Kens

by Raziel Reid

  When someone in the hall stops to take a selfie with the new Ken:

  Ooooooooh!

  When someone slaps his ass in the locker room:

  Weeeeeeeeee!

  When Principal Elliot runs into him outside the office and asks for an autograph:

  Ooooo­ooohw­eeeee­eeeee!

  The little rushes of fabulosity are tainted only by his irritated eyes. The contacts won’t stop bothering him.

  Inside the bathroom, Tommy checks his eyes in front of one of the mirrors. They’re red as fuck. There’s a rumor going around school that the new Ken comes with a Betty Ford set.

  Tommy removes the contacts, staring at the reflection of Ken Rawlins. With his brown eyes, he can almost see Tommy underneath all the filler. A new emotion creeps in. Tommy suddenly misses himself. It hits him hard because it’s so unexpected. For the first time, the fact that he’s never coming back seems real. While he was recovering at Allan’s pool house he had just been so excited about everything that was happening that it was like winning the lottery. He didn’t think he’d ever come down from the high, and for the most part he hasn’t. But as he stares at his reflection, he can’t help wondering—is this all there is?

  More waves of emotions flow through him. First, panic. Was Ken Hilton serious about sleeping with frat boys tonight at Dreamhouse?

  Then isolation. Being a Ken really isn’t that different from being Tommy. Sure, when he was Tommy no one even looked at him and now everyone does. But he’s still alone. Even more than he was before because he doesn’t have Allan or Tutti. Kens aren’t exactly friends; they’re more like co-stars. Most people are too intimidated by his Ken status to approach him, and even the ones who do approach do it like he’s standing on an invisible pedestal. He’s just as removed as ever.

  And then comes the guilt. Tutti! Poor Tutti. Tommy pulls out his phone to watch the video on the post titled “Two-Ton Tutti Superstar.”

  A DM thread between Tutti and Ken Carson is pasted in the body of the post.

  Tommy presses Play on the video Tutti sent Ken Carson. The “Oscar Mayer Wiener Song” plays in the background as Tutti performs fellatio on a hot dog. Tommy bows his head with shame. Tutti must be mortified.

  “I can’t decide if I really want a hot dog or if I never want to eat one again.” Blaine walks into the bathroom and peers over Tommy’s shoulder at the video.

  “What are you doing in here?” Tommy asks.

  “Relieving my bladder,” Blaine says. “That okay with you?”

  Tommy looks around. “Oh! I thought this was the girls’ room. I must’ve walked in here by mistake.”

  “The Kens are human urinals but they don’t use them, is that it?” Blaine glances back at Tommy as he takes a piss.

  Tommy’s burning up. What’s going on? All day as a Ken he’s been objectified, sent dick pics from randoms (even Jamal, the Willows High janitor), and all around treated like a piece of meat, and his heart has barely skipped a beat. But a few seconds alone with Blaine and blood is about to gush out of his ears.

  As Blaine comes over to the sink to wash his hands, Tommy quickly picks up his contacts off the counter and tries to put them back in. He doesn’t want Blaine to see him looking anything less than perfect.

  “I like the brown better,” Blaine says, turning off the tap.

  “You do?” Tommy asks. “But these are the exact same shade as Ken Hilton’s.”

  “Everyone’s born with blue eyes. Before they develop enough melanin to change. They’re not that special.”

  Tommy struggles to get one of his contacts back in. Blaine dries his hands on his jeans and holds Tommy’s chin.

  “Let me,” he says, carefully using the tip of his finger to slide the contact into place. Tommy doesn’t blink. Standing so close to Blaine has turned him as rigid as a mannequin.

  Blaine doesn’t remove his hand from Tommy’s face right away. He touches Tommy’s smooth cheek.

  “No more scar,” he says. “How’d you get it anyway?”

  “Ken Hilton flung a burning marshmallow at me when we were kids.”

  “Of course he did.” Blaine smirks. “Too bad it’s gone, though. Made you look badass.”

  “More kale, sweetheart?”

  Tommy accepts the bowl from his mom as they sit at the dining table.

  “I’m spending the night at…” He hesitates. “Allan’s house. We have some more studying to do.”

  It’s easier to just lie (and easier than ever with blue eyes that only deceive) than to depend on Ken Hilton’s wasted mother to cover for him tonight while he’s at Dreamhouse.

  “You boys.” Margaret winks at Tommy.

  “I’d tell you to use condoms,” his dad says, “but it’s not like Allan can get you pregnant!”

