first thing i've really written and it needs to come with a warning. everyone can be whatever they want to be and identify however they want to identify, the person in this story responds to she and hasn't corrected me. i'm not saying i know what peoples gender identification or sexuality. it's an allegory.
i drink a forty fast. I twirl. One hand behind my back, on my lower back, where a tramp stamp would be. This entertains the party. Assortment of girls who are not in the group, from another texas town, brought here (here being this overly nice apartment of Miss Houston's friend) by a 5'2 shoulder length dreadheaded glossy looking girlboy.
The forty empties. We're fine fine fine, I find myself, doing Capoeira with Miss Houston's friend, who has a name that is a state, he looks like David Bowie rode a skateboard and moves like organized adhd. i liked him instantaneously. a nicotine fix beats out dancing with me but mr/miss dreadlocks asks to fight.
She wrestled at some impressive level in high school, i don't understand what she called it, the wrestlers at my high school threw up and didn't eat like the girls i date, the ones they called dykes. If they had won they'd maybe give me a stick of gum after dodgeball, if they lost they'd say this is my fucking lunch faggot. i don't like gum much anyways except for reducing nausea, but i'm the ubermensch and fuck throwing up.
we are wrestling. and she might have done this for a while, and been first all state in the 95 division, or something, but 40 pounds and 6 years of competitive fighting and she's not winning. though she's a fucking steam engine. And 15 minutes later we're still going and my stomach is knotting. people come and go, not appreciating the entertainment value of a front leg sweep and the following sprawl. In fact, this is probably boring for you too.
The spark notes: this is unusually long and competitive and there was no groping which i didn't realize till now and that's pretty unusual, and i wonder what high school was like for her.
we shake hands she goes to smoke a cigarette, i convince my stomach that we lost the fight if we spew fluids, and it was just one forty.
i head outside late, an expensive toy lightsaber (actual glass kind) is a phallus and a talking stick. And we are shouting of theoretical sexual encounters.
Miss Houston's friend, a less whiskeyed strapping well dressed man who could look like Tom Waits, if Tom Waits was photoshopped into GQ, says, "What if, what if, a girl drugs you, locks you up in her dungeon, drugged you with ecstasy, gave you head and left you locked up, who, who has the power then?"
Mr. Dreadlocks says, "did i get off?"
this goes on for a while, there's a lot of grabbing at the lightsaber, a lot of yelling but the gist was, getting off, means you were serviced, means you have the power.
power being something one posses.
it's some masculine shit. power being something slippery, an engagement between forces, the top force trying to pin the bottom but only possessing dominance because of the relenting or the existence of the bottom, owing victory to the fight itself, to the nature of struggle then ignoring that fact and trying to carry it around like it's gained, like pinning someone down and forfeiting the beer in your stomach, is winning, is power.
i'm sorta in la nausea.
I'd have liked to discuss the differences between gender confusion, gender playing and transgendered. How they are bodies of different water, intersecting and running into one another, filtering from and into a much larger body of water, the Ocean of the Will to Power,
shaped from thinking we own this thing. thinking that we can turn into something else, the masculine perhaps, as mr dreadlocks seems to want, and that will give reprieve from the struggle and the mutuality, the intersecting of power. She had punched her father when she came out and then he agreed to therapy. she was referring to the event as proof of her masculinity.
I don't know her, and he just walked into the cafe, so maybe i should stop, maybe i shouldn't be speaking of such things, especially because i enjoyed him, could see us being friends if i lived in this state.
but i wont stop, and my prognosis is that this is confusing shit. the people that really, really, see themselves as something differently and wish to puke themselves out into the other skin but then there's the most of us who want to be seen or own being whole, being seen as an entirety so in order of achieving such an all too human ideal, we play with our jeans and define victory through another mouth or relenting or our lack of muscle mass or training, or whatever.
i wanted to have this conversation, this conversation that's on my mind a lot. a lot about the people who kiss one gender than date the other and the power that's aliened in that.
as a side note, she just told me she has a ton of bruises and i held down the screen and we slapped hands and said see you at that party tonight.
so so i wanted to have that conversation but we were all drunk and i'm poor at this conversation sober, and we had marched up the stairs and i was still trying to keep my insides inside. i was talking to a girl who doesn't blink and wants to be on SNL, when they pulled me up and said "Freestyle, battle her, battle missmr dreadlocks!"
she had one dick joke she kept on repeat. I couldn't hear the instrumentation and was trying to double the beat, she told me i was off rhythm, but that's impossible.
anyways. her battling technique was to lift her shirt and invade myspace with thighs and breast.
i said, "look, keep giving me a lap dance and you can win the battle, i'd prefer to lose."