October 31st, 2011.
Soundtrack: “The End” by My Chemical Romance / “Four Kicks” by Kings of Leon
Last night…last night I was a hot fucking mess, and that’s putting it mildly. It was Halloween. There’s always shenanigans on Halloween, par for the course, as they say. Yeah, you all bloody know the story. One too many vodkas, and I was up on that stage, crying my eyes out and singing “We Are the Champions” at the top of my lungs to a club full of unsettled French men.
Picture it here: stage lights come on, music starts up, and out totters yours truly in a pair of six-inch diamante fuck-me heels. Always fabulous – even when I’m having an emotional meltdown in public. I went for a floor-length black velvet dress that would put both Elvira and Morticia Addams to shame, topped off with a black beehive wig that could’ve been a good homage to Amy Winehouse if I hadn’t been so drunk I’d put it on askew.
Normally, I like to think of myself as a classy drag performer. But not last night. Last night I was pure garishness in its physical form, and I didn’t give two fucks at the time.
Phil sat by the bar, nursing a whiskey sour and giving me the concerned-parent look.
“Some people don’t know how to have a good TIME!!” I’d shouted at him. God, I feel like a right shit this morning for that one. As I got to the part of the song about having no time for losers, I’d pointed right at Phil. In the end, he gave me a deathly scowl before swiftly flouncing out of the club with all the pomp and ceremony of a royally pissed-off homosexual.
Good riddance, I’d thought at the time. Good grief, is what I’m thinking right now.
A pretty horrific night, you’re probably all saying to yourselves. A real ghoulish tribute to the holiday of All Hallows. Yeah, well, it didn’t end there. Usually, after I’ve done a show, I change out of my stage clothes and into something a little more comfortable. No, not a negligee, you saucy little devils. A pair of jeans and a T-shirt are my usual go-to items. But last night? Last night I went backstage, pulled off my wig, grabbed my stuff, and tumbled out of the bar in all my hermaphro-guy-in-a-dress glory. You may well suck in your breath at what a vastly misguided decision that was. The club was located in a less than savoury area of Paris. Needless to say, I lasted about three minutes before a group of hooligans began to follow me and shout insults. Since I know enough French to get by, I knew exactly what they were calling me.
All the usual gay slurs. I won’t be so crude as to recite them here. Little did they know, I’d probably fucked more women than they would combined in their entire lifetimes. It’s not something I’m proud of. In fact, thinking of my many conquests can often leave me feeling a little bit empty and worthless. Still, like the glutton for punishment that I am, I keep going back for more. Somewhere in my psyche there’s this firm belief that I will one day find solace in a vagina.
My psyche’s a deceiving little prick.
“Go fuck yourself,” I’d shouted at one of them when he insinuated I’d probably love to suck his cock. The next thing I knew, a foot was making contact with the back of my knee and a fist was flying full steam ahead at my face. I ducked to avoid it and pulled off both my heels. FYI: They are lethal motherfuckers when used as a weapon, and I was drunk enough to start wielding them like a crazy ex-wife who just got shafted in the divorce settlement and was now out to draw blood.
The pavement cut into my stocking-clad feet as I lifted one heel high into the air before bringing it down hard on the head of the shit who had attacked me. A dangerous move that could very well have killed him, but I was running crazy on alcohol, and he had started it.
Wallop. Thump. Wallop.
Before I knew it, his friends were advancing on me, and no matter how lethal my shoes were, they weren’t going to be a match for five-homo hating ne’er-do-wells.
The irony of the entire situation was that I’m about as straight as Clint Eastwood smoking a cigarette, wearing a brown leather jacket, squinting his eyes and casually pointing a gun in your face. Unfortunately, this was not my first queer-bashing rodeo, and, sadly, it probably wouldn’t be the last.
Some people might say that I’m asking for it.
Those people would be right in many respects.
However, it still seriously pisses me off that we live in world where you can’t be free to express yourself in whatever strange way you happen to choose. I clutched my stomach and grunted in pain when one of them landed a kick to my abdomen. They kept going at me then, and I was far too outnumbered to be able to defend myself.
