Exotic

~ with voyeuristic intention ~

Words couldn't fully express how nervous I was that Saturday night.

Even with half a face of makeup and tights on, Sephora was boxed up with packing tape and I was one paper bag away from a full meltdown. One of the other performers – Jamie had hired a whole dressing room full of queens, each dressed to the nines in Rocky Horror attire – had offered me a joint, sensing my nerves. I'd declined, but as the club began to fill, I began to regret turning it down.

"You right, babe?" asked Zsa Zsa. He was fully decked out, sweeping duffle coat with black lingerie beneath, plump red lips, and teased hair. He'd told me he'd played Dr. Frankenfurter once before, in a lewd community theatre production which had nearly sent him poor Catholic mother into cardiac arrest.

I nodded uncertainly. "Butterflies. I've got a friend coming tonight."

Aaron had texted me ten minutes ago.

A club? How are you planning on getting in?

And minutes later;

I'm lined up. Where are you?

Aaron was no more than fifty meters from me - slathered in foundation, and fully tucked to accommodate the half-naked scene I was scheduled to enact. The thought made me light-headed. I had half a mind to text that it was a false alarm, that I hadn't managed to sneak in – being underage granted the perfect excuse to boycott.

But I'd made a decision, and despite all my reservations, I was determined to put on a show.

i'm inside. meet me at the bar.

His response was brimming with cynicism.

If you dragged me out here just to exploit my ID...

I rolled my eyes at the screen and tossed it lightly into my backpack, resting my head against the wall. After a few deep breaths, I peeled myself off the floor and wedged myself in front of the mirror, tuning out the clamour of the dressing room to finish painting on Sephora. Sephora as Janet Weiss, that was, but I didn't change much or tone down on the extravagance I associated with my drag persona, trusting the outfit and context would speak for itself. I drew my lips on large, my eyebrows high and dusted my contoured illusion of cheekbones with highlighter.

A short, golden wig teased with curls sat heavy over my eyes, which I carefully covered with artificial green. I blinked twice and smiled openly at my reflection. My face was almost perfectly symmetrical, my eyelid dusted with imitation gold, and my cheeks dotted with the faintest blush. I'd paint a white dot on the arch of my lip, giving the illusion of a cartoonish sheen. The pink slip I had on had been adjusted – with kitchen scissors and a messy blanket stitch – to sling off my shoulders and the neckline had been edited down to dive down below my sternum. The rosé skirts fell only an inch or two below my pelvis, riding up as I shifted in my chair to check every angle.

I had outdone myself.

I didn't think I'd looked as good as I did since the night I had naively dubbed Caleb and I's 'first date'. But Caleb wasn't going to be out there; I'd told him to stay away. For his safety, I kept telling myself - Aaron had keen eyes, and Crescendo wasn't large by any means.

I put thoughts of Caleb out of my mind. They made me feel flustered, and he certainly wouldn't have been thinking of me. Not in the way I thought of him, all too often. Maybe passing speculation about why I'd stopped nipping at his heels. Maybe Caleb secretly liked to be adored. A narcissist, below all the selflessness. Villainising him in my head certain helped lighten my mental load.

"Your breast contour is insane," the queen playing Magenta marvelled, squeezing their own chest together with a pout. "If I hadn't watched you draw them on, I could have sworn you'd sprouted tits."