Sparkle: The Queerest Book You'll Ever Love (24 page)

Finishing up his number, Jack was given what was yet to be the evening’s most sincere applause, with the four of us shouting and clapping the loudest. In tears and in shock, he bowed graciously and fairly stumbled backstage and into our waiting arms. Years and years later, as it turns out, only Jack continued (for any appreciable length of time) to remain a drag queen, and the name
Bitch
is now synonymous with numerous other drag queen titles that Jack has earned. Anybody that was there that night was witness to the birth of a legend. Of course, the evening wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.

Needless to say, Sparkle and I still had our grand finale ahead of us. And, no, I never did go on solo that night; I was more than happy being a part of a duo. (At least, if we failed, I could always blame Sparkle.) And with the audience still reeling from the Bitch’s routine, we made our way back onto the stage.

“Well,” shouted Sparkle, “how do you like them apples?”

“I know, I know,” I shouted back at him. “Last time you tried doing a split like that we found a ring, a prosthetic finger, and a spare set of car keys.”

“Tramp!”

“Slut!”

“Okay then, ladies and gentlemen, enough about us, did you all enjoy yourselves this evening? (more hooting and hollering) Well, that’s just dandy. I think we raised more than enough money to send those fine fellows up to Washington. And, more importantly, Trinny and I had lots of free booze! But you know what we need now? (shouts of
what?
from the audience) Some fine man-loving, that’s what.”

The crowd couldn’t have agreed more, with quite a few of them offering up their assistance. (I always knew that love was blind, but I had no idea that it was deaf and dumb, too.) Sparkle, however, was shaking his head back and forth and was standing there with his arms crossed in front of him. “No, I don’t think so,” he stated as the cheering died down.

“Excuse me? Did one of the Bitch’s high-kicks land on your head or something? Did you just say that you didn’t want any man-loving? Ladies and gentlemen…
Hell
has just frozen over.”

“You heard me; I’m just sick and tired of all those men out there using me for one night of pure, unadulterated passion and then never calling me again. I give and I give and I give…”

“Honey, if you gave anymore,” I interrupted, “you’d be the crowned Pope of whores.”

“Exactly my point. Enough is enough,” he said as our music cued in.

“It’s raining,” he mouthed.

“It’s pouring,” I returned.

“My love life is boring me to tears.” And we finished the evening with those two legendary divas, Barbra and Donna. The crowd, in full agreement with Sparkle’s sentiment, sang along with us, and, just before the end, we were joined by our three cohorts. Round after round of applause was followed by bows and many thanks from all of us, and then, all too quickly, it was over and done with. Trinidad, Tobago, Eta, Anita, and Bitch once again turned back into Sparkle, Secret, Kiki, Larry, and Jack. But to this day, all five of us carry at least a little bit of our alter-egos wherever we go. Because you know what they say: once a diva, always a diva.

And amen to that.

Chapter Six

An Addition to the Family

Well, that was exciting, huh? I bet you’ve never witnessed the birth of a legend before. Am I right? Too bad it wasn’t yours truly. I mean, I’m sure I could’ve been a star. I had what it takes, after all: the looks, the talent… the, uh… the… oh, okay, maybe I didn’t exactly have those things, but I did have one thing…
moxie
! Oh well, I guess sometimes looks and talent do count for something. Of course, even though we didn’t become the grand divas that we expected we’d become, our lives did indeed change as a result of those few weeks.

I never did see Allen again. Fuck it, though. I say goodbye to bad rubbish. (I say goodbye, but I’m thinking,
come back rich lawyer-man, come back.)
But guess who I did start dating almost immediately after that glorious night? (Tick-tock… are you thinking?) It was Chester, the bartender!

Yup, right after the show, as the six of us were heading out of the bar, Chester came running up behind us and asked if we minded a tag-a-long to our little troupe. “Hell no,” I answered for everyone. I mean, it’s not every day that a tragic drag queen gets hit on by an adorable bartender. (You know, who am I kidding? I bet that happens all the time.) And, lucky for me, Sharon went right home and volunteered to open up the shop in the morning, so I could sleep in a little. Bless her heart.

