I may have to admit to myself that I went a little bit overboard this weekend. Perhaps I had a little bit of Aqua backlog in me after my mother’s visit and I had to get it out of my system. But it’s a lovely Indian summer morning, I have all day to recover, and I’m sure Jack’s at home waiting for me with a fresh pot of coffee.

  I pick up the New York Times outside our door and ring our bell, since my keys are in my missing bag.

  “Who is it?” comes an unfamiliar hoarse voice from the other side. I double-check the apartment number in case I’ve gotten off on the wrong floor.

  “It’s me. Aqua. Lemme in,” I shout back.

  There’s a rustling inside, and as it gets closer there’s a sound like somebody throwing themselves against the door. More rustling, and what sounds like metal scratching against the door, and finally after much effort the deadbolt clicks open. A thud as whoever it is slides down and hits the floor, and then, “Come on in.”

  I turn the knob and open the door. Houdini is lying on the floor of the foyer, naked, handcuffed and hogtied in his usual manner.

  “Hey. How ya doin. Thanks for getting the door,” I say.

  “No problem,” he says, as though using one’s teeth to manipulate a deadbolt while one’s hands and feet are tied behind one’s back didn’t require a superhuman level of concerted effort.

  I step over him and put the paper on the kitchen counter. No coffee. Shit.

  “Aidan’s not here?” I ask, remembering to use Jack’s work name.

  “He had another call,” Houdini replies.

  “You’re an awfully generous man to let him date other people,” I tell him.

  “I needed a break. Hey, can you cut some lines down here for me?”

  It’s the least I can do for the guy, given what he went through to get the door open. I grab the packet and blade on the kitchen counter and divide three lines for him on the parquet floor.

  “That enough for you?” I ask.

  “For now, thanks.”

  “Do you want me to untie you?”

  “NO! Aidan would kill me!”

  Wishful thinking, I think to myself while I get a bowl of fresh water for the guy. I head into my bathroom to begin the hour-long chore of getting out of Aqua.

  I’m starving by the time I’m through. All I can think about is a greasy bacon, egg, and cheese roll from the deli downstairs. Except that my missing bag had all the cash I had to my name.

  “Hey, do you by any chance have a few bucks you could lend me? I’ll pay you back when Aidan gets home,” I ask Houdini.

  “Sure. My wallet’s in my pants. I think Aidan put them in the hall closet. It’s mostly pounds, but I think I have a few American dollars in there. Help yourself,” Houdini replies.

  I can’t believe I’m taking money from a guy tied up on my floor. It’s like an absurdist crime scene. Strange man enters home, gets tied up, resident leaves, strange man opens door for roommate, roommate steals all his money.

  “Do you want anything?”

  “No, I’m fine. Thanks.” The coke is doing its job. Houdini follows my movements with anxious flitting eyes.

  I call in my breakfast order and grab the paper before heading into the living room. I’m exhausted, but I know if I go to sleep now I’ll wake up this evening and not be able to sleep all night. I’m halfway through the Styles section when I consider calling back the deli to add tomato juice to my order so I can make myself a Bloody Mary. It’ll help smooth out the day a little.

  When breakfast comes, I can only open the door a few inches so the delivery guy won’t see the tied-up naked guy in our foyer.

  “Sure you don’t want any?” I ask Houdini again, the polite midwestern hostess in me taking over.

  “Nah, I’m fine,” he replies. “Can you help me get into the living room, though? I’d like to lie on the futon a bit. I’m getting cramps.”

  I help him get semi-upright and he crawls on his knees into the living room. I grab a plate and follow him. He keels over on the cushion next to my chair.

  “Want some of the paper?” I ask.

  “I’m fine. I’ll just wait for Aidan to get back.”

  “How long are you here for?”

  “Just a day and a half. I go back late tonight. On the redeye,” he answers.

  “What do you do over there? Do you mind my asking?”

  “I’m CEO of a specialty foods distributor,” he answers.

  “Aidan told me you’re married.”

