Diva Queen Teaser - Chapter 1

In case you're wondering what Tag is working on next, I'm here to answer your questions. The next book in my repetoire is going to be a drag queen detective book/series. I'm planning to publish the first book in this new series some time earlish in 2026. And, as a bonus, here's Chapter 1 for you!

(c) Tag Gregory 2025 - No part of this creative work may be copied, reposted, or used to train AI. All rights reserved to the author.

Chapter 1 - I Will Survive.

From the first second my baby blues popped open, my day was a Chernobyl meltdown-level disaster. 

You know what I’m talking about right? One of those days where nothing goes right from the moment you wake up? I mean, absolutely nothing. Even worse, since it was pretty much all my own fault, I had nobody to bitch at about it but myself, so why bother, right?

To start with, I woke up in a strange apartment underneath some snoring behemoth of a bear that I didn’t remember going home with. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m as fond of a nice, burly hunk of bear meat as the next guy, but they generally have to be at least a teensy bit attractive under all that hair before I’ll indulge, and this one . . . Well, let’s just say that the guy I woke up next to wouldn’t have made the cut if I hadn’t been wearing some extra-thick beer goggles the night before. 

Hairy McBear must have had even more to drink than I had, since his snoring only let up for about sixty seconds when I shoved him off me so I could clamber out of his bed. As soon as I was free, Hairy rolled over and sank back into his pillows again without a care in the world. Which was fine with me; it saved me the added humiliation of trying to have a polite conversation with the guy I didn’t remember having sex with the night before. Instead, I was able to quietly gather together what I could find of my clothing and make good my escape.  

Of course, that just brought to light another item on my shitastic morning list of humiliations; the fact that, not only didn’t I know where I was, but I didn’t know where any of my stuff was either.

The last thing that I did remember clearly was heading out with my homegirls to drink away my troubles after getting fired by that creep, Buck Cummings. We’d hit fuck knew how many bars in WeHo before I lost track. But it wasn’t my fault; I needed that distraction. Because it’s not every day you find out your boyfriend is cheating on you, get thrown out of your apartment, and lose your dream job to boot. 

I probably should have known better than to have a fling with my boss in the first place. Or at least that’s what my friends kept telling me. I didn’t listen though. When things were good between me and Buck, they were really, really good, so why wouldn’t I have jumped on the offer to move into his luxious fuck pad apartment and revel in all that came with it? I know everyone was warning me from day one that he went through boyfriends like a Crohn’s patient goes through toilet paper, but I was naive enough to believe his lies about how much he adored me and how this time was different . . . Yadda, yadda, yadda. 

Suffice it to say that, when I walked in on Buck ramming the star of his most recent production - The Iron Giant starring the inestimable Dirk Richards, aka ‘Dirk Dick’ - I lost my temper, as well as my cushy living arrangements and my job as the lead dresser on the production set. 

It was understandable that I’d need a good drunk after that, am I right?

Now, though, it seemed like the alcohol had finally worn off, the hangover had settled in, and I was going to have to deal with the wreckage of my life once more. Something I was not looking forward to. To add insult to injury, it looked like I was going to have to start the process of rebuilding my life with a morning after walk of shame through a strange neighborhood, wearing only my best aquamarine sequined, thigh-high, stiletto-heeled boots, a pair of torn jeans shorts, my wool jacket with the faux fox fur collar and a neon pink fishnet crop top. It's a look I call ‘Gender Confused Super Slut’. Something I usually reserve for special occasions but, then again, I suppose losing everything you had in one fell swoop qualifies as ‘special’. Whatever. Let’s just say it’s not really the kind of thing you want to be wearing in the stark light of the morning after. 

So there I was, slinking out of Hairy McBear’s lair in all my gaudy splendor, only to find myself completely lost. I wandered around for a couple of blocks before admitting to myself that I had no fucking idea where in the world I was. Judging solely by the nippy weather and the lack of palm trees, I didn’t think I was still in West Hollywood. Luckily, I hadn’t managed to lose my phone, so I pulled it out of my jacket pocket and tapped at the map app icon. Ten seconds later I was staring in disbelief at the proof that I had somehow found my drunken way to a completely different state. 

If that little ‘You Are Here’ dot on my phone was to be believed, I had been transported from warm and tropical Southern California all the way north to Portland, Oregon. How the fuck did that happen? And what the fuck was I going to do in Or-A-Gone? 

As if that wasn’t bad enough, according to the calendar app on my phone I’d lost three whole days. My last coherent memory was from Thursday night when my buddy Rodrigo was forcing that third round of Jello shooters on me. Now it was, apparently, lunchtime on Sunday. I was in a strange city. All I had on me were the clothes - if you could call the getup I was wearing clothes, per se - on my back and my phone. I didn’t even have my wallet on me. So, what the actually fuck was I going to do now?

