Читать книгу Passing For black - Linda Villarosa - Страница 15

I slipped out of the house early Saturday morning, after explaining to Keith that I was attending a workshop on African-American women’s empowerment. A little black lie.

“Excellent, now that’s the kind of thing you should be doing.” He kissed me sleepily. “Let me go with you; it sounds good. I might learn something.”

“No, sweetie. I’m on assignment.” I pushed his head back down on the pillow and pulled the covers over him. “Besides, it’s a sistah thing. You know, we black women need our own space sometimes.” Sistah? I didn’t sound natural using that word. I seemed stilted, like I was speaking awkwardly in a language I hadn’t mastered.

“Yeah, okay, I hear you. And, don’t forget, we have that party to go to tonight,” he called out as he turned his back and tucked the covers under his chin. I slammed the door of our apartment, itching with excitement. No matter how many times I dug my nails into my palm or forearm, I couldn’t stop thinking about seeing Cait again.

The event was being held at the Jordan-Rustin Gay Lesbian Bisexual Transgender Community Center. It was brand-spanking new, converted from a rundown Presbyterian church less than a year ago, according to the Web site. It was an alternative to the more established gay center in the West Village. Mae was joining me, though I wasn’t sure that was a good idea. I had tried to discourage her, but she had been pushy, asking too many questions and insisting that she loved my “freaky little fact-finding work excursions.” Finally, she wore me down. She and I had planned to meet at a coffee shop on DeKalb Avenue to map out our strategy.

I had been standing in front of the coffee shop for a good fifteen minutes, and was starting to feel a bit annoyed at her for being late. She had acted so excited about going, so why not be on time? I had no idea what this conference was going to be like or what to expect, so I wanted to arrive early to get a feel for the setting and the scene. And look for Cait.

I liked the city post-dawn. It was interesting to see who was out and about. Not many people at this moment, save for a few families getting an early start on the day’s activities; some cheerful drunks, stumbling home; and a portly working girl—a woman with a huge afro, oversize Jackie-O sunglasses, knee-high heeled boots and a tiger-print micro miniskirt. I wondered what she was doing in this neighborhood at this hour; maybe a breakfast booty call. From a distance, she looked clean and healthy—unlike the wasted, tore-up sex workers I had seen trolling 10^th Avenue in Manhattan offering blow jobs to truckers en route to New Jersey. As she got closer, I realized that the oversize afro was most likely a wig, and that girlfriend was most likely boyfriend. Then, to my surprise, sister-guy waved, and flashed a gummy smile.

“Oh God, who the hell are you supposed to be?” I gasped, my jaw dangling open.

“I am incog-Negro,” she said, looking at me over her shades. “This could be a hoot, but I still don’t want anyone at this lezzie sex conference to recognize me.”

“Don’t worry.” I grabbed her arm. Actually, as I examined her, she didn’t look that bad. The whole Foxy Brown cum Divine Brown thing kind of worked. “Come on, let’s not be even later than we already are.”

The scene at the Jordan-Rustin Center was bustling as we walked through the glass doors to the registration table. The lobby was filled with women of all shapes and sizes and colors, and there was a crackling excitement in the air despite the early hour. We approached the long registration table, manned—wo-manned—by an officious-looking woman about my age—a young Miss Jane Hathaway. Her name tag read “Lindsey.” She was flanked by two bulky female bodybuilders, standing sentry in front of the roped off entrance. There was no fee to get in, so I guess the trio was merely providing security of some type, stamping the hands of entrants with two inky interlocking women symbols. The three women were sitting under a lavender banner that read “Welcome to the First Annual Lesbian Sex Conference.”

As Mae and I tried to enter, the woman seated looked up.

“Just a sec,” she said, smiling nervously.

“Maybe you didn’t see the sign?” Looking at Mae, she gestured toward a small piece of paper, hastily taped below the welcome banner: “Women Born Women Only.” And “No Penises on the Premises.”

“You can get to the Transgender Safe Space by going out that door, and walking through the parking lot and around the corner to trailer A.” She spoke quickly before turning her attention back to her registration list.

Uh-oh, I thought. I guess this was their not-so-subtle way to keep men—former and future—out of the conference. My God, why did transgender people need a “safe space”?; was there some danger here? I wondered just how many men who had become women and who were now lesbians wanted to enter. I guess enough to try to exclude them. But why shouldn’t they come in? Maybe no one was sure who had what. How did they check? Were they actually going to try and feel up Mae hunting for, what, falsies? Silicone? I prayed that there was no panty check. Mae wouldn’t be having that.