  “Twenty-two years. Three kids, a daughter, and two sons.”

  “Nice,” I say, not sure how to continue a casual conversation with a sky-high, bound-up, naked CEO. I go back to my paper.

  “What do you do?” Houdini asks me a little later.

  “Well, I’m a drag queen at night and an advertising art director by day,” I reply.

  “That sounds fun.”

  “Which?” I ask.

  “Both,” he replies.

  “Not really,” I sigh.

  “Which ‘not really’?”

  “Neither.”

  “Neither?”

  “N-I-ther.”

  “Let’s call the whole thing off.” So Houdini’s a funnyman. I never would have guessed.

  “How long have you been dating Aidan?” he asks.

  I add it up in my head.

  “Only about three months,” I say.

  “And you don’t mind what he does for a living?”

  “Does your wife mind what you do for fun?”

  “She doesn’t know about it,” he says.

  “Well, I’m one up on you there.”

  “Aidan’s really good at what he does,” Houdini says. “I’ve tried a lot of people. Masters, Mistresses. All around the world. He’s the best.”

  This makes me proud. The best dominating, humiliating, physically abusive whore in the world is mine. All mine. Almost makes me wish I were into getting beat up, just to take full advantage of his talents.

  “What makes him so good?” I ask.

  “I dunno. He just never lets up. Sometimes even when I’m at home I feel like he still owns me. It’s just a residue in my mind all the time. Like I can’t fuck up or he’ll know.”

  “I know the feeling,” I say, and then pushing harder, “Why do you do this anyway?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t. It’s just a different place in my head. Where everyone isn’t saying ‘yes’ to me all the time,” he says. “And I like the drugs.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Why do you dress in drag?” he asks me.

  “It’s just a different place in my head…and I like the free booze.”

  “Maybe I’ll take a section of that paper now,” Houdini says, “only you’ll have to promise to take it away as soon as Aidan gets back.”

  “Deal.” I spread the Business section out on the coffee table in front of him so that he can turn the pages with his teeth.

  Houdini and I spend the rest of the morning this way, as if I had an old friend over for brunch. I trade out sections of the Sunday paper for him as he’s ready, and we read each other interesting bits of articles we’re reading. The Saatchi gallery in London has an exhibit we find interesting, and he invites me to visit there with him if I ever find myself in London.

  Occasionally, while I’m reading something I catch him out of the corner of my eye struggling against the wrist restraints behind his back. I don’t think he’s even aware he’s doing it. Just a subtle straining and rhythmic twisting of his forearms against the leather. I’m a little jealous of him. Such a straightforward manifestation of his subconscious. Embracing his trap. Knowing what he’s fighting against. People spend thousands of dollars on psychologists and doctors every year of their entire lives just trying to find out what’s holding them back while their mysterious enemy slowly decimates their day-to-day lives. Houdini shells out a few grand every couple of months, confronts his demon, and heads back to his successful life stronger than before. He makes it see
m so simple—on a par with exercising regularly and eating right.

  I give in and have a small vodka shortly after noon. Lying on the couch in my underwear, the cool breeze from the window skips across my skin and I close my eyes and listen to the muted traffic noises far below. Houdini’s still wide awake from the three more lines of coke I cut him between the Week in Review and the Travel sections. Without any pen or free hands to hold one, he’s silently pondering the crossword puzzle as I slip softly into a deep nap, thinking of the city, and its spaces, and the lulling waves of Sunday happening all around me. For a split second before I fall asleep I realize I’m totally relaxed.

  11

  This is how I become not me:

  It is an exacting process—there’s no room for error, and little for improvisation. It is ritual and sacred, and regardless of my physical or mental condition, it is unchanging.

  It begins by monitoring my diet for the entire day before any show. My body must be relatively empty of food to fit into the corset, and relatively full of alcohol to dull the discomfort.

  About four hours before I head out, I gather together the pieces of my predetermined outfit.