\

In desperation, I rifled through the pockets of my jacket again, hoping to find anything at all that would give me a clue about how I got here or what I was supposed to do next. I came up with a crumpled luggage claim ticket directing me to someplace called Union Station. According to a quick review of my map app, that was only about six blocks away. Which was a good thing because, let me tell you, these particular boots were not made for walking, especially when I was so hungover that I could barely shuffle along with my tail dragging along the sidewalk. But since I didn’t have anywhere else to go, I figured I might as well go see what this luggage claim ticket would get me. 

Following the helpful walking directions supplied by my phone - which, thank fuck, still had thirty percent battery available, no idea how that was possible, but I figured I’d take that one small scrap of good luck - I easily found my way to the quaintly attractive red brick building with a huge clock tower adorning it’s front face. The building looked quite old but was obviously still functional as the hordes of travelers going in through the doors attested. I followed the crowd of arrivals inside and easily found the signs directing me to the luggage desk. The short, stocky, bored-looking attendant kindly located my bags for me without much effort and ten minutes later I was rolling out of there with all my worldly goods in tow; not much to boast of, unfortunately, since that encompassed only one suitcase full of clothes and my trusty Valentino Garavani Rockstud Vitello shoulder bag containing everything else a gay man needed to survive in the world. The best news of all was that I located my missing wallet in the Valentino, so at least I had enough money to buy myself some breakfast, although that alone would come pretty close to tapping me out. 

I’ve always been an optimist, though, and I was sure things would look much brighter once I’d managed to ingest some grease to counteract all that leftover alcohol. Things always worked out somehow. At least they always had in the past. So, luggage in tow, I wandered around the streets of downtown Portland until I came across a likely looking breakfasting spot; the flashy neon sign over the door proclaiming that I’d arrived at Rocky’s Diner. From the quirky decor and the rainbow flag outside the door, I could tell I’d fit right in. 

Nobody inside even blinked an eye at my queer club-trash appearance when I entered. The helpful waitperson who greeted me simply suggested that I leave my suitcase in the corner under the coat rack before they gestured toward a stool at the counter and handed me a menu. I only glanced at the menu, though, before ordering my standard hangover cure breakfast: a three-egg ham and cheese omelet, hash browns, side of bacon, wheat toast, orange juice, and lots of black coffee. I swear by all that’s holy, that breakfast will cure whatever ails you. One hundred percent guaranteed!

While the counter person bustled off to put in my order I took the time to survey my surroundings more thoroughly. I found myself in your typical greasy spoon diner. There was a dime store-style counter with half a dozen stools along the side of the room abutting the kitchen prep area. Behind me there were ten or so regular tables of various sizes. The thing that made this diner stand out, however, was the decor. The walls were painted salmon pink. The chairs were upholstered in leopard print fabric. The shiny vinyl seats on the stools were a glittery pink. The art on the walls consisted mostly of movie posters for your classic gay-icon movies: everything from ‘Gone With The Wind’, to ‘My Own Private Idaho’, to ‘Brokeback Mountain’, to ‘Paris is Burning’. Up against the wall at the far end of the room was a swanky new jukebox which, despite the early hour, was playing the Sex Pistols’ ‘Anarchy In the UK’. On the wall above the jukebox hung a lurid, life-sized crucifix complete with a dying Christ figure impaled thereon, its finger and toenails painted a sparkly red with matching lipstick, and a neon halo lighting up the head of the figure. None of the other patrons of the diner seemed to be bothered by this bizarre adornment, so I decided to let it pass as well. Painted on the wall above the cash register at the end of the counter was the restaurant’s motto: ‘Keeping Portland Weird Since 1992’. Overall, it seemed like the kind of place any queer would fit into perfectly. 

In other words, I felt like I’d come home.

“Hey there, Sugar!” My reverie was interrupted by the arrival of a waitress with my orange juice and toast. “Welcome to Rocky’s. Love the boots, by the way. You think those come in a size fifteen?”

I cringed and shook my head. “Sorry. I had a bitch of a time finding a thirteen for myself. I’m afraid a size fifteen would be close to impossible,” I answered.

“Figures,” lamented my waitress, a gigantic person who, with the help of a pair of two inch platform shoes must have measured well over six foot five, and whose broad shoulders and well-toned arms made the relatively narrow confines of the galley prep area behind the diner counter seem constrictive. “I have the darndest time satisfying my inner shoe slut with these boats.” She gestured at the admittedly large appendages supporting the rest of her hefty frame. But the open and friendly smile she bestowed on me negated the grumpiness of her words, causing me to smile back. “I keep hoping that someday an enterprising designer somewhere will realize that there’s a huge underserved market out there for size fifteen footwear and I’ll be the first one to volunteer to model for them.”

