Painted Faces

by L.H. Cosway

  I had my suspicions, but having them confirmed makes my stomach twist with an edge of discomfort. The discomfort is only due to the shock of seeing my new very handsome male neighbour decked out in women's clothing and a face full of make up. But then, once I come to terms with the idea, (which doesn't take very long) I feel as though all of my Christmases have come at once.

  This is astounding, amazing, so incredibly thrilling. Only today a world travelling cabaret performing drag queen took me out for lunch and named me as his new best friend. The idea plunges my black and white world into a vibrant techni-colour rainbow.

  The music is still going, building up the tension. It's only when Nicholas' ice blue eyes land on me do I recognise the song. It's “Sweet Transvestite” from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. The guitar bit kicks in. His lips tilt up at the side in a smirk as he strides confidently across the stage. When he's standing all too close to where I'm sitting, he starts to sing.

  At this the crowd goes wild, shouting and cheering. I enthusiastically join them. Nicholas struts his stuff in those heels so effortlessly that it puts the best of us women to shame, his hips swinging from side to side as he walks.

  He goes over to the other side and sings to the crowd who are cheering him on. He's got a brilliant singing voice, all deep and husky. There's a half sleeve tattoo on his right upper arm and another one on the inside of his left forearm, full of details I can't make out from this distance.

  Coming towards the end of the song he makes his way back over to me, stops slap bang in front of my table and goes down on his haunches, his legs spread wide with one arm resting on his bent knee. The pose gives me a good view of the bulge at the front of those tight hot pants. I see he doesn't partake in “tucking” then. My throat goes a little dry. He levels me with his intense stare when he sings the last verse.

  The lyrics burn right into me, and I shiver all over when he says the word “tension”. Okay, this is messed up. I'm getting all hot and bothered over a man who's more comfortable in make up and a pair of heels than I am. He leaves me then and goes to the centre of the stage to finish off the number. I'd been so consumed with watching Nicholas' movements that I'm only now noticing the full house band playing behind him. There's a drummer, guitarist, bass player, keyboard player and even a guy with a saxophone.

  The song ends. Nicholas fans his face and flutters his false eyelashes, then he turns to peruse the audience. “What an opener, huh?” he says. I expect him to put on a high pitched female voice, but he just talks the way he normally does. The crowd cheers.

  “I suppose I better introduce myself formally. The name's Vivica Blue, they call me Blue after my big blue eyes. Not because of my rumoured stint as a blue movie actress. That's all idol gossip.” He finishes with a grin.

  Somebody whistles enthusiastically. Vivica! He hadn't just plucked that name out of the air when he'd told it to me. He glances at me with a quick wink, and I'm smiling like a fool at the extra bit of attention.

  When I look to Nora her face seems a little pale and her lips are drawn in a thin line. I see all of the fantasies she's built up about Nicholas shattering to the ground in just that one expression. I have a very open mind about most things; men dressing as women doesn't bother me. Nora has much more “traditional” values. She's not some crazy religious freak, but let's just say that her idea of a fetish wouldn't go any further than a pair of furry pink toy hand cuffs.

  I listen back to what Nicholas is saying. “This place is going to be my new home so I hope you'll all be very welcoming. I'd also like you to make the acquaintance of the new house band. They're called The Wilting Willows. Give them a big round of applause.” Noisy clapping ensues.

  Nicholas scratches the back of his neck. “So I'm not sure if any of you saw me perform in Edinburgh last year,” only one guy shouts to say that he did. Nicholas laughs and makes a face. “Great, one person. As you can see, I'm very popular. Anyway, I performed this next song over there for the first time, and it requires something of a prop,” he reaches down as one of the club workers hands him a chair. He carries it to the centre of the stage before putting it down.

  He turns and nods to the band, indicating he's ready to start. He reaches just behind the curtain to the side of the stage, pulling out a black bowler hat and placing it slant ways on top of his head. The intro begins and Nicholas says, “This one's from the masterpiece that is Cabaret, it's called “Mein Herr”. I hope you'll enjoy it.”

