I could not believe what had just occurred.
My hand was still on the receiver.
I have a 23 year old boy, cadet-in-training, wanting to role play with me for his first gay experience. My first experience, my first willing experience was hard enough, but to include role play of a subordinate; too much for me. But that was many years ago.
I got up and “trick-proofed” the house. I put down all the personal pictures of friends, family, and me as a boy. I put all the CD’s and videos behind their respective doors and cleaned off the coffee table. I made sure the bed was made. I put on a face and threw on my wig.
I decided on a tight ponytail.
I picked up my black body slimmer, grabbed my 34c’s, tucked, and slapped it altogether in one swift movement. I plucked out my black skirt and shimmied into it. I topped it off with my black dress shirt buttoned all the way. Accessorizing with my small diamond cufflinks for that feminine touch, and finalizing it with a string of pearls, I was complete. Head to toe in fifteen minutes flat, a world drag record. I giggled and spun around as the Wonder Woman theme song played in my head. When I stopped to deflect the bullets coming at me in mid spin, I caught a glimpse of myself in mirror I saw my public school librarian. The bullets ripped through me with all the might of Aphrodite. I gasped loudly. Even my eye make-up was what I remember, sharp and tightly drawn. I scared myself. I shook off the shock and switched on the closed circuit video of the lobby. There was no one there.
I secretly felt guilty, for a moment. I wanted to tell him to go and find himself a real girl. The gay life was not a forgiving one. I couldn’t stand the fact that he was planning his first gay experience with me, a 38-year old drag queen trying to survive in the big city. I would not be someone to bring home to mother. This poor computer geek ruining his life over me.
Fuck it, I thought, money is money.
I sat on the side of the bed and let the world dissolve around me. As I sat, the state of the city disappeared and my life opened like a blooming flower. I was happy with my life, or at least the illusion of my life. I worked hard at the studio full time. At night I was a whore. I had no feeling for what that word meant. I was earning a living, keeping my house, feeding my cat and not any habits. I didn’t smoke, do drugs or drink. Well, didn’t drink anymore. I have been sober for 4 years, 3 months 3 weeks and 2 days.
I only fell off the trail once. That was after my mother died.
My father, a complete alcoholic, died when I was 20 years old. I remember being told when I came out of the closet at the age of 16 that he did not want to see his queer son. When my mother spoke those words to me it ripped me in two. One part being the needed child of a man, his only child, and loosing part of who I was and the other part being Joy standing there giving him the one-finger salute with a quip ‘fuck you’ for added emphasis. When I was a child, my father and I fought like two fighters in a ring. The first time I fought back I broke his nose. He beat me within an inch of my life. He told me never to do anything that had no consequences; it was a waste of time. The beatings still came, but in not fighting him back, they were less intense. I left home at 18. His drinking got worse. By the time he found out that his liver was shutting down, it was too late. He collected his disability and waited to die.
I dropped the phone after those terrible words hit my ears and cried. After a few moments, my mother spoke in her usual soft moral fibre trying to make me understand. It was futile. I whispered in an even manner and told her that I would respect his wishes and not come around to see him. I kept my word, until the day that he entered the hospital for the last time. The call came through that this was the last time he would be at home. I hung up the phone and left for the hospital.
I rode the elevator up to the ICU. As I turned down the hall directed by the nurse at the station, it felt as if it was the Green Mile. I feel the eyes of all the patients on me as I passed there respective rooms, knowing what was about to happen. I was expecting to be greeted with a ‘what the fuck are you doing here’ by him. My mother was the first to see me as I drew close to the room. I said nothing to her as I paused before entering. I inhaled the cold disinfected air and pushed the door open. My father, once a substantial man, laid a fraction of his former self in the light blue room. The heart-monitor flashed, IV regulator hummed and the oxygen hissed all connected to a figure that resembled my father. He was a man of 57 years but looked as if he was beaten with 30 extra years. Arms that struck me once before would break in two if the same move was attempted. He lay sleeping, his chest rattling with each laboured breath. I sat beside his bed as stared at the living corpse. A tear gently fell from my eye.
“You Son-of-a-bitch…” I declared after a moment of silence,
“…you expect me to sit here and feel sorry for you don’t you. All I wanted was a man to accept me for what I was; a product of two people who I thought loved each other.”
The tears came more now. My nose began to drip as I recited my edict.
“Do you think for one fucking minute that I would choose a life that would allow me to be beaten every day of my life by my family and ignorant assholes on the street? Did that thought ever cross your mind?”
I was standing over his body now yelling. His eyes opened with a start and the heart monitor flashed. The door shot open with the figure of my mother standing there. She gasped and held her mouth, as I shot a glare across the room. She just stood there and watched me as she lowered her hand. She knew that I needed to do this. My father lay motionless on the prison of his hospital bed accepting his fate and remained speechless.
