Identity Interrupted

by Meriam Rodriguez

No, Adelina looks heavenly as she slips into the urgency of an orgasm. Her writhing body keeps its rhythm against mine. The strokes change suddenly. An arched back releases one final jolt as she pulls me in, hips still rocking in slow motion.

  “You better not hurt me, Sol,” she says with sadness in her eyes.

  “I promise I won’t.” A mirror of her pledge to me.

  We return to Brandy, venting about her classes at Columbia University and how expensive it is.

  “I only took this job to pay for my textbooks,” she complains.

  Day turns into night without one client coming in. Just as I hoped. On my way home, I pick up a copy of my trusty sidekick, the Village Voice. The pages are filled with ads and coupons for all your Valentine’s day needs. Our plans are set into motion with reservations at a beautiful Italian restaurant in the Theater District and tickets to the perfect Broadway show. I find a flower shop near TLC that sells exotic flowers. My favorites are these Persian pink and white ones, with both colors running parallel on each bud.

  Love is in the air. When the day finally arrives, Papi has our chocolates waiting on the dining room table like clockwork. Adelina’s roses have already been delivered when I get to TLC. The arrangement is displayed prominently at the center of the table, while Lola and Cheri are cackling like birds.

  “The dynamic duo is back at it again, I see.”

  Lola pulls me into the kitchen.

  “Thank you so much for the roses. They’re beautiful,” she whispers between kisses.

  Her excitement leads us to the social circle, where she starts to hand me presents. The first is a small gift bag with a mini heart-shaped box of chocolates inside. A larger box holds five rolled-up joints, ready to be smoked. The card attached reads:

  You better share one of these with me. Thank you for walking into TLC that day.

  You changed my life.

  xoxo,

  Your lollipop.

  Lola then gives me a small box. It’s a black titanium ring with today’s date etched on the interior. It slides onto my finger for a perfect fit.

  “I measured it on my mine to make sure it was the right size.” Adelina beams proudly while handing me the final gift of chocolate-covered strawberries from Godiva.

  I serve us wine to pair with the sweets and give her a rundown of our plans later, without giving away any specific details.

  “Girls, we have a client coming in. Please get ready.” Becca yells from the front.

  Her announcement shifts my mood instantly. The possibility of dealing with a client today slaps me back to reality. It’s too easy to forget what has become of my life. I wonder who the client is, but prefer not to ask. If it turns out to be someone who might choose me, the suspense will have me disintegrating in a corner somewhere. Blistex becomes my lip enhancer instead of the seductive red lipstick I’ve been using. Color-pops make you more likely to be chosen; a reminder to myself.

  I’m startled out of a daydream that involves Lola and these strawberries when the doorbell buzzes. My heart is pounding, and my fingertips feel flushed. I say a mental prayer:

  Please, God, don’t let them pick me.

  Becca walks in, and we lock eyes.

  “The Wolf is here,” she whispers. “he wants a session with you, but I suggested he see your new look first.”

  An elevator drop sinks into the pit of my stomach. I’m grateful that Becca had this thought, but I hate presenting myself for his approval. Why does he think this is okay after the last session?

  Remember, this is a game. Stay in your power.

  This internal pep talk keeps me grounded. The embarrassment dissolves instantly. My new look helps me feel more “butch” as I walk. There’s a lightness in the fuzz of my hair. It feels good to know that I’m not seeking his validation or money.

  I AM NOT FOR SALE!

  “Hi, how are you?” I shake his hand with a false grip.

  “What did you do to your hair?” he wears the shock across his face like a gushing wound. “This isn’t what I imagined when Becca said you had a new look.”

  “I wanted a change.”

  “It’s terrible. You look so ugly. Did you pay for this?” the Wolf is disgusted.

  “You think so? I actually love it. This is the exact look I was going for. I guess I’m not your girl today, huh?”

  “Obviously not.” he scoffs.

