Chapter 2

The Evils Of Whiskey And Twinks

 

 

“WOULD you hand me that tape there so I can tuck my penis and testicles back to give the illusion that I’m a woman?” my best friend Sandy asked, just to fuck with me. He was already in full makeup, the fierce red eye shadow and blush spreading around his eyes, like a wild mask, that he always wore when he was doing his Lady Gaga numbers.

“I still don’t get how you can push all your junk back like that,” I said with a shudder, handing him the double-sided tape. “Balls weren’t meant to get squished like that.”

“They’re squishy by nature,” he pointed out, pulling off a piece of the tape and shoving his hands down his loose boxers. A grimace came over his face as he twisted his hands, and I had to look away before I felt sympathy pains.

We were sitting in the upstairs dressing room of Jack It, one of the few gay bars we have in Tucson. And out of the three or four bars we do have, Jack It is the only one with a dance floor, though I don’t really dance. There’s a major difference between dancing at home in your underwear, and then dancing at a gay bar with all the go-go boys in their underwear. It’s enough to make a man feel self-conscious. Trust me.

Sanford Stewart, the man doing evil things to his boy parts, is pretty much the best friend I have in the entire world. He’s a skinny thing, but tall, over six feet. One might look at him as a man and not see anything remarkable. His blonde hair is just yellow enough to be flat-looking. His brown eyes are chocolate left out in the sun. He’s cute, but in that almost immediately forgettable kind of way. He could stand to gain at least twenty pounds. I tell him all the time he needs to eat more and he says he will if I will. He thinks I look good just the way I am, even though my ego won’t let me believe it.

I think he’s beautiful no matter what he looks like, but most don’t, for whatever reason. As a man, he’s perfect in my eyes.

But when he’s in full-on drag as Helena Handbasket? Holy fireworks, Batman.

There’s no one in this entire fucking town that can hold a candle to her when she’s performing (notice the pronoun switch: when he’s Sandy, he’s a “he”; when she’s in full drag, she’s a “she.” Queens can get vicious if you don’t respect the pronouns). Helena Handbasket is an absolute legend in Arizona, with a reputation starting to grow around the country as well. She’s been asked to perform at a few pride events outside the state, and next year, she’s considering competing in Miss Gay USA.

What’s funny about Sandy is that when he is Sandy, he’s quiet and unassuming. He sometimes stutters over his words and he can be shy, almost as much as I am. He tends to watch people rather than contributing to conversation. Some might think him cold, but he’s really just listening. When he does speak, his words are carefully chosen. We grew up together, and when we got old enough, he dragged me into the gay bar scene, even though I would have rather had bamboo shunts shoved under my fingernails than be in a large group of people. He said it would be good for the both of us, though there were plenty of times we ended up as wallflowers—standing and not speaking much while sucking down vodka cranberries.

But when she’s Helena Handbasket? Holy. Shit. When she’s in full-on drag, you would swear to God she is the biggest fucking diva in the history of the world. Her costumes are completely outrageous, and a testament to the amount of time we spent pawing through thrift stores and the fact that he’s a wiz with a sewing machine.

She moves with the fluid grace of a trained dancer and can lip-synch with the best of them, but it’s her trademarked snarl, as she tears through her routines, that sets her apart. Sandy Stewart might be a quiet twenty-nine-year-old man, but Helena is a hard-core bitch who doesn’t take shit from anyone. It took me a bit to get used to the whole split-personality thing that most drag queens seem to have, but once I did I never looked back.

You’re probably wondering if Sandy and I were ever anything more than best friends. Eh. For maybe, like, two seconds. We got drunk one night at his old apartment and started making out, which somehow led to all of our clothes on the floor. When we realized that we were both bottoms, and didn’t feel like bumping assholes, we decided we were better best friends than boyfriends. Sandy’s brutally protective of me. Everyone knows not to mess with Helena’s “bitch boy,” as he calls me affectionately. Bastard. He’s all class, that one.

Even when he’s reaching to tape his balls to his taint.

“I don’t know why I watch every time you do that,” I said to him. “You look like you’re trying to fist yourself and it’s not going too well.”

He gave a little huff. “It’s the most unladylike thing about becoming a lady,” he said, giving his wrist a little twist.

“It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again,” I intoned.

“That stopped being funny the first thousand times you said it,” he grumbled at me. “Keep saying it and I will put you in a hole in my basement.”

“You don’t have a basement,” I said, trying to smooth out the feathers on the boa he wore during his opening number.

“I’ll dig one,” he promised. “Lace me, please.”

He turned, the white skin of his slender back facing me. I slid my fingers through the ties of the corset, pulling them tight, cinching each one up tight like I knew he liked. It helped create the illusion of cleavage so he wouldn’t have to wear falsies in this outfit. Once he added a little blush to his chest for shadowing effect, it’d look like he was rocking some knockers.

“You going to come down and watch?” he murmured, then looked in the mirror to fix the makeup around his eyes.

