by Jay McLean
I take it all home, my stash worth $21.30.
Brown sports coat, Steve McQueen style.
White button-down.
White cami.
Beige men’s trousers.
And the only footwear that fits my size-seven feet, a pair of scuffed men’s shoes that I hope won’t look too much like grandfather-type loafers.
My mom enters my mind. I don’t know what she’d think about this. I know what she’d say, though. She’d say, “Be careful, Martina. Steer clear of trouble.”
I steer clear of trouble, always. I steer clear of everything.
Not this time.
This time, I’m driving in a daze.
#
The winding pathway to the house is plowed, and lights glow in the distance, through the trees. I approach a fork in the path with a sign pointing left for “Guest Entrance,” and a sign pointing right for “First-timers Entrance.”
I go right.
I pull up to the south end of the house where a few cars are parked over a flat area with gravel poking through the snow. I’m early, even though I drove like an old lady to get here. It’s 9:45. I don’t know if I should be going in a little early, or only at the stroke of 10, so for eleven minutes, I sit in my car, with the engine off and the temperature dropping, and the urge to drive away rises in me a total of twenty-six times.
Another car pulls up. A girl steps out. A girl in a pea jacket, baggy black slacks, and shoes my dad would wear when I was little for meetings at the office—which turned out to be dates with the woman who is now my stepmom. The girl goes right up to the side door and knocks. It opens, but I can’t see anyone on the other side. The girl goes in.
9:58.
I hop out of my car, lock it, then I take careful steps over to the door. The shoes have no grip and they’re frozen. I wonder if I should’ve worn my boots. I wonder if I’ll track water into the house and cause some frowns and pursed lips.
I knock.
I have a second to consider the fact that I might get murdered before the door opens, and I step inside.
#
A woman greets me, dressed in black and white, some kind of waiter’s uniform with a black bowtie. Her face is bare, and her dark hair is slicked back. She looks formal. I feel like an inadequate piece of shit.
I feel even worse when she says, “May I take your coat?” and I remember I’m wearing a bomber jacket over a sports coat, in clashing shades of brown. She takes my jacket and says, “Your invitation, please.”
I hand it to her, taking a glimpse of my surroundings. The house, what I can see of it, is dark, old. Maybe not actually old, but made to look old. Velvet curtains, dark wooden floors, dim lamps. The corridor opens up to a large room with a massive chandelier suspended from a ceiling I can’t see.
“Name?”
“Uh…Martina.”
“No. That won’t do.”
“Well, it’s actually Martie. Like, with an ‘ie.’”
“Martie. That’s fine.” The woman nods. “Cell phone?”
“Yeah. In my pocket.”
“They are prohibited,” she says, extending a hand, palm up. “It will be returned to you at the end of the night.”
“Can I keep my wallet?” I ask, and she nods, so I pull my phone out of my jacket pocket and hand it to her. Immediately, I feel naked.
“So, what is this, exactly?” I ask.
“Feel free to direct your questions to your escort,” the doorwoman says. She points to the door behind me. “Please step inside. Your escort will meet you shortly.”
I push the door open, and at first I don’t really know what I’m looking at. It’s a pretty big room, like the size of an average living room, but it’s been converted into some kind of dressing room, like what I’d expect to see backstage at a theater. There’s some chatter going on and shadows moving, but every station looks partitioned. There are racks of clothes, guy clothes, and it smells like cologne. A blow dryer starts. Someone laughs.
A couple girls wander between stations, and it floors me. The girls are like Daze in the way they shine with silky fabric, high heels, and hair that spills over delicate shoulders. But then Daze appears at the far end of the room, and it’s clear she’s more beautiful that the others. Seeing her there—well, she’s the reason I’ve gone along with this so far.
Her heels are red, toes peeking out at the tip. She’s wearing a short dress, a black one, tight around her thighs, and even tighter at the waist. It’s strapless and everything bulges above, but doesn’t spill out. Purple blooms are etched into her arms, from shoulder to elbow. Her red waves are twisted at the top of her head and hang loose at her neck.
I feel so, so fucking inadequate. And stupid for picturing my hand, reaching out to touch her—any part of her.
She sees me, nods, and glides over.
My ability to swallow is impaired. My brain knows this is called dysphagia. I’m dysphagic over a woman.
“Good evening,” Daze says, hesitating at the end and raising an eyebrow.
“Martie.”
“Good evening, Martie.” My name pops out of her lips through a smile.
“Hi, uh—evening,” I say, feeling like a tool for trying add a twang to my voice, as if I was gonna finish off with “little lady.”
“Follow me.”
She leads me to the last station on the left and motions for me to sit in the chair that faces a mirror with a frame lined in oversized bulbs. I say nothing when she reaches for my loose ponytail, pulling the elastic off. Shivers run through me, making my back arch just the slightest bit. I cough and shift my weight, hoping that covered it up. In the mirror, Daze is concentrated on my hair, running some kind of gel or mousse into it. Her fingers are in my hair, grazing against my scalp. I wish I was tougher than this pathetic dopey look on my face.
If I had a dick, it would be right there, waving at her from my lap.