  Becca offers to help with his selection process as I exit. I’m hesitant about celebrating too quickly, though. The Wolf has a masochistic streak that holds him hostage to this place. Our brief interaction could leave him wanting more of my indifference.

  Becca re-enters the lounge and approaches Cheri this time. He’s made his decision. The relief that untethers me causes a blur in my consciousness. I have to stop working here. Tension in my core and across my shoulders has become a daily thing. The corners of my eyes are wet with tears – a bittersweet blend of redemption and rejection.

  I speak to Becca in private and tell her that this will be my last day. Each time someone comes in, I find a new hiding spot and stay out of sight. Today’s hint of amorous festivities brings a total of thirteen clients by 5:30 p.m. Lola gets booked by four of them. The green-eyed, snot-nosed monster referred to as jealousy feasts within. My imagination, with a mind of its own, creates various scenarios that I play voyeur to.

  A food run saves me from any more torture. When I return, Lola has changed into casual clothes but looks just as good. Keeping the plans from her is challenging as she probes for hints.

  There are noticeable differences between Lola and Adelina. Tonight, she presents the latter. This side of her is more vulnerable yet just as flirtatious. I pull her chair closer to mine as the world around us becomes background buzz. The climate of love and good food proves to be an aphrodisiac.

  After dinner, we walk through the icy streets of Midtown. Orange and white smokestacks vaporize steam towards the night sky. Our mouth imitates them with puffs of body heat escaping us. We pass different theaters showcasing bright lights and names. Adelina’s eyes are glowing with curiosity. The walk leads us up Broadway, then a left on 50th street. As soon as she notices the marquee with red letters and a big mouth smiling back at her, she knows.

  The Rocky Horror Show

  “No way! Is that where we’re going?” she squeals.

  “Maybe.” I flash a deliberately devilish grin.

  “You just scored major points right now.”

  Adelina’s excitement is contagious. She rambles on over the cult-like phenomenon surrounding the film and how it’s a parody of classic B horror and Sci-fi genres like Frankenstein and Nosferatu.

  “Are you talking nerd to me?” I tease, secretly loving everything about her passionate rant.

  This cult following she talked about is alive and well as we’re ushered to our seats. A majority of the audience is dressed in campy costumes – like the woman dressed in leather and mesh, holding a stuffed cat, and glittered from head to toe. Then there’s the pencil-thin, white boy dancing across from us in a turquoise mini skirt with a gold top, dirty combat boots, and a neon yellow boa wrapped around his neck in sheer glamour. The energy is vibrant, filled with laughter and friends finding each other in the crowd. I watch in amazement, taking in this majestic gathering of weirdos and loving Adelina for putting me onto all of it. Our conversation pulses to the current of the collective spirit.

  The audience is just as animated once the show begins. Random statements are yelled out, timed perfectly to whatever the actor’s following line is. The delivery is so calculated that I can’t tell if they’re improvising or if the outbursts are actually from the movie.

  Lightning shakes the stage.

  Adelina heckles this time:

  “I don’t care where you come, as long as you clean it up!”

  The crowd roars into laughter.

 
; Fire sprinklers serve as indoor drizzle, and we’re instructed to pull out newspapers from under the seats to cover our heads. Confetti pops from every corner when Eddie, the zombie ex-lover, rides out like a renegade on his motorcycle and closes out the show.

  “That was one of the best experiences ever, Solei!” she praises as we walk out of the theater, still dizzy from the spectacle of it all.

  Despite freezing temperatures, we drag our feet to the train station, buying ourselves extra time.

  “Do you want to be my girlfriend?” Adelina blurts out.

  “What?”

  Making it “official” was part of the master plan in wooing her tonight. The clock just ran out on me as I worked up the nerve to ask.

  “Sure.” This vain attempt at playing it cool lasts two seconds before it gets fumbled. “I mean, yeah! Absolutely. I would like that a lot.”

  Stop talking, Sol.

