Tell Me It's Real

by TJ Klune

  So instead of getting a cat to make out with or a parrot that is one step away from committing hate crimes, I went to get a dog. I told myself when I went to the shelter that I was going to get a big dog because big dogs make you manlier. No teacup Chihuahuas for this homo, no, sir! I stomped into the ASPCA and told them in my deepest voice that I was there to adopt a German shepherd! No, a Rottweiler! No, a pit bull! I told the lady I would take the manliest pit bull they had and that I would name him Snarl or Stab or Meat Eater and I’d get him a collar with spikes on it.

  The lady at the front desk asked me calmly if I was part of a dog-fighting ring. I felt properly rebuked and apologized, telling her no, I just needed a dog to live with me and my menstrual ghost. She must have thought the phrase menstrual ghost was somehow referring to me because she asked if I was pre-op or post-op transgender. I almost reached over and plucked the two gross black hairs growing out of her chin. But she looked so pleased with herself that she was showing the world how open-minded she was that I couldn’t bear to rip out those gnarly hairs or break her heart, so I told her I was post-op and that my name used to be Chaz Bono and that I missed my menstrual cycle more than I thought I would. She reached over and rubbed my arm soothingly and told me she’d help me find an “animal companion” to help me forget all about the vaginal bleeding. “After all,” she said, laughing, “we women have to stick together, even if one of us has an artificially constructed penis now. Girl power!”

  A golden retriever named Duke caught my eye almost right away. His coat was so bright and pretty under the lights, and he sat there and preened when I smiled. He chuffed a bit, obviously playing up his part. He knew he looked good and he knew I knew it. I almost said he was the one, but then I heard a squeaking noise coming from the next cage. Duke turned his head to the right and growled and then looked back at me with soulful eyes. The squeak came again and Duke all but snarled.

  I was curious so looked into the next cage. Inside was a mutt of some kind, pretty small and scrawny-looking. He was almost all black except for random white spots of hair on his back and face. His front right leg was white, like he was wearing only one sock. But then I saw he didn’t have back legs and that the squeaking sound I’d heard were the wheels of a little contraption that hooked to the back of his body and allowed him to move. When he saw me looking in at him, he started wiggling his butt back and forth, causing the wheels to tilt every which way and clack on the cement floor. It was only then I saw he didn’t have a tail, either.

  “What happened to him?” I asked the woman.

  She smiled fondly down at Wheels (I’d already named him in my head—highly, highly original, I know) and told me he’d been hit by a car months before and had to have his legs and tail amputated. No one had claimed him and the shelter couldn’t find anyone to take him. Since he’d been a survivor, they called him Lucky, which I thought was the stupidest name ever.

  Duke, the golden boy in the next cage, was pissed he wasn’t getting more attention from me and growled at Wheels. It was then I understood that Duke was nothing but a big golden bully and Wheels was the little guy that no one wanted. I was just enough of a sentimentalist that I could relate, so of course I adopted him. And named him Wheels. No child of mine would be named Lucky! We would make our own luck!

  I was feeling pretty good about myself when I brought Wheels home. I turned my back for a minute, listening to his wheels squeak throughout the house as he explored while I set up his food bowl and water jug thing that the cute stock boy at Petco said I just had to have. I went looking for the new addition only to discover he’d pooped in the middle of the living room and then tracked it through the rest of the house after rolling through it with his wheels. I threw up in my mouth a little when I had to clean it up, but I figured it was still better than a homophobic Johnny Depp calling me a fudge packer.

  So, yep. This is my life. Sorry about the info dump I just took on your chest. If you don’t want to keep going, I’ll totally understand, though that still gives me the right to call you a bitch behind your back.

  And, of course, you’ll miss the rest of the story and won’t get to hear about Helena Handbasket, drag queen extraordinaire. You’ll miss out on meeting my parents (though, that might not be the best way to entice you—they are so damn weird). And you’ll totally miss out on the way I thought I’d gotten Freddie Prinze Juniored, only to discover that a sexy man named Vince was the best thing that ever happened to me and that maybe, just maybe, I’d get my happily ending after all.

