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The lights were too bright in his eyes, the music was too loud, and his shoes were cutting his feet off of circulation. Ángel was starting to regret his idea of putting on a performance at their favorite gay nightclub. But Ángel really wanted to give Ramiro something he would love for his birthday, and Ramiro had been saying for months that he was turned on by the idea of Ángel in drag.
The hardest part had been hiding the surprise from Ramiro. Drag, as it turned out, was a lot more work than Ángel anticipated. Developing a routine was only part of the process. There was also the costuming, and the makeup, and the reorientation of certain body parts, none of which Ángel knew how to do. Luckily, drag queens were a welcoming bunch and were always willing to teach newcomers wanting to learn the craft. Unfortunately, the number of hours he had spent learning everything meant that Ángel had to come up with a lot of excuses for why he couldn't spend time with Ramiro. Any longer, and Ramiro's patience would have run out.
Ángel’s outfit was an old dress he had stolen from his mother's closet. His mother was a dancer before she gave birth to Ángel. She kept all of her old outfits as a reminder of her former profession, which only serves to fuel the bitterness and resentment for having to give it all up. Ángel didn't tell her that he was taking the dress, or that he planned on modifying it to fit his more masculine figure. Ángel figured she owed him, what with everything she put him through.
Ángel didn't want to wear heels initially. But the local queens insisted that he had to, if he truly wanted to look the part. One of them lent him their shoes, which were slightly too small. He didn't know how women did it, wearing these things all day. Ten minutes in them and he already felt like his feet were going to fall off. He hoped it was worth it.
Ángel stood just out of sight, waiting for the emcee to introduce him and hoping he wouldn't fall over in the meantime. Peering out over the crowd, he could just about make out the back of Ramiro’s head. He had cajoled a few friends to convince Ramiro to sit right in front of the stage and from the looks of it, they had succeeded. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now was just making him even more nervous.
One of the other queens had just finished her routine and was coming his way. “Go get 'em, tiger,” she said, slapping his ass as she walked by. It was enough to help him loosen up a little.
“Alright, we've got a special treat for you tonight. Please welcome, for the very first time, Sara Fína!”
Ángel took a deep breath and strutted out onto the floor. Some of the crowd started cheering and whistling. The first few notes of the now too familiar Marisol cover of La Tarara blasted through the speakers, which elicited a few more cheers, especially from the slightly older men in the crowd.
As Ángel bounced with the rhythm towards the stage, he could finally catch a glimpse of Ramiro. The look on his face was a mixture of shock and glee. Ángel pretended to ignore him, until he got to the line “la Tarara dice que no tiene novio.” That was when Ángel seductively ran his fingers across Ramiro's goatee, causing him to turn a bright shade of red.
Ángel then broke into his dance solo, a cross between flamenco and vogue that he'd choreographed himself. He even managed not to fall over, which he'd been afraid of ever since he first tried on the heels. If the crowd was cheering for him after, he didn't hear it. All Ángel could perceive was the humongous grin on Ramiro's face.
Ramiro came to see him in the changing room after his performance. “So this is why you've been sneaking out on me?”
“I figured it was better than trying to make a cake,” Ángel replied, grabbing Ramiro by the hand and pulling him closer. “I hope you liked it.”
“I loved it,” Ramiro said. “You were fabulous.”
Ángel gave Ramiro a peck, leaving behind a little bit of lipstick. “Happy birthday, darling.”
“Thank you,” Ramiro said. “Now take me home and fuck me.”
Ángel grinned. “Gladly.”