Exotic - Chapter 3: Chapter 3

I got to Crescendo ten minutes later than I'd promised Jamie. The man was polishing the bar like he meant it harm, while his bouncer for weekdays, Emanuel, watched with faint amusement from near the stage. Jamie looked up when I entered and cracked a grin. And then lost it when he saw my face.
"Seph," he said seriously. "What happened to your face?"
I ducked my head down, mentally cursing Aidan McCaffrey and his right hook to hell, "It's nothing. I fell down the stairs."
"Bull-fucking-shit."
I always felt bad lying to Jamie. Of all my employers, I liked him best. He was only twenty-nine, a self-made millionaire who had created and currently managed two of the most popular LGBT+ clubs in the state, Crescendo and DeCrescendo (he was, self-admittedly, not that creative). He was openly gay, the hardest-working person I'd ever met and kind of a socially awkward hermit, which I found endearing.
And it wasn't as if I lied to him enough already; about my age, my experience, the existence of my RSA.
"I know it looks like someone came after me with a hammer," I smiled through gritted teeth. "But you know how bad I am in heels. I ate shit down some stairs at the station and it was really embarrassing and I'd really rather not think about it."
Jamie digested my lie as easily as cement. "Did someone hurt you, Seph? I swear to god, I'll hunt them down."
Jamie was five-foot-seven, with a lean build and wiry blonde hair to match his bone density. Aidan McCaffrey would snap him in half, despite their vast age difference. Still, the sentiment was sweet.
"I bruise easy," I assured him. With one final glare of thinly veiled scepticism, he waved me over to the back room.
"You better have enough concealer to cover that up," he warned me. "People will riot if they think someone's been roughing you up."
I left him with a boy scout salute.
The dressing room was empty, save Zsa Zsa, who was sitting cross-legged on one of the makeup counter's, plucking his eyebrows carefully. On the weekends, Jamie filled the dressing room with performers, but Zsa Zsa and I were pretty regular. He was a dancer, and the body to prove it; lean and fit, but he was always conscious of his muscle mass. He still wanted to look good in a halter top.
And god, did he look good in a halter top. Silky dark skin and electric blue eyes, full lips, and shiny black hair. He was beautiful in or out of drag, and I envied him the latter.
Had I thought about having sex with Zsa Zsa Magifique before? Definitely. But he was twenty-five, and I was underage – not that he knew that – and he'd opened up, within our first year of friendship, that fellow drag queens weren't really his type.
"Shy, closeted, bodybuilder, preferably black, inexcusably bilingual," he'd told me five bottles of tequila into a Wednesday night. The first of many nights which had cemented our effortless friendship. He was an extrovert and seemed to legitimately like me. And despite the fact we didn't know each other's real names and he thought I was in university, he was one of the only people in my life who knew I was gay. I felt like that connected us in a way that differed from my school friends.
He looked up and gave me a flourish of a wave, before his jaw dropped. "Dear God, your face looks like shit."
"Thanks," I threw myself down into a chair, pulling off Caleb's cap and tossing it down on the table. "Don't ask me how it happened, just do your magic and make it disappear."
He made a face. "You've got your own concealer babe."
"You've got the expensive shit. After all I've been through..." I pouted at him. "Pretty, pretty please?"
His features hardened. "Did someone pull something with you? Because if they are, I'll beat their ass."
"Ha," I sat back. "Nah, I took a tumble in a pair of heels. Nothing too dire, just ugly as hell."
Zsa Zsa looked sceptical but didn't push. He swung my chair around and started smearing foundation over the bruising. I winced as my skin stung in response to the touch.
"So," I closed my right eye obediently as he dabbed concealer underneath them. "How's life?"
"Oh, you know. Work, eat, get hammered, sleep, repeat," Zsa Zsa grinned. "But... I have met a guy."
I gasped dramatically. "Ooh! Is he all you ever wanted?"
He let out a dramatic sigh. "Oh, god Sephora he's amazing. His name is Peter. He speaks French and Mandarin on top of English, he's ripped as all hell and he's a nurse."
"Sounds amazing." Sounds like I wished I could have Zsa Zsa's life, out and proud, and able to maintain a relationship. "Where'd you meet?"
