“This is real, honey, it ain’t silicone. It’s what Dr. Bishop’s shots do for me. Miss Myra gives me estrogen shots, female hormones, every two weeks. And in between, I take estrogen pills. They give me breasts and soften my voice. They slow down the growth of hair on my face. They make my body smooth all over.” Chablis slid her hand from her breast down to her lap. “And my candy shrinks, honey, but I still have it. I ain’t havin’ no operation, child. I ain’t studyin’ that.”
We were now crossing Liberty Street. Chablis’s blouse was still wide open, exposing her breast not only to me but to half a dozen pedestrians. I had no idea how far she intended to go, but I feared the worst. I kept one eye on the traffic, the other on her. The back of my neck began to feel warm. “You don’t have to show me your candy,” I said. “Not here, I mean. I mean, not now. Or ever.”
Chablis laughed. “Oh, I’m embarrassin’ you. I’m makin’ you all nervous.”
“No, not really,” I said.
“Child, don’t lie to me. Your face is turnin’ rayyid.” She began to button up her blouse. “But don’t worry, I ain’t no stripper. At least now I know you ain’t gonna be callin’ me no man.”
We pulled into Crawford Square, one of the two squares in Savannah that fell within the black section of town. Of the city’s twenty-one squares, it was one of the smallest and most picturesque. It was surrounded by humble wooden buildings. In its center, instead of a monument or a fountain, there was a small playground. A huge, gnarled live oak spread its branches over a small basketball court where several boys were playing. Chablis pointed to a neatly restored four-story wooden house on the far side of the square.
“Y-e-e-e-s, child,” she said. “Miss Myra’s shots are startin’ to do their thing. I’m feelin’ that boost of energy. I’m gettin’ that surge of femininity. Got to go and be with my boyfriend, now, ’Cause in a couple of hours I’m gonna feel like the bitch of all time. That always happens too. I get to feelin’ like the last bitch on earth, and until that passes I cannot stand to be touched.”
Chablis stepped out of the car. “Thank you for bein’ my chauffeur and everything,” she said.
“My pleasure,” I said.
“You should come and see the show sometime. I put my face on, and I get into my gowns.”
“I’d like to see that.”
“‘Cause, right now, y’see, I’m just little old Chablis. Just a simple girl. But when I get it together, I turn into The Lady Cha-blis. And I’m good, child, real good! I’m a beauty queen, you know. I been crowned in four beauty pageants. I’ve got titles. Lots of ’em. Right now you are lookin’ at the Grand Empress of Savannah! That’s who you had in your car today.”
“Well, I’m honored,” I said.
“Miss Gay Georgia, too, I won that one also. And Miss Gay Dixieland and Miss Gay World. I’ve been all of them, honey. I am serious, child.” The Grand Empress turned and ascended the steps of her house. As she did, she put an extra measure of swing in her hips, an extra bounce in her stride.
It was not until I was halfway home that I realized Chablis had forgotten to tell me where it was she performed her act. If I had put the slightest effort into it, I could have found out. In a town the size of Savannah, there could not have been more than a couple of nightspots that featured drag shows. But I let it go. Not that Chablis didn’t fascinate me; she haunted me. And she was definitely a she, not a he. I felt no tendency to stumble selfconsciously over pronouns in her case. She had removed any trace of masculinity, and in that sexual limbo of hers she was a disturbing presence, one that challenged all the natural responses. A few weeks later, the telephone rang midmorning.
“Ooooo, child, I am some kinda mad at you! You ain’t come to see my show!”
“Is this Chablis?” I said.
“Yes, honey! I just been to Miss Myra for my feminine booster shot.”
“Would you like a ride home?” I asked.
“Well, yayyiss. I guess I done trained you right.”
I came downstairs and we got into the car. “I would have come to see you,” I said, “but you didn’t tell me where you did your show.”
“I didn’t?” she said. “I’m at the Pickup, honey. That’s a gay bar on Congress Street. Three nights a week. Me and three other girls. You may not be into drag shows, but you’ll never know the real Chablis till you see me shake my butt and run my mouth up on that stage. And the way things are goin’, you ain’t gonna get the chance if you wait much longer.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“’Cause I’m fixin’ to read my boss, and I might even do it during the show tonight. I always say whatever comes into my head, and I never know who or what it’s gonna be about. Anyhow, my boss ain’t on the top of my list right now. Him and me is about to have words.”