Mae had missed the entire exchange, busy watching a pair of punk-looking girls, pierced nearly everywhere except their eyelids, kissing greedily. Noticing the holdup, she looked around impatiently, and asked, “Is there a problem? Because if there is, we are press…” she muttered, rifling through her purse for her media ID.

I stamped on her foot, and pointed my eyes to the sign to the left of the welcome banner that read NO MEDIA. I glanced at Lindsey, whose thin lips were pursed, her jaw set in a determined manner that screamed “no way.”

“What my friend—SHE—means is that we are pressed for time,” I said, straightening my shoulders and trying to sound haughty and in charge—like my mother. “Is there someone else we can speak to?”

Now annoyed, Lindsey said, “Wait there,” and stood up. Her two black-clad sidekicks stared us down. I felt nervous, praying that we were going to get in. Just then, the two young lovers unlocked their lips and looked up at Mae. One of them, the top of her hair dyed greenish-blue, whispered into her lover’s ear, and the two gawked at Mae, eying her with worshipful awe. They stood up and walked shyly over to us. “Miss Gray,” one of them said haltingly. “I love your work. ‘I Try’ is, like, my all-TIME favorite song. Would you autograph my stomach?” She pulled up her wrinkled T-shirt, and handed Mae a black Sharpie.

“Sure,” answered Mae smoothly, winking at me. She scratched her name sloppily into the woman’s skin just below her double pierced navel. At a very quick glance, Mae Green could pass for Macy Gray.

“Awesome.” The woman gave Macy-Mae two thumbs-up. She and her partner waved at us and walked happily into the conference, whispering excitedly to each other.

Lindsey had seen the exchange. “I am SO sorry, Miss Gray,” she said, handing us each a schedule of the day’s events. “I had no idea. Please, go in. Enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you.” Mae raised her chin and walked past them. I rolled my eyes. “You better knock that shit off, Mae. This is how rumors get started. Next thing, Wendy Williams will be giving Macy a ‘how you doin’.”

“Don’t say one word to me,” she hissed as we entered. “I am assuming we are ignoring the whole No Media rule, correct?”

“Correct.” I looked around the crowded room, teeming with energy. Small knots of women were drinking coffee out of paper cups and leafing through the schedule.

“Hey, don’t we know that woman?” I pointed to a petite blonde wearing tight jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, sharing a corn muffin with another woman. “Yeah, that’s Melanie, one of the hangers from our advertising department.”

“I don’t know if I’m more surprised that she’s here, or that she’s actually consuming food.” Mae pulled down her oversize sunglasses to get a better look at her.

“Who’s that she’s with?” I asked.

“The beautiful Asian woman that she’s now tongue kissing? I think it’s your last month’s cover model,” Mae said, adjusting her “hair.”

“Did Melanie see us?” I lowered my head slightly.

“Um, I think the only thing she’s seeing is that other chick’s tonsils.”

I was fascinated by the two beautiful women, making out so hungrily, but mortified that Melanie might recognize me. But at least I had the excuse that I was “on assignment.” Neither of the women would know who Mae was the way she was dressed. I nudged Mae to the other side of the room. “Where should we go first?” I glanced at the sheet of paper in my hand.

“Come on, let’s shop.” Mae pulled me toward a brightly lit room with a sandwich board sign outside the door marked: SEX TOYZ R US.

We walked in and were taken aback by a very, very long table filled with every sex toy imaginable. Excited, Mae even removed her sunglasses. In my travels for Lucia’s column, I had seen sex toys before, but never this quantity, and in so many sizes, shapes and colors. I picked up a purple dildo shaped like a whale. Next to it was a green and black camouflage vibrator. It looked like a round tree branch with a pint-sized, buck-toothed beaver sitting in the middle. I flicked the switch on the opposite end, and the beaver’s head began to bob rapidly up and down.

“Look, Mae,” I said, holding it in one hand, the whale in the other. “Environmentally correct vibrators. Do you think Green Peace is now in the sex toy business? I love it; save the planet sex toys.” We both howled.

Still laughing, Mae picked up a thick leather belt, with a hole cut out of the middle and held it up to her waist. “Hey, Ang, how do you think this works?” She clumsily tried to fit a brown dildo through the hole.

“I think this one is more your style,” said a voice behind us. Cait appeared, smiling and holding up a leopard-print dildo the size of a bowling pin in her left hand.

“I heard that.” Mae giggled even harder. “You know size does matter.”

“Hello, Angela.” Cait placed the dildo on the table, and leaned toward me. Wrapping her arm around my waist, she moved in to kiss my check, but I turned my head slightly—and quickly—and her lips landed near the corner of my mouth.

