The Queen & the Homo Jock King

by T. J. Klune

  “But. Isn’t that like… racist?”

  “The geisha costume?” I asked, somewhat impressed that he would think that far ahead. “No, I don’t see how any different it would be than someone dressing up the same at Halloween. You’re not denouncing the culture by wearing the costume. We’re not mocking anyone.”

  “Not that. The whiteface. That could be racist.”

  “What,” I said flatly.

  “It’s like blackface,” he said, sounding nervous. “You don’t do that because it’s a douchebag thing to do. But, like, what if white people get pissed off because I’m wearing whiteface?”

  I looked toward the ceiling, praying to whatever deity was listening to give me strength. “Brian.”

  “Yes, Helena,” he replied promptly like the good boy that he was.

  “You’re white.”

  “German,” he agreed. “And maybe some Finnish.”

  “You can’t racially offend white people by having whiteface.”

  “But black people get offended by blackface,” he said.

  “Right, but… it’s not… you can’t—”

  “And what about the Japanese? Won’t they get offended by whiteface?” Then he frowned. “But are they considered white? Or are they making fun of white people when they have whiteface? And how come black guys can do whiteface and make an entire movie out of it that’s terrible where they pretend to be women but when white people do blackface, it’s offensive and racist?”

  “I’ll be honest,” I said. “I have no idea how to answer any of your questions. I’m just here to dress you up in drag.”

  “Oh,” Brian said. “Maybe we could ask Corey?”

  “Corey,” I repeated.

  “He’s black,” Brian said. Then, “And Mexican, I think he said.”

  “I promise you that whiteface makeup is probably the least offensive thing about the drag bachelor auction to save crack babies. You can trust me on that one.” In fact, this whole thing lacked any kind of moral direction, so I thought I’d be forgiven if anyone was offended by drag geisha.

  “Crack babies?” Brian said. “That’s terrible. Why would anyone give them crack?”

  I sighed. “Brian, I need to put on your makeup.”

  “Right,” he said. “Okay, I’ve thought about it long and hard, and I am okay with this. If it’s for crack babies, then I don’t think white people will get angry with whiteface. Because it’s not about racism. It’s about babies addicted to crack.”

  “Atta boy,” I said. “That’s a very mature and thoughtful decision.”

  He grinned up at me.

  I winked at him.

  Darren glared at us.

  “I shaved my balls,” Brian said, apropos of nothing. “That should probably help too.”

  I almost dropped my makeup sponge. “No one is going to see your balls,” I reminded him. “Because we could get fined. Or shut down. Or arrested.”

  “Better to be prepared for every eventuality,” he said.

  “How nice.” I got to work.

  It was when I was halfway done that Brian spoke again. I’d plucked his eyebrows and nose hairs, much to both our dismay. I was applying the white cream foundation when he said, “Darren really likes you.”

  I stopped for a moment and took a breath. When I thought I wouldn’t do something stupid, I continued. “Is that right?”

  “Yeah. He gets mad at me whenever I’m near you.”

  “And what does that have to do with me?”

  Brian looked at me as if I was stupid. Which, to be fair, I’d asked a stupid question. “He’s jealous. Not that there’s really anything to be jealous about.”

  That should not have made me feel as good as it did. “Not your fault, baby doll. He’s just a butt hurt little boy sometimes.”

  “No, I know,” he said. “But still. He’s a good guy.”

  “Some of the time,” I said, spreading the cream on his forehead.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said seriously. “As either Helena or Sandy.”

  I rolled my eyes, but it did nothing to stop me from flushing. “Flattery now, hmm?”

  “But I wouldn’t do anything with you again.”

  “Not flattery, then.”

  “Not because I wouldn’t want to,” he said. “If I ever decided to do a relationship, I’d want it to be with someone just like you.”

  “That’s… that’s very sweet.”

  “But not you specifically, because you and Darren belong to each other. You remind me of my parents.”

