Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Quitting the Club

by Little Miss Orphan Tranny

I quit working at the strip club this evening. I went in, filled with anxiety. I didn’t want to show them my ID that revealed I was trans. I didn’t want to try and work the floor with my dreaded hair, but I didn’t want to put the blonde wig on either. I couldn’t tell if the girls were being nice to me because I was leaving, or because they didn’t want me to leave. They like having girls around who are entertaining but aren’t competition. I said to Candy, “I like my body, I think I’m awesome, I think I’m hot. This job is making me not like my body and I don’t feel awesome or hot when I work here. It’s not my crowd; it’s not my scene. It doesn’t fit my lifestyle.” I cleaned out my locker. Wouldn’t that be great if money poured out of it? The magical locker, like a fairytale. I thought it’d be hard to sneak past the doorman. I wanted Candy to cause a diversion so I could sneak out the back. I thought since I owed $200 in backhouse, they would come find me and try to hit me up for money. There was no need to be dramatic. The housemom told me just to tell them I quit, and that I can’t come back to work unless I pay backhouse. So that’s what I did. The manager didn’t even ask questions, he didn’t want to know. The doorman tried to stop me and put me in a cab. I told him I didn’t work there any more and walked to the train. I looked at the clothing in windows as I passed the stores. There was a Mexican bridal store. All the dresses were so bright and garish. Magenta ballroom gown with zebra print and taffeta. I really wanted it for no damn reason other than to look fabulous. This is a wedding gown? Mainstream culture confuses me so much. I don’t understand why you can’t wear these things everyday, and why you have to be a girl to wear a wedding dress…or why marriage exists anyway. Stupid. Thank God I bought a harmonica to keep my mind preoccupied so I didn’t ruminate myself into oblivion. I pulled it out of my pocket and buzzed away at it while I walked to the brown line. How the hell am I gonna make money? I wondered, as I took a mental inventory of my skills, experience and contacts. I just need to put all my chips in 110% and go balls out. If I don’t figure out who I am and do my art and music, I will go insane and or kill myself. I can’t compromise myself for partners, and I can’t do it for money either. It’s just a hairstyle, it’s just a gender, it’s just a group of muscles, it’s just hair, it’s just tits. Well I hate what estrogen does to my body and my mind. I hate how people perceive me as a woman. I would at least be content with confusing them. My brightly colored dreads creeped out of my worn out navy blue hoody. I have always been confused as to why people pay so much attention to me. I’ve never been interested in paying attention to other people. I’m 28 now, and all I can hear is what kids would say to me in high school, “Why are you such a freak, freak?” I always wondered why they were so fucking dull. Why don’t you just live your life and stop judging other people on their personal decisions?

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