My Face for the World to See (Part II):
The Diary of Sherilyn Connelly
a fiction


March 1 - 15, 1999

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Monday, 15 March 1999 (country feedback)
9:15am


Oh, I'm exhausted. Of all nights for me to stay up late, last night shouldn't have been one of them. And yet.

Financial misconduct this weekend seems to have put me out of the laptop market for the time being. All things considered I spent way too much in Santa Cruz (retail therapy, and I still displayed remarkable willpower). Paying bills didn't help, and I'll be seeing Phil for about two hours more than I expected. So romantic notions of whipping out my little computer whenever my muse awakens from its coma will have to wait. Responsibility and vanity come first.

Vanity. Ha. That's the wonderful irony of all this: I don't think I could look much worse right now. Though the redness isn't so bad, my neck and face are quite swollen. All I have to do is hold my head at the wrong angle, and ta-da! Big double chin. Also, the redness and swelling of my upper lip causes it to resemble nothing so much as a harelip. Demoralizing, to say the least. I'm keeping my hair down and around my face as much as possible. No pigtails in the near future. I did have my hair up on Saturday when we went to Santa Cruz, but it was right after the session (The Ex picked me up from Phil's, and he headed out straight from there) so while my skin was quite raw, it wasn't red or bulbous just yet.

My immediate supervisor just asked how my weekend went; he knew I've been going to Alameda a lot, and that it's skin-related, but otherwise I hadn't told him what was going on. So I did just now—I didn't come out to him, exactly, but that I'm having electrolysis done. The reaction was negative in the sense that everyone's reaction is negative: almost reeling in pain at the thought, even more so when I explain how much I've had done in such a short amount of time. (Shock value can be so much fun.) But otherwise he was cool with it, and while I'm usually wrong about these hunches, I think he's putting two and two together about me.

Whether or not I'm out here depends on who you ask. Summer of course knows, and I'm on an internal queer mailing list, and I've become good friends with the resident F2M. But otherwise everyone knows me as Jeff, and I doubt most suspect I'm anything more than a femmey goth boi—certainly no shortage of those in this town.

Inasmuch as he's capable of comprehending anything at all, the dimwitted little trophy queen who sits next to me might suspect something, but probably his mind gets distracted by the task of remembering to breathe before too much revelation occurs. If a cover is what I'm looking for (and it isn't), then I couldn't do better than to sit next to him, because he's such a stereotypically fey flamer. The fact that I'm not constantly pouting or channeling Blanche DuBois helps. (And when The Ex picked me up from work Friday night, he staaaaaaared at her.)

But I know from experience it's all worth it—I went through this, much worse considering I had a full beard at first, last September. It's a necessary part of the process, and in a few weeks, maybe a month, my skin will have healed and the only sign that I endured this at all will be a dramatic reduction in facial hair. And that's what it's all about.

Phil is always going on about how good my skin is and how pretty I'm going to be. Wouldn't be surprised if he says it to all his clients. (This is mean, but a number of them probably need the ego-boost more than I do, since I don't have the most masculine face to begin with. I'll never be Betty Page or Elizabeth Hurley, but I'm fairly pretty.) This really is going to make a lot of difference, though, and hopefully I'll be able to see my mother between the healing process and the next wave of regrowth, when my face will be at its clearest and ostensibly most feminine. Next time we meet I might as well do it right.

2:07pm

Two hours? Did I write that I'd be seeing Phil for two hours more than I expected? Scratch that—six hours. Duh. Three of them were spread out over this weekend, and the other three happen tonight.

I finally got the pictures of Summer and I from that night last month when we went to Lilith together. For some reason I neglected to get them put on disc, so I'm going to have to get access to a scanner somehow. They're the only pictures I have of Summer, let alone of her and I together, and they aren't that bad, really. A tad blurry, minimal red-eye, and of course Summer looks much more natural and relaxed and beautiful than I do by a long long long shot. I'm not likely to get her to pose with me again in the forseeable future, let alone in front of a camera at all (reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger, as my phobia of cameras was legendary) so I suppose these'll have to do. At least I'll have something to show Phil tonight.

Later that same night I kissed Tiff for the first time, so I guess they have a certain pathetic historical value in that respect.

I don't have any of Tiff. Probably never will.

eventually you'll realize you never should.
Oh, that's a relief. The big staff meeting which was scheduled for this week has been pushed back to next week, meaning my face will have that much more time to return to a state resembling non-grotesque normalcy. (That I'm not equating my normal face with "grotesque" clearly marks an improvement in my self-esteem.)

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Sunday, 14 March 1999 (bittersweet me)
6:35pm


Five hours of zapping today, four (I think) yesterday. Four? Five? Four. Anyway, despite Phil's prediction otherwise, we're not quite done. Still a bit directly underneath my chin, and of course my eyebrows are still cro-magnon. So, I'm going again tomorrow, bringing me to 18 hours in 8 days, unfair to do to a face. But said face will be clear once more, and I won't have to go back for at least a few more weeks, though the financial reality is that the well is dry for now.

Today's session hurt more than usual. I loaded up on the vicodin just to be on the safe side, though I still found myself in genuine pain more than I was expecting to.

The Ex and I went to Santa Cruz yesterday. It was like the good old days, perhaps better in some ways. Things would be so much easier sometimes if we weren't so damn perfect for each other.

She's so much stronger now than she was before.

what choice did she have?


