Evie’s friends had bailed on her, so she drank alone. Ned was bartending, but his heady personality required a buffer to manage his conspiratorial rants. Evie didn’t have the energy. A conversation with Ned would only compound her sense of abandonment. She wasn’t ready to discuss the physics of his recent obsession: An earth-killing meteor strike promoted by some online conspiracy forum. She would rather the meteor just hit her.
Evie looked at the empty stools on either side of her. When she was a kid, she remembered her childhood pastor remarking that empty pews symbolize opportunity. Empty seats just mean there’s an opportunity to spread the word of god! Or some bullshit like that. Evie dug into her purse for chapstick and felt a book – Chris’s sci-fi novel, The Sirens of Jupiter’s Moon. Chris was her ex. She had stolen the book when she realized their relationship was ending. It was a way to have control.
Evie thumbed the pages and noticed some of the lines were even underlined. She pushed air through pursed lips, rolled her eyes, and whispered to herself, “This fucking kid.” He cared so much about this shitty book that he underlined passages! Filla held the sword high into the sky and screamed, ‘Bazora! I will avenge you!’ before running into the Caves of Helix to strengthen his powers with the Light of Nazer.
Evie took a picture of the book and texted it to Chris. “I’m not sure how I got this,” (she knew exactly how), “but your copy of The Sirens of Jupiter’s Moon is in my bag. I hope you didn’t need it.”
He replied quickly, “No fucking way, I’ve looked everywhere for that!”
“Well, too bad I’m gonna read it now.”
“Haha, I would like to see you try!”
“Too late!” Evie’s smile was bathed in blue light. She knew texting Chris was a mistake but preferred mistakes to boredom.
“Don’t lose my page! You get to the battle of Saturn’s rings?”
Evie rolled her eyes and typed, “Nerd!” Chris didn’t reply quickly enough for her, so Evie sent another, “I just started it. If you want it back, it’s all yours. I’m at Seaweed Tavern.”
“Oh, I’m right down the street. Pissing at the noodle bar. Just finished dinner.”
Without thinking, she wrote, “Are you with a girl?” The text blooped before her like Frankenstein raising its monster from a cold, still death. She got mad for even asking. It shouldn’t matter. But it did. But it shouldn’t. But it did.
“No,” he replied.
Whatever. She didn’t care. He was single and could fuck whoever. Good for him. She almost wanted to buy him a card, Congrats on fucking someone else! To prove she didn’t give a fuck because she didn’t give a fuck. Even if she did. But she didn’t. But she did.
“Evie,” Ned said.
Evie lifted her head from her phone.
“I like your outfit tonight.”
Evie was surprised and said, “Thanks, Ned!”
“Does a skirt like that make your legs get cold?”
Evie gave a confused look and said, “Sometimes.”
Ned nodded, “Oh. Cool. Another drink?”
“Yes.” Weirdo.
Chris showed up ten minutes later. He was well dressed – a clean pair of jeans and one of his good button-downs. His hair was combed and lightly gelled. Evie knew the clothes and the look – he was on a date.
Chris took the stool next to hers and said, “Hey.” Evie was no stranger to Chris’s voice, but tonight, that one stupid word, with one foolish syllable, was the sexiest thing she’d ever heard. Her brain went giddy. She tried to play it cool, like a girl who broke up with her shithead boyfriend and didn’t care about his decisions. “Hey,” Evie said back. “How was the date?” Whoops!
“What date?” Chris asked.
“I’m just kidding. It’s cool,” she retracted. Her maturity finally kicked in. “Here’s your book.”
Chris took the book and put it on the bar next to her drink. “Would you mind if I joined you for a quickie?”
Evie gave an impish look.
“A pint, you sicko!” Chris grinned like maybe it wasn’t out of the question.
“Yeah, that’s cool,” Evie said like she didn’t care. They talked for a while, and Evie hated that they were being so polite. It felt like they were on their first date when everything felt right, and none of their previous mistakes were etched into their relationship totem. The only difference was that there was a sexual history – no amount of time or space could erase that. When you have sex with someone, the seal is broken.
