Work Text:
It’s Mark who convinces her to try it.
He mentions it offhandedly at first in their fortnightly meetups for breakfast. Eleven after the divorce he remained her best friend and closest confidant. Plus, it’s good for Grace that they see each other often and catch up. And there’s no one either of them love more in the world than their perfect little girl.
“It’s been a busy week since I last saw you, Karen,” he says with a smile—his cheeks rosy and glasses pushed high on his nose. Mark carefully cuts into the waffles he’d ordered, a mug full of coffee still piping hot and steaming beside him. “I finally taught Teddy how to make the signature Chasity Chilli,” he says with a pattering laugh, shaking his head at the memory.
Karen hums, raising a brow as she drags her finger across the brim of her cup, tea almost entirely gone by now. A herbal blend, a perfect mix of sweetness and bitterness for her. “Oh? So he’s officially a part of the family now I see?” she asks with a coy smile, a teasing lilt in her voice. She recalls how smitten Mark had been for Ted back in highschool—knows how guilty he’d felt all these years for how it ended. They both had their regrets, Karen and Mark, and things they gave up to have the life they did for so long. Picture perfect, the Chasitys. Mark and Karen, coming in a set. And yes, there are regrets, but Karen would take none of it back. Not if that meant giving up Gracie. She’s sure Mark would say the same. “You thinking of putting a ring on that finger, Mark?”
He shakes his head with a small laugh at that, his cheeks flushing a deeper red and fanning down his neck. “No, no—nothing like that,” Mark says, rolling his eyes behind his lenses. “I’m not sure I’m ready for marriage again just yet. I think we’ll give it a couple years.”
“So, have you two been up to anything else?”
“Well…” He ducks his head in that way he does when he’s slightly embarrassed. His fingers flit along the sleeve of his button up, his gaze drifting to the side for a long moment before his eyes meet Karen’s patient ones again. “We’ve been visiting this bar.”
A bar. Neither Karen nor Mark had been too many of those in their time together. Which had been all of their adulthood until recently. Karen leans forward, slightly curious.
“It’s called The Birdhouse,” Mark continues. “I’ve um… I’ve been trying drag.”
For a moment Karen isn’t sure what he means. Drag. Her mind goes to drag racing first—and sure, Mark is a good enough driver, but hardly the type built for racing. Certainly not in his Audi or Karen’s Subaru. Karen opens her mouth to voice as such—and that’s when it clicks.
Drag.
Drag queen.
Oh.
“Oh!”
He nods, a jittery excitement to him now as he takes a quick sip of his coffee. “It’s such great fun, Karen,” Mark says. “I finally feel totally free—singing, dancing, performing. It’s like I’m back in high school, performing Rocky Horror with Ted and falling in love all over again. And the community is just wonderful, and Ted has such a great time too. All of them are supportive and loving.”
“That’s great!”
“It really is.” He sighs, blissful and a sparkle in his eyes. He hasn’t looked like this since they were eighteen. Two kids, queer and out of place. Side by side in a church, exchanging vows, but promising something different. Protection. The shedding of Meyer and slipping into the Chasity—and Karen will never forget how Mark cried tears of joy once she was pregnant. How he whispered to Grace so soft and so sweet—how he still does, to this very day. “You should give it a try.”
What?
“What?” Karen nearly knocks off her tea, which thankfully is a small pool at the bottom of her cup. She blinks at him, eyes darting around the diner. Of course, everyone is aware of their divorce by now. Likely know of the reason—at least for Mark, who doesn’t try keeping his relationship with Theodore Spankoffski secret. Not that Karen thinks he should, not at all. It’s just… certain habits are hard to crack.
“Yeah, Karen, I’m sure you’d love it,” he pushes on, “it makes you feel entirely like a new person. More yourself, yet someone entirely new.”
“Oh, I don’t know…”
His hand covers hers, gentle and reassuring around her cup. “You don’t have to.” He’s right. Karen doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to. “It’s just something to think about.”
And Karen rarely does things she doesn’t want to. She very much enjoys being in control of her life, choosing her own path. That had been why she’d been the one to propose to Mark—even if nobody knew that—and that had been why she’d chosen the name Grace.
Except, what scares her, is this isn’t a thing she doesn’t want to do. Karen wants this. Or at least, she thinks she might. She holds the idea in her mind, truly scrutinizes it.
