Page 7 of Not About That Life
Three
“If you feel just slightly uncomfortable, honey, just let me know and we’ll leave right away.” I really wasn’t trying to yell at Ian but the bass line of Chaka Khan’s “I’m Every Woman” made it damn-near impossible not to speak loudly.
Ian leans closer to me and I smell the citrus scent of his new cologne. My traitorous body tries to get as close to him without risking being arrested for indecent exposure. “What are you talking about? I’m having a great time!” He yells back.
“Are you sure?” I yell as a crowd around us joins in the chorus. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
Ian wraps his arms around me and whispers in my ear. I slightly shudder as I feel the soft stubble of his beard tickling my earlobe. “I’m more than okay with this. It’s fun! I recognize a few impersonators. Oh, look, there’s Liza Minnelli!”
It’s not everyday your fiancée agrees to spend the night before Thanksgiving at West Hollywood’s finest drag show.
Adrienne and Blake wanted us to celebrate our engagement before we announced it to the world and the only proper way (according to Adrienne) was to celebrate it with a bunch of drag queens that can beat my face better than I could on my best day. I’m curiously jealous of that fact.
We arrived at BIF, which stands forBitch, I’m Fabulous, via Uber. Entering the spacious nightclub, which happens to be owned by Blake (not really a coincidence), we’re greeted by floating parasols near the ceiling, muted lighting, and a spacious dance floor. A large bar with several bartenders happily attends to the customers, while other patrons nosh on mouth-watering apps.
Ian fit right in, as I knew he would. He went casual with regular jeans, a fitted grey top, and brown boots. Ian’s outfit might have been casual but the labels he wore – Marks & Spencer, Dolce & Gabbana, and Armani – were anything but cheap. Amazing how my man can make a two-thousand dollar outfit look relatively inexpensive.
He chatted with a few queens, shamelessly flirted with a few gay patrons who really questioned if he was truly hetero (and were a smidge disappointed when he confirmed), and was rather impressed by the bartender who served Ian one of the best old-fashioneds he’s ever had. (“Those gay dudes know how to make a damn drink,” he later cheered.)
Adrienne took it upon herself to introduce me to more of her friends. Some I’ve already knew from the wedding and others are from her non-profit she’s starting to be an outreach to the LGBTQ minority youth.
She knew how much she struggled with her sexuality and being gender fluid, and with the lack of support she’d received from Sam, she wants to help others in a similar situation.
I’m so proud of my sister. She went from turning tricks to using her body for good.
The music switches to Yvonne Elliman’s “If I Can’t Have You”, and Ian leads me to the dance floor. A flurry of reds, blues, greens, and purples pulsate through the club as wispy, odorless smoke from overhead surrounds us. I’m caught by surprise, giggling and laughing as Ian sways to the music. He pulls me close to him, pressing his body against mine, and it feels like it’s just us in the universe.
I don’t care about the online detractors, Sam issues, or hell, even Michelle issues for that matter. Seeing the slightly drunken bliss on Ian’s face, his dimples prominent, and his brilliant, beautiful smile, I couldn’t care less about anything or anyone else.
Instead, all I care about is this man holding me, lowly singing in my ear as he sings along to Yvonne’s soothing voice.
“If I can’t have you, I don’t want nobody,” he purrs in my ear, and I feel his deep voice rolling through my insides, hitting my core and shooting up my spine.
It’s a new Ian and we can both tell. The stress of the past several years have been lifted and I feel, probably for the first time in a long while, he could actually enjoy himself without worrying about anything.
He twirls me around and grinds me against me, holding me at the small of my back, and sings to me the entire song. I want to pinch myself and wonder if I’m still dreaming, if this is all just one big fantasy like I’ve read in numerous e-books.
But no, this is my reality. This is my new life with my fiancée.
The song ends and we head back to the bar to rejoin Adrienne and Blake. My sister is now wearing a platinum-blonde wig and channeling her inner Lil’ Kim a laNotorious K.I.M.album cover. Blake is sporting a new goatee and showing off his muscular frame in a black shirt and blue jeans.
“You two looked so hot on the dance floor!” Blake complimented. “Everyone was watching.”
“They were probably wondering why are those heteros taking up all of the space on the dance floor,” I chuckled.
“Probably,” Adrienne twirled a straw in her mouth, “but I think some were jealous.”
“I Can’t Believe He’s Not Gay?” I joked.
“That would be it,” Blake nodded, “but anyway, congratulations, guys! It’s been a long time coming for sure.”
“Thank you,” Ian nodded, “Domi’s the only one I want and you know, I’m done playing games with this one and that one.”
“Oh, I think you were done a long time ago. No man gets almost naked with a woman and just cuddles with her,” Adrienne rolls her eyes as I softly punch her arm. She grabs my left hand and approvingly stares at the gigantic rock on my finger. “How many carats am I looking at?”
“Twenty-three,” Ian boasts, “one carat for every year of her life.”
I’m floored. I didn’t think to ask about how many carats were on my hand and I just honestly thought it was just a huge diamond. “Really?” My voice comes small like a period at the end of a sentence.