On their very first date, nothing happened. They just talked. Chris tried to kiss her, but Evie pushed him away. She said, Next time, and Chris asked, When can it be next time? On the second date, Chris leaned in for a kiss, and Evie pushed him away again. Chris wasn’t mad, just baffled, like a kid who lost his first tooth without an explanation. Then, Evie told him why they couldn’t kiss. Because despite wanting to kiss him, she had some dumb fucking thing between her legs. It was never a problem for her, but it was a problem for almost everyone else.
Most cis girls don’t have to discuss their bodies. They don’t have to say, Excuse me, sir, I have a vagina! It’s assumed. Most men know the terrain or, at the very least, expect it. A transgirl has to talk about her body before kissing a boy. Because men, who touch their penis often and willingly, care about touching one that isn’t theirs. So, for her safety, she said, Chris, I’m transgender. Chris looked at her as if he had lost a second tooth, still without explanation, and said, Oh, can you tell me more about that? And Evie was annoyed because, like a joke, the more you had to explain it, the less funny it was. So she kept it simple: I was born with XY chromosomes. Offering “Y-chromosome” was much more palatable than saying the word “penis.” Chris looked at her, still confused but pre-programmed on getting fucked that night, and said, “That’s okay. I don’t care. I like you.”
So they kissed. And then fucked.
And Chris made a big fucking deal after, like he was some sort of hero for momentarily disregarding the unrelenting grip of masculinity. Like he was a higher being – a twentieth-century man about town! That feeling didn’t last long. The intensity of a honeymoon phase began to replace itself with insecurity and shame. Instead of putting in the work, he decided it was best to ask Evie about surgery. A life-changing surgery would save him the effort of thinking about the gravity of dating a transgirl. In other words, he needed to know a pussy was close by, just in case a group of men had any doubt, he could pull her pants down, point, and say something like, It’s cool, fellas! She’s got a pussy. No gays here!
Chris started the inquisition after sex, as if to say, while we’re on the topic. His phrasing was simple. Direct. Nothing that would raise too many alarms: Have you ever thought about [pointing to the crotch region] surgery?
And what trans girl hadn’t? Evie thought about not wearing a blood-stained, crusty gaff. She thought about not having a penis that she didn’t have to dredge in a handful of Gold Bond, like a chicken tender, to prevent rashes. She thought about how nice it would be to take fewer pills. So when Chris asked her this question, still basking in their post-coital glow, Evie said yes. And for weeks and months after, she did whatever she could to convince herself that it was what she wanted. She thought about it constantly, especially while fucking Chris. Her body against his became a constant itch, a series of tasks that felt more urgent with every fuck: You need to talk to your doctor. You need to find out if your shitty healthcare will cover this. You need to find a surgeon you trust. You need to validate your gender by society’s expectations. Right now! Right, the fuck now! YOU’RE GOING TO LOSE THE ONE MAN THAT’S WILLING TO PUT UP WITH YOU!
Over time, Chris began to ignore that part of her body. He probably thought: Why bother? Why fall in love with her this way? And Evie sensed the lack of attention like there was a bomb on her dick that needed to be diffused before it blew them both up. No matter how hard Evie thought about it or tried to convince herself of it, she didn’t want the surgery. She liked her girl dick. Like most other earthling women, she knew there were consequences for making decisions about her own body. Decisions that no one else would understand. Private and Personal decisions.
So they broke up, and Chris had the luxury of grieving a relationship. But Evie had to grieve so much more: A relationship, her body, and the fact that she may never have a romantic partner that could transcend fetish and land in the realm of something defined as stable, healthy, and real. And despite the feminist in her brain barking like a rabid dog all fucking night, she still thanked god for a second-hand corduroy skirt she bought at a Thrift Island for $7.99 so she could awkwardly, drunkenly fuck Chris in the all-gender bathroom of Seaweed Tavern without having to take any pants off. Because at that moment, she was a girl, who wanted to fuck, and that’s what she did because it was her body and no one else’s.
When it was over – quite briefly, mind you – Chris took off, and Evie returned to the bar. She combed her fingers through her hair and fixed her collar.
“Drink?” Ned asked Evie.
Evie nodded.
Ned slapped Chris’s book on the bar, “I think you left this when you went to the bathroom.”
Evie half-smiled, slipped the book into her bag, and said, “Tell me more about this meteor.” •