I sighed. “Not tonight,” I said quietly. “I’ll just stay up here and watch your show, okay?” I didn’t want to go down and mingle with all the hot boys and men who wouldn’t even look at me twice. If you ever want to find out if you’re attractive or not, go to a gay bar. Within the first five minutes of walking in on a busy night, trust me, you’ll know whether you’re hot. I was one of those that could slip through the crowd without anyone trying to stop me by grabbing my ass, or smiling wickedly and asking if they could buy me a drink. The only reason anyone ever looked at me is because of Helena.

Oh, man. I sound way bitter. I’m not, I promise. It’s just how things are. I don’t question them anymore. I just don’t like being reminded of it constantly. The only reason I went to Jack It as much as I did was because Helena performed on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

He sighed too, but it sounded sharp with exasperation, and I knew “he” was slipping into “she.” Sandy took my shit for the most part. Helena thought I was an idiot. “You know,” she said (yes, definitely she by the tone of her voice), “the more you hide out up here, the less you’ll be seen.”

“That’s kind of the point,” I reminded her, finishing with the corset.

Helena glared at me in the reflection of the mirror as she handed me a makeup brush to put a bit of glitter on her shoulders. “That’s not the point,” she growled at me, her voice going low and throaty. Yep. Helena was here. “How many times do I have to tell you that you are perfect just the way you are?”

I fought against the need to roll my eyes. “You’re a bit biased,” I reminded her, making sure her shoulders sparkled beautifully. She’d look like a disco ball with fabulous legs by the time I was finished. “You going to open with ‘Poker Face’?”

She wasn’t fooled by my feeble attempt to distract her. “Two songs,” she said. “Come down for two songs. Stand amongst the other boys and girls and let yourself feel like you’re a part of something instead of staying up here in your tower.”

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.”

“Be serious for one damn minute,” she snapped at me, eyes blazing. She was pissed at my evasiveness yet again.

“What do you want me to say?” I asked, trying not to sound hurt.

“Other shoulder, please,” she said. I move to her other side. “I want you to say that you’ll try. I want you to say that you’ll do something different. I want you to say that you’ll allow yourself to take a chance.” She leaned forward to wipe away a smudge of mascara clumped in the corner of her eye. “You’re not getting any younger, Paul. As a matter of fact, on today of all days, I would think you’d want to turn over a new leaf.”

I scowled at her, not bothering to reply. I don’t even want to think about today, but once Helena Handbasket got going, it was best to keep your mouth shut or she’d trample all over you. I learned that the hard way. Repeatedly.

Her eyes soften in the mirror. “Honey, I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” I say, trying to sound convincing. “I have you and Wheels. My parents are still alive. My grandmother made a deal with the devil, so she’s still alive. I have a job and my own house. My car is paid off. What more could a guy ask for?”

“Hope,” Helena Handbasket said. “You could ask for some hope.”

Ew. Gross.

I rolled my eyes. “You just after-school-specialed all over my face.”

“Someone has to,” she retorted. “Nothing else is going all over your face.”

“You don’t think that’s hot, do you?” I asked, stepping back, making sure her shoulders shone evenly.

“What? Spunk on your face?”

“Yeah. I know it’s supposed to be pornographically hot, but isn’t there just something kind of gross about getting frosted like that?”

Helena leaned forward to fix her false eyelashes in the mirror. “Ruins my makeup,” she muttered. “Those queen chasers think its sooo hot to see my makeup run when they nut on me. It gets them off even more, for some reason. I can’t stand it.”

“But you do it?”

She shrugged tightly. “Might as well. Helena likes herself some cock.”

And that right there was another difference between my best friend and his alter ego. Sandy wasn’t the type to let a guy nut on his face (sorry for the overuse of the word “nut”; “ejaculation” makes it sound so clinical). As a matter of fact, I don’t think Sandy has ever had a guy do that to him while he’s Sandy. Sandy’s more like me than Helena is, although since Helena would do things that Sandy wouldn’t even consider, I don’t think that can be considered hypocritical. You can’t call a drag queen hypocritical because they have two different personalities. It’s like Clark Kent becoming Superman. Except a whole lot gayer. Okay, actually, now that I think about it, it’s probably like Clark Kent becoming Superman and then going into the phone booth and stepping out as Wonder Woman. That’s pretty damn gay.

Oh, by the way, I might also be a comic book nerd, for those of you keeping score of just how cool I am.

Anyway, Sandy wouldn’t ever do that, but Helena? I can say with no reservations that Helena is a whore. For some reason, whenever Dr. Jekyll turns into Mrs. Hyde, the gloves come off (and then, if we’re speaking honestly, the rubber gloves get pulled on; apparently Helena is very kinky that way). There are some guys, the queen chasers, that while still gay/bi/whatever, love to see lipstick marks around their dicks. And who else can provide such a service but a drag queen who has lipstick colors named things like “Dick Lip Red” and “Prussian Blue Balls”?

The queen chasers understand that queens like Helena aren’t exactly women, but for some reason their kink is to see her as one. Apparently there are quite a few married men out there who want to get their rocks off with an illusion. To each their own, I guess. Helena doesn’t talk about it a whole lot, and I try not to ask.

“Yeah, well, you can have some cock for the both of us,” I told her. “I’m fine just the way things are.”

“I know you are,” she snapped. “And that’s the problem. You’ve become complacent. Stuck in your routine.”

