So they went back to lie down. The lesbian pleasured her partner, then lay up against her, drinking in her warmth weakly and needily.
Terra was getting bored. They went out for a walk. The lesbian could not help but ask: How far will it be?—But she went the distance, a good two or three miles; then it was back to bed.
Terra texted her friends, then made a date for brunch with another woman. Of course Neva was welcome to come, Terra said.
When those two went out, the lesbian lay in bed, barely able to move. Even her fingers felt weak and strange. Knowing that this would not do, she took a little black heart-shaped pill that Francine had presented for a love-offering, and right away she felt like a happy horny virgin!
Terra drove her to Richmond, where there was fog on pines and oleanders, while sparrow-songs echoed through the concrete of the rapid transit station; then came the high musical tone as the doors closed, the almost musical whine of motion, tracks washed out in the fog, white-streaked grey clouds low above crammed little houses, the Berkeley hills purple ahead, like the tall towers of San Francisco’s financial district to the right, and at the El Cerrito Plaza stop a young blonde in a leopard-print baseball cap sat down, looked away, stared at her and slowly said: I need someone to talk to.—Okay, the lesbian replied; and for the next twenty minutes San Francisco enlarged itself as she listened to the tale of the cruel father who appropriately replaced himself with the cruel husband, after which the blonde gave her a teary hug (an open-handed slap from Shantelle might have gone down better), with the mallscapes of the East Bay now behind them; so many times I have watched her embrace us in her wordless love; shall it ever be told of her that she would speak?
15
As you see, even Neva, shining among all the women and transwomen in that dark place, could not help but tire sometimes. Even the most long-enduring radioluminescence must diminish according to the law of half-life, and as for fleshly glowing, well, poor Judy Garland proved that rule. Full faithfully we tended Neva’s altars, raising our glasses all at once, gazing upward at nothing. Then she came in.
I remember from one occasion her smile slowly widening as she swung her head from side to side between two suitors, with her black-painted fingernails spread across the gin and tonic which she very slowly sipped even though it could not have incapacitated her since it was mostly ice cubes; she was careful just the same. What made her so seductive? We couldn’t stop speculating. Had we figured it out, we would hardly have loved her half as much.
Around her, we at least never got tired! She pushed all Francine’s anxieties away; all our sad and exhausted days got swept by the lesbian into a magical garbage bag! Victoria had no anxiety about anything now, because lying in the lesbian’s arms made life so charming. As for me, just watching the lesbian’s top slip off her shoulders to go sliding down, and then seeing her bra unhooking, that was as good as the gentleness which followed. And now everyone wanted to be Shantelle’s friend, because she got to fuck the magic lesbian—and oh, that rush Shantelle got, whenever she could steal the transwoman’s turn! Splendid Neva, empress of vaginal flowers, was anything sweet for you? I cannot imagine how it must have been to be the one who tried never to tell anybody no. Worst of all, I would guess, was that falling tone in the transwoman’s voice when the lesbian had been chatting on the phone with her and then said: Well, I have to go, at which the transwoman would whisper: Yeah, I know, and the lesbian felt like an old married man hanging up on his shining young mistress . . .—because she was now depriving desperate Judy of love! Soon enough their next appointment would come due; then she would be cradling the transwoman’s head against her heart and murmuring sweet words few of which their recipient could later quite remember, their import being how sorry she was to have made the transwoman sad—but she truly said sorry! and who else ever told Judy that?—And the lesbian went on to say that she was looking at Judy right now, seeing her for who she was; and who she was (continued the lesbian, but maybe not in so many words because when I lay them out this way, they sound stupid) was the lesbian’s precious girl, whom she would always, always be; the lesbian further guaranteed (so I have been apprised) that her tenderness for the transwoman would die only when both of them did.
We were all unique to ourselves, and so we knew that our love stories had never been told before. To her with her infinite experience, I suppose we must each have been as typical as the father whose baby will not stop crying, an offense which can only be ended by beating the baby to death. And the lesbian gamely whispered: Darling, I know you’re sad because you believe that part of my heart is closed to you now, but don’t worry, honey; please . . .
But it is closed! You’re not going to stop doing things with Victoria and not telling me about them—
Judy, if I fed a stray cat that was starving, would that take away any of my love for you?
A lover is not an animal, except maybe to you!
No one could ever replace you, and I don’t want anyone to! Judy!—and Neva sounded so very nearly desperate that how could we not believe her?—Judy, listen to me! Judy, over and over I’ve shown how much pleasure you give me . . . ! My body will always be open to you; you know my soul is . . . !
To me these assurances rang phony; of course I heard them secondhand. Meanwhile the avid transwoman begged: Tell me more!
Judy, when we lie side by side with your hand between my legs . . .
Oh, Neva!
Judy, when you kiss me into infinity . . .
Do I really? I know you have to go soon. Will you stay with me for five more minutes?
Of course. Now listen. Maybe things are changing, but, Judy, does that have to be a bad thing? If I find fulfillment with someone else—
Don’t say that.
Darling, don’t cry. Please, honey, don’t feel sad. Oh, do you want to cry? Okay, go ahead and cry in my arms . . .
