Nichole
Hanging out at Tahani’s place was chaotic, which was only partially my fault. Being greeted with ‘woman detected’ when I arrived in the middle of everyone getting into a variety of suits was one thing, but the real pandemonium began when I reflexively started denying it.
Expressing such a distinctly server-induced habit got me a stern talking-to about confidence and self-determination, culminating in Tahani mobilizing her entire polycule–as well as Rupali–to point at me and say “girl” until I admitted to it, and then a little bit more until they believed my admission.
Well, she mobilized all of them except for Bobbie, whom I’ve never actually had a chance to meet. I asked Tahani what it is ze
does
all the time, and the only answer I got out of her was a highly enthusiastic exclamation:
“Bobbie’s being gay and doing crimes.”
And that was the end of that.
The borderline-psychedelic experience of being around Rupali and the Tahanicule is only intensifying now, as we’re arriving at the venue. The line to the vestibule was sizable at the outset, but as we’re making it to the entrance and having our tickets checked by a friendly but clearly exhausted volunteer, I can’t help but notice that the line has almost doubled in size.
Coat check already overwhelmed, we pass through the entrance and emerge into a large dining hall, cleared out for the occasion to work as a dance floor. There’s a stage of sorts, currently empty, in stark contrast with the rapid overcrowding of everywhere else. Far too few tables and chairs along the walls make a noncommittal attempt at providing some seating.
A table with an empty punch bowl sits alone, unattended in a corner, accompanied by the distinct lack of music.
“Whoever’s in charge of decor seems to have been undecided on whether this is a political rally or a party,” Kimberly states matter-of-factly, drawing our attention to the walls plastered in handmade, brightly colored posters with slogans written in elaborate, glittery, near-illegibly ornate cursive.
‘Trans women are valid,’ says one poster featuring an image of a drag queen wearing an ostentatious bright-turquoise fake glitter beard. ‘Sex and gender are different, nobody says you can change sex!’ says a poster with a notable seam cutting through ‘nobody’, a second piece of card stock taped on to make room for the slogan.
“Nothing about the healthcare bans?” Sif gives Tahani a concerned look.
“Nah, this one’s about them,” Tahani points to another poster, reading ‘No government can tell you who you are! Be yourself!’
“That feels a bit useless?” I can’t help but comment.
“Useless is the name of the game here,” Tahani smirks at me. “Can’t ask for better care, can’t be too loud about helping the ones without any.”
Of particular note, a centerpiece displayed proudly by the entrance features an enormous, rainbow-colored rendition of the mars-venus trans symbol. Right in the middle, in particularly bold letters, the exclamation rings out for all to see:
‘We stand with the striking workers of the Austrohungarian Arms Industry union!’
Stifling a laugh, Tahani clutches Sif’s arm for support. Rupali, meanwhile, is groaning.
“I just know this one was Quinn’s idea,” Rupali sighs. “It’s just … extremely Quinn.”
“As expected, these chucklefucks can’t do anything right when left to their own devices,” Tahani declares. “Sif, Kim, come with me. Ru, Ru’s friend, go wait for Tahani Time to start the party.”
“Tahani … Time?” I ask, dreading elaboration on what she’s planning.
“Oh yes. The people yearn for Tahani Time. You will know when it happens, young one.”
I am absolutely certain that Tahani is younger than me.
“But before I go,
child
, let me bestow some sage wisdom upon your baby-trans self, as is the role of trans elders such as I.”
Tahani’s hand on my shoulder and ambiguous tone makes it impossible to read if she’s being serious about this or if it’s a joke.
“This place is a pit of vipers. You’re not going to get anything good from acting ‘humble’ about your gender like you did earlier. If you say you’re not sure that you qualify as a woman, they’ll
believe you
.”
Unsure how to even respond to that, I simply nod.
“As a rule, self-deprecating jokes about your transition don’t work offline, girl. Pretending you’re only doing it for a competition or something is a losing game, and,” she leans in for the last part, lowering her voice a little, “If you’re
actually
doing that, just admit to yourself you’re trans. You can quit any time.”
Before I get to ask if that was a weirdly prescient joke or if she
knows
, she’s gone, leaving me to enjoy the festivities with Rupali.
Well. Turns out I still don’t like parties.
I mean, I can tell that this is an especially shit party, so that doesn’t help, but there’s a more fundamental issue beneath that. Heat, noise, movement in the crowd, it’s just an endless stream of
stuff
happening constantly, all of it draining me of energy.
“Can we go sit somewhere?” I ask, hoping for a chance to find my bearings in here just a little.
“Sure.”
We’re in luck, and manage to find a somewhat quiet spot next to a “The Privates Is Political” poster, seating ourselves to take in the sights. The distinct
lack
of music and notably crowded space does no favors to make the tone less awkward, with confused guests slowly milling about and encroaching onto the dance floor purely on the basis of having nowhere else to stand.
There are so many outfits, so many strange sights, so many
ridiculous
posters, and yet I can’t help but turn my attention towards one sight in particular: an oddly familiar-looking bearded individual in the corner, working on hanging up another poster while absolutely killing it in a bright pink ball gown and flowing, blonde wig.
Said poster is notably
not
handmade, printed on glossy paper with a clear, professional design. The understated simplicity in a sea of overdone intensity ironically makes it stand out
more
, not less, and the text simply reads:
‘Informed Consent Now.’
Who
is
this guy? Genuinely well-executed drag aside, I am
sure
I’ve seen him somewhere, but
where
? Where have I seen a hispanic, slightly chubby guy with that beard, that mustache, and that sort of wry look to him that—
Oh my fucking god. It’s Only In This For The Money Tbh.
And he’s being harassed by security.
“Dude. We talked about this. Issues like healthcare policy are too divisive, this is supposed to be a big-tent event,” says a lanky, pale guy with messy black hair.
“Yeah,” a well-groomed brown-haired man adds, “and if you’re going to ignore the decision we made at the meetings, we’re going to have some trouble here.”