“This whole tough-love thing is kind of hard to take seriously when you just taped your balls back in front of me,” I said.

Helena stood up and gave herself one last look over. “Go ahead, Paul. Make jokes. Brush it off like you always do. But deep down, you know I’m right. I harp on you because I love you and I worry. I don’t want to see you alone and full of regret after having wasted your life by shying away from the chances you could have taken.”

“How could I possibly be alone?” I asked her quietly as I tried to look away. “I’ve got you.”

She looked at me in the mirror for a moment before turning her sad, expertly sparkled eyes to me. She stayed rooted where she was, but leaned forward and kissed me gently on the cheek. I knew she’d left the perfect imprint of lips there, like she was Marilyn Monroe and the most perfect specimen of womanhood ever. “And you will always have me,” she whispered in a throaty voice. “I love you, baby doll.”

I grinned at her. “I love you too.” And I did. I do.

“How does Momma look?” She stood up straight and preened and posed in front of me.

“Like the hottest, most fiercest thing to ever walk the face of the earth,” I told her in all seriousness. “There was never one more beautiful than you.”

“You’re too good to me,” she breathed dramatically. “What would I ever do without you?”

“Find another homo to stroke your ego?”

“No one strokes me like you do,” she purred. “You sure I can’t convince you to come down?”

I shook my head. “I’ll just stay up here with Charlie.” Charlie heard his name mentioned and grunted at us. He’s the old guy who handles the spotlight and video camera for the drag performances. “You’ll be my boyfriend for tonight, won’t you, Daddy?” I called over to him.

“Whatever you say, boy,” he rumbled at me without even looking. We all think he used to be some big Tom of Finland leather queen back in the day, though no one knows for sure. He’s got to be in his seventies or eighties now, but you can still see the striking big man buried under all that saggy skin. I’m one of the few people who can get away with calling him Daddy. There’s nothing sexual about it; I just think it makes him feel better. I do what I can for the elderly.

“Did you hear that?” I whispered to Helena. “He called me ‘boy’ again. Maybe this will be the start to our beautiful D/s relationship and I’ll call him Master or Sir and we’ll live out the rest of our sadomasochistic days together in perfect fisting harmony. My asshole is all aquiver just thinking about it.”

Helena gave a very unladylike snort. “Yeah, I remember when you thought the Dom/sub route was going to be your next big thing. That leather daddy bent you over his knee to give you your first spanking, and you tried to lecture him with statistics on domestic abuse in Arizona.”

I scowled. “It’s not my fault he misinterpreted my intentions. I just wanted to get tied up for a bit. How was I to know he was going to go all hard core the first time around?”

“Oh, darling,” she sighed. “If spanking is hard core to you, then it’s probably a good idea he didn’t introduce you to a cock cage to start out with.”

“I don’t even want to know what that is,” I assured her, even though I kind of did. A cage? For your cock? Like it was some sort of chicken?

“Helena, you’re up in two,” Charlie called over his shoulder.

“Showtime,” she said as she took a deep breath.

“Break a falsie.”

She flashed me a wicked grin before she headed down the stairs.

I listened to make sure there was no thump thump thump, the telltale sign of a drag queen in high heels falling down the stairs. There wasn’t, so I moved to the balcony that overlooked the dance floor and stage and sat down next to Charlie.

“You going to need that spanking, boy?” he asked me with a twitch to his lips.

“Oh, Daddy,” I said as I blushed.

Moments later, she took the stage and the show was on. I’m sure you’re thinking that if you’ve seen even one drag queen perform Lady Gaga before, then you know what to expect. But it’s not even close. There’s just something about Helena that forces you to watch her work the stage and the runway, stealing kisses in exchange for dollar bills. Drag is not an easy thing to do, especially if you’re an athletic performer like Helena. It’s more than just strutting about and lip-syncing. It’s art. It’s performance. And, in the case of my best friend, it’s also gymnastics, and I winced slightly as she did a cartwheel and then fell into a full-on split during the middle of “Poker Face.” Of course, the crowd went wild, and I was probably the only one worried about her balls. But, as the best friend, if I didn’t worry about them, then who would?

Even though I’d seen her perform this same routine countless times, it never got old, and I watched with rapt attention, anticipating the next steps in my head. Okay, front kick. Land. Twirl. Give some sass. Give some sass. Give some sass. Walk away, walk away, and sexy pose! Two. Three. Four. And, as always, she executed it flawlessly.

But then, the funniest little thing happened.

“Poker Face” segued into another diva with the words, “It’s Britney, bitch,” and the crowd screamed its usual roar of approval. I clapped quietly, not wanting to interfere with the sound on the video camera, knowing that Sandy would watch the recording with a hawk’s eye, wanting to point out all the little mistakes he felt Helena had made (and he would, too; no one was harder on Helena than Sandy). I sat back and got ready for her Britney routine (sans all the head-shaving crazy. Dear Britney: thank you for taking your super fun-time medicine now. Love, the gay community) when I felt a curious thing.

