Krisis Kontrol

The Same Parts

It’s eleven in the morning when you finally wake up. Stretching, you slap your hand down on the nightstand and grope to find your phone. You bring your phone up to your face and blink a few times to clear your vision. A new message from Ginger is flashing across the screen.

‘You owe me one.’

‘Yes, all hail the Minj.’ You roll your eyes to yourself while you reply.

‘I think she actually likes you, which is hard to believe because you’re pretty unbearable. She’s been acting a little strange and that’s saying something.’

‘What? What was she saying?’ You hold your breath waiting for her to reply, your mind racing a little faster than you’re comfortable with.

‘Nothing, that’s the scary part, she was just in dreamland all night after running after you. I know this bitch well and I ain’t never seen her like that. Everyone noticed. Everyone.’

‘Weird.’ Was all you could think of to reply, you consider that maybe she likes you back but shake your head immediately, you’re looking into things harder than you should be. After all, Katya did have the tendency to be unorthodox.

You pull a ratty four XL shirt from your dresser and slide it on, not bothering to put on pants this early in the morning. You shuffle out to the kitchen while rubbing your eyes. You put on a pot of coffee and lean against the island; your head resting lazily on your upturned palm. The coffeemaker gurgles diligently in the background.

Katya’s bodysuit is draped over one of the chairs on the opposite side of the island. You balance on your tiptoes and reach over the counter to snag it from the back of the chair. You stretch it out and turn it trying to find the damage, there’s a hole that’s a foot long across the fabric before stretching it. There’s a few remaining threads reaching across the gap trying feebly to hold the edges together.

You sigh heavily and shake your head. This would prove to be quite a task considering that there are intricate, embroidered swirls in the lace. You squint to try to figure out the pattern on the leotard. You notice the smell of perfume and stale cigarettes on the garment and smile to yourself. She smells exactly as you imagine she would: pretty and disgusting.

Pouring yourself a cup you pad to the spare bedroom where the walls are lined floor to ceiling with storage compartments and fabrics. In the corner your new sewing machine is perched on a long table, a cutting mat laid out beside it. You pull a spool of black thread and a needle out from one of the organizers and take a seat at your work desk. It took you a little over two hours and three cups of coffee to stitch up the hole and embroider it to make the repair look seamless. You stretch the fabric and the patch proves to stay put.

You shoot a text off to Katya: ‘She made it through the surgery, Barbara.’

‘I’m in dept to you. You must have talented fingers... Do you take blowjobs as currency?’

‘For you it’s free.’

‘What a coincidence, my blowjobs are free, too!’

You laugh out loud and turn back to your machine. The great thing about working for drag queens is most of them want basic cat suits or leotards with embellishments. Including stopping for food breaks you finish five bodysuits before you have to start getting ready for the club.

With some difficulty you pry yourself from the chair and arch your back to try to alleviate some of the stiffness. You’ve been in your nightshirt all day and can’t help but feel a little ashamed. You shower and style your hair before starting in on your makeup. You choose a darker night look, smoking out your eyes and pairing it with a dark red lipstick.

Standing in front of the mirror in your bedroom you take a while to decide on an outfit for the night. Almost all of your clothing you made yourself which tends to bring in more clients when they ask you where you got it from. You settle on a high-collared, black shirt with a large panel cut out to expose your cleavage and long billowy sleeves. A tight skirt with a slit up the side is pulling over the curves of your hips; the colour matches your lipstick. You slid your feet into a pair of studded, black four inch heels.

It doesn’t take long for you to arrive at Blazing Saddles; there’s already a line of people forming down the block even though the doors don’t open for another two hours. Katya, being one of the most popular crownless queens, always brings in a crowd everywhere she goes. Cutting through the line you head down the alley to the back door. You knock loudly on the steel door and a large security guard emerges.

“Hi, I’m here for Ginger Minj.” You pull your ID out of your purse and give it to him. He studies it for a moment too long and panic squeezes around your heart. His eyes flick up to your face and he nods laying your ID back into your hand.

“Last door on the left.” He steps to the side and holds the door open for you; you dip your head shyly and sneak past him uttering a quiet thank you.

At the end of the long hallway there’s a pink door with a piece of paper taped to the door: ‘Ru Girls’ is scribbled messily on it in pink Sharpie. You tap your knuckles on the door while turning the handle and it opens. Taking a few steps into the room you stumble back into the hallway and slam the door. Brian has his back turned to you and he’s bent over pressing pink tuck tape between his legs, the muscles in his legs are flexing as he stretches and squirms trying to get his tuck right. His tight rear is facing you and you catch a glimpse of the dimples imprinted just above the curve of his ass.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” You call from the other side of the door; your face is beet-red as you slap your hand to your eyes.

You hear him gasp and there are some quick footsteps before he says in his Maureen voice: “I hate for you to find out this way that I’m not a woman, Mother.”

“Jesus, Kat’ you’ve scarred her for life now. It was only a matter of time.” Ginger’s voice sounds from a distance.

The door swings back open again; you peek out at him from between your fingers. He’s wearing a black bra and a matching thong, his face is free of makeup but there’s a blunt cut blonde wig on his head that’s hair sprayed into sharp, messy points with uneven bangs, there’s a cigarette clipped off to one side. He rakes his eyes over your figure while chewing his bottom lip before he looks into your eyes. He flashes his pearly whites at you and steps to the side to let you enter.

