“Maybe,” I said, winking salaciously.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Charlie said.
“Oh, Daddy,” I breathed. “Remind me to talk about your punishment later.”
“I can hardly wait,” Charlie said.
“As I was saying, the homo jocks are here of their own free will, and they are precious to me, each and every single one of them. You will treat them with the kindness and respect they deserve. If I should hear of something… untoward… happening on one of these dates, something where the homo jock was made to feel uncomfortable in any way, shape, or form, there will be consequences.” My smile was razor sharp. “And you don’t want to know what happens when there are Helena Handbasket consequences, now do you?”
“NO!” they bellowed at me.
“Good,” I said. “I think that covers all the threats I need to make tonight. Shall we begin?”
IT WAS going well, if I did say so myself. At least as well as a sequined train wreck could possibly go. There was a script of sorts to follow, but like most drag shows, it was abandoned partway through and we were all essentially heading off the rails while cackling gleefully. If someone had walked in on the middle of this and had no knowledge of what the event had been about, I was pretty sure they’d think they had walked into some kind of underground sex trafficking ring where a very tall woman was selling beefy men in female period costumes. Not that that wasn’t an aura I wouldn’t have minded cultivating (because the mystique that must go with a woman in charge of selling beefy men in female clothing for sex trafficking purposes must be through the fucking roof), but I knew that when I watched the video the next day, there would probably just be a lot of screaming and drinking and secondhand embarrassment for all parties involved.
I was completely aware that any chance we had at raising money to beat Andrew Taylor wasn’t necessarily going to come from the auction itself, but more so from the sale of liquor and what the Super Gays had provided.
That being said, I was shocked when the cheapest a homo jock went for was a couple of grand. Biff, Chet, and Xerxes (who didn’t even try to correct me on their real names, which, good for them
for learning so quickly) all went for more, with Xerxes fetching just over five thousand dollars by a gaggle of lesbians, a sale I didn’t quite understand but didn’t complain about at all, because if there was one group of people good for the money, it’d be lesbians. I just hoped that Xerxes would survive whatever date they took him on. I wasn’t sure what lesbians did on first dates, whether it’d be a trip to Home Depot or trying to find the nearest wedding chapel.
There were a few (read: more than I cared to see) skeevy people bidding, those that rubbed me the wrong way as soon as they shouted out a number for the homo jocks. But they were quickly and quietly dealt with, either by being outbid or escorted out by security when they started to salivate just a tad too much.
It probably didn’t help that the homo jocks looked fucking amazing.
The queens and I had really outdone ourselves, and that dissonance I was looking for, that clash between femininity and masculinity, was on full display. The severe jawlines and bulging arms, chests, and thighs combined with eyeshadow and perfectly stylized wigs to create a hyperrealized version of a drag queen. Drag queens didn’t need to be effeminate to be a good queen.
And that wasn’t to say that they were completely successful. This was the first and most likely only time they’d do drag. They were clumsy and awkward in their heels, like little baby deer trying to stand and walk for the first time.
But they were so goddamned endearing about it, not a single one playing it completely for laughs. I was impressed that they carried the right amount of sass and sex even as they stumbled about on stage. They weren’t good, but they were trying to be, and I thought that was all that mattered.
The queens themselves were, for the most part, regal and exemplary. Well, three of them were. Summer decided she would grind up on each of her homo jocks, bringing them both on stage with her at the same time, and making what she called a Summer Sandwich. I tried to keep the distaste off my face, vowing to research to see if there was a call for drag queens in Alaska so I could ship her out of here once and for all. Then I realized how awful that would be for the people of Alaska, who’d already had to suffer Sarah Palin, so I thought maybe Russia was better.
The audience loved every minute of it.
Even Summer, though I supposed there was no accounting for taste.
And as the liquor flowed, their wallets opened up even more. They bid more. They drank more. ’Twas a vicious circle that played on repeat, and I didn’t want it to stop.
Things were going good.
Things were going great.
And then eight homo jocks had been sold to highest bidder.
Only two were left.
The crowd hushed when I took center stage again, the remaining queens taking their places in the audience. The homo jocks stood off to the side, Biff scratching himself obscenely in such a way that I hope seventies Cher never did. I frowned at him and he shrugged, mouthing that his balls didn’t like Lycra, which was more than I ever really wanted to know about Biff.
“Well, would you look at that,” I said to the audience, my voice filled with regret. “It looks like we’re out of time.”
The crowd screamed in dismay, playing along with me.
“Yes, yes,” I cooed at them. “I’m sad about this too. Maybe next year we could—”
“Helena,” Charlie said into the mic.
“Yes, Daddy?”