by T. J. Klune
I kept up appearances as best I could. Whenever we were surrounded by people at Jack It on Wednesdays or Saturdays, I smiled and stood close to Darren. His arm would go around my waist and he would cling to me more so than usual, muttering that I wasn’t fooling him and what the hell was wrong with me? We were going to talk about this, he said, even if he had to force it out of me. I laughed and told him I was busy.
Caleb was there, usually, having successfully insinuated himself into the homo jocks. Biff, Chet, and Xerxes often looked confused, the poor boys, at whether or not the hipster twink was one of them or if he was trying to become their queen. Brian, for his part, just smiled goofily and made sure he didn’t stand too close to me lest I grab him to make him a pawn in my evil scheme yet again.
I also made sure to give Caleb and Darren plenty of space whenever they were near each other so that their blossoming love could stoke the flames of passion. Darren looked confused anytime I made myself scarce without a word, but I couldn’t stand in the way of what was obviously a fated romance. It helped that I didn’t have a single fuck left to give, otherwise, that might have hurt just a little. But if Meryl Streep could smile even when she lost twelve straight Academy Awards to underserving mediocrity, then I could certainly Meryl Streep my way through Darren Mayne.
“Haven’t seen Darren around,” Corey said one evening as he poured over notes for his finals.
“Holidays,” I said. “Drag shows. Work. Schedules.”
Corey frowned at me. “Are you just… listing… things?”
“I love you,” I said.
“I… love you too?”
“Thanks. You should finish up there and I’ll bake you muffins.”
“What.”
“Exactly. I bought you your Christmas present. I hope you like fuzzy mittens.”
I pretended to ignore the whispered phone conversation Corey had with Paul later that night when words like “going crazy” and “twitchy meltdown” were used. Obviously they didn’t know that I was in the performance of my career, one that people would refer to as revelatory (if anyone could ever know about it, that was). I thought about bending him over my knee to spank the shit out of him for the twitchy meltdown comment, but abstained. Barely.
And since Paul and Corey were attempting to break me down, they could no longer be trusted in the Queen’s Lair. In fact, I refused to allow anyone at all to come up, aside from Charlie. I would have banned him too, but we needed him to record the shows so the queens could critique themselves later. Paul wasn’t too suspicious, as I sometimes wanted to be alone before my shows, but I knew he was getting there and I wouldn’t be able to keep this up much longer.
“Do I even want to know what’s going on in that head of yours?” Charlie asked as he set up the tripod for the camera.
“Probably not,” I said. “I’m in a dark and mysterious place right now. The queen’s journey is often a lonely one. One foot in front of the other. Hold your head up high. Make love, not war. I want to take a ride on your discostick.”
“Yeah,” Charlie said. “I didn’t get any of that, except for the part at the end where you quoted Lady Gaga.”
“You’re so gay for knowing that,” I said.
THE DAY of the drag bachelor auction came quicker than I thought it would. My alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. I shot up out of bed, opened the door, and bellowed for Corey to fucking rise and shine, because we had work to do. There was a low groan from somewhere in his room that I took as assent, given that he knew as well as I did what would happen if he didn’t get his ass out of bed. He’d tried to use the argument that he was a college student and deserved to sleep in. I’d laughed in his face and told him he shouldn’t have moved into a house with a drag queen when she was putting on a drag bachelor auction. He’d retorted and said that he wasn’t even aware there were such things as drag bachelor auctions, much less that I would have one. I’d reminded him that as a drag queen, I was spontaneous and that I might have him do things he never thought he’d do at the drop of a hat, up to and including midget fisting and watersports if the situation called for it. He’d mused out loud that he never wanted to know what situation called for midget fisting and watersports. I told him it was probably more common than he thought. We then had to go look it up on the Internet. Neither of us were ever going to be the same after that.