“Anyway.” Mark is good at that—sensing when she needs a certain topic to be dropped. Karen can always tell when he really needs to talk about something. They easily bridge that topic together. “Any luck so far on the dating market. Find any lovely new Mrs. Chasity’s out there?”
That had been another reason the divorce had been slow moving. Karen hadn’t wanted to take back her maiden name. Meyer. That wasn’t her—wasn’t who she was anymore. Hadn’t been her for a long time. A scared teenage girl, clinging to the single bit of stability she had. No, she was a wife, a mother, a woman who could make her own decisions and owned her own home, and was as far away from her the Meyer’s are she could possibly be.
Of course, when Mark had simply said, “you can stay a Chasity if you want. I wouldn’t mind. You’ll always be my family dear,” it had been a sort of lightbulb moment.
“I’m afraid I have nothing to report on that front, Mr. Chasity.”
Mark wiggles his brows, that mischievous childishness still as bright as ever. “I could always be a wingman, you know. I’ve heard I’m quite the lady killer.”
Karen tuts and shoves him gently in the arm, shaking her head at his antics. “I can handle that on my own thanks.”
That night Karen lays in bed, staring up at her ceiling. She can’t make out the pattern in the dark, the soft swirls of white. That name echoes in her mind. The Birdhouse.
Maybe she’ll have to check it out one of these days.
//
“It’s called The Birdhouse,” Alice says, not looking up from her phone.
As of recently—and by recently she means last week—Jeri has joined a few of the ladies from church for Sunday brunches after the services. It had taken a lot of hard work, but she’d made it out. Jerry couldn’t get to her anymore, and the surrounding ladies had been a big help in pulling her out of a hole she never thought she would have escaped.
“Might be a good place to make some new friends,” Alice continues, her eyes jumping up to look Jeri in the face. “You know. Outside of church.”
Jeri’s never heard of the place. The Birdhouse. But, it sounds fun. Reminds her off the pet cockatoo she had as a kid until her cousin let it out and she never saw it again. She’d sobbed into her dad’s arm for a good few hours after that—and he’d held her, even as he muttered and groaned about how soft she was.
Plus, making some new friends might be nice.
“Is it downtown?” Jeri asks, and she pushes around her salad, plastic fork long past its usefulness now.
“Yeah—can’t miss it. Giant blue neon sign, open all week. You’ll love it, Jeri.”
“Thanks, Alice.” And she means it. Alice has been a rock during this—just so supportive and always around at church. Even she claims it’s only for her father, and her girlfriend is very nice too. Deb, a lovely girl. “I’ll be sure to give it a look.”
Alice grins and nods, pleased, and the conversation moves on to future church events.
Jeri discreetly scribbles The Birdhouse on her hand with a pen.
Just for later.
//
It’s not a lie—that The Birdhouse is an easy place to find. Whilst in most ways it’s nondescript, a plain brick building with tinted windows. A hole in the wall, wedged between the Hatchetfield Deli and a long ago shut down restaurant. Jeri remembers it being open back in highschool—a small pizzeria, it smelled like licorice and soggy socks. Still, it’s the giant, cursive and baby blue neon sign— The Birdhouse— screwed to the front of the building.
There’s a small line outside. Just a couple of people—and Jeri finds the courage to squeeze her way in. Her driver's license shakes in her hand. She hasn’t really gone to any bars before, only drank wine occasionally, and certainly never spoken to a bouncer. Still, this feels like it’s worth it.
Making friends. That’s what she so desperately wants.
To her surprise is a woman. She’s wearing sleek black pants and a colorful shirt—with a bright floral pattern spread across it. She sends Jeri a small smile as she asks for her ID, winking at her as she heads inside. Jeri’s cheeks flush and she ducks her head as she slips inside—unsure of what to make of that.
It’s calm inside. All chestnut furniture and dark wooden floors, a gentle grooving music and the chatter of various people. Jeri’s eyes quickly scan the room. It’s mostly women, from what she could tell. Which makes sense. Alice likely could tell being around Jerry most of her life had made Jeri a little… nervous when it came to men.
In the center of the room a stage juts out, currently vacant and hidden in shadows. Jeri pays it no mind and weaves through the mingling crowd, easily finding a spot at the bar.
“What can I get you, dear?” the bartender asks—she’s a short woman, curly short hair and a kind smile. Her hands fidget with the apron wrapped around her waist, various rings softly clacking together as her fingers move and twist.