“Shit, Alex.” Rupali has noticed the commotion as well. “I should help him out. Watch the seat for me?”
I nod, and Rupali marches over.
The messy one looks like the mere sight of Rupali is enough to shame him, and withdraws behind the significantly less intimidated clean one.
“Well, look who it is. The
ally
who couldn’t handle consequences for her pet troublemaker.”
“I fuck women now. Not your business, but I’ll grace you with the update.”
I hadn’t quite realized just how much like Tahani Ru is when she’s pissed.
“I can
tell
.” The messy one is summoning some courage now. “You know, it’s pretty
heteronormative
of you to try being butch the second you—”
“How? How is that heteronormative?” Rupali is taking none of this bullshit.
“We have been over this,” the clean one is rolling his eyes. “It’s pretty fucking rich that you’re demanding to be educated
now
, after making such a fuss about leaving.”
Fascinatingly, Alex just continues putting up the poster while the two are occupied.
“Okay, educate me. Why is informed consent bad,
Leonard
?” Rupali is tensed up, hands tightening into fists.
“Well, many in our community have expressed concerns that irresponsible care pathways risk doing more harm than good,” Leonard begins.
“I WASN’T ASKING FOR THE FUCKING PR-SPEAK AND EXCUSES, I KNOW THEM.”
“Woah, okay, I can sense that we’re beginning to escalate to a problematic level of aggression here. Kenneth, help me escort these two outside?”
The lanky one, Kenneth apparently, chimes in. “You heard the man. Let’s go outside.”
“This is ridiculous,” Alex pipes up, having finished with his poster. “I’m
on
the board, and she
was
on it.”
“And right now you are both acting against the democratic processes of that board. Chop chop, let’s go, unless you want this to escalate further than it already has.”
I’m curious as to how precisely these two guys are going to enforce their decision here, given that Kenneth looks as if he’s about to start crying just from this little bit of confrontation. I guess his plan is to compel both Ru and Alex to take pity on him, which honestly seems to be working.
“Fine, yes, let’s have a lovely little chat outside about how disruptive a poster advocating for bodily autonomy is,” Alex sighs. “Ru, I’m sorry, will you please accompany us before Kenneth cries?”
“Do
not
speak about Kenny that way!” Leonard objects hotly.
Kenny, grateful, suppresses a sniffle.
“Fine,” Rupali agrees, eyes nearly falling out of her head due to the velocity at which she’s revolving them. “Let’s have a nice
chat
.”
They file out, with Leonard and Kenny bringing up the rear, as though Alex and Rupali, exasperated, were at any risk of ‘making a break for it’. I can hear their continued arguing slowly fade away while I stare at the informed consent poster and think about how I’m alone again, and how if I had just come here with the woman I had wanted to come here with, I wouldn’t be.
Back when I was just starting hormones, I had a hope that there was some appeal to parties like this one that was just switched off for me, a wall of
guy
standing between me and enjoying myself in these situations. I thought that once I was able to feel like a
person
, I’d have fun with this, but no. It’s still not really something that appeals to me at all.
Worse, there’s suddenly a
literal
wall of guy in my way, having occupied the seat I was saving for Rupali.
“Hey there,” he grins, flashing a row of blinding, unnaturally bright white teeth.
“H-hi.” Something about the way he’s looking at me makes me regret showing so much cleavage.
“So what’s your name, hot stuff?” The lumbering mass of sleazeball asks, flexing a bicep bigger than my head.
He’s making a point of showing that he’s got pink nail polish on, lumpy and uneven coats chipping off nails that have not, at any point, gotten any kind of care.
“Stephany,” I lie, trying to avoid inhaling more of a cologne he’s deploying with all the tact of a war crime involving chemical weapons.
Do we not have
any
security here that’s not busy playing poster police? I’m trying to see if anyone I know can come save me from this guy and his bare-minimum attempt at drag—a fucking sundress he’s wearing over jeans and a polo shirt.
“Hey now, Stephany. What’s the matter? Not having fun?”
Too-small shirt creaking under his corpulent pectoral muscles, he has the gall to put a hand on my shoulder. His haircut looks like a dead rat is glued to his scalp. I wish I could work up the courage to say any of that to his way-too-spraytanned face.
“What say we blow this joint, and then you can
blow
—”
“Nichole, do you know this guy?”
Thank
fuck
, Sif is back.
“Hey nah dude, we’re having a good time, aren’t we, uh, Steph?” The guy talks before I get to answer, leaning in as if he expects me to be okay with any of this.
Which, to be clear, I am about to vomit.
“I wasn’t asking you.” Sif’s words are like cold steel cutting through the man-miasma, offering me a chance to breathe.
I’m still not quite managing to
say
anything, though.
“Yeah, well,
I
wasn’t asking
you
, fucking dyke. So how about you get bent, huh?”
The guy is standing up, flexing his muscles, puffing himself up to look threatening.
Sif, in turn, doesn’t
have
to flex to look threatening.
“I invite you to try.”
The blunt, matter-of-fact delivery of those words makes Mr. Sundress hesitate, if only for a moment, and I decide that that’s probably my cue.
“What took you so long, honey?” I pipe up, bouncing to my feet and, feeling somewhat dazed from the adrenaline rush of what was seconds away from being a very violent altercation, letting Sif put her arm around me.
“My bad,” Sif apologizes with a smirk, while Mr. Sundress starts swearing even louder. “Come along now.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, not even daring to look over my shoulder, letting Sif escort me to safety.
Could this night get
any
worse?
Desi
Could this night get
any
worse?
I booked the band for the wrong date. They were a perfect band, too: ‘The Combined Harvesters’, a real fusion of eclectic Euro-pop and folksy, country, down-to-earth hootenanny vibes that would have been perfect for a wholesome night of queer fun. Unfortunately, I wrote the date down in the format I
assumed
they were more comfortable with rather than the normal way, so they just thought I was pencilling them in really, really early. When I called to ask where they were, they told me they were presently playing a gig in some seedy vegan bar downtown!
