So, I got to thinking, What happens next? in the aftermath of the 'Sunshine and Shadow' thingy. And this is what I came up with! As usual, the boys don' t belong to me, I don't know them, and I am insanely unhappy about that.
Chapter One: Move Along
Speak to me, when all you got to keep is strong
Move along, move along like I know you do
And even when your hope is gone
Move along, move along just to make it through
Move along; move along
Move Along, All American Rejects
I hadn’t planned on doing this with an audience in tow. I’d planned it to be a night for just the two of us, where I could speak to her of what really went on in my head; this was the night where I tell her of the secrets she swears I’m keeping from her. Only they’re not quite what she thought they were; she probably wouldn’t be happy about them, that was for certain sure.
I looked around the expensive restaurant I could ill afford, but had decided – recklessly – that I had to make it good, or it would all be for nothing. Low, romantic lighting, annoying flowers on the table, and of course, the stuffy maitre-d floating around looking like a damned butler. It was all simply too much for any sensible quirkyalone, but my girl wasn’t a quirkyalone. She was extroverted and friendly. It had been attractive at first, but now it bothered me; really bothered me. Perhaps I was looking for a way out.
A commotion at the table next to mine shook me out of my reverie. What seemed like the entire contingent of the feminine wait staff was swarming about the table, and as soon as a gap opened, I could see why. A handsome man of creepily indeterminate years was settled at a table, eyeing the women with faint alarm he was doing well to hide – almost, anyway. He was handsome in that middle-aged way that pretty boys get when they grow up; no longer stunningly beautiful, yet somehow classic and elegant and utterly masculine, rather like the Marlboro Man groomed for GQ with plenty of airbrushing to go along with it.
At any rate, the ladies didn’t seem to notice his unease and went on serving – and flirting outrageously with – him, while he mastered his growing impatience and unease with admirable will. When they’d finally left him alone with his coffee, he opened a map of Chicago, and stared at it as though it were in a foreign language, scowling fit to light the thing on fire. There was something vaguely familiar about that scowl, and the long nose.
I’d almost had it set in my mind when Ophelia spoke up, “So what were you going to tell me?” She smiled prettily, her lips looking soft and kissable in this light. She was a very pretty girl, all soft femininity against my dark masculinity. I eyed her parents sidewise, uncomfortable with the trap she’d laid for me. I’m pretty sure she thought I was going to ask her to marry me or something. Unfortunately, no such offer was forthcoming.
“Look, I’d rather not discuss this with your parents here – I’d meant for it to be between us two for now,” I try to evade the sly, knowing looks of her mother and the frowning bemusement of her father.
“There’s nothing you can’t say in front of them, you know that,” Ophelia exclaims, reaching out to still my long, nervously plucking fingers before they shredded the white tablecloth. She smiles again, trying to be reassuring. “Yeah, but this could be potentially embarrassing.” I point out, my foot beginning to twitch under the table like an electrocuted rabbit. “Oh, no, don’t worry at all!” Her mother, Jane, chirps brightly. A blond who lived up to the reputation of ‘ditzy’, she patted her perfectly coiffed hair and smiled at me. Where her daughter was pretty and vivacious, she looked like an overblown blowup doll, what with all the plastic surgery she’d had applied to face and body. Her father rather reminds me of Donald Trump, ugly and pinch-faced, as though he’d had lemons for breakfast. I really didn’t want to do this; I really didn’t. But it seemed there was no way out of it.
“Fine; I’ll just out and say it. You’ve had sufficient warning.” I straighten my back against the chair, breathing deeply to readjust the binder across my chest before it cut off all oxygen. Damn it, I hated that thing. I’ll be infernally glad to finally get the chest surgery done. Then I won’t have to worry about it. I had already had a hysterectomy done, for reasons unrelated to my Trans identity. A mass of fibroids had been discovered, and I said I’d rather the whole baggy mess be removed with my uterus than have to constantly go back in to keep getting rid of the tumors. My doctor had been reluctant, but admitted it was less expensive than continuously removing fibroids, and having me in pain seven days a month. “Ophelia, I know you’ve been wondering why we haven’t had sex yet. The reason is simple enough. I’m anatomically female.” There: I’d said it.
Predictably, they exploded.