  I finally get myself to shut up and kiss her. We make out for way too long under the world-renowned shine of Times Square until we eventually part ways. My walk continues to the 2-train under the glow of neon billboards, cheesing like a dweeb because I now have a girlfriend.

  NYC PRIDE

  It’s been months since Adelina became my girlfriend. After Valentine’s Day, she joined me in the real world, leaving behind TLC’s underground and inebriated existence.

  June in New York City can only mean one thing. All the queers, whether gay, trans, straight, everything in between and all around, can be found in the West Village – especially the pier at Christopher Street.

  Adelina meets me in the train station with one goal in mind; to find a tattoo shop. It won’t be hard in this part of town. The one city block of 6th Ave. and West 4th has at least four to choose from. The guy behind the counter of the shop we go into, is covered in piercings and ink all over his body. His tongue is split in half like a serpent. I only know this because he’s swirling the two halves around each other as he watches us enter.

  “How much to get each other’s names tattooed?”

  “Do you have I.D. to prove you’re old enough to do such a stupid thing?” he responds dryly.

  “Yeah, we do,” I reply boldly, assuming he knows nothing about real love.

  “What are your names? Where do you want them, and how big?” he gives us a binder filled with different font styles.

  We pick the same calligraphy and size after some deliberation. Mine is simple; her name scrolled up my wrist in small letters. It takes him fifteen minutes to finish it. Adelina, on the other hand, pulls down her pants to hang at the hips. The tattoo artist shakes his head when she tells him to brand her private area with my name. I watch in awe as the waxed surface of skin absorbs the ink.

  The placement of Adelina’s tattoo shocks me into a slight obsession. If there was ever a way to profess your undying love for someone, this is it. She doesn’t complain once as the needle penetrates inch by inch in rapid-fire. The only thing I have to gauge of her level of discomfort is how she’s biting her bottom lip – which she also does when she’s turned on – making it even harder to interpret. When he’s finished, I press my face into hers.

  “I love you.”

  “You fucking better,” she smiles.

  We get ice cream afterward and find a spot to people watch.

  “I’m bleaching my hair tomorrow for the parade,” I reveal.

  “Really? When did you decide that? And when were you planning on asking me?” she says playfully.

  “I kinda just decided that I’m going to bleach it for the summer, then grow it back in September.”

  Adelina’s expression changes when her eyebrows scrunch up in the center of a tense forehead waging war.

  “Wait, you’re growing your hair back? Why? You’re gonna look like such a girl.”

  “I am a girl!”

  “Right, but you don’t look like one.”

  “You do remember asking me to be your girlfriend, right? Have I misled you on the fact that I’m a girl?”

  “Don’t be sarcastic. I’m serious.” she rolls her eyes.

  Adelina starts to get emotional.

  “I am, too. I never planned on keeping my hair short. I just wanted a fresh start. And now, every time I get a haircut, my mother loses her shit. There are even times when she inspects my hairline and convinces herself that I’ve cut it when I haven’t. I need to grow it back soon, so she can leave me alone.”

  “Are you serious? You should’ve told me this before I got your name tattooed on my body forever. I would’ve thought twice about it!” she yells.

  None of my words feel valid enough for a response to this argument. The clash between us takes root and grows into my biggest fear right before my eyes.

  Regret.

  “You’re already regretting our tattoos?”

  “If you’re going to start looking like a girl again, then yes.”

  “Adelina, growing my hair won’t change me. I’m still the same person, whether my hair is short or long. It’s just hair.”

  “No, it’s not!” she explodes. “How you wear it is an important factor in what you’re presenting to the world.” Tears fall from her eyes.

  “Why are you crying?”

  “That would mean I like girls, and I don’t!” she yells, while ignoring my question.

  “Okay, fine. So, you’re a few notches away from me on the Kinsey scale of sexuality. Who gives a shit?”

  “No, like I’m on the complete opposite side.”

