A Somewhat Intro
First of all, you should know...
I'm in my bedroom hiding inside a fortress made from my duvet and listening to Leona Lewis's
“Bleeding Love” on an Oh-So-90's stereo. The CD is beginning to skip. I barely even notice, because
my own Bleeding Love is dominating my thought space. The song replays. Again and again. When the
beat kicks in for the bajillionth time, I imagine a finger snap transforming my moldy and pancake
syrupy Joan Jett tee into a shiny, sequin-covered gown. I rip down the duvet and swing it into a cloak.
Suddenly, I'm heavily eyelined and glitterfied.
On second thought, a cloak may appear campy.
Campy minimizes the DRAMA surrounding my heart pain. Plus, the duvet is kind of heavy. I
suspect it contains the feathers of a Harpy, but have no credible evidence to prove it. Harpies are
difficult to capture and not very keen on first-degree defeathering. Anyways, I'm not like Leona Lewis,
all barefoot, shimmery and curly. My hair shimmers some but, since the Straightening Incident of 2009
my hair won't hold a curl. Plus, who the eff can strut barefoot besides Miss J from America's Next Top
Model? I'm sure I could with practice and shoulder pads, but it's too late for an ad-hoc journey to the
costume shop downtown. I also fear sunlight shall only further aggravate my heart pain.
Unfortunately, I'd have to do the performance standing. I know! It's epically tragic. Leona's
rolling about on the floor totally mirrors my current crushed status. I'm typically all about metaphors,
but, you see, my vibrator is still MIA. Although, last night I heard a mysterious humming under my
dresser. I'm too HEARTBROKEN to investigate! I couldn't exactly roll on the floor, miming my
bleeding heart pain and stumble over my vibrator! Or, well, I could, but it would be distracting and
tear-filled. Hello! We're minimizing the campy! Tear-filled solo sexing is totes the campiest. I'm not
some sort of glittering independent film with Cannes potential. Well, not yet. I must not leave my
fortress of bleeding heart melancholy. I must resist all battery-powered objects.
The performance would be raw, sparkly and emotional!
Simon Cowell would say, “OH, BLOODY SNAP!”
Tyra Banks would say, “YOU ARE FIERCE!”
RuPaul would say, “WORK IT, BITCH!”
However, it wouldn't alter the telenovela shift my life has taken. Being crossed from love is an
effing travesty for your hair, nails, and heart. I just keep bleeding! The whole thing wasn't completely
my fault to begin with! Well, okay, maybe it was! There's about an 87% chance it was my fault. I had
one of those self-destructive, Keep Burning Yourself Bitch moments. But, hello, don't I deserve some
slack-cutting? Everyone glamorous has a dark period! PLUS, I never even believed in all-
encompassing, Keep Bleeding Love until THE ONE WHO MAKETH ME HIDE UNDER THE
COVERS came crashing into my Formerly Fierce Life!
Five or so months ago, Former Fiercer Me believed love was a rouse. An excuse to force
someone to stick around for eternity and yammer on about pot roast, golden retrievers, laundry,
declined credit cards and day care. Real, heart-wrenching, soul-slashing, dragon-slaying, LOVE didn't
exist! The only thing that mattered to Former Fiercer Me was sex, heels, and well, me. In the large,
SEXY scheme of things love is pointless. You don't need it to procreate, get a good job, get famous,
publish a book or to buy cute shoes. Excluding the whole procreation deal, these are things I aspire to
do and do 'em J- Lo well.
Of course, Former Fiercer Me was a RARE individual!
Or, I, Lucy, am a RARE individual!
I lost my virginity to a unicorn.
Okay, it wasn't exactly the technical and commonly accepted virginity losing.
Okay, it wasn't exactly a unicorn, but more of a horse in the GUISE of a unicorn.
In my curious, 13 year old mind, it was a unicorn. I was riding this Unicorn Impersonator at
the Mayfair Festival downtown and he/she caught a glimpse of magical grass and galloped towards it.
I had my first Oh The Lights Are So Bright Moment. This enchanted, orgasmic experience set me on the
path of sexual righteousness. I became a Creature of Sexual Magic. Creatures of Sexual Magic don't
fall for love voodoo or hand-holding in orchard grooves. We dance, shine like diamonds and possess
rare and bold creative impulses! Why waste all of that glitter on boyfriends and minivans? Of course,
I'm currently all glittered out. You know, since I'm HIDING in a fortress of loneliness with a broken
heart and a mysteriously misplaced vibrator!
How the H did I get here? How the H do I get back onto my path? To escape from this
distressing state, like a VHS tape, I'm DUE for some Be Kind Rewinding.
The WHOLE thing wouldn't have even happened if I hadn't dropped out of college. Well, there's
a 73% chance it wouldn't have happened.
So, friends, fans, and my Former Fiercer Self, let's give a rewind all the way back to the cold
and wintery month of January 2010...
1
Lucy
It's Monday.
Monday's are only good for several Monday Type Things. Telling my Mom I've dropped out of
college is a Monday Type Thing. Asking the sales clerk at the pharmacy downtown if I can exchange
my tampons because, “I'm curious to try paper, but fear it'll be an itchy or difficult experience and
would like to upgrade to plastic,” is NOT a Monday Type Thing. According to Sales Clerk Peggy it's,
“An inappropriate exchange that cannot be made without a receipt,” Type Thing. Hello, Peggy! It's not
like they were used. It was a science experiment! Cardboard tampons are part of the control group. The
box wasn't even open! Tampax would so support this.
I technically dropped out of college two months ago. Those two months have been so action
packed Micheal Bay has contacted me for screen rights. I've Hit & Quit several fine fellas. I become an
anarchist. I quickly decided to unbecome an anarchist because, it has nothing to do with dancing on the
hood's of cars. Plus, rare known fact, anarchist's smell like baking soda. I'm not sure if that's a
stipulation to become an anarchist. Wikipedia didn't specify. I wasn't built to deodorize household
areas. My BFF Tom and I also celebrated Best Decade Week 2010. Tom prefers to celebrate the whiny
guys on guitars years, but for me, it's all about 90's Girl Power!
As you can tell, I've kept myself under the most dignified demeanor. There's so much more you
can do with your life than read books that cost more than your rent. Hello! The Bible doesn't even cost
as much as a book on Advanced Basket Weaving. How effed is that? Jesus is PO'd! Logically, a good
Christ-hearting lady would take JC's advice and ditch that heathen place. Of course, I'm not a Christian
or religious in any sorts. Although, I've Hit & Quit enough Jews to hold a member's privilege's card.
Just in case of the apocalypse.
So, here I am, dropded outted. Why?
I'm going to become a serious NOVELIST!
Or, well, I am a serious NOVELIST!
I'm no longer burdened with the academically distracting portion of my magical existence. I'm
too fabulous to be locked in some sort of patchouli reeking box drinking scotch and saying things like,
“By George! What a fine metaphor on deconstructing post-deconstructionism in a post-structuralist
setting!”
The only thing I want to deconstruct is Sales Clerk Peggy for her snip-snap attitude. I'm jobless,
for the moment, but as those Oh-So-90's girls from Ireland sing, “C'est La Vie”! I had their CD, but
Tom tossed it out of the window on 90's Decade Night.
Anyhow, it's January. A month I've dedicated to Rihanna. I'm totally suffering from The Manic
Monday Syndrome. The Bangles got it right. BFF and Roommate Tom decided on the walk home from
the pharmacy to reveal what he deems, “A finely concocted scheme on how to tell your Mom you've
dropped out of college to pursue a career as a NOVELIST.”
