Boy Queen

by George Lester

  Greg starts to drive us to Natalie’s house. ‘Do you blame her? Imagine her reaction if she knew you were going out with one of them.’

  ‘If she knew Connor was there, she’d probably kill him.’

  ‘He’s lucky I didn’t,’ Greg says, a little laugh telling me he’s half joking. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I know you’re seeing him and I don’t mean to be so . . . spiky,’ he says. ‘I just don’t want you to get hurt.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Because you’re my friend.’

  ‘I know,’ I say again. ‘But we weren’t going out at the time. If we had been, I’m sure he would have—’

  ‘Yeah, I hope so,’ he says. ‘I just hate keeping it from Nat. It’s hard that she likes you two together and I’m there looking all grumpy about it.’

  ‘Let’s not do this now,’ I say as we pull up outside Nat’s.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says. ‘It’s meant to be your birthday! Are you buzzing?’

  ‘I’m nervous,’ I say.

  ‘For a night out?’

  ‘For a drag night,’ I say. ‘I think Mum’s got in my head about it. She thinks I’m in mortal danger by association.’

  ‘Well, if the gay mafia show up and see you in those shoes, then you might be in trouble!’ He is grinning broadly, so obviously pleased with himself.

  ‘Oh my gosh, you’ve been practising your reads. I’ve never been so proud!’

  ‘Robin!’ Mrs Josephs, Natalie’s mum, has appeared at the door with the biggest grin on her face. ‘Happy birthday!’ She wraps her arms round me and kisses me on both cheeks.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Josephs,’ I reply.

  She’s wearing a pink, flowing dress that floats as she walks, her hair a little darker than it was last time I saw her.

  ‘You look fantastic,’ I say. ‘New hair?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘It looks really good on you,’ I say with a smile.

  ‘Hello, Greg,’ she says, kissing him on both cheeks and ushering us inside. ‘Welcome, welcome, welcome, Natalie is upstairs and, of course, not ready yet.’

  ‘I heard that!’ Natalie shouts down the stairs.

  ‘When is she ever ready on time?’ Another voice, this one deep and booming, comes from the living room. I see Mr Josephs coming towards us, ducking down a little to get through the doorframe. ‘Nice to see you, Robin, Greg.’ He shakes our hands. ‘Happy birthday.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  The way Natalie talks about her parents sometimes, you’d think they were monstrous, but they’re just pushing her to be her best. Greg and I head upstairs to see Natalie in front of her mirror, doing her eye make-up.

  ‘Sorry about them,’ Natalie says. ‘I told you, Robin, my mum is obsessed with you.’

  ‘She is not.’

  ‘Oh come on, she has never been that excited on one of my birthdays,’ she says.

  ‘I find that almost impossible to believe,’ I say.

  Natalie goes back to doing her face in the mirror, Greg and I taking seats on the bed and on the floor respectively. I watch her add highlight to her cheekbones that makes them pop like you wouldn’t believe. She glances at me in the mirror, a mischievous look in her eyes.

  ‘Greg,’ she says, waving an eyeliner pencil at him. ‘Can I tempt you?’

  Greg snorts. ‘No, I’m good.’

  ‘Come on, Greg, you’re going to a drag night and you’re wearing chinos and a polo shirt. Live a little.’

  ‘Robin is wearing a shirt and jeans – why aren’t you bothering him?’

  ‘Thanks, buddy,’ I say. ‘Thanks for having my back.’

  ‘Come on, Robin,’ she says, coming towards me with a fan brush packed with highlighter.

  ‘No,’ I say, pushing it away, the powder puffing up into a glittery cloud.

  ‘What? You look good in it,’ she pleads. ‘When you do your shows, you’re always wearing make-up. How is this different?’

  ‘In practically every way!’ I reply. Stage make-up is one thing, a little bit of base and some eyeliner so I don’t get washed out on-stage, but wearing it out? I might as well have a neon sign over my head saying, ‘Please kick the shit out of me.’ And I don’t want Mum to worry more than she already is. She might be overreacting, but I sort of see her point. ‘I don’t want to. It’s too much,’ I add.

