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Links to a video and audio-slideshow showcasing Konrad's night as Miss Indy Starlet can be found at the top of the post.

Konrad gets into his Indy Starlet self at the Shimmering Shamrocks fundraiser, finding that none of his inhibitions gives him much trouble. (Michelle Pemberton / Indy.com)

Konrad gets made up before his performance. (Michelle Pemberton / Indy.com)

Costumed and well-disguised by artfully applied makeup, Konrad Marshall sits in the dressing room, waiting to go onstage, attempting to calm his nerves. (Michelle Pemberton / Indy.com)

Click here to watch an audio-slideshow of Konrad's transformation into Miss Indy Starlet

Click here to watch a video of Miss Indy Starlet's performance with commentary by Ladies of Legends Asia LaBouche and Vicki St. James, along with Bob Harbin, artistic director of American Cabaret Theatre

Lumbering around on the backstage platform, I stared vacantly at the prowling purple spotlight, listening to the emcee introduce me while waiting for my song to start. I looked like a lost pink giraffe crossed with Divine.

The catwalk I was about to clomp down -- heel-toe, heel-toe, honey -- may as well have been a plank. I have never been onstage. I loathe public speaking. I clam up at a dinner table that has more than four people.

Yet somehow, I felt ready for this -- to lip-synch to "Finally," by CeCe Peniston, wearing full female makeup and clothes in front of a packed St. Patrick's Day crowd at Talbott Street, Indy's premier gay club.

I had remembered the words spoken to me days earlier by my drag mother, Doug Mellinger, also known as Asia LaBouche, Miss Gay Indiana 2006, the state's self-proclaimed "Largest Living Indoor Attraction."

"If I wasn't in full makeup, I couldn't do it," Mellinger said. "I'm a very shy, introverted person. It's definitely a mask. You're definitely a character."

Your mask is MAC foundation, eye liner and blush, Coty setting powder, Paint Cosmetics eye and lip color, Benye cheek contour, Sharpie marker (a makeshift lip liner), glitter, colored hair spray, lashes and nails. And you hide behind it at all costs.

But on the main stage at Talbott Street, that purple glow cutting through the dark, there is nowhere to hide. Really, there's not a place on God's green Earth where a 200-plus pound man, dressed in a form-fitting bodysuit and standing 7 feet tall in a wall of wig and pink pleather boots, could ever hide.

So I steeled myself behind the curtain, my inner diva holding down the giddy sickness of anticipation welling up in my gut, and I came out. One baby doll step at a time.

Four days earlier, I sat in a Pennsylvania Street coffee shop, David Bowie's aptly androgynous "Changes" playing in the background.

Mellinger, who had agreed to give me a little insight into his world, introduced himself, and I noticed a distinct lack of eyebrows.

It's easier to keep your bushy lens caps shaved, he explained, than to cover them up and paint on the thin strips demanded by his onstage guise. This is just one of many things the 39-year-old drag performer has learned since he first performed 12 years ago, including this terrifying truth: "Starting out is hard."

Drag performers usually begin on an open stage, in front of a handful of people. Mellinger, on a dare, did a few Annie Lennox and Bette Midler numbers on a weeknight at a smaller club. If you want exposure, that's the way you have to begin.

"I have pictures I'll never show anybody," he said. "Everything was store-bought. There was nothing spectacular about it whatsoever."

He's a pro now, performing three nights a week, and devoting spare time to costuming. He has health insurance. But he knows he is lucky to have found Talbott Street, because the business is tough.

"I wouldn't recommend anybody getting into it," Mellinger said. "The amount of money you have to spend on costumes, especially in a town where you get a lot of repeat customers, makes it hard."

I explained I wanted to feel for a moment what it's like to cross those gender lines, to perform live, to understand the galaxy in which the drag world orbits. I'm a fan of musicals, and my favorite character has always been Dr. Frank-N-Furter, the "Sweet Transvestite from Transexual, Transylvania" in "The Rocky Horror Picture Show."

Mellinger pointed out that the majority of cross-dressers are actually straight men. And while he is gay, there is no sexual identification with his performance -- something many people find difficult to wrap their heads around.

It can be a confusing world. Mellinger shares a dressing room with a transgendered performer. And he's met straight men who did drag pageants. ("Which is kind of odd, but I'm not one to judge.") Drag is about performance, not sexuality.

"For me, it's all about over-the-top, glamazon, in-your-face drag. And that's what I portray," he said. "I'm not attempting to be able to walk down the mall. Bottom line is that you're doing it to entertain a crowd."

