It was hard work.
I did it because I loved it and wouldn’t have it any other way.
But it was also expensive.
Which is why I had no qualms taking the money from their hands.
Paul had asked me once if I felt like a hooker and these were my johns.
I told him it was more like being a drug dealer and giving them a high.
Then I kicked him in the shins and told him if he ever called me a hooker again, I’d fist him so fast, his asshole would be stretched for a week.
He probably shouldn’t have asked me that while I was Helena.
So I kissed and schmoozed and thanked the boys and girls as I took their money. I moved through the dance floor, past the people sitting in chairs on either side of the room to the back where it was standing room only. I sang along with Britney, who was now telling everyone that there were only two types of people in the world. People in the crowd grabbed my arms and hands and I let them, kissing their cheeks and whispering sweetly in their ears.
There were still a few hands outstretched along the rear of the room, and I thought I saw a twenty-dollar bill. I tried not to lunge at it like a fat kid on cake, as I was a queen and thus needed to move with dignity and grace. (In all reality, I focused on the twenty-dollar bill, and if I was a fat kid, then the cake was mine, I swear to god.) The twenty was gripped in a big, tanned hand, the fingernails immaculately groomed. The hand was attached to a thick arm, the lights above flashing and showing the light hair that dusted the skin.
I liked big hands.
Because they usually had thick fingers.
What can I say, I wasn’t a picky person.
Most of the time.
“Come to mommy,” I whispered to that hand as I moved down the line.
I should have known it was going to be a trap. But twenty dollars to a drag queen was like a large crack rock to a tweaker and I was going to have it. It was mine. And if the owner of said twenty was anything good, then
maybe Helena would be finding herself some cock tonight.
But that’s the problem with drag queens and twenty-dollar bills and potential hot cocks. The power of Andrew Jackson blinded us to anything else and the allure of dick made our mouths water. I needed a new hot glue gun. And I had almost saved up for these knee-high boots that had flames up and down the sides. I had needs and that twenty would go toward the needs. I also wanted to get plowed like I was a field during planting season.
I hadn’t noticed that I’d wandered into dangerous territory.
I had already been through the bears and the twinks. I had passed through the leather daddies and their boys, the lesbians with killer pixie cuts and the Doc Martens that Paul was sure one day would give him a penis kicking. There was the obligatory bachelorette party that had screamed drunkenly when I’d given the bride-to-be a lap dance. The models stood posing, nary a hair out of place. I’d even gone through the Muscle Marys and their steroidal dreams.
I had passed them all.
Into the heart of darkness.
The point of no return.
The Homo Jocks.
Like high school, gay bars have cliques. The groups stick together. Sometimes there was intermingling, but more often than not, the gays stayed where they were allotted. Sometimes things changed when people moved groups. A twink cannot remain a twink for the rest of their lives, no matter how much they wish it so. Aging twinks were sad twinks and had to find a new group to assimilate into. A twink could become a bear, but a bear could never become a twink. It was all very confusing, the homosexual lifestyle. Only those that were gifted could ever hope to understand or be a part of it.
But I was blinded by greed. I wanted that twenty-dollar bill.
I should have noticed when I moved from the lesbians to the homo jocks, but to be fair, there was a hard time distinguishing between the last bull dyke and the first homo jock. Both had good-sized chests and short hair. The only reason I noticed the difference was when the first homo jock had a distinct lack of lesbianic features, such as plaid and a braided belt. I saw a stretched tank top with the words LANDO’S GYM across the front and knew I was fucked.
You know you have a homo jock when several things occur.
First, there will be muscles on display. They won’t be bad as the Muscle Marys (no one is as bad as the Muscle Marys), because they aren’t juicing themselves up. Chances are they will have exposed biceps and use phrases like I just had the best kale smoothie and Look how vascular I am today, isn’t it grand?
Second, they will most likely be wearing tight clothing that accentuates said muscles. A homo jock tends to be proud that they go to the gym sixty-eight times a week, and therefore wants the fruits of their labor to be on display. If they haven’t forgotten leg day, most likely the homo jock will be wearing pants just as tight so one can gaze upon the glory that is their thigh muscles.