Oh, well, at least I put up a decent fight with my Jimmy Choos.
Before I knew it, my attackers were scarpering, and two French policemen were staring down at me, wearing ever-so-glum frowns. They didn’t seem too shocked, though. I wondered vaguely how often they came across men in drag who’d just had the living shit kicked out of them.
This was Paris, after all.
It was fortunate that the vast amounts of alcohol I’d consumed were numbing my body to the pain. I’d be feeling it in the morning, though.
Long story short, the policemen brought me to the hospital, where a rather unsexy nurse bandaged me up and sent me on my merry way. I was given some unflattering clothes to wear, most likely from the Lost and Found, and then an orderly came to hustle me into a taxi.
This was a new low, but I didn’t cry on the way home, nor did I feel sorry for myself. Instead, I planned on taking a very long nap, waking up, locating a bottle of liquor, and calling up one of the lovely ladies who happened to reside in my little black book.
Call me a degenerate.
Call me stupid.
All I knew was that I wanted to forget. I wanted to feel pleasure with my body while my brain and emotions checked out. I arrived back at the apartment I was renting, flopped down onto the bed, and promptly fell asleep.
November 1st, 2011.
Soundtrack: “My Alcoholic Friends” by The Dresden Dolls.
The second I woke up this morning, I wanted to go straight back to slumber-land. The thing was, I wasn’t alone. I had company, and not the good kind with breasts. Phil sat on the green velvet chair I’d placed by the side of my bed, one leg crossed over the other and his mouth drawn into a thin, displeased line.
Damn him and knowing where I hide my spare key.
He folded his arms when he saw my eyes blink open.
“I’m not even sure if I want to know what happened to you last night,” he said in his lilting Irish accent. Phil and his current squeeze had been living in Paris for the last two years. They’d been managing a small but successful gay bar; however, Phil had been feeling homesick and had just secured a new job in Dublin. He was moving home next week, and I wasn’t sure whether I was looking forward to or dreading his departure.
I sat up, rubbed at my eyes, and winced at the pain in my stomach and chest. I was topless, but there was a bandage around my torso. Phil sucked in a shocked breath when the blanket fell from me and he saw the bruising.
“Jesus Christ! Did you get knocked over by a car or something?” he asked, concerned now.
I located a glass of water on my bedside dresser and took a long, thirsty gulp. “No, I left the club in a dress, and a group of ragamuffins decided they had a problem with me,” I replied with dark humour.
“They beat you up?”
“Yes, but it was all in good fun. I was a sport about it.”
“Stop joking around, Nicholas. This is serious. Did you call the police?”
“They were the ones who came to my rescue, actually. Brought me to the hospital and everything. Very pleasant chaps altogether. I think I might send a card and a box of biscuits to say thank you.”
Phil frowned at me but didn’t say anything. He was right — I was joking around. I just didn’t want to have to face the depressing nature of my life by discussing the beating in any kind of serious manner. It would put a dampener on a day that I planned to fill with the joys of sex and alcohol.
A few moments of silence en
sued before I grabbed my phone and began scrolling through my list of contacts.
“Who are you calling?” Phil asked, eyes narrowed.
“Jeanette. I’m asking her over. You’re welcome to stay and watch if that’s what floats your boat.”
“Please. I’m in no way curious to see you fuck a woman, Nicholas. And if you want my opinion, that Jeanette is no good for you. All she ever does is ply you with alcohol and ask you for money that she never pays back. I’m not too keen on her friends, either. They all strike me as burgeoning alcoholics, and you drink far too much as it is.”
“Pfffft,” was the only reply I gave him as I lifted my phone to my ear. “Jeanette, darling, be a dear and pop over today, would you?”
Jeanette was a petite blonde French girl with small but delightfully perky breasts. I spoke to her in English because she was fluent, and my French was garbled on a good day. And this was not a good day. In fact, I was already trying to remember where I’d left the painkillers they’d given me at the hospital last night.
“Nicholas,” said Jeanette, flirtation in her voice. I could hear her smack her lips together. “So good to hear from you. I will consider your invitation. What’s in it for me?”