9:10pm

Salmon-colored jeans.

9:45pm

Hillard and Hanson, sheer to waist, size "Tall," black. Where have you been all my life?

Now I just need to get a decent skirt, similar to The Ex's black pleated one, before the Neil show this Friday so I can be dressed properly. (And I need to remember to ask c0g about determining bra size. Seems like something he'd know, and Wonderbras—which Summer has been strongly recommending for a long time—are on sale at Mervyn's.) Femmey goth at a Manson show? Big whoop. For Neil Young? Different matter entirely. And who knows, I may still be able to make it to Lilith afterwards. If I even want to go, and I'm not convinced I'll want to. But I'll have to see Tiff again eventually, right? The degree to which my face has healed up by then will be a strong deciding factor, and Phil insists that I can use hypo-allergenic makeup after a day or two with no problem. That still seems wrong. Besides, even if there's no danger of infection or otherwise damaging the skin, lumpy skin with makeup on is still lumpy skin.

Speaking of wrong...after six hours, dark hair is already regrowing on my upper lip. Uh, no. Fuck you, secondary masculine sex characteristics. You're not going to win so easily.

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Friday, 12 March 1999 (the speed of pain)
11:00am


Got zapped again last night, and going again Saturday and Sunday—12 hours or so in the space of a week, which is a lot even by my standards. (Most people average maybe an hour a week.) Theoretically I should be cleared by Sunday, meaning that when I shave no shadow will remain. It'll take at least a couple weeks for my skin to really heal, though.

Ironically, the documentary crew's going to be back on Saturday, and according to c0g they've shown interest in talking to me as a tranny goth. Typical of my timing, this being the worst possible weekend for me go in front of a camera. So I won't.

Shaping up to be a long weekend anyway—The Ex's going out of town (to her most favorite place in the world, no less) with the guy she's been seeing, a particular pilgrimmage I know she's been wanting to make for a long time. But I can't help thinking it should be with me.

uh, hello? we've been over this before, haven't we? you break up with someone, you lose that privilege. how many damn clues do you need? and just because she knows how to date and you don't doesn't mean she should penalized. you've done that to her quite enough already. she's risen above everything you've done to her, while you keep crashing down. deal with it.
But it isn't. And probably never will be again. It's how things are, the way I made them.

yeah yeah yeah, your regret over breaking up with her is growing all the time. duh. saw that one coming from a mile away. that you two are meant for each other in spite of all your issues brings a whole new meaning to the word "obvious." but what happens if the planets converge and you do hear from tiff? or if you somehow manage to actually meet someone else who says all the right things? oooh—polyamory! yeah! you could get pointers from maggie or krycek! no, it really is more than just an excuse to sleep around! honest!
I may have found a place in town where I can get a very cheap laptop. They're in SoMa and open from 9am-5pm, making it all but impossible for me to actually go there. Can't say I'm surprised. Not that I can afford it, but it's still nice to dream.


(that goddamn little fey fidgety drama queen, if his life is so tragic, why doesn't he just kill himself and get it over with?)

2:26pm

is there still something about freedom you think you don't know?


4:30pm

Okay, I'm really working on the letter to my mom, honestly and for real this time, and intend to send it off before I leave work today.

11:45pm

Writing my mother; possibly going out of town with The Ex tomorrow (and *not* the other guy); and talking with Heidi right now, possibly getting together with her later tonight.

That dumb "when it rains" phrase doesn't begin to cover it. The ancient chinese curse seems more appropriate.

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Thursday, 11 March 1999 (circus envy)
9:00am


The Manson/Hole show was tremendous fun, probably the best concert I've been to in a while if only a purely visceral level. It was a big, dumb rock spectacle, and sometimes that's really good for the soul.

As I suspected I might, I did get fully made up. Only wearing jeans, t-shirt and jacket (all black, natch), but it still felt nice, because after today I won't be able to again for at least a week or so.

11:00am

Something's got to give, but whatever the hell it is, it ain't givin'. I'm so fucking tired of spinning my wheels. I need to start writing again. For real, not this silliness. (No, I don't know what qualifies as "real" writing, but apparently it's not this self-indulgent claptrap.) I've wasted far far too much time. I've been getting one major priority taken care of, yes, but there's more that requires my attention.

wow, look at you! just fuckin' kills you when your friends are successful, doesn't it? damn! who knew?
I don't know precisely what form it would take. Getting the movie thing going on sfgoth would probably be a great start, I don't know. At least I'd have something to focus on, a forum to write about something I'm interested in.

Still, there's gotta be more. Shelter from the Storm needs to be completed, and converting it from script to prose would almost certainly help. Or, maybe, I could start on something *new*, something I haven't been working on for the last four years. What a brilliant concept.

Which raises the computer issue. That is, I don't really have one of my own to use. My old PC at home is quite fried, and even if I felt comfortable using The Ex's Mac on principle, the simple fact is I can't compose on that kind of computer. It feels all wrong.

Put simply, I need a laptop. I've been checking eBay semi-regularly looking for a cheap one, and I've seen quite a few. If I could plunk down $400, I'd be set. But I can't.