The hysterical screaming and yelling began, but by then I was in no mood to put up with it. I stood, put two hundred dollars on the table, and said, quietly, “You wanted to handle it this way. You got your wish. Now I know what manner of woman you are; don’t bother calling me.” With that, I turned to leave, a nail scraping against the tablecloth with irritating roughness. I’d quite forgotten I’d let them grow out. I stalked away. They could order or not as they chose; I didn’t care. No gentleman let a lady foot a bill for a date, even if he decided to end it abruptly.
The blond man looked up at me. He’d heard. I didn’t want his sympathy. I stalked on.
Outside, I pulled out a cigar and lit it, dragging on it to calm myself down.
“That was a rough thing to do, man.” The voice was accented heavily in Irish.
I looked up.
It was the blond man from the table next to mine. Larry Mullen, that was his name. I remembered it now, though I curled my lip in anger that he’d come and found me.
“I’m fine.” I growl, not wanting his pity.
“I know.” Larry grinned ironically at me. “You’re just annoyed as hell at them for forcing you into this position. They left, you know.” He extends his hand, the $200 I’d left on the table in his fingers. “I think you should have this back. If I know anything about transgender men, the top surgery will be expensive.” What he didn’t say – and I guessed – was that he didn’t see why I’d waste it on people so obviously artificial that they’d vilify me for being me.
I manage to dredge up a smile for him, taking the money and putting in my coat pocket. “Thanks,” I replied softly, scuffing a toe on the pavement. “You’re right. This was actually out of the fund, so..well.”
“You wanted to make it special.” Larry shrugged, looking away. “Look – I usually don’t do this kind of thing, but-”He fished in his pocket, handed me a card. “If you need anything, anything at all, you call me, okay? You’ll need a friend or two, the transition is tough. I know. I..had a friend who went through the transition.” His eye watered, just a little; or was it a trick of light that made it seem so?
“Had?”
“He died recently.” Larry bit his lower lip. “Look, just call if you need anything.” With that, he strode – quickly – away to his bike. He was almost running.
I looked down at his card and smiled.
What happens next? What happens next?
I dare you to move like today never happened before.
- Dare You To Move, Switchfoot
The next morning, I woke feeling lighter, somehow. Ophelia had gotten her stuff and moved back in with her parents. I couldn’t be bothered to care. She left a note, full of accusation and nastiness, basically a homophobic letter that really didn’t apply to me at all. And of course, she failed to mention the idea of shacking up with a man she wasn’t married to, and how that went against Christian values.
I suppose it was okay to pick and choose those.
I rolled myself out of bed and took a long, luxuriant shower, using all the wonderful scents I adored, ignoring the doorbell as it rang. Annoying thing! Insistently, it kept ringing, and I snarled, silently. Fortunately, I was nearly dressed, and pulled a shirt over my practically nonexistent breasts and went to answer the door. “What?” I snapped, opening it.
Ophelia stood there, looking like a wet puppy kicked out in the rain. I stared at her, brows raised, waiting for an explanation. “Can I come in?” She asked meekly, ducking her head and taking a step forward, assuming she could do whatever she pleased. Pretty Woman Syndrome: if you’re pretty and female, (and here, I betray my own secret bitterness) you can have your own way.
I squashed that quite handily. “No. What do you want?” My tone was cold and polite.
She looked up at me, shocked. “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for last night. I was surprised and angry, that’s all. Won’t you understand?”
“See, the problem with that is, you played like you were all for transgender, gay, lesbian, and bisexual rights. It was fine until I told you what I was, and then you showed yourself. So, no, I won’t understand, because there’s nothing to understand. You either do or you don’t. Although, for what it’s worth, I do forgive you; it was a shock, I know. “But frankly, I don’t trust your word much anymore. And I’m not real interested in a relationship with you. I’ve been feeling that way a long while. So why don’t we just make it a clean break and move on?” I step back into the apartment and begin to shut the door in her face.
“But this isn’t how it’s supposed to work!” She objects, putting a hand out to stop the door. “We’re supposed to get back together, make it work! I love you!”
“No you don’t. You love the novelty. And I do not love you. Move on, find yourself some Christian boy to marry. I’m not interested.” And with the greater strength imposed by T, I pushed the door closed, and locked it.
Running a hand through my short chocolate and caramel curls, I looked around, and found my keys and cell phone. Next to them, Larry’s embossed, elegant card gleamed at me in the morning sun. I sat down on the bed of my tiny studio, and bit my lip.
No, I won’t call him now, though I’d dearly love to know why he wants me to call him. Maybe I remind him of that other trans man. I sigh and tuck them all into a pocket of my cargo pants and head off to work, where at least the animals are straightforward.