  Two pairs of pantyhose. Up to three wigs—combined together and prestyled. Tucking panties. Decorative panties or thong. Matching elbow-length gloves. Bag. Shoes. Necklace. Earrings. Assorted accessories. Wig cap. Toys—laser guns, bubble makers, candy to toss out into the crowd. All is transferred, piece by piece, into the bathroom.

  No one is allowed to witness the transformation. It occurs completely behind the closed bathroom door. It’s a slow motion magic act where the male audience volunteer disappears into a box and a woman appears from inside hours later.

  Before sequestering (quarantining?) myself, the final ingredient is procured from the kitchen. Two large glasses of ice and the bottomless liter bottle of Absolut that lives in the freezer. The glasses are carried in one hand, the bottle in the other, and I disappear into the bathroom completely naked.

  Inside, I pour my first glass and lean into the mirror to inspect my face. Is my stubble long enough? If I didn’t have a business meeting earlier in the day, I don’t shave. The longer the whiskers, the cleaner the shave will be. Are there any particularly prominent zits that will need extra cover-up attention? My eyes are relatively deep set and heavy lidded, so I must keep my brows plucked as thin and high as they can be to create maximum real estate for the dramatic application of multiple shades of eye shadow.

  After I’ve concocted my facial plan of attack, I sit on the toilet. Whatever I can get out of me will mean less pain in the corset later on. Also, while it’s possible to wriggle myself out of an outfit just enough for an emergency piss, any other kind of bathroom maneuver would require a near complete dismantling.

  By now I’ve finished one tall glass of vodka and am ready for the shower.

  The water must be scalding hot and the air in the bathroom as humid as possible. I shave my entire body each night I have a show. A rigorous shaving schedule, religiously adhered to, reduces the outcropping of ingrown hairs. I start from the bottom up. I’m lucky enough not to be terribly hirsute, otherwise I would need to add another hour to my prep time.

  Toes first. Then legs. Then genitals and ass. I move up to my navel, and then remove the few scattered chest hairs I’d prayed so ferverently for when I was entering puberty. A double shave under the arms. Then, when I reach my neck, I start over again at the toes and give my body a second smoothing. Nothing escapes my razor.

  Blade change. Gulp from vodka resting on edge of tub.

  On to the face. Knowing that I could be out anywhere from four to twenty-four hours requires the closest shave I can deliver. Two shaves with the grain, two shaves against. Complete removal of sideburns, and about half an inch from the perimeter of the entire hairline. Even a peek of brown hair poking out from under the edge of the wig will completely ruin the illusion.

  A quick shampoo, all-over soaping, and I’m out.

  The quickest but most vital part of the transformation is next. While my body’s still steaming, and my twig ’n’ berries are at their most relaxed, I pick up the pair of nude-colored, two-sizes-too-small, spandex panties off the floor. I slip both feet through the leg holes and pull them up to my knees. Then I spread my legs slightly, bend deeply at the waist, and reach around behind me with one hand. Twisting my hand between my legs from behind, it would look to some as if I were trying to sneak up on my own unsuspecting genitalia. Or practicing an obscure yoga pose. “Downward Facing Python Chase.” Grasping my surprised triumvirate in one hand, I pull the whole package backward as I yank up the tight panties with the other. Trapped. Straightening up from the bend, I can feel my lower abdomen stretch and flatten as my precious goods give up and settle into their new hideaway.

  At this point, I sit on the tub edge and sip more vodka while I wait for the steam to clear from the bathroom. I watch myself appearing slowly through the fog on the mirror. Without the body hair and visible genitalia an apparition of an androgynous mannequin sits staring back at me. Sometimes, if I’m particularly preoccupied with the prior day’s events I’ll switch the lights off at this point, trying to switch my mind from Josh to Aqua. It can happen in a moment when I’m not concentrating on it, or it can take the entire preparation time and not be completed until the wig settles into place. It’s entirely unpredictable, and as many times as I’ve undergone the transformation, I have no concrete mental process to force the handover.

  Then the shift from destruction to creation.

  I slick my short wet hair back and snap on the nylon wig cap.

