The Queen & the Homo Jock King

By TJ Klune

Sequel to
Tell Me It’s Real

Do you believe in love at first sight?

Sanford Stewart sure doesn’t. In fact, he pretty much believes in the exact opposite, thanks to the Homo Jock King. It seems Darren Mayne lives for nothing more than to create chaos in Sandy’s perfectly ordered life, just for the hell of it. Sandy despises him, and nothing will ever change his mind.

Or so he tells himself.

It’s not until the owner of Jack It—the club where Sandy performs as drag queen Helena Handbasket—comes to him with a desperate proposition that Sandy realizes he might have to put his feelings about Darren aside. Because Jack It will close unless someone can convince Andrew Taylor, the mayor of Tucson, to keep it open.

Someone like Darren, the mayor’s illegitimate son.

The foolproof plan is this: seduce Darren and push him to convince his father to renew Jack It’s contract with the city.

Simple, right?

Wrong.

For Mai Lanta and Bunny Fufu, who taught me what it meant to be a Queen.

You fierce, fierce bitches. How I adore you.

Don’t be a drag—just be a queen.

Lady Gaga

LULU DEERDANCER
and Buster Cleveland

I was seventeen when I realized I was destined to be a queen.

Because that’s when I met a legend.

I’d heard of the club down on 4th Avenue in Tucson. A gay club where apparently men could dance and drink and be happy without fear of any kind of judgment. Such a place sounded like a haven to me, especially coming off the year that I’d had, what with my parents dying, the parents of my best friend taking me in, and coming out with a vengeance.

Naturally, I convinced said best friend, Paul Auster, to come with me. It wasn’t that hard.

“Are you
sure
this is going to work?” he grumbled at me as we walked down the sidewalk late one Saturday night. It was early October and the night was still warm.

I smirked at him. “Oh, ye of little faith. Trust me, we’ll be just fine.”

“Yeah, but it’s a
bar
. And we’re not twenty-one.”

“Hence the disguises,” I reminded him.

I had done my research before deciding to attempt to get into Jack It about the specific subsections of the gay community. Paul, being the huskier of the two of us, would be more suited as a leather cub. He wore chaps we’d found at a Goodwill and a leather vest. I’d learned that cubs (who often grew up to be bears) were of a hairy sort. But Paul was as hairless as they came, much to his chagrin (“I’m a late bloomer, goddammit!”). So rather than taking the chance of being found out because of his baby-ass skin, we’d covered him up with a shirt that said
GRR, DADDY
and found a fake mustache from a costume store. Aviator sunglasses completed the outfit, because it was understood that if you were cool enough to be a leather cub, then you could also pull off wearing sunglasses at night.

For myself (even though I tried to eschew most labels), I thought I might fit in more as a twink than anything else. I wore the tightest red jeans I could possibly find and a shirt that said
Sassy
in bright, glittery letters. If I even remotely attempted to lift my arms in any way, my midriff was bared. I’d put a thin line of eyeliner under my eyes, smearing it gently. Instead of wearing sunglasses to complete my outfit, I was sucking on a Ring Pop and practicing giggling how I thought a twink might.

“It’ll be fine,” I said again.

Paul sighed. “Sandy, I look like I’m part of a Village People tribute band playing in a Four Seasons ballroom near the Milwaukee Airport. You look like you’re working undercover to catch pedophiles in the act. Nothing about this is fine.”

“It won’t be if you
doubt
it,” I said. “You have to believe your role, otherwise you’ll never be able to sell it. Paul, this is the performance of your career. This is what you’ve been building up toward your whole life.”

“Being a leather daddy,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been working toward.”

“Leather
cub
,” I corrected. “You’re not old enough to be a daddy yet.”

“Being gay is so hard,” he muttered. “Not only do you have to admit
that
, but then you have to find out what kind of gay you are. It’s all very confusing. It was so much easier when we played with Legos instead of dressing like leather cubs and pedo-bait.”

“Lucky for you, you have me,” I said. “And I know what kind of gay you are.”