Chapter One: Move Along
Speak to me, when all you got to keep is strong
Move along, move along like I know you do
And even when your hope is gone
Move along, move along just to make it through
Move along; move along
Move Along, All American Rejects
I hadn’t planned on doing this with an audience in tow. I’d planned it to be a night for just the two of us, where I could speak to her of what really went on in my head; this was the night where I tell her of the secrets she swears I’m keeping from her. Only they’re not quite what she thought they were; she probably wouldn’t be happy about them, that was for certain sure.
I looked around the expensive restaurant I could ill afford, but had decided – recklessly – that I had to make it good, or it would all be for nothing. Low, romantic lighting, annoying flowers on the table, and of course, the stuffy maitre-d floating around looking like a damned butler. It was all simply too much for any sensible quirkyalone, but my girl wasn’t a quirkyalone. She was extroverted and friendly. It had been attractive at first, but now it bothered me; really bothered me. Perhaps I was looking for a way out.
A commotion at the table next to mine shook me out of my reverie. What seemed like the entire contingent of the feminine wait staff was swarming about the table, and as soon as a gap opened, I could see why. A handsome man of creepily indeterminate years was settled at a table, eyeing the women with faint alarm he was doing well to hide – almost, anyway. He was handsome in that middle-aged way that pretty boys get when they grow up; no longer stunningly beautiful, yet somehow classic and elegant and utterly masculine, rather like the Marlboro Man groomed for GQ with plenty of airbrushing to go along with it.
At any rate, the ladies didn’t seem to notice his unease and went on serving – and flirting outrageously with – him, while he mastered his growing impatience and unease with admirable will. When they’d finally left him alone with his coffee, he opened a map of Chicago, and stared at it as though it were in a foreign language, scowling fit to light the thing on fire. There was something vaguely familiar about that scowl, and the long nose.
I’d almost had it set in my mind when Ophelia spoke up, “So what were you going to tell me?” She smiled prettily, her lips looking soft and kissable in this light. She was a very pretty girl, all soft femininity against my dark masculinity. I eyed her parents sidewise, uncomfortable with the trap she’d laid for me. I’m pretty sure she thought I was going to ask her to marry me or something. Unfortunately, no such offer was forthcoming.
“Look, I’d rather not discuss this with your parents here – I’d meant for it to be between us two for now,” I try to evade the sly, knowing looks of her mother and the frowning bemusement of her father.
“There’s nothing you can’t say in front of them, you know that,” Ophelia exclaims, reaching out to still my long, nervously plucking fingers before they shredded the white tablecloth. She smiles again, trying to be reassuring. “Yeah, but this could be potentially embarrassing.” I point out, my foot beginning to twitch under the table like an electrocuted rabbit. “Oh, no, don’t worry at all!” Her mother, Jane, chirps brightly. A blond who lived up to the reputation of ‘ditzy’, she patted her perfectly coiffed hair and smiled at me. Where her daughter was pretty and vivacious, she looked like an overblown blowup doll, what with all the plastic surgery she’d had applied to face and body. Her father rather reminds me of Donald Trump, ugly and pinch-faced, as though he’d had lemons for breakfast. I really didn’t want to do this; I really didn’t. But it seemed there was no way out of it.
“Fine; I’ll just out and say it. You’ve had sufficient warning.” I straighten my back against the chair, breathing deeply to readjust the binder across my chest before it cut off all oxygen. Damn it, I hated that thing. I’ll be infernally glad to finally get the chest surgery done. Then I won’t have to worry about it. I had already had a hysterectomy done, for reasons unrelated to my Trans identity. A mass of fibroids had been discovered, and I said I’d rather the whole baggy mess be removed with my uterus than have to constantly go back in to keep getting rid of the tumors. My doctor had been reluctant, but admitted it was less expensive than continuously removing fibroids, and having me in pain seven days a month. “Ophelia, I know you’ve been wondering why we haven’t had sex yet. The reason is simple enough. I’m anatomically female.” There: I’d said it.
Predictably, they exploded.
The hysterical screaming and yelling began, but by then I was in no mood to put up with it. I stood, put two hundred dollars on the table, and said, quietly, “You wanted to handle it this way. You got your wish. Now I know what manner of woman you are; don’t bother calling me.” With that, I turned to leave, a nail scraping against the tablecloth with irritating roughness. I’d quite forgotten I’d let them grow out. I stalked away. They could order or not as they chose; I didn’t care. No gentleman let a lady foot a bill for a date, even if he decided to end it abruptly.
