Reading from Formerly Known As 06/02/11

You can watch the video of it here

So I’m in NY and I need to get laid.  I go there every year, and the last year had been kind of a shit show because I’d gone after IDA and had gotten fucked, fairly unhygenically in the woods, which resulted in me as a hypochodriac swearing that I had a fistula and not letting anyone touch me in the back hole for 2 weeks.  So, this year, infection free – I’m ready to let loose.  I want Christopher St Piers bathroom bj’s on toilets covered in strangers piss. Or at least laying next to someone who grinds against my leg while we each pretend to be sleeping.

So, I’m at this party drunk as fuck.  I’ve already accidentally smacked the new boyfriend of this guy I once went on a date with in the face, neatly circumventing the possibility that they will invite me home for a threesome.  Tuck, who I’m staying with, keeps metaphorically tapping his watch, politely bringing up that his dog may suffer a heat stroke in the apartment we left her in, being that New York experiences the season known as summer.  I’m about to let it go and go home but then I turn around and there is this guy.  He’s not super cute, but he has pretty eyes and he looks very available.   So available that within 30 seconds of smiling at him we are grinding and sloppily making out.  In that way that drunk people are so good at reading body language I understand that he is a complete and utter bottom, so start sticking one hand down this throat and holding the palm of the other across his neck.  He kind of half breathes half slurs in my ear: Come home with me.  I’ll get us a hotel room and we’ll do some adderoll.

Even though I’m already finding him kind of irritating, I get in the cab, cuz – why not?  He keeps running his hands up and down my legs.  Sir, can I call you sir, sir?  I find PDA in cabs to be extremely unappealing, so I grab his crotch hard and sneer for him to keep his hands to himself.  We stop at his apartment and he scurries into his house.  The driver starts talking to me – well, you certainly caught a live one – and that one sentence instantly catapults me into hooker mode, even though that is stupid because I try to never have unselfish sex without getting paid. This is magnified 1000 fold when live one comes back with an envelope full of cash.

In the  170 dollar hotel room while he crushes up the aderoll, I ask him why he keeps money in envelopes.  He is some university person and got paid for tutoring – it makes sense – considering the academic PNP vibe – I’m surprised he’s not rolling up Foucault pages to snort with.  He asks me if I remember what his name is.  I don’t.  I make him up a new one – Dwayne.  He looks nothing like a Dwayne, skinny and dark with watery blue eyes – with limbs I want to snap.  He’s nothing like the other Dwayne – a drunken alter-ego that my housemate morphs into when blacked out.  But I’m tired, and it’s all I can think of at that moment.

After watching him snort two giant lines, I tell him I have to take a piss.  He takes off his clothes and lays in the bathtub.  I notice he leaves his black socks on which really makes me want to beat the shit out of him, cuz gurl that is just LAZY.  I undress slowly, my back to him.  He’s talking a mile a minute about all the things he hopes that I don’t do to him but that I can do if I want, because he would never presume to challenge my authority.  I balance on the sides of the bathtub, towering over him and start to piss on his face. He turns his face to the side and when I turn the stream onto his dick he covers it with both hands.  I slip back onto the floor and turn the shower on.  It’s too cold – he whines.  As the water warms up he folds over himself and covers his face with his hands.

Ok, what is going on?  In my mind I’m back 4 years ago part of a feminist discussion group where the kind of sex I’m having now, that I routinely have, would be branded EXTREMELY UNCONSCENSUAL and I’m about to get branded with a scarlet P for starting to engage in sexual activity with someone while they were drunk, especially sans safe word.

He’s now crying.  I get in the bathtub with him and start stroking his leg.  Are you alright?  I just can’t do it – he says.  I’m ready for repressed memories, gay regret, anything.  He says “I just can’t have sex with a tranny.”

Now, I know that I pass relatively well – but, for fucks sake, he picked me up at an original plumbing release party – a magazine for trans men – and he ran his hand over the front of my daisy dukes enough times that I really didn’t feel like further disclosure was necessary.  But it appears that it was, and I’m already in crisis de-escalation mode so I rub his hand and tell him it’s ok.

