by Nick Krieger
“You have no idea how relieved I am.” Greg readjusted his cap and sighed. In his exhale, I sensed the desperation behind his well-executed fund-raiser. He broke into a warm smile, his toughness disappearing like a mirage. It would still be a while before I noticed that those were not hawks tattooed on his forearms, but doves. “Congratulations, Greg,” I eked out as he dashed off to a group of his trans friends.
I watched him exchange a high five with someone I’d met at one of my roommates’ flag football parties once. A shirt dangled like a rag from his jeans; his exposed chest was smooth and flat. With chest scars and a slightly pear-shaped body, he looked half-male, half-female, and I found myself feeling sorry for him. He pulled his shirt from his jeans and whirled it around his head like a lasso, a huge smile on his face. Seeing his uninhibited happiness, my pity turned into annoyance.
Zippy had a shit-eating grin on her face, her body lost in the rhythm of an ’80s tune. Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I tried to let the beat flow into me. I ordered my shoulders into action and immediately felt my own awkwardness, imagined everyone else could see it as well. My legs stiffened and my entire body went hard, like clay in a kiln. “I’m not feeling this party,” I said. “If you want to stay, that’s cool.”
Zippy pointed to an old fling going at it with someone neither of us deemed attractive and swore she’d never sleep with her again. She got my mind off my own self-consciousness by engaging me in a game where we took turns pointing out bad decision couplings. It worked for a while, until I realized everyone had someone to make out with—everyone but me.
The leaves of a lush tree spilled over the high-rise concrete wall into the courtyard, reminding me of the rain forests in Costa Rica, my hiking and zip-line adventures through the jungle. I started to plan a savings schedule and travel budget in my head, adding and subtracting numbers, calming myself with the math of escape the way someone else might repeat a mantra.
In the dance pit, I saw a woman I’d once written a poem about kiss someone who wasn’t cute. I turned to Zippy. “Really, I want to go,” I repeated.
“I’ll be ready to leave soon. Just give me one more round.” Zippy rubbed her hands together and placed them on my head, smoothing my short brown hair down into a side part. “You just stay here and look pretty. I’ll be back in two shakes.”
After Zippy left, I moved deeper into the corner of the deck and situated myself on the railing to wait. On the far side of the courtyard, I saw one of my neighbors, someone who’d once dated a friend of mine back before his transition. When I first met him he looked like your average woman, even had shoulder-length curly hair. I remembered him as all bones and clumsiness in his female body. Now he’d filled out, grown solid, hardened. I often saw him tramp down our street, his head high, chest out, like a proud rooster. It was as if I’d witnessed a demon expelled, a body once possessed with an ungainly lack of control relieved of a ghost.
Lately, it seemed like these trans guys, as most people referred to them, were everywhere—bars, bookstores, parks, my house, my street—their very presence refuting what I’d always taken as fact, that those with an F on their birth certificates were automatically women. Before moving to the Castro, I’d thought becoming a man was as realistic as growing wings. Asking whether a woman would be happier as a guy was one of those dumb questions, like what would you do if a genie emerged from a bottle and granted you three wishes, or what super power would you most like to have.
Watching from the raised platform of the deck, above a sea of beanies and baseball caps, camouflage and corduroy, red mohawks and bleached faux hawks, track jackets and hoodies, argyle cardigans and soccer jerseys, I wondered what the fundamental difference was between me and the rest of the guests at the party, between me and Greg. I knew I wasn’t the only one mistaken for a boy in the women’s restroom every couple of weeks. The correction came quickly, after a second glance at my chest or face. I didn’t care much one way or the other; the “wrong bathroom” thing happened to everyone who looked like me.
Before top surgery and testosterone had broken on to the social scene, I wouldn’t have noticed the distinctions between me and Greg beyond our choices in fashion. But all of a sudden, or so it seemed, many people I saw as dykes were pursuing physical alterations, highlighting differences that had been previously invisible to the naked eye.
