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Bull Queen

Just because a man can bench press a small car does't make him any less refined. Matt Denniss proves even tough guys like to feel pretty sometimes. And if being tough and wearing eyeliner once in a while is wrong then, brother, I don't want to be right.

Bull Queen by Matt Denniss


Yep, I’ve got a gravelly deep voice with a neck wider than your thigh, and I could tackle a horse with ease; in fact, I have. But fuck, I do look good in eyeliner. My legs are as thick as telephone poles and I’m at seven percent body fat, bench-pressing whatever your car weighs. I once hit a man so hard he woke up from his coma as a God-fearing Christian. I know, impressive. But where my real passion and talent lies is dance. When I pull up those fishnets and dab on the foundation, when the spotlight is on me and I know I’m making everyone in the room hot and hard, when I writhe and moan on stage, bringing myself to climax, that’s when I’m in my element. Real men don’t box; Beefcake Burlesque is where it’s at. I am the Bull Queen. You fucking got me?

Some people don’t get me, don’t get what Beefcake Burlesque is about. Take this smart ass we had in here last week. Sure, the drinks we serve are overpriced and our bar staff are slow; the carpet in here stinks like urine and semen, and there’s usually nowhere but the back parking lot to take a piss because people are fucking against the urinal in the bathrooms. You may spit on the local heroes wherever you come from, and that’s fine, but when you’re in Beefcake Burlesque you respect the performers. You play by our rules, or else.

This kid, this one the cops are referring to as “victim,” he was warned several times. This kid and his buddies were buying beer and booze and spending all their parents’ money on whatever they felt like drinking. It wasn’t long before the liquid courage got ’em yelling at the performers. Bobby is a pansy so he did nothing, just served them more drinks, but it became irritating to our more regular clientele so Bobby dragged his fat ass over to the table and asked them to refrain from discrimination. I’m mean, what kind of lowlife yells out “faggot” in a place like this?

The little bastard was blond-haired, tanned, and had a lot of gold. He wore a grin that some would call mischievous. I call it a bitchy, because he was a little bitch. Right at the climax of my performance, right when I’ve lost myself to the music and the crowd are really feeling my groove, this kid, he stands up and points at me, yelling, “Leave our country, faggot,” to the delight of his cheering buddies.

According to what Bobby has claimed, and unfortunately what the security footage clearly shows, I lunged from the stage, mid-performance, with nothing but my nipple tassles and fishnets, and made a right mess of this kid and his buddies, all while Beyoncé played in the background. Me, I don’t remember, I’d been partying with some of the performers backstage and had taken a handful of pills. Bobby’s bar was trashed. Yes, there were several glasses broken, but hey, it was a Saturday night for God’s sake.

Bobby wants me to pay for the damages. I’ve told that little bastard that I have transformed what was once a cheap dive bar into the one of the most progressive, exciting night spots in this city, and that it’s only a matter of time before he gets a multi-million dollar offer to franchise Beefcake Burlesque. But he won’t listen. Now all I’ve saved doing this gig is going to be spent rebuilding and restocking his bar so more of those fucks can come in and get shitfaced and talk over the top of my performance. Lucky I love my job.

The kid, the one I left with bloody hair and a shard of glass caught underneath his eyelid, he went to the cops. One thing I do remember is digging his fancy new phone out of his pocket. I know he was conscious because in the photo I took with his phone, his eyes are as big as the first-timers here at Beefcake Burlesque, right when I whip off my underwear. I’m a modest man, so I won’t detail the graphic nature of the photo, but I distinctly remember saying to this kid if he said a word to the cops I’d send this photo to every number on his phone. I sent it anyway, before he squealed. I thought, hey, there’s no such thing as bad publicity and this kid had over three hundred numbers on that thing.

I’m not a violent person, but when someone disrespects my honor, and my art, whether it’s calling me a faggot or telling me my routine is stale, I will not hesitate to damage a skull. I’ve been told that I would make a great Rocky when they do the remakes. I’m the triple threat—I can dance, act, and you bet your ass I’ll be singing “Eye of the Tiger” on the soundtrack. I have no known limitations, so if the price is right, I’m your man.

Now sit back and enjoy the motherfucking show.

Matt Denniss wanted to be a rock star and tour the world. But he realized his guitar had only one string. His hopes and dreams were crushed. But wait! He found a fluoro-orange pen under his bed. Holding it in the air he declared that if he couldn’t be a rock star, he'd be a writer. That would be way easier...