Before:
Begin with a blank slate, a face scrubbed clean, preferably with a GRISI sulfur bar, but anything noncomedogenic will do. If using the former, take care not to rain amber water droplets on the white lace toallitas or pink ceramic tile sink so Amá doesn’t trip.
Next, MOISTURIZE, bitch, LIBERALLY, so in 40 years you don’t look like the leathery gringa in the busted-ass tube top whose husband Carl died last year and who always finds a way to sit next to you when it’s your turn to take Abuela to Bingo.
“God bless it, Sergio,” she says, even though she knows everyone calls you “Junior.” “If you’re not the spittin’ image of your daddy I’ll eat my hat. Best lookin’ man this side of the Rio Grande, he was.”
Two Lone Stars and a Marlboro break later she’ll flip her fried frosted ends and trace a yellowed acrylic tip along her sweaty beer stein, the one with the Viking crest from the Renaissance Faire. She’ll giggle, only it’ll come out as a grizzled, braying guffaw, and as if on cue bat heavy-lidded, Wet N’Wild kohl-rimmed eyes daubed with flaky mascara and slur,“Baby, if I was 40 years younger…”, and you’ll smile tightly, sourly, and wonder for the millionth time if your puto dad ever got with this hag and if she was actually ever hot. Then again, nothing has surprised you since that Tuesday in fifth grade you missed the bus and snuck in through the back door only to see Apá’s back, rippling as he stood in the living room over the lady who lived across the street. You know it was her, the widowed one, La Viuda, because even though you only saw the soles of her feet you recognized the orange chanclas tossed beside Amá’s floral, plastic-sheathed couch. La Viuda liked you, always saved you a grape push pop from the garage freezer she kept stocked for the neighborhood kids. You stared, openmouthed and frozen, then stepped back outside, gingerly shutting the screen door. You spent the day sipping hose water and wandering through the backyards of the neighbors who didn’t own dogs, the ones who worked long hours with Amá at the maquiladores across the border in Matamoros.
Time is a bitch, you’ll think then, shrugging off the gringa and the memory of Apá, La Viuda, and the explosive fights once Amá caught wind. You pat Abuela on the back before flashing her your best real smile, the one that makes her squeeze your dimpled chin.
Lather Neutrogena knockoff moisturizer all over your Melatonin-rested, slightly bloated face. Scoop a little extra—two slightly curved fingers’ worth, no más—out the little plastic jar and ever-so-gently pat pat pat—just like that, three times each side with your ring finger—along the parchment-thin skin under the eyes that are just like Apá’s, the bastard, dark and deeply set under a prominent brow and cheeks that stay despairingly chubby no matter how many carbs you cut. Here, unlike everywhere else, you want to refrain from roughshod blending; instead, dab delicately, allowing the thick cream to sink and absorb and stave off the crow’s feet that curse the family tree, on the bastard’s side, of course. Pause for a quick sign of the cross in memory of poor Tia Gladys, que se descanse en paz, who lived her life for Diosito but still looked like a murder of crows migrated across her face by the time she was 30.
Dollop spent, dip into the pot again, but now take three generous fingers’ worth of clearance youth serum and lavishly sweep it across and under your front and back neck folds and voluptuous decolletage. Don’t be shy; get allll up in there. Slather your walnut-colored cutis, perpetually parched from the arid clime. Give the moisture a minute to set, humming to Cardi B, fancying yourself a bodega baddie, before smearing Pixi brand primer on the sleep creases lining your face. Marvel at the porcelain smoothness of the skin beneath the faded pockmarks where your tears tend to pool before spilling. Thank Jesus for cut-rate Mexican microdermabrasion.
The necessary accoutrements—brushes, blenders, bobby pins, crumbling palettes and glue–are assembled in order of use on a frayed towel atop the makeshift vanity: a chipped desk from the flea wedged in a corner on which a sidewalk dresser mirror rests angled, tipped against disintegrating sheetrock. It is before this humble dressing station you pay obeisance, perched on a stool festooned with a homemade paisley cushion. Last time your girls came for a kiki, they said your seamstress skills are snatched enough for Etsy, but you can’t imagine selling your patchy quilts and curtains to Houston housewives. “Artisanal,” they’d call it, but you think of your creations more as rachet chic.
