We were invited to local drag celebutante and well-connected clown-girl Rainblo's birthday party. The why of that needs to wait for the kicker at the end. But we (The Hellcat and I) dutifully picked through our Barbie Dream Fashions, both at a bit of a loss as to the appropriate thing to wear to an East Village Drag Restaurant and a party with Cazwell and Boy George. I settled on all black. I needn't have worried. The very last person who's outfit mattered in this place was mine. As evidenced by this shot of Tobell:
A few minutes after we arrived, The Hellcat ran back out the front door. He was hoping to run into a friend from California that he knew had been employed at the restaurant. We wondered aloud what boy-parts and girl-parts his friend had left, as when they parted she was halfway to the big snip. The reunion took place out on the sidewalk, where at least half the party had spilled out of the restaurant. Apparently, even edgy drag queens bow before the NYC anti-smoking edict. Left to my own devices I stayed out of the main room in back and hung out by the bar in front. I didn't need to wade into a wildly overdressed crowd of gender non-specific individuals just yet. Suddenly, one of the "real" girls hurried out to the sidewalk to fetch who I later learned was the bouncer/doorman/manager. I heard something about a fight, and so and so hit a guy. Shortly after rushing back to the show room they rushed out a little short guy and brought him to the bathroom. His face and white shirt was covered in blood. I know, it's like a theme with me. I walked past the open bathroom door. He was attempting to close a wound to the face that looked nasty but hardly life threatening. Moving further towards the show room, I passed at least two entertainers/drag queens walking by with bloody hands and clothing. After getting as close to the room and stage as I was able, they introduced HRH Princess Diandra. Who complained loud and long that she had some white boys blood all over her pretty blue outfit. It was surreal, but like all drag veterans, it was on with the show. By now, The Hellcat had rejoined me. After a couple of mediocre performances by people I've never heard of I started overhearing rumors that the police had been called and the show would have to be stopped. After much crosstalk between restaurant employees and on-stage performers, Tobell and co. tried to push on. Suddenly, we were instructed to leave the club via a back exit that led to a completely different bar next door. I love this town. About half a dozen party people followed. Waiting for what, I don't know. But we waited and had a drink. Finally, I thought we should go back and see what was happening. Most of the party guests had left. A few were outside. But they seemed determined to finish the show. You gotta love a drag queen with moxie. In any case, the real story that I managed to peice together was that somebody (the bloody short guy) was drunk and being aggresive with one of the drag queens. I heard he either stepped on or pushed her. Either way, she pulled out a blade and cut him. You heard me. The bitch cut him. Do not fuck with an East Village drag queen.
Back to the show, after much yelling and cajoling, the birthday girl was back at her table and the show continued. A very cute, shaggy haired boy sang. Badly. I'm quite confident he's much better when you're on drugs.
We were then "treated" to the rap stylings of a New Zealand "Feminem", as he was christened, and to another male performer who sucked so bad I didn't take his picture. Then Tobell intoduced her "Drag-child". (S)he calls herself Neon Music. Again, I'm confident that makes sense if you're on drugs:
Several other performances followed. Including a pretty good rendition of Christina Aguilera's "Beautiful" which I found funny and poignant given the environment.
Finally, the birthday girl(s) took the stage, (there was another birthday, but her drag name escapes me) as they thanked the performers and those in attendance:
By then, it was all over and it was all we could do to get out of there and head for a more civilized The Cock where The Hellcat strangely picked up a drunk man until he had him half-way home before changing his mind and dropping him. I guess he was still having trouble processing the facts. You see, about a week earlier he had gone out and met some tattoed East Village bottom boy. He brought him home and fucked him. Lo and behold it seems he was a "performance artist" of some renown, and he invited The Hellcat, and by extension me, to his birthday extravaganza. And this is how The Hellcat's tattooed bottom "boy" looks by night:
I vowed right then and there to never be jealous of The Hellcat and his sex life ever again.
No comments:
Post a Comment