to lend me his, as if donating a spare pen during an school exam. Except this wasn't a spare pair, and barely an hour to go before the show, this was a reasonable option that only my prudishness could squandor. Making the decision to leave behind all my sexual inhibitions, I slip off my flimsy boxers and try on his faintly warm thong. I wonder whether he’ll wear my pants in return, but he doesn’t, cheerily going commando instead.

The sinister advantage of a thong is that with the right technique you can tuck your genitals between your thighs and hold them there. A bit of persistence is required, of course, but it’s much less painful than you'd expect; gesturing triumphantly towards my flatter pubis, Sak gives me a bright thumbs up. Tights and silvery black hot pants now go on top; a padded bra, a Hells Angels jacket, Ray-Bans and tall black high-heel boots later and I’m almost ready to steal men’s hearts. Finally it’s just the face underneath that needs transforming and I get passed over to Night at her backstage make-up booth.

Night knew she was meant to be a girl from the age of 10 and demonstrated it by repeatedly stealing her mother’s lipstick. In her late twenties now, this is her ninth tour in the UK as a Lady Boy and she plans to retire in a year or two when she has saved up enough money to buy an apartment block in her home town in North Eastern Thailand, which she’ll rent out for a living.

It takes her the best part of an hour to transform me into a feisty showgirl. Apart from the metronomic instructions to open and close my eyes, the long and intricate process of my beautification is carried out in the silence of her concentration. First there’s the foundation that comes on a nice smooth brush, followed by something for my eyebrows. And then all sorts of implements go near my eyeballs, which I fear and hate but quietly tolerate in the spirit of a brutally authentic rite of passage. When my face is fully refurbished and Night moves on to her own preening, I’m left on my own to greet the new me in the mirror. There I see a different person whose sight increasingly makes me want to try a pout, a strut, and then a lewd glance across my shoulder. And with barely enough time to discover myself, I'm called to the stage.

The song’s first hip-hop beat sends an ominous pulse of excitement through my body and the thick, crimson curtain suddenly parts. I’m exposed, vulnerable to public opinion, protected only by the blinding stage lights that engulf my judges in darkness. But intoxicated on my individuality and their attention I sport the festivities, blissfully unaware of the crude mistakes I'm making on my own at the back. I wriggle my hips, tease the audience with faux coyness, demand admiration. And ten minutes later, having fully and extravagantly exercised my Lady Boy alter ego, I strut my superstar exit back into the serene wings of the stage.

And drifting through the backstage bosom of the formidable Lady Boys tent for the last time, before retrieving my clothes, my world and my judgement, I contemplate this foreign realm: a dark sanctuary of costumes, powders, balms, bottles, vegetables and perfectly pert breasts. Life here is a perpetual performance and the show goes on with or without the stage. For me, however, the ephemeral trip is over and the cold come-down normality beckons.

The Judgement:

HAIR: Leanne Davis, Cheynes Hairdressing
Junta looked absolutely amazing. His wig was great, a really good choice of colour that worked well, especially with the make-up. It was quite an edgy cut and the fringe was fabby, sweeping over for a very feminine soft look that complemented his clothes. 8/10

DANCING: Isobel Cohen, Helix Dance
Junta picked up the choreography really well given short rehearsal time. He was a little bit late on some of the moves, but he was doing them very clearly and giving them his best shot. I was, however, slightly unconvinced by his feminine walk - he has to practise the hip wobble. But he was managing amazingly well in heels - most women can’t do that. 5/10

DANCING: Keir Patrick, Freelance Dancer (Helix Dance)
He was a little bit behind on the music, but kept smiling and moving. The tell-tale sign for me was when he grabbed the wrong end of the umbrella. Having said that he kept smiling and did amazingly with his heels. 6/10

MAKE-UP: Jemima Thewes, make-up artist
Junta had a really sultry, sexy face and the colours he used gave him a really natural look. He was really smiling, but without teeth. The other Lady Boys had toothy smiles and I was almost fooled until the end when he was the only one not smiling with his teeth. Also, the bulge around his trouser area really gave the game away when he stepped into the light. 6/10