Mascara and Tears
Lost in memories, Juan didn't care his mascara was running.
He'd started the night pretty. Spent his usual too much time picking and discarding this dress, that boa, that wig, those shoes, those hose, those boobs and sitting in front of the mirror playing with eyeliner, lipstick, blush and all the rest. When he'd left his little place he'd been what he wanted to be: gorgeous with just the right touch of over-the- top tacky.
For that night he had to be – he had to be more than just his usual devastating best. Tonight was their one-year anniversary. One year ago. He had to look his absolute best for that.
Done up, he'd though about going clubbing – showing off his gorgeous self to his friends, the other dames. It's what he'd been doing a year ago, exactly – going from this hot stop to that one, prancing and posing, whooping and playing with fans, dishing and laughing – when he'd met Alda.
Queens don't have kings. At best they have boyfriends, lovers and admirers. But Alda was different. He didn't wear a crown, didn't act like it at all but, sure enough, for Juan he was a king. From their first meeting he treated Juan like the queen that he was – held his hand, stroked his brow, told him when he looked gorgeous, said – and meant it – if this or that dress made him look fat. He was perfect, ideal.
He was a king in bed, too.
Though he didn't wear the toys on his hips like a regular leatherman, he had quite a hefty bag of tricks. In his car, parked on a dark street, looking up at a dark apartment window, Juan remembered one special time: It was after a Brazilian Carnival party – Juan done all Carmen Miranda with fruit balanced on his head – when Alda took him into an alley. Slipping on a cheesy Spanish accent Alda rumbled out "Fucking bitch – you're gonna take it and like it" and lifted Carmen's skirt, tore off her pantyhose, yanked down her panties, spat on his hand, got her all good and wet and open, slipped on a handy condom, and fucked her right there with her face pressing into dirty bricks. Sure, Juan liked it rough and wasn't new to it, but he wasn't Juan, he was Carmen and Carmen protested and fought as Alda's big dick slid into her. Squealing with pain/pleasure as Alda fucked her South American ass until Carmen ... well, Juan ... couldn't take it anymore and hard to (had to!) haul his own cock out and stroke himself as Alda. It was love, and a lovely fuck – and Alda came (jerking like a man shocked) just as Juan did, his own come painting the brick walls with shiny jism.
He'd started the night pretty. Spent his usual too much time picking and discarding this dress, that boa, that wig, those shoes, those hose, those boobs and sitting in front of the mirror playing with eyeliner, lipstick, blush and all the rest. When he'd left his little place he'd been what he wanted to be: gorgeous with just the right touch of over-the- top tacky.
For that night he had to be – he had to be more than just his usual devastating best. Tonight was their one-year anniversary. One year ago. He had to look his absolute best for that.
Done up, he'd though about going clubbing – showing off his gorgeous self to his friends, the other dames. It's what he'd been doing a year ago, exactly – going from this hot stop to that one, prancing and posing, whooping and playing with fans, dishing and laughing – when he'd met Alda.
Queens don't have kings. At best they have boyfriends, lovers and admirers. But Alda was different. He didn't wear a crown, didn't act like it at all but, sure enough, for Juan he was a king. From their first meeting he treated Juan like the queen that he was – held his hand, stroked his brow, told him when he looked gorgeous, said – and meant it – if this or that dress made him look fat. He was perfect, ideal.
He was a king in bed, too.
Though he didn't wear the toys on his hips like a regular leatherman, he had quite a hefty bag of tricks. In his car, parked on a dark street, looking up at a dark apartment window, Juan remembered one special time: It was after a Brazilian Carnival party – Juan done all Carmen Miranda with fruit balanced on his head – when Alda took him into an alley. Slipping on a cheesy Spanish accent Alda rumbled out "Fucking bitch – you're gonna take it and like it" and lifted Carmen's skirt, tore off her pantyhose, yanked down her panties, spat on his hand, got her all good and wet and open, slipped on a handy condom, and fucked her right there with her face pressing into dirty bricks. Sure, Juan liked it rough and wasn't new to it, but he wasn't Juan, he was Carmen and Carmen protested and fought as Alda's big dick slid into her. Squealing with pain/pleasure as Alda fucked her South American ass until Carmen ... well, Juan ... couldn't take it anymore and hard to (had to!) haul his own cock out and stroke himself as Alda. It was love, and a lovely fuck – and Alda came (jerking like a man shocked) just as Juan did, his own come painting the brick walls with shiny jism.
