Tell Me It's Real(6)

What’s funny about Sandy is that when he is Sandy, he’s quiet and unassuming. He sometimes stutters over his words and he can be shy, almost as much as I am. He tends to watch people rather than contributing to conversation. Some might think him cold, but he’s really just listening. When he does speak, his words are carefully chosen. We grew up together, and when we got old enough, he dragged me into the gay bar scene, even though I would have rather had bamboo shunts shoved under my fingernails than be in a large group of people. He said it would be good for the both of us, though there were plenty of times we ended up as wallflowers—standing and not speaking much while sucking down vodka cranberries.

But when she’s Helena Handbasket? Holy. Shit. When she’s in full-on drag, you would swear to God she is the biggest fucking diva in the history of the world. Her costumes are completely outrageous, and a testament to the amount of time we spent pawing through thrift stores and the fact that he’s a wiz with a sewing machine.

She moves with the fluid grace of a trained dancer and can lip-synch with the best of them, but it’s her trademarked snarl, as she tears through her routines, that sets her apart. Sandy Stewart might be a quiet twenty-nine-year-old man, but Helena is a hard-core bitch who doesn’t take shit from anyone. It took me a bit to get used to the whole split-personality thing that most drag queens seem to have, but once I did I never looked back.

You’re probably wondering if Sandy and I were ever anything more than best friends. Eh. For maybe, like, two seconds. We got drunk one night at his old apartment and started making out, which somehow led to all of our clothes on the floor. When we realized that we were both bottoms, and didn’t feel like bumping assholes, we decided we were better best friends than boyfriends. Sandy’s brutally protective of me. Everyone knows not to mess with Helena’s “bitch boy,” as he calls me affectionately. Bastard. He’s all class, that one.

Even when he’s reaching to tape his balls to his taint.

“I don’t know why I watch every time you do that,” I said to him. “You look like you’re trying to fist yourself and it’s not going too well.”

He gave a little huff. “It’s the most unladylike thing about becoming a lady,” he said, giving his wrist a little twist.

“It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again,” I intoned.

“That stopped being funny the first thousand times you said it,” he grumbled at me. “Keep saying it and I will put you in a hole in my basement.”

“You don’t have a basement,” I said, trying to smooth out the feathers on the boa he wore during his opening number.

“I’ll dig one,” he promised. “Lace me, please.”

He turned, the white skin of his slender back facing me. I slid my fingers through the ties of the corset, pulling them tight, cinching each one up tight like I knew he liked. It helped create the illusion of cleavage so he wouldn’t have to wear falsies in this outfit. Once he added a little blush to his chest for shadowing effect, it’d look like he was rocking some knockers.

“You going to come down and watch?” he murmured, then looked in the mirror to fix the makeup around his eyes.

I sighed. “Not tonight,” I said quietly. “I’ll just stay up here and watch your show, okay?” I didn’t want to go down and mingle with all the hot boys and men who wouldn’t even look at me twice. If you ever want to find out if you’re attractive or not, go to a gay bar. Within the first five minutes of walking in on a busy night, trust me, you’ll know whether you’re hot. I was one of those that could slip through the crowd without anyone trying to stop me by grabbing my ass, or smiling wickedly and asking if they could buy me a drink. The only reason anyone ever looked at me is because of Helena.

Oh, man. I sound way bitter. I’m not, I promise. It’s just how things are. I don’t question them anymore. I just don’t like being reminded of it constantly. The only reason I went to Jack It as much as I did was because Helena performed on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

He sighed too, but it sounded sharp with exasperation, and I knew “he” was slipping into “she.” Sandy took my shit for the most part. Helena thought I was an idiot. “You know,” she said (yes, definitely she by the tone of her voice), “the more you hide out up here, the less you’ll be seen.”

“That’s kind of the point,” I reminded her, finishing with the corset.

Helena glared at me in the reflection of the mirror as she handed me a makeup brush to put a bit of glitter on her shoulders. “That’s not the point,” she growled at me, her voice going low and throaty. Yep. Helena was here. “How many times do I have to tell you that you are perfect just the way you are?”