“Uh, well— I—” Jeri’s mouth is dry, her tongue heavy in her mouth. She doesn’t know what to say. What do people even drink? She considers wine, but she isn’t sure that’s entirely appropriate for the occasion. “Hm— I—”
“New to all of this, huh?” the woman says, all sweet. She gently taps Jeri’s arm with the tips of her fingers. “Don’t worry, we’ve all been there. I’ll start you with something easy, alright?” Jeri nods. She can’t really say much else, and the woman laughs, sliding her the drink once it’s done. “Call me when you want another—otherwise, enjoy the show.” She flits off to serve someone else, leaving Jeri alone again.
It’s odd, really, how at ease she feels. Not totally comfortable—of course not—but more than she thought. The drink is pleasant. Sweet, and if she had to guess, it probably doesn’t have too much alcohol in it. The bartender had easily assessed she was new to this sort of place, thankfully.
Jeri sips on her drink, unsure of what to do next. Should she try talking to someone? She doesn't want to just… insert herself into a conversation. Or a group. That seems like a total social faux pas. Not that Jeri has all that experience in this.
“Alright ladies—it’s the performance you’ve been waiting for,” a voice announces from speakers above her, and Jeri jumps, hand tightening around her glass just slightly. Everyone else around is abuzz at the announcement, clearly excited about whatever performance is about to happen. Jeri supposes now would be a bad time to try talking to someone. “We introduce The Birdhouse’s newest star.”
Still, she’s intrigued what this performance could be. She spins in her chair, leaning back against the bar. The chestnut wood is cool against her back, through the soft fabric of her shirt, and her eyes train on the stage. It’s lit by a single spotlight now—and the music has shifted. A country sounding song, a cowboy twang to it.
She lifts her drink again, ready for another small sip, when the curtain parts.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
A silhouette emerges from behind the silk. Broad shoulders, hands held at their waist. The figure steps into the light, and it dances off the curves of their sleek, black cowboy hat. Their outline screams cowboy. The boots, the shirt, the pants, everything.
With the tilt of their head their face is in the light—short red hair, slightly poking out from beneath the hat and tied back in a small bun. A bandana—black with purple accents—covers all but their eyes. Sharp—gray, piercing, soulful. It’s almost as if they stare right at Jeri, looking for her, before they flicker away and across the room.
“The wildest outlaw in all the west,” the narrator continues, Jeri unable to tear her eyes away as they strut across the stage. Commanding all the eyes in the room, daring them to stare, making them want to beg to see more. “Vicious, suave, unforgiving. You love him—the law hates him. It’s Clit Eastwood.”
Jeri could have sworn the name of that western icon was Clint Eastwood. Not that it matters—not when the bandana is finally lowered. Revealing a sharp jaw, a perfect nose, and the shadow of stubble.
Oh. It’s a man. That makes sense—his name is Clit Eastwood. Still, after everyone else she’d encountered Jeri had figured this was girl’s night. Except, well, maybe it makes sense for a guy to be performing for a bunch of women.
Clit pulls the microphone closest to him off the, and a soft gasp escapes Jeri’s throat. His shirt is unbuttoned for the first few, only closed at the bottom, revealing the soft expanse of skin at his chest. It’s scandalous—the way the shirt barely clings to his shoulders, dangerous and close to exposing more and more skin.
“Good evening, ladies,” his voice is higher than Jeri had expected—but still as delightful. A clear southern twang, a harmony and heavenly. Silky, Jeri wishes she could dip her finger into the swell of the sound. “Are you ready to have some fun?”
A cheer waves across the crowd, Jeri unable to stop herself from getting caught up in the composition. A cheer leaves her mouth too, and she claps her hand against the side of her glass.
Clit’s eyes dart across the room again, sweep over the faces raptly watching for the reaction he’s intent on exploiting. And, of course, his eyes meet Jeri’s Grey on green. Locked in—she can’t look away from him.
He lifts his hand, a finger, and points right at her. Crooks it, gesturing for Jeri to come closer. Inviting her up to the stage. “How about you, sweet thing?” The pet name—which she knows he probably uses on all the girls, but still—it makes her flush. Her cheeks are hot, skin likely pink all the way down to her chest, hidden under the loose fabric of her t-shirt. “Come on up here—I’ll give the ride of your goddamn life.”
Her first instinct is to decline. Shrink back like a wilting flower and shake her head—mutter an apology. She’d probably leave early, be in bed at a reasonable time, ready for the coming morning. Life would go one. Sunday Brunches with the ladies from church, nothing else the rest of the week.