In his car, Juan looked up at the dark apartment window, mascara streaking his cheeks. He thought about Alda, about the other times – many in his king's apartment.
Alda liked westerns. His little apartment had been decorated with the stuff of them: barbed wire, a saddle over the foot of his big bed, paintings of lonely-looking cowboys, wrought-iron fixtures sporting his bottomless collection of cowboy hats. On Alda's twenty-sixth birthday Juan had surprised him – doing an Indian princess was surprisingly hard (without making himself look like a cheap costume shop reject) but he was pleased with the result.
And, seeing him, Alda was as well. Juan almost didn't have enough time to even start the patter he'd been rehearsing all day before Alda grabbed Pocahantas like a starving mountain man.
"Ain't you the most beautiful thing I've ever done seen," Alda said, tossing one of his hats on his head and tearing at Pocahantas – removing her simple buckskin with one swipe of his meaty (though fine) hand.
The Indian princess squealed in protest – but not for long: it's hard to argue when a condomed cock is filling your mouth.
"Tasty as sweet corn," Alda said, slowing moving her mouth up and down on his cock, fucking her face with his big dick. Pocahantas tried to force him away but the cowboy was too strong for her (that and Juan didn't really want to escape). Savagely, persistently, he filled the girl's mouth, pushing and pulling his cock into her till – with a hearty "Yippie Kay Yay!" that must have startled the neighbors – he came: hot cream jerking out of his cock and warming the inside of Juan's mouth.
Pocahantas and the cowboy fucked and sucked each other till they couldn't – till their bodies refused to come any more: it wasn't until late the next day that Juan could turn, dazed and blurry, to wish his lover, "Happy Birthday."
One year. In his car, Juan looked up at the window. Remembering other times, other kisses, chats, dinners, breakfasts – other comes and laughter. He remembered and cried, his tears marking his face with the stigmata of a sad drag queen.
Alda liked westerns. His little apartment had been decorated with the stuff of them: barbed wire, a saddle over the foot of his big bed, paintings of lonely-looking cowboys, wrought-iron fixtures sporting his bottomless collection of cowboy hats. On Alda's twenty-sixth birthday Juan had surprised him – doing an Indian princess was surprisingly hard (without making himself look like a cheap costume shop reject) but he was pleased with the result.
And, seeing him, Alda was as well. Juan almost didn't have enough time to even start the patter he'd been rehearsing all day before Alda grabbed Pocahantas like a starving mountain man.
"Ain't you the most beautiful thing I've ever done seen," Alda said, tossing one of his hats on his head and tearing at Pocahantas – removing her simple buckskin with one swipe of his meaty (though fine) hand.
The Indian princess squealed in protest – but not for long: it's hard to argue when a condomed cock is filling your mouth.
"Tasty as sweet corn," Alda said, slowing moving her mouth up and down on his cock, fucking her face with his big dick. Pocahantas tried to force him away but the cowboy was too strong for her (that and Juan didn't really want to escape). Savagely, persistently, he filled the girl's mouth, pushing and pulling his cock into her till – with a hearty "Yippie Kay Yay!" that must have startled the neighbors – he came: hot cream jerking out of his cock and warming the inside of Juan's mouth.
Pocahantas and the cowboy fucked and sucked each other till they couldn't – till their bodies refused to come any more: it wasn't until late the next day that Juan could turn, dazed and blurry, to wish his lover, "Happy Birthday."
One year. In his car, Juan looked up at the window. Remembering other times, other kisses, chats, dinners, breakfasts – other comes and laughter. He remembered and cried, his tears marking his face with the stigmata of a sad drag queen.
Starting his car, he blew a kiss to the dark apartment window. Driving away he remembered one more thing, one of the last things Alda had said, before the machines stopped beeping and the crying really started: "The king is dead, sweetheart – long live the queen."
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