“Category is...Femme Queen Virgin Runway!”

The guy Blaine had met in Washington Square Park had given him the address to this place, telling him, “you want to meet some real gays that can relate, not just these closet cases looking for a ten-dollar handy before going home to their wife and kids in Queens? Here’s where you go.”

Soul II Soul’s “Back To Life” thumped through the hallway of the building as he approached a cavernous ballroom, with a wrap-around balcony above. Blaine made his way through the mass of people, realizing for the first time in probably his whole life, that he felt comfortable in his own skin.  He was normally cautious and uneasy in crowds, wondering “can they tell I’m different? That I’m gay?” but not here. Across the top of a few heads, he saw what he thought were runway models; they were glamourous and carried themselves as such. Then he heard the emcee:

“These are queens having their debut! Tonight the cherry is popped, though let’s be real, y’all probably got your cherries popped a long time ago! We want realness, but being as you all are virgins we’ll cut you a little slack. But not too much...you betta be sure you can pass, with that face, that walk, that body-ody-ody!”

It hit him, these were drag queens… beautiful, elegant, graceful drag queens. If there were any jeers, it had nothing to do with who they were, only on their talent. Blaine relaxed more, as the crowd around him cheered for their favorites and scores were announced. At the end, winners were presented with trophies that reminded him of ones he’d won with his old glee club before...well, before. He didn’t like to think about it too much.

"Next category is...Homme Modèle Efete! Bring your editorial realness! Werk, twirl, turn, pose!”

The music changed to a hard-charged piano-driven dance beat. A few men stepped up to the floor, and they were dancing in a way Blaine had never seen before. It looked a little bit like some hip-hop he’d seen in the park, but more flowy, like they were posing for a camera. It reminded him a little of what his brother Cooper would try to teach him when visiting from L.A. He heard a few in the crowd call out “vogue, baby, vogue!” which to Blaine made sense; it did make him think of the models in the Vogue magazines he would sneak from his mother’s tote bag. He tried to catch the names of the dancers as the emcee (who thanks to eavesdropping he’d learned was named “Pray Tell”) called them out. The last dancer he called “Damon Evangelista” was particularly good, his movements were both crisp and flowing.

“Do we have anyone else?” Pray Tell asked. “Anyone to challenge the House of Evangelista?”

At that moment, out of the crowd, the most beautiful man Blaine had ever seen stepped forward. He was all pale skin, swept-up hair, and eyes that simultaneously sparkled and froze you with a glance. His jawline was sharp and raised and his shoulders thrown back, as if he knew he was above everyone.

"Porcelain Abundance, from the House of Abundance! Elektra always saving her children for last! And he is indeed an abundance of Porcelain, but this is no delicate flower...this bitch will cut you if you break him!”

While Blaine was somewhat thrown by such a name, he realized it fit in so many ways, as Porcelain moved across the floor (not to mention under Blaine’s skin). He was dressed impeccably well, the lines of his jacket clean, the scarf around his neck flying as he moved, and his tight pants leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Blaine was impressed he could still move so well in spite of their fit. Porcelain’s arms and hands were fluid as he posed and strutted for the crowd, who were eating it up.

“Judges, your scores…” Pray Tell prompted. “10, 10, 10, 10, and...10! Tens, tens across the board! And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what you call a perfooooormance!”

With no other challengers, Porcelain Abundance was announced as the winner, with Damon in second place. Porcelain stepped to the stage to accept his trophy, a sparkle in his step, when suddenly there was a disruption.

“Hold up, I want this Rick Astley-lookin’ motherfucker disqualified!” One of the lower-scored dancers shouted. “Why you giving this white bitch a trophy? Don’t they got everything else?”

“If he was going to be disqualified, the judges would not have bothered to even score him,” Pray Tell lectured. “Would you rather take it up with his Mother ?”

Blaine didn’t know exactly who his actual mother was, but imagined “Mrs. Abundance” must be the scariest person on earth, because the dancer quickly shut up and backed away, the fear of God in his eyes.

