by L.H. Cosway
“Um, can I ask another question?” I venture.
“Go ahead,” he replies, adjusting himself in the knickers.
“Well, I was just wondering about how you classify yourself. Are you a drag queen, or a transvestite or a cross dresser? Or are they all one and the same thing?”
Nicholas shrugs. “Everybody has their own opinions on it I suppose. For me, a drag queen dresses as a women purely for performance and that's what I think of myself as being. A transvestite or a cross dresser could be a man who wears women's clothing because it's a fetish.”
“So it's not a fetish thing for you?”
He smirks. “Nope. Cross dressing is often related to sexual preference. I like to be a man in the bedroom, but a woman on the stage.”
“Oh,” I say, my cheeks going a little red.
“Don't be afraid to ask me things. I'm willing to answer all of your questions Fred.”
I nod, but remain quiet after that.
Next he puts on his sheer hold up stockings, before slipping the dress on over his head. I zip it up for him at the back. Then he sits down in the chair by the mirror to tackle the wig. I help him get it on right. As I'm doing this my fingers absently drift over the skin at the back of his neck. I hear him pull in a sharp breath, so I try not to touch him again. He slips on a pair of glittery purple heels and we're done.
“Well, how do I look?” he asks, turning his made up face from side to side. He looks like a really hot woman. It's unsettling, but also titillating.
“If I was into girls, I'd do you,” I tell him honestly.
He leans forward conspiratorially. “Psst, I'll let you in on a secret Fred,” he glances sheepishly from side to side. “I actually have a cock. Don't tell anyone, it would ruin my reputation. But feel free to do me any time you want.”
“Good to know,” I answer quickly, picking up my half finished mojito and knocking it back.
“Record timing,” Nicholas goes on, noting that it's only ten to ten. He has a couple of minutes before he goes on stage, and he begins doing warm ups with his voice, readying himself to belt out a few tunes for the crowd in the club. I marvel at how he can reach the really deep low notes as well as the tippy top high ones.
A few minutes later the club manager Phil peeks his head in the door. “You ready to go Miss Blue?” he asks with a grin.
“Ready as I'll ever be Philip,” Nicholas answers, getting up from his seat. He takes my hand and leads me out toward the back of the stage.
“Will you stay and watch the whole show?” he asks me, nearing the noisy revellers beyond the red velvet curtains. The place seems even more rowdy than it had been last night.
“Of course I will. I'll even sing along,” I tell him excitedly.
He keeps his tight hold on my hand as we step up behind the curtains. I can hear Phil out front, telling a few jokes to the audience before announcing the act. When I look at Nicholas his body seems to be vibrating with nerves and anticipation. He absently runs his thumb back and forth over my wrist. The movement makes me feel all warm inside.
When Phil declares, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Miss Vivica Blue,” Nicholas lets go of my hand, smacks a quick kiss onto my cheek and rushes out to the stage as The Wilting Willows play the opening bit to “Cell Block Tango” from Chicago. Mostly it's Sean doing a great job of creating the beats of the intro on his drums. Nicholas begins speaking the lyrics, and I'm eager to see how he'll tackle such a big number. I've seen the movie, and I can remember there being at least five or six women singing this song all together.
Some members of the audience are chanting the lyrics along with him. There are lots of little stories within this song, each woman telling her tale of why she killed her boyfriend or husband. I watch from behind the curtains, entirely fascinated as Nicholas strides from one side of the stage to the other, reciting each story, putting on a slightly different persona with each new character he impersonates. His outfit actually matches pretty well with the song, despite the fact that he said it wasn't important that it did.
He seems more mesmerising to me than he had last night, perhaps because I have such a bird's eye view from my spot backstage. My heart beats quicker and I find myself getting lost in him, in her, in the persona he takes on. Am I attracted to the man behind the costume? Or do I want the man in the costume? It's hard to tell. I think I like the entire package. Nicholas can be so masculine at times, but he also shows some feminine traits. For instance, I can talk to him and joke around as though he were one of my girlfriends, yet when he levels his hot eyes on me my throat gets dry and my stomach tightens.