  ‘We’re going to a gay bar – no one is going to judge you,’ Nat exclaims, applying so much highlighter it’s like she’s wearing a hi-vis jacket on her face. Annoyingly, it actually works for her. She’s stunning.

  ‘That’s not why I’m not doing it.’

  ‘Glitter?’

  ‘I’ll blind you with it,’ I snap.

  ‘Wow, OK, let’s take the crazy down a few notches, huh?’ Greg intercepts. ‘I’d like to make it to this bar at some point before closing, so if you could speed this whole process up a little, Nat, I’d really appreciate it.’

  ‘Don’t rush me,’ she growls. ‘You boys take a shower and throw on a shirt and you’re good to go. This is a process. Works of art take time.’ She looks at herself in the mirror. It pains me to admit it, but she really does look like a work of art. She will be worshipped . . . or people will assume she is a drag queen. ‘Last chance to look like a work of art, Robin.’

  ‘I want to watch the queens, not be one of them.’

  She shrugs. ‘Fine, fine, fine, it’s your birthday.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ Greg says, ‘any word from Connor?’

  I feel the energy fly out of the room.

  ‘Robin?’ Greg pokes my arm. ‘You’re looking off into the middle distance like a bad actor in a power ballad music video. What’s up?’

  ‘I invited him.’

  Natalie chokes on the air. ‘What?’

  ‘Is he coming?’ Greg asks.

  ‘Of course not,’ I sigh. ‘I was right. He made it abundantly clear he wouldn’t be caught dead there. He texted me last night, though.’

  ‘A text, how romantic,’ Greg groans. I ignore it.

  ‘And he came over late to see me.’

  Natalie drops her lipstick. ‘And you kept this quiet all day?’

  ‘I’m embarrassed!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Mum came running down the stairs and almost caught us together,’ I reply, feeling the blood rush to my face. ‘I basically told him to run and he scrambled off down the street. I’ve never seen him move so quickly.’ Natalie and Greg stare at me for a moment, then they start laughing. They start laughing so much that Natalie is dabbing at her eyes with tissues and Greg is doubled over, holding his stomach. And it is funny. It’s so ridiculous and so completely insane that I have to laugh or I might just have a breakdown at the sheer tragedy of my life. ‘I request a subject change!’ I say between giggles.

  The doorbell rings and Natalie sits up dead straight, her excitement renewed. ‘I’ll get it!’ she shouts, running downstairs to answer the door. There are screams, there is excitement, then there are footsteps on the stairs that precede Priya entering the room in a purple jumpsuit. She poses in the doorway.

  ‘Girl!’ I shout.

  ‘I know,’ she says.

  ‘Seriously!’

  ‘I KNOW!’ she says, twirling. ‘I thought it might be too much, but what’s too much?’ Natalie reappears behind her, dragging Priya over to the mirror and offering her the highlight that I said no to.

  ‘Oh, God, I’m awful,’ I say. ‘Priya, this is Greg, Greg, this is Priya, I don’t think you two have met before.’ I gesture from Greg to Priya. She waves at him in the mirror and Greg awkwardly waves back.

  ‘You OK?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah,’ he breathes. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ Natalie says, checking herself one more time. ‘I look fantastic. You’re all welcome.’

  We take some pictures before we leave. Natalie in her short red dress, Greg in his polo shirt and chinos, me in my new black
-and-white checked shirt and jeans, Priya – freshly highlighted in her purple jumpsuit. There are no other people in the world I’d rather spend my birthday with so, even with all the other shit that has been going on, I can’t keep the smile off my face as we leave the house.

  TEN

  Entity is about twenty minutes from Natalie’s house in a cab, a tucked-away building on the corner of a high street that is bustling with shoppers during the day and drunkards at night. It would look like every other place in town were it not for the giant pride flag hanging in every window, and from a flagpole over the front door. Oh, and the music of my people – Cher, Madonna, Gaga and other single-name divas – bursting out into the street every time someone opens the door.

  There is a nervous sort of energy rushing around my body as we walk up to the door to face the bald man dressed in black stood out the front. He fills the doorframe, muscular, tall, scary-looking. I guess that’s the idea of being a bouncer, but it makes my steps more tentative.

