Campo Royale #2
Is he brave enough to stop hiding behind his persona and give love one final try?
Jordan Stevens has crammed a lot of living into his fifty years. Some of those years have been good, some bad, and some he would just as soon forget. The world isn’t always kind to an aging queen. Lovers begin to scamper into forbidden fields, your padding tends to slip, and you spend more time with egg whites than most pastry chefs. Heartache is nothing new to the man who embodies the acid-tongued Sitka Patel on stage every night, which led Jordan to vow to never trust another man under eighty again. He has his club, his drag family, and his Bombay cat Heckle. Who needs the hassle? That philosophy had served him well, until a stunning young thing with dark chocolate eyes shows up at the back door of Campo Royale with a suitcase, a sad story, and a dream.
From the time he was old enough to spell the word sequin, Yampier Perez knew that someday he’d be wearing them. One of three children born to Cuban immigrants, Yampier was always a little glitzier than the other neighborhood boys. His love of fashion design and performance arts was barely tolerated at home and even less so in the hallways of his rural Georgia high school. Yet, Yampier never let his light be doused, not even the day his older brother caught him modeling his sister’s prom dress. Beaten, disowned, and on his own before graduation, he found himself having to work seedy jobs doing even seedier things, until he saved enough cash to head to the Big Apple. That money has now run out, leaving him stuck in Wilmington with no food, no place to stay, and no family. Little does he know that stumbling into the Campo Royale Club, half frozen and weak from hunger, is about to bring him everything he has yearned for.
The Bachelor and the Cherry is a gay age gap romance that features an aging drag queen, a virginal newcomer, lots of sass, wigs galore, hurt/comfort, family found, and a richly sequined happy ending.
ONE
Jordan
“…fantastic choice for any day that you feel you need to shrink the appearance of those monstrous pores. I usually make this mask on days when I’m feeling a little trollish. You know those days well, I’m sure. When you wake riddled with premenstrual moodiness, a saggy pussy, and lines so deeply etched all over your face, your mug looks like a Rand-McNally roadmap.” I glanced up from mixing a dollop of organic yogurt into my bowl of already whipped egg whites. “For all of you tarts who don’t recall what a Rand-McNally roadmap is, fuck all the way off.”
Heckle lay on the kitchen counter, sleek black tail flicking, his glowing golden eyes on the container of yogurt at my shoulder.
“Do not put your shitty paw into my yogurt,” I warned the Bombay. He regarded me as most cats do humans who correct them. With disdain. My sight went back to my cell phone propped neatly against my sugar canister. “Right, back to this anti-aging mask. I’m sure most of you watching are saying to yourselves ‘I simply do not understand why Sitka is worried about her face. She’s simply stunning and hasn’t aged a bit since the day she turned twenty.’” I paused for effect. “Which is why Mother Patel loves all her children.” I puckered and blew a kiss at the Android. “But despite what my little ones say, time does march on. Usually right over a queen’s mug like a battalion of regimental Hessians. And for all the pedantic kiddies out there, do not drop comments in mother’s box saying that Hessians weren’t regimental or battalions. I truly do not care what you rotted little reptiles think.”
Sitting back, I lifted my reading glasses from the counter to squint through them at the recipe book hidden by two-thirds of a spoiled black cat. Fucking reading glasses. Honestly. Talk about adding insult to injury. As if being on the cusp of fifty-two wasn’t sour enough, my whore of an optometrist informed me I needed reading glasses. With bifocals. That tottering old optimist has no clue how close he came to be beaten to pudding by an outraged queer with an amethyst Hermes tote. Honestly, life was full of curveballs once you crested forty-five. I hated balls.
Liar. You love balls. Just not the ones that jocks toss around.
I slid my glasses onto my nose, taking care to slip the arms under the edges of my pretty red turban. It had a lovely fake ruby brooch pinned to the top where the material gathered. I’d not had the energy to fuck with a wig for this week’s podcast. Gluing and ungluing. Fuck that crotch rot. They’d get me in a turban sans makeup. Poor little chits. Probably half my followers would be blinded. Imagine what their poor eyeballs would do if they had to see me barefaced and deal with the glare from my motherfucking bald spot. No wonder I drank and smoked.
