2008 - Glendale Community College

I had never liked my girlish name,
Patricia, but I told her what it was,
and asked hers. She said it breathily,
“Fancy.”
“So, you’re not gay, then?” I asked,
recalling her previous comment.
She guffawed, stepping her platform
shoes around in a small circle, and
throwing me a look of playful sarcasm.
“No… are you?”
“…I don’t know, yet.”
It came out so seriously, the moment
became pregnant. I could see from
her expression that she felt she had
accidentally struck too deeply. Her face
turned gentle, and she paused.
“Trust me, darlin,” she said. “You’ll
figure it out.”
It could easily have sounded like a
put down, but she looked at me, at my
eyes, and I experienced a rare event. I
felt accepted. The bar door opened, then,
spotlighting us briefly in the reddish
glow of the evening sun, and two six-foot
drag queens, from the show bar down the
street, walked in. They started toward
Fancy, but she motioned for them to wait.
6
I hastened to ask my burning question.
“May I ask… what are you, then? You’re
so real…I know you’re not a drag queen…
but, I can’t figure out what you are.” She
brightened at that, and struck a pose.
“I’m a sex change, darlin. And I’ve got
to go.”
I was upset. I wanted more time to
get to know this man-woman who strangely
attracted me. She seemed
so intrinsically female –
female in a more real way
than I had ever looked, or
felt. I asked if she came
to the bar often. She said
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yes, sometimes on Saturday afternoons.
She scribbled her address on a bar
napkin, and pushed it toward me.
“Come visit me anytime, darlin,”
she said. It didn’t feel like a casual
invitation. She meant it. Then, she
shot back the last of the booze, and
walked out. I watched her move through
the cocktail crowd that had gathered --
slender arms and legs and real girl’s
hair, more woman than man, it seemed to
me.
Traveler