  He lifts one leg and settles it on the seat of the chair, intimating a very feminine seductive pose. As he lifts the mic to his mouth and begins singing the lyrics to the song, I get a flashback to the movie starring Liza Minelli. God help me but Nicholas has her every movement and gesture down pat.

  He sits down on the chair, then crosses one leg over the other and twirls his high heeled foot around several times to the beat of the song. Next his leg goes up into the air as he stands, before going back down to the floor. He thrusts his hips in, out, in, out with his hands resting on the top of the chair.

  After he's finished the song he whips off the bowler and pulls a furry Russian style brown hat out from behind the curtain. He also has what looks like a long orange dress coat strewn over one arm.

  “I hate to cover up this magnificent body,” he jokes. “But the next song I'm going to sing requires an outfit change,” he puts the furry hat on his head and slips into the coat, buttoning it up all the way.

  I know what the next song is before he's started singing, because the band is doing a fairly good imitation of an intro that normally requires a full orchestra. “Don't Rain On My Parade” by Barbara Streisand from the movie Funny Girl. He really knows how to pull out all the icons. He works his way through the song, completely owning the stage and belting out the lyrics with a power to rival Barbara's original rendition.

  Over the course of the next hour I'm treated to music from the likes of Shirley Bassey, Julie Andrews and Judy Garland, to name a few. Nicholas even gets a few members of the audience up onto the stage to sing with him. He tries to persuade me up at one point, but I get embarrassed and determinedly decline.

  By the time he's finished singing he's sweated half his make-up off. He sings “Maybe This Time”, another number from Cabaret, as his closing song and takes three bows before hopping off the stage and into a crowd of adoring fans. Most of them are men. He seems entirely comfortable and at ease with himself as he takes their compliments and chats with them about the show.

  My drink has long since dried up, so I leave my friends and make my way over to the bar. I slide my bum onto a stool and ask for a mojito. A few minutes later I hear somebody taking the stool beside mine just as a familiar voice asks, “Well, what did you think?”

  I turn my head to the side to find Nicholas sitting there, his waistcoat is unbuttoned and he's swapped his hot pants and high heels for a pair of loose jeans and boots. He's ripped off the false eyelashes so the only make up left on his face is a hint of red lipstick and some smudged black eye liner. I stare at his bare chest for a minute and have to make a conscious effort to drag my eyes away.

  “It was brilliant!” I exclaim, mustering as much enthusiasm as I can. “I was a little gob smacked when you first walked out in that get up, but I was kind of expecting it given the venue.”

  Nicholas laughs. “I knew you'd like it; I just had a feeling. Although when I waved hello to Nora a minute ago she seemed less than impressed.” He makes a sad little frown at me.

  I shake my head. “She's just put out because she had you down as her new potential love interest. Little did she know you'd turn out to be gay,” I say this last part to see what his response will be. I'm way too curious about his sexual orientation.

  He nods for the bar tender to pour him a shot of whiskey and levels me with a funny look. “You think I'm gay? Even after what I said to you last night?”

  I sip on my drink. “Well, I was thinking maybe you were pulling my leg or something. Besides, apart from Eddie Izza
rd, I don't think I've ever heard of a straight drag queen.”

  He smiles wryly before knocking back his shot. He stares up at the ceiling when he mutters, “Yeah well, you're looking at one.”

  “You're joking right? You have to be at least bi.”

  “Nope. I only have eyes for the ladies,” he states, all of a sudden he seems slightly pissed off. Oh God, am I acting insensitive and rude? Surely being a straight guy who likes to dress up as a woman would have left a few scars along the way. I hope I haven't touched on any of them.

  “Sorry, sometimes I don't think before I open my mouth. That was rude of me.”

  A soft smile touches his red stained lips. “It's okay, no offence taken. I'd offer to buy you a drink but you seem all set. What is that anyway?” He shifts his stool closer to mine and takes a sniff of my drink. Our arms touch.

  “Ah, minty,” he says. “Mind if I have a taste?”

  I raise an eyebrow as he lifts the glass to his mouth. “Not at all, you've never had a mojito before?”

  His smile turns mischievous. “I have, but I wanted to have a taste of yours. Put my lips where your lips have been.”

