Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
I WORRIED THAT MY FIRST NIGHT HOSTING KARAOKE at the Pink Unicorn was just a fluke. Old fans rushing out to see what happened to me and then, having satisfied their curiosity, moving on and deciding they had better ways to spend their Saturday night.
But I was wrong. If anything, my second night hosting karaoke is bigger and better than my first.
Eva’s social media campaign has brought in even more people, resulting in a line down the block and around the corner. And Paolo’s skills with the SYNGX program have somehow improved. He’s now figured out how to project a QR code onto the video screens for the SYNGX app, which allows patrons to request songs electronically and even allows them to interact with the show by sending chat messages that pop up on the video displays.
I’m more comfortable and having even more fun than last weekend. And perhaps the main reason for that is because Aaron isn’t here.
Not because I don’t miss him. It’s just easier to be myself without him around.
In fact, there’s really only one thing that makes me uneasy. At one point during the night, I catch Loretta filling up a glass of ice with soda and handing it to someone in a dark hoodie. Something about him seems familiar, but his hood is pulled way over his head and the lighting at that end of the bar is too dim, so I can’t get a proper look at him. It seems sad to me, that someone in such a fun, welcoming environment would want to keep themselves hidden. And it reminds me of the fact that I’ve been hiding who I am to people. To the public. To my dad. And to Aaron.
But everyone has their own journey. It takes time for people to be comfortable with things they’re not used to. I tried to rush things the last time I was with Aaron, and it didn’t work out. I need to be patient and, when the time is right, tell him why I’ve been hiding my drag identity.
At the end of the night, after leading a final group singalong of “Don’t Stop Believing,” I check my phone to see if Aaron has texted me. I’m hoping he’s invited me over since he’s no doubt already done spending time with Joey.
Not a peep.
Which is okay. Really. It’s been a fabulous night, but my feet are swelling past the straps of my slingbacks. I’d love to just soak them in my bathtub while I unwind with a glass of wine, which I just might do. Because tomorrow will be another long day of drag.
Although this time, it won’t just be me putting it on.
PAOLO SHOWS UP AT MY CONDO in Emeryville at nine a.m. on the dot, standing there in his motorcycle jacket and jeans, bright and chipper.
“Breakfast,” he says, holding up a paper bag.
“Thank you,” I say, stifling a yawn. “Come in.”
As he passes by me, a blend of leather jacket and woody cologne wafts by, making my insides perk up and finally begin to wake.
He follows me into the small kitchen area, where I’ve managed to brew a pot of coffee. I get two mugs and plates and bring them to the tiny table. Paolo opens the bag and takes out two humongous bagel sandwiches.
“Wow,” I say. “Where did you get these giant bagels?”
“Nowhere. I made them.”
“You made the sandwiches?”
“And the bagels.”
“Really?” I grab one and take a bite. It’s incredible. A firm, snappy crust on the outside, chewy on the inside, with a hint of roasted garlic. A fried egg oozes over thinly sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, and beef tapa. “It’s like a bagel sandwich version of tapsilog.”
Paolo lights up. “Exactly! Do you like it?”
“Ohmigod, yes,” I say, trying not to let my eyes roll up into my head. “You’re very talented.”
Paolo grins and digs into his own sandwich. “You’re one to talk,” he mumbles with his mouth full. “You were amazing last night. Again.”
“Thank you,” I say. It should be getting easier to receive Paolo’s compliments, but for some reason, I feel even more self-conscious hearing them now. “You didn’t do so badly yourself. You really upped your game on the SYNGX program.”
“Yeah. I watched a couple of YouTube videos on it this past week. Learned a few new things.”
“Then why did you agree to come over to my place yesterday?”
“Because you asked me to.”
“For training. Which you said you assumed was for the KJ program. If you already trained yourself on it, why’d you come?”
He smiles. “Because I was interested in whatever it was you were going to teach me.”
Lacking the words to respond to that, I take another bite of my sandwich—a big one—and chew in silence, nodding dumbly.
“Soooooo,” Paolo says, “what exactly do we have planned for today? You going to show me how the whole makeup thing works now?”
I pour us both some coffee. “Not yet. You have to learn how to walk before you can run.”
“Walk before I…” Paolo says, trailing off. “Oh. I have to learn how to walk in heels.”
