The Slow Fix

by Ivan Coyote

  Dirty Rotten Cock Knockers

  If you travel far and/or frequently enough for long periods of time, eventually you will begin to see a pattern. I’m speaking loosely here, of course. There are never any fixed rules in the downtown core of our little global village; I cannot guarantee you that it is impossible to find a proper cup of tea south of the 49th parallel, but I can safely say it is improbable, unless you are in Massachusetts or some such state where your odds might improve to unlikely. One should generally avoid making sweeping generalizations about places you have only ever passed through, but I can tell you that it seems to me that you can stay up all night by accident in New York City, but in Ottawa they wrap up all the fun by the stroke of midnight. It’s easy to score some sticky bud in San Francisco or Seattle, but don’t drink the tap water. The weed is weak and tastes leafy and is hard to come by in the UK, where booze is the intoxicant of choice, and it’s cheaper than drinking their flat ginger ale. In America, the customer is always right, but in Amsterdam the customer is almost never right (especially if they think you are American), except for those rare occasions where the customer may have had a point or two but who was listening, and besides, can’t you see I’m on the phone here? I usually appreciate this more hands-off Dutch approach to customer service until I experienced an unfortunate series of events in the red-light district just last week, on my second trip to my most beloved haven, this pothead pervert’s hedonistic heaven.

  My lovely lanky lady friend and I were in a women-owned and operated high-end latex and rubber fetish wear store just moments after having both simultaneously fallen in love with the ridiculously long-lashed and beautiful manboy who worked in the mushroom and herbal ecstasy shop right next door. Like I said, I love Amsterdam. I was trying to talk her into trying on this red and white latex nursey outfit we both knew she would never buy, and cajoling her into buying a butt plug we both knew was one sphincter size out of her comfort zone. She insisted through the change room curtain that the black latex corset I had just laced up for her was far more practical and versatile, and the butt plug was just insensitive. When I stepped aside to let another immaculately dressed Dutch shopper squeeze past me in the narrow aisle between racks of rubber uniforms and rows of gas masks, my shoulder bag brushed the corner of a six-foot glass display shelf. The lightning-like crash of glass was followed by a brutal downpour of butt plugs and a flash flood of nipple clips and feather ticklers. When it was all over, I had a shard of something sharp embedded in the back of my left hand, and there were two broken cocks that someone was going to have to answer for. Expensive ones. Big heavy cocks carved by hand out of granite, with razor sharp edges. The last thing a world traveller would want, and the shopkeeper seemed to think I owed her 180 Euros, which is about 250 smackeroos back home. I argued that not only was it not prudent for a retailer to display giant stone penises atop shaky shelving units alongside a skinny public thoroughfare, but that the identical shelf still standing intact next to the one I had demolished was also an accident waiting to happen, and that it was lucky for all of us that there wasn’t a small child with a soft skull nearby when it all came down who might have been brained by a phallus of such weight and density, and that I felt it was the store’s responsibility to ensure that the cocks were all displayed in a safe and secure fashion, especially the more dangerous ones. It was a miracle none of us had lost a toe, I said, eyeing my lady friend, who was ever so slowly sidling closer to the front door.

  The salesgirl insisted that I was going to have to cough up the cash for the damages, and dialed up her boss on the cordless phone, her lips pursed tight from all the trouble I was causing her. Meanwhile, the other shopper, who in my mind had a hand in the mishap herself, huffed and narrowed her eyes at me and agreed with the clerk, and went on at some length about personal responsibility, a public-stoning tone in her almost accentless English. The store owner then lectured me about how in Holland it is not the retailer who bears the burden of liability insurance, but the individual, and that if she were to go over to her friend’s house and burn a hole in the leather couch with a cigarette, her own insurance, not the homeowner’s, would cover it, that Holland was a You Break, You Buy country, all the way.

  I informed her that there was no such thing as cock-knocking insurance where I came from, and that I would have happily paid for both giant granite cocks without argument if I had picked them up, which I would never do in the first place, and broken them through any fault of my own, which is unlikely, in Canada or Amsterdam, because it was the right thing to do, but that I flat out refused to pay for hazardous heavy cocks that rained down on innocent consumers from atop substandard shelving that was going to get her nothing but sued one day if it wasn’t fixed. I told her to call the police, and we would let them inspect the remaining shelf and decide who should pay the piper for the penises in question.

  That’s right about when she started screaming about how she had a headache and didn’t need my litigious American bullshit attitude and how in her country people pay for what they break, when I caught a blue streak of denim flash past me as my friend dashed for the door. For some reason, I interrupted the raging retailer to repeat that actually I was Canadian, and then I passed the handset back to the salesgirl and bolted into the street after her. The salesgirl chased us halfheartedly for a block before turning back to tend to her abandoned fetish wear. We sprinted past window after window of bored ladies of the late afternoon smoking and talking on their cellphones under red neon tubes and into a coffeeshop, breathing in heaving lungfuls of hash smoke and laughing. Too bad we couldn’t go back and visit our boyfriend the mushroom salesman. The price you pay for being on the lam in Amsterdam.

