The Queen & the Homo Jock King

by T. J. Klune

  “Six words,” I agreed. “Are you ready for them?”

  “Yes,” he said hoarsely.

  “Good,” I said. “Here they are.” I pulled away and saw his eyes were blown, face red, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. I gripped his hair, snapping his head back, keeping his chin in my other hand. I leaned forward until our noses bumped, until his breath was on my lips. I sneered at him and hissed, “Hit Me Baby One More Time.”

  And Darren Mayne swallowed thickly.

  Chapter 19: With Heartfelt Apologies to Britney Spears

  THERE IS something kinetic about the moments before a show. It’s a visceral feeling, almost primal. There’s excitement in the air, but it goes beyond that. In those moments, I wasn’t the humdrum Sanford Stewart that I sometimes thought I was. That Sanford was trapped in a dead-end job as a claims representative for an insurance company. That Sanford Stewart was uncomfortable with people he didn’t know. That Sanford Stewart liked to pretend he wasn’t affected by everyone else around him falling in love and being happy while he stayed behind, smiling and nodding and saying things like congrats and you two are meant to be.

  Helena didn’t have a single fuck left to give about Sanford Stewart.

  Because when I was Helena, I was powerful. I was revered. I was feared. People came from far away just to see me perform, to shake my perky ass on the dance floor, to sweat and bleed in heels that defied gravity. I had been trained by the great Vaguyna Muffman, and I was good at what I did. Sure, maybe that was mostly ego talking, but you had to have ego if you were going to be a queen. You couldn’t get away with being humble and being a queen. You’d be eaten alive.

  Possibly even by me.

  Tonight I was dressed like a circus ringmaster by way of Cruella De Vil. The wig was long, the hair curling at my clavicles, one side white, the other black. I had a tight black suit jacket with tailored coattails that fell against the black thigh-high boots. Under the jacket was a white unitard that proclaimed me as MADAM in sequined letters across my chest. My makeup was dark and smoky, smeared just the barest amounts.

  This morning I had woken as Sandy, meek and mild Sandy.

  Tonight, I was a star.

  It was a duality I was used to, even if it was getting harder and harder these days to shake Helena. She was me and I was her, but sometimes, it felt like she just took over and something I would say as her would come through when I was Sandy and it would be almost shocking.

  Yes, it’s essentially Sybil.

  But I had no problem with it.

  Mostly.

  Especially on drag bachelor auction night, the most fired up I’d felt in a long while.

  It felt good.

  It felt right.

  “Whatever you do, don’t fuck this up,” Mike said, coming behind the stage as I took breaths to focus on my inner queen. “Pretty much everything is depending on you. So. No pressure.”

  It felt like rage.

  I turned slowly to fix him with the most horrible expression I could muster, one that usually sent others running in the opposite direction. If anyone saw this look on my face, they knew death was to follow.

  The other queens standing with me scattered like cockroaches, fleeing from my unholy light. I thought Summer might have even hissed trying to escape, cowering against the wall.

  They were smart. Well, most of them.

  Mike, though.

  Mike was fucking stupid.

  Or he didn’t give a shit.

  Which was pretty much the same thing.

  He didn’t even flinch.

  “Mike, now is the time you walk away unless you want to see what your blood looks like on my hands.”

  “Easy, princess.” He patted me on the arm. If I’d have been the type of drag queen that carried a sword, he would have had one less limb to worry about. Luckily for him, I was not that type of drag queen.

  Yet.

  “I know what’s at stake,” I said coolly. “If you’d done your job with the Super Gays, we wouldn’t even have to be worrying about this right now.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You can’t always depend on the Super Gays, Helena, no matter how much you believe in them. They can be kind and giving, but they can also be cheap-ass motherfuckers, just like everyone else.”

  “Maybe if you’d sucked on their cocks a little more—”

  “I have standards, princess. I don’t just swallow down every Tom, Dick, and hairy-chested man that comes around.”