Without their softpunk quirkcore dulcet tunes to tie together the ambience of the space, the venue really isn’t achieving the coexisting themes of queer joy and queer resistance that I’d been aiming for, given that there’s no whimsical soundtrack for the outspoken revolutionary statements to be a foil to. Now it just feels like we’re at a recreation of the Cafe Riots, which isn’t as conducive to a fun party mood as you’d hope!
Of course, it’s not like I can simply smile and say, “Oh well, this ball’s a political rally now!” A lack of
any
music is probably alright for the first
hour
, or maybe
two
, but sooner or later people are going to declare the joint un-groove-able. Fortunately, we’ve built a failsafe for just such a scenario into our very plans from the beginning. The venue where we're holding the ball is a dining hall that is frequently cleared out to function as an event space, a makeshift stage built at one end of the cleared-out seating area that DJs, speakers, and even the occasional D-list standup may address the crowd from. I simply have to figure out how to plug all the right things in and I’ll be good to play the most well-received impromptu Europop-country fusion playlist drag events have ever seen!
All I have to do is keep up the subterfuge. I’m flowing expertly in between other revellers, using my own slight frame and everyone else’s billowy, ostentatious costuming choices as natural camouflage, bobbing and weaving until I’m close enough to snap a picture of a particular piece of equipment, image-search it, frown, realize there’s a model number on the side, frown again, type it in, catch myself wishing one of the crossdressing computer dorks from my apartment was here, mentally slap myself, frown a third time, finally look at the search results, realize I've punched in the wrong model number, enter it correctly, then scroll an abandoned forum thread full of people screaming about how they stopped manufacturing this make in 1997 and no more copies of the manual are in circulation and how exactly are you supposed to turn it off, again? No, I need to turn it
on
!
After some definitely inconspicuous cursing and wrangling, I’m ready to do it for the next piece of equipment on the other end of the stage, gearing up to avoid—
“Hello, Desdemona.”
“Quinn!”
Xe’s standing right in front of me, hands on xer hips, smiling down at me with narrowed eyes. I’d somehow practically run headlong into xem and now I’m withering under xer gaze, shrinking, feeling small but not in the good way. I also find myself begrudgingly admitting that their outfit
is
a pretty good blend of the hypermasculine and hyperfeminine: fishnets, hot pink heels, and a miniskirt worn with a men’s-cut blazer, button-down and bowtie. The fake beard
does
in fact complete the look so well that I can’t imagine the get-up without it, xer blue goatee accentuated by excessive levels of blush, powder, and truly garish magenta eyeshadow, all clashing with their close-cropped auburn hair. It’s all so fucking
sharp
, and Quinn looks positively dressed to kill—which is a cause for concern, given that I’m almost certainly xer most viable target.
“What an interesting mood you’ve set for us tonight, Desi.” Quinn turns pointedly to the empty stage, xer smile unwavering, before fixing the full intensity of their sight on my quivering frame once more. “I do hope our act isn’t delayed for
much
longer.”
“Certainly!” I find myself foolishly blurting out. “Expected any minute now, to be certain.”
“
Certain
. Yes, you
certainly
look very
certain
right now.” Quinn chuckles good-naturedly, a sound I hear very clearly over the dull roar of the crowd and the distinct lack of melodies. “How very kind of you to go to all this trouble, by the way. Setting up all the equipment for them in advance. You’re a very dedicated volunteer.”
“Th-thank you.”
“Remind me, Jeffrey. Weren’t you close with
Tahani
?”
Both the names in the question make me flinch. “It’s Des—”
“I am
not in the mood to play
, Jeffrey.”
“Right. Of course.” I audibly gulp. “I wouldn’t call myself close to Tahani in the slightest, Quinn. I hardly knew her.”
“How odd. I could have sworn you were always coming in with her … carrying her posters … that you’d clearly made together …”
“Ru,” I correct feebly. “I was friends with
Rupali
, Quinn. Not Tahani.”
A bolder woman than me might have interjected a line about not all brown women being interchangeable, but Quinn speaks too quickly for any version of me to point that out.
“Of course. Rupali. Only Tahani’s
childhood best friend
.” Quinn titters, and I’m not sure why this is information xe’s privy to, or information xe feels is relevant to bring up at the moment. “You know, it’s funny. Security just had to escort Alex out of the building.”
“Alex?” I squeak. “Why?”
While Alex is certainly an active member, I can’t say I know very much about him. He’s kind of tall and muscular and rocks a vaguely untrimmed handlebar moustache and certainly has shoulders a girl would die to hang off of, but he’s always been a bit on the irritating side. None of which feels particularly relevant to the conversation Quinn’s attempting to have with me, whose topic I’m now struggling to nail down. All I know is that it feels too much like an interrogation.
“It’s funny.” Quinn’s not looking at me anymore—xe’s stepped forward to stand at my side, addressing me without so much as turning towards me to speak. “Security just had to accost and eject him for being disruptive. Trying to put up some controversial posters, that would have blended in with the
decor
had he not been caught.”
“... Oh?”
“Rupali tried to defend him.”
The lump in my throat that Quinn frequently inspires is back.
“I haven’t spoken to Rupali in
ages
, she’s livid at me, I’m dating her ex—”
“And now, the venue’s oddly quiet.” Quinn continues like I hadn’t said a word. “Perfect for a little shouting to be heard over the din. An impromptu protest to be staged on the night of our biggest fundraiser. On its very grounds. Piggybacking off all our hard work.”
“Oh,” I squeak. “Well, it’s not going to remain quiet—”
“Of course not,” Quinn interrupts me. “Because you’re no friend of Rupali.”
“No.”
“And
certainly
no friend of Tahani’s.”
“Not at all.”
“And you don’t even know Alex.”
“Can hardly stand the guy,” I hurry to add, wary and exhausted.
“Good man.”
Finally, after a long moment, Quinn claps me on the shoulder.
“Well, off you go then,” xe chirps, smile wide as ever. “The show must go on, right Desi?”
