Roxie:
The Drag Queen’s Stag Do
The warehouse in Vauxhall was a glittering cavern of queer chaos: fairy lights strung like constellations, a disco ball the size of a small car spinning sequins across the concrete floor, and thumping bass from a sound system that could wake the dead. It was 2008, the night before Kitty LaRue’s civil partnership, a decade with her soft-spoken bear of a fiancé, Marcus, finally made official. The hens were all seven-foot Amazons in towering wigs, false lashes thick as caterpillars, gowns that defied gravity and good taste. More glitter than the Milky Way, and twice as messy.
They’d clubbed together for the ultimate gift: Roxie, delivered like a punk rockgram. The queens had found her through the underground grapevine, “the original punk switch with the legendary cock” and paid handsomely for one last filthy treat for the groom-to-be.
The doors burst open at midnight. Roxie strode in like a blasphemous bride: ripped white wedding veil pinned to her silver-streaked mohawk with safety pins, bouquet of black roses clutched in one tattooed fist, a tattered lace garter around her thigh, and combat boots thudding under a micro-mini wedding dress that barely covered her arse. Leather harness underneath, chains swinging between her tits. The room detonated, screams, wolf whistles, glasses raised in tribute.
Marcus sat in the centre on a makeshift throne of glittery crates, soft and bearded in a white tutu and tiara, already blushing crimson under his beard. His eyes went wide as Roxie approached, hips swaying, veil fluttering like a battle flag.
The queens formed a circle, chanting “Suck! Fuck! Marry!” like it was the Olympics, clapping in rhythm to Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love” blasting from the speakers.
Roxie grabbed Marcus by the tiara, dragged him to his feet, and pushed him to the centre of the circle. “Time for your last rites, groom.”
