hardcutpublishing
What up Party People,
Time to set it straight, this Watergate: I don’t’ sleep around. Try as I might, I don’t have flings, I have partners. I went out of my way the other week to have a random, one night stand with a drugged out tranny who I was certain I’d never see again and here I am, helping her pack up the contents of her orange Dutch apartment. We’re blowing the ‘dam. London’s calling. My horoscope (I'm a Leo, don't ya know?)says I’m ready for the big time, baby. Bright lights, big titties. Jules—my tranny fuck-- is a tremendous editor. She’s helping me finish my film. We chopped up that shit into little pieces of sushi noir. Raw and dark. I’ve been using her Vaio to create psychedelic montage sequences.
Being with Jules is a little like going back in time. I dress and act like a boy for her. I sit perched atop the brown Formica of her kitchen counter, in shorts, my unshaven, hairy legs swinging like the kid she wants me to be. Meanwhile, she tries her hardest to play the part of the forward thinking girl...a budding analyst, spouting Freud and collecting matchbooks. She needs someone elusive in her life. A Don Quixote, someone to hammer down his point without hammering into her.
We try our hardest to have sex without touching. I think we’re both afraid of getting to know each other. Instead, we put our energy into imaginary scenarios: like the one where we dim all the lights in her living room and pretend we’re at the ball, and I’m the boy with a taste for blood, scarves and pinched countenances.
I gaze at her seriously from afar, until finally I get up the nerve to offer her a banged up Silk Cut that it takes two tries to light because her hands are shaking.
My hands are shaking too.
I wear a tuxedo jacket and my worn out blue jeans. There’s a formidable brass buckle hanging over my stuffed crotch.
I’ve written all over my right thigh with purple ink. It’s mostly illegible, except for the following:
“I’m the boy, who’s learned to enjoy, invisibility…”
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