  “That wasn’t witty,” I said. “Also, you should get out of my sight. I’m preparing. Leave, before I have you thrown out. Tonight I will not be slighted by one such as you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “It’s my club and you might do well to remember that.”

  I patted him on the cheek. “It’s funny how you still think that. Move along, Mike. I don’t have time for you anymore.”

  He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek and murmured “good luck” in my ear. Because regardless of how antagonistic our relationship was, we did care about each other, even if we didn’t really show it. I knew that moment I’d laid eyes on him the first time that one day either he or I would end up murdering each other. It was inevitable.

  THE IDEA was that each queen would present their own homo jocks. I was in charge of overseeing the entire show, but each queen would get at least a few minutes in the spotlight to present their charges. We’d thought about letting each of the homo jocks do their own little performance, but nixed that because it would have probably taken too long. And also, I wanted people to actually bid on them and not be frightened away when the homo jocks tried to lip-synch and dance at the same time. I didn’t think the world was ready for such horrors.

  The roar of the crowd was almost deafening when I took the stage. The room was packed wall-to-wall, with barely any room to move, the most crowded I’d ever seen it. I thought it was possible we were over capacity, but knowing Mike, he’d probably greased a few palms to have the fire marshal look the other way for the night in exchange for a go-go boy or two.

  The spotlights were blinding as the crowd screamed my name. I glanced toward the balcony briefly, seeing the silhouette of Kori and Charlie. Kori waggled her fingers down at me and I winked back up at her as I let my people worship me.

  One of the barbacks, clad only in a tiny pair of shorts that were apparently designed to show off his balls, handed me a microphone and a shot of tequila, courtesy of my straight bartender dream. I knocked it back, much to the delight of the crowd. I never really understood why they enjoyed seeing a queen drink so much, but I wasn’t one to deny them whatever they wanted.

  Within reason, of course.

  Also, tequila was delicious and made me feel happy.

  I handed the shot glass back to the barback and smacked his ass as he walked away. He grinned at me over his shoulder and I thought he’d probably graduated high school within the last year or so, and that made me feel old as fuck.

  “Helena,” Charlie said into a mic of his own, sounding like God speaking from above. Well, if God was an elderly leather Dom.

  “Shh,” I said to the crowd. “Shh, shh, shh. Daddy’s talking. And you know when Daddy talks, we must listen.”

  They quieted down, most of them turning toward the balcony. Most regulars knew who Daddy Charlie was, that he was a goddamned treasure and deserved to be treated as such.

  The DJ lowered the music.

  “Yes, Daddy?” I asked.

  “I hear there’s a big to-do going on tonight.”

  “Did you, Daddy. Is that what you heard?” I breathed heavily into the microphone. “Tell me more.”

  “I also heard you have some men backstage.”

  “Some men,” I moaned. “You heard that too? Silly Daddy, when do I not have men backstage? I have… needs. I am a handful after all.”

  People screamed in agreement as I rolled my hips, thrusting toward the audience.

  “Not those kinds of needs,” Daddy said dryly. “Besides, I also he
ard that that you were tied down now. The old ball and chain. How’s that going for you?”

  And that was not in the script, the old bastard. I could almost hear the geriatric glee in his voice at such a pronouncement, and I hoped he’d completed his last will and testament before tonight because he wasn’t going to get another chance to do so later.

  And since I wasn’t prepared for it, I blushed.

  The entire crowd ate it up and said, “Awww,” like it was something edible and sweet. And since I was in front of everyone, I obviously couldn’t stab Charlie with my eyes. I had a reputation to maintain, after all. One that showed how much I loved the elderly, even if said elderly was going to taste the back of my hand before the night ended.

  “Well, yes,” I said, trying to save face. “There is that.”

  “And you two look so perfect together,” Charlie said, and the mic picked up Kori snickering to herself, the Benebitch Arnold. “Why, it’s Jack It’s own personal fairy tale. The Queen and the Homo Jock King, finally together. At last.”

  The crowd cheered.

