14. Here, Queer, Drinkin’ Beer
FOURTEEN
here, queer, drinkin’ beer
Dahlia
Pride month is in full swing at Cunting Season and the energy is electric as the crowds pour in from the earlier street parade.
The symphony of hand fans and laughter curl their way to the dressing rooms as I finish applying my black lipstick.
Daphne lazes on the couch behind me in a rainbow bikini top and cutoffs matching my own.
Tonight’s event is a drag show to benefit the local youth homeless shelter. Next week, we’ll host the Beerlympics and a mechanical bull riding contest to finish out the month.
Safe to say, I’m getting my ass kicked, between the extra work here and school. Regardless, I picked up an extra bartending shift tonight since it’s a bigger event. My bartending prowess leaves something to be desired, but I make up for it with corny jokes and a willingness to learn.
Daphne sighs, fixing her top as the tiny triangles fight for their lives to cover her tits. “I have more boob than brain these days.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, babes. Heavy is the head that holds the tits.” I shrug.
Daphne looks at me confused. “I don’t think that’s how the saying goes and I don’t care.”
“You have anyone meeting you here tonight?” I’m fishing for information, but Daphne sees that shit a mile away.
“Not a soul. Maybe I’ll meet someone in the crowd.” She looks down at her red stiletto nails as she answers, and her distracted state has me curious.
I’m ready to tell her to spill her guts when Simone knocks on the door to let us know they're opening up the side bar. She flushes as she very obviously looks at Daphne’s chest.
When she leaves Daphne looks at me with a smile. “Baby’s first gay panic, methinks.”
We lock arms and head to our bar station and I tease, “Poor Daphne. Too hot for her own good, huh?”
“You don’t know the half of it,” she says with a fiendish smile.
The beginning of the night is slammed with clubgoers ordering tonight’s mixed drink special, a Reverse Cowgirl. It’s easy enough to serve since we keep the mix of tequila, cranberry orange juice, and orange slices stocked in a large pitcher.
I’m sweating my ass off, but having fun since Daphne loves to be a little mean to the patrons. And by a little mean, I mean she has quite a few adoring regulars who would probably pay money for Daphne to spit on them.
I love that we’re so different—she’s larger than life and a little prickly, and she loves so hard.
Our sexual preferences are at odds too. Daph is more dominant in general, certainly with sexual partners and I admire her fierceness.
She loves to tease me for being a whore for praise, but can you blame me?
The emotionally neglected girl to woman with a praise kink pipeline is real.
I’m yet another former gifted kid statistic.
“Our next performance is a special one. Y’all put your hands together for Buckwild and Tammy O’Tits…
” The DJ’s voice fades out as the opening notes to an EDM mix of “Fancy” by Reba McEntire fills the club.
They’re our final performers tonight. Buckwild struts onto the stage in a plain white tank top and denim dad-style shorts.
A fake cigarette hangs out of their mouth as they make their way along the crowdline.
Buckwild, also known as Nia, is one of the Drag Kings who perform here regularly. Nia is one of the kindest souls on earth and so unbelievably talented.
As the chorus starts to play, Tammy slinks onto the stage and drags her arms along Buckwild’s shoulders. Watching them perform together is like watching two twin flames dance, and it helps that they’re madly in love with each other.
Tammy rocks a big faux fur coat, just like Reba in the music video, shimmying in stilettos with each move. Tammy is Leon’s alter ego when he’s not working as a bouncer for the club. The pair dance and laugh as they belt out the lyrics with so much joy in their smiles.
The music is pounding, people are grooving, and drinks are flowing. The performances tonight blew the roof off the place and I’m sure they made a killing in tips, on top of what was raised for the youth shelter.
I hear the familiar sharp guitar riff of Shania Twain, followed by Daphne appearing in front of my bar.
“Let’s go girls!” She shouts at me before launching herself up onto the bar top.
Her small hand reaches down to help pull me up and before I know it our arms are locked on each other’s shoulders screaming along to the music.
She must have requested this song herself because it’s one of the songs we’d make fake performances to in middle school. Dancing around my grandma’s living room like absolute psychos until Grandma would come and threaten to make us sleep in the backyard if we didn’t quiet down.
The wide smile on Daphne’s face matches mine and I know she’s reminiscing about simpler times, too.
Simone shouts up from behind us, stretching her arms like a toddler asking to be picked up. Daphne chuckles before hauling her up with us, the three of us in all our chaotic glory embracing love and life.
As I look out at the crowd, the joy I see reflected back makes my heart glow in my chest. I love my job here compared to the other shit holes I’ve worked. I’ll be sad when it’s time to move on after grad school.
Working in night clubs, you’re exposed to constant fuckery and rudeness from the general public.
