Welcome to the wide crazy world of TJ Klune

As you can see, this is a blog (a blog, you say? You're like the only person in the world that has one!). Here are my promises to you: I promise to up date this as much as I can. I promise that at some point, you will most likely be offended. I promise you may suffer from the affliction the Klunatics know as Wookie Cry Face. I also promise to make this some place where you can see how my mind works.

You've been warned.

Saturday, February 27, 2016

Pre-Release Thoughts on The Queen & the Homo Jock King

            I hate fake/pretend relationships. Honestly, in books, in movies, anytime the focal point of the plot is a pretend relationship between the main characters, it’s usually a turn off. And the reason for the fakeness is typically ludicrous, and I tend to roll my eyes at it.
            I hate enemies to lovers stories too, because of that first word enemies. I don’t like reading books where the MC’s and love interests are mean to each other. There’s a line between snark and vitriol, and I tend to not gravitate toward the actual meanness. I like it when people actually like each other, you know?
            I hate miscommunication in books. Sure, if done well, it can add a layer to the plot, but most of the time, I just want to punch the characters in the face and demand that they talk to each other like adults and to cut that shit out. They are adults, right?
            I don’t care if a book has detailed sex scenes or not. If it did, I tend to skip over the sex scene because it’s something I’ve read before. Sex is sex is sex. I’ve had it. I know how it works. Given that I’m asexual, I’m not titillated by erotica, nor do I really even care for it. Sex scenes aren’t important to me. Great, it shows one man can put his dick in another man’s  butt, but come on. Show me the connection in other ways.
            Why am I telling you all this?
            Because I am a fucking tangle of contradictions.
            The sequel to Tell Me It’s Real comes out on February 29th, 2016. It’s called The Queen & the Homo Jock King.
            It’s also a book that’s about enemies who enter into a pretend relationship for ludicrous reasons whose attraction to each other is hampered by miscommunication until they eventually become lovers and have the raunchiest sex out of any book I’d ever written.
            I know, I know.
            Tj, you’re saying. Oh, Tj. You’re just a big ol’ mess, aren’t you?
            Mostly. But that’s okay.
            Let’s be honest here. Tell Me It’s Real was never going to be high literature. I never intended it to be. The reason TMIR existed at all was because I was tired of the shirtless torso covered books where everyone had a fucking ten inch dick and could come buckets in assholes and with their manpain and their gay for you, blah blah blah.
            I wanted to write about normal people. People who might not be the smartest or the coolest or the most attractive. Where were the overweight dudes and why didn’t they get the jocks? Where were the drag queens and why didn’t they get Twu Wuv?
            That’s the big reason for TMIR. To have gay people who could be real fall in love with each other.
            That’s not meant to be an admonition against anyone or any other author. That is also not me thinking I’m better than any other author out there. I’m not. By far. But TMIR was born out of frustration that maybe gay dudes were getting lost in the romantic fantasy.
            And so TMIR came out. And blew up, both with the good and the bad. It sold a lot. Thanks. It brought up a lot of discussion. Thanks for that too. I liked that book quite a bit. Still do, in fact. I might even love it, a little.
            Which is partly why it took so long to write the sequel, even though one was practically handed to me on a silver platter because of Sandy and Darren. Even though they only had a few scenes together, they just sparked for me, and I knew there was a story there, about why they hated each other like they did. But when one book is a success like TMIR is, it can be intimidating to write a follow up. What if it’s not as good? What if people don’t like it as much? What if they hate it and it lessens their enjoyment of the first book?
            If you think about it, and it may seem surprising, I’ve only ever published two sequels. And it’s for the same series, the Bear, Otter and the Kid books.
            And it was while in the third book, The Art of Breathing, that Kori/Corey appeared, and suddenly we were in Tucson and Paul and Vince and Sandy and Darren were there and I was overjoyed, because that wasn’t planned. At least not initially. But I thought Kori/Corey would fit in with the Tucson crew, and wouldn’t that just be neat?
            And I knew then, what they story would be, once I finished Breathing. But then life went to hell for a long time, and when I got back to writing again, I wrote new stuff instead of focusing on the told. And honestly, that’s really the reason BOATK4 hasn’t been finished yet, because I’ve wanted to expand my horizons, test the limits of my capabilities.
            Until I sat down one day and thought, I’m ready to write about some motherfucking drag queens.
            And then proceeded to write in tropes that I usually avoid like the plague. Why? Because it was fucking fun. God, I had so much fun writing this book. First and foremost, just being back with Paul and Sandy was one of the greatest joys I’ve had writing. Their friendship is what I think a perfect friendship should be: they give each other shit, they love each other fiercely, and they are always there to scratch someone’s eyes for the other if need be. So while the book is the romance between Sandy and Darren, Paul and Sandy’s friendship is a major part of it too. And Vince, of course, sweet and lovable Vince who I want to put in my pocket and keep safe forever. And then there’s the added dynamic of Corey/Kori, the bi-gendered queer who was like a missing piece in the puzzle of the dynamic between these people. Seriously, Kori/Corey fit so well that even I was surprised. I didn’t have to make any real changes to the character seen in Breathing, even if that book had a much angstier setting.
            So I faked the relationship between these enemies to lovers. I had them misunderstand each other, because are they really the enemies they think they are? (Hint: no, they’re not.)
            That just left the sex.
            Sandy is an experienced gay man. Darren is an experienced gay man.
            They both like to fuck.
            So I wrote the longest, most involved sex scene I’ve ever written, because I thought it felt right for the characters. I won’t do this for every book. I may never do it again for another book. The only reason this one is as explicit as it is, is because it adds to the dynamic of who these two are. It’s meant to progress the story forward, to show them finally coming together after all this time. And there is a scene in here in which they don’t have sex that I consider to be the most erotic thing I’ve ever written. You’ll know it when you get to it.
            And, as you probably can tell, I love drag queens. I love them for their spirit, their originality, their fierce determination, their drive to get up in front of crowds and perform their fucking hearts out. Some of the greatest people I know are queens, and you’ll see in the dedication that this book is for two very specials queens in my life.
             Typical questions:
            Is there Wookie Cry Face?
            Maybe. If there is, it won’t be as much as any of my other books.
            What level of crack is this?
            More than Normal Person, less than Lightning Struck Heart. About the same as TMIR.
            How long is it?
            160K words, a bit longer than TMIR.
            Do Tyson or Bear or anyone from BOATK make an appearance?
            By name only. I had a small scene with the Kid but it was cut during edits, because it didn’t do anything for the book, and ended up being more fan service than anything. I might release it later on as a freebie.
            Is there going to be another book in the series?
            Yes. Kori/Corey will be the lead character, which, having a transgendered main character in a romantic comedy is something I am so excited to be writing about.
            I’m sorry it’s taken this long to get here. I know three years can be a long time to wait between books. I don’t plan on it taking that long again, but things happen. There are times books just can’t wait to be written (100K words on Lightning 2, WTF), and other times I’m just not ready. If I haven’t written a follow up yet it’s because I’m not ready. I would rather wait until I am ready rather than force out a shitty book and publish it. You deserve me giving you the best to my ability. Will you always like it? No, of course not. That’s not possible. But I thank you for reading it anyway.
            I can’t wait for you to read about a Queen finally getting her King.



