Some people stare at spacers; some people don’t. Some people stare or don’t stare in a way a spacer gets to recognize within a week after coming out of training school at sixteen. I was walking in the park when I caught her watching. She saw me and looked away.
I ambled down the wet asphalt. She was standing under the arch of a small, empty mosque shell. As I passed, she walked out into the courtyard among the cannons.
“Excuse me.”
I stopped.
“Do you know whether or not this is the shrine of St. Irene?” Her English was charmingly accented. “I’ve left my guidebook home.”
“Sorry. I’m a tourist too.”
“Oh.” She smiled. “I am Greek. I thought you might be Turkish because you are so dark.”
“American red Indian.” I nodded. Her turn to curtsy.
“I see. I have just started at the university here in Istanbul. Your uniform, it tells me that you are”—and the pause, all speculations resolved—“a spacer.”
I was uncomfortable. “Yeah.” I put my hands in my pockets, moved my feet around on the soles of my boots, licked my third from the rear left molar—did all the things you do when you’re uncomfortable. You’re so exciting when you look like that, a frelk told me once. “Yeah, I am.” I said it too sharply, too loudly, and she jumped a little.
So now she knew I knew she knew I knew, and I wondered how we would play out the Proust bit.
“I’m Turkish,” she said. “I’m not Greek. I’m not just starting. I’m a graduate in art history here at the university. These little lies one makes up for strangers to protect one’s ego…why? Sometimes I think my ego is very small.”
That’s one strategy.
“How far away do you live?” I asked. “And what’s the going rate in Turkish lira?” That’s another.
“I can’t pay you.” She pulled her raincoat around her hips. She was very pretty. “I would like to.” She shrugged and smiled. “But I am…a poor student. Not a rich one. If you want to turn around and walk away, there will be no hard feelings. I shall be sad though.”
I stayed on the path. I thought she’d suggest a price after a little while. She didn’t.
And that’s another.
I was asking myself, What do you want the damn money for anyway? when a breeze upset water from one of the park’s great cypresses.
“I think the whole business is sad.” She wiped drops from her face. There had been a break in her voice, and for a moment I looked too closely at the water streaks. “I think it’s sad that they have to alter you to make you a spacer. If they hadn’t, then we…. If spacers had never been, then we could not be…the way we are. Did you start out male or female?”
Another shower. I was looking at the ground and droplets went down my collar.
“Male,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”
“How old are you? Twenty-three, twenty-four?”
“Twenty-three,” I lied. It’s reflex. I’m twenty-five, but the younger they think you are, the more they pay you. But I didn’t want her damn money— “I guessed right then.” She nodded. “Most of us are experts on spacers. Do you find that? I suppose we have to be.” She looked at me with wide black eyes. At the end of the stare, she blinked rapidly. “You would have been a fine man. But now you are a spacer, building water-conservation units on Mars, programming mining computers on Ganymede, servicing communication relay towers on the moon. The alteration…” Frelks are the only people I’ve ever heard say “the alteration” with so much fascination and regret. “You’d think they’d have found some other solution. They could have found another way of neutering you, turning you into creatures not even androgynous; things that are—”
I put my hand on her shoulder, and she stopped like I’d hit her. She looked to see if anyone was near. Lightly, so lightly then, she raised her hand to mine.
I pulled my hand away. “That are what?”
“They could have found another way.” Both hands in her pockets now.
“They could have. Yes. Up beyond the ionosphere, baby, there’s too much radiation for those precious gonads to work right anywhere you might want to do something that would keep you there over twenty-four hours, like the moon, or Mars, or the satellites of Jupiter—”
“They could have made protective shields. They could have done more research into biological adjustment—”
“Population Explosion time,” I said. “No, they were hunting for an excuse to cut down kids back then—especially deformed ones.”
“Ah, yes.” She nodded. “We’re still fighting our way up from the neopuritan reaction to the sex freedom of the twentieth century.”
