sugar daddy
my stockings are sliding down my legs as I plod around the club in my unlaced boots. I’m not in drag per se, I just tried to bring something out in me for the occasion using clothes I’m not very used to wearing. “artist area”. I get to be in the artist area! that’s a first. venues I play never have artist areas. there’s no backstage, I just step back to the nearest table or escape outdoors with a friend who smokes. I always think of that as a really good exercise in switching. transitioning. there’s very little time, or space, to descend from whatever heights I might find myself during a show. it’s like, back to earth. bang, here it is. and I’ve come to see that as a good thing. but anyway - stockings. I pull away the curtain dividing drunk revelers in their costumes from the select team of entertainers for the night, which includes myself, a few drag artists and a one-night-only 3-piece rock band. we’re here for Wigged, a club party/concert in tribute to Hedwig and the Angry Inch, which I absolutely love.
“artist area” turns out to be not a whole lot of fun. it’s dark, the vodka’s gone, and the few seats are occupied by couples snogging and a pile of bags that people left behind in the absence of a proper cloakroom. but Diva D is there and she helps me to pull up my nylons until they reach my crotch again. “if you have another pair of underwear you might wanna wear them on top to keep it there.” why didn’t I think of that? hmm. we trod on to the stage and I look around on the way. everyone looks very happy. I like that. I play my cover of “Sugar Daddy”.
after I play I break a sweat carefully moving my piano back to the store room (a chore I wouldn’t delegate for the sake of suspending anyone’s disbelief) and then walk back to the bar, rewarding myself with a bit of ice-cold vodka. I turn around to the dancefloor and lean with my elbows back on the bar. everyone’s still happy. dancing. and I smile, feeling completely need-less.
