The Convulsion Factory (8 page)

“I would’ve thought she’d told you that.”

“She did. I’m interested in seeing how you perceive it.”

Gary settled back, absently scratching at his chest, stomach. Itchy under his shirt. Maybe a rash, guilt surfacing as physical symptoms. His nipples ached. There, Dr. Thatcher, how’s
that
for traditional Freudian symbolism?

“I met her in a bar near the French Quarter, four months ago. A straight bar, not one of the places where the gay-bi-TV types usually hang out.” He wet his lips, felt drymouth coming on. “Hell, how does anybody meet in a bar? We made eye contact, started talking. I thought she was gorgeous. Sure, there was something different about her, something exotic, but I never would’ve guessed. Later I found out she’d been on estrogen for over a year, had her breasts and the smooth skin. Her voice seemed natural enough. She’d been living totally inside her female identity all that time. Already gotten rid of facial and body hair. How could I have known?”

Dr. Thatcher nodded. “She was extremely convincing.”

“We danced, and started fooling around. Pretty soon we went out back, into this alley doorway, and she … she performed oral sex on me.”

For no more reaction than Thatcher showed, he may as well have been describing a trick knee. “And did you initiate any reciprocal sexual contact?”

“I tried to. She said it was her period. We went our separate ways that night. But I went back the next night, same place, hoping she’d be there. And she was.” Gary smiled, bittersweet. “We got drunk, and she went back to my hotel with me. The sex was the same, though, she said it was still her period.”

“When did you find out the truth?”

“The next morning. We were taking a shower. See, she had this trick. She’d push each testicle up into her pelvic cavity, then stretch her cock back between her legs and sort of keep it wedged between the bottom of her ass muscles. We were in bed, naked …
and I didn’t know
.”

“Until the shower. The act of coming clean.”

“The shower.” Only now did he start to blush. “Lana said she had a secret to share with me, and she thought I was ready. She squatted down and it all sort of …
popped
out into place. I think she just wanted to see what I’d do.”

“And what
did
you do?”

“I gagged. Dry heaved.”

“And then?”

“And then…? I rinsed out my mouth, and … I blew her.”

Thatcher and her amazing clinical nod.

“It wasn’t like I was thinking of her as a man, even though she told me her name was legally Alan, still, and she just made an anagram of the letters. To me she wasn’t a man, she was … was…”

“A woman with a penis?”

“Exactly. I’d never had a gay experience before, and I still didn’t think I had. I mean … look. I’ve spent the last six years living off a trust fund I got when I turned twenty-one.”

He backtracked for several moments, describing his earlier life, so different from the path he was now on. Born to a family of Delaware real estate barons, where mother and father advocated a hands-off policy of parenting, turning over such domesticities to hired help, while advocating stoicism and scandal-free civility for the good of the family name. Prep school uniforms were de rigueur, and polite conformity the norm.

“Twenty-one years was enough. I saw too many kids I’d grown up with turn into neurotic assholes. Centers of the universe. They might end up in the highest tax bracket, but I just knew that none of them would really
live
. I wanted to do a one-eighty away from all that. So I’ve spent the last six years trying everything I felt like I missed out on while growing up. Even if it was bad for me. And I’ve taken a special delight in things I know my family would hate. So, this? Lana? It was just so intriguing, I couldn’t leave it alone.” Gary spread his hands. “I don’t mean this to sound callous, but I went into my relationship with Lana like another new experience. Mostly decadent, but at the same time there was something hallucinatory about it. Sometimes even soulful.”

“Is that why you wouldn’t make any promises of something more permanent?”

“It was a fantasy. Something forbidden. You can’t live a fantasy every day of your life — it loses power then.”

“What about love? Did you love her?”

The toughest question of all. The two souls/one flesh proposition. He wandered back to the window, forehead to glass.

“I suppose I did. Yes.
Yes.
I did love her.” He shook his head and sighed. Scratched that nagging itch. “That was the problem, wasn’t it? Somewhere along the way I think I got scared of what that was going to mean.”

And wasn’t it the great human irony? Most of mankind viewing monogamy as right and proper, yet so many going to such lengths to sneak around it, to exploit the loopholes. While those who condemned it from the outset eventually succumbed to jealousies and the need to bond … only to later betray.

We never learn,
he thought.
That’s the only constant.

*

Lana was interred a couple days later, ushered into the afterlife by a minister who looked more befuddled than grieving. The square pegs of the world were always more difficult to eulogize.

The turnout was small, scarcely a dozen paying last respects under a sky that couldn’t make up its mind between bright and overcast. The sun played masquerades with clouds, and the air was gravid with the damp of a southern spring.

Beneath his shirt, the itch still nagged. Heat rash, perhaps, unaccustomed to such brutal humidity. He’d probably have to see a doctor.

He knew at a glance they were Lana’s nighttime friends, a trio in gray and black who oversaw the sendoff with a melancholic brooding. Beneath overcoats worn against the unpredictably hostile sky, they were of indeterminate gender, caught somewhere between the poles of male and female.

While circumstances may not have been the norm, the emotions of grief were universal — that longing to connect with others who had shared the now-dead. Once the service was concluded and the mourners turned toward home, he approached them, and their gazes ranged from guarded to inimical.

“Oh, look,” said one of the trio. Long blond hair, full red mouth, mascaraed eyes; male origins betrayed by a squarish jaw. “I bet I know who this is.”

The tallest of the three nodded. Dark hair cropped close, sparse stubble on the jaw. The hands were delicate, though, this one traveling the opposite road of change. “You’re Gary, aren’t you?” The voice fell between alto and tenor, a vocal netherland.