She reaches for a comb and I stare as her hands move over my head. She combs the left side four times, then does the same for the right side. She repeats that, and finally sprays it. Then, the top locks get sort of teased and twisted into large curls that are arranged to spill against my forehead. By the end of it, I’m not sure which movie I’d fit into best: Grease, or The Outsiders.
Daze reaches next to my knee, pulling a drawer to reveal bottles of cologne lined up inside. Her red fingernails hover over a row until she picks up a bottle of Swiss Army Altitude. She stands behind me again and spritzes both sides of my collar.
“I’ll be back in just a minute,” she says.
We lock eyes through the mirror, and for a second, I wonder if it’s curiosity I see in hers. But then it’s gone, and she’s gone. How she can be right there, giving me a makeover, and still, there’s this barrier between us? She’s more than professional; she’s completely removed. I’m not sure what kind of evening this is. I’m not sure what’s going on, or why I’ve suddenly turned into a man. I’m sure of nothing—except that for her, I’m staying right here.
In the mirror, I look like a me from a different era.
Shellie’s in another country, probably on the beach right now, drinking three cocktails at once. Me, I’m just a few minutes from the dorms, except I’m in a different world.
Daze returns. “Okay, you’re just about done. Stand, please.”
I do.
“Face me.”
I turn.
Daze reaches for my collar, undoing the top button. I flinch. She catches my gaze and raises her eyebrows. I relax. My muscle-shirt collar is just visible. Daze slips two fingers into her cleavage and pulls out a chunky silver chain. She brings her hands around my neck, fastening the chain. The metal’s warm with her heat. She’s right there, and I think I’m now suffering from an arrhythmia.
“Done,” she says. “Now, offer me your arm.”
I do like I’ve seen get done in the movies. Daze sidles to me and threads her arm through mine.
“You lead,” she says. “We go left, th
rough that door, then down the stairs. Just listen to my instructions.”
We walk, I lead. But only because she’s the one calling the shots.
#
A ballroom is what I expect, which makes me feel self-conscious about the clothes I’ve got on, like I’ll be underdressed. But as soon as we reach the bottom of the stairs, a set of doors open up to what looks like a bar. A large area with pool tables lining the left wall, a jukebox in the corner, a bar at the far end, and private booths to the right. In the middle, a dance floor.
There are people everywhere. It looks like a real lounge, a popular weekend hangout hidden from the rest of the world. I’ve walked into some kind of scene.
“Wait,” I say, planting my feet.
Daze stops but doesn’t let go of my arm.
“What is this?”
“A B&F Soirée.”
“What is that? What does that mean?”
“Butch and femme.”
I turn to flash her a questioning glare. “What year is this?”
“2014.”
“Butch and femme?” I ask, my arm starting to pull away from hers. “But, I’m not—”
“Yes. You are.”
Around us, some of the ladies—the lady-ladies, and the man-ladies—are starting to notice us. The man-ladies, the butches, are in outfits like mine, some a bit less formal, some a lot more. Some look mean, like they own the place. They sip from beer bottles and tumblers, surveying the room. Some are super thin, and some are huge. Some have their arms around pretty girls. Girls with big hair, tall heels, and a way of walking that would make any man—any butch—crawl on their knees behind them.
But…I’m not one of them.
I don’t feel like one of them.
“Do you want to spend the evening with me, Martie?”
“Yes. But—”
“No hesitation. Spend the evening with me, then you can decide if this is you.”
Across the small cluster of dancing couples, I spot the girl who came in just before I did. Her arm is around her escort’s waist and they’re chatting with another couple. This girl’s got five fucking minutes on me, and she looks like she belongs here.
My grip tightens around Daze’s arm, and I steer her to the bar.
“I’m gonna need a drink for this,” I mutter.
“Good. I’d like one, too.”
The song playing is a pop hit from last year. I’m going to let Daze drag me away with her, but this music—I guess it’s all I have to hold onto, to stay in the now. To remember who I am.
#
After a rye & ginger while sitting at the bar, Daze orders two more and tells me to follow her. She takes us to the only empty booth, with a Reserved sign that she ignores, so I can only assume it’s reserved for us. I slip in on one side, expecting her to slide in across from me. But there she is, next to me.
“Can you tell me more about this thing? This soirée?” I ask.
“It’s been going on for about six years. I’ve been here for three.”
“Is this someone’s house?”
“Yes. She started the whole thing, opens her home to us.”
“She must be rich.”
“She’s wealthy, yes.”
“What’s the point of this? There’s a gay bar downtown, ten minutes from here. Not to mention Toronto’s like, half an hour away.”
“This serves another purpose.”
“Which purpose?”
Daze sips on her drink and drums her fingernails against the table. “There was a time when this was all there was, this scene. There was a time when women risked everything to break the rules. Women fought to be women, in their own way. Blue pays homage to that. She brought it back to life.”
“Blue? She owns this place?”
Daze nods.
“But, lesbians are still around. They’re just, whatever, just people. I don’t get it.”
“You will. This isn’t just about being gay. This is our lives.”
“Why’d you pick me?”