  “George.” Tommy’s mom playfully swats his dad’s arm. “Maybe Tommy would get Allan pregnant.”

  She turns to Tommy.

  “Did you take your PrEP today, son?”

  IN THE CLOSET

  Ken Hilton’s mom opens the door when Tommy pounds on the demonic knocker.

  “Hey gur!” She ushers him inside. She’s had so much work done since Tommy saw her last, back in elementary, that he barely recognizes her. But she doesn’t recognize him either. She’s so out of it she probably wouldn’t recognize Tommy even if he hadn’t been remodeled.

  “I’m Barbara, Ken’s mom,” she says, giving Tommy a look-over. “You can call me Barbie. So hot! Ken was right about you!” Barbie hops up and down excitedly, getting hit in the face by her own beach ball boobs. “Ken’s up in his room with Ken and Ken,” she says. “Go ahead and join them, hunty. I’ll be up in a minute and we’ll do some vodka shots!” Tommy gives her a hesitant smile before climbing the stairs. “Gur, your legs are everything,” Barbie calls after him. “Werk!”

  The Kens are up in Ken Hilton’s walk-in closet, sipping champagne and accessorizing.

  “I think your mother just called me hunty,” Tommy says from the doorway, careful not to step on any of the aristocratic bitches on the floor.

  “Isn’t she fabulous?” Ken Roberts asks.

  “My mother is so thirsty.” Ken Hilton purses his lips. He’s wearing Moschino’s Barbie Collection. “It’s pathetic. In ten minutes she’ll come in here and be all, like, ‘Has anyone seen Molly?’ and then laugh until she’s crying because I can walk better than her in Louboutins.”

  “I can’t wait to meet some boys tonight,” Ken Roberts says. He’s wearing a “Make America Great Again” red hat, which Tommy hopes is irony, though he isn’t totally sure. He has seashell pasties over his nipples, paired with Daisy Dukes, threads dangling down his extremely shiny thighs. His Dippity-Do tramp stamp is accentuated with body glitter.

  “I, like, put the D in Dreamhouse.” Ken Carson checks out his reflection in the closet mirror. He’s wearing a pink harness.

  “What kind of guys are you into?” Ken Hilton asks Tommy. “Rich, obviously. Anything else?”

  “Oh, I’m not really looking.” Tommy smiles to himself, thinking of the way Blaine’s hand felt against his cheek.

  Ken Hilton stares at Tommy’s reflection in the mirror. He lowers his bronzer brush.

  “You’re too new to the market to be tied down to one playmate,” he says, as if reading Tommy’s mind. “Slutty special features will get you on the top shelf.”

  Ken Roberts and Ken Carson bobble in agreement.

  “Dude, is that what you’re wearing?” Ken Carson asks.

  “Of course not!” Ken Hilton says. “Ken Rawlins looks ratchet on purpose. He knows the best part of having a new doll is getting to dress her up.” Ken Hilton squints his eyes at Tommy. “My waist is, like, 4.5 inches, but my leggings should stretch,” he says, pulling items off hangers.

  Music up. It’s the high-school makeover montage you’ve been waiting for.

  Each piece of fashion Ken Hilton selects is trashier than the last. Tommy is put in mesh, feathers, latex and finally nothing but a seq
uined G-string. Ken Hilton takes photos of each of Tommy’s looks and posts some choices to the @KenRawlins Instagram to measure “the peasants’ reaction.” Tommy can’t help but be thrilled when the photo of him in the G-string gets the most red hearts.

  “Too common a choice,” Ken Hilton decides, tugging the G-string down Tommy’s legs.

  Tommy covers himself with his hands in some kind of modest reflex, but realizes he doesn’t really feel self-conscious. Actually, he’s not really feeling anything at all. He puts his hand on his hip and puffs out his chest. Ken Carson winks at him.

  “Put on the black latex leggings and the Céline crop,” Ken Hilton tells Tommy, completing the look by throwing him a pair of eight-inch platforms. “Mood as fuck,” he says.

  Ken Roberts does Tommy’s makeup: bronzer, eyeliner and pink lips. He gets kind of trigger happy with a can of hairspray and some gets in Tommy’s eyes. His contacts burn worse than ever.

  “Ugh, these are killing me,” he says, removing the contacts in front of the mirror and placing them on the makeup counter.

  “I know what you mean, mang.” Ken Carson traces his abs. “They make my eyes hella itchy.”

  “Grin and bear it, bitch.” Ken Hilton blinks.