“On the subject of what?” I asked.
“Money. My salary’s two hundred and fifty dollars a week, but I ain’t complainin’ about that, ’Cause it’s for only three nights’ work, and with tips it gives me just enough to live on. But I’m the only one that gets a regular salary. The other girls get twelve dollars and fifty cents a show, and that’s damn pitiful. Last week, two shows had to be canceled when the D.J. didn’t show up, and we were standing there with our faces all made up and our gowns zipped, and the boss didn’t give those girls a dime. Oh, child, he’s gonna hear from me!”
“And when he does?”
“There’s no tellin’. My ass could be out the door.”
“What will you do then?”
“Make guest appearances. I can get bookings in Atlanta, Jacksonville, Columbia, Mobile, Montgomery—all those places. The South is one big drag show, honey, and they all know The Lady. They all know The Doll.” Chablis looked coyly at me. “So, if I get my ass fired tonight, child, you’re gonna have to travel if you wanna see me do my shit.”
“Then I guess I’d better go to the Pickup tonight,” I said.
“I guess you better had, honey.”
Chablis touched my arm as we drew up in front of her house. “Look over there,” she said. “There’s somethin’ I wanna show you.”
A young blond man was leaning under the hood of an old car. He was stripped to the waist; his muscular torso was smudged with grease and glistening with perspiration. Two boys sat on the curb, watching him work on the car. “That’s my boyfriend,” said Chablis. “That’s Jeff. He’s the hunk I told you about. Come, I want you to meet him.”
This, then, was the one who, as Chablis had put it, satisfied her every need. It was hard to imagine exactly what those needs might be, harder still to envision what sort of person would satisfy them. Yet, apparently, here he was. By all outward appearances he was normal, even wholesome. He broke into a broad grin when he saw Chablis.
“I think the trouble’s in the alternator, Sugar,” he said. He wiped his hands on his pants. “I’ll get it workin’ somehow, and then we can take a spin.”
Chablis hooked a finger through his belt and pulled him toward her. She kissed his neck. “It’s okay if you can’t fix it, baby,” she said. “We got us a new chauffeur and limo. Say hello.”
Jeff smiled. “Hey,” he said, extending his hand. “You better watch yourself, or Chablis is liable to start running your life too. But I guess worse things could happen to you.” He slipped his arm around Chablis’s waist.
Chablis put her chin on his shoulder and looked into his blue eyes. “You ready for lunch, baby?” she said.
Jeff cupped his hand around her buttock and squeezed it. “I already ate,” he said.
She leaned into his body. “You know you ain’t done eatin’ yet, baby!”
“Soon as I get this engine running, I’ll come in. I promise. You go ahead.”
Chablis turned away with a mock pout. “My engine’s already runnin’, baby, but that’s okay. You go play with your car. I’ll be havin’ lunch with my new chauffeur.” She linked her arm in mine. “Come on, child, keep me company.”
I was so taken by the
situation at this point that I could not muster even a polite refusal. I gave in at once, and in a few moments we were sitting in Chablis’s living room having a plate of tuna salad and a glass of Coca-Cola. The apartment was light and airy and comfortably furnished. The front windows looked out through the foliage of a magnificent oak into the square. There were two matador prints on the wall, a shag rug on the floor, and an Aretha Franklin record playing softly on the stereo. From the sofa where she sat, Chablis could look out a side window and see Jeff working on the car in the street below.
“My baby treats me like a goddess!” she said. “He leaves little notes all over the house sayin’ how much he loves me. And I tell you, he is some kinda good up under them covers! The man is out to please, honey, and he does just that to The Doll!” Chablis stirred the ice in her Coke with her finger. “He’s straight, you know. He’s not gay. He attracts both men and women, but he’s only into women. ‘Course, my friends say, Well, how can he be straight if he goes with you? And I say, As long as I’m gettin’ my fair share, I ain’t gonna be askin’ why.”
She took a sip of her Coke and licked her lips.
“What sort of men do you attract?” I asked.