“Orgasms aplenty,” I replied with a roll of my tongue, giving Phil a cheeky wink. He screwed up his mouth in displeasure and rose from the chair, leaving me to my conversation.
“Oh, really. I like the sound of that. Tell me more.”
“Weeelllll,” I began, rummaging a cigarette and a lighter from a pair of jeans I’d discarded on the floor, and lit up. “First of all, we’re going to get drunk, very drunk. Then I’ll be quite charming in my efforts to lure you into shedding your clothes. I’ll spread your legs and perhaps have a little fun with those vibrators you’re fond of….”
“Nicholas!” she interrupted me, breathless. If I were being honest, I was just a little bit hard myself.
“Are you sold?”
She cleared her throat. “Mm-hmm. Yes. I’ll call over later on. I’m at work at the moment.”
“Marvellous! See you soon!”
There was a smile in her voice as she replied, “Goodbye, Nicholas.”
I ended the call and slumped back in the bed, finishing off the smoke. I could hear Phil messing around with pots and pans in the kitchen.
“Oh, Philip, you are an angel sent down from the heavens. Are you making me breakfast?” I called to him.
A moment later, he popped his head into my room and pointed a spatula at me. “Only because you’re hurt. You don’t deserve this after the way you behaved last night. Unfortunately, I like to think I’m a good friend. And good friends are loyal, even when their loyalty is shoved in their faces time and again.”
He swiftly left after that little speech, and I very slowly got out of bed. I took some painkillers and managed a quick, all-business shower before sitting my bottom down at the kitchen counter to eat breakfast. I was a sight for sore eyes. Luckily, though, all my most vital parts were functioning, if you catch my drift, so I would still be raring to go with Jeanette when she arrived. She’d definitely have to get on top, though. Hip thrusting was going to be a problem for me for at least the next week or two.
“So,” said Phil, “what was it that brought on last night’s display of lunacy?”
“I have no idea what you mean,” I muttered, shovelling scrambled eggs into my mouth and scrolling through the messages on my phone.
“Don’t give me that! You were full-on crazy-times alcoholic Liza Minnelli last night. I didn’t know what to do with you. You told Ben that his hair looked like someone had superglued three seagull feathers onto a bald patch. He was very upset, and I had to let him go home early.”
Ben was a bartender at Phil’s club and very sensitive about his male pattern baldness. I winced guiltily and glanced at Phil. “I said that?”
“Yes, and you also told numerous customers to fuck off. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you perform tomorrow night. There were too many complaints.”
“I’ll apologise. It was the vodka. Well, it was me plus vodka, which usually equals extreme fuckery.” I paused and decided to tell Phil the honest truth. “I got some news yesterday evening over the phone. It kind of sent me off the deep end.”
He frowned and looked at me with concern. “Oh, yes?”
“Yes. You’re going to think I’m crazy, but, well, I’ve been keeping tabs on Kelvin the past few years.”
Phil’s eyes widened. “What!? Your dad’s friend Kelvin? The same Kelvin who….”
“Yes, that’s the one.” I interrupted him quickly before he delved into my horrid past and the abuse I’d suffered at the hands of that disgusting, vile old man. “And it’s not what you think. I was keeping an eye on him because he was never prosecuted for what he did to me. Too much money and too many friends in high places. You know how it goes. So I needed to make sure he wasn’t going to submit some other poor boy to what I had been submitted to.”
“Nicholas…”
“Look, just hear me out. So I might have called up a few people I knew he associated with who had young children and warned them about him.”
“Nicholas!” Phil said my name a second time, now with a tone both fearful and apprehensive.
“I had to do it, Phil. I just had to. There was this one woman, the wife of a business associate of his, who said I was revolting, cursed me out, and told me never to contact her again. I felt like I had done my part and there was nothing I could do if she wasn’t going to see sense. I mean, I could hardly go and take her kids away from her. Well, last night that very same woman called me back, bawling her eyes out. It’s been over a year since I originally called her, and lots of things have come to light about Kelvin and her thirteen-year-old son. She and her husband are pressing charges. They might just have more money and more friends in high places than Kelvin does, because I think he actually might get sent down this time.” I finished talking, took a sip of orange juice, and glanced at Phil. He was studying me closely.
