Drag Queen Beauty Pageant Page 2

  We stood just out of sight of the entrance, betting on our chances of getting in without being asked for identification.

  “Here,” Sue Ellen pulled out her hip flask and handed it to me. I raised it to my lips and took small sip. It burned and I made a face. But I wasn’t drinking it for the taste. I was drinking it for the effect. The light-headedness, the giddiness, the illicitness: it all doubled up on the already illicit thrill of going to a drag bar.

  Sue Ellen blew smoke and swigged from the flask. “You’re so tame, Anthony,” she sighed. “You know, right now I could be snorting coke up on Park Avenue with LaClaire Johnson and the rest of them.”

  I snorted with laughter. LaClaire Johnson was the Vice President of Student Council, which had run a high profile anti-drugs campaign the previous year.

  She shook her finger at me. “But instead I’m here with you, indulging in the analog pleasures of cigarettes and booze.”

  LaClaire Johnson was also the daughter of an insanely famous rap artist. Her white girlfriend, Manon Martin, the senior social queen and daughter of the French ambassador. There was Artie Goldstein, also white, the captain of our champion swim team, whose family was stinking rich. And his boyfriend, Naoya Yamazaki, the captain of our champion debate team, whose parents were somehow involved in the United Nations.

  “If you showed up at her house, LaClaire Johnson would put you to work with the kitchen staff,” I teased. Sue Ellen and LaClaire had once been in the same Recreational Cookery elective.

  “Yeah, alright, smart cheeks,” she flicked her cigarette butt at me and I leapt aside to dodge it. “They’re probably at an NYU lecture on lesbian critical theory or something. She and the rest of the Pink Mafia can live it up. We’re experiencing queer history at one of the original drag houses of New York."

  I laughed even though she hadn’t really made a joke. Sue Ellen could always cheer me up, even when I was thinking about how cool and glamorous and good-looking LaClaire and Manon and Artie and Naoya were.

  At that point, a crash startled us both. A door into the alley, which I hadn’t noticed before, had swung open so hard it rebounded against the brick wall.

  We both froze, looking at a man and woman who had just fallen out of the door and backed onto the wall on the opposite side of the alley. I stood there, staring, my mouth gaping open as they pressed up against the brick wall, kissing with a passion I had never witnessed in real life with my own eyes.

  They were about the same height, six feet or just under. He was skinny with short dark hair and I couldn’t tell if he was white or Asian. She was slender with long, curly black hair which flowed loose down her back.

  “Come on,” Sue Ellen hissed, dragging me away from the mouth of the alley. “Stop staring. Anthony!”

  I tried to push her off, embarrassed, but she didn’t stop until she got to the end of the line leading up to the door, and I couldn’t see the couple any more.

  My heart was racing and my entire body was tingling. I could feel all the hairs on the back of my neck and my arms standing up, so that I was strangely aware of where my shirt was touching my skin.

  I felt a sudden and urgent desire to turn around on the spot and run away, far away from this place and the people inside it.

  “There’s no way this is going to work,” I whispered to Sue Ellen. “We’re going to get into trouble!”

  “Just be cool,” Sue Ellen hissed. “You can’t get arrested for trying to get into a club.”

  When she reached the head of the line, the bouncer nodded, short and businesslike to Sue Ellen, and she slid into the dim space beyond the doorway without a backward glance.

  Then the bouncer’s eyes landed on my face. His eyes seemed to me as sharp as those of an eagle surveying the immensity of the landscape from its perch high on a craggy cliff.

  I met his eyes and tried not to blink.

  All I could think of was an eagle slowly raising its wings, flapping once, then plummeting into the canyon, heading straight for a tiny rodent with all the inevitability of a juggernaut bearing down on a tin can in the middle of the highway.

  Staring into his blue-gray eyes, I gave that rodent about the same chance of surviving intact as I gave the can: zero.

  Finally I looked away, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze any longer. He nodded, jerked his head toward the inside.

  “Go on,” he said, in a voice so gentle it jolted me. “Have fun.”

