Killer Queen: A Painted Faces Novel (10 page)

“Giving you a thrill,” I told her, my voice dropping
low. I was rock hard, and I knew she had to be able to feel it. Her arse was
pushing right into my crotch.

She straightened a little, then said, “Very kind of
you, Viv. You can let go now.”

I leaned into her. “Say please.”

She worked her jaw. “Please.”

Finally, I did let go, but I was grinning widely
because, despite what she’d said, I knew she’d enjoyed it. Beneath my
satisfaction was a small touch of annoyance, because she was still trying to
ignore the chemistry between us. It was going to drive me crazy.

She hardly breathed a word as she finished off my
makeup. There was less tension in her body now, thinking my advances were over.
I smirked to myself, because I wasn’t done with her yet. Not by a long shot.
Getting up from the chair, I began to undress right there in front of her,
whipping off my T-shirt and then going straight for my belt buckle. Fred
blushed furiously and quickly turned away so she wasn’t looking.

I let my pants drop to the floor and began to
chuckle. “You're going to have to get used to the sight of me sans clothing,
Fred. It's part and parcel of the job.”

Slowly, she turned back around, and her pretty eyes
widened at the sight of me in nothing but my undies. Her gaze was levelled
firmly on my crotch as she gulped. I was going for shock value when I searched
for the women’s lingerie I’d been keeping in my bag. I didn’t always wear
female undergarments when I performed. Sometimes a good tight pair of briefs
did the job, but if I was feeling particularly in the mood to fully immerse
myself in my role, I sometimes donned a pair of knickers over my briefs.

Aha! I made you uncomfortable, didn’t I? Don’t deny
it — I just saw you tug at your collar.

The world was full of all sorts, and I was
definitely one of them.

We human beings are strange creatures, and that
strangeness makes us fascinating.

I went all out when I finally removed the boxer
shorts I was wearing until I was bollock naked. Fred blushed bright red,
glancing quickly at me, and then levelled her gaze on the safety of my upper
body. She swallowed again before asking, “So you go the whole hog, then, with
women's underwear and everything?”

 I gave her a detailed explanation. “I might not be
as flashy as traditional drag queens, but I do like to think of myself as being
authentic, although I don't stuff my bra or put on a lady voice. I also don't
tuck my dick. I'm not trying to fool people into believing I'm an actual woman
in that sense. I think being somewhere in between male and female is just as
intriguing.”

Then, deciding to put her out of her misery for fear
she might die of a blushing overdose, I pulled on some briefs and the knickers.

 “Um, can I ask another question?” she went on.

“Go ahead.”

 “Well, I was just wondering about how you classify
yourself. Are you a drag queen, or a transvestite or a cross-dresser? Or are
they all one and the same thing?”

 I smiled, liking that she was interested enough to
ask such a question. I wanted her to want to know everything about me. It was
unnerving how desperately I yearned to bare my soul to her, expose my flaws and
have her accept me anyway.

“Everybody has their own opinions on it, I suppose.
For me, a drag queen dresses as a woman purely for performance, and that's what
I think of myself as being. A transvestite or a cross-dresser could be a man
who wears women's clothing because it's a fetish.”

“So it's not a fetish thing for you?”

 I gave her a hot look. “Nope. Cross-dressing is
often related to sexual preference. I like to be a man in the bedroom, but a
woman on the stage.”

“Oh.”

“Don't be afraid to ask me things. I'm willing to
answer all of your questions, Fred.”

She nodded and then helped me finish dressing. Once
I was done, I grinned at her and asked, “Well, how do I look?”

“If I was into girls, I'd do you,” she blurted, and
it made my grin widen, because I didn’t think she’d meant to say it. Still, I
was going to take full advantage of the fact that she had as I moved close to
murmur teasingly in her ear, “Psst, I'll let you in on a secret, Fred. I
actually have a cock. Don't tell anyone — it would ruin my reputation. But feel
free to do me any time you want.”

“Good to know,” she replied flatly, and went to
finish off her drink from earlier. I had been hoping my flirty comment would
prompt her to flirt back, but something had flickered in her eyes, and she’d
immediately shut down. I began to think that she was definitely attracted to
me, but that something inside her thought it would be too weird to have sex
with a drag queen. It irritated me, but I tried not to let that irritation
show. I could have been reading too much into it.

When I took to the stage that night, I recognised a
woman Fred and I had met briefly in the park earlier that day. Her name was
Dorotea, and she was from Italy. She was also quite sexy. I’d casually invited
her to come see the show, but I hadn’t actually expected her to come. It looked
like she’d even brought some friends along. I didn’t have a very strong
attraction to her, not like I did with Fred. However, as was my habit with most
women I met, I had definitely wondered what she’d be like in bed.

This sort of musing was something of a hobby of
mine. It was actually quite interesting, because sometimes the women I slept
with were nothing like what I thought they’d be. Often, the shy ones could be
surprisingly kinky and wild, while the extroverts turned out be quite shy and
demure in the bedroom.

If nothing else, it was a fascinating study, and I
was fascinated by the fairer sex.

I was performing “Cell Block Tango” from
Chicago
as my first piece, and Dorotea looked like she was having a roaring good time.
In fact, she was eye-fucking me from her place in the audience like you
wouldn’t believe. Well, that was interesting.

As I sang, my mind wandered to Fred and I was
irritated again. I wanted to have her so badly, and my lengthy period of
sexlessness was taking its toll. Perhaps I could seize advantage of Dorotea’s
interest and relieve myself of all the sexual frustration. That way I wouldn’t
be quite so horned up around Fred. Perhaps I was being too available to her,
and playing hard to get would force her into taking action.