“Okay, I completely disagree with the way you went about things, but this is good news, isn’t it? Aren’t you happy he’s going to be punished?”
I swallowed hard, a burst of emotion suddenly coming over me as I slammed my hand down on the countertop. “No! I’m not fucking happy, Phil! All these years since I got away from him he’s probably abused countless other boys, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. I’m worthless for not trying harder!”
The guilt that had been festering inside me grew in size. In fact, the hole grew bigger every day, and I was helpless to stop it.
I slumped back down on my stool, my eyes growing wet with unshed tears. The next thing I knew, Phil was out of his seat and throwing his arms around me. “You did try, Nicholas. But you were hurting so much…so, so much. That pain consumed you for a long time, and you are not to blame for this. Don’t ever blame yourself. You were the victim.”
“I hate it. I hate that word. I hate the shame it makes me feel.”
“You have nothing to be ashamed about,” he told me with conviction.
“I know that, but despite knowing it, I still feel it.” I thumped myself in the chest.
Phil led me over to the couch, and we sat. We talked for an hour or two before he had to get to work. I went and took another nap, and was woken by the ringing of my doorbell. Groggily, I went and answered it, and was greeted by Jeanette holding up a bottle of red wine. Yes, that would do nicely. She had also brought several of her friends with her, but I didn’t mind. I needed the company. Solitude leaves too much time for dwelling on the past.
I probably shouldn’t have been drinking after taking the painkillers, but I wasn’t of a mind to care. Soon enough, my apartment turned into an a-party-ment. There was dancing and merriment, and some sexual acts that should have been performed behind closed doors. More drinks were poured, and eventually I was having such a good time that I blacked out.
Ah, the joys of sex, wine, and alcoholic fri
ends.
May 31st, 2012.
Soundtrack: “Take Me to Church” by Hozier
I was in Berlin. I fucking loved Berlin. One of my absolute favourite places on God’s green earth. Unfortunately, Berlin did not love me. It often seduced me into true degeneracy and wild behaviour of the most depraved kind, and I could not for the life of me tell you why.
I was performing in a tiny little club last night with two other drag queens, one a friend of mine from Brighton. His name was Dave, but his stage name was Linda Lovely. The other was a performer I’d just met a couple of weeks ago, a German who simply went by Agnes. She had quite a large following, since this was her home city.
We were doing a three-way performance of Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” along with a little dance routine we’d made up. A lot of heel strutting and sassy hip tilting. I was in the zone, high on a cloud of alcohol-fuelled zeal with a deep-rooted misery beneath.
I was exuberant because I’d just been informed that Kelvin was being sent to prison for twenty years. I was triumphant, but I was not satisfied. In fact, the surface joy was slowly dissipating, and the emptiness in my gut was growing fast. I’d thought that once I knew for sure he was going to be punished, the clouds would part and I’d suddenly be this whole new man. A man who could be happy and content with his lot. A man who didn’t feel the need to constantly be on the move, running away from nothing but himself.
The problem was, I was still me. Still broken and seeking a perfect place somewhere on a continent that didn’t exist.
There was a group of women in the club who appeared to be celebrating a hen night. I’d set my sights on a buxom redhead, eyeing her from my place on the stage. I’m a breast man, there’s no denying it, and this young lady was sporting a fine pair. I think she might have been a little confused by my attention. I was, after all, wearing a tight red cocktail dress and matching lipstick, my dark hair slicked back away from my face. I wasn’t full-on Vivica Blue tonight. I was a little bit of Viv and a little bit of Nicholas. When I was half and half, you always knew something was wrong in my noggin. Self-destruction was usually on my agenda. It was all thanks to the news of Kelvin’s conviction, obviously. It should have made me deliriously happy. I’d wanted this for so long, and yet now that it was happening, the aspirational disappointment was almost too much to bear.