by Rona Jaffe
The dress was adorable, and he bought it. Then he went down the street to a faggot store, feeling much more comfortable there, and asked to see some bell-bottomed pants.
“You can’t try them on today,” the nitty queen who waited on him said. “Girls aren’t allowed in the fitting rooms on Saturday.”
“I’ll girl you, Mary,” Vincent said.
The queen did a double-take. “Ooh, sorry. You do look real.”
Vincent wanted to say: “Look for me in Vogue next month,” but he stifled the impulse and minced into the fitting room with the three pairs of pants. They were a perfect fit so he bought them, and two silk scarves to wear as little ties with the girl’s shirts he had at home. The pants looked just like girl’s pants. He liked the way most of the clothes today were so neuter-looking; it left the decision of whether he was a boy or a girl up to the people who looked at him—if they always thought he was a girl it wasn’t as if he was trying to deceive them.
“Cologne?” the nitty queen asked, trying to spray him.
“No!” Vincent hated men’s cologne—except on a man, of course.
“Here, take it. It’s a free sample, because you’re so pretty.”
Vincent took it. He could keep it for a rainy day. That queen had called him “pretty.” Most queens hated him because they were so jealous that he was doing what they didn’t have the courage to do. He was happy and flattered that the queen didn’t hate him, and he gave her his best Bonnie gaze and a little smile. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it, doll. Good luck.”
He rode uptown on the subway because it was cheap and quick. He could afford cabs now, but he still used the subway during the daytime, preferring to spend his cab money on clothes. He wondered when he would ever be able to finish paying off Mr. Libra that fifteen hundred for the pants suit he’d stupidly mopped, and he hoped it wouldn’t be when he was too old to look nice in the clothes he was dying to buy. This shopping spree today was the result of weeks and weeks of hoarding, walking, going without lunches. When he had a date, or was with Gerry, he ate as much as he could so that he wouldn’t starve the rest of the time. He didn’t want to lose weight and get his legs so skinny they didn’t look like girl’s legs any more.
The subway platform was empty. He waited for the train, walking up and down. On the wall there were various advertising posters with wisecracks scribbled on them by subway poets. Someone had written in large letters: “God is love.”
Vincent looked at it, then looked around to make sure no one was near to see him. He took his lipstick out of his purse—the purse Gerry had finally convinced him to carry even though he thought it looked the worst for a boy to carry a purse—and crossed out the word God, replacing it with Fame. “Fame is love.”
“That’s about where it’s at,” Vincent murmured. The train came roaring into the station and he got on it, humming a little tune.
The apartment was lonely. He hung up his new clothes and filled the bathtub with warm water and bubble bath. Gerry had gone away to the beach for the weekend with a client of Mr. Libra’s and she had told him being left alone was a compliment and a great position of trust. He was flattered, but he missed her and he wished she had invited him, even though he knew he would have been too self-conscious to go to that beach house with all those society people, and besides he hated the sun. He put some records on the phonograph and got into the tub, where he soaked until the stack of records was finished. He shaved his legs and let the water run out. Wrapped in a big towel he went into the living room to turn the stack of records over, then filled the tub again, got in and washed his hair.
While his hair was drying he stood in front of the bathroom mirror and carefully inspected his upper lip for any sign of hair. Unmistakably, there was a downy fuzz. His first reaction was horror, then curiosity and a kind of embarrassed pride. He was growing up. A moustache was a nuisance, but he’d seen lots of girls with much worse moustaches than his. What was he going to do with it?
There was Gerry’s depilatory. He smeared it on and waited as long as the tube said to wait, and then washed it off. What kind of stuff did she use anyway? The moustache was still there, most of it anyway. He looked at the tube again. Do not reapply, it said. All he needed now was a red mark and he wouldn’t be able to go out tonight.
