as a Marlboro Light sat burning almost to the filter in an ashtray that desperately needed to be emptied.
“You’re not supposed to be back here,” he said cautiously. His hand reached for something under the desk.
“I’m sorry, but I walked through the door down there”—I pointed back down the dark corridor—“and it locked behind me.”
His brow furrowed under a thick overhang of curly black hair. “That door’s supposed to be locked.”
“Well, it wasn’t. Anyway, I’m just looking for the bathroom.”
“I’ll show you.” He relaxed his grip on whatever was under his desk.
When he stood up, I gasped and almost collapsed in character, an overheated Southern belle with an attack of the vapors. The handsome face sat on top of a six-foot frame, and muscles bulged from his wide shoulders through his narrow hips and down his powerful legs wrapped tightly in denim.
Almost speechless, I followed him as he flicked fluorescent lights on and led me through the catacomb of halls, which were the non-public places inside Benedick’s. Although lost, I paid no attention to the path we were taking. After all, I didn’t intend to ever be locked in this corridor again and, more importantly, I was too busy watching his ass sway back and forth in front of me as he led me to the bathroom.
“Here you go,” he said, finally stopping at a door. “Now, to get back in the club, you just go through here.” He opened the door slightly, and the loud sounds of late seventies disco poured through. “Hey, pretty packed,” he said, surveying the crowd.
“Yes, it is,” I replied as Belle Bacall. “You’ve got a nice place here. Are you the manager?”
“The owner.” He gave me a broad smile and extended his hand. “I’m Frank DiBenedetto.”
“I’m—” Oh, why not? I took his hand. “Belle Bacall. Nice to meet you.”
The smile never left his face. If anything, it grew broader. He was adorable. “No. Nice to meet you. I hope I’ll see you here again, Belle. Hey—Bacall? You any relation?”
“Uh…no.” For some obscure reason, I decided giving him my freshly coined drag name was as far down this road as I wanted to travel.
“Yeah, well…” Still smiling, he glanced shyly at the floor but didn’t move. When he looked back at me, his brown eyes fixed on mine and he swallowed nervously. Which made me swallow nervously, too.
From the other side of the door, the final notes of one song segued effortlessly into the lush opening notes of the Bee Gees’ “How Deep Is Your Love.”
Frank swallowed hard again. “Um…Would you like to dance?”
I laughed. “Here? Back here? Really?”
“I mean, if you don’t want to, it’s all right. It’s just, well…I sort of feel like I’m missing my own party.”
“Well, we can’t have that. Yeah, sure, I’d love to dance.”
So, he wrapped those thick arms gently around me, taking care to not appear overly familiar. I took hold of his shoulders and we swayed slowly to the music for several minutes, not talking but occasionally smiling self-consciously when we caught each other’s glances.
When the music ended, we let go and backed a step away. Ever the gentleman, Frank bowed slightly. “Thank you for the dance.”
“Thank you.”
It looked like he was about to say something else but couldn’t find the words. Instead, he settled for, “I suppose I should get back to work.”
Awkwardly, I said, “Well, it was nice meeting you, Frank. And I hope to see you again soon.”
He looked up at me. “You know, you look a little bit like Demi Moore?”
Under my light makeup, I blushed, although I wasn’t sure if I was blushing from the compliment or from the fact that I was embarrassed to be complimented on looking like a woman. I mumbled a little “thank you” and left it at that.
He shuffled for a second, then said, “I’m gonna go lock that door so no one else wanders back here.” Then he paused again, adding, with a hopeful tone in his voice, “I’ll see you later.”
And with that, he turned and walked away, flicking lights off as he vanished down the corridor, giving me only the slightest glimpse of his perfect butt as it disappeared into the darkness.
The sign on the bathroom door said WOMEN.
But…No, he had to have known. I mean, this was a gay dance club, right? And didn’t the bouncer explicitly tell us that no real women were allowed to enter? And he was the owner, after all, so wouldn’t he know the policy?
He must. So, he must have known I was a man dressed as a woman. Which meant that Frank—sweet, handsome, muscular Frank; Frank with the broad, enticing smile and curly black hair and the cutest little butt on the planet; Frank who slow-danced with me and held me in his arms—wasn’t flirting with Belle Bacall or Demi Moore. He was flirting with Andrew Westlake.
As if to prove something to myself, I peed standing up.
“Where have you been?” David asked when I returned. “Whole countries have had time to go to the bathroom while you were gone. Pee shy?”
“I was lost,” I replied. “And then I was found.” I leaned close to him. “I think I’m in love.”
He grimaced and mumbled unpleasantly. “That didn’t take long. Who’s the lucky man?”
“His name is Frank. He owns the place.”
More unpleasantness from David. “Andrew, you cannot date a man who owns a gay dance club. They’re all into drugs and other illegal activities, they all screw anything that moves, and they all end up going into bankruptcy within three or four months. Now, what’s his name?”
“Frank,” I replied, dismissing his disapproval. “Frank DiBen—DiBendenna—Di—I don’t know, something like that.”
He waved a dismissive hand at me. “Great. You don’t even know his last name, but you’re in love. You know what that means, don’t you? It means you’ll go home with him tonight and he’ll screw you and you’ll never hear from him again.”
“Are you jealous?” I asked, amused.
He was distinctly not amused. “Trust me, Andrew. I know how these people are. And what was that last name again? Something Italian? He’s probably in the Mafia.”
“What do they have? A gay auxiliary?”
He sighed. “I’ve been around for a long time, and I remember well how the Mafia used to own all the gay bars. It still owns a lot of them. They made a lot of money off us, Andrew, and they still make a lot of money off us.”
“I didn’t think homosexuals were supposed to stereotype other people. Don’t we get stereotyped enough ourselves?”
“There’s a certain amount of truth behind every stereotype. Considering the fact that you’re a gay man wearing a dress, I think you should recognize that.”
“Hi, David,” said a familiar voice hidden behind a leather mask, interrupting my friend at the end of his tirade.
David squinted, as did I, until the masked man said, “It’s Barry.”
“Barry Blackburn!” gushed David. Apparently, he was going to make me pay for Frank by cozying up to my bitter enemy. “God, it’s been a long time! How have you been?”
“Great.” Barry removed the mask to reveal his pinched face and freshly frosted, unnaturally blond hair. “I’m promoting this place, y’know.”
“I heard,” said David. “Congratulations. This is quite an opening.”