He said that he was, and while there was little warmth, the introductions were civil. The blond was Alexis, the short-haired one Gabriel. The third of their group — small and pale, hostile eyes red from weeping — was Megan. Ringlets of brown hair fell into her blotchy face, and she pushed them back with incongruently large hands, veined and knotty.

“Let me guess,” said Gabriel, appearing less accusatory than analytical. “You’re feeling guilty because you dumped her, and you think that’s why she did it.”

Gary frowned. “How do you know what went on between us?” This was either scary insight, or an unerringly accurate guess. “Lana did it … immediately.”

Gabriel shrugged, stared at the dead sky. “I’ve seen it happen before.”

“I’m sorry,” Gary said, and hated how lame it sounded. “I never meant to hurt her.”

“No, of course not,” Megan said. “
She
didn’t have feelings, did she? Just a new kind of thrill, until the new wore off.”

Gary stared her down until she closed her angry mouth. “I didn’t come here for a debate.” Then, to all three: “I can’t say I was perfect, but I never intended anything like this to happen. I did care for her.”

Alexis nodded. “But you didn’t truly understand her world. Did you?”

“The best I could.”

“No.” Gabriel shook his head. “If you’d really wanted to, you would’ve already met us. We didn’t see much of Lana the past few months. Those belonged to you. She subjugated herself for you. All so you wouldn’t be hit with too much at once, and go running.”

Gary took a step back from the rawness of the implication, that he was ignorant of the real Lana, as opposed to the Lana she had chosen to reveal. He’d thought all along she simply preferred being alone with him.

“I should go,” he whispered, and took another step.

“Why not join us tonight?” Gabriel said. “At the Fringe. You know that much about Lana, don’t you? How much she liked that place?”

“I know of it.”

“Then join us, why don’t you? Have a drink to her memory with the people who knew her better than you did.” Gabriel looked distastefully about the cemetery, all spires and vaults and crumbled beauty. “I think you owe her that much.”

“At least,” he said softly, and thought for a moment, then told them he would be there.

*

He carried the stares of Lana’s friends throughout the rest of the afternoon and into evening along a gauntlet of French Quarter bars, smoothing down the roughest edges of remorse and responsibility.

Mardi Gras was over by two months, but revelers still choked the Quarter’s streets, furiously bent on good times. The South had always seemed so fundamentally more sensual than New England, its passions ignited by a crueler sun, and allowed to boil out and flow and cool like sweat. Here the food was rich and spicy, full of delicious venoms that the heart embraced. Here Dixieland rubbed amiable shoulders with punk. Here an empty glass was intolerable.

Gary had lied, of course; had no intention of meeting them at the Fringe. To promise otherwise was simply the best way to save face, avoid conflict, for he felt low enough as it was. Sitting there baring his head and soul for them to whack on would do no one any good. He’d get along better on his own, never prone to crumbling into tears and begging strangers to listen to his woes. Let the drinks settle inside, then, and glaze him over with silent brooding.

The French Quarter, and Rue Bourbon. Strip shows and jazz bands and karaoke. He watched from the shadows while slow numbness crept in, absently scratching his chest, fighting that persistent itch. It took deliberate effort to stop and realize just how long he’d been at it — enough to make it second nature.

He rubbed again, probing with tender fingers.

Swelling. There was swelling going on under his shirt.

Gary rose to tread the churning sea into a bathroom that may have last been clean back when Louis Armstrong played. He stood before the cracked mirror and parted his shirt—

—and stared at the two feminine nipples jutting from his chest. Protuberant and erect, their areolae as large as silver dollars.

His reflection, staring. Cracked in the middle, two jagged halves misaligned at their juncture.

“She was contagious,” he muttered in cold shock.

And quickly reconsidered this afternoon’s lie.

*

Through a spitting rain, he found it an hour later, twice stopping street locals to point him in the proper direction. The Fringe had been built in a renovated warehouse downriver from the French Quarter. Night seemed deeper here, the air ancient. Few would ever come here by mistake.

Although Lana had spoken of the Fringe several times, he’d never accompanied her here. He supposed that she alone had been enough to sate his curiosity about her kind, so until tonight he’d had no real need of this haven for gender-benders, and those who sought their company.

Within its dark and hallowed walls Gary found a world of alternatives: music, clothing, anatomy. A maze of multiple levels in architecture, as Lana had described, each was dimly lit and an enclave unto itself. There was supposed to be some sort of garden atop the roof, where ephemeral couples might retreat for whatever liaisons their bodies, lacerated or not, would allow.

Gary bought a bottle of wine at the main bar, weaved through the open center where dancers writhed beneath black light and strobes to music that sounded like the roar of an industrialized armageddon. The volume could peel skin.

Here he was groped endlessly and let it happen, reeling with an intoxicated pleasure in so many sliding hands, so much sensory delight despite the known world of his own flesh turning strange on him. Here, at least, pretensions were few, the common denominator belonging to rhythm and movement and surrender. The real effort lay in pulling back, pushing on, remembering why he was here.

He found them near the uppermost levels, Gabriel and Alexis and Megan tucked into a secluded booth. One noticed him, then all watched as he approached their table and slammed down the wine bottle.

“Finally.” Gabriel looked pleased.

“We’re mourning the way Lana would’ve wanted us to,” said Alexis, the blonde, tipping a highball toward a forest of bottles and glasses, hours’ worth of bereavement. “Sit, sit.”

He glared down at them while fumbling with his shirt buttons.

Megan perked up, brushed ringlets of hair from her face. “I
so
don’t want this asshole at our table.”

“Megan,” chided Alexis. “Don’t be a bitch.”

Gary sat beside Gabriel, tense as a coiled spring. He left his shirt unbuttoned but draped shut, feeling steam build inside.