Every time I hear “NOVELIST” I pretend I'm Jane Austen and take a turn about the invisible
parlor. Tom usually says, “Fancy a spot of brandy, Jane?” and follows with some bit about knickers.
But, on this Manic Monday, he's so hungover he doesn't entertain my pantomimes. He hides behind his
Ray-Bans and walks all slow. Yesterday he accumulated McGriddle coupons(the first come, first serve
freebies) and surmised McGriddle's can only be enjoyed under schwasted circumstances. This Manic
Monday morning we woke up around 4am. Tom hammered down some whiskey and I scowled at his
alkie gulping grossness. Afterwards, we walked it out to McDonald's. To Tom's drunken amazement we
had to sit outside in the freezing cold until they opened the doors at 7am.
It went something like this:
“Lu...mmm...cy?”
“Tom, they're unlocking the doors now.”
“Jesus, dammit...cold...Christ.”
“Sir, you know you can't smoke in here!”
“Lu...Lu...Lucy, who's this woman?”
“Tom, just give her the stupid coupon you drunken lout!”
It's not something I'd do again. There were way too many children and oldies ogling my white
lacy tights. Tom moaned while he ate. I sat in the yellow booth, twirling Tom's shorted cigarette and
grimacing after he took each bite. On the walk home, he called Biggie, the neighborhood cat mascot,
“A mancat whore!” (He's impregnated all of the local ladycats.) Tom then proceeded to vomit in the
general direction of Crazy Neighbor Mr. Myers' yard gnome, Giggles. Mr. Myers, who happened to be
awake and doing whatever to his lawn, almost tased Tom! What the H kind of person keeps a taser on
their porch? Man-up and get a Katana!
You see what I mean about Manic Mondays?
Nonetheless, Tom and I survived another attempted assault from loitering near Mr. Myers'
porch early in the morning. We crashed for a few hours. Well, Tom literally crashed in the center of the
living room. I fell asleep in the bathhouse or as some call it, bathroom. I woke up around noon and
dragged Tom down to the pharmacy. It's always good to have back-up when making non-receipted
returns.
We're still a-walking back to our house from the pharmacy. The walk wouldn't take longer than
fifteen minutes if Tom didn't have to pause, lean against inanimate objects and sigh every annoying
second. The Hangover Blues. Currently, Tom's smoking and murmuring to himself. I slap at his
shoulder.
“Tom! Hello! Stay on task! Your plan? How does it go?” I ask him.
“Don't hit me! My thrilling plan goes as follows: A.) Have mucho unprotected sex. Once you're
impregnated or perhaps, dying of various infestations, you'll have a baby and therefore, no time for
school. Plus, you'll appease your Mother with your spawn.”
He doesn't directly state the sex should be with him, but he makes a dramatic pause that infers
it. He doesn't bathe enough for all of that touchy-feely goodness. Like I want my panties to smell like
whiskey? As if! Champagne? Maybe? I roll my eyes.
“Tom! Gross! No! I'd have a baby! Babies are worse than college! Plus, when I actually get my
period it's like the effing stigmata. A rare and random phenomena! Hence, the paranoid tampon
exchanging! I'm beginning to question my humanity. Maybe I'm a Sexy Cyborg Lady with steel Lady
Parts!”
He grimaces and shakes his head.
“Eh, Lu! Cyborgs! They frighten me! B.) We stage alien abduction.”
“It costs fifty dollars to reserve a fog machine! What are aliens without fog?”
“We have strobe lights.”
“No! That's not believable! The aliens wouldn't want to abduct us with strobe lights blasting
every which-a-way. They'd want to shake their groove tentacles!”
“Christ, fine. C.) Never tell her and pretend you're still in college.”
After arduous debate and invisible placards, we voted that Plan C was the wisest option. Tom
graduated from college in December with a Bachelor's degree in Fine Arts. It ain't so fine. I haven't
seen him paint at all lately. He listens to depresso music, sulks around the house with his sketchbook
and sighs a lot. Sometimes, he leans in my doorway and knocks his head against the frame. He suffers
from mild Emophilia. Hopefully, it isn't hereditary. He sexifies about ten billion women a month. Of
course, I'm the Samantha Jones of Craptastic College and sexifiy about 40 zillion men a month. The
boy ain't got no game! However, college-going ladies cling to him like he's some sort of Emo Sex God
magnet. According to him, it's because he has an Apathetic Artist Demeanor. Whatever the H that
means. I think it's the combination of straight fit jeans and lazy shaving habits.
What can I say?
We did the freak nasty my Freshman year, but that night—the night we first met, I'd
accidentally smoked what this guy called the Purple Sticky. Whatever that is, it makes my memory
kind of shoddy and choppy. Oh, and BTW, the Purple Sticky isn't a coordinated dance. It isn't even
purple. It's simply sticky and tedious. I was at a party with my high school BFF's Nate and Shane. They
were busy scouting a closeted soccer boy to get caught in between 180 degrees. Why soccer? Why not
a gymnast? Why not an acrobat? Well, these are the cards we're dealt in a small town in Sweet Home
South Carolina. Roseville, South Carolina to be exact. Population 7,412 and most of that mess is
college students. Roseville is named after some silly folklore about the founding family, the Rose's.
Supposedly, some farm boy fell in mad love with the Rose's only daughter back in the day and brought
her a rose every morning until she agreed to marry him. Whatever! Lady Rose probably tossed all of
those roses off of a ship along with her fancy diamond chain. Why would you want a rose anyways?
They're thorny, smelly and bee attracting! Sounds like wack-ass, The Notebook, folkloring lies if you
ask me!
After Nate and Shane left with what's his name, I meandered around outside the party, smoking
and looking all Mischa Barton. I was leaning against a tree. Suddenly, this pale, brown-eyed guy was
leaning next to me.
Sophomore Tom said, “Hey you, would you like to play a guessing game?”
I answered so sexy-like, “Uh huh, sure?”
He replied, “How about you sit on my face and I'll tell you how much you weigh?”
So I did. Well, okay, not technically.
We went back to his dorm room. I hit it and tried to quit it while his roommate slept. It was just
like The O.C., but in the S.C. Oh, and the only thing that got punched was my vajayjay, not some
douchey water polo guy. Unless that is what my vagina, or as Tom and Shane call her, Princess Polaris
the Ice Queen, looks like. I really did try to H&Q Tom! I don't know what happened. We stuck together
after that night. I guess I could sense his BFF potential. Tom declares that we dated for three weeks. As
if! We didn't even do the freak nasty again. We strolled around, drank, sang and giggled. On the third
week, Tom did the unthinkable, unimaginable thing! Well, if you're anyone but me.
He said, “Listen, Lucy, Goddess of the Night, this isn't working. Let's just be friends.”
I didn't even know he considered us something other than friends. It ushered in a great
partnering of sex-oriented minds. Even if the whole LOVE thing was real, Tom and I would never
work. We have these powerful destinies that keep us apart. Like Joey and Dawson or Buffy and Angel.
I'm to be a famous NOVELIST and Tom's going to get rich or die paintin'?
FYI, we've been home for a while now. My inner monologue makes time move at an
unprecedented speed. I'm dancing around on my bed. I glance up and notice Tom paused at my
bedroom door waving his hands at his ears. Oh, right! Headphones blaring Rihanna Rain detach!
“Did you hear that loud crash downstairs?” He asks curiously.
