by Rob Rosen
I shook his hand. The free one. “Bobo Van Ness?”
Lucy took a seat and started in on her makeup. “They say,” she said, “to get your porn name, take your first dog’s name and the street you grew up on.” She turned, just briefly. “Bobo didn’t have the, uh, chops for porn.”
“You had a dog named Bobo?” I asked.
She shrugged and took a deep drag of her cigarette, pink lipstick smearing the tip. “A hamster.”
Jeff had remained silent throughout all this. Jeff was still staring at me. “Care to explain?” he asked. And it was then that my heart began to beat out a mad samba in my chest. Jeff, after all, knew what I did for a living. Jeff, after all, was my ex—and one with an axe to grind. Jeff, after all, was quite vicious when he wanted to be—and he usually wanted to be.
“Artistic expression,” I replied.
“Autistic?”
I frowned. “Artistic. Ar not au.”
He scratched at his chin. “Huh, because last time I checked—”
He was quickly cut off. By me. With my tongue down his throat. Which was the only way I knew how to shut him up. Or at least the most expedient. He struggled for all of five seconds, then gave in. I mean, we fought like cats and dogs, but we fucked like rabbits. Horse hung rabbits, but still. I hugged him, then whispered in his ear, “Please don’t mention my work.” I pulled away. Our eyes locked. I could see the gears moving. He was clearly thinking: what will he trade me for my silence?
Lucy tapped me on the shoulder. “I thought you two were exes.”
I was still holding said ex in my arms. “With unfinished business.”
Jeff nodded. “Yeah, he still owes me a bunch of money.”
My stomach sank. “Not a bunch, exactly.”
Thankfully, it was then that Bobo pushed through the throng. “Ladies, less chitchat, more changing. Show starts in an hour and a half!”
That got everyone moving. Thankfully, my makeup was done. All I needed was a bit of final touch, and I was good to go. To the bar. Away from my ex and my employer’s husband/possible cheater/definite liar.
The shot of whiskey was waiting for me. I downed it in a white-hot second. “How’d you know?”
“First night jitters,” he replied.
“Third night.”
He shrugged. He poured me another. “Does it matter?”
I shook my head. “Not a lick.”
He winked. “Not even a little, well-placed lick?”
“I bet you flirt with all the girls.”
His chuckle tickled me ear. “Have you seen all the girls?”
The image of each of them flashed across my mind. “Most of the girls.” He cocked one eye. “Some of the girls.” The other eye met the first. “Just me?” I pointed at just me. Well, I downed my second shot first, then pointed—priorities being what they were. “But you don’t even know me.” And what he did know was based on a lie. I wasn’t a drag queen. I wasn’t there for artistic anything. “Do you have a thing for men in dresses?”
He shook his head. “Nope, just one man, singular.”
Hmm, things were strange and getting stranger. I mean, I liked him, too, but we hadn’t even seen each other in the light of day. Plus, now I was working with my ex. Plus, at first, I believed Chad wasn’t a cheater, now I wasn’t so sure. Plus, I sort of liked being in a dress. And all those plusses weren’t equally anything that a Tums or two could cure.
“Can I test something out?” I asked.
“Again with the tests?” He smirked, then nodded. “Fine. Test away.”
My nod joined his. I leaned against the bar. He leaned against the bar. Our eyes locked. And then our joined nods became joined lips and thrashing tongues. As kisses went, this one was delightful, if not delightfully odd. I mean, I was in full drag attire and he was working at the time. Still, he’d passed the test with flying colors—an entire rainbow of them, in fact.
“Well?” he asked, eyelids fluttering as the kiss eventually broke.
“A-plus.”
“Yeah, I always was a good pupil.” He winked. “And hot for teacher.”
Like I said, odd. But since I was already in choppy waters, I decided to go with the flow. “You want to go grab a bite after work, that whole midnight thing we discussed?”
“That depends,” he replied, tickling my chin with his index finger.
“On?”
A smirk joined the wink and tinkle. “On who’s getting bit.”
I turned to go. I was tipsy. And teetering. But that was more because I was six inches taller than normal. “See you tonight, Ray.”
“See you tonight, Barry. And looking forward to it.”