"He came to one of the shows. He said I had the best ass he'd ever seen," Zsa Zsa winked. "Seph, be honest. Is it bad I've already given him an apartment key to my place?"
I felt my eyes widen a fraction. When had I last spoken to Zsa and he'd lamented he was single? A few weeks ago? "Ah... depends on how serious you think it is?"
He shrugged. "He works late. Late enough that I'm usually asleep by the time he gets to my house. I think it's pretty hot to be woken up to hot breath on your skin and a deep voice whispering, No time for sleeping, baby."
I fanned myself. "Go for it, I say. Do I get to meet him anytime soon?"
"He said he'd come to the club sometime," Zsa winked. "Swear that you won't get jealous."
I rolled my eyes. "We have very different types."
"How should I know? I've never met a guy you've taken home," Zsa Zsa pouted. "Besides, I thought all twinks were attracted to Peter-types."
I let my jaw drop. "I am not a twink."
"You're a twinkle-twinkle little star, babe," Zsa Zsa insisted, and stepped back to admire his handy work. "All gone. I am good."
I checked the mirror. He was good. I gushed out a sincere thank you before emptying my backpack onto the table. Scattering my makeup out in front of me, I got to work painting on Sephora. Zsa Zsa went back to plucking his eyebrows in the mirror. We worked in comfortable silence, neither of us wanting to distract the other.
I started with a thin layer of foundation, eviscerating my teenage blemishes with caked-on layers. I got to work contouring while Zsa Zsa started drawing on his lips. He didn't need much makeup, already having perfect skin and distinctly delicate features. Zsa Zsa Magnifique was not his split persona, his alternate ego; rather just an extension of himself. I couldn't wait until I left school and I could feel that same. Poking out my tongue in concentration, I leaned in the mirror to focus on my eyeliner.
"What's Truman Senior High School?" Zsa Zsa suddenly asked.
Fuck. I was lucky not to scrape a black line straight down my face in sheer panic. "What?"
"Truman Senior High School," Zsa Zsa had picked up Caleb's hat and was studying it. "You were wearing this."
I let my mouth drop open and closed as my mind raced through excuses. Zsa Zsa watched me expectedly, face growing more and more concerned by the second.
"It was my high school," I finally blurted out. "Like, from ages ago. I just grabbed it as I was running out of the door. Didn't realise I still had it."
Zsa Zsa looked amused.
"You were on the football team?" he smirked.
I flushed. "Well, I was playing it straight for a while," I shrugged, and then wiggled my eyebrows at her. "Plus, we had open showers."
Zsa Zsa laughed, seeming to accept my lie. "You pervert. You shouldn't wear this around the club though. People might think you're a high schooler."
"Yeah right," I said weakly.
"I mean, you are gawky enough," he grinned. I smacked his bicep and returned to my eyeliner. I hated lying to Zsa Zsa too. He trusted me without question.
After about fifteen more minutes, I heard the familiar sounds of people filling up the club. Music started pumping, drinks glass started clinking and hoots and whoops of excitement started up. Jamie came in just as I was slithering into a silver cocktail dress, shimmering with glitter and laced with tiny fabric flowers. The sides were translucent, revealing enough skin to a porn star blush.
"We're running to a schedule here, ladies," Jamie looked a little flushed. On busy nights, he disappeared to his office until the worst of the rush had finished.
I finished off my ritual for bringing Sephora forward and pushing my teenage introversion aside by pulling down my eyelids and covering my brown irises with brilliant green contact lenses. I blinked twice, and when I settled, Sephora's emerald eyes stared back at me, and like that my transformation was complete. I quickly slid into my shark shoes and gave myself a once over in the mirror. Sephora looked incredible. She always did.
Zsa Zsa was dressed in a catsuit and knee-high boots, a more appropriate outfit for dancing. His hair was crimped and hung at down his back, black with gold strands woven sporadically throughout. His female form was far less curvy than Sephora, with minimal padding, and he preferred drawing on his breasts to imitating them with latex. He still looked hot as fuck.
