9:25 p.m. - 2003-11-11
Dancing King.
I interrupt this tale of the Burn, perhaps forever at this rate, to preserve a Wednesday for posterity.

I was dinking around on message boards during lunch, as I am wont to do, when I discovered a local Burl3squ3 Betty scouting for a one-night pre-Hallowe'en gig at a local gay club.

She seemed desperate to fill roles at the last minute, so I was wildly undeterred by the open call's request for male performers.  I called and a relieved, friendly voice at the other end revealed that she had double-cast herself in two glam female roles and had then experienced difficulty getting men to take up the slack.  Baha!  Not surprising.   Sometime for fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants cabaret, it's easier to get drag queens for the female roles and let girls be guys.

So, could I fill a classically male role?  For two dance numbers, easy-peasy?

"Sure I can," I said.  "But can I do it with cleavage and false eyelashes?"

"Absolutely, " she said.  "Just show up at nine.  Two numbers at 11pm, free drinks and maybe a tip."

To this I agreed, rung off, and finished my workday--then dashed home, ate a kosher hot dog on whole wheat, showered, packed my things and slipped out of the house in a Velma Kelly wig (for the hell of it), pulling my suitcase on wheels like a good (but lazy) murderess.

Alex had declined to come with, he gets hit on a lot at gay clubs, which--despite his nonhomophobic nature--entertains only me, because I am immature.

I arrived in my favorite neighborhood, 10 minutes later than I'd agreed to, and wheeled myself up to the club, where thickly-accented doormen stared impassively at me and my claim of free cover, then (just barely) directed me through a doorway without even carding me.  (Bastards).

The club was empty and therefore bigger than I remembered from the bachelorette party several years before--a surprisingly clean, dark, cavernous place with a loft, stage, two brightly lit bars, and dance-cages, accented everywhere with pink neon.

Everyone there but me was obviously an employee--on ladders spraypainting banners, washing glasses, sorting music, which already boomed from a towering forest of speakers.

The bartender--a welterweight Johnny Rzeznick--had no idea where I should be or who I was talking about when I cited who'd invited me.  He bade me scamper upstairs and ask the manager where I should be, which I did to no avail.  The manager had no idea who I meant either.

"Well, I'll just wait about then," I faltered, thinking I have been stood up by a whole pack of strippers and divas.  Oh, help.

It was then when Red--a brash and tiny girl I know faintly from her online escapades--strolled in, long hair switching.

"Is that you, Vexinious?" she said.   (People never recognize me in wigs.  Something about my entire face morphs).

"It is me!  Hullo!  Please let me sit with you,"  I said.

"Oh sure."

I sat down with her, and she lost no time making a muscle at me, showing me how she'd built and toned her bicep lately with advice she'd solicited from me 6 months ago.  Quite a thrill to see muscle tone on a woman who'd looked so defenseless before.   I am all for running away from weirdos, but it's nice to be able to punch someone in the eye if backed into a corner.

Thus ensconced was I with Red for some time, talking about work and guys and recent nights out.  How it's easier to approach guys as we get older, how it's no longer the end of the world if someone knows you like 'em, even if they're not into you.  It's some sort of "I deserve to find people attractive, express myself, be open,'" happy rubbish that swoops down upon some late 20's girls like a virus.

"Speaking of which, Are you dating that Alex guy I saw you with?" she said.

"Yup!"

"Whew," she said laughing, shaking her hand like it'd been burned.

"You're telling me!  The first time I saw him I thought--Who is THAT?"

"Ha!"

...I made a mental note to tell Alex that he had been complimented.

The club began slowly to become less lonely...a solar system of dancers began to form, dancing alone.  A pocket version of Mitzi Del Bra danced continuously on slim, stocking-campaign legs, swinging a flapper gown and a curtain of impeccably glossy hair.  She danced peacefully and privately and well, without looking at anyone. She could have been alone in her apartment for how she danced. I liked it.

I spent close to an hour chatting with Red before the door to the club interior swung open and in sailed a magnificent 7-foot drag queen in a shortie dress and a champagne-colored bouffant.

By night's end, I predict me and her will interface, I thought, and hopped off my bar stool.

The drag queen had found a perch at the bar in front of Mr. Rzeznick, and I puttered 'round to her left.

"Excuse me--are you in tonight's show?"

She swivelled, revealing precise, dramatic makeup on a long, expressive face.   "Yes, darling.  Are you?"

"Yes!  And I've been trying to find anyone else who is."

"I'm Robin, I think I'll be playing opposite you."

"I'm Vex, and thrilled."