As was I. As was I.
* * * *
My first set was to Pat Benatar’s “Heartbreaker.” When the chorus came, when Pat screamed the title word, my heart literally broke. Well, not my heart so much as a fake-blood pouch in my chest. Just took a couple of squeezes of a pump inside my glove and, presto, spurting redness, which quickly stained and saturated my white dress. I looked like Carrie, post bucket dump. The crowd went wild. Me, I tore off the stage, gushing all the while. Pat would’ve been proud. Or horrified. Maybe a bit of both.
I had to quickly get undressed. Lucy was on next, Bobo after her. Mora and I found ourselves alone in the dressing room.
“Huh,” she huhed.
“Nice to see you, too.”
She tilted her head. “Is it?”
I shrugged. “The kiss was nice.”
She smiled. “Always was.” She unsmiled. “But that kiss wasn’t for old-time’s sake.”
I shimmied out of my drenched dress, mopping up the dripping blood as best I could. I hoped this wasn’t some sort of omen. Fate was already having a field-day with me; what was next? “How’s the jewelry business?”
She rolled her purple-painted eyes at me. “Deflect much?” She took a seat and watched me clean up. “You’re on a case?” I nodded. “Here?” I nodded again. “One of the queens?” And still I nodded. I needed to be honest with her. In this case—and not too many others—honesty was the best policy. “Which one? Auntie? Something nefarious with the bar? Pearl? Is bad makeup a crime now?”
“Stop asking, please.”
She sighed. She walked over as I stood there, clean and naked save for a pair of duct-taped panties. She kissed me as I’d kissed her earlier. “I missed you,” she said.
I grinned. “Really?”
She shook her head. “No, not really, but I missed that. I forgot about that until earlier. That was always pleasant.”
“Sounds like a car freshener. Do I give off a pine-fresh scent as well?”
She took a whiff. “Chanel.”
“The woman down at Macy’s spritzed me.”
She laughed as she backed away. “You seem different, Barry.”
“It’s the heels. And wig. And painfully tucked penis.”
She snapped. “Yes, must be.” She turned to leave. “Let me know if I can help.”
I’d always liked Jeff. Even when I hated Jeff, I liked him. We were like oil and water, but if you shake oil and water hard enough, you do get a good mix, however temporarily. I walked over before she left the room. I kissed her. The kiss wasn’t like Ray’s. Kisses were like snowflakes that way. “Thanks for not blowing my cover, uh, Mora.”
“As much as that blowing thing was nice, too.”
She was gone a second later. Gone but not forgotten. As a postscript to that, never pop a boner when your junk is taped down.
Oh, and as an FYI, Arthur was seeing all of this. I now had a stashed cam in every wig I owned. Was Chad a cheater? Who knew? Was I a whore? Well, he had that on tape, so, yes. Thankfully, sluttiness wasn’t a crime so much as an addiction. As to the key I’d stolen, no, he didn’t know about that. I wasn’t staring down as I pocketed it. For now, that was my bit of knowledge and mine alone. Best to have some leverage, I figured.
* * * *
My second number was to Gaga’s “Po
ker Face.” I’d stopped by a magic shop on my way to Macy’s, all pre-lipstick and pre-rouge-like. This time, instead of blood spurting out of my padded chest, cards shot from my sleeves, hundreds of them, a waterfall that blurred me from the audience. It was a cheap if not affective trick. The tips paid for it all, and then some. Gays seem to love ingenuity. Yippy for us.
When the last card fell, I stared out at Ray, who, in turn, was staring back at me. I turned my face for a moment. Jeff was also staring at me, as was Lucy. Arthur, I assumed, was watching all of us like some lesser, all-seeing deity—the god of creepy old men.
I bowed. I exited the stage. I had a date with a bartender to get ready for.
Meaning, my junk needed to get untucked.
FYI, OUCH!
Chapter 4
I was back into my boy drag. Ray was still dressed like Ray. We were at a late-night diner, sitting in a quiet corner.
“What do you do when you’re not in a dress?” he asked, his hand over mine, the other clutching a coffee mug that sat next to a mostly finished plate of eggs and hash browns. I’d opted for a fruit salad. Those dresses, after all, barely fit as it was. Art, it seems, comes with a price—mostly loss of adequate circulation.