“Right!” I chirp back, unable to muster half as much enthusiasm.
“Can’t leave all the cords and amps and stations unplugged for the act that is
certainly
turning up soon.” Quinn’s fake nails are digging into my skin, verging on painful. “Within the next twenty minutes, I’d hope.”
“Naturally,” I mumble, defeated.
“I look forward to it, old chap.”
Xe lets me go and leaves, striding through the milling rabble.
I am
so
fucked.
Panic grips me as I hurry over to the next piece of equipment. It’s ostensibly my last endeavor, but what am I supposed to
do
after I finish setting it up? Scouring the web for manuals and random helpful autistics got me this far, but I have nowhere to go after. If I just put a playlist on, it’d put the speakers to work but it wouldn’t be an
act
, wouldn’t be the entertainment I’d promised Quinn. Sure, I'm not whatever secret subversive rat involved in a conspiracy to undermine the GSA Quinn suspects me of being, but I
am
a fuck-up,
am
the girl who boldly started folding fucking origami flowers for her ungrateful boyfriend instead of making sure the Drag Ball had an actual band ready to play! I'll be spared the guillotine, but whatever chopping block xe had in store for me for
that
soon-to-be-discovered transgression won’t be much prettier.
Honestly,
why
is Quinn so paranoid about
me
? If xe knows Rupali and Tahani are childhood best friends, xe should also know that I’ve completely alienated them from my life at this point. I was the one who spun Rupali’s departure as fair-weather allyship, a charge that almost everyone bought despite it being so uncharacteristic of how that woman has spent her entire life. I kept my mouth shut when Quinn and the others shouted Tahani down, despite the issues she’d vocalized being something I’d wanted to try and address myself. That’s because I
know
that Quinn needs to pick xer battles, needs to run the GSA smoothly and with a certain degree of cooperating with admin instead of turning into a problem for the college to solve, endlessly needling staff about policy deficiencies both perceived and real. To that end, I even stayed away from the protests against the university’s changed student insurance policies that dropped transition care, per Quinn’s explicit instructions to us all.
I’ve believed in Quinn, in xer vision for the GSA and the hard choices and compromises xe’s willing to make to ensure queer people continue to have our voices heard by those who run the uni. I’ve believed in them even when believing in xer has
cost
me, whether that be friendships or sleep or … or my own fucking sense of moral integrity, mired in the childish desire to scream out against every injustice instead of the patience of adulthood. I’ve nodded along to their speeches about appearing reasonable at the negotiation table, about not fighting some battles today for the sake of winning the war tomorrow.
So
what the fuck is their problem
? Why did they instantly assume I was trying to aid and abet some secret plot to destroy the ball?
Of course, an incidental answer to my question arises when I plug the last cord into the last outlet and instantly, all at once, after a momentary hum of victory indicating that all the equipment is finally online, every light in the dining hall—that is,
the dance floor
—dies.
The moment stretches—the darkness is suffocating—my breath catches in my chest. It’s over. It’s all over. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve contributed to the GSA, to my friends—to the people who I called friends, who I thought were friends, but who consider the name I ask them to use a frivolity to grant and revoke depending on the seriousness of the topic—all of it will be judged against this moment. This instant, when I deprived the Drag Ball of both sound
and
light, plunging our guests into darkness and bringing the event to an early and definitive
close
.
There wasn’t even a saboteur, though naturally they’d debate how much of an
intentional
saboteur I was. Faintly, I recall Wendy raising an issue with the booking date with me, but I confidently dismissed her to pursue more important matters, like getting Kyle the suit he’ll only begrudgingly wear. So here I stand, on a stage that no audience can see, head bowed, brought low, cowed and defeated by circumstance and hubris and sheer, abject incompetence.
Cowardice perhaps played a role too, I’ll confess, as the tears fill my eyes.
Before I can shed a single one, however … the party lights turn on.
Lasers, sweeping back and forth. Little luminous dots, squirreling over the walls, ceilings, the revellers now rooted to the spot, looking around excitedly and speaking in hushed whispers. A tune I don’t quite recognize, but that makes the back of my mind
itch
in a particular way, begins to play softly over the speakers, accompanying a woman’s voice humming in beautiful whispers. Something is happening, and everyone is tense, rigid,
frozen
in anticipation.
Me included. What, exactly, is going on? What fiend have I conjured from the depths of despair, made a pact with in the heart of my soul’s abyss, to be so ceremoniously rescued? Who, exactly, is my savior?
As if to answer my question, two of the spotlights finally flicker on. One rests on the empty stage, the edge of its circle grazing my elbow, showing an electronic panel now lit-up, an instrument eagerly awaiting its player. The other spotlight illuminates the very heart of the crowd, which parts, a sea of orderly carousers who hie to unveil the revealed maestro.
Royal purple, draped over long limbs like a cloak over jewels. Sequins flashing in the dazzling light, revealing a too-short tube top that shows off both her midriff and her collarbones—and my supposed savior is very much a
her
. Jet-black streams of straight, gleaming hair, running down her shoulders like rivers of argentine ebon, adding as much to her limned aura as the reflective beads on her top.
Her blazer and bell-bottoms are the purples, immaculately cut to her figure. Her sequined tube top is the color of a starry midnight. Tall as she is, she’s raised herself up even higher on burgundy platform shoes, all the better to reach the heavens with, one arm outstretched far above her head while the other spreads wide, inviting.
“It’s Tahani Time.” She exhales a breath, and the room, holding its own, agrees.
What am I supposed to say? I’m transfixed too. Of course I am. I can’t take my eyes off as she approaches me, approaches
her
stage, with all the cadence of an executioner approaching the condemned. At least in this case, she deserves to carry out the final sentence.
“AV systems, babes,” Tahani whispers with a wink as she hops up next to me.
She picks up a headset that was idly resting on a larger speaker—who left it there, I wonder? How did I miss how conspicuous it was? Maybe I
was
a conspirator, even if an unwitting one.
“Thank you, thank you everyone!”
