Love Is Proud

by JMS Books Authors

  I realize this is where the journal of a thirty-plus-year-old turns tragically teenager-ish, but I can’t help it. She was amazing, and this time the word did deserve all the glitter in the world. She stepped onto the stage—not a drag queen, a woman. It wasn’t so much the fact that there were so few women around that made her stand out, it was her sheer, radiant beauty. The room burst with roars when she walked on stage, apparently she was known to everyone but me. She was clad in crimson men’s clothes, had short, dark hair that was slicked back twenties-style, and her eyes were hidden behind shades. Even her boots were red: blood red cowboy boots. She moved with the grace of someone who makes every step consciously, knowing exactly the effect it has on onlookers. There was an air about her of belonging up there, playing with the crowd, flirting with them even, while being lasciviously butch about it and making no excuses.

  I was in love before she even opened her lips to sing. She sang live, some fast-paced song with a catchy melody that got the crowd in the mood for partying. It got me in the mood for partying as well, although I couldn’t tell you the title of the song she sang. The crowd, as a massive, not-quite-sentient entity joined in on the chorus. Apparently I was the only one who didn’t know the lyrics. But even if I had known them, I don’t think I could have joined them. I just stood there and watched, my mouth probably open because Mom says that’s what I do when I’m concentrating, it just kind of falls open of its own accord to welcome all knowledge and experience inside. So I just stood and gaped and let myself be spellbound. She was so very, very beautiful.

  I can’t for the life of me remember what happened afterwards or when I got home. She didn’t make a second appearance, but she didn’t have to. I may have well lost all direction in life if she had come on stage a second time. I could barely catch my breath after this one appearance.

  I don’t want to stop feeling like this.

  I want to see her again.

  * * * *

  Spent the day dreaming about the Crimson Lady. Is this even relevant for this journal?

  * * * *

  Not for one moment did I kid myself that the reason I wanted to go out last night was because I was hoping to see that most beautiful of women again, I am not too proud to admit it. I didn’t have any fantasies about her, and I didn’t engage in dream scenarios in the hopes they might come true. To be honest, all I wanted was to enjoy the feeling of being smitten again. I haven’t felt like that since university in California, which was a long time ago, and it didn’t end happily.

  So I dolled myself up a bit, simply because I could, borrowed my sister’s high heels (one of the famously many she owns), and headed out.

  Of course, bicycling with high heels is not as easy as it may sound, so when I arrived at the Gilded Butterfly I was cursing the golden sunshine that was making me sweat even before I had downed my first drink and danced to the first song.

  Apart from that little set-back, I was still in high spirits. I ordered a drink, found myself a table close to the stage, and waited for the atmosphere to eradicate all thoughts of souls, nightmares, and sisters in need. Tonight, I wanted to be just a woman who had come to watch the show. Tonight, I was perfectly happy to be invisible, melt into the entity that was the crowd, and relax.

  She was the third act.

  She was marvelous. Clad in red once more, her voice dark and raspy yet feminine. Even though the room consisted almost entirely of guys and drag queens, she had them eating out of the palm of her hand, had them howling for an encore, such was her radiance. Dollar bills and condoms flew on stage when she left—a gay bar’s equivalent to flowers and bras; or perhaps just Alaska’s equivalent of it.

  I spent the rest of the evening replaying her movements in my mind’s eye, trying not to feel self-conscious about the fact that I was by myself in a bar—isn’t that something you normally do with friends? Isn’t it the slightest bit pathetic for a woman in her thirties to go to a bar alone?

  I think I lost track of time in the noise-induced limbo of it all, because when I stepped outside the door it was dusking. It must have been around one o’clock. My legs felt heavy, I think I stumbled a bit, not being used to the shoes. Any bystander must have thought me drunk, or at least tipsy. There was nobody around, though. The only sign of life in the parking lot was some banter coming from behind a truck.

  An argument of sorts, I thought, and wanted to make my way to the bike via a little detour to avoid the scene. Then my drowsiness evaporated when I heard terms of abuse and realized belatedly that it wasn’t an argument between drunks but harassment.