  But of course, a bunch of crap will happen before then. I can’t help it if I am a walking drama magnet. It just happens that way. So, one last chance for you to get the fuck out.

  You still there? Cool. Wasn’t that person that left already such a bitch? Seriously. You could totally tell by the way they walked that they had a stick up their ass.

  All Right. You ready? Sweet.

  Let’s rock and roll.

  Chapter 2

  The Evils Of Whiskey And Twinks

  “WOULD you hand me that tape there so I can tuck my penis and testicles back to give the illusion that I’m a woman?” my best friend Sandy asked, just to fuck with me. He was already in full makeup, the fierce red eye shadow and blush spreading around his eyes, like a wild mask, that he always wore when he was doing his Lady Gaga numbers.

  “I still don’t get how you can push all your junk back like that,” I said with a shudder, handing him the double-sided tape. “Balls weren’t meant to get squished like that.”

  “They’re squishy by nature,” he pointed out, pulling off a piece of the tape and shoving his hands down his loose boxers. A grimace came over his face as he twisted his hands, and I had to look away before I felt sympathy pains.

  We were sitting in the upstairs dressing room of Jack It, one of the few gay bars we have in Tucson. And out of the three or four bars we do have, Jack It is the only one with a dance floor, though I don’t really dance. There’s a major difference between dancing at home in your underwear, and then dancing at a gay bar with all the go-go boys in their underwear. It’s enough to make a man feel self-conscious. Trust me.

  Sanford Stewart, the man doing evil things to his boy parts, is pretty much the best friend I have in the entire world. He’s a skinny thing, but tall, over six feet. One might look at him as a man and not see anything remarkable. His blonde hair is just yellow enough to be flat-looking. His brown eyes are chocolate left out in the sun. He’s cute, but in that almost immediately forgettable kind of way. He could stand to gain at least twenty pounds. I tell him all the time he needs to eat more and he says he will if I will. He thinks I look good just the way I am, even though my ego won’t let me believe it.

  I think he’s beautiful no matter what he looks like, but most don’t, for whatever reason. As a man, he’s perfect in my eyes.

  But when he’s in full-on drag as Helena Handbasket? Holy fireworks, Batman.

  There’s no one in this entire fucking town that can hold a candle to her when she’s performing (notice the pronoun switch: when he’s Sandy, he’s a “he”; when she’s in full drag, she’s a “she.” Queens can get vicious if you don’t respect the pronouns). Helena Handbasket is an absolute legend in Arizona, with a reputation starting to grow around the country as well. She’s been asked to perform at a few pride events outside the state, and next year, she’s considering competing in Miss Gay USA.

  What’s funny about Sandy is that when he is Sandy, he’s quiet and unassuming. He sometimes stutters over his words and he can be shy, almost as much as I am. He tends to watch people rather than contributing to conversation. Some might think him cold, but he’s really just listening. When he does speak, his words are carefully chosen. We grew up together, and when we got old enough, he dragged me into the gay bar scene, even though I would have rather had bamboo shunts shoved under my fingernails than be in a large group of people. He said it would be good for the both of us, though there were plenty of times we ended up as wa
llflowers—standing and not speaking much while sucking down vodka cranberries.

  But when she’s Helena Handbasket? Holy. Shit. When she’s in full-on drag, you would swear to God she is the biggest fucking diva in the history of the world. Her costumes are completely outrageous, and a testament to the amount of time we spent pawing through thrift stores and the fact that he’s a wiz with a sewing machine.

  She moves with the fluid grace of a trained dancer and can lip-synch with the best of them, but it’s her trademarked snarl, as she tears through her routines, that sets her apart. Sandy Stewart might be a quiet twenty-nine-year-old man, but Helena is a hard-core bitch who doesn’t take shit from anyone. It took me a bit to get used to the whole split-personality thing that most drag queens seem to have, but once I did I never looked back.

