I just want to be friends...
Last night I called Pasha from Mona's field office for the Transgender Project and invited him to meet me on St. Mark's at this bambo-dive sushi restaurant. He met me and we hugged each other hello. The sushi restaurant was actually a place he was quite familiar with from his college days at Columbia. Too much food was order and only half of it eaten. As I was waiting for Pasha to return from the men's room, I started to watch the Yankees game being played over the bar with all the cooks. I tried making small talk with one of the cooks.
"Who's pitching? Randy Johnson?"
"Hai."
"Who are they playing." I waited for the pitch, for the camera shot that would reveal the batter and the visiting team. Lo and behold, Manny was at the plate, Manny Ramirez.The Yankees were playing my beloved Red Sox. I love my Red Sox. While Pasha was in the bar I made up my mind that I was going to take an evening stroll around Tompkin's Square Park, smoke a small bowl of weed and then go to Professor Thom's, the secret hidden Red Sox bar nestled in the East Village. Pasha would just have to indulge me.
Thom's was crowded with it's usually throng of khaki-wearing, white-capped young accountants idling their time in New York City before they move back to their suburban nests in Malden Massachusetts and become breeders for the next generation of red-blooded heteronorms. It's growing on me, Thom's. I prefer going to an old dive inhabited by crusty oldmen croaking poetry of Tony C. and Yaz rather than being surrounded by fraternity row of U-Mass Amherst, but this isn't possible in New York City. There's one Red Sox bar and I got to make the best of it. So I drag my tranny and queer friends there and try to introduce a few more colors into the bar's rainbow.
I met Pasha at Lucky's. Pasha is a mash-up name I baptized him* with since Pasha is a tragically closeted transvestite. When I met him, he was dressed as a ravishing dark-haired beauty named "Sasha." I was drunk, he was drunk, we made out a little on a bar stool. It was kind of hot but it was kind of awkward as he attempted and fumbled to touch my penis. "Not here," I instructed. I should have known that this juvenile, middle school stab at getting up my skirt in public would be a good indicator of future passes taken by Pasha. At the end of the evening, Sasha told me his name was "Steve" and we exchanged email addresses.
Eventually, I found out Sasha was not really named Steve but was infact named "Pat." How pathetically ironic: a crossdresser named "Pat." But something about hanging out with Pasha, as I soon started to call him, was exciting. When we met, he would always be dressed as a boy. He is tall and has broad shoulders and since he is usually meeting me after working all day as a highschool teacher in Brooklyn, he would be typically wearing a smart blazer with corduroy elbow patches. Very cute. We spoke deeply about many things. Pasha was deeply in the closet about his cross dressing and I was the priest or shrink that he confessed all his rogue thoughts to. I learned quickly Pasha is a liar. Years of being submerged in the closet can really sharpen those skills and honestly, the feeling of being the secret maude of a scoundrel was thrilling. Pasha confessed to me he was married, secretly married, not even his family or friends knew. Pasha was a well spring of secrets and lies.
The excitement of these secrets and duplicity wore off soon enough though.
I kissed Pasha the night we met. He kissed me again one night in a shadowy crevice of a brownstone in the East Village but I really wanted to be his friend rather than his girlfriend. I didn't want to be the secret tranny adulterer. When I've kissed others in the past, it was an exploration of gender and sexuality for questions I felt needed to be answered as I transitioned. This question and its answer was now becoming tiresome.
As we walked around Tompkin's Sqyare park smoking weed, we talked. I mentioned how I sit on the fence where both sides are greener, that I have been swooning for the feminine beauty of women recently and that I may never have a handle of my own mercurial sexuality. I talked about Bunny and how I missed her terribly as she was visiting home for the week but I mentioned how I enjoyed walking with Pasha, a large man, and not worrying about creeps lurking in alleys.
Thom's was packed. Last time I was there, stools were open at the bar and I played bingo with Tiffany Leigh as the owner called off numbers on a P.A. system. That night, I drank a few rounds on Thom's and Tiffany. Last night it was standing room only and the volume was deafening. Red Sox-Yankee games are always a big draw in this town and justifiably since the games are always entertaining, hard-played baseball.