“It was a fine solution.” I grinned and absently rubbed my crotch. “I’m happy with it.” I’ve never known why that’s so much more obscene when a spacer does it.
“Stop it,” she snapped, moving away.
“What’s the matter?”
“Stop it,” she repeated. “Don’t do that! You’re a child.”
“But they choose us from children whose sexual responses are hopelessly retarded at puberty.”
“And your childish, violent substitutes for love? I suppose that’s one of the things that’s attractive. You really don’t regret you have no sex?” “We’ve got you,” I said.
“Yes.” She looked down. I glanced to see the expression she was hiding. It was a smile. “You have your glorious, soaring life—and you have us.” Her face came up. She glowed. “You spin in the sky, the world spins under you, and you step from land to land, while we…” She turned her head right, left, and her black hair curled and uncurled on the shoulder of her coat. “We have our dull, circled lives, bound in gravity, worshiping you!” She looked back at me. “Perverted, yes? In love with a bunch of corpses in free fall!” Suddenly she hunched her shoulders. “I don’t like having a free-fall-sexual-displacement complex.”
“That always sounded like too much to say.”
She looked away. “I don’t like being a frelk. Better?”
“I wouldn’t like it either. Be something else.”
“You don’t choose your perversions. You have no perversions at all. You’re free of the whole business. I love you for that, spacer. My love starts with the fear of love. Isn’t that beautiful? A pervert substitutes something unattainable for ‘normal’ love: the homosexual, a minor, the fetishist, a shoe or a watch or a girdle. Those with free-fall-sexual-dis—”
“Frelks.”
“Frelks substitute”—she looked at me sharply again—“loose, swinging meat.”
“That doesn’t offend me.”
“I wanted it to.”
“You don’t have desires. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Go on.”
“I want you because you can’t want me. That’s the pleasure. If someone really had a sexual reaction to…us, we’d be scared away. I wonder how many people there were before there were you, waiting for your creation. We’re necrophiles. I’m sure grave robbing has fallen off since you started going up. But you don’t understand.” She paused. “If you did, then I wouldn’t be scuffing leaves now and trying to think from whom I could borrow sixty lira.” She stepped over the knuckles of a root that had cracked the pavement. “And that, incidentally, is the going rate in Istanbul.”
I calculated. “Things still get cheaper as you go east.”
“You know,” and she let her raincoat fall open, “you’re different from the others. You at least want to know—”
I said, “If I spat on you for every time you’d said that to a spacer, you’d drown.”
“Go back to the moon, loose meat.” She closed her eyes. “Swing on up to Mars. There are satellites around Jupiter where you might do some good. Go up and come down in some other city.”
“Where do you live?”
“You want to come with me?”
“Give me something,” I said. “Give me something—it doesn’t have to be worth sixty lira. Give me something that you like, anyt
hing of yours that means something to you.”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“Because I—”
“—don’t want to give up part of that ego. None of you frelks do!” “You really don’t understand I just don’t want to buy you?”
“You have nothing to buy me with.”
“You are a child,” she said. “I love you.”
We reached the gate of the park. She stopped, and we stood time enough for a breeze to rise and die in the grass. “I…” she offered tentatively, pointing without taking her hand from her coat pocket. “I live right down there.”
“All right,” I said. “Let’s go.”
A gas main had once exploded along this street, she explained to me, a gushing road of fire as far as the docks. Overhot and overquick, it had been put out within minutes. No building had fallen, but the charred facias glittered. “This is sort of an artist and student quarter.” We crossed the cobbles. “Yuri Pasha, number fourteen. In case you’re ever in Istanbul again.” Her door was covered with black scales; the gutter was thick with garbage.
“A lot of artists and professional people are frelks,” I said, trying to be inane.
“So are lots of other people.” She walked inside and held the door. “We’re just more flamboyant about it.”