"Sergei," Robin said to the rock starry bartender, "give this girl a drink."

Sergei grudgingly gave me a vodka-cran (scant vodka; all sodding cran) and Robin led me down the employee-only stairs, through a semi-disguised door, across a basement full of curtains and scrims and props, to a little dressing room.

"Leave your stuff here and be back at 10:30 for a little rehearsal," Robin said.

"Okay."

I put down my suitcase in the small space, looked around, went back upstairs and danced in plain black plumage, sleeveless but otherwise rather long, drab and streamlined. The floor was emptier than my usual haunt, and there were more strangers, so I danced freely and experimentally, knowing that I might not see any of them again. And I also watched...

My favorites were a foppish gothy man with obvious ballet training, and two hperactive pixie-cut lesbians in square-dancing skirts and western wear. I was trying to figure out whether they were sisters, cousins, or just oddly alike when I heard a man say "Would you like to dance?"

A lithe and handsome blonde stood at my elbow.

I wondered if he were gay, rendering a dance thus acceptable in light of my current romantic entanglement. The odds for gayness were good.

But perhaps the dancing itself would be the issue. Alex is a tentative dancer.

If he heard I was having a fabulous time dancing with a handsome man of any orientation, he might be sad.

I tried not to sigh too heavily.

"I can't. I have a boyfriend. But I'm flattered; I think you're beautiful."

He smiled, disappeared. He reappeared a few moments later, salsa-dancing on a long platform dancing area under the strobes, as spirited and sublimely graceful as if there was a woman in his arms. Gorgeous. I am weak for dancing; I almost threw myself at his feet, crying "Take me back, bleach-blonde Ricky Martin!"

Which is an insult; he dances better than Ricky Martin.

After that, I tried not to watch.

I got a Corona with lime from the bar, and tipped Sergei even though it was free. I'll show you, Sergei. I thought. Here's a dollar, you mingy bastard.

I went downstairs.

The rest of the hastily assembled performers were there, including Betty the Instigator. I shook hands and nodded hellos, scrubbed my street makeup off and put on more careful, exaggerated stuff; false lashes, lipliner, lipstick. As I wiggled into a platinum wig, Betty suddenly sang out: "Come on babe, why don't we paint the town..."

Robin & I leapt in "--and all that Jazz!" and we sang the rest of the first verse together. I almost sprayed myself directly in the eye with glitter hairspray in my enthusiasm.

The finished costume was masculine in inspiration only, and gave me quite a laugh. Robin approved.

We went out into the basement and rehearsed a number a few times using a portable CD player. Robin is used to winging it, and was satisfied before I was.

We went on at 11, for a tipsy, attentive crowd mobbing the dance floor, platforms, loft. And God help us, the DJ was making a big deal of it, telling the crowd to "direct your attention to the main stage..." as I wished for a mic to add "Or don't; suit yourself." The song began, and the crowd seemed to like the diversion.

It was over quickly, followed by applause and the DJ's announcement that we'd be back in a half an hour. Betty vanished for the Slowest Quick-Change in the World.

Robin and I blotted our faces on napkins and went back to the bar, where she used her fame and height to cut in line. She ordered, then turned to me. "What do you want, honey?"

"A whiskey sour?"

"A whiskey sour!" Robin ordered.

And that's when I discovered that drag queens get better drinks. From now on, when possible, I am ordering drinks by proxy.

We came back at 11:30 and did another number. It was bigger and noisier, and I had a lot of fun. When it finished, a dance mix began, during which I was suddenly ambushed by an ex-coworker from my dotcom days. In my 5 inch platform boots I was taller than him and so high on relief that I lifted him off the ground in a hug before running downstairs to change back into dancing clothes.

While still in costume, Robin's friend Rosie (who also has a day job as a man) came walking into the dressing room, escorting a young Simon Le Bon and his adorable cohort.

"Hello!" I said.

"Helloo..." said one. "Hi..." said the other.

"These guys just wanted to meet you..." said Robin's friend.

"Meet ME?" I said.

"Yeah..."

"Are you part of the show downtown?" said the Simon lookalike.

"Oh, no. No, no, no."

"Oh, we totally thought you were!"

"Thank you!"

"You put on a great show!"

"Thank you..."

"Mm-hm!"

The two of them stood there smiling endearingly and not going away. Feeling quite silly, I turned around and pretended to be very busy with my makeup kit. Luckily, Robin took up the slack, chatting up her friend (and her friends' friends). I eavesdropped, learning that Robin works in a hair salon uptown, that there was a deficit of cage-dancers upstairs, and that Rose was "feeling fat tonight". Robin also told those assembled that I had "saved her" when she discovered at a choreography-defying moment that the stairs to the stage were blocked by the audience. "She just grabbed my hands and told me to jump and I knew I had to!" Robin exclaimed. "I would've killed myself in these shoes if she hadn't been there." She eyed me. "Vex. You should go dance in the cage."