“Tom, I was headphoned! Don't you remember your...” I wave my hands at my ears.
“Oh, wait! There it is again.” He mumbles and points to the ground.
Two Minutes Later...
Tom and I are lying across the living room carpet with our ears to the ground. I keep having to
adjust myself because the carpet smells like Pall Malls and Mountain Dew.
“Oh, there he goes! I heard heels! He's going to throw Nate out again!”
“He doesn't always wear heels, Tom!”
“Shane's a Drag Queen, of course he wears heels.”
“If Shane was in drag he'd be yelling in the persona of CoCo Allure. I don't hear any glass
shattering or Toni Braxton blaring, so, he's just Shaning out. Oh, did you hear that? I think he said in
your butt!” I stop to giggle.
“No, I'm certain it was, 'at the hut'. What does that mean? Pizza Hut? Straw hut? Has Nate been
visiting other huts? Those pesky natives!”
“Tom, really? Pizza Hut?”
“He wanted his crust stuffed.”
“Wow, you're like a chain-smoking Jimmy Fallon. Not!”
Tom's chewing on a candy cane and laughing to himself. We shake when we hear the
downstairs doors slam. First, the front door slams and there's more muffled talks, and then, the screen
door slams.
“Nate's going to come up here. Should one of us should go down there?” I ask.
“And deal with CoCo? You go! You've practically memorized The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
I can calm Shane down, but CoCo is dangerous ground. Doesn't Nate watch sports? We can watch a
game. That will help, right?”
“What do you know about sports?”
“Woman, I am a man. I'm instinctively inclined to know things about the sports.”
“I thought wisdom came with age? Here you are, 23 and practically inept! The More You
Know!”
Tom doesn't respond. He chews and scowls. I'm not looking at him, but I can feel the scowl. It
makes my collarbone itch. Suddenly, we hear flip-flop stomps on our stairs. We jump to our feet and
pretend to be doing something 'normal'. OF COURSE, Tom runs into my bedroom, lays across my bed
and starts tapping on my Ipod. As if the King of Emo wants to listen to RiRi! OF COURSE, my first
instinct is to lean against the bookshelf and rearrange our collection of random knicky knackers. Our
front door swings open and shakes the bookshelf. I do a whole comic book gulp type thing.
“THAT STUPID ASS MAN!” Nate yells as he storms into our house.
“OMG, Nate! What a surprise! It's been a while since I saw you this morning checking the mail!
How have you been? Your hair is cute! How was your mail checking?”
“DO NOT TALK ABOUT THE MAIL! THAT'S HOW THIS SHIT STARTED!”
He points to his tears. I'm assuming those are the 'This Shit'. Tears have a tendency to push me
into Babble Zone.
“Yeah, I totally hate the Postal People! I mean, hello, who can work two different shades of
blue? It's witchcraft! Oh, and I don't know who started that whole Postman Always Ringing Twice
thing, but it's totes a lie! They never even ring ONCE! Oh, and remember when that Postman tried to
frame me for breaking Mr. Myers' farmhouse mailbox? Everyone saw that non-ringing Postman hit the
mailbox with his posty truck! Everyone! Postal workers are dark-sided!”
I smile cutely. Nate glares in my direction.
“TOM!” He screams.
Tom scurries out of my bedroom. He stretches and yawns like he'd been cat-napping. He
mumbles to Nate. Who knows or cares what he says. Nate simmers down. His evil glare returns to its
casually bitchy place. Tom points to the couch. I pop a sit. Tom sits by me on the arm of the couch.
Nate dramatically lowers to a pillow on the floor. Tom gives a ceremonious hand motion.
“Nate, why don't you tell us what happened?” Tom asks. Nate sighs deeply.
“It's SO typical! I knew it! Like it's a coincidence we have a twink mailman? I know he isn't a
mailman! Ever since Shane put on a wig he thinks he's SASHA FIERCE! Well, I'm done! Chante, he
cannot stay! Sashe, get him the hell away!” Nate continues.
Tom and I look at each other. Tom shrugs.
“It'll be okay! Ya'll just had another fight.” I stupidly say and pat Nate's arm.
Nate glares at my hand. He takes a deep breath and narrows his eyes.
“JUST A FIGHT? I about picked his bony ass up and threw him out the window! Coming in the
house at 3am, waking me up, snoring and being unnecessarily loud! I'm a college graduate and you
know what, I turned down a full-time job to be his house husband! I clean and I cook while he is off
with the Mailtwink!”
“Since when does opening a box of Velveeta count as cooking?” I snap.
“Oh, you wanna go out the window too, huh?” Nate snaps back. Tom pokes my shoulder.
“Lu, you're in time out. Nate, nothing happened with the mailman. Chad's always been on our
route. You remember, some Saturdays ago, possibly in November or December? Or was it October? It
was warmer outside. I was, I mean, WE were grilling and you gave Chad a hot dog.”
Even though I'm in time out and trying to control my gestures, I turn to Tom and give a hair flip.
He ignores me. How could Tom not tell me this? Twinks, postal uniforms, hot dogs! These are the
things miracles are made of! Nate sniffles as he listens to Tom. Tom's kind of like Shane and Nate's
straight boyfriend. They cut his hair when it gets floppy and make sure he chases his vodka with 100%
juice.
“Nate, think of that hot dog as a metaphor. A peace offering.” Tom continues.
Oh, this isn't going to work.
“What the hell, Tom? I gave Chad an Oscar Meyer wiener so he won't touch Shane's?” Nate
yells.
Tom shrugs and grimaces. I inner giggle. I can hardly say the word wiener out loud. It's like
being four or five and first discovering man and lady parts. Silly and okay, exciting.
“Maybe?” Tom adds and shrugs again.
“NO MA'AM, PAM! I'm done! I'm not some GAY, GLITTER SHITTING HERMIT trapped in
my house while my husband is off doin' the mailman! WHAT'S NEXT? The baker? The butcher? The
paper twink? The milkman?”
“There's a milkman?” Tom asks completely serious.
“TOM, NO! It's on! We're going out tonight! Screw Shane!”
“Oh, where are we going?” I ask with sympathetic giddiness.
“Bitch, who invited you?” Nate retorts with a hand in my face.
Seventeen Minutes Later...
Tom's decided the best way for Nate to relieve his tension is to distract him with cleaning his
gross, depressing, and hetero bedroom. I'm sitting cross-legged on the couch and pretending to file my
nails. It isn't going well. I get sucked into listening to Nate and Tom chat. I keep accidentally filing my
hurt fingernail. I go, “Owie!” really loud and Tom asks, “What have you done now?” to which I reply,
“Bad nail, bad, bad nail.” Tom peers around the corner and says, “Ah...the incident.”
The Incident: Tom attempting a drunken robot handstand that ended with me being kicked in
the face, falling on to the floor, and snagging my nail on the carpet. 80's Decade Night be damned!
“This is nasty, Tom!” Nate yells.
“Yeah, ignore that.” Tom replies.
“What is that?”
“Formerly coffee, I suspect.”
“You need to do better!”
Tom's humming “Return to Innocence” for Nate, which is totally sweet. Nate randomly enjoys
Enigma. I press pause on my nail filing because I hear footsteps on the stairs. Nate runs from Tom's
room with a trash bag in tow. He freezes and glares down at me. I roll my eyes.
“Don't you answer that door!” Nate screams.
“I'm just filing my claws!”
“Don't get loud with me!”