Saturday, February 13, 2016

First Two Chapters of Queen!

Dudes. You guys are ridiculous. The Queen & the Homo Jock King is not even out yet, and you've already put it in the top ten on boy DSP's and Amazon's bestseller lists from the pre-orders alone.  I'm so fortunate to have readers like you all who get just as excited about these characters as I do. I know it's taken three years to get here, but I think it'll have been worth the wait once you get your hands on the book on February 29th.

So! As a thank you, I give you the first two chapters of Queen. This will be all that I release in relation to excerpts until the book comes out. There are no spoilers here, as it's mainly a reintroduction to the characters. Something you might have noticed is how I've kept anything have to do with Darren to a minimum. Every post I've done, every little snippet I've released has usually not had him at all, or he only speaks a line or two. That has been intentional. I want people to be surprised by his character, so I've held everything about him back. He's a goddamn dick, but I love him, and I think you will to.


I'll do my usual pre-release thoughts on the book in another week or so, but until then, I hope you enjoy this first real look at the sequel to Tell Me It's Real, The Queen & the Homo Jock King.


Pre-Order Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Queen-Homo-Jock-First-Sight-ebook/dp/B01BO5LXK0/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

Pre-Order DSP: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=7482


Lulu Deerdancer and Buster Cleveland

I WAS seventeen when I realized I was destined to be a queen.

Because that’s when I met a legend.

I’d heard of the club down on 4th Avenue in Tucson. A gay club where apparently men could dance and drink and be happy without fear of any kind of judgment. Such a place sounded like a haven to me, especially coming off the year that I’d had, what with my parents dying, the parents of my best friend taking me in, and coming out with a vengeance.

Naturally, I convinced said best friend, Paul Auster, to come with me. It wasn’t that hard.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” he grumbled at me as we walked down the sidewalk late one Saturday night. It was early October and the night was still warm.

I smirked at him. “Oh, ye of little faith. Trust me, we’ll be just fine.”

“Yeah, but it’s a bar. And we’re not twenty-one.”

“Hence the disguises,” I reminded him.

I had done my research before deciding to attempt to get into Jack It about the specific subsections of the gay community. Paul, being the huskier of the two of us, would be more suited as a leather cub. He wore chaps we’d found at a Goodwill and a leather vest. I’d learned that cubs (who often grew up to be bears) were of a hairy sort. But Paul was as hairless as they came, much to his chagrin (“I’m a late bloomer, goddammit!”). So rather than taking the chance of being found out because of his baby-ass skin, we’d covered him up with a shirt that said GRR, DADDY and found a fake mustache from a costume store. Aviator sunglasses completed the outfit, because it was understood that if you were cool enough to be a leather cub, then you could also pull off wearing sunglasses at night.

For myself (even though I tried to eschew most labels), I thought I might fit in more as a twink than anything else. I wore the tightest red jeans I could possibly find and a shirt that said Sassy in bright, glittery letters. If I even remotely attempted to lift my arms in any way, my midriff was bared. I’d put a thin line of eyeliner under my eyes, smearing it gently. Instead of wearing sunglasses to complete my outfit, I was sucking on a Ring Pop and practicing giggling how I thought a twink might.

“It’ll be fine,” I said again.

Paul sighed. “Sandy, I look like I’m part of a Village People tribute band playing in a Four Seasons ballroom near the Milwaukee Airport. You look like you’re working undercover to catch pedophiles in the act. Nothing about this is fine.”

“It won’t be if you doubt it,” I said. “You have to believe your role, otherwise you’ll never be able to sell it. Paul, this is the performance of your career. This is what you’ve been building up toward your whole life.”