  “Pervert!” I could make out, and “fucking bitch!” among other, more colorful phrases.

  I don’t know what exactly came over me, perhaps it was some part of me that suddenly felt the need to channel my brother, who will never take crap from anyone.

  I fished out the phone from the depths of my purse, but then I never dialed, because whatever came over me could not satisfied by simply calling the cops and making a dash for it. All the anger I had tried to dance away, all the bottled-up frustration over my messed-up family and our miserable little lives just cooked over like hot milk.

  Luckily, the abusers turned out to be two drunk old guys who knew better than to stick around when faced with an angry woman and her smartphone. They barely listened to my flaming speech about gender equality and sexual freedom and their own questionable manhood; heaven knows they sure as hell didn’t hear me. The bearded one spat on the gravel in an attempt to put all his disgust in this one gesture, then they ran off fearing I might have caught them on camera to show to the cops (I didn’t, although I should have thought about that!).

  I asked, “Are you alright?” even before I really looked at the victim. Only when I finally turned did I recognize my Crimson Lady herself. My heart must have skipped a beat—all manner of things welled up inside me: awe that I was standing so close to her; fear that she might be hurt; anger that someone had hurt her no matter whether it would show physically.

  She was still in drag, or maybe that’s not what you call it when it’s not used as a stage outfit. In any way, she was dressed like a man. Up close like this I saw that the beard wasn’t painted on, it was some sort of fluffy, woolly stuff glued on, hugging her lower jaw. She didn’t look bruised, but her eyes were glassy and her fingers trembled. An old, tired expression crept on her face when I offered to call the police, and she replied I needn’t bother. She said it wouldn’t do any good, because this sort of thing “happens all the time. It’s nothing serious. They just needed to get it out of their system.”

  I made the call anyway. Then we went back inside. Both to wait for the cops and to get a drink; not that I had done anything incredibly heroic that deserved a prize in the form of a rainbow colored drink with a lemon and a crazy straw, but I did feel shaky and welcomed the thought of something to get my blood flowing normally again. I half expected the two creeps to attack us from behind while we were on our way back inside.

  She knows the place, of course, so she led us back into a staff room that was lined with illumined mirrors. There was a rack with some costumes in a corner and a table with what looked like a coffee and candy bars. She poured us both a cup and slipped two mini Snickers into her mouth. She didn’t speak, for which I was grateful, because none of my utterings would have sounded too coherent, I’m afraid. My brain was still trying to wrap itself around the fact that I was breathing in the same air my idolized dream woman was inhaling. Infatuation turns everyone into a fifteen-year-old zombie with an obsession for the lead cheerleader.

  Before long, the owner and Salome, my boss, floated in. The owner is around fifty, I think; a gray-haired, obese woman who’d evoke memories of a mild-mannered kindergarten teacher if it wasn’t for her incessant cursing. If I remember correctly, her name is Linda. The two of them (Salome and Linda) started talking not only at once but then kept talking simultaneously, and then the duet was soon joined by my Crimson Lady, so that the three were talking over and
around each other. I got the impression that this was a common occurrence; they all seemed to get the gist of what the others were saying. All I heard was that Salome was mostly just worried, Linda wanted to know in what direction the guys had taken off so she could send a couple of bouncers after them (including herself, I suspect), while Vanessa revealed what had happened.

  Yes, she later told me her name was Vanessa, but it wouldn’t make sense for the sake of the journal to wait until later. Besides, it wasn’t like this big reveal or anything. Although I did feel a bit fussy inside when she told me, as if we shared a secret now.

  When Vanessa told them that I had called the police, Linda and Salome seemed to notice me for the first time.

  Linda asked, “You called the cops? What the fuck did you do that for?” at the same time that Salome gave a small scream. I honestly don’t think she had recognized me before that moment. Anyway, by her reaction (she yelped my name and cooed over me like a mother hen over an injured chick) Linda’s rant about how the police never does any good stopped abruptly.

  “You know each other?” she stated.

