Part Two of our British Guyd’s social commentary meets comedy blog …
I lived in the attic on the seventh floor, above the Russians. There was an old butler’s pantry that had once served as the nursery kitchen, with some hot plates, a sink, and fridge; a huge bathroom with rooftop views over Buckingham Palace; a large bedroom and a sitting room with an old marble fireplace and book shelves. It hadn’t been touched since the 1960s. I couldn’t believe my luck.
There was also another room that was locked. Maria, the Peruvian housekeeper, came up as I was moving in and took a deep draw on her asthma inhaler as she reached my floor. Not surprising for someone who looked like a 70-year-old bulldog in a wig. “That” She panted, pointing to the locked room, “Is where Madame keeps things.” And gave me a knowing look. I knew Kat had had several husbands and I wondered if, like Catherine Deneuve in The Hunger, this was where she kept them. There was a strange sighing noise coming from within. I looked at Maria. “There is a loose pane in the window. Do not try and open it.”
I was in the bathroom when I heard footsteps and whispers outside. It was Tom and Oxana. “We’ve come to see if you are settling in.” Tom winked at me. Oxana merely glowered, trying to get a better view into my bedroom. “Well, come and see,” I said. She strode into my bedroom as if looking for something incriminating. Tom followed. I hadn’t finished unpacking and shoes were everywhere. There was some more whispering and then Tom said “Look, he’s got pink flowers on his boots,” pointing to some crazy brown Doc Marten’s from another epoch. “They look gay?” He smiled encouragingly, first at his wife and then me. “I’m still not convinced,” she snarled at me. “You’d better come to party tonight.”
Oxana towered over a gaggle of glitterring Malaysian Micro queens in a Xena Warrior Princess outfit. Everywhere she went they followed. She glowered at me again. “She’s not here yet, she’s getting ready.” The Micro queens gave me a look and they all bustled off. The doorbell went and four well-known gay porn stars arrived. She must have seen my surprise. She lightened up. This was a good sign, apparently. “Have a shot of GHB but don’t drink with it. She’ll be down in a moment.”
The party soon filled up with beautiful, young gay men. Then, at about ten o’clock a gong was struck and a voice from on high announced “She’s coming.” A burlesque-style track played as downstairs sashayed this bizarre and ungainly creature – all in mauve from hat to shiny toe. It was Tom. He looked like someone’s mother from a Breakfast at Tiffany’s party, complete with long gloves and telescopic cigarette holder. Why is it always the ugliest men with big noses and huge Adam’s apples who want to dress up as women? And a small voice in my head said “Out of the Frying Pan into The Fire.”