“FINE, I'll just sit here!”
“And how about try NOT to pop anyone's cherry as you sit, KTHNX!”
I snap the nail file in half. What? I'm violently appalled at that accusation! Oh, wait. Wait a
damn minute. I guess Nate's still mad at me for H&Qing his brother. Wasn't that like a week ago? I
swear I didn't know he was a virgin and still in high school. It's not like he had on a wimple or a
chastity belt or something virginy a guy would wear. It's his brother's fault really. I'd been drinking Pina
Colada's all day. Ask Rupert Holmes and he'll tell you, PC's hold the power to make any woman go all
cougar! Of course, they were rum-less because Tom locked away all of the coconut rum again. But, I
mean, coconut sugar product can get a gal buck! Plus, his brother is very tall and has stubble. He looks
19 not 17! He caught me off guard while I was outside trying to decide where to hide Giggles. Beneath
the stairs had gotten kind of old. He was leaning against the steps of S&N's porch looking all Man
Chic.
He said, “Hey, Lucy, it's my birthday. Did you get me anything special?”
I pulled a Mae West and replied, “Mmm, why don't you come up and see!”
I did my sexy strut up the stairs and H&Qed him on the washing machine. But, hello, that was
eight or so days ago! Build a bridge, stick a troll under it and stomp it out.
Shane's talking to Nate through our front door.
“Nate...open...nothing...mail!”
There's a thud. I think he tripped. There's a lot of random items on our porch. A broken grill, a
smelly couch, a broken typewriter, Pinky Brewster the plastic flamingo and an old keg that Tom went
all Kandinsky on. It's now a table. Plus, all of the Former Giggles we've stolen from Mr. Myers' front
yard.
Yes, our neighbor, Mr. Myers, is so psychotic he buys the EXACT same yard gnome every time
one Giggles goes missing. These are the consequences of living in a Ville with three shops downtown
dedicated to yard ornaments.
5 Minutes or So Later...
“I know, I know, I love you too! I know!” Nate whispers to Shane.
Tom and I are standing by the knicky knacky shelf as Shane and Nate make out on our couch.
We only have one couch. It's creepy and '70's pea yellowy green. By make out, I mean, full tongue,
smacking, gross sounds, kissing and grunting. Like when you put too much lotion on your legs and it
makes that raunchy slapping sound against your skin. Shane and Nate have been together as lovers and
such since the eighth grade. They are what Wikipedia deems a Couple Monster, which sounds fierce
and GaGaesque, but it's actually frightening.
“Maybe we should go downstairs?” I ask Tom.
Tom's crossing his arms over his chest. A man pout.
“Lu, this is our house, dammit!”
“It's kinda cute if you're fan of hardcore gay porn.”
“I'm not letting this happen again! Last week they were up here for three hours! I have things to
do!”
Our heads tilt as we groove with the make out session. Tom's trying to act all distant and hetero,
but it's totally turning him on.
“What do you have to do?” I ask him all snide-like.
“Drink. Read. Whack off. Play Mass Effect 2.” He's counting on his fingers as he lists.
“Still haven't beaten it?”
“No, too hungover and you stole my headphones.”
“I meant the GAME!”
“I get distracted.”
“Uh oh, off go the pants!”
“Is it gay if I want to know who bottoms?”
“I think they're versatile.”
“I'd be a top.”
“You're definitely a bottom.”
“You think so? Nate, there's condoms in the fishbowl by the door.”
“Tom, he's got one in his pocket!”
“Well, shit. Let's go!”
34 Minutes Later...
It took Tom twenty minutes to break into S&N's.
First, he tried the credit card trick. A complete fail on his part. After Tom had lost his credit
card, debit card and driver's license, he decided we needed a new method. The laundry room window
was cracked as usual. I crawled in first and fell on top of a pile of underoos. Hopefully, they're clean.
Tom didn't wait for me to get up. He dove in like he was a spy. He even had spy sound effects. He
thought it would be cute to grab my hips, hold me down and attempt to tickle me, but I jumped away
gracefully. His face landed in the underoos. Nate and Shane's downstairs apartment is fabbie. It's
because Nate sits at home and DVR's HGTV. Their walls are light gray with orange parallelograms
painted in the center. They gave Tom a carton of cigarettes to paint it when the four of us were moving
in three years ago. Their furniture is all modern and IKEA looking. Nate gets really mad when I
accidentally go all Signs and leave glasses of water on the coffee table. Nate's really into horror cinema
and he has all of these vintage posters in FRAMES on the walls. It's shocking to ever see posters in
frames IRL. I happen to very much enjoy horror cinema. Of course, if I was a Scream Queen by the
rules of the Horror Realm I would be the girl who:
A.) Dies mid naked shower scene.
B.) Dies mid naked sex scene.
C.) Dies mid ripped prom dress run through woods breasties are visible scene.
Hey, I didn't make the rules! I know I'd be the most critically acclaimed heroine. Just another
way society hates on randy women! Tom and I are walking to the living room. S&N's apartment is
larger than ours, but our rent is the same. Tom and I definitely use more space as we often throw ad hoc
dance parties. I guess a 10 foot Ebony Drag Queen needs space too. Whatever. They also have the
Great Wall of Filma, DVD's organized by genre, title, and Nate's personal rating system. It feels like
I've known Nate for five thousand years. We were the bestest friends until some odd days ago I
sexorcized his brother's man flower. Which, you, my jury, KNOWS wasn't completely my fault. If I
hadn't spent all four years of high school like a normal teen gettin' it on and bangin' a gong I probably
would've noticed he was like twelve or something.
Wait a minute. Wait a damn minute.
I'm counting on my fingers. Oh my Cher! It took me five minutes to do simple subtraction! In those five minutes, I've come to the conclusion I may have committed a crime against my friendship declaration with Nate! I plop onto their long, black couch. Tom lowers beside me.
“Tom, is H&Qing your BFF's 17 year old brother illegal according to Jesus' Ten
Commandments?”
“Hmm, yes, I believe it's number eight.”
“No wonder Nate's mad!”
“That isn't why he's mad.”
Tom gives me his You Know Better look with his brown eyes. His eyes actually look kinda cute
because the window is open and making them sunny and hazel. Sweet Cher on Stage Mountain High!
Does my lavish randiness ever end?
“Wait, Tom, he's not mad about the sexing?”
“Mmm, not exactly.”
He's eating a mini-muffin. I'm not sure where it came from. I haven't seen him go into the
kitchen. Maybe he conjured it using only the power of his mind?
“Well, then?” I press.
“Well, what? Let's watch a movie. How do you work Netflix?” He's messing with a remote on
the coffee table.
“Tom, keep up! Why is Nate mad?”
“Oh, right! According to Shane's text last night, Nate is upset because after you slept with
David you told him to go away. He wanted to spoon. David is depressed.”
“Guys don't get depressed after sex. I saw it on TLC.”
“David isn't like most guys. He writes songs and plays the clarinet.”
“You can write songs for the clarinet?”
“Oh, wait no, maybe it was the bass guitar?”
“What? How do you confuse a clarinet and a bass guitar?”
Tom's quiet. He's trying to form a witty rebuttal. WHICH IS IMPOSSIBLE! No one can outwit
Lucy! No one!
“Well, that settles it.” I say in my Law & Order tone.
“Settles, what?”
He's not paying attention. Can we get some Adderall up in the house?
“Hello, Tom, look at me!”
I give a snap. He moans, turns to me and props his dirty shoes on the coffee table.
