So that’s how we all ended up together, me and Ray and Chad and Jeff, plus all the other queens: Luna Tic, Bobo Van Ness—cigarette and all—Maureen Povich, and Connie Hung. My living room seemed tiny with so many large personalities in it. I’d made margaritas, strong, with nary a hint of mix. Booze, I figured, would grease the wheels. Or, you know, keep them civil.
“What the f**k are we doing here,” groused Bobo, puffing away on my couch. FYI, she was somewhat smiling. FYI, that was civil for her.
I stood. I gulped—down my drink, that is. I lifted my hand to quiet them down. These, however, were drag queens, and a hand without cash in it did very little. “Bitches, please!” I shouted. They blinked indignantly and clutched their imaginary pearls, but quiet down they did. “We’re here for mor
