Posted 10th May by @Eunuch_Onegin in series The Call-Out
content warnings: trans men
tags: castration; vaporwave; after dark
Let the spring rewind: watch all the flowers
close, and their stems curl into the seed;
the May warmth chill and the April showers
rise into the clouds, the turtles recede
under the ice, to sit without doing
much at all, except accruing
acid in their shells, and watching the sun
for some indication that winter’s done.
The short cold days are always distressing
for Keiko too, and so, apart
from when she has classes, she just makes art
and rereads comics. It’s productive but depressing.
Then March comes along and mitigates the gloom,
and she stirs, and decides to tidy her room.
She puts her sketchbooks into piles,
arranges her pencils by depth of hue,
then starts to gather the lino tiles
she uses for printblocks. As she glances through
she comes on the one that Gaia commended.
She stares at it, hard, then, since they friended
each other at some point during that night,
she opens Messenger and starts to write.
—“Hi,” she types, “it’s been a while
but I’d really like to be your friend.
Can we hang out?” She adds at the end
a blushing emoji with a nervous smile.
Gaia writes back almost straight away:
—“Oh hi! I’m maybe free today?”
They go back and forth in clumsy vacillation
until finally Gaia suggests a place:
a peculiar hipster amalgamation
of bar, taxidermist, and performance space
specializing in frozen alcoholic potation.
It’s down on Atlantic, in the charming location
of a rezoned oil and tire shop.
They’ve kept the old sign. It’s called Quick Stop.
Keiko’s on time, right to the minute.
She orders a slushy and gives them a look
at her sister’s ID, which she secretly took.
Her drink has a plastic elephant in it.
Gaia’s late. Her apologies are profuse.
Her fro-yo is garnished with a plastic moose.
Now it’s necessary to make conversation.
—“I’m really sorry I was late!”
Gaia repeats. Then an inspiration:
discuss the bar! “So isn’t this great?”
—“There’s lots of . . . animals?” Keiko queries.
—“So many! And they have this performance series.
Tonight’s Bloody Mary. They’re this enby queen
who’s like, the greatest thing on the scene.”
—“I’ve never seen a drag queen performing.”
—“They’re one of our closest analogies
to the classical Cybeleian mysteries.
This ritualized gender non-conforming,
a licensed transgression, a traditional threat . . .
How haven’t you been to a drag show yet?”
—“Cybeleian?” —“Yeah! Like, Magna Mater?
This Roman goddess with cross-dressing priests,
who had an actual imperial charter
to hold these, like, castration feasts.
They’d sever their testicles, then run off shrieking
into the fancy areas, seeking
some rich guy’s house, and then they’d throw
their balls through the door, and refuse to go
until they got paid. They’d fall into trances,
and prophesy, and curse, and generally be mean.
They dyed their hair, played the tambourine,
had public sex, did wild dances . . .
They wanted to ban them, but never dared.
Even the emperors were way too scared.”
—“I like this idea. We should be scary.
Like, girls don’t have to be nice and polite!”
—“Well, you should stay to see Bloody Mary.”
So they sit drinking slushies until ten at night,
when Mary starts singing (not lip-syncing).
They start as a rich white lady, who’s been drinking
and is trying to lure her gardener to bed
with a version of “Can’t Get You Out of My Head”;
they do “Dancing With Myself” (by Billy Idol)
as an incel in a trench coat driving a van
into a crowd; they do “Rocket Man”
as Kim Jong-Un, getting more homicidal,
until they reveal they were Trump all along
and destroy the world at the end of the song.
I’m there too, at a different table
away in the back. I don’t love the place
but Mary’s worth seeing. And so I’m able
to see the expression on Keiko’s face.
She’s in raptures: no exaggeration.
She tries to start a standing ovation.
She stamps. She cheers. When the show is done
she turns to Gaia: —“Ohmigod that was fun!
I’d heard that drag was misogynistic
but that was art. Hey, you wanna make out?”
Gaia makes a face like she’s struggling with doubt.
—“I usually try not to be moralistic
but you’re drunk, and after the thing at New Year
I think it’s not a great idea.”
And that is that. The moment is shattered.
