by John Maley
It was gone ten before Bobbie arrived. She had gelled back her hair, sported a Hawaiian shirt, white chinos and huge moustache, and introduced herself as Magnum P I. She even gave Joanie a card which read ‘Magnum P I (Pussy Investigator)’. They admired each other’s outfits as more punters arrived. A spiky-haired dyke floated past carrying a violin. ‘Nigel Kennedy,’ explained her friend, Charlie Chaplin. A tall stately Cleopatra – who was heard to remark ‘Forget the milk, just bring me some ass’ – was accompanied by a formidable Morticia. There was a Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky. Bill brandished a big cigar and Monica had a large stain on his dress.
Bobbie downed a bottle of beer at the bar. ‘This is kinda confusing,’ she said. ‘I think I’ve just fancied a guy.’
‘I know,’ sighed Joanie, blinking panda eyes, ‘you can’t tell the boys from the girls these days.’ Joanie was more laid-back as he had some new staff onboard. He reckoned they probably wouldn’t last the pace but they gave him a head start. He hoped to enjoy the party. Just then Papa and Mama arrived. Papa was a magnificent mini-skirted Cher with a gorgeous black wig and biker jacket. Mama was a Vegas Elvis, with a knockout white spangly suit and a be-bop wig. Joanie was delighted they’d made it and told them so. They laughed and complimented each other. Joanie was tickled by Mama and Papa’s arrival. It wasn’t only their costumes that were a hoot. It was the whole attitude. Papa stood hand on hip, chewing gum and fluffing at his wig. Mama strutted like she was the king of all she surveyed. She curled her top lip and spoke in a totally incomprehensible American drawl. Papa blew a big pink bubble of gum that burst and stuck to his lips and chin. Bobbie patted at her big broad moustache to make sure it was still there. They ordered three bottles of beer and told Joanie they were going into the backroom to check out the other dragsters.
Music was courtesy of DJ Diva’s Diva Disco. There was Madonna, Cher, Donna Summer, Kylie, Sister Sledge, Bananarama, Diana Ross, The Three Degrees, Destiny’s Child, and Janet Jackson. DJ Diva was a ballsy blonde in a leather catsuit. She played around the club scene in Glasgow and Edinburgh but this was her first Delilah’s gig. She stood at her rig-out pulling on and off a pair of big black headphones and doing a sexy wiggly dance. At first she was the only dancer in the joint. Everybody was talking so loud you could hardly hear the music. The drag seemed to have acted like strong drink on the punters, and erstwhile prudish customers were now goosing everything within a half-mile radius and shrinking violets were suddenly coming up roses. Westlife were huddled together, thick as thieves, each guzzling a different flavoured alcopop. Monica was smoking Bill’s cigar. Morticia was drinking a Bloody Mary, which he claimed had real blood in it.
Papa and Mama stood in a corner, looking gallus and groovy. They both seemed much younger in drag, like the coolest dudes in Hollywood High. They clocked the Madonnas, who were strategically placed at three opposing corners of the backroom. Geisha Madonna looked serene in his kimono and cubist black wig. Early Madonna looked all arsenic and black lace, hopping about as if he was getting ready for a prizefight. Big bazooka Madonna was poking everyone with his conical bra. Bobbie waved to the rock legends then went to check out the talent.
She went in a booth with another bottle of beer. DJ Diva was playing The Three Degrees’ When Will I See You Again? Bobbie thought it was a sad song, full of the uncertainties of love. But she was determined not to brood on broken dreams, old flames that had burned her confidence. She swigged her beer and patted at her moustache. Delilah’s was getting busy and she thought of how hot it must be getting inside DJ Diva’s leather catsuit.
Joanie was serving at the bar. It was getting hectic but the new starts seemed to know their stuff. He knew he could knock off early and enjoy the party when he wanted to. He was washing glasses when he heard a creepy voice say ‘Good Evening’. He looked up to see a vicious-looking vampire with red eyes glaring at him. ‘My name’s Dracula,’ said the vampire. ‘Cunt Dracula.’ She smiled and her plastic fangs slipped out of her mouth. She caught them and slipped them back into place. ‘I’ll have a vodka and cranberry juice, Dusty.’ Joanie grinned, pleased she’d sussed out who he was.