Don’t get me wrong, Cunting Season gets its fair share of shit stirrers and the occasional perv, but they are swiftly dealt with by the big ass security guards lining the wall in hunting camo.
It’s safe here for everyone, something the owners fight hard to protect.
I love the kitschy feel of Cunting Season.
It feels like the warmth of the south—kindness and hospitality—but without the racism, transphobia, homophobia, xenophobia, abelism…
the list goes on and on. Regardless, Cunting Season is the bit of peace I get to keep from my old life.
So while it may seem like a gay Coyote Ugly, it’s got a whole lot of heart too.
The night finally winds down and I’m fucking exhausted. I yell for the last call and ring the antique-looking dinner bell, signaling the transition to the end of the night. Wiping down the sticky bar top, I remember to tell Daphne about my thesis and the farm.
“So, I’ve got a bit of a lead on the direction of my thesis. I’m thinking of exploring equestrian therapy, maybe a program for teen mental health on the farm. I’m not sure just yet.” I’m giddy at the prospect of moving forward on this project.
Not giddy for any other cowboy-related reason. Not at all.
“I have more research to do and Wes offered for us to stay at his place. I can explore the farm and see if a therapy program like this would even work.”
“That’s huge, Dahl! Let me know what comes of it. I’d be down to hit up the farm,” Daphne says, counting her tips.
“Yep. He said he’ll talk to Jasper about it and let me know. I think they’re beefing. Jasper was a dick when they slept over.”
“The girls are fighting,” she drawls. “Jasper’s always a dick, this is not news.”
Daphne leans against the bar with a smirk. “So, research, huh? Are we researching Wes’ bedroom, perhaps?”
“No, you horny bitch. Research. My thesis. Grad school. My livelihood.” I toss a cherry at Daphne’s forehead. “This is important. Wes was excited to help and show us around. He said we could ride the horses.”
“I’m sure he’d love for you to ride his horse.”
“Daphne! I’m serious.”
“I know, I know. Fine, it does sound fun. I’m off this weekend too, no shifts at Purple Rage either. Jasper lives with Wes?” She eyes me suspiciously.
“I think he lives on the property, but I don’t think they share a place, no. Why, you want to harass him?”
“He wishes I’d harass him. No, just wondering what the set up is.” She looks away quickly and I’m curious about her and Jasper’s random rivalry, but not curious enough to dig when my feet are aching from running around all night.
We hurry through the remaining closing responsibilities and pack up to head home.
I have class tomorrow morning and while it’s more of a discussion session with my classmates, I’m not looking forward to being awake and forming full sentences that early.
Daphne and I head into the night, armed with ole faithful—her neon pink taser and my pocket knife modeled like a lipstick, our little arsenal at the ready for our journey home on the subway. You know, just girly things.
After moving here, we quickly realized late nights on the street in New York were a lot different than the late nights in bum fuck nowhere, Florida.
As we bump along on the subway, Daphne asks how I’ve been feeling. I’m ready to white lie my way through a response, but she gives me a look, don’t bullshit the bullshitter, and I fold like a shitty beach chair.
“I’m mostly fine, but you know. Shit happens.” She nods slowly, encouraging me to say more.
“I have a lot of anxiety about what’s next.
I’ve always had a plan, always two steps ahead of myself.
After high school, we were getting the fuck out of there.
I knew we’d move up here, I knew I’d apply for school.
College was the plan, then grad school. Internships, papers, applications, I was planning long before any of it came.
Now, school is wrapping up, what the fuck am I supposed to do now? I have no idea what’s next.”
Like a sexy Yoda, she looks at me thoughtfully.
“Do you have to know what’s next? Really, what’s going to change?
You still have a job, your bills will still be paid.
You’ll start looking for a job in your field and go from there.
It’s okay to take each day as it comes. There’s no reward for having it all figured out. ”
My overworked brain is already disputing this at light speed.
“You should be proud of yourself. You’re so worried about making it, but you already made it. You left home, went to a big school in the city. You won no matter what happens now.”
Logically, I know she’s right, but the little version of me with no control over her life remains unconvinced.
Daphne lays her head on my shoulder and I plop mine down too. Like she can read my mind she says, “You’re not a helpless kid anymore. You have power over your life now, and that power is yours to do whatever you want with.”
When I’m stuck in my head like this, Daphne is one of the few who can get through to me.
I take a deep breath of stinky subway air, as it shutters to a stop.
The doors open and a person in only a painter’s smock enters with some sort of lizard on their shoulder.
They nod at us and head to a seat near the back of the car, giving us a full view of their G-string.
My clammy nervousness drifts away as Daphne and I share a knowing look and link arms to head up the stairs.