  I made a face. “Not the best thing to say to someone you’ve fucked.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, but it’s sort of true. And I mean because my mom and dad just fit together, you know? They bicker all the time, and they never seem to agree on anything, but I can’t ever see them with anyone else. They work, because that’s the way it’s supposed to be. It reminds me of you and Darren. You make sense, because you’re supposed to.”

  “Sometimes things don’t always work.” I kept my voice even. “It’s not anyone’s fault. It doesn’t happen, no matter how hard you try.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. But then you have to ask yourself if you really tried at all, you know? One day, when I’m ready, I’m going to make sure I try my hardest. Because if you don’t give it your all, you might as well not be doing anything.”

  “Wow,” I said. “You are like my own personal daily affirmation calendar. I hate it.”

  “Lie.” He grinned at me. “You don’t hate anything about me. In fact, if I remember right, you actually think I’m… how did you put it… a hot piece of ass, come on and fuck me harder, motherfucker, before I flip you and ride you like a bull in a china shop.” And of course, when he said this last part, he raised his voice and did some weird effeminate accent that almost sounded like an Australian by way of Russia.

  Everyone was staring at us.

  Except for Darren.

  Darren was staring murderously.

  “Oh my god,” I said, horrified. “My dirty talk is terrible and makes absolutely no sense. Darren said it first, but you just confirmed it. My life is over.”

  “To be fair,” Brian said, “we were both drunk and it sounded hot at the time.”

  “That does nothing to help me,” I said. “How can you even look at me after I said that, much less have sex with me? What kind of masochist are you?”

  “What did you and Darren dirty talk about?” he asked, just throwing that out there as if it didn’t have the force of a fucking grenade.

  “I told him I wanted to put my spunk in his trunk,” I admitted.

  “And you were sober?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Wow,” Brian said. “You really are terrible at it.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I grumbled, absolutely refusing to look over at Darren.

  I FINISHED with Brian about a half hour later and sent him down to Paul, Vince, and Kori to get into his geisha costume and wig. Paul had been my right-hand drag man for years and was one of the only people I trusted to know how to complete the costume, which is why I put him and the others in charge of dressing the homo jocks so we could focus on the makeup. The homo jocks were in various stages of makeup, some more intricate than others to go along with the costumes. I’d decided to leave the full drag costume idea to each of the individual queens assigned (except for Summer because Summer didn’t get to have ideas on her own as of yet). Sofonda was going with some kind of Xena/steampunk fusion. Crystal was going full-on Moulin Rouge, big hair and sexy colors. Georgia was going for two different decades of Cher. Summer had wanted to do something grandiose and ridiculous (“Gay Star Wars meets Jennifer Lopez! In space!”), but was shot down in favor of something a bit more simplistic having to do with butterflies and unicorns and Lady Gaga. Or something. I tried not to think about it anymore because I probably would have torn my wig hair out before lighting her on fire.

  And then there was Darren.

  Trust me when I say I’d thoug
ht long and hard about what to do with Darren. There were so many ideas that I had, some sensual and absurd, others more of a traditional route. The idea of drag is playing with gender roles, and there was something erotic about the size and masculinity of Darren Mayne turned into something with a female bent to it. Drag queens didn’t always need to be slim or slender. Granted, it helped the illusion more, but it didn’t always have to be that way.

  The other homo jocks had known what their roles were going to be before they sat down in the makeup chair because they’d been paired with queens that weren’t me.

  Brian and Darren hadn’t known a thing.

  Just the way I liked it.

  But Brian was on his way downstairs knowing what he was walking into or, at the very least, having an idea. He’d grinned delightedly in the mirror at his reflection, lips red and face white, eyes smoky and dark. “It’s only a little racist,” he assured me.

  Darren still didn’t know what I had planned for him.

  It was going to be amazing.

  I beckoned him with a finger. He pushed his way off the wall and stalked toward me, muscles tensing and flexing as he moved. His thighs were hairy and thick and I studiously avoided the image of them wrapped around my waist. He wasn’t going to make the prettiest drag queen there ever was, but if I could pull off what I’d planned, it’d be more epic than not.

