Jesus God, why are women so alluring!? How did I end up being such a straight guy!? Chicks are literally going to kill me, with their legs and their breasts and their amazing, genius way of draping fabric across their shoulders, their backs: how do they know how to do that? I have been socialized as a chick my entire life, ‘ceptin’ these past 9 months and I never figured out how to do any of that stuff, with any finesse whatsoever. Women are making things happen to this guy, this body - things neither it nor I could have anticipated…
I fired up the ol’ syringe this morning, god bless. Got to pump that cottonseed oil based man-sap in my meaty quads. I wish I could do it every day, but you might suggest to me it may be because I’m a recovering addict and an ex-needle junky. I think despite having a penchant for the stab of a syringe, it is just altogether fascinating, this ritual. Again, junky you’d say. Today’s androgyne anodyne has left me riled, in a particularly, poignantly physical way.
All day long I’ve been plagued by some errant siren call, by some comely lass bending to retrieve her pen, a conversation with a brilliant and stone fox, a wayward glance from an unconsciously hot mama; my very skin is like a plant in photosynthesis – it nearly lifts off my frame in the wake of a woman walking by my desk. It must follow the sun, and Juliet, today you are not the moon, although I am surely a lunatic.
I am mad for women. Mad. Women as a species, a breed, a genre craze me like ergot in old bread. I’m fucked, y’all. This interest, intrigue, this lust is not necessarily pants-specific either. This is what I’m saying to you. It’s a full-body thing. I feel the effects of the T like someone dosed me with iodine dye for an x-ray, only the “someone” is you and your exposed and painted toes or even your stupid flappy Chucks grazing my own industrial gray suede Reeboks. It’s just plain ridiculous. Why on earth are you wearing that skirt? Who told you that was okay? Do you have any idea what happens to other people (me) when you put your lipstick on in public? Please, don’t mind me; I’ll just be here in the corner in my little hormonal torpor, flapping my lips with my index finger, a dunce cap on my helium head and a smaller one for betwixt those heavier hammy thighs.
One of the things my therapist tossed at me early on was that sometimes transgender people’s sexuality shifts. Former dykes find themselves attracted to men. It’s not uncommon; I have a friend who was a dyke forever, but left his partner of five years to explore his burgeoning and surely disconcerting attraction to his own sex. The possibility of this scared me at first, but then I surrendered. If I’m going to dig guys, I’m going to dig guys. I’ve actually always dug guys – I just haven’t ever really fallen for one. I’ve come very close, but it’s never happened. And I have enjoyed the penis in the (fill-in-the-hole) to one degree or another, but ultimately, men have never made me sing. My body has just never gotten that chemical crazy hit from a dude that it gets when I’m hot for a woman. That could change over the next several years. Whatever. Love and desire are wonderful things, globally.
But for right here, right now – goddamn. When did you all get so fucking gorgeous? Where was I today – oh, Whole Foods – every single one of you was delicious in your very own unique way, whether it was your profile, the way your hair framed your cheek, that fantastic sweatshirt, your choice of pasta, the way you dug around your purse for your wallet – genius genius genius. Spring has sprung a leak and it’s bloody October. I shall just go for this ride. It’s quite extraordinary, and mostly pleasurable. I cannot thank you enough for glancing up at me, for calling me, for allowing me the unfathomably delicious indulgence of asking you out, taking you out, and then again and maybe again. You’ve got me by the ghost balls. Just this evening I was at a meeting, when a seriously under-dressed young woman stood up and walked across the room to attend to some arcane task. The climate changed. My internal parent was leaping up to cover her with something – some bibles? we were in a church – but my guy? Let me simply report what the man next to me said, and him a 40-something father of two: “when she walked by, my left eye started twitching.” Amen, Brother.
I’m going to let you in on the real Secret. Not that Oprah Secret shite; that’s all a dodge. Men have used their physical advantage and sheer blustery will to strong-arm the world into submission: why? Because the truth is we’re all pussy-whipped. The apocryphal “lock of hair?” that took down my namesake Samson? Those were some short and curlies. It doesn’t matter if it’s girl pussy or boy pussy: we’re screwed. We’ll follow that shit around until we lose sleep, forget to eat. All this other stuff, this stupid global dominance, we’ve had to create to distract both you and ourselves from the Truth, and the Truth is We Are Slaves. I’m telling you – some of us have to work extra hard just to keep our noses above this compelling, delicious sea of sexy humanity.
In the meantime, I shall be here, purposefully buried in my studies, writing and working and painting and having coffee with my pals. But believe me when I say I’m at the mercy of a molecular force, a gravitational pull, that I’m a loosely grouped pile of metal shards and you and your stupid girly ways are a super-conductor. Have mercy on a guy, ‘kay? Seriously, I have deeply meaningful manly stuff to do.