Ask any queen what the hardest aspect of drag is, and she’s likely to say any one of a variety of things. Padding. Corseting. Tucking. But the thing most men have difficulty with first is the shoes. The center of gravity is so different, and muscles that have never been paid attention to before start working overtime. Most of all, walking in high-heeled shoes hurts. Especially when big feet are squished into small shoes.
I sip my coffee, enjoying the way it pairs with Paolo’s tapsilog bagel sandwich. “It’s not easy. But I’ll guide you through it.”
“Who taught you how to walk in heels?” Paolo asked.
“My mom did, actually.”
“Seriously? Your mom taught you how to do drag?”
“Well, my uncle Melboy taught me the actual art of drag. He’s a queen, too. Beaucoup Buko is his drag name. But my mom taught me the basics of makeup and women’s wear before I even met him.”
“You’re lucky to have a mother that open-minded,” Paolo says. “There’s no way my mom would ever do anything like that. She told us that what we wore reflected on our family, so she basically picked out our clothes until we were teenagers. And since I was a bigger kid, there weren’t that many choices. Everything I wore was from the husky section.”
“You were a big kid?” Underneath his motorcycle jacket, a T-shirt stretches tight across his chest and lean abdomen. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“I grew out of it. Besides, you can’t tell everything just by looking at someone, right?” he says with a wink, which jolts me into being aware that I’ve been staring at his chest.
“Right,” I say, and focus on my bagel sandwich.
After we’re done eating, Paolo makes us more coffee while I head over to my drag trunk and rummage through my collection of shoes.
“Here’s my starter pair.” I hold up a pair of character shoes with a sensible heel of two and half inches.
Paolo wrinkles his nose. “Those? They’re so unsexy.”
“Sorry if they don’t go with your hot leather jacket,” I say.
He tugs on his jacket. “You think this is sexy?”
“What? No, I didn’t say that. It’s just heavy and thick, so it’s hot. You must be hot. You’re hot, right?” I say, groaning internally.
Paolo chuckles. “My dad gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday. His way of saying I was a grown man, I guess. It was back when we were still on good terms. I wear it to remind myself that I love him. It’s easy to forget sometimes.”
I sit down on the floor next to my trunk, tucking my legs under me. “I didn’t always get along with my dad, either. I know he supports me. But he hasn’t always.”
“Dads just want the best for their kids,” Paolo says, sitting on the edge of my bed. “But I think too much of their pride and identity is tied up in their children. Their sons, especially. Mine keeps reminding me about my responsibilities to the family business. He wants me to take over for him when he’s too old to do stuff. I don’t know if I want to do that.”
“What’s your family business?”
Paolo shakes his head. “It’s not important.”
He looks so sad. A lot like he did back at the restaurant, when he said he was jealous of me. For having a passion for something that I’m good at doing.
I put the character shoes back in the trunk and trade them for a more fun pair of pink platforms with four-inch heels. “Okay, you want sexy, I’ll give you sexy. Try these.”
Paolo’s eyes bulge. “Whoa. Those heels are really high.”
“You know what Kinky Boots says about heels.”
“The higher the heel, the closer to God?”
I hand him the shoes. “Close enough.”
“You’re not going to put them on me?”
I can’t tell if he’s kidding. His face isn’t giving anything away.
I motion for him to take his shoes and socks off. He complies without a word, though I finally detect a faint smile.
When he’s done, I take one of his feet in my hand. The skin is surprisingly supple on top, with a smattering of hairs on the toes. The bottom of his heel is rougher but not calloused. Just thick. Heavy. His foot smells earthy and unusually sweet. He tenses a bit.
“Ticklish?” I ask, looking up.
He shrugs and smiles.
I slip the shoe on. It glides onto him with no more effort than a simple swoop. I pull the strap around his ankle, slipping it just underneath the hard knob of bone that juts out on the side.
“How’s that feel?” I ask.
He closes his eyes and, in a low voice, says, “Great.”
It’s not until I see the curling of his lips that I realize I’ve been stroking the knobby bone on his ankle with my thumb.
I pull my hand back. “Oh, uh, looks like it fits. Let’s get that other one on.”