  “You're such a pest,” I laugh, swiping my drink away from him.

  “That's quite a fetching outfit Fred. Can I take a loan of it next week?” he jokes.

  “After the way I've been sweating in it tonight you don't want it, trust me. This club is stifling hot.”

  “Not necessarily. The sweat is an added bonus. I can sniff on it while I have some private man time,” he says with an over exaggerated leer.

  “Ugh, even I think that's disgusting Viv, and I work in a charity shop. Dealing with “soiled” clothing is a part of my job,” I elbow him lightly in the ribs.

  He gives me a wary look. “I hope you wash your hands regularly.” He pauses. “Just how soiled are we talking? I have to admit, I'm morbidly curious.”

  “Don't worry, the dirty clothes get laundered before they're put on display. But if you're looking for details, I've seen everything from questionable white stains to yellow ones and all that comes in between.”

  “What comes in between white stains and yellow?” Nicholas asks with a smirk. “In my experience they both come out of the same...pipe. I'm not aware of any in between in that area.”

  Oh, he's trying to out shock factor me. Well, he's met his match. “I'm not sure, possibly pre-cum.” I knock back a long gulp of my mojito. If I weren't so drunk I wouldn't have had the courage to say what I just did.

  Nicholas almost falls off his stool he's laughing so hard. “Fuck, that was a good one Fred.”

  I lift my glass to him. “I'm available for special occasions and corporate events.”

  “I'll spread the word,” he says and nods hello to someone behind me. I turn around to find that Harry, Nora and Anny have just approached the bar.

  “Ah, friends,” I say, grabbing Nora around the neck and giving her a rough hug. She pulls away in annoyance.

  “You're drunk,” she says, looking me up and down.

  “That's the point,” I reply, gesturing to my drink and turning back to Nicholas.

  “You know Nora already; these are my two other friends Harry and Anny.”

  Harry steps forward and shakes Nicholas' hand. “Great show! I was singing along to every song, you did some of my all time favourites.”

  “Well I do aim to please,” Nicholas answers graciously.

  “Fred,” Anny interrupts. “I want to go to Coppers but Nora won't come, help me to convince her will you?”

  I throw Anny a cynical glance. “I haven't been to Coppers since I was eighteen, desperate and too young to know better. I'm sorry but I agree with Nora. That club is a glorified cattle market.”

  “I'm intrigued, what is this place you speak of?” Nicholas asks, leaning close to my shoulder.

  “It's this awful club where people go to pick someone up if the rest of their night has been unsuccessful. Like a last chance saloon if you will. God Anny, I thought you were better than lowering yourself to the level of Coppers,” I say, digging in the old screw when in fact I know well that Anny will fuck a door knob with enough alcohol in her system. And she doesn't like going home without at least having gotten a good snog and a grope in.

  “I want to go for the music,” she replies, a blatant lie. “I'm in the mood for some dancing.”

  “Yeah, that and a dose of chlamydia,” Harry puts in. I raise my hand to give him a high five.

  “Shut up Harry!” Anny laughs, elbowing him a little too hard. He shoots her a warning stare.

  “I think you should show me this place Fred,” says Nicholas. “I want the whole Dublin night out experience; the good, the bad and the ugly.”

  I smirk at him. “You're serious?”

  He has another shot in his hand now. I hadn't even noticed him ordering it. Nora's right, I am drunk. “Oh, yes,” he replies, finishing it off in one gulp.

  The idea of going to Coppers with all of my single friends is depressing, but when I add Nicholas to the equation it almost seems like a fun idea. We could be there in an ironic capacity, making fun of all the desperados.

  “All right then. I wouldn't want to be an inhospitable host, since this is my city and you are but a newcomer.”

  “Oh yeah, she agrees to go when Mr Make-up asks her,” Anny slurs, a bottle of beer in her hand.

  “Shut your face Miss “I Want to go to Coppers for the Music”, before I shut it for you,” I say to her jokingly. But I am sort of annoyed at her name for Nicholas. I barely know him, yet I find myself feeling awfully defensive of him. If he's offended by what she's said it doesn't show on his face.

