The Queen & the Homo Jock King Read online

“I was doing that yesterday,” Paul said. “The Pokémon thing. I’m going to catch them all.”

  “Good for you,” she said. “This place isn’t for you. Either of you.”

  “I’m old enough.” I scowled at her.

  Charlie snorted. “Ms. Muffman, may I introduce to you Lulu Deerdancer and Buster Cleveland. According to their IDs, both are in their twenties. Lulu here likes to fellate a sucker on his finger while laughing like a hyena. Buster is a self-proclaimed leather cub who sneezed his mustache on my face.”

  Ms. Muffman threw her head back and laughed, a low throaty thing that made me want to know all her secrets immediately. “Oh, this is delightful. I am delighted by the two of you. But this is no place for little boys. Shoo, little boys. Come back when you have hair on your balls.”

  “Uh,” Paul said. “I have several, so….”

  I thought myself in the presence of something reverent. “We just wanted to come here and see what this was all about. We weren’t going to do anything. Honest.”

  “You said drinking and blow jobs,” Paul hissed.

  “Drinking and blow jobs,” Ms. Muffman said, rolling her eyes to Charlie. “Were we ever that young?”

  “Speak for yourself,” he said. “You’re not that much older than they are.”

  “Liar,” she said fondly. “But I’ll allow it because I love you so. Kiss, kiss. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a show to prepare for.” She started to turn away.

  “A show?” I asked. “What show?” Because I couldn’t let her go without finding out as much as I could.

  “Why, the greatest show on earth, of course,” she said. “It’s a performance for the ages.”

  “I see your Spice Girls outfit in here,” Charlie said mildly.

  “I see what you did there.” She glared lightly at the bouncer. “You’re lucky I think the world of you, otherwise I would have made slippers out of your testicles long ago.”

  “But,” Paul said, “you have big feet.”

  I gaped at him.

  Charlie shrugged. “I have big balls.”

  “How nice,” Paul said faintly.

  “And since when do you tell a lady she has big feet?” Ms. Muffman scowled.

  “Um, never?” Paul guessed.

  “Good answer,” she said. “You may live.”

  “Oh thank god,” Paul said. “My parents would have killed me if you’d have murdered me.”

  “As lovely as this has been,” she said. “And trust me, it has been lovely. Probably more so for you than me. But still. A queen never leaves her subjects wanting. Well. Maybe just a little.” She winked and started to walk away.

  But I couldn’t just let her leave. Not without finding out the most important thing in the world. “Who are you?” I demanded.

  “Oh, here we go,” Charlie muttered.

  She turned and smiled at me. Up close, it felt like watching Shark Week in 3-D with all those teeth. “My dear little chicken,” she said. “I am the tallest bitch in captivity. I am revered. I am feared. I make all the straight boys queer. I am the exalted one who plucks little chickens such as yourself.” She leaned forward and her lips scraped against my ear. Her breath was hot against my skin as she whispered, “I am the drag queen Vaguyna Muffman.”

  She pressed a sticky kiss against my cheek, a perfect imprint of her lips I would find hours later, a furious shade of magenta that would be a bitch to wash off.

  And then she spun away, the door to the club opening as if on cue, music spilling out and lights flashing. She disappeared inside, leaving behind a trail of glitter and feathers trailing from the boa around her neck.

  “Scram, chickens,” Charlie said, following Vaguyna Muffman. “Don’t make me bend you over my knee. You won’t like it when I do.”

  The door closed behind him.

  “Holy shit,” I managed to say.

  “I told you this wouldn’t work,” Paul muttered.

  But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that we hadn’t made it into the club right then. It didn’t matter that there was no drinking or blow jobs. It didn’t matter that Paul had sneezed off his mustache or that I had basically gotten to third base with a Ring Pop.

  No, none of that mattered.

  None of that mattered because for the first time since the day the guidance counselor pulled me from AP English to hear from Matty and Larry Auster that my parents were dead, I felt something like fire bloom within me. It was strength and passion and the urge to become something more than what I already was.