“That’ll cost ya thirty-five dollars, cunt.” He chirps as he shuts the door behind you. You laugh nervously, your face still red. The small room only has four stations in it, clearly a quiet night; Ginger and Katya were the only two Drag Racers booked. The local queens are situated in another dressing room down the hall. Ginger swivels in her chair and smiles at you; there’s a powder compact and a brush in her hands; her face is almost done apart from lashes and lipstick. She has a corset cinched around her waist and pantyhose wrapped around her head.

“The strip club is down the street, girl.” She flicks her eyes over your outfit and turns back to her mirror setting her powder to the side and starts applying glue to her false lashes. Her mouth is making an ‘o’ shape as she pressed the lash into place, “We’re supposed to be the ones being gawked at tonight, not you, attention whore.”

You prop your hands onto your hips and tilt you head to the side, “You’re one to talk, slut.” You point to the hanger on a bar screwed into the wall; there’s a white leather jacket with white lace leggings hanging on it, you recognize it from her season seven leather and lace runway. “Jesus, that outfit’s an artifact at this point why do you still have it, it should be in a museum.” You hear Brian snort from his station on the other side of the room.

“These things happen when you don’t win All Stars.” Brian calls, you look over at him, he’s got unblended contouring smeared on his face. He’s busy scrubbing a beauty blender into his cheeks and slowly turning into Katya. She’s totally focussed on the mirror.

Ginger’s glare rests on the back of Katya’s head and she drums her silver nails on the counter. Feeling her gaze she flicks her eyes over to look at Ginger through her mirror and flashed a sweet smile. She turns back and gives you an exasperated at you; she throws a hand back in Katya’s direction.

“Well, look at you, Gia Gunn! Unfortunately, she does have a point.” You cross your arms and take a seat at the station right beside hers.

Ginger whips her head around in panic to stare into the mirror to check for a crooked eyelash. Of course her lashes are perfectly straight and you laugh out loud at her. “You are such a bitch, I’m calling security.” She grumbles, her Floridian accent coming out strong. You wait patiently and watch diligently as the girls get into drag. Ginger is always so picky about her lip liner and has to smudge it off at least four times before finding something that she could live with.

Ginger pulls on her outfit and a tall, black wig that’s curled into a pompadour. She ran her hands over the leather to smooth it out popping her collar. You smile up at her from your chair, “Not bad for coming off the rack at Forever 21.”

Suddenly, long, cool hands snake around your shoulders, Katya leans her face down beside yours; you can smell her perfume again. Your body goes stiff, her fingers slide down to rest on your arms, “She’s right, Ging’ looks good...exactly what I expect from you.” Her hands massage you slightly and you let out an unsteady breath.

“Y’all are getting too close for my comfort, I need an adult.” She raises an eyebrow her eyes are glued to yours. Her hand reaches out to yours and you take it, she lifts you up out of the chair. Katya stands again and plants a hand on her hip, shifting her weight onto one six inch stiletto. “It’s almost show time anyway, y’all can catch up later.” She winks at you.

Clearing your throat you turn and face Katya, she looks stunning and you have to stare for a second. Her thin body is cinched and padded perfectly, she’s wearing thigh-high, black, leather boots and a strapless, black bodysuit, the leg holes are cut up to the very top of her hips. Her eyes are smoked all the way up to her eyebrows, her signature red lips are pouting at you.

“I, uh...I have your, uh.” You pull her lacy bodysuit out of your purse, it’s folded neatly and you spare her one quick look before darting your eyes away.

She snatches it out of your hands and shakes it out of its folding. Her eyes scan the side that was damaged and her eyebrows rise in astonishment, “Okay, unbuckle then.” She falls to her knees and grabs your hips trying to pull your crotch to her face. You giggle and clap your hands over your cheeks trying desperately to hide your red face.

Ginger ignores the scene that the two of you are causing in front of her; she cocks her head with a shrug, “I told you, she’s good.” Her heels click against the floor as she heads to the door.

You look down at Katya; her blue eyes are staring up at you and she runs her tongue over her teeth, teasing you. When she eventually stands up again she towers over you in her heels. She stands there expectantly before motioning for you to go ahead of her. Ginger is holding the door for you both with an unimpressed look. As you walk past her she gives your ass a light tap.

You make your way to the dance floor through the backstage; you manage to get to the front row with a drink just as a rush of people storm into the club. The back of the stage is a solid wall painted purple, there are two openings on either side covered with black, sequined curtains. As per usual, local talent came first and a lot of the queens recognize you. Halfway through the show Ginger is announced and the crowd gives a deafening cheer. She struts to centre stage and performs “Heartbreaker” by Pat Benatar. You wave your ten dollar bill up at her and she snags the bill from you; she slides the tip between her tits while blowing a kiss at you. The crowd screams and more tips pop up around the stage, she travels along the edge to take the bills from eager hands.

More locals come up next, you can’t help but be a little bored by them, you pretend to be enthused; every single one of them performe the same number that you’ve seen for the last four weeks at your regular club on Wednesday nights. You still tip and wave hello to your regular clients.

The DJ’s voice sounds over the speakers to announce the final act: “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage your friendly, neighbourhood, Russian whore: Katya!” The music starts and the audience screams at the familiar song: it’s “The Same Parts” by Tatianna. Even though it is one of Katya’s staple performances it never got old.