  “I'll just go and grab a t-shirt,” says Nicholas, gesturing to his open waist coat and bare chest. He returns a few minutes later in a clean grey t-shirt, shoving his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans. He hasn't bothered to wash off the barely there make-up though. It looks good on him, like he's some sort of eye liner wearing rock star. There's a short guy with brown hair beside him. I recognise him as the drummer from the house band, The Wilting Willows. He's got silver eye shadow on. I notice Harry taking an immediate interest.

  “This is Sean. You all don't mind if he comes with us?” Nicholas asks.

  I put my arm around Sean's small shoulders. “Not at all. You do know that we're going to Coppers right?” I say to him, conspiratorially.

  “Yeah. Sure I'll go for the laugh,” says Sean in a mild Dublin accent similar to my own.

  “You've got the right attitude my friend,” I reply as I lead him out of the club and into a taxi. We have to go in groups of three since none of the drivers will allow six people in one car. I find myself sitting in the back seat, wedged between Nicholas and Sean. Nicholas is a little too close for comfort.

  “You really don't know the horror you're about to witness,” I say to him on the drive.

  “Life's all about new experiences,” he answers mysteriously. His hand is leaning flat against the seat beside my thigh. His fingers brush my leg ever so slightly, which is something I wholeheartedly try to ignore.

  Five minutes later we're on Harcourt Street, surrounded by guys in jeans, crisp shirts, and stinking of the latest overpriced aftershave. Not to mention a string of girls in skirts too short to be decent and shoes that should be made illegal for being so uncomfortable looking. One girl in a tight blue dress is getting sick out on the road. Her high heel gets stuck in the tram tracks and she struggles to try and pull it free. Her friends drag her back to the path just in time before she gets run over by a car.

  Coppers is short for “Copper Face Jacks” and it's in an old Georgian house on a street filled with similar buildings. In my opinion it's a waste to have such a den of iniquity in a historical building like this one, but what can you do. We go through entrance and pay the fee. Well, Nicholas insists on paying for everyone, although Harry, Anny and Nora are already inside since their taxi had been ahead of ours.

  A heavy beat blasts my ears, wi
th some guy singing about being sexy and knowing it. Yeah, sure. The activity of going around telling people you're sexy sort of negates the whole point of being sexy. It's supposed to be something other people notice about you. (When your brain starts having these pointless arguments about meaningless pop songs, that's when you can safely say that alcohol has set up shop in your system for the night.)

  Nicholas pulls me close and shouts into my ear over the music, “I thought you were exaggerating when you described this place, now I see you were actually putting it mildly.”

  I laugh as my eyes drift over the masses of young men and women, scrambling for each other on the dance floor. Desperately seeking a small piece of affection, affection that's all about gratification and nothing about love. Not that I know much about the latter. I've never been in love. It's sad but it's true. I think the most I've ever been in has been low grade lust. Pathetic. The next song to come on is some new one by Lady Gaga.

  “Come on,” says Nicholas. “Dance with me, I love me some Gaga.”

  I want to ask him if he's sure he isn't gay after that statement, but I let it slide. He pulls me into the sweaty masses, and I try to lose myself in the beat. The only way I can do dancing is jokey or not at all. I cannot do serious. I cannot do sexy. I can do a good robot though, and that's what I end up doing. Yes, I do the bloody robot right there in front of the most beautiful man I've ever met. He laughs at me, at least that's something, even if it's just polite laughter.

  Nicholas is determined to get me to dance with him properly. Like any normal adult woman would be able to. He grabs my hips and turns me around, slipping his arms tight around my waist so that his front is pressed all along my back. He sways me back and forth with him, but my body has gone rigid and despite the alcohol in my system I'm as self-conscious as I can possibly get.

  His breath is like hot, humid air on my skin when he breathes, “Relax,” into my ear. “Follow my lead,” he continues.

  I try to follow his lead, God help me I try. I think I just about get used to the rhythm. One of his hands leaves my waist to travel to my neck where he lifts my curly hair up, allowing his fingers to get lost in its thickness.