“Being a leather daddy,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been working toward.”

“Leather cub,” I corrected. “You’re not old enough to be a daddy yet.”

“Being gay is so hard,” he muttered. “Not only do you have to admit that, but then you have to find out what kind of gay you are. It’s all very confusing. It was so much easier when we played with Legos instead of dressing like leather cubs and pedo-bait.”

“Lucky for you, you have me,” I said. “And I know what kind of gay you are.”

“A leather cub.” He sounded dubious.


“My mustache itches.”

“Don’t play with it, Paul. Jesus. You’re going to knock it loose.”

“I don’t see why I have to wear a mustache,” he said. “I’m not a cartoon villain who’s going to tie you to train tracks as part of my evil plot.”

“Well, maybe if you had grown your own facial hair like I’d asked, you wouldn’t be in this position, now would you?”

“I tried! You know it’s hard for me to grow a beard. And then to have to do it because you told me to? I have performance anxiety!”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said as we turned a corner, the front of the club coming into view. “What’s done is done. We’re here, we’re queer, get used—oh my god, stop touching the mustache!”

He rolled his eyes at me.

I pulled him to a stop. “Remember your part,” I told him. “You’re a strong, confident leather cub. You own this role.”

He nodded. “I’m a leather cub. I’m a leather cub.”

“You have your fake ID I got you.”

“Right. Which says my name is Buster Cleveland.”

“Exactly,” I said. “It’s your porn name, I told you. Your first pet and the first street you lived on. They were cheap, okay? The guy said it had to be this way.”

“And you believed him?”

I scoffed. “Uh, yeah. He was selling fake IDs. Obviously he’s reputable and knows what he’s doing.”

“What’s yours?”

“Oh look, it’s getting late. We should go.”

“Sandy,” he said, an evil grin forming on his face.

“No. Don’t you dare.”

“What’s your fake ID porn name?”

“Shut up, Paul.”

“Because if I remember right, your first pet was a gerbil named Lulu.”

“Shut up, Paul.”

“And the first street you lived on was Deerdancer.”

“Oh my god.”

“Sandy? Does your fake ID say your name is Lulu Deerdancer?” He was trying desperately not to laugh, the bastard.

“No,” I said savagely. “It says my name is Rocco Cordova because that is awesome and amazing.” I was lying. My fake ID said Lulu Deerdancer. The guy I’d bought them from had laughed his ass off. I hated him with a passion that burned like a thousand suns.

“Okay, Rocco.” He patted my shoulder. Like a jackass. “I believe you.”

“Whatever,” I said. “Now. Just be a leather cub and I’ll be a twink, and we’ll get into the gay bar and do gay-bar things and everything will be amazing.”

“What the hell are gay-bar things?” he asked.

“You know. Drinking and blow jobs. Or whatever.”

“You have no idea, do you.”

“Not in the slightest. Now let’s go.”

I tried to project that I was a most confident and completely legal twink as we approached the entrance to Jack It. I accomplished this by sucking on my Ring Pop and giggling. I thought it a master plan with absolutely no chance of failure.

There was a bouncer at the front of the club, a large older man wearing a leather jacket and glaring at everyone that walked by. He had to have been in his sixties, the lines and crags in his face pronounced. To say he was intimidating would have been an understatement, but I was a twink on a mission and I was getting in that goddamned club. The music pulsed and I could feel the vibrations underneath my feet. I had to get in there. It was calling me.

The bouncer stiffened slightly as we approached, glancing first at me, his eyes widening as he looked at Paul trailing behind me. For the briefest of moments, I thought I saw his lips curl into the world’s smallest smile, but it could have been just a trick of the light.

“Hi.” I giggled. I licked the Ring Pop as slowly as I possibly could and hoped that the elderly bouncer would get slightly turned on and let us in.

“Why hello there, chicken,” he said, which made absolutely no sense. Who used fowl for pet names? “What brings you out so late?”

“We wanted to go dancing,” I said. “You know, like we do every Saturday night.”

He crossed his considerable arms over his considerable chest. “That right.”

“Yeah.” I sucked on the Ring Pop and looked up at him through my eyelashes like a good twink. Or at least that’s what the Internet taught me. Also, apparently twinks were good at getting rimmed, but I wasn’t prepared to go that far to get into Jack It. I had some self-respect, after all.

“Every Saturday night?”

“Sure,” I said, going for subtle as I elbowed Paul.

“Ow, Sandy, what the fuck?” he whined.

Leather cub,” I hissed at him.

He flushed. “Oh. Right.” He coughed and squared his shoulders. When he spoke, he’d dropped his voice an octave or two. He sounded like he was grunting. It was completely ridiculous. “Yeah. Every Saturday. It’s where I hang out with my fellow leather bears.”

“Cubs,” I giggled dangerously. “You mean cubs.”

“Right. Yeah. Cubs. Rawr.”

“Really?” the bouncer asked. “How fortuitous. I’m a big part of the leather community. I think we’d have met before if you are too. Can’t really see your face, though. Because of the sunglasses you’re wearing. At night.”

“Nope,” Paul said, twitching only minimally. “I tend to stay in the shadows. You know. Thinking about leather cub things.”

“Wow,” the bouncer said, not sounding impressed at all. “Like what leather cub things exactly?”