With a sigh for his lost innocence Vincent picked up the safety razor, inserted a new blade, and daintily slathered on Gerry’s shaving cream. It was a good thing she was a pack rat; their apartment was as well stocked as any drugstore. He had never shaved in his life, and he drew the blade down his upper lip gingerly, afraid he would cut himself. The hair came off like magic. He was flawless Bonnie Parker again. Whew! He rubbed cream on his lip to take the soreness away and put a beauty pack on his face to tighten his pores. Then he sat in front of the air conditioner, listening to the records, and brushed out all his false eyelashes, replacing them carefully in their little plastic box when he was finished. The sun was setting in the window behind him and he felt homesick. Maybe he’d go home and surprise his mother. His eyes filled with tears. He missed his mother, and he missed Gerry. He hated Saturday night.
When the phone rang, Vincent let it ring three times and then picked up the receiver just before the service could get at it.
“Hello.”
“Bonnie?”
“Yes.”
“This is Dick.”
Oh, wasn’t it! Dick Devoid, old scarecrow, big nose, bald head, closet queen! Vincent wasn’t one bit surprised. “How are you?” Vincent said.
“Fine, thanks. What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” Vincent said. “What are you doing?”
“Having a drink with some friends. Would you like to come over and join us?”
Dick wanted Vincent to meet his friends! Vincent wondered if there would be any stars there. He loved meeting famous people.
“Well, I’m not dressed or anything,” he said.
“Come as you are, we’re all informal,” Dick said cheerfully. “Hurry up … they want to meet you.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” Dick said.
“Give me an hour,” said Vincent/Bonnie, and hung up. He painted very lightly, just his panstick and mascara on his long lashes; then he decided to put on his bats and started all over again. He was nervous. He’d never been out with Dick after that night with Gerry. He’d fled when he realized that Dick was anticipating a scene for the three of them, because that was a lousy thing to do to Gerry. Gerry was a nice girl, and she obviously loved Dick. But what the hell? He’d just go there tonight and see what happened. Nothing would happen. He’d just twist Dick’s mind a little and cut out. He wondered whether or not Dick would want to go to bed with him. Would he want to go to bed with Dick? No, not in a million years. He just wanted to see what would happen.
He decided on one of the new pairs of bell bottoms; white, with a white shirt of Gerry’s he’d long admired, and one of his new scarves tied around his neck to hide his Adam’s apple. He put on his girl’s white patent-leather loafers, with tights under the pants so he could gaff better. His hair was dry now, and very blond and shiny. He teased and smoothed it and gave it a light spray. Then he put perfume behind each ear, tucked the perfume bottle into his purse for touch-ups, and inspected himself in the mirror for a last time. Unreadable. Beautiful. Bonnie Parker the beauty.
He had Dick’s address in his little address book (he’d put it in automatically after that evening at Dick’s apartment) and he was on his way.
Dick’s guests were a fat young man, not too bad, and a bitchy-looking girl. The girl had dyed blond hair and looked at Bonnie’s natural blond hair with undisguised jealousy. She’d obviously been the beauty in this room until Bonnie got here. The fat young man’s eyes nearly popped out.
“Bonnie,” Dick said. “This is Steve, and Truffle.”
Truffle! What kind of a name was that? But Bonnie liked Steve—he had a fat little belly but his face was great, lo
ts of hair and sexy sideburns. Well, I’ll have that, Bonnie thought. She looked at Dick. I could have him too if I wanted, I bet.
Steve jumped up to fix Bonnie a drink, but Dick beat him to it. Bonnie sat down on a chair slightly removed from the rest of them, crossed her legs, and waited. She said nothing. Dick brought her the drink and she murmured “Thank you” without smiling; the paint on her face was still too fresh and felt uncomfortable. It was obvious from the conversation that Dick had not told any of them Bonnie was a boy. Steve was knocking himself out trying to be witty, and Truffle was looking lost. Bonnie continued to sit there saying nothing, sipping her drink, looking at the two men from her flawless huge violet eyes, waiting and enjoying it. Dick came to sit on the arm of her chair. He liked her! Wasn’t that nice! Well, he wasn’t so ugly. Maybe I will have him, Bonnie thought.