  It was another moment.

  She’d given it to me, whether she knew it or not.

  And I was going to run with it as fast as I could.

  It felt good, having the decision made.

  “I’m going to be a fucking drag queen,” I said in awe.

  “Oh sweat balls,” Paul sighed.

  SO.

  You’ve heard my origin story.

  Like any superqueero, I had a beginning.

  Maybe part of it was tragic, though the trauma was not the focus.

  But it helped to shape who I’ve become.

  I am not defined by tragedy.

  Instead, I made it my bitch.

  Because there is one thing you should remember above all else.

  I am a Queen, motherfuckers.

  And I demand respect.

  You ready?

  It’s time to rock out with our cocks out.

  Chapter 1: A Dick for You and a Dick for Me

  AS I was on my knees in a back room of the club Jack It, my lipstick smeared and my eyes watering as I choked on a dick, I had a rather indulgent thought: if cocksucking could be considered a form of art, then I was the Leonardo da Fucking Vinci of fellatio.

  I couldn’t even really remember how I’d ended up back here, my tights stretching along my knees as I worked the magnificent dick in front of me. It was thick and fat, a gorgeous dark vein running underneath that I worshipped with my tongue. A great set of balls hung heavy between his muscled thighs. He grunted as he started thrusting into my mouth, his hands coming up to my head.

  I pulled off his dick and batted his hands away, glaring up at him. His face was obscured in shadow, as he leaned back against the wall. “You touch the wig, baby doll,” I purred, “and I’ll rip your fucking dick off and shove it down your throat. Do we have an understanding?”

  He grunted, his hands falling to his sides.

  “Good boy,” I said, running my hand up the length of his cock. It felt spit-slick and hot in my hand. “Now, where was I?”

  I took his dick in my mouth again, fisting the base and jacking him slowly. I opened up my throat and took him in down to my fingers, my nose brushing against his pubes. He groaned, his hands twitching at his sides, obviously fighting the urge to reach out and take control. That poor, sweet boy. Probably college frat boy, from the way he moved. All cocky and confident, thinking he was the one in control. After all, he was the one getting his dick sucked.

  But in all my years of experience, I’ve learned it’s the one doing the sucking that’s in control. And that’s what I liked. That’s what she liked. Helena Handbasket didn’t have a goddamn submissive bone in her body.

  Unless she wanted it there, of course.

  He was getting close, I could tell. The muscles in his stomach were jumping underneath his tight shirt. His hands were fisted now at his sides. His thighs were trembling, the poor dear. He’d probably go back to his frat house with my lipstick rings around his dick and tell himself he’d fucked that queen good, that he really gave it to her hard. But in the back of his tiny little mind, he’d wonder just how little control of the situation he’d had.

  And he’d be right.

  Someone else came into the back room, but I ignored them. At least until they’d pressed against the frat guy above me at his side. I was annoyed, and I glared up through my false eyelashes, trying to relay my disdain with a dick in my mouth. It was a look I’d mastered many times over.

  But the new guy was rubbing the chest of the frat boy, their faces pressed together, still hidden in shadow. They were kissing, so either I was blowing someone’s boyfriend or they were really close in this frat house. I wasn’t in the mood to double fist or have multiple cocks in my face, at least not tonight. Whatever. He was going to come and then I’d leave him with—

  The cock in my mouth jerked when the man moaned, “Sandy.”

  I immediately pulled off the dick because what and who the fuck was this guy to know my real name? I was in drag. I wasn’t fucking Sandy.

  “Excuse me?” I snapped, voice croaky and hoarse from exertion. His dick jerked again and brushed against my cheek.

  “Close,” he said as his friend sucked on his ear. “So close, just—”

  And then he leaned forward to touch my face, to pull me back onto his dick.

  Vincent Melody Taylor grinned down at me as his precome smeared against my lips. “Come on. Just finish. I’m so close.”