In this environment, it was impossible for me to tell what gender cues—things like earrings, hairstyle, underwear preference, and body hair—meant to a person, whether someone with leg hair thought of herself as a free-spirited womyn or himself as a virile man. The style signposts had once held masculine or feminine connotations that helped me define a person, but here they failed to indicate whether a person self-identified as man, woman, or something else entirely. I figured earrings and longish hair would be the first things someone like Greg would lose, small changes to prevent being perceived as a woman. But then again, plenty of dudes wore earrings and overgrown hair, too.
Greg hopped in place near the stage, intermittently hugging folks on their way out. At the end of the song, the emcee, a towering woman in drag queen regalia, stepped up to the platform. “Say good-bye to Greg’s tatas,” she shouted, trilling the last word in operatic fashion before handing Greg the mike. Holding it close to his mouth in hip-hop style, he thanked everyone for their support, calling out my roommates by name.
His white T-shirt shined bright under the string of dim lights. If I hadn’t seen the gigantic breast guillotine on the front, if I hadn’t been at his top-surgery fund-raiser, if I hadn’t known that he had consciously changed his name to Greg, I would’ve thought he was just another dyke, more butch than me, but a dyke all the same. How did he know he wasn’t? And when had he first known? He had to be in his early thirties, at least—not much older than me. I took the last swig of my beer, clanked it into a nearby plastic bin, and jumped off the railing.
On my way inside, I spotted Zippy in the DJ area with a headphone to her ear, flipping through a milk crate of records. Since the bathroom line was shorter than the bar line, I got behind a handful of people waiting for the women’s single stall.
“What’s behind the other door?” someone a few paces up asked.
“There’s a urinal,” a different voice replied. “And no lock on the door.”
“I pissed all over myself the last time I tried to use it,” said the woman in front of me. “I’m bald as an eagle down there.” She spread her legs and locked her knees. “Dribbled straight down my leg.”
“I peed all over my shoes. I don’t get how girls do it.”
I tried to refrain from chuckling. Every time I stood in this line it was the same conversation, and the urinal wasn’t that hard to use.
A newcomer approached the line, scanned the trail out to the courtyard, and asked if anyone wanted to cover her. Everyone in front of me looked around blankly. I stepped out of the line and guarded the door after she entered. A few minutes later, we traded spots.
Inside the bathroom, the tiled floor was sticky and the stench of pee overpowering. I dropped my jeans and boxers, straddled the base of the urinal rising from the ground, and bent my knees slightly, keeping my butt a few centimeters from the porcelain. The stream pounded the drain with the backsplash hitting the floor and my hiking boots. With no toilet paper around, I gave up the idea of wiping, instead air-drying and zipping up. The soap dispenser had been ripped off the wall. Typical, I thought. All this place needed was some porn mags to be the quintessential men’s room. I rinsed my hands, not caring about soap, TP, piss on my shoes, or which bathroom I chose.
Zippy spotted me coming out of the bathroom and slipped inside before the door shut behind me. She bragged about her ability to pee anywhere and had once done so into a Ziploc bag while stuck in a car during a traffic jam. It’s how she got her name, although I imagine it held because she zipped around at warp speeds.
While waiting, I caught my roommate Melissa walking down the corridor. Compared to the other guests at the party, she came across as ordinary, a garden-variety lesbian more like my A-gays or me. “Having a good time?” I asked.
“I’m having a blast. Best party of my life.” Her ruddy face, nearly as bright as her red pants, beamed with joy. “Greg’s raised like $5,000.”
She told me about the raffles, the kissing booth, the money pouring in from all directions, especially the date auction. There had been a bidding war for one pair. “It’s too bad you missed it. It was crazy—Justine dropped $720! I’ve never seen anything like it.”
It was a shit ton of money, and I figured that even with his store clerking wage, Greg could save the rest. “You helped make it happen,” I congratulated Melissa. Utilizing her nonprofit fund-raising skills, she’d been a major orchestrator of the party planning.