Damn. Damn damn damn.

oh, that'll solve everything. never mind the fact that a blank page is a blank page regardless of whether it's on a regular computer or a laptop or a typewriter or even a piece of paper (perish the thought!) and that the real problem is a marked lack of creativity combined with an overwhelming fear that whatever you are actually able to spew out will just be derivative pap. somehow a laptop will make all of that better. perfectly logical.
When I was a child, I'd actually thought I'd be a writer when I grew up. (Honestly, like many of the more basic elements of my personality, it goes back that far.) As a teenager, I began to realize I'd be lucky to get out the video business, or the service industry at all. Well, I've managed to accomplish some of the major goals I had for myself as a teenager—now it's time to step back a little and make up for the childhood dreams that didn't happen, which in many ways are the only ones that really matter.

Who knows. My mom may be proud of me yet.

4:00pm

My voice. That's the cliche I've been struggling for.

I need to find my voice. Maybe I won't discover it until my body is sufficiently changed, I don't know...

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Wednesday, 10 March 1999 (reasons to be beautiful)
7:40am


Working on my written self-evaluation. I'm trying to explain all the ways in which I rawk and all the ways in which I suck at my job (aka "needs for improvement"). Aaargh. I thought I was through with this nonsense at the job interview. You'd think I'd be good at writing about myself, and yet.

Going to the Marilyn Manson/Hole show tonight, and I fully intend to enjoy myself. Hobnobbing with the Mansonites sounds like it should be fun. And why not? When you come down to it, I is one.

Then, on 3/19, I'm going to see Neil Young; and I'll probably be seeing Alanis Morissette in April, and in a perfect world I'd be seeing Sheryl Crow next month too.

There's a lot to be said for not being bound to one particular philosophy.

9:00am

Having completed writing my self-evaluation as much as I can hope to, and still having lots of actual work-related work to do, I naturally decided to tweak this page a bit. A little bit o' stylesheeting and javascripting, blatantly stolen from others of course. Cosmetic changes to make up for emotional emptiness—story of my life these days. Did I mention I'm getting my hair done this weekend, plus at least another six hours of electrolysis?

and all of that makes up for the fact that you'll never hear from tiff again, right? right. sure it does.
Okay. Real work now.

11:30am

As usual, my attempts to be clever on the list are met with a deafening silence.

11:45am

Uh-oh.
I'm beginning to miss her more than I was expecting to.
The medication is wearing off.

12:24pm

I survived the "informal" part of the employee review. In truth, it went quite well; they're very happy with me and my work, I have a solid future here, so and so forth. It's all very odd to me, though. I mean, I know I do my job well (and it's astonishing how much more productive I'd be if I wasn't constantly working on this or email), but something about being relatively successful at 25—not something I ever expected, and to listen to my mom talk about it, an utter impossibility considering how badly I did in high school. So I guess that's one of area of my life I can't complain about, although praise has always made me uncomfortable because it makes my next failure that much more disappointing.

Then there's the liberal guilt issue, the fact that sometimes I feel guilty about the fact that I'm employed while so many of my friends aren't, but very much want to be. (I'd suspected it was a point of friction between Tiff and I, though I could be wrong about that. When you feel guilty about something, naturally you think it's on everyone else's mind, too.) I wish I could help them all, I really do.

oh yeah? how do you think you'll react when the ex finally gets that new job she's been searching for? what if this new temp agency really comes through for her, much like what happened to you at this time last year? before long she'll start looking for a new place to live, and eventually she'll move out. what do you think will happen then? when she finally gets on with her life without you? will you be happy for her, our will your heart finally break for real, because you'll know it's all your fault?
What do I rate to be this lucky? On the other hand, it's not like I haven't worked hard to get where I am, and I've had to put up with a lot of shit. While people have pointed me in the right direction at times (my brother Jim has been particularly helpful, bless him), nothing has been handed to me, and it was always up to me to make it work. I may not deserve more than other people, but I'm entitled to what I do have, for christ's sake.

2:37pm

So The Ex is joining us for the Manson show tonight—hell, I even gave her the money to buy the ticket today. The ticket which she shouldn't have been able to get since the dumbass Chronicle listed the show as being sold out. Two possibilities: either they just figured the show would be sold out, a somewhat logical if journalistically irresponsible assumption, or based on the typically condescending tone of the article, they figured they might be able to hurt the show's grosses a little by discouraging people from trying to buy tickets at the last minute; a lot of people believe everything they read.

I'm probably going to bend my no-makeup rule tonight; certainly around the eyes, which isn't being affected by the electrolysis anyway, though I think the recently zapped skin has healed sufficiently to where it can handle powder, if nothing else. I mean, how often do I get to see both Hole and Marilyn Manson in one fell swoop? I wanna do it right. I'm still giving Shrine a miss for the time being, though.

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Tuesday, 9 March 1999 (flying on the ground is wrong)
9:00am


Performance reviews are happening over the next couple days. Could there possibly be a worse time for this to happen, for me to have my work evaluated and to have to sell myself? (Part of it is self-evaluation.) No, and that's what makes it perfectly logical that it would be right now. There is no such thing as optimal conditions.

I wonder if Summer noticed anything in my eyes just now. I doubt it. No reason that she should.

And I know for a fact she didn't notice anything about my face, how I seem to have gained five pounds overnight. These are not details that would be caught.

Oh, christ. He just turned the lights all the way up. Thanks, you little prick.

11:15am

Summer just asked me if it would be alright if Annika joined us for lunch.

Well, what the fuck am I going to say? No?

Such a narrow escape—she was almost stuck talking to me alone. God forbid.

and who precisely is it you're angry with here, kiddo? and why?


