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Lee smiled. It was The Smile except magnified, warm and intimate. All air was sucked out of the room as surreptitious watching turned obvious when people saw The Smile. My reaction included both a quivering in the nether regions and a swelling of the breasts.
Lee’s arm slid around me and his lips found mine for a quick kiss.
“Don’t look so scared. I’m not gonna eat you,” he murmured and then his hand slid down my ass and pressed my hips against his in a promise that belied his words.
Holy shit, shit, shit.
He left and half of our audience were fanning themselves, the other half adjusting their trousers.
Stevie and I got Burgundy sorted. By the time I made it into the bar, it was a crush. The Savage/Nightingale contingent found a table front and center. Everyone was crammed into it. Andrea had forked her children off on a babysitter and forced her husband to come, and he looked about as comfortable as a Republican at a Rainbow Gathering. For Tex, on the other hand, this was another day at the office. He sat relaxed, his feet on a chair that likely could be used to rest someone’s ass, but no one would have had the balls to ask for it.
Two other seats were empty, one for Stevie, one for me, drinks in front of both.
Lee wasn’t at the table. He and Hank both had their backs against the wall by the entrance, both holding a beer bottle by its neck, their arms crossed on their chest, effortlessly and unconsciously exuding aggressive heterosexuality. Even in the crammed bar they were given a wide berth.
The show started late and Burgundy came out giving some lip to someone who’d been imbibing too much, was getting impatient and yelled his thoughts about it.
Take my advice, never heckle a drag queen. They’ll make mincemeat out of you.
The show was great, the drinks kept coming and I’d scoot out when Stevie and I got the high sign it was time for a costume change. Backstage, we’d struggle Burgundy and her foam rubber hips out of one heavy, sequined extravaganza and into another and we’d return to the table. Our group was generous with tips during the performances, handing the queen a dollar for an air kiss on the cheek and we quickly became a favorite, and thus the focus of all the divas.
It was going well. I was relaxed, happy, enjoying myself, and I was remembering a life that was fun and exciting without bullets flying. I was well into my fifth spiced rum and diet when Burgundy took the stage and made a surprise announcement.
“Many of you know her and love her, and now we’re gonna get her up here to show you what’s she’s got. Get your tips ready, ladies and tramps, we’re breaking tradition and bringing a real woman on the stage. Give it up for India Savage!”
Um, what?
Holy shit.
Holy shit, shit, shit.
That’s when I heard it. The piano and strings starting Barbra Streisand and Donna Summer’s “No More Tears.” I’d sung it a gazillion times with Tod in Stevie and Tod’s living room after over-imbibing chilled sparkling wine and a marathon of Yahtzee.
Neverin front of an audience.
Never.
Ally pulled me out of my chair. Marianne, Dolores and Andrea pushed me to the stage, which was tragically too close, and Stevie shoved a dead microphone into my hand. Burgundy had already done her Barbra hum, I had no choice but to lip sync my Donna “oo.”
Then I was on the stage, doing the slow introduction, singing about what lacked in Donna’s romantic life and trying to play off Burgundy, trying to look her in the eyes like I felt the words deep into my very soul.
Problem was, I was stiff as a board and the disco bit was coming up.
Lee was watching. The last thing I wanted to do was dance around on stage in front of a hundred people, one of them Liam Nightingale, lip syncing badly to fucking disco.
I had to pull it together. This was for charity. I had no ideawhatcharity, but what did it matter? I’d look more of a fool if I didn’t loosen up and fast.
There was nothing for it.
We sang eye-to-eye while Barbra and Donna harmonized. Burgundy shot me a “for God’s sake, pull yourself together” look and I shrugged my shy discomfort.
Burgundy gave it her all on Barbra’s long note, closing her eyes with feeling and holding her hand to her throat. I stayed stiff on purpose, pretending to be uncomfortable and wanting to be anywhere but there.
When the disco hit, my “ahs” came on and I shuffled with discomfort, keeping up the sham.
Then the horns kicked in and I pulled out all the stops, strutting, shaking my hips and stomping across the tiny stage like a white, pissed-off Tina Turner, throwing attitude that would do Chowleena proud.
The crowd went wild and jumped to their feet. It helped that front and center were all my friends and family, not to mention it was well into the show and most everyone was shitfaced. They lifted their arms, fingers pointed towards us, wrists snapping and bodies bouncing to the beat.