We made our way out into the club together, earning a cheer when we exited. Miles would have turned around and walked back straight into the change rooms, but Sephora smiled and blew kisses to the dance floor. Zsa Zsa was up on the stage in an instant, tapping a microphone and welcoming the patrons with a dazzling smile. Someone in his rapidly expanding audience screamed, and Zsa Zsa was quick to single them out and target them with a barrage of quick wit. He had the most fun with a drunk crowd.
I sidled up to the bar, and the bartender poured me my usual without a moment of hesitation. I threw it back before backing onto the dance floor, right as Zsa Zsa's first track started. Hustler pumped through the speakers, a slow start that exploded into a punchy chorus, thick with bass. Zsa Zsa's hip swayed hypnotically on sage, but his arms moved in sharp, powerful movements, skilfully hitting each beat of the song. He dropped to the floor in a forward split, and the crowd he'd amassed went wild.
Dancing was one thing I had never attempted to learn. Sephora liked a lot of things but falling on her face wasn't one of them. I bobbed and swayed, and occasional ground against a tall dark and handsome stranger.
Friday's at Crescendo were legendary. The crowd was all sorts, men and women, gay and straight and everything in between. Jamie worked hard to make Crescendo a safe space, and he had no tolerance for people who threatened the sanctity of his clubs. I'd never know a person to call the cops to his own establishment as many times as he had.
Zsa Zsa finished his routine with a body roll, snatching bills from the hands of eager patrons. I noticed he didn't end with his signature move, locking lips with whoever tipped him last. He must have been very enamoured with Peter. He strutted back to the microphone and flicked his avalanche of hair over one shoulder.
"Dais propinas de mierda," he prattled off, and the crowd went wild for it. He bantered easily with the crowd as I sauntered up to the stage, pushing up my hair and my breast padding, one after the other.
"And if you don't know this bitch, you're about too," Zsa Zsa waved me up on stage. "The one the only, the Mormon state herself, Sephora Utah in the flesh."
I put my arms up as I skipped up the stairs, wrapping him in a hug before taking the mic he relinquished. The crowd cheered and whooped, cash already in hand, waiting for me to do something worthy enough to throw money at. I was lucky if I made fifty dollars in tips on any one night, but Jamie paid his performers, unlike a lot of the clubs I worked. Every dollar that didn't go into restocking my drag closet went into my savings, so the second I turned eighteen I could jump ship.
"I'm here to talk to you all about Jesus," I said in a baby-doll voice, earning a roar of appreciation. I wasn't a natural comic, but drunk people laughed loud and easy. "Fuck me, you are alive tonight, aren't you Crescendo?"
Another confirmatory scream.
"If you don't know me, I am Sephora Utah, I don't have an Instagram so stop asking, and I am living for your vibe tonight," a man leaned over and tossed a dollar bill at my feet. I stared at it, and then glanced at him. "If you wanted to see my asshole you could have just asked, sweetness."
I bent over to pick it up, slow and sultry. The crowd ate it up, rabid for more. "This one's called Mardi Gras."
The striking chords of a piano slowed down the pumping bodies throughout the crowd. I trilled a few times into the microphone, before beginning to sing.
When I was a young boy my father
Took me into the city
To see a marching band.
But he didn't read the poster right,
There was a great parade
But no trumpets in sight.
"At least not the kind he thought," I ad-libbed. Bills rained down on the stage, and I continued singing as I collected them.
There were rainbows, and streamers
And dicks out, strange creatures
And dykes on motorbikes.
My father, he freaked out and sheltered me,
But little did he know
Their influence was taking over me.
I marched up and down the stage, sinking down to capture a waving five-dollar bill between my teeth. As the chorus started up, I bobbed and pumped up and down, sweeping my eyes across the crowd. They were obsessed. Sephora Utah had hypnotised them, endeared them, entrapped them. They wouldn't forget me anytime soon.
Sometimes I get the feeling
He blames himself for me
And other times I feel like he blames me
But through it all, I came out tall
And looking just like this
And when I left, I joined the queer parade.
I'M DADDY'S SON
I'LL PROVE HIM WRONG...
I wrote most of my covers within an hour two of putting them on. They always went down a treat. Especially nostalgic ones.