“A leather cub.” He sounded dubious.

“Exactly.”

“My mustache itches.”

“Don’t
play
with it, Paul. Jesus. You’re going to knock it loose.”

“I don’t see why I have to wear a mustache,” he said. “I’m not a cartoon villain who’s going to tie you to train tracks as part of my evil plot.”

“Well, maybe if you had grown your own facial hair like I’d asked, you wouldn’t be in this position, now would you?”

“I
tried
! You know it’s hard for me to grow a beard. And then to have to do it because you told me to? I have performance anxiety!”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said as we turned a corner, the front of the club coming into view. “What’s done is done. We’re here, we’re queer, get used—oh my god, stop touching the mustache!”

He rolled his eyes at me.

I pulled him to a stop. “Remember your part,” I told him. “You’re a strong, confident leather cub. You
own
this role.”

He nodded. “I’m a leather cub. I’m a leather cub.”

“You have your fake ID I got you.”

“Right. Which says my name is Buster Cleveland.”

“Exactly,” I said. “It’s your porn name, I told you. Your first pet and the first street you lived on. They were cheap, okay? The guy said it had to be this way.”

“And you believed him?”

I scoffed. “Uh,
yeah
. He was selling fake IDs. Obviously he’s reputable and knows what he’s doing.”

“What’s yours?”

“Oh look, it’s getting late. We should go.”

“Sandy,” he said, an evil grin forming on his face.

“No. Don’t you dare.”

“What’s your fake ID porn name?”

“Shut up, Paul.”

“Because if I remember right, your first pet was a gerbil named Lulu.”

“Shut
up
, Paul.”

“And the first street you lived on was Deerdancer.”

“Oh my god.”

“Sandy? Does your fake ID say your name is Lulu Deerdancer?” He was trying desperately not to laugh, the bastard.

“No,” I said savagely. “It says my name is Rocco Cordova because that is awesome and amazing.” I was lying. My fake ID said Lulu Deerdancer. The guy I’d bought them from had laughed his ass off. I hated him with a passion that burned like a thousand suns.

“Okay, Rocco.” He patted my shoulder. Like a jackass. “I believe you.”

“Whatever,” I said. “Now. Just be a leather cub and I’ll be a twink, and we’ll get into the gay bar and do gay-bar things and everything will be amazing.”

“What the hell are gay-bar things?” he asked.

“You know. Drinking and blow jobs. Or whatever.”

“You have no idea, do you.”

“Not in the slightest. Now let’s go.”

I tried to project that I was a most confident and completely legal twink as we approached the entrance to Jack It. I accomplished this by sucking on my Ring Pop and giggling. I thought it a master plan with absolutely no chance of failure.

There was a bouncer at the front of the club, a large older man wearing a leather jacket and glaring at everyone that walked by. He had to have been in his sixties, the lines and crags in his face pronounced. To say he was intimidating would have been an understatement, but I was a twink on a mission and I was getting in that goddamned club. The music pulsed and I could feel the vibrations underneath my feet. I
had
to get in there. It was
calling
me.

The bouncer stiffened slightly as we approached, glancing first at me, his eyes widening as he looked at Paul trailing behind me. For the briefest of moments, I thought I saw his lips curl into the world’s smallest smile, but it could have been just a trick of the light.

“Hi.” I giggled. I licked the Ring Pop as slowly as I possibly could and hoped that the elderly bouncer would get slightly turned on and let us in.

“Why hello there, chicken,” he said, which made absolutely no sense. Who used fowl for pet names? “What brings you out so late?”

“We wanted to go dancing,” I said. “You know, like we do every Saturday night.”

He crossed his considerable arms over his considerable chest. “That right.”

“Yeah.” I sucked on the Ring Pop and looked up at him through my eyelashes like a good twink. Or at least that’s what the Internet taught me. Also, apparently twinks were good at getting rimmed, but I wasn’t prepared to go that far to get into Jack It. I had
some
self-respect, after all.