Cunt Dracula was the last of the dragsters to arrive. After that it was the randan brigade, looking for a cheap drink before they hit the clubs. Joanie served a few rounds and then explained to the other bar staff that he had a hot date with the son of a preacher man. He excused himself and inched his way through to the backroom. Papa and Mama had found seats at a wee table. Joanie picked up a chair and joined them. He waved to Bobbie who was busy looking butch in her booth. She waved back but didn’t budge.
Joanie had brought some more beer that he shared with Papa and Mama. Monica came over to their table, puffing a cigar.
‘Do any of you guys know the best way to get rid of a spunk stain?’ asked Monica, earnestly.
‘Rub the affected area vigorously with a big bar of green Fairy,’ advised Joanie, blinking under the weight of a ton of mascara. Monica disappeared in a poof of smoke and Mama coughed in disapproval.
‘This is amazing,’ said Mama. ‘I thought we’d be the only three dressing up.’
Joanie smiled. The group turned their attention to the DJ’s kit, where Westlife seemed to be arguing with DJ Diva. Joanie went over to see what all the commotion was.
‘It’s her,’ said a Westlifer, pointing at DJ Diva. ‘She won’t play Uptown Girl.’ Another one butted in. ‘We want tae dance. We’ve been practisin’ aw week.’ Joanie had a word with DJ Diva, who insisted that Billy fucking Joel wasn’t on her diva playlist but agreed to play it strictly as a one-off.
The Westlife girls were a star turn. They did some line dancing, three steps to the left and kick, and three steps to the right and then kick. Joanie got up and joined them, to the delight of the crowd. DJ Diva, knowing she was onto a good thing, followed it up with la Springfield herself, Son Of A Preacher Man. Joanie, Westlife, and what seemed like the whole pub did all the Dusty moves. The Shirleys Bassey were displaying some serious wrist action. Marilyn Monroe and Liberace were clapping in time. The early Madonna seemed to be using his crucifix to re-enact a scene from The Exorcist. Boy George and Pete Burns were shaking their hips and their hair like there was no tomorrow. Even Morticia, who stood on a table with her arms crossed over her chest, was seen to be tapping her toes. They all danced to Dusty, penned in by palls of smoke and walls of heat, bathed in the smell of a hundred perfumes and perspirations.
Later, Joanie wound his way through the throng and up the stairs to the toilet. He passed a pissed-looking Bobbie, who was having her neck bitten by Cunt Dracula. In the loo he met Papa, putting on some lipstick at the sinks and humming I Got You Babe. Joanie pinched Papa’s arse and waited for an empty cubicle. A door was flung open and out trooped three Westlife girls. An acrid smell hit Joanie like a left hook.
‘Either someone needs to change their sweaty socks,’ said Joanie, ‘or you girls have been sniffing poppers!’ The girls giggled and ran.
When Joanie got back downstairs the party was at its peak. DJ Diva was blasting out a Kylie medley that had everybody on their feet. Papa and Mama were dancing in the middle of the backroom like it was their own private rock ’n’ roll party, Monica and Minnelli were high-kicking like they were auditioning for the Moulin Rouge, DJ Diva was stamping up and down like a cross between a cheerleader and a dominatrix. Joanie’s dress was torn under the arm, his wig was singed by uncontrollable fags with uncontrollable fags, and his false lashes were falling off. Looking towards the bar, Joanie could see some surprising liaisons. Torpedo-titted Madonna and marvellous Marilyn Monroe were winching each other to safety and Karl Marx was finally getting her beard felt, trembling in Bill Clinton’s clutches.
The night slowly but surely came to an end. DJ Diva played out with The Weather Girls, which saw Cleopatra jumping on a table till he broke it, then the bar closed, and one of the staff turned up the lights – provoking a melodramatic scream from Cunt Dracula, who flapped out of the bar like
a demented bat. Bobbie sighed with relief and peeled off her moustache.
Joanie found himself at the door with Bob the bouncer, flanking the exit and bidding goodnight to all and sundry.
