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Just Because a Girl has a Penis Doesn't Mean she can be Easily Defined
By Jonathan Ellis
Transsexuals usually say they feel trapped by their birth gender. Awkward. Confused. Unnatural. So, naturally, they feel they have to free themselves. Surgically. Like a flesh and blood kitchen remodeling. Or Optimus Prime. With a fake vagina. Half the time, if the doctor's good, you can't even tell. The artist Jean Michel Basquiat was once quoted as saying the only thing scarier than AIDS was a well-done transsexual. And he should know. He contracted the former from the latter.
OK, no he didn't. I made that up.
Transsexuals are not to be confused with hermaphrodites. Even though now that title is like referring to your Native American gardener as a god-damned savage and asking him if he thinks you should get reservations for dinner tonight. It's inappropriate. They're called intersexuals, please. An intersexual is someone born with some semblance of both male and female reproductive organs. A veritable Swiss Army knife of genitalia. They're a completely different breed.
After that you have your sub-genres and nicknames. Op-trans, non op-trans, trannies, partial transsexuals, ongoing transsexuals, ladyboys, he-shes and everyone's darling, the self-mutilated eunuch. Those doughy little balls of androgyny really just know how to perk up a room. And those soprano singing voices - just like a castrated cherub choir.
But you get the point.
Just because a girl has a penis doesn't mean she can be easily defined.
"There aren't many actresses willing to do the four-way extension cord D.P. for a full half hour. Especially not with the guys I work with. That's why I'm versatile. Well, that and, you know."I knew. "I'm like a utility infielder. Any position, baby. Anytime."Fatima took a sip of his drink and stared at the ceiling, obviously pleased with himself.
Fatima looked and sounded like a more weathered Cher, his oily olive skin accentuated by the cheap fluorescent apartment lighting.
I was drunk enough to think this was funny again, and everyone else at the party was drunk enough not to notice Fatima. I looked him over as he stared at the guests in attendance. He was horrifying. His purple backless top hung just low enough to let your gaze settle upon his sculpted, heaving breasts, and his skirt was just short enough to force you to notice his toned, bronze legs. Even his perfect shiny red lips and delicate arms didn't give off the slightest hint of masculinity.
But one thing did. And he hid it like a priest with a hideous secret says a Sunday mass. I was counting on that one thing.
He started again with his vast array of visually documented exploits. I stopped paying attention until "and then he took a piss on my face,"which drew me back into the conversation.
"You must really love what you do."
"Well, it's not my true passion. I want to be a novelist." Fatima stared earnestly into his drink.
Oh wow.
"That's interesting. Like what kind of stuff do you want to write?"
"Well right now I'm working on a piece. It's like "Lord of the Rings"crossed with "Fletch". Except all the characters are trannies. I just want to express myself. I just want to be taken seriously."His eyes welled up and he threw back his pink vodka and cranberry juice.
"I'm writing a novel, too," I lied. "It's about a man who dares to make love to his menstruating wife. I'm going to call it the Red Vadge of Courage."
Fatima glared at me and looked away. My insensitivity had pissed off the transsexual hooker. But I didn't care right now. Baraqel had arrived.
To say Rocky had a way with girls would be like saying the Kennedys had a way with dying.
There was something about him women were drawn to. Like some sort of sick, testosterone-laden magnet. Like the Beatles in the early 60s or Joey Fatone.
I knew what the magnet was. He could lie to anyone. It was like some sort of super power. Like if the Green Lantern traded in his green lantern for the ability to deceive girls. And it all stemmed from one disturbingly effective line.
"My birth name's Baraqel, but you can call me baby."
His birth name was Baraqel and most of the time they did end up calling him baby, but that's neither here nor there. He used it on every single girl he came in contact with. Ironically, the first thing he said to them usually ended up being the last true thing that came out of his mouth for the duration of their relationship, which rarely strayed beyond a couple filthy hours ending up with the girl alone, naked and in tears.
I was blessed with having Baraqel as my best friend.