I'd joined the school choir at the behest of my mother, and quit the year she died, but singing live was a handy trick to have, to stand out from the throng of club queens. I could still hit those soprano notes, and that always left my audience memorised.
Just as I reached the climax of the song, a twenty landed between my pigeon-toed feet. I snatched it up and glanced up to give the generous tipper a private thank you.
And just like that, for the second time that day, I found myself ensnared in the crystal gaze of Caleb Proust.
My world froze over. Hell froze over. And I froze up, just as I was supposed to jump into my final chorus.
My first thought was, He's here with Aidan, and they're going to tell everyone. They followed me here, and this is revenge for insulting Marisol's extensions. I was keenly aware that I'd missed my cue, and that I was gaping at him shamelessly.
Caleb seemed to recognise that I was thrown as well, but instead of smirking knowingly like Aidan McCaffrey would, or scowling in disgust, he did something entirely unexpected. He smiled, bold and suggestive, leaning over the edge of the stage. His teeth were pearly white, which made me wonder why he didn't bare them to the world constantly. I felt let in on a precious secret.
My eyes managed to travel down from his smile, to sweep over his sparsely buttoned shirt and revel in the smooth, olive skin beneath. One shoulder had slipped off, so one nipple was exposed, and the bones of his shoulders jutted out, stray glitter gathering in the hollows of his clavicle and throat. I had thought he'd looked beautiful in sweaty soccer gear; right now, in front of me, in his element, he looked positively celestial.
And I came to realise, very slowly, that he didn't recognise me. He didn't know me as anyone other than Sephora Utah. That I wasn't the one who was exposed; he was.
Not that he knew it.
I managed to tear my eyes off him and jerk upright, stammering silently for a moment before raising the microphone to my lips and adopting a posturing grin. "Sorry about that guys, forgot the lyrics to my own fucking song."
I threw myself back into the last few lines, ending on a guttural high note and shake of my hips which seemed to redeem me in the eyes of the crowd. I staggered to the front of the stage to collect my tips, conscious that Caleb's eyes were still fixed to me. I must have been feeling extra bold, or at least, Sephora was, because I singled him out. "I blame this one. Caught one glimpse of him and completely blanked. Look at him."
Caleb looked momentarily startled but didn't shy away as people crowded him. He never took his eyes off me. His gaze was heavy with desire, a look that I would never expect him to extend to me out of drag. His crystal eyes raked up and down my body, and I felt every exposed part of me set alight. I'd never felt so desired in my life.
I made quick work of my transition back to Zsa Zsa, passing over the mic and tumbling off the stage. I shouldered through eager patrons, placating them with quick smiles and cheek kisses. I made a beeline for the dressing room, not daring to glance over my shoulder least I found Caleb in my peripheral. I might have gotten mouthy on stage, but I couldn't risk bumping into him and have him look too close.
My anonymity hung in the balance. I could not let it drop.
Zsa Zsa had started his next track, Kill the Lights, and bodies began to pulse together to the beat. It made it very hard to navigate. The lights snapped out and were replaced with rolling green lasers, and I found myself wandering a labyrinth of bodies with no prospect of escape. The music pulsed and my heart pounded against my rib cage, as I wondered – prayed – that Caleb Proust had been nothing more than a desperate mirage.
I glanced back, to see Zsa Zsa spring back into a handstand. His long, slender legs parted in a mesmerisingly slow fashion, his eyes flashing. I tore my eyes off him and almost tripped on a stray leg, teetering on my heels and barrelling directly into a pair of steadying arms, gentle fingers brushing my waist, and propping me up.
"That could have been a broken ankle," Caleb's eyes engrossed me, making my knees weak and my stomach turn. He was inches from me, eyes sweeping my face as if he was caressing it. My breath caught, a mixture of terror and intrigue swelling inside me.
"My hero," my mouth said in complete dissociating to my spiralling mind.
He smiled again, and it bought a lively flush to my cheeks. Caleb cocked his head slightly, and when he smiled again, I realised he knew exactly what he was doing to me, and he was revelling in it. Arrogance was never something I'd associated with Caleb, at least not in terms of his own attractiveness. I'd been starting to believe he was completely oblivious to his own innate hotness. But then again, I only knew him from school, and I only knew him as the brooding striker who the girls fawned over. I tried to remember if I'd ever seen him flirt with someone.