  ‘ID?’ he asks as we approach. I scrabble around in my pocket, my fingers fumbling over the cards in my wallet. His face cracks into a smile as he looks at the ID, and suddenly he looks a lot less serious. Handsome, even. I don’t know how it’s happened, like a veil has been lifted from his face. ‘Happy birthday, Robin,’ he says. ‘Have a good night.’

  I definitely prejudged him and it makes me walk into Entity with a smile on my face.

  Automatically, I feel myself breathe out a sigh. It’s as if the entire building has just wrapped its arms around me and squeezed me tight, my anxiety dissipating like I’ve taken off my coat.

  ‘You look happy,’ Natalie says, appearing next to me. ‘I’ve not seen you smile like that in a while.’

  ‘Look at him – he’s practically giddy,’ Greg says.

  ‘Thank you for coming here with me,’ I say, finding the words strange in my mouth. They seem too formal, too forced in some way, but I really appreciate it. Normally the place I feel most comfortable at is the dance studio, but this is a whole different level. It’s like I’ve found a little home.

  ‘You’re more than welcome,’ Priya says, bumping my hip.

  ‘It’s your birthday, mate,’ Greg says, pulling me into a hug. ‘Of course we’re going to come here with you.’ He looks over to the bar, already two people deep even though it’s barely eight o’clock. A couple of the men behind the bar are topless and muscular in ways that you only really see on Instagram. Greg heads over, Priya following close behind.

  There are people everywhere, some sitting around little tables, looking over at a small stage in the far corner where I assume the queens will be performing later. Behind the stage, sparkly silver streamers hang down, moving as if they have a life of their own, glittering in the lights. There are speakers on high stands at either side of the stage pumping out music that makes me feel at home and a small, hobbity man sitting behind a sound desk, shoulders hunched, glasses on, staring at a MacBook screen.

  Other people are standing around high tables, all chatting conspiratorially, smiling, happy. There are men holding hands with men, women kissing women, men in crop tops and make-up, people dressed so freaking fabulously it’s like I am on an entirely different planet. And I don’t think I ever want to leave.

  ‘You OK?’ Natalie asks.

  I nod, struggling to find words. ‘I just think I like it here.’

  ‘We’ve barely been here five minutes,’ she says with a laugh.

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘But I really like it.’

  Conversations suddenly stop all around us, replaced with the sound of a roomful of people turning to face the stage.

  A queen walks through the crowd and on to the stage. Never has the royal title been so fitting: she’s tall, and by tall I mean glamazonian. Her hair is bright pink and perfectly coiffed atop her head, not a hair out of place, adding to the sheer regal power of her. Her eye make-up is dramatic in neon pink and blue, with small jewels along her browbone that seem to sparkle of their own accord. Her lips are overdrawn to comical proportions but not a single person laughs or titters because she looks, for want of a better word, radiant. Faultless in every way.

  ‘Good evening, my darlings.’ Her voice is a low, Scottish rumble, sending ripples through the audience. Someone whoops somewhere behind us. ‘Calm yourself, dear boy. We have a whole evening of entertainment to get through and I don’t like my men to peak too soon.’ She is looking over in my direction, her eyes fixed on me. A couple of people turn round, thinking I’m the one who whooped and I feel . . . fine. In any other situation, I would want the ground to swallow me up, but I don’t mind. I’m safe.

  Laughter follows. Raucous laughter. And I’m part of it. I can’t help it.

  ‘You OK?’ Natalie whispers next to me.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, as surprised as she is concerned. ‘I am, yeah.’

  ‘The magic starts in ten minutes,’ the queen says. ‘So grab your drinks now and get yourselves settled in for a wonderful evening of entertainment. Tonight, for your viewing pleasure, you have the incredible Anne Drogyny!’ A cheer, a wild scream from somewhere near the front. ‘Miss Pristine Gleaming!’ Another cheer. ‘The handsome beast from Birmingham, Cole Shower!’ Another cheer. ‘The incomparable queen of the people, Kaye Bye!’ Another cheer, louder this time, I’m sure. ‘And, of course, let’s not forget your wonderful host, the immensely talented, frankly gorgeous, ME! Carrie D’Way!’ The crowd lose their minds, screaming, stamping, clapping wildly.