  Later, in the hotel room, we called each other Bonnie and Clyde, and it was hot.

  Pass the Time

  I’m not going to torture my reflection in the mirror looking for reasons, nor am I about to torment myself with annoying existential questions seeking answers. I’m just going to accept it. I pass a lot more these days, and I’m not sure exactly why that is.

  Some would say this means I am accessing male privilege, that folks like me who are regularly read as men are often treated with more respect and taken more seriously, especially by other men, and that the streets are safer for us than they are for our often more feminine companions, and of course they would be partly right. But, as any tranny worth hir salt will surely tell you, passing as male among men is for the most part a tenuous and dangerous space to inhabit, and reality is rarely so black and white. Sometimes I really like passing as a boy or young man, especially when I find myself in the company of winking dirty old men who see a little of the boy they used to be in the strapping young fella they think I am. I’ll admit it, it’s fun sometimes, not to mention educational. But then there are other times when passing can be hazardous to your health, like last August at a truck stop bathroom just off the highway somewhere in Saskatchewan. That trucker was more than convinced I was a smooth-shaven young tourist lad, and that he wanted to show me the full-sized sleeper he had on the brand new big rig that he had parked so proudly behind the restaurant. He was horny and aggressive and I had to be rescued by my lady friend. Then there are times when it just gets weird and complicated, like it did last week with my new landlord.

  I have spent a good part of the last thirty-eight years perfecting my method of coping with the gender confusion of strangers, and I have developed my own set of guidelines in terms of my own reaction to the often unpredictable behaviour of an individual experiencing a bout of dysphoria or panic upon meeting me for the first time. My first rule is not to say or do anything too gender-specific, and to just let the stranger in question continue believing I am whatever gender they assume me to be, the catch being, of course, that I am quite often not certain just which gender box I should continue to help them make me fit into. This can get tricky quickly.

  I recently relocated to Ontario for eight months, to be the writer-in-residence at Carleton University. After
briefly perusing the rental listings in Ottawa, I decided to rent me and the dogs a little house in the country. I found a one-bedroom cottage on the water about half an hour west of the city and tracked down the landlord. Within a minute of meeting him, it became apparent that he thought I was a young lad, as they say in the valley. I weighed my options, after silently calculating the odds that he would prefer renting the cute little house he wanted to retire to one day to a young lad, regardless of how clean-cut I might appear, to how he might feel about turning the keys over to a big old dyke, no matter how gainfully employed I might be, if only for the next eight months. I took into consideration all the facts I had at hand: the guy appeared to be in his fifties, and this was a town of 600 people. I opted for letting him continue to think I was a young lad, and allayed any fears he might have about my irresponsible youth costing him any money by paying him four months’ rent up front in cash. When he asked me for the third time just what it was I did for a living again, and looked increasingly skeptical when I repeated that I was the author of five books, I finally gave him one of my new CDs just to prove to him that I was telling the truth. I really was a storyteller.

  Ironic, I know.

  A couple of nights after I moved in, the landlord dropped by with his wife. He was almost overly impressed with the new paint job in the living room, but seemed vaguely nervous about something, or maybe he was just in a hurry to get home. But he was definitely acting a little weird; it was kind of hard to pin down. I noticed he smirked knowingly and winked at his wife when he thought I wasn’t looking when I told him how the kitchen was going to be sort of a pale gold colour, and the bedroom a rather complimentary shade of deep pumpkin.

  We had moved on to discussing the water pump in the basement and getting the well water tested when he blurted out what he had obviously been building up to bringing up since he had walked through the door.

  “I listened to your CD. You didn’t tell me you were gay. Not that I would care. That’s your business. It’s all good with me. I don’t care who you sleep with, or what colour you paint the hallway.” He smiled nervously, and swallowed hard.

  “Thanks, Scott. Right back at you,” I told him.

  This made him laugh, as his wife shifted uncomfortably from her perch on the basement stairs. Scott continued, desperate to prove to me he was down with renting to a homosexual. “I don’t even mind if you have your boyfriend over or whatever, as long as you pay the rent.”

  This, of course, was when it all became hilariously clear to me. Not only was I passing, I was passing as a gay man. My new landlord had done some soul searching and had found it in his heart to warmly embrace my lifestyle, and trust my superior decorating skills.

  There are now three gays in this village. When I told Patrick, one-half of the only gay couple in town, about my dilemma, he crossed both arms and pursed his lips. “Well, you’ll have to clear that up right away.” He was only half-kidding. “This is a small town. There’s only room for one queen, and I was here first. And don’t you forget it, sister.”

  Window Seat

  She was sitting in my window seat. I mean, really sitting. Shoes off, painted toenails tucked sideways under her bum, reading a magazine. She looked real comfortable; the slender index finger on her right hand twirling around an errant lock of professionally bleached bangs before tucking it back behind a delicate ear. She was beautiful, but I was tired. I can only sleep on an airplane if I get a window seat, and she had parked her pretty little ass in mine.

  When I pointed this out politely but firmly, she blinked several times at me, her eyes round and blue, her mascara job immaculate, and informed me that it was okay with her if I just took her aisle seat, since she was already all settled in, as was the nice lady next to her.