3:25pm

Not until the way back did she finally pry out of me what was wrong, and even then she had to specifically ask me about Tiff. Then it all came out.

She'd originally asked me about five seconds before Annika joined us. Yeah, right. No great surprise, they weren't at any loss for things to talk about.

We did talk about electrolysis, though, while standing in line at the putrid fast-food joint she insists on patronizing. It's always fascinating to discuss these things in a public place, since no attempt is made to hide the fact that it's about me or being transgendered. My brother Jim seems to make a point of talking about these things in front of other people, or in public; I think it's a way of testing my convictions. Fuck 'em all, I'm up for it.

5:05pm

Haven't heard from Tiff. Well, duh. I probably won't until the next time I go to Shrine, which isn't likely to be until April. The reconcilatory call from her isn't going to happen.

Haven't heard from Heidi, which is somewhat surprising, but then again she may not be at work. In any event, it's probably for the best.

Just cleared the air with Summer about that first month. Said things that needed to be said. Now we both know. Or, at least, we know as much as we told the other, which probably isn't the same as "everything."

Clean slate? No, not really. Just fresh blood, maybe.

I'm writing my mother. I so wish I could tell her about everything that's happening. About Summer and Tiff and The Ex and everything else. I'm sick of being disconnected from her.

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Monday, 8 March 1999 (don't be late)
11:00am


Heidi wrote.
Here we go again.

11:45am

Summer and I were going to have lunch together, but she just cancelled—well, in fairness, rescheduled until tomorrow. Probably just as well; no doubt I would have just wanted to talk about myself and what's in my mind about Tiff and Heidi and the slight moral dilemma I'm facing. And I know it's hardly worth trying. After all, she invited me so she could tell me about her trip. It's not about me.

Although I'd initially planned on going once a week, now that I've started zapping again I realize that I want to get as much done as I can, as quickly as I can. So I'm going again on Thursday, then Sunday. If I'm already resigned to not going out anyway (makeup is utterly out of the question, and the simple fact is, my face is lumpy), then I might as well go for broke.

Monetarily speaking, I can probably keep up this pace for another two weeks or so. That may be enough to clear my face again. In fact, I'm almost certain it is. There'll still be growth, but a single shave will take care of it. And eventually it'll be gone entirely.

That would be a very very good thing. Not having a beard at all will...well, at the very least, make things different.

12:15pm

And now I know why she cancelled (okay, rescheduled). I'm just a friend, not Her Latest Thing. Who knows, maybe that first day she cancelled on some other poor sap because she was momentarily focused on me.

I wonder if that was him, the one she couldn't believe I wasn't also drooling over that day, the one whose story strangely parallels mine.

Maybe I'll cancel on her tomorrow. Not that I have anyone else to go with, but still. On principle.

Nah.

ain't it funny how the time can fall away sometimes
you think there's too much then you find there's not enough
see that you've been seeing that old woman of mine
i know her well so if you're smart you'll take my advice

so don't be late, 'cuz she don't like to wait
and if you don't watch out then she might run away
and watch her well, make sure that she can't tell
she's like the wind so watch her well and don't be late
 —Tom O'Dowd



1:30pm

This is me indulging myself.

3:15pm

it was just like the final weeks with louise, right? isn't that what you've been trying to deny? that look in tiff's eyes when she'd call your bullshit or otherwise point out some quirk or flaw—it was the same as louise used to get just before she left and never looked back. except while that had been nothing more than a close friendship which went bad in the worst way, this was a potential relationship which burnt out before it could even begin to get kinetic. it's hard to say which is worse, and it doesn't really matter, does it? in each case the person wised up about you...and maybe it was particularly bad with louise because she was moving away anyhow. she could have remained civil for another couple weeks (if only to recruit you for helping her move), but obviously didn't feel it was worth it. i'll spare you and not mention the going-away party you didn't hear about until it was over. just remember that no, the comfort you provided her when her boyfriend left did not require reciprocation. she owed you nothing.


4:37pm

Wow. Deep, deep fatigue, the kind where my body spontaneously jerks itself upright, as if I'm slapping myself. This is potentially very bad. And it isn't simply a question of lack of sleep; I got about seven hours last night, which should be plenty. There's something else at work here. My energy levels are simply not what they should be. I can't say what it is, although for the record I don't drink coffee and don't intend to start anytime soon. There must be something I'm missing besides caffeine. I refuse to believe it's impossible to be alert during the day without that substance.

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Sunday, 7 March 1999 (can't get there from here)
3:00pm


Got back from my electrologist Phil's a little while ago. It's nice to be going again, even if it will only be for a few weeks until the money runs out. But every bit helps, and Phil says my having been on hormones for the last six months (Christ! has it been that long?) will speed up the process considerably. At the very least, the beardshadow should be gone by next week's session. Oh, that would be wonderful.

Between the local anesthetic he used, the vicodin and the music (Up and New Adventures in Hi-Fi by REM and Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie by Alanis), the pain was completely manageable. More like intense pinching and pulling—annoying but nothing intolerable. The four hours of sleep I got last night didn't hurt, either. Some people can actually sleep through the zapping; I doubt I could, but the fatigue helped me disconnect from the pain. It's almost like a trance state. And for the best cause I can think of right now, eliminating facial hair. The session was three hours, but I could have gone for six if it had been feasible.