We repeat with the other shoe, but this time I make sure to be as clinical as possible. No more accidental touching of his skin or lingering on the feel of his foot. I just put it on him and strap him in. Tight.
“Good,” I say. “Now let’s try walking—”
“Okay.” Paolo stands straight up from the bed and takes a step.
I reach out. “Wait!”
His right ankle buckles. And as if in slow motion, all parts of him crumple, and down he goes, landing face-first in a pile of clothes on my floor.
“Ohmigod! Are you okay?” I ask.
“Please tell me this is clean laundry,” he mumbles into the pile.
“It’s clean laundry.”
Paolo’s head pops up from the pile, a purple thong hanging from his ear. “Somehow, I don’t believe you.”
I yank the underwear and toss it back on the pile. “Here.” I reach underneath his arms to help him stand back up. “Let’s try it again. More slowly this time.”
His ankles wobble again, but this time I’m prepared and grab his hand, propping him up until he can find his balance. He looks at the ground as if it will disintegrate beneath him. His legs tremble. I keep holding on to him.
“Take a deep breath,” I say. “That’s it. Stand up straight. Look ahead, not at the ground. It’s okay, I’ve got you.”
I try to convey strength through my hold on Paolo’s hand. His grip slowly begins to ease until he’s no longer holding on to me for dear life. We’re just holding hands.
“You good?” I ask.
“Yes. Very.”
“Good. You passed the first test. Now I’ll demonstrate.”
I put on a pair of stiletto heels about two inches higher than the ones he has on and walk around the room in demonstration.
“Jeez. How do you not howl in agony in those?”
“Trust me, I want to. But beauty is pain. Now try to copy what you see.”
He’s gotten his balance enough to stand with confidence, but once he starts trying to follow me, it’s a disaster. His gait is too choppy. He can’t seem to keep his stride flowing or to get enough sway in his hips.
“Ugh, Paolo. It looks like you’re stomping on bugs.”
“I’m trying!”
“You’re thinking too much. Or maybe you’re thinking about the wrong things. Let go of everything you’ve ever learned about walking.”
I come up from behind him. “Picture every supermodel you’ve ever seen on the catwalk. How fierce they are. And channel all that into here.” I place my hands on his hips gently, coaxing them from side to side.
The movements of his hips smooth out, becoming more seductive, feeling liquid-like and luxurious in my hands.
“Work! Now try moving forward again.”
Paolo takes a small step with more swish in the hips. And then another. The more steps he takes, the more confident they get. And sexy. I feel a rush of something. Pride, perhaps. But something more than that, too.
“Holy crap,” he says, stomping around my room. “I think I’m actually getting it. Am I getting it?”
“Oh, yes. You’re definitely getting it.”
Paolo laughs. “I feel freaking hot.”
He is. Extremely.
Stop fixating on Paolo’s hips, Rex. Focus. You’ve got a job to do.
“All right,” I say. “You can take off the shoes. We’ll do this in different stages. Phase two. Time to try serving some looks.”
Paolo nods vigorously. “What do I get to try on first?” He sits at my desk to undo the straps of my high heels.
“First things first. The tuck.”
“The what?”
I point toward my groin. “Have you never noticed that this area down here is smooth as a baby’s butt when I’m in drag?”
“I just assumed you had a fun-size penis.”
“Hey! I have a very not fun-size penis. I mean, it’s plenty of fun. I mean, it’s an above-average-size penis.” I groan. “Why? How big is yours?” Warmth floods to my cheeks. “Nope, forget I asked you that. Tucking is where you pull your flaccid dick and scrotum back in between your legs and tape it in place behind you.”
“Don’t your balls get smashed?”
“No, because you put them up inside you.”
“You what now?” Paolo asks.
“You’ll put your balls up inside your body.”
“No. I won’t be doing that. They can’t do that.”
“It’s actually pretty natural. You know when it’s really cold outside and your ballsack kind of shrivels up? It’s because your testicles are traveling up closer to your body to stay warm. And when it gets really cold, they go all the way up inside your pelvic area. To keep all those floaties nice and toasty and ready to make babies. Although, ew.”
“ That’s the part you’re ew ing about? The fact that sperm helps create life? Not that your balls actually move of their own volition up into your stomach?”
“They don’t travel that far. But let’s get back to you.”
