by Tej Turner
“What’s going on?” I exclaimed, grabbing one of the bullies by the shoulder.
“He’s trying to use the toilet,” one of them yelled.
I turned to the speaker. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s not really a she,” he said, pointing a derisive finger at the victim. I took a second glance at her and saw that even though she was pretty, her jaw was a bit too angular and the shape of her body was somewhere in between. She was young as well, so I guessed she must have been somewhere in the middle of an HRT programme.
“So what?” I said, shrugging. “Why do you care what toilet she uses?”
“It’s got a penis!” a girl explained. “It should use the boys.”
“My name is Tilly,” she said between gritted teeth.
I felt an overwhelming revulsion to this whole scenario. When I was growing up, Janus was my escape, a place I could go to and be accepted for who I was rather than ridiculed and judged, and now this is what it had come to? A place where the marginal are not even safe?
“I just want to use the toilet…” she said softly.
“Pervert!” one of them screamed.
She tried to make towards the door, but they blocked her way and then all hell broke loose. The kids around her all pushed and shoved, knocking her over.
They formed a ring around her and starting kicking her with their big, heavy, designer boots. Tilly let out a scream and shuffled around, but the peltings came from all sides. I saw a flash of blood spurt from her nose as another boot sent her reeling across the floor.
They carried on kicking her. In the face, the head, the stomach. They stamped on her legs, and one of them even spared a moment to spit at her. I desperately tried to intervene, but there were too many and I couldn’t reach them. They were killing her, but they carried on regardless. So long as the rest of them were doing it they seemed to feel it was okay, and none of them wanted to be the first to hesitate. Mob mentality.
I closed my eyes, remembering the warning my father had just given me but not caring. I had to stop this from happening.
Space-time flickered around me. It was time to go back.
Frelia is going back. It is time to change everything.
And I don’t know about you, but I wasn’t too keen on the way things finished between Tristan and Neal. So here is a new ending...
7
The Dog Man
Another morning.
Someone is breathing beside me. For a moment it is disconcerting, and I sit up to take a glance at the fray of brown hair spread across the pillow. A face with its mouth wide open.
My new lover, Danny.
I shake my head, suddenly feeling the urge to leave the comfort of the bed sheets. The dogs need feeding. The lawn needs mowing. I’m hungry.
I get to my feet but as I walk across the bedroom they become entangled in the clothes strewn across the floor. Memories of ripping a designer t-shirt off his body last night come into my mind. Designer. Everything was designer with him. Even his underwear has a Calvin Klein logo. Why would someone want to spend that much money on underwear?
Still, he presents himself well. Danny is nearer to my age. He is conventional. Respectable. He is someone I can take out for a meal without people staring at us because he has the young face of an angel and is sitting with someone twice his age.
He is also handsome, and very good in bed.
So...
Why is it that I can’t get Tristan out of my mind?
I sigh.
Another morning without Tristan.
I enter the kitchen and the dogs are waiting at the door. They start jumping around me, demanding I put food into their bowls and yet getting in my way in every step of achieving it. After filling their bowls I pat them on their heads as they scoff down their breakfast, then I head over to the counter to make some for myself.
As I turn the kettle on, I hear Danny walking down the stairs. I force myself to smile, hoping that one day it will be genuine.
But he never enters the room.
“Hello?” I call.
“Hi...” he utters through the doorway.
“You can come in...”
He nervously pokes his head through the door and fixes his eyes on the dogs.
“I don’t like dogs,” he reminds me.
I am just about to make a clever reply about how they won’t bite when Missy starts growling.
“Missy! Stop that!”
Why didn’t I see it before?
Making you feel insecure made me feel good about myself. It made me feel stronger. I am an ageing man and someone as young as you wanting me made me feel special. I took you for granted.
You were genuine and open. I thought it was a weakness and exploited it. I thought that by being erratic and evasive, by making you feel like you needed me more than I needed you, it would make me stronger, and that way I could hold you in my arms forever.
You ventured into our journey together with your arms wide open, I dressed myself from head to toe in a suit of armour. But you didn’t need a sword to get under my skin. You just did it with your eyes, your face, your lips, your body. You.
In the end it turned out that you were the stronger one: I needed you just as much as you needed me, but only you were brave enough to show it.
You were brave enough to admit what both of us knew from the first time we woke up next to each other. We are meant to be together.
Why didn’t I see it before? It was always you.
“You want to go outside?” I ask Danny as I look to the window – the sun is shining; it looks like a beautiful day.
I’ve just finished breakfast. Danny didn’t eat anything because I only have white bread which he refuses to eat because he is worried about his waistline.
“With the dogs?” he asks, casting a nervous glance at the door they have been shut on the other side of.
“Oh don’t worry,” I sigh. “I will put them on leads, they’ll leave you alone.”