  “Yeah,” his buddy said. “Come on. You know you want to finish. And then it’s my turn.”

  And I knew that voice.

  That motherfucking voice.

  Darren Mayne.

  The Homo Jock King.

  Who was sucking on Vince’s neck.

  His half brother.

  I said, “Sweet baby Jesus, this is some hot fucked-up shit right here.”

  “Look,” Vince said, dick still bobbing free. “It’s cool. We’re all friends here.”

  “And some of us are related,” I pointed out, like I was being helpful.

  “Yeah,” Darren said. “But we have different mothers, so it’s cool. It’s not completely illegal.”

  “That should not be a decider in an incestuous three-way,” I said.

  “Or is it the best decider?” Vince groaned as Darren did something fancy with his tongue.

  “You love Paul,” I accused him, anger flaring. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Yeah,” Paul said, appearing in a puff of smoke for some reason. “What the hell are you doing without me?” And then it just got weirder as Paul began to strip. “Someone suck on my nipples,” he demanded as he pulled his shirt over his head. “They’re very sensitive.”

  Darren and Vince pushed me out of the way, knocking me on my ass as they latched themselves to Paul’s chest.

  “That’s the good stuff,” Paul sighed. “I like this quite a bit.”

  And then a marching band began to walk through the back room with Paul’s nana leading the way, cackling while she twirled a baton and pranced around.

  The actor known as Johnny Depp followed behind them in full Pirates of the Caribbean costume, and as he passed me, he looked down and said, “Paul’s a fudgepacker, ya savvy?”

  “I savvy,” I said, because I really did.

  “Enough with the foreplay,” Paul said. “It’s time for a four-way.”

  And he reached for me.

  So naturally, I screamed myself awake.

  IT WAS only a moment later when the light flipped on in my room, a sweet dark-skinned boy staring at me with wide eyes. “What the hell?” Corey Ellis demanded, running his hands over his sleep-rough face. “Are you okay?” His eyes darted around the room before coming back to rest on me. His hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, strands hanging around his face.

  I pushed myself up against the headboard of my bed, pulling the covers up around my chest. “I’ve seen things,” I told him ominously. “Things.”

  He took a step into the room warily. “Was Mr. Escadero peeking through the window again? I swear to god, I’m going to cut that creepy old bitch.”

  I shook my head. It hadn’t been our elderly next-door neighbor who thought we were his personal cam-boy show. Not this time. This fear had been real. “I had a dream,” I whispered.

  His face softened and he came to the bed, sitting on the edge, patting my knee. “Bad?” he asked quietly.

  “Awful,” I said. And then, “Mostly.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “How so?”

  “You know when you have a dream about doing something you shouldn’t and then it turns incestuous and you think, well, that wasn’t so bad and then there are marching bands?”

  His lips twitched. “Um. What?”

  “Paul cheated on Vince,” I admitted. “With me.”

  “You what? When the hell did you—”

  “In my dream,” I said.

  “Jesus Christ, don’t scare me like that—”

  “And then, while I was blowing him, Vince started making out with Darren.”

  His eyes bulged. “That… should not be an image that I find attractive, but holy shit. Like, full-on making out? With tongue and—”

  “Corey!”

  “Sandy!”

  “And then Paul came in and there was nipple sucking.”

  “Whose nipples?”

  “Paul’s. You know how sensitive his nipples are.”

  “Unfortunately I do,” Corey said. “You were sucking on his nipples?”

  “No,” I said. “Jesus, Corey, keep up, will you? Vince and Darren were sucking his nipples. I was still on my knees trying to recover from deep-throating Vince.”

  “Oh dear god,” he choked.

  “You can never tell him,” I said. “Paul is a sweet, soft, innocent soul and this would crush him.”

