There was a good reason Tabby generally forbade drag—because no one could do it like he did.
I couldn’t hold in my chortles, guffaws, and giggles as he made his way through the crowd toward me, an absurdly long and slender cigarette in one hand and a martini in the other.
Have you ever seen the movie The Bad Seed, about a horrible, angelic-looking little girl with a propensity for murder? No? Google it and check out some images from this amazing, campy film. Look especially for pictures of adorable little Rhoda, with her sweet face and blonde braids. You wouldn’t believe what that little bitch would do for a spelling medal!
Anyway, Tabby had decided this year to be Rhoda. He had a perfectly-fit blond wig with long braids down either side of his head. He must have had his white chiffon dress tailor-made (something that gargantuan and that perfect could not possibly be off-the-rack, even within the confines of a store that catered exclusively to drag queens). Every detail was perfect, right down to his black patent leather Mary Jane shoes and white, lace-trimmed anklet socks.
He was an awe-inspiring, nightmare-inducing vision.
He gave a couple of skips just before he landed in front of me, grinning impishly.
“What will you give me for a basket of kisses?” he shrieked. The line was a signature greeting for little Rhoda in the movie.
I knew the perfect comeback. “A bushel of hugs!”
We embraced and bussed one another’s cheeks. Already Tabby reeked of vodka and cigarettes. I held my friend out by his hands, sizing him up at arm’s length. “Why, my dear, you are the spitting image of Miss Patty McCormack.”
“You tell lies like that, you won’t go to heaven when you die!”
I was astute enough to recognize another line from the film and decided I spent too much time with my DVD player and TV and not enough time in the arms of strange men.
“God, Tabby, I need a drink. It looks like your party is already a smashing success.”
He raised one eyebrow. “You expected anything less?”
“Of course not. Where’s the bar?”
“How could you have missed it? And her?” Tabby swirled around to indicate the bar set up in one corner of the room. Behind it, stood a dead ringer for professional wrestler John Cena, if only Mr. Cena would drop the macho front and attire himself in only a black leather thong.
“Be still my heart!”
“Isn’t she divine? Now you just wander over there and get yourself liquored up. The festivities have barely begun.”
Never one to question a direct order, I marched over to the bar and asked for a Stella Artois. The bartender was absurdly easy on the eyes, and his physical form and manly presence were already causing a stirring in my nether regions. In spite of his almost surly, pro-wrestler ambience, he turned out to be a genuinely nice guy once he smiled and began talking to me. Another surprise was that he was straight. When I asked him what he was doing at a party that could hardly be mistaken for anything but a gathering of flamboyant gay men, he gave me a straightforward, non-judgmental answer.
“The money’s good. And I got no beef with gay guys. Truth is, I do parties like this all the time. Half—maybe more—of my business comes from gay clientele.” He shrugged. “Why should I care where a guy likes to put his dick?”
My response to that would have been, “Or where they’d like you to put yours,” but I thought that might have been out of line so I stayed quiet and let him continue.
“Anyway, I probably have more fun at these parties than I do at the straight ones. You guys are generally a little more relaxed.” He gave a pointed stare at the crowd, and I nodded.
“But come on, you must get hit on all the time.”
He gave me that smile again that nearly took my breath away. I wanted to cry out, “Are you sure you’re straight? I mean, absolutely one hundred percent positive?” but again I kept my own counsel.
“Yeah, I do get the occasional proposition—”
“You’re being modest.”
He ignored my comment and went on. “But I smile and tell ‘em I’m taken. It’s not true—I’m having way too much fun to settle down with one woman, but most of the guys respect that.” He winked at me. “Besides, it’s flattering, you know.”
I finished my first beer, marveling at how easily, and fast, it went down. As if on cue, the bartender handed me a second Stella. “Oh I don’t know if I do know. I probably don’t fend off as many passes as you do.”
“A guy takes his compliments where he can get them. Gay, straight, man, woman—it’s just nice to be appreciated.”
“You’re one of a kind, you know that?”
“Not really.” And he smiled and nodded at the guy in line behind me. I turned and saw that a long line had formed, and I mumbled my apologies to those waiting for taking up so much of the bartender’s time. But damn—he was worthy of it, regardless of his orientation.
I made my way through the crowd, exchanging small talk with the “Tabby friends” I saw—those guys with whom I only met up on the big queen’s turf and nowhere else, complimenting them on their costumes. I leered at a few guys and got leered at a few times, which did my heart good. I got offered some coke and turned it down. I returned for yet another beer and was disappointed that I didn’t get to have another conversation with the stunning bartender, but I could see he was slammed. But he remembered what I was drinking and handed it to me as he took someone else’s order for a Cosmo.
Eventually, I ended up, as I often did, in the corner with a beer in my hand and a soft, pleasant buzz in my head, watching the party kick into high gear.
The sexual tension in the room was palpable. In one corner, a pair of guys was making out, staying just shy of actual penetration, but their mouths were locked onto each other like they were ready to eat other’s faces. Their bodies, clothed in little more than denim and latex, were grinding into one another as if they were desperate to merge into one human being. I saw many flirtatious glances that I knew, before the night was over, could erupt into something akin to the guys in the corner, or maybe even full-on sex. Remember, Tabby had a scrupulously maintained playroom, and at some point, most of the revelers would wander into it.