“I don’t know if I want to do this anymore.”
“All right. We’ll skip the tuck.” I knew it would be a tough sell. “I just thought, if you were man enough to walk in heels, you’d have enough balls to tuck. Although it’s a bit better if you don’t have big balls so your tuck isn’t as meaty, but—”
“Okay, I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Paolo says, “especially since whatever a meaty tuck is sounds hideous. But I’ll try it. Only if you demonstrate for me, though. To help me make up my mind?”
Again, I can’t tell whether Paolo’s playing with me, flirting with me, or neither. Whatever he’s doing, I’m not about to drop my pants and yank my penis back with him watching.
“We’ll just find you some sort of big skirt to wear instead.”
I start sorting through the possible outfit options in my trunk. “Ooh, this one!” I pull out the dress I wore for my first time hosting Friday karaoke at Dreamland—a blue sequined bodysuit top that flares out into a poofy, pink tutu. It’s long so it’ll cover up Paolo’s privates and still look wonderfully girly. Another great thing about the dress is that it matches perfectly with my pair of platforms. High and dramatic, but much easier to walk in than regular stiletto heels. And there’s no need for a breastplate. The ensemble works better with a flat chest.
“Let’s have you try it on so you know what to expect.”
I avert my eyes out of respect as he undresses. And maybe because I’m also afraid of the reaction I’ll have if I see him without clothes on.
I instruct him to lay the dress on the ground and then step into it, pulling it up and around himself. After he’s done that, I step in to assist. There’s no real need to pad the hips with the tutu, but the top is essentially a corset. It’s important that Paolo get a sense of how that feels.
“Putangina!” Paolo yelps as I cinch him in. “That hurts! Does drag always feel like this?”
“If it feels like your organs are trying to escape upward and out of your mouth, then yes. Now shut up and be a man about it.”
“Can we reassess the tucking thing? Maybe I’ll do that instead if I don’t have to wear a corset.”
“No matter what we choose, there’s going to be discomfort involved. We drag queens are warriors. We get used to the pain. We have to.”
This seems to quiet Paolo. He grins and bears it as I finish getting him into the outfit and shoes.
Afterward, he even manages to walk around with a bit of sass.
I snap my fingers. “Werk it, henny.”
“I’m getting used to it,” Paolo says.
“Very good. Now that you know how it feels, you can take it off. This next step—the makeup—is more for my sake. I want to make sure I’m able to replicate Regina Moon Dee’s face on you perfectly so that no one can clock you.”
“About time,” he says.
I help him out of his dress, shimmying it down off his body until it lays like a poofy flower on the floor. There’s no avoiding his undressed body now. I can’t help but take in all of his physique. He’s lean, not thick and brawny like Aaron. His muscles are long and sinewy. The tutu tulle on the ground surrounds Paolo in a pink corona, making him look like a male version of Venus, the goddess of love and beauty.
It’s only after he clears his throat that I realize that I’ve been staring at his nearly naked body for who knows how long.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” I say, standing up abruptly. “Put your clothes back on.”
Paolo takes just a few seconds too many before finally putting his pants and shirt back on.
I mindlessly rearrange the makeup and other materials on my desk while Paolo dresses, glad to be moving on to something that doesn’t involve him taking his clothes or shoes off or me putting them on him.
But doing his makeup doesn’t distract me from my thoughts about him. If anything, it just makes it worse.
As soon as he sits down in front of me and takes his glasses off, my heart swells. At first, I think it’s only the thrill of doing someone else’s makeup. I’ve never had a drag daughter of my own, so I’ve been looking forward to this act of sharing my art with someone else. But I haven’t been this close to Paolo’s face since last weekend, when I smothered his face with a surprise kiss. Knowing I’ll be sitting this close to him, our faces only inches from each other for the next hour or so, fills me with something that’s hard to ignore.
“Are you going to be okay without your glasses?” I ask.
“I should be fine. Things only get slightly fuzzy without them. When things are up close, they’re okay. Like, I’m able to see you just fine,” he says, in a way that makes it seem as if he likes what he sees. Something deep inside me stirs.
I put a wig cap on him and then move on to start blocking his brows. I notice that my hands are shaking.
“Something wrong?” Paolo asks.
