Bringing Out Elvis: A Retrospective on the Birth of a Drag King

May 20, 2025/in Culture, Drag, Issue 08, Magazine/by Vic Leon

From the Queer Kentucky archiveThis story is part of The Show Must Go On, Issue 08 of our print magazine (Spring 2025). See all the stories

I stood on a rickety stage in front of my entire school with my head cast down. It was the middle school talent show, and I was about to lip sync “You’re Bringing Out the Elvis” in Me by Faith Hill. I wore a pair of french braids and jean capris, a tank top, a tattoo choker, and Baby-Phats on my feet. I took my starting position on stage and waited for the music. The country singer’s voice blasted through the speakers inside the gym. I rocked with the beat. Swinging my hips with such gusto that I believed in that moment I was the Elvis Presley. The last twang of the harmonica rang out through the speakers as I stuck my last pose, anticipating a roar of applause.

But it never came.

photo by Milkman Photography

As I finally met the audience’s silent, bewildered stares, embarrassment washed over me. The ridicule that followed weeks after cemented my desire to fade into the background.

Now socially scarred, I settled on basketball to carry me through the rest of middle school. But my performance anxiety was too much, even on the court. By the time I was a sophomore, I ditched my high-tops for character shoes, finding the stage was a safer space to play with a script to guide me. In theater, I found true friends and also discovered I was gay. Though primarily closeted, the confidence to embrace myself began to grow, discovering there was a world that would accept me.

What’s more, I couldn’t deny that I loved to act and I wanted to do it for life. After five years as a museum actor and doing community theatre in Louisville, I realized that if I wanted to continue to grow as an actor and do it professionally, I needed formal training. I had a Bachelor of Arts in Theater from Bellarmine University but I knew I needed to go to the next level. I took a Greyhound to Chicago to audition for the University Resident Theatre Association, intent on landing a Masters of Fine Arts program that would take me as a student. I caught the eye of two different schools, and after callbacks, I had an offer from the University of Houston’s Professional Actor Training Program with a full ride. I packed my bags and left Louisville, hoping for a brighter future doing what I loved.

Photo by Milkman Photography

The training at UH was hard, fast, and grueling from day one, and I devoted all that I had for two years. While I was the out and proud lesbian of my ensemble of eight, the program took a toll on me, and by my second year I wasn’t feeling as confident as I did when I arrived. Something was shifting within me. My work became muddy, introspective, and distracted. Grad school stripped us down to rebuild us as actors, but instead of strength, I felt confusion and gnawing depression.

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When it came time to decide what I wanted to do after grad school, I felt like I needed to go back to Louisville and be with my then-girlfriend. I returned to civilian life, learning that same year what non-binary meant. I found solace on the Internet with others like me, discovering that there were other options for an identity that felt more like my own experience with gender. It was a painful but necessary metamorphosis. And like I’d always done when I was unsure of where to go, I looked to the stage to find myself.

I secured some work in the last Christmas Carol that Actors Theatre of Louisville would see onstage. Then the world shut down and we entered the COVID-19 pandemic. My girlfriend and I broke up, and I thought maybe moving to Los Angeles would fix me as I was picking up the pieces of my broken heart and trying to “make it” on my own. It didn’t, and I went back to Louisville with my tail between my legs, unsure of what to do with myself once again. I felt stuck in auditioning — my in-between gender was not reading to casting directors. They didn’t know where to put me. I didn’t know where to put me.

photo by Milkman Photography

I returned to drag as a creative outlet, drawn back to it after performing a few open stages at Play Louisville before grad school. There was something about it that made things less chaotic inside me. Being a drag king gave me permission to extend myself and become my own creative salvation, allowing myself to embody a bold, electrified version of Vic that traditional roles never did. The more I leaned in, the more I found myself offstage. And then one day, fresh out the shower drying my legs, it hit me like a bolt from the blue:

I’m transgender.

That realization illuminated my path, allowing me to take the steps to live authentically and confidently as a man. I stopped wearing dresses, bound my chest, started HRT, scheduled my top surgery, and worked at a phone store for insurance to cover the costs. As I made these subtle changes overtime, I began to notice how differently people treated me as a guy. It was a shift I felt deeply—no longer feeling out of place when I said “Thanks, man,” or sat naturally in a chair. I felt how freeing it was to choose when and how we can evolve on our own terms. With self-awareness and unconditional love towards myself, my power began to grow. My spark came back brighter and stronger than ever.

Even in uncertain moments, I still channel the fearless kid on that rickety stage — so joyful and eager to share what it was that made him light up — without a care of what people might think of him. Like Elvis, all I ever wanted to do was share my joy with the world. And even if I didn’t know it then, I was already making moves towards the person I was always meant to be.