Sparkle: The Queerest Book You'll Ever Love (23 page)

“The softball league in…,” he tried to tell me.

“Oh, yeah, right. What’s that about anyhow? A bunch of old sissies sweating, spitting, and running around looking silly is not my idea of fun.”

“Toby, Honey, I’ve been to Blow Buddies with you; what’s the difference?”

“Trinny, Darling, you’ve got a point. So let’s raise some beaucoup cash for this bunch and get them the hell out of here. Whatta ya say to that, you fabulous people out there?” I shouted at them, giving them all an air hug. They apparently were thrilled and let us know it.

“Good to hear it,” shouted Sparkle. “Now, on to our first entertaintress. Let’s see here,” he said and looked down at the notes that Kiki had given us. “Oh, yes, our first performer and personal stylist to your co-hosts is none other than the delicious… the scrumptious… the one and only… Miss… Eta Bug. Let’s hear it for her ladies and gentleman!”

Kiki came running out, gave me a quick squeeze, and promptly yanked the microphone out of my hand. That was our clue to exit the stage. By that point, I was only too happy to stay, but it looked like Kiki wanted his shot at stardom, so Sparkle and I reluctantly went backstage. Sharon was there to greet us with a hug and another drink. (With all the free booze we were getting, it’s a wonder we didn’t turn professional.)

“You were both fabulous!” she whisper-screamed at us so as not to be heard out front. Though, judging from the sound of the music, I didn’t think she had anything to worry about. Then we had about two and a half minutes to relax before Kiki was through with his act. He had performed it for us about a week earlier and, truth be told, it was unreal.

Dressed in complete Bjork garb and looking as close to Icelandic as he could possibly get, he lip-synched to the Sugarcubes’
Sick for Toys
. With a little imagination, I think you can imagine the prop potential there. Yes, dildos, butt-plugs, and nipple clamps were soon flying all over the stage. And coming from the pixy-like Eta, it truly was a sight to behold. At one point, he was faux-humping a ten-inch black dildo while belting out the lyrics. Though I guess it’s not really lip-synching if you’re actually singing. Personally, I find it a lot easier to sing rather than to mouth the words. The music is usually loud enough so that nobody knows any better, unless they come up to tip me, and then I take it down a notch so as not to scare them away.

With barely enough time to catch our breaths, Kiki finished his routine to an enormous ovation. The look on his face said it all. I couldn’t remember a time that I’d seen him look so ecstatic. Well, except for the time that Paul Lynde came into his shop for a haircut. (Kiki saved the hairs.) The look on Larry’s face was even more charming, though. He looked like the proud papa at his daughter’s first ballet recital.

With a quick hug and air kiss for Kiki, we all switched places again, and Sparkle and I were back in the spotlight. (Damn it, okay, I’ll say it… where we belonged!) The audience welcomed us back with the same zeal as before, my adrenaline shooting off the chart.

“Wasn’t she fabulous folks?” I asked the crowd and applauded at them so they’d get the hint. “Let’s hear it for her ladies and gentleman… Miss Eta Bug!” And they did let her have it, until she came back out and gave them all a deep bow. I smacked her on the ass and shooed her offstage; there was, after all, only enough room on there for two divas. (Honestly, the thing was swatch-sized.)

“I say, I say, Trinny, wasn’t she fabulous?” I sounded tipsier than I actually was, which was fairly close to outright drunk due to the pills and the booze combined. (I swear, those warning labels on the side of the bottles, the ones we read and then drive heavy equipment on the very next moment, well, they’re pretty much right on target. When it says
No Alcohol
, that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t contain alcohol; it means don’t drink alcohol while taking the medication. Got it?)

“Um, who was fabulous?” answered Sparkle, looking indifferent and bewildered.

“Why, Trinny, Eta, of course!”

“Eta? Who the f… oh, Eta… yes, fabulous,” he was looking down at his nails as he said it.

“Trinny, Honey, what in the world is wrong with you? Hello… Earth to Trinny.” I walked over and gave a knock on his overly-sprayed quaff. My hand bounced off the wig, leaving no impression that it had touched down even for an instant.

“Oh, Toby, I’m afraid that something is terribly, terribly wrong with me,” he replied and kicked his heel up, looking just a little like a young Miss Shirley Temple. (Okay, you have to use your imagination a bit for that one, but, if you squinted and looked out of the corner of your eye, you might’ve seen it.)