I also saw a lot of guys simply having a good time, blowing off steam, dancing, talking to each other, laughing. Tabby had set up Night of the Living Dead to play on his huge plasma screen and several guys watched it absentmindedly. Even I thought it was interesting how the film and the techno music went together in an eerie way.
I was sort of drifting off into my own little world, mesmerized by the zombies on the screen, when my easy buzz got interrupted. No, it got crushed, slammed to the floor, stomped into little pieces.
All because a new guest had joined the party.
You know that bartender? The one that I thought was just about the most gorgeous hunk of masculinity upon which I had ever laid eyes? Forget him. This new guy made him look like someone on a par with, I don’t know, Andy Dick, maybe?
When I saw him come into the party and remove his coat, I truly think my adrenalin surged. I felt faint. And let me tell you, honey, I thought that feeling faint at the sight of a hunky man was the exclusive device of writers of bad romances.
But it really did happen. It happened to me.
Apparently, it happened to several other people—maybe most of them—at the party as well. A hush fell over the party, and a multitude of heads tried to discreetly swivel toward the newcomer. It seemed like an invisible hand turned down the volume on the music, too.
He was glorious. Perfect. An unrivaled specimen of masculinity almost too beautiful to live. He stood about six two, and his body was lean, tightly defined, and covered with satiny olive flesh that begged to be touched, if only you could find yourself worthy. His muscles spoke of quiet strength; they were there, visible, but had none of the pumped-up overkill of a gym rat who spent far too much time working on his body (and perhaps far too much money on steroids). He had a thick shock of black hair stic
king up from the top of his head, while the sides and back of his head were shaved close. A silver hoop dangled from one ear. Surveying the party, he revealed eyes so dark the pupils were lost within the irises. I felt as though if I were to tumble into those eyes, I could die happy. His lashes—the only feminine thing about him—were long and thick. His lips full and kissable. His face was chiseled, with a very fetching cleft in the middle of his chin. That touchable skin? It was almost hairless, save for thick, coarse dark hair on his forearms and calves.
And, of course, there was a lovely treasure trail leading down, across his flat stomach, and into the black leather briefs he wore as part of his costume.
His costume was simple and inspired. He wore three things: the black leather bikini briefs, a pair of combat boots, and a plain leather harness to the back of which were attached two small wings—jet black and crafted from feathers.
He looked like an angel—but one that would quickly lead you to Hell. You would not protest.
My heart beat a little faster.
I am not a bad-looking guy, but I thought this guy was so far out of my league I would be lucky if I got to say hello to him. I didn’t feel bad about that; I didn’t hate him because he was beautiful.
I am almost ashamed to say that I would have been happy simply to worship at the altar of his maleness and beauty.
So it surprised me when I noticed he was coming my way. What could this be about? I looked behind me, but there was only the wall. Was he going to ask me how to find the restroom or the bar? Perhaps where I bought my vest? Or no, maybe he was going to see if I would point him toward the most gorgeous guy in the room, so he would know who would be best for him to flatter with his attention.
Several guys watched—out of the corners of their eyes—his progress as he made his way toward me.
My mouth dried out. My heart thundered.
Yet I managed a shy smile.
He stopped in front of me and our eyes, for several long moments, locked. A grin lifted one corner of that delicious mouth.
I grinned back, struck too stupid to think of even one word to say.
“You look like my kind of guy.”
I laughed. No, I have to be honest, I tittered like a little girl. Heat immediately rose to my face.
“That blush looks very fetching on your cheeks.” He grinned wider, exposing two rows of nearly perfect white teeth. He reached out and gently touched one of the cheeks he had just mentioned, his skin warm.
I thought my heart stopped.
My brain finally clicked into gear and reminded me that if I did not want to come across as a total dumbass, I would need to say something back to this fellow. It also told me to remember that, gorgeous as he was, he was just another man—dressed in an angel costume. A black angel. An angel whose very presence promised thrills of the most delicious, sinful depravity. Stop it now, I mentally chastised myself. Say something back to him. You don’t have to be charming, but it might be a good idea to let him know, in short order, that you have the power of speech.
So I said, “What do you mean?” I know, I know, brilliant, right? Witty repartee is my strong suit.
He cocked his head, still boring into me with those black-as-coal eyes that I believed, at that moment, really did have the power to make me melt. I even glanced down at myself for reassurance that all of me had remained in solid form.
“I mean, I could see right away you weren’t like the rest of the guys here. You were sort of off in your own little world, separate from the rest of the herd.” He cocked his head back in the direction of the other guests, who had resumed talking, dancing, and making out.
“Yeah, I tend to that. I’m a bit of an introvert.”
He moved closer to me. I swear I could feel the heat emanating from that perfect body. “But not shy?”
Most people equate introversion with shyness, which is not always the case. Take it from one who knows. “No, not shy. Maybe a little awestruck is all.”