Before I know it he's almost finished his whole set and is getting ready to perform the final song. He skips over to the band and begins giving them instructions, perhaps about the number he wants to sing. They all nod their heads, clutching their instruments. Sean throws Nicholas a tambourine, which he catches deftly between his fingers.
He brings the microphone to his mouth to address the audience. “I'd like to dedicate this last song to a new friend I made recently,” he pauses. A new friend? Does he mean me? My palms go a little sweaty at the idea. He stares into the crowd beyond the stage, with that trademark sexy evil smile. “This one's called “Be Italian” from the musical Nine.”
I have no clue if he's talking about me or not, but as the song starts up, I begin to doubt it. He hasn't looked at me once. He continues staring at one spot in the crowd.
I crane my neck around the curtain, far too curious about what or who he's looking at. That's when I realise I now truly know the meaning of the saying curiosity killed the cat, because when I peer out I catch sight of a pair of big seductive lips and long silky dark hair. Disappointment fills my gut. If I'm a cat right now, I'm more or less road kill. Dorotea, the Italian woman from the park, is sitting at the very front of the audience at a table with two other women. Her eyes are fierce, eating Nicholas up from head to toe.
What is she doing here? He must have invited her while I'd been obliviously occupied over playing with Ollo. It seems I'm not the only woman who isn't phased by Nicholas being a drag queen. If anything, it seems to be making Dorotea even more pleased with him, as he belts out the song in a faux Italian accent.
I never thought I was the kind of girl who could become consumed by jealousy, but right now I feel like that's exactly what's happening to me. Of course, he wasn't going to sing a song just for me. Dorotea is sex on legs. It's probably a foregone conclusion that the two of them will end up in bed together, possibly later on tonight.
I try to pull back my dejection, scolding myself for getting carried away by Nicholas' attentions in the first place. He said it himself that he's a serial shagger. He probably propositions every half decent looking girl who crosses his path.
The song he's singing right now, “Be Italian”, is a very gypsy-like, saucy number. He's using the tambourine as he dances, tapping it off his hips, shoulders and thighs. Dorotea's mouth is positively watering. I guess it really is true that performers want everyone to fall in love with them, especially when they're on stage.
Perhaps I'm reading too much into this. Perhaps he's just trying to be playful and friendly by singing a song to her. God, I should probably kill any romantic notions I have been harbouring about this man. It will only see me purchasing a one way ticket to the crazy house.
Nicholas finishes his set with a sweeping bow as the audience cheers him on. He dashes off the stage, his blue eyes sparkling with excitement as he takes me by the hand and pulls me along with him back to his dressing room.
“That went even better than I expected,” he breathes as he plops down onto a chair. “Grab the make-up removal wipes from my bag, would you Freda?”
I bend down and pull out the packet of wipes before taking the seat beside him. He's already pulling off his wig and unclipping the cap that was keeping all his natural hair in place. He turns his face to me and I pick off his false eyelashes, before venturing to clean the make-up from his skin
. I do so gently as he closes his eyes to give me full access to remove the mascara and eye shadow he's wearing.
He really is very pretty. Seeing his features this close, I realise what perfect bone structure he has. It makes me wonder what it might have been like for him growing up. Maybe he didn't have such a good time of it. Sometimes the pretty boys find themselves a target of bullying. Mostly because the ones doing the bullying are jealous of their beauty.
“What age were you when you started doing all this?” I ask him curiously, eager to know how it all came about. I mean, did he just wake up one morning and know he wanted to be a singing drag queen? Or did it happen gradually?
He opens his eyes and his expression is serious, but not guarded. “I was in my late teens when I began performing properly, but I started experimenting with wearing bits of women's clothing and make-up when I was very young, eight or nine years old.”