So it was with threats of peeing on fisted little people that he didn’t fight me and made his way to the kitchen to start the coffee. Paul and Vince were scheduled to be at my house no later than five thirty (Paul, at the very least, knowing he couldn’t fuck with me on the time, given that he’d had years of my demands to be conditioned to just say Yes, Sandy, of course, Sandy). And since Vince did whatever Paul did, we were golden there.
By the time Corey was out of the shower, I was dressed and sitting in the living room, a color-coded spreadsheet pulled up on my laptop and on a conference call with Mike, who was still struggling to wake up. Across the spreadsheet, there were the names of ten homo jocks, including Darren and Brian. I had four other queens to assist me, each of us taking two homo jocks to dress and apply the makeup. Each of the homo jocks had been told to come as they were, no need to shave their faces or anywhere else. If Conchita could win Eurovision in a dress and a beard, then I could pimp out a homo jock in a leotard. And I meant that lovingly.
“Mike,” I snapped at the phone as I heard him start to snore again.
“Hrmph,” he said.
“You wake up this instant!”
He groaned. “Must you nag me this early in the morning?”
“I must. It is the way of my people.”
“Bitches?”
“Performance artists.”
“Same thing. You’re lucky Clyde’s in Vancouver for work. He would not have been amused by this.”
“I’m quaking in my boots at the thought of your partner coming after me for doing something you put me up to. I’m sure he’d try his hardest to punch me in the face with his comb-over. Now, less complaining, more listening.”
“It is way too goddamned early for this shit,” he muttered. “I should have just let the club close. Then at least I could sleep in and not have to listen to performance artists.”
“Aww,” I said. “Did you stay up too late jacking off a go-go boy and calling it an audition?”
“Hey,” Mike said. “If Clyde’s eating Canadian, then I get to sample too.”
“Gross,” I said. “And irrelevant. I won’t shame you for your unorthodox relationship, because that would be wrong of me. Now, hit me with it.”
“With what.”
I tried to not let my aggravation show through. After all, not everyone could be on point like I could this early in the morning. Us type As are awesome like that. “Super Gay money.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How much?”
“Well—”
“Wait,” I said. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I feel sort of tingly.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s not often I get to associate with the Super Gays.”
“Should I point out that you didn’t really associate with—”
“And to have them give me money? I feel like a high-class call girl. I don’t work the streets. No. To get to me, you have to know people.”
“They’re not really giving you the money—”
“Mike. Are you trying to ruin this moment for me?”
“Uh. No?”
“Because it seems like you’re trying to ruin this moment.”
“I’m not.”
“Okay. Let me have it.”
“I think it’s probably a good idea to not get expectations set so high.”
“Too late. They’re sky-high. Anything less than four billion dollars will seem like a letdown and will probably crush me.”
“Oh boy,” Mike sighed.
“Lay it on me, boss man.”
“I’m about to ruin the moment.”
“It can’t
be that bad—”
“Fifty grand. Well, a little less.”
“Fifty grand,” I repeated.
“Yeah.”
“From the Super Gays.”
“Well, some of the Super Gays.”
“Not all of the Super Gays.”
“In this economy? People tend to be a bit more frugal. They can still be wary even this long after the market crash. It’s the curse of the rich.”
“So,” I said. “Let me get this right.”
“Uh-oh. You have that one tone of voice on. The one that means death. Or maiming. Or both.”
“The Super Gays, in their infinite wisdom, chose this particular moment to be frugal. Because of something that happened in 2008.”
“Um. Yes?”
“Mike.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you fucking with me on this?”
He sighed. “No, Sandy. Trust me on that. I do have self-preservation, after all.”
“We’re going to lose the bar.”
“Yeah, about that. I think we should—”
“If you can’t count on the Super Gays, who can you count on?”
“That makes them sound like a team of superheroes—”
“Now you think you have a sense of humor?” I asked incredulously. “Now is the time you try and be funny for the first time in your life?”
“Hey! There are at least three and a half people that think I’m hysterical—”
“I don’t even want to know what that means,” I snapped. “Mike, how the hell are we going to beat Darth Taylor and the might of the Republic with fifty thousand dollars?”