“It settles the legality issue, Tom! Obviously, David's overly sensitive due to clarinet playing.”
“I could fill a landfill with the debris of 'overly sensitive' musicians you've maimed.”
“What debris do you speak of?”
“Your vagina has lead to the icy demise of many a rising musician. ”
I gasp at this accusation. Tom scowls and moves on to the next mini-muffin.
“You speak lies my muffin-chewing friend!”
“Do not!”
“State your evidence!”
“You're the reason Weapon's of Magical Destruction broke up.” He wags a muffiny finger in my
face.
“I object!”
“You slept with the entire band! The lead singer went to rehab!”
“IT WAS A TWO MAN BAND! And there's never been ANY proof Princess P. was connected
to Teddy's descent into Jameson! Plus, I never slept with Blake! We merely groped.”
Tom squints at me. He has this whole speech he whips out entitled the Cursed Lucy Vagina
Doctrine. This whole musician sexing nonsense must be an addendum. I shake my head at him. He
sighs and tosses off the empty mini-muffin bag.
“Let's watch a movie.” He asks and flips through DVD's on the coffee table.
“What should I do? Call David and recite my Sex Mantra?”
“Do something. Shane said he's beginning to smell.”
“Smell?”
“Well, since the incident occurred on our washing machine. Our washing machine I sometimes
use as a dining table because you've left your sewing materials all over our actual dining table...” He
pauses and runs his hand through his hair. “...anyways, David has deathly avoided washing machines.
He hasn't even changed clothes.”
Gee, Tom's scruffy. Sometimes he goes on Must Not Groom benders.
“Fine, okay, when Nate and Shane finish I'll apologize and do whatever Nate thinks is just.”
Tom nods and squeezes my shoulder.
“Good girl, can we watch a movie now?” He asks.
“Jesus, yes, Tom! But, not Trainspotting! Put that down!”
“You...bitch.”
THREE Episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer Later...
Tom's staring at me with a cigarette between his fingers.
“Lu, no! No more!”
“BUFFY DIED!”
I pick up the remote and press variously shaped buttons.
“You've watched this show a thousand times. You know what happens. Stop that! No more! It
isn't even coming back on.”
He takes a long drag from his cigarette. This vicious grin appears on his face.
“Into every generation a virgin slayer is born...” He whispers.
“BLASPHEMY!”
“One girl in all the world, a Chosen One. One born with the strength and skilled vag—”
“STOP IT! THERE WAS NO SLAYING!”
He's laughing. There's some movement on the stairs.
“Oh, I think they've finished.” Tom remarks as he butts out his cigarette.
“Dammit, another episode has to come on!”
“That's Queer as Folk, Lu.”
“Oh, you're right.”
Shane and Nate saunter in all glowy and lovey dovey.
“Are you two alright?” Tom asks.
“We're wonderful, why?” Nate answers and plants himself on the couch.
“Oh, I don't know, since you just had a huge fight over nothing, again.” I snap.
“You know what, zip the lip!” Nate replies.
“Nate!” I moan.
“What, bitch?”
“I'm sorry about David!”
“You should be.”
“Nate!”
“Why don't I make us some drinks?” Shane asks and motions for Tom to help.
“You're out of whiskey.” Tom remarks.
“Tom, why don't you come check again.” Shane says and winks awkwardly.
“Why would I look again? It was disappointing enough the first time I checked.”
“Tom, LOOK AGAIN!” Shane adds through his teeth and turns to head into the kitchen.
“OH, right!” Tom finally gets it and follows Shane.
So now, it's just Nate, Queer As Folk and me. I turn to Nate.
“Nate, I wasn't trying to make David smelly!”
“Bitch, please! He's 17. He was stank long before your vagina attacked.”
“Then why don't you forgive me?”
“I GUESS I forgive you, but you have to do me a favor. Well, do CoCo a favor?”
“Of course...”
I roll my eyes. I know what he wants. If he tries to convince me to be a BACK-UP dancer in
one CoCo's performances I will forge a weapon from the heel of my pump!
“Don't get an attitude, L!”
“OKAY, fine, N! What do you want?”
“Shane's been working on a production number for a few weeks and...”
“Oh, hell to the no!”
“Oh, hell to the yes! You banged my brother. You owe me a debt.”
Some Hours And A Bottle Of Loose Goose Later...
That Grey Goose sure does have this Lucy feeling loose!
Tom and I are back in our hizzy. Last week I acquired a bottle of Grey Goose from the Frat
house down the street. Our street's name is McQueen which is totally Irish Fierce. We live in the
neighborhood closest to the college. It shows on McQueen. The sidewalk is littered with beer cans and
broken dreams. Tom and I acquire lots of liquor from the Frat house as the boys spend 97.9% of their
time stoned. It's easy as pie to walk in and steal liquor.
It goes something like this:
I strut into the house. The boys are playing their X-Box 360, shooting hookers and crashing cars.
They're lounging in gym shorts on a khaki wraparound couch. There's usually like five or six of them
staring at the TV. I can't remember all of their names because they look similar. I just know most of the
Big Brothers because we've been neighbors for three years in a row.
I say, “Hey boys, what's shakin'?
“Lu, what's up?” Blake asks.
Blake's a hot, musical blondie with a surfer build. H&Q Status: Incomplete. He's had a
gorgeous girlfriend for however many weeks now.
“We're about to get it poppin' soon. Got a keg, you stayin'?” Dillon asks.
Dillon's the Chapter President and a Preppy Ebony God. H&Q Status: Accomplished first year
on McQueen.
I reply, “Oh, no, no, gotta, you know, go do homework! I left my...soul...in the kitchen!”
By this point, they've thoroughly checked to see if the breasties are on display. I have to dress
like a Couture Nun or else the plan fails. Once they're bored with me and back to gaming, I pull
whatever is decent from the fridge and stow it in my purse. Then I walk and move that bitch crazy right
out the back door. Sometimes I'll leave cookies, candles or other various baked goods my Mom sends
on holidays in replace of the looted booze. I'm not completely evil. Tom and I have been jacking their
shit since we moved onto McQueen. They never catch on. Although, Blake once spent three days
investigating his missing bottle of raspberry rum. I did this whole Marlene Dietrich persona for the
interrogation. It ended with Blake and I fondling under a beer pong table. That was also the fateful
night of the aforementioned WMD break up. Teddy was creepin' and spied our torrid affair. Some guys
DO NOT understand the rules of H&Q. No matter how many times you call 'em a bug-a-boo or tell 'em
to step.
Tom's cradling the bottle of Goose Contraband on the couch and attempting to slide on his
shoes. Why'd he even take them off in the first place? I shouldn't have let him drink vodka. It makes
him unpredictable. I'm looking cute in a gemstoney purple halter dress. I know! A halter dress is so
1997, but I have to wear something easy to slip on and off for the show. I don't plan to H&Q tonight.
But, I must admit, if I spy something hot and straight at a Drag bar I'm going to feel inclined to hit it.
Tom's still fiddling with his shoes.
“Tom, they're on! Let's go!”
“Screw it!”
He doesn't say this violently. It's totally confusing. He's a lightweight when it comes to liquor. I
only tend to get crazed when I drink gin. Tom's wearing a pair of his haven't been washed for decades
jeans and some random depressing band on his t-shirt. I throw him his crusty jacket.
“Tom, can you make it down the stairs? I can get Shane to carry you down.”
“Do not fret, milady. I've got this on luck!”