“Accountant,” I told him. It was my standard lie when people asked—people, that is, that I didn’t want to know the truth. Since Dad was an accountant, and since Dad talked about work all my life, I knew enough about accounting to fake it in a conversation. Not surprisingly, most folks didn’t want to talk accounting, and so I rarely had to fake it. Ray was no exception.
“You don’t look like an accountant.”
I shrugged. “Sometimes I wear a clip-on tie and black-plastic glasses.”
“Hot.”
I shrugged. “Only when the tie is polyester.” I nodded my chin his way. “And you?”
“I don’t own any polyester ties. I don’t dig fake polyblends. Cotton is good. Denim. Leather.” His standard wink got thrown into the mix. My standard boner was quick to follow.
“No, I meant, is the bartender thing a full-time gig? Did you always want to be a bartender?” And do you always pick up wayward drag queens with a penchant for Ray Liotta types?
He shrugged. “I like to surf. Surfing is a day-time sport. I needed a night job. Bartendering seemed like a good choice. I like to schmooze. I like to meet new and interesting people.” He gave my hand a squeeze and took a sip of coffee. “It pays well enough. I met you. Win/win.”
“You’re very good at schmoozing.”
A grin appeared. “I’m very good at a lot of things, Barry.”
My belly twisted and turned. Contortionists should have a belly like mine. I changed the subject. That is to say, as much as I liked him—lusted, fine—I still had work to do, and now the cam was in my jacket, so that Arthur could at least hear the conversation.
“The other girls are nice,” I said.
He shrugged. “Are they?”
“Aren’t they?”
And still he shrugged. “In drag, in the bar, they’re all a bit catty, witty, bitchy. It’s all part of the act, the mystique. I don’t know them any other way, so who am I to say whether they’re nice or not?” It was an odd response, given that it came out sounding odd, that he looked odd when he said it.
“Lucy seems nice, though,” I said, moving on. “She took me under her wing, lent me her outfits, does the whole friendly-schtick convincingly enough.”
“Huh.” He tilted his head, squinted into his cup of Joe.
It was yet another odd response. “Huh?” I took a bite of watermelon. I didn’t want to come across too nosy, too eager. I let the comment sit there, waited patiently for a reply.
He looked up. “I don’t know. Something about her is…off.”
“Off?”
The shrug returned. “Fake.”
“She wears fake tits, fake eyelashes, fake hair. It’s all fake.”
“No, I mean fake. Like the niceness is all veneer.”
“She seems sad.”
He nodded. “Sad, but something else, too. Plus, I get this vibe off of her. She only works those two nights, even when you ask her to cover for the other girls on other nights, except for rare occasions. Weird, because she clearly loves to perform, is so good at it.” He seemed to be warning me about her, or maybe trying to push me away from her. But why?
“Bartender’s intuition?”
He nodded. “You learn to read people. Get pretty good at it, too.”
“And me? Tolstoy or Judy Blume?”
His grin amped up a bit. “More like the Hardy Boys.”
I gulped. Hardy Boys. Detective stuff. Was he just joshing or was I that easy to read? I leaned in and kissed him. I’d learned it was the best—and most enjoyable way—to change the subject. Plus, I wanted to kiss him. Ray seemed tough on the outside, but the kisses were soft, gentle. The contrast made me horny. Not that it took much, but still.
“What was that for?” he hummed, cycloptic eye blinking a centimeter away.
“Dessert.”
“I have whipped cream back at my place.”
And, yes, the offer was followed by a wink.
* * * *
I woke up in Ray’s arms. Naked. Picture Michelangelo’s David; now picture Michelangelo’s David covered in a fine, brown down. That was Ray. Ray had a surfer’s body. All lean muscle, all tight, all well-worked. Only, Ray’s dick was way bigger. Like way, way. Like, seriously, way. As in way up my ass, to be crass, most of the night and already some of the morning. As it was, I was giving him five minutes to recover so we could go again. Because when you get the chance to be fucked by Michelangelo’s David, you take it. And take it. And, uh, take it again.