No word from Tiff, but I'm not expecting to see or hear from her until Shrine next Friday, assuming both of us go. I'd been strongly considering not going anyway. This last Friday was just a little too...emotional? Intensely? Awkward? Awkwardly emotionally intense? Something like that. A week off might be a good thing.

Then Heidi had to say she was thinking about going, for the first time since we met a couple months back. That changes things considerably. If she's going to be there then I want to be too...although it might make things a little strange with Tiff. This stuff gets sooo complicated sooo quickly.

Oh, and Heidi hasn't called either. Maybe I emailed her too late and she can only check her mail from work. Seems very likely. Either that or...nah, that's what it is.

Much like Tiff, whatever will happen with Heidi will happen. Probably nothing.

you're a novelty item to them, that's all. you're fairly pretty with good hair, and they're momentarily fascinated with you until they discover that you're really quite boring and inexperienced and don't know a fucking thing about anything. you're a 25 year-old social virgin, clumsy and inept and clueless and nobody wants to put up with that. they shouldn't have to.
Finally rented Good Will Hunting, which when Jean was still talking to me at all (before her disgust with how I handled the whole Summer thing resulted in her ignoring me) she had strongly recommended. I hadn't really cared about the movie before in spite of all the acclaim—or, let's be honest, possibly because of. She said there's a scene in it which makes her think of me; about 2/3 of the way in, Ben Affleck has a little speech he delivers to Matt Damon. They're leaning up against a car drinking coffee or something. She said it's what she wishes she could say to me, and in fact what she suspects everyone who knows me wants to say. (For the record, I never came out to Jean.) I'm about to watch it...

5:20pm

I didn't think it was quite the masterpiece that everyone else apparently did, but I liked it. And though I hesitate to compare myself to a genius, I can see Jean's point. I do have a lot in common with that character. I have a potential I'm simply not using, and I have a tendency to push people away so they won't leave me first.

that look on tiff's face friday night, just before you left. was was it? sadness? disappointment? disgust? was she seeing someone who just wasted her time, or someone she could have learned to care about if they hadn't fucked it up? will she come to regret ever having shown any interest in you at all? or in not following her immediate impulse that she needed stability, and it wouldn't be in the form of you?
Christ, I'm lonely.

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Saturday, 6 March 1999 (time out of mind)
9:00am


So there it is.

i don't mean to point out that i was right, but is it just me or was i right again?
I was moving too fast, pushing too hard. The e-card may have been the fatal error. But whatever was happening between us is now on hold. We didn't even kiss goodbye last night, not so much as a cursory peck.

Things may not be completely over; we're in a "let's stop and sort out our feelings" mode right now. Which, admittedly, was my idea, but it was clearly needed. Tiff was obviously more than a little confused and nervous about the level of seriousness.

Now it's back to what's always the most awful part: the waiting. Or, more specifically, trying not to wait. Not waiting by the phone for her to call and say that she can't take it any more and wants to see me. Going on about my business as if it didn't matter. Of course, I don't really have any business of my own to go on about, nor do I have a queue of girls who are interested in me. I'm alone once again.

But at least now I know, right? Right. Valuable knowledge in terms of how to proceed in these situations.

yeah, and summer said that she would have asked you out already except that you were both going through some weirdness, and just before you were about to take a plunge of some sort she got together with someone else (claiming complete and total innocence at the time), even later on still using the excuse that things were difficult for both of you at the time so it wouldn't have been right for her and you, the pain she was in was clearly treatable in this manner provided it wasn't with the likes of you (and she never had any obligation towards you anyway, that had just been harmless flirting which you stupidly took to actually mean something), so what great wisdom are you extrapolating from that, huh? there is no set of rules, it's different every time, and your great skill would seem to be in doing exactly the wrong thing regardless.
it was truly amazing how quickly Tiff picked up on all my bullshit, on my mass of quirks and idiosyncrasies and fundamental character flaws. nothing that she seemed to find endearing, either, just annoying. whatever we had in common didn't seem to be enough. and, of course, my utter lack of coordination and generally poor dancing. a noisy club simply isn't the right place to be learning these things. at least, that's my excuse, combined with being a big dumb lumbering ox.

and now what? how to start over?

the L-word never came up once, in any context. because i don't, and i'm not.

if the phone rings, it won't be her.

you're keeping it together, but it won't last. once it sinks in that this is all your fault, that once again you've destroyed all the good in your life, well...
something tells me this isn't my last entry for the day. there will probably be more to say.

10:20am

Like, for example, I just made an appointment to see my electrologist tomorrow, for the first time since September. I have a small amount of disposable income and I don't intend to, well, dispose of it. It will go for a good cause.

if I can't save my soul, i'll save my body.
if I can't save my soul, i'll save my body.
if I can't save my soul, i'll save my body.

i made my bed i'll lie in it i made my bed i'll die in it

sometime after midnight

My god, could I have already met someone new? Is this a possibility? Or is it just someone else who's momentarily into me for the novelty value? I suppose I'll get a better idea on Sunday.

She's tall.

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Friday, 5 March 1999 (bang and blame)
5:00pm


So The Ex and I went to Stinky's Peepshow Thursday night at the Covered Wagon Saloon. I imagine you're familiar with it, but if not, sidewalk.com describes it as such: "Some of the Bay Area's noisiest combos perfom while bullhorn-toting ushers urge patrons into the 'Peepshow' to witness all manner of questionable acts by their 'large n lovely go-go dancers.'" What's not to like about that description?