“So, now we have to add the honey.” I reached around my cat to find the little plastic honey jar shaped like a bear. “Just squeeze a dollop in and mix it well into the already whipped egg whites. Now, I must say that while there is no medical evidence to back up the claim that egg whites help with wrinkles, it is known that the protein in egg whites helps temporarily. If you’d rather smear another source of protein on your face, please do.”
I waited for a moment. Timing hunty. It was everything. “I can hear all you naughty rug rats snickering out there. Minds out of the gutters, children. Mother meant something like a cooling beet mask or oats and molasses.” I gave the phone a saucy wink.
“Now that we have the ingredients all mixed, I like to apply the mask with a fan brush.” I plucked one of a thousand brushes from a yellow vase that was usually found on my makeup stand. “Using a brush applies the mask more evenly and there is less waste. As we all know, some of those salon masks are pricey and we don’t want to waste a drop.” Another pause. “Do behave out there.” Heckle stretched out over the counter, his whiskers dangerously close to my bowl of wrinkle cream. “Also, using a brush will get more of the mixture into your pores.”
I began painting the sticky mixture over my cheeks, all the while chattering away about aging gracefully, upcoming shows at the Campo, a few of the nearby pageants, and a long dissertation about the best corn chips for avocado dip. I liked to keep the banter flowing from one topic to another. The viewers enjoyed that.
Once I covered my mug with the mask, I sat back, found my cigarette case, and tapped out a Marlboro then returned it to the case. My lighter was a pretty diamond-encrusted refillable. Actually, they were cubic zirconia, but a real lady never made a comment on such things. It was gauche. And if there was one thing Sitka Patel was not, it was gauche. I may be many things, but ungainly was not one of them. Cruel and evil, I would cop to. Snarky and bitchy also fit. I was sure my girls had other words to describe me, some kind and many unkind. That was children for you. You take them in, feed and clothe them, pass along your vast knowledge, and then they call you a washed-up bar queen. No one spoke to me that way, not even one of my own children. A mother could only take so much abuse then she had to sever ties, to save her own heart from shattering into even smaller, icy bits. Honestly, if the shards of my cold heart broke any more, it would be nothing but dust inside my breast.
Shaking off that melancholy shit, I told the viewers that I’d be back after the mask had set then I hit pause on my phone. Heckle watched me slide off the stool with typical cat disinterest.
“I’m stepping out for a smoke,” I told him. He yawned. Typical male. Or at least typical male in my life. Always thinking of themselves and not giving a good goddamn about me and my needs. At least the cat could be neutered. I had fantasies of doing that to a few of my exes that gave me far more wood than would be considered psychologically sound. I grabbed my cigarette case, my phone, my cooling cup of coffee, and made my way through my condo. It was a rather nice set up, two bedrooms and two baths. Lots of open area with a view of the Brandywine Creek. It was a tad too costly for the view, but I’d earned a little upscale in my life. Just call me Weezy Jefferson. I’d spent many miserable years living hand to mouth, doing things that no proper queen should, in order to not starve. This little place was my reward to myself for working my scrawny ass to the bone for so long. I’d lived through so much, seen so much heartache, suffered so much pain. Not that we all didn’t as we moved through life. No one got out of this motherfucking clambake unscathed but gay Black men who liked to dress in ladies clothing then climb on stage might have a tougher time of it than say the White billionaire flying into space in a penis rocket.
Moving through my tan and white living room, I grabbed a throw from the sofa, draped it around my shoulders, then threw open the sliding glass doors. The whole miserable building had gone to no smoking regulations about ten years ago. It sucked but such was the life of a nicotine addict. Stepping out onto the patio, I closed the door behind me and turned to look down at the icy creek and snowy trees below. Sitting up on the fifth floor had its advantages. No one could see me out here in my mask, turban, and fluffy throw ensemble. Which was good. I did not like to be spotted looking frumpy. The bad thing was that the wind had a tendency to blow up the ten story building. Talk about a chilly pussy.
