Fat and Fab Femboy

I’m standing at the crosswalk, Broadway Rector street. Behind me, men in business suits blend together with adolescents in turtlenecks, carrying yoga mats. They hurriedly stream in between the green lamp posts of Wall street station and disappear into the underground in order to avoid the rain. The brim of my pants dig into my waist, the thin white belt just a little bit too tight. Liquid golden liner round my eyes, re-liquefied and running in the rain. Next to me the neo-Gothic towers of Trinity Church are reaching for the skies, and six feet under a polished miniature obelisk lies Alexander Hamilton. The red hand of the traffic light keeps me from crossing. There he comes, down the sandstone steps of Broadway 65, tryingly reaching out a hand to feel the rain. The love of my life.

The way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not aware. The way he turns to me for confirmation when he's cracked a joke, as if to confirm that he was funny, "I was funny, wasn't I? Wasn't I Andy?" A slight drizzle, golden trails on pinkish cheeks. My heart confined to my throat.

Had I been a girl, I'd known.

I'd irreversibly and absolutely known this to be love.

"Do you think he loves him?" I ask. The teacher looks at me lifting a skinny brow towards her receding hairline. I readjust my pointed snakeskin boots and cross my legs.

"Scoop?" She asks and I nod. The class is seated in a circle round the fluorescently lit black box. She frowns and dives down into her text. I make use of the moment and glance over at him. He sits across from me, legs crossed into a makeshift table to keep his script on, a green pen in hand with which he fiddles absentmindedly. She straightens out and jerks my attention back again with a shaking head.

"No," she concludes, "I think this dialogue is rather about rivalry," she dives back into the script again and mumbles to herself. I glance over at him again and my heart skips a beat. This time he is looking back. Looking at me, then at the teacher, then back at me. He meaningly rolls his eyes, and even though he’s wearing a mask I can tell that he is smiling from the way his eyes scrunch up and twinkle. And then just as fast he is gone again. He looks away, leaving alone with my melting heart.

“No," our teacher says, "I don't really see anything to indicate love."

“I had this realization today," Molly says, sipping her iced coffee out of the pink Jesus-loves-you-cup one of my roommates gave her for her birthday, "everything you need is a makeover before the party."

"Auch," I respond half-halfheartedly, “the shade of it all…” I fiddle with my script, readjusting the pages as if to tell her I’m busy. I’m not. But Molly is a Regina George-type of girl, a Cher, and she uses it wisely. ‘I’m just trying to live my life’, ‘have fun" ‘it’s not my problem if they misinterpret’ Klytaimnestra. And every Saturday morning another abercrombie and frat bro wakes up bloody in a bathtub, having fallen victim to her utter ruthlessness while she is off to Bactria or wherever she might go. I’m not like that, and in truth I envy her.

"Not shade I just care for you… and dear Matthew."

"Please don't say his name like that,” I snap up from the pages, “You're making me feel dirty." She laughs at me and I return to my script. ‘I don't really see anything to indicate that….’ I know it was about the characters, not me, but still… Gay and queer don't smear. It's not an actual saying but true nonetheless.

“He's gay you know,"

I sigh, “I know.” And Gay men go for Gay men, not queermos. If the word ‘queermo’ stood listed in any dictionary I'd be in the picture.

“Besides, it's a classic trope!” Her eyes darken as she plots, staring me down from the edge of her cup, “Mysterious... straight passing, dude-bro meets cute European exchange student… They try to fight it but oh, oh, c’est impossible! Later, in the men’s locker room they-…”

“OH MY GOD stop it!” I throw my script at her. She dodges and starts giggling manically. In irreversible and absolute defeat I sprawl myself across the table, “Oh Molly,” I moan and wail, “I am so miserable!”

“Noo baby,” She tries to ease her giggling. I curl up and pretend to weep into my arms. She slides around the table and embraces me with great pity, “You’re just in love.”

“Well I don’t want it!” I howl and mercilessly throw myself at her, “Oh god, release me!” I weep as she waivers under my weight. A wheezing stream of air escapes her lips.

“There, there big boy,” Strained she pats my back,” every little thing is gonna be all right. Just let mama work her magic”

Later, in my room she is laying sprawled out on the bed messaging with some of the friends we’re linking up with later. I’m standing in front of the mirror. I feel… Funky. Not bad, just funky. And performative. I’m well aware that I’ve always been on the softer side, the broader side, the wrong shape if you intend to embody the queermo experience, great if you aim to fulfill your father’s Ibrahimovic dream.