I walked over to him again and put my shimmering arm around his neck and asked, “Trinny, what is it? You can tell me. I promise not to breathe a word of it to anyone.” I made the tick-a-lock motion in front of my lips (and I threw away the key) and then I crossed my heart and hoped to dye… my hair back to its original color, whatever that might be.

“But…,” he whispered and pointed to the audience, who by then was leaning in close to be able to hear her horrible secret. (That, or they were looking up Sparkle’s dress. Probably a little bit of both.)

“Oh, they won’t tell. Will you ladies and gentleman? (Shouts of
no
rang throughout the place.) See, Trinny? Now, tell Auntie Toby what’s making you so blue, other than that tight-ass dress. Honestly, how do you breathe in that thing, anyhow?”

“Well… you see… uh,” he whispered and, with his chin down, looked up at the audience, all sheepishly-like. That got them all cheering him on, of course, and he waited until they were at a fevered pitch, and in a deep baritone and as loud as he could, he blurted out, “I’m pregnant!”

“You’re what?” I shouted and backed away from him.

“Pregnant,” he repeated and feigned holding back the tears.

“Honey, pregnant? Honestly, I quite doubt it.” I tried to explain to him how highly unlikely that was, but he was adamant.

“I’m showing all the signs. One, I feel bloated,” he started with.

“Trinny, you’ve had at least six drinks tonight. I would say that’s more gin-logged than bloated.”

“Then, two,” he tried, “I haven’t had my
monthly friend
in, like, forever.”

I gave him a doubtful expression and struck down number two with, “Sugar, unless you’re thinking about that nasty yeast infection you keep getting, I seriously doubt that your
monthly friend
is the same one your mother used to get. More than likely, the penicillin is finely working.”

“Okay, then how do you explain the water retention and swollen ankles?” he offered, still holding on to his contention.

“Trinny, hand me one of your ultra-glam heels, please,” I asked of him, and he reluctantly offered me one. “Honey, these are a size ten, and you’re clearly a twelve,” I said and showed the audience the sticker on the underside. “It’s a wonder only your ankles are swollen.”

“Well, they only came in a ten, and look at them; they were made for this dress. I had to get them!” He stamped his other heel and grabbed the one in my hand back and slipped it on his stocking feet, looking completely annoyed at me by that time. “And the water retention, Miss Smarty-pants?”

“Easy,” I told the audience and reached into my wig, pulled out a pin, and proceeded to pop the water balloon boobs in Sparkle’s dress. Water poured out all over him, and the audience went mad with laughter. Sparkle, feigning rage, stormed off the stage and left me alone to introduce the next act.

“Ladies and gentleman,” I began, “she’s awfully pretty, but she’s one french fry short of a Happy Meal sometimes. Anyway, moving on, let’s bring to the stage that fabulous bella donna… you know her… you love her… Miss… Anita Cab.” Cue for Larry to enter and for me to depart.

Larry, bless his heart, really went out on a limb for his routine, and in vintage Stevie Nicks attire, did his hell-best
Edge of Seventeen
. With his diaphanous, multi-scarved dress and glorious long, curly blonde wig and bandana, he stormed onto the stage and pranced and lip-synched his heart out. Granted, he rarely had his lips going in synch with the song, but for pure effort and effect, he got a roaring reception from the audience. Kiki was crying in the wings, actually. I put my arm around him as he stood there blubbering, feigning back my own tears.

Turning to Sparkle, who was now changing out of his wet gown and into his new outfit, I gave him a wink and a thumbs up and then blew him a kiss. He returned the compliment by mooning me as he got into his dominatrix garb. With a short black wig, smudged black eyeliner, tight, black, rubber dress and six-inch spiked heels, he looked like he could inflict some major damage. The whole effect was topped off with an impressive bullwhip, which Sparkle had been practicing with for the last three weeks, much to the chagrin of his downstairs’ neighbors.

Finishing up just in time, he came over and hugged Kiki from his free side, and the three of us stood there and watched Larry take his bows. Amazingly, he had a line of at least a dozen men waiting to offer him their tips. Could being a doctor be that rewarding? (I mean that spiritually, not monetarily, of course.)