Can I ask you something?
Laughing a little, the lesbian said: Well, you always do!
Does that mean no?
It means go ahead.
Neva, do we really fulfill you? Sometimes I think you’re just going through the motions—
Why would I do that?
Because . . . I can’t understand it, actually. And that’s why I . . . But how can you love so many people? Anyway, you have to go now. You have to go. I get it.
16
Leaning across the bar (and just for practice borrowing so well as she could the semblance of some glistening-faced, glassy-eyed actress in trouble), the transwoman said in a low voice: Francine, can I tell you something?
Shoot.
Promise you won’t tell?
I promise.
Just now I heard Neva in the bathroom. She was making herself vomit again—
How do you know she isn’t sick?
When she comes out she’ll act all normal. You watch her.
I don’t need to. It’s her business, so butt out.
But I’m telling you—
You’ve told me before, don’t you remember? We all know about it. Leave her be.
So the transwoman rushed off to tattle to the retired policeman. From the way he acted, she was pretty sure he’d just dated Melba again. So she ran into the bathroom crying, turned on the water and had herself a private little puke party. When she came out she was smiling.
You put one over on me, did you? sneered her lover. Go brush your teeth again. Fuck, how you stink . . . !
The transwoman turned red. This was even more degrading than getting caught shoplifting. Defiantly, trying for once to fight off the shame, she told him: Neva taught me how—
How to stink? You taught yourself, you shitty little whore. And you know what? You think your trick is so special? When Melba blows me, she’s under orders to swallow. So she does: good girl. Then she runs straight to the sink and sicks it up. For hygiene, bitch. But she car
ries a bottle of mouthwash with her, so she’s way ahead of you. But I will say it’s interesting that Karen Strand is bulimic.
Please, J. D.! Don’t run her down—
Bulimic is not an insult. It’s a diagnosis.
Oh.
And now he remembered how eagerly Judy had reported that that child murderess Kimberly Kenniston had vomited in the prison van on her way to trial; count on his puking bitch to raise that subject!
As serenely tough as J. Edgar Hoover posing for a portrait, he continued: Don’t you worry, Frank. I’m closing in on her.
Thirst
Therefore, if I may not draw from the fullness of the Fountain, nor fully quench my thirst, I will yet place my lips to this heavenly spring, and receive some drops to allay my thirst.
THOMAS À KEMPIS, ca. 1413
Jesus said, “He who will drink from my mouth will become like me.”
“THE GOSPEL OF THOMAS,” ca. 2nd cent.
1
And so they disembarked from the island ferry; he had chewed or choked down all his medications but was in a bad way, leaning on her and biting his lip to keep from groaning while she wheeled their one suitcase down the gangplank. It was high tide. The transwoman had begged him to bring her here. Neva’s sealskin pouch had supplied the money, so actually Judy was bringing him. She still believed in happily ever afters.
They walked three blocks and checked in at the Grey Goose Lodge, an establishment recommended by Neva: ninety-six dollars a night; he cursed and shook his wobbling head. Now he needed to lie down. She had already unpacked the “value”-sized bottle of Old Crow and was hanging up her skirts and blouses in the closet when someone tapped briskly on the door. It was the chambermaid, proffering a complimentary naturopathic incense candle.—What crap, said the retired policeman. The chambermaid looked sad, so the transwoman said: Please, J. D., let her come in and . . .—Her lover lay wheezing angrily.
Shall I? said the chambermaid.
I guess so, said Judy. I mean, it sounds really nice. I don’t know anything about pressure points and chakras and all that . . .
The chambermaid, who was tall, slender and old, with long white hair loose on her shoulders, came very quietly in. She said: I can set it up by the bed, or over there by the window—
Keep it the fuck away from me, gasped the retired policeman.
Then is right here by the window okay? What do you think, ma’am?
Thrilled to have been addressed so kindly, the transwoman nodded. The chambermaid flitted out to her hall cart and returned with a brass candle holder whose base was an ovoid dish studded all around with nipples. From the center of this peculiarity rose an anatomically detailed vertebral column supporting three horizontal rings engraved with yohni symbols. Down through the rings the woman now slid a dark candle, unevenly brown, with long pale fibers showing through the wax. She lit it.
That smells really high-class, said Judy. There’s something familiar and something . . .
Local herbs, said the chambermaid.
The strange perfume filled the room.
J. D., is it bothering you? asked the transwoman, but he did not answer.
Oh, she said. He’s asleep.
He’ll stay asleep as long as he needs to, said the chambermaid. That’s witch’s mallow. No male thing can resist it.
What is this? What are you doing?
Neva told us about you. Reba’s waiting.
I can’t! I won’t leave my boyfriend. What are you doing to him? I’m calling the police—
Judy, asked the woman, do you love Neva?
I—yes.
Does she love you?
Yes.
Do you believe in her?
I—
Then believe in yourself! You’re awake, aren’t you? That proves you’re female. Come with us. I promise he’ll be taken care of. We’re going to be very very good to you, Judy. We’re going to love you. And just to make you happy, we’ll give you a long hard beating.