  I was probably doomed.

  “Sit down,” I said.

  He looked as if he was going to speak but, instead, shook his head and did what he was told. I dug through my makeup case, looking for the eyeliner and mascara I needed. His makeup wouldn’t be as complex as Brian’s, but I felt the need to take extra care of him. Brian seemed to be going with the flow on this whole thing. I didn’t know how far out of Darren’s comfort zone this was. Regardless of the confusion that was my feelings toward him, I didn’t want to make things awkward for him.

  Well. Any more awkward.

  Because when he heard what his costume was….

  “You’ve been avoiding me.” He sounded grumpy.

  “I’ve been busy,” I countered. “Drag bachelor auctions to save gay bars disguised as helping crack babies don’t plan themselves.”

  “And I chose to be here,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  “Sure,” I said. “You’ve made good choices. Mostly.”

  “Really.” He sounded skeptical.

  I shrugged. “You’ve gotten this far, haven’t you?”

  He tried to catch my gaze. “With you, you mean.”

  “No,” I said slowly. “Okay, not completely. I meant in the cosmic sense. You’re here. You’re alive. You’re healthy and wealthy and wise. Well, somewhat wise.”

  He snorted. “That’s the first time anyone has ever said that to me.”

  That startled me a bit. “That’s not okay.”

  “I’m not asking for your pity,” he said. “Just a statement of fact.”

  “And I’m not giving you my pity.” Even though I sort of was.

  “So, avoidance,” he said, deflecting smoothly.

  “Busy,” I insisted, and not wanting to get behind schedule, I pushed him back gently in the chair, his skin hot under my fingers. He went with little resistance, eyes never leaving my face. He arched his back a little, whether showing off or unconscious movement, I didn’t know. Regardless, it put his full body on display, the cut lines of his chest and stomach, the V of his waist, the trail of hair that disappeared into the black briefs. I pressed my leg in between his, wriggling it back and forth until he got the picture and spread his legs farther, allowing me to step between them and stand above him. Helena, that crazy fucking bitch, loved the position we were in. I was above him, towering and dominant. He was spread out below me, body pliant and willing. Waiting for me to do what I wanted with him, like he was my own personal fucktoy. To anyone watching us, they would have seen what amounted to ease and familiarity between two people who they thought to be together. But from the inside, between just him and me, there was a tenseness, a crackling that I didn’t know if I wanted any part of.

  I didn’t think attraction had ever been our problem. At least it hadn’t been for me. Some part of me had always known Darren was attracted to me, but it was a peripheral thing, something I didn’t allow myself to focus on.

  Not until this ridiculous fucking scheme Mike had come up with that I’d barely hesitated in agreeing to and then fucked up completely so that Darren and I were stuck in this weird push-and-pull where it felt like I was both pushing and pulling.

  Whatever.

  I could stand between the legs of a nearly naked Darren Mayne and be perfectly fine. It wouldn’t affect me in the slightest.

  I bent over in front of him until our faces were inches from each other. Strictly to see the canvas I’d be working on and nothing more. I barely even saw him as anything more than that.

  His tongue darted out, wetting his lips.

  Okay.

  You can sure as shit bet I saw the fuck out of that.

  My breath caught in my chest and he knew.

  “Sandy,” he said, and it was like he was growling.

  I glared.

  “Helena,” he corrected.

  “Yes?” I frowned, running a finger over his eyebrows, wondering if I needed to pluck them at all.

  “Are we going to talk about this?”

  “About what?”

  His thighs brushed against my leg, applying the barest bit of pressure, like he was thinking of trapping me against him. That was a bad idea in a long history of bad ideas.

  “You know what.”

  I sighed and looked up, making sure no one was listening to us. “There’s nothing to talk about.” I considered taking a step back. I settled for standing straight up. “And even if there was, now certainly wouldn’t be the time to do so. In two hours, the doors are going to open and I’ll have to pimp you bitches out so we can raise enough money to save Jack It, so anything we would need to talk about can surely wait until that is over.”