Did he mean lock? WTH? He'll be sober enough by the time he's in the bar and has to maintain
his straightness. Drag Queens love Tom. IDK what it is. Tom's tall and skinny. Well, he's a lot taller
than me. Actually, everyone's a lot taller than me. He's got longish, wavy chocolate brown hair that he's
always hiding under a hat because he's too lazy to get it cut. Plus, the last time Shane and Nate cut his
hair he smelled like Acqua Di Gio for days. He's totally pale, because he has that Suffer in Silence
Syndrome. He has thinner lips and always wears this smile that never fully forms. His lashes would be
perfect for mascara shopping experiments. He NEVER remembers to shave. Not that it matters. It isn't
like his facial hair is pushing Merlin boundaries. It just makes him shadowy. He doesn't have stanky
BO. That could be it. He's trying to stand by pulling on the bottom of my dress.
“Tom, stop that! Jesus, I can't take you anywhere!”
“Fine, fine.”
He's leaning on me. Which looks silly since I'm 5'2” and he's...not.
25 Minutes Later and Shutting Up For the Drive...
We've taken Shane's Kia to Church.
Church is the Drag Cabaret bar outside of Roseville. Shane's been trying to convince the
Queens to relocate downtown, but the City Council is afraid of the Liberal Gay Agenda. It's hard to get
all of the permits required to be fabulous. Welcome to a blood red state! You've got to go down this
treacherous road to find Church. Swing right, make a U turn, and then, WHAM BAM, you're there. It's
the only gay bar around. A holy shrine of Drag, laser lights, thumpa thumpa beats and shirtless men.
The building is brick and layered in peeling white paint. It was an actual Southern Baptist church years
ago, then a laundry mat, a Chinese buffet, and now the Tower of Fiercedom. Shane spent the drive
dragging to Deborah Cox. Frightening! A prime rule to live by: Thou Shalt Not Drag and Drive. There's
a whole lot of swerving, screaming and Tom mumbling, “Can't we listen to something else?”
Nate's kept the production number a secret. Daunting, but hello, I'm multi-faceted and multi-
talented! I will survive! There's a few cars here, mostly staff. Shane is the Show Director and Co-
Owner. He's been working here since he graduated high school. He started as a DJ and now he co-owns
the joint. Talk about pulling yourself up by your cute boot straps! Tom's still skunky drunky and
stumbling around the gravel parking lot. I'm snapping at him. Telling him to pull it together. Tonight is
my night. My FAME night! We're inside. The walls are painted black and red. The dance floor is
empty. Tom's gone straight to the bar, slapped his cigarettes on the glass top and waved his hand at the
bartender who closely resembles Lil' Jon. Well, if Lil' Jon was a thug lesbian. Shane's pulling his Drag
bag across the cement floor and beckoning me towards the dressing room by the stage. Nate's rolling
his eyes and stalking towards Tom. I'll leave Tom to his bender. Wouldn't want to invade his
masculinity.
“So, what am I performing tonight?” I ask Shane as we're flipping on vanity lights. He arranges
pads, eyeliner, powder, lashes, shadows, and contours on the table.
“WE are performing a production of 'Lady Marmalade' via Moulin Rouge!” He starts clapping
due to giddiness.
“'LADY MARMALADE'?” I scream.
“YES!”
“But, I didn't bring my red vinyl tutu!”
“You don't need it! I've got something more burlesque, more 'Cell Block Tango'!”
“Are we talking more of a 44th Grammy's performance or music video ensemble?”
“Look in here and tell me what you think! We've been rehearsing for weeks, then Big White
Tina went and got her stupid self arrested. Ironically, Big White Tina really loves her some tina!”
I peer into his costume trunk. I may faint due to excessive amounts of fierce.
“ARE THOSE RED GLOVES? AM I CHRISTINA?”
“You are the scrappiest bitch!”
“What the eff is this, Scooby Doo?”
Shane's cackling as we dig through his Drag Bag. In walks the dragalicious Church Queen
regular Chandra Cox, who is obviously impersonating Mya. She's wearing a black and red lace corset
with fuzzy red hot pants and rocking nightmarishly tall boots that tie above the thigh. She topped it off
with a red feather in her curly, brown wig. Shane sits on a stool to start painting his face. Beside him is
a short, loose curl, platinum blonde wig. Okay, here's Lil' Kim. Where's Pink?
“Shane, who's dragging Pink?” I ask. He pauses with a sponge in his hand.
“Oh...no one...really...important.” Shane replies nervously.
“Then, who?”
“She'll be here soon.”
This could be distressing, but I'm trying to avoid the Manic Monday Syndrome! Monday seems
a strange night for Drag cabaret, but it brings in a decent crowd of gay men, gay women, glitter
depraved straight girls and Tom.
47 Minutes Or So Later...
I'm dressed to impress!
Big White Tina is A LOT taller and wider than me so the corset fit weird. CoCo took scissors to
it and Chandra slid ribbons through the back to make it tight around my ribs. I pouted when they put
pads in the bra part. I'm also looking cute in black satiny hot pants, net stockings and black platform,
patent pumps. Oh, and a giant golden blonde wig. It's more Briar Rose then Xtina. It'll need some
teasing. There's a knock on the door. CoCo's wearing a silver sequin bra and matching hot pants. She's
got on white net stockings that glow under black light, supposedly, and huge white pumps. Chandra
and CoCo are staring at the dressing room door. They turn to stare at me. Jesus, fine, I'll get it. I open
the door and OMFG release the rosary and start a-prayin'!
It's Lacey. Let me tell you about LACEY.
To clarify, SHE ain't a HE. She is my Arch Devilish Nemesis. She's from some sort of rotten
cave in Georgia. She slithered out about two years ago. She's all spray tan, crooked lip liner, and
Snooki poofs. She's been bent on my destruction ever since this tiny situation involving her boyfriend a
year back. I'm holding the door tight. Nails digging into press board. Her smile fades into a snarl. Her
snaggle tooth's shaking. Okay, she doesn't exactly have a snaggle tooth, but, hello, if she did I bet it
would shake it like a Polaroid picture.
“Gee, Lucy, so strange to see you without a dick hanging from your lips!” She growls.
I'm considering knocking her unconscious with the door. I'm replaying it in my mind. SNAP,
BAM, BOOM!
“Back out of my face you wack-ass bitch!” I reply because I'm classy.
“Lucy! GET OVER HERE!” CoCo screams.
Mortal Kombat much? I throw my hands off of the door, give a snap, snap and walk over to
CoCo.
“HOW could you not tell me IT is performing?” I ask angrily.
“Classy not Trashy! Recite that in your head, honey!” CoCo states.
“I'M TRYING to maintain!” I give myself a fanning.
Lacey's looking all Resident Evil mutant monster bitch in a black bra and black panties. Her
legs are clad in pink net tights. She's tied pink synthetic hair into her frizzy, bleached blonde hair. She's
holding a top hat with a silver P painted on the front. So what, she thinks she's an effing rockstar! The
thumpa thumpa's going on outside. I hear people laughing, chatting and bottles clanking. Lacey's
shaking. A seizure? No, she's dancing.
“Don't twist your neck like that, Lacey. You're showcasin' your back fur!” I remark.
“Oh, snap!” Chandra squeals.
“WE'RE CLASSY! NOT TRASHY!” CoCo yells as she pins her wig.
“How about try not to SCREW anyone's boyfriend on the way out the door!” Lacey growls.
“HE SAID HE WAS SINGLE! LET IT GO!” I yell.