“That depends what’s goin’ on with me and my hormone shots. I’ve gone on them and off them, and they make a big difference. When I’m on them I attract very masculine men—men with girlfriends, men with wives and children. When I go off them for a while, my masculinity comes back a little and I get to feelin’ like a tomboy. That’s when I attract the gays. Parts of me get excited that usually don’t. When I’m in my tomboy mood, watch out, ’Cause I play with everybody, even the nelliest fags. If I think they’re cute, I’m gonna tease and everything. There are times when I can be really butch.”
As she said this, Chablis leaned forward and put her elbows on her knees. The cadence in her voice became more clipped, and the muscles in her face tightened. She moved her head and shoulders now with the jauntiness of a boxer. For the first time, the boy inside of her came to the surface.
“But then I go back to Miss Myra, honey,” she said, “and I get a hormone refill. I become feminine again, and I attract the masculine men.” She settled back into the sofa. The lines in her face softened as I watched, and her body became languid again. The boy vanished. Chablis was Chablis again. She smiled.
“I don’t overdo the hormones,” she said. “When I get too much of them, I don’t climax. So I get off them now and then just to relieve the tension. I don’t like to be lifeless down there. I take just enough hormones to give me that feminine glow and keep a chest on me.”
Chablis went into the bedroom and came back carrying a black dress and a cigar box full of bugle beads. “You don’t mind if I do a little sewin’, do you, honey?” She threaded a short string of beads and stitched it to the dress. “A girl’s gotta sparkle!” She shook the dress. Hundreds of bugle beads swayed and glittered. She strung some more beads, then looked up from her threading. “Ever put on a dress?”
“No,” I said.
“Never even wanted to?”
“No.”
“Well, honey, I never wanted to wear anything else! I been into women’s clothes so long I have no idea what men’s size I am. I’m serious. I gave up on men’s clothes when I was sixteen. I started puttin’ on makeup and wearin’ little earrings to school, and slacks and blouses. For me it was the natural thing to do. I was always effeminate, and I was always called a sissy or a fag or a girl. So I didn’t feel I had anything to hide. And I just liked girls’ clothes.”
“How did your family take all this?” I asked.
“My father and my mother were divorced when I was five. I grew up with my mother, and I would visit my father up north every summer. He hated the way I was. His whole side of the family hated me. When he died, I went to his funeral in a dress, and I had this gorgeous white boy on my arm. They were appalled, honey, they were horrified! Especially my aunt. She started in on me at the funeral in front of everybody, and I told her to get out of my face or I’d say something about her own son she might not want to hear. So I stay away from that side of the family, honey. I don’t clientele with them.”
“Clientele?”
“Yeah, I don’t have anything to do with them. I don’t mess with them. Mama’s different though. She has a big ol’ photograph of me bein’ crowned Miss World, and it’s Hangin’ in her living room. She taught me not to worry about things that don’t matter. She has a motto that I love: ‘Two tears in a bucket. Motherfuck it.’ That’s Mama, she’s a okay girl.”
Chablis turned up the sound on Aretha Franklin and held the dress up to herself as she stood before a full-length mirror. She churned her hips in time to the music. The beads bounced. “Yayyiss, honey! When the drums roll, the bugle beads floooowwww! Look at them beads, baby! Flawless!” She turned toward me again. “You sure you never wanted to put on a dress?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I said. “What makes you think I would?”
“Oh, nothin’. But you never can tell. That much I’ve learned, honey! I used to go to straight parties in Atlanta. They’d pay me a hundred dollars. I’d be announced at the door, you know, as Tina Turner or Donna Summer, and then I’d mix with the guests. Everybody knew I was really a drag queen. But I’d look like Tina or Donna, because I’d be wearin’ a wig. I’d talk like Cha-blis, though, and I’d have a good time and so would they. Anyway, these gorgeous macho men would come up to me and ask for my phone number, and ooooo! I’d go home all excited. Then a couple days later they would call for a date. Well, honey, come to find out most of them really wanted me to dress ’em up in panty hose and walk all over ’em in high-heeled shoes!
“So you never can tell, child. You never know. When I see a gorgeous hunk, honey, I don’t assume nothin’. More men are into dresses than you think. Us upfront drag queens is just the tip of the iceberg. Just the teeniest tip!”