I was feeling good. I felt pretty and I was glowing. The weed got me a little high and I had little buzz from the beer. We were standing infront of four giant television screens amongst stock brokers, junior marketing executives and accountants and I kept leaning into Pasha to point out my favorite players.
"That's Big Papi, David Ortiz. I love David Ortiz! He's my favorite!"
"I think he's scary," Pasha's response was gruff.
"Oh no! He's a giant teddy bear and he can carry twenty-eight full grown men on his shoulders!"
I also felt good that I was standing in a sports bar. Some places are just assumed to be abandoned once one transitions their gender. The beach being one example, a sports bar another, but I was standing there sipping frothy tap beer watching my Red Sox. I was proud. I was either passing as a natural-born woman or I was marked as transsexual but it didn't matter. I was proud, fierce and beautiful. I saw Carl Yastrzemski play at Fenway in his last season in a uniform. I could not be touched by cretins or baseball snobs. I leaned into Pasha's shoulder and whispered in my pride, "I think it's awesome I can be here, fearlessly, gleefully, proudly. I kind of feel like a nerd though. Do you think it's strange that I adore my Red Sox so much?"
"No, not at all," Pasha quickly responded, "It's because you're a man."
My jaw went slack. I said nothing but stared at Pasha. He smiled at me and raised his plastic cup of beer for a toast like he said something funny. The crowded bar went silent.
When I regained my senses minutes later, still staring slack-jawed at Pasha, I recommended, "You should apologize." I did not want the evening to be ruined, my humor to be soured or to go home soon. It was only the fifth inning and the Sox were killing the Yankees.
"Why? Was that insulting?"
I said nothing.
"I thought, you know, since I'm in the club, I could make a joke."
"You're in the club!? What club? You're a woman!?"
Pasha stood there like a dumb, mute statue.
"I'm not some cheap transvestite and I refuse to be treated as one."
"I'm sorry." His apology was awkward and giggled. I stood there demanding better with my eyes. He apologized once again but with a little more grace.
All of a sudden Manny hit a drive straight over center field and into the Yankee bullpen. A woman at the bar started to enthuisastically yell at the television sets behind the bar, hooting and hollering madly. I pointed to her. "Look at her. She loves the Red Sox, she must be a man."
Pasha like an idiot tilted his head and examined her closely and in all sincerity stated, "Really? I didn't even notice her. She wasn't even a blip on my radar."
"Your radar!? What the fuck are you talking about!?"
It then occured to him the woman was not trans nor was I implying she was. I was making a point and like the big, clumbsy oaf he is, he stomped right over it in his ignorance. "You moron! I was trying to make a point and you just made the most chauvenistic statement ever! You've insulted me as a woman and now as a feminist, you pig!"
Pasha stumbled into another stupid, worthless apology.
After the game and some more beers, Pasha escourted me to the subway stop on fourteenth. We stood there for a moment and I asked for a hug goodbye. It was awkward as always. As we parted, Pasha planted a kiss on my lips. I pulled back.
"Pasha, I don't really want to kiss you. I really like you and I like hanging out, but just as friends" I had never made that statement to anyone until last night. Pasha nodded. I skipped down the stairs and into the labrynth of the New York City subway system.
"Now what made this heel think I wanted to kiss!?" I wondered. Even if we exclude his moronic statements at the sports bar, our conversation all night should have had enough red flags to slow down his lumbering approach. I talked about being really into girls lately, I talked a lot about Bunny, missing her and excited about her return. Pasha spoke of his secret wife's possible pregnacy. He had actually met me right after she took a pregnacy test. Her period is two weeks late and this scoundrel tried kissing me. I wasn't sure if this man is a colossal moron or a colossal villian!
I thought about Tiffany yesterday. I'm glad we're friends now. I kissed her too once long ago and luckily we're still friends months later. I really admire her. She is the evolved being all cross dressers should aspire to. I don't even think the title "cross dresser" is quite appropriate for Tiffany either. It isn't about dressing, it's so much more. As a woman she is elegant and desirable, as a man, he is a devastatingly handsome gentlman. Any form, she is a lady or a gentleman, well-spoken, intelligent, sensitive and funny, but above, all liberated. Maybe she was able to evolve since she had emerged from the cocoon of the closet and able to face reality of everyday rather than living in a duplicid fantasy world where wives are left in apartments alone trying to figure out what pink means versus blue on a plastic stick she just urinated on.