  “I’ll just give my eyes a break for a second,” Tommy says.

  It’s the weirdest sensation, ejecting the lenses. Tommy realizes he needs air. He takes a deep breath.

  “I look like I should be in a cage hanging next to a disco ball,” he says, looking at his reflection and suddenly feeling so exposed.

  “If someone offers you money for sex,” Ken Hilton says, “I get a cut.”

  Ken Roberts howls. “Okay, Kris Jenner.”

  Right on cue, Ken Hilton’s mom appears at the doorway rattling a bottle of pills, a bottle of vodka tucked under her arm.

  “Do you gurs need a ride,” she asks, “or are you just going to Uber?”

  Barbie takes another step into the closet and almost loses her balance. One of her breast implants is definitely bigger than the other. “I’m, like, the worst mom ever! Don’t kill me, but there are only four Percs left. I forgot to fill the prescription.”

  “Ew,” Ken Hilton whines. “Mom!”

  “We have to make sacrifices sometimes, Ken,” Barbie says.

  “Sacrifices are for poor people. Or rich people, if they’re sacrificing poor people.”

  Ken Hilton’s mom passes them each a pill.

  “You’re, like, a consummate host.” Ken Roberts pops his in his mouth.

  Barbie offers Tommy one and he shakes his head. “That’s okay, I’m not on Percocet.”

  “Neither are we,” Ken Hilton says. “Does it look like we’re snorting it? Baphomet, Ken. If you don’t snort it, it’s just like taking fish oil or some shit.” He passes Tommy the bottle of vodka to swallow it down with, watching to make sure he takes a generous sip.

  In the corner of the closet, Ken Hilton’s mom is all over Ken Carson.

  “Look at you, Ken!” She drools. “I swear, every time I see you those pecs are bigger!”

  “Mother, you’re embarrassing me,” Ken Hilton says. “It’s rude to be so touchy unless you’re a drag queen.”

  Barbie growls like a cat at Ken Carson before climbing off his chest.

  “Okay, get together,” she says. “I’ll take a photo! #squad-goals!” She uses Ken Hilton’s iPhone to take a series of shots.

  The Kens’ poses are automatic—it’s like their bodies’ way of breathing. Tommy tries to keep up with each new flash, but feels like he’s failing miserably. He’s relieved when Ken Hilton has had enough and grabs the phone from his mother’s hand, swiping through the photos with furious speed. He silently passes the phone back to Barbie.

  “Ken switch place with Ken,” he says, returning to his position.

  “But dude, I’m always on your left,” Ken Carson says.

  “Not you, Ken.” Ken Hilton sighs. “You, Ken. Switch with Ken.”

  “Me?” Ken Roberts look at Tommy. “And her?”

  “No, the other Ken and Ken. Yes, you!”

  “But I’m always on your right.”

  “Get to the edge of the photo, Ken Roberts,” Ken Hilton says without sacrificing his pose for even a second. “You’re simply too fat to stand next to me. My mother can’t get Ken Rawlins in the frame.”

  Ken Roberts looks like Ken Hilton just dick slapped him a little too hard. But he doesn’t dare put up a fight; he just silently switches places with Tommy, who tries to distract himself from his growing anxiety by focusing on his poses.

  “Don’t you know your new angles yet?” Ken Hilton looks up from his phone at Tommy as he swipes through the retakes.

  “Can I see?” Ken Roberts comes back to life.

  Ken Hilton ghosts him.

  “Now we party,” he says.

  They shuffle out of Ken Hilton’s closet so abruptly that Tommy forgets his blue contacts on the makeup counter.

  DREAMHOUSE

  Tommy grips the sides of the passenger seat of Ken Hilton’s Corvette. When they left Ken Hilton’s house, Ken Roberts practically flew out the door and up to the car yelling “Shotgun!” but Ken Hilton made him sit in the backseat with Ken Carson. When Ken Roberts tried to argue, Ken Hilton snapped, “Unless you’d rather I tie you up—”

  Ken Roberts’s eyes lit up.

  “And drag you by the back of my car,” Ken Hilton finished.

  The Percocet and vodka have gone straight to Tommy’s head. He’s kind of nauseous, especially as Ken Hilton makes turns without slowing down. The wind whipping through the top of the convertible has absolutely no effect on their hair.

  They fly to Dreamhouse, coming down a hill like it’s a rainbow. Tommy’s veneers are chattering as he steps out of the car.

  “Dude, what’s wrong with you?” Ken Carson asks.