“Do you ever feel like going out in the street in a suit and tie?” I asked. “Just for the hell of it?”
“If I went out without my drag, honey, those rednecks would clock me for the big sissy I am and kick my ass. I am serious. I’d be more paranoid out of drag than in it. But there’s somethin’ else that does worry me. Here in Savannah, I mean. Know what it is? walkin’ down the street as a couple with a white boy. That makes me paranoid in Savannah.”
“Don’t you ever date blacks? Don’t you ever go to black bars?”
“No-no-no. I don’t go up in there, child. That’s something y’mama don’t play. Uh-uh, I don’t play up in them black bars, baby. Black boys will hit on you just like that the minute you walk in. They try to make a move on you and ‘Hey, Mama!’ you and ‘Honey’ you to death. I don’t play that. Black boys are so aggressive, honey. It’s nothin’ for them to come up and start touchin’ you and hittin’ on you and stuff, even if you’re with somebody.
“Oh, I know black boys have their points, honey. I had a white roommate in Atlanta once, a real girl, and she loved black men. You know how those white girls get when they get a piece of black dick, honey. Black dick will wear you out! It will make you wanna write all your checks.”
Chablis stitched a string of beads onto the dress. “That’s just another reason I like my white boys,” she said. “Plus, when black boys find out my T, honey, they be ready to kick my ass.”
“Your T?”
“Yeah, my T. My thing, my business, what’s goin’ on in my life.”
“You mean, you’ve dated guys without telling them about yourself?”
“Y-e-e-e-s, honey. And when they find out, they either kick my ass or they wanna love me. They reach down there to feel somethin’ soft and wet, and they feel somethin’ else that ain’t so soft and ain’t so wet. Know what I mean?”
“Then what happens?”
“One black guy put a gun to my head. We’d partied for hours, and he’d spent lots of money on me and showed me off to all his friends and everything. At the end of the night we went home and was
lyin’ in bed just huggin’ and kissin’ fully clothed, and he kept wantin’ to touch me down there, and I kept sayin’ no-no-no. And he kept sayin’, ‘Why won’t you let me touch you down there?’ And I said, ‘I promise you, you don’t want to be touchin’ me down there, child.’ And we went back to huggin’ and kissin’ again, and then he finally caught me off guard and touched me down there. And before I knew it, he pulled a gun and put it to my head. He said, ‘I’ll kill you, you sonofabitch! I’ll fuckin’ blow your damn brains out! You made a big fool out of me!’ I told him nobody knew nothin’. I said, ‘You didn’t even know, and you were the closest thing to me, so let’s just leave it at that. We had a good time, child, and if you’re gonna blow my brains out, go ahead and blow ’em out and get it over with and get that gun out of my face because you’re scarin’ me to death.’ When I made that comment he laughed. And he said, ‘I’ll admit I’ve had more fun with you than I’ve had with any bitch. I’m gonna let you slide this time. But you better not pull that shit with nobody else or you’re gonna get hurt.’ That’s why I don’t play up in them black bars, honey. I don’t need no gun to my head.”
“What do white men do when they find out about your T?” I asked.
“Jeff didn’t know when he first met me. I was in this straight club. I had gone there with a bunch of my girlfriends. One of my roommates was a stripper—she was a real girl—and she would do her strip show and I would do my drag show, and then we’d meet and go out to the straight bars and have a good time. I was just sittin’ at the bar havin’ my cocktail and smokin’ my cigarette, and I saw Jeff. He was tall and blond and gorgeous, and he just kept watchin’ me. I said to myself, ‘No, Chablis, don’t even try. Don’t mess with this straight man, ’Cause this man is too tall. He will wrap you in a knot, girl!’ He sent a drink over, and I just nodded and thanked him. Then he came over and we started talkin’. He asked me to dance, and we danced. My girlfriends saw him and they all wanted to trade boys with me. Later we all went to my place and sat around and got high all night. Everybody was coupled off, just layin’ on their boyfriends, but there was no sex at all. When Jeff got ready to leave, he asked for my phone number, and I gave it to him. I’d forgotten he didn’t know, because I was carryin’ on, sayin’ ‘Miss Thing!’ and ‘Yeah, girl!’ So it didn’t even occur to me he didn’t know. He called the next day and asked me to go out.