  Without another word or look I scampered inside, where Sue Ellen was waiting. When we got out of sight of the door we did do a little happy dance, immediately cut short when the next person in line followed us into the narrow hallway.

  I followed Sue Ellen through a black velvet curtain and felt a cavern open up within me, a huge space, so big that an eagle could soar and swoop through it in glorious flight and appear only as a tiny speck to an observer far away.

  Sue Ellen and I emerged into the club, into the throng of bodies, the scent of perfume, sweat and beer, the stage at the far end glowing misty purple, specks of light flung across walls and faces by the mirrored disco ball overhead.

  In that moment I felt like I had turned into the eagle, freefalling without knowing where I was going or why—but instead of realizing I was going to plummet to my death, I realized I could fly. I could fly and float on the air currents.

  “What do you want?” Sue Ellen asked, pulling me toward the bar.

  I pointed at the crowd gathered in front of the stage. “I can’t see a thing from here. It said the show starts at nine.”

  Sue Ellen rolled her eyes. “Jeez, you were so excited about this at school the other day.”

  “Well, I’m excited now.” I had a strange feeling about the upcoming performance. I needed to be as close to it as possible.

  “Okay, so you go,” Sue Ellen waved me off. “I’ll get two cranberry juices,” she patted her hip pocket and nodded knowingly.

  I couldn’t care less about the drinks and I felt a little annoyed by Sue Ellen’s insistence on drinking. I didn’t reply, letting her go to the bar and pushing my way through the crowd. It was mostly men. There were a few women dotted around, but they were a small minority.

  By the time I had pushed my way to the front of the stage, music was swelling.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” a smooth, deep voice intoned over the PA, “Miss Damaris Rae.”

  Then the curtains parted and she appeared. I think my heart stopped at that moment. Or maybe it was the world that stopped. Everything slowed like the final seconds before a car crash.

  It was the woman from the alley, the one with the long, curly black hair.

  Oh St Sebastian.

  The light refracted across her glittering gown as she approached and came to a stop in the center of the stage, right in front of me. She had huge, dark eyes, strong high cheekbones, a slender nose and very full lips.

  She’s absolutely beautiful.

  Her eyes stared out into the club, above my head, across the heads of the audience. The stage lights which lit up her face were so bright, they would have made anyone squint.

  But not her.

  Her gaze seemed to pierce right through and look beyond to some unknown place. It was like a staring match between the deer and the headlights, but I knew who would win this time.

  The alleyway flashed through my mind. Instead of the black-haired boy, I saw myself. I saw Damaris and me, mouths joined, her hands on my back, my neck.

  It was like a being struck by a bolt of lightning. I could feel her soft lips, hard teeth, the way it would feel when her tongue slipped into my mouth. I could feel her soft hair in my hands.

  I swallowed, in vain, because my mouth had gone dry. I had goose bumps all over my body and shivers running up and down the goose bumps like they were piano keys and someone was playing a glissando up and down my body.

  “Hey,” Sue Ellen elbowed me as she pushed through the tight crush of bodies and handed me a sweating plastic cup. “It’s her,” she commented. �
�From the alley. Isn’t it?”

  I nodded my head mutely, still shell-shocked by the image which had crashed into my head like a solid gold grand piano through rotten floorboards.

  I could feel all of that energy from the lightning bolt draining down into my groin and pooling hotly there. My face grew warm and I was grateful for the crowd and the darkness, to hide the sin growing in my jeans.

  I watched her, transfixed, for the next two numbers. Even when another drag artist joined her onstage, I didn’t look away. I had eyes only for her.

  Damaris. Damaris Rae.

  When the act ended, the stage cleared and the DJ music came back on. People started turning away from the stage and spreading out across the floorspace.

  “There must be a break,” Sue Ellen commented, swigging the last of her cranberry juice. “You didn’t drink any of yours,” she frowned at my cup. “I spiked it for you and everything!”

  I handed it to her. “You can have it,” I told her. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

  My little problem had thankfully gone away, but I still felt rattled and I wanted to calm down and just sit quietly for a few minutes. The sanctuary of the bathroom would offer that if nothing else.

