Drag Queen Beauty Pageant

by Malachite Splinters

  Drag Queen Beauty Pageant

  Malachite Splinters

  Copyright © 2017 by Malachite Splinters All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  1. Welcome to the House of Ellegrandé

  2. Storage Closet

  3. Sick

  4. Wall Phone

  5. Gay Town Date

  6. Mermaid Parade

  7. Concealed Carry

  8. Ethiopian Dinner

  9. Storage Closet Again

  10. Damaris’ Bedroom

  11. Bagel and Lox

  12. Trans Youth Outreach

  13. Sushi and Ice Tea

  14. The Void

  15. Respect

  16. Angry

  17. Monday Meeting

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

  Welcome to the House of Ellegrandé

  “I hereby open this Thursday meeting,” Ellegrandé smiled around at the room. “And welcome to all of you queens,” she nodded graciously.

  I tried not to purse my lips in annoyance. As if she was addressing a great big crowd instead of the usual four of us. She was already resplendent in a wrap-front sparkling brocade gown which hugged her more-than-voluptuous curves, her rather wide feet shoved into little gold sling backs. Her favorite wig, an elaborate side-swept updo in jet black with slightly textured hair, was perfectly in place.

  Her perfectly made up face with its high sweeping brows, her burgundy press-on nails, the small brooch pinned on her left breast, the jeweled comb in her wig, it was all pure Ellegrandé.

  By contrast, the rest of us were in various states of undress. Machyl, pronounced Marshall, was sitting at his station wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants, as usual. Brooklyn was turned around in his chair, one leg crossed primly, still wearing a shirt and tie from the office. Marcus had just come in the door barely thirty seconds before the meeting started and was leaning against the counter, panting slightly as if he had run here from the subway.

  I was wearing a robe and a headband. I had been there for forty-five minutes already and had just finished my contouring.

  “This is a great day for the House of Ellegrandé,” Ellegrandé continued, her arms lifting to encompass the entirety of the dressing room, with its two make up counters running the length of the room on either side, backed by lightbulb-bordered mirrors.

  There was a wide shelf above each counter lined with hairdresser’s mannequins, each wearing a wig.

  Jet black, dark brunette, ash brown, platinum and red, styled every way you could think of: straight, curly, coily, corn row, afro, beehive, bob, blowout, bouffant, pin curl, victory roll, feathered, crimped and layered.

  There was every style of wig in the world, or so it had seemed to me, the first time I had walked in here and seen them.

  The mannequins had painted-on, camp lady faces and wide blue eyes which stared at each other across the gulf, in the midst of which stood Ellegrandé.

  She paused. “Did anyone chance to notice our new sign out front?” She raised one finger delicately and ran it over her temple as if to tame a stray hair, although there wasn’t one. “The man just came a half hour ago to put it up.”

  I glanced at Brooklyn in the mirror and shrugged slightly. I had come straight in through the side door in the alley and hadn’t looked at the facade of the club. He looked back at me with the same blank look.

  “Ladies,” Ellegrandé said, waving her arm at us. “Follow me, please.” She turned and opened the door behind her which led to the side door.

  Alarmed, I glanced around. She wanted us to go out onto the street now? Marcus and Brooklyn were moving across the room, following Ellegrandé, and Machyl stood up with alacrity, his body moving sinuously.

  I rolled my eyes. Of course Machyl doesn’t care. I got up, wrapping my arms around myself nervously and sticking my feet into my sneakers awkwardly, feeling very exposed as I followed them out the dressing room door, into the narrow hallway beyond and toward the side door.

  Machyl noticed I was walking behind him and immediately started catwalking dramatically, his hips rotating like he was keeping a hula hoop afloat. He hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt and his eyebrows were covered in chunks of drying glue stick, but he didn’t seem to care. He made a face at me over his shoulder, darting out his tongue and then bursting into laughter.

  I ignored him and walked out down the alley, the cool fall air hitting my face. But I couldn’t help cringing as I stepped out onto the sidewalk in my terrycloth robe with my face half-finished. Passersby had to be staring at me.

  I made eye contact with white woman with long blonde hair, who looked at me in alarm. She sidestepped the others, who were clustered in front of the club’s street-facing facade, and hurried away down the street.

  Embarrassed, I dropped my gaze and, avoiding Machyl, went to stand next to Marcus, who looked down at me and smiled.

  The club had a pair of big double doors with a rather dilapidated sign above which read

  HOUSE OF ELLEGRANDÉ

  Drag Cabaret ~The Fishiest Queens in New York~

  I turned my attention to the large banner which had been tacked up on the left hand side of the double doors and which Ellegrandé was standing next to and pointing out.

  It read:

  Ellegrandé presents: MISS DAMARIS RAE in The Big Comeback

  feat. The Famous Lady Impersonators of House Ellegrandé - Giltie Conshens - Bone China - Shanghai Li’l - La Tata

  I wasn’t surprised to see my name listed last. I tried to ignore the shiver of shame which ran through me.

  I also wasn’t surprised at the way my heart leapt when my eyes ran over the large photograph of Damaris, smiling and looking beautiful in a lavender gown and a long, flowing black wig. I recognized the photograph as one which had been taken for her audition last year.

