Gown Shopping With A Fascist

The red silk spills over his body. He stares deep into the mirror, traces his hands over robust thighs under a form-fitting dress. He drinks in the visage. A smile fills his face.

“This will really trigger the figs.”

This man is built like a D3 football player, yet the fabulous dress really brings to fore something deeper than the jock persona. Hate? Love? A struggle with identity, a journey with gender? A stunt certainly, but maybe much much more — definitely a complex type of hatred.

“I can’t wait to wear this as a total joke.”

This fascist is speaking of an upcoming video. He clued me in on the project as we traveled to his favorite dress designers, his bookmarked stores where dresses hang like little sanctuaries. He is engrossed. He has tried on fifteen dresses, today.

“Imma wear this and tuck my junk back, get a lefty to cry.” He lets his nipple slip out. He is lost in his reflection. His heavily armed — jet black AR15s — entourage nervously pander when he speaks. His dad asks if he’s going to pick a fucking dress.

Steven, as if remembering his initial mission, decides on the gorgeous silk evening gown. $1300 covered by his shadow billionaire patron.

I accompany the klan of content creators back to the compound, and Steven lets me in on more details regarding the video he’s shooting tomorrow.

“Imma wear the dress into a gym, demand entry into the women’s changing room.”