"Gurl, if this aint' a hodge podge of haints, I don't know what it is," Mother managed to say between fits of laughter, snorts and table banging...........and she wasn't alone. I had to concur with her. Even though there had been some high points in the evening, we had witnessed mainly scag drag, and I had determined that the term "talent" night was a definite misnomer. Only Cherry Fontaine and Bianca had displayed any true talent, and with Bianca's unfortunate vomit demise, her performance was a bit marred, to say the least.
BUT..I had been entertained, perhaps not in the way the queens had intended but it was much more fun than sitting at home alone in my carpet-up-the-wall apartment pining away for Bart, who had escaped my thoughts for most of the evening, and the freedom had been liberating. In my mind, I'd taken a little Cher with me, and I think she would have enjoyed the show too. Where else could I have witnessed a black queen in a blonde wig impersonating Dolly Parton, the resurrection of Mel's Flo with a slightly Frankensteinish air by a "straight" man whose cousin/wife sat only a few seats away from me twirling her hair and making spit bubbles, or witness an Aphroditic drag queen get barraged with barf by a fiftysomething eccentric heiress in a Martian motorcycle helmet? Even Mitzi's stumble in an ocean of fake fog and subsequent accidental mooning-- which would have made the front page of the town's gay gossip rag -- paled in comparison to all of that. What else could possibly happen on this evening?
With all of those images being rehashed in my mind, I managed to notice the unheadlining novice queen ( with the bicycle chain grease still evident on her crinilin ) glide through the rumbling fog like she was Jesus walking on water and slip by us with a cassette tape in her hand. Mother was still cackling like a goose with the "ene" cousins, so she didn't even notice that there had been a pause in the evening's performances. I turned around and squinted through the darkness to see where Greasy Crinilin had gone, and I watched her hand the tape to the DJ, and then she tapped the Spot Light operator on the shoulder -- who was also in drag ( if you can call it that. I'd later learn that her name was Tonya Lee, and she had been a resident at the town's occupational rehabilitation center for a few years............uhm...well..I think the PC term to describe her is mentally and emotionally challenged, but we would have called her slightly retarded when that word was still possible to use without causing eyebrows to arch.) Tonya stepped down off the concrete blocks and walked backstage while Greasy Crinilin struck the spotlight a few times with her gloved hands and managed to shake the green gel loose. She tested each of the other colors and color combinations...red.....blue...purple.yellow..orange...green again..and clear..and they all seemed to be in working order. No one in the audience seemed to notice the color display dancing atop the fog as several people were up and about gossipping, laughing, exchanging numbers or ordering new beverages.
The cocktail waitress -- who was looking a bit haggard and needed to touch up her paint-job and re-spray her haphazard up-do -- was running hither-thither trying to get as many orders as she could. The lesbians -- who were notoriously bad tippers -- had given up getting any service from the drag queen waitress ( and who could blame her for ignoring them since they defiantly refused to tip ?) and they were standing around the bar waiting for some bartender -- whom I'd never seen -- to pop their tops for them -- and from the grimace on his face, I deciphered that they weren't tipping him either....but even in a grimace and from a distance in darkness, the face was nice...........and I suddenly got thirsty.
Siara and Kerry were involved in conversation, or SiAra was talking and Kerry appeared to be listening, but sometimes blank stares can be misleading -- and I secretly hoped SiAra would take Kerry off my hands, but her cough was persistent and rather unattractive with its deep hacking sound, so I knew my hopes would never come to fruition, and Mother was enjoying a lively whoop and holler with Willadean and Mellodean. Boma Jean was completely spaced-out and still sat spred-legged twirling her hair. If I would have liked her, I would have cared, but I didn't...so I didn't. It was a perfect opportunity for me to escape, quench my thirst and do some investigative work concerning the new bartender. After all, it could be an investment in my future.
I didn't bother to excuse myself like I would have done had I been with my Oklahoma friends; I just slipped quickly out of my chair and walked directly to the back bar. My eyes met quite a number of stares, and I even garnered a couple smiles and nods along the way. I'd been instructed years prior by my first boyfriend, Larry, to never return a smile from anyone in a gay bar, or I'd have trouble all night.........and I had adhered to that advice for many years and habit made me cling to it even on this night. Larry had been my first boyfriend which had also made him my gay teacher by default, and even though I thought some of his advice had been rude and mean, most of it had been correct. He was the beautiful boy I'd met at the McDonald's drive-thru. At the time he was instructing me on how to be gay, I hadn't realized he was teaching me how to be a bitch, but being a bitch works, and I have to thank him for that...........He had taught me the look to give to remain unapproachable,and it was tried and true. Unapproachable is always alluring, and even though someone might know they can never have you, they will still want you............because they can't have you..Unapproachable was necessary in a room of drunk or drugged gay men especially if it was an older crowd. For some reason, some older gay men thought their persistence was complimentary, but it actually bordered on stalking . On the other hand, there were times when I didn't want to be unapproachable, and that got really confusing especially after I'd already given someone the unapproachable glare several weeks prior. Like I said, I am a fickle bitch, and underline the word bitch cuz it's true, but men love bitches honey. They sleep with sluts, but they give their hearts to bitches.