“You know.” Paul started to sweat, and I almost bit through the Ring Pop completely. “Like. How… like anytime I see cows I think how awesome their skin will be when it’s made into leather and I get to wear it.”

“Oh my god,” I muttered.

“You sit in the shadows and think about cows,” the bouncer said.

“Yeah. Oh man. I could really go for a hamburger right now.”

“That so?”

“Rawr.” Paul bared his teeth. “Or however cubs do it.”

I needed to take control of the situation before we were found out. “Anyway.” I gestured wildly with my arms so my bare stomach was revealed. The bouncer didn’t even look down. “We’re always here. You probably just don’t remember us.”

“Oh, trust me,” he said. “I highly doubt I would have forgotten either of you.”

I giggled.

Paul rawred again.

The bouncer sighed. “All right. We’ll keep going, if that’s what you want. How old are you boys?”

Ha! We’d practiced this. We knew the dates on our IDs.

“Twenty-six,” Paul said.

“Twenty-nine,” I said.

“It’s like you’re not even trying,” the bouncer said.

Paul looked cub-ish.

I licked my Ring Pop.

“I suppose I should ask to see your IDs, then,” the bouncer said.

“Which says I’m the age I just told you,” Paul said unnecessarily. “Obviously.”

“I’m sure it does,” the bouncer said. “Because if it didn’t or, say, it was a fake, that’d be illegal.”

“Oh sweat balls,” Paul muttered as he pulled out his wallet.

“I like handcuffs,” I said, trying to encapsulate the role of the airy twink I was born to play. I pouted a little bit, my bottom lip sticky from the Ring Pop. “One time, this police officer tried to arrest me, but then he said I was precious and we used his handcuffs for entirely different reasons.”

“What?” Paul snapped. “Why the hell didn’t you say anything? Who the hell was it? And why were you getting arrested? You slut!”

I glared at him before looking back at the bouncer. “Sorry,” I simpered. “Sometimes my friend forgets himself.”

“I’m sure he does,” the bouncer said. “IDs.”

I grabbed Paul’s and handed them both to the bouncer. He looked at each of us, as if trying to memorize our faces before focusing on the IDs. He snorted. “Buster Cleveland, huh?”

“Yes,” Paul said immediately. “It’s German. Because of the Nazis. Er. My grandparents fled the Nazis. And now I’m Buster Cleveland, leather cub. Because freedom isn’t free. Or whatever.”

Goddammit. Paul had one job.

“Right,” the bouncer said. “Freedom isn’t free.” And then he switched to mine and I knew I had to sell this, I knew I could do this.

Well, I thought I could until the bouncer outright laughed.

“Lulu Deerdancer?” His chuckle was deep and raspy.

“I knew it, oh my god,” Paul said. Then, “Um. I mean. Of course I knew that. Because you’re my friend. My friend Lulu Deerdancer. Heh. I can’t believe that’s your name. That’s so awesome. And stupid.”

“Exactly.” I ground my teeth together. “I am Lulu Deerdancer and I am twenty-nine years old and I am perfectly legal to enter this here homosexual establishment and partake in beverages and repetitive techno music.”

“Because you both have been here before.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Hmm,” the bouncer said.

Then Paul sneezed and his mustache flew off his face and landed on the cheek of the bouncer.

The silence that followed was slightly awkward.

“Huh,” Paul said. “I guess that’s easier than shaving. It’ll certainly revolutionize the facial hair industry.”

I choked on my tongue as the bouncer slowly peeled the wet mustache off his cheek, looking less than amused. And he might have been much, much older, but there was no doubt he could squash us both with his freakishly large hands.

He held out the mustache to Paul.

Paul took it back. He grimaced as he put it back under his nose.

“So,” the bouncer said. “This must be really awkward for you.”

“You have no idea,” I said.

“Well, maybe we should—”

“Charlie! Yoo-hoo. Charlie. Be a dear and help me, won’t you? I swear, my lady balls are about to pop out all over the sidewalk. We certainly can’t have that happening, now can we?”

And then she entered the world.

There are definitive moments in everyone’s life, moments that will help shape and define who you are and who you will become. Meeting Paul was a moment. Realizing I was gay was a moment. My parents’ death was a moment.

And this six-foot-four drag queen stumbling our way carrying an armful of shiny costumes, the sequins flashing in the street lights, multiple wigs tucked under her chin, barefoot with red vinyl thigh-high boots slung over her shoulder… well.

She was a moment.

“Who is that?” I whispered.

No one heard me, but I didn’t expect them to. I didn’t know if I’d have heard an answer anyway, given that all of my attention was on this glorious creature who moved like casual chaos. The bouncer (Charlie, she’d called him) moved toward her and caught her right before she dropped everything onto the sidewalk. She grinned at him, all lipstick and sharp teeth. “Well, aren’t you just a knight in shining armor,” she purred. “Saving little old me from certain doom. Why, if I didn’t know any better, kitten, I would think you were trying to court me.”

Charlie huffed out a laugh. “Darling, if I was courting you, you’d know it. Most likely because you’d have ended up over my knee with that pert little ass stinging from my hand.”

“Ooh,” she moaned. “The thought alone is enough to make my thighs quiver.”

“An image I will now never be without,” Charlie said. He began to relieve her of her burdens, draping the shiny material carefully in his arms.

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said. “How fortunate for you. You’re one of a very select few who…. Okay, we both know that’s a lie. I’ve spent so much time with my legs in the air, I’m thinking about getting a sign that says open twenty-four hours a day.”

