That night, Mister Benson chose me. He came down into the crowd, took my hand and led me away from the press of sweaty bodies. The members of Chicken à la King Drag Troupe encouraged audience participation, and I’d seen other folks get caressed and treated to lap dances by Fats Dominant, Sonny Boner, Captain Candy and Power Strip. This was my fourth time seeing the Kings, and this time, lucky girl, it was my turn.
It was hot up on stage, and I couldn’t see the audience very well because of the bright lights. I could hear my friends screaming my name, though, and I was so nervous I almost jumped back down to join them, but Mister Benson had hold of my hand in a commanding grip. Tall and slender, he was wearing a Daddy cap, a leather vest over his white T-shirt, jeans and chaps, and some shit-kicking boots. He led me over to sit on a single bed, all frilly and pink, that had been wheeled onstage. Beside the bed was a nightstand with a phone, a deck of cards and a vase holding a single red rose on it. Grooving to the beat of the loud funk coming over the sound system, the rest of the Kings presented themselves to me. Sonny Boner, his impressive package looking good in his bicycle shorts, gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder. Power Strip kissed my hand, so dapper in his striped zoot suit. Captain Candy brushed back his long hair so I could see the gold rings in his ears, and blew me a sexy kiss. Fats Dominant came to attention and gave me a snappy salute, handsome as hell in his sergeant’s dress uniform. Mister Benson just looked haughtily into my eyes and then away, never letting go of my hand. I was so flattered by the silent, exaggerated way they were welcoming me, playing to the crowd like the yummiest treat had just been dropped in their midst. And the male, pussy-driven energy they were giving off was really sending me.
“We’ll be back,” Mister Benson whispered, his lips brushing my ear. “Don’t go anywhere.”
The Kings grooved off the stage and the lights went down, leaving just a spot on me. The music stopped and the crowd held its breath. This was the last number of the night.
I sat there feeling silly, but feeling turned on. This would be something I could tell the grandkids about: the time I’d been in a number with the handsomest, sexiest, most popular drag kings this side of the Mississippi. My friends passed me up a beer, which I chugged, then passed back. I took a deep cleansing breath. I was in for the duration. I wanted to be. But truthfully, along with the turn-on and the fun of it all, I was struggling with just the teensiest worry.
See, I have this problem. Or you could call it a talent. A gift. The thing is, I’m a seriously sensual girl. I swear that every-thing—smells, tastes, sounds, the way things look and feel—goes straight to the pleasure center in my brain. And from there, on down. See, I’m easy, is what it is. To put it bluntly, I’m the kind of girl who can come at the drop of a hat. You don’t even have to be touching me. Once, I came in the movie theater watching Vasquez in Aliens. I came, clutching my fag friend’s arm so hard he squealed, when we went to hear Leslie Feinberg read from Stone Butch Blues. I’ve come listening to k.d. lang’s alto croon, and from a lover feeding me just-picked raspberries, warm from the sun. Being pressed up against a butch in a crowded bar, the feel of her suit on my bare arm, the smell of her cologne? Oh, baby! I’ve come watching a super-in-love couple dirty dancing, and you better believe I came when Lynnee Breedlove ripped off her shirt at a Tribe 8 concert and I caught it full in the face. I still have that shirt, and if I lick it, I can taste her sweat. Makes me come.
Usually when I come like that out in public, no one notices. I mean, it’s not like I start panting or screaming and thrashing around. It’s kind of decorous and private, really: this utterly delicious, ladylike wave of sweetness, starting in my pussy and traveling all through my body. If you were watching, you might see me shiver a little, and my face turn red, like I’m blushing. No big deal. Usually. The thing is, I can’t control when it will happen, and I definitely can’t stop it once it starts. Up here onstage, on a bed with the Kings? With a spotlight trained on me? Oh, geez.
When the music started up, at first I didn’t recognize the song. It seemed too slow for the Kings, who usually perform to fast, racy tunes. The telephone on my nightstand rang. It was Mister Benson, asking me if I was okay, and telling me to just relax and let the Kings guide me. He told me to stay on the phone, that he would be seeing me soon. At that moment, the vocals started. I sat there getting goose bumps as the Kings came out, one by one, moving slow and sultry, as Janis Ian began to pour her heart out in that quintessential teenage girl angst song, “At Seventeen.”
I pressed the phone to my ear as my invented lovers approached me. The Kings weren’t lip-synching; instead they moved sensually to the music, sexual fantasies called up from the depths of every lonely baby femme’s girlhood. They preened and showed off, displaying their individual personas, inviting me to look, to take. Each man opened his heart and pulled out a piece of his soul to offer me in tribute.
Captain Candy knelt beside me and began running his hands up and down my legs, leaning down to kiss and fondle my high heels. I relaxed into the heat of his palms. Sonny Boner and Power Strip embraced and began to pull off each other’s clothes, looking right at me and giving the awkward, small-town girl the thrill of her life when they ended up in just long white dress shirts with their strap-ons peeking out. Fats Dominant lowered himself to the bed, leaned against the headboard, and gently pulled me between his legs, my back to his big belly. Mr. Benson appeared and took the phone from my slack hand, hanging it up. He joined Fats Dominant on the bed and began trailing a little leather whip lightly over my body. The other three gathered around, touching my head and shoulders, my legs and feet, transforming me from ugly duckling to femme goddess.
The melancholy, haunting song went on and on, and the audience roared and whistled and hollered the names of their favorite Kings. I was sweating, my pussy swollen and moist and practically on view in the short skirt I was wearing. My breathing quickened and Mister Benson shot me a look. I shifted my bottom, pressing back into Fats Dominant and getting a good feel of his hardpack. The room started to spin. It was going to happen; there was no way of stopping it. I looked desperately around for something to help me, something to calm me down, but just ended up locking eyes with Mister Benson, who had the smallest of smirks on his handsome, cruel face. He cracked the whip, making me gasp. Then, very slowly, he brought out the tip of his tongue and touched it to his moustache. The red, glistening tip of his tongue flickered out once, then again. He lifted a finger to his mouth and sucked it, briefly, before drawing it lovingly down his body. His eyes never left mine for a moment. The boys surrounding me, sensing a change, began touching me more intimately as they swayed to the music, lingering on my calves, my ankles, my neck, my belly. I could smell their sweat, their cologne, the musk from between their legs. And I came.
It started with a quivering, deep-down flutter in my pussy, and I couldn’t help it, I lifted my ass off the bed. The Kings had my hands and feet and I pushed up, up, my skirt lifting to show my wet panties as I writhed and moaned—this one was hardly decorous. I could feel my nipples straining deliciously against the material of my blouse, and I knew my whole body was flushing red with pleasure. I couldn’t help it. I shouted. I came shouting Mister Benson’s name, and just as things were getting really out of hand, the song ended and the curtain came down to thunderous applause.
The talk later was that it had all been planned. Most of the Kings didn’t believe I’d really come—they thought I was a big exhibitionist who had concocted the whole thing to show off. Not that they were complaining, since it had been their most popular number ever. Before I left the stage that night, though, Mister Benson gave me a full-body hug, pressing his dick right between my legs and causing major aftershock. He handed me the rose from the nightstand along with his card, cell phone number scrawled on the back. Because Mister Benson? He knows an easy girl when he sees one, and that, apparently, is what Mister Benson thinks is just a little bit of all right.