Tahani’s voice booms, washing over the crowd, mollifying and commanding them in equal measure. She settles into her place.
“Let’s start out with a big hand for DESDEMONA!”
Applause. The noise strikes me like a million tiny stings, like a swarm of miniscule ants flensing the flesh from my bones, so agonizingly undeserved it is. I’m stricken, silent, mute, gagged, my own shame choking the air out of my lungs.
“Thanks a lot for everything, Mona. This literally wouldn’t be happening without you.” Tahani spares me a single look, a muted quirk of her lips, before turning back to
her
audience. “I hope you have the night you deserve, babe, you’ve earned it.”
Nichole
I am having a headache.
Rationally I know that the party is better now, in the sense that Tahani saved it from a complete nosedive and has now set us on a path to a bumpy but mostly safe landing.
That doesn't mean it's a good party, or that she's magically fixed my shit. Sif is here, Kim went to look for Rupali and Alex. It's
fine
, I guess, but the hollowness of it all is still eating at me.
I … wish Kathy was here. Her shenanigans would've been perfect to balance out the noise right now, would give me something to focus on so I could tune out the rest of this, something to
deal with
instead of just sitting here with nothing.
When she's not around, I feel so alone. At least when we're annoyed with each other, we're
with each other.
I'm tempted to check my phone and see what the server is up to, but I can't stand the idea of seeing who might have been trying to get a hold of me in the meantime.
She called when I was on the way to Rupali, and I denied it on purpose. Three times. So fucking stupid. Why did I snap at her like that? What am I
doing
?
Well, at least I'm not the only one having a shit time. Dess is over in the corner, using her body to cover up the stubbornly glued remains of the poster Alex left behind. She looks as miserable as I feel.
“You good, Nichole?” Sif’s clearly caught on to my mood. “We can leave if you're not feeling all right, it's okay.”
“No, I want to stay,” I lie. I want to leave, but can't go before seeing Kathy.
So I listen to Tahani work the crowd, putting on song after song from a culture and time I’m not really familiar with, letting myself lean on Sif’s chest and idly swaying like a lonely, uncut reed in a cold breeze. Tahani queues up something that she says is from nearly a century ago, a melancholy, meditative piece that you should hold your closest gal to, and I try my best to not sob into Sif’s tits, to not beg her to hold me like I know someone else
should be
.
I’m such a fucking mess.
I’m such a fucking mess, and I don’t know why I just can’t …
Except I do. Don’t I? It’s not about the sex, or the hysterics, or the way we’ve seemingly experienced a total breakdown in communication without being able to resolve it. It’s about how, before she said a single thing to me about the server, before she dragged me anywhere in any get-up, before she made a worthless spectacle of the first night we were supposed to spend together, Katherine betrayed me in a way I’ve never managed to forgive her for.
I’m mad at her because she’s not a girl.
And I really, really want her to be one.
Tonight really cinched for me that no, I’m not bisexual. Being attracted to people who look like women but aren’t doesn’t make me not a lesbian, it just makes dating such people a bad fucking idea. Katherine, for all her cute smiles, soft curves, and quiet beauty, is still attached to manhood, whether or not she lives it, and the sense of ownership she seems entitled to exercise over me certainly makes me more inclined to believe that she’s not anywhere close to letting go of it. It’s the one massive, irreconcilable obstacle to us actually being happy, to us actually having a happy ever after.
Because I don’t want to date a guy, no matter how transfeminized under patriarchy, and I certainly don’t want to be treated like a guy’s girlfriend by anyone of any identity.
“I’m going to have to break up with her.”
Sif doesn’t reply. Ze gives me a squeeze.
Thanking her, I disengage from Sif quietly, making my way to the vestibule. I just need to get some air, I need to get out of my own head, I need to get away from—
“Kathy.”
I stop in my tracks.
She’s here.
She’s
here
.
She’s
here
!!!
She’s here, and she’s wearing something that looks so much like a wedding tux in cream. It’s sure as shit a better attempt at drag than my dress, given that she looks like a woman and is wearing a cream, ruffly, flowery-as-fuck
suit
. It really suits her, too—pun totally intended—bringing out a certain charm that was always there but that she doesn’t really get to show off in her choice of hoodies and dresses and shorts. It’s just …
It’s perfect. It’s like she’s out of a dream. It’s like …
It’s like she’s holding someone’s hand as she walks in, laughing with him.
Kyle.
Why is
she
here with
Kyle
?
Why is she
holding Kyle’s hand
?
They’re all over each other, Kyle practically hanging off her, and while I watch them cackle in the vestibule’s doorway something inside me finally breaks.
That was supposed to be
me
.
“KATHY!”
Enough of this. I’ve had
enough
. I’m settling this right
now
.
“COME. NOW.”
I don’t care what she’s saying. I’m dragging her by the wrist—I’ll drag her by the
hair
if I have to, stomping up the fucking steps. I kick my way past a “do not enter” sign and burst onto a terrace, head swimming, vision blurry, cheeks wet. It’s dark. Only starlight illuminates us, barely, obscured by a thick mist of wispy gray clouds.
“A fitting stage for this confrontation, I must say,” Katherine is shaking. “What do you intend to do now, Nichole? Have you brought a sword, so that you might stab me through the heart in the
literal
sense, now?”
“Kathy, what the fuck are you talking about? We need to
talk.
”
“As you so aptly demonstrated by dragging me here by force. Would you like to contradict your actions with words some more?”
“Kathy, please
just talk to me
.”
I don’t know how I’m already sobbing so hard. I don’t know if Katherine can even understand what I’m saying past my shaking shoulders and heaving breaths and gurgling voice, but I struggle to get the words out because if I don’t I’m going to drown without her.
“Please just
talk to me
, Kathy. Don’t pull stunts and ignore me and walk in here with fucking
Kaalappan
hanging off your arm—”
“YOU were the one who stormed off, Nichole! You made your desire to communicate painfully clear! What has supposedly changed in the interim?!”