(On a side note, Baraqel, as I discovered one day via Google, is the name of a fallen angel. A demon, basically. Baraqel's mom, Raquel, wasn't aware of this. Raquel combined her name with Rocky's father's name, Barry, because she thought it would be "adorable."One night, Raquel got blitzed and told me when she had Rocky, Barry-ever the classy sort-showed up at the hospital to dump her and exited with the parting line, "Oh, and I hope the fucking baby dies."Then he moved out of the country, turning the bastard Baraqel into the less-painfully monikered "Rocky"forever more. This all just makes way too much sense.)
Normally, Rocky's behavior never fazed me. Infidelity, his minor bouts with disease, tearful phone calls from his scorned conquests, whatever it was, I could handle it.
Until Jophielle.
To describe Jophielle would be to forsake brevity. So in consideration of time, picture the perfect girl in your mind. Now pretend that's Jophielle.
When she arrived on our social scene, it was like disco. Acid in the 60s. Britney Spears to adolescent boys. Brad Pitt shirtless in Legends of the Fall. It was like the Berlin Wall had tumbled and every guy we knew had once again found freedom, and on that day freedom was spelled J-O-P-H-I-E-L-L-E.
We all were infatuated with her. Gorgeous and funny and smart, on and on and on and on and on and on.
I wasn't infatuated, though. I was in love. Like a one way Bobby and Whitney.
Pile all of those "girl of your dreams" clichés on me. My heart skipped a beat, love at first sight, "I'm gonna marry that girl one day", whatever. They happened.
So of course, within the first forty five minutes:
"My name's Baraqel but you can call me baby."
And as we all watched out of the corners of our eyes, we hoped the unavoidable would be evaded. Like Rocky was a deer in the middle of the road, we wanted nothing more for her to swerve clear and cruise on safely home to one of us. We all prayed she would see through it. But he was too good. Like Chronic era Dr. Dre. Or pre-plane crash Roberto Clemente.
Like I said, the unfaithfulness had never hampered me before. The numerous indiscretions he committed and disguises I constructed had never once been an issue.
There was the fat girl from the junior college I pushed out the second story window.
There was the Asian chick from the beach who I tearfully convinced that they love of her life, Baraqel, had been tragically killed the previous night.
And everyone loved the story about the underage volleyball player I assaulted for taking advantage of my poor, drunken, confused boyfriend.
All to get him out of trouble.
But I wasn't going to do any of that this time.
As Rocky walked into the party I nudged Fatima. She looked up. Their eyes met. Rocky walked over, hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. Because we do that. Then he hit Fatima with it hard. He hit Rocky right back.
If I said I hadn't planned this I'd be lying. To give details about the search for my lady Fatima would be tedious, if not self-indulgent, but just allow me to say I have a friend who has the far reaching capabilities to obtain a transsexual hooker. Let's leave it at that.
And in all fairness, everyone but Jophielle knew. Every time she left town or had homework, it was the same thing. He didn't even try and hide it. It wouldn't be fair to let him get away with it again. So I planned it for the next time she went home for the weekend.
When she got back he'd have to tell her, because everyone was going to know what Rocky had done. Boning ex-dudes gets around.
As the alcohol flowed like wine, Rocky and Fatima's mutual affection did as well, demonstrated first by their interlocked limbs and exclusive, giggly conversation, second by the drunken make out session on the big orange couch in the center of the room. This, sadly, surprised no one.
At night's end, Rocky told me goodnight.
"Start planning our exit strategy now,"he half-jokingly whispered in my ear.
I smiled and nodded and he quietly exited, Fatima in tow.
I thought how I'd gladly vomit blood for a decade to see the look on his face an hour from then. Once his hand ventured too low it'd be like Christmas. Like the The Crying Game. Or a sexually explicit O. Henry story.
I went to sleep with a smile on my face.
But smiles are like the homeless. They die.
"I'm in love with Fatima." Rocky stared me right in the eye with this stupid look of glee on his stupid fucking face. "We didn't even sleep together. We just stayed up all night. Talking."
Unbelievable. It was too early in the morning for this.
"You didn't think she was kind of weird? She seemed kind of weird to me."