  Salome put a protective arm around me. I’m only writing down her words for completion’s sake, not because I’m in any way narcissistic. She said: “This young lady, who happens to be beautiful on the inside as well as the outside, works in my Wardrobe.” And quietly, only to me, she whispered, “Love your shoes.”

  This seemed to mellow Linda down somewhat, and then the cops arrived.

  * * * *

  The police arrived in the form of two uniformed cops, a young guy, and a woman in her forties. The woman was our luck, without her around, the other officer, who didn’t seem old enough to carry a weapon, might not have known what to do. She took our statements without interrupting. She wrote down our names and details. She asked if I had taken any photos or videos with my phone to which I contritely shook my head. A warm smile illuminated her face.

  “Don’t worry, hon. In situations like these, we’re lucky if we remember how to breathe in and out is what I always say.” She also told me that I did the right thing, but that it nonetheless could have ended quite differently. “The only reason why being stabbed is not the number one cause of death in Alaska is because of those goddamn tourists hiking unprotected in bear country messing up the statistics. You stay safe now, ladies.” She turned to Vanessa and tipped her hat. “You oughta be glad this here lady was around, young man.”

  Vanessa mirrored the gesture, even though she wasn’t wearing a hat, and used her deep stage voice to reply, “Sure am, ma’am.”

  It should have ended there. The officers should have left as quickly as they had come, left us to go about our business; but as soon as the female officer was out of the door, the guy, who had been fixing Vanessa with a merciless, cold stare the entire time, took a step forward.

  “You’re not even a man,” he growled, as if Vanessa’s mere presence offended him. “You don’t have what it takes. You don’t have no dick.”

  “A dick makes a man?” she replied. “Is that what they told you in Guy School?”

  “You’re just a girl in man’s clothes.”

  “They must call you Officer Hawkeye back at the YMCA.”

  The scene could have gotten very ugly, Officer You-Don’t-Have-No-Dick had a lot of anger penned up inside him, and he didn’t mind putting up his prejudices for all to see. He wouldn’t mind defending them, either, I’m sure; with his fists if need be.

  Voice the least bit shaky I lied, “I think your partner is calling you.”

  Linda quipped, “Either that, or your mom came to pick you up. She must know where you like to hang out.”

  And Salome added, so cheerful it made me fear he might punch her, “Must be emasculating to have a superior officer without a dick telling you what to do.”

  He growled again, probably well aware that he couldn’t cause a scene. But he wasn’t able to leave us without turning to Vanessa, Salome, and Linda respectively and barking, “You’re not a man. You’re not a woman. And you—I don’t know what you are, but you disgust me.” Having stated all this, he looked at me, didn’t find anything to add, and stomped out.

  When he was gone, Linda gave a tired sigh. “And that’s why we don’t call the cops anymore.”

  At this point I was so angry, so shaken up from the whole thing that I felt hot flushes waft over my skin, as if my blood was on fire. I thought of all the things I could have told him had I thought of anything and had I had the nerve to stand up to him. I must have babbled incoherent words of rage, because Vanessa leaned forward and lightly touched my arm—a feeling like ice on my sweaty, heated skin.

  “Hey,” she said. “Honey. Don’t waste your breath. It’s just the way it is.”

  “It shouldn’t!” The words felt like I had shouted them, but I’m not sure whether I did. Maybe I whispered; my anger messed up my control.

  “I know.”

  “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

  Linda gave a rough laugh, “We’re already doing it—by not letting them intimidate us.”

  “By not hiding,” added Salome sagely.

  It felt a bit like offering the other cheek, but I didn’t want to voice that. They were probably right anyway; they had been dealing with this for a much longer time than I had.

  Vanessa’s fingertips lingered on my skin. I didn’t want her to let go, the icy touch was an anchor that kept my inner fury at bay.

