“Did you consider that oxford pumps might not be the best outdoorsy shoes?”
“Did you consider that running shoes belong in the gym?”
You don’t tell him that flat soled shoes are better for weight lifting than running shoes because he doesn’t care and that’s not the point. The point is, Leo cares about presenting a certain way and you care that he’s happy, even if that means stepping gingerly around rocks that’ve liberated themselves from the packed dirt road.
You haven’t visited for a decade, at least, and only a few summers before that. It’s neater now, but no less wild. Like hair that won’t stay slicked down, this island wants to do its own thing. Thick green leaves curl up and over the edges of clay pots, and creep onto the paths. Tiny lizards scamper between them, chasing bugs with their tongues. Employees walk between buildings, not looking up from their tablets and conversations except to swat at mosquitos and hold matte black cards in front of key pads beside doors, before disappearing inside.
“I think this is it.” You and Leo stop outside a square building that’s mostly windows—barred windows. In fact, you noticed bars on the windows of your guesthouse, last night. Hopefully, no horrific accident prompted that update.
Three women in boots and hats shove the last bites of their breakfasts into their mouths and hold the doors open for you, behind them. You both offer thanks as the cool, climate controlled air raises the hair on your bare legs.
“Emily!” Your dad waves from across the cafeteria. “Come, I’ve got us a table.”
“Are you going to tell him your name’s Emerick?” Leo asks, quietly. “I can do it, if you want someone else to talk to him.”
“No, I will.” Normally, it’s easier when other people explain how to interact with you in advance of your arrival—you’ve done the same for Leo. Why deal with misgendering or deadnaming when you can hedge your bets? But this conversation is the reason you came.
The two of you sit opposite your dad. A waiter sets a French press on your table beside empty ceramic mugs, packets of sugar, and shelf-stable creamer. You pour yourself a cup of black coffee and take a sip. Somewhere between trying to eat healthier and trying to prove your masculinity, you started drinking black coffee and have since brainwashed yourself into liking it. You’ve always assumed Dad did the same because all men can’t like black coffee; it’s not that good.
Leo, as if in protest of your binary coffee views, pays his an unusual amount of attention. Or maybe he’s giving you the chance to speak up, for once.
You clear your throat. “My name’s actually Emerick.”
“Hm?” Dad asks over his coffee.
“You said ‘Emily.’ My name’s Emerick.”
“Right, right,” he says, looking at his menu.
“I wanted to talk to you about that, while I’m here.” You try to catch his eyes, but he’s reading about omelets and smoked fish. Fresh fruit. “I realize I’ve never had a real talk with you about my transition. Never told you my plans or given you a chance to ask questions. I want to share this part of my life with you.”
Which is sort of true. It’s not something you want to have constant and deep conversations about with anyone, really, but you do want the closeness. So if this is what it takes for your dad to support you, then you’re willing.
You’re not sure he is, though.
“Know what you want to eat?” he asks. “The bacon is—” He kisses his fingertips. “Made from the native hogs. Much better than that store-bought crap.”
“Sure, I’ll have whatever you recommend; I don’t care.” You hand your menu to the waiter, while Dad orders three American breakfast platters. The moment the three of you are alone, again, you say, “Listen, Dad, I need surgery. That’s why I’m here. For your support.”
Dad doesn’t look away. You didn’t want to say it in this room full of professionals but, apparently, it’s the only way to get your dad’s attention. Concern creases his brow. “Are you okay? We have a full hospital staff here, on the island, in case of emergencies—not that we’ve had any. The portal is very safe and the dinosaurs, well…” His tone isn’t confidence inspiring. “What kind of surgery?”
“Gender confirmation surgery.” You choose the nicey-nice liberal term, instead of “bottom surgery.”
No recognition shows in his narrowing eyes.
“Phalloplasty, Dad,” you whisper. “I need bottom—genital—surgery. For my dysphoria—do you know what that means? You can ask. I want you to understand what’s going on and why. I love you.” And you do, really. You want him to be your dad. Want to be his son. To be a family, again.