“Holy shit,” Paul choked.

She locked onto Paul and me with her razor-sharp gaze over Charlie’s shoulder. “Well, well, well,” she said, arms free now that Charlie held everything. “What have we here?” She pushed her way around Charlie, slinking her way toward us, hips rolling, one foot snapping out in front of the other as she prowled. “I didn’t know we were having a middle-school field trip with us today. But I suppose it’s better to recruit early than not at all, hmm? I mean, that’s what the zealots are all concerned with. May as well prove them right.”

She came to stand in front of me, eyes coolly assessing. I forgot to be nervous because I was completely distracted by the amount of bangles she had clinking along her arms and the gaudily large hoop earrings in her ears. Her makeup was expertly applied, carefully straddling the line between just enough and far too much. Even though she wasn’t much taller than I was, she seemed larger than life, and I adored her.

“I want to be you when I grow up,” I breathed.

And she laughed. “Well now, aren’t you adorable, chicken.”

I scowled at her. “I’m not a chicken.”

“Oh, pocket gay,” she said, running a perfectly manicured fingernail across my cheek, “you are the perfect definition of such. Now. Why are you here and not at home doing Pokémon or whatever the devil it is children do these days? Tic-tac-toe? I don’t know even know anymore.”

“I was doing that yesterday,” Paul said. “The Pokémon thing. I’m going to catch them all.”

“Good for you,” she said. “This place isn’t for you. Either of you.”

“I’m old enough.” I scowled at her.

Charlie snorted. “Ms. Muffman, may I introduce to you Lulu Deerdancer and Buster Cleveland. According to their IDs, both are in their twenties. Lulu here likes to fellate a sucker on his finger while laughing like a hyena. Buster is a self-proclaimed leather cub who sneezed his mustache on my face.”

Ms. Muffman threw her head back and laughed, a low throaty thing that made me want to know all her secrets immediately. “Oh, this is delightful. I am delighted by the two of you. But this is no place for little boys. Shoo, little boys. Come back when you have hair on your balls.”

“Uh,” Paul said. “I have several, so….”

I thought myself in the presence of something reverent. “We just wanted to come here and see what this was all about. We weren’t going to do anything. Honest.”

“You said drinking and blow jobs,” Paul hissed.

“Drinking and blow jobs,” Ms. Muffman said, rolling her eyes to Charlie. “Were we ever that young?”

“Speak for yourself,” he said. “You’re not that much older than they are.”

“Liar,” she said fondly. “But I’ll allow it because I love you so. Kiss, kiss. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a show to prepare for.” She started to turn away.

“A show?” I asked. “What show?” Because I couldn’t let her go without finding out as much as I could.

“Why, the greatest show on earth, of course,” she said. “It’s a performance for the ages.”

“I see your Spice Girls outfit in here,” Charlie said mildly.

“I see what you did there.” She glared lightly at the bouncer. “You’re lucky I think the world of you, otherwise I would have made slippers out of your testicles long ago.”

“But,” Paul said, “you have big feet.”

I gaped at him.

Charlie shrugged. “I have big balls.”

“How nice,” Paul said faintly.

“And since when do you tell a lady she has big feet?” Ms. Muffman scowled.

“Um, never?” Paul guessed.

“Good answer,” she said. “You may live.”

“Oh thank god,” Paul said. “My parents would have killed me if you’d have murdered me.”

“As lovely as this has been,” she said. “And trust me, it has been lovely. Probably more so for you than me. But still. A queen never leaves her subjects wanting. Well. Maybe just a little.” She winked and started to walk away.

But I couldn’t just let her leave. Not without finding out the most important thing in the world. “Who are you?” I demanded.

“Oh, here we go,” Charlie muttered.

She turned and smiled at me. Up close, it felt like watching Shark Week in 3-D with all those teeth. “My dear little chicken,” she said. “I am the tallest bitch in captivity. I am revered. I am feared. I make all the straight boys queer. I am the exalted one who plucks little chickens such as yourself.” She leaned forward and her lips scraped against my ear. Her breath was hot against my skin as she whispered, “I am the drag queen Vaguyna Muffman.”

She pressed a sticky kiss against my cheek, a perfect imprint of her lips I would find hours later, a furious shade of magenta that would be a bitch to wash off.

And then she spun away, the door to the club opening as if on cue, music spilling out and lights flashing. She disappeared inside, leaving behind a trail of glitter and feathers trailing from the boa around her neck.

“Scram, chickens,” Charlie said, following Vaguyna Muffman. “Don’t make me bend you over my knee. You won’t like it when I do.”

The door closed behind him.

“Holy shit,” I managed to say.

“I told you this wouldn’t work,” Paul muttered.

But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that we hadn’t made it into the club right then. It didn’t matter that there was no drinking or blow jobs. It didn’t matter that Paul had sneezed off his mustache or that I had basically gotten to third base with a Ring Pop.

No, none of that mattered.

None of that mattered because for the first time since the day the guidance counselor pulled me from AP English to hear from Matty and Larry Auster that my parents were dead, I felt something like fire bloom within me. It was strength and passion and the urge to become something more than what I already was.

It was another moment.

She’d given it to me, whether she knew it or not.

And I was going to run with it as fast as I could.

It felt good, having the decision made.

“I’m going to be a fucking drag queen,” I said in awe.

“Oh sweat balls,” Paul sighed.


You’ve heard my origin story.