She thought of Gerry, but it didn’t seem at all disloyal to Gerry to be here with Dick, even if she decided later to go to bed with him. After all, Gerry was a girl, with all the right plumbing and all the advantages. If Dick wanted her, Bonnie, instead of Gerry, or in addition to Gerry, it wasn’t like taking a man away from another girl because Bonnie wasn’t a girl. If Dick wanted her, he wanted a boy. One thing had nothing to do with the other. Bonnie would never be jealous if she lost a man to a real girl, even though she might be sad or feel frustrated about her bad luck in having all the wrong plumbing. She thought about it. No, it definitely wasn’t bitchy or underhanded to be here with Dick. If Dick was an old closet queen he might as well find it out now. For even though Bonnie insisted all her dates were straight before they met her, and even though most of them insisted it themselves, she knew in her heart they were fags. Fags. Why deceive yourself? If they went to bed with her they were fags. They’d tell themselves: “Well, it looks like a girl so I’ll tell myself it’s a girl while I’m playing with its cock,” and they were fags.
Bonnie looked around Dick’s apartment, seen now in twilight. It was tasteful and luxurious, but certainly not a fag’s apartment. There was nothing nitty about it, no little touches, none of that self-consciously over-masculine stuff either. It was a great apartment. None of the queens in the bars had ever heard of Dick Devere, so it was more than likely that he was straight but just had this little inclination that’d come out when he met Bonnie. Bonnie felt sorry for Gerry, not because she was with Dick tonight but because Dick was a shit and Gerry was a wonderful girl who deserved a real man who would love her and marry her and give her babies. Old scarecrow, big nose, bald head! Bonnie would fix him! Vincent would fix him! Oh, yes I will, Bonnie/Vincent thought, looking at Dick with the most innocent, sexiest possible look in her eyes. I’ll fix you, you old lecher, scarecrow, bald head, big nose! I’ll fix you for making Gerry cry every night when she thinks I’m asleep and don’t know. And when I’m finished with you maybe I’ll have a crack at your friend Steve. I think he’s cute.
It turned out that the girl named Truffle was an actress, and Steve was Dick’s attorney. Bonnie had never seen Truffle in anything so she dismissed her immediately. But Steve continued to intrigue her. She’d never been out with an attorney. She reminded herself to keep to the business at hand: the wrecking of Dick Devoid, and she noted with delight that even though she’d stationed herself at a distance from the others in the room they had eventually all grouped around her—first Dick, then Steve, finally Truffle who discovered herself left out.
Truffle and Steve brought out some pot and they all turned on. Dick was acting prissy about it (old queen! probably afraid he’d get nelly when he was high) and took one little poke and then said he’d stick to his martinis. Bonnie pretended disinterest but she enjoyed getting high on the pot, it was so much nicer than drinking. Then, as usual, the pot made her hungry.
“Aren’t we going to eat?” she asked.
“Of course, of course!” Dick said, jumping up. They were out on the street in about two minutes. Bonnie’s wish was his command tonight, and Bonnie loved it.
They went back to the place where Dick had taken Bonnie and Gerry. Bonnie ordered her favorite, spaghetti, and then discovered after two bites that she couldn’t eat a thing. She was nervous. Dick kept talking, as usual, trying to charm and impress everyone, and Bonnie decided that he had a nice voice and a nice way about him. If she didn’t know what a shit he was she’d really like him. He had a lot of charm. He had to have something to make all those girls fall in love with him. She’d already cruised his box but you couldn’t tell what he had; he was too secure and well tailored to let the public in on the mystery. She’d find out later, all right. And she’d make him blow her. Oh, wouldn’t she, though! She’d twist his mind, she’d wreck him.
She remembered one guy she’d dated, a really masculine guy, the butch number to end all butch numbers, and then in bed he’d wanted her, the little flitty paint queen, to screw him! What a shock! Bonnie had done it, just out of curiosity, but she hadn’t liked it at all, and after that she’d used him as an escort and nothing more. Wouldn’t everybody be surprised if they knew what he was really like, the big queen! She thought now that it would be fun to warp Dick’s mind that way, but she knew it would be impossible to bend his mind that far. No, she’d just get him to fall in love with her, and then she’d make him admit what a big fruit he was, and then she would have another conquest and Gerry would be avenged.
