CLUTCH
by
Val Killpack
I confronted Johnny in the kitchen and it felt like the end. Insistent upon purifying my mind, I broke up with him—my boyfriend and lover of several years.
“Do you have to wear those woman’s shoes?” I asked.
“I wake up at four in the morning and turn to empty space.”
“I don’t mind the makeup or nail polish…”
“Why do you do it—just to spite me?”
“…or your silk scarves, but the heels are too much.”
“We make passionate love and fall asleep exhausted…”
“You’re such a queen.”
“…then I wake up and you’re gone.”
“Tasteless queen…”
Then we just stared at each other. A tear slithered from the fringes of Johnny’s eye. I huffed an exasperated sigh, turned, and walked. Our loft apartment skirted the Pearl District, situated above some galleries. The flat belonged to me, and eventually I would have to go back and kick Johnny out.
Later that evening, Gio (an old flame) met me at the local queer bar. I melted into the barstool and told him I walked out on Johnny.
“Why did you do it?”
I slowly looked up, meeting Gio’s eyes.
“You’re making me nervous.”
“What was your motivation?”
I turned my head left, blanked at the floor, then looked back to Gio.
“Honesty.”
Gio looked at me with a curious smile. Amused.
“Do you feel like a womyn trapped in a man’s body?” I asked.
“That’s you, honey.”
“It’s not true, I’m outside of gender.”
“Girl…”
“Okay, maybe my genders are a trifle mixed.”
Gio smiled. “Do you want to go check out the new line of clutches at Louis Vuitton?”
“What? Okay. Yeah!”
“I hear they’re fabulous.”
“No... Wait… You hate shopping… I’m not a womyn—stop poking me!”
Gio rolled with laughter. “Start poking you? I thought you’d never ask.”
He confidently flashed his smile of charming indifference. “Let’s hit dinner.”
“Well…”
“That Thai place you like.”
“Thai Orchid…”
“Yeah, Thai Orchid. Come on.” Gio donned his jacket and led the way. Spring rolls and coconut curry with a little conversation on the side. And by the time we’d finished our mango and sweet-rice dessert, I was thoroughly confused. I’d walked out on one lover and opened an old can of femme fatale with another. I thought back to a conversation I’d had with Johnny a week before, sitting at the dining-room table.
“Johnny, you’re choking my heart,” I had said.
“Stop it.”
“No, I mean really. You’re clutching your fist around it.”
Johnny looked at the floor a full five beats, then timidly met my eyes. I held the gaze for a second, then continued:
“Sometimes I can’t inhale or exhale. Why do you think I insist on polyamory? I sit in the park on lunch hour. I go to Yoga Shala every morning before work. It all helps, but I still suffocate.”
“What should I do?”
I leaned back into the armchair and listened to the combination of birds and traffic. I closed my eyes. I want you to be Gio, I thought. Of course, Gio had his own set of problems. Post-relationship idealization had rounded them, shaved them down. How often I had chased dreams, vainly conspiring fulfillment. Now I realized that dreams are delusions and all that’s left is suffering. If life is just a series of disappointments and empty fantasies, then all I can do is surf the pain.
“Nothing, Johnny,” I said, knowing I had justified our emotionally-abusive relationship through a half-baked theory based on a partial understanding of Zen, existentialism, or some self-help book I must have read. “Nothing. There is nothing to do.”
Johnny insisted on crying: so attached. I wished he would get off his ass and find something to give his life meaning; I had tired of doing it long ago. I had begun to look inward for the answer which did not exist, but Johnny had yet to make the shift. I deflected his clinging like a Judo master or a good babysitter redirecting needy, urban children. Did he need to be set free, or would he turn and grasp onto the next hot boy to look his way?
We sat in silence as he wept, which slowly turned into a sob—putting some vocals into it. I knew his moaning meant I was supposed to go over to him and put my hand on his shoulder, then slowly embrace him from behind, reaching into a big, warm hug, after which he would turn slowly, curling sideways into me. Then he would rotate further and embrace me back. He would work his head next to mine, then back off enough so that I could see his pathetic face, like a bantling begging for love. He would mope in and kiss me, after which I would respond slowly, my lips partially frozen. Eventually I would soften and the passion would begin to rise, my other brain taking over. We would fuck on the couch, me topping, and it would be good. We would work things out with sexual aggression. It would be tender but violent, a strange mix of anger, sadness, and love. The next morning we would pretend we never had a fight. I would hold my frustration inside and hope that some circumstance in my life would provide catharsis. I would yell at someone at work, or throw a tantrum at the bank. I would complain about the weather to a grocery store clerk. No! reverberated through my mind.
I said nothing at all, carefully picked up my purse and jacket, and crept toward the front door. I stepped with care, moving quickly, aware that if he looked up from his fetal position and saw me leaving, he would utter protest. I would end up responding, we would talk more, then possibly enact the previous thought sequence leading up to sex and post-sex trauma.
I slipped down the stairs and slid out of sight.
I woke from my discursion and saw that Gio had paid for the Thai food and put on his coat. He looked distant and serene, like an oil painting—the color of his skin radiated with fullness, unlike the pallid skin cloaking me.