The first time you draped a shawl across the slope of your wide shoulders, you stiffened at your reflection even as you melted into the warmth of the fabric’s embrace. You were 12, and with the lacy edges of Amá’s best church wrap trailing the length of your arms you knew the proportions were all wrong, that the finest stitches can’t fix an ill fit. Even shrouded in silk, your boxy boy frame looked lumpy and cartoonish, and even though you knew it was wrong, felt the sting of the welp bloom on your backside as soon as the idea formed, you couldn’t help yourself. You fished Amá’s sewing shears out of the Danish cookie tin and trimmed those refined lace edges deliberately, delicately, as instinctively as caressing a baby. Of course, you had no clue what you were doing, and as each small snip ripped into microtears snaking across the embroidery you panicked. Still, you were too far in, and soon Amá’s prized worship wrap fell across your shoulders and stopped flatteringly above your waist instead of below it. You were gagged!!! and spent nearly an hour prancing and preening in Amá’s room before the only full-length mirror in the house. Radio blasting, you catwalked a trail from corner to corner in sensible Payless pumps and even dared a smidge of Revlon’s Rum Raisin on your lips, a threadbare towel wrapped around your curls that you patted smooth as you tossed your head side to side.
To that end: Adjust the DIY pantyhose wig cap threatening to slide off your head. The thickness of your coarse spiral coils render most hair pieces damn near impossible, but a Queen Size Control Top panel has never steered you wrong.
Next, contour: MAC’s NW40 applied liberally to temples, Widow’s peak, bridge, jaw and apple cheeks with a Polyurethane puff. Suck in cheeks, lament the lack of structure. Sigh. Dip the beauty blender in a diluted dish soap mix, observe the desert tan, ivory, and sable swirls of your chisel fall to the bottom of a stained Solo shot glass. Rinse, pat, and rest the puff alongside the brush kit and Elmer’s stick pilfered from your little sister’s backpack. Discard the plastic glass, make mental note to sneak another stack from the bar you occasionally tend. Uncap the stick, swipe the gummy top layer with your index finger, and sweep both brows with long angry slashes, IN THE DIRECTION OF HAIR GROWTH. It helps that you saw your girl at the Desi salon across town for your biweekly threading yesterday; no need to pluck! By now, the swelling and redness have faded, yielding a neat yet subtle, pleasantly passing and arguably butch slight arch.
The following frenzied Sunday morning when Amá found her wrap neatly hanging in the darkest, furthest corner of your closet, she spied an open shoebox on the carpet containing your poems. The moment she registered the clunky English rhymes and tiny misshapen hearts traced in pencil on wide ruled sheets emblazoned with “To Cristian Love, Sergio”, she paused mid-yell and spun out of your room red-faced.
“Dios mio, que hizo yo para merecer esto?”
What, in the name of God indeed, had she done to deserve this, to deserve you?
You heard her wail this through a choked sob, registered the slamming bedroom door and then … silence. Alone, in the quiet of your room, confusion gave way to embarrassment gave way to a guilt that engulfed you in a white-hot shame.
Today is different, though. During this, the longest, hottest daylight of the year a decade later, Pride eclipses shame. Your opening Eleganza look screams haute couture, but you know when you bust out the tiered rainbow tulle gown for the talent portion EVERYONE at 956 Hearts will be gagged. Aside from snagging Carlos, this gown is your proudest achievement; the shimmery ombre effects and embroidered butterflies flitting down the train alone took months to fashion. After rendering the final stitch last week, you FaceTimed Carlos, careful to hold the phone away from the ensemble so that he, too, experienced the full unveiling in real time. Together, ya’ll shouted and shimmied through your screens, and it wasn’t until after you hung up that you spied your cut finger and the bloody pinprick dotting a dark fabric edge that miraculously disappeared with tonic water.
Whew. You must be more careful.