But when the bartender looked up at me with those doe-eyes when I reached the walnut-slab of a bar, it wasn't his heart that I wanted. Prurient images flashed through my mind, and I had to concentrate to order a cranberry juice. He ignored the lesbians and immediately poured me some juice much to their chagrin and one ( she was the one with the mullet who'd almost lost her fem to a Sooner that I mentioned earlier ) even said something about lesbian discrimination. My heart told me he moved quickly cuz he liked what he saw in me. My mind told me he knew I'd tip so the non-tippers could wait. I overheard a twink, sitting at a nearby barstool, ask a troll who I was...and the troll replied that I was a bitch. (( Uh huh, I thought, to you, I am, old man... )) I pretended I hadn't heard his assessment of me, but I winked at the twink to spite the troll...and the twink smiled back broadly. I paid for my drink and tipped the bartender 2 bucks and winked at him, too. He returned my wink with another wink, and I turned to walk away. To determine if he'd winked at me for the tip, I turned my head slightly to look at him............No, he'd winked at me because I was me. When I'd turned around, he was watching my ass as I walked away....and so was the twink. It was those moments that told me I was wasting my time with Bart, but my stupid heart was deaf to it all.
When I returned to our table, Mother had her compact open, and she was checking her make-up. For some reason, she thought she needed to apply some more lipstick, so she did but neatly this time...and then she squirted herself all over with something that smelled like feline flea-spray but came in a pretty crystal bottle with a frosted 3-D plastic flower for its lid.
"Is that too much perfume? You know, I can't smell a damn thing so I always put too much on," she'd said -- which explained how she'd been able to endure such proximity to the puke.
"Oh, no, it's just.... purrr-fect," I lied with a fake smile, and if she'd known me any better she would have known that I was being facetious by my felonious word choice. Satisfied, she replaced all of her articles of beauty in her art-deco beaded purse, clicked it shut and placed it neatly on the table in front of her.....Just as she'd lain it down, the repaired spotlight came up,barely.
BUT..I had been entertained, perhaps not in the way the queens had intended but it was much more fun than sitting at home alone in my carpet-up-the-wall apartment pining away for Bart, who had escaped my thoughts for most of the evening, and the freedom had been liberating. In my mind, I'd taken a little Cher with me, and I think she would have enjoyed the show too. Where else could I have witnessed a black queen in a blonde wig impersonating Dolly Parton, the resurrection of Mel's Flo with a slightly Frankensteinish air by a "straight" man whose cousin/wife sat only a few seats away from me twirling her hair and making spit bubbles, or witness an Aphroditic drag queen get barraged with barf by a fiftysomething eccentric heiress in a Martian motorcycle helmet? Even Mitzi's stumble in an ocean of fake fog and subsequent accidental mooning-- which would have made the front page of the town's gay gossip rag -- paled in comparison to all of that. What else could possibly happen on this evening?
With all of those images being rehashed in my mind, I managed to notice the unheadlining novice queen ( with the bicycle chain grease still evident on her crinilin ) glide through the rumbling fog like she was Jesus walking on water and slip by us with a cassette tape in her hand. Mother was still cackling like a goose with the "ene" cousins, so she didn't even notice that there had been a pause in the evening's performances. I turned around and squinted through the darkness to see where Greasy Crinilin had gone, and I watched her hand the tape to the DJ, and then she tapped the Spot Light operator on the shoulder -- who was also in drag ( if you can call it that. I'd later learn that her name was Tonya Lee, and she had been a resident at the town's occupational rehabilitation center for a few years............uhm...well..I think the PC term to describe her is mentally and emotionally challenged, but we would have called her slightly retarded when that word was still possible to use without causing eyebrows to arch.) Tonya stepped down off the concrete blocks and walked backstage while Greasy Crinilin struck the spotlight a few times with her gloved hands and managed to shake the green gel loose. She tested each of the other colors and color combinations...red.....blue...purple.yellow..orange...green again..and clear..and they all seemed to be in working order. No one in the audience seemed to notice the color display dancing atop the fog as several people were up and about gossipping, laughing, exchanging numbers or ordering new beverages.