“I, um…” He picks up his napkin, re-folds it, and flattens it on his lap. “I’m not sure our hospital is, um—oh look!” A smile brightens his face as the waiter arrives with three steaming platters, piled high with hash browns, runny eggs, and bacon made from the local hog population.
You’re not hungry.
Dad digs in, staring at his food while he cuts and shovels like it might escape if he takes his eyes off of it. “Superb, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” you say. “It’s great.”
“You know.” Leo talks with his mouth full. “Statistics reflect that transgender people with supportive families are less likely to suffer from depression, anxiety, and suicidal tendencies.” He swallows and smiles. “Emerick took off work to fly out here and try to connect with you. You could show some support. Just a thought.”
“I support my daughter.” Dad’s smile is tight. “She knows I do.”
Anger and embarrassment kindles in your chest. “He. I’m a guy, Dad. Fucking look at me.” You throw your fork down on the plate with a loud clang. “I’m begging you.”
He looks at his half-eaten plate of ketchup-smeared hash browns. Then, out into the sea of employees, laughing and chatting or reading files. Someone catches his eye—someone he cares about more than you—and he stands to greet her.
“So glad you could join us!” Dad hugs the woman who approaches with the same familiarity as he did with you, when you arrived. Right before he deadnamed you. “This is Dr. Noelle Hartford, one of my most promising researchers!”
She’s not dressed how you imagine Dad’s evil henchmen. (Henchpeople?) It’s easier to think of them as faceless white coats. Latex gloves. Plastic goggles. The gleam of discovery in their eyes. Noelle’s are hazel. Her long, braided hair tied up with a scarf. Pants, long-sleeves, and vest ready for the ancient outdoors.
“I wanted to thank you again for making time for my family in your schedule,” Dad says.
“Of course, Collier.” She pats his shoulder. “Is this your daughter, Emily?” She gestures toward Leo, then holds her hand out to him. “It’s so good to meet you, finally.”
You close your eyes and absorb the waves of dysphoria that crash into you over and over again. You can’t take much more of this. You’re already running low on stamina.
“My name’s Emerick,” you say, so Leo doesn’t have to explain. “Not Emily, and I’m his son.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I must’ve misunderstood.” She presses her hands against her warm brown cheeks which, you assume, are also warm with embarrassment. “Then it’s good to meet you, Emerick.” She speaks your name with the purpose of remembering it and, already, you like her better than your dad. “You can call me Noelle.”
Her hand is unexpectedly cool when you shake it. Humming with energy, like the island does. You don’t ask why because it would be rude, but you are curious. You’ve changed, in the past decade, but this island feels the same. It feels alive. And Noelle feels a part of it.
“This is my boyfriend, Leonardo,” you say.
“You can call me Leo.” He smiles.
“Nice to meet you Leo. Sorry about the mix-up.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says because he’s patient and kinder than you. “What matters is what we do after we’re corrected.”
Dad doesn’t acknowledge the statement. He looks at his phone as if
something important’s happened. “I have to run. One of the Pakisaurs is out of its enclosure. Nothing to worry about, but I want to make sure the capture goes smoothly. Noelle, do you mind? I promised them one of my brightest minds for a personal tour. Nothing but the best for my family.”
“Of course not. Go take care of business.” She salutes him, playfully, while he heads out, then turns back to the two of you. “All right, boys. Ready to see some dinosaurs?”
• • • •
“So, Noelle, how’d you get involved with—” You wave your hand at a herd of passing dinosaurs. Along the edge of the forest, opposite you, Leo watches, rapt, as a group of researchers stop taking notes and point out… who knows what. Long-necked herbivores. You’re sure you’ll hear the details, later. “—all this.”
“You won’t believe it.” She crosses her arms.
You wave at Leo, who looks like he wants your attention—literally for you to join him, but your enthusiasm is low, after breakfast. “Try me.”
Noelle nods off to the side, as if she’s pointing to the physical location from which she came. “The portal.”