  She was cute, and I almost fell for it. I was recently single, freshly tattooed, and on my way to New York City. She had a very fetching way of raising just one eyebrow in a manicured question mark, and I have always been vulnerable to the persuasive skills of certain kinds of ladies. She was smart enough to know an easy mark with a window seat when she saw one, and I came this close to trading a chance to nap for the opportunity to do the gentlemanly thing in front of a hot stranger and her fifty-something seatmate.

  I must be getting old, because after quickly weighing my options, I chose the nap.

  “Shouldn’t we at least be in our assigned seats while the plane is taking off?” I insisted kind of half-heartedly. “You know, in case we crash, so they can find our DNA or whatever?”

  The nice lady in the middle seat nodded in silent agreement, yes, indeed we should be in our proper seats for DNA identification purposes, then tucked her paperback into the seat pocket and hauled her pantsuited bum out into the aisle beside me.

  Hot girl let out a disappointed sigh and leaned forward to retrieve her shoes from under the seat in front of her. That is when her designer T-shirt slid up to reveal a long stretch of her naked back, lean and heavily tattooed with leopard spots.

  Just give her your goddamn window seat, for the love of Christ, she’s a stone cold fox, whispered the little red devil that always wants to get laid from his perch just behind my left ear.

  You need to get some bed rest so you can be sharp for your performance tonight, the librarian angel reminded me from my other shoulder. You should be thinking of your immune system, not hot strangers with full back tattoos. These long flights, the recycled air. You just don’t handle the jet lag like you used to. Take a nap. It’s for the best.

  I folded up my leather jacket for a pillow and stuffed it into the drafty crack next to the plexiglass window and closed my eyes right away, hoping to nod off immediately.

  But I’ve always been prone to eavesdropping.

  Nice lady beside me was asking hot girl a lot of questions, and her answers were keeping me awake.

  No, she wasn’t married, and yes, she was going to New York on business too. She had just moved to San Francisco, but she still spent a lot of time in New York for work. She was a hairdresser for a high-end salon, but no, she wasn’t staying at a hotel, she was crashing at her ex-girlfriend’s house, and yes, she meant girlfriend, not friend who was a girl.

  I sat up straight and opened my eyes. Nice lady smacked my arm gently like nice ladies are allowed to do when teasing younger folks these days. “Oh, now he’s awake. You heard that part, didn’t you? Men. I read in Cosmo that two girls together is one of their all-time top fantasies. I asked my husband about it, but he pled the fifth on that one. How about you, sir?”

  Nice lady laughed and then coughed and dug around in her bag, hauled out a roll of breath mints, offered one to each of us. Hot girl smirked and raised another eyebrow, awaiting my answer.

  I felt the blood rush into my cheeks. “Two girls together? Well ... I’m not going to say I don’t like the thought of it.”

  All three of us laughed then, for three different reasons. We continued this sort of a three-legged dog of a conversation all the way from Chicago to La Guardia. The lesbian hairdresser’s name was actually Darby, and Denise sold X-ray software to dental technicians. All three of us spent a lot of time on the road. When I told them I was a writer, Denise said she’d never heard of me, but that she would be sure to look me up “on the Google” when she got home. While we were waiting for our bags, Darby asked me if I wanted to hop a cab into Manhattan with her, since her company was paying for it.

  When the taxi pulled up in front of my hotel, I took a deep breath, and then I took a chance.

  “Want to come show me your city from the window of my hotel room?”

  Darby sat back in her seat and licked the lipsticked edges of a smile. “How do you even know I’m your kind of girl?”

  “I saw your luggage, remember? Two gigantic pink suitcases, plus carry-on? For one long weekend? I can tell that you’re my kind of girl.”

  She shook her head. “I’m almost late for dinner with the ex.”

  “Call her and tell her your plane was delayed. Beaut
y of cellphones.”

  She slipped me her business card, told me to call her in the morning. “Poor Denise. Wait till she Googles you tonight. Remember what she said when her husband picked her up? “A lesbian and a famous writer, Dennis. She’s a hairdresser to the stars and he’s on a book tour. You just never know who you’re going to meet on the airplane these days.”

  Right-Winged

  G’day. I’ve been living in the valley, as they say, digging my truck out of the ever-abundant snow every couple of days to foray east on Highway 417 into Ottawa for dim sum or laundry or office hours or sometimes even a plane ride. I wouldn’t say I’m lonely in my little cottage on the river in the country, but I have noticed that I am even more prone to chatting up strangers than usual these days, and this poor fellow was stuck next to friendly old me for the four-hour flight home.

  I try not to make assumptions about people, so I didn’t jump to conclusions just because he was young, handsome, fit, wearing Italian jeans, and smelling of Guerlain cologne (I think it was Vetiver). These were all fine clues, to be sure, but I didn’t become actively suspicious that my row mate was a homosexual until he asked the gentleman in the aisle seat if he would mind switching places so that his friend could come sit next to him. His “friend” turned out to be the even prettier boy waggling his slender fingers at us from a couple of rows back.