I turned from the wind, hurried to get a smoke out of my case, and was just putting flame to Marlboro when my phone buzzed. I drew in a lungful, let it out, and then rummaged around inside my roomy little caftan for my cell. Pulling it out of a large pocket, I stood facing indoors, the wind whistling up over my balls. Fuck February weather. Fuck the cold and the short days and the rotten ice patches in every parking lot. And mostly fuck the hell out of Valentine’s Day with a barbed wire dildo.
Teeth chattering, I checked the incoming call. It was Clarice, my newly appointed manager. Rolling my eyes, I took a puff, let it out, and answered the phone and went right into Facetime.
“Henny, why the hell are you calling me?” I asked right off. Clarice Patel Coco was another one of my children who had come into my life as so many of them did. Scared, hungry, and with nowhere to go but with a dream of being a drag queen. That had been fifteen years ago. She was one of my first babies but far from my last. As long as I had a breath and there was a gay child with a love of sequins and performing wandering the cold city streets, Mother Sitka would be there for them. It was what the older gays did, darling. Or should do.
“What the hell is that all over your mug?” Clarice asked. “You look like a Yeti came on your face.”
“Crude.” I hid my smile. My children didn’t need to know how fucking funny I found them to be most of the time. “It’s an anti-aging mask, I think it froze.”
I tapped it with a long purple fingernail. Oh my, it was incredibly hard. I’d have to thaw my face over the fake fire in the fireplace. Or stick my head in the oven. No, that would be bad. I’d see how dirty it was and would have to critique Babacar when he showed up in the morning. Then he would cry and I’d feel badly. I’d give my housekeeper a raise to stop his tears, and he’d go off to dust, but my oven would still be grimy.
“Not to make an unwanted comment but you do realize that smoking ages a person, right?”
I gave my club manager a well-manicured middle finger. I’d just had them done by that new salon near Winnie’s Diner down the street from the club. The plum color was gorge. It made me want a plum outfit. Hmm, maybe I could throw something together for the Queen of Hearts Valentine Show that was coming up. Ugh. Fucking Valentine’s Day. Maybe I’d just skip the whole thing and get drunk in my office. Leave the romance to the kiddikins like Gigi and her burly kitty boy, Tyr.
“Did you ring me to pretend you were the surgeon general, or did you have another reason?” I flicked ash into the ceramic ashtray frozen to my cute little patio table. “I’m in the middle of recording a podcast about facial masks for those of us who have lived a bit more life than others.”
“Ah, so a face mask for saggy pussies. Got it.”
“Please do fuck off.” I shuddered violently. Gee whiz smoking was fun. For fuck’s sake. “Why are you calling? Is the club on fire?”
“No, we have a queer little lost puppy sitting on a stool sipping a cola that Cord gave him and looking around as if he just blew in from Kansas and landed smack dab in gay Oz.”
“Well shit.”
“Fucking munchkins,” Clarice said. I sighed with flair. “I can feed him then send him packing. Your call, Mother.”
Like I needed this right now? When would it stop?
When uptight asshole parents stop kicking LGBTQ kids out of their homes, that’s when.
True. Sadly, I didn’t see that happening anytime soon.
“Send Eladio down to Winnie’s for a burger and fries for the poppet. I’ll be there asap.”
“Will do. He’s cute. Has an accent. Southern.”
Of course he did. “That’s nice. Just keep Jim-Bob there until I can find my keys.”
“Yampier.”
“Gesundheit.”
“No, his name is Yampier.”
“That’s unique. What kind of name is that?”
“Not a clue, but he’s kind of beautiful.”
Weren’t they all? Pretty gay waifs all alone in the world. Fuck I hated people sometimes. Okay, I hated people most times, but times like this I loathed them even more. I ground out my cigarette with passion then went to find my keys. And a fucking coat. Maybe some slacks. Caftans did not winter wear make.
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee.
(Not necessarily in that order.)
She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand.
EMAIL: vicki@vllocey.com
The Bachelor & the Cherry #2
Campo Royale Series
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