“The portal?” You stop watching Leo coo over dinosaurs in his oxford pumps and give Noelle your full attention.
“Yeah, I came through the portal.”
“I thought only dinosaurs—”
“So did Collier—your dad, I mean. Sorry, he’s like a dad to me. I’m kind of jealous.”
You want to ask where she came from—what’s on the other side of the portal that a person came through, who speaks English and understands your culture and doesn’t question dinosaurs—but mostly you’re astonished that anyone considers your dad, well, a dad.
“It’s not that different, where I came from. I’m sure you’re wondering.”
“I was, but I know what it’s like to be asked invasive questions, so I’ve learned to accept people’s truths at face value.”
“Okay, Emerick.” She smiles. “I see you.”
“Can you not see me waving at you?” Leo re-joins us, dust-covered and out of breath. He pulls his hair up into a bun. “I was this close to a herd of Bronto—” He looks to Noelle for confirmation. “No, not Brontosaurs. They’re called Apatosaurs, right?”
“Yes,” she says. “Did you have any questions my colleagues couldn’t answer for you?”
“Yeah, actually.” He plants his hands on his hips. “What are those?” He points to a row of cages in the distance. “They weren’t sure.”
Those weren’t there the last time you were. Most of Dad’s experiments wander the island in enclosures that put “free-range” to shame. But these look like kennels, a dinosaur in each one.
“Oh. Those are an isolated problem—don’t worry,” she says as if you’re an investor or someone whose opinion matters. “We’re lucky we caught it, early. It could’ve been a disaster.” She chuckles to herself.
“What’s the problem?” you ask.
“You probably know, Owen Corp had been attempting to engineer its own dinosaurs—unsuccessfully, for many years. You see, the portal mutates DNA. They had no idea where to start. Not until I walked through.”
Noelle chuckles to herself as she holds up her hands. “Sometimes, I feel like an imposter, despite the degrees I earned in my home world. Whatever happened to the dinosaurs, when they crossed through the portal, happened to me. I can perform genetic manipulations no one in this world ever imagined. It’s almost—and I feel silly using the word—like magic?
“Anyway.” She shoves her hands back in her vest pockets. “I’ve made a few mistakes along the way, while we figure out the science behind it all. These dinosaurs are isolated because they had spontaneous sex changes!” Noelle looks at the two of you as if you will of course find this hilarious. “Apparently the single-sex environment did not agree with their DNA. They dissolved their genitals and re-grew the opposite. Awesome, but not in line with our safety protocols.”
You keep your thoughts on “opposite genitals” and “sex change” to yourself, like you so often do. Leo makes eyes at you like she is so wrong and he can explain if you want, but you really don’t want to take a dive into gender theory with the one person who’s willing to accept you as you are, no questions asked.
“So, you isolated them because you’re control freaks,” you say.
“Basically.” She lowers her voice. “We didn’t want a bunch of horny dinosaurs getting busy in their paddocks, unsupervised. We strictly control the population. Can you imagine if we found out the hard way that our Deinonychus count was higher than normal? Or Tyrannosaurus?”
“I’m guessing the hard way of finding out is being unexpectedly eaten.”
“Or unexpectedly disemboweled, yes.”
You allow yourself to imagine the chaos and destruction, for a moment. Fences broken through, tires chewed off cars, windows shattered. Running, screaming. Not that you want anyone to die, but you wouldn’t mind if your father’s creations took control of the island and ran everyone here through the damn portal.
You shouldn’t look amused, so you clear your throat and fix an appropriately concerned expression on your face. “Yeah, that sounds bad. What are you going to do with them? They can’t live in those cages forever, right?”
“When the time comes, we’ll euthanize them.”
“Gotcha.”
She can’t know what she’s implying, but you do because being trans is like having X-ray vision. For better or worse, you see the cis binary. See the ways in which you fit or fail. The way cis people’s brains skip right over your existence—right over the idea that wild animals can change their bodies in ways they didn’t predict and can’t control. That make them uncomfortable.