  I made my way across the crowded room toward the sign indicating the bathrooms. I felt like people were trying to catch my eye as I went, but I managed to ignore them and make it through the door of the bathroom. I closed the door behind me with a sigh of relief.

  I took a deep, calming breath.

  Oh— I clapped my hand over my mouth. The air was thick with a rank, earthy odor. And there was something else, as well, another scent running alongside it—it smelled like—semen.

  Oh my god?!

  I wanted to be disgusted, and I was, but the smell had gone straight to the pit of my stomach and my eyes widened in horror as I realized the blood was rushing southward once more.

  People had clearly been having sex in this bathroom. Recently. Extremely recently.

  “Unnngghhhh—” a loud man’s groan emanated from the closed door of the toilet stall.

  Not just recently. Now.

  I backed away so fast my butt hit the door and I fumbled for the handle, suddenly fighting the desire to listen for what came next.

  My eyes bored into the closed stall door, as if it had X-ray powers that could penetrate through, my heart beating faster and faster as I flushed with arousal.

  At that moment, as if on cue, the door to the stall started rattling on its hinges with a rhythmic pounding and a man’s staccato moans filled the air.

  “Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh—”

  I wrenched the door of the bathroom open in utter terror and fled for the only safe place I could think of.

  The women’s bathroom was empty except for a Latinx who was applying lipstick at the mirror. She gave me the once-over and seemed to shrug before making her way out.

  I bent over the sink, breathing hard. Fuck.

  That was me, Anthony Alcantara, at the age of eighteen.

  I had only realized I was bisexual a year earlier, the only person in the world who knew was Sue Ellen, and I didn’t even know what to expect in the men’s bathroom in a gay bar.

  I had never been kissed.

  Fuck indeed.

  Several hours later, we were still there, sitting at the bar as the club started to empty out, because I refused to leave.

  “Anthony, I’m dying,” Sue Ellen paused as a yawn practically took her head off. “If I have to drink another virgin Cosmo I am going to turn back into one. And not the holy, immaculate kind, either. Please can we go. You can come back and stalk her later—”

  “Shut up!” I snapped. The Staff Only door had opened and a tall woman in a lavender gown slipped through into the club. It was her.

  My heart started to pound as she came closer. I felt so self-conscious in my little outfit I had chosen.

  I had on this starched white button down shirt and my school pants. The school pants because they were the only pants I had which fit snugly. Boys at school tried to get their uniforms made bigger, but the fit of the trousers was dictated by the student handbook, and slouchy pants would get you written up for uniform infraction.

  The button-down shirt was three or four years old and I used to wear it to church. Now it fit super-snugly and I rolled the too-short sleeves. I had left the top three buttons undone. That was my idea, at the time, of a provocative outfit.

  I had pinned onto the breast pocket of the shirt some pins which I had collected through various vintage store outings. One of them was a purple enamel heart pierced by an arrow. Another looked like a stop sign and read: BEWARE OF THE DYKE. Wearing them made me feel incredibly subversive and somehow, sexy.

  As she approached, I stared. I’m not proud to say that I did stare, openly, because I had never seen anyone like her before, neither so beautiful nor so unusual. She walked up to the bar and stood there, a few feet away, before she must have felt my eyes on her and she looked at me.

  I think she laughed.

  I looked like a little boy who had gotten very, very lost on his way home from Sunday mass. Or if you prefer a secular equivalent, a wayward miniature tax accountant.

  So I forgave her for laughing, just a little.

  I mean, I would forgive her anything.

  “Hi,” she said, after a moment, now definitely chuckling. I still hadn’t taken my eyes off her.

  “Hi,” I breathed. “I—um, I loved your—uh—“

  “Thanks,” she said easily, and then leaned forward. “How old are you, exactly?” She looked away from me as she accepted a drink from the bar staff. Apparently they knew what she liked.

  “I’m eighteen,” I said truthfully.

  “Uh-huh,” she said, her eyebrows flicking upward. “And I’m Michelle Obama.”