  The boring parts get foundation first. Neck, ears, “décolletage.” I only use MAC products. Only. I’m not sure if it stems from my advertising background, but I’m completely brand-loyal.

  In the summer, I roll or spray a very light layer of antiperspirant onto my face. Then with a slightly darker shade of foundation, I sponge contouring shadows on either side of my nose to make it appear thinner, and streaks on my temples and cheeks to give the illusion of delicate bone structure. By now I look like a splotchy paint-by-number portrait.

  Next, the overall foundation application takes place. With a clean sponge, I smoothly stroke the thick fleshy putty over my face and neck, carefully blending the edges around my ears and neck. Then the powder. As I press it into the moist foundation, taking care to fill the creases around my nose and eyes, my skin takes on the completely even texture and color of a blow-up doll. It takes a delicate measuring hand—too much powder and cracks will develop when I laugh; too little and I’ll look like a greasy circus clown.

  On to the fun part. Eye shadow and lipstick. Depending on the outfit, I choose either a bold color palette or simple matching earth tones. I lay the brushes and sponges out on the counter like surgical tools. Often I need to mix pigments and bases to get the exact color I’m envisioning. Application can take up to an hour, as I experiment with various patterns and hues. Sometimes I need to scrub down with cold cream to bare flesh and begin all over. One shaky hand with a dark lip liner pencil and I have to start from scratch. The vodka helps here. By now I’m on my second glass of ice. When I’m satisfied with my face, I press together three pairs of dark fake eyelashes and gently glue them into place.

  Jewelry next. As further proof that God may in fact hate homosexuals, he’s cursed me with the absence of any real earlobes to speak of. I have a vast clip-on earring collection, and nothing to actually clip them on to. I get around this with generous dabs of spirit gum, which adheres them like cement to my earlobes, but removal becomes a battle frequently lost by several layers of my flesh.

  My plastic breasts have been sitting on the counter since the beginning of the process, filled with water slowly coming to room temperature. I used to use a net to gather my fish from the aquarium resting between the two sinks, but my fish have long grown accustomed to my hand and now swim into my cupped palm to be transferred into the breast. When one needs to be replaced, I generally
give the amateur a few weeks to grow accustomed to the rest of the troupe before calling on him for his debut appearance.

  I struggle into whatever outfit I’ve chosen and slip the breasts, and mirrors, and tiny flashlights into the holes on my chest. My outfits are all my own designs, sketched with mechanical precision and then passed on to a girl I met in Atlanta when I first started doing drag. She’s a genius tailor. She knows all my measurements and can work with any material I dream up, from stretch vinyl to faux leopard fur. It’s better than Christmas when I come home and there’s a package from her waiting for me.

  A matching decorative corset comes last. I’ve mastered the elaborate contortions required to alternately loosen and tighten the laces behind my back until I’ve squeezed six inches of flesh off my waist and into various nether regions of my ass, thighs, and chest. Sitting is not an option for several hours. When I hail a cab to whatever venue I’m expected at, I have to enter sideways and lean across almost the entire length of the back seat.

  The wig is always the finale. Until then I still feel like a boy playing with his mother’s makeup. Granted, she’d have to be a pretty gaudy mother, like a single PTA mom trying to steal someone’s husband.

  I wrap toilet paper around my fingertip and wipe off the foundation in a clean line along the edge of my wig cap. Then I apply a thin streak of spirit gum along the hairline and quickly settle the thick, heavy wig into place before it dries, pressing the edge firmly into the glue. Into the back I press bobbie pins through the webbed cap of the wig, through the nylon wig cap, and try to lodge a few into my short-cropped natural hair. Anyone can wear a wig out for an evening, but keeping one in place through hours of dancing and twirling is a true aerodynamic engineering feat.

  A quick stage check of whatever flashing lights or mechanical aspects my particular outfit requires is next, followed by the packing of my bag. Emergency touch-up makeup, a small roll of duct tape, cab money, gum, and I.D.