You know that prickly feeling you get when you just know someone is watching you? I’ve often wondered how we can know this. Is it like some sixth sense kind of thing? Or are our bodies so in tune with each other’s that we can pick up on actual heat in a gaze? I don’t know. I can’t explain it. I may never know.

What I can say is that I got that prickling sensation—that slightly odd feeling of being watched. I pushed it away, knowing it was probably just people down below glancing up at Charlie and me, wondering who the VIPs were and why we got to sit where we did. I focused back on Helena.

But it wouldn’t… go… the fuck… away. I was starting to get slightly annoyed and maybe even a little uncomfortable. It’s probably nothing, I told myself. Probably nothing at all. But I couldn’t get that feeling to leave, so finally, inevitably, I looked down to the crowd and saw him.

Oh sweat balls, I thought.

Standing near the wall, surrounded by what looked like a group of total fratty jockish dudes, was a man. A very fine man. He looked a few years younger than me, with brown hair that fell all over his head in an artfully messy way that looked like he might have just rolled out of bed, but you knew was done on purpose. He had thick, pretty lips that were made for sin, stretching into a delicious smile that showed even teeth. Dimples. Fuck me up, we have dimples! Deep, deep dimples that I wanted to put my tongue into. I blushed a fire red, but I didn’t stop my depraved up and down assessment.

Tight white T-shirt pulled against a strong chest, the sleeves of which strained against his meaty biceps. Since he was standing against the wall, I couldn’t see his ass, and I was slightly disappointed, as I am an ass man through and through. But I could see his front, and I have no shame in admitting that I checked out his package, what little I could see given the fact that strobe lights were going off and there was a moderately large lesbian with a mustache blocking part of my view. Move your labianical ass! I wanted to scream at her, but somehow I was able to fight the words back. After all, one does not scream at lesbians in Doc Martens unless one wants to receive a penis kicking.

And so I let my gaze rise back up until I locked eyes with the man I’d already dubbed Mr. Yes Please. I couldn’t tell what color his eyes were, but I pretended they would be green, the sharpest of all emerald greens. I couldn’t remember ever thinking that noses could be hot. But he had a hot nose. Made for… well, whatever sex things noses are made for.

His grin widened.

Dimplepalooza. Dimplefest. Dimplenator 3000.

He winked.

And then I realized that I was blatantly eye-fucking what had to be the hottest man of all time, to ever exist, anywhere, ever, and that I was still me. I was Paul Auster, slightly effeminate, slightly husky, very ordinary and boring and any other adjective I’ve already thrown at you. I was nothing, and it was like my Pavlovian conditioning had kicked in and he was my bell. One of his frat-jock buds said something to him and he looked away for just a split second, but it was enough to break whatever spell he’d tried to cast over me like a level-thirty warlock hell-bent on getting my Crystal of Zyanthia. But then the fact that I’d just compared him to a level-thirty warlock hell-bent on getting my Crystal of Zyanthia caused me to hyperventilate a bit further, knowing that he was so far out of my league that it wasn’t even funny. I didn’t date guys who had veins bulging out of their arm muscles. I didn’t date guys who had muscles. I didn’t date!

Then I recognized this for what it was, that I’d totally misconstrued the whole look. It was just one of those things where we’d looked at each other at the same time and he was being polite while I drooled all over him from afar. He probably gets people falling over him all the time, I thought. He’s probably used to humanity begging to suck on his dimples, so he was just letting me enjoy the moment of being able to bask in the awesomeness that is him.

Or maybe he wasn’t even looking at me. Maybe he was grinning and winking at Charlie. Or the ceiling. Or maybe he wasn’t grinning and winking at all, and it was just a facial tic brought on by having a slightly chubby man practically ovulating right in front of him. Take my fictitious eggs! I wanted to bellow at him. I will carry all your babies to full term!

He wasn’t looking at you, I told myself. And even if he was, it meant nothing.

But then that heated sensation into the side of my head was back.

I refused to look.

For three seconds. Then in a performance that would have made Daniel Day-Lewis proud, I stretched, popping my back, yawning and all the while squinting my eyes partially shut. Once I was in mid-stretch/pop/yawn/squint, I looked down briefly and saw that Mr. Yes Please was watching me yet again. He’s probably just wondering how big my nipples are, I thought as I continued what undoubtedly had to be the longest stretch/pop/yawn/squint ever. He probably thinks that I’m quarantined up here because I’ve got the biggest nipples in the world. If he even can spell quarantined. He might be hot, but he’s probably dumber than a box of rocks covered in cocaine. Ha, ha! Crack rocks. I’m funny as shit. Why am I still stretching?

So I stopped stretching, but Charlie must have seen what was going on because he started making a weird chuffing/grumbling noise he made when he thought something was really funny. I glared at him. “Real smooth, boy,” he said as he chuffed/grumbled, somehow able to move the spotlight perfectly over Helena as she prowled the floor even though he was watching me. “Don’t let anyone tell you that you don’t have game.”

“Shut up, Daddy,” I groused.

I looked down again, and Mr. Yes Please was laughing silently up at me, but for some reason, I got the feeling he wasn’t laughing at me as much as he was laughing at my blatant disregard for subtlety. I blushed again and looked away, determined to watch Helena perform and not watch the hotness watching me for some damn reason.