  “I’m eighteen, too” Sue Ellen piped up, leaning over the counter and sticking her hand out. “He just looks fourteen. He’s petite. He’s Anthony Alcantara. I’m Sue Ellen Filbert.”

  “Damaris,” Damaris replied, shaking Sue Ellen’s hand. “Damaris Rae.”

  “So you and Bone China are a couple?” Sue Ellen piped up.

  I nearly turned and smacked her upside the head.

  “He looks so different in drag,” Sue Ellen sipped her cranberry juice. “I mean, she is really stunning. But he looked cute as a boy, too, even though I couldn’t really see his face.”

  Damaris laughed. “Oh, sweetie,” she said, reaching out her hand and squeezing Sue Ellen’s arm. Drag queens don’t date other drag queens. We date big, sexy men,” she lifted her chin and looked over Sue Ellen’s shoulder. “Like him.”

  I turned and looked. She was looking at a guy, over six feet, in a tight, ripped white t-shirt. His deep mocha skin contrasted with the white cotton and his sculpted muscles were clearly visible under the fabric and through the artfully placed rips.

  “Oh, I don’t agree with that,” Sue Ellen piped up. “I’m bi and I love men in drag. I just want to see them without the make up and fake boobs, when they’re all skinny and pretty,” she shuddered appreciatively. “I would pay to watch that.”

  Suddenly I wanted her to shut her big drunk mouth before she said anything else wrong. Damaris didn’t say anything, just raised one eyebrow disdainfully as Sue Ellen leaned forward, her movements exaggerated and floppy with intoxication.

  “Anyway, we loved your show,” Sue Ellen enthused, oblivious to Damaris’ distaste. “I’m so interested in drag as the performance of gender.”

  “Performance,” Damaris said. There was something in her tone, something flat, which told me that Sue Ellen had not said the right thing. I elbowed her as subtly as I could.

  “Anthony, don’t elbow me,” she pushed my arm away. “I know you like it, too,” she muttered before addressing Damaris again. “The social construction of femaleness reflected in drag is fascinating to me. I mean, don’t you find it disproportionately influenced by the male gaze?”

  Damaris’ frown deepened and I s
aw her look down at the bar for a fleeting moment before looking at Sue Ellen again.

  “Male gays? Sue Ellen, what are you talking about?” I said as assertively as I could, feeling really annoyed at her now. That tiny chink in the glittering armor of Damaris’ beauty and composure made a protective instinct flare up in me. “Aren’t all gays male, anyway?”

  Sue Ellen’s brow knit in concentration as she considered my question. “I—wouldn’t say that, Anthony.”

  “Well, Sue Ellen,” Damaris said coolly. “I don’t agree with you. I’m a woman. My gender is not a performance.”

  Sue Ellen’s eyes popped open. “Oh my god,” she whispered dramatically, reaching out for Damaris’ hand. “Are you trans?” Sue Ellen held Damaris’ hand in both of hers. “It is such an honor to meet you, and can I just say how much I admire your bravery. And I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I strive every day to be an advocate for trans people and to support your struggle."

  “It’s okay,” Damaris said, and I thought she was as gracious as a first lady in the way she talked. Damaris gave me a little secret glance. “White chicks,” she smiled with a shrug, sipping her drink.

  I smiled back, and shrugged, as well.

  And that was how I met Damaris Rae.

  “Tata!” Machyl’s voice jolted me back to the present with a start.

  I must have zoned out at some point after I finished my make up. I was just sitting there with my elbows leaning on the make up counter, staring off into space.

  “How are you not dressed yet?” He snapped, going to his station and pulling on a wig cap before shimmying out of his sweatpants to reveal tight lime green snakeskin print briefs which, when he turned around, were revealed to be a thong.

  My jaw tightened. “I need help with the zipper,” I protested.

  He jerked his head at the racks of clothing. “So go on.”

  I stood up and walked over, my lips pursing in annoyance. There was plenty of time, but he had to act as if it was an emergency for me to put on my gown. I went to my rack and selected the high-neck, full-length yellow lace with long sleeves which ombré’d to deep orange at the fishtail.