“I’m almost out of rubbers,” Ray purred in my ear.
“Does Amazon Fresh deliver prophylactics?”
“Probably.”
“Then get your cell ready.”
Meaning, and again.
* * * *
We were eating breakfast an hour later, after we’d showered together, after we’d used the last rubber—in the shower. I fucked him that time. If only for variety. Turns out, it really is the spice of life. Like paprika, only better.
He cooked. Cereal. Coffee. It’s cooking if there are two ingredients. Least that’s what Mom always says. Which is why we mostly eat cereal, toast and jam, coffee with cream.
“How long have you worked at the bar?” I asked as I stared into those mesmerizing eyes of crystal-clear blue. The cam wasn’t on. After all, where would I put it, what with us still being naked?
“A few years.”
I nodded. I sipped my coffee. “I’d never been there before last week. Nice place. It has a homey feel to it.”
“That’s Auntie Bellum’s doing. She tries to make it warm and inviting.”
I laughed into my cup. “Funny, because she’s the polar-opposite. Both polls. North and South.”
“Yeah, but she knows how to run a bar. Place was a dive before. Mostly trade. Chicken-hawks. Creepy. Then she brought in the drag a couple of years ago, decorated a bit, drove out the riff and the raff. Took a few months, then bingo. Amazing what a boa or two can do.”
Tell me about it.
“Was she a drag queen first and then started the show or did the show come first?”
He shrugged. He did good shrug. Like he did good wink. Like he did stellar fuck. Ray was a Renaissance man that way. He paused. He seemed to be thinking. Was he thinking of the truth or a lie? “We’re not really friends. It doesn’t come up.”
Weird. He’d worked for her for a few years and it never came up? “Must have been something rough and tumble,” I said. “I mean, she comes across so tough. Like a trucker on steroids. Or in her case, estrogen.”
He laughed. “Best not to make that comparison in person. Those heels come off quick. And she’s got a surprisingly good aim.”
He held my hand. He gave it a squeeze. “I’m glad you came over.”
“I’m glad I came, too.
”
And came, and came, and came again. I think there might’ve been a fourth one, but I’d lost count. Coming, after all, can make you a bit loopy.
“Three weeks,” he said.
“Three weeks what?”
The squeeze returned. “Your gig. Until Connie Hung returns.”
“You don’t think there’s room for nine girls?”
He sipped his coffee. He slurped his cereal. “Maybe, but doubtful. That would screw up the schedule, and with only four dressing tables, the schedule is pretty set in stone. Plus, the other girls would have a fit. You see how they are. It’s a competitive racket. You become too popular, their tips go down. Happens with Lucy. She makes more than the others. They hate her for that. They ask Auntie to get rid of her on the grounds of that two-day thing of hers, of not filling in for them, but Auntie shoos them away. She’s a draw, after all, the two nights she works being the busiest of the week. Money trumps drag family.”
I nodded. That explained why they called Lucy the evilest of them all. Maybe that also explained why she was so nice to me. She was the star; I could barely apply lipstick. What kind of competition could I possibly be? Still, if she was so talented, why only two nights a week? And why only that rinky-dink club? Drag, these days, is a money maker. You can travel, do bigger clubs in bigger cities, make some real money, be the next Ru Paul, the next Lady Bunny, the next Alaska or Sharon Needles or Katya. Every gay bar has a drag night now. There are more drag queens than stars up in the heavens. The big names make big bucks, make record albums, get TV gigs.
Lucy was that good. Lucy was an entire constellation. Lucy could light up the night sky.
And yet, she didn’t.
To quote: weird.
Maybe it was that whole big fish little pond thing. Some people preferred that. And Lucy already had a great life in a huge house behind a massive gate, so there was that to consider. Only, I’d been on stage, I’d heard the applause, I’d had the cash crammed into my fists. It was like a drug, and I wanted more. How, I wondered, did she not?
* * * *
I found myself at my office a few hours later. That is to say, I was back at home, already missing Ray. Call me a hopeless romantic, but that’s what I am. It was the same thing with Jeff. We met. I fell hard. The flame burned bright. Then it was an inferno. Then I was left with a shitload of sooty ashes.