It almost worked.

Of course I gave him a quick glance every now and then. Okay, it was more like every few seconds. With how much my head was going back and forth between him and Helena, you would have thought that I was trying to dance really awfully along with the music. Sometimes he was looking at me, other times he was laughing with his perfectly perfect friends. Once or twice, our gazes locked and clashed and my breath caught in my throat and I had to tear my gaze away before I jumped on him from the second floor and demanded that he take me right there.

Halfway through Helena’s set, one of the shirtless twinkie barbacks walked by him carrying a tray. Mr. Yes Please stopped him and spoke with him. The twinkie (Eric was his name, stupid perfect little twinkie Eric) started to put a little sex in his pose. His jeans hung low on his hips, so low that it was obvious he was circumcised. His tanned skin glittered wondrously in the strobe lights. Mr. Yes Please laughed at something Eric said, and Eric reached out and playfully gripped Mr. Yes Please’s large bicep.

It was about that time that I pulled out my phone and googled how much time you got in prison for premeditated murder in the state of Arizona, all the while watching Eric out of the corner of my eye getting so close that I’m sure his normal-sized nipples were rubbing up against Mr. Yes Please. Google told me it was twenty-five years to life, and I weighed my options. I knew if I ended up in prison I’d just need to find the biggest, baddest guy in there and immediately become his bitch so that I wouldn’t get shanked or shivved by some guy named Boisterous Frankie. But at least the twink would have felt my wrath.

On the other hand, I could avoid prison altogether instead of getting oddly jealous over Eric touching a guy who I hadn’t even known existed less than ten minutes ago.

I was still debating this when someone said, “Paul,” right next to my ear.

I jumped. I turned and saw Eric standing right next to me. “You bitch,” I hissed at him, unable to stop myself. I glanced down at the floor and saw Mr. Yes Please watching us. Did he send Eric up here to tell me to stop staring at him like a crazy person? Well, then, I will send Eric down with a message back saying that the only reason I was staring at him was because I was wondering where one bought steroids because muscles that big are gross. Sort of.

Eric didn’t seem to hear me slander him, or maybe he was just used to it and tuned it out. “Compliments of the guy downstairs,” he said, handing me a shot of something from his tray. “Who the hell is he?” You could tell what he really wanted to say was how the hell did you pull this off?

I stared at the shot glass, confused.

“You gonna take this, Paul?” Eric asked. “Seems like a waste, given how hot the guy is. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it.” He smiled an evil smile. “And then I’ll go back down and thank him properly, if you know what I mean.”

“He would, too,” Charlie huffed. “Eric’s ass is so loose it sounds like wind blowing over a cave entrance when he walks.”

“Oh, Daddy,” I said, laughing.

Eric didn’t think it was funny. In the slightest. He sort of huffed and thrust the drink in my hand, spilling a bit of it before turning and stomping back down the stairs. “He’s a bit bitchy today,” Charlie observed in that dry way he has.

“Maybe he found out he has crabs,” I said.

“That was last month,” Charlie said. “He needs to be a bit more careful, otherwise he’s going to wind up in a world of hurt.” There was affection in his voice, however. Charlie’s a big old softie, and I’m sure Eric looking the way he does helps that just a bit. Charlie’s not a creepy lecherous old man, but he does have eyes. “You going to drink that?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. “Seems someone fancies you.”

“This has to be a joke,” I grumbled. I look down to the floor below and saw Eric reach Mr. Yes Please. Eric made sure I was watching with a little glance over his shoulder and then leaned in far too close to Mr. Yes Please, giving him a bit of the old bump ’n grind, whispering something in his ear but nuzzling a bit too. I wanted to stand up and tell everyone that Eric apparently had crabs last month, but even I’m not that mean. Out loud, anyway. In my head, I’m the meanest bitch who ever walked the face of the earth.

What bugged me a little bit (even though it had no damn reason to) was that Mr. Yes Please didn’t exactly seem to be pulling away from Eric. He even seemed to be smiling a bit to himself as Eric fucked the air around him with his mouth, the dimples flashing in the strobe light. His friends over his shoulder were grinning at the two of them and whispering to each other, obviously sure that Eric was going to get down on his knees and blow Mr. Yes Please right there.

“He’s a big fat slut,” Charlie told me, obviously not missing a thing. He reached over and patted me on the shoulder as Helena stood in one place and did this pretty little twirl.

“Shouldn’t your eyesight be failing by now?” I asked him, watching as Eric did a little twirl of his own, pressing his ass up against Mr. Yes Please’s crotch, bending over and then grinding against him as he held the tray perfectly level. Mr. Yes Please stared down at him, not touching him, but not junk-punching him either. People began to give them room, backing out of the way as Eric worked his whore magic. Mr. Yes Please glanced up at me, an undecipherable look on his face.

“Cheers, Daddy,” I said to Charlie, raising the glass to Mr. Yes Please and knocking back the shot before I even tasted what it is.

And as it hit my tongue, I realized it was whiskey.

I can’t stand whiskey. Makes me sick. Makes me feel gross. Can’t stomach it.

Which is why my throat closed up.