Except…
Jeri stands, slipping the glass back onto the bar. Her legs shake—weak at the knees, head spinning like she might faint—but Jeri pushes onward. Maybe he can tell she’s nervous, ‘cause he smiles. A wide grin, glinting in the light. Kind. His eyes soften, and he holds out his hand. A question wrapped up in the smallest gesture.
You can say no.
That’s true. She’s sure no one would judge her for it. Anyone else would be happy to jump up and take her place.
She could say no.
But….
Jeri doesn’t.
Her hand closes around Clit’s. It’s soft, his skin. Not as calloused as she’d expected—but it’s nice. Their hands fit perfectly, closed around one another. Clit tugs her up on stage with a gentle pull, and he leans forward as she shifts ever closer.
First, a warm breath caresses her ear. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and she shivers.
“You’re new,” he says—not a question, a statement. Jeri doesn’t nod. She doesn’t need to. “Do you really think you're up for this, sugar?”
Really.
Jeri grits her teeth. Is he challenging her? She puffs out her chest and tilts her head back, looking him right in the eye. Her legs are still trembling, her fingers jittering, but she clenches her jaw.
“I’m sure.”
That earns a grin from him—a far cry from the sweetness he’d displayed. Fangs, sharp and ready to bite. He nods, tilts his head and curves his hat just slightly in a way Jeri can’t decipher a meaning from. Clit steps back and gestures to the chair in the center of the stage, gently guides Jeri by the shoulder to sit in it.
Her winks as he leans over her, tongue flicking against her lips for the briefest of moments. Jeri’s breath stutters in her chest, eyes wide as she stares up at him. His hair hangs loose, a couple red strands tickling along the side of Jeri’s cheek and she has to fight not to twitch.
Clit reaches for his belt, and Jeri follows his hands. His fingers to unclip what looks like a lasso—
Wait.
Rope?
“You’re my damsel now, little lady,” he says, unfurling the rope between the pinch of his fingers. Jeri can’t take her eyes off the way they curl and uncurl around the rope. “We don’t want my pretty pet escaping now, do we?”
A gulp gets caught in her throat, but she nods without really thinking about it. A pleased hum—a beautiful, breathtaking sound—rubles in Clit’s throat, and he drops to his knees. The hat tips down, covering his brow and his gaze.
Like a snake the wrap slithers around her arms, slowly tying it down to the armchair. It’s not tight—Jeri could easily slip her arm out, if she wanted to. Clit finishes looping, looks up at her. So handsome—his face cast in shadows, being so low to the ground. Jeri clenches her hand against the wooden arm, nails scratching along the dark polish.
His voice drops again, and he leans in close, “you alright with this going tighter, dear?”
Sweet. That’s what his breath smells like. Like peppermints and his cologne—more like perfume really, a lovely floral smell. Not what Jeri had been expecting, yet somehow far better than what she’d been expecting too.
She nods again—a dryness in her throat now. She’d hardly even drank much of what she’d ordered. Not that she cares all that much now. She’d much rather drink in the man kneeling in front of her, one of his hands resting on her knee for leverage. Jeri’s been doing her best not to pay too much mind to that.
“Use your words, sugar,” he mutters, a seriousness laced in his voice now. His hand falls away from the rope now, eyes narrowed in right on Jeri. “Do you want this?”
Oh. Jeri does. She really does. Even if this hadn’t been what she’d expected happening tonight. This is certainly a way to make some friends. Oh, God, she wants this more than she’s wanted anything for a long while.
“Yes,” she says, wobbly and broken as it leaves her mouth. “I do.”
Clit seems pleased by that—the seriousness falls, and that cocky grin returns. With a single smooth motion he tightens the rope, pressing Jeri’s arm harder into the chair. She shifts it curiously. She could still pull away, but it’d take more effort now.
It’s dangerous.
Tantilising.
Jeri’s addicted to it.
In a blink Clit is back on his feet, and he struts away, back towards the microphone. He yanks the stand towards him, tilting it down so he can easily speak to the rest of the audience.
“Whad’dya think, ladies?” he asks, eyes glancing back over. “Do you think our little cowgirl is ready for the ride of her life?”
A cheer erupts from the crowd, along with claps and jeers. Jeri’s skin flushes at the sound. A part of her—the part that’s been with her for a long time, now—wants to shrink away. The shame hovers over her for a moment. But the look in Clit’s eyes… She doesn’t know this man—has only just met him, and yet…
Yet, Jeri feels empowered. Ready for whatever he wants to throw at her.
