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Since Missy Thang was onstage, one of the club’s employees was the one to call for the next three performers to get ready.
“That’s me,” Micah said. “Hope I don’t fall on my face.”
Manny clapped him on the back. “You’ll be great. And even if you do, just work it into your act. This crowd loves that kind of improv.”
They were led to the small off-stage area to wait their turn. Micah went over his routine in his head, making small movements that would be expansive when he got onstage. Before he knew it, Missy Thang stood before the mic and announced, “Our next act is one of our three virgins, so I know all you bitches are gonna make it good for her. Please welcome Miss T Divine!”
Micah walked onto the stage to the sound of applause and whistles. Jake, Alex, and Robin were sitting right up front, and Jake banged on the table, then whistled. Micah smiled at him, then at Alex and Robin, and then looked at the audience. He got into position, back to the audience, hips canted in a quintessential Bob Fosse pose, and turned his head, profile to the audience, chin lowered to his left shoulder. He winked, knowing Jake would see it and respond, which he did with another shrill whistle. And that was all it took for Micah to drop fully into his character.
The music started, and the moves flowed without him thinking about them. He could feel the audience with him, laughing in the right places as he added a few camp moves that were at once a send-up of Liza’s original routine and an homage. It was comfortable and thrilling to be in front of an audience, and too soon the number was over. Micah stood in the middle of the stage and listened to the applause, took a bow, blew a kiss to Jake, took another bow, and waved to the audience before exiting the stage.
After all the performers had had their turn—Manny Dicks performed Frank Sinatra’s “My Way,” which pretty much brought the house down, and Cherish performed Cher’s hit “Believe” with a lot of audience participation—Micah was able to join his friends at their table.
Jake stood up, grabbed him in a big hug as soon as he got close, and spun him around like Alex had done to Robin at Penn Station. He handed Micah a bottle of water, which Micah guzzled down eagerly.
When Micah looked to find an empty chair, Jake insisted his lap would work, and so Micah ended up sitting across Jake’s thighs, Jake’s arms wrapped around his waist. He tried to ignore his thickening cock and concentrate on the accolades Jake and Alex were heaping on him, and the congratulations of people as they went to the bar for a drink, but really, all he could think about was how turned on he was, and how he so didn’t want to have an erection with his dick strapped back. But resistance to Jake was futile, and Micah wrapped his arms around Jake’s neck and nuzzled at the space between his jaw and ear. Jake always smelled delicious there, and Micah couldn’t help himself—he gave Jake’s earlobe a gentle tug with his teeth, then licked the shell of his ear.
“Quit it,” Jake growled, but he didn’t move his head away, so Micah continued to tease him until he felt Jake’s erection press against his ass.
Then Missy Thang stepped back to center stage, waving an envelope and telling everyone to sit down and be quiet. Micah raised his head, and his heart started pounding. Jake held him tighter.
“No matter what, Mi, you were amazing,” he whispered in Micah’s ear.
“So the judges have conferred,” she began, then stopped and put her hand on her chest, “—by which I mean me, because my opinion is the only one that matters, bitches—and we have some winners to announce.” She called all the performers back onstage. When they were arranged behind her, she opened the envelope and fanned herself with it. “So you are all winners for having the guts to come out on this stage and show us what you’ve got, but we do have a few prizes for a couple of you. In fourth place, we have our drag king, Manny Dicks!”
Manny stepped forward and bowed while the audience cheered.
“In third place, one of our no-longer-a-virgin performers, Miss T Divine!”
In a daze, Micah stepped forward to stand next to Manny, who nudged him on the shoulder to take a bow. Micah did. As he straightened up, Jake stood from their table and walked forward with a bouquet of red roses in his arms. Micah clapped a hand over his mouth, then bent down and took them from Jake’s outstretched arms. The audience whistled and awwwed, but Micah didn’t care. He vaguely heard Missy Thang saying, “Aren’t they just adorable?” But all he saw was the man blowing him a kiss before he returned to his seat. He didn’t take his eyes off Jake for the rest of the awards, even as he cheered when Cherish took the top prize and crowded in with the rest of the performers for a celebratory hug.
As the performers dispersed, Cherish gave Micah another hug. “That one”—she nodded toward Jake—“is a keeper. Hold on to him, honey.”
“Thanks, I plan to.” Micah stared at Jake for a long moment before he added, “For the rest of my life.”