The woman took Judy’s hands in hers. Then she kissed her. Judy blushed. She felt warm, relaxed and confused, as if she had eaten too many marijuana brownies. Perhaps enough of Frank Masters remained in her blood and bones to be affected by the witch’s mallow. She could hardly decline a beating—and how could she go against Neva, who after all had sent her here?—and if something happened to J. D., that would be really, really horrible, but . . . Gripping Judy’s face in both hands, the woman breathed into her open mouth and sucked her lower lip. Judy moaned.
2
They were outside, at the edge of town, in some lichen-bearded place of fernlike peelings and fingerclaws, cedar foliage, jagged tree-silhouettes in mist. They were on a trail. Judy was lost. Her eye ached with the brightness of that silver-white fog.
Is this place where Neva was made?
Yes.
I want to be just like her.
You can’t, said a woman. You’ll have to be you.
But Neva—
There’s only one of her and one of you. Who are you, Judy?
I don’t know.
Are you Frank?
Never!
You don’t want to keep any part of Frank?
How can I answer that? I mean, I—
Do you need us to beat you now?
Whatever Neva wants me to do; whatever she wants to do to me . . .
They stripped her and stretched her over a stump, whipping her with cedar wands as red as salmonflesh and stroking her hair while she wept.
Who are you? they kept asking. The world went round and round.
They said: Tell us you’re Frank.
No!
Tell us you’re Judy.
In her ecstasy of failure she only wept.
They stopped. They said: Judy, let’s talk.
Placing sandals on her feet, they led her to a wide grey beach-shelf of sandstone which was overhung by grizzled tree-beards, and as she stood bleeding and wavering they took her knee-deep into the inlet. Then they began pouring dippers of seawater over her head. At first she screamed because it was so cold. They scrubbed her up and down. The salt water stung her wounds and she howled. They washed her hair. She was trembling and her teeth were chattering. They led her up the trail to the fire and rubbed her dry. She never stopped sobbing. They oiled, massaged and spanked her, kissed her and wrapped her in a warm blanket. They made her drink something bitter. Then they laid her down on a pallet by the fire.—Don’t sit up, they said.
A bluehaired girl named Colleen sat down by her and asked: Are you named after Judy Garland?
The transwoman nodded three times.
She’s a huge part of my culture. Sometimes I want to be in that culture, although right now I’m here. My ex-girlfriend used to beat me in time with Judy Garland records.
The transwoman smiled for the first time.
I understand why she represents queerness, Colleen went on. She was highly maternal. Have you ever seen the TV special with her and Liza Minnelli, and the way that Judy is with Liza? She was just so vulnerable and maternal and free and tragic! Maybe you can be like that.
God, I’m . . . I’m not free—
Are you maternal?
No. I . . . I’m vulnerable, because . . . But not tragic, because they laugh at me—
Do you like that?
No . . .
Be honest. You’re like me. Doesn’t humiliation get you off?
Sullenly she replied: I don’t know. I wanna go home; let me go!
Laughing at her, Colleen said: Click your magic shoes together three times and say: There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.
Judy started blubbering.—What a production, laughed Colleen. Do you want me to slap you? It might be fun.
There came no answer.
Judy, do you wa
nt to be happy?
Sure—
You have to have experiences with someone that really cares about you. You might have had a lot of bad experiences, submissive experiences with people who didn’t care about you. But now you’ve been with Neva. That might be your turning point. Now stop crying, or I’ll refuse to beat you when you need it. Are you warm enough? I’ll lie down beside you. Give me some blanket, girl! All right. What pretty hair you have. Can you feel me holding you? Now, why do you hate yourself?
Because I’m fat and old and stupid and disgusting.
What that represents is just fucking misogyny. Being trans feminine means being valueless if you don’t watch out. To be a woman you think you have to be fuckin’ pretty. But that’s not the way that reality works at all. Are you sleepy? Good. Now give me a kiss.
3
She woke up in another woman’s arms. The woman’s face was freckled and dark, and her thighs the color of unripe tropical fruits. Judy was very hungry. They made her drink something to do away with that urge, and while she was vomiting into the cesspit the freckled woman kept stroking her hair while two others held her hands. They had her wash out her mouth with something like spearmint. Then they led her back to her pallet by the campfire. She found herself suckling the freckled woman, whose areolae were pricked out with lovely irregularities as of handsmithed golden coins. No milk came out. When she opened her eyes again, the freckled woman was sitting beside her carding a skein of wool. Judy raised her head. She saw trees and pale evening sky.
They asked again if she wished to be happy, to which she replied: Doesn’t everybody?
Not our Neva, they proudly answered.
4
It was a cold morning, severe and wet. The moss-clothed leafless trees stood still and yet alive, so different from her, and the sun was a white stain in the grey sky.
They asked if she was hungry. She nodded, so they gave her more of that bitter drink. They led her to the cesspit and she began to vomit, believing that the more she could suffer for the lesbian’s sake, the more pleasing would she become to her. There came a long and gentle flogging, building in just the way she liked; until, thinking of Neva, she climaxed and briefly lost her power of speech.
The Lucky Star Page 40