Imagine That: Drag Queen Imagines

Cherry Cola (Bianca Del Rio)

The theatre is empty when you walk in. Aside from yourselves, the two of you only have a very large man snoring in the front row and the sticky sugared floors to keep you company. You trip over a step on the way to the back row.

"The stairs are lit for a reason, Hellen Keller," Bianca chuckles, hearing you struggle behind her. "You're supposed to look where you're stepping."

Bianca's shows run late. Wildly late, most often. But she promised she'd take you out somewhere tonight and the only place open at two in the morning happened to be the most run-of-the-mill, cheap movie theater on the block. No 3D IMAX special pictures, just discount films that are already available on DVD.

"Seventy-Five Cent Tuesdays!" Romantic.

You take up four of the cleanest seats in the back row: two to sit in, one for your bags, and one to Bianca's side for stashing about thirty dollars worth of popcorn, cherry sours, and half-melted candy bars. The movie is already at least twenty minutes in but you find it hard to catch up when the fat man rows ahead of you snorts during every quiet pause. Stifling a laugh, you sipped on the flimsy cup of soda pop resting in the seat between the two of you.

You watch Bianca out of the corner of your eye. She's lit by the faint blue echoing off the movie screen, her long lashes fluttering as she scoffs and rolls her eyes at the screen.

"Cue sexual tension between young white douchebag and young successful white girl," she groans, tipping a handful of cherry sours into her mouth.

The movie sucks, if you're being truthful with yourself. But it doesn't help that Bianca won't shut her mouth long enough for you to hear even a full sentence of dialogue. Or that she's stunningly beautiful and you can't keep your eyes off her. The flecks of gold in her eyes sparkle in the darkness, only lit by the glowing screen. Her shoes are under her seat and her feet sway, weary of the dirty floor beneath them. Half of her lipstick is transferred on her straw and she's picking off her black nail polish, giving the movie no more than a few aggravated upward glances.

It's the moaning that brings your attention back to the screen.

"You've got to be kidding me," she sighs and leans her head back. "Right, so, according to this movie," you smirk, preparing for the slander about to spew from her mouth. "The correct way to solve an argument when the two of you are both in committed relationships with other people is to fuck. Genius approach. I'd suggest this solution nine out of ten times."

You chuckle, rolling your eyes and reaching over her for a half-eaten box of Junior Mints.

"When does this happen in real life?" she blurts a little too loud in your ear. She's beginning to get on your nerves and you huff in annoyance. "This is fuckin' stupid! See, this is why we shouldn't have picked a romance movie; it's the same shit every t--"

In a bold move to shut her up, you press your lips against hers roughly. Your hand goes limp, letting the open box of mints roll out and rattle against the ground, but you don't let up. As she relaxes, she parts her lips and you can taste the sweet cherry in her mouth. You feel the warmth of her fingers on your skin as it creeps up your thigh. Before she gets too close, you gently pull away and move her hand.

"Not here," you whisper, glancing down to the man in the front. He's no longer asleep and seems to be immersed in the sex scene that hasn't brought itself to an end. Bianca's eyes follow yours.

"Hey!" she hollers across the theater, making the man turn his bald head nervously. "We know you're masturbating."

Without another glance back, he sits forward and leaves behind his bucket of popcorn. You watch his silhouette frantically pass in front of the screen as he escapes from your sight.

"Can we finish now?"

You giggle and press your lips to hers again, making you both smile as her hands find the back of your neck.