A Fluid State

by Rob Browatzke

  She was drunk enough that she wasn’t thinking about Patrick at all. When she did her first song, she wasn’t thinking about his arms. When she was freshening up backstage after, she wasn’t thinking about his lips. When she was waiting to get introduced again, she wasn’t thinking about his ass or about the unlikely possibility that a straight and/or closeted and/or curious man like him would ever want to get fucked.

  And when the Queen of Hearts yelled her name into the microphone, she wasn’t thinking about his face.

  So as she strode across the stage to the opening notes of an all too familiar power ballad (albeit one with the words changed to make it an ode to cock), she certainly wasn’t expecting to squint out into the audience and see him there. But she did look out, and there he was, leaning against the bar, a beer in hand, looking every inch the awkward straight man.

  She stopped her lip sync, but only for a second. She was many things, but she was a professional, and in a new gay world where drag queens bred faster than cross-dressing rabbits, there was no forgiveness for a queen not slaying every performance. Lucy and the Queen would have her out of the Torch faster than she could untuck, and she’d be left with nothing but Storytime for Tots at libraries across River City.

  She was so professional that even as the song built to its crescendo, where she pulled a long black dildo out from between her falsies and raised it to ceiling as if she was praising some religious icon, even as she spun towards the front row, enabling her to slap said dildo across the faces of those foolish enough to sit so close, she couldn’t help but wonder.

  Why was he here? What did he think? Why had she picked this number? Could it have been any gay-er? He had to hate it. Was he terrified that people would think he was gay? He wasn’t looking at her. Why had he even come if he wasn’t going to look at her?

  But no, as she rose from her final bow, their eyes locked, and he was smiling. It was a small smile, but a smile nonetheless. She allowed a small smile to creep across her face, one that was only a fraction of the smile inside. He had actually come! Maybe, just maybe...

  The applause faded as Lucy came out to introduce the last act of the night. Ann sashayed off the stage, eagerly accepting the last tips and compliments as she wound her way through the crowd and to Patrick.

  “You came.”

  “I came.”

  “Can I get you a second beer?”

  “You’re a little late. But I’ll have a third.” He winked.

  She waved down the bartender. “My usual, and one for the gentleman, Keith.”

  “Oh, so he’s yours! We were wondering.”

  She laughed nervously, sensing more than feeling Patrick tense up next to her. “Can’t a lady buy a drink for a stranger in a club anymore?”

  Keith gave Patrick another appraising and appreciative look. “Coming right up,” he said.

  Normally she would have said something more, something to set Patrick at ease and turn Keith off. A well-timed “he’s straight” would probably have suited, but if he wasn’t, she certainly wasn’t the one to put the idea back in his head. Drinks in hand, she turned to Patrick. “Do you want to find a table?”

  “Yes.” He finished off one bottle and immediately took a swig from the new one.

  “You’re nervous.”

  “It’s just so different. There’s so many..” He trailed off.

  “Gays?”

  He nodded.

  “Yes, it was a good crowd tonight,” she said. Seated at a table behind the bar and away from the stage, she asked the most important question. “How was I?”

  “It was funny, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “That wasn’t actually yours, was it?”

  “What? The dildo.”

  Even in the dark of the club, she could see him blush. “Yah. That. It was...” He shrugged.

  “Long?”

  “Understatement.”

  “And no. I’ve never used it.” She paused for effect. “On myself.”

  “You mean?”

  It was her turn to shrug. “A lady never tells.”

  Patrick frowned. “That’s weird,” he said. “Don’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “Call yourself a lady.”

  “You’ve seen me in drag before.”

  “I know. This is different though. Here. And...”

  “And?”

  “After.”

  “After what?” She knew, but he had to say it.

  (Don’t blow this, Ann)

  “After last night.”

  “Oh, you mean after your and Andrew’s little tryst.”

  He looked at her quizzically. “You’re Andrew.”

  “I’m Ann. Ann does not have sex. Ann is entirely asexual. Not that many haven’t tried.”

