Posted 2nd February by @Eunuch_Onegin in series The Call-Out
creator chose not to give content warnings
tags: inspired by poetry; trans; transition
New Year. Of course, I went out drinking.
Everyone knows that I’m a lush:
talk is much jollier than thinking,
you’re never so light as in a crush.
A friend of mine had a shift bartending,
stirring up negronis and hand-blending
frozen margaritas like a pro,
and everyone who was in the know
had come to drink her potent potions.
The bar was full, the bar was loud
(what else would you expect from a crowd
with testo voices, but estro emotions?),
“sexy mean” and “kinky dork,”
half the damn trans girls in New York.
Probably somewhere someone was crying
or fighting, but as far as I could see
flirtatious chatter and lustful spying
was the dominant activity.
Look, for instance, with what evident meaning
that girl in denim, awkwardly leaning
against the wall, flicks her eyes across
at that one with hair like candy floss.
Pink Hair peeks back, then drains her libation,
pulls out her fags, slides off her chair
and leaves the bar, tossing her hair.
Denim, with a shake of determination,
as if dismissing a lingering doubt
crosses the room, and follows her out.
Intentions, however, need application
and Denim (alright, her name is Day)
instead gets stuck in hesitation
as she exits through the entranceway.
How do you cope if you get a rejection?
And facing a girl of such femme perfection,
how do you avoid being cast as the bloke?
But now, she’s outside, without a smoke,
or much in the way of warm attire,
in a New York winter, in the freezing air,
and she’s freezing up. But then Pink Hair
(sensing her plight? Or from desire?)
turns, and says —“Hi, I’m Bette.
Perhaps you’d like a cigarette?”
From there things quickly get more flirty;
they find each other on the internet
and check their mutuals (they have like, thirty)
Bette wonders how they’ve never met;
they’re both like three years post-transition
share musical taste and political position . . .
Day explains that although she’s been
a girl for a while, she’s new to the scene:
—“I used to be really depressed and quiet
stayed home, didn’t eat, smoked way too much weed!
But not anymore! I realized what I need
is to go to the gym instead of diet
and, um, that Cialis is a better drug . . .”
She gives a grin and then a shrug.
Bette understands the implication.
She smiles back —“Oh, is that true?
I hear it aids the, um, circulation?”
Pauses. “Hey, I love your tattoo!”
A classic gambit. She is alluding
to where on Day’s wrist, pointedly protruding
below her cuff, a “T4T”
is rendered, amateurishly.
—“That? That’s nothing!” Day laughs. It’s colder
than weather should be, but she’s keen to impress
this girl, and so she proceeds to undress,
baring an image on her shoulder
of fallopian tubes attached to a pentacle,
and unzipping her jeans to reveal a tentacle.
Although they’re only newly acquainted
Bette seems unfazed by these displays.
—“Wow, they’re pretty. It’s like they’re painted!”
She bends to inspect, and there she stays,
allowing the heat of her breath to linger
for a second, before extending a finger,
then stopping, and asking, “um . . . can I touch?”
And that’s enough! Or else too much.
I’m of an older generation,
I’ve learnt what sex can put at stake
for us; I don’t know what to make
of all these kids and their liberation.
I know they’re blithe and fresh and free,
but it’s all a bit too much for me.
What am I doing in this vision?
I never expected to end up here.
I grew up surrounded by derision,
everyone rejected me, straight or queer.
And now I’m thirty-something, I’m single,
I’m drinking whilst these youngsters mingle.
Perhaps I’m jealous, even obsessed;
I’m also worried. We’re second-best
(here I pause to down my whisky)
even to other “girls like us.”
If you’re trans, the truth is thus:
even dreaming of love is risky.
I watch through the window with growing dismay.
I don’t try to warn them, but I can’t look away.
Well maybe it’s true that I’m old and bitter,
but I was a witness. And I want to say
something about it. I deleted my Twitter
(whenever I checked it, it ruined my day)
so instead, in a fit of desperation
I’m posting this extended narration,
and (to make it even worse)
I’m going to tell the story in verse.
Some of what happened I picked up after,
and some of it I overheard,
and sometimes I’ve guessed at what occurred.
Is this story tragic? Or fit for laughter?
Do we ever learn from the things we do?
Sweethearts, god, I wish I knew.
But back to that night! I realized I needed
really quite sharply to visit the loo
(spiro’s demands cannot go unheeded)
but when I get there, of course there’s a queue!
As I wait I talk to the girl behind me.
We’ve met at a picnic (she has to remind me)
way back in the season the Yanks call “fall.”
So many new faces! How can I recall?
Especially when everyone constantly switches
their names around, from Luna to Flick
to Corvid (why is it that trans women pick
the names of spies, goddesses, bitches,
whereas all the trans guys seem to take
sweet little names, like Josh or Jake?)
So, this girl says her name is Gaia.
She’s twenty-three, uses “she” and “her,”
and works at a well-known sex toy supplier
paying off the debt she had to incur
in order to study classics in college.
She quickly imparts all of this knowledge
(her gestures are campy, her diction is fleet;
her eyes throughout stay trained on my feet)
but then descends into awkward silence,
so I ask about the connection of Latin with sex.
She’s off again —“Well, that’s complex!
Like, Romans have this obsession with violence,
like, for Ovid sex is basically rape,
which is why all those women have to change their shape,
and yes, I’m turned on by transformation,
who isn’t? But if you know he used to hit
his girlfriend, it’s a different situation.
And even Petronius, who’s gay as shit,
my favorite Roman, has a kid defiled
in an orgy scene. A literal child!
There’s even blood! Of course I adore
his shamelessness, but I can’t ignore
abuse. Perhaps it’s anachronistic
to expect Romans to seek consent . . .