Which is why I spit it out of my mouth, forgetting I was on the balcony.

Which is how it sprayed off the balcony.

Which is why it landed right on Eric’s head, splashing a bit onto Mr. Yes Please.

Even though it was an accident, I couldn’t have planned that better had I done it on purpose.

Most people didn’t even notice, their attention still on Helena Handbasket, who was doing this awesome backflip thing, pressing her feet up against the wall. But Eric sure as fuck noticed, snapping back up and glaring at me. Mr. Yes Please had the weirdest look on his face as he watched me, as if he couldn’t decide if I was awesome or the grossest thing he’d ever seen. Charlie was busting up laughing, obviously not caring if it messed up the sound on the tape still recording.

And what about me, you ask?

I was fucking mortified.

I tried to sink down into my seat, my face going as red as it’d ever been. I really wanted to run down the stairs and get the hell out of here, but the stairs curved around and the door to the dance floor was right near where Mr. Yes Please and Eric stood. I decided in that moment that I was never going to leave the balcony ever again and that I would live up here for the rest of my days. People would come from everywhere to see the Gay Who Wouldn’t Leave Because He Couldn’t Handle His Alcohol And Spit It Onto A Stupid Slutty Twink. There would be lines to take my picture as I roamed the balcony, bemoaning my apparent lack of any kind of social skills.

But then the crowd roared as Helena Handbasket did her big finish (the one where she did this creepy/sexy upside-down crab-walk thing down the middle of the runway, all the while thrusting her taped junk toward the ceiling in writhing time with the music). I turned my attention back to my best friend and clapped meekly, praying that she would feel like staying up here for a bit before we went back downstairs.

But then I saw her glance up at me with a determined look on her face and I knew I was fucked.

“She wouldn’t dare,” I said to no one in particular.

“Wouldn’t dare what?” Charlie said innocently.

“Daddy, what did she do?” I snapped at him.

He shrugged annoyingly. I looked ahead, horrified at what was about to happen. My secret shame. She wouldn’t fucking dare.

Someone handed her a microphone. “How you bitches doing tonight?” she shouted, panting slightly from all the exertion.

The crowd roared back.

She smiled beautifully. “Oh, my lovelies. You are all so wonderful.” Her face dropped into a sneer as she looked at a guy up front. “Except for you, honey,” she said with faux disdain. “You were just sad and pathetic and just sat there. Kind of like you did last night too.”

The crowd laughed. The guy she was picking on blushed and shook his head ruefully, in on the joke.

There was still time. I could still run. I just needed to—

“Oh no, you don’t,” Charlie said as he grabbed my arm and pulled me back into the seat. “You keep your ass right where it is until you are told otherwise.”

“But, Daddy,” I said, my whine coming from a panicky place. It did not sound cute at all.

“But, pretty boys and voluptuous girls,” Helena said, “there is one thing left before we clear to dance our asses off for the rest of the night. Isn’t that right, Charlie?”

“That’s right, Helena,” he said, pulling the microphone out of thin air, still holding me back. Every single goddamn person in the room turned to look up at us. Including Mr. Yes Please. I tried not to look at him. “One thing left, though you might want to hurry because he’s starting to get a bit… fidgety.”

“Oooooh,” Helena moaned into the mike, playing it up. “Just the way I like him.” She licked the microphone and the crowd hooted at her. “Boys and girls,” she said, “today is a very, very special day. Do you see that delicious hunk of man sitting next to Charlie up there? That is my very best friend in all the world. And do you know what today is?” She grinned up at me, all teeth.

“Oh, you skank,” I mumbled. Mr. Yes Please was staring at me again, a serious look in his eyes, Eric seemingly forgotten. I blushed even further as another spotlight turned on me. It was bright. I was sweating and turning red. So not attractive.

“It’s his thirtieth birthday!” Helena shouted. “Paul, get your hot ass down here!”

The crowd started cheering, really only because Helena told them to. Or maybe they were just that damn excited about my life being totally and completely over, given that I was now the oldest thing in the world. I thought again about making a run for it—screw Mr. Yes Please; he wouldn’t want a geriatric specimen such as me, anyway—but even before I could get to my feet and hightail it the fuck out, Charlie grabbed my arm. “Oh no, you don’t,” he growled at me in the deep, manly man voice of his. “Helena went to a lot of work to keep this secret, and I’m not going to let that go to waste. I’m getting pretty tired of seeing you standing in the shadows, boy. You deserve to be up in front of everyone so they can all see the real you.”

“Now you’re after-school-specialing all over my face,” I said weakly, still hearing the cheers from below.

He chuckled. “Once upon a time that may have been so, but I’m just an old fart now.” But then his gaze grew steely and I shivered a bit. “However,” he said grimly, “I’m not too old to put you over my lap to give you the spanking you deserve if you don’t get your butt down there now.” And as if on cue, two shirtless barbacks appeared (thankfully, neither were Eric; I’m pretty sure he wanted to scratch my eyes out). They grinned down at me with grins that almost made me think I was about to get a hand job, but instead they grabbed me by the arms. I gave a very unmanly squawk as I was pulled down the stairs, Charlie calling after me that I’d better be a good boy or I’d answer to him later.

