ieces together to not reveal any more of her more… manly components.
And then there was Summer. My dear, sweet, overly dramatic and pain in my ass Summer. She wore some ridiculous fishnet concoction that looked immaculately sloppy, like she’d spent hours poring over it to look purposefully like a hooker. Knowing her, she probably had. She was a nineteen-year-old college student named Tristan in her real life, and I was sure he would be kind and sweet with whatever he did with his life, but as Summer, the need I felt to bitchslap her rose more and more every day. I didn’t know how much longer I’d be able to take it. She was good at what she did, mostly, but she refused to take any kind of advice or direction and most certainly didn’t want a drag mother hanging over her. Not that I’d ever do that for her. I didn’t want to be responsible for her murder, after all.
Georgia looked over at me with a frown. “Thank Christ you’re here. Get that cunt under control before I tear off her wig and shove it up her ass.”
Georgia was an old queen who didn’t take shit from anyone. She was amazing.
Crystal was standing in front of Summer, who was wailing about how she couldn’t do this, about how nervous she was, and that she’d be alone forever, she would never find a man, and she had an Econ exam she was sure she’d failed, and her professor hated her, that cunt, she was just jealous because Summer looked better in Uggs than that skank ever would, and she hadn’t had time to perfect her routine and all those boys were going to laugh at her, but she’d show them, she’d come out stronger than ever and everyone would love her if they only gave her a chance—
I didn’t have time for her shit. I had a show to put on, a routine to perform, a Captain America wannabe to ignore, and a best friend to murder for inviting said Captain America wannabe to my brunch, which was supposed to be a safe space.
“Listen here, you silly little bitch,” I snapped. “We don’t have time for you to pretend there are cameras following your every move. Stop your fucking nonsense before I rip out your falsies and choke you with them.”
Summer ceased at once. Regardless of what else she did, she certainly knew when I was this close to following through on my threats.
“Now, I don’t care what your problems are outside of this room. You are here, I hired you to be here, and you fucking focus. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Helena,” she said with a watery sniff, though miraculously, her eyes were dry. “And I know my routine. I promise.”
“I know you do,” I said. “You’re good at what you do. Now if only you talked less, everything would be well and the world would be a better place. Now, Georgia, you’re up after me. Then Summer. Then me. Then Crystal and then the finale with all four of us looking fierce and phenomenal. There will be no deviation. This show will go off perfectly as it always has. Are we clear?”
“Yes,” the queens said.
“Good,” I said. “And what do I always say?”
They all spoke as one. “If I ever catch you performing ‘Let It Go’ from Frozen, I’ll castrate you and feed your dicks to some horses. That song is overplayed and no drag queen should ever perform it ever again anywhere ever.”
I clapped my hands together. “Isn’t this just so much fun?”
I TOOK a breath and waited for the DJ to announce my name.
The shots were doing their job. I felt loose. I felt good.
I took another breath and held it, letting it out slowly. Tyson the little twinkie boy had taught me his art of breathing, and I was surprised by how much it’d helped me.
I always felt nerves before a show, a low, underlying current that was almost soothing in its regularity. Vaguyna had told me that any queen worth her salt still felt nervous, because that meant she was still in it to impress. It was the moment you stopped being nervous, she said, that it was time to hang up your wig.
“And now, ladies and gentleman, Jack It is proud to present the fiercest bitch in the Wild West, her majesty, the Queen, Helena Handbasket!”
The curtains parted.
The crowd roared.
The nerves melted away as the familiar beats of a Britney remix poured from the speakers. The bass reverberated down the walls and through the floor, vibrating up into my skin.
I knew this routine like the back of my hand. Some people see a performance by a drag queen and think it’s nothing but a man dressed as a woman, lip-synching along with a random and forgettable pop trash. And maybe those people were right, at least partially.
Because I was dressed as a woman. I was lip-synching pop trash.
But I was doing so much more than that.
For everything a person did see, for every deliberate step I took, each slink and slide of skin, there were hours upon hours spent choreographing and learning in front of a mirror, listening to the same songs over and over again. It started off with an idea of what each number was meant to convey, the music and choreography following after.
Tonight, I was fucking Britney, bitch.
The crowd screamed for me when I dropped into the splits. I bounced once, twice, three times, ignoring the twinge in the back of my right thigh, the thin sheen of sweat I could feel above my lip. I bounced up again, and swung the leg facing front back up under me, resting back on the balls of my feet, my hands splayed out at my sides. The beat changed and I rocked forward, hands to the ground, crawling down the center of the dance floor, the crowd gathered on either side of me. The floor was sticky and I had to keep from grimacing, locking that cocky fuck-you smirk on my face. I was going to chew Mike out later. It was his fucking bar, but I brought in the money. He needed to keep it clean.
The music changed again and I stood, dropping out of the routine. Men and woman on either side of me held out money, ones and fives, and I grinned at them as I took the bills into my hand. I wasn’t paid for what I did, not by the bar. I donated my time and energy, putting together the show for free. I spent my own money on the costumes, the wigs, and the makeup. I scavenged the thrift stores, looking for vintage this and sequined that.