  “Really?”

  “Tuck-suckers, we call them. Guys that are into a drag queen, but only when she’s a she.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “For me too. Trust me. I’ll let Andrew have his fun, as long as he lets me have my glory.”

  “The glory of slapping people with an eleven inch dildo.”

  “I’ll have you know, it was thirteen.”

  Patrick laughed, an abbreviated, nervous laugh, punctuated by him taking another drink. Ann sipped her gin and soda. “I should go,” he said. “I probably shouldn’t have come.”

  (You’ve blown this)

  “Wait!” Andrew said. “Look, sorry, I’m being stupid. It’s this,” she waved at her appearance, “when I’m out in drag, especially her, I let her take over. Don’t go.” She reached across the table and put her hand over Patrick’s.

  Patrick looked down, and Andrew saw him seeing her nailed fingers resting on his. “It’s just too weird.”

  “Look, we don’t have to stay,” Andrew said. “I can be out of this in twenty minutes. Come over? Nightcap?”

  “Do people still say nightcap?”

  “People? No. Ladies? Yes.” Patrick frowned. “Sorry, sorry,” Andrew said, laughing. “I couldn’t resist. Trust me. Ann is done for the night. Come over. We can talk.”

  Patrick nodded.

  “Let’s go,” Andrew said. “Where did you park?”

  “I didn’t,” he said. “I ride shared. I figured, I’d be too drunk to drive back.”

  Andrew nodded. “Good plan. I haven’t had many. I’m just out front.”

  Andrew led him to the exit, ignoring the pointed look Keith shot him from behind the bar. Ann never left the club with anyone. This was how a girl got a reputation, she thought, as they stepped out of the club, the closing door cutting off the thump-thump-thump of the music that had been playing.

  “This way,” she said, pointing towards the car, her other hand on Patrick’s shoulder.

  Patrick stopped short. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  PATRICK

  Mike and Damon were good guys. Patrick knew that. But he also knew they were a bit on the bigoted side. He’d served with them for five years now, and had heard their opinions on everything from “fucking Islamic terrorism” to “fucking trannies in the military” to “fucking sissy ass faggots”. But he knew them. He trusted them.

  You had to trust the people you served with. No matter what their opinions were.

  He’d probably even agreed with them. Like one did. He’d laughed at their jokes, because that’s what you did.

  What you didn’t do was expect to see them walking down the street when you were walking out of a gay club with a drag queen.

  He didn’t know why he’d ended up going. He had dropped Peter off with Christy and had fully expected just to spend the night at home by himself, but he found himself missing Andrew. That was the only word for it. And so he’d gone.

  Walking into the Torch had been a mind-fuck. There was a person working the door; Patrick couldn’t even tell if it was a guy or a chick. Maybe it didn’t even matter here. He’d paid his cover charge, ignoring the hungry look on the male security guard, and made his way
to the bar with a minimum of eye contact with anyone around.

  The show had already started. Everyone’s attention was on the stage. He’d bought his beer and found a corner to lean on, one eye on the exit, while he looked up at the stage. He’d certainly been exposed to a lot of drag recently, but it was different here. The audience was so... gay. That was the only word for it.

  Was that him? He didn’t know. He was attracted to Andrew, no doubts about that. He had never come so hard in his life as he had when Andrew’s mouth was on him. Did that make him gay? Not if gay meant he was going to be like these guys. They were so... flamboyant.

  But then Andrew had come on the stage. Well, Ann. It was hard to even see the guy he wanted to get naked with in the person on the stage. When she pulled out that dildo, he didn’t know what to think. It was so different than Storytime Ann, that’s for sure.

  He was different too, when the song was over and he finally came over. He was... gayer. Patrick knew Andrew was gay all the time, but this was different. Here, in his dress, surrounded by so many other gays. It was overwhelming.

  He’d been so relieved when Andrew suggested they leave. Once Andrew stopped being Ann, things would be clearer again. Would they kiss? Would Andrew let Patrick fuck him? That’s what was on Patrick’s mind when they left the club and he looked up to see Mike and Damon.