Anyway, I'd originally planned on just going as is, no extra amount of preparation. Whatever amount of makeup I was wearing over the course of the day would be sufficient. After all, it was neither a tranny nor a goth club, nor really even a club in that sense.

Except that we'd gone shopping earlier in the day, and I'd picked up a new lipstick: Revlon's Street Wear, Dirt. It was on sale at Target, and I had been torn between Dirt and Schmutz; both were lovely, but Dirt won out just by virtue of the name. I mean, Dirt! What better name is there than that? Trash, maybe, but Dirt will do.

Also, since we'd gone into the Serramonte Mall so I could make a payment on my Mervyn's card and pick up a prescription at Long's and take another look at a beautiful Scully-in-the-feature-film jacket at Wilson's which I could never wear because it was an M/M, we went into Hot Topic. And there, hidden amongst the growing piles of glitter makeup, was a basic white powder. As in, white white, exactly the kind of thing you'd expect to find there and which had probably always been there but which I'd never noticed because I seldom look closely at their makeup selection. But I'd been wanting to try the (more) pale thing, so I figured it was worth a shot.

Having two new cosmetics to try out, I decided I'd at least redo my face, but not actually get dressed up per se.

Then there was the hair. I've been moving somewhat away from the 24/7 pigtails. When I'm going out, sure, but day to day lately I've been just keeping it down (but not tied back). Just to check, I put it up in pigtails, then changed my mind, removed the pigtails and brushed it flat. Even only made up but otherwise in boi clothes (though with the choker as a final touch), I didn't look half bad. Certainly sufficient for this particular evening, which was really just reconnaissance.

The Covered Wagon Saloon, home of Stinky's, was every bit as trashy as I was hoping, though the blacklights made it trashy in somewhat post-modern sense. The band playing when we arrived was very much in the Link Wray heavy-metal-twang fashion, which I love. (I've seen Link twice, and for a guy in his seventies he puts on a hell of a show.)

Now, not being one myself I should really know better than to compare myself to genetic women, but after a while I began to feel seriously underdressed. Not even so much in terms of clothes, but hair. There were as many sets of banged heads of hair as you'd expect to find at your typical goth club, actually, but most of them had the rest of their hair up in another way as well. Some degree of style, which mine was seriously lacking.

Of course, I wasn't out to be seen. That hadn't been the point, but rather to satisfy curiousity about Stinky's, and just to get out and see what else the city has to offer. But still, goddamnit, as long as I'm going to be out, and made up...pigtails were necessary.

I looked into the men's room—damn, no mirror. I needed a mirror. Briefly I considered doing them blind, but nope. It can be tricky enough when I can actually see what I'm doing.

The ladies' room, by contrast, had a rather generous mirror, and more space overall. Fully cognizant of the fact this was not likely to be anywhere near as open an environment as the ladies' room at Shrine, I claimed a patch of mirror and went to work.

I received an odd look or two, but whether it was because they'd never seen me in there before or the fact that I didn't necessarily belong, I can't say and don't really care. Whether or not I "pass" isn't an issue with me.

It became very obvious very quickly that someone was changing clothes in the stall next to me, and something even more obvious finally made it through the first eight layers of skull: I hadn't invaded just the ladies' room, but the dancers' dressing room! Hell, that made my presence there wrong on general principle, even though they seemed to habitually change in the relative privacy of the stalls.

Still, I wasn't kicked out, and indeed nobody said anything about my presence at all. As soon as I was done (a sloppy but acceptable job for being under pressure and without a brush), I exited, feeling much better. At least I could now somewhat hold my own with the other girls.

I wasn't back in the bar area for more than five seconds before someone came up to me, a woman whose makeup was doing some very strange things under the blacklights, no doubt intentionally. Her eyes also had an odd glow to them; some sort of contacts, I surmised. This was clearly a regular.

She grabbed my arm and told me to come with her, leading me towards the bar. She sat down and showed me to her friend, a fellow with one of most vast foreheads I've ever seen, and started going on about how cute I was and playing with my pigtails.

Seeing as how she was extremely drunk and the guy wasn't saying much of anything, the same question came up two or three times: do I play an instrument? I told them the truth, about three chords on the guitar, G-C-D. Which actually means I can play about 75% of Neil Young's catalog, except that I'm so freakin' tone deaf I can never figure them out myself in spite of the fact that they're always some combination of G-C-D. Seems the guy was in a band called Romeo's Dead, which had an album coming out and would be playing there soon.

It was hardcore deja vu, becuase I met a couple members of Universal Black in much the same manner some weeks at back at Shrine. I'd just been minding my own business, but they saw me and simply had to talk to me. I suppose I underestimate my power as a freak magnet, which is certainly not a bad thing. Anyway, they gave me a flier for the show (March 19, the same night as Universal Black, and the same night that Neil is playing in Berkeley, for which I already have tickets), and for whatever reason I gave them my name and number. Go figure.

Finally the "peepshow" part of the peepshow happened, in between bands. It was essentially a striptease in a small bordello-style room with a bull dyke (it would have to be, wouldn't it?) haranguing the patrons to insert money wherever possible. The Ex was more than happy to heed the call, though surprisingly I fell under the radar. Of all the places where I might melt into the woodwork, that one came as a surprise.

