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Thursday, 25 February 1999 (feeling gravitys pull) 9:00am Tired this morning, though it's my own fault. I was in bed by 10:00pm, but up 3am to go to the gym. I hadn't gone since sometime last week, and my work there is simply not done. I need to drop another ten or twenty pounds. (If I can't save my soul I'll save my body.) At least this exhaustion is a little better than that of the last couple nights from staying out late. Speaking of which, I did see Tiff Tuesday night, and I didn't really get to spend any time alone with her. On the other hand, I got to see her in her natural environment, which is to say not in a club or around other goths but in her daily life. I think I fit into it quite well, actually. However, maybe it should have been, but that wasn't it for the evening activities for me. I had in my mind that I must go clubbing; at the very least Trannyshack, and perhaps Roderick's too since I'd never been and it was just a couple blocks down from Trannyshack. So we parted company at 9pm. She seemed disappointed that I was leaving, but said at several points during the evening that she was happy I'd been able to make it at all.
you get what you want, then you throw it away. exactly how hopeless are you, anyway? why aren't you trying to spend every possible moment with her?I was already on the bus when I realized this was probably very stupid of me. She said she was tired of getting involved with flakey people, that it was one of the reasons she was reluctant to get into a new relationship (particularly with someone obviously going through as many changes as myself)...and here I was, flaking on her so I could go out. Regret came creeping in. The Ex clearly hadn't been just picking words out of thing air when she called me self-absorbed and insensitive. going and doing something she couldn't have done anyway for financial reasons, and here you are flashing the gold around. real mature, kiddo.But the ball was rolling--I was going out, and that was all there was to it. I got home at about 10:15, and was heading out again an hour later. Not a bad turnaround time, all things considered. As a result, there was nothing remotely imaginative about my appearance: black velvet dress, black stockings, hair in pigtails, standard heavy-on-the-eyeliner makeup, etc. But it did the job, and I didn't look half bad.
oh. well, then, that just makes up for everything, doesn't it? for the fact that you probably broke tiff's heart in a very minor yet very fundamental way. by showing evidence of unreliability. but you didn't look half bad and were going to a place where it was a safe bet you'd be fawned over, so no worries, huh?I drove past 7th and Harrison, but couldn't for the life of me figure out exactly where Roderick's was. No discernible crowd outside, or door person or bouncer or anything. So I went on to Trannyshack, which I'd already figured I go to first anyway. It happened to be the third anniversary and as a result was even more packed than usual. While standing in the coat check line I had the moment which many people in my position dread but which I actually look forward to on those rare occasions that it happens: Seeing the Old Friend. In this case it was a Le Video coworker we called Eddie Baby. Nice guy, queer in both the classical and modern senses of the word. I think I can say without risk of hyperbole that Ed was shocked. He hadn't seen me in probably a year, and it took him a moment or two to recognize me at all. He probably wouldn't have noticed me to begin with if I hadn't gone up to him and made it clear I knew who he was. I showed him my driver's license, the picture on which bears no resemblence to me now, so he could at least see the name and be convinced that way. It's disturbing how often I whip out my ID these days; I used to absolutely loathe the picture, and in truth I still do, but I look sufficiently different now (roughly seventy pounds lighter, for starters, never mind the hair or the way I was dressed and made up at that moment), it's not so much an embarrassment as a testament to how far I've come.
yeah, a testament. that's what it is. all hail your raging vanity and ego.The dance floor was beyond packed, so I didn't even bother. The poolroom was my domain, the place where you really go to be seen. And let's face it, that's why I was there. To be watched as much as to watch. To indulge that particular vice before I got sick of it. Besides, it was my second time. I'd seemed to make something of an impression the first time around, and I was curious to see what reaction my return would bring. I'm not quite so arrogant to expect everything to revolve around me, but there were certain people I was expecting to see. Regulars had taken warmly enough to me the first time, and that was what I was seeking. Didn't take long, actually. A thin fellow dressed in black identified himself as one of the queens who'd insisted on having their picture taken with me last time, the picture in question was now hanging in his apartment because I looked so good. A somewhat disconcerting but intriguing thought.