  He arched an eyebrow up at me, and I decided yes, I very much liked being above him, Helena or not. “Pimp you bitches,” he repeated.

  “Oops,” I said. “I mean auction you for a good cause.”

  “That’s better.”

  “Like cattle.”

  “That’s… not better.”

  “You haven’t even asked me who you’re going to be. Surely you must be wondering what I have up my sleeve.”

  He frowned up at me. “I don’t care who I’m going to be. I care about why all of a sudden you completely shut me down like I’m nothing to you.”

  “You’re not nothing,” I said, because it was the truth.

  “Then—”

  “What are you to me?” I asked sharply before I could stop myself.

  “As far as everyone else is concerned, I’m your boyfriend.”

  What a safe answer that was. “And you and I both know that’s not—look. I don’t have time for this right now. I’m serious, Darren. I need to get you done up so you can finish downstairs so I can get ready for tonight.”

  “This isn’t over.” His hands were on my hips, pulling me toward him, so much so that my knees were pressed right near his crotch, the outline of his dick and balls evident as he slid slightly down in the chair, his underwear pulling up against him. His fingers dug into my sides and I wondered what it would look like to be bruised by him, the outline of his fingers against me. To be marked. Owned, in a way.

  He sat up in the chair and curled his hands around to my back, his fingers resting on my ass, using me to sit up straight, his biceps flexing against my sides. He looked up at me, his chin pressing against my stomach. “I don’t know what happened,” he said quietly and I could feel every word he spoke. “I don’t know what I did or what you think I did. But this isn’t over, Helena. Not by a long shot.” With his eyes never leaving mine, he pressed a gentle kiss to my stomach before sitting back in the chair, all that skin on display.

 
He smirked up at me.

  I scowled down at him because how dare he.

  He asked, “So, what are you making me up as?” and sounded smugger than I’d ever heard him before.

  He seemed to have forgotten who he was fucking with.

  The Homo Jock King needed to be put in his place.

  I was all Helena when I slowly reached out and gripped his chin in my hand, rubbing my thumb just under his bottom lip.

  I was all Helena when I grinned at him and pressed my knee none too lightly up against his balls, causing him to gasp.

  I was all Helena when I leaned over and brushed my lips over his forehead, sticky and sweet while he squirmed in my grasp.

  His smirk was fading.

  His pupils dilated as I pressed my knee just a tad bit harder, enough to feel the weight of his cock and balls pressing against me.

  Goose bumps broke out along his shoulders, prickling his skin.

  His fingers twitched in his lap, like he wanted to reach for me but decided against it.

  What a good boy he was. Keeping his hands to himself.

  He deserved a reward.

  When I spoke, Helena Handbasket was in control, just the way she liked it. Him too, if the way he was trembling in my grip meant anything.

  He wouldn’t get something like this from fucking a hipster twink, that was for sure.

  Interesting.

  “Tell me, baby doll,” I purred, digging my nails into his cheeks just to watch him blush. It was a wondrous thing. I leaned over, and when I spoke again, my lips were brushing against his ear and how he shuddered. “Just how familiar are you with late nineties seminal classic songs that changed the pop landscape forever?”

  “Um,” Darren said, voice scratchy and weak. “Not very?”

  “For shame,” I said, sighing directly into his ear.

  He made a slightly strangled noise that I probably wasn’t supposed to hear. “Yeah,” he managed to say. “So shameful.”

  “I have six words for you then, baby doll,” I said. “Just to give you an idea of what you can… expect.”

  He nodded and my bottom lip caught briefly on the lobe of his ear. Without giving it much thought, I scraped my teeth against him. “Six words,” he panted. He was hard against my knee, his cock straining, and I pushed against it. It seemed the rumors of his… physique weren’t unsubstantiated. He groaned, low and guttural, and I gave serious thought to getting him off right then and there, just to say I did.