Chapter 24 Chapter Twenty-Four - Gabriella
The spotlight beats down on me, causing sweat to form on my brow as the fans in front of the stage act as my only saving grace, and yet, despite how much I am burning up on this stage – literally and figuratively – my entire being comes alive with every note I sing. I’m feeding off the crowd’s energy, their excitement acting as my fuel as I sing Madonna’s song Secret. Bedtime Stories is my favourite Madonna album of all time and is just one of the many reasons I wish I was born in the 90s.
The crowd dances to the beat, throwing bills onto the stage as the dancers and I continue our choreographed routine to perfection. I’m sweltering in these high-waisted black leather pants, but it is worth it. On the beat, I throw out my right leg, stomping my 7” black, pointed stiletto knee-high leather boots, fanning and throwing back the fabric of my shear, floor-length, puff-sleeve, low-cut polka maxi top like a cape, the fans catching the fabric and making it billow behind me as I signal for the crowd to sing along with me.
“Happiness lies in your own hand, it took me much too long to understand, how it could be, until you shared your secret with me,” I sing, as the crowd sings along with me. “Mmm mmm, something’s comin’ over,” I continue, pointing my microphone out to the crowd as they perfectly nail the humming making the club reverberate.
This wasn’t originally the song I intended to perform tonight, but after meeting Jartre and learning about him and his world, when I came across this song in my playlist I just knew I had to perform it tonight. The lyrics now hold more meaning for me than they ever did before. It’s one of the things I love about all forms of art whether it be music, books, film, or television, or any other medium. The art remains as it is for all time, but it’s our perception of them that changes and often provides us with greater rewards as the years go by.
The song comes to an end and the crowd erupts in applause making me smile broadly and wave to everyone. I blow the crowd some kisses and then, along with my dancers, quickly make my way backstage as one of the helpers rushes to the stage to collect my tips. From the looks of how much people were making it rain, I’ve done pretty damn well for myself tonight. I do split the tips with the dancers though, it’s only fair.
“Gurl, you sang Madonna better than Madonna!” cheers grunge-goth drag king himself, Rudy Wakening.
I pick up a towel and dab the sweat from my chest and face, then lift my hair and dab the back of my neck. “We both know no one does Madonna better than Madonna,” I counter.
“Correction, no one does 80s and 90s Madonna better than Madonna, but everything after that is up for debate,” chimes in Anita Cutabitch.
“You’re not seriously going to gloss over the 2000s Cowgirl era, because she dropped some bangers in that decade,” says Sean, one of my backup dancers and a huge Madonna fanatic.
“Sean, if you’re about to bring up Music…” warns Owen.
“Music was her 12th number-one single, and it dominated the charts,” says Sean, getting animated.
“Five bucks says Sean goes for the eyes in a minute,” whispers Anita in my ear, making me chuckle.
“So? It was marketed well and was a product of its time, but it didn’t age well at all. Madonna with the whole master pimptress thing was just cringe. Honestly, everything she did after Bedtime Stories was cringe,” says Owen casually to a chorus of ‘oooh’s’.
“What did you just say?” asks Sean, looking hella shooketh.
“Alright, that’s enough out of you two. Play nice or I’m keeping the tips,” I chastise them, “We all killed it out there and had a fabulous time. Can we please not spoil it by arguing about a twenty-six-year-old single?” I implore them.
“He started it,” Sean says petulantly.
“Really?” I ask rhetorically.
“He shouldn’t have insulted Madonna,” he huffs.
“Madonna doesn’t need you fighting her battles, you’re not her lawyer,” I say rolling my eyes.
“How can you seriously feel so defensive of a woman who has used our community to promote her image time and time again?” questions Owen.
“Totally saw this coming,” mutters Rudy, walking over to their station to resume their make-up.
“That woman is an icon who supported us and gave us a voice when so few did!” shouts Sean.
“What universe are you living in? She may have some good activism moments, but she also has used the hell out of this community to further her career,” retorts Owen.
The two get up in each other’s faces and really start going at it, leaving me to rub my temples. How is this my norm? Watching two half-naked men argue over Madonna backstage at a gay club. I’d love to say this is the first time I’ve experienced something like this, but it’s not.
“Where’s my favourite diva?” I suddenly hear Wyatt’s voice cutting through the sounds of arguing.
I turn around and give him a wide smile, “Hey, what are you doing back here?”
“Came to check on you and congratulate you on another phenomenal performance,” he praises.
“Thank you,” I say with a bright smile, “Where’s Derrick? He’s meant to be on stage soon,” I say as I glance at the clock on the wall.
“Some drama with the customers that he had to go deal with, so I think he’s going to be a little late to the stage, but I’m sure he’ll just make a joke about it once he’s out there. You know how he is.”
“That I do.” I toss my towel into a nearby hamper and check my makeup in one of the illuminated beauty mirrors giving myself a quick touch-up.
