Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 73846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Blue Divine.
Me.
I double-checked that none of my nails had popped off in the three steps it took from the cramped dressing room to the back of the stage. My wig felt like it was lying right, and my handmade sequin-covered top and skirt were sitting perfectly on the padding I had stuffed into my hips, ass, and chest.
I looked like a motherfucking queen on the outside, and I felt like a motherfucking turd on the inside.
The queen outside said my name, and the music faded out, giving me my cue. I gave my blond wig a little pat and stuck a freshly shaved leg out from the curtain, twirling my black heel with the shoddy red tape underneath to a smattering of claps and cheers. My intro song started, and I did a cartwheel onto the center of the stage, the cheers instantly growing louder. Two bright white lights were aimed at me, but I still knew exactly where all the tables were and how big a space I had to perform in. This wasn’t my first time at the gay rodeo, even though my titanium-built knees would have the audience thinking otherwise.
I dropped into a booty-shaking split, making sure I caught the audience’s attention right from the start. My drag queen senses were already tingling; dollar bills were being waved in the air. One of them even smelled like a twenty.
Performing gave me something intangible. A rush of life that was incomparable to drugs or alcohol or poppers or the crispy bits left around the edge of a brownie baking pan. There was a thrill and an excitement coursing through my bitter veins that were mostly absent from the twenty-three and a half hours of my day that weren’t spent on a stage wearing a cheap (but fucking sickeningly styled) wig. I lip-synced the words to the remixed pop song, freezing as a local furniture store jingle cut in. Someone from backstage brought the hideous shit-brown ottoman that the commercial was singing about. I lifted the edges of my skirt dangerously high and sat down on the disgusting thing, crossing my legs for a brief second before shaking my head and sitting like an NFL linebacker cursed by a sadistic witch to man-spread for the rest of eternity.
I lip-synced the words to the commercial, catching the audience by surprise and being rewarded with a room full of laughter, more dollar bills rising into the air like little green meerkats looking for a new home inside my sweaty bra. The commercial’s jingle expertly transitioned into the next song, and I was back on my feet, my heel giving a slight wobble as I stepped off the stage and toward the tables.
Nothing a professional illusionist couldn’t conceal.
The crowd was packed for a Thursday night showing. The regulars were sitting in their usual booths with a few new faces sprinkled between them, most likely dates from out of town. I did a brief but thorough scan, spotting my drag mother, Asstral Divine, with her gaggle of friends sitting at the table nearest the stage, her big orange hair almost tall enough to brush against the ceiling. She clapped and cheered and waved a dollar bill in the air, drawing me over to her table.
I was a shimmy and a hip-bump away from collecting my money when every drag queen’s worst nightmare came to life: the music stopped. The pop diva belted one last “whoaaaa” before her voice cut out, leaving me mouthing out the next words to a silent room.
Fuuuuuck, I knew I should have used a different USB.
A glance at the DJ booth didn’t reassure me. The DJ looked like she was trying to crack the Da Vinci code, her headphones hanging off her neck and her eyes reflecting the panic rising from somewhere underneath my stuffed push-up bra.
My drag mom came to the rescue, as she always did. She stood up and started clapping, singing the rest of the words to the chorus. It was a popular song, and it didn’t take much for the rest of the mostly drunk crowd to jump in.
Okay, okay, I can do this.
I started to sway, moving my hands through my blond curls, closing my eyes and hoping to all gay hope that the song came back on before the chorus finished and the room splintered into five different lyrics.
Annnnd, the music was back! Thank fuck.
As if on cue, the pop star picked up where the audience was about to shit the bed. I opened my eyes and, like I had planned the entire thing, raised a hand in the air and fell back, dropping to the ground and landing gracefully on the floor in a crowd-pleasing dip. Dollars started to fall from the sky as I rolled over onto my hands and knees and gave my hair a few life-giving twirls. People cheered and money rained, and I was reminded why I love drag so fucking much. There was an incomparable energy buzzing through the space, enough to start a years-long stilled heart. There was a sense of wild camaraderie at every drag show I went to, whether I was performing or watching, and I fucking loved it.