“But my shoes might get muddy...”
We have never been far apart.
It has been almost ten weeks since I last touched you. Since I told you that you could never have me. I was lying. I was too proud to admit that I belong to you.
We have never been far apart, because you have always been on my mind.
I just pray I never left yours.
“Call me if you want to meet again, maybe we can sort something out.”
He says something like this every time we part. I usually don’t mean to call him but I get lonely and hope that he can distract me from the images of Tristan in my head. Every time I ring he sounds so enthusiastic. It is obvious he’s been waiting for me to call.
This is what the old me would have done:
Smile. Nod. Wave while he leaves. Go back into my house and resist the urge to ring him for as long as possible to keep him on his toes and wanting more. If he breaks first and dials me up, it will make me feel good about myself.
If I wasn’t interested in meeting again, the old me would have done the same – but been smug in the thought of them pining over me.
That was the old me. It was the behaviour I adopted because it was safer.
Not anymore, it is time for the real me. For honesty.
“I’m sorry, but I think we should stop seeing each other.”
His head hangs low. The contrast between the forlorn expression on his face and his pseudo-apathy a few moments ago almost makes me laugh. But I don’t.
“There is someone else, isn’t there...” he says.
A silence. I think we both knew it all along. He has always been my distraction. I guess he hoped he would become more than that over time. I hoped he would too.
I nod.
He turns away and gets into his car.
I am coming for you, my love.
Once I made you feel like you had to earn me when you already had me. I made you feel like you had to show me how much you cared, while I pretended not to care because it
made me feel special. I no longer care for self-aggrandisement, I care about you. I want you to be happy.
Once you made me feel special, and I abused that gesture. Now it’s your turn. I am going to make you feel as special as you are.
I am coming for you, my love. I just hope it is not too late.
I jump into the shower and wash away the slimy layer of excess pride which I have armoured my skin with over the last few months. Next up, a dollop of shampoo on my hand. I rub it into my hair to cleanse the dusty dandruff of old indulgent habits I’ve let myself get into. I massage the suds into my scalp, it is time to go back to my roots. I love Tristan, and I think Tristan loved me. I wanted to spend time with him, but avoided him as much as I could make myself. I wanted to talk to him, but my precious ego held me back from picking up the phone. It is time to scrub my hands clean. I want Tristan, it’s as simple as that. Why did I let it become so complicated?
The water washes away my vanity. My selfish ways are sucked down the plughole.
I towel myself dry and study my reflection in the mirror. I am a new man. I am naked, exposed. Liberated.
I plant a line of toothpaste onto my brush. It is time to wash the poison from my mouth.
I jump into the car and rev the engine. I am a man on fire. My feet against the pedals, my hands on the wheel – I am steering myself into a new destiny. The car pulls out of the driveway and I begin my journey into the city.
First stop: his flat. I step inside but he isn’t there.
A few items of clothing, which are too smart and pristine to be Tristan’s, are balanced on the armrest of his couch. Who left them? Possibly a new man in his life?
I pick up the jacket. It looks costly and new, and smells of some kind of fancy cologne.
I smell a yuppie.
I growl under my breath, throw the jacket on the floor, and go back to my car. It is time to claim my territory.
I go to the shop for provisions. If I am up against a yuppie I need to arm myself.
He is probably treating Tristan with lots of money and wealth; how can I defeat him when all I have given him is mind games and grief. What can I offer Tristan apart from my heart and soul?
First of all I need something to distract a yuppie with, so I pick up a copy of the Financial Times – that should do the trick. A groin guard for in case things get nasty – because we all know some of these faggots fight like girls. Finally, on my way to the counter, I pick up a bottle of champagne to celebrate with if I bring Tristan home. If I fail I can easily just whack the yuppie over the head with it.
Next stop: Janus. I pull up outside, swing the door open and stroll up the bar. My eyes search the tables.
When I recognise his face, my body freezes. I stand there for a moment and stare.
Tristan. He looks up, our eyes meet, and time seems to stop. He opens his mouth in surprise. I feel a knot in my heart but the sight of his face brings a smile to my lips. He never fails to take my breath away.
Someone is with him. His back is turned, all I can see is a cowboy hat on top of a brown coat. He carries on talking to Tristan as I meander over to their table, completely oblivious to the fact that Tristan’s attention has been drawn elsewhere.
I stand at the head of the table and we stare at each other for a few moments.
The man in the cowboy hat stinks of that yuppie aftershave.
“Hello, Tristan,” I interrupt them.
The cowboy hat turns around. He is broad shouldered and, I have to admit, handsome. A bit too plain for my tastes, though. I like someone with more character.
“Hi,” he says, while Tristan remains still and silent. “You a friend of Tristan’s?”