Like any superqueero, I had a beginning.

Maybe part of it was tragic, though the trauma was not the focus.

But it helped to shape who I’ve become.

I am not defined by tragedy.

Instead, I made it my bitch.

Because there is one thing you should remember above all else.

I am a Queen, motherfuckers.

And I demand respect.

You ready?

It’s time to rock out with our cocks out

Chapter 1 

A Dick for You and a Dick for Me

As I was on my knees in a back room of the club Jack It, my lipstick smeared and my eyes watering as I choked on a dick, I had a rather indulgent thought: if cocksucking could be considered a form of art, then I was the Leonardo da Fucking Vinci of fellatio.

I couldn’t even really remember how I’d ended up back here, my tights stretching along my knees as I worked the magnificent dick in front of me. It was thick and fat, a gorgeous dark vein running underneath that I worshipped with my tongue. A great set of balls hung heavy between his muscled thighs. He grunted as he started thrusting into my mouth, his hands coming up to my head.

I pulled off his dick and batted his hands away, glaring up at him. His face was obscured in shadow, as he leaned back against the wall. “You touch the wig, baby doll,” I purred, “and I’ll rip your fucking dick off and shove it down your throat. Do we have an understanding?”

He grunted, his hands falling to his sides.

“Good boy,” I said, running my hand up the length of his cock. It felt spit-slick and hot in my hand. “Now, where was I?”

I took his dick in my mouth again, fisting the base and jacking him slowly. I opened up my throat and took him in down to my fingers, my nose brushing against his pubes. He groaned, his hands twitching at his sides, obviously fighting the urge to reach out and take control. That poor, sweet boy. Probably college frat, from the way he moved. All cocky and confident, thinking he was the one in control. After all, he was the one getting his dick sucked.

But in all my years of experience, I’ve learned it’s the one doing the sucking that’s in control. And that’s what I liked. That’s what she liked. Helena Handbasket didn’t have a goddamn submissive bone in her body.

Unless she wanted it there, of course.

He was getting close, I could tell. The muscles in his stomach were jumping underneath his tight shirt. His hands were fisted now at his sides. His thighs were trembling, the poor dear. He’d probably go back to his frat house with my lipstick rings around his dick and tell himself he’d fucked that queen good, that he really gave it to her hard. But in the back of his tiny little mind, he’d wonder just how little control of the situation he’d had.
And he’d be right.

Someone else came into the back room, but I ignored them. At least until they’d pressed against the frat guy above me at his side. I was annoyed, and I glared up through my false eyelashes, trying to relay my disdain with a dick in my mouth. It was a look I’d mastered many times over.

But the new guy was rubbing the chest of the frat boy, their faces pressed together, still hidden in shadow. They were kissing, so either I was blowing someone’s boyfriend or they were really close in this frat house. I wasn’t in the mood to double fist or have multiple cocks in my face, at least not tonight. Whatever. He was going to come and then I’d leave him with—

The cock in my mouth jerked when the man moaned, “Sandy.”

I immediately pulled off the dick because what and who the fuck was this guy to know my real name? I was in drag. I wasn’t fucking Sandy.

“Excuse me?” I snapped, voice croaky and hoarse from exertion. His dick jerked again and brushed against my cheek.

“Close,” he said as his friend sucked on his ear. “So close, just—”

And then he leaned forward to touch my face, to pull me back onto his dick.

Vincent Melody Taylor grinned down at me as his precome smeared against my lips. “Come on. Just finish. I’m so close.”

“Yeah,” his buddy said. “Come on. You know you want to finish. And then it’s my turn.”

And I knew that voice.

That motherfucking voice.

Darren Mayne.

The Homo Jock King.

Who was sucking on Vince’s neck.

His half­-brother.

I said, “Sweet baby Jesus, this is some hot fucked-up shit right here.”

“Look,” Vince said, dick still bobbing free. “It’s cool. We’re all friends here.”

“And some of us are related,” I pointed out, like I was being helpful.

“Yeah,” Darren said. “But we have different mothers, so it’s cool. It’s not completely illegal.”

“That should not be a decider in an incestuous three-way,” I said.

“Or is it the best decider?” Vince groaned as Darren did something fancy with his tongue.

“You love Paul,” I accused him, anger flaring. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Yeah,” Paul said, appearing in a puff of smoke for some reason. “What the hell are you doing without me?” And then it just got weirder as Paul began to strip. “Someone suck on my nipples,” he demanded as he pulled his shirt over his head. “They’re very sensitive.”

Darren and Vince pushed me out of the way, knocking me on my ass as they latched themselves to Paul’s chest.

“That’s the good stuff,” Paul sighed. “I like this quite a bit.”

And then a marching band began to walk through the back room with Paul’s nana leading the way, cackling while she twirled a baton and pranced around.
The actor known as Johnny Depp followed behind them in full Pirates of the Caribbean costume, and as he passed me, he looked down and said, “Paul’s a fudgepacker, ya savvy?”

“I savvy,” I said, because I really did.

“Enough with the foreplay,” Paul said. “It’s time for a four-way.”

And he reached for me.

So naturally, I screamed myself awake.

It was only a moment later when the light flipped on in my room, a sweet dark-skinned boy staring at me with wide eyes. “What the hell?” Corey Ellis demanded, running his hands over his sleep-rough face. “Are you okay?” His eyes darted around the room before coming back to rest on me. His hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, strands hanging around his face.