I momentarily think about how he must have been such an interesting kid. Then I remember how his mother died when he was only little. “If your mother was still alive she probably would have found the whole thing fascinating,” I tell him softly.
He seems to get uncomfortable then and doesn't reply, so I change the subject. “So, Dorotea huh?” I do my best to muster a grin so that he doesn't cotton on to the fact that her presence here tonight has given me a true dose of the disappointments. I had been living in a dream world where I thought I was the only woman in Dublin who had turned Nicholas' head.
He grins back. “I invited her along when we spoke in the park. She's quite something, isn't she?”
“She certainly has the perkiest breasts I've ever seen for a woman in her late thirties,” I reply.
Nicholas grabs my wrist to stop the movement of my hand as I clean away the last traces of his make-up. “Is that a note of jealousy I detect?” His face is practically glowing. I want to smack the pretty off him.
“Of course not. I was just commenting on her perkiness. Besides, I think you two would make a very intriguing couple. It'll look like you're one of those young male escorts with a sugar momma.”
“Oh my God, you are jealous. This is just brilliant,” he says, he's so close that the tips of our noses are almost touching.
“I. Am. Not. Jealous. And why would it be brilliant if I were?”
“Because it would mean you're trying to hide the fact that you're attracted to me.”
“You really do need everyone to be in love with you,” I retort.
“Come again?”
I shrug. “When I was watching you on stage I came up with a theory about performers and how they need everyone to fall in love with them, even if it just lasts for the duration of the show.”
His grin turns speculative. “How philosophical of you Fred.” A silence fills the room as he studies me. “Would it bother you if I said I was planning on taking advantage of Dorotea's attraction to me tonight?” he asks.
“Nope,” I reply, trying to emit a casual demeanour.
He narrows his gaze at me. “Are you sure about that? Because you only have to say the word. You are, after all, my first choice for a fuck.”
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, shaking my head at him with wide eyes. “You don't mince your words, Viv.”
“I take it that you're not going to say the word then,” he sighs sadly.
The door to the dressing room swings open and Phil strolls in, followed by Dorotea and her two lady friends. I knew she wasn't the kind of woman to leave without getting her pound of flesh. Nicholas did lead her on by singing such a sexy song and dedicating it to her.
“I have some ladies who were just dying to come back here and see you,” Phil announces.
Nicholas is still wearing the dress and heels, but his face is now free of make-up and his black hair sits messily atop his head. I go about clearing up the bits and pieces that have been left strewn across the dressing table, while Nicholas stands to greet his guests.
“Dorotea, I'm so glad you could come,” he says as he approaches her. They both give each other kisses on either cheek. Very la di da. I try to ignore the niceties as Dorotea gushes over Nicholas and introduces him to her friends.
On seeing her a second time, I recalculate her imagined age in my head, putting her at a decrepit forty-five rather than a well-preserved thirty-eight. Even though it isn't true, it still makes me feel a little better.
She's wearing a fitted cream dress with matching high heels. She's also got those really long nails, the ones that look like they'd take your eye out. Very impractical, my haughty, insecure subconscious remarks. Oh, who am I trying to fool? She looks amazing, and I feel so fucking drab in comparison.
It seems a little ironic that I've inflicted this source of misery on myself. If I hadn't been so taken with the fact that she had a ferret in the park with her then she and Nicholas never would have even met.
“I'm going to go get a drink,” I say, pulling Nicholas aside. “Do you want one?”
Dorotea hears what I've said and declares in her perfectly spoken English, “Wonderful idea! Get a bottle of champagne, you can put it on my tab.”
“Champagne eh?” I reply, desperately holding back the urge to comment on the exorbitant prices they charge for a hair cut in Peter Marks, and how it must really be lining her pockets.
“Yes, chop chop,” she says and claps her hands, as if I'm some kind of a servant. Her friends giggle; you can tell they've had quite a few drinks already.
I glance at Nicholas, who looks like he's on the verge of bursting out laughing when he sees the expression on my face.