“GIRLS!” CoCo starts stomping.
“SLEAZY SKANK!” Lacey screams and runs at me.
“AT LEAST MY VAYJAYJAY DOESN'T SMELL LIKE A WOODLAND CREATURE!” I
scream and pop off my heel. You know, as a blade.
Lacey tries to run at me, but Chandra grabs her before she breaches the Lucy Kick Ass Bubble.
“OH, PLEASE YOU WHORE!” Lacey snarls.
“I don't know why you're Pink! You look green to me, Shrek!” I retort.
“LADIES, SIT DOWN!” CoCo demands with misty flames in her eyes.
I mime throwing my shoe at Lacey's head, brush the dirt off of my shoulders and pop a squat.
An angry CoCo has been known to slit a tire or four. I'll try this whole Classy thing.
“Now, we need to talk choreography!” CoCo says and we gather 'round.
12:05 IMPENDING SHOWTIME...
We are the opening act!
I've asked CoCo if I could follow with “Dirrty” or “Fighter” even though I don't have my
leather leggings. She rolled her eyes and slid a hand in my face. The four of us are positioned behind a
black curtain on the stage. I'm feeling a little nervous, but I've spent about 53% of my life preparing for
the moment I can dance my heart out with two Drag Queens and a Netherbeast. Okay, not exactly as
I've imagined. I'm not at the Grammy's or Golden Globes or Oscar's or Tony's, but, I've GOT to start
somewhere. I'm sure Nate's video recording this. Perhaps, I can garner YouTube celebrity? I'm
stretching my legs. Lacey's putting her gum into a napkin. CoCo and Chandra are taking double shots
of Tequila, coughing and yelling, “AY YI YI!”
The bar lights dim. A spotlight shines through the curtain. I hear the crowd, not of millions,
maybe twenty or thirty, screaming.
The DJ announces, “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Moulin Rouge!”
ALL I'm reciting in my head is the Gospel According to Lady GaGa's 2009 MTV Video Music
Awards performance of “Paparazzi”, “Amidst all of these flashing lights, I pray the fame won't take my
life!”
A Cutie Boy rolls the curtains open. We're snapping, grinding, lip synching, and moving with
the beat. The spotlight is bright. I see Tom at the bar chatting up some girl in a yellow plaid scarf. She's
got short, pixie cut blonde hair. She's wearing a white romper with brown socks and yellow Mary
Jane's. I'm dragging with my heart on my sleeve. Tom and Random Girl turn to watch the show. Tom's
shaking his head. He can't handle my all 'round fabulousness, but he sticks around. He knows I'm
destined for a fame-filled future. We're in a straight line. CoCo and Chandra recycle moving closer to
the crowd with their gloved fists in the air, then strut back. Chandra's in between Lacey and I. Lacey's
WAY off the beat. Lip synching like she's a badly dubbed foreign film. We move back in line, laying
hands gracefully on our lady jewels as we shimmy. CoCo slides up to slam the rap, dropping up and
down and throwing her hands with the words.
It's Christina's ENTRANCE!
I dive in front of the girls and hit the floor with my hands on my knees. I pop back up. Gotta
admit, I'm owning the stage! I rip off my red gloves and swing them around in circles. I scoot back a
bit, closer to the middle. The right glove slaps Lacey on the cheek. She scowls at me, but keeps
dancing. She bumps my shoulder to drag Pink's verse. My eye's want to go all X-men Cyclops on her
ass, but somehow I maintain and move back in line. When Missy Elliott starts introducing, “'The four
bad ass chicks from the Moulin Rouge',” the performance takes a violent turn.
WARNING: This film has been rated R for drag violence, frequent smoking, gravel surfing, and
brief nudity.
It happens fast! Missy Elliott says, “'PINK'!” Lacey SLAMS her hand into my face and knocks
me back. Chandra squeals, “OH SHIT!”
I, the finest, purest, unicornist, embodiment of class grab Lacey by her extensions and throw her
onto the floor.
The crowd gives a unison, “OH!”
I don't know who she think I am! I'm on top of Lacey. I'd like to say it's a Buffy versus Faith
epic battle. It's more along the hair pulling, scratching and slapping lines. CoCo's trying to drag me off
of Lacey by gripping my tights. My tights tear and I'm out of her hands. Chandra's lit a cigarette. Tom's
shorting a cigarette and jogging towards the stage. CoCo pulls Lacey from under me. Lacey's kicking
but she's lost her shoes. As I'm pulling my fist back, Tom sweeps me off of my feet.
Lacey yells, “YOU STUPID BITCH!”
CoCo yells, “OUTSIDE TOM! TAKE HER OUTSIDE!”
Tom replies so stoically, “Right, right. I know the drill.”
ALL I'm seeing ARE flashing lights as Tom drags me outside. He loses his grip. I'm sweaty and
slippery. CoCo's pulling Lacey out the door. I shake myself and run after them. I dive on top of Lacey.
Tom's behind me, mumbling and cursing. As I land on Lacey, who CoCo has let loose, you know, to let
the battle happen, I hear the whoop whoop. The sound of the police. It didn't register with me. Seen but
not heard! It isn't so strange a copper's patrolling the parking lot. It is my luck he's patrolling on the
night I punched the lights out of a bitch from Georgia. Lacey and I are rolling around and slapping in
the gravel.
“HEY...HEY...HEY...LADIES...STOP THAT!” The PoPo yells from his window.
He's out the squad car in a jiff. His voice is familiar, but the show ain't over. CoCo's put her
hands in the air and backed against a car in the lot. Tom yanks me off of Lacey. Lacey jumps up as if
she's possessed, but the Officer grabs her.
“STOP KICKING OR YOU'RE GETTING HOGTIED!”
This isn't the Officer. This is Tom yelling at me. He's holding me tight. I'm going to have bruises
and claw marks tomorrow. Hopefully, Lacey didn't draw blood. I don't want to turn into some sort of
werebeast from the Scum Swamps of Savannah. The Officer slaps cuffs on Lacey and sets her by a car.
Oh, right, I DO know him! It's Deputy Martin! He's always rolling down McQueen telling Tom and I to
get off of the roof. Tryin' to catch us roofin' dirty! The shock of being cuffed has settled Lacey down.
Deputy Martin rips open the back door of his squad car and motions for Tom to throw me in. Tom sets
me in the car gently. I've settled some. I'm not prone to enjoying the back of police cars. I'd always
hoped the only time I'd be back here was to make whoopee. Tom slides a cigarette in my lips like a real
gentleman. My hands are gripping the cold leather seat. He lights it. He fixes my corset and straightens
my wig.
“Is that...Lucy? Have mercy, why am I not surprised?” Deputy Martin moans.
I pull the cigarette from my mouth to snap back at him. Tom puts a finger on my lips. I pop his
hand. He moves it and OF COURSE sighs. If I got a nickel for every time he sighed I could finally buy
some damn Louboutin's!
“Can we settle this like adults or do you want to go jail tonight, Lucy?” Deputy Martin asks.
“I AIN'T going to jail!” I say with a hand up. Tom shakes his head at me.
“What happened?” Deputy Martin continues.
“SHE STARTED IT WHEN SHE SCREWED MY BOYFRIEND!” Lacey cries out.
“A MOTHEREFFING YEAR AGO STANKOLA!” I yell back.
“Jesus Christ.” Tom mumbles to himself.
