Page 33 of Marisol Acts the Part
Blazin’ Saddles is, surprisingly, not country-themed.
While there are a handful of posters of steamy cowboy kisses, the overall vibe is giving more disco than Wild West. Probably on account of the seven—yes, seven—disco balls over the dance floor.
There’s even a mega disco ball in the private lounge, a balcony alcove with a perfect view of the main stage.
The club is in full swing by the time Jamila and I arrive, even though it’s early by New York standards.
Our escort—a queen in a hot pink corset and matching tutu—whisks us through the club and up to the VIP lounge I decided to splurge on.
For privacy, even though I’m in full incognito mode tonight, to be safe.
Both so I don’t get spotted by any potential fans, or Dad and Jerome.
I made sure to give Jamila a thorough tutorial on how to stay undercover without compromising on fashion or aesthetics.
While I normally wouldn’t choose to wear an all-black ensemble, it’s a necessary evil on a night like tonight.
Thankfully, Jamila’s only watching and learning tonight.
Her social following has quickly climbed into the low five digits ever since the cast announcement, but she should enjoy these last few months of being able to live somewhat under the radar.
Once the show airs, privacy will be a thing of thepast.
I tug on the end of my pin-straight black wig as we weave through the crowd toward the staircase leading to the lounge.
It’s locked in place with plenty of wig glue, but sweat broke out along my brow the second we stepped into the club.
Obviously, I used a sweatproof glue, but the thought of my next paparazzi scandal being me with a crooked wig makes me shudder.
Jamila hovers close behind me, lightly gripping my arm as our escort effortlessly leads us up the stairs in six-inch heels.
I watch in awe as bodies twist around each other in the packed club below us, queens and bartenders and patrons weaving around the tightly packed space without spilling a single drop of their drinks like it’s a choreographed dance.
The roped-off balcony is much smaller than the floor below, but certainly not empty.
Most of the black leather booths are occupied by the time we arrive—several high-profile drag queens in one corner, and a former pop star turned Oscar-winning actress in the other.
The exact types of people who won’t acknowledge our presence, so long as we don’t acknowledge theirs.
“Can I get you dolls anything?” our escort—Kitty—asks, eyeing the large black Xs on our hands. Jamila doesn’t drink and neither do I, so we don’t bother trying to convince Kitty to slip us something.
“Just two lemonades, please,” I reply, grateful that Jamila and I planned our order on the way here.
Moments after Kitty sets down our drinks, I spot Dad lingering at the edge of the stage.
“That’s my dad.”
My breath hitches, and I attempt to hide behind Jamila, even though he probably can’t see me from the stage and has no reason to suspect that I might be here.
He looks like he walked straight out of work, a tomato-shaped pincushion strapped to his arm and a tape measure wrapped around his neck like a designer scarf.
He disappears almost as quickly as he appeared, stepping back behind the curtain with a huff.
Jamila attempts to hide her giggle behind her hand when I finally emerge from where I was attempting to hide.
“It must be supercool having a dad who’s a costume designer,” she says after I breathe a sigh of relief.
Even with her leaning in while she speaks, it’s tough to hear her over the music.
Not that I mind the “Single Ladies” meets “thank u, next” mashup playing, but it does make having a conversation a pain in the ass.
“I guess so,” I reply with a shrug.
In theory, it is supercool. While I definitely don’t have any more space in my wardrobe, I wouldn’t mind snagging a few custom pieces from Dad’s collection.
Like one of the dresses he designed for Jerome tonight—a seventies-inspired lavender flower-print minidress.
It’s refreshing to be around someone who appreciates the fine details of fashion the same way I do, even if I don’t get to explore it as much these days, thanks to my on-set uniform.
Alas, that doesn’t change the fact that we’ve been living together for weeks and I feel as distant as ever from him.
“Are you two close?” Jamila asks, hitting right on the topic I was hoping to avoid.
I shift uncomfortably. Not because of the closeness or the way my eardrums are starting to throb, but because I’m not sure how to answer.
Whether to tell her the long-winded story behind my existence.
That before I came here, Dad felt more like a name in my phone than a dad.