"No, she's amazing. She wants to be a novelist, man. She's writing a book. Something about a guy sleeping with his wife? I don't know. But I told Jophielle. She's broken up. I need you to handle that for me. She doesn't understand. And I have to tell you something else."
That bitch stole my fake novel idea.
"I'm getting professional help. I don't want to keep going like I am. I feel trapped. I can't be so dishonest anymore. I want to be with Fatima. I just thought I'd stop by and let you know. I appreciate how much you've helped me. I love you, buddy." He hugged me.
After I regarded Rocky's departure, I sat for several seconds in stunned silence. Then I broke into laughter. Horrific, maniacal, bloodcurdling laughter. Like the narrator at the end of the Tell-Tale Heart. Or Nic Cage. It worked out perfectly, better than I had planned. Until Jophielle called.
After almost two hours of screaming histrionics, Jophielle came to the conclusion that she too needed professional help.
"I feel encased in who I am. I have to make changes or else I won't be able to keep living," she said. Then she hung up.
The only thing that could've possibly eclipsed the overwhelming delight caused by Rocky's certain eventual demise was the off chance that Jophielle could cut her wrists wide open or hang herself in her parents' bedroom.
With this hanging over my head, in addition to fact that I had sent two friends into potentially life-altering therapy, for the slightest of moments I felt regret.
Then I thought about Fatima's penis and all that went away.
For two months I hadn't heard a thing from either of them.
I tried to call Rocky once and it went straight to his answering machine. I figured he was in exile until he could come to terms with the genital A-bomb that had been dropped upon him. At least I knew he was suffering somewhere.
I tried to call Jophielle a couple dozen times, but each attempt was met by ten unanswered rings and a generic phone company message declaring the customer had no voicemail service.
I even tried to call my friend who had the far reaching capabilities to find a hooker like Fatima, but nothing.
It was the day that I had settled upon the idea that the night with Fatima had been a turning point in all our lives that Jophielle showed up at my apartment door, in all your imaginary glorious perfection. It was like a Julia Roberts movie.
We sat down inside. I asked her how she had been, and she said she had been going through some changes. She said she thought they were going to be for the better. She said she felt free again. She said she had to tell me something.
Finally. Her professional help, her changes for the better, the fact that she felt free once again, it made sense why she was here.
"Yeah, tell me."
"Well I..."And somebody knocked on the door.
Pretty fucking predictable.
It was Baraqel, hand in hand with Fatima.
Jophielle gasped, Rocky winced, Fatima stared off into nowhere like a ladyboy hooker. I didn't quite know what to do.
"I'm going to make this quick,"Rocky said. He grabbed my hand and shoved it between his legs. Nothing.
"I told you I had to make changes to be with Fatima. And I told you I needed professional help to make those changes. I told you I felt trapped."
My palm was still firmly pressed against the reverse mirage that was Rocky's groin. There was supposed to be something there. But there wasn't.
I stared, wide eyed, mouth open, clutching Rocky's brand new vagina.
That's what he meant by professional help.
She gently removed my hand.
She looked behind me to Jophielle, who had now fallen to her knees.
"She's a novelist,"Rocky said. Like it was an apology. She turned to Fatima.
"Now we're truly compatible, baby,"and their faces slammed together in a John Bonham drum solo of tongue and lips for fifteen of the most uncomfortable seconds of my life.
Then they walked away.
I turned around. Jophielle was collapsed on the floor in shattering tears.
As she pounded and clawed at the rug, I tried to decipher the words furiously gurgling from her pained face.
After several repetitions of the same sorrow encoded phrase, I realized what she was screaming.
"I took out a student loan,"she screeched, "so I could have a penis for him."
She got professional help, too.
As I watched Jophielle writhe around my living room floor in all your now-tainted imaginary perfection, I put everything together. She had known all along, because Rocky had known all along. And they each loved someone so much, it didn't matter.
Just because a girl has a penis...
I knelt down beside Jophielle and helped her to her knees. I put my hands on her face. We kissed for the first time.
"I've always loved you,"I told her. "From the moment I saw you, I loved you."
She started crying harder.