I really hope Pasha can one day transcend as Cliffany has.
"Who's pitching? Randy Johnson?"
"Hai."
"Who are they playing." I waited for the pitch, for the camera shot that would reveal the batter and the visiting team. Lo and behold, Manny was at the plate, Manny Ramirez.The Yankees were playing my beloved Red Sox. I love my Red Sox. While Pasha was in the bar I made up my mind that I was going to take an evening stroll around Tompkin's Square Park, smoke a small bowl of weed and then go to Professor Thom's, the secret hidden Red Sox bar nestled in the East Village. Pasha would just have to indulge me.
Thom's was crowded with it's usually throng of khaki-wearing, white-capped young accountants idling their time in New York City before they move back to their suburban nests in Malden Massachusetts and become breeders for the next generation of red-blooded heteronorms. It's growing on me, Thom's. I prefer going to an old dive inhabited by crusty oldmen croaking poetry of Tony C. and Yaz rather than being surrounded by fraternity row of U-Mass Amherst, but this isn't possible in New York City. There's one Red Sox bar and I got to make the best of it. So I drag my tranny and queer friends there and try to introduce a few more colors into the bar's rainbow.
I met Pasha at Lucky's. Pasha is a mash-up name I baptized him* with since Pasha is a tragically closeted transvestite. When I met him, he was dressed as a ravishing dark-haired beauty named "Sasha." I was drunk, he was drunk, we made out a little on a bar stool. It was kind of hot but it was kind of awkward as he attempted and fumbled to touch my penis. "Not here," I instructed. I should have known that this juvenile, middle school stab at getting up my skirt in public would be a good indicator of future passes taken by Pasha. At the end of the evening, Sasha told me his name was "Steve" and we exchanged email addresses.
Eventually, I found out Sasha was not really named Steve but was infact named "Pat." How pathetically ironic: a crossdresser named "Pat." But something about hanging out with Pasha, as I soon started to call him, was exciting. When we met, he would always be dressed as a boy. He is tall and has broad shoulders and since he is usually meeting me after working all day as a highschool teacher in Brooklyn, he would be typically wearing a smart blazer with corduroy elbow patches. Very cute. We spoke deeply about many things. Pasha was deeply in the closet about his cross dressing and I was the priest or shrink that he confessed all his rogue thoughts to. I learned quickly Pasha is a liar. Years of being submerged in the closet can really sharpen those skills and honestly, the feeling of being the secret maude of a scoundrel was thrilling. Pasha confessed to me he was married, secretly married, not even his family or friends knew. Pasha was a well spring of secrets and lies.
The excitement of these secrets and duplicity wore off soon enough though.
I kissed Pasha the night we met. He kissed me again one night in a shadowy crevice of a brownstone in the East Village but I really wanted to be his friend rather than his girlfriend. I didn't want to be the secret tranny adulterer. When I've kissed others in the past, it was an exploration of gender and sexuality for questions I felt needed to be answered as I transitioned. This question and its answer was now becoming tiresome.
As we walked around Tompkin's Sqyare park smoking weed, we talked. I mentioned how I sit on the fence where both sides are greener, that I have been swooning for the feminine beauty of women recently and that I may never have a handle of my own mercurial sexuality. I talked about Bunny and how I missed her terribly as she was visiting home for the week but I mentioned how I enjoyed walking with Pasha, a large man, and not worrying about creeps lurking in alleys.
Thom's was packed. Last time I was there, stools were open at the bar and I played bingo with Tiffany Leigh as the owner called off numbers on a P.A. system. That night, I drank a few rounds on Thom's and Tiffany. Last night it was standing room only and the volume was deafening. Red Sox-Yankee games are always a big draw in this town and justifiably since the games are always entertaining, hard-played baseball.
I was feeling good. I felt pretty and I was glowing. The weed got me a little high and I had little buzz from the beer. We were standing infront of four giant television screens amongst stock brokers, junior marketing executives and accountants and I kept leaning into Pasha to point out my favorite players.