  “Is she coming back?” I blurted out despite myself. My heart squeezed painfully in humiliation as Machyl chuckled softly nearby.

  Ellegrandé inclined her head graciously to me. “Indeed, Miss Tata. Our sweet Damaris Rae will return to the stage tomorrow night, for an unforgettable Friday Fish Supper.”

  Machyl let out a woop and started clapping, and Marcus and Brooklyn joined with with the applause. I did, too, and despite my embarrassment a moment before I felt a giddy happiness rising in me.

  Finally. Finally, she’s coming back.

  “Now,” Ellegrandé continued. “The policy isn’t changed. If any customers ask where Damaris has been all these months, you are to simply state that she has been unable to perform due to illness. No details are to be given! Do you understand?”

  I pursed my lips. My hands, which I had self-consciously shoved deep into the pockets of my robe, clenched. As if anyone knew any details apart from Machyl and Duane Tyrone. All the rest of us knew was that Damaris was depressed and wouldn’t come out of her room in the apartment she shared with DT above the club.

  Well, tomorrow she’ll be back and she can tell me herself. But the happiness I had felt was already slipping away. Finding this news out in this impersonal way, from DT, like this, just reinforced how betrayed I had felt when Damaris disappeared from my life overnight three months ago
.

  I had thought we were friends. Good friends. And then suddenly… nothing. Not only had I not seen her, but her social media had gone dead and she didn’t answer DMs.

  I had tried so hard to get through to her the first few weeks, sending texts and photos and voice messages, only to be met with a wall of silence. I had been so hurt by this that I had decided if she messaged me back, I wasn’t going to reply, just to give her a taste of her own medicine.

  But she hadn’t messaged me back.

  “Finally,” Duane Tyrone continued, as if he was addressing a church hall instead of a pack of boys standing on a sidewalk, “this is a very special time of year for us here at House Ellegrandé. Within a few short weeks we come to the matter of the annual auditions for Vivesse Fashion and Beauty Parade in Bangkok, Thailand. As you know,” DT continued, gliding along obliviously, because yes, we did know, very well, in fact— “this year marks the thirtieth anniversary of our glorious victory at the Vivesse pageant, when the crown of High Queen was awarded to one of our own.”

  Wait for it. I suppressed a smirk. I bet he’s not going to say the name.

  “And ladies, I believe that this year will be the year we return to Vivesse.”

  I tried to force the smirk down. Knew it. I knew she wouldn’t say the name.

  “At next week’s Thursday meeting, I will be announcing the two lucky ladies who will be auditioning this year.”

  Go on, laugh at her, a voice whispered in the back of my head. But you’re not waiting to find out if you’ll be chosen. Are you?

  I seethed with irritation. I hated that voice. No, I was not waiting on tenterhooks to find out who was going to audition this year. It wouldn’t be me, that was for sure.

  “Now, go and get ready. Your adoring public,” DT cast an indulgent smile at the random New Yorkers who kept gawking at Ellegrandé and the rest of us as they walked past, “awaits you at the nine o’clock show.”

  Their adoring public, you mean, I thought, unable to repress a flash of resentment as Machyl, Marcus and Brooklyn murmured thanks to DT and turned to walk back inside.

  They would be performing.

  I on the other hand…

  I sighed and felt the familiar sense of dread settle on my shoulders. I would be on mingle duty, as I always was.

  Oh, and helping backstage with costume changes and bringing the girls drinks and every other menial task.

  By the time I got back inside and sat down at my station, the happy news of Damaris’ return seemed to have turned sour.

  I picked up a brush to put the finishing touches on my contouring, then dropped it.

  I stood up and took off my robe, deciding to tuck and put on my shape wear before I finished my make up.

  “So Tata,” Machyl chirruped across the room, where he was now layering concealer over the glue on his eyebrows, creating a smooth surface to paint new, feminine eyebrows on top. “The auditions, girl,” he shot me a glance in the mirror.

  I was literally about to shove my hand into my underwear to tuck my genitals, but at the sound of Machyl’s mocking voice I froze, looking up in alarm.

  “I bet,” Machyl purred, narrowing his eyes to slits, “you are just on the edge of your seat.”

  I felt my face getting hot at the dig and discomfort washed over me.

  “Oh, shut it, Giltie Conshens,” Marcus said to Machyl, flashing me a smile in the mirror.

  “Bone China,” Machyl raised his eyebrows and jerked his chin toward me. “I think La Tata may need some help with her tuck,” he smirked.

  “No I don’t!” I said quickly, even though I knew Machyl didn’t mean it as a serious suggestion.

  “Relax, Tata,” Machyl laughed. “We all know you don’t need to tuck to achieve that smooth look.” Machyl’s eyes in the mirror lingered pointedly on my crotch. “Nothing there, is there?”

  “Alright, Giltie Conshens,” Marcus snapped. “Are you trying to cast an eternal winter with all this shade?”