disconcerting? oh, puh-leeze. drop the false modesty already. you know you love it, and not only are you a liar if you suggest otherwise, it confirms your hypocrisy. whatever happened to putting long-term well-being over short-term gratification? if that was the case you wouldn't have gone.He said if he'd known I was coming he would have brought the pictures, but that he'd email them to me. So one of my goals for the evening was to track down a pen and something to write on. Another of my goals was to track down Kirstan, which was roughly as difficult as finding a battleship hidden in a junk drawer. (Because, you see, a battleship being much larger would dwarf the junk drawer, and...) Kirstan was someone whom I'd been told about last time, an extremely tall TS. Much taller than myself, and I'm hardly short by any standard. I'm 6'0", but she's probably 6'6" if she's an inch. It was one of many pseudo-propositions I'd received the last time. A rather intense-looking bald gentleman had come up to me and commented that I looked lonely, variations on which I heard many times over the course of the evening. I explained that no, I was fine, thank you very much. This was just the way I normally looked, which is to say standing by myself and not smiling. He advised that I should meet his roommate Kirstan, another TS. (Points for identifying me as such rather than a queen, if nothing else.) She wasn't there tonight, but would be again soon and to keep an eye out for her. Kirstan was there this time, and hard to miss. I introduced myself, which seemed to throw her off a little; eventually I realized that her roommate normally handled this sort of thing. Anyway, we talked on and off throughout the evening. Sex-positive to the nth degree, she describes herself as "hardcore," and it's an accurate word. I'd thought Maggie and I were as opposed philosophically as could be, sexually and otherwise, but Kirstan's on a different planet altogether. Except in Kirstan's case, she's much more tolerant of those unlike than Maggie, who treats all non-dykes with a contempt that doesn't even approach anything my mother and I might possess towards each other. She asked me at one point if I was on drugs. Since I wasn't, I said I wasn't. So she offered me some black tar heroin, which I politely declined. She's also self-medicated with hormones bought in Mexico; a somewhat tempting option since you can buy a year's worth for what a month's supply costs in the USA, but it's simply not worth the risk to me. Compared to her I'm a complete wimp, really; she went off hormones for two years, a thought I find horrifying, because "I missed the feeling of coming through my penis." Which I suppose I can see if you're really concerned about that sort of thing. If nothing else, it illustrated one point in which we were in firm agreement: surgery is not a necessary step. That particular issue, I suspect, is one of the reasons Maggie doesn't take me seriously, because she wants it more than anything else in the world. If I don't want to go "all the way," I'm just a queer boi. Whatever. It came as no great shock when she said there was a party happening at her place after Trannyshack got out and that I was invited. Intriguing a thought as it was, a number of factors worked against it. Probably the most annoying was her saying to ask her roommate for directions, the same one who'd initially approached me. Like a business manager or something. In fact, that was probably very much the relation, a conclusion based to some degree on her page. She spoke with particular pride about her new business, the banner at the top. Of course, she was probably trying to recruit me. Then there was the simple fact that I wasn't looking to get stoned, drunk or laid, hence there wasn't any particular reason to go to her party. And considering the fact that I had to work the next morning, a little sleep at some point would be desirable.