“Did you fall asleep watching Star Wars again?”
“It helps me to relax!”
“You don’t sound very relaxed,” he pointed out. Like a douche.
“Mike!”
“We’ll be fine.” If anything, he sounded amused. Like this situation amused him. I didn’t understand how he could be so flip over something so serious. “You’ll just need to work extra hard to pimp out the homo jocks. I can always open up the back room so people can try them out if necessary. Well. Excluding Darren, of course. Tell me, Sandy. How is Darren doing these days?”
“Fine,” I said stiffly, sure I’d just sustained whiplash at the sudden flip in the conversation.
“Really.”
“Yes.”
“Huh. Because word on the gay street is that you two seem awfully cozy.”
“Are you spying on me?”
He laughed. “Just protecting my investment. And spying has such ugly connotations. I’m…. Okay. I’m spying.”
“You’re not protecting anything. Andrew Taylor is going to host his Fox and Friends dinner and make more money than we ever will. Mike, we have to beat him. If we don’t, where am I going to queen? A straight bar? A retirement home? McDonald’s? Mike, do you want me to be queening at McDonald’s? Is that what you want? To see me in my wig and expensive boots while some fat four-year-old drips his motherfucking McFlurry all over me? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“O ye of little faith,” he said. “We just need to put on a good show. The rest will sort itself out. Though, I suppose if you did perform at McDonald’s, it wouldn’t be that different than Jack It. Seeing as how you could get into a ball pit at both places.”
“Gross,” I said with a grimace. “And hysterical. But still gross. Stop trying to be funny. You’re not good at it.”
“We’ll be fine,” he said. “You just worry about the show.”
Corey stumbled into the room, grumbling about coffee and the best way to murder me without getting caught. Paul and Vince were due to arrive in the next few moments, and I was rather sick of talking to Mike. So I told him so and that I would probably find a way to remove his testicles with a spoon later.
“Sure, princess,” he said easily. “Love you too. Izaac will be at the bar by eight to open it up for you and whatever entertainment company we hired to put on the event. They need to get in to set up their lighting for the show. Izaac will oversee them. Let him know if you need anything.”
“You need to keep him,” I said. “Make him the bar manager. Pay him more money than is considered fair. If you lose him, I will feed your spoon-removed testicles to Wheels and Johnny Depp.”
He sighed. “The fact that you can say something like that and I understand and believe you speaks volumes about our relationship.”
“I’m done talking to you,” I said. “You came up short with the Super Gays. You have failed me for the last time.”
“Stop quoting Star Wars, for fuck’s sake—”
“I am your father!” I screamed at him before disconnecting the phone call quite savagely. It made me feel better.
Corey stood in the entryway to the kitchen, hands curled around a mug of coffee, watching me with bleary amusement. “Sounds like that went well.”
“I will show you what true pain is,” I muttered, trying to keep Helena back. She was gnashing and trying to claw her way to the surface. It would have been so easy just to sink into her and let her take over, but I couldn’t promise there wouldn’t be bloodshed in the process. And I didn’t want to have to scratch anyone’s eyes out, given that people were just trying to help. It wasn’t their fault Mike and the Super Gays were apparently incompetent.
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Do you have four billion dollars?”
“Do I have—no.”
“Then you’ll just have to look pretty for me.”
He gave me a sleepy smile. “That I can do.” He came over and sat on the couch next to me, yawning as he lay his head on my shoulder. It was nice. For a moment. Then, “Sandy?”
“Yeah?”
“Why did you say that Mike was going to lose the bar?”
Oh shit.
“Uhh,” I said. “I think you misheard.”
“Really.”
“Yes?” I said, cursing myself that it came out as a question rather than a statement of fact.
“So, Mike isn’t going to lose the bar.”
“Of course not. Why, even such a notion is ridiculous.”
“Then why bring up Andrew Taylor?”