“Oh my, you’re so handsome.”

And I’ve also always idolized the queens of the 60's and 70's, tried to disconnect my feeling of self-value from physical quality, allowing myself to have that little extra belly fat and still putting on crop top and just not giving a shit about what anyone else thinks. That has always been the core, the very foundation of my liberation. But seeing the little baseball cap on my head and how the striped silky shirt hides all my forms and makes my hips all straight I can’t help but think that perhaps ‘performative’ doesn’t always have to be bad.

“I look like a bully.” I conclude.

“Yes, you do.” She replies with a smirk.

A very Handsome bully, I think to myself.

I can be my father’s Ibrahimovic dream, if only for a night. Right?

Gay men go for Gay men after all.

‘Love? I don’t see anything to indicate love.’

The light turns red just as we’re about to cross Front Street, Peck Slip. We ignore it and take a turn through Dusk Space instead, walk down towards the water where we’re supposed to meet our Uber.

“You dirty, dirty boys!” Molly screeches, “I’m shooooo happy!” Her walk is slightly unstable and so is mine. My head is spinning out of all control and in my chest my heart is leaking. It’s as though someone came in there with little tiny electrodes and shocked it a few times over and now battery acid is leaking out of where the electrodes used to be. I’m still irreversibly and absolutely over the moon, and I’m not sure I’ll ever come back down.

We arrived in the apartment just after eleven and the party was already going strong. I didn’t try to look for him, but my eyes were far beyond my control and suddenly there he was. Like a beacon with a red plastic cup in hand. He must have felt me too because within a second, I see him turning too. And finally, our eyes meet. In honor of the occasion, I chose to not wear foundation and as he approaches I beg the universe to let the darkness of the venue hide my flushing cheeks.

“Hi.” He says.

“Hi!” I squeak.

“I salute thee my lord, bravo, bravo!” Molly slurs as we tuck ourselves into the car, “Seldom have I seen such a marvelous demonstration of shameless PDA!” She laughs and claps her hands. I can only smile. I still can’t believe it.

“I told you a make-over would do the trick!” I hug her and chew my bottom lip. It’s still prickly from his stubble.

“I just can’t believe it…” I smile and the car takes off towards Brooklyn.

Not fifteen minutes later the cabbie drops Molly off by Maria Hernandez. We kiss good night and then she hugs me and says, “I’m so happy, he just needed to see you in the right light.” I smile and hug her back tightly. Then my ride resumes down Knickerbocker.

‘the right light’

As I sit alone in silence watching the blocks go by, I can’t help but go through the evening in my head over and over again and that funky feeling from earlier comes crawling back.

‘the right light’

What does that mean exactly? What is it that she thinks he needed to see to want to kiss me? The bland t-shirt? The hat? The absence of makeup?

And suddenly that funky feeling reveals it’s ugly face.

‘Gay men go for Gay men’

And, god, I feel so bad.

I’m standing at the crosswalk, Broadway Rector street. Behind me, men in business suits and adolescents with yoga mats. The brim of my pants dig into my waist, the thin white belt just a little too tight. Liquid golden liner round my eyes. The red hand of the traffic light holds me back.

Down the polished sandstone steps of Broadway 65 comes Matthew. His umbrella is unfolded but a little busted. One of the joints must be crooked and when I look at him I see every indication that what I realized is true.

‘I can’t change for you Matthew. I found that out last night when I laid tossing and turning in my bed. I am who I am, magenta and it griefs me, honestly it griefs me so much, that I’m not that guy you made out with at the party but I can’t wake up and get a makeover every morning only for you. I’m sorry, Matthew, cherish it. Cause that was my last apology. God, I’ve been apologizing for not fitting into the mold all my life, and nothing but self deprecating bullshit ever comes of it you know. So I'd rather not, Matthew, I’m not here for it. Which is honestly so, so depressing in it's own way because I like you, man, I really really really like you with a cherry on the top. But I think I have to stop.'

I was gonna say all that, I had the entire speech planned out and was repeating it in my head as he came down towards me.

I took a deep breath and was all set.

'unless you'd like yourself some fat-fab-femboy of course.'

But that’s when the light turned green and he ran over and kissed me.