That part of the reason I was terrified of coming here was because it meant spending time with someone I wasn’t sure would like me, even though they helped bring me into the world.
A drag show on a Saturday night is not the ideal place to delve into my daddy issues.
“I don’t really—”
I’m saved from having to finish my vague answer by Kitty stepping up to the mic at the center of the stage.
“Welcome, ladies and gays, to Blazin’ Saddles!” The crowd gives her a roar of applause, several people pushing up to the lip of the stage. “Are you ready to get this competition started?”
This time, the crowd’s response is loud enough to make the floor vibrate beneath our feet. Jamila gives an impressive whistle by sticking two fingers in her mouth—I’ll need to ask her how she does that later.
“Give it up for your host: the one, the only…Miss Anita Break!”
I didn’t think it was possible for the crowd to get any rowdier, but as the lights dim and a single long, exposed leg steps into the spotlight, my eardrums feel like they’re going to pop.
I clap until my hands go numb, scream until my voice cracks, as Anita slowly steps into the spotlight, wearing a fire-engine-red sequined gown that twinkles in the light.
The wig that’s been sitting on the kitchen table all week has been transformed, luscious black locks trailing down Anita’s shoulder, her dark brown skin glimmering with a mix of baby oil and glitter.
“How y’all doing tonight?” she says into the mic once she’s fully stepped into the spotlight, and gets a roaring cheer in response.
She laughs and demurely tosses a curl over her bare shoulder.
In the sliver of space between the left-hand side of the stage and the curtain, I spot Dad beaming like he’s won the lottery.
“We’ve got an amazing show for you tonight,” Anita continues, clapping her hands together. “For any newcomers, tonight is our monthly New to the Saddle competition. I got a peek at some of our contestants earlier, and y’all are not ready.” The crowd gives a few whoops and hollers.
I’m clinging to the edge of my seat as Anita goes over the only rule (no acts over five minutes), and the prize (five hundred dollars and a guest slot at Anita’s next show) before announcing the first performer of the night.
“Please welcome to the stage: Diamond Du Jour.”
“That’s her!” I whisper eagerly to Jamila, gently nudging her in the ribs.
We’d strategically planned for Kevin to sign up for the first performance slot.
Maybe not the best choice judgment-wise.
People are always harsher on the first few acts in a competition—I know firsthand after doing that celebrity dancing show—but we figured this would prevent Kevin from potentially getting figured out backstage by Dad or Jerome between acts.
While the makeup, hair, and outfit definitely transformed him into someone unrecognizable, there wasn’t much we could do about the gap in his smile—a dead giveaway if Dad or Jerome paid close enough attention.
With how strict they’ve been about not letting even me come to one of the shows, I wouldn’t be surprised if they kicked Kevin out before he could even step on stage.
And I did not spend over an hour on makeup today to not see Diamond make her stage debut.
Jamila eagerly shifts closer to me as we crane our necks to get the best view of the stage. Anita saunters off to join her fellow judges at the table set up for them at the base of the stage.
You could hear a pin drop as the crowd waits for the night’s first competitor to take the stage.
Slowly, almost as dramatically as Anita did earlier, Diamond steps out onto the stage with her arms up in the air, welcoming the immediate applause.
As anticipated, the spotlight and disco balls hitting her jumpsuit light her up like a shooting star.
She styled her caramel-colored wig perfectly—voluminous and thick with eighties-style curls.
And I can see the glimmer of the highlighter along her cheekbones from the balcony.
As she steps up to the mic, I sneak a nervous glance over at Anita, prepared to see recognition slowly dawning on her, but she’s living for Diamond as much as the crowd is.
Diamond knows exactly how to tease the audience, taking her time stepping up to the mic.
The crowd quiets down, everyone leaning in with her as she grips the mic, closes her eyes, and snaps her fingers, bringing the music to life.
She struts across the stage as the opening notes of her custom remix of Beyoncé’s “Crazy in Love” begins to play, crumpled bills tossed at her before she’s even uttered a single word.
It’s impossible to look away once Diamond takes center stage, lip-syncing each word perfectly, gliding across the stage in time to the music.
Somehow, she’s able to move like there’s a fan following beside her, perfectly blowing her hair out of her face and over her shoulder.