And we weren’t out of surprises just yet, either. Lo and behold, there outside The Stud, waiting for us with open doors, was a jet-black stretch limousine that Larry had hired for us as a
thank you for risking your reputations
present. Of course, I had none to uphold and Sparkle’s reputation couldn’t have gotten any lower on the rating scale, short of digging up Harvey Milk and shooting him all over again. (Sorry for the un-P.C. and downright gross analogy.)

“Well, Chester, it looks like there’s room for you, after all,” I said as we piled on in. I, for one, was way glad that we’d gotten out of our drag clothes before leaving the club. And thank goodness the inside of the limo was on the dim side, because I was certain that I still had traces of mascara around my eyes. And the glitter was murder to get off. That, however, as it turned out, was what our quirky friend, Chester, was after. You’ve heard of drama queens and opera queens, well, Chester was a new breed of queen: the drag queen queen. See, he loved drag queens. Well, lust really, but same difference.

And, apparently, my drag charms must have had their effect, because Chester was all over me like white on rice. (Oh yeah, there are rice queens, too.) Honestly, I didn’t know whether to be delighted or insulted. After all, I’d never been chased after for the woman inside of me before. Then again, I’d never been chased after period, so live and let live, I figured, and I let Chester fawn.

“Where to folks?” came a voice from a well-hidden overhead sound system that we heard just after we all piled into the limo.

“Well, I don’t know about you all,” offered Sparkle, “but I could use a little bit-o-butch right about now. How about The Eagle?” The rest of us whole-heartedly agreed with the sentiment. Drag was great, but in small doses only. Underneath it all, we were still men. Mostly.

“Yippy, The Eagle,” squealed Kiki. (Okay, maybe some of us were more men underneath than others.)

Sparkle gently rapped on the dividing window until our driver lowered it. “To The Eagle, my good man,” he ordered, which caused the chauffeur to turn his head around in order to look back at our little posse. 

“Yes, sir,” the driver said, “with pleasure.” Wow, the pleasure was definitely all ours, because staring back at us from beneath his blue cap was the blondest man I’d ever laid eyes on. And the only thing that was more striking than his nearly white locks were his dazzling blue eyes. In other words, Sparkle fairly sprang into action.

Leaning his arms on the open window, he poked his head into the driver’s cabin (or whatever you call it) and asked, “And what would your name be, Mister Driver Man?”

“That would be Sven (I kid you not),” he said, then grinned and nearly blinded us with his pearly whites. I couldn’t say for sure, but I think I heard Sparkle’s pants tighten up right along with Sven’s smile. Even Chester, who had been paying an inordinate amount of attention to yours truly, stopped to gawk at the vision that was now driving us around.

“Nice to meet you, Sven,” Sparkle gushed and then introduced himself and, begrudgingly, the rest of us lowly folk.

I leaned into Larry and asked if he knew if our driver was gay or not. But before I could get an answer, Sven piped in with, “Um, you’re whispering right beneath a microphone, and, sorry, it’s on. And the answer, sir, is a resounding yes; this is a gay limousine service.”

“Should’ve figured by the name on the door,” I said. After all, it was the Pink Triangle Limo Service. So, like, duh.

San Francisco being the tiny city that it is, we were at The Eagle in just about five minutes. The parking gods must’ve been watching over us, too, because the limo fit in a space just out front. Eagerly, the six of us exited our carriage and headed for the entrance to the bar before we realized that Sven was still sitting inside.

“Dude,” Sparkle said as he walked back over to the limo and tapped on the driver’s side window, “aren’t you coming in with us?”

“I’m not sure it’s really appropriate, sir, as I’m just you’re driver for the evening”

“If you’re lucky,” smirked Sparkle.

“Besides,” continued Sven, “I’m not exactly dressed for The Eagle.” He pointed to his outfit. See, like all The Eagle’s worldwide, this one was primarily a denim/leather bar. And, no, Sven was in neither.

“Wait!” I shouted, “look above the door!”

“Well, well, there appears to be a uniform contest tonight,” Sparkle said and pointed to the banner over the door. “First place is one hundred dollars and a door prize.” He turned and grinned at our driver. “I think you’re more than dressed appropriately, Sven. Now get your butt out of that limo and let’s get inside the bar before my liver throws a hissy-fit.”

“I do aim to please, sir,” he said, with a grin, and promptly exited the limo. That’s when we found out that not only was Sven gorgeous but also a good six foot-two and built like a brick shit-house.