  Natalie grabs hold of my arm. The grin on her face is so wild, so crazed, she looks like she’s about to cry.

  ‘You OK?’ It’s my turn to ask.

  ‘I’m just so excited!’ She is shaking, actually shaking. ‘I am so, so glad we’re here. Watching drag queens that actually live near us! This is amazing!’

  We’ve been to see queens at theatres before. We saw the last season of Ru Girls when some of the queens from Drag Race performed in London, and it was unreal, but there’s something different about seeing them in your actual town. They feel like celebrities before they’ve even done anything.

  I look over to the bar where Greg is standing with Priya, the two of them deep in conversation, pressed together by the crowd. They don’t seem to be focusing on getting drinks as much as they are focusing on each other.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll be getting a drink any time soon,’ I say to Natalie, nodding to the bar.

  She looks over and gapes. ‘Go on, Greg!’ she giggles.

  A few minutes later, Greg and Priya appear with the drinks and we stand there, waiting for the show to start. I find myself looking around the bar, trying to commit every little detail to memory. I notice the fireplace off to one side, the tiny nook in the furthest reaches of the club, away from the hustle and bustle, and the stage where a studious young man is reading a dusty-looking book, which seems so random and yet so perfect.

  ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ Natalie whispers as Carrie makes her way back to the stage, her gingham-print dress tailored perfectly to her padded frame. She’s dressed like the category is neon fifties housewife realness, and I am living.

  ‘I think it’s about to get better!’ I say as Carrie takes the mic.

  ‘Good evening, my darlings!’ she calls to cheers and whoops. ‘And welcome to Dragcellence. We’ve got an incredible line-up for you here tonight, starting with someone you all know and love. My darlings, please welcome to the stage, ME!’

  The crowd laughs and goes wild as Carrie hands the microphone back to the beardy, bespectacled young man at the side of the stage. ‘Rose’s Turn’ from Gypsy starts to play through the speakers and Carrie takes centre stage, all eyes on her, a light hitting her in a way that it hadn’t before. She begins her lip sync, hitting every word, hitting every breath, and it’s captivating watching her mouth move like that. It’s so precise. She could be singing for all I know.

  She plays with the audience. A man in the front row with glitter around his eyes is June, a woman
standing at the bar wearing head to toe florals is Herbie, and Carrie’s gaze falls on me once more as Imelda Staunton’s voice screams ‘MISS GYPSY ROSE LEE!’ I could die right now and be entirely content.

  The final build-up has my entire body jittering, the ending climactic, the crowd wild. If this is the opening act, I can only imagine what the rest of these queens are going to do.

  Carrie curtseys, waiting for the applause to die down before demanding more, playing mock coy.

  ‘Thank you so much, my darlings,’ she coos. ‘You sure know how to make a girl feel special. Now, our next performer is one of my favourite drag daughters, and every time she performs this next number she makes Mummy proud. So please welcome to the stage Anne Drogyny.’

  The song is ‘Anything Could Happen’ by Ellie Goulding and, almost in unison, every audience member turns to see Anne Drogyny walking through the crowd, wrapped head to toe in strands of black and grey chiffon. She dances through us, the words coming from her as she dances. The slightest twitch and the material seems to breathe, like the outfit has a life of its own. She makes direct eye contact with me, then Natalie, as she lip-syncs a few lines, working her way through the crowd to hit the stage in time for a chorus. She twirls and unveils her face, beat like you wouldn’t believe.

  As the number continues, more of the fabric is removed, her silhouette changing. Literally anything could happen; no one has any idea where this is going.

  The number ends and the crowd goes absolutely insane. Anne Drogyny, who is now wearing significantly less than she was a moment ago, bows and bundles the discarded fabric into her arms before prancing off the stage. She runs past us in the direction of a blue door to what I assume is the backstage area.

  ‘She’s so beautiful. Did you see her dancing?’ Priya is beaming next to me. ‘I mean, what? That was insane.’

  ‘My darlings, our next performer is one I’m sure many of you have been waiting for.’ Carrie is back on the stage, her champagne flute full once again, her make-up still somehow entirely flawless despite the heat. ‘I love her like a cold sore. My darlings, please welcome to the stage, the incomparable, the insufferable, Kaye Bye!’