  “Yeah,” Ken Roberts says. “You’re not overdosing already, are you?”

  “No,” Tommy says quickly. “I’m just cold. Does anyone have a sweater?”

  “A what?” Ken Hilton recoils.

  Tommy can’t help but notice Ken Roberts smiling, like he’s sure Ken Hilton is about to rip off one of Tommy’s limbs.

  “We never wear sweaters,” Ken Hilton says. “Think of all the skin they’d cover!”

  “Right.” Tommy suppresses a shiver. “Duh.”

  They bypass the line outside. The bouncer gives Ken Hilton a reverent nod of his head before lifting the velvet rope.

  The Kens make their grand entrance. Jazzie, Dreamhouse’s resident DJ, plays “Money, Success, Fame, Glamour” when he spots them. The whole club is watching.

  Tommy stands next to Ken Hilton and mimics his pose—hand on jutting hip, gooey blow-up mouth spread into a dazzling, hateful smile.

  Ken Roberts is already being passed a shot by an admiring daddy, and Ken Carson does a spin around a go-go pole. The queens go wild for him.

  As they walk through the club toward the VIP section, Tommy feels self-conscious with everyone staring. He wobbles in his platforms. They’re too small and the strap is cutting off the circulation in his foot. He takes another step and face-plants. People see. It’s bad. There’s definitely a Snapchat story. Ken Hilton pretends it’s not happening and keeps walking. Tommy is helped up by a drag queen who breathes her coke breath all over his face and introduces herself as Diana Wails. “Now give Auntie a kiss,” she says, slobbering all over Tommy’s face.

  Tommy manages to pull away and shrink into the Kens’ booth.

  Ken Hilton side-eyes him. “Can you walk?”

  Someone sends over a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and Tommy takes a sip, trying to collect himself. The glass shakes in his hand. The club is so hot, and he feels so ridiculous. Tommy didn’t think a Ken could sweat, but his crop-top has crescent sweat marks under the armpits. He tries to position his body so that Ken Hilton won’t notice.

  Tommy has seen countless photos of Dreamhouse on SoFamous, but they can’t compare to actually being insid
e. It’s styled after Jayne Mansfield’s iconic Hollywood mansion, the Pink Palace. The VIP room is floor to ceiling pink shag carpet. The dance floor is covered in foam and diamonds. Tommy wonders if there really is a heart-shaped Jacuzzi in the dark room…

  “Ugh.” Ken Roberts looks around. “There’s, like, no one here tonight. Will I never meet my dream man in Dreamhouse?”

  “You mean a dildo with a black card?” Ken Hilton asks.

  Ken Carson crackles. “Read as fuck, bruh.”

  “My mama always said reading is good for your imagination,” Ken Roberts says, “something that go-go in those Rocky shorts obviously doesn’t have. Look at his dancing! He’s moving like he’s in the Manchester arena bombing.”

  “Dude, look at that drag queen at the bar.” Ken Carson points to an obese seven-foot-tall man in a dress. “She can’t get a twink to stuff, so she stuffs twinkies!”

  “Okay, NuKen.” Ken Hilton turns to Tommy. “Your turn. Pick a book, any book.”

  “I don’t know.” Tommy hesitates. “I don’t really have anything mean to say about anyone.”

  “We’re not being mean,” Ken Hilton insists. “We’re reading.”

  “Dude, what’s the difference again?” Ken Carson asks.

  “Duh,” Ken Hilton says. “Reading is fundamental.”

  “We’ll make it easy for you.” Ken Roberts motions toward the DJ booth.

  Tommy looks over at a guy dancing to Top 40 music.

  “Um,” Tommy says, finally blurting out, “is this a theme party, because that choker is so ’90s!”

  “Original, bruh,” Ken Carson says.

  Ken Hilton’s champagne glass almost shatters in his hand.

  “Ken Roberts just gave you SJP on a silver platter. With that horse face all you had to do was neigh!”

  “What does SJP stand for?” Tommy asks.

  “Sarah Jessica Parker, dude.” Ken Carson bows his head.

  Ken Hilton looks away from him in a way that leaves Tommy feeling like he no longer exists.

  Three muscle jocks with overly tweezed eyebrows come over to their booth. They each wear a tank top in a different pastel color. Ken Hilton seems to know the one wearing pink. At least he sits on his lap like he does. But then Tommy overhears them exchange names and realizes they’ve just met. Ken Roberts and Ken Carson begin making out with Yellow Tank Top, and Purple slides closer to Tommy.