“Every Saturday night?”

“Sure,” I said, going for subtle as I elbowed Paul.

“Ow, Sandy, what the fuck?” he whined.

“
Leather cub
,” I hissed at him.

He flushed. “Oh. Right.” He coughed and squared his shoulders. When he spoke, he’d dropped his voice an octave or two. He sounded like he was grunting. It was completely ridiculous. “Yeah. Every Saturday. It’s where I hang out with my fellow leather bears.”

“Cubs,” I giggled dangerously. “You mean
cubs
.”

“Right. Yeah. Cubs. Rawr.”

“Really?” the bouncer asked. “How fortuitous.
I’m
a big part of the leather community. I think we’d have met before if you are too. Can’t really see your face, though. Because of the sunglasses you’re wearing. At night.”

“Nope,” Paul said, twitching only minimally. “I tend to stay in the shadows. You know. Thinking about leather cub things.”

“Wow,” the bouncer said, not sounding impressed at all. “Like what leather cub things exactly?”

“You know.” Paul started to sweat, and I almost bit through the Ring Pop completely. “Like. How… like anytime I see cows I think how awesome their skin will be when it’s made into leather and I get to wear it.”

“Oh my god,” I muttered.

“You sit in the shadows and think about cows,” the bouncer said.

“Yeah. Oh man. I could really go for a hamburger right now.”

“That so?”

“Rawr.” Paul bared his teeth. “Or however cubs do it.”

I needed to take control of the situation before we were found out. “Anyway.” I gestured wildly with my arms so my bare stomach was revealed. The bouncer didn’t even look down. “We’re always here. You probably just don’t remember us.”

“Oh, trust me,” he said. “I highly doubt I would have forgotten either of you.”

I giggled.

Paul
rawr
ed again.

The bouncer sighed. “All right. We’ll keep going, if that’s what you want. How old are you boys?”

Ha! We’d practiced this. We knew the dates on our IDs.

“Twenty-six,” Paul said.

“Twenty-nine,” I said.

“It’s like you’re not even
trying
,” the bouncer said.

Paul looked cub-ish.

I licked my Ring Pop.

“I suppose I should ask to see your IDs, then,” the bouncer said.

“Which says I’m the age I just told you,” Paul said unnecessarily. “Obviously.”

“I’m sure it does,” the bouncer said. “Because if it didn’t or, say, it was a fake, that’d be illegal.”

“Oh sweat balls,” Paul muttered as he pulled out his wallet.

“I like handcuffs,” I said, trying to encapsulate the role of the airy twink I was born to play. I pouted a little bit, my bottom lip sticky from the Ring Pop. “One time, this police officer tried to arrest me, but then he said I was precious and we used his handcuffs for entirely different reasons.”

“What?” Paul snapped. “Why the hell didn’t you say anything? Who the hell was it? And why were you getting arrested? You slut!”

I glared at him before looking back at the bouncer. “Sorry,” I simpered. “Sometimes my friend
forgets himself
.”

“I’m sure he does,” the bouncer said. “IDs.”

I grabbed Paul’s and handed them both to the bouncer. He looked at each of us, as if trying to memorize our faces before focusing on the IDs. He snorted. “Buster Cleveland, huh?”

“Yes,” Paul said immediately. “It’s German. Because of the Nazis. Er. My grandparents fled the Nazis. And now I’m Buster Cleveland, leather cub. Because freedom isn’t free. Or whatever.”

Goddammit. Paul had
one
job.

“Right,” the bouncer said. “Freedom isn’t free.” And then he switched to mine and I
knew
I had to sell this, I
knew
I could do this.

Well, I thought I could until the bouncer outright laughed.

“Lulu Deerdancer?” His chuckle was deep and raspy.

“I
knew
it, oh my god,” Paul said. Then, “Um. I mean. Of course I knew that. Because you’re my friend. My friend Lulu Deerdancer. Heh. I can’t believe that’s your name. That’s so awesome. And
stupid
.”