For now, gown safely encased in a garment bag, only serving face remains. With fresh fish on the menu, arguably butch must give way to a thin, classy aesthetic:
Mask time! Whip out the heavy-duty, full-coverage, pancake artillery. Use a dampened sponge to run sweeping strokes from hairline to neckline until you’ve achieved a uniformly-colored visage. Bury the brows to nude nubs. Your face is all eyes now, dark orbs piercing a blah beige canvas. Smile. Pretend you’re the Pan’s Labyrinth monster.
Grab the Coty Airspun loose translucent powder, aka “old dependable.” The box sports the same orange cotton blossom pattern that drew you toward the mysterious pots and tubes on Abuela’s dresser 20 years ago. Now, you use the familiar Coty plush puff to coat your brows and sparse lashes with fine talc.
The frame is constructed.
When Apá left for good, it was because of those poems. The flung-open door, his swinging, flying fists, “Maricón” spit-shouted, your boxed ears roaring before everything faded to starry black: this is all you remember from when you last saw him. By that time, four years ago, you and Amá had long silently agreed to never speak about them since the Sunday she spent crying in her room. You meant to destroy the poems that day, you really did, but every time you tried to crumple, tear, or burn each loose-leaf sheet you pictured Cristian’s face and froze. Writing sappy, poorly rhymed verses in study hall while studying his perfect fade and the caramel-colored mole on his neck was how you survived that school year. You wrote because you couldn’t speak, so you memorized his features instead of science facts and tried to shape what you felt. Come summer, the poems were abandoned, permanently relegated back to the shoebox at the back of the closet along with your feelings for Cristian (who, for all his hotness, turned out to be the biggest douche once you actually spoke to him). If not for Apá ransacking the house for drinking money, your truth would likely have languished there forever.
It’s nearly golden hour! You promised Carlos you’d send him a “lewk” preview, and for that your ancient phone camera needs Mother Nature’s help to capture a decent selfie. Time is now of the essence. Unclasp the lid to your prized Anastasia Beverly Hills eyeshadow palette. 28 discs of color shimmer in the sunlight streaming through the burglar bars, mattes, pigments, and frosts aglitter. A fuschia cut-crease and a dab of creamy pearl beneath the fake brow opens and brightens the eyes, imparting the illusion of sleep when you’ve had none and a lid lift when you have.
Apply adhesive (NOT Elmer’s this time) in a strip along the lash vein. Quickly, before it dries, paste and secure the specially ordered strip of double-fringed jet-black falsies proven to withstand whirls, sweat, fans and death drops.
Unscrew the top off the Nyx matte black liquid liner. Start at the inner upper lid and with a practiced sweep paint a dramatic upward curve, skinny at first then wide at the middle (kinda like you), culminating in a pointedly sharp serif-like cat’s eye extending almost to your multi-pierced ear in a neat flourish. Blink back the tears that naturally form. Count to ten while your onyx artwork dries, then fleck the false cilium with the Maybelline mascara in the pink and green tube, flicking then curving your wrist in a continuous motion from base to tip. No, it’s not necessary to mascara fake lashes, but the layered noir adds an exotic intensity, a fringed fan frame for your hooded eyes that makes the gringos paw at your borrowed silicone breastplate and stuff twenties down your hand-sequined bodice when you serve them your sultry look, especially during your famous Juan Gabriel medley. Realize that your mouth is hanging open, slack-jawed. Shut it, then apply another coat. Blink.
Repeat on the left. Almost finished!
Shake the plump tube that is next in line, squinting and scrutinizing how much remains: enough for tonight, certainly, then two more shows at least, unless you’re called to cover for Lady Orgazma; that old hot mess queen always calls in sick the first of the month. Outline your puffy pink lips — outside the natural contours, of course—tracing a perfect Cupid’s Bow. Color them your favorite vampiric burgundy a la Jennifer’s Body and dab a spot of Vaseline in the center of your pout for an illusion of even greater fullness.
Finally: Streak a strobe highlighter on whatever you want illuminated: cheekbones, eyelids, nose bridge. Spritz with setter. Pull out the phone and pose as golden rays stream into the room. Body tea, face beat to the Gods: you know when you sashay off the stage tonight straight into Carlos’s arms you will be adorned with the Miss Gay RGV sash and crown.