“Come on, let’s get you some water,” Wyatt suggests, holding out his hand.
I smile gleefully and skip over to him, taking his hand as we make our way into the club and manoeuvre through the throngs of people. We get to the bar and Wyatt gestures for two bottles of water, which one of the bartenders quickly grabs and hands over to us. Wyatt hands me mine and I take it with a grateful smile.
“You’re a lifesaver,” I say, popping the cap and sculling a quarter of the bottle.
“Someone was thirsty,” he chuckles, still opening his.
“Performing under bright lights can really dehydrate you. Still love it though,” I grin.
“Speaking of loving things, Derrick tells me there is a new man in your life,” he says bobbing his eyebrows suggestively.
I roll my eyes. “Of course, he told you. He tells you everything.”
“You would have told me eventually; he just beat you to it. So who is this giant, muscular, sexy Father Christmas?” he teases.
“Oh for…” Really trying not to say ‘God’ as much anymore, because it just feels awkward now that I know one. “Next person who refers to him as any iteration of Santa Claus is getting a beating,” I threaten.
“Derrick said you were protective of this guy, I just wanted to see it for myself,” he smirks.
I give him a minor shove, “Real mature, Wyatt.”
He chuckles, “But seriously, are you guys dating or what?”
I sigh as I try to think how the hell to describe this. I can’t tell them he’s my soulmate. I sure as hell can’t say ‘animai’ or they will definitely think I’ve joined a cult. Calling him my boyfriend is an oversimplification and sounds stupid. Partner sounds evasive, and lover sounds tacky. How the fuck am I supposed to describe some supernatural bond with a God to other humans, without getting carted off to a padded cell or dragged off to a motel in the middle of nowhere for a deprogramming session? I hear those can last for weeks. Also, I’m not brainwashed. My vagina probably is, but my brain still maintains its integrity. At least for now.
“I’m going to be honest; I don’t know what to call this. He’s intimidating and big enough to block out the sun, but he’s warm and loving and giving, and when I’m around him I feel like everything is right, and when he’s not around I feel lost and confused. I’ve never had any of these feelings with another person, and I don’t want people to think I’m latching onto some rebound–”
“I’m going to stop you there,” interjects Wyatt, holding up his hand. “Ella, you’ve never given a shit what other people think, so don’t start now. You are a smart woman, who at one point or another has been there for every person in this fucking place and never asked for a damn thing in return. For a long time you, for reasons I will never understand, have managed to have the worst taste in men. As far as I’m concerned, it looks like the universe is finally doing you a favour. If you found someone who makes you feel safe and happy, then I say go get it.”
I try to fight back the tears building in my eyes. Derrick pretty much said the same thing, and it’s not that I didn’t believe him, I guess I just needed to hear it one more time for it to sink in.
“Thank you. I know I’m being stupid. Why am I being so defensive over this guy and never any of the guys everyone told me was shit for me? I have this so backwards,” I say, shaking my head.
“Because you didn’t care then, and you care now. You obviously have strong feelings for this guy, of course, you’re going to be protective of someone you really care about,” he says, wrapping his arm around my shoulders.
“Even though we just met?”
“I knew I loved Derrick after talking for two hours. Sometimes the stars align just right, and you have no choice but to go with it. I did and I’ve never regretted it. You should do the same.”
I place our waters behind the bar and give him a tight hug. “I don’t know what I would do without you both in my life.”
He wraps his arms around me squeezing me tight. “Your life would be so fucking boring; you’d kill yourself just for something to do.”
I snort with laughter. “Morbid as fuck, but highly accurate.”
“How about we go and dance?” he smiles down at me.
“Yes and please,” I say, grabbing his hand and dragging him off to the dancefloor.
The current song comes to an end and begins fading into Fever by Kylie Minogue, which has to be my ultimate Kylie song. I adore that woman and her music, and her sister Dannii is painfully underappreciated. A few Christmas’s ago Derrick and I did a Dannii/Kylie performance to their song 100 Degrees – I was Kylie, of course – and we ate that shit up. We should totally do that again this year but revamp it. Maybe do something with wires.
Me and Wyatt dance and sing along to the song like two drunk girls at a Bachelorette party, despite us both being very sober. Each step from my feet and sway from my hips reminds me that I have been on my feet for hours and the only thing supporting me is pencil-thin 7-inch heels.
Wyatt leans down and shouts in my ear over the music, “Are you okay?”
“I’ve been on my feet for like six hours in these heels; it’s finally starting to get to me,” I shout back.
He smiles in understanding. “Put your arms around my neck.”
Without question, I wrap my arms around his neck locking them in place. He wraps his arms around my waist and ever so slightly begins supporting my body weight. I close my eyes and let out a moan as I take in the simultaneous mix of pain and relief as the pressure is briefly eased from my feet.
“You are the absolute best. How often do you do this for Derrick?”
“I just give him foot massages and bubble baths. It’s a win for us both,” he grins, making me chuckle.