I identify as being decadent,
kinky, and sado-masochistic,
but I think the more you want to screw
the more ethical work you have to do.
“Romans care more about what’s fitting
than morality, their main concern
is who has power and who’s submitting
and is it you? But we have to learn
that even in play you can easily be triggered . . .”
Don’t the young ones have it all figured
out, I think —“. . . or silenced or just
stop consenting. Being caught up in lust
doesn’t mean abuse isn’t being committed.
Consent is important. I volunteer
as a Dungeon Monitor at this queer
kinky orgy. No cis men admitted.
Oh hey!” And now she looks at me,
“You should come. I’ll get you in for free.”
I blink and flush with consternation.
Is this, I wonder, how millennials woo?
What is the meaning of this invitation?
How can I refuse? And then the loo
opens. I flee, leaving behind me
a brief excuse —“I’m on Facebook, come find me!”
I feel bad. I don’t mean to be rude.
When I come out she’s engrossed in some dude.
I smile, wave, and keep on walking,
then turn to see I’ve walked right by
a friend, name of Kate. I don’t say hi:
she and her girlfriend Aashvi are talking.
However, since I’m sitting near
I cannot help but overhear.
Aashvi begins —“Are we going to do it?
It’s a good time to start. Your New Year.”
—“I don’t know how I’ll get through it.
I mean, I want this. But there’s also this fear,
or something else, maybe sorrow,
I mean, it’s a lot.” —“We’ll start tomorrow.
We’ll do this together, I’ll be there.
Come on, now smile. Do not despair.”
—“Well, I suppose no one ever gave a
promise creation had to be nice:
of course there’s got to be sacrifice.”
—“Such gloom! You almost sound like Kristeva.”
What? I find myself wanting to shout!
What is it that they’re talking about?
—“Well, whatever, I love Kristeva.
She’s my problematic fave.”
— “Oh dear, you’re such a second-waver.”
—“Kristeva’s too French to be second-wave.”
—“She’s racist enough!” —“If I’m stopping taking
hormones to make my body start making
sperm again, then I’m going to need
feminist theories of motherhood to read.”
My stomach twists. My mind races.
My God, I think, they’re planning a child!
She’s going off hormones! That’s fucking wild!
Will it work? I’ve heard of cases,
friends of friends, on the internet
but never a person I’ve actually met.
The doctors told me that the very second
you so much as ask for estrogen
you immediately stop being fecund,
and never ever become so again.
But that’s the doctors, they can’t be trusted:
if they think of us breeding, they’re disgusted.
They want us sterile. So possibly, maybe,
if she goes off hormones Kate’ll have a baby!
And more importantly, be a mother!
I see her with a child of her own to hold
and surrounded by family when she’s old:
I don’t think I’ve been so jealous of another
woman, ever. Even when my cis
friends got pregnant, it wasn’t like this.
Well, I try to conceal my agitation
and—let’s be honest—down half my drink,
while they continue their conversation:
—“My dear! The feminists will clearly all think
motherhood is simply patriarchal coercion
and secretly wish to develop some version
of compulsory collective childcare.”
—“Well, that, or else they’ll believe that they’re
naturally nurturing . . .” —“But nature is real!
I naturally desire a child of my own.”
—“Me too! And I hate testosterone.
Is that natural too? I don’t want to feel . . .
Ugh, it’s horrific! If theory’s no good,
are there horror films about motherhood?
The People Under the Stairs maybe,
or The Babadook, or The Exorcist,
or that lesbian remake of Rosemary’s Baby?
I bet I could sell BuzzFeed a list:
“Horror Movies For When You’re Expecting.”
People play Mozart in the hopes of affecting
unborn children, well, same idea:
teach the fetus how to fear.
As soon as you’re pregnant we’re watching It Follows!”
—“As soon as, you say? That suggests that we’ll try . . .”
—“I guess . . .” Kate gives a theatrical sigh.
I finish my beer in two more swallows.
Day and Bette are coming back in.
I don’t know which has a dopier grin.
—“So,” Day says, “what can I get you?”
—“Oh, I got it. I’ll pay my own check.”
—“But I can afford it!” —“Okay, then I’ll let you
buy me a bourbon. You must be in tech!”
—“I measure risk for corporations
to help them plan their operations.”
—“Capitalism is so absurd.”
—“Well I’ve always been kind of a nerd,
and I’m good at worrying.” —“Of course you are, honey.”
—“I did an actuarial science degree.
It actually rewards your anxiety,
and there’s lots of jobs, and it pays good money.
Though now I’m trans they all think I’m insane.
Are you sure just whisky? We could have champagne . . .”
I get out of my seat. I’m thinking of ghosting.
Gaia’s talking to this girl by the door,
Keiko, maybe? Gaia is boasting
about her makeup: —“I splurged on Dior.
It’s just the reddest! And I put foundation
on my lips before the application
to increase the contrast.” —“Oh my gosh, you know
so many cool tricks.” —“If you want I can show
them all to you: contouring, blending . . .”
—“I’d love to learn to do makeup right.”
—“Oh wow, hey look, it’s almost midnight.
You wanna make out while the year is ending?”
Midnight! Already! Keiko starts to blush,
and I head to the bar to beat the rush.
Fuck, it’s New Year, the time of new chances.
The clock goes dong, someone starts to sing
“Auld Lang Syne,” and everyone dances.
Tonight we dream that everything
that makes our lives such a shambles
could maybe be changed. This year our gambles
if we’re daring, and have discipline,
might pay off. I take us in
over a fresh whisky sour
and want to burst into tears.
These messy, broke, lonely queers!
Here we all are, seizing the hour
in this great, relentless metropolis:
me, and three couples, each locked in a kiss.