"I've never danced in a cage!"

"Oh, that doesn't matter. Just be slinky."

I considered my verdict.

I had just finished a whiskey sour. I had (almost as recently) lost 11 lbs, and no one gives a damn because I wasn't too badly off in the first place. It would, thereby, be a good chance to express my jubilation semi-anonymously at the state of things (weight loss; good drinks).

On the other hand, I might be singled out by some sort of psychotic, followed from the club at 2am and throttled in an alley.

Decisions!

I changed into silvery pants and a tank and ran up the stairs to the club level. Slipping through the crowd towards the cage, I suddenly felt someone (the aforementioned psychotic sort) grab a keistercheek and squeeze.

For shit's sake. Not acting flirtatiously, not out-dressing the club regulars, surrounded by gay men, and I was getting felt up.

I whipped around to see who it was and zero'd in on the bastard--trying to slip away like nothing at happened. And it was this that angered me. He wasn't just some drunk dork grinning stupidly in my face, having forgotten himself, he wasn't a friend who can more than likely get away with that sort of thing (if they can tolerate the nipple-twisting reprisals) ...he was a cowardly creep who'd deduced that I wouldn't like it, did it anyway and didn't want to accept the repercussions. Reminding myself "not the neck, NOT the neck"--my fist connected soundly with his shoulder blade.

"No thank you."

He flinched and continued his rabbity retreat without answer as I thought " 'No thank you?' That was clever, vexinious."

I had momentary second thoughts about getting up in the cage after that.

I know there's quite a chasm between looking versus touching, and there will always be some monkeys who confuse the two whether I look terrible and utterly shat upon (more likely) or am wearing a wedding gown and carrying a sword (which is my best look).

But being grabbed makes me want to kick people. And worse, I didn't even think to do kick him. It would have been a thousand times better.

...My boots are huge.

So I kept on my way, because I might never do it again.

Because--really, who dances in a cage?

Who throws his shoe? Honestly.

A manager showed me the fan and flashing lights, and closed the entrance behind me.

And it was lots of fun. Liberating. Expressive. I was glad I was still dressed as a blonde, because it helped me channel Goldie Hawn to Dead or Alive and the B-52's, laughing into the blinding pink and yellow flashing lights. ...I could see gay men dancing in the cage all the way across the ceiling from me, but it was mercifully hard to see the churning crowd below...the busy bar, my few acquaintances, vast numbers of cheerful strangers. I just danced the frug and the pony and the jerk and a little gothic wristy-twisty accompanied by standard shimmy-shake ass-wag. And felt happy. Pretty. Silly.

Why is it so fun to shake one's can?

Why?

I tired eventually and turned off the lights and fan, and tromped down the stairs and over to the downstairs door, clasping my hands across my ass the whole way...changed back into my sedate skirt and sweater, peacoat, real hair...wrested my suitcase up the stairs to find Robin and say goodbye.

I found her perched on a barstool with a little purse shaped like a casket.

"Honey, give me your contact info, will you?" Robin said. "In case I need you again."

Hot damn.

I might be needed again.

By an awesome queen!

I realized with a start that I had no business cards on me. The fuck! I thought. I am never leaving the house without them again. I happily scribbled down my phone and email address and stuffed it in her purse.

Then to my surprise, Betty appeared and gave me 30 dollars. I'm not sure where it came from.

I was thrilled. It was the first time I have ever been paid for mucking about on a stage. Even though it was just corny cabaret lip-synching, and even though it was just 30 dollars (with which I knew I'd be buying groceries).

I wheeled myself through the packed club, Ms. Pac Man surrounded by charming fruit, flashing lights, ghosts (okay, ass-grabbers) ... looking Usual again: dark clothes, trim lines, apparently tardy for something. I alternately walked and ran and skipped half a mile downhill in my rompy stompy boots, arriving early for the last bus, the 2am bus, the last call.

As I got onto the bus, the glitter mishap of old suddenly cashed in its chips, and I had to abandon my book for closed, sparkly-sticky eyes on the very back seat, my back to the wall like Wild Bill Hickock, listening for predatory drunks. It's a long trip, wide awake with the eyes closed.

...Home.

I dragged my suitcase up the three flights, ate some fake sausage and went jubilantly to bed--which is much the same as going sedately to bed, only with more wiggle.

previous - next