beautiful monsters

by request

We met at Uni-Q, the queer group on campus. I think that’s why it lasted for as long as it did. Growing up queer at the same time and in the same part of the world meant that we had a hell of a lot in common. We’d had similar experiences as kids, realising we were different, then first putting a name to our feelings, then speaking that name to friend and family. The kinds of experiences that shape who you are and how you see the world. We hang out with the same kinds of people, shared the same politics, and laughed at the same jokes. We spoke the same minority language, and understood the same underground symbols. But, despite these shared bonds, no one would have predicted that we’d become a couple. I’d had a crush on the same girl for five years… and he’d been sleeping with boys for almost as long.

I have a photo of him, at a dance party soon after we met. He’s wearing a skirt that he made from woven flax matting. He almost burned the house down when the glue gun malfunctioned. He has black gloves past his elbows, a black beehive wig, and ridiculously long lashes.

One night out dancing we both got bored with the monotonous beat of the music and the bitter taste left by the smoke machines, so we ditched the others and headed up to Midnight Espresso. I don’t remember what we talked about that night, I only remember I didn’t want it to end. It felt like we were alone in the world, just the two of us, and we would never run out of conversation.

It must have been about 2am when he said, “I want to keep talking, but I’m getting tired.” So, somehow we ended up in a taxi, and then curled up in armchairs back at his place, and then lying on the bed, talking until just before the dawn.

He maintains that I initiated it. I still swear that he placed the first kiss, gently, on my forehead. I do know I was the one, much later, who timidly asked if he had any of the free sex packs left over from the dance party. “Are you sure?” he asked me. Of course I wasn’t sure; I was terrified. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. “Are you really really sure?” he said again, pulling away to look at me intently. The morning light was beginning to leak into the room, and I blushed under his gaze. “I want to,” I whispered.

The earth didn’t move, but it was pleasant. Warm and comforting. He was slow and gentle, and talked me through everything. I think he was as nervous as I was. “It gets better,” he said. “Really it does…”

For the first few weeks it was like being in a reverse closet. We didn’t know how to break the news to our friends – none of them would believe us! He still lived with his parents, but we had to hide the relationship from them. After years of being told it was just a phase, he couldn’t bear the smug expressions that would surely greet us if they believed they’d been proven right. And neither of us wanted to show affection in public – it had taken years to convince the world that we were queer. Years of people saying, “but you don’t look like a lesbian,” or “maybe you just haven’t met the right person.” Finally we’d fought our way to a place where we were taken seriously, but it would only take one kiss, one moment of holding hands, to undo all of that.

But really, what defines sexuality? Does it take into account fantasies, what we do with each other, where and when and how we define our sexuality, or is it only about what’s between the legs of the person we’re currently shagging?

Once we did start coming out to other people, we had great fun stretching their minds. “Is it queer if I’m in drag, and he isn’t, or if he’s in drag, but I’m not? What about if we’re both in drag, is that straight?”

I was terrified of him when he was in drag. Not only did he tower above me in his high heels and huge hairstyle, but also his personality seemed to grow along with his height. Suddenly (s)he was loud, and bossy, and seductive, and I was still a timid little first year. But before long I was a timid little first year who knew how to use a strap on. The first time we used it we were up in my loft bed, blankets thrown aside cos it always got so hot up there. I was nervous as hell, and scared that I’d hurt him, but of course, he’d taken far bigger instruments then my puny little attachment. (It was called a “Darling” - purple and green marbled colours with “slender classic curves for increased sensation” available from D-Vice for $89.95).

There’s a poem by Anne French called “When I Die I want to be Canadian.” I know what she means. When I die I want to be a gay boy. I want to come back to this earth through a haze of glitter, drinking Absolute Vodka and singing Madonna. I want to be able to get away with wearing tiny hot pants and a sequinned shirt to parties. I want to get all the best parts in drama school, loose my virginity to an older boy at scout camp, and say “dahling” without sounding ridiculous.

That night he lay down on his stomach, I lay over him, and he guided me in. It was perfect. I ran my teeth over his shoulders and tugged gently at the curve of his neck. He cried out as I rocked against him. Afterwards, he gasped that it was the best fuck he’d ever had. I was radiant. For half an hour I’d been able to live out my fantasy. For half an hour I was a gay boy. We were beautiful. And I was the best fuck he’d ever had.

Posted by Fionnaigh at February 10, 2004 07:26 AM