“You girls calm down! Act like ladies! Now, you can sit here and keep on yelling, keep on
fighting and I'll take you straight to jail. Or, you can apologize, go back inside, put some damn clothes
on and try to enjoy the rest of your night!”
“FINE! I'm sorry Lucy! Sorry that you're a stupid slut!” Lacey growls.
I don't know why she thinks I won't jump out of this car and take an eye out with my cigarette.
Plus, I've seen Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon like five times. I'm basically trained in kung fu.
“AGAIN!” Deputy Martin yells.
“I'm sorry!” She says a bit more seriously. Tom's motioning for me to speak.
“Uh, I'm sorry, Lacey!”
Deputy Martin moves around the squad car to uncuff her. Tom's moving so I can step out of the
car. CoCo and Nate are holding open the club's door. Lacey's stumbling back into the bar.
As MUCH as I want to tackle her, drag her to the end of the road and throw her into a ditch, I
just stand here and sigh.
20 Something Minutes Later...
Chandra finished the show without CoCo's help. CoCo said she was too fired up to continue.
I'm sitting on a costume trunk in the dressing room while Shane wipes CoCo off with a paper towel
soaked in baby oil. I've pulled off the Xtina wig and tried to fix my makeup. My hair looks okay even
from all the rolling about and wig sweat. I braid it and slap a band on the end.
There's a knock on the door. Shane freezes.
“Oh, just come in.” I moan. It's Tom.
“Are we feeling less violent?” He asks and smiles.
“Violence is inherent in my being. Why are you so chipper?”
“Chipper? Uh, I'm going to head off.”
“With scarf girl?”
“Her name's Allison.”
“As if I care.”
“That's the kind of attitude that gets you thrown into paddy wagons.”
“I'm sorry, Tom. Lacey's got me flustered.”
Shane mumbles something in the background. Tom isn't so drunk anymore. His eyes aren't
bloodshot and he's back to his awkward half smile self. When he's drunk he's either hilarious or all
Bukowski.
“Right. You'll be okay?” He asks.
“I'll take her home, lock the door and hide all sharp or flammable objects.” Shane snaps.
“Right then, well, good night? Uh, okay.”
Tom awkwardly backs out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Shane's sliding on a gray
screen tee and buttoning his jeans.
“Well, Miss Thang what shall we do now?” Shane asks.
I smile at him and stand on top of the costume trunk.
“I just wanna dance!” I say with all the drama I can muster.
SOMETIME LATE...AFTER 2am...
I'm showered, wet haired, sunk beneath cool, purple sheets sailing towards dreamland. The land
of the glittery forest of the only important film in the last 20ish years, Legend. A magical land of
unicorns, happiness, and me in a pretty off-white dress dancing by a stream. I feel the bed dip and smell
Tom. Cigarettes, vodka, and muffins. I don't move, but my eyes soar open.
“How was your night with Allison?” I ask softly.
“You're awake?” He replies.
“Barely.”
“It was short, but decent.”
“I'm glad, cupcake.”
“Do you want to play truth or dare?”
“I think I've had enough daring trials for the evening.”
“Truth, then?”
“If you'll let me sleep after. I've got to get up early. Red and I are thriftin' for gowns for the
Inside Joke Awards.”
“We're still doing that?”
“Tom, of course. It's on Friday. I'm offended you forgot.”
“Tell me how you really lost your virginity and not that bullshit about unicorns.”
I roll over to look at him. A dark, drunken figure in my purple world.
“Why so random?” I ask.
“I was thinking about it on the walk home.”
“Princess P. is captivating.”
“Tell me, tell me.”
I'm silent for a moment. Tom is my best friend. Totally under my umbrella. We've never
discussed this because he's never asked. It's no secret. I've always considered my magical, orgasmic
enchantment as the 'loss' of my virginity. Honestly, I don't think I LOST anything. I gained something.
That naughty knowledge!
“Does it really matter?” I ask.
“Yes, it is the moment of truth.”
“Truth? I've never heard of such a creature is it from outer space?”
Tom's smiling. I can feel it.
“Okay, Tom. Close your eyes.” I say and move closer to him. He's closed his eyes.
“Imagine Dirty Vegas on the stereo. Are you feeling it?”
“Dirty Vegas?”
“'Days Go By' ...remember?”
“Right, continue.”
“I really liked that song at the time and I'd play it on my stereo constantly. I'm wearing a navy
paisley peasant top and a denim miniskirt. Anyhow, Mom sent me to see a shrink. Dad was living like
Jim Morrison and she thought I'd need therapy to deal with his nonsense. She let me choose the shrink.
His name was Chris. Dr. Chris Cooper.”
“It's already inappropriate.”
“Would you like me to tell the rest in my Sultry Woman of the Night voice?”
He pokes my arm. Arm poking is our secret BFF sign language circa 2007. I continue.
“He must've been in his late twenties. I told her I wanted to see a man. I was nervous to talk to a
woman about sex. That was my secret agenda. I wanted to know about sex. All the women I knew
wouldn't even say the word SEX out loud. It was love making, a special promise, or virtue swapping. I
was tired of French kissing boys behind the gym. I didn't pay much attention to Dad. I didn't even
really care. Whenever my Dad came around Mom always knew how to handle it. Chris had this Jake
Gyllenhaal way about himself. Piercing eyes. Broad shoulders. I went into every visit without a bra,
glitter on my legs, and lip gloss poppin'.”
“I don't think it'd make much of a difference if you wore a bra or not.”
We've stopped to spar. I push him, he pushes me. It seems flirty, but it's almost incestuous. I
guess I get silly in the dark, werewolf, hours.
“Anyways, it's that visit, when I'm wearing the denim and paisley. He says something sweet to
me. Tells me I'm pretty. Since he crossed the line I figured I'd do the tootsee roll over it. I point blank
asked him if he wanted me to do him.”
“Jesus Christ, Lu. You're a porn star.”
“I've always said exactly what I think. Well, if it isn't too cruel or disturbing.”
“You still say it.” Tom sighs.
Tom, the Sigh Master. Is that what it's like to be an artist? Constant brooding, sighing, pacing,
and smoking? I've got to put more pizazz in his step.
“What did he say?” Tom asks as he digs into his pocket and pulls out a flattened box of ciggies.
“He didn't say anything. He called me later that night. He told me yes. He was DTF. He begged
me to wear what I wore that day. I didn't. It was my moment, not his. Instead, I wore my Mom's best
dress. It was yellow. I sneaked out of the house and he picked me up at the end of the street. Took me to
his apartment and we had The Sex. It felt amazing. I've never felt so, Queen-like. I could've waited and
lost it to some Emo kid on prom night with Dashboard Confessional blasting in the background, but I
chose him. Once I'd finished, I told him I couldn't see him anymore. Obvious reasons.”
“Just like that?”
“Well, he had to drive me home.”
“Why did you choose him?”
“Tom, he had the pills!”
I'm giggling and JKing. I'd never exchange sex for goods or services. It's way too 80's. The
Purple Sticky has been my only near drug experience. Tom's facing the ceiling and tracing smoke with
his fingers.
“You can sleep now.” He whispers.
“How did you 'lose' yours?”
“Just some girl who was drunk. I was drunk as well.”
“Good night, Tom.”
“Night, Lu.”
What can I say about Manic Monday's? I'm sure they're doomed to repeat themselves. Oh well,
I can only sing “C'est La Vie”! So, I roll over, snuggle my pillow and drift into sleep.
Copyright © 2011 by Ashley E. Dozier. All Rights Reserved.
