Sex Still Spoken Here: An Anthology by Carol Queen Page B

modern music. She had dumped him for writing bad poetry and leaving it under the windshield wiper of her VW in the Indiana State University student parking lot, and he had driven to my house in Ohio in an effort to understand my mom’s motivations. I couldn’t tell him a lot, but did let him know that he wasn’t alone and that she had dumped plenty of men. I don’t know if that reassured him of his virility, but he decided that he wanted to be my boyfriend instead. He took to lying on my living room floor, listening to the Sex Pistols, and keeping me in cheap wine. I was alright with this, and when he suggested that we take a train trip to New York City, I agreed. He bought tickets, I turned a trick for spending money, copped a handful of Talwin in case I got bored, and we met at the downtown Amtrak station.
    Let me be totally clear: I was not nice. I was 24, belligerent, and beautiful in a kind of faggy punk way. I had dropped out of art school and was working in a pornographic bookstore. I spent my days handing out quarters and hooking businessmen up with each other during their lunch hour, drinking take-out white Russians from a styrofoam cup, sealing dirty magazines, and reading Crime and Punishment . I liked to slip on a Dolly Parton wig and pretend I was a man saving up my pennies to get a sex change. It got me an amazing number of drinks in the local gay dive. I would hint demurely that I couldn’t wait to get that big ole thing chopped off, my new friend’s eyes would get enormous, and another drink would slide over the bar’s battered wooden counter. Other times I was a skinny nelly fag with my short red hair slicked to one side and in a suit and vintage tie.
    The Turk and I left on a chilly, rainy Wednesday. I had not been on a train in years and was excited. I was dressed jauntily for adventure: a 1940’s olive double-breasted men’s suit, a white Arrow shirt, wide silk tie, and black old lady shoes. I harbored secret fantasies involving the Orient Express, mysterious passengers, and afternoon tea, but was under no illusions about the Turk. I expected tedious monologues about the evils of capitalism, and the ability of modern music to overthrow the dominant political paradigm, but was willing to shove drugs down my throat if he became unbearable.
    We settled into our seats. They were covered in maroon tweed, and I happily sat next to the window so that I could watch the scenery. I have always loved looking out of windows when traveling, watching phone poles, trees, and towns pass by. I liked being a voyeur, especially when the object of my intent could not see me looking.
    The Turk begin to talk about his latest composition; a lengthy thematic piece about the suffering of men due to their inability to experience the spiritually transformative ritual of childbirth, and the subsequent wound formed because of that lack of power of creation in their lives. He finished the explanation of his piece by smashing two hardboiled eggs together in a grand gesture involving flying egg debris. I had finally had enough. I narrowed my eyes in contempt while smiling; not the easiest facial maneuver to pull off in the best of circumstances, and made more difficult by the clashing of the of the Talwin and coffee in my system. I was pissed off that we were only in Pennsylvania, I’d already needed to take drugs, and that the Turk seemed to have endless vocal energy. I wondered if I could get away with slipping some Talwin in his beverage just to knock him out, but thought better of it. Knowing my luck, it would just make him barf and talk more slowly, and then I’d be stuck with a vomitous, smelly, and even more ponderous Turk.
    I stood up, announced that I needed to go to the restroom, and walked down the narrow train aisle to the end of the car. The train swayed gently, making me conscious of my hips. Standing opposite the restroom door was a woman. She leaned nonchalantly against the wall, smoking a cigar, her black boots