First time: on the floor of an anarchist bookstore, 3 am in Bushwick, Brooklyn, a middle-aged woman who carries a dick in her pants, mohawk, acne, big breasts, leather jacket and double bra removed, three fingers up in her cunt. The heat wasn't on, we were on a red stage in the back room, political stickers sloganeering underneath us and even further below in the basement was her polyamorous punk boyfriend, drunk and tripping and passed out. And I thought to myself how appropriate it was that I was fucking a girl in a bookstore, as my first time, because the first girl who had ever approached me was a valedictorian, the second allowed me to play with her in the library, and the third I had met up with in the library once again, but nothing had ever come of it and I had gotten frustrated with her and had called her an idiot and a poseur and I had seen her, quiet, awkward, at the bookfair that night.

Tough.

I like a girl that's intellectual and isn't afraid to show it. And there's something a little private and a little public about a library, a bookstore, a reading room, with their stacks and stacks and shelves so tall you can hide behind them and get completely absorbed in other worlds, other times and places, other girls who think like you do and don't apologize for it, except that deep down they feel apologetic for being born the way they were, with minds and clits that go the wrong way, and they never really want to fuck you even though they touch you and they call every day and they hug you and praise you and let you touch them and whisper that you love them but it doesn't ever matter because your love is such an embarassment, serious damning proof that they aren't really women, just like everybody tells them that they aren't.

And here's a transboy who carries a dick, who was a grad student in psychology, whose glasses broke but doesn't care. It's great to find someone who doesn't care. Who embraces their otherliness and doesn't reject you for pointing it up, who knows they're not femme but will let you up in their cunt where you belong, not taking it from a boy but giving it to them and giving them pleasure. Because every time before it was a boy, a terribly dull boy who liked comic books but didn't read, who played chess but didn't think, who considered me a fuck-toy, and who wanted me to be a passive, reserved, quiet little conservative nerd-girl, while denying to themselves over and over that my love for gaming and science and my unconcern for clothing wasn't masculine even though they compared me so favorably to the obnoxious femme-girls, because Lord forbid if that made them queer: to love a girl who was a bit of a guy, and meanwhile a girl who was a guy was underneath me and letting me suck her tits.

Guys doesn't matter. Girls doesn't matter. We're all a little queer, us bright young frightened misfit creatures who were hurt damned early on and don't understand the normal sorts too well, or were just simply born with an inability to grok the social scene so well, or were too smart for their own good or a foreigner amongst natives or maybe just a little queer for no real reason at all other than chance matings of two sets of chromosomes combined with bad time and bad place and bad people. Or maybe all of it, or none of it, but anyway. Anyway I push those buttons in the strange little queer misfit creatures I meet, strange little nerdy boys and especially girls, particularly girls, and they push my buttons and we dance around the issue, or maybe they admit it, maybe they get real close to it and call themselves bi, call themselves androgynous, maybe even call themselves genderqueer...but they never really let me fuck them, that would be too weird. Because I'm little, I'm quiet, I'm easily hurt, but also I have a raging sex drive and hair all over and when I fuck I bite, I squeeze, I scream, I'm not a lady, certainly, and yet to be that and be that again is not correct, I should be either butch or asexual, and if butch then butch all the way heavy and loud and in charge but I'm not, I'm in between and that scares them, I'm a bright woman whose power rests within her brain, a mind like a bright, shining sharp phallic sword and for the girls they'd deny that power over them and for the boys they'd rather it not exists at all, and so when it came down to it, after 22 years on Planet Earth and 11 years of desire, I wound up fucking a transboy with breasts on the floor, screwing down on the cold, cold floor of a darkened anarchist bookstore, for when The City sleeps anarchy reigns and who is doing the fucking doesn't matter as long as it gets done, in this acid-smeared, drunk-stoned-tripping no-man's land right near the Brooklyn Bridge.

Bib"li*o*phile (?), n. [Gr. book + to love: cf. F. bibliophile.]

A lover of books.

 

© Webster 1913.

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