“I suppose you could call me that...” I said.
“Well, sit down then,” he offers, motioning to one of the chairs. “I’m Harry. We were just talking about setting Tristan up with a shop to sell his paintings so he can stop getting scammed by that damned gallery—”
“Fascinating,” I interrupt him, dryly, as I reach into the pocket of my jacket. “Hey, have you seen this week’s issue of the Financial Times—”
“Read it,” he shrugs. “It came in the post yesterday, I have a subscription.”
Damn.
“Can I just have a moment to talk to Tristan, please?”
“Yeah, sure,” he says. “Go ahead.”
“Alone.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What do you need to say that I can’t—”
“It’s okay,” Tristan suddenly butts in, turning to Harry. “Just give us a moment.”
“If he has something to say to you, I want to hear it.”
I ignore him. I don’t care anymore. This can’t wait any longer.
I kneel down in front of Tristan and, as I place my hand on his arm, memories of his bare flesh underneath that shirt come into my mind. Two months ago, his body was mine to touch, caress, and make love to. Just a few words from my mouth and I lost that right.
I want him back.
“Tristan, I need you.”
“Don’t, Neal,” Tristan says, casting his eyes around the bar involuntarily. “It’s—”
“I don’t care, Tristan. I don’t care if everyone is staring at me. I don’t care about those silly little games anymore. I just want you.”
“Hey man, take it easy,” the yuppie interrupts us. “Me and Tristan are—”
I look into Tristan’s eyes. He is sceptical. I can see him doubting my honesty.
“I love you, Tristan. The way I treated you was unforgiveable but I promise I will never do it again. Two months and all I could think about was you!”
His eyes are glistening but I can see confusion and conflict in them. A tear rolls down his cheek, I reach out, and tenderly brush it away with my finger.
“Come with me, Tristan. Now. Please.”
“You’re that guy he told me about, aren’t you!” Harry butts in. “He said you were a complete asshole!”
“Yes,” Tristan turns back to his new lover and nods his head. “He is an asshole.”
I feel my heart sinking.
“But unfortunately, I love him.”
Harry opens his mouth to make another objection but I no longer hear his voice. All I can see is Tristan’s face as he turns back to me and faintly smiles. The whole bar of people staring at us disappears. The walls melt away. All that exists is Tristan and me. I reach for his hand and we both get onto our feet.
Just as we make our way out of the bar Harry appears in front of us, blocking our way. He narrows his eyes.
“You bastard!” he yells as he raises his leg and swiftly brings the toe of his boot against my crotch, only to meet the hard shell of my groin guard.
“Stay away from them,” I advise. “These balls are Tristan’s now.”
“I’m sorry, Harry,” Tristan says. “But this is something I have to do.”
In the end it all came down to the power of words. Words we said to each other but never meant. Words which lived silently in our hearts, never expressed until now.
I wind down the window and feel the breeze against my face. One hand on the steering wheel, the other entwined around his fingers. The world flashes past us in a blur. I turn and look at his face, feeling my heart beating against my chest at the thought that he is in my car.
This is our moment, and no one else’s.
8
Blisters
“I need to tell you something. I have been trying to tell you for a while… but it’s hard…”
The words felt like glass marbles in my throat. They had been there for a long time, needing to be choked out.
“I am not a boy.”
I was expecting a violent reaction but all I received was a cold, confused, silent stare at first. Which I could only guess meant she did not understand.
“I mean… I know I was born… like one. But I never felt… right. You must have noticed that something wasn’t right, didn’t you?”
No answer.
“I thi
nk I am a girl… I think I have always been. I tried to be a boy. I tried really hard, but I can’t do it anymore. My body is changing… and I hate it. It doesn’t feel… right…”
My tears were cut-off by the sting of my Grandmother slapping me across the face. She had never done that before. I cried harder, turning away, losing the small amount of courage I had managed to piece together for this.
“You! Silly! Little!” she hit me again with each syllable, her voice cracking with each breath. I cried. Shuffled away. “You’re a boy! Charlie!”
“No! You don’t understand. I don’t feel—”
“Go to your room!” she exclaimed, pointing towards the stairs. “Go to your room! And don’t speak of this ever again! Now!”
I think on some level I have always known.
I was an only child. I had no siblings to compare with, but I remember a time of confusion when I was first sent to school and my existence became gendered. We were separated for toilets, PE lessons, even where we sat in the classroom sometimes. By then I knew enough about the world to know that I was, technically, a ‘boy’, but nothing ever felt right from that day and my life became a silent struggle. I think the other kids knew something wasn’t quite right as well. I tried so hard to be normal and blend in but the more I tried, the more it became obvious that I did not belong. I was weedy, wimpy, and soft, but that didn’t stop people being tough with me. I was always getting bruised and blistered.