  They were three cars away, and clearly had been drinking. They were loud and boisterous like they got when the Jack was flowing. They were both built like Patrick, Damon bigger even. When Patrick saw them coming, he stopped dead in his tracks, everything they had ever said coming back to him in a flood.

  Whatever happened, they couldn’t see Patrick. Not here. Not with Andrew. Not with Ann.

  “Patrick?”

  Too late. He took a giant step away from Andrew, as he was wrapped up in a drunken bear hug. “Damon! Mike!” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Andrew watching.

  “What the fuck you doing here, man?” Mike said.

  “Uh...”

  “Are you coming out of here?” Damon asked, pointing towards the Torch doors.

  “No, I... well, yes, I...”

  “Who’s your friend?” Mike said, turning to Andrew.

  This couldn’t be happening, Patrick thought. Of all the people he knew, for it to be these two, here... “What are you two doing down here?”

  “Strip club,” Damon said, “two blocks over.”

  “No one there in a dress as nice as that though,” Mike said, pointing at Andrew.

  “I think that’s a dude,” Damon said. “Or one of those transgenders.”

  “Just a drag queen,” Andrew said. “Patrick, who are your friends?”

  “Damon, Mike, this is Andrew.” It was someone else talking. Patrick felt he was watching all this from outside his body.

  “Ann,” Andrew corrected. “Ann Moore.” He extended his hand, but Damon and Mike just looked at it.

  “So what’s going on, Patrick? Have you switched teams on us?” They both laughed, and Patrick had no choice but to laugh along with.

  “Of course not. I just ran into Andrew here.” He didn’t even have to be looking at Andrew to know there would be a pained look on his face.

  “Well, ditch the drag and come with us. Titties! We haven’t seen you since we got home.”

  There was nothing Patrick wanted to do less than go off with them. In a matter of seconds, he ran through his options. No path ended well. But this whatever-it-was with Andrew, it was new, and these guys were his career. He didn’t have a choice.

  “Sure,” he said, not daring to look behind.

  “Fuckin rights boys night!” Damon said, wrapping his arm around Patrick’s shoulders.

  He didn’t look back.

  §

  It was later. He didn’t know how much later. He knew two things. He was drunk as fuck, and he was in a cab. The last two hours had been more shots than strippers. Damon and Mike had gone off in one direction, back to Mike’s for more booze, but Patrick had stumbled into a cab on his own.

  He wasn’t headed home though. Home would be smart. That’s where he should be going, but he was hammered, and not thinking about anything other than the look he imagined had been on Andrew’s face when he’d wandered off.

  The cab pulled up in front of Andrew’s and Patrick handed over some money, probably too much, and stumbled out of the car.

  It could have been so much worse. Damon and Mike seemed to have forgotten all about Andrew the second Patrick went off with them. There’d been no more awkward questions, just shots and tits. That had been Patrick’s world for years. It was an easy role to slip back into.

  He still wasn’t sure it wasn’t the role he wanted.

  But even sitting there, watching a bleached blonde spin around a pole at Riders, even as drunk as he was, he kept coming back to how he’d rather be with Andrew.

  Which is how he ended up here, stumbling up at Andrew’s building at – he looked at his phone – two in the morning. He probably should have gone home. Andrew was probably mad or hurt, and it was probably better to wait until the sober light of day, but...

  He just couldn’t bring himself to pass out until things were good between them.

  That required Andrew answering his buzzer though, which didn’t seem likely. One buzz. Two. Three. Then finally, “who the fuck is this?”

  “It’s Patrick.”

  There was quiet, then Andrew spoke again. “Do you have any idea what the fucking time is?”

  “Can I come up?”

  “No.”

  “Please.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “I need to see you.”

  “Go home, Patrick.”

  “Andrew. Please.”

  “Fine.”

  The door clicked, and Patrick rushed to catch it. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to make things right. He wanted...

  He wanted Andrew. That’s all it really was.