Daze turns, shifts her weight. She runs two fingers through the curls on my forehead. She leans in, just a bit, and fuck…I can smell her, the vanilla. She takes my chin in her thumb and index and lifts it, like she’s learning my face. “Tomorrow, when you wake up, wait two hours, then ask yourself that question. You’ll know the answer. Now, I’m going to go powder my nose then say hi to a few people. Stay here, finish your drink. Then, decide whether or not you’d like to come find me and ask me to dance.”
I watch her go, watch her ass sway to the music.
#
For twenty minutes, I observe the scene. I can tell who the butches with more power are by the way they stand, the way they laugh, by the looks they exchange with others. Most of them have a lady close by, fixing their collars, bringing them another beer. But the way the butches look at their ladies—it’s nothing like the usual scenery of men with their dolls. This is different from that. It’s more than that. In the shadows beyond the pool tables, couples are pressed against the wall, in each other’s arms, lips locked and hands in places I’ve never put mine on a girl. I feel kind of too young to be here when I look at that, so I avert my eyes.
When I look down, I see my open collar, my silver chain, my Steve McQueen jacket. I sit differently, leaning on the elbow against the table, my fingers holding the glass by the edge of its rim, swirling the liquid inside.
Daze tours the room, smiling, leaning in for cheek kisses, squeezing other girly-girls, putting her hand on the shoulder of butches. Her dress is like a layer I want to peel off.
Two drinks in me, and I wanna dance. I wanna go find my lady.
What the fuck—who I am?
I slip out of the seat and push to my feet. Glancing at the butches, my first steps are kind of shaky. The damn shoes. The damn shoes, and the rest of the damn clothes. I keep my focus on Daze, standing in the middle of a group of butch women, laughing.
Fuck, this is the most balls I’ve ever had to muster. Even my first intramuscular injection on a patient didn’t take this much guts.
I slip into an opening in the group of women, sliding a hand into my pocket, and extending the other. “Hey, Daze. Would you like to dance?”
It goes quiet, in the circle. Daze cocks her head and blinks, holding a hand to me, placing her fingers against mine. I ignore the butches staring me down, furrowing their eyebrows at me, and I curl my fingers, pulling Daze’s hand into my grip. Then, I see her turn her head and give a sharp raise of the chin, a signal to no one that I can see. That’s when the song changes abruptly. Something slow by Bruno Mars starts.
I lead her to the middle of the dance floor. She’s in front of me, just a little bit taller. I slide one arm around her waist and raise the other one. Our hands fold together, and I decide to forget I can’t dance. I let the clothes tell me what I should do.
We dance. We dance three songs. All slow, so Daze must definitely be controlling the music. Other couples are around us, doing their thing. By the fourth dance, Daze’s arms are around my neck, and my hands are flat against her lower back. There’s no space between us. Just a dress colliding with a button-down.
I’m someone else tonight. It’s fucked up.
I squeeze her, dipping my head against her neck. My lips brush against the skin below her ear. Maybe I could just—
She stiffens, says “Don’t” in my ear. I pull away.
“Why?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t. No one can see. Step back a little.”
So, I do, and I wonder if all guys feel this shitty after getting rejected. Whatever balls I might’ve had fell to the floor and we’re trampling them to the beat. The song changes without warning, something fast. The dancers stop, and some aim their stern gazes at us.
“Shit,” Daze says, pulling away from me for good and fluffing her hair.
“What?”
“I’m going to step out for a cigarette on the patio,” she says. “Get yourself another drink. Find me later.�
��
I don’t want another drink, but she leaves anyway.
#
No one talks to me. I wait in the empty booth, watching the others have a good time. I can’t help but think there’s some rite of passage involved with mingling with others. They give me looks, none of them obviously dirty, but sort of suspicious, like they’re not sure what to make of me, like I haven’t proven myself. I feel naked without Daze.
I go looking for the patio. The first couple doors I find lead to the washrooms, a single for Femmes, and a single for Butches. A lady laughs when I close a door, feeling heat crawl up my neck and face at having just tried walking into a stock room. Between the bar and the first pool table is a set of doors I couldn’t see because of the women blocking the view. I push through, wondering why the hell anyone would go out on a patio without a winter jacket on in March.
It’s enclosed, almost like a sunroom. The air is thick with tobacco and all the other chemical junk cigarettes are made of. Through the glass, a darkened forest lies thirty feet or so away, and a lot full of cars can be seen at the left. There must be a source of heat in here because ladies are here in their bare legs and arms. Daze sits on a stool at the far end, alone.
When she sees me, she summons her cold, detaches persona from earlier. Fuck that shit.
“Don’t do that,” I say.
“What?”
“Harden up. We’re past that.” I take the stool next to her. “What’s up?”
“Enjoying my Menthol Slim.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
She smiles. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Try to get to know me.”
“I want to.”
“You might want to, but it’s not going to happen,” she says. “I’m just your escort.”
“I feel like it’s black.”
Her forehead crinkles as the smoke leaks out of her mouth.
“Your favorite color. Black.”
“Most people would guess red.”
“Black. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
I feel pretty proud of myself, and my face shifts into my I’m such a badass expression. Daze narrows her gaze and takes another drag.