Caleb leaned in close, barely audible over the thrum of the music. "I liked your song."
"Thank you." There went my mouth again, drawing me dangerously into conversation. At least I had the brain capacity to pitch shift my voice. "Did you relate to it?"
Caleb snorted, and I wanted desperately for his hands to find my waist again. But he was a perfect gentleman. "I'll be honest, I didn't hear a single word leaving your mouth."
My hormones were taking over my common sense. I stopped fighting it. Caleb didn't recognise me, which meant I was safe to speak my mind. "You are insanely hot."
His lips parted, and I swallowed down my anxiety. It caught in my throat. "You are spectacular."
My heart fluttered, and the club melted away. Caleb's shirt had been rearranged on his shoulders, but it still hung open enough that I could imagine myself running my hands along his bare skin. His jeans were extraordinarily tight, and the way he was looking at me. I had never expected anyone to look at me that way.
I probably looked like a lovesick puppy, cartoon hearts exploding from my eyes. I needed to leave, but I couldn't even breathe right. Caleb seemed to sense my tension and pulled back, eyes sparking with concern.
Without thinking, I reached out and took hold of his wrist. Zsa Zsa must have done something impressive because suddenly everyone was screaming. I winched away from the noise, automatically closer to Caleb. When I looked up, we were basically nose to nose. One wrong move, and -
"Who are you?" he breathed. I blanched, faltered, but only for a second.
"Sephora Utah," I smiled coyly. And that was the truth of it. The classmate Caleb knew had truly taken the back seat. When I was Sephora, I acted on instinct, chasing pleasure and instant gratification. I still wore my heart on my sleeve, but I showed it off like a badge of honour. There was nothing wrong with wanting.
My hand shifted from his wrist to his elbow, and then experimentally up his bicep. I felt dangerously close to passing out. I'd had peoples' tongues down my throat, and it didn't send the current along my skin that touching Caleb did. At school, I was just another of the hordes pinning from a distance. But here, with him looking at me like that, like I was spectacular, we were on level playing ground.
It was Caleb who initiated the kiss, a second after I had unequivocally decided to pull away from him and sprint from the club like some Cinderella parallel. My escape plan immediately went out the window along with my common sense. His kiss was gentle, maybe even a little insecure. His lips were as soft as I'd dreamt they'd be.
Just like that, I was a goner. My hands found his shoulders and I tilted my head to give him better access. He, in turn, deepened the kiss, tongue danced between my lips in a way that took my breath away. His fingers ghosted the outline of my spine, settling on the small of my back.
Despite myself, I let out a tiny moan of ecstasy, one that definitely did not sound womanly. That gave Caleb a boost of well-earned confidence. I curved into his body, noting how our bodies fitted neatly together.
I pulled back a fraction, resting my forehead against his. My mind was reeling; clogged with confusion and guilt and endorphins. Caleb was smiling. I was melting from the inside out. The song finished. The club seeped back, and we were jousted back and forth as I tried to find my bearings.
"I need to go," I blurted out.
"When do you finish?" he exhaled. His cheeks were pink. I couldn't help but feel a little pleased with myself. "Not that... I just..."
"Go somewhere quieter?" I guessed. Caleb flustered instantly, and I pushed my luck. "I'd be crazy to say no to that."
He smiled and lifted a hand to cup my cheek. The touch was sweet until his fingers brushed the blossoming bruise hidden by Zsa Zsa's foundation. I winced away from his touch immediately.
"Ow," I murmured without thinking, as pain rushed through my jaw. Caleb withdrew from me quickly, blue eyes furrowing in confusion and concern.
"What's wrong?"
What did I do wrong? felt like the unasked question there.
"Fell down the stairs," I said hurriedly. "It's nothing. I bruise easy."
Caleb's eyes snapped back to mine, and I almost reeled back at the intensity in his stare. It was like he was glaring down through the green contact lenses into my soul. I felt my mouth drop slightly, my hands still resting on his shoulders. His lips parted again, but not in a seductive fashion. He jerked away from me and stumbled back several steps.
"Miles?!"