“Don’t move your face like that,” I say. “You’ll mess up the glue.”
“Sorry. You just seem to be a little nervous.”
I sort through my makeup kit, stalling to try to think of some way to respond. “I’m fine. I’m just…” And then I notice that I’m missing one of my favorite eyeliners, which is a bummer. They don’t make that exact kind anymore. “I can’t seem to find my liquid eyeliner.”
“Oh,” Paolo says, sounding disappointed.
“It’s okay. I’ll use another one.” I push forward and start applying foundation to his face, hoping to get lost in the work.
Only now I’m acutely aware of my hands brushing against his skin. How nice it feels. How familiar. In some ways, it’s a lot like touching my own face. We have comparable complexions and hair. Our noses are somewhat alike. Our eyes are both shaped similarly. We’re not exactly the same, of course; anyone with decent eyesight can tell us apart. But it still feels as if I’m working on an extension of myself. It’s exhilarating.
“You really like this,” Paolo says.
“I do,” I say, thankful I can answer him honestly. “I love makeup. I’m not always the best with matching colors, but it always feels so satisfying putting it on. I’ve never done someone else’s face before, so I thought it might be different. But it’s sort of the same.”
“Or maybe we’re sort of the same,” Paolo says. “We have a lot of things in common, you know. We’re both Filipino. We’re around the same age. We love karaoke. And…”
“And… what?”
He keeps his face still, like I asked him to. But I can sense something underneath, wanting to show itself. “And,” he says, “we’ll both do whatever it takes to please the people we love.”
I force my gaze to shift, to focus on his cheeks, his nose, his brow. Anything other than his eyes on mine.
“Well, it’s a good thing we’re so alike,” I say, “because when I’m done with you, no one will be able to tell the difference between you and me.”
He makes this funny little snort. I can’t tell if it’s annoyance or amusement. In any case, I keep forging ahead, knowing that, if I put anything less than one hundred percent attention into the makeup, I’ll lose my focus completely.
There’s a benefit to being a bundle of nerves, at least—the makeup goes on quickly. I go at a faster tempo than usual, though still managing to get all the Regina details right. The thicker lining, the dramatic contouring, the signature eyebrows drawn with upward strokes that reach almost to the hairline, and the lips that are slightly overdrawn. I’m able to paint Paolo’s face in a little under an hour, a record for me. It helps that he’s stayed mostly quiet for the whole thing, only speaking to ask a few questions about what I’m doing. There’s a part of him that probably understands that I need silence in order to work. He’s being respectful of the process. Or maybe he senses that I’m too preoccupied to talk.
Whatever it is, every trace of the agitation I’ve been feeling over the past hour evaporates when I’m finally done and step back to fully examine my work.
“Take a look.” I turn his chair around to see himself in the mirror.
His face freezes. “No fucking way.”
“Do you hate it?”
He swivels his head from side to side, examining every angle.
“I love it. I’m so beautiful,” he finally says.
I lock eyes with him in the mirror and am momentarily stunned. Paolo’s right. He is absolutely gorgeous. And not only that, he’s beaming. Brimming with so much pride over his own feminine beauty that it spills out and floods over me.
I can’t deny it any longer. I’m really, really into Paolo.
I need to get him out of here. I’m trying to be with Aaron now. And everything I’m doing, the improvements to the Pink Unicorn, this whole doppelg?nger plan, is for Aaron. I can’t let any confusing feelings about Paolo mess that up.
“Well, I think we’re done for now,” I say. “I, uh, have other plans for today. I’ll help you get out of makeup so you can be on your way.”
“Wait,” Paolo says, his eyes pleading. “Let me keep it on. I’ll take it off when I get home.”
“Seriously? Why?”
“I’m not ready to let go of Regina Moon Dee yet.”
He puts his motorcycle jacket back on and places his glasses on his face. The effect of those things with my makeup still on him is like seeing the two of us mixed up together. And I love how it makes me feel.
I walk him to my front door, trying not to stare at him.
“When can we do this again?” he asks.
“Soon,” I say. “We need to, I mean, we should do it again soon. And maybe a couple more practices after that. We’ll take our time. To make sure we get everything right.”
“Good,” Paolo says to me before turning to leave. “Because I really want to take our time and get this right.”