“You go ahead, I need to be alone.”
“Yeah, honey, I can see that.”
“I’ll stay and finish my tea.”
“Do you need to talk more?”
“I’ve got a lot on my mind…”
“Confusion…”
“I just need to think more.”
“Think more … or think less?”
“Get my head straight.”
“That ain’t never gonna happen.”
I cracked a smile for the first time in a while.
“I’ll be alright.”
“Okay, babe, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
He walked over, orchestrated a tender touch of the lips, then left me to my thoughts. Gio always seemed to know when to pester me and when to leave me alone. I sipped my jasmine tea for a while, then headed for the door. I fell to the street, into the brisk air, walking alone. I was out of step with the night crowd, couples skirting my slow meander, chatting nervously, hopping about the town. Another block and my pace slowed to a stop. There was nowhere to go. All the usual things were out: going to the baths and fucking an anonymous guy; getting shit-faced at Embers (or even a breeder bar where I could be left alone); calling another lover I’d been having on the side; going to a movie and sucking the Hollywood pacifier. Being that my clothes were undersized couture, I had to be careful which part of town I went to. Last thing I needed was weird looks or muffled laughs. I thought about lounging in an all-night café—I even knew of one with European coffee and ambient lighting—but caffeine would race my thoughts. I wanted a hash bar. Wrong country. Maybe meditation would be the best thing. I wanted to come out of my mind and into my senses, my body, the world. The present moment. I decided to head toward Forest Park
I’d been sitting under a grove of trees, my back against the gnarled bark of a conifer. After twenty or thirty minutes, much of my frustration had dissipated. I felt my energy dissolve into the grandmother tree, and I began to relax. I was aware of a man skulking around, and assuming him another vagrant calling this park home, I let him be. Eventually, he began to approach me, as if circling his prey. My muscles began to tighten; my breath filled with tension. I stood up to confront him.
“Hey man. I need some money … I’m hungry … help me out?”
“Money is not the answer. Just breathe and come to acceptance of your present moment.”
“Money.”
My (pseudo)spiritual dialogue bounced off. I wished to be a shaman, a master, a powerful, enlightened Being. I woke into the moment just in time to see him rush into my space and grab my body in a bear hug.
“What the fuck!”
He managed to get both my wrists from the front side. I kicked toward his balls, but he blocked it with a shin and pushed me against the tree. I cowered in fear. Help me, Goddess! I thought. Suddenly I felt my face hit the dirt, dried leaves in my mouth. He held my arms behind me, pushing my body into the earth. He sat on top of me, his heaviness pinning me down, his ass on top of mine. I started to get turned on, then remembered I was being attacked.
“Answer me! Where’s your fucking wallet!”
I couldn’t believe I was getting mugged. How completely worthless. At least he could sexually assault me and give me a good story for the boys.
My wallet was in my purse—back pockets of designer jeans are not meant for such things. What, does he think I’m straight?
“Fuck me! I know you want to! You’re getting me hard, want to feel? Go ahead! Fuck me! Rip my pants off and stick it in!” I screamed.
“You fucking faggot!”
He loosened his hold and I took my chance to wrestle free. He jumped back into action, though, pushing my head into the dirt with one hand and holding my wrists with the other. I freed one hand and pushed into the ground, turning my body to face him. I grabbed hold of his ear and tried to rip it off. It was well attached and would not come. Eventually, my hand broke fee. He screamed hellish torment, though, and I slipped out from under him. Sprinting, I grabbed my clutch by the strap, but he latched onto the body. I tugged for a moment, then let go and ran through the trees toward the city.
Ten blocks later, out of breath and panting, I lapsed into a slow walk. I would have to cancel my credit cards, call my bank, and get a new driver’s license. And my mobile phone. Shit. I had no money and would have to go home or call someone from a pay phone. I could call my cell to see if the mugger would answer. Then I could work a Jedi mind trick and get him to give back my bag. I knew it would never work. I had no choice but to go back to Johnny. It only took a few minutes to reach my loft; I let myself in and found him in the front room.
“Hey. You’ve come home.”
“I do live here.”
“I didn’t think you’d be back.”
“I got robbed.”
“You went to the baths. I knew it.”
“I was in the park.”
“That’s not much better.”
“Not that park.”
“You mean you actually got mugged?”
“Yes, damnit!”
“That’s fucking hilarious!”
“Shut up.”
“You deserve it for being such an asshole.”
“You’re the asshole!”
“I don’t believe you, anyway.”
“Fuck off.”
“Why don’t you just admit you want to apologize?”
“I hate you.”
“I hate you, too.”
He walked across the room, took a tumbler from the cupboard, and brought it to the couch. He poured some scotch from the bottle already on the coffee table and held it out to me. “Here.”
I walked over and took it, sitting in the arm chair. He picked up his own glass and filled it. When I’d finished, about sixty seconds later, he poured me another, then looked gently toward me. “The Oregon
“I know. I heard.”
He went on with politics for a while, and I gave short answers between his commentaries. “Figures,” I would say, or, “those fuckheads,” or, “about time,” but I let him do most of the talking.
