The Incredibly Sad Story of Dylan Mulvaney

A parody? An offensive joke? A manipulated young woman?

Choking on my croissant, I cough and lower my voice to a ridiculous, hyperbolic baritone. “Uh hey,” I purr to my hysterical friend. “I’m Henners. Henners B. I work at Deloittes and my personality is the gym.” I stroke my non-existent goatee and adjust my imaginary gillet. “And I surround myself with huge dogs who tolerate my emotional ignorance.”

This is a cruel parody. It’s unfair, stinging, over-the-top, rude, and beneath me. I shouldn’t mock the bashful, affable men who happen to exist in our social circle. But I do, and my friend finds it hilarious. After a few weeks, we’re all stroking our pretend beards and shouting “Babe! Where’s my vape?” at each other with a slap of our thigh. We don’t hate men, we don’t hate masculinity, and we definitely don’t hate these men. We’re just enjoying the silliness of it: the delicious silliness of masculinity, of opulent bourgeois, of the slick tones of the Chelsea dialect. It’s a joke.

It’s a joke.

But what happens when you become your own joke?

Dylan Mulvaney is undeniably a beautiful woman. Luscious dark hair, wide intelligent eyes and a playful energy that illuminates her face. Slender and blessed with the bone structure you dream of…