Last Chance to Stay True

Nice to Finally Meet You

“Silence!”

The roar of the crowd softened to a dull mumble. Atop the stage, I held up my hands as if I had the ability to lower the volume. A few downward motions, and everybody in Spectrum stopped dancing. I hadn’t seen it this busy since the Christmas bash, and tonight, they had all come to celebrate me.

I closed my eyes, taking in a deep breath. “Now or never,” I whispered.

I flipped my hair back, pushing it off my shoulders.

I’d made this decision months ago. It wasn’t made lightly, and I’d already taken it back twice.

Forty had come and gone, and it was time to retire so I could focus on the man behind the lashes.

I’d sashay away, and like a boss, I’d do it with my head held high.

I turned about, shifting my hips enough that my butt jiggled. Pulling the white gloves up to my biceps, I stared at the sign attached to the wall.

“Farewell, Mabel Syrup.”

There was no turning back. I gave the girls a lift, ready to give the audience what they wanted.

For decades, I had stood atop this stage, lending my booming voice to Spectrum.

I had gone from a young gay on the dance floor to the queen supreme.

When they offered me an ongoing residency, I didn’t think twice.

The bar had gone from a bastion for the queer community to a staple.

It had welcomed all before I arrived, and it’d thrive long after I left.

With a long sigh, I turned. I swallowed hard as all eyes fixed on me.

Taking the microphone, my lips brushed the metal, leaving a trail of bright red lipstick.

I had rehearsed my speech for days, and I couldn’t remember a single word.

I never came to the stage with a plan. Instead, I let the energy guide my every decision.

Depending on the crowd, it might be a sultry lip-sync or a provocative dance.

They had come to see me, to bid their farewells and well wishes.

As the crowd sipped from their glasses, they didn’t want heartfelt words.

They wanted their queen.

“You’ve heard the rumors.” I pulled the microphone from the stand. “It’s sad, but true. This is my last night at Spectrum.” The crowd groaned at the statement. “Ahem. I said this is my last night at Spectrum.”

I held the mic toward the audience. “Aww.”

“Really? This isn’t like you have a hottie in your bed and you’re out of lube.” They chuckled. “I said, this is my last night at Spectrum.” The third time, it sank in for them… and me. After this, I’d retire and never set a heeled foot on this stage again.

“We love you, Mabel!” Amanda yelled.

I believed her. “And you’re not half bad,” I replied.

Surrounded by burly bears, Amanda held up her drink.

By her side, Jason and Jon raised their cocktails.

The three amigos always made me smile. In solidarity, the rest of the club followed.

One by one, hands raised into the air. I didn’t have a snarky comment as Spectrum turned into a group toast for Mabel…

for me. Whether or not I knew their names, they had become my family.

No matter what happened outside those doors, here, we celebrated each other like kings and queens.

I tested the waterproof mascara. “If y’all make me cry, me and my sequins are walking out that door!” Too late. This blended family had shown up for me. In the safety of the only gay bar in Bangor, Maine, we had the freedom to be ourselves.

Despite Spectrum creating a space where love persevered, it had become a prison.

Instead of an orange jumper, it forced me into press-on fingernails and a size 42C bra.

They came to see Mabel Syrup, Maine’s most infamous drag queen.

While they found the strength to live as their authentic selves, I hid behind perfectly polished cheeks and the perkiest breasts in the room.

“One last dance,” Jon shouted.

Yes, they didn’t see me.

Mabel wouldn’t disappoint—she never did. Behind the bar, Patrick clapped until the hooting and hollering filled the bar. If I was going to hand over the crown, I’d give them exactly what they needed. For one more number, I’d throw open the door of every closet.

“Tonight.” I returned the microphone to the stand. “We celebrate.”

They roared. Luke, our usual DJ, knew the exact moment to start the music.

A musical interlude backed by synthetic instruments.

Everybody recognized the song, “Prettiest Thing.” It had become my anthem when closing out a show, and it seemed more fitting now than ever.

They wanted the fabulous Mabel Syrup. They’d get her… one more time.

The masses swayed, waiting for the bass. I spread my arms wide before resting the back of my hand against my forehead. Hold the pose. Wait. Wait. Wait. The bass dropped. Through the slit of my dress, I threw up a leg before bringing down the heel of my shoe to the beat.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

High energy. Hair flip. Vogue. Spin. Every move had been rehearsed a thousand times.