Hungry for it.
The lights shift, darken to a cool purple. The hue matches Clit’s bandana, bathes the two of them in the same light. Matching now. The same. Jeri leans back her chair, eyes locked in on Clit as he struts back over, microphone gone from his hand again.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
He swings his leg up, pressing his knee on the outside of Jeri’s, and he leans forward again, arm propped up against the back of the chair. She drags in a sharp breath; it rattles in her chest, along with the steady thud of her heart—just like how Clit’s boots hit the stage as he walks.
A heat spreads through Jeri’s chest, down to the pit of her stomach, as Clit rolls his hips forward. But she can’t move—can’t touch him, even if she wanted to, not that she really thinks she would. The rope scratches against her skin, only now is really feeling it, unable to remain still.
The music is loud enough to vibrate the room, and it shakes Jeri’s legs. Or maybe it’s just her body doing that.
Without warning Clit stands again, back to his feet, and he circles the chair, hand still gripping the back of the hair. He looks out at the audience now, winking and grinning. Doing a little spin, whistling at a woman in the audience. Putting on a total show. His hair is loose now, falling from the small bun and tangling loose on his shoulders just slightly.
Clit whips back around to face Jeri, drags his thumb across her. Gentle. Softer than anything else he’s done so far. Along with it—a gentle kiss. Jeri leans into it, sucking in another breath. She pulls at the rope to get closer, not that it’s any use.
He’s gone again, swiping up the microphone.
“What did you say your name was darling?”
With a surge of confidence from somewhere Jeri couldn’t possibly place, she tilts her chin to look him in the eye again. “I didn’t.”
That elicits as “ooh” from the crowd, and Clit’s eyes twinkle. As if he’s impressed by her boldness. His eyes glance to the side, and he smiles, “well, do you wanna tell me?”
She does. She really wants him to know your name.
“Jeri.”
“Just Jeri?”
And she nods, “just Jeri.”
“Alright,” he adjusts the hat on his head, flourishing his arm out to her, “give it up for Jeri everyone! My perfect damsel in distress for tonight!”
The room cheers once more, and Clit claps along with them, making his way over. Slowly he unties the rope, letting it drop to the floor and pulling her up by her hand. Jeri enjoys the way he moves her, follows him as she’s led back to the stairs.
“Have a lovely rest of your night, Jeri,” he says, all charming, and Jeri damn near swoons.
Because she very much will.
Once she’s back in her seat, she gulps down her drink—hoping it’ll cure her dry throat.
“Quiet a first night, eh?” the bartender says, appearing again and giving her a friendly smile. “Have fun?”
Jeri nods. “Yeah,” she mutters through gulps, and she hums at the sweetness of the drink. “What is this by the way?”
“Oh, it’s a Shirley Temple—a non-alcoholic drink seemed like a good place for you to start.”
Oh.
Well. Maybe that’s for the best. Plus, Jeri really does like this drink.
Hm.
Maybe she’ll have to come back here next weekend.
…for another Shirley Temple, of course.
//
After the show Karen tears her hat off, dropping it to the floor once she’s backstage. She’s sweating, staring herself down in the mirror. Sure, she’s only been doing this for a couple weeks now, but tonight—
Tonight had been different.
She’s never been so hot and bothered about a guest up on stage. Of course, the first few times had been Mark—or Seraphina—which had been a great way to ease in. But even after, Karen would keep a distance. Clint was suave and charming, but mysteries. Never got so close to a volunteer.
Not like that woman tonight. With her bounding innocent and bright smile, eyes wide and curious. Face, so soft and…
Jeri.
Just Jeri.
Karen fists the vanity table so hard it cracks—damn the cheap plastic—and a whistle comes behind her.
It’s Alice, getting changed for her performance next. She’s got a single brow raised, that youthful rebellion to her, “you good?”
“Yes’ma…” Karen grunts and cuts herself off, embarrassed that she immediately fell right back into the accent—that Alice insists is truly awful, but the audience seems to think otherwise. She shuts her eyes just to stop staring at Alice’s smug face in the mirror.
"Oh, watch out Clit's gonna rack up 14k in damages over his little lady. ”
A snicker comes from another drag king getting ready for their double act with Alice, and Karen sighs, skin flushed. She tears the bandana around from her neck, too hot to be wearing it.
This…
This might be a problem.