  Andrew was standing in his doorway when Patrick got to his floor. He was a man again, and wearing only pajama bottoms that, Patrick noticed, did absolutely nothing to hide his dick. He looked good. Very good.

  “Get in here before you wake the whole building,” Andrew said.

  Patrick stepped by him. It was all he could do not to touch him.

  “God, you smell hammered.”

  “I am,” Patrick confessed.

  “Why are you here? It’s the middle of the night.”

  “I had to see you,” he said.

  “Let me guess. You’re sorry for ditching me for your friends. You really wanted to be here, but they took precedence. You couldn’t let them see you leave with a fag in a dress.”

  “Yes. Exactly. I mean, no. Not that last part. I mean, yes, that, but that’s not how I see you.” He reached out to touch Andrew’s face.

  Andrew firmly took his hand and lowered it. “No. You don’t get to show up here, plastered, and touch me. Patrick, it’s not working. It wasn’t ever going to work anyway, but this, this certainly isn’t.”

  “Can’t we just...?”

  “No. We can’t. I can’t. I can’t be ... whatever it is you want me to be.”

  “I’m sorry, Andrew, I...” There were so many words he wanted to say, but they were all getting jumbled in his brain. He couldn’t think, not with Andrew’s bare chest just there, just waiting to be touched. With Andrew’s lips there, waiting to be kissed. With Andrew’s cock, just a thin layer of pajama fabric away.

  “I’m not a booty call,” Andrew said. “Strippers got you all horny so you thought you’d stumble over to the gay guy’s and get sucked off?”

  “No! That’s not it at all. They didn’t do anything for me. I was thinking about you all the time.”

  Andrew scoffed. “Good line, but it won’t work.”

  “Please?” Patrick stepped closer, put his hand on the back of Andrew’s head. “Can’t I just kiss you?”

  “Not when you’re this
drunk. You should go.”

  “But...”

  “No buts,” Andrew said. “You said what you had to say. It’s fine. I understand. I hate it, but I understand.” Andrew paused, looking at him. Patrick pulled him tight up against him, ran his hand down Andrew’s bare back. “Patrick, I...”

  “Just a kiss. I don’t even know why I want to kiss you so fuckin’ bad but I do.” Patrick breathed in deep, inhaling Andrew’s scent. “You smell so good.”

  “You smell like too much cheap whiskey.”

  “Sorry. Mike and Damon, they’re...”

  “Your bros. Your buds. Your comrades. I get it.”

  “Do you though? They wouldn’t understand this.”

  “This what?”

  “Us.”

  “We aren’t an us, Patrick. I don’t know what we are.”

  “We’re something. There’s something between us. You know it. I know it. I feel it here.” He took Andrew’s hand and put it over his heart. “And here.” He lowered it to his dick, which he hadn’t even noticed was hard.

  Andrew pulled away, then looked at Patrick and nodded. “There’s something. But whatever it is, it’s not happening tonight.”

  “Sleep then,” Patrick said. “Just sleep. Next to you.”

  “Fine. Sleep. No touchy though. Not when you’re like this.”

  “Just sleep.”

  Andrew sighed. “C’mon then.”

  ANDREW

  For someone who had been so intent on talking or kissing or fucking or whatever the hell it was his drunk ass had wanted, it didn’t take Patrick long to pass out. He’d stripped off, crawled under the comforter, and was out, leaving Andrew to lie there, still on top of the covers, wide awake and staring at the ceiling.

  He’d been mad at first, when Patrick immediately ditched him and their plans. More than mad. Furious. But then his mind wandered to all the ways it could have ended. Visions of Patrick pushing him away, shoving him to the ground... it could have been so much worse.

  He’d let it go entirely, and was pretty much sound asleep when the buzzer woke him up. For Patrick to show up, obviously consumed by guilt about his own actions, that made it impossible for Andrew to stay mad. In fact, it was dangerously charming, and only the undeniable fact that Patrick was bombed had stopped Andrew from grabbing him and kissing him.