Hours crawl by. My heart does not slow down and the sun does not come up fast enough. I go to Loraine's work even though she told me never, ever to go there. I do not defy her out of courage, but out of fear. I am a rat racing from one corner to another.
She strips in this club called Strawberry. It's a T-girl club on the corner of two poorly lit streets. Warehouses and crack alleys are its neighbors.
I pay the ten bucks for cover. The girl who takes my money gives me a knowing smile. It is saying, "You like girls with cocks don't you? You dirty boy, welcome." I can't tell if she is one.
I have no idea what to expect.
Loraine's face is on a poster as I go up the stairs. She is wearing a schoolgirl outfit and pouting her lips out. She looks good. I can hear a Ludacris song coming from the dance floor. I think I am really pale right now. I'm not sure why Loraine doesn't want me to see her strip. Is it because she thinks I'll get insanely jealous, because I’ll get turned on by the other girls, because she would feel embarrassed?
When I walk in, she is on the stage rubbing her breasts on a glittery, golden pole. The music is loud and exuberant. Loraine is wearing purple lacey undies. I've seen those on her before. She looks hot. Around her are wrinkled men with creepy smiles. They look like they might go fishing with my granddad. They slobber on their dollar bills as they slip them into her crotch. They seem comfortable here as if they are regulars. The waitresses know their favorite drinks; the seats know the shapes of their asses.
I sit in the front and try to get Loraine's attention. She bends over in a familiar fashion. She shakes her tits while rubbing her hand up her stomach. I've seen all this before. She has no trouble spotting me. I'm the only non gray-haired male. I'm the only one without a wedding ring. She waves at me seductively and smiles. I am surprised, but relieved. I thought she might flip out. I thought she might throw a chair at me and storm off.
The waitress is also a chick with a dick. She gets her ass grabbed as she hands out drinks. She takes this in stride.
After the song, Loraine is naked and her clothes look like debris around her feet. She takes a graceful, proud bow. The crowd is in full appreciation of her glistening, tight body. She motions for me to go into her dressing room and an old guy with a hard-on thinks she's talking to him. I cut him off. I tell him that the sexy finger motion was intended for me. He sighs.
In the dressing room she says, "What are you doing here?"
"You looked good up there."
"Thanks."
She sits on a torn leather stool, dabbing her face with cotton. The mirror is crowned by murky, red lights. Loraine asks me why I came here.
I tell her that my neighbor is crazy. I tell about the dog beating and the koo-koo eyes. I tell her I’m moving even though I have to break the lease. Maybe I can move near her, so she can come over anytime or maybe we can find a place together.
She looks over at me to make sure I’m serious. She puts down the cotton pad, now smothered in black make-up. She shakes her head.
"Why not?" I whine.
She takes my hand and leads me to a couch. We sit with our thighs touching.
"How will you introduce me to your parents? How would they take it? Your cousins, your aunts, everybody talking about how you're with a transsexual. Have you even told anybody? Do you want me to try and pass as a woman? You want to what, live together, get married? I can't do that. I can't even go out in the daytime with you. People stare, people talk, they judge, they laugh. I'm not ready to deal with that every day. We T-girls can't live normal lives. We go to our own clubs, stay in the dark, live in this underground, secret world. Do you ever see T-girls at the video store? Think about it. I'm not invited to your world. I'm a freak, an outcast. You're just you. I'd be afraid that you'd get so tired of it all and just leave me. You could be with any girl out there and never have to work half as hard. You'd be a boy and a girl in a straight world. Me...well, you're not ready to be with me. I don't think you can handle it."
I can't say anything. She's right. Dating her would be a constant fight against the prejudice around us. Holding hands would be a protest, going to salsa lessons would be an act of defiance, taking her to Thanksgiving would be a coup d'etat. I do not have that kind of backbone. I would deteriorate, I would crumble. When the world doesn't hate people anymore, I'll slither out of my hole. When prejudice becomes something barbaric we look back on in horror, I'll take a stand. When homos and bis and trannies and everyone in between doesn't disgust and anger a major portion of the population, I'll take full advantage. But I am not nearly strong enough to help carve the path there. Cowards and sloths do not change the world, they simply inhabit it.
"You want to fuck in the bathroom though?" she asks.
"No."
We have grown accustomed to her pushing me around and me liking it. Refusing her advance is an unexpected reflex from my non-pathetic side. I stand up and she reaches under my shirt to paw at my stomach. I pull her hand off. When I shake my head at her, tears slosh in my eyes.