She laughed at her own joke and the big baritone joy of it washed over me. I smiled and chuckled back in spite of the stabbing pain the loud noise caused to my head. Seeing another queer living her true authentic life always made me happier, even when I was hung over. I sat up a little straighter and crossed my legs so that I could show off my boots to their best advantage. I even wiggled my ankle a little in her direction just to be a flirt.

“You just stop that right now, Honey! You do that again and you’re going to give me a shoegasm right here in the Diner in front of all these nice people,” the waitress, whose name tag proclaimed her to be ‘Tish’, teased.

After such a positive first impression, is it any wonder that Miss Tish and I ended up bosom friends right from the start? I mean, where else was I going to find someone with the same shoe enthusiasm as myself? Not to mention, I was in sore need of a friend right then, so I was more than happy to strike up an acquaintance with someone who seemed like a kindred soul.

Tish and I continued to flirt off and on as she saw to her other customers and I applied myself to my breakfast. The Diner got busy right about then, with the post-hangover Sunday afternoon brunch crowd beginning to flow in at a pretty steady pace. Since I had nowhere to go and no deadlines to meet, however, I lingered over my food and nursed my coffee until there was a big enough lull that Tish was able to take her break and join me.

“So, you gonna tell me your name, Sugar, or you gonna make me guess?” was the first thing Tish said after she sat herself daintily on the stool next to me. 

I held out my hand towards her and offered, “Zane Gay, at your service, Ma’am.” 

“My, my . . . Cute and clever. No wonder I’m finding you irresistible, Mr. Gay.” Tish proceeded to tap my forearm with her long purple-lacquered fingernail in the flirtiest way and I just barely stopped myself before I giggled like a schoolgirl. “So, where ya from then, Sweetheart? Cuz I just know if you was from around here I would’ve noticed a cutie like you before now.”

Well, she asked, right? 

So I opened up and spent the next ten minutes telling my new best friend the Zane Gay Hallmark Lifetime Story, complete with three part harmony and Instagram photographic backup. I told her all about Buck and Dirk and being a dresser in the porn industry. We commiserated over faithless boyfriends. I ended the tale with a brief explanation of my lost weekend and my surprised awakening here in Wonderland. And if you doubt that I could get all that out within the confines of Tish’s fifteen minute break, you don’t know me because, girlfriend, Zane Gay can spin a tale faster than almost anyone you’ve ever met and that’s the honest truth.

“Tish! Order up!,” one of the other waitresses, a stout, middle-aged woman bearing a riotous red wig and wearing a t-shirt with the Gun Oil logo on it, yelled.  

“Coming, Deb!” Tish responded. Before getting up, though, she gave me a long look, seemingly sizing me up. “You got somewhere you need to be anytime soon?”

“Nope. I’m free as a bird,” I stated with a shrug.

“My shift ends in twenty minutes, in case you’re interested in continuing this little tete-a-tete someplace more comfortable, Sugar,” Miss Tish offered with a waggle of her well-tweezed brows.

What was I supposed to say to that, huh? I mean, there I was, homeless and practically penniless. And even if Tish wasn’t really my usual type - remember the big burly bear from earlier in the story? - I wasn’t in a position to turn down any alternative offers. So I just smiled and lifted my coffee cup in a silent toast to my new friend. 

::::::::::

That’s how I ended up moving in with my new bestie, Tish, in a second story walkup over the Shake It Up Bar on Couch Street in Portland, Oregon. 

Surprising, I know. I wouldn’t have thought that kind of arrangement would be my thing either. I mean, I usually go for the big, brutal, masculine type. Remember Buck? And before Buck there had been Bruce and Jeff and Matt and Brian . . . You get the picture right? So I didn’t expect the casual flirting thing with Tish would have gone anywhere serious. But, despite her feminine demeanor in her day-to-day life, at home, in bed, once the wig and the dress had been removed, Tish was one hundred percent domineering top. Which made this bottom boy happier than a clam in butter sauce. Maybe I’d been doing this relationship thing wrong all along? Because none of the masc guys I’d been dating for the past decade had ever satisfied me quite so well as Miss Tish did. 

Can I get a Hallelujah!

Even better, though, we just totally clicked, even out of bed. Where else was I going to find someone I could talk fashion and shoes with like I could with Tish? She loved to hear my stories about Hollywood and my former job as a dresser and all the semi-famous people I’d met and fucked over the years. Growing up in the somewhat insular world of the Black community of a smallish town like Portland, she practically ate up all my L.A. stories. So, after we’d fucked, we stayed up half the night just talking, sharing everything about our lives, which was almost as satisfying. 