  At the inevitable loss of contact my anger evaporated and was replaced by the earlier feeling of being petrified in her presence. Despite all that had just taken place she still emanated a superiority, as if nothing of that had scratched her. Her feet stood relaxed and wide apart but firmly on the ground. Then she reclined in the chair, her arms casually draped on the arm-rests. Sticks and stones…

  When my gaze flickered to her eyes, I noticed with a hot flash of shame that she had been watching me looking at her. I felt my face flush. But before I could stammer something that would sound as if it came straight from an Australian soap, she spoke—this time without the raspy manliness she had put in her voice for the benefit of the officers: “I think I want to invite you to dinner for being my incredible heroine. Are you free on Friday?”

  There was a speck of chocolate on her upper lip from a Snickers bar. I can’t explain why, but somehow this little speck shattered my image of the unapproachable Crimson Lady and made me see the very real woman who was sitting before me. Someone who was tired and vulnerable and human. Just like me. Not someone to be in awe of or to admire from a distance, but someone real, someone who could probably do with a hug and a hot bath.

  Suddenly I could speak to her without fearing my tongue would tie itself into a knot.

  I heard myself reply something witty like, “Yes.”

  * * * *

  ABOUT LESKA BEIKIRCHER

  Leska Beikircher is a German-Italian Waldorf classroom teacher and freelance writer. She has been living in different countries and was fortunate enough to have met with many cultures in her life—more is yet to come! Leska is mainly writing stage plays for kids and teens.

  The Gilded Butterfly does not exist. Mad Myrna’s, its real life inspiration, does. It is one of the Top 200 gay clubs in North America; a glittering sanctuary whenever I’m home in Anchorage.

  Making Up for Lost Time by Mychael Black

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  Chris Buckner spotted a painfully familiar Ford diesel as it pulled up in front of the stable. If he looked in the trailer hitched to the back, a sleek, black Morgan mare would stare back at him. The truck engine shut off, and the driver’s door opened. Unable to look away, Chris watched well-worn brown work boots land on the ground, kicking up a small cloud of dust. His gaze traveled slowly up muscular legs encased in faded denim and a toned, broad chest covered in a dark blue T-shirt. A dark brown leather hat topped off a head full of pitch-black hair. Beneath the brim, shaded by sunglasses, were unnaturally green eyes th
at may—or may not—have noticed Chris. Truthfully, he prayed for the latter.

  Nick Stewart shut the door and headed for the main building. Chris couldn’t begin to figure out why the man was here. He hadn’t seen Nick in ten years, and that was back in Oklahoma. Chris had ventured to Alabama when his mother died six years ago. Nick’s reason for showing up—and here, out of all places—simply eluded Chris. A decade ago, he would’ve known everything, every reason Nick had for anything, but an argument morphed into a falling out. One they hadn’t recovered from. Now, through some sick twist of Fate, Chris found himself staring at an ass he’d craved since he was fourteen. Apparently, some crushes withstood twenty years just fine.

  A nicker drew Chris’s attention back to the mare he’d been brushing. The sweet-tempered Georgia butted her nose against his shirt pocket, and Chris chuckled. He pulled out the bag of carrot sticks and fed her one. Footsteps sounded behind him, but Chris ignored them. Then the person spoke.

  “Thought she liked apples better.”

  Chris froze, eyes closing slowly. It took him a moment to regain some semblance of composure before he was able to reply. “She’s fickle.”

  When he opened his eyes again, Nick stood beside him, long fingers stroking through Georgia’s mane. Once upon a time, Chris had fantasized about those fingers and what they could do, but…oh, hell. Who was he kidding? He still thought about it, usually in the shower or in bed when all he had left were random thoughts to keep him company. In this little pocket of Alabama, there wasn’t much for a gay man, unless he wanted to drive an hour or so east to Huntsville. Lauderdale County didn’t exactly offer anything in the way of gay bars.

  Chris dared to look at Nick’s face. Eyes the color of brilliant emeralds met his own plain brown. Something about Nick’s eyes had always drawn Chris in, their verdant depths utterly mesmerizing. Nick slipped his sunglasses back on, breaking the spell, and turned away. Chris watched him go before locking Georgia’s stall door and following the man. Nick opened the door on his trailer and disappeared inside. A few moments later, he emerged, leading Rhiannon down the ramp.