Yelling. She’s yelling. We’re always yelling. Why are we always yelling?
Why can’t we just
talk
anymore?
“Please don’t yell at me,” I beg, miserable, hypocritical, but sincere. “Please. Just talk to me. Just talk to me. Just talk to me, Kathy.”
“Why? So you might
silence
me again? Use me for pleasure and then turn my words against me when it suits you? If talking to me was of such great value to you, you
had
your chance to show it.”
“I thought I was the person in the world closest to you!”
“SO DID I!”
“So why the FUCK are you throwing Kyle in my face?!”
“Because where
you
have fallen short,
Kaalappan
has risen to the occasion and become a source of genuine
support
. Are you familiar with the concept? It is
quite
appealing!”
“I’ve been here for you for …” I have to struggle to suppress a hiccup. “Years. All of it. Down the drain. Nothing matters?”
She’s so angry. She’s so fucking angry.
She hates me.
“You tolerated my presence and humoured
some
of my passions, as opposed to none. Do not continue to mistake that for a genuine connection, as I did when I had nothing else.”
Don’t say that. Don’t say that.
“Don’t
say
that!” I plead, I scream, my throat raw, practically hoarse.
“You are in no position to make demands of me, Nicholas. You have used up your chances to be met in good faith.”
Cold.
Where before I was terrified, miserable, in pure, abject agony, there’s just … nothing. Just ice. Just freezing, and so,
so
empty.
We can’t talk anymore.
We may never talk ever again.
So be it.
I grab Kathy by the shoulders. I slam her into the wall. I throw myself at her, pressing my tits against hers, and I shove my tongue into her mouth as roughly as I can manage, which is not as roughly as she deserves.
I put her hands on me—my back, my sides, my butt, anywhere, everywhere,
just touch me
, Kathy, just touch me everywhere you can and grab me and claw at me and tear me open and touch every part of me you can reach before you never, ever touch me again.
My hands are fumbling with her zipper, hurried, urgent, quickly quickly quickly before I go, before my feet take me away from here forever. I drop to my knees and grab her and quick as I can I let her into me, and into me, and into me and again and again and again as much as I can as fast as I can as hard as I can because I’m never, ever, ever letting her anywhere near me, let alone inside me, privy to any vulnerable, intimate, secret part of me, for as long as we both shall live.
My tongue and lips and mouth are a plea, a promise, begging for her to leave me with
something
before it all ends, because it always ends, because it was always going to end and when it’s over I will never again see her.
Not voluntarily.
We’re not going to live together. We’re not going to watch things together. We’re not going to play anything together. We’re not going to do anything together ever again because I dreamed her, I dreamed the woman I was in love with and now my eyes are open and filled with tears and she’s gone, gone, gone, gone and I can’t have her back.
Because it’s over.
I swallow.
There’s a moment, here, where she has her hand in my hair, and she’s breathing really hard, and I’m leaning against her thigh while she leans against the wall still, where it almost feels normal.
“Is this all we are, anymore?” I ask without meaning to.
“... It would appear so.”
Go.
Just go.
Just go, Nichole.
Everything’s a blur. I don’t remember going through the vestibule. I don’t remember walking across half of campus. I don’t remember my feet blistering and my body quaking and my breath steaming up in front of my face for what has to have been twenty minutes. My brain just can’t hold anything anymore: a sense of time, new memories.
All I contain is pain.
At the cafe where Emmy used to meet me because she wanted to grab Laura’s favorite sandwich or pastry or something or other, it’s closing time. The external seating is on the external tables. The door’s locked, and the “Closed” sign is up. There’s only a single light on inside. Probably a cleaner. Shame, because I wanted to wait there for the bus. I turn around, preparing to shiver for the next hour instead.
I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
It’s okay. I’m not that numb. Not as much as I am on the inside.
“Sweetie, get the fuck in here.”
“Huh?”
A blast of warmed air greets my back as the cafe door behind me opens. I turn around, almost groggy, and stare numbly into the face of an older blonde woman, bundled up in scarves and sweaters, looking down at me like I’m a complete imbecile.
“Pacing around on the pavement outside a closed establishment is no fucking place for a trans girl at this hour,” the woman snaps, impossibly. “Get the fuck in here.”
“A what? I’m not …” I shake my head to clear the server cobwebs. “How ..?”
“It’s the heels, doll.”
“The heels?”
“You look like you were born in them. You walk like you put them on yesterday.” The woman sighs. “It takes some getting used to, I know. Been there.”
Is this conversation real?
Through the haze of my confusion, a spark of understanding dawns on me. I do my best to nod, and step inside the cafe. The woman shuts and locks the door behind me.
“Sorry,” I say sheepishly. “Rough night.”
“I can tell. Those first romances fresh on hormones are always hell.”
She’s putting her arms around my shoulders now, rubbing them, warming me up. I feel like I should at least tell her my name.
“I’m Nichole,” I manage to stutter out, between chattering teeth.
“I’m Dorothy, dollface. Let me make you a cup of something hot.”
Kyle
Alone.
Yes, the outfit is nice. I haven’t really had a chance to appreciate how well the estrogen’s worked on the rest of me, given how singularly focused I was on the tits. The spaghetti-strap top ends a hair’s breadth above my ankle-length skirt, revealing the barest taste of my midriff when I walk, looking like my bottom half is a mass of writhing shadows. A single slit down one side lets me flash a single leg roughly as often as I like and show off the black stilettos. My hair is not quite braided, but it is somewhat
bundled
, resting on one shoulder like a smoky pillar, while Katherine’s heavy-handed application of makeup paired with my hidden stash of kohl really does scream ‘goth’. Now that I’ve had a chance to appreciate some of the looks I’m getting, I do agree blue lipstick was the right choice.
Right. Looks.
The glances.
The
stares
.
Oh, gosh, there’s so many stares.
Katherine’s voice pipes up in the back of my head, her reminder echoing clearly: “You are likely not under as much scrutiny as you perceive, Kaalappan. This
is
a drag event, and you if anything come across
understated
. If I may venture a hypothesis, any eyes upon you should be solely attributed to how fetching you now appear.”