The blond man looked up at me. He’d heard. I didn’t want his sympathy. I stalked on.
Outside, I pulled out a cigar and lit it, dragging on it to calm myself down.
“That was a rough thing to do, man.” The voice was accented heavily in Irish.
I looked up.
It was the blond man from the table next to mine. Larry Mullen, that was his name. I remembered it now, though I curled my lip in anger that he’d come and found me.
“I’m fine.” I growl, not wanting his pity.
“I know.” Larry grinned ironically at me. “You’re just annoyed as hell at them for forcing you into this position. They left, you know.” He extends his hand, the $200 I’d left on the table in his fingers. “I think you should have this back. If I know anything about transgender men, the top surgery will be expensive.” What he didn’t say – and I guessed – was that he didn’t see why I’d waste it on people so obviously artificial that they’d vilify me for being me.
I manage to dredge up a smile for him, taking the money and putting in my coat pocket. “Thanks,” I replied softly, scuffing a toe on the pavement. “You’re right. This was actually out of the fund, so..well.”
“You wanted to make it special.” Larry shrugged, looking away. “Look – I usually don’t do this kind of thing, but-”He fished in his pocket, handed me a card. “If you need anything, anything at all, you call me, okay? You’ll need a friend or two, the transition is tough. I know. I..had a friend who went through the transition.” His eye watered, just a little; or was it a trick of light that made it seem so?
“Had?”
“He died recently.” Larry bit his lower lip. “Look, just call if you need anything.” With that, he strode – quickly – away to his bike. He was almost running.
I looked down at his card and smiled.
What happens next? What happens next?
I dare you to move like today never happened before.
- Dare You To Move, Switchfoot
The next morning, I woke feeling lighter, somehow. Ophelia had gotten her stuff and moved back in with her parents. I couldn’t be bothered to care. She left a note, full of accusation and nastiness, basically a homophobic letter that really didn’t apply to me at all. And of course, she failed to mention the idea of shacking up with a man she wasn’t married to, and how that went against Christian values.
I suppose it was okay to pick and choose those.
I rolled myself out of bed and took a long, luxuriant shower, using all the wonderful scents I adored, ignoring the doorbell as it rang. Annoying thing! Insistently, it kept ringing, and I snarled, silently. Fortunately, I was nearly dressed, and pulled a shirt over my practically nonexistent breasts and went to answer the door. “What?” I snapped, opening it.
Ophelia stood there, looking like a wet puppy kicked out in the rain. I stared at her, brows raised, waiting for an explanation. “Can I come in?” She asked meekly, ducking her head and taking a step forward, assuming she could do whatever she pleased. Pretty Woman Syndrome: if you’re pretty and female, (and here, I betray my own secret bitterness) you can have your own way.
I squashed that quite handily. “No. What do you want?” My tone was cold and polite.
She looked up at me, shocked. “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for last night. I was surprised and angry, that’s all. Won’t you understand?”
“See, the problem with that is, you played like you were all for transgender, gay, lesbian, and bisexual rights. It was fine until I told you what I was, and then you showed yourself. So, no, I won’t understand, because there’s nothing to understand. You either do or you don’t. Although, for what it’s worth, I do forgive you; it was a shock, I know. “But frankly, I don’t trust your word much anymore. And I’m not real interested in a relationship with you. I’ve been feeling that way a long while. So why don’t we just make it a clean break and move on?” I step back into the apartment and begin to shut the door in her face.
“But this isn’t how it’s supposed to work!” She objects, putting a hand out to stop the door. “We’re supposed to get back together, make it work! I love you!”
“No you don’t. You love the novelty. And I do not love you. Move on, find yourself some Christian boy to marry. I’m not interested.” And with the greater strength imposed by T, I pushed the door closed, and locked it.
Running a hand through my short chocolate and caramel curls, I looked around, and found my keys and cell phone. Next to them, Larry’s embossed, elegant card gleamed at me in the morning sun. I sat down on the bed of my tiny studio, and bit my lip.
No, I won’t call him now, though I’d dearly love to know why he wants me to call him. Maybe I remind him of that other trans man. I sigh and tuck them all into a pocket of my cargo pants and head off to work, where at least the animals are straightforward.
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I'm going to go read your previous story before I read this one, it looks great!