‘Goodnight, Dusty,’ said Morticia. Bobbie stuck her moustache back on and grabbed hold of Joanie, giving him a manly goodnight kiss. Papa and Mama stood behind Bobbie, beaming.
‘That was a drag!’ laughed Mama.
Framed in the doorway of Delilah’s, Joanie waved off the last of his guests.
‘See what you guys are missing?’ he called out.
‘Holiday! Celebrate!’ came the raucous reply.
The Driving Seat
There were two reasons Bernie got so pissed. He hadn’t brought the car and his legs were shaking. He hadn’t brought the car because it would mean hanging around Glasgow’s gay scene sober. He couldn’t handle that. His legs were shaking because he couldn’t handle anything anymore. It had all got too much for him. He had felt terrified standing there against a pillar in Delilah’s, resting his pint on a wee ledge. He was terrified in case someone he knew had seen him come into Delilah’s, someone who would tell everybody he was a poof. He was terrified that someone from work would come in and spot him. But what the fuck would they be doing there anyway? Logic wasn’t a part of this. It was sheer fucking terror. He was frightened somebody would speak to him. He was frightened nobody would speak to him. He decided he would drink away the fear.
He drank five pints in a row. He was drinking too fast. When he went to the toilet he was conscious of a stagger in his step. It was one thing your legs shaking but another when they stopped working altogether. One time in the toilet he had overheard two young guys talking. He was amazed at how poofy they sounded. How poofy they acted. How did they get through school? How did they get through the day?
Bernie didn’t want to stay but he didn’t want to go home. Besides, the alcohol had finally given him a bit of bravado. His legs weren’t shaking anymore. If guys looked at him he looked back. He was a poof, what a-fuckin-bout it? He turned to a man beside him.
‘Whit’s the best place tae go?’
‘Whit?’
‘Whit’s the best dancin’?’
‘Club X is okay. It’s dark an’ its lively an’ yer guaranteed yer hole.’
Bernie laughed at that and downed his pint. He’d heard of Club X right enough. It was quite discreet. There wasn’t a big pink neon cock outside it or anything. Just an X sign. X as in anonymous. He would go along to Club X. He had every right.
There were two bouncers standing at the entrance of Club X. That was par for the course at a lot of city centre places. It was no big deal. They looked like ordinary common or garden bouncers. Bernie even fancied one of the stocky, sexy bears. As he walked towards the entrance he tried to walk straight. He didn’t want to get a knock-back for being drunk; that would be a brass neck. He halted momentarily at the doors, expecting to be cross-examined by the bouncers. All they did was nod and say ‘Right mate’. Bernie went on. He came to a descending stairway. He could see there was a counter on the landing below, and a cloakroom. There was a queue on the stairs that was a bastard. The stairway was floodlit and he felt too drunk to wait. A young guy in front of him turned to face him.
‘Hi ya. Want a flyer? ‘
He handed a flyer to Bernie.
‘It’s two pound aff wi’ a flyer.
‘ ‘Thanks, pal.’
Things were looking up. People seemed friendly enough. It was just this fucking queue. It began to move. Slowly, step by painstaking step, it moved. Bernie gave a weary sigh. The young guy who had given him the flyer turned around again.
‘Cheer up. This means it’s busy. The busier it is the better it is.’
Bernie nodded. He would get lost in the crowd. Anything that aided anonymity was to be applauded. The queue snaked forward down the stairway. When he finally got to the till he found it was four quid with a flyer and six quid without. The young guy was right enough. Bernie decided not to put his jacket in as there was already a queue forming for the cloakroom. What was the score with these queues?
He wandered into the darkness of the club interior. It was busy. There was a square bar, which you could attack from all sides. Two small dance floors. There were seats and tables and wee cubbyholes. It was pretty dark. What Bernie really wanted to do was find the toilet before he peed his pants. He asked somebody at the bar who gave him a haughty look and pointed. Bernie followed the direction of the finger. The toilet was big and spacious with a large metal urinal. He peed there, glad there wasn’t another fucking queue. He washed his hands and pushed the button on the air dryer. He glanced in the mirror and was surprised at how good he looked. He had felt like shit and was encouraged to see he looked human. He went back through to the disco.