I kicked off the heels, sending them flying into the back of the bar.

Back to the crowd, I dropped, ass out. As my booty bounced, they cheered.

The energy turned electric as the screaming reached a new high.

Turning, my leg slid out from under me until I reached the perfect split.

I held the position as the music stopped.

I shot them a wink. They were waiting for it, the move that would make my thighs hurt for a week.

Inch by inch, I rose from the split. I got to my feet just as the song continued.

Flipping my hair, I spotted a table of three in the corner, one of them reluctant to let the music consume them.

I stepped off the stage and forced the crowd to part.

The two on either side of the table were sipping cocktails while the man in the middle appeared almost… uneasy.

I vogued my way toward them, my sights set on the handsome bearded man in the middle.

I knew an interloper when I spotted one.

His button-down shirt and tie didn’t go with the leather harnesses and fishnet tops.

A high school jock if I ever saw one, his head bobbed to the music.

When I reached the table, his eyes went wide.

The man to his left cheered as the woman pulled out her cellphone to record the performance.

The man in the middle… his cheeks turned red.

I struck a pose, before shooting him a wink.

From the speakers above, “Who’s the prettiest girl in the room?”

The crowd responded. “That ain’t no question.”

I joined in the lyrics, belting out, “There is only one queen.”

The room roared, and the dancing continued.

He looked up for the briefest of moments.

I flashed a toothy grin as I moved back into the crowd.

A second later, Jon found me, grinding like we were fresh lovers.

With more than a hundred people crammed into the club, we moved as one.

The bears closed in, and I was surrounded by some of the most loving people I had the pleasure of knowing.

I slid past Jon, blowing a kiss to Chris and Bobby as they held up their beers in a salute.

While some were regulars, others only showed for special occasions.

Seamus, boyfriend of our former bartender, had been the hardest nut to crack, but when he toasted me with a glass of beer, my heart swelled.

I leaned in, leaving red lipstick on his cheek.

Dating our former bartender had brought down those gruff walls, and he returned the kiss.

I searched the group for the burliest of muscle bears, and pointed at Charlie and his Nick, and then to the bar. When I spun about, arms held out, they got the hint. They swooped in, and with a quick grunt, they lifted me onto the bar. With a fan of legs, I crossed them, just as the song quieted.

The entire bar heaved, gathering their breath.

I’d miss the reckless abandon, their willingness to be their authentic selves.

Sweaty bodies moved together, and I had to stifle a gasp as two men, strangers to me, embraced and then kissed as if they had found their soulmates.

Outside Spectrum, they had to tame themselves and dim their fabulous lights. Tonight, they shone.

“Who’s the queen?” I shouted.

On cue, the song continued. “I’m the queen.” Every person joined in. I might be the fabulous Mabel Syrup, self-proclaimed drag royalty, but tonight, we were all kings and queens.

It was time. Farewell.

Tonight would be my last performance.

Silence.

The music had faded hours ago. The lights had come on, and lovers old and new paired off, heading for the door.

As the club emptied, their stories continued.

There’d be unrequited love, dalliances that tipped from lusty encounters to love stories for the ages.

While the staff finished cleaning the bar, I retreated to my makeshift changing room.

“I’ll miss you, mop.”

The oversized janitor’s closet had been the only option when the owner offered me a weekly gig.

The wooden pole sat against the metal rack filled with toilet paper and straws.

Over the years, that mop had seen my highs and lows.

Now that I thought about it, I might steal it as a trophy for my years of hard work.

I sat down on the bar stool. The table in front of me held a trifold mirror and three mannequin heads with wigs.

I followed the cord along the rack shelf, reaching past the jars of condoms to the light switch.

Three oversized bulbs flared to life. Close to two decades, I’d come back here, sweaty from dancing or leading the crowd in a lip-sync.

Most nights I left electrified, ready to take on the world.

Her. Not me.

Staring in the mirror, my mascara fought valiantly, but no amount of so-called waterproof could handle a sweaty man. Despite the smudged lipstick, frizzed hair, and misaligned boobs, Mabel Syrup looked perfect. Even in a mess, she exuded a confidence I envied.