He laughed, and his laugh was deep bass and musical. “Awestruck? Why?”
I shrugged and realized I didn’t want to appear like some crazed teenybopper or acolyte who felt himself worthy only to kneel at the feet of this guy and worship (although that’s precisely what I wanted to do). Pull yourself together, man. At least act like you believe yourself an equal or else he really will think you’re not worthy of his attention.
So I asked him his name.
“Jeffrey.” He smiled and extended his hand.
I grasped the proffered hand and shook it, reveling in the touch, the firm grip, the way our eyes connected. Something electric passed through me, and for a moment, it seemed like we were the only two people in the room, despite the music, the laughter, and the roar of conversation all around us.
“I’m Stephen.”
Jeffrey nodded, grinning.
“What?”
“You gay guys.” He shook his head. “You’re always Stephen, never Steve, Robert, never Bob, Michael, never Mike.” His voice trailed off, and he seemed far too amused with me.
“So I guess it would follow that if you’re Jeffrey—not Jeff—you must be one of us?”
He winked. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
“I’d love to.” I moved closer to him, seriously contemplated kissing the guy, even though we had met only minutes ago. Yes, I was that smitten. I was more than ready to throw caution to the wind.
But then someone interrupted us and broke the spell. “It looks like you guys need libations.” The voice came out kind of muffled, as if the speaker was coming at us from behind a mask.
As indeed he was. I turned to see who had the nerve to take my perfect moment and just shatter it. Love-at-first-sight moments are so damn fragile!
It was the creep I had seen earlier—all in black, with that weird and spooky white porcelain mask. The guy made me want to shiver, and not with anticipation. There was something vaguely threatening about him. The cheerful voice that came out of him was completely at odds with his eerie costume. And that voice? There was something about it, something I felt I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
It was as though I had heard it before.
The annoyance I felt was written plainly across Jeffrey’s handsome face. He glared at the guy. “We were talking, man.”
“I could see that. I’m not blind.”
I shook my head, that voice again. Not only was it familiar, but it was also too cheerful and perky, creating a kind of dissonance between the threatening appearance and the homey, almost comforting sound of the voice.
I wished he would just go away.
Then Jeffrey, bless his heart, saw to it that he did just that. He grabbed my hand, and for a moment, I thought he was going to lead me away in a huff, but he was simply checking to see what kind of beer I was drinking. “Stephen here could use another Stella and I’d love a club soda with lime.” Jeffrey smiled at the intruder, and unless you looked closely, you would not discern the poison that was just behind the smile. “Since you asked.”
“Allow me, gentlemen. I will be back post haste.”
Jeffrey rolled his eyes, and we leaned our heads in together and laughed. “Should we try to ditch him?” I whispered.
Jeffrey put his face a little closer to mine and just brushed his lips over my own. I knew I would want to get him alone somewhere very soon. There was a raw animal magnetism that simply radiated off the man that made all my common sense disappear. I wanted to see him naked—the fact that he was already almost there made the desire that much more urgent.
“No. We need our drinks.” He nipped at my left earlobe, and I thought I might come in my pants.
“You’ve got a point.” I couldn’t resist. I reached out and cupped the leather bulge hanging so invitingly between his tanned and hairy thighs.
He pulled away so sharply, I frowned, immediately sensing I had overstepped, crossed a line. That’s just like you, Stephen. Not even five minutes into meeting a hot guy and you’re
on your way toward ruining things, if you already haven’t. Way to go.
Jeffrey placed a hand on my shoulder and leaned in so he could whisper, “Don’t worry, you didn’t scare me off. I just want to wait until we can get somewhere a little more private before you grab my dick. Once we find that place, you can grab all you want.” His breath was hot in my ear.
A rush of fire roared through my veins, feeling like it lit me up like a red beacon. My dick stood at such rigid attention that I thought it had to be obvious to everyone in the room. After all, I was wearing only a jockstrap and you know how that material stretches.
I was just about to whisper back to Jeffrey and maybe even indulge myself with a second little kiss when our masked man returned with our drinks, along with one for himself.
“Thank you!” I nearly shouted, in a voice so overly bright and cheerful, I was certain our masked intruder would be sure to pick up on the sarcasm in my voice.
But he didn’t.
He handed me my beer, Jeffrey his club soda, and I spied a glass of something sparkly and amber in his own black-gloved hand.
Before I took a sip of beer, I felt something warn me. The bottle, after all, was open and here I was, accepting a drink from a man whose face I couldn’t see. What if he had slipped something into it?
Oh come on now. You’re at a party. At Tabby’s. This guy was invited. Do you really think someone Tabby knows would slip you a roofie?
I looked over at Jeffrey, who was sipping his drink and didn’t seem to be feeling any ill effects. I wondered how long it would take for one to begin feeling something from the drug.
You’re being paranoid.
Still, I thought I should give myself a moment. Besides, if I removed myself from the scene, maybe our masked man would do the same.
I set my drink down on an end table. “I need to use the bathroom,” I said, looking only at Jeffrey and not the masked man, who hovered nearby. “I’ll be right back. Will you wait here for me?” I pointedly asked Jeffrey.
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