Bernie bought another pint at the bar. The stagger from Delilah’s to Club X, then the shuffle down the floodlit stairway had left him restless and thirsty. He wasn’t sure what to do, whether to make an arse of himself on the dance floor or head for a cubbyhole and down his drink. He chose the cubbyhole option. He sat on a bench seat. He was alone in the alcove apart from two young lovebirds in jeans and white tee shirts that looked as if they were trying to swallow each other whole, and good fucking luck to them.
Bernie decided he would enjoy himself. Now that he was settled here. He wasn’t long there when a man joined him. He didn’t even say ‘Mind if I join you?’ He boldly planted himself beside Bernie on the bench seat. The guy was big and heavy with a face only a visually impaired mother could love.
He put down a pint of beer on the table in front of them and made a great show of lighting a cigarette and blowing smoke rings. He turned to address Bernie, who thought he looked pissed. That made two of them. His head appeared to be rolling off his shoulders.
‘I’m Dan. Who’re you?’
‘Bernie.’
‘Pleased tae meet you, Bernie.’
He spoke like a robot, trying to gain control of his drunken mouth. He grabbed Bernie’s nearest hand and shook it warmly. He had clearly made up his mind that he was going to hump Bernie. Bernie didn’t mind. This was an exploratory trip. He wanted to be a poof. To hear poofy voices, to see young guys winching each other, to be cruised and cruise. He was too drunk to care or to fight off Dan if he came at him.
Dan started chatting to him. He made remarks about men that passed by, pointed out a woman who was really a man, and a man who was really a woman, and gradually his arm, big and clambering, crept across the back of the bench seat until he had a hold of Bernie. Dan looked at him with a weird combination of resignation and lust. It was as if he was saying they were stuck with each other and there was nothing they could do about it. He was right. Why else had he come here, Bernie asked himself. To be with a man and see what it felt like. That was all he wanted to know – what it felt like.
He left the club with Dan when they finished their drinks. Dan walked ahead of Bernie and opened the door of a car and got in. He opened the passenger door from the inside for Bernie. He got in and put his seat belt on. Dan started driving. He drove for about a minute then stopped at traffic lights. He turned to Bernie.
‘Can you drive, pal? Ah’m too drunk.’
‘So am I.’
‘We’re fucked then.’
He started driving again.
‘Why don’t we abandon the car and get a taxi?’
Dan shrugged and smiled.
‘Fuck it.’
Bernie was too drunk to be scared. Dan drove like a hyperactive five-year-old in a toy car. Eventually they got to Dan’s place. Bernie was amazed they’d made it alive. They staggered out of the car and went upstairs.
The place was so clean you could’ve eaten off the floor. Bernie was glad it wasn’t a dive. Dan dragged him into the kitchen, filled up the electric kettle and switched it on. He asked Bernie if he wanted tea or coffee, but they didn’t wait for the kettle to boil. They hurtled into Dan’s bedroom.
Bernie felt
like a wee animal being overpowered by a bigger one and dragged into its den. Bernie wanted to keep his pants on but Dan pulled them off and over his feet in one brutally efficient move.
Dan hauled the duvet over them and they were both naked, in each other’s arms. Bernie closed his eyes as Dan rolled on top of him. It was like being on a scary roller coaster ride. Bernie held on tight to Dan in case he flew off. Dan moaned and groaned and moved his big arse up and down. He kissed Bernie’s face and neck and chest and belly and cock and scrotum. He caught Bernie in his arms and rolled over in the bed till Bernie lay on top of him. Bernie wasn’t sure what to do. He started doing what Dan had done to him, move for move, Dan roaring like a lion as soon as Bernie put his lips to his throbbing big boner.
After a while of this kissing and rolling around, they lay quietly together. Bernie lay with his eyes shut and his arms around Dan. He felt good. He felt he had finally achieved something here. Something he had wanted to do for a long time. This was the first time, lying here with a man. They slept.
Dan woke him early. At six thirty. Dan got up and began shoving his clothes on. Then he began to pick Bernie’s clothes up off the floor and started throwing them at Bernie, who sat up in bed, bewildered.