I ran out on stage and dragged Larry off. He didn’t go peacefully, but I reminded him and the audience that we had much more to go and that my big number was still coming up. (See, I knew my priorities.) Eventually, I pushed the zaftig faux-Stevie off and grunted into the microphone, “I think she
Anitas
a diet, ladies and gentleman, more than a cab.” I downed my drink and winked at them. “Now, let’s welcome back to the stage, the one and thank God only… Miss… Trinidad!” I shouted, and the audience drowned me out. The lights dimmed and I ran off the stage so as not to be in the way of Sparkle’s cracking bullwhip, which let out a tremendous
pop
as it lashed out across the empty stage. When the lights came back up, the audience was greeted to the vision of Sparkle looking like he’d just stepped off the cover of
Heavy Metal
magazine. Appropriately, he was doing a knock out performance of Chrissie Hynde singing
Bad Boys Get Spanked
. The audience went into a frenzy as Sparkle cracked his whip over their heads. (Dangerous, but well worth the effect.)

I was riveted by the performance, and it wasn’t until he was more than halfway through it that I noticed Allen standing beside me, also in a black dress and high heels and furiously looking out to the stage. I asked him what was wrong, but he just kept staring straight ahead and wouldn’t say a thing. And that’s how Sparkle saw us as he finished his routine and made his way off, followed by what would’ve been a standing ovation had the audience not been already standing.

Approaching us, he immediately sensed danger. “What’s wrong?” he asked us both as he hesitantly drew near.

“You know what’s wrong, you sick fuck!” Allen screamed at the very top of his lungs, nearly scaring the group of us half to death.

“No,” Sparkle attempted, “I don’t. Please be so kind as to fill me in.” Sparkle always has this way of remaining perfectly calm in the presence of those who are not, which usually results in the other person getting even angrier. It worked like that then as well.

“That was
my song
you just did,” he shouted. (Uh-the fuck-oh.)

“But, Allen,” I tried, only to have Allen put his hand up to warn me to stay out of it. In his heels, Allen towered over me by a good six inches, so I reluctantly obeyed.

“I can’t believe after everything I’ve done for you that you would have the audacity to completely steal my routine. Of course, I shouldn’t be surprised; you never did strike me as the type who could come up with an original thought on his own. It’s no wonder that even your best friend threatened to kill you.” And here, all red in the face and trembling with rage, Allen pushed Sparkle’s back up against the wall and screamed out this threat before he stormed off and out the back door of The Stud and out of my life forever: “If I wasn’t a minister of the court and I didn’t have the utmost respect for the law, I swear that I would kill you with my own hands right now!”  (Yep, add him to the growing list of suspects, which still has a lot of growing to do, sad but true.) Needless to say, the group of us was left there, completely stunned by the outbreak.

Realizing that a full to two minutes had gone by and there was nobody on stage, Kiki ran out with the microphone, announced the next entertainer, and then ran backstage so as not to miss any more excitement. The poor stranger in our midst, who hadn’t uttered so much as even a few words to us all evening, and for all intents and purposes seemed the most timid of men and least likely candidate for a drag queen, shot us all a look of terror, as he hadn’t quite counted on going on stage just yet. Still, he rallied his courage and dashed out there just as his music started.

Honey, if it isn’t true that the meek shall inherit the earth, it’s at least partially true that they shall, for a brief moment in time, rule a tiny little drag stage south of Market Street. Our heretofore previously unknown friend, whose drag name was simply
Bitch
, came storming onto that stage to the music of Shannon’s
Give Me Tonight
and proceeded to high kick, butt-wiggle, and split his way into Stud history. We all forgot the past few minutes and were at once stunned and awed by the Bitch’s mastery of female impersonation. Larry, shouting over the din of the crowd and the music, informed us that Jack (that was his name) was the only male cheerleader for his college football team, as well as a Karaoke enthusiast. Well, let me tell you, one plus one equals
Yow!
because he was simply amazing out there.

Kiki leaned in to tell me how sorry he was for Allen’s behavior and assured us that at least he and Larry knew it wasn’t our fault. He also told me that Allen had frequent
fits
like that out on the softball field as well. (Thanks for warning me sooner, right?) I told him that he shouldn’t worry about it and that the experience as a whole had been truly enlightening. Sparkle, hearing our friendly banter, leaned in and group-hugged us to let us know that there were no hard feelings on his part either. Larry joined our little love-fest, and we all stood there, shimmering away, and waited for Jack to finish. A happier group of drag queens there never was before or since.