I kissed her one more time, and I moved my head down towards her lap.
By Jonathan Ellis
Transsexuals usually say they feel trapped by their birth gender. Awkward. Confused. Unnatural. So, naturally, they feel they have to free themselves. Surgically. Like a flesh and blood kitchen remodeling. Or Optimus Prime. With a fake vagina. Half the time, if the doctor's good, you can't even tell. The artist Jean Michel Basquiat was once quoted as saying the only thing scarier than AIDS was a well-done transsexual. And he should know. He contracted the former from the latter.
OK, no he didn't. I made that up.
Transsexuals are not to be confused with hermaphrodites. Even though now that title is like referring to your Native American gardener as a god-damned savage and asking him if he thinks you should get reservations for dinner tonight. It's inappropriate. They're called intersexuals, please. An intersexual is someone born with some semblance of both male and female reproductive organs. A veritable Swiss Army knife of genitalia. They're a completely different breed.
After that you have your sub-genres and nicknames. Op-trans, non op-trans, trannies, partial transsexuals, ongoing transsexuals, ladyboys, he-shes and everyone's darling, the self-mutilated eunuch. Those doughy little balls of androgyny really just know how to perk up a room. And those soprano singing voices - just like a castrated cherub choir.
But you get the point.
Just because a girl has a penis doesn't mean she can be easily defined.
"There aren't many actresses willing to do the four-way extension cord D.P. for a full half hour. Especially not with the guys I work with. That's why I'm versatile. Well, that and, you know."I knew. "I'm like a utility infielder. Any position, baby. Anytime."Fatima took a sip of his drink and stared at the ceiling, obviously pleased with himself.
Fatima looked and sounded like a more weathered Cher, his oily olive skin accentuated by the cheap fluorescent apartment lighting.
I was drunk enough to think this was funny again, and everyone else at the party was drunk enough not to notice Fatima. I looked him over as he stared at the guests in attendance. He was horrifying. His purple backless top hung just low enough to let your gaze settle upon his sculpted, heaving breasts, and his skirt was just short enough to force you to notice his toned, bronze legs. Even his perfect shiny red lips and delicate arms didn't give off the slightest hint of masculinity.
But one thing did. And he hid it like a priest with a hideous secret says a Sunday mass. I was counting on that one thing.
He started again with his vast array of visually documented exploits. I stopped paying attention until "and then he took a piss on my face,"which drew me back into the conversation.
"You must really love what you do."
"Well, it's not my true passion. I want to be a novelist." Fatima stared earnestly into his drink.
Oh wow.
"That's interesting. Like what kind of stuff do you want to write?"
"Well right now I'm working on a piece. It's like "Lord of the Rings"crossed with "Fletch". Except all the characters are trannies. I just want to express myself. I just want to be taken seriously."His eyes welled up and he threw back his pink vodka and cranberry juice.
"I'm writing a novel, too," I lied. "It's about a man who dares to make love to his menstruating wife. I'm going to call it the Red Vadge of Courage."
Fatima glared at me and looked away. My insensitivity had pissed off the transsexual hooker. But I didn't care right now. Baraqel had arrived.
To say Rocky had a way with girls would be like saying the Kennedys had a way with dying.
There was something about him women were drawn to. Like some sort of sick, testosterone-laden magnet. Like the Beatles in the early 60s or Joey Fatone.
I knew what the magnet was. He could lie to anyone. It was like some sort of super power. Like if the Green Lantern traded in his green lantern for the ability to deceive girls. And it all stemmed from one disturbingly effective line.
"My birth name's Baraqel, but you can call me baby."
His birth name was Baraqel and most of the time they did end up calling him baby, but that's neither here nor there. He used it on every single girl he came in contact with. Ironically, the first thing he said to them usually ended up being the last true thing that came out of his mouth for the duration of their relationship, which rarely strayed beyond a couple filthy hours ending up with the girl alone, naked and in tears.
I was blessed with having Baraqel as my best friend.
