The Queen & the Homo Jock King (At First Sight 2)

Prologue

LULU DEERDANCER and Buster Cleveland

I was seventeen when I realized I was destined to be a queen.

Because that’s when I met a legend.

I’d heard of the club down on 4th Avenue in Tucson. A gay club where apparently men could dance and drink and be happy without fear of any kind of judgment. Such a place sounded like a haven to me, especially coming off the year that I’d had, what with my parents dying, the parents of my best friend taking me in, and coming out with a vengeance.

Naturally, I convinced said best friend, Paul Auster, to come with me. It wasn’t that hard.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” he grumbled at me as we walked down the sidewalk late one Saturday night. It was early October and the night was still warm.

I smirked at him. “Oh, ye of little faith. Trust me, we’ll be just fine.”

“Yeah, but it’s a bar. And we’re not twenty-one.”

“Hence the disguises,” I reminded him.

I had done my research before deciding to attempt to get into Jack It about the specific subsections of the gay community. Paul, being the huskier of the two of us, would be more suited as a leather cub. He wore chaps we’d found at a Goodwill and a leather vest. I’d learned that cubs (who often grew up to be bears) were of a hairy sort. But Paul was as hairless as they came, much to his chagrin (“I’m a late bloomer, goddammit!”). So rather than taking the chance of being found out because of his baby-ass skin, we’d covered him up with a shirt that said GRR, DADDY and found a fake mustache from a costume store. Aviator sunglasses completed the outfit, because it was understood that if you were cool enough to be a leather cub, then you could also pull off wearing sunglasses at night.

For myself (even though I tried to eschew most labels), I thought I might fit in more as a twink than anything else. I wore the tightest red jeans I could possibly find and a shirt that said Sassy in bright, glittery letters. If I even remotely attempted to lift my arms in any way, my midriff was bared. I’d put a thin line of eyeliner under my eyes, smearing it gently. Instead of wearing sunglasses to complete my outfit, I was sucking on a Ring Pop and practicing giggling how I thought a twink might.

“It’ll be fine,” I said again.

Paul sighed. “Sandy, I look like I’m part of a Village People tribute band playing in a Four Seasons ballroom near the Milwaukee Airport. You look like you’re working undercover to catch pedophiles in the act. Nothing about this is fine.”

“It won’t be if you doubt it,” I said. “You have to believe your role, otherwise you’ll never be able to sell it. Paul, this is the performance of your career. This is what you’ve been building up toward your whole life.”

“Being a leather daddy,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been working toward.”

“Leather cub,” I corrected. “You’re not old enough to be a daddy yet.”

“Being gay is so hard,” he muttered. “Not only do you have to admit that, but then you have to find out what kind of gay you are. It’s all very confusing. It was so much easier when we played with Legos instead of dressing like leather cubs and pedo-bait.”

“Lucky for you, you have me,” I said. “And I know what kind of gay you are.”

“A leather cub.” He sounded dubious.

“Exactly.”

“My mustache itches.”

“Don’t play with it, Paul. Jesus. You’re going to knock it loose.”

“I don’t see why I have to wear a mustache,” he said. “I’m not a cartoon villain who’s going to tie you to train tracks as part of my evil plot.”

“Well, maybe if you had grown your own facial hair like I’d asked, you wouldn’t be in this position, now would you?”

“I tried! You know it’s hard for me to grow a beard. And then to have to do it because you told me to? I have performance anxiety!”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said as we turned a corner, the front of the club coming into view. “What’s done is done. We’re here, we’re queer, get used—oh my god, stop touching the mustache!”

He rolled his eyes at me.

I pulled him to a stop. “Remember your part,” I told him. “You’re a strong, confident leather cub. You own this role.”

He nodded. “I’m a leather cub. I’m a leather cub.”

“You have your fake ID I got you.”

“Right. Which says my name is Buster Cleveland.”

“Exactly,” I said. “It’s your porn name, I told you. Your first pet and the first street you lived on. They were cheap, okay? The guy said it had to be this way.”

“And you believed him?”

I scoffed. “Uh, yeah. He was selling fake IDs. Obviously he’s reputable and knows what he’s doing.”

“What’s yours?”

“Oh look, it’s getting late. We should go.”

“Sandy,” he said, an evil grin forming on his face.

“No. Don’t you dare.”

“What’s your fake ID porn name?”

“Shut up, Paul.”

“Because if I remember right, your first pet was a gerbil named Lulu.”

“Shut up, Paul.”

“And the first street you lived on was Deerdancer.”

“Oh my god.”