I'm not at all impressed by her and her ferret keeping ways any longer, I think to myself.
Chapter Six
Walk of Shame
I leave the dressing room and head towards the bar, where I order a bottle of champagne on Dorotea's tab, as well as three shots of rum for myself. I stand there and knock them all back, not minding the burn so much since I'm too full of satisfaction that I got one over on Dorotea and her “chop chop” clappy fucking hands.
The barman gives me the bottle of champagne in a fancy bucket of ice, as well as four glasses. I carry them all back to the dressing room, where I find Nicholas still in his drag outfit, surrounded by his three admirers. Phil has disappeared off somewhere.
“Well, here you go ladies and gent,” I announce. “Champagne for my real friend, real pain for my sham friends,” quoting the Fall Out Boy song as I'm feeling particularly “emo” right now.
“Ah, great movie,” says Nicholas with a smile, thinking I'm referring to the film 25th Hour. I give him my best moody teenager you are so old you don't even get what I'm talking about eye roll, even though he's only three years older than me.
“Pop open the bubbly Doro,” shouts one of Dorotea's nameless friends. I imagine she's a hairdresser too, because she has one of those spiky mullets that those in the profession seem to think look good.
“I'm going to head home,” I say to Nicholas. “Do you want me to drop your stuff off at your apartment for you?” I glance at the ladies. “That way you'll be free to enjoy your night.”
He regards me seriously for a long moment, and I begin to wonder if he even plans on answering me. It looks like there's a million thoughts passing through his head.
“No I can manage it,” he says finally. “Why are you leaving? I thought you were going to stay for a drink.”
My head is already spinning a little from the sneaky shots I had at the bar. “I changed my mind. I'll catch you next Thursday shall I? You don't have any more shows until then right?”
“That's right.” He pulls over his bag and rummages for his wallet, taking out a twenty and handing it to me. “Make sure you get a taxi home,” he says warmly, his fingers absently brushing against mine as I take it.
I try not to feel happy about the fact that he wants to make sure I get home safely in a cab. I silently shove the money in my bag and nod to Dorotea and company.
“Ladies,” I say, before grabbing
my coat and slipping out the door.
The cab drive is short, but I manage to fit in a good bitch fest with the driver; the two of us complaining about our crappy government and the bastard bankers who screwed us over during the boom years. Dublin taxi drivers love a good rant, but what they love even more is a person who will rant along with them.
“Ah, don't even get me started on those pricks in the banking sector. They think they're fucking untouchable. And they get away with it too, you know why?” asks my balding, slightly overweight taxi driver.
“Why?” I ask, egging him on.
“Because it's all their fucking best buddies who are in power. The Toaiseach and all the those ministers are hardly going to prosecute their friends now are they? Politics in this country, it's an incestuous pile of shit. Pricks,” he spits. The Toaiseach is the Irish version of a Prime Minister.
“Pricks,” I agree, just as he pulls up outside my building.
I pay the fare and hop out. When I get inside the apartment I make myself a big mug of hot chocolate, before getting straight into bed, hoping the warm beverage will make me sleepy. It doesn't work. My brain won't stop thinking about Nicholas and what he might be doing with Dorotea right now. It's a pity Nora's still at work, because I could have gone into her room and nagged her with my story of disappointment and jealousy.
Deciding that sleep isn't going to happen for me at this moment in time, I head into the kitchen and pull out the makings of a Victoria sponge cake. I go to my parent's house every Sunday for dinner, so I figure it will go over well with them if I bring dessert along with me tomorrow. Baking tends to work good to keep my mind off life and the things that are stressing me.
I'm stirring the cake mixture in a bowl and listening to “California über Alles” by Dead Kennedys on my headphones when Nora comes in the door, looking tired after her shift. She pulls a stool up to the kitchen counter and sits down, sticking her finger into the cake mix before popping it in her mouth. I've never had a taste for raw cake mix, but it's always been a favourite of Nora's