The inside skin

It was eight or nine years ago, maybe more. We were at Conneaut Lake Park, which was torn and frayed and holding on by a thread, but I loved the tiny old amusement park just the same. Eric and Jessie and I were bumbling around the Devil's Den and Tumble Bug and Blue Streak.

At some point, Eric and I sat down on a bench while Jessie ran off to a ride. A gram was seated next to us. We engaged in small talk.

Two little boys, soaking wet from the Cliffhanger Falls water slide scampered up to her. One was in trunks, the other wore an over-sized tee that hung almost to his knees. They were somewhere between nine and 12 years old.

"This is Tommy and Brenda," said Gram.

Brenda?

"I don't know why she's hiding her pretty swim suit. I just bought it for her."

The kid tugged at her sagging wet tee. "It doesn't look right, Gram," she said.

"Why are you always so funny, sweetheart?" Then Gram turned to us. "You should see her when I get her dressed up, which isn't very often. All the pretty dresses I buy her ... "

She fumbled through her purse and pulled out a handful of snapshots.

"Aw Gram," said Brenda. "Don't."

"She hates it when I show the pictures."

"Gram, can we have some more tickets?" said Tommy.

The kids ran off to the water slide. Gram showed us the pix. They broke my heart. This poor unhappy kid in pink and ruffles, looking down.

They struck me as rural people of modest means, so did most of the people that went to Conneaut in those years. It was in decline and very inexpensive.

We saw the trio several times during the day. Each time, the kid was looking down, tugging at her clothing and folding her arms over her chest (she was not overweight). The vibe she gave off was unmistakeable.

I'd never encountered such an obvious and innocent case of transgender. I swear, I could not find the girl in that little girl. She was a little boy, despite the first indication of breast development.

Unwarranted relief, of which I am not proud, washed over me each time I saw Brenda. Thank god Jessie does not have this problem, I thought. Thank god she is will not have to face persecution.

I hope that kid made it. I hope that kid didn't end up hanging from a rope or strung out on heroin. I hope and hope and hope with all my heart.

yeah, yeah

I'll be honest, folks. I do not care much for Caitlyn Jenner's money and celebrity, but I respect the fact that she has made life easier for little boys like Brenda. 

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Guys Like Us

Bob/Barbara

You could tell the kid was the real deal. She wasn't like the rest of us. Sure she was younger, but she had a natural way about her that any one of these girls would trade in her family jewels for. Some of them already had without nearly the payoff.

She didn't have to try. She moved a certain way. She didn't have to sand off the masculine edges, they were already soft. Like her voice. Things like that.

Life and death are black and white. It's one or the other. Death is so absolute you can almost see it. The life floats right out of a person right along with that last breath. And if you're with them, you feel it.

Read the rest of the short story here.

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Playing with the Queen of Hearts

Watching the maximum glam queens on RuPaul's Drag Race (god help me, I'm addicted to it) got me thinking about this feature* and one night of research I did for it:

That a town such as Warren, Ohio, which lives in the ruts the steel industry left behind as it receded, is home to the Queen of Hearts Bar, is no small irony. Warren is neither rural nor urban nor suburban. It is the land of James Traficant (yes, still) and Fat Cats Tattoos (to name just one). There are boarded-up factories, dilapidated houses and acres of vacant weedy lots. There is Pete's Gun Shack (doing a brisk business) and the Tokyo Health Spa (nary a car in sight, but the neon sign promises that they are indeed open).

And if it is the third Saturday of the month, Warren is a place fit for a Queen.

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The lot fills with cars. They venture from all points across Ohio, Pennsylvania, Indiana, and Illinois. The chariots hark from Michigan, West Virginia, Missouri, and New York. There is a baby-blue BMW Z3 Roadster next to an experienced Dodge Caravan, which is next to a gleaming Lexus sedan, which is next to a rusty Ford pick-up.

Inside, the bar is cavernous, with cinderblock walls, 20-foot ceilings and glittering disco balls. Forgiving red lights illuminate the bar, which is teeming. Cigarette smoke hangs. A bucket of beer (five longnecks on ice) can be had for $7 until 9 p.m., at which time the price goes to $10.

Sitting in that bar on "Queen" night was a singular experience. It was all about men in drag. The bartenders were gay men. And there I was. The queens stared at me like they wanted to take a bite right out of me. I couldn't tell if they wanted to deck me or bed me, stroke my long hair or grab of fistful and pull it out. There were plenty of uber-regular looking men in jeans and tees drooling over the queens. They would look at me and do a double take that would quickly turn wary, as if to say who is this broad, some sort of spy sent by my wife? I was intimidated and transfixed by all of it.

Many of the young glamazons were sexy and absolutely convincing, but the queens that fascinated me most were the older girls. I loved the sixty and seventysomethings. One was standing there in a pastel green dress with a Peter Pan collar that could have come straight from Aunt Gerdie's closet. She wore sensible heels, a strand of pearls, and had a straw handbag dangling from her wrist. She had a cigar in one hand and a scotch on the rocks in the other, but there was no Milton Berle ha-ha about her.

People were talking in tight groups. The music was cocktail-party soft, and despite the sizable crowd, it was oddly quiet until about 11 p.m.

That's when the opening glissando of ABBA's Dancing Queen blasted from the speakers. It was like a battle cry. All the queens exploded from their seats and poured onto the dance floor in a flurry of motion. Many were awkward in their heels. Their muscular legs were obvious in tight mini skirts. Some wore short baby-doll style party frocks full up with lacy crinolines. They danced with each other. They danced in groups. They danced alone. Their energy and abandon was something to behold. I marveled at their joie de vivre, even if it was contained to an unlikely barroom at the end of a mostly vacant strip mall in torn and frayed Warren, Ohio.

Although I got one good interview under my belt, as a GG (genetic girl) by herself, I simply did not fit in. This was an all-male vibe with no room for a straight chick. I don't often feel uncomfortable in a bar, but I did that night. Things were just warming up, but I left around 11:30. Although one of the queens made a vaguely threatening statement to me that I don't exactly recall (something about how, as a man, she would tower over me), I was probably being overly cautious when I got up to leave. In a rare move, I flipped open my cell as I walked out and called Eric. I spoke to him until I was safely locked in the car with the engine running.

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