We flirted for a while, by text and in person. When I asked her out, she said yes...but when I texted to confirm a time, she stopped replying. Ghosted. Just like that.
I should've known I wasn't her type. She prefers femmey girls, and heaven knows she has her pick. That smile, that handsome face, that confident stance--it's no wonder I like her. It's no wonder every dyke in town likes her. She wears the pants; she doesn't want another butch. It's no surprise she doesn't feel the same. No big deal.
I keep telling myself all this as I stare in the mirror, trying to figure out what would make her like me back.
I sigh--enough of that--and square my stance. If I can't have her, at least I can have fun tonight.
I pull on black jeans, a thick belt, an old band T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and brown boots. After some consideration, I throw on a gaudy cross necklace. (Hey, I was raised Catholic.) I run a hand through my hair: good enough. The place I'm headed is pretty casual.
I wave goodbye to my roommate and grab my ring of keys off the hook, then clip them to my belt loop. I don't need anybody, I tell myself, I just gotta move, melt into a crowd, feel the bass pumping in my chest. I've always turned to dance when words aren't enough. Okay, dance and maybe booze.
I take a train downtown--le'ts just say I don't plan on driving tonight--and walk to my favorite bar. It's high summer, but the twilight brings a cool breeze. The warm air caresses me as I stroll down the sidewalk. Some folks shoot me funny looks; I've been getting those ever since I started wearing men's clothes. Incidentally, I've been carrying a pocketknife for almost as long.
The minute I walk into the bar, the tension in my shoulders lessens. Dozens of women like me--femmes with eyeliner and big hoop earrings, butches with slicked-back hair trying to look tough, girls with crazy piercings and tattoo sleeves--crowd the bar and dance floor. A rap song pulses from the speakers. Women laugh together, dance together, drink together. For the first time in a while, I can just let go.
I have to maneuver past people and say "excuse me" at least twice to get to the bar. All the stools are taken; so is most of the standing room.
"Hey, Cindy!" I call, and the bartender looks over at me. "Busy night?"
"Fridays always are," she says with a genuine smile. I'm not exactly a regular, but I'm here most weekends. "What'll it be?"
"Brandy, just to start."
"Coming right up." She pours me a glass; I down it quickly.
"I'll be back for more," I promise.
"Hey, don't get too carried away," she says, but I'm already making my way to the dance floor.
I find myself a little space between throngs of women. The bass pounds in my chest. I move to the beat; I could stay like this all night, stamping the ground and swirling my hips. My mood soars with the singer's voice. I melt into the song, into the crowd, into something bigger than myself.
Before I know it, I'm a little tipsy--not drunk enough to start singing along off-key, but definitely tipsy. I stare a little too long at everyone around me. One woman with a big Afro twirls around; the light catches her curls, her pink stiletto nails, her dazzling smile, her bubblegum-colored lip gloss. She's dancing with a handsome stud in a football jersey and ripped jeans. A tall blonde doubles over, laughing at something a friend said. A good-looking butch in a leather jacket pulls a woman with piercings close to her as they dance under purple light. There's another glass in my hands, half-empty. I'm not sure how it got there.
I can't take my eyes off the crowd. I watch women's cheeks lift as they smile. Dresses and jeans cling to curves; tank tops show off well-muscled arms or tattoo sleeves or both. Couples lean into each other, hands intertwined. Though it's a mostly young crowd, a few older women sit at the bar chatting and drinking. I even spot two silver-haired butches dancing together in their work clothes. Looking at all of them, it's intoxicating.
I close my eyes and let the lights play through my eyelids. I relish the proximity of other women's bodies to my own. An old song comes on, one I know well; I start humming the tune.
When I open my eyes again, someone is looking at me from the bar.
She's incredibly handsome. If I saw her on the street, I'd struggle not to stare. Her brown eyes pin me in place; still, there's something warm in her gaze. She has long lashes and gelled black hair. She's a little taller than me. Her curves do nothing to detract from her masculine poise.
I realize I'm staring and smile.
She walks across the dance floor to me. In a room full of dancing women, it seems like she's the only one moving slowly. Red high tops, jeans, white tank top. She takes her time, lets me drink her in.
"Hey, don't let me stop you. You looked like you were having a good time." She gives me a half-smile.
"I like to dance," I say, and immediately kick myself for how stupid it sounds.
"You're pretty good." She looks me over.
"Thanks. Buy you a drink?"
"Nah. I'll get you one, though."
I stifle a laugh. "Sure, why not."
We walk up to the bar; she orders two Manhattans. I sip slowly, and she watches me as I do.
"What's your name? Haven't seen you around here," I say.
"Call me Lupe."
"Nice. I'm Jack."
"It suits you." She looks me up and down again with those piercing eyes. My cheeks grow warm.
I finish the drink and order another. Before I know it, my head's spinning.
"Sheesh, Jack, what did your liver ever do to you?"
I laugh. Everything's so funny all of a sudden. "Hey, Friday night only comes once a week. Gotta live it up," I say.
"Alright, I'll try it your way." She orders a few more drinks for us.
At some point, we're on the dance floor again, moving to the rhythm. The drumbeat reverberates in my ribcage. Strobe lights paint Lupe in different colors; she looks magnificent.
I'm pondering the consequences of drinking on an empty stomach when she takes my hand, and the ground disappears from beneath my feet. All of a sudden I'm floating, dancing with her. Kissing her so we melt into each other. It feels like it lasts forever. It feels like no time at all.
xxx
Another snapshot, maybe an hour later. There's a drink in my hand, and the whole room's swirling, music pounding in my ears. New faces flash across my vision. The lights in the bar are way too bright. I think I remember dropping something.
"I'm good...take the train home," I remember saying. Lupe looks at me with a worried expression on her face. After that, nothing.
xxx
I wake in a dark room with a pounding headache. Where am I? Shit, shit, shit. I don't remember anything from last night.
I briefly entertain the notion that I'm tied up in someone's basement, about to be murdered. However, I quickly realize that I'm on a bed under a light blanket with all my clothes still on and my limbs free. The pillow has a nice scent that I can't quite place.
"Ugh," I groan as I sit up. My head spins. I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to keep it under control.
It's a small room, but clean and lovingly decorated. Posters and medals hang on the walls. The twin-sized bed is pushed up against one wall next to a writing desk. There's a couple plants on the desk and in the windowsill, too. The blinds are drawn--thank God.
I sit for a couple minutes while I gather the strength to stand up. I find a woven rug beneath my feet. My shoes sit by the door. How'd they get there? Whose room is this?
I pat my pockets. Panic rushes down my spine when I realize they're empty. "Shit!"
I look again at the writing desk. My stuff--phone, keys, wallet, knife, necklace--sit in a bowl on the desk. "Oh, thank God." There's water there, too. I drain the glass.
A soft knock comes at the door. I nearly jump out of my skin.