“Hi,” I said nervously, pulling away slightly. I glanced side-long at Mae. She hadn’t missed the intimate way Cait was touching me and stared at us frostily.

Cait didn’t seem to notice, and turned to Mae. “Hi, I’m Cait.” She stuck out her hand toward Mae.

“She’s one of the organizers, a professor at New Amsterdam.” I stepped back from Cait as I spoke.

“Charmed.” Mae’s voice was chilly. She offered her hand tepidly. “So, do you know Kei—”

“Cait, excuse me.” A young blonde, whose name tag read “Jules, GALS FREE Coordinator,” grabbed Cait’s arm. She was flustered but her eyes, locked on Cait, looked glassy and awestruck.

“I’m sorry, but we can’t locate the DVD of L Word sex scenes that’s supposed to be showing in the Chill Out room. I’m totally panicked.”

“It’s okay, we’ll find it,” Cait said smoothly as she gave Jules’s shoulder a confident squeeze. “Well, duty calls,” she said brightly to Mae and me. “See you later,” she mouthed as she passed me.

As I watched Cait walk away, I was stunned by longing. I wanted to run after her, touch her, even by accident, and inhale the air she exhaled. This was craziness: Was I coming out after thirty years, woefully late to the party? It was kinda hip to be a lesbian and even hipper to be bi, like I presumably was. So why was I so afraid, punishing myself for these feelings, acting like I had fallen into the “Well of Loneliness?” Women made out with other women on awards shows just to prove they had edge. Yet, as I watched Cait speak into a walkie-talkie before greeting a couple of women, I felt consumed with repressed desire. My feelings felt so raw, I knew I had to hide them. Standing in ground zero of lesbianville, I felt like a heathen walking toward the altar at a church called something like Mount Olive Baptist, somewhere in Alabama, all eyes watching me. The only one really watching me was Mae. She was watching me watch Cait enter a room with a sign out front marked, MORE THAN A TURKEY BASTER: MAKING LOVE, MAKING BABIES.

“What was that all about?” Mae asked.

“What do you mean?” I ignored her gaze, looking down at my hands. “She’s the organizer, and I’m here working. Remember?”

“Angela, I saw the way you were looking at her and how she touched you.”

“Hey, when in Lesbos…Anyway, let’s go.”

“You’ve got some splaining to do,” Mae replied.

“Yeah, yeah. Come on, let’s go to some workshops. I think we should split up to cover more ground.”

“Sure, okay.” She stood behind me, looking over my shoulder at the schedule. “This should be strange, but interesting.”

“I think I’m going to check out Pleasure Power: Suzy G-Spot Shows You How to Find Yours,” I said.

“I’ve seen Suzy G on cable access.” Mae sounded excited as she peered down at the schedule. “I’m trying to decide between Don’t Call U-Haul: The Perfect One-Night Stand and S&M: From Vanilla to Hard Core. What do you think?”

“No, look at this, Mae.” I pointed to the workshop on the line below. “Nonmonogamy: A Political Choice?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m going to that,” Mae said breathlessly, shifting from one foot to another. “We have that same mess, but the brothers call it polygamy and insist that it’s an African tradition that’s good for the race. But over here, they aren’t supporting a village, but just screwing a bunch of women, having too many babies and not taking responsibility. Why? Because they can.” Oh no. I hoped she wasn’t going to start with that harangue again. Not here.

“All right, Mae.” I shooed her off. “After polygamy and pleasure—respectively—let’s each go to one more workshop and then reconvene at registration later this afternoon.”

“Solid.” Mae headed toward the Audre Lorde room where her workshop was being held.

The Pleasure Power lecture had started by the time I reached the Melissa Etheridge theater. I had to sit in the front row, taking the only seat left. Suzy G-Spot was in full bloom. She looked like a plump flower, all shiny pink skin and dyed orange-red hair. I had no idea how old she was—maybe mid-forties. Clothed in a short yellow dress with a ruffle on the bottom, her style fell somewhere between Laura Ashley and Laura Ashley’s bedspread. She was sitting on a massage table, her plump, freckled legs dangling over the side.

“Every woman has a G-spot.” Suzy spoke loudly, with aggressive enthusiasm. “If you want to drive a woman wild, find it.” A sign-language interpreter stood next to Suzy, moving her hands with an equal amount of zeal.

“Where is it, Suzy?” shouted someone from the audience. “I’ve got a date tonight, and I really need to know.” The audience laughed.

“Somebody come up here and find mine.” Suzy lay down on the table, and yanked her dress up to her shoulders, bent her knees and spread her legs wide. Needless to say, she wasn’t wearing matching ruffled panties. “Any volunteers?” she asked, tucking a pillow under her head.