*
The red polyester curtains haven’t even finished parting when you catch sight of Carlos standing at the bar flanking the judge’s (card) table. Carlos, with his lush black waves, striped yellow shirt, and the navy slacks you hemmed for him last month, is fully leaning in, ears cocked, toward the twink wearing tacky pink shorts. You know from the upward tilt of the back of his head that he’s laughing. Jealousy stabs your sinking heart as the curtains creak into place, and suddenly you find yourself spotlit on center stage for your finale, alone and exposed with the opening strings of “Bergain” as your personal betrayal soundtrack. Hundreds of eyes lock onto yours, everyone’s except Carlos’.
“BIIIITCH! Mooove!” hisses Lady Orgazma. She waves frantically from the wings, a blue-hued blur of manicured nails and knotty knuckles you only partially register in your periphery.
Move? Right! You toss your lace front ever so slightly and smile wide thanks to the Vaseline coating your gums. Its slimy texture mixes with the saliva suddenly welling at the roof of your mouth. A wave of nausea rises to the back of your burning throat, but you absolutely canNOT fuck this up. You’re only a beat behind. “Get it together, bitch,” you think, and raise your white-gloved arms heavenward to the ancient disco ball.
The refracted lights from the spinning silver sphere nearly blind you, but thankfully the muscle memory built in front of that cracked mirror comes in clutch. You spin and twirl and swirl and curtsy and sway your padded hips in time to the orchestral thrums and mouth the lyrics as if each word is a blood drop falling from your tongue. “I’ll fuck you ‘til you love me, I’ll fuck you ‘til you love me,” you lip synch so hard, falsies blinking back rage and hot tears. A raucous line forms before you, longer even than the one stretching across the dance floor during your high-energy opening number. You descend from the stage (literally a step down), and like Moses himself you glide through a sea of brown bodies and clutched fans and dollars fluttering through ringed fingers which you delicately receive through cupped palms while smiling piously at the supplicant. Several times, you accept offerings in the form of folded bills tucked studiously into your fake cleavage, and for those exchanges you shimmy, wink, and playfully extend the tip of your pink tongue. The cash you draw keeps you barely in the black, barely able to maintain your rouge and fabric and fishnets and Red Lobster dates with the man who is now so deeply into another he has barely glanced your way.
Somehow you finish the production. Somehow, through red lips, red lights, and the frenzied rise and fall of your shoulders you find yourself back centerstage on cue with the end note, your right arm extended and your left silver sequined peep-toe heel pointed firmly on your imaginary mark. The spotlight tinges your black wig blue. Each handsewn butterfly glimmers, yellow and orange kaleidoscope flames flying down the train and back up as you hoist your flowing skirt to your knees to reveal a hint of leg for the final bow. Applause, hoots and hollers thunder through the club. You strain to hear Carlos’ signature whistle. There is none. You should feel triumphant after the performance of your life, but there is only hollowness and exhaustion so heavy you want only to strip down to nothing and scrub the shit from your face and burrow under your crocheted rainbow quilt.
“Girl! You did that!” says Dahlia, the emcee as you sashay to the backstage room, mindlessly blowing kisses. Someone proffers a green tea shot and you remember nothing else.
After:
The next afternoon, begin with a blank slate if you can, a face scrubbed clean with noncomedogenic wash. Remember: if you’re dragging your greasy ass up from the cracked pink tile amidst Taco Bell party pack wrappers, rolling papers, and a stained Miss RGV sash it’s cool to just splash some water. Take a ho bath if you want, absentmindedly scrubbing your pits and privates, drying off with Amá’s lace toallita. Pause to dry heave, your throbbing and oversized tongue pushing back bile. Lick your index finger and sweep it across both unruly brows. Tamp the strays. Top with a smear of Cherry Chapstick. Forget Carlos exists.
Elisa Ardis Garcia writes Fiction and Creative Nonfiction and was awarded Bellevue Literary Review’s 2026 Felice Buckvar Honorable Mention prize for Nonfiction. Previous workshops and residencies include Anaphora Arts, the Lambda Literary Foundation’s Emerging Writer’s Retreat, Macondo Writers, Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing, and Boldface. A queer native Tejana, Ardis is based out of the New York City area.
