After the applause settled, Clara winked at me, then took a breath. “Well, tonight, I am one happy drag mama.” My heart grew two sizes. “This is her first gig, so be prepared to catch her wig if she didn’t pin it right. Put your hands together for Caramel Kay!” The audience cheered. For a moment I was thrown off. I had told her my name was Queen Kay. Suddenly, just like the foundation colours at the drugstore, I too was fit for eating. I quickly tucked my embarrassment into the sides of my forced smile. Shaking my hands awake, I exhaled to centre myself and did one last check of all the props hidden in my pockets. Don’t fall in your heels. Don’t fall in your heels, I thought to myself.
An uncomfortable silence fell as Clara stepped off the stage and took a seat. She signalled the bar staff to press play. A slow and steady bass rhythm filled the room, and the audience applauded, recognizing “Giving Him Something He Can Feel,” sung by En Vogue. Instead of the iconic red dresses worn by the group in their music video, I entered wearing a sexy nurse’s outfit, which was tight enough to show off my new bum and hips, short enough to reveal my muscular legs. Cheers.
Determined to appear fearless and experienced despite being afraid and a rookie, I worked my way through the crowd, taking the vital signs of audience members in raunchy ways. I checked one person’s pulse while placing their hand on my buxom bosom. I used a stethoscope on another person’s crotch instead of their heart. With a more willing audience member, I took their temperature by making them suck a larger-than-life thermometer. In between each action, I would pass a patron who offered me a tip. I tried to remain casual and continue lip-synching, but each crisp bill represented a meal, represented rent. By the end of the song, during the final chorus, I welcomed someone to reach under my skirt and reveal my Godzilla-sized strap-on. The audience sang along while my fake phallus was stroked in rhythm with the bass guitar. The song faded in time with my exit. Standing ovation.
When the night was over, I sat in the office staring at the wad of cash I had earned, now damp from the folds of my fake titties. The adrenalin rush had yet to leave me, and I sat still, replaying the delicious details of my performance again and again. The faces of the audience. Each reaction. I did it and I got a standing ovation.
“You did it, guuuuurl!” said Clara, half out of costume. I smiled at her, unable to speak. I could feel the tresses of my wig painting my sweaty neck and the edges of my lashes fraying. Clara took one bill from her own chest of tips, slapped it onto the surface of the desk and said, “Now go buy yourself a hamburger. You deserve iiiit.”
I became a regular feature at Epic, along with regular guest queens such as Bitches of Madison County (specialty: housewife-turned-naughty scenarios) and Kamel Toe (specialty: foam body embellishments showcasing maximum vulva). I enjoyed sharing space in the tiny office while we transformed our faces. Our backstage exchanges with each other, both catty and endearing, translated onstage into me being hotter on the mic for insults and comebacks. This came in handy when we hosted Royal Travesty, whose shtick involved lip-synching to eighties British punk while wearing floral-printed dresses fit for Elizabeth II.
On the night she was scheduled, I greeted her at the entrance to Epic with my fervent hand extended. “I’m Queen Kay. We’re performing together tonight. It’s great to meet—”
She pushed past me with her large rolling suitcase trailing behind her. She wore extra-large sunglasses to hide her undone face. With lips pursed she said in a surprisingly deep raspy voice, “If you see a drag queen walking with her suitcase, don’t bother her,” before passing me and heading to the office/dressing room.
I was slated to perform after Royal Travesty. Eager to learn some new skills, I waited in the wings and watched. During her number, the Sex Pistols played on full blast while she waved her cupped hand “hello” to the audience. Everyone cheered.
Clara and Royal exchanged some witty repartee before introducing me. “Oh look, there was a sale at Goodwill.” Clara dryly eyed Royal Travesty up and down. She returned the gesture by inspecting Clara’s blue organza extravaganza.
“Will you give the audience a twirl?” Royal Travesty said. She gestured towards Clara, then turned to the audience with expert timing. “Don’t you just love estate sales?!” The audience winced. “Nothing like stealing a dress off a dead lady.”
Clara chuckled, then changed the subject. “Before we kill each other onstage, I think it’s time to introduce our next performer. Is everyone ready for Caramel Kay?” Hurrahs from the audience. My name was said wrong again. I forced myself to smile, shake it off.
“Tell me about Caramel Kay.”
“She’s new on the scene, and she is quickly becoming one of Epic’s favourites. I taught her everything she knows about drag. I am so proud of her!”
Royal Travesty put her hands on her hips, readying the audience for another joke. “But did you teach her how to get a job?” Some of the audience members coughed in shock. Most of them laughed. The smile on my face wilted. “Do you know this joke?” Royal Travesty raised her hand as if she were conducting an orchestra, orchestrating my demise. “What is the difference between a Black guy and a large pizza?”
Clara awkwardly guffawed, then managed to spit out, “I don’t know. What is the difference, Royal?”
“The large pizza can feed a family of four!” The white people in the audience laughed and laughed. An Asian couple shifted in their seats uncomfortably. My ears were ringing. “Oh, come here, Caramel Kay.” The audience laughed again. I did as I was told. My arms were numb. I walked towards her feeling like my heels were stilts and my ensemble was rags. I smiled. “You know I’m joking, right? You thought what I said was funny, right?” She smiled a devilish smile at me. Pleading. Forcing. There was a long pause. I knew this was my opportunity to make things right, to break the ice. But when I saw an audience member covering her mouth in shock, I decided to throw shade instead.
“I’m sorry, what?”
Royal Travesty looked at the audience, looked at Clara, then at me. A wider smile. “It’s all in good fun, hun.”
“Sorry, I don’t understand what you’re saying. I don’t speak Asshole.” The audience gasped. They choked. Royal Travesty stepped forward, her bottom lip heavy, trying desperately to craft a comeback. She was either going to spit at me or kick me offstage. I was the younger, less experienced queen after all. Despite having crossed a line, I happily stood on the other side of it, delighting in the mess I had made of her emotions. I had never felt this sense of authority before, fuelled by the laughter in the audience. So drunk was I on this unfamiliar power trip that the width of my grin felt like it was going to break my face in half. Clara quickly intercepted Royal Travesty, and she signalled to the bar staff to begin my music, which was a mash-up of songs from the musical Fame.
Wearing a 1980s leotard and tights, I began lip-synching to a recording of Debbie Allen’s infamous lecture about “working your little tights off” to become a dancer. Laughter. I moved about the audience waving a teacher’s cane in their faces and preaching that it didn’t matter how big their dreams were; fame costs, and here was where they had to start paying. The cheap sound system suddenly blared my badly edited audio track of the signature “Fame” disco downbeat. The crowd went wild. Buoyed by their reaction, I pranced about onstage doing faux jazz choreography while lip-synching to Irene Cara’s lyrics. By mid-song, everyone was clapping in rhythm to the music. I pushed the audience into hysterics by miming the electric guitar solos using my own leg. Peals of laughter. I struck my final pose and enjoyed yet another standing ovation. As I walked off the stage I looked straight at Royal Travesty and gave her my most aristocratic wave.