Chapter 1

In his dressing room backstage at the Main Drag, Devin Elliot plugs in his hot curlers. As he waits for them to heat up, he studies his face in the mirror above his vanity table. At twenty, his skin has finally lost its oily adolescent sheen, but the naked bulbs that frame the mirror and mimic the stage lights give him a sallow appearance. At least he has make-up to counter the waxy glow. Sinking into the chair in front of the vanity, he pulls off the band that holds his ponytail back from his face and shakes his head to let his long, blonde hair fall free.

Someone knocks on his door. “I’m here!” he calls out, not bothering to get up. It must be Chuck, the Drag’s brute of a bouncer. At six foot two, he has arms as big around as Devin’s thighs, riddled with veins that stand out when he flexes, and his dark glare can drop a mean drunk at a hundred yards. Before a show, he usually hangs around backstage to deter any eager patrons from sneaking into the dressing rooms. Devin thinks he’s sexy, for a big lug. And an easy catch—it only took two weeks of blowing kisses and winking his way before Devin got into Chuck’s pants.

A few seconds later, the knock comes again.

Half-turning in his chair, Devin raises his voice. “I’m getting ready. Go away.”

From the other side of the door comes a frustrated kick. Devin laughs—it’s definitely Chuck. “After the show, sweetie,” he promises.

It’s Friday night—here he’s not just another undergrad struggling with mid-terms. Here, with the crowd watching as the music moves his body, hot stares undressing him on stage, catcalls and wolf whistles and his name shouted as he shakes his ass…

Here he’s Devine.

* * * *

With a head full of hot rollers, Devin stands up from the vanity and, pushing the chair aside, watches himself in the mirror as he unbuttons his jeans. The zipper moves down on its own beneath the start of an erection. Just thinking about dolling up turns him on—make-up and hairspray and tight pink panties under a short, short skirt. Rubbing both hands into the front of his jeans, Devin cups his stiffening dick through his briefs. His gaze flickers over the curlers spun into his hair and then down his thin, bare chest, following the line of faint hairs that trail over his flat stomach, to his hands fisted around the white bulge in his pants. A few well-placed hip movements that would make Shakira proud and the jeans fall to his knees. He gives himself a hard squeeze and gasps as sensation spikes through him.

Quickly he slides down his pants and briefs to stand naked in front of the mirror. The dressing room is small—the vanity, its chair, and a tattered loveseat along one wall fill most of the available space. Balling up his jeans, Devin deposits them on the loveseat, then turns to check out his profile in the mirror. He arches his back, raises his ass in the air, and his hands are drawn to his buttocks like magnets. They knead the firm, round flesh, digging in deep to lift and separate, the skin whitening beneath his grip and then reddening when he pulls away. His dick juts from his lower belly, as straight and hot as a curling iron.

“I know you want me,” Devin sings, “it’s easy to see.” Off-key but hey, he’s only paid to shake his ass. On stage they lip sync. As he sings, he retrieves a bottle of scented lotion from the vanity table and squirts a liberal amount between his palms, rubs them together, smoothes the cool lotion over his nipples, down his belly, along his thick shaft and around and under his hanging balls. More lotion, over his hips and smeared into his ass cheeks, strummed down his crack, rimmed around his quivering hole. The scent of peaches fills the air like summertime, and the tip of Devin’s dick is swirled with white lotion that looks like cum.

A pair of lacy, pink boyshort panties and matching padded bra await. With a shake, he pulls the panties on. “Don’t ‘cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?” he sings, watching his reflection as the panties come up over his knees, the lace so fragile and so girlish against his skin. “Don’t ‘cha wish your girlfriend was a freaklike me?”

He turns as he snaps the boyshorts into place and likes the way they barely cover his round buttocks. At the front of his crotch, they cut across his hard cock like a tightening band of lace. Devin spends too long repositioning himself—part of the appeal of drag is the way his boyish body looks in girly clothes. He likes his ass hanging out of the boyshorts, and when he rises up on his toes to arch his back, he likes the way his dark, puckered hole peeks out from the lace stretched between his legs. He likes the press of a lacy crotch reining in his hard shaft, the way the pink material almost matches the color of the spongy tip of his dick, the way his profile bulges like there’s more than six and a half inches crammed down the front of the panties. He likes the way his balls throb against the fabric, beating in time with his heart.