I told Tish almost EVERYTHING about me that first night. I even told her stuff I hadn’t told Buck. All about growing up as white trash in a trailer park in West Rancho Dominguez in the Eighties. About all the crappy jobs I’d slaved away at over the years. About my ongoing feud with a disapproving older brother who hadn’t been enthusiastic about me coming out and moving to WeHo. By contrast, Tish told me about her rather normal upbringing as the youngest of four in a middle class family who’d mostly supported her transition, up until the point she’d run afoul of a little opiate addiction after a car accident a few years back and spent a couple years on the street, homeless, before finally getting her act together and cleaning herself up. She bragged about how her one year anniversary of getting clean from the drugs was coming up and how proud she was. 

“That’s why I’m still living in this shithole apartment and working two jobs. I’ve got a lot of atoning to do and I wanna pay my sister, Tasha, back for the money she loaned me to get through Rehab. She stood by me the whole time, you know, so I wanna show her that her confidence in me was justified. I’m gonna make it right with her,” Tish insisted vehemently. “Hell, Tash was always my biggest fan, you know? She was the one who stood up for me to the bullies back in school. And she was the first one to support me when I came out as Trans. Hell, Tash was the one who took me shopping the first time to buy me girl clothes. I love that girl so much . . .”

“That’s so sweet. She sounds amazing. I wish I’d had someone to support me like that,” I admitted ruefully. “None of my mother’s boyfriends were ever big fans of the gays, I’m afraid, and Moms is . . . Not a strong woman. She pretty much goes along with whatever her latest squeeze says. At least in public. She still sends me a birthday card every year and we talk every so often, but she’s not really someone I would go to if I needed help. And her and my brother, Peter, are the only family I’ve got, so . . .” I smiled to dispel any melancholy my sad little tale might have infused into the night, because I didn’t want to leave things there. “Anyway, I’ve been mostly on my own since I left high school, but I get by, so it’s all good.”

“You look like you turned out just fine to me, Sugar,” Tish confirmed, adding a kiss to my shoulder to emphasize her point. “But one thing you gotta tell me . . . Zane Gay?” She tittered with laughter. “If I was a betting woman, I’d say that your mama wasn’t Ms. Gay. Am I right?”

I laughed too and gave her a conspiratorial little wink. “You’d definitely win that bet.” Tish didn’t say anything and just kept staring at me with this inquisitive stare that wouldn’t let me move on to a different topic, so I added, “I don’t know what kind of drugs they gave my mother after she had me, but there was no way I was going through life with a name like that. So, instead, I renamed myself the day I came out. Zane has such a nice, butch, sound to it. Don’t you think?”

“Very butch, Honey,” Tish agreed with another laugh. “Although, paired with ‘Gay’ . . . Maybe not so much?”

We both chuckled. “Zane Grey was one of my favorite authors growing up. I can’t tell you how many of those wild west novels I read as a kid. It was kind of a thing with me. Plus, he lived in Altadina, you know, which wasn’t that far away, so I always felt a certain kindred spirit with the man. Or maybe it’s just that I got off on fantasizing about hot cowboys. Who knows? Anyways, when I decided to pick a new name for myself, it just felt right to me,” I asserted, as if that explained everything. “How about you? You don’t look like a ‘Tish’ to me,” I joked.

She laughed wholeheartedly and winked back saucily while pretending to be mildly offended. “And how, exactly, is a Tish supposed to look, Sugar?” she asked, letting her voice drop down a full octave so that the baritone vibrations of it played across my skin. I shrugged, accepted the rebuke with a smile, and she continued in her regular voice. “My dead name was Otis. Otis H. Gordon. And my sisters used to always tease me as a kid saying, ‘O TisH’, when they were giving me shit. It just stuck. I’ve been ‘Tish’ ever since. Don’t you like it, Honey?”

“I think it’s perfect for you,” I admitted, earning myself an approving kiss from my hostess. 

That led to more kisses. And before you knew it we’d moved on to other things that didn’t involve much talking other than the occasional ‘yes’ and ‘more’ and ‘right there’. By the time we were done, we were both too tired and fucked out to continue the conversation, so we ended up taking a nap instead. Which was followed by much more naughty fun later in the day and well into the night. 

That was my first day in Portland. Considering that I’d woken up lost and hungover, I was thrilled with how much better it seemed to be ending. I’d always been the sort of guy who landed on his feet, and things seemed to be going along in the same vein, so I wasn’t going to complain. I figured I might even stick around for a while and check out Portland. Sorta treat it like a vacation from the hustle and bustle of L.A. Up to that point it seemed like a friendly place, so who knew, right? Of course, I hadn’t seen much other than the train station, a gay diner, and two separate ceilings, but none of that had been too unpleasant. Who knew, maybe I was meant to find my way to this strange new city? Maybe this was my destiny?

Unfortunately, like my namesake once warned, ‘the difficulty, the ordeal, is to start’. 

And my ordeal had just begun.