Untucked

Laughing out the door with farewells, she blows a last kiss and waves with her long, polished press on nails. She shuts the dressing room door, muffling the loud music leaving only the pounding bass that makes a light bulb on the vanity mirror flicker once in a while. With a satisfied smile, she still feels the high of the party, of the show, the glamour. After a moment she wobbles to the vanity realizing how much her feet hurt. She sets her Long Island and Virginia Slim down, leans over and loosens the laces to her special ordered, size twelve thigh highs and feels the satisfaction of placing her bare foot flat on the floor. She slips the straps of the sequin dress off her shoulders and strips down to just her corset and tights. She sits at the vanity and unhooks the constricting waist cincher.

She looks at her huge hair and beat mug in the mirror. With a sip from her drink and a last drag from the slim, she pulls off her curly, lace front wig, sets it nonchalantly to the side, and wipes the sweat from her forehead. She remembered to peel off the sharp press on nails this time, wanting to avoid another look of judgment from a boy at a drive through window. After the last show she was met with a disgusted stare from a fuzzy faced teen who hesitated to take the cash from her very large hands and sparkly, red nails. She cringes, remembering the awkward encounter.

With her bare fingers she peels off the huge 301 false lashes, her eye lids resisting to let go as she pulls. They come off leaving glue residue on her lids, sparkly with almost garage door eye shadow. With one last look at her glossy lips and dark eye makeup, she rubs coconut oil between her hands and wipes away her contoured face, taking special care to rub away the glue concealing her natural, less arched brows. Tricks of the trade.

She stares at her bare face in the mirror, exhausted, and just as satisfied with the reflection as before. The men never like queens though, and dykes are the only ones that throw dollar bills on the stage. She squeezes out of her tights, the hip pads popping out. It’s a relief to unwrap his tucked dick from in between his legs. He gathers his makeup and dress, stuffing the heels into the gold, fake Fendi bag. He stands and decides if he can drive after however many gin and tonics and Long Islands. Feeling sober enough, he tousles his hair, tosses a low V-neck T-shirt on, and slides into some jeans, leaving the bright pink garter around his thigh. He looks at himself in the mirror with a smirk and pulls up the garter under his pants that squeezes his leg. With a breath at the door he leaves, looking forward to that drive through burger.