A queasy feeling grips your stomach. The trans dinosaurs aren’t a problem to be fixed—to be put down. They’re nature running its course.
• • • •
“So, what’d you think?” you ask Leo, who’s been suspiciously quiet, ever since you retired for the evening. He emerges from a steamy bathroom, dark blonde hair clean and wet against his neck and shoulders. White towel wrapped around his body from armpits to knees. “The Owen Corporation” embroidered along one end.
“It’s nice,” he says with suppressed excitement. He’s effervescent; you can hear it bubbling beneath the surface. He loves dinosaurs. He’s a children’s librarian, for fuck’s sake.
The two of you met at a game night for trans folks, unexpectedly. You’d only ever dated girls—only ever planned to, despite being bisexual. At first, because it helped you feel more masculine dating femme girls, before you knew why you cared about feeling that way. And then, because dating a guy marked you as queer, publicly, and you don’t like dealing with people. All you want to do is blend in and live your life.
You’d never met anyone like Leonardo, before. He gave—and still gives you—gender euphoria. Makes you feel more like yourself than anyone in the world. He deserves better than the mopey-Emerick you’ve given him, the past few days. He deserves for you to make an effort.
“You love it,” you say, smiling on purpose. You’ve heard that forcing yourself to smile when you’re upset will make you feel better. A self-perpetuating smile.
Leo risks a smile, too, and then yours becomes genuine because you’re happy he’s happy, even though you’re on this trash island—forget about the island. You’re in a guest house that’s three times the size of your apartment, with your happy, naked boyfriend.
He looks at the ceiling while he chooses words that won’t hurt you. “I’m overwhelmed. It’s—” He reaches for the words with his hands. “—breathtaking. These creatures are walking history. Here! On our timeline!” He laughs. “I knew they were here—that it was all real, but seeing it? My brain can’t even process. I might actually be in shock. My hands are still shaking a little.”
They are. He holds them out to you and you envelop them with yours. His hands are soft and warm, plump with water from the shower. You kiss his palms. Kiss the length
of his arms, flick your tongue over the crook of his elbow. “Does this help?” you ask, lips brushing the base of his neck. He smells like lemon and lavender.
“Yes,” he whispers.
You guide his hands around your neck and the towel drops around his feet. With both hands, you grab his bare ass and hoist. Leo wraps his legs around you, presses his mouth against yours, threads his fingers through your hair and scrapes his long nails over your scalp.
You groan and stumble forward until your knees hit the baseboard of the biggest bed you’ve ever lain in. Leonardo’s weight pulls you down. He scoots back towards the pillow while you crawl on top of him, still wearing jeans and a sweaty T-shirt. You smell like body odor and wet ferns and minerals. You’re going to dirty his clean hair and skin and he doesn’t even care.
Your fingers slide easily inside his cunt, stroking the sensitive front wall while your thumb slowly rubs his clit. He thrusts against your hand. He wants more and you literally cannot move for the moment it takes to suppress the idea that the only more you can give him is another finger or two. Your tongue and lips. A length of silicone.
“You okay?” Leo asks, trying to catch his breath. He props himself up on his elbows.
You don’t have any words. All you can do is shake your head and close your eyes. Your hand’s still inside Leo’s warm, wet body. Clenching and shifting subtly around you. He puts a hand on your upper arm and massages the tense muscle.
You manage to shake your head.
“We can stop.”
You’re still shaking your head.
“Emerick.” Leo guides your hand out of his body, then crawls off the bed.
You sit, unmoving, until he returns with a damp washcloth. He sits cross-legged on the mattress, beside you, takes your hand into his and wipes it clean. He folds the cloth and wipes the plush cotton across your forehead.
“Do you want to talk?” he asks, setting the cloth aside.
“No. I want a dick that doesn’t come off. One I can feel. That—” You stop and lower your voice. This isn’t Leo’s fault. You’re not angry with him. “That I can fuck you with, for real.”
The Long List Anthology Volume 5 Page 14