“Um, Sven,” Sparkle asked, “do you have anyone else in that suit or as that all you?”

Sven laughed as our happy sextet grew to a ravishing septet, the group of us entering the bar en masse. Needless to say, we immediately drew some attention to ourselves. I think, for the first time since I’d met Sparkle, that nearly none of the eyes were on him. And our dear new friend seemed oblivious to the hysteria that he was causing. Sparkle, however, was noticeably pissed off. Guiltily, I must admit, I felt just a twinge of delight at the switch. I, after all, had been going unnoticed for years. The pump, you see, was suddenly on the other foot.

The seven of us got our drinks of choice and headed on out to the patio. Indeed, Sven fit right in. There was every kind of outfit to be had out there that night. There was the ubiquitous motorcycle cop, the ever-present sailor man, every branch of the military, actually, and several combinations of leather, rubber, vinyl, Velcro, metal, and various other assorted materials to be found. No other chauffeurs were present, so Sven stood out like the sore Viking thumb that he was. If there had been anyone attired in feathers in the competition that night, they’d surely have been ruffled.

To be quite frank, though, I found the scene to be utterly ridiculous. I mean, really, can anybody truly look sexy in a pair of jodhpurs? I think not. Still, I was up for a good contest, and had only a few minutes to wait. We’d barely sat ourselves on one of the benches when an announcement came over the loud speakers that the competition would be starting in five minutes. (Of course, in a gay bar, that usually meant fifteen.)

“You have to enter this, Sven,” I said to him. “You can’t possibly lose.”

“Well…,” he tried to get out of it, but the six of us were all at once pushing, prodding, and cajoling him, until he simply couldn’t refuse. Besides, first place was a hundred big ones and a shiny, new, three-pound butt-plug. See, truly, taste and elegance never go out of fashion. That’s my motto. (Actually, my motto is: I’ll take the thirty bucks and you can keep the latex corkage.)

Minutes later, the festivities were underway. One by one, tragically overweight, over-dressed, and decidedly under-sexy men paraded across the stage in one ridiculous outfit after the next. The smattering of applause was polite if not pitiful and we had little doubt that our Sven would be the victor. Sadly, that’s when the real competition approached the stairs to the platform. Kiki noticed him first and nudged me to get my attention. “Yikers,” I said, under my breath, as our little group turned their heads in unison to behold the walking behemoth.

There was complete silence as he climbed the stairs and walked to center stage. I have no idea how tall he was or how much he weighed, but standing there before us, I can tell you that he was larger than large. Honestly, I’d never witnessed so much bulk on one single man before in my entire life. It was frightening. (Well, maybe a little arousing, but just a little.) The uniform was equally as impressive, too. Actually, it was silly as hell, but, on him, it was impressive. Yep, he truly made the most stunning Boy Scout you’ve ever seen.

Where he found the outfit, I have no idea. My guess is that he made it himself. I got a closer look at him just after the show and I seriously doubt that the Boy Scouts give out fisting badges. But who knows, maybe they do. Times have indeed changed, after all. Anyway, he filled the damn thing out fabulously. His bulging, veiny, tree-trunk legs fairly ripped at the seams of his tiny, tan trousers. And his chest could barely be contained in his equally tight, tan top. (Hey, maybe I should write for the J. Peterman catalogue.) Topping it all off was a spiffy neckerchief, odd-shaped chapeaux, and a whole collection of merit badges that seemed to have very little to do with building fires, mending sprained ankles, or surviving the wilderness. Unless you consider his badge for Most Improved Sling Bottom surviving the wilderness.

In any case, regardless of how silly he looked, the crowd loved him. They hooted and hollered and called out all sorts of interesting activities that they would like for him to do in order to earn more merit badges. In other words, our rag-tag little group had little hope for our poor driver, who, amazingly enough, had a curious grin on his stunningly Nordic face.

“If you want to back out of this,” Sparkle suggested, “we would all understand. Wouldn’t we?” he asked, looking at all of us in turn. We nodded in agreement that indeed we would. I mean, who would want to follow that act? Shockingly enough, though, Sven shook his head and made his way to the stairs and waited for the crowd to simmer down a bit. That took a while, with the Scout Daddy standing there the whole time, relishing the adulation. After what seemed like an eternity, however, he made his way off, and Sven took center stage.