Shortly thereafter, realizing we'd seen pretty much all there was to see (not to mention facing down the whole "getting up and going to work the next morning" thing), we left.

So that was Stinky's.

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Thursday, 4 March 1999 (how the west was won and where it got us)
12:00pm


As I'd suspected, it was a long night. Not in an entirely bad way, but in an emotionally draining way. Sometimes I'm amazed I have any emotions left even to drain.

After one of the longer and more harrowing days at work in recent memory (7am to 7pm, the kind where the absolute wisest thing to do would be just going straight to bed afterwards), I went to Bondage A-Go-Go with Tiff and Gahan. I got dressed and made up in her bathroom in record time, looking a little trashy as a result, but I didn't mind. Sometimes trashy is a good thing.

Since there really wasn't much else to do, we danced. After a while, Tiff commented that I was getting braver.

I'm still not sure what she meant by that. Maybe it was the fact that I was one of maybe three other people currently dancing, and this requires a certain amount of bravery. Or since it was slightly more clearly lit than Lilith's dance floor the true horror of my body's convulsions are that much more noticeable, and you gotta be either brave or insane to do it in public so she went with the less disturbing option. But whatever she meant, it was wonderful to hear.

That I'm an ignorant chickenshit huckleberry at best is no mystery to her by this point, if it ever was. Even if I hadn't blathered my recent life story to her that night, she would have figured it out pretty damn quick. I can only fake it so much.

I don't know any of the rules of dating or whatever it is we're doing. I don't know what's allowed and what's going too far, and when these standards change. I don't know a fucking thing, and it's wrong to expect someone else to have to teach me.

So, as always, I make it up as I go along, usually not going far enough because going too far seems like it would be so much worse. A side effect of growing up with a very confused sense of identity in a body way way way too big, perhaps. Sometimes I don't know my own strength, or more importantly, my own bulk. I've broken chairs. I want to pass unnoticed, and instead I'm the proverbial bull in the china shop.

But, goddamnit, no longer. No more fear. Something was developing between Tiff and I, or at least something was on the verge of developing, and I simply could not let whatever opportunities this evening and this environment might present pass by. Not again. The majority of my regrets in life come from succumbing to fear, and this is not going to be lost opportunity. If I fail, it won't have been for lack of trying.

And, for the record, I'm not talking about sex. When I was in the eigth grade, I received was quite possibly the greatest compliment I'd ever received or ever will: a fellow who was quite my opposite in this regard said to me with a certain sense of amazement, "You're the only guy I know who doesn't think with his dick." I've always taken that to mean I was doing something right.

Do I want to have sex with Tiff? Am I even capable, all things considered? Yes to both. If it happens, it will evolve out of our relationship. I'm not at all sure if truly *casual* sex is something I could really do. Certainly I've had my share of opportunities to find out—getting picked up at Trannyshack is roughly as difficult as falling off a bike. But damned if it isn't always guys hitting on me. If a woman showed the same kind of immediate interest, well, that'd be different.

not unlike tiff or summer did at first?
Tiff is very...how to put it? Polymorphously perverse? Tactile? She's into touching and being touched. Most everyone around her. It's the way she is, and I wouldn't ever try to change that, even if it is a somewhat new paradigm to me.

Which isn't to say The Ex hated being touched; quite the opposite, she loves it. But she was very centered on me. She was for me and I was for her. I don't know, if Tiff and I ever become official (or start dating or whatever the fuck the terminology might be), maybe she'd become more focused on me. Or not. But I'm not going to go into Rome and tell them to start doing as I do.

The point is, I tried to be closer to her in that regard, at least while we weren't dancing (though we did get close at times while dancing and I tried my best to follow her lead and naturally failed miserably). I cuddled up against her, massaged her, tried somehow to bring our auras together, to simply be close with her. In one respect she didn't react negatively, which is to say she didn't immediately move away or tell me to stop. But she did admit at one point, confirming a look I could clearly see on her face, that

a look almost exactly like the one on summer's face, the original summer, all those years ago just before she rushed off and left you realizing in some fashion that you'd completely fucked up for what was the first time and by no means the last and that what the rest of the world takes for granted will always be a great struggle for you, that the more you're interested in someone the more likely you'll hurt or upset them in some way, because certain things are meant for you and certain things aren't and that's your fate and you can't do a goddamn thing about it remember that remember remember remember you promised me i'm dying i'm dying please
she was feeling shy. I replied, jokingly of course, that being shy was my job. She smiled and said we could take turns.

I fully expected that to be it for the evening. I'd pushed too hard and it broke. Once again. Everything I touch, I destroy.

It wasn't over.

I believe on some level the further events of last night (for the record, no, we didn't) were like a gauge for Tiff, a means of deciding whether she wanted to continue on with this big dumb tranny in pigtails and too much eyeliner.

I think the answer is yes.

And after I got home...well, more on that later...

5:30pm

I got home at about 1am, and The Ex was still up, continuing her Buffy the Vampire Slayer marathon. We talked about the club, which she'd been to for the first time herself a couple weeks previous, and starting comparing notes, about BAGG and our club experiences in general.

It was probably the first time we'd spoken openly to each other about these things, and how even though it's all quite shallow the adulation and fawning we each receive will almost certainly keep us coming back for more. Hearing her talk about being pawed by three men at a time was far less distressing than I expected, and she didn't seem particularly bothered by my story about the french guy who wouldn't take no for an answer from earlier that same night. In that context was the only reference I made to Tiff, and she didn't mention the guys she's gone out with at all.