Before I knew it, I was down the stairs and out into the crowd, which parted in front of me as if commanded. Everyone was still clapping and hollering at me, and I couldn’t help but think I was about to be sacrificed so all the gays could keep their ethereal beauty. I realized I’d probably seen Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom one too many times when I saw Helena standing on the stage, and I expected her to reach for my heart and start chanting, “Kali-maaaaa! Kali-maaaaaa!”

But that was all completely forgotten for one brief, shining moment when I saw him.

As I was being dragged down the middle of the gay bar by two shirtless hunks (Oh, the things that happen to me, I thought to myself), I scanned the crowd frantically, trying to find a sympathetic face who’d help me escape my capture and flee with me. All I saw, for the most part, were drunken grins staring back at me, happy and wide. No one looked like they had my weapons of choice on them (ninja stars and/or nunchucks—don’t ask), so I figured my escape could only be accomplished by sheer force of will and hand-to-hand combat. Since the last time I’d punched anything was a wall at work, after I accidentally tripped over my own feet and slammed into it with my fists, I figured fighting was out. I was about to offer each of the barbacks the seven dollars I had in my wallet (and, for some reason, an expired coupon for a loaf of bread; why I thought I needed the carbs at the time, I’ll never know. I felt like an old Jewish lady for having it there), but that all went far, far away when Mr. Yes Please became Mr. Right Fucking Now Please.

Our gazes locked again like it was meant to be. He was only about five feet away now, and even in the dark, I could see his eyes were a chocolate brown, just like his hair. He grinned at me, a smile I thought was for me and only me, even as stupid twinkie barback Eric tried to get his attention with his whiskey-wet hair. The dimples came out to play as everything disappeared around me, the noise of the crowd fading to nothing until it was just me and Mr. Right Fucking Now Please staring at each other like we were the only people in the world. I could hear my own breath in my ears and I saw his lips move slowly, forming a single word: “Paul.”

And, of course, I looked away. I had to. No one had ever looked at me like that before. It wasn’t real. I knew it wasn’t a real thing. It couldn’t be, at least not for me.

So I just pushed it away.

I was forced onto the stage, and while the cheers started to die down, Helena reached out and grabbed my hand and squeezed. Without moving her lips from that big, showgirl of a smile, she muttered, “On a scale of one to ten, how pissed are you?”

“Seventy-two,” I murmured back, trying to smile, but most likely looking like I was sneering. I have a weird smile. Oh, and I’m also not the most photogenic person in the world, so I’m sure all the photos that were being taken with phones and cameras would later need to be destroyed given how I probably looked like I was gassy and holding it in.

“Thank God it’s that low,” she said, her smile going wider. She raised the microphone again as one of the barbacks appeared with two more shots. They looked red, which meant they were probably fruity and I wouldn’t have to spit it out on Eric, though he deserved it for trying to crawl inside Dimples. The lights were in my eyes. “Okay, boys and girls,” Helena shouted into the mic as she handed me one of the shots. “You all know what to do! Ready? Haaaaaaaappy birthday to youuuuuuuuu….”

Is there anything more embarrassing or awkward than having “Happy Birthday” sung to you? Think about it. You’re the center of attention for fifteen to twenty seconds while people sing horribly off-key at your face (with some wit most likely adding in his or her own words to make the song even longer: “Happy birthday to you, cha, cha, cha”). What are you supposed to do during that time? Do you sit there with an idiotic grin on your face while people sing about the day you came out of your mother’s vagina? Do you look down at your hands? Do you sing along with them, only to realize it’s sort of dumb to sing “Happy birthday to me”? And don’t even get me started about the way people clap when it’s over and smile at each other, like they’re thinking what wonderful people they are for singing to you like that, like those fifteen to twenty seconds absolved them of all their sins.

So the entire bar sang to me and I stood up on the stage, looking like I had to fart. When it was finished, I was bright red and sweating like a roasted pig. My only consolation was the fact that I was able to take the entire shot down by the end. Helena thanked people for coming out to the show and the crowd began to disperse, giving way for the barbacks to clear the stage so it could be converted back to the dance floor.

“We love you!” a group of Muscle Maries told Helena.

“Thank you, baby dolls,” was her reply with a lascivious smirk.

“You bitch,” I told her once her adoring fans had gone out to the patio.

She snorted. “It wasn’t that bad, was it?” She grabbed my hand and started pulling me across the floor. I looked for the hot guy, but he was nowhere to be found. I knew I was sort of okay with that. He was probably out back with the rest of the crowd or at the bar. Hell, maybe he’d even left already with all his hot friends and they were going back to their frat to bang some hoes and brag about how they worked up the courage to go inside a gay bar. Whatever was going on with him couldn’t have been what I thought it was. I was just being stupid. Things didn’t work out like that for me.

“It was like you flung battery acid at my face,” I snarled at her as I followed her back up the stairs.

“You are such a drama queen,” she huffed. “It’s about fucking time something happened, and since you weren’t going to do it yourself, you left me no choice.”

“Meddlesome homo,” I muttered.