Even in my head she can’t shut up or stop hitting on me, the dork.
Either way, she’s right. Probably. The problem is that it doesn’t really matter how much or little I’m being stared at. Every pair of eyes on me feels like twenty, and every second of it feels like an eternity. I wasn’t really expecting Katherine to literally be torn away from me like this—I don’t know what to do with my hands now, and they were quite comfortable draped around her neck. I was being so decorative.
Nichole, though. The girl with too many issues and too few causes for them. Her manhandling of Kathy, them storming off to do who-knows-what gosh-knows-where—well, they have some kind of preexisting
tryst
, but it’s
not
a relationship and it’s certainly not enough of one to give her any kind of claim over Katherine before
me
.
I want my fucking date back.
Especially since Des is just standing there, off to one side. Her staring I don’t really feel, I’ll admit, nor do I much care what she thinks as long as she’s willing to not say or do anything about it anytime soon. There
are
eyes lingering on my arms, my leg, my
face
, even, now that I’ve learned to confirm these suspicions through the corner of my eye, and her histrionics about how ridiculous she clearly thinks I look despite all evidence to the contrary are something I can do without until the end of the night.
Though, I’m not sure how much further into the night I can make it. There’s guys staring at me, too, their vision clouded by roiling thoughts I’d rather not guess at the content of. With Katherine gone, there’s no one here I know, no one here I can be seen with, no one to look out for me and no one safe enough for me to retreat into the arms of. Katherine’s voice in my head or not, I can’t ignore
everything
, especially not the things that increasingly feel like hostility and hunger, and the budding panic in my guts is only getting heavier and heavier the more aimless and helpless I appear to all around me.
“What’s a pretty girl like you doing here, all alone?”
I start, turn around, and …
stop
. I just
stop
.
The way Rupali’s managed to ensnare all her curls into a single no doubt densely-packed bun is impressive, but very much the least impressive thing about her tonight. Rupali’s in a snow-white
sherwani
—a long, flowing top typically worn by South Asian men, its hem just about reaching her knees, above matching white baggy slacks. Slippers of gold and a scarf the same color accentuate the monochromatic expanse of her body, which looks so … broad and striking and impressively
handsome
, somehow? Some of it has to do with the way she’s carrying herself, her hand casually reaching towards me, and that signature mischievous smirk of hers that I’ve so missed carved into her features.
I take her hand without thinking.
Am I dreaming? A sudden haze has fallen on the rest of the world, every other human being around me starting to shimmer out of reality. Ru’s leading me through the crowd, my hand in hers, her other hand on the small of my back, guiding me through the madding throng with all the gentleness of a stablehand leading a whinnying mare. I’m bent, slightly stooped, but has she always been this tall? I feel like she could scoop me up, could carry me wherever she wanted if she so chose.
“You look amazing,” Ru giggles in my ear, and my heart hammers against the too-thin spaghetti strap top.
“You look
stunning
,” I gush, unable to stop myself. “Just a revelation. You’ve never worn a sherwani before, right?”
“Nope.”
“You pull it off.”
“You pull this off, too.”
“Well, clearly.” I give her a smirk of my own. “I can see how many heads I’m turning.”
“Of course you are,” Ru responds without missing a beat. “Why do you think I had to come right over and scoop you up?”
“I never said I’m yours to keep.”
Playful. Or my best attempt at it. I’m trying to keep the banter between us lighthearted, but I wince as I realize I probably shouldn’t have said that.
Ru, for her part, seems to either not notice, or not mind. “A flighty one, is it?”
Swallowing, I commit. “You never know,
jaan
. I could be snatched right out of your hands.”
I’m not expecting her to spin me around, to wrap her arm tight around my waist and press my body to hers, to look into my eyes with defiance and desire.
“Let them try.”
“Who?” I squeak, not really paying all that much attention to what Rupali
says
anymore.
“Anyone.”
Everything
fades.
There’s nothing else, no one else. There’s her, and there’s me.
Her eyes see only me. I see myself in them, covered only in a strip of fabric peeled from shadow to drape over my form, the flimsiest of hurdles between her fangs and what she truly wants.
Her
hunger, now … that inspires an altogether different sensation in my guts.
Somehow, despite the sudden non-corporeality of everything that isn’t Rupali’s fingers digging into my skin, I hear Tahani’s voice in my ears.
“For those of you who’re lucky enough to find your hands full, here’s an old ditty from a different era, telling you what to do when you find a pretty little thing wrapped up in stars and galaxies, now lying across your lap …”
I’m Rupali’s pretty little thing.
More than that, I
want
to be her pretty little thing.
The music starts and pours over us, drenching me, saturating me, making me shudder and gasp for breath. Rupali swings me around, low to the floor.
Where do you think you’re going?
“Nowhere,” I reply, breathy.
Then come closer.
Every inch of my body that I can reasonably press into Rupali is already in contact with her, straining against the very notion of tangibility itself. Her arm around my back is a vise, about ready to snap my spine. Her hand clutches mine hard enough to crush it into diamond dust. Her eyes burn with the intensity of twin suns, and my every sparkling exhalation is gobbled up by their blazing aura. We cannot, physically, be any closer than we are, so I do the only thing I can:
I obey.
The stain on her front, the inkblot she’s embraced, decoagulates as rapidly as it’s able. Shadow snakes around every fiber of her sherwani, every thread of unblemished white, and corrodes it, corrupts it, consumes it as the ink too is consumed. The empty waste drinks deep, swallowing the bubbling oasis, drop by drop by deluge.
Given permission, I expand, I spill—I spread.
She’s guzzling me now, her arms and legs washed in a pool of glowing tar, the crusty nebulae and brittle comets sticking between her slavering molars. Her threads unspool, unravel, sopping and dripping and seeking still deeper and deeper chasms, more abyssal depths to dissolve within. Every filament skewers me, probes me, winds its way towards my heart, only to wrap around it once, twice, thrice—
seven times
, till it’s distended and swollen and struggling to beat, barely loosing the meanest spurts of black blood, confined and constrained and caught in silver chains.