“Do you know how many families you could feed for $5,000?” Melissa lifted her empty beer to her lips and tipped it back to no avail. “But as long as Greg’s happy.” She inspected the green glass bottle and shrugged. “I think I need more beer.” She disappeared into a bar crowd that didn’t appear to be letting up.
On the way out, I told Zippy about all the money Greg had raised, Justine’s donation in particular. “Can you imagine?” I asked. “Giving someone $720 to lop off their breasts?”
“How much does it cost?” Zippy asked.
“About eight grand.”
“Damn, dog.” Zippy led us out of the bar without looking back. “I’m glad we chipped in.”
Twenty bucks wasn’t much, but I was proud to offer something. I admired Greg for putting himself out there and being public with his need. It wasn’t until I spoke to Justine a couple of months later, asked her why she donated such a large sum, that I would fully comprehend the size of her contribution and the larger cause. She would tell me that the bidding war itself was a fix, set up by her and her friends, and that the money came from her graduate student loans, doled out to her at the beginning of each semester in huge portions that she would have to pay back. She would also say that every person who feels more comfortable in the queer community is an example, a person to look up to to make society more accepting.
I followed Zippy outside, closed the bottom half of the stable door behind me, and stepped onto the quiet sidewalk. The sky held no trace of the early rain or clouds, and stretched off toward the horizon clear and expansive. Without thinking, I reached up and absentmindedly fiddled with an earring. I slid out first one, then the other, sticking the silver hoops deep into the recesses of my pocket.
*Bondage and discipline, dominance and submission, sadism and masochism. [back]
Two. Home
About a year before Ta-Ta Tatas, I’d come back to San Francisco from my latest travel stint—a winter spent snowboard bumming with my brother in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Upon my return, I couch-surfed and subletted for a couple months until a friend told me about the available room in the Castro house, and I checked it out immediately. The bedroom had a brick fireplace and bay windows, the house had a washer/dryer and a huge private back deck, and the neighborhood was safe enough that even with my native New Yorker paranoia, I wouldn’t hit the deck when cars backfired.
When I discovered the incredibly low rent, I felt as if I’d won the urban living lottery. Not only had my prospective new housemates assured me that their dirty dishes skipped three-day pit stops in the sink, but they were acquaintances, and with that came the familiarity of having seen each other around for a few years. After we all agreed I’d be a good addition to the house, I went over to sign the lease. Only Jess was around, stuck engaging with me and my excessive deliberations that accompanied big decisions.
Sitting in low-lying picnic chairs on the back deck, Coronas on the Astroturf by our feet, I fired away redundant questions about bills, noise, cleanliness, and guests. With her youthful face, lady-killer smile, and smooth strut, Jess had reminded me, in our passings from afar, of a star Little League shortstop. Now that we were deep in conversation, there was something about her even temperament and composure, her fair skin and the subtle yet distinguished arch of her nose, that brought to mind a polished marble statue. As she calmly waited for me to run out of ways to rephrase myself, the clouds above us raced across the sky, the fog rolling in from Twin Peaks as if snowballing down the hill. “You know, I’ve never lived with all dykes before,” I finally said.
After a winter of small ski-town life, no homos to be found—and I did the due diligence of asking around—my return to the gay mecca had caused me some culture shock. I feared that living all dyke all the time could be isolating, make it hard to remain in greater society, be part of company events, bachelorette parties, and golf vacations with my family.
Jess rolled down the sleeves of her white Hanes T-shirt. “Don’t you want to live with your community, with other queers.”
When I thought about it, my golf clubs had gathered mouse poop in storage, I’d never been invited to a bachelorette party, and the last time I’d worked for a company that threw corporate parties was during the dot-com era. Jess also seemed to be stating a fact rather than asking a question, and I knew then that she was persuasive. What I didn’t know was that soon we’d be using each other to test ourselves in countless discussions that would inform who we were and who we would become. I also didn’t know the slight distinction between lesbians and queers when I cashed in my lottery ticket.