By the time the second bottle was gone, we debated whether Audrey Hepburn or Judy Garland should win the Ultimate-Diva Goddess Award (which we had just created). At some point in our bantering, I stood and walked over to the couch, and started wrestling with him. After making out, a minute later, Johnny grabbed me by the shirt and pulled me to the bedroom.
We drank a lot the next few weeks—and fucked before going to bed each night. It wasn’t like the beginning, though, ripping each other’s clothes off every chance we got. It was always after a few drinks, in the dark, and under the covers. One afternoon, I was standing in the kitchen drinking coffee, and Johnny started in.
“You need to open up to me, we never talk.”
“Doesn’t bother me.”
“I have no idea what’s going on inside your head.”
“Probably a good thing,” I said.
“I want to know what you’re thinking.”
“Do we have any sugar? This coffee tastes like hell…”
“You hate me, don’t you?”
“I’ll have to use honey, I guess...”
“You really do. I can’t do anything right for you.”
“I wish you would remember to buy sweetener. We’re always out…”
“You’re not even listening!”
“I’ve heard it all before. Leave me alone.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
He stomped out the front door—I knew it was finally over. I finished my coffee and went to pack his things. Damned if I was leaving, this was my loft, not his. I filled the suitcases with his drag and lugged them to the front room. I’d leave and let him come back to find his bags packed. He would get the hint, and further arguing would be avoided.
Glued to a barstool, several glasses sat before me. Gio sauntered in. He saw me—and the glassy eyes—and instinctively knew what had happened. He sat next to me, ordered a drink, then turned toward me.
“Is it over?”
“Yeah. I don’t want to talk about it.”
He held up his glass. “To the future!”
“This reminds me of another time,” and we clinked glasses, “a time in the park.”
“Which park is that?” he asked with a devious grin.
“Not that park.”
“Damn.”
“I was sitting against a tree, and this poor homeless man approached me. He was hungry, lonely, too, so I gave him my clutch, with some money in it, so that he could eat. And feel loved.”
“How honorable of you.”
“I don’t know why I did it.”
“Why not?”
“I mean, it’s absurd.”
“What isn’t?”
I paused and thought for a second. “I want to give you something.”
Gio rolled his eyes, then grinned at my crotch. I raised my hand and slapped him hard across the face. His eyes glazed over and he looked like he was about to stutter, but did not could not begin.
Gio had once gone by a woman’s name. I respected his decision to transition to a man, and had seen him go through it from a distance, having left him for Johnny. We had dated for a short time when he was a woman, but it had not worked out. I remembered one of those early conversations. We had engaged one another half-heartedly, joking wryly about our genital organs, and cringing at our own descriptions of giving oral sex to each other.
Usually people look at their genitals, disregarding their chromosomes and hormones, and determine their sex. From this they create a gender identity, with its associated behavioral patterns, and form a relationship with society. Gio chose a gender identity first, then altered his sex to match it. He had come in the back door.
He had become a stunning man. He went through top surgery—a double mastectomy—and bottom surgery after that. He paid a surgeon in cash, holing up with his nephew afterward, taking many months to heal. His surgeon referred to himself as an artist, and to see Gio’s gorgeous little cock, it was easy to see why. Gio guarded it like a treasure. His innards had, in a sense, been folded out—physically and metaphorically. Sex with him was passionate but delicate. We never had the breaking-furniture, wrestling-match sex I experienced with some guys. I remember lying beside him, caressing his skin, kissing his scars like birthmarks. I was always gentle.
Why I slapped him, I did not know. Gio rose from his bar stool and stood back from me, still not speaking. In my mind there was poetry to speak, and I wanted him to hear. I looked down and slowly sputtered.
“Doubly folded inward I miss … broken … touch fingertips and scars. Reborn. Skin, lips, teardrops, hair. Smell and taste. Rain and coffee, grey clouds.”
“Baby…”
I raised my hand.
Gio had slowed his drinking when he began hormones. He rubbed testosterone gel on his shoulders every night. His voice lowered to a beautiful amber—not froggy, which was his fear. His mid-section filled in, his hips rearranged themselves, and his head changed shape, widening a little. He started working out, and became perfectly built, ripping hot. He could have squished me like a bug if he wanted. Slapping him had been a courageous move.
“Gio… I… Well...” I stopped and watched him.
He looked down for a beat, then back up, and began to smile. He seemed to float toward me. The room sounded dark and chestnut red. Gio spoke loud and clear.
“Crazy fool!”
I shook my head. “Insane lad…”
“Jump off your Goddess box and love me, right here!”
“Listen to the poetry…”
“I can see you now!”
“I can hear you…”
“Wind rips through me, against me. Breathing!”
“I can see you…”
“No one could before.”
“I know, babe. I know.”
“I was invisible, someone else.”
“I see you now. I hear you. Everything.”
Our hands met, our lips, our salty tears. And more. That moment and we were alive, together. That moment and then the next. Inhaling and exhaling forward. There was nothing else. We clutched hands and left the bar, moving ahead, folding inward, and folding out. We became the entire universe, and the entire universe became ourselves.
“But, if you ever slap me again…”
Posts
0 comments:
Post a Comment