  “Tell me,” Charlie said, sounding positively devious. “Is there a royal wedding in the near future?”

  “Oh my fucking god!” That sounded like Paul, shouting from somewhere behind the stage. “You better not get married before me, Helena, or I’ll punch you in the fucking taint!”

  “Jesus Christ,” I muttered, wondering when my life had gotten so completely ridiculous.

  “But enough about that,” Charlie said. “We’re here tonight for another reason, aren’t we?”

  Back on script, then. The bastard. “We are,” I said, recovering enough to purr into the microphone. “Tonight isn’t just about fun and dancing and gratuitous nudity and overindulgence in top-shelf tequila and bartenders with amazing nipples.” Izaac winked at me from over by the bar. “No. It’s not just about that. Because we’re here to show that we care about our community. It’s why tonight exists at all. Mike, our dear beloved owner Mike, came up with the most wondrous idea to give back to the community. Which is why tonight is the first annual Helena Handbasket’s Wet and Wild Drag Bachelor Auction Super Fun Time for Charity and Good Feelings!” I grinned wickedly, seeing him leaning back behind the bar, glaring at me. “He even came up with the title, isn’t it wonderful?”

  Rapturous applause at Mike’s stunning ingenuity.

  Mike drew a single finger from one side of his neck to the other, his eyes never leaving mine.

  I ignored him, because that is how one deals with petty threats by balding middle-aged men at an overcrowded gay bar when performing on a stage as a drag queen.

  “But it’s for the children,” I continued. “The money raised tonight will go toward Casa de los Niños and Angel Wings, benefitting those less fortunate than ourselves. And especially given that we’re smack dab in the middle of the holiday season, we’re guilting—I mean asking—you to open your hearts, but mostly your wallets and buy alcohol and men dressed in drag in the name of the children. I wouldn’t ask this of you if it wasn’t desperately important. You wouldn’t want to let Helena down, now would you?” I pouted prettily, lower lip trembling, eyes surely glistening in the spotlight.

  The audience screamed a resounding NO! in response.

  I thought it possible that I’d just passed Meryl Streep altogether and entered my own upper echelon of amazingness. I thought she’d forgive me. Probably even praise me.

  “Now, boys and girls, I will be your hostess with the mostest this evening, but I will be joined by some friends of mine you’ll undoubtedly recognize, including Sofonda Cox, who crawled out of the cesspool known as Phoenix to spend time in the glory that is Tucson. You make them feel welcome, am I clear?”

  They were clear.

  “Each of us queens had two beautiful men to doll up tonight. While we did their makeup and picked out their costumes, none of us have seen the finished product as of yet. The first time we see them will be along with you, so I expect there to be plenty of tears, either of pride or horror, I haven’t yet decided.”

  The crowd laughed. From the back, someone screamed, “We love you, Helena!”

  “Oh, baby dolls,” I said. “I love you too.” I fisted the microphone and began rubbing up and down the handle. “I love every… single… inch of you.”

  Hoots and hollers and requests for follow-through.

  I grinned rapaciously at them, all red lipstick and white teeth.

  “Now,” I said. “I will be handling the bidding. Remember, if you should have the highest bid on the homo jock of your choice, you are winning not only the right to sleep soundly tonight knowing you helped out the Tucson community, but also the satisfaction in knowing that you’ve got yourself a date with said homo jock. But I need to get real with you for a moment. While we joke and have fun here, like we should with all the Republican and Tea Party evil outside these walls, this is a very real matter. One that you probably don’t want to fuck with me on.” That got their attention because of the sharpness of my voice. “If you’re bidding, you’re good for it. If I find out you’re reneging on a bid at the end of the night, if you were stupidly drunk and thought it’d be funny to try and buy what you obviously couldn’t afford, I will find you. I will come to your house. I will spank you until your ass is red and permanently tattooed with my handprints. And then I will burn you to the ground.”

  The audience shivered.