if you weren't looking get drunk or laid, why exactly were you at the club at all? hello?Much to my surprise, I was recognized from Shrine of Lilith. A new girl named Meesah, who'd only gone to Lilith for the first time the previous Friday. (Just goes to show that I underestimate the impression I make on people.) We talked about Lilith, the differences, similarities and apparent overlap between the goth and tranny scenes, and hair of course. (She was wearing a wig, and seemed impressed that my hair was real.) Very nice girl. When we said our goodbyes, though I'm probably wrong about this, I think she strongly considered kissing me. There was briefly a a look in her eyes which reminded me of...well, of another time and place. A situation I don't care to revisit just now. I also hooked up with Kristina (not to be confused with Kirstan), a girl I'd met last time. Late thirties, Mexican, very sweet. She was also fond of just sitting and observing, which is ultimately all there is to do there. Like any scene, boredom is the dominant paradigm. Perhaps knowing it was where all the clientele would be for the evening, the Motherlode girls were there in force. The Motherlode is where the tranny working girls can always be found. If you're looking for action and don't mind paying, it's the place to go. As it happens, a few of the them ended up congregating around Kristina and I. For the probably the first that evening I was genuinely smiling. Indeed, I was practically giggling, it was so damn amusing: I was standing amongst a group of working girls, at least a couple of whom were very clearly on duty. I would have killed for a picture of this particular conjunction, which would surely not happen again anytime soon. They're notoriously protective of their turf; I would not be as welcome at the Motherlode as they were at Trannyshack. Granted, Kristina and I did have a certain sore-thumb quality about us in comparison, but it was still fascinating to think that we were being sized up on essentially the same level as them. And there's one of my great paradoxes: I dig the attention, but I really don't like anyone acting on it. I'm not looking to get picked up, particularly by a man. Yet, right around the time that I was thinking about leaving--2am, at which point my energy level was seriously dipping into the red--someone decided to try their luck. Whatever my type of man is, he wasn't it, not by a long shot. I tried to project polite disinterest as much as I could (didn't want to be rude), but he was quite persistent. The most information he was able to pry out of me was my name and that I lived in the Sunset district. It's not like that's enough to go on, but I'm not sure why I told him even that much. Next time I'll say the Haight or something like that. I was finally able to thank him for the conversation and leave with a handshake--he held it a little longer than necessary, and me putting my hand on his was probably a bit more than I should have done. Still, it was as far as he was going to get with me, so no harm done. While retrieving my coat, I noticed he was drifting towards me. Damn. Not good. I didn't want to have to tell him no if he offered to walk me back to my car. I *would* have said no, but I just didn't want to deal with it. Fortunately, given the way crowds are constantly rearranging themselves, I was able to slip out past him relatively unnoticed, and he didn't follow. I went home, and the first thing I did was get online and write Tiff, giving her a very brief summary of the night, and apologizing somewhat for bailing on her. Maybe it was enough, maybe too much. I don't know. But that was Tuesday night. Tiff and mine's future is uncertain right now. I have no idea what's going to happen and quite frankly it's tearing me up inside. But I must wait, must be patient, must hope for the best and prepare for the worst, whatever either of those might be.
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Sunday, 14 February 1999 (test pattern) 3:30am Saturday was another busy day, which is why I'm only getting to this now. Got my hair trimmed and recolored (still black, natch), drove out to Oakland and back for my brother Barefoot's party, and went to Bound and hung out a bit with Tiff as our pre-courtship period continues. At least, unlike with Summer, it's acknowledged that's what's happening. I guess things are going well; she doesn't seem scared of me just yet. She may be joining me for Babe: Pig in the City at The Red Vic, and I'm planning on attending a star party with her on Tuesday. To say I'm attracted to her mind as much as her beauty is not an overstatement. I still haven't heard back from my mother since last Saturday; the day before, 2/5/99, I finally came out to her. She's talked to both Barefoot and The Ex, though. She's treating this like a death and, as she puts it, is grieving right now. Can't say I'm surprised. She always was quite the drama queen. Shit. Gotta sleep. More later.
11:09am
She's started smoking cigarettes again. Her habit orignally started in mid-94 just before I moved, because she was so upset that I was moving and has always been incapable of handling stress without a crutch. (Almost since the moment we broke up she's been stoned; on the other hand, I've smoked grass once all this time and didn't enjoy it like I used to.) Up until she quit until about year and a half ago she smoked an arty British brand called Dunhills, but now she's a Marlboro girl. Marlboros??? I guess she's showing the world that she can be as much of a rebel as I am, so smoking cigarettes and wearing a biker jacket and going to goth clubs is apparently the most logical way. Yeah, mom. *I'm* the self-destructive one. Jim and I talked quite a bit last night about mom and my transitioning and the attendant issues. His support really is touching, and he honestly believes that the bond that's developed between him and I will certainly survive all this.
9:04pm
I think this might actually work. |
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