“You never wanted to see your faggot son, well fuck you dad, and look where I am now. I didn’t need your help to get me where I am today.” I belted out. A nurse came running down the hall and my mother stopped her as she entered. The tears were flowing freely and stinging my eyes now. I just wanted to run out and never see anyone again. To hide in my home and never face anyone, but he would like that. I was sobbing uncontrollably now, my face stained red from my excursion. I turned away from him and started to leave. My mother tried to comfort me and I sidestepped away from her.
Before I left the room, I spun on my heels and directed my anger back at the man who caused it. “All I wanted was a father, and you couldn’t even do that for me. You incessantly told me that I wasn’t a man, well dad, neither were you.” I stared at him intensely.
The few seconds that I stood there felt like it was being stretched like elastic and I waited for it to snap. He turned his head towards me and I turned away ready to leave. The next words spoken struck me like an arrow through my heart; I still think the wound is there today.
“I’m sorry William”.
Those were the last words I heard him speak. I paused to allow the inflection wash over me. It felt like the blanket I had as a child. It was the first sincere thing I ever heard him say. I walked out of the room and He died four hours later. I was still sitting in the cafeteria. My mother found me and told me the news. She knew that I didn’t leave.
“It happened” she said.
I took a deep breath, rose from my chair, and hugged my mother. I told her I was sorry. “Don’t be” she said, “he needed to hear that just as much as you needed to say it”. She was my rock for the remaining years of her life. That night I drank myself into a stupor that continued for 13 years. The day I decided to go to AA for the first time was when I saw the same people over and over again. They were not changing and I wasn’t going anywhere either.
That was the start of my recovery.
It was my thirty-third birthday. I have to say thanks to Bill W. for that one. She died three years ago from complications of breast cancer. I stayed at the hospital and she died next to me. I let go of her hand, which I held while I sat, stood up and signed the paper work. I got in my car and drove to the bar. I drank myself into an incomprehensible abyss. I woke up the next day and sat on the edge of my bed like tonight. I felt naked and exposed to the world for all to see. And I didn’t care. The strong guise of attitude that was my protector left me and I felt free. I didn’t have to prove to anyone that I was strong. I could sit and laugh at myself and cry without holding back. I was not afraid and I embraced the feeling. It was exhilarating and crippling at the same time. The conflict of breathing air for the very first time and lungs failing to work raced through my body.
The phone rang.
I looked at the TV and saw a pitched wedge hat atop a slender young man standing in the lobby. This was no computer geek. I snapped out of my daze and answered the phone.
“Hello”. My voice cracked like a twelve year old at puberty.
“Hi, it’s Chris Ma’am. Am I early?”
“Nope, right on time soldier, C’mon up, Number Twelve-fifteen.”
I hit the number nine to let him in. A wave of doubt hit me in an unusual way. This was a trick like any other I thought. He’ll come in; we will have small talk, get down to business, wash up and call it a night. Tonight was different. This one was different. I wrestled in my head what was so different about this one. Age, I thought. That was never a problem; the young ones were so few and far between that you grabbed them up. One of the perks of the job. I was about to find out.
I heard the elevator door open. My apartment is directly beside it, then the click of army boots. Although the walk from the elevator was short, I heard the distinctive ‘heel-toe’ command in his step. The rap at the door was as precise as a metronome. I peered through the peep hole and gazed upon my doubtful trick. The bug-eyed distortion showed him removing his hat and placing it under his arm. He then ran his fingers through his reserved blond hair and looked at the door. Once he heard my shuffling, he reapplied his hat and stood at attention, ridged and in complete military perfection.
The door creaked open and the fish eye description left me. This young man standing at attention fixed before me was tall and slim. His fit body was draped in his crisp military uniform. His cool blue eyes stared candidly forward and had a sympathetic look to them showing me that he needed something. His face showed restraint, but a slight quiver ran down his cheeks. His features were strong, but not yet matured.
“Hello Chris” the words seem to roll off my tongue as I scoped him up and down.
“Good Evening’ Ma’am, I hope I am not late”.
“Not at all Chris, right on time. Is everything OK with you?”
Another obligatory question to make sure the trick knows what he is purchasing. To look over the merchandise.
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Would you like to come in?”
“Yes Ma’am. Thank You”.
He picked up the bag that was at his feet. He stood there as if waiting for a command, so I obliged.
“What are you waiting for Soldier, get in here!” I barked at him while tapping my high-heel clad foot.
“Yes Ma’am” he replied as he scurried past me into the apartment.