  “I know you’re not trying to call me no white witch,” Machyl’s just-drawn eyebrows rose up to almost meet his hairline. “Although last night in bed your boyfriend did call me the cocoa smooth chocolate bitch—” his eyes slit with amusement at his own joke and he let out a high-pitched Giltie Conshens giggle.

  Marcus, clearly in no mood for games, ripped off his t-shirt and started undoing his fly. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” he said, with a glance at me.

  Machyl seemed to have gone back to his make up and wasn’t watching me any more, so I quickly tucked, using as little tape as possible, inside the roomy boxers I wore specifically for this. I didn’t like being naked around other people.

  And the one time I had gone into the dressing room bathroom to tuck, Machyl had laughed at me so much I didn’t dare to do it again.

  I started to wriggle into my shape wear, tugging the tight spandex up my thighs. The bodysuit was always a struggle to get on.

  “Do you need help?” Marcus asked, meeting my eyes in mirror again.

  “Um,” I said, panting slightly. “Sure.”

  “La Tata doesn’t have a boyfriend either,” Machyl observed, leaning very close to the mirror as he perfected his eyebrows with a liquid liner.

  Marcus rolled his eyes as he came over to me, wearing no shirt and his pants half undone. “Ignore him,” he muttered in a low voice near my ear.

  I could smell his cologne now, and from his skin came a faint scent of sweat underpinned by a trace of heavy musk which made my breath catch.

  I felt my face getting hot again and grabbed the front of the garment, trying to ignore my embarrassment.

  “I’ll pull the front,” I said. “You do the back.”

  “That’s what he said,” Machyl commented to his mirror, without looking at us.

  My face felt like it was on fire, but with both of our efforts the garment was finally on and I pulled the straps over my shoulders.

  “Thanks,” I said, trying to smile politely at Marcus in the mirror.

  “No worries, mate,” he grinned, placing a hand briefly on my shoulder before going back to his station and sitting down to pull off his tight jeans.

  I sat down and pulled open the stack of drawers under my section of the counter, taking out my butt and hip pads and breast moulds, all made of soft, jiggly silicone, and lining them up on the counter with a bottle of spirit gum and an old brush, trying to find peace in the act of organizing.

  But Machyl’s jabs and the unexpected intimacy of Marcus’ proximity had unsettled me and I felt my mood spiraling downward.

  “Girls,” Machyl clapped his hands loudly and stepped into the center of the dressing room. He had on a full face of foundation beautifully contoured and blended underneath his buzz fade, and he was still only wearing the sweatpants. “Rehearsals, right now.”

  Marcus and Brooklyn looked up in surprise.

  “Now?” Marcus grumbled. “I’m down to my skivvies.”

  “So put some clothes on your goddamn body,” Machyl sniffed. “I want those moves tight tonight. Now go!”

  Machyl swanned out of the room, making arms control movements with his fingers and wrists in the air.

  Marcus sighed audibly but pulled a pair of work out shorts from a drawer and followed. Brooklyn, who was already tucked and wearing just a pair of knee-to-waist control pants, followed silently.

  The all too familiar sense of shame grew within me as they all trooped out and I was left there alone.

  I sighed. I picked up an eyeshadow brush and as I started working on my eyes, I couldn’t help but think about how I got here.

  “We have to go see a drag show. You have to see a drag show.”

  It was all my best friend Sue Ellen’s idea, in the senior year of high school, one day almost in spring. I remember staring at Sue Ellen, like, “Me? Why me?”

  Sue Ellen, who was white, just pulled away from the high window at the top of the bathroom stall, which she was standing on top of the toilet to reach, and gave me a disap
proving look which she accentuated with two plumes of smoke out of her nostrils. “Because you’re the girliest boy that has ever walked the earth?”

  I scowled at her. “So?”

  She climbed down from the toilet and sat down on the closed lid. “It’s a compliment,” she said. “You should meet some other men who understand you.”

  I just shook my head at her. “Are you trying to say I’m a drag queen?”

  She rolled her eyes at me. “You’ll get the most out of it, Anthony.” Then she picked up her hated school blazer off the floor of the cubicle where she had dumped it and shrugged it awkwardly back on. “And anyway, I want to see if it’s like Drag Queen Beauty Pageant.”

  I eyed her shrewdly. “You want to look for pretty boys, don’t you?”

  She looked at me, deadpan. “I don’t think the boys in a drag bar are going to be looking for women, Anthony.”

  I remember I was shivering a little, even though I was wearing my school jacket with the school sweater under it, neatly pressed like I always kept my uniform.

  It was March, still cold, and the bathrooms weren’t heated. The white tiles on the wall seemed to radiate cold.

  Why wouldn’t they be interested in women? I thought to myself, but I didn’t say that out loud.

  “We better go,” I said instead. “We’ll be late for class.”

  So it was Sue Ellen who was responsible for my first Friday Fish Supper at the House of Ellegrandé.

  Sue Ellen’s cigarette trailed a delicate ladder of smoke into the light of the streetlamp in the alley next to the club.

  The alley was more than slightly fetid due to a dumpster down the end and which had suspicious greenish-black wet patches on the brick walls, constantly trickling water from some unknown source.