(On a side note, Baraqel, as I discovered one day via Google, is the name of a fallen angel. A demon, basically. Baraqel's mom, Raquel, wasn't aware of this. Raquel combined her name with Rocky's father's name, Barry, because she thought it would be "adorable."One night, Raquel got blitzed and told me when she had Rocky, Barry-ever the classy sort-showed up at the hospital to dump her and exited with the parting line, "Oh, and I hope the fucking baby dies."Then he moved out of the country, turning the bastard Baraqel into the less-painfully monikered "Rocky"forever more. This all just makes way too much sense.)
Normally, Rocky's behavior never fazed me. Infidelity, his minor bouts with disease, tearful phone calls from his scorned conquests, whatever it was, I could handle it.
Until Jophielle.
To describe Jophielle would be to forsake brevity. So in consideration of time, picture the perfect girl in your mind. Now pretend that's Jophielle.
When she arrived on our social scene, it was like disco. Acid in the 60s. Britney Spears to adolescent boys. Brad Pitt shirtless in Legends of the Fall. It was like the Berlin Wall had tumbled and every guy we knew had once again found freedom, and on that day freedom was spelled J-O-P-H-I-E-L-L-E.
We all were infatuated with her. Gorgeous and funny and smart, on and on and on and on and on and on.
I wasn't infatuated, though. I was in love. Like a one way Bobby and Whitney.
Pile all of those "girl of your dreams" clichés on me. My heart skipped a beat, love at first sight, "I'm gonna marry that girl one day", whatever. They happened.
So of course, within the first forty five minutes:
"My name's Baraqel but you can call me baby."
And as we all watched out of the corners of our eyes, we hoped the unavoidable would be evaded. Like Rocky was a deer in the middle of the road, we wanted nothing more for her to swerve clear and cruise on safely home to one of us. We all prayed she would see through it. But he was too good. Like Chronic era Dr. Dre. Or pre-plane crash Roberto Clemente.
Like I said, the unfaithfulness had never hampered me before. The numerous indiscretions he committed and disguises I constructed had never once been an issue.
There was the fat girl from the junior college I pushed out the second story window.
There was the Asian chick from the beach who I tearfully convinced that they love of her life, Baraqel, had been tragically killed the previous night.
And everyone loved the story about the underage volleyball player I assaulted for taking advantage of my poor, drunken, confused boyfriend.
All to get him out of trouble.
But I wasn't going to do any of that this time.
As Rocky walked into the party I nudged Fatima. She looked up. Their eyes met. Rocky walked over, hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. Because we do that. Then he hit Fatima with it hard. He hit Rocky right back.
If I said I hadn't planned this I'd be lying. To give details about the search for my lady Fatima would be tedious, if not self-indulgent, but just allow me to say I have a friend who has the far reaching capabilities to obtain a transsexual hooker. Let's leave it at that.
And in all fairness, everyone but Jophielle knew. Every time she left town or had homework, it was the same thing. He didn't even try and hide it. It wouldn't be fair to let him get away with it again. So I planned it for the next time she went home for the weekend.
When she got back he'd have to tell her, because everyone was going to know what Rocky had done. Boning ex-dudes gets around.
As the alcohol flowed like wine, Rocky and Fatima's mutual affection did as well, demonstrated first by their interlocked limbs and exclusive, giggly conversation, second by the drunken make out session on the big orange couch in the center of the room. This, sadly, surprised no one.
At night's end, Rocky told me goodnight.
"Start planning our exit strategy now,"he half-jokingly whispered in my ear.
I smiled and nodded and he quietly exited, Fatima in tow.
I thought how I'd gladly vomit blood for a decade to see the look on his face an hour from then. Once his hand ventured too low it'd be like Christmas. Like the The Crying Game. Or a sexually explicit O. Henry story.
I went to sleep with a smile on my face.
But smiles are like the homeless. They die.
"I'm in love with Fatima." Rocky stared me right in the eye with this stupid look of glee on his stupid fucking face. "We didn't even sleep together. We just stayed up all night. Talking."
Unbelievable. It was too early in the morning for this.
"You didn't think she was kind of weird? She seemed kind of weird to me."