On the landing there was a portrait of Ataturk. Her room was on the second floor. “Just a moment while I get my key—”
Moonscapes! Marsscapes! On her easel was a six-foot canvas showing the sunrise flaring on a crater’s rim! There were copies of the original Observer pictures of the moon pinned to the wall, and pictures of every smooth-faced general in the International Space Corps.
On one corner of her desk was a pile of those photo magazines about spacers that you can find in most kiosks all over the world: I’ve seriously heard people say they were printed for adventurous-minded high school children. They’ve never seen the Danish ones. She had a few of those too. There was a shelf of art books, art history texts. Above them were six feet of cheap paper-covered space operas: Sin of Space Station #12, Rocket Rake, Savage Orbit… “Arrack?” she asked. “Ouzo, or pernod? You’ve got your choice. But I may pour them all from the same bottle.” She set out glasses on the desk, then opened a waist-high cabinet that turned out to be an icebox. She stood up with a tray of lovelies: fruit puddings, Turkish delight, braised meats.
“What’s this?”
“Dolmades. Grape leaves filled with rice and pignolias.”
“Say it again?”
“Dolmades. Comes from the same Turkish word as ‘dolmush.’ They both mean ‘stuffed.’” She put the tray beside the glasses. “Sit down.”
I sat on the studio-couch-that-becomes-bed. Under the brocade I felt the deep, fluid resilience of a glycogel mattress. They’ve got the idea that it approximates the feeling of free fall. “Comfortable? Would you excuse me for a moment? I have some friends down the hall. I want to see them for a moment.” She winked. “They like spacers.”
“Are you going to take up a collection for me?” I asked. “Or do you want them to line up outside the door and wait their turn?”
She sucked a breath. “Actually, I was going to suggest both.” Suddenly she shook her head. “Oh, what do you want!”
“What will you give me? I want something,” I said. “That’s why I came. I’m lonely. Maybe I want to find out how far it goes. I don’t know yet.”
“It goes as far as you will. Me? I study, I read, paint, talk with my friends”—she came over to the bed, sat down on the floor—“go to the theater, look at spacers who pass me on the street, till one looks back; I am lonely too.” She put her head on my knee. “I want something. But,” and after a minute neither of us had moved, “you are not the one who will give it to me.”
“You’re not going to pay me for it,” I countered. “You’re not, are you?” On my knee her head shook. After a while she said, all breath and no voice, “Don’t you think you…should leave?”
“Okay,” I said, and stood up.
She sat back on the hem of her coat. She hadn’t taken it off yet.
I went to the door.
“Incidentally.” She folded her hands in her lap. “There is a place in New City you might find what you’re looking for, called the Flower Passage—”
I turned toward her, angry. “The frelk hangout? Look, I don’t need money! I said anything would do! I don’t want—”
She had begun to shake her head, laughing quietly. Now she lay her cheek on the wrinkled place where I had sat. “Do you persist in misunderstanding? It is a spacer hangout. When you leave, I am going to visit my friends and talk about…ah, yes, the beautiful one that got away. I thought you might find…perhaps someone you know.”
With anger, it ended.
“Oh,” I said. “Oh, it’s a spacer hangout. Yeah. Well, thanks.”
And went out. And found the Flower Passage, and Kelly and Lou and Bo and Muse. Kelly was buying beer so we all got drunk, and ate fried fish and fried clams and fried sausage, and Kelly was waving the money around, saying, “You should have seen him! The changes I put that frelk through, you should have seen him! Eighty lira is the going rate here, and he gave me a hundred and fifty!” and drank more beer. And went up.
RED JORDAN AROBATEAU
[1943–]
AN AFRICAN AMERICAN FEMALE-TO-MALE TRANSSEXUAL writer, Red Jordan Arobateau is known for his series of popular S/M novels. Born to a working-class Honduran father and light-skinned African American mother, Arobateau was raised on Chicago’s South Side. His mixed racial heritage allowed him to pass for white, but he embraced his blackness, even taking on his mother’s maiden name of Jordan. Arobateau identified himself as homosexual for the first time while reading a lesbian pulp novel in 1960. This discovery led him to San Francisco, where he found his voice as a writer during the 1970s. After his father died in 1973, Arobateau felt free to write about the taboo subject matter that established his reputation as a prolific writer of S/M erotica.
