glass.
So expect mood swings tonight, Maria says. She fills the glass and then drinks it.
Fuckin duh, Piranha says.
An hour later, Piranha’s probably said a dozen words, and Maria has said a thousand times that. Piranha’s nodding and listening, asking open questions to get Maria to go on, but eventually she’s just repeating herself.
So basically, Piranha says, your development is totally stunted, and what you need is the kind of adolescent adventures you didn’t have when you were younger.
I guess so, yeah.
Okay. So. You are single now. Do you want to have lots of sex with lots of people?
God no, Maria says. Are you kidding? How am I going to do that, and how am I going to do that with my junk the way it is, and anyway: bio-cock.
Piranha spends a lot of her time reading the Internet, so she’s super up on, like, everything. She probably doesn’t go to sex parties, although Maria hasn’t asked. But she’s talked a lot about this thing where there are lesbian sex parties that happen in the city and how they will often have No Bio-Cock Policies, meaning, No Trans Women. Or, optimistically, Trans Women: Keep Your Pants On. Meanwhile trans guys are welcome to brandish whatever cocks they want. Kind of frustrating, kind of problematic, and deeply representative of Maria’s own issues with her junk—even if she’s never actually had a partner who had issues around it. The term bio-cock has become shorthand for the fact that trans women aren’t sexually welcome in any communities anywhere.
Yeah, Piranha says. Bio-cock.
They’ve been on her bed pretty much without moving for an hour or so. Maria stands up. Stretching her muscles feels good, and she’s suddenly grateful that she didn’t just immediately get totally trashed.
What were you up to tonight, Piranha?
Heroin, she says.
Really?
Yeah.
Do you want to tell me about that?
Obviously this is significant, but it’s not really a mind-blower. Piranha’s always got pills. She’s always got something going on, some kind of illegal Robin Hood self-care. But obviously it’s kind of a big deal. Heroin’s the cul-de-sac at the end of Drug Street.
Maria, Piranha says, you are not the only one with problems.
The subtext is like, hey Maria, the world is an asshole to me all the time and you haven’t even asked how I am.
Fuck, darlin, she says, I’m sorry. What’s going on?
Piranha flops heavily down onto the bed and sighs. You know I’ve been saving for bottom surgery for like a decade, right?
Yeah.
And you know I’ve got a fuckin chronic pain fucked-up health thing or whatever.
Yeah.
Well it never occurred to me until this week to look into whether one would complicate the other, she says. And it turns out they do. Pretty bad. The surgeon I wanted to see won’t even touch somebody whose body breaks down like this. My second choice won’t either. The only one I can find who will do it is really fucking expensive, in Thailand, and not particularly reputable.
Shit, Piranha, I’m sorry.
Yeah, she says. So it’s like, I kind of doubt I’m ever going to have a vagina. Which sucks. So I’m indulging.
I didn’t know you had connections for—Jesus—Heroin.
Craigslist, she shrugs.
So what do you do, shoot it?
Nah, she says. A needle in my leg every other week is too many needles for me. I snort it.
Yeah, Maria says. She sits back down on Piranha’s bed, but gently. One of the first things they bonded over, in the car on the way to Michigan, was serious fear of injections and how weird it is that the desire to get estrogen into your body can trump that fear. But every time, both of them stare at that leg for hours, listening to album after album, before they can actually stick that needle in and inject.
Injecting heroin, of course, makes Maria think of high school. Doesn’t it make everybody think of high school? In the Cow Town she had a friend who hated everything. Like, he was a racist, he was a misogynist, he hated queers, he
So expect mood swings tonight, Maria says. She fills the glass and then drinks it.
Fuckin duh, Piranha says.
An hour later, Piranha’s probably said a dozen words, and Maria has said a thousand times that. Piranha’s nodding and listening, asking open questions to get Maria to go on, but eventually she’s just repeating herself.
So basically, Piranha says, your development is totally stunted, and what you need is the kind of adolescent adventures you didn’t have when you were younger.
I guess so, yeah.
Okay. So. You are single now. Do you want to have lots of sex with lots of people?
God no, Maria says. Are you kidding? How am I going to do that, and how am I going to do that with my junk the way it is, and anyway: bio-cock.
Piranha spends a lot of her time reading the Internet, so she’s super up on, like, everything. She probably doesn’t go to sex parties, although Maria hasn’t asked. But she’s talked a lot about this thing where there are lesbian sex parties that happen in the city and how they will often have No Bio-Cock Policies, meaning, No Trans Women. Or, optimistically, Trans Women: Keep Your Pants On. Meanwhile trans guys are welcome to brandish whatever cocks they want. Kind of frustrating, kind of problematic, and deeply representative of Maria’s own issues with her junk—even if she’s never actually had a partner who had issues around it. The term bio-cock has become shorthand for the fact that trans women aren’t sexually welcome in any communities anywhere.
Yeah, Piranha says. Bio-cock.
They’ve been on her bed pretty much without moving for an hour or so. Maria stands up. Stretching her muscles feels good, and she’s suddenly grateful that she didn’t just immediately get totally trashed.
What were you up to tonight, Piranha?
Heroin, she says.
Really?
Yeah.
Do you want to tell me about that?
Obviously this is significant, but it’s not really a mind-blower. Piranha’s always got pills. She’s always got something going on, some kind of illegal Robin Hood self-care. But obviously it’s kind of a big deal. Heroin’s the cul-de-sac at the end of Drug Street.
Maria, Piranha says, you are not the only one with problems.
The subtext is like, hey Maria, the world is an asshole to me all the time and you haven’t even asked how I am.
Fuck, darlin, she says, I’m sorry. What’s going on?
Piranha flops heavily down onto the bed and sighs. You know I’ve been saving for bottom surgery for like a decade, right?
Yeah.
And you know I’ve got a fuckin chronic pain fucked-up health thing or whatever.
Yeah.
Well it never occurred to me until this week to look into whether one would complicate the other, she says. And it turns out they do. Pretty bad. The surgeon I wanted to see won’t even touch somebody whose body breaks down like this. My second choice won’t either. The only one I can find who will do it is really fucking expensive, in Thailand, and not particularly reputable.
Shit, Piranha, I’m sorry.
Yeah, she says. So it’s like, I kind of doubt I’m ever going to have a vagina. Which sucks. So I’m indulging.
I didn’t know you had connections for—Jesus—Heroin.
Craigslist, she shrugs.
So what do you do, shoot it?
Nah, she says. A needle in my leg every other week is too many needles for me. I snort it.
Yeah, Maria says. She sits back down on Piranha’s bed, but gently. One of the first things they bonded over, in the car on the way to Michigan, was serious fear of injections and how weird it is that the desire to get estrogen into your body can trump that fear. But every time, both of them stare at that leg for hours, listening to album after album, before they can actually stick that needle in and inject.
Injecting heroin, of course, makes Maria think of high school. Doesn’t it make everybody think of high school? In the Cow Town she had a friend who hated everything. Like, he was a racist, he was a misogynist, he hated queers, he
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