The cocktail waitress -- who was looking a bit haggard and needed to touch up her paint-job and re-spray her haphazard up-do -- was running hither-thither trying to get as many orders as she could. The lesbians -- who were notoriously bad tippers -- had given up getting any service from the drag queen waitress ( and who could blame her for ignoring them since they defiantly refused to tip ?) and they were standing around the bar waiting for some bartender -- whom I'd never seen -- to pop their tops for them -- and from the grimace on his face, I deciphered that they weren't tipping him either....but even in a grimace and from a distance in darkness, the face was nice...........and I suddenly got thirsty.
Siara and Kerry were involved in conversation, or SiAra was talking and Kerry appeared to be listening, but sometimes blank stares can be misleading -- and I secretly hoped SiAra would take Kerry off my hands, but her cough was persistent and rather unattractive with its deep hacking sound, so I knew my hopes would never come to fruition, and Mother was enjoying a lively whoop and holler with Willadean and Mellodean. Boma Jean was completely spaced-out and still sat spred-legged twirling her hair. If I would have liked her, I would have cared, but I didn't...so I didn't. It was a perfect opportunity for me to escape, quench my thirst and do some investigative work concerning the new bartender. After all, it could be an investment in my future.
I didn't bother to excuse myself like I would have done had I been with my Oklahoma friends; I just slipped quickly out of my chair and walked directly to the back bar. My eyes met quite a number of stares, and I even garnered a couple smiles and nods along the way. I'd been instructed years prior by my first boyfriend, Larry, to never return a smile from anyone in a gay bar, or I'd have trouble all night.........and I had adhered to that advice for many years and habit made me cling to it even on this night. Larry had been my first boyfriend which had also made him my gay teacher by default, and even though I thought some of his advice had been rude and mean, most of it had been correct. He was the beautiful boy I'd met at the McDonald's drive-thru. At the time he was instructing me on how to be gay, I hadn't realized he was teaching me how to be a bitch, but being a bitch works, and I have to thank him for that...........He had taught me the look to give to remain unapproachable,and it was tried and true. Unapproachable is always alluring, and even though someone might know they can never have you, they will still want you............because they can't have you..Unapproachable was necessary in a room of drunk or drugged gay men especially if it was an older crowd. For some reason, some older gay men thought their persistence was complimentary, but it actually bordered on stalking . On the other hand, there were times when I didn't want to be unapproachable, and that got really confusing especially after I'd already given someone the unapproachable glare several weeks prior. Like I said, I am a fickle bitch, and underline the word bitch cuz it's true, but men love bitches honey. They sleep with sluts, but they give their hearts to bitches.
But when the bartender looked up at me with those doe-eyes when I reached the walnut-slab of a bar, it wasn't his heart that I wanted. Prurient images flashed through my mind, and I had to concentrate to order a cranberry juice. He ignored the lesbians and immediately poured me some juice much to their chagrin and one ( she was the one with the mullet who'd almost lost her fem to a Sooner that I mentioned earlier ) even said something about lesbian discrimination. My heart told me he moved quickly cuz he liked what he saw in me. My mind told me he knew I'd tip so the non-tippers could wait. I overheard a twink, sitting at a nearby barstool, ask a troll who I was...and the troll replied that I was a bitch. (( Uh huh, I thought, to you, I am, old man... )) I pretended I hadn't heard his assessment of me, but I winked at the twink to spite the troll...and the twink smiled back broadly. I paid for my drink and tipped the bartender 2 bucks and winked at him, too. He returned my wink with another wink, and I turned to walk away. To determine if he'd winked at me for the tip, I turned my head slightly to look at him............No, he'd winked at me because I was me. When I'd turned around, he was watching my ass as I walked away....and so was the twink. It was those moments that told me I was wasting my time with Bart, but my stupid heart was deaf to it all.
When I returned to our table, Mother had her compact open, and she was checking her make-up. For some reason, she thought she needed to apply some more lipstick, so she did but neatly this time...and then she squirted herself all over with something that smelled like feline flea-spray but came in a pretty crystal bottle with a frosted 3-D plastic flower for its lid.
"Is that too much perfume? You know, I can't smell a damn thing so I always put too much on," she'd said -- which explained how she'd been able to endure such proximity to the puke.
"Oh, no, it's just.... purrr-fect," I lied with a fake smile, and if she'd known me any better she would have known that I was being facetious by my felonious word choice. Satisfied, she replaced all of her articles of beauty in her art-deco beaded purse, clicked it shut and placed it neatly on the table in front of her.....Just as she'd lain it down, the repaired spotlight came up,barely.
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