The first push lands him against the glass storefront. He waits, a glowing pillar of salt, with his tongue stretched against the window. Waits, groping for his mango vape among the cigarette butts and menus scattered near the entrance. And as always, just before his order is called, he waits, relishing his decision to enter into public, and groan out my name. The customers continue to gawk at him – his mug into the glass, smearing trails of spoiled beige punctuated by a tepid purple kiss, a clatter of teeth, a detached ten-stacked eyelash, glitter – at the irrelevance of whoever he calls to.

The second push empties her onto the door. Her wig, her helmet. The men kick rhinestones until they shower the threshold red. What she touches becomes a trace of her. They bleed her, their mangled creation. And when her outfit runs out – when she’s all over their hands –its look is complete.

  I come out of passing to pass the men unexpected twenties in thanks for their service for art and advise the room to get back to their business. The men’s mouths gape open as they hit each other’s backs. I raise my hands like a ringleader to thank the staff for their continued patience, and the two women at the register, bothered by neither gratitude nor disruption, smile at my tip with their eyes on notepads and ears on phones. They tell me to have a good night.

Accompanying him out the door with our bags full of Chinese food, I’m careful not to disrupt the maze of cars as I push it across the street. I tell him I’m not sure how many more nights I can do this. Did you see those smug fucks? But the bouncer sees us coming and shouts over me. He yells at the line to move and make way for the headliner. They scoff until I drop my pants.

I can’t help but spread my Jock strapped cheeks in their honor for making it, thus far, through Pride. June is a revolving door with no bouncer. But tonight, kisses it full-on.

“Honey, what kind of fake blood bullshit is this?”

“Sweets, she’s serving realness tonight,” I say.

“Anemics to the front! Calling all anemics to the front!”

“May we?”

“Get out of here while you can, henny.”

I stop every few feet to kiss face or smack ass. I take sips of five different drinks. A friend pushes past me, back into me, and yells if Red’s okay. Yells to me if I’m ok. 

I say, “Sure.” 

Then, “No.” 

Followed by “But, “I’ll see you later, right?” Another kiss. A gin and tonic.

Red Scare lip-syncs a new body on stage. Unclasps their bespoke breastplate to unveil Tupperware containers. They shower the splash zone’s tongues with words battered, fried, sauced. That’s the gig. That’s the paycheck. Heaps noodles with their acrylics and flings them into the mouths of all the groundlings, even hitting those who worship from the back, twenty feet from the stage. With just the simple twitch of mouth and the hint of language, the whole room Edens into a buffet, blooming with the power of a dirty house remix and faint hint of soy. They release their wig, and noodles slide down her bruised, bloody beat.

Untucked, her balls disco into the front row of crammed queers, teasing their looks with the power of apparent contradiction, shining light out of darkness. The soft blurry haze of their amateur beats turns geometric in the limelight of her eyes, which take up at least half her face in Pride – from the tip of her nose past her temples. Her ombré contour juts into her now-clotted hairline. As the spotlight finds her center, she opens another latch in her contraption and out fall crab rangoons, trailing bits of still-melted cream cheese.

The blood covers their body like a glaze. They lunge side to side through the fallen food in a stunt the crowd can point to and say, ah, yes, this is drag. They part the sea. Walk to lie down in the center of the room. I turn on my mic.

“OK, kiddos, all you can eat!” The audience halts. “Yes you!” I laugh at widening eyes. “Quick, before the song ends!” Heads turn. They lunge. I smile as I’m trampled to the ground.

The faggots and their friends morph into an apocalyptic binge as stomachs, shrunk from days without eating, are bombarded with a new body. Just for them. A feast of flesh turned takeout. But the other performers simply bow to Red Scare. They bow away from the dance floor, away from the bar that is no longer a bar, from the street that is no longer the outside but an inside, where everywhere is an empty warehouse waiting to be filled, the city outside, our stage, where the world is no longer a noun but a verb.

With a dead phone, Red leaves. I gather up our belongings and take off after Scare. I plug the phone into the extra battery. Slowly the remnants of her creation disintegrate from their tacky, bruised skeleton, gasping with heat. 14th Street, Thomas Circle, 12th Street. But under body lies more body.

“If you order a car, babe, I bet I can drive you home.”

I order a car; I still have plans.

Ty’s phone pings.

“Another party. Really, slut?” The word echoes like a final applause as Ty unlocks the door.

“I’m not coming home ‘till you do.”

“I’m cooling off, so, course, you too.”

You know, Ty continues, drag husband’s a job that you don’t have to do, and I know I’m asking you to be everything for me, and I get that it’s only going to get worse this week and I appreciate you, but I’ve been meaning to, and I shush them. I ask for a Rangoon, and I open my mouth. I turn on the music.

Bio

Taylor Portela is a queer nonbinary writer and performer who received their MFA in Creative Writing from Virginia Tech and now calls Oregon home. Their work has appeared in Fence Magazine, Juked, WUSSY, and elsewhere. They can be found at taylorportela.com.