At parties at my new house, these queers invaded my back deck, living room, and kitchen. With their mural-size tattoos, chin piercings, outfits that belonged in music videos, and distinguishing transgender marks like chest scars and pubescent facial hair, they blared a standoffish attitude, apathetic and indifferent to everyone who might be glaring. And everyone was. Flashing like neon signs that read, “I don’t give a fuck about normal,” they were not fit dinner company for parents—or at least not mine on the East Coast, who needed to know SAT scores, intentions of MBA, MD, or JD, and golf handicap before the shrimp cocktail arrived. I was impressed and intimidated by the confidence it took to stand out, but I couldn’t help feeling a little personally offended, as if our houseguests were also flipping me off for trying to exist quietly and assimilate into the gaystream.
Melissa was the first of my new housemates and their crew to put me at ease. She was an outsider like her friends, although her otherness seemed to stem not from gender, sexuality, or her body, but from her roots. Raised north of the border, Melissa had the Canadian sensibility, a carefree cheerfulness unseen in the States, as if being isolated for months under a ton of snow made a person shrug and say, “What are you going to do, eh?” and pull out a beer. I’d discovered my love for Canadians during my travels, a time when I’d also learned to enjoy being an outsider myself, as the only American in certain hostels and towns.
Melissa’s presence grounded me as my eyes adjusted to our regular guests practicing bondage knots, reading passages from The Ethical Slut (aka the bible of polyamory), and playing games that involved shots, whipped cream, and wrestling. Even when intoxicated, I tried to avoid social activities that required me to touch, let alone eat food out of another human being’s belly button. Mostly, I hung on the sidelines, in the corners, and blended into the wallpaper.
I found myself paying special attention to the trans guys. Through observation and eavesdropping, I developed a vague understanding of the terms transgender, testosterone, and top surgery—the last my focus from the first moment I noticed Bec. It was at one of our house parties, a few months after I moved in, that my fascination with her began. Pushing six feet with broad shoulders, she stood out like a lone skyscraper among the rest of the flag football players, commanding center stage with her physical presence alone. She held it with her charisma and strong, mellifluous voice, rallying the others in a one-on-one flag-grabbing competition for
which she played both referee and ringleader, springing gracefully around my back deck wearing only a pair of long athletic shorts.
From my spot on the side of the stairs, I honed in on Bec’s chest, focused on the white lines visible there, faint symmetrical scars that ran from her armpits to sternum. In one moment they loomed as large as saber wounds, and in the next, as miniscule as paper cuts. I stared at those dull lines, bored in, piercing them as if trying to break the skin, the rib cage, and lock on to the heart. Why did you do this, I wondered. When does a woman interrupt the daily routine of living to decide to have a mastectomy, before morning coffee or after the mail arrives? Why would Rebecca remove her breasts but keep her female name?
Bec was confusing—beautiful and handsome, amorphous and alluring, a stallion or a mare, I had no idea. So I watched her, always, as did everyone else. A consummate performer, Bec danced, sang, lip-synched, and strip-teased, treating life as if it were a musical rated NC-17. Bec could’ve played any role made for an adolescent boy, slipping easily into high school quarterback or down-and-out hustler, but ’50s greaser Danny Zuko came most naturally. In front of my large living room mirror, she’d often run her palms along the greased sides of her neatly combed hair, and then with her right hand she’d stroke her tight white T-shirt diagonally from the shoulder, running her hand over her chest as if still enamored by its flatness. Whenever possible, Bec did not wear a shirt.
That was how I found Bec, topless, in my kitchen on a Sunday morning a week after Greg’s fund-raiser. Technically, Bec dated my third roommate, Erin. In actuality, Bec was more like my third roommate. She had a key to the house long before Erin moved in, and would keep it long after Erin moved out.
Bec was cracking eggs over a glass bowl, the cuffs of her blue jeans rolled above her bare feet, the waist hanging low on her narrow hips. By now, I was used to Bec shirtless, intimate with the intricacies of the enormous mosaic tattoo on her back. Turning toward the stove, Bec jumped when she saw me. I was always doing that, scaring people, a lurker in my own home.