"That's Big Papi, David Ortiz. I love David Ortiz! He's my favorite!"
"I think he's scary," Pasha's response was gruff.
"Oh no! He's a giant teddy bear and he can carry twenty-eight full grown men on his shoulders!"
I also felt good that I was standing in a sports bar. Some places are just assumed to be abandoned once one transitions their gender. The beach being one example, a sports bar another, but I was standing there sipping frothy tap beer watching my Red Sox. I was proud. I was either passing as a natural-born woman or I was marked as transsexual but it didn't matter. I was proud, fierce and beautiful. I saw Carl Yastrzemski play at Fenway in his last season in a uniform. I could not be touched by cretins or baseball snobs. I leaned into Pasha's shoulder and whispered in my pride, "I think it's awesome I can be here, fearlessly, gleefully, proudly. I kind of feel like a nerd though. Do you think it's strange that I adore my Red Sox so much?"
"No, not at all," Pasha quickly responded, "It's because you're a man."
My jaw went slack. I said nothing but stared at Pasha. He smiled at me and raised his plastic cup of beer for a toast like he said something funny. The crowded bar went silent.
When I regained my senses minutes later, still staring slack-jawed at Pasha, I recommended, "You should apologize." I did not want the evening to be ruined, my humor to be soured or to go home soon. It was only the fifth inning and the Sox were killing the Yankees.
"Why? Was that insulting?"
I said nothing.
"I thought, you know, since I'm in the club, I could make a joke."
"You're in the club!? What club? You're a woman!?"
Pasha stood there like a dumb, mute statue.
"I'm not some cheap transvestite and I refuse to be treated as one."
"I'm sorry." His apology was awkward and giggled. I stood there demanding better with my eyes. He apologized once again but with a little more grace.
All of a sudden Manny hit a drive straight over center field and into the Yankee bullpen. A woman at the bar started to enthuisastically yell at the television sets behind the bar, hooting and hollering madly. I pointed to her. "Look at her. She loves the Red Sox, she must be a man."
Pasha like an idiot tilted his head and examined her closely and in all sincerity stated, "Really? I didn't even notice her. She wasn't even a blip on my radar."
"Your radar!? What the fuck are you talking about!?"
It then occured to him the woman was not trans nor was I implying she was. I was making a point and like the big, clumbsy oaf he is, he stomped right over it in his ignorance. "You moron! I was trying to make a point and you just made the most chauvenistic statement ever! You've insulted me as a woman and now as a feminist, you pig!"
Pasha stumbled into another stupid, worthless apology.
After the game and some more beers, Pasha escourted me to the subway stop on fourteenth. We stood there for a moment and I asked for a hug goodbye. It was awkward as always. As we parted, Pasha planted a kiss on my lips. I pulled back.
"Pasha, I don't really want to kiss you. I really like you and I like hanging out, but just as friends" I had never made that statement to anyone until last night. Pasha nodded. I skipped down the stairs and into the labrynth of the New York City subway system.
"Now what made this heel think I wanted to kiss!?" I wondered. Even if we exclude his moronic statements at the sports bar, our conversation all night should have had enough red flags to slow down his lumbering approach. I talked about being really into girls lately, I talked a lot about Bunny, missing her and excited about her return. Pasha spoke of his secret wife's possible pregnacy. He had actually met me right after she took a pregnacy test. Her period is two weeks late and this scoundrel tried kissing me. I wasn't sure if this man is a colossal moron or a colossal villian!
I thought about Tiffany yesterday. I'm glad we're friends now. I kissed her too once long ago and luckily we're still friends months later. I really admire her. She is the evolved being all cross dressers should aspire to. I don't even think the title "cross dresser" is quite appropriate for Tiffany either. It isn't about dressing, it's so much more. As a woman she is elegant and desirable, as a man, he is a devastatingly handsome gentlman. Any form, she is a lady or a gentleman, well-spoken, intelligent, sensitive and funny, but above, all liberated. Maybe she was able to evolve since she had emerged from the cocoon of the closet and able to face reality of everyday rather than living in a duplicid fantasy world where wives are left in apartments alone trying to figure out what pink means versus blue on a plastic stick she just urinated on.
I really hope Pasha can one day transcend as Cliffany has.