It was fun going out with straight people, here in this straight restaurant, knowing she was the center of attention because she was so pretty, knowing they all accepted her and didn’t think she was a freak. She was nervous but happy. Maybe she would be a big star someday. Who would ever dream it, the little misfit from Irvington, hiding in the house all day like a mole … a big movie star! God bless Mr. Libra. God bless Gerry, and all those people who’d been so nice to her/him, poor Vincent. Weren’t people kind! Wasn’t life good! Wasn’t it lucky that if he had to be born a he/she freak at least he’d been born a beauty! God bless Flash for plopping his first wig on his head. God bless his father for never playing baseball with him. God bless his mother for buying him his first nurse kit instead of a doctor kit. God bless God.
Steve and Truffle were going to a midnight movie. Dick took Bonnie back to his apartment without asking her what she wanted to do next, and Bonnie went with him placidly.
In his apartment Dick turned on the lights and put some records on the turntable. He made drinks for himself and Bonnie and they sat on the couch. Bonnie couldn’t think of anything to say, so she drank the drink, knowing that two drinks made her very drunk and this was the first. She needed to be drunk. She was a little afraid of what would happen next.
“I could still never believe in a million years that you’re a boy,” Dick said. “To me you’ll always be a girl. Who could ever believe you’re a boy?”
Bonnie smiled.
“I have a present for you,” Dick said, and took something out of the desk drawer. It was two amyl nitrites. He popped one and put it into a Benzedrine inhaler, holding his finger over the hole on the top, and handed it to Bonnie.
Bonnie loved amyl nitrite. It was her favorite buzz. She held the inhaler to her nostril and breathed in greedily.
“You’re taking the whole thing,” Dick protested, amused.
Bonnie waited for the buzz—then it came, and she sat on the floor and giggled uncontrollably. Everything was tingling and she felt goofy and happy.
Dick picked up the empty inhaler from the floor where she’d dropped it. “Good thing I have a whole box of these,” he said. “You’re a dope fiend.”
Since he was being so nice she felt it was only fair to share, so she took two blackbirds from her purse and offered one to Dick. They gulped them down with their drinks and sat there smiling at each other, waiting for that buzz to start.
“Let me pick some records,” Bonnie said, walking unsteadily to the record player. She pulled her favorite albums out of the neat row in his bookcase: all the sexy female vocalists she loved. Aretha Franklin, Dionne Warwick—oh,
no one could touch them! She saw an album by Silky and the Satins and put that on the stack too.
Dick took it off. “Don’t play that.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not in the mood for it.”
Bonnie knew Dick had had an affair with Silky Morgan. The poor old queen is feeling guilty, she thought, amused. Well, now they’d have a contest of wills. “I like it,” Bonnie said. “Please?”
“All right.” He put the record back on the stack.
He was putty in her hands. “Can I have another drink?” Bonnie murmured.
Dick made the drinks and took them into the bedroom. He turned down the bedcovers. Bonnie followed him and switched off all the lights except for one dim one in the corner. She didn’t want to shock him to death. Dick was taking off his clothes calmly. He acted as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be here in his bedroom with a girl who was really a boy. Dionne Warwick was pouring honey through the bedroom speaker. Bonnie took off her bats and laid them on the dresser. She couldn’t stand to have sex with her false eyelashes on because one of the queens had told her once that they could get stuck in your eye and make you go blind. She glanced at Dick to see if he was disillusioned with her, seeing her without her eyelashes, but he seemed oblivious. It was so dim in the room that maybe he hadn’t noticed. Thank goodness her own eyelashes were so long.
Dick lay on the bed, naked. Well, look what he had! Wasn’t that nice. He’d kill me with that thing, Bonnie thought. I’d be screaming in pain. She took off all her clothes except her underpants and got under the sheet quick as a flash, pulling the sheet up so it covered her lack of tits. No point in disillusioning him now.