  You’re probably wondering if Sandy and I were ever anything more than best friends. Eh. For maybe, like, two seconds. We got drunk one night at his old apartment and started making out, which somehow led to all of our clothes on the floor. When we realized that we were both bottoms, and didn’t feel like bumping assholes, we decided we were better best friends than boyfriends. Sandy’s brutally protective of me. Everyone knows not to mess with Helena’s “bitch boy,” as he calls me affectionately. Bastard. He’s all class, that one.

  Even when he’s reaching to tape his balls to his taint.

  “I don’t know why I watch every time you do that,” I said to him. “You look like you’re trying to fist yourself and it’s not going too well.”

  He gave a little huff. “It’s the most unladylike thing about becoming a lady,” he said, giving his wrist a little twist.

  “It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again,” I intoned.

  “That stopped being funny the first thousand times you said it,” he grumbled at me. “Keep saying it and I will put you in a hole in my basement.”

  “You don’t have a basement,” I said, trying to smooth out the feathers on the boa he wore during his opening number.

  “I’ll dig one,” he promised. “Lace me, please.”

  He turned, the white skin of his slender back facing me. I slid my fingers through the ties of the corset, pulling them tight, cinching each one up tight like I knew he liked. It helped create the illusion of cleavage so he wouldn’t have to wear falsies in this outfit. Once he added a little blush to his chest for shadowing effect, it’d look like he was rocking some knockers.

  “You going to come down and watch?” he murmured, then looked in the mirror to fix the makeup around his eyes.

  I sighed. “Not tonight,” I said quietly. “I’ll just stay up here and watch your show, okay?” I didn’t want to go down and mingle with all the hot boys and men who wouldn’t even look at me twice. If you ever want to find out if you’re attractive or not, go to a gay bar. Within the first five minutes of walking in on a busy night, trust me, you’ll know whether you’re hot. I was one of those that could slip through the crowd without anyone trying to stop me by grabbing my ass, or smiling wickedly and asking if they could buy me a drink. The only reason anyone ever looked at me is because of Helena.

  Oh, man. I sound way bitter. I’m not, I promise. It’s just how things are. I don’t question them anymore. I just don’t like being reminded of it constantly. The only reason I went to Jack It as much as I did was because Helena performed on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

  He sighed too, but it sounded sharp with exasperation, and I knew “he” was slipping into “she.” Sandy took my shit for the most part. Helena thought I was an idiot. “You know,” she said (yes, definitely she by the tone of her voice), “the more you hide out up here, the less you’ll be seen.”

  “That’s kind of the point,” I reminded her, finishing with the corset.

  Helena glared at me in the reflection of the mirror as she handed me a makeup brush to put a bit of glitter on her shoulders. “That’s not the point,” she growled at me, her voice going low and throaty. Yep. Helena was here. “How many times do I have to tell you that you are perfect just the way you are?”

  I fought against the need to roll my eyes. “You’re a bit biased,” I reminded her, making sure her shoulders sparkled beautifully. She’d look like a disco ball with fabulous legs by the time I was finished. “You going to open with ‘Poker Face’?”

  She wasn’t fooled by my feeble attempt to distract her. “Two songs,” she said. “Come down for two songs. Stand amongst the other boys and girls and let yourself feel like you’re a part of something instead of staying up here in your tower.”

  “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.”

  “Be serious for one damn minute,” she snapped at me, eyes blazing. She was pissed at my evasiveness yet again.

  “What do you want me to say?” I asked, trying not to sound hurt.

  “Other shoulder, please,” she said. I move to her other side. “I want you to say that you’ll try. I want you to say that you’ll do something different. I want you to say that you’ll allow yourself to take a chance.” She leaned forward to wipe away a smudge of mascara clumped in the corner of her eye. “You’re not getting any younger, Paul. As a matter of fact, on today of all days, I would think you’d want to turn over a new leaf.”

