I fought against the need to roll my eyes. “You’re a bit biased,” I reminded her, making sure her shoulders sparkled beautifully. She’d look like a disco ball with fabulous legs by the time I was finished. “You going to open with ‘Poker Face’?”
She wasn’t fooled by my feeble attempt to distract her. “Two songs,” she said. “Come down for two songs. Stand amongst the other boys and girls and let yourself feel like you’re a part of something instead of staying up here in your tower.”
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.”
“Be serious for one damn minute,” she snapped at me, eyes blazing. She was pissed at my evasiveness yet again.
“What do you want me to say?” I asked, trying not to sound hurt.
“Other shoulder, please,” she said. I move to her other side. “I want you to say that you’ll try. I want you to say that you’ll do something different. I want you to say that you’ll allow yourself to take a chance.” She leaned forward to wipe away a smudge of mascara clumped in the corner of her eye. “You’re not getting any younger, Paul. As a matter of fact, on today of all days, I would think you’d want to turn over a new leaf.”
I scowled at her, not bothering to reply. I don’t even want to think about today, but once Helena Handbasket got going, it was best to keep your mouth shut or she’d trample all over you. I learned that the hard way. Repeatedly.
Her eyes soften in the mirror. “Honey, I just want you to be happy.”
“I am happy,” I say, trying to sound convincing. “I have you and Wheels. My parents are still alive. My grandmother made a deal with the devil, so she’s still alive. I have a job and my own house. My car is paid off. What more could a guy ask for?”
“Hope,” Helena Handbasket said. “You could ask for some hope.”
Ew. Gross.
I rolled my eyes. “You just after-school-specialed all over my face.”
“Someone has to,” she retorted. “Nothing else is going all over your face.”
“You don’t think that’s hot, do you?” I asked, stepping back, making sure her shoulders shone evenly.
“What? Spunk on your face?”
“Yeah. I know it’s supposed to be pornographically hot, but isn’t there just something kind of gross about getting frosted like that?”
Helena leaned forward to fix her false eyelashes in the mirror. “Ruins my makeup,” she muttered. “Those queen chasers think its sooo hot to see my makeup run when they nut on me. It gets them off even more, for some reason. I can’t stand it.”
“But you do it?”
She shrugged tightly. “Might as well. Helena likes herself some cock.”
And that right there was another difference between my best friend and his alter ego. Sandy wasn’t the type to let a guy nut on his face (sorry for the overuse of the word “nut”; “ejaculation” makes it sound so clinical). As a matter of fact, I don’t think Sandy has ever had a guy do that to him while he’s Sandy. Sandy’s more like me than Helena is, although since Helena would do things that Sandy wouldn’t even consider, I don’t think that can be considered hypocritical. You can’t call a drag queen hypocritical because they have two different personalities. It’s like Clark Kent becoming Superman. Except a whole lot gayer. Okay, actually, now that I think about it, it’s probably like Clark Kent becoming Superman and then going into the phone booth and stepping out as Wonder Woman. That’s pretty damn gay.
Oh, by the way, I might also be a comic book nerd, for those of you keeping score of just how cool I am.
Anyway, Sandy wouldn’t ever do that, but Helena? I can say with no reservations that Helena is a whore. For some reason, whenever Dr. Jekyll turns into Mrs. Hyde, the gloves come off (and then, if we’re speaking honestly, the rubber gloves get pulled on; apparently Helena is very kinky that way). There are some guys, the queen chasers, that while still gay/bi/whatever, love to see lipstick marks around their dicks. And who else can provide such a service but a drag queen who has lipstick colors named things like “Dick Lip Red” and “Prussian Blue Balls”?
The queen chasers understand that queens like Helena aren’t exactly women, but for some reason their kink is to see her as one. Apparently there are quite a few married men out there who want to get their rocks off with an illusion. To each their own, I guess. Helena doesn’t talk about it a whole lot, and I try not to ask.
“Yeah, well, you can have some cock for the both of us,” I told her. “I’m fine just the way things are.”