I pushed myself up against the headboard of my bed, pulling the covers up around my chest. “I’ve seen things,” I told him ominously. “Things.”

He took a step into the room warily. “Was Mr. Escadero peeking through the window again? I swear to god, I’m going to cut that creepy old bitch.”

I shook my head. It hadn’t been our elderly next-door neighbor who thought we were his personal cam-boy show. Not this time. This fear had been real. “I had a dream,” I whispered.

His face softened and he came to the bed, sitting on the edge, patting my knee. “Bad?” he asked quietly.

“Awful,” I said. And then, “Mostly.”

He arched an eyebrow. “How so?”

“You know when you have a dream about doing something you shouldn’t and then it turns incestuous and you think, well, that wasn’t so bad and then there are marching bands?”

His lips twitched. “Um. What?”

“Paul cheated on Vince,” I admitted. “With me.”

“You what? When the hell did you—”

“In my dream,” I said.

“Jesus Christ, don’t scare me like that—”

“And then, while I was blowing him, Vince started making out with Darren.”

His eyes bulged. “That… should not be an image that I find attractive, but holy shit. Like, full-on making out? With tongue and—”



“And then Paul came in and there was nipple sucking.”

“Whose nipples?”

“Paul’s. You know how sensitive his nipples are.”

“Unfortunately I do,” Corey said. “You were sucking on his nipples?”

“No,” I said. “Jesus, Corey, keep up, will you? Vince and Darren were sucking his nipples. I was still on my knees trying to recover from deep throating Vince.”

“Oh dear god,” he choked.

“You can never tell him,” I said. “Paul is a sweet, soft, innocent soul and this would crush him.”

“Uh,” Corey said. “We’re speaking about the same Paul, right? Like, Paul Auster? Because he’s not sweet or innocent. Maybe a little soft, but he’s the type where the weight looks good on him, so—”

“It would destroy him,” I said. “Can you imagine, hearing from his oldest and dearest friend that said friend is having sexual relations with his partner?”

“In your dreams,” Corey said.

“That is beside the point!” I said shrilly. “The fact that I even dreamt of such a thing means that I have some unconscious desire to fuck Vince.”

“Huh,” Corey said. “So, using that line of logic, that must mean you also want to fuck Darren—”

“You shut your whore mouth,” I snarled at him. And then I coughed. “I mean, what? Pshaw. I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Darren who?”

He rolled his eyes. “Right. Because I’m not an expert at people who pine over each other. I didn’t spend last summer drowning in the angst that was Tyson and Dominic, after all.”

“Ah, yes. The twinkie and his cop. They’re so precious. And we are nothing alike.”

“Yes, Sandy.”

“You would do well to remember that. Darren is an asshole and I want nothing to do with him and I also hate his face and his ridiculously muscled body.”

“Yes, Sandy.”

“His personality also leaves something to be desired. He’s narcissistic at best. At worst, he’s borderline sociopathic. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone more self-involved then he is.”

“Yes, Sandy.”

“I don’t even know why we have to be talking about him right now. What possible value does someone like him even have to society as a whole? All he does is fuck twinks and piss me off.”

“He also watches every performance you have,” Corey said mildly.

“Right?” I exclaimed. “He is so creepy. Why the hell are we even talking about him again?”

Corey grinned. “Honestly, I have no idea. You were the one that had sex dreams about him.”

“About Vince,” I corrected. “Darren just happened to be there. And Paul.”

“And the marching band.”

“Yes, that. This can never get to Paul. Why, the betrayal alone would absolutely devastate him. I cannot be responsible for the emotional destruction of my best friend.”

“Yes, Sandy.”

“Hand me my phone.”


“I have to call Paul,” I said. “The weight of my guilt is crushing me and he has to know the truth.”



He knew better than to sass me while I was emotionally conflicted. He merely remarked on the fact that it was two in the morning and surely it could wait until a more reasonable hour. But Corey couldn’t understand the depths of my pain. Paul needed to know, so we could begin to mend the rift that would undoubtedly spring between us. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be too large to overcome. We couldn’t lose almost two decades of friendship because I’d suddenly developed a brothers kink at the age of thirty-one.

I put the phone on speaker and bit my thumbnail as it began to ring.
After the fifth ring, he answered, voice annoyed and muffled. “Sandy, I swear to god, you better be on fire if you’re calling me this late. It’s two in the goddamn morn—”

“Maybe I am!”

“Are you?”

“No, of course not. That’d be ridiculous.”


“Paul,” I said. “This is a surprise.”

“Uh. No. It isn’t. You called me.”

“Oh. Is that right? I guess I did. Ha-ha. How about that.”

“What’s up?”

“Nothing much. What’s up with you?”

Corey snorted and I had to fight the urge to smack him upside the head.

“Are you high?” Paul asked.


“Are you high?”

“That was one time and we were nineteen and you swore you’d never bring that up again.”

“So you’re not going to cry and tell me you’re stoned but that you love me more than anything else in the world and that you wish we were both princesses who lived in a castle made of clouds and good dreams and were serviced by Latinos with bronzed skin and names like Esteban and Jorge Lopez Santiago?”

“Oh my god,” Corey laughed. “This is so amazing. I love everything about this. Please, continue.”

“Corey, is he stoned?”

Corey leaned forward until his face was inches from my own. “No. It doesn’t look like it. Though, he does have some bags under his—”

“I will see you as a homeless street urchin if you finish that sentence,” I growled at him.

