I Am Not Myself These Days by Josh Kilmer-Purcell

sandwiched me on top of the speaker I was dancing on. God, I hope Tempest isn’t home. I can’t wait for Jack anymore. It’s too much. He doesn’t even have to know. After being chaste for over a month now, I want these two like I’ve been in prison for years. Actually, at least in prison I would have had plenty of action. Fuck Jack. What the fuck do I owe him anyway?
    â€œYeah, I think I have some vodka. And maybe some scotch or rum.” Thank God they want more to drink too. Now I won’t have to sneak sips out of the bottle in the freezer in order to keep going. Not too much more vodka, though. I need to get up in, what? An hour and a half? What time is it now? five thirty? The gig finished at five, I talked with them for a bit, had another drink, then walked home. Maybe it’s six-ish. Did I walk home? No. Couldn’t have. The Tunnel was twenty blocks away. Was I in a cab with these two? Try to remember. How did I get in the elevator? Did I press the floor button? Yes. I did. It’s stopping. Sixth floor. Home.
    â€œYou got a lot of other wigs and stuff?” It was the shorter one again. Fuck off, you little faggot, I think to myself. I don’t really want to spend the evening playing dress-up for these guys. I’ve spent the last six and a half hours in drag entertaining a room full of Long Island club trash and the very, very last thing I want to do is teach him how to put on makeup. I just want to drink a little more and fuck. The taller one looks at me over the shoulder of his brother and smirks. He’s not going to play with lipstick and pantyhose. He wants me. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
    â€œHere we are. Home. What do you want to drink?” I ask.
    It’s a mess inside. Every surface is covered with wigs, costumes, shoes. The only thing missing is Tempest. Thank God for small favors. Clothes from my day job are thrown in a pile on the kitchen table and chairs. In just two hours I’ll need to pick out a vaguely matching pair of pants and shirt from the jumble and go to work. Jack’s flight back from his circuit party job in Miami is probably just now touching down at LaGuardia. Screw him and his “I want you in my bed when I get home.” For what? More cuddling? I won’t be sober until after lunch. And then I’ll be useless the rest of the day. Useless except that hopefully I’ll have an entertaining story about the two brothers I took home and slept with the night before. Everyone at the agency will laugh at my forthrightness and lack of shame, and congratulate themselves that they are liberal and creative enough to have a drag queen to count among their acquaintances. And I will clean up the story a bit so that I was not quite so drunk, and not quite so unsafe, and I will wallow in their attentions and convince myself that they are jealous of my life, and then I will do it again tomorrow night and the next night until I am dead.
    The shorter one has already picked up a dress off the floor and is slipping it over his head. It’s black Lycra with strands of glittery thread sewn throughout it. He’s pulling off his jeans and he looks incredibly stupid.
    â€œYou look great,” I say. “Beautiful. Honestly. Here, take a wig. There’s all the makeup you need in the bathroom. On the back of the toilet. It’s over there.” I just want to get rid of him so I can have a little time with his brother.
    The taller one has gone into the living room, which is really just a small area partitioned off from the kitchen by an armoire I found on the street, which is further partitioned off into my bedroom of sorts. He starts playing with the stereo. I remember—happily—that he asked for a drink, so I fill two mismatched glasses with vodka, taking an extra swig straight from the bottle, and take them into the living room. I can barely walk and need to lean against the door frame.
    â€œDo you have any