It might have been an awful idea, but I had to do
something about my need for release, so I went all out in my efforts to seduce
Dorotea that night. I made a quick change to the set list, deciding to sing “Be
Italian” from
Nine
, since I thought it’d sweeten her up.

I could feel Fred standing by the side of the stage,
watching me the entire time. I wondered if she’d noticed that Dorotea was
there. I also wondered if it made her jealous. It was petty, but I wanted her
to be jealous. I wanted her to feel as strongly for me as I felt for her.

After my set, I went back to my dressing room with
Fred, and I was beginning to think my plan to make her jealous was working,
because her demeanour was stiff. She helped me remove my makeup and costume in
silence, then broke it when she asked, “What age were you when you started
doing all this?”

I gazed at her. I hadn’t expected her question at
all. Her curiosity still burned strong, and I was gratified by that. “I was in
my late teens when I began performing properly, but I started experimenting
with wearing bits of women's clothing and makeup when I was very young, eight
or nine years old.”

“If your mother was still alive, she probably would
have found the whole thing fascinating,” she said.

I’d told her about Mum today, about how she passed
when I was a small boy. Her mentioning my mother made emotion squeeze in my
chest. It wasn’t often that the subject came up with other people, even though
I had a large tattoo dedicated to her on my upper arm. Mum was something that I
was quite precious about, so it was difficult for me to say anything in reply
to Fred. She seemed to notice my discomfort and quickly began speaking of other
matters.

 “So, Dorotea huh?”

Her statement brought on a smile. She had noticed
Dorotea sitting in the audience and the fact I had been paying her lots of
attention as I performed. My plan just might have been working.

“I invited her along when we spoke in the park.
She's quite something, isn't she?”

“She certainly has the perkiest breasts I've ever
seen for a woman in her late thirties.”

The moment she said it, I took hold of her wrist,
because there was definitely a hint of annoyance in her tone. I beamed at her.
“Is that a note of jealousy I detect?”

She bristled. “Of course not. I was just commenting
on her perkiness. Besides, I think you two would make a very intriguing couple.
It'll look like you're one of those young male escorts with a sugar momma.”

Oh, yes, it was definitely working. I brought my
face closer to hers. “Oh, my God, you
are
jealous. This is just
brilliant.”

“I. Am. Not. Jealous. And why would it be brilliant
if I were?”

“Because it would mean you're trying to hide the
fact that you're attracted to me.”

“You really
do
need everyone to be in love
with you,” she snapped.

“Come again?”

 She looked like she wished she hadn’t said
anything, but she explained anyway. “When I was watching you on stage, I came
up with a theory about performers and how they need everyone to fall in love
with them, even if it just lasts for the duration of the show.”

 “How philosophical of you, Fred,” I mused, and got
straight to the crux of the situation. “Would it bother you if I said I was
planning on taking advantage of Dorotea's attraction to me tonight?”

“Nope.” Her reply was immediate — too immediate,
almost.

“Are you sure about that? Because you only have to
say the word. You are, after all, my first choice for a fuck.”

Her eyes widened, and she sucked in a breath before
whispering, “Jesus Christ. You don't mince your words, Viv.”

She took a few steps away, putting a large amount of
distance between us, and disappointment overtook me. We weren’t making any
headway at all, and it was infuriating.

I let out a long sigh. “I take it that you're not
going to say the word, then.”

Before she could reply, Phil, Dorotea, and two of
Dorotea’s friends entered the room. I silently cursed the interruption, but
Fred seemed to be glad for it. I wanted to talk to her more, but she was
retreating again. I didn’t want to come across as rude, so I greeted Dorotea
and the others graciously, and offered them all drinks. Fred had slunk into the
background, making one or two passive-aggressive comments. I wanted her to
stay, but after only twenty minutes, she made her excuses and went home for the
night.

Dorotea was all over me, and it was kind of my own
fault. When she’d been eye-fucking me from the audience tonight, I’d been
eye-fucking her right back. My heart hadn’t been in it, my head too consumed by
Fred, but I’d thought it was the best thing to do in terms of finding some
relief. We stayed in my dressing room for an hour or two, then decided to go to
a nightclub.

In all honesty, I just wanted to go and get some
sleep, forget about Fred for a while, but I felt guilty for leading Dorotea on,
so I obliged her. I didn’t drink much, but I danced the night away with her
until the early hours of the morning. When she finally made a move and kissed
me, I felt it would be hypocritical to push her away, so I kissed her back.

Soon we were making our way back to my apartment,
where she gave me a blow job, and then I fucked her on my couch. I’ll admit it
wasn’t my finest hour. I’d partaken in all sorts of shagging in my time, and
this was not my first experience of guilt shagging.

Sometimes I just didn’t want to say no. I didn’t
want to make the woman feel bad.

When she fell asleep, I left her on the couch and
went to take a shower before retreating to my own room. It was four in the
morning, the vague light of the coming day seeping past my curtains. If there
was a loneliest hour, then this would be it. Lying on top of the blankets, I
reached over to my drawer, pulled out Mum’s old vanity mirror, and held it up
to my face. The mirror was pretty and silver, and I moved it from side to side
as I stared at my own reflection.

I was sleepy now, my eyelids drooping, and my vision
was a little blurry. My dark hair hung slightly over my face, and, not for the
first time, the last thought I had before I drifted off was how strange it was
that the out-of-focus face I stared at could almost have been Mum’s.

July 1st, 2012.

Soundtrack:
“Grounds for Divorce” by Elbow.

The
next morning when I woke up, Dorotea was still asleep, wearing nothing but
smeared makeup and a G-string. Delightful. I had been hoping she’d leave before
I got up. I wasn’t in the mood to share breakfast with her. There was nothing
wrong with her, of course. In fact, she was a beautiful woman, but my stomach
was twisting with memories of us shagging.