“Were you eavesdropping on me?” I asked, jostling his head from my shoulder.
He rolled his eyes. “You were bellowing.”
“I don’t bellow. I get my point across.”
“You bellow all the time.”
“Rude.”
“What are you doing?” he asked curiously. “What’s all this for?”
I sighed. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. And I mean that. I’ve got this all taken care of, okay?”
He frowned at me. “But—”
“Corey.”
“Fine,” he said, clearly annoyed. “But you do have friends, you know. People you can depend on. You can tell us anything. It’s kind of why we’re here.”
“I know,” I said, rather touched, but trying to keep it from my face. I didn’t have time to sit around a campfire and sing songs about love and friendship and braid each other’s hair and talk about feelings.
“And you have Darren,” he added.
The doorbell rang before I could even begin to formulate a response to that pile of bullshit. Corey looked annoyed for a second at the interruption. He stood to answer the door and I grabbed his hand. He looked down at me.
“Keep this to yourself,” I said. “Just for now. I don’t need Paul or Vince on my ass about this.”
“Sandy—”
“Please.”
He nodded slowly. “But when this is finished, you’re telling us everything.”
I grimaced. “Fine.”
“This had better be good, Sandy.” He pulled away and moved toward the door.
“You have no idea,” I muttered.
“NOW,” I said, eyeing the queens in front of me as we stood in the Queen’s Lair. “The homo jocks will be on their way up here shortly. I don’t think I have to tell you that you ar
en’t allowed to make them feel more uncomfortable than they already are, but since Summer Zeeve is here and tends to fall on whatever cock is around, it needs to be said. There will be no inappropriate handling of the homo jocks. If you do, I’ll shove a flashlight so far up your ass, your tonsils will be able to perform shadow puppets.”
“I’m not scared of you,” Summer said with a sniff. “You asked me to be here. You need me.”
“I think you’ll find your necessity is something greatly exaggerated,” Sofonda Cox said, her voice light and melodious. She was an old friend of mine who performed up in Phoenix. I’d asked her to come down, because her abilities with makeup were almost unparalleled. If anyone could turn the homo jocks into respectable queens for the night, it’d be her. She’d learned the queendom under one of Vaguyna’s best friends. She was Arabic, with the most beautiful skin and eyelashes. She worked as a concierge at a resort in Scottsdale during the day under her given name Tariq al-Fulan and performed as Sofonda four times a week, the resident queen at two separate clubs. And in all of Arizona, she probably would be my biggest competition should she choose to enter Miss Gay America. Of course, she’d been coy about it so far, fluttering her eyes at me whenever asked. I loved her dearly, but she wouldn’t know what hit her if she tried to go up against me. Keep your drag sisters close, but keep your drag competitors closer.
“People adore me,” Summer said, batting her eyelashes. “They say, ‘Summer, you are just divine and one day, you’ll rise above the squalor of your beginnings that is Tucson to make yourself a star—’”
“That’s quite enough,” I said, Helena-deep. “I suggest you keep that trap shut before I shut it for you.”
Summer squeaked and sat back down. She might have been stupid, but even she knew better than to cross me as Helena. Summer was mouthy and she was stupid, but she wasn’t completely idiotic to think that I’d let her continue as she’d been. She averted her eyes, attempting to feign distraction by digging through her makeup case. She thought if she made herself smaller, I’d forget.
I never forget.
The others were all in various stages of makeup and costumes, half queen, half man. I had asked them to get partially ready in order to make the homo jocks get more comfortable, so they could see all that it would entail. We weren’t going to make them tuck or anything, because while it didn’t necessarily hurt, most men weren’t keen on pushing their balls back up into their body, then wrapping their dicks in the loose scrotum. I also thought that there might be something sexy about seeing the bulges of their cocks through the costumes while they were done up in makeup and wearing tight, revealing fabrics. A sort of mixture between the world of drag and the world of the homo jocks, muscle and makeup. It was sex I was going for.