Gaia broke it. Keiko looks crushed
and Gaia gabbles, as if words mattered
in matters of the body. Their goodbyes are rushed.
They return alone to their residences.
No need to linger on the consequences,
too painful. Let’s skip a month or so:
Gaia’s off work. She decides to go
up and out to the roof of her building
to leaf through Lucian’s True History,
listen to vaporwave on MP3,
and let the rays get started on gilding
(even though it’s only May)
her limbs for their imminent summer display.
But really it’s about the representation
of herself to herself. Of course, I don’t know,
but I’d guess that in her imagination,
she’s playing at being, like, Marilyn Monroe.
She has eyeliner on, her hair is done nicely,
and her nails and bikini match precisely,
though she must be expecting solitude,
since when she realizes there’s a dude
standing on the roof of the building adjacent
lifting barbells of impressive size
(given his height) she gasps with surprise.
He hears her and turns, looking complacent.
Below his pectorals, matching scars
announce this Adonis is “one of ours.”
He smiles at Gaia, all sweaty and brawny:
—“So, do you come up here a lot?”
As openings go it’s kinda corny
but who cares about that when this guy’s so hot?
—“Sometimes, you know, if I’m feeling reclusive.”
—“Oh dude, I’m sorry, am I being intrusive?”
—“Not a bit! Don’t worry, it’s not a reproof,
you’re fine! I mean, you’re on your own roof!”
She laughs, betraying her agitation
but the guy seems willing to persevere.
He tries again: “It’s nice up here.”
—“It is! I like all the crenellation!”
—“The what?” —“The, like, castle-y bit.”
—“Wow, yeah, I see it. Yeah, legit.”
Gaia looks at her hand like she’s going to bite it.
—“Sorry, ignore me, I’m being a freak.”
—“You be you, you don’t have to fight it.
Y’know, your perspective is just unique!
Individuality is something you have to treasure.
I’m Baker, by the way. It’s a pleasure.”
He smiles again, friendly and bright
showing his teeth, so neat and white.
—“I’m Gaia.” —“Awesome! And you’re my neighbor?
Rad. You’re like, the trans femme next door!
So what do you do? Like, tell me more.”
—“A sex toy store alienates my labor.
It’s union though, so at least I’m insured.
And you?” —“I work at Callen-Lorde.”
(On that: how come the non-profit sector
employs trans dudes so promiscuously?
I suppose they think if some sort of inspector
came round to assess their diversity
they’re covered for transgender representation.
In trans academia the situation
is the same. All the men are tenure-track
but somehow us girls never hear back
from the search committee. I had the delusion
I could be a professor, so I got my degree:
I’m a shop assistant with a PhD!
Why aren’t I included in all this inclusion?)
“But also,” he continues, “I sometimes appear
in porn. But like, if it’s feminist and queer.”
Gaia gapes —“I think I’ve seen you!
Doing cowboy bondage in a Stetson hat,
and chaps and spurs? Could that have been you?”
—“Dude yeah, my specialty is scenes like that.”
—“What was it called, maybe Hogtie Ho-down?”
—“Oh close! Yeah almost. Guy Poon Showdown.”
—“Oh yeah, that’s it!” And so they converse
about their interest in matters perverse
for like twenty minutes, until Baker announces,
—“I have a date. I’ve gotta scram.
But you should follow me on Instagram.
I’m @urbancowboi.” And off he bounces,
leaving Gaia unable to focus on her book.
If you ask me, she seems, as the kids say, “shook.”
She decides to comply with his exhortation,
opens her Insta, checks out his pics.
His grid is the product of careful curation:
a shirtless selfie/landscape mix
that makes him appear both sexy and arty.
He’s posted a flier for a queer dance party
called Daddy Issues. According to the text
it’s an “Oedipal Experience.” And it’s happening next
Saturday! Gaia reposts it. “Who’s going?”
She comments, and tags a variety
of “friends” including both Keiko and me.
I can’t tell whether she does this knowing
that Keiko likes her. It ought to be clear.
Can she be that clueless? Has she no idea?
We can note her objectively hurtful action.