"No, she's amazing. She wants to be a novelist, man. She's writing a book. Something about a guy sleeping with his wife? I don't know. But I told Jophielle. She's broken up. I need you to handle that for me. She doesn't understand. And I have to tell you something else."
That bitch stole my fake novel idea.
"I'm getting professional help. I don't want to keep going like I am. I feel trapped. I can't be so dishonest anymore. I want to be with Fatima. I just thought I'd stop by and let you know. I appreciate how much you've helped me. I love you, buddy." He hugged me.
After I regarded Rocky's departure, I sat for several seconds in stunned silence. Then I broke into laughter. Horrific, maniacal, bloodcurdling laughter. Like the narrator at the end of the Tell-Tale Heart. Or Nic Cage. It worked out perfectly, better than I had planned. Until Jophielle called.
After almost two hours of screaming histrionics, Jophielle came to the conclusion that she too needed professional help.
"I feel encased in who I am. I have to make changes or else I won't be able to keep living," she said. Then she hung up.
The only thing that could've possibly eclipsed the overwhelming delight caused by Rocky's certain eventual demise was the off chance that Jophielle could cut her wrists wide open or hang herself in her parents' bedroom.
With this hanging over my head, in addition to fact that I had sent two friends into potentially life-altering therapy, for the slightest of moments I felt regret.
Then I thought about Fatima's penis and all that went away.
For two months I hadn't heard a thing from either of them.
I tried to call Rocky once and it went straight to his answering machine. I figured he was in exile until he could come to terms with the genital A-bomb that had been dropped upon him. At least I knew he was suffering somewhere.
I tried to call Jophielle a couple dozen times, but each attempt was met by ten unanswered rings and a generic phone company message declaring the customer had no voicemail service.
I even tried to call my friend who had the far reaching capabilities to find a hooker like Fatima, but nothing.
It was the day that I had settled upon the idea that the night with Fatima had been a turning point in all our lives that Jophielle showed up at my apartment door, in all your imaginary glorious perfection. It was like a Julia Roberts movie.
We sat down inside. I asked her how she had been, and she said she had been going through some changes. She said she thought they were going to be for the better. She said she felt free again. She said she had to tell me something.
Finally. Her professional help, her changes for the better, the fact that she felt free once again, it made sense why she was here.
"Yeah, tell me."
"Well I..."And somebody knocked on the door.
Pretty fucking predictable.
It was Baraqel, hand in hand with Fatima.
Jophielle gasped, Rocky winced, Fatima stared off into nowhere like a ladyboy hooker. I didn't quite know what to do.
"I'm going to make this quick,"Rocky said. He grabbed my hand and shoved it between his legs. Nothing.
"I told you I had to make changes to be with Fatima. And I told you I needed professional help to make those changes. I told you I felt trapped."
My palm was still firmly pressed against the reverse mirage that was Rocky's groin. There was supposed to be something there. But there wasn't.
I stared, wide eyed, mouth open, clutching Rocky's brand new vagina.
That's what he meant by professional help.
She gently removed my hand.
She looked behind me to Jophielle, who had now fallen to her knees.
"She's a novelist,"Rocky said. Like it was an apology. She turned to Fatima.
"Now we're truly compatible, baby,"and their faces slammed together in a John Bonham drum solo of tongue and lips for fifteen of the most uncomfortable seconds of my life.
Then they walked away.
I turned around. Jophielle was collapsed on the floor in shattering tears.
As she pounded and clawed at the rug, I tried to decipher the words furiously gurgling from her pained face.
After several repetitions of the same sorrow encoded phrase, I realized what she was screaming.
"I took out a student loan,"she screeched, "so I could have a penis for him."
She got professional help, too.
As I watched Jophielle writhe around my living room floor in all your now-tainted imaginary perfection, I put everything together. She had known all along, because Rocky had known all along. And they each loved someone so much, it didn't matter.
Just because a girl has a penis...
I knelt down beside Jophielle and helped her to her knees. I put my hands on her face. We kissed for the first time.
"I've always loved you,"I told her. "From the moment I saw you, I loved you."
She started crying harder.
I kissed her one more time, and I moved my head down towards her lap.