Page 61 of The Trailer Park Twink
Before I can ask my terribly important question, he shuffles away, taking a seat at one of the more-distant tables on the other side of the room, as far as he can get. Next, a tiny man who can’t be much taller than five feet rushes toward us, blushing just as much as the last guy. Thankfully, this one’s attention seems to be focused only on me.
“It’s so good to meet you, Austin. I really love the new pink hair. It was cute when it was blond, but this makes you sparkle.” Without consent, he reaches up and feathers his fingers through my hair, just letting his hand rest against my scalp, his thumb slowly massaging into me.
“I don’t know what’s happening right now.”
“I’m your biggest fan, sir,” he whispers to me, and then, just like the one before, he rushes away like a scamp. For the next ten minutes, it happens this way, over and over. Most of the cell block ignores my bandmates during the impromptu meet-and-greet, focusing all their attention on me. The twinks all tell me how much they admire the bond I have with Daddy, which leaves me in a state of bewilderment, because how do they know so much about me? The more masculine inmates pat my head like I’m a fucking poodle, offering me ridiculous variations of good boy, Daddy’s boy, and sweet boy, all said whilst staring at the bulge in my hotpants.
By the time they’ve all taken their seats, my entire group, sans Daddy, is staring at me like I’m Satan himself, but it’s not my fault that I have a dazzling smile and people-pleasing attitude. Perhaps if they took note, they, too, could be swarmed by gay fans one day, even if I don’t know how the hell these men know me.
Bubba cups Ezra’s cheeks. “I’m real fucking proud of you, Ezzy. Now, get that perky ass on stage and sing Daddy a song.”
Ezra scowls at him. “Again, you’re not my Daddy.” He tugs the tail of his crop top like he’s trying to stretch it down so he’s not so exposed. He’s got one cheek sucked in as he stares down at the floor. “I’ll give it my all.”
Bubba kisses his forehead. “That’s my sweet boy.”
Ezra walks on the small stage and stands in his starting pose; head tilted up to the ceiling, one fist lifted high to the sky, his other holding the microphone at his side. As we join him, the warden hands the rest of us hair brushes and permanent markers.
“Sorry, we only have one mic. You’ll have to share.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Fine. Fucking fine. I’m not going to waste time on unwinnable battles. Instead, I focus on the things I can change, and say a silent prayer for the courage to change them.
“Oh, baby, baby,” Ezra sings, his voice echoing across the room, but every face in the crowd contorts like they’re listening to the scraping of metal on metal. I don’t know what the disgusted looks are for, but as Ezra waxes poetic how he shouldn’t have let his lover go, the crowd looks like they want to go anywhere that isn’t here. They’re still eye-fucking me like no tomorrow, but I feel the unearned support they gave me moments ago as it starts to slip. Maybe they just don’t like Ezzy’s voice, but that’s just stupid. He’s got more talent in hispinkie than I do in my whole penis. Luckily, Deirdre is poised to take the lead next, and she’s got a really pretty voice.
Deirdre storms forward like a one-woman typhoon, twisting to the side and popping her ass to the rhythm of Britney’s blessed beat, accompanied by Jamie’s unmatched beatboxing skills. Through the wondrous words of Momma Spears, she pleads for her lover to show her how he wants it to be, but the plea goes unanswered as the boys in the crowd stare confusedly at us, mumbling to each other under their breath.
The song goes on endlessly, but the only time we get anything close to a round of applause is when a housefly lands on a twink’s cheek and his well-intentioned buddy tries to slap it away, resulting in the newly slapped twink clutching his face like a drama queen and sobbing loudly.
The warden marches over to the twink and kneels in front of him, cupping his reddening cheek. As he consoles the poor boy, Deirdre, Ezra, and the other guys do a twirl. I try to keep up with them, but I’m absolutely useless, because the warden keeps looking over at us with a disapproving frown. As Jamie belts out the second verse, the warden stands and walks toward us. He’s got an apologetic look in his eyes and a smile that doesn’t seem very genuine. I’m the only one not dancing, too busy watching him reaching for the system’s console. The moment he touches it, the music and microphone both shutdown. Deirdre and Ezra are still dancing up a storm, and it takes them a second to realize what’s happened.
“I’m sorry,” the warden says. “But I think that might be enough for now.”
My heart cracks right down the middle, and as I look around Pretty Boy Prison and see the sympathetic, awkward smiles the inmates are giving us, I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this humiliated in all my life. There are over thirty gay men staring at us like they were just forced to sit through a La Toya Jackson concert or something.
I watch as it hits each of my friends, creating the world’s worst snapshot of the moment they realize we must be awful, because why else would the crowd be looking at us like that? I thought we sounded good, and now it’s like my dreams are dying right in front of me. The queens of cell block C are darting their eyes away, cheeks flushing, warming up the room a little too much for comfort.
Deirdre’s eyes lock on mine, and she has this horrified look on her face. “Wait. Do we suck?”
I shrug, because I’m not really sure. I know it has to be true, because there’s no other reason for them to stop the performance.
“But we didn’t get to finish,” Ezra whispers to the warden, his jaw trembling. “We practiced, sir.” He focuses on me, silently pleading for me to make this right, but how can I? Ifthey don’t like our performance, there’s not a whole lot I can do with that. I can’t magically make them like us. I can’t tailor our music to suit their preferences. We’re artists. Maybe not all-too-talented artists, but artists nonetheless. The rejection stings, and there’s a tear in my eye, but I quickly wipe it away.
Bubba marches forward and drives a finger into the warden’s chest. “You think you can break my boy’s heart and get away with it? Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
As the warden squares his shoulders, bucking up his chest like a hard-ass all of sudden, it feels like the whole world is watching us walking a wire without a net, and all it’s going to take is one strong gust of wind to send us flailing out of the clouds and back to reality.
Click, click.
The sound is small, but it sounds like an earthquake, and when I look up, I have to do a double-take, because headed our way, glammed to high-hell, stands local drag legend, Sukki Cox, AKA Brandon Beauchamp. She’s got a tall, blonde wig styled in an updo, and she’s the only person in Pretty Boy Prison not wearing a refashioned prison jumpsuit. No, her gown could rival Deirdre’s, a fact my friend must realize, too, because she’s staring at Sukki like she’s the second-coming of Cher herself.
“Jesus,” Deirdre whispers. “Teach me your ways.”
Sukki snickers, tickling Deirdre’s upper arm as she moves past, pausing in front of me. She touches my cheek, letting her soft hand rest for a moment before wiping away my tears. “Never fear, Mother’s here.”
My baby’s got teary eyes, and I’m too damn stoned to do anything about it. I want to wipe them away. I want to set him down and annihilate every homosexual in this room—not because they’re gay or nothin’. They just made my sweet boy cry—but it feels like I’m moving in slow motion, and I can’t seem to make my mouth work. There’s a drag queen touching all over my Aussie, and a throaty growl crawls up my throat.
“Don’t touch him,” I warn the drag queen as I scoop him into my arms and place him on my hip.
Shetweaks my nose. “Down boy.”