A woman, wearing baggy jeans and a wool stocking cap jogged up to the stage, grinning backward to the audience. “No, darlin’, you’ve done me already. I remember you from my workshop last year in New Haven. Let’s get a Suzy-G virgin.”

Suzy lifted her head slightly and scanned the room. “You, you with the hair in the front, come do me.” I looked around; Suzy was pointing at me.

“No, um, I’m sorry,” I stammered, gripping the sides of my seat. My back was pressed so hard against the fabric, I felt like part of the chair.

“Come on, baby, don’t leave me hanging. It’s just a demo. You don’t have to marry me.” Nervous laughter rippled through the audience. Everyone in the room started chanting “do it, do it.”

As the chanting got louder, I couldn’t get out of this. I was too reserved to want to take part in this public sex show, but too polite to refuse. I walked up to the stage slowly, self-conscious and awkward, my backpack still slung over my shoulder. Suzy handed me a latex glove from a box at the side of the table. “Go for it, honey,” she said. “You’ll know when you’ve hit it.”

I tugged on the glove, leaned down and stuck my index finger gingerly inside of Suzy. Pretend you’re a doctor, on TV, prepping a patient for gynecological surgery, I said to myself. I kept my eyes locked on Suzy’s pelvis. She felt moist but firm.

“Sweetie, I’ve had two babies, you got plenty more room. Put another finger up there.” As the crowd switched to a new chant—“more, more, more”—I slid my middle finger inside of Suzy. Both fingers were rigid, shaking slightly. My backpack slid to the floor.

“Relax. Higher.” She moaned slightly, her eyes squeezing shut. I looked away, not wanting to see her contorted “orgasm face.”

“Scoot up, toward my navel. Now move your fingers around a little. Ahhhh, you got it, baby,” screeched Suzy. I could feel the muscles of her sex organ squeezing around my fingers like a vise. Oh, my God, would I be stuck inside of Suzy? Would we have to go to the hospital, tethered together, walking inelegantly into the emergency room like co-joined twins attached in all the wrong places?

I felt a sudden movement to the side of me. The sign-language interpreter had thrown her head back, and was silently and, unnecessarily, mimicking Suzy, her hands moving wildly. Finally, I felt Suzy’s body go slack, and the tightness around my fingers eased. There was no need to ask, “Did you come?” Gently, I pulled my fingers out of her. The signer walked over and held a metal bin marked “medical waste” for me to throw the glove in. Applause swelled around me. For a quick minute, I felt less embarrassed than accomplished.

“Thank you, sweetie,” Suzy said, her eyes glazed. She rubbed her buttery cheek against mine and made a kissing sound. “Anybody else want to try?”

That was it? I thought. After the public intimacy, the connection we’d made, just that lame kiss? Not even the suggestion of a shared cigarette? An exchange of numbers? Hmmphf. Though this was highly weird and I was back to feeling beyond embarrassed, I also felt slighted, used, as I picked up my bag and walked toward my seat.

Pushing past me, about twenty women raced to the stage, forming a neat line on the steps. Each one, wearing a latex glove, like so many Michael Jacksons, stuck their fingers inside Suzy, producing shouts of encouragement and gales of cross-eyed squeals. After each woman finished, she politely kissed Suzy’s cheek.

Slouching in my seat, my legs extended toward the stage, I took notes furtively, knowing that this scene would bring a cigarette squarely between Lucia’s lips. Another great idea to add to the editorial bedpost. In just a little corner of my mind, I worried about the fairness of telling this story, especially knowing that the NO MEDIA signs were there for a reason. Would I be able to explain this weird, orderly and hygienic gang bang? Of course, I wouldn’t mention that I’d been a banger myself. Would Cait hate me when she found out that I was a media spy, airing dirty lezzzbian laundry?

I pushed those thoughts into the back of my mind—though the idea of Cait being pissed continued to worry me. Journalism, even practiced at the highest ethical levels, was a sordid business. That’s why the best of the bunch had some line or some deceitful interview technique. Seducing people into revealing secrets and telling tales that were better untold was the goal, and done correctly it always involved dishonesty and sleaze to achieve it. I shouldn’t feel guilty writing about Suzy G’s escapades; she was putting her coochie out there, into the public domain.

But even as I sat there, thinking about my profession with Suzy G’s orgasmic screams in the background, I knew that I hadn’t gotten the juiciest tale. What was the deal with those transgender folk, and why were the “women born women” trying so hard to keep them out? Before the end of the day, I needed to take a trip to the “safe space.” I stood up, and shoved my notebook into my bag, just as one of Lindsey’s thugs walked by. I brushed past her, as she looked me up and down.