Porcelain and Damon picked up their trophies and air-kissed each other on the cheek, obvious in their mannerisms that there was no love lost between them and this was merely out of courtesy. Blaine realized he was staring when he suddenly caught Porcelain’s eyebrow arching at him, not out of malice --but it seemed intrigue? --before he glided away, joining a group of (he assumed) friends that cheered and embraced him.

Blaine stayed to watch the rest of the ball, and before he knew it, he was one of only a few left in the cavernous space. It looked like they were closing up, and all he could think was I don’t want to go back out there .

“Excuse me?” Blaine looked up to see Pray Tell scrutinizing him in a gentle, almost fatherly way. “Young man, I don’t know if anyone has told you this, but it’s generally bad form to be the last to leave a party.”

“I, um...I’m sorry,” Blaine stumbled. “I, I don’t…”

“Where’s your mother? Who’s your house?”

Blaine didn’t know how to answer that. “My house? I don’t have a house. There’s a shelter I stay at when there’s room, but mostly I stay in Washington Square Park. And my mother…” It was the first time in a while he had thought about her. Particularly her disappointment in him. He could barely get a word out thinking about it. “She, um…”

Pray Tell seemed to take mercy on Blaine. “Tell you what, are you hungry? There’s a diner down the street. When’s the last time you had a hot meal, huh?”

“Child, you better slow down,” Pray admonished, “or that pot roast you’re wolfing down is gonna come back up just as fast.”

Blaine looked up embarrassed, and swallowed the bite already in his mouth. “I’m sorry. It’s just the first thing I’ve eaten in weeks that didn’t come out of a trash can or a vending machine.”

“Stop apologizing,” Pray said. “Lord knows I had my hungry days when I was your age...of course I’m just guessing. How old are you anyway?”

“Just turned eighteen,” he mumbled around a mouthful of potatoes.

“So, I guess now I need to ask your story, cause I know you didn’t just spring up out of the fountain like some water nymph.”

Blaine put his fork down, folded his hands, and propped his chin on them. “I’m from Westerville, Ohio,” he started. “Catholic family. Very traditional, very conservative. My mom was widowed real young...her first husband was killed in Vietnam, otherwise there’s no way she would have remarried. She was already raising a kid...my half-brother. Then she met my dad. He emigrated from the Philippines, and he’s...really rigid about what makes a man, you know? He was pretty shitty to Cooper, since Coop wasn’t his ‘real’ kid, so as soon as he turned eighteen he went to California to be an actor. Dad called it a sissy move. He’d visit on holidays but that’s it. We weren’t really close.”

He paused and looked up. Pray just took a sip from his coffee and motioned for him to continue.

“I knew I was gay from a pretty early age. My dad already gave me a hard time about being emotional, crying at sad movies, that sort of thing. I won a prize in art class, you know what he did? Called it a sissy subject and tore my painting up. So I got good at hiding, I thought. I was going to a private boarding school as a teen, so I figured as long as I kept my secret there, I’d never be found out. I forgot I’d have to move back in the summer. I hadn’t even started to unpack when Dad found my stash of gay porn and fucking blew up. He actually challenged me to fight him; said if I could prove I was a real man , he’d let me stay. Instead, I grabbed the one bag I knew had basics in it and left.”

Blaine took a sip from his water glass, remembering the worst part.

“Mom came running out...part of me hoped she was going to try to convince me to stay. But all she did was give me some money. ‘For the bus,’ she said. She didn’t say I love you or be safe , or even let me know where you are . ‘Why did you bring that filth into our home?’ she whispered, like dirty gossip. ‘Toss it in the garbage at Dalton, that’s all you had to do.’” Blaine willed his tears to stay back and waited for Pray’s response.

“So, Ohio to New York City,” Pray finally said. “Why not California, to your brother?”