  “Uh,” Corey said. “We’re speaking about the same Paul, right? Like, Paul Auster? Because he’s not sweet or innocent. Maybe a little soft, but he’s the type where the weight looks good on him, so—”

  “It would destroy him,” I said. “Can you imagine, hearing from his oldest and dearest friend that said friend is having sexual relations with his partner?”

  “In your dreams,” Corey said.

  “That is beside the point!” I said shrilly. “The fact that I even dreamt of such a thing means that I have some unconscious desire to fuck Vince.”

  “Huh,” Corey said. “So, using that line of logic, that must mean you also want to fuck Darren—”

  “You shut your whore mouth,” I snarled at him. And then I coughed. “I mean, what? Pshaw. I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Darren who?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Right. Because I’m not an expert at people who pine over each other. I didn’t spend last summer drowning in the angst that was Tyson and Dominic, after all.”

  “Ah, yes. The twinkie and his cop. They’re so precious. And we are nothing alike.”

  “Yes, Sandy.”

  “You would do well to remember that. Darren is an asshole and I want nothing to do with him and I also hate his face and his ridiculously muscled body.”

  “Yes, Sandy.”

  “His personality also leaves something to be desired. He’s narcissistic at best. At worst, he’s borderline sociopathic. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone more self-involved than he is.”

  “Yes, Sandy.”

  “I don’t even know why we have to be talking about him right now. What possible value does someone like him even have to society as a whole? All he does is fuck twinks and piss me off.”

  “He also watches every performance you have,” Corey said mildly.

  “Right?” I exclaimed. “He is so creepy. Why the hell are we even talking about him again?”

  Corey grinned. “Honestly, I have no idea. You were the one who had sex dreams about him.”

  “About Vince,” I corrected. “Darren just happened to be there. And Paul.”

  “And the marching band.”

  “Yes, that. This can never get to Paul. Why, the betrayal alone would absolutely devastate him. I cannot be responsible for the emotional destruction of my best friend.”

  “Yes, Sandy.”

  “Hand me my phone.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to call Paul,” I said. “The weight of my guilt is crushing me and he has to know the truth.”

  “But—”

  “Corey!”

  He knew better than to sass me while I was emotionally conflicted. He merely remarked on the fact that it was two in the morning and surely it could wait until a more reasonable hour. But Corey couldn’t understand the depths of my pain. Paul needed to know, so we could begin to mend the rift that would undoubtedly spring between us. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be too large to overcome. We couldn’t lose almost two decades of friendship because I’d suddenly developed a brothers kink at the age of thirty-one.

  I put the phone on speaker and bit my thumbnail as it began to ring.

  After the fifth ring, he answered, voice annoyed and muffled. “Sandy, I swear to god, you better be on fire if you’re calling me this late. It’s two in the goddamn morn—”

  “Maybe I am!”

  “Are you?”

  “No, of course not. That’d be ridiculous.”

  “Sandy.”

  “Paul,” I said. “This is a surprise.”

  “Uh. No. It isn’t. You called me.”

  “Oh. Is that right? I guess I did. Ha-ha. How about that.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing much. What’s up with you?”

  Corey snorted and I had to fight the urge to smack him upside the head.

  “Are you high?” Paul asked.

  “What?”

  “Are you high?”

  “That was one time and we were nineteen and you swore you’d never bring that up again.”

  “So you’re not going to cry and tell me you’re stoned but that you love me more than anything else in the world and that you wish we were both princesses who lived in a castle made of clouds and good dreams and were serviced by Latinos with bronzed skin and names like Esteban and Jorge Lopez Santiago?”

  “Oh my god,” Corey laughed. “This is so amazing. I love everything about this. Please, continue.”

  “Corey, is he stoned?”

  Corey leaned forward until his face was inches from my own. “No. It doesn’t look like it. Though, he does have some bags under his—”

  “I will see you as a homeless street urchin if you finish that sentence,” I growled at him.

  “He looks luminous,” Corey said instead. “Vibrant. Not tired at all. He would get carded trying to see an R-rated movie.”

  “Good boy.”