“What? Why is—” Then it hit me. Tomorrow was Sunday. On Sunday we… “You invited him to Sunday brunch?” I screeched.
“Of course not.” He looked offended. “I would never do that to you.”
“Oh,” I said, relieved. He’d only come once to brunch, last summer when Tyson and Dominic had been in town, and I’d spent the entire meal
in a state of what-the-fuck, shooting daggers at him with my eyes and wishing I’d put arsenic in his frittata. But as a good hostess knows, frittata is often the cornerstone of a good brunch, and no matter how much I disliked him, I made a damn good frittata and wouldn’t want it to go to waste.
“Paul told me he did, though,” Charlie said. “Nice boy, that Paul.”
“That motherfucker is already dead,” I hissed. “I will gouge his fucking eyes out and—”
“You know,” Charlie said as if I’d never spoken at all, “there’s that saying about how thin the line is between love and hate. Ever heard that one?”
“A home, Charlie,” I threatened. “Paul and I will put you in a goddamn home with absolutely no male nurses named Sven with really large muscles and a hot ass. In fact, the entire staff will be made up of bull dykes with names like Large Leslie and Theresa the Tank. I will personally schedule your rectal exams.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” He sniffed. “I’m too precious. Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d had a lesbian in my ass.”
I stared at him.
He shrugged. “The eighties were very weird.”
“You owe me that story one day, old-timer,” I said, because I couldn’t not find out why Charlie had been anally involved with a lesbian. It practically demanded itself to be told. With visuals. “I have a show to do.”
“We’ll finish this conversation later,” he said.
“This conversation is over.”
“Yes, Helena.”
“I mean it, Charlie.”
“Of course you do.”
“Charlie, I swear to god.”
“You look pretty and you’re awesome and I like that you humor an old man from time to time.”
I melted. “I love you. Now I’m leaving because I can’t stand the sight of your face right now. I have baby queens downstairs and a show to perform. I don’t have time for your shit. Make sure you get my good side on camera or I will end you.”
“All your sides are good sides,” he said.
“I’ll allow it because it’s true,” I said.
And then I stormed off only as a queen could: elegantly, with shimmery hair and an undercurrent of simmering rage.
Charlie’s laughter followed me down the stairs.
Chapter 3: I Feel as Fresh as a Summer Zeeve
I PUT on my wide, fake so-happy-to-see-you smile as I entered the bar. People began to mill around me excitedly, and I kissed their cheeks, posed for photos, and made fun of them to their faces. They laughed, because that’s what a queen did. I was a performer, my show built on flirting, sex, and sarcasm. I pushed the boundaries of taste and comfort, sometimes crossing the line by leaps and bounds. But I never pushed so hard that someone walked away feeling bad about themselves. I would never do that. People weren’t supposed to be the butt of the jokes, they were supposed to be in on the jokes and laugh with each other, not at. There was a difference between observation and bullying. I could never be a bully. There was too much of that outside of this place. Jack It was a safe space, free from judgment (well, as free from judgment as a gay bar could get—it should be noted that gay men could be catty as fuck and it was my job to even the playing field).
I made it to the end of the bar, making sure to keep an eye out for a certain Homo Jock King that I wanted to avoid. Thankfully, he was nowhere to be seen and if I was lucky, he’d already found a twink conquest for the night and was gone.
One of the newer boys was working behind the bar. His name was Izaac, and he made sure everyone knew it was spelled with a Z and not an S. I made sure he knew that I didn’t give two shits how he spelled his name, just as long as he had two shots of tequila waiting for me for a bit of preshow warmup. It was a tradition started by Vaguyna, god rest her soul, and continued on by me. It was usually all I drank anymore, as it was getting harder and harder to escape a hangover the older I got. That was a depressing thought, especially being only thirty-one. My body was an asshole that way.
Izaac was shirtless, as the bartenders often were. He was also straight as hell, with a muscled chest and stomach, a trail of hair below his belly button. Regardless of what else he was, he had the right idea, working in a place like this. He was cute in a bland Abercrombie cookie-cutter sort of way, all-American blond hair and blue eyes. He made a shit-ton in tips and then went home to his girlfriend. Straight boys could make a killing in a gay bar, with the whole forbidden fruit thing going on. This world was filled with gay-for-pay porn and gay-for-you romance, so they saw him as a challenge. He made bank, the boys got to flirt, and everyone went home happy.
Of course I had to hit on him. It’s just what Helena did. She devoured little boys like him and loved it when he blushed under the attention. We both knew nothing would ever come of it, and I didn’t even want it to. But it was fun to poke and prod, and I liked him more than any of the other bartenders or barbacks. He took my shit, but he knew to give it right back.