I don’t understand why he’s crying though, a hook up that is a bust isn’t really that dramatic, or uncommon, in my book.  I at least wait to process my drunk regrets until we’ve parted ways and I then I text ex-boyfriends on the way home – but not him.  Reams of yellow snot are hanging out of his nose, I keep wiping them away and letting the water wash them off my fingers.   It’s okay to not be attracted to someone because they are trans – I say that even though I hate saying it.  I’m not sure that I think it’s true, but I know it’s real.  He starts talking about the disappointment he has in himself, that as a gender academic he cannot cross the cis-trans gay man desire divide.  I’m not sure what reading books has to do with having boners but I let him talk, trying really hard not to get defensive.  He talks about Andy Warhol movies and studying under Judith Butler, all the while I keep wiping his nose like he’s a 4 year old.  He says, I’m so sorry – it must be so difficult to be a trans person, it’s so unfair.  It’s not about fairness – I say, it would be nice if attraction happened regardless of their race or size or HIV status or whether or not they were trans – but according to a small survey of a4a profiles that isn’t what happens.  I personally thought it was morally acceptable for him to not be attracted to me, even if he didn’t think I was hot sans the 8 inch dick he’d previously anticipated me having.  I have fucked and dated and loved gay men who did, and I would again.  Well, that’s very optimistic of you– he said – I mean, if I can’t do it, then who could?

He kept talking but I stopped listening.  I wasn’t thinking of murdering him for framing fucking me as a social service.  Or thinking about the guilt I sometimes feel for being trans, that my body is a burden that I should make up for via hour long blow jobs and no questions asked unprotected sex.   Instead I thought about living in the mountains of New Mexico as a child, separate from people.  Listening to the same Mariah Carey cassette tape again and again, walking on top of the snow and trying to step so lightly that I left no footprints.  I thought of summers of climbing up fallen, mossy, tree trunks and dropping into the river below.  Of a world I was the master of, before my life seemed to be a body and identity game of trying to guess what unspoken self is be unquestionably worthy of love and affection.

I got out of the bathtub.  He followed me.  You could stay here alone tonight he said, but I knew that if I took him up on the offer he would make it not worth it.  I called my friend Stephen who picked up the phone drunk at some bar in Manhattan – hi, I went home with some guy who freaked out about me being trans – where are you, can I stay with you tonight?  Stephen started talking to me in code like I was on a bad trick and needed the SWAT team, but I was too exhausted to explain.  Dwayne, who was actually Romi, asked me for a cigarette.  We smoked in the bed of the non-smoking room while I called my friends and he flipped through the channels looking for porn.

He asked me if I wanted to masturbate next to him and when I said no, asked me if I knew any ‘guy’ hookers who would come over, at what was now 4:30 in the morning.  He thought that I might enjoy watching someone else fuck the shit out of him.  This was getting very irritating.  I propped myself up on my elbows, asked –  so if I was a bio boy and came in here – beat the shit out of you, dosed you with GHB.  Started fucking you without lube or a condom then robbed you after leaving you laying in a pile of vomit – how would you have felt about that?  I probably would have loved it – he whined, I’m sick, I just want people to do bad things to me.  He sounds like a drunk Courtney Love post on twitter .  I ask – do you think you went to the Original Plumbing party looking for degradation, looking to pick up someone who would make you feel like a bad person, and that on some level you knew I was trans?

He stops talking to me, since I am no longer performing absolution duties.  I put on my clothes that are wet from the bathtub situation and riffle through his stuff. The contents of his wallet and the envelope equal 64 dollars. I pick it up and start to palm the two remaining adderol capsules, I’m taking this as cab fare – I say.  Still starring at the tv he speaks to me – flat toned. Leave me something to work with he says don’t be a bad person like I am.   I let one of the pills roll out of my hand and walk out.