riding home on my bicycle, i stop at a traffic light. "nice jacket!" someone yells to me from the sidewalk, in appreciation of my bright yellow/red/green early 90's-aesthetic winter coat. "thanks!" i yell back, happy that someone appreciates my fashion. "what's your name?" the jacket-complimenter asks me. i tell them my name. "are you a guy or a girl?" the next question fires immediately back.
the traffic light changes to green and i pedal along my way.
¿maricón o lesbina?
it's a drag themed party. in drag--no cover charge. logically, i would think that this means that i should camp it up and play a character that i am not in real life for the night. but gender comes in there too. which am i acting out tonight? i stare into the mirror at a loss of decision. is woman or man drag? how did i get here? when did i become neither and everything? what if i showed up as a pumpkin?
i decide not to dress-up for the party and go in my regular clothes. they don't ask me to pay the cover.
i'm reading a Lynne Breedlove joke: Q: "how do you tell the trannies from the genderqueers?" A: "when you ask the trannies if they're a boy or a girl, they answer 'yes'; when you ask the genderqueers, they answer 'no'".
yes. wait, no. but yes. no--no. yes and no? yes.
alone in my room. thinking comradery across the generations. older is riper. where are all the older genderqueers? why is everyone so young? and then it hit me like a brick to the head. is it possible to make it to 'older' as a genderqueer? how long until we choose? or implode? or run into the mountains to hide?
i see an older genderqueer on a bus in a city. they see me looking for something. we exchange smiles and eye contact. i can't contain myself and actually begin to cry.
it's all possible.
watching a one-act play of cross-dressing, boy-girl dildo mouth fucking, upside down, cross-overs, and loops of magic in the air--there is no separation between us. and when the crowd laughs, i settle deeper into my seat. mouth closed. watching myself on the stage.