His first novel, the self-published Bars Across Heaven (1977), was an autobiographical story about a black lesbian street hustler named “Flip” Jordan. As with much of Arobateau’s fiction, the novel is set in black urban settings, where prostitution, pawnshops, and drugs are part of black lesbian life. Bars Across Heaven was followed by forty self-published books of fiction, including collections of short stories with such provocative titles as “Golden Showers,” “Gang Rape,” “Reflections of a Lesbian Trick,” and “Pleasure in the Glitter Gutter.” Some critics have responded to his work by arguing that his sexually explicit work could not have been written by a woman—even though Arobateau identified as a lesbian until his gender transition in 1998. But as scholar Ann Allen Shockley said, in the title of her 1982 profile, Red Jordan Arobateau is “A Different Kind of Black Lesbian Writer.” Indeed, his work had been rejected by all the feminist and gay presses until Judy Grahn published his short story “Suzie Q” in the anthology True to Life Adventure Stories (1978).
In this story, Arobateau gives voice to Suzie Q, a spirited black lesbian prostitute. Written in the vernacular of black street language, the story is a significant departure in black lesbian fiction. Indeed, “Suzie Q” is a rarity among African American women’s fiction in general. As this excerpt demonstrates, working-class issues complicate oversimplified discussions of race and sexual orientation among black lesbians.
from Suzie Q
[1978]
She breezed into the club with a strong rap. Television was into women’s lib and it was a new day. Women was tired of giving up their money to a nigger. A ho was no longer a bitch.
The bar was filled with white hippies. Wall painted black, and red lamps along the sides. A horse-shoe shaped bar that someone had thrown together up front, dance floor behind it. Tables and chairs along the wall. Suzie thought how much it looked like Pappy’s which had hos lined up gabbing or nodding out, leaning up against the counter where fried chicken and soft d
rinks was for sale, when they should be out on the curb working. Nothing but women on the barstools; black and red shadows cast on their faces that were boyish smooth and hairless. But there was a difference. These women here were lesbians.
She was a character with the appearance of mini mouse. Skinny legs. Her shoes too big for her feet. —She’d bought ’em, now she’d have to wear ’em. Bronze complexion, her hair cornrowed—at ten cents a braid down at the Kings and Queens Beauty Salon—but hiding under a wig that sat on her like a hat. Full lips, big round eyes with a hardened look that she could turn on or off. Of medium height— 5'5"—and weight, 130 pounds well proportioned on her frame. Not an extra ounce of fat from all that walking and standing. Her spirits are exuberant tonight. A party mood. Body full of energy—that came from her mind, for physically she was worn out. Suzie had on a tiny little outfit pink, showing a big expanse of bare copper colored skin on arms and legs that bore plenty of bruises. Scars darker then others, some fresh bluish marks.
She had got to the club—half way ’cross town—by showing the bus driver an old transfer she’d found in the street. The first bus she’d got on, the driver had read it and told her: “this is no good lady.” Suzie yelled back: “did it come out yo’ pocket?” Dismounted, walked 5 blocks, tried another bus, and as she’d sashayed down the aisle weary, in a world-wise manner, the driver didn’t have enough nerve to call her back and demand she feed the fare box those precious coins.
A bedraggled pheasant, she walked in the door, her plumage dragging. “The only reason why I come back here wuz we pahteed last time we
wuz here. Folks get down, girl, with whistles and bells and tambourines, and they dannnce!”
Of course that was the only reason for being here that she’d admit. On the bus ride, she’d seen out the window black youths do Kung Fu like alley cats leaping into thin air, backs arched. And she made a mental note to herself, “that’s the next thang, soon as I get my place, get my kids, I’m gonna learn Karate, and I’ll chop a niggers head off if he mess with me one more time.”
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