Same Old Love
Ben Hollister
The entire world is watching Dillon Bard, mega pop star, fall apart on their social media—#dillondumpsterfire #dillondestruction #desperatedillon #bardpocalypse—and I seem to be the only one who isn’t treating it like entertainment. Probably because I’ve been there, done that fall from grace, though not from as great a height as Dillon. And probably because I know Dillon better than anyone.
Who am I? No one. At least no one now. And that’s how I like it. I own a winery in Sonoma that’s starting to produce some award winning Tempranillo. I’ve got a few staff who help me run the place and take over the tasting room when things get overwhelming. Every couple of weeks I go into a local bar in Occidental that lets me get up on stage and pick at my guitar, sing a few songs the locals now know by heart even if no one else remembers them. I know everyone in the audience, and they all know me. And if some tourist comes in and says something like, “That guy looks like…” my friends and neighbors take care of me and quickly shut that conversation down.
Sometimes, the people who recognize me call me by my stage name, but most of the time, they call me by my character’s. Joey Bridges, the irrepressible, charming, always scamming stepbrother to the serious, always-getting-Joey-out-of-scrapes Dillon Bard, which did, actually, happen to be Dillon’s real first name, though the last name was a product of the writers’ imagination.
We were ten when My Brother’s Keeper premiered. Ten playing eight, and completely miscast. I was the quiet one, Dillon the one who always got us in trouble in real life. Summoning up the energy for Joey’s infectious charisma wore me out, but Dillon protected me when I couldn’t deal with people. We were each other’s best friend and always had each other’s backs.
By our sixth season, I was ready to be done and the series was petering out, the ratings tanking, but then the producers caught Dillon and me messing around with a couple of guitars and had the inspiration that Joey and Dillon should start a band on the show. Dillon loved it. I tried to love it, and, I’ll admit, it was fun for a couple of years. Even when Bridges and Bard started to become a real thing, crossing the line from the made-up band our characters formed to a boy band put together by one of the music labels, it was fun. And the fans loved us. I loved us. Dillon could always make me laugh, always find the bright spot in any disaster, and our music wasn’t bad. We even got nominated for a Grammy once.
Where it all fell apart for me, though, was the fans. The label fashioned us as an American pop/country alternative to the K-pop boy bands which were becoming popular then. As our fans became increasingly obsessed, security around us tightened. Dillon and I couldn’t travel together anymore because we created too much havoc moving through hotels and airports. Someone was always calling our names or screaming or shoving something in front of us to sign, trying to grab hold of us, thinking they could start an entire relationship just from one of us saying hi. So, our management booked us on different flights, hustled us into separate vans that took different routes to and from our venues. At least they continued to let us stay in adjacent suites in the hotels. I don’t know what I’d have done if Dillon wasn’t there to talk me down after every show.
It came to a head one night just after Dillon and I turned twenty-three. Our birthdays were one day apart, and we’d celebrated together since we were thirteen. We had an off day, and Dillon insisted we’d be okay sneaking out of the St. Francis in San Francisco. Which we were. We slipped out the back and disappeared into a foggy evening to check out a gay club in the Castro Dillon thought we needed to see. Which we did. Of course, we did. If Dillon suggested it, I was going to do it, trusting him to get us out of any problems that might occur.
The club turned out to be great. Loud. Dark. Full of men grinding on each other. Full of guys eyeing us like we were their next favorite meal. But Dillon stuck to me like glue. He didn’t leave my side even to get us drinks, towing me through the crowd with his hand wrapped around mine. We danced. We drank. We danced some more. And at some point in the evening, we came together as easily as water flowing downhill. It fulfilled almost every fantasy I’d had about my best friend since we were fourteen and I realized not only was I gay, I was also in love with Dillon. From the way he kissed me and let his hands roam my body, it seemed like Dillon shared those feelings.
We bumbled back through the night, giddy and drunk, laughing in the back of a Lyft and trading kisses, whispering stupid shit to each other. It was the best night of my life, hands down.
It all went to hell when we got back to the hotel and found it surrounded by fans. Even the employees’ entrance was blocked. We didn’t have a choice but to call our manager, cop to having snuck out and have him rustle up a couple of disguises so we could sneak back inside. It nearly worked. We made it back to the room, but not before some fans got wise. They figured out who we were, which room was ours, then tried to break in to get to us.