  “These boys of mine, my homo jocks, have graciously agreed to donate their time and energy for a good cause. They have agreed to go on a date with all expenses paid.” I lowered my voice and coughed into the microphone. “By you of course.” I coughed again. “Oh, sorry about that.”

  “Got some homo jock stuck in your throat, did you?” Charlie asked, and I could tell that fucker was smiling.

  The audience laughed.

  “Maybe,” I said, winking salaciously.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Charlie said.

  “Oh, Daddy,” I breathed. “Remind me to talk about your punishment later.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Charlie said.

  “As I was saying, the homo jocks are here of their own free will, and they are precious to me, each and every single one of them. You will treat them with the kindness and respect they deserve. If I should hear of something… untoward… happening on one of these dates, something where the homo jock was made to feel uncomfortable in any way, shape, or form, there will be consequences.” My smile was razor sharp. “And you don’t want to know what happens when there are Helena Handbasket consequences, now do you?”

  “NO!” they bellowed at me.

  “Good,” I said. “I think that covers all the threats I need to make tonight. Shall we begin?”

  IT WAS going well, if I did say so myself. At least as well as a sequined train wreck could possibly go. There was a script of sorts to follow, but like most drag shows, it was abandoned partway through and we were all essentially heading off the rails while cackling gleefully. If someone had walked in on the middle of this and had no knowledge of what the event had been about, I was pretty sure they’d think they had walked into some kind of underground sex trafficking ring where a very tall woman was selling beefy men in female period costumes. Not that that wasn’t an aura I wouldn’t have minded cultivating (because the mystique that must go with a woman in charge of selling beefy men in female clothing for sex trafficking purposes must be through the fucking roof), but I knew that when I watched the video the next day, there would probably just be a lot of screaming and drinking and secondhand embarrassment for all parties involved.

  I was completely aware that any chance we had at raising money to beat Andrew Taylor wasn’t necessarily going to come from the auction itself, but more so from the sale of liquor and what the Super Gays had provided.

  That being said, I was shocked when the cheapest a homo jock went for was a couple of grand. Biff, Chet, and Xerxes (who didn’t even try to correct me on their real names, which, good for them
for learning so quickly) all went for more, with Xerxes fetching just over five thousand dollars by a gaggle of lesbians, a sale I didn’t quite understand but didn’t complain about at all, because if there was one group of people good for the money, it’d be lesbians. I just hoped that Xerxes would survive whatever date they took him on. I wasn’t sure what lesbians did on first dates, whether it’d be a trip to Home Depot or trying to find the nearest wedding chapel.

  There were a few (read: more than I cared to see) skeevy people bidding, those that rubbed me the wrong way as soon as they shouted out a number for the homo jocks. But they were quickly and quietly dealt with, either by being outbid or escorted out by security when they started to salivate just a tad too much.

  It probably didn’t help that the homo jocks looked fucking amazing.

  The queens and I had really outdone ourselves, and that dissonance I was looking for, that clash between femininity and masculinity, was on full display. The severe jawlines and bulging arms, chests, and thighs combined with eyeshadow and perfectly stylized wigs to create a hyperrealized version of a drag queen. Drag queens didn’t need to be effeminate to be a good queen.

  And that wasn’t to say that they were completely successful. This was the first and most likely only time they’d do drag. They were clumsy and awkward in their heels, like little baby deer trying to stand and walk for the first time.

  But they were so goddamned endearing about it, not a single one playing it completely for laughs. I was impressed that they carried the right amount of sass and sex even as they stumbled about on stage. They weren’t good, but they were trying to be, and I thought that was all that mattered.

  The queens themselves were, for the most part, regal and exemplary. Well, three of them were. Summer decided she would grind up on each of her homo jocks, bringing them both on stage with her at the same time, and making what she called a Summer Sandwich. I tried to keep the distaste off my face, vowing to research to see if there was a call for drag queens in Alaska so I could ship her out of here once and for all. Then I realized how awful that would be for the people of Alaska, who’d already had to suffer Sarah Palin, so I thought maybe Russia was better.