  I scowled at her, not bothering to reply. I don’t even want to think about today, but once Helena Handbasket got going, it was best to keep your mouth shut or she’d trample all over you. I learned that the hard way. Repeatedly.

  Her eyes soften in the mirror. “Honey, I just want you to be happy.”

  “I am happy,” I say, trying to sound convincing. “I have you and Wheels. My parents are still alive. My grandmother made a deal with the devil, so she’s still alive. I have a job and my own house. My car is paid off. What more could a guy ask for?”

  “Hope,” Helena Handbasket said. “You could ask for some hope.”

  Ew. Gross.

  I rolled my eyes. “You just after-school-specialed all over my face.”

  “Someone has to,” she retorted. “Nothing else is going all over your face.”

  “You don’t think that’s hot, do you?” I asked, stepping back, making sure her shoulders shone evenly.

  “What? Spunk on your face?”

  “Yeah. I know it’s supposed to be pornographically hot, but isn’t there just something kind of gross about getting frosted like that?”

  Helena leaned forward to fix her false eyelashes in the mirror. “Ruins my makeup,” she muttered. “Those queen chasers think its sooo hot to see my makeup run when they nut on me. It gets them off even more, for some reason. I can’t stand it.”

  “But you do it?”

  She shrugged tightly. “Might as well. Helena likes herself some cock.”

  And that right there was another difference between my best friend and his alter ego. Sandy wasn’t the type to let a guy nut on his face (sorry for the overuse of the word “nut”; “ejaculation” makes it sound so clinical). As a matter of fact, I don’t think Sandy has ever had a guy do that to him while he’s Sandy. Sandy’s more like me than Helena is, although since Helena would do things that Sandy wouldn’t even consider, I don’t think that can be considered hypocritical. You can’t call a drag queen hypocritical because they have two different personalities. It’s like Clark Kent becoming Superman. Except a whole lot gayer. Okay, actually, now that I think about it, it’s probably like Clark Kent becoming Superman and then going into the phone booth and stepping out as Wonder Woman. That’s pretty damn gay.

  Oh, by the way, I might also be a comic book nerd, for those of you keeping score of just how cool I am.

  Anyway, Sandy wouldn’t ever do that, but Helena? I can say with no reservations that Helena is a whore. For some reason, whenever Dr. Jekyll turns into Mrs. Hyde, the gloves come off (and then, if we’re speaking honestly, the rubber gloves get pulled on; apparently Helena is very kinky that way). There are some guys, the queen chasers, that while still gay/bi/whatever, love to see lipstick marks around th
eir dicks. And who else can provide such a service but a drag queen who has lipstick colors named things like “Dick Lip Red” and “Prussian Blue Balls”?

  The queen chasers understand that queens like Helena aren’t exactly women, but for some reason their kink is to see her as one. Apparently there are quite a few married men out there who want to get their rocks off with an illusion. To each their own, I guess. Helena doesn’t talk about it a whole lot, and I try not to ask.

  “Yeah, well, you can have some cock for the both of us,” I told her. “I’m fine just the way things are.”

  “I know you are,” she snapped. “And that’s the problem. You’ve become complacent. Stuck in your routine.”

  “This whole tough-love thing is kind of hard to take seriously when you just taped your balls back in front of me,” I said.

  Helena stood up and gave herself one last look over. “Go ahead, Paul. Make jokes. Brush it off like you always do. But deep down, you know I’m right. I harp on you because I love you and I worry. I don’t want to see you alone and full of regret after having wasted your life by shying away from the chances you could have taken.”

  “How could I possibly be alone?” I asked her quietly as I tried to look away. “I’ve got you.”

  She looked at me in the mirror for a moment before turning her sad, expertly sparkled eyes to me. She stayed rooted where she was, but leaned forward and kissed me gently on the cheek. I knew she’d left the perfect imprint of lips there, like she was Marilyn Monroe and the most perfect specimen of womanhood ever. “And you will always have me,” she whispered in a throaty voice. “I love you, baby doll.”