Drag Queen Bingo

We should have done karaoke, like usual. But no. It was a Tuesday. We needed an early night. We needed some competition. So the plan this time was bingo.

Oh, not your usual church bingo.

Drag queen bingo. Where one of the winning games was called the CockNBalls.

After a while, you actually forget you're in a bar full of men. Only in a gay bar can men get away with calling each other beyotch. Whore. Tramp.

But I knew differently. Because each time the hostess waved, there was no underarm jiggle. A small thing, I know. But every female has underarm jiggle. It's the curse of Eve.

There were three of the romance writers this time. Me, Monica and Tricia. Wow, it felt a little like the book I'm finishing up called Demonic Kisses, in which three old fortune tellers named Rena, Monika and Trisha go man-hunting.

It made for good magic that night...just three women. A nice triangle. One single, one divorced, one widowed. Coincidence? I think not.

And it was my lucky night. I won a bingo, but another one also did at the same time, and so I let him have it. Can't have two winners, apparently. Besides, I ended up winning the blackout. Woohoo, two winnings in one night. Of course, the prize was chugging a beer. Sigh. Designated driver night.

So Trish chugged for me.

The one drawback was: she was the only real girl in the bar full of dressed up men. Therefore, she drank girlie. Dainty little sip...oops, wipe the lip...dainty little sip again...oooh, careful, messing up my lip gloss...dainty little sip-sip...gotta check out the other guys out of the corners of my eyes...huh? What do you mean time's up?

Sigh.

Still, Monica and I whooped and hollered. Trish did a graceful little curtsy, then stumbled off the stage. (She sure does like buttery nipples, my little friend. In addition to the free shots being passed around.)

So the three of us sat around and, like authors do, took in details around us.

“The only women who ever wear pantyhose are drag queens,” Trisha noted.
“They also paint on their eyebrows,” I mentioned.
“Damn, look at those calves,” Monica said.

Just then a very attractive male in his thirties walked by. Three erotica writing heads whipped around.

“Oh, come to mama, cutie,” Monica moaned.
“Yep, yep, he's hot,” me and Trish agreed.

“Hey,” Trish said. “I think we're ready for relationships! We finally agree...and don't fight...over a man.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe we are!”

“Uh, huh,” Monica agreed, excited now, the usual sunny smile plastered on her face. “Pass me your lip plumper, Rena. I'm gonna get a man.”

Hurriedly, I dug the plumper out of my purse. We were running low, way low on this main staple. It occurred to me, we'd been this route before, because this was a new bottle. Obviously, we needed to buy it by the gallon.

I passed it over to Moe, pretending not to notice when Trish slyly reached her hand out to sip out of my only drink for the evening. Apparently, she shouldn't have made that “ewww” face when I'd ordered the sour grape martini. Get a few shots in her and she's no longer so picky.

“Ladies,” I said, my voice solemn. “If we're going to get serious about shopping for men,” I paused as Trish's arm reached out and grabbed the plumper from Monica's already swollen mouth. Monica tried to slap her hand away. Only one lip was done. Both had their eyes glued to the rear end of a guy walking past us to the bathroom. I had known the lack of competition wouldn't last long.

I gave them a moment to control themselves.

“Really. If we want boyfriends, we need to stop cruising drag queen bars.”

Trish blinked innocently. “What? I like coming to gay bars. We're the only three females here. No other bitches to trip.”

I sighed, knowing it's best for mankind that we three remain single and free.