on junk

he is old, pale, pinkish around the edges. he rotates beneath the hair dryer rotisserie style. ass, cock, ass, cock. old, pale, pinkish around the edges, flaccid. his cock is neither impressive nor unimpressive, it simply is. it looks like an eruption, a strange sneeze, a coincidence (accident?) of chromosomes or genetics. some in, some out just like belly buttons. his naked body is not an outlier here in the ymca locker room. another naked body approaches and passes. i moan to myself silently, ‘what ease, what ease.’ oh, to be anything but spectacular.

i mostly avoid men’s locker rooms. my logic brain knows that the majority of people i encounter each day have no idea that i’m trans, but my trans brain hasn’t caught up yet. i am simultaneously thrilled by this simple space of quasi-erotic homosociality, and mortified at the thought of being found out. i want to cruise and also i want to leave. now.


there’s a magical stretch of west 18th street between 8th and 9th avenue where i cruise with abandon. i am suddenly saturated with trans folks, fags. a man brushes past me as i mess with my phone. twenty yards down the sidewalk he turns fully around to look back at me. we catch eyes, smile. he turns on his heel and goes back on with his day. the arc of attraction is brief and i like that. it’s less messy that way.

it’s a short walk to christopher street pier from here. it’s a short walk to the trucks and abandoned warehouses, to the bars. i could walk there if i want, but it’s not the same anymore and anyway i wasn’t there. even in my imagination i can’t place myself, because there’s a lot of navigation, negotiation that goes into my casual fucking like is my body okay with you? am i packing? am i safe? my anxieties infiltrate my fantasies; even in unreality i can’t escape reality. i long for something i can’t access. then or now.

but, i’m not here to fuck, i’m here for a pelvic exam. i hate going to the lgbt clinic. they probe, they pry, they always make me feel like i’m doing something wrong. but, this little stretch of somewhere else, sometime else is cool i guess.


i realize that despite the fact that i’m completely naked, cloaked in a thin papery gown, legs spread in front of a complete stranger, the only thing i can think about is the fact that i wore two socks with holes in them today. how embarrassing.

i only let people i don’t care about fuck me. i guess it’s a good thing i don’t care about my gynecologist.

although, the last time i had a pelvic exam i cried. which is intimate.

she leaves. i grab a handful of condoms for unexpected encounters i won’t have. and two more for good measure.


my therapist asks if my frustration feels like taking steps backwards. i tell her no. because everything i ever hated about my body has been resolved. no more work necessary. i really fucking love my meat suit. i walk like i want, i cruise, i coast. i have never wanted or needed a different genital configuration. i have only wanted and needed a world where my body is inconsequential.


oh, to be anything but spectacular.