“He looks luminous,” Corey said instead. “Vibrant. Not tired at all. He would get carded trying to see an R-rated movie.”

“Good boy.”

Paul sighed. I heard mumbling in the background. “No, it’s Sandy and Corey. Apparently, Sandy is having one of his moments.”

“And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“Hi, Sandy and Corey,” Vince said, voice sleep-rough.

“Hi, Vince,” Corey said.

So I squeaked, “Meep,” because I had sucked Vince’s cock. In my dreams.

“What the hell was that noise?” Paul asked. “Sandy, did you buy one of those hairless cats and it’s now dying in your arms?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to save face. “Its name Wrinkles McSkin and it’s dying and it’s moist and that’s the only reason I called.”

“Sandy’s cat is dying?” Vince asked. “That’s terrible.”

“Yes,” Paul said. “His cat is dying of lies.”

“How dare you!” I shrieked at him.

“I don’t get it,” Vince said. “Is that some kind of cat disease? I had a cat when I was a kid. Mom said it ran away, but I think it got eaten by coyotes.”

“Why do you think that?” Paul asked.

“Because I found its tail near a cactus behind the house.”

“God, I love you,” Paul said. “And that was a sad story.”

“Eh,” Vince said. “I got a car out of it, so I was all right.”

“First-world problems are my favorite kind,” Corey said.

“Sandy,” Paul said. “Are you going to tell me or do I have to guess?”

I wanted to tell him to guess just to see what he came up with, but my guilt was almost crippling. “I had a dream where I was blowing Vince and then he made out with Darren and they both sucked on your nipples and Nana led a parade with Captain Jack Sparrow. Or something.”

Dead silence.

Corey sighed. “It really is my own fault that I surround myself with these kinds of people. There’s no escape for me.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “What kinds of people would that be?”

“The best kind,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “I really do feel better after getting that off my chest.”

“You had a what about what?” Paul screeched.

“I wouldn’t make out with Darren,” Vince said. “I’m in a one hundred percent committed relationship with Paul.”

“Aw,” Paul said. “That’s so—wait a minute. That’s the only reason?”

“Well, yeah, I guess,” Vince said. “I mean, he’s attractive, right?”

“You’ll get there in a second,” Paul said.

“Get where? It’s not as if I’m going to do—oh. Wait. He’s my brother.”

“There it is,” Corey said.

“Oh no,” Paul said. “Sandy. Sandy.”


“What if I have a brothers kink now? What if your dream was prescient and they both latch themselves onto my nipples?” Of course he would go there. Because I’d already had the same thought. It was comforting to know Paul and I were the same. Well. Sort of comforting.

“Yeah,” Vince said. “Doubt that’s going to happen.”

“Because you’d fight him for the right to my nipples?” Paul asked.

“Sure,” Vince said. “I’d fight anyone for your nipples. And also because Darren wants to bone Sandy and not you.”

“Oh,” Paul said. “That’s right.” I could hear the goddamned smirk in his voice.

“He does not,” I hissed. “For one, I am not a barely legal twink with more abs than brain cells. Two, there has to be attraction for that and I assure you, I am not attracted to him. At all.”

“Denial isn’t just a river in South America,” Vince said seriously.

“What?” Paul said. “Vince, no. It’s not in South America.”

“Oh. Brazil?”

“That’s still South America.”

“Huh. It’s not Asia, because I would have seen it.”

“Vince, we didn’t go to all of Asia.”

“Mostly,” Vince said. “Remember when you wore that sumo wrestle diaper thing and we had sex next to the shop that sold food that looked like the carcass of a shaved Bigfoot?”

“None of that happened,” Paul said quickly.

“All of that happened.” Vince sounded very smug. “I made you make sex face, like, four times.”

“So gross,” I muttered.

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this,” Corey said, “but I really want to move back to Seafare now.”

“Sorry, baby doll,” I said. “I have my claws in you and I’m never letting you go.”

“But we’ll still give you the illusion of freedom,” Paul said. “Unless you step out of line.”

“Lovely,” Corey said with a sigh.

“Do you forgive me?” I asked Paul.

“For having an incestuous orgy sex dream involving my boyfriend and his brother?”


“Sure,” Paul said. “Why not. I can dig it.”

“Good,” I said, relieved.

“I love you,” Paul said.

“Aw. I love you too.”

“But I swear to fucking god, Sanford Stewart, if I even catching you looking at my man wrong, I will rip off your fucking arms and shove them so far up your ass, you’ll be gagging on your own fingers.”

The phone beeped as he disconnected the phone call.

“Wow,” Corey said. “Paul can be scary.”

“Sometimes. But usually not at all.” I yawned. “I feel like I can sleep now. Also, we should talk later about getting a hairless cat. I feel like it’s a thing I should have now.”

“Also,” Corey said, “we should talk about that river in South America you seem to be drowning in. I feel like that’s a thing you do now.”

“Turn off the light when you leave,” I said brightly. “And pray you don’t wake up tomorrow with your eyebrows shaved, baby doll. Now go to sleep. You have an early class.”

He grumbled and switched off the light.

I laid back against the pillows and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

Denial. What did they know?

I wasn’t in denial.

I would know if I was. I was very attuned to my sense of self. I was a drag queen, after all.

I didn’t believe in love at first sight, even knowing Paul and Vince.

But I certainly believed in the exact opposite.

I hated Darren Mayne.

And absolutely nothing would change my mind on that.