The fangs—still pearlescent, still sharp—lodge into it too, then, finding purchase in the only thing still clinging to solidity.
Rupali
bites down
.
Bursting like an overripe fruit, like a sun in the mouth of a monkey, I melt and I flow and I dribble down her maw, pooling in the few curves and crevices left, before being washed away by her slobbering need. I am swallowed whole, I am gulped down without chewing, and I am made in my unmaking, discovered in my erasure, saved in my annihilation.
She loves me.
She
loves
me.
Why, oh why, can’t I find it in my heart to tell her how much I love her?
I look, frantically, amidst the disassembled pieces, for the final clues amongst the entrails before all traces of it are lost to the steaming sky.
“
... find a pretty little thing
…”
I don’t want to be loved the way a woman loves a man …
“...
pretty little thing
…”
I don’t want to be loved the way my mother loves my father …
“...
pretty
…”
Or rather, the way she
doesn’t
love him anymore …
“...
little
…”
Does she see me? After all the shadows and secrets and shrouds, can
anything
, anyone see me?
“...
girl
…”
No one can. No one will.
Not until I’m
fucking honest
, for once in my life.
I’m sorry, Ru.
I promise, I’ll make up for it.
I surface.
“Kaal? You okay?”
I’m suspended. She’s dipped me, and though her muscles are clearly straining, she seems more concerned about the volume of tears pouring down my temples.
“I’ve never been more okay in my life, Ru.”
Unsure, but reassured, she picks me back up, and puts me back together.
There’s a small crowd, a small circle gathered around us, enraptured. They’re whispering to each other now.
“We put on quite a show, don’t we?”
Rupali’s staring at my smile, seems like, a little puzzled. “Yeah. We looked good, Kaal.”
“We did. We do. We—”
“Well. Isn’t this just the prettiest little picture?”
What tells me that I’m too serene, too happy, too self-assured to let anything ruin this moment, is hearing Desdemona’s voice without so much as rolling an eye.
Sighing, Rupali lets go of me—which
burns
—and turns to Des with a pained expression on her face. Des still looks miserable, but also
livid
, glaring daggers at each of us in turn. She takes a deep breath.
“Don’t.”
The onlookers fall silent too, along with Ru and Des, who seem equally amazed.
“Just don’t, Des.”
I turn around.
“Where are you …?” Des begins to ask.
“I’m leaving,” I announce. “Come with me. We need to talk.”
Without waiting for her to follow, I begin to make my way home, into a new night.
Postscript, the first
The minutes stretch on, and the set starts to wind down.
“Thank you, babygirl,” Tahani croons into the mic, before tapping a button to switch it off. She reaches down and gratefully accepts the bottle Rupali offers, cooling the scratchy heat in her throat with gulps of icy sweetness.
“About time you relinquished your captive audience, don’t you think?”
“Oh, they love it.” Tahani dismisses Rupali’s concern with a wave. “Sure, I can start playing the
moody
stuff, though.”
“That’s probably for the best.”
“Speaking of.” Tahani glances up from the equipment, having tapped through her phone to the next song on her playlist. “What happened to that cutie you were all over earlier? She left in kind of a hurry, didn’t she?”
“Tahani, that wasn’t …”
Rupali trails off. Words die in her throat as she turns, slowly, to face the dining hall's still-open doors.
Images and sounds, choppy but bright, flash in her mind’s eye. The first time Tahani stayed over and cried into her stuffies. The first time she washed off Kaal’s nail polish and saw that he was holding back tears. The first time she knew, really knew, that she actually wanted to be with Kaal, because the only other person who made her feel as safe as Kaal did was …
‘...
You’ve always been my sister.
’
“Fucking hell, girl,” Rupali whispers.
Postscript, the second
Alex knows by the time the door shuts behind him.
“We have
got
to stop meeting like this,” he says to a dark living room.
No answer. Only the creaking of leather as
someone
gets up from the couch.
“Shall I keep the lights off, for dramatic purposes?” Alex asks, sighing.
“Check the case on the table.”
“Well, I’ll need light for that, then.”
Alex flips a switch.
Bobbie’s unamused face greets him. Zie’s in hir patrolling gear tonight, all leather jackets and clompy boots and what practical purpose does a
chain
hanging between two pockets serve, Mx. Obsessed-With-Skullduggery? Alex bites his tongue, and walks over to his apartment’s coffee table.
The case itself is small, rectangular, cardboard and unimpressive. Alex opens it to peer at a set of four vials.
“Valerate. Enanthate. Cypionate.
And
.”
“Undecylate,” Alex finishes for Bobbie. “The
real
rare strains, eh.”
“It’s the same lineup.”
Alex knows.
“It’s not one of mine,” Alex says before Bobbie can ask. “All my goods are accounted for.”
“I figured.” Bobbie walks over to a window and fiddles with the closed blinds without opening them. “Not one of mine, either. Plug got this from somewhere else.”
“Our operation covers every dealer in the city.” Alex is shaking his head. “So where did this little upstart get such a lovely haul from? The international lines are backed up, too.”
“Didn’t ask.
Yet
.” Bobbie turns back to face Alex. “Guess what he didn’t have, though.”
“Testosterone.”
“Correct. Not a drop. All E, all the time.”
“Shoot.” Alex slams a fist into his open palm in mock outrage. “And I really need to replenish my stores too, you know? The clinic’s really dragging their feet.”
Bobbie doesn’t respond to that. Hir eyes are boring into Alex’s.
“Yeah, I agree,” Alex relents. “This is it. This is the lead.”
Bobbie nods. “We follow this one rat …”
“... he leads us to the gold at the end of the rainbow.”
“The competition’s seemingly endless HRT supply.”
A wide grin breaks out across Alex’s face. “Well, bitch, what the fuck are we waiting for?”