But Gaia’s intentions remain obscure
and the impact came after a chain reaction:
nothing in morality is simple or pure.
When Keiko receives this communication
she stares at her phone, at the notification,
for literally minutes, then puts it away,
makes like she’ll go about her day,
and then takes the damn thing back out of her pocket
(Can’t someone call her? Can’t her phone break?
Can’t she somehow realize it’s a mistake?)
and holds her thumb on the button to unlock it,
and follows the link to say she’ll go,
then messages Gaia to let her know.
I wish I could stop her, but fate is fated.
She’s already chosen. She’s going to write.
She’s falling in love, intoxicated
by visions of going out dancing all night
in basement rooms with sexy lighting
surrounded by queers. It must be exciting
to feel like you’re part of the fashionable crowd
and I’d guess, for Keiko, that Gaia is endowed
with all of that glamour, that potential.
Or perhaps I’m projecting. Be that as it may
she sets out for the party on Saturday
early, and is caught in a sudden torrential
late spring downpour. She’s soaked to the skin
by the time she finally makes it in.
Her makeup’s smeared, her clothes are sopping,
she damply pays the entrance fee:
the room is not exactly hopping.
She glances around, then speedily
runs to the bathroom, and uses the dryer
on both her hair and her attire,
with mixed results. She fixes her face,
returns to the almost empty space,
and messages Gaia, who’s like, —“Departing!
Be there in thirty! Wow, it’s wet.”
Thirty passes. She’s not there yet,
but the perverts and geeks are finally starting
to arrive, in denim and gleaming Docs
and dog-tags, or collars with the cutest locks.
When Gaia finally makes an appearance
Keiko’s been waiting an hour or more.
She wears Burberry platforms she got on clearance
and a tiny t-shirt with the slogan WHORE.
She’s brought some friends, and gives a glancing
round of intros, then heads to the dancing.
Keiko follows, leans over, and shouts in her ear:
—“Is this a sex party?” —“Bless you, just queer!
I mean, I’m not saying nobody’s screwing,
they probably have a blackout room,
or maybe they don’t. But I’d assume.”
—“What’s that?” —“A darkened section for doing
you know, whatever.” —“Oh got it. Alright.
So, um, like how did you find this night?”
—“Well!” Gaia halts, and starts enthusing,
“I was on my roof, and I met this dude.”
—“This what?” —“This dude.” —“Oh that was confusing!
I heard you say that you ate this food!
I was like, a picnic?” —“He was mesmerizing,”
Gaia interrupts, “and he was exercising,
shirtless” (they’re surrounded by shirtless men)
“and well, he was flirty, he was definitely a ten,
so I stalked him a bit, and I think he’s attending.
I’m sure he’s gonna get here soon,
wait till you see him, you’re going to swoon.”
Keiko’s expression is kind of heartrending
for just a second, then she smiles, —“Oh great.”
She sticks close to Gaia. It starts to get late.
Still Baker’s not there. Gaia checks his Insta.
There are photos of him having fun elsewhere.
—“Ugh, such a stupid desperate spinster!
Why did I come here?” She finds a chair
and plunks herself down, no longer so buoyant.
—“You couldn’t know, you’re not clairvoyant,
and anyway, it’s been fun hanging out.
I enjoyed the dancing.” Keiko still has to shout.
She looks exhausted. Gaia gives her a smile.
—“Oh Keiko, that’s nice? You’re very sweet.”
She meets her eyes, and gets back to her feet:
“Wanna dance again? I could stay a while.”
Keiko grins like a fire: —“Well, not for too long.
It’s late. But I do really like this song.”
And let’s press pause, as they enter the dancing,
and leave them for a bit. It’s for the best:
they both look happy. There’s something entrancing
about a freeze-frame. It seems to suggest
that it’s possible to preserve our jubilation
like candied flowers, through crystallization,
so that later when things inevitably go wrong
or the problems we secretly had all along
but ignored overwhelm us, that then the chatter,
the laughter, the moving closer while we dance,
the singular, overinterpreted glance
we thought about for days, will continue to matter.
But nothing matters. It comes on you fast,
drops through your fingers, and spring is past.