“Like I said, we were never really close,” Blaine said. “And besides, they don’t have the art scene I want. Like Keith Haring. His work is just amazing. I mean, people write it off as simple, but for these simple clean lines and colors he says so much. There’s, like, joy and rage in the same piece. It speaks to me. I want to be an artist like him.”

“You want to be the next Very Special Christmas album art?” Pray joked.

Blaine blushed and looked down. “I just want to make art and help people. I know, it’s dumb.”

"It’s not dumb. It’s brave. Now,” Pray straightened up. “You need to get some rest, and you’re not going to get it on a park bench. You’re coming home with me.”

Blaine blanched. “Um, I’m a virgin,” he blurted.

Pray laughed. “Well good for you. I have a boyfriend, and I’m allergic to chicken. No child, I’m just offering you a sofa. And tomorrow we’ll try to figure out better arrangements.” Pray paid the bill at the diner and they left.

Later, at Pray’s loft, Blaine was in clean, comfortable clothes, after taking a long-overdue shower. “Pray, you asked me before about my mother and my house? What did you mean?”

Pray leaned forward in his chair. “Well, some people would say a house is like a gay street gang. Just, instead of fighting, we battle in the ballroom, like you saw tonight. But really, in the best cases, a house is a chosen family. It’s a home for those of us who don’t have a home otherwise. And the mothers, well, they serve that role. Keep a roof over your head, food in your belly, and your ass in line.”

Blaine thought about the boy he saw at the ball earlier that night. “What about the house that Porcelain Abundance is in?”

“House of Abundance? Oh no, no, no, no, no...Mother Elektra would eat you alive.” Pray leaned back in his chair and chortled. “And I see that look in your eye, dreaming about Mr. Porcelain. No, joining a house because you have a crush on a boy is a terrible idea. But I’ll tell you what, I know a house that would suit you just fine. Now get some sleep; we’ll go in the morning.”

The next morning Blaine and Pray arrived at a shabby apartment building and knocked on the door.

“Yes?” A Latina woman opened the door, took one look at Blaine, and shook her head. “No way, Pray, I am not running an orphanage, I already took in Damon’s boyfriend, and Angel’s back from playing house with her corporate boytoy, I’m busting at the seams!”

In spite of her resistance, she let them in, Pray making Blaine’s case. “Please, Blanca. The child’s been in the park for months, and has managed to keep his virtue intact, I don’t know how long that will last. He’s a sweet boy…”

“What does he have to offer the House of Evangelista, though? What can he provide? Does he look like Angel? Can he dance like Damon, or Ricky, or even Papi?”

“I can dance, actually,” Blaine offered. “And sing...I was in glee club in school. And I can paint, I can clean, I can do whatever you need me to.”

Blanca looked him over, her arms crossed in front of her. “Give me and Pray a moment,” she said.

Blaine nodded and walked into the kitchen, where he saw a familiar face. “You’re Damon. I saw you at the ball last night. You’re a great dancer!”

“Thanks!” Damon responded. “And you are?”

“Sorry, I’m Blaine, nice to meet you,” he said as he shook Damon’s hand. “I’m actually hoping I can stay...Pray was telling me about your House on the way over.”

“Cool. So, let me guess, your super religious conservative parents tossed you out, too?” Blaine’s mouth dropped open and all he could do was nod. “I figured. So did mine. Hey, I have to run to class, but good luck, maybe I’ll see you around, Blaine!” Damon grabbed his bag and went down the hall and out the door, just as Pray and Blanca returned.

“Okay, I’ve talked to Pray,” Blanca paused, “and I think we can make room for you.”

“Oh my...thank you, thank you so much!” Blaine said, shaking her hand. “I promise, I won’t make you sorry for this.”

“You better not,” Blanca said. “Now, I have one main rule in this house. This isn’t a place for freeloaders. You’re gonna work, for the house and for your future. So you need to either get a job or go to school. Pray tells me you want to be the next Keith Haring or something?” Blaine nodded. “Well there are lots of art schools around here. Let’s find one that fits.”