The bigger the hair, the bigger the makeup, the bigger the jewelry, the better. "That's what would work with me," he said.

We parted, and I got used to the idea. I planned on taking my time, practicing and rehearsing for a few weeks.

But within a day he had found me a show to join.

We met on a Thursday.

I would perform the following Monday.

I tried to liken my deep-end baptism to taking off a Band-Aid -- or getting a bikini wax -- and doing it in one decisive action. No waiting. I wanted to pull it off now.

I practiced my walk all weekend, learning the lyrics while dancing to a YouTube video from "The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert."

I dreamed up all sorts of moves -- sexy squats, chest-grabbing, tush-tapping, hands on my heart, arms opened wide, kisses blown, a finger-snap above the head, even a flirty "Oh, my!" with palms-on-cheeks pose. I strutted around in the spare bedroom upstairs, my laptop playing Peniston's "Finally" more than a dozen times during my final weekend as a drag virgin.

But standing in those boots with those chunky 4-inch heels for even a five-minute interval hurt then numbed my toes. I could move, awkwardly, but struggled with steps.

My wife seemed to enjoy watching me prance, as if my act had some weird, titillating appeal. Or perhaps she was proud of my willingness to explore my sensitive side. Her acceptance made sense. She is also a fan of Prince and Dave Navarro -- drag isn't far off.

But she wanted to make sure -- as did the patrons of Talbott Street I had met there while watching shows, doing my research -- that I wouldn't make fun of the community.

"Why are you doing this?" "You're not going to make fun of us, are you?"

I assuaged them: "I genuinely want to understand what it's all about. And I think it'll be fun." By Monday afternoon, I couldn't imagine how.

I had serious nerves and an appointment with the men's room sink to shave, again. And then I was in Mellinger's chair, in a little dressing room packed to the rafters with costumes.

It took 2 and a half hours to apply my makeup, then 45 minutes to put me in costume, from two layers of hosiery to fake foam hips, butt cheeks and a chest plate. I had jewelry, including earrings Krazy-Glued to my lobes. The effect was a revelation.

By the time I was made up, people were mistaking me for the celebrated Asia LaBouche, titan of the transformation. But I was still scared. I remembered my drag mother's words:

"Crowds can be cruel," Asia told me. "You may do a song last week that they loved. You do the same thing, and they just look at you. You never can tell."

I waited backstage, behind my protective disguise. I had a set of realistic $600 silicone breasts, as heavy as a flak jacket. My hips and buttocks felt like squishy body armor, should I fall.

I was hidden behind it all.

Konrad wasn't about to perform. Miss Indy Starlet was.

And Miss Indy Starlet liked to prance.

Miss Indy Starlet loved the attention, and bathed in the spotlight.

Miss Indy Starlet, halfway through her act, realized she wasn't even lip-synching anymore -- she was singing, sultrily bellowing every word straight from the diaphragm, dahlink.

People stuffed money in her hands, and with that, I will admit, something slightly sordid began to creep into her psyche.

Miss Indy Starlet began rubbing her booty, stroking her double Ds, giving come-hither eyes to all the pretty boys with singles in hand. She sat back on her haunches and motioned one boy to come closer. For what? The power in seeing him do what he was told?

This crowd was in a giving mood, too. The audience was there for the annual Shimmering Shamrocks event, run by the Pride Bag Ladies. The cash was going to Indiana Youth Group, among other causes.

They kept coming up, stuffing bills in my hand.

Mellinger loves performing because it means he can do something creative for a living, especially after having worked for years in technical and administrative positions at Eli Lilly and Co. He likes basing a routine on the perfect pair of boots, or planning his costume and choreography around a sexy song, and watching it kill. Up there, I understood.

There's a certain freedom in drag. You're imprisoned by your costume, but you're liberated in letting an alter ego take over.

After years of watching "Rocky Horror" and thinking I'd make a great Frank-N-Furter, after four days anticipating this performance, after more than three hours preparing backstage, I felt like my time had come, fishnets or not.

Maybe that's why I belted out those lyrics, instead of mouthing the words:

Finally it has happened to me

Right in front of my face

My feelings can't describe it

Finally it has happened to me

Right in front of my face

And I just cannot hide it.

And with that, Miss Indy Starlet returned to her strut, dropped to a squat, and stroked the chin of a boy willing to come close enough.

Like a diva, she raised her arms high, blew a kiss to the masses, took a bow, and trundled off stage with more than $30 in hand. She vanished in the night, never to be seen again, but cherished by her alter ego, forever.