  She stops talking and stares off into space. I’m not sure if it’s guilt for being mean or from realizing what she’s trying to say.

  How do I even fix this?

  “We have a serious problem then. Just because I’m a lesbian with short hair doesn’t mean I don’t want to be a girl.”

  My eyes remain fixed on the city moving on around us. It’s hard enough being a woman in this crazy world. Now I have to navigate this new reality with my girlfriend. Should I even call her that anymore?

  “I know what you are.” Adelina salvages. “I might not like girls, but I love you. This style just makes me feel more comfortable about us.”

  “Well, I like you better in stilettos than sneakers. We can compromise here.” I attempt to lighten the mood. “I can keep it short after the summer, but eventually, I’m growing it back.”

  “I’ll make sure to talk you out of it again,” she giggles and wipes the feelings off her cheek.

  Normally, I would hug and kiss her all over until she feels better, but my pride cancels out the desire to comfort her. I lick my own wounds instead. We part ways with careless goodbyes. Adelina hesitates when she realizes the absence of affection in my kiss, but certainty in my departure ends the night.

  This bandage protecting the new “body art” on my wrist is a reminder of the dumb shit we did to ourselves. Hours ago, I was so sure I wanted to be with Adelina forever. Now I’m all doubt tangled into a hairball of anxiety. Her ignorance was so extreme. I rewind every word, over and over, all the way home. Then rinse and repeat while taking a shower.

  That would mean I like girls, and I don’t!

  I am replaying them again as I wash off peroxide under the bathroom sink.

  I might not like girls, but I love you.

  Laughing at my reflection in the mirror, a bright head of hair stares back at me under the tungsten lights of our bathroom. A resemblance to the rapper Eminem sparks an epiphany. Adelina’s going to love this look, and Mami’s going to hate it.

  My younger sister comes into the bathroom while I decide whether or not I like it. Winnie doesn’t have that annoying kid sister thing, but she has her moments.

  “Ma, there’s a stranger in our bathroom!” she jumps back in full character mode.

  “Ha. Ha.” I snap.

  “No, dude. You can seriously pass for a
guy. Is that what you’re going for?”

  “You sound like Mami. What did she tell you?”

  “I mean, have you seen yourself?” Winnie says sarcastically.

  “I’m just trying different looks.”

  “Well, it feels like I have two brothers now, thanks to you.” she rolls her eyes. “The other day, Rocky was swooning over you. It was so disgusting.”

  I see Winnie’s point. Rocky has been her best friend since they were seven years old.

  “Can I have some privacy now?” I change the topic.

  The clash between my mother and Adelina’s wishes projected on to me is more than enough to drown in. I haven’t thought about how Winnie was processing all of these changes I’m going through.

  Things haven’t been the same between us since I ran away from home a few years ago. She was thirteen at the time. It was right after my Sweet Sixteen. My parents threw me a huge party to celebrate, but Mami’s strict rules were suffocating me. Instead of giving me more freedom, she was getting stricter. And I knew exactly why. It was a domino effect that had started the year before.

  “Mami, can I talk to you about something?”

  Her bruja instincts understood this would be a serious talk as Mami’s back straightened up in bed. We had just gotten back from shopping at the mall in Yonkers. The high I felt from retail therapy and bonding with my mother gave me the cojones to finally speak my truth.

  Mami had a whole other set of fears that began to surface.

  “Are you pregnant?”

  I shook my head at how far off she was. Maybe her intuition wasn’t as sharp as I thought.

  “What? No. That’s not what I want to talk about, Ma. Just listen to me.”

  Mami was upset before she heard what I had to say; her left leg already bouncing from impatience.

  “I’m sexually attracted to girls.”

  Disclosing this classified information to my mother erupted into World War III at the house of Romero. This woman’s rage sloshed through each room – her offensive words saturating the walls in thick, gooey judgment.

  “Prefiero que sea puta que pata!”