Expanding Drag Kingship Isn’t an Attack—It’s Survival

I didn’t set out to write another essay about drag kingship.

I would much rather be writing about joy. About community. About the absurdity and magic of drag. But sometimes, the conversations we have behind the scenes make it clear that something still needs to be said—especially when those conversations reveal how narrow our definitions have become.

I am a drag king whose work is campy, flamboyant, theatrical, and intentionally exaggerated. My character, Max E. Pad, is a queer dude who exists somewhere between satire and sincerity. I don’t aim to pass. I aim to provoke, to entertain, and to ask questions about masculinity that don’t always have clean answers.

And yet, I’ve found myself having to justify that existence—having to explain why my drag counts, why it belongs, and why it doesn’t erase the work of those who came before me.

This is an invitation.

An invitation to imagine drag kingship as something expansive rather than restrictive. Something living rather than fixed.

Drag Kings Are Asked to Explain Themselves

Drag kings are often asked to explain themselves.

To justify their art.
To define their masculinity.
To prove they belong on the same stages as everyone else.

While drag queens are allowed to be everything—campy, grotesque, political, glamorous, absurd—drag kings are still expected to stay within a narrow lane. One version of masculinity. One acceptable presentation. One way to be taken seriously.

And when an art form is restricted like that, it doesn’t grow.
It stagnates.

Expanding drag kingship is not an attack on tradition.
It’s what keeps the tradition alive.

Drag Has Always Thrived on Variety

Drag has never been about accuracy. It has been about exaggeration, commentary, and subversion.

Drag queens are not expected to represent “real women.” They are allowed—encouraged, even—to distort femininity until it becomes satire, protest, or fantasy. No one demands that queens be demure, realistic, or respectable in order to be valid.

But drag kings are often held to a different standard.

Kings are expected to be grounded. Serious. Realistic. Believable. And more often than not, straight-passing.

That expectation doesn’t come from drag history—it comes from discomfort.

Discomfort with flamboyant masculinity.
Discomfort with queer men.
Discomfort with femininity appearing in spaces labeled “male.”

Drag kingship did not emerge to replicate patriarchy. It emerged to interrogate it.

And interrogation requires range.

Male Illusion Is Powerful—But It Cannot Be the Only Option

Male illusion has been foundational to drag kingship. It carved out space when none existed. It made masculinity visible in a way audiences could recognize.

That matters.

But when male illusion becomes the requirement, it stops being revolutionary and starts being restrictive.

If every drag king is expected to perform the same type of masculinity—serious, stoic, grounded in realism—then we unintentionally reinforce one of the most damaging stereotypes drag kings face: that they are boring.

Not because male illusion is boring.
But because uniformity is.

Drag thrives on contrast. Surprise. Excess. When audiences only see one version of drag king, they assume that version is all there is. That assumption limits curiosity, bookings, and opportunities.

Expanding drag kingship doesn’t erase male illusion. It contextualizes it. It allows it to shine alongside comedy kings, camp kings, character kings, political kings, avant-garde kings, and kings who blur every line they touch.

Variety doesn’t weaken drag.
It makes it undeniable.

Masculinity Is Not a Monolith

One of the quiet tensions within drag kingship is the idea that kings are meant to represent “real men.”

But what does that even mean?

Men are not a monolith. Masculinity is not singular. Gay men, flamboyant men, trans men, soft men, femme men, camp men—all of them are real.

When drag kings are only validated if they represent rigid, straight masculinity, queerness gets erased in the name of legitimacy.

That isn’t subversive.
That’s assimilation.

Drag kings have the opportunity to do something radical: to show masculinity in all its contradictions. To exaggerate it. To mock it. To soften it. To weaponize it. To celebrate it. To dismantle it.

But that only happens when kings are allowed to be more than one thing.

Camp Is Not the Opposite of King

Camp has long been treated as the domain of drag queens, while kings are expected to remain grounded and restrained.

But camp is not about femininity.
Camp is about excess, irony, and self-awareness.

Camp is queer language.

When drag kings are denied camp, they’re denied access to one of drag’s most powerful tools. Camp allows kings to critique masculinity rather than reproduce it. It allows audiences to laugh, reflect, and recognize the absurdity of gendered expectations.

Camp doesn’t dilute kingship.
It sharpens it.

When Protection Turns Into Policing

Many of the restrictions placed on drag kings come from a place of survival.

Early drag kings had to fight to be taken seriously at all. They had to prove they weren’t a novelty. That they weren’t a joke. That they deserved stage time.

That fight mattered.

But survival strategies are not blueprints for the future.

When protection turns into policing, the next generation suffers. Camp kings are told they’re doing it wrong. Queer kings are told they aren’t “real” enough. Artists who don’t fit the mold are pushed to the margins of a community they helped sustain.

Legacy should be an invitation—not a gate.

Expansion Is How Drag Kings Survive

Drag kings already face an uphill battle for visibility. Fewer bookings. Smaller platforms. Less cultural recognition.

Limiting the art form from within only compounds that struggle.

Expansion is not dilution.
It is evolution.

The future of drag kingship depends on multiplicity. On allowing kings to exist across aesthetics, identities, and performance styles without having to justify their place.

Because drag was never meant to be safe.
Or respectable.
Or narrow.

It was meant to be bold. Messy. Queer. And expansive.

What I Hope Comes Next

I’m not interested in telling anyone how to do drag.

Male illusion kings matter. Traditional kings matter. The kings who built this space deserve respect.

But so do the kings who are building something new.

I hope we can move toward a drag community where curiosity replaces suspicion, where expansion isn’t treated as erasure, and where younger kings don’t feel the need to shrink themselves to earn legitimacy.

Drag kingship is not a single definition.
It is a living, breathing art form.

And if it’s going to survive—if it’s going to thrive—it has to be big enough to hold all of us.