“Paul!” she snapped. She was a little pissed off, I could tell. Nobody can rage like a drag queen. “You need to come out of your shell or step into the light or whatever other clichéd metaphor you would like to use. It’s high time people got to see the real Paul Auster and love him for who he is.”

I knew I was being a bit of a whiny ass, and I knew, of course, that Helena only wanted good things for me, but I couldn’t help but feel attacked, pushed outside of my comfort zone without my consent. It rubbed me the wrong way. “I don’t want to,” I sulked. “I don’t care about stuff like that. Why can’t you accept that? I like the way things are. Besides, I’m pretty sure you are overestimating what would happen if I did what you asked. It’d probably be like expecting a beautiful butterfly to emerge from a cocoon, only to have it actually become a mentally disabled giraffe with eczema.”

Helena twitched her lips and I knew I almost had her. She’d break and laugh and hug me and tell me she loved me and then we’d go back to the way things were until the next time she got a bug up her ass. “Giraffe, hmmm?” she murmured.

“Mentally disabled,” I agreed. I leaned over and rubbed my nose against her cheek and hummed. She chuckled.

“What about that guy?” Charlie asked.

Helena reared back. “What guy?” she asked, looking suspiciously excited.

I whirled around and glared at Charlie. “I will put you in a retirement home and no one will visit you!” I hissed at him.

“What guy?” Helena barked.

“Some guy bought Paul here a shot and had Eric bring it up,” Charlie said casually, as if my threat meant nothing. Which it didn’t. “A very… fit-looking fellow.”

“Ouch,” I said, my feelings slightly hurt.

Charlie rolled his eyes. “That wasn’t a dig against you, boy. You need to stop thinking that everything is about you.”

“Ouch,” I said again, my feelings more hurt.

“Where is he?” Helena asked, looking down to the lower floor, where people were starting to trickle back in. “Seen him before?”

Charlie shook his head. “Fresh meat, I think. Was hanging out with Darren and his group.”

Helena looked at me, astonished. “You have a hunky jock wanting to jump your ball sac and you stayed up here?”

“He spit his shot down onto him,” Charlie said helpfully.

Helena was horrified. “You did what?” she shrieked at me, going all Xena: Warrior Lesbian on me.

“It was whiskey,” I said in my defense. “And it didn’t get on him. Mostly. It was all on Eric!”

“I think that boy gave me crabs,” Helena muttered, scratching herself obscenely.

“That’s who you were doing last month?” I said with a grimace. “Ew. Show some respect for yourself. It’s fun to have standards.”

“When was the last time you got laid?” she retorted. “Let’s go find this guy. I want to know who he is.”

I took a step back. “Uh.” I looked down at my hands and blushed, my shyness returning in full force. “No, thank you,” I mumbled.

“Paul,” she said, taking a menacing step forward in her red vinyl platform boots.

“Just drop it,” I said, not looking at her. “It wasn’t like that.”

“And how do you know that?”

I was getting mad again. Meaning I was getting whiny again. “Because guys like that don’t go for guys like me. It was a fluke. A joke. And even if it wasn’t, the lights probably played tricks on him, making him see something I’m not.”

“Paul….”

“No, Sandy,” I snapped at him, breaking one of the cardinal rules of drag: in costume, she is Helena and she is a lady. But I was too pissed to care. I could see through the makeup to the guy who’d been my best friend for as long as I could remember, and it was him I was pissed at. “I’m sick and tired of you trying to change me. Why can’t you just let me be? I like the way I am.” Okay, that last might have been a bit of a lie. “I’m sorry if you don’t, but that’s not my problem.”

His eyes flashed angrily at me, but then he seemed to deflate. “Oh, baby doll,” he said. “I think you are perfect just the way you are. I just want others to be able to see how perfect you are too.”

I refused to look at him.

“Go down with me?” he—she—asked quietly. “I’ll buy you a frou-frou drink that comes with an umbrella in it.”

“I think I’m going to stay up here for a bit,” I said. “Keep Charlie company.”

She sighed and stood up straight, becoming full-on queen and angry again. “Fine. You stay up here, locked in your fucking ivory princess tower. I’m done trying to help you.”

“I never asked for your help,” I reminded her. “You tried to do it anyway. If I’m so good the way I am, then why are you trying to help me do anything?”

She didn’t say another word and pushed past me, stomping down the stairs as loudly as she could. Even above the dance music that had started to play, I could hear the door slam.

“Boy…,” Charlie said, shaking his head.

“Not in the mood, Daddy,” I grumbled at him. I pulled my chair off to side and in the shadows so I could still see down onto the floor but no one could see me. Eventually, the floor filled again and people started dancing. Mr. Nice Thought While It Lasted came in with his friends. I couldn’t help but notice how he seemed to be looking for someone and would glance up at the balcony every now and then. I started to get this weird warm feeling in my stomach again, but it was gone the moment some big, muscley bear-looking dude came up and started rubbing up on him. He had a spark in his eye as Bear Dude leaned over and whispered something in his ear. He tipped his head back and laughed, and they started dancing all sexy-like, Bear Dude getting a nice handful of his ass as they moved. I looked away.

Charlie sighed but didn’t say a word.

Happy thirtieth birthday to me.