I was okay at first when I got into bed. Between the low of work and the relative high of becoming more intimate with Tiff, I was emotionally exhausted. But hanging on.

Then something strange happened: my right foot started to cramp. Hard. This wasn't the first time, but definitely the worst. It was like the muscles in my foot had suddenly decided to turn into a knot for no apparent reason (which, I suppose, is what a cramp is). I tried to keep it to myself, to weather it, because usually these things go away.

Not this time. The Ex became aware before long that I was in pain—I suppose the slight but uncontrollable whimpering, and rather than being stoic, when she asked what was wrong, I told her. She suggested I massage it, which I did. No luck. The agony continued, if not actually getting worse.

She turned on the light so we could get a closer look; the tendons in my foot looked like they wanted to leap right out my skin. At least there was some visible manifestation, since there's little worse than being in intense pain and not having any physical evidence. This is something that's plagued The Ex for years, since she has chronic headaches which obviously nobody else can tell are happening.

The Ex instructed me to lie down and take deep breaths, and she'd massage my foot. I was certainly in no mood to argue. Breathing deeply was a challenge, because I was starting to cry. This was all too goddamned much. It wasn't even so much the pain (though, for the first time in more years I can count, I was associating crying with physical pain) as it was the unfairness of the situation and the fact that The Ex was coming to my aid. The only times I've cried recently have been with her, like the night of my closure with Summer, or of course the morning we broke up. For whatever reason, perhaps having to do with simply how close we've been over the last eight and a half years, I can only cry around her.

The temptation lately to just say screw the rules (I broke up with her so I'm not allowed to use in her physically or emotionally) and hold her and cry to purge my bad feelings has been intense, but I've resisted. It's simply not the way things are. It would probably be more acceptable for us to have sex than for us to hold each other. The whole level of intimacy thing.

And now, here she was, massaging my ragingly painful foot (funny how foot massage keeps on accompanying dark emotions), speaking softly about breathing and relaxing. It was just all too much. And yet I never quite let the tears flow completely freely. I should have, but I didn't, at least not until she left the room for a moment. Then they came out, if briefly.

Eventually my foot decramped itself, and I went to sleep with a soaked pillow and a depleted heart.

I'm doing a little better today, though.

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Wednesday, 3 March 1999 (let me in)
6:30pm


Long day at work—eleven and half hours and counting. Still haven't heard from Tiff. Guess it's going to be a long night, too.

I'm cracking up. There doesn't seem to be much doubt of that anymore.

The Ex and I had a strange argument last night, about the thin line between showing courtesy and acting like we're still together.

Something tells me things are going to go bad again.

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Tuesday, 2 March 1999 (perfect circle)
12:00pm


I got up at 3:45am this morning, got ready to go the gym...and didn't. I actually talked myself out of it, rationalizing that between going to see Velvet Goldmine at The Red Vic tonight followed by Bondage a-go-go the following evening with Tiff (not just Tiff, and she hadn't even been part of the original plans, but getting her involved sounded like too good an idea to pass up—I haven't seen her in a week and I miss her), getting a little extra sleep sounded like a damn good idea. So I went back to bed and got up again at 5:45am. This will be problematic if it keeps up.
When the legend becomes the truth, print the legend.
If you have the misfortune of being like me, you're frequently waiting for someone to ask you a certain question because you have the perfect response. Such was I on Friday night at Lilith around 2am.

All I needed was for someone to either ask what I was doing or how I was doing. What I was doing seemed unlikely since I was clearing leaning up against the bar very much alone. How I was doing seemed a little more probable, but it never happened. Joy seemed the most likely candidate, as Summer and Velvet had clearly left for the evening and c0g didn't make it at all.

I just wanted someone to ask me so I could reply, "Maintaining a certain level of optimism despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary." And really, that summed it all up for me. Tiff hadn't shown up and almost certainly wasn't going to, but at only 2am I refused to give up on her. What the hell, she wasn't there until 1:30am the previous week, so 2am wasn't completely unreasonable. Hence, I'd give her until 2:30am. Stranger things have been known.

Meesha and Tina had left. Abruptly, it seemed to me; I left the dance floor (also abruptly, it's true) for all of five minutes to do a quick survey of the bar for Tiff, and when I got back they were gone. I checked both the ladies room and out back, the most likely places for them to be, but they'd clearly left for the evening.

I'd officially met Meesha earlier that week at Trannyshack, and she'd recognized me from Lilith previously. Tonight she seemed vaguely disappointed that I wasn't wearing my glasses (which I never do at Lilith except just before I leave, which was when she must have saw me for just a moment) or was wearing my hair down rather than in my otherwise de rigueur pigtails. As for that, I'd just figured what the hell, if I'm going to do the Betty Page thing I might as well do the damn Betty Page thing.

I hadn't noticed Meesha the previous time she was at Lilith (how I could miss a 6'4" tranny in a questionable is a mystery, but there you are), but Tina had definitely caught my eye. How could she not? The bitch was shorter, cuter, thinner and certainly *looked* younger than me. I suppose I'd enjoyed a good ride as the cutest (or, at least, resident) tranny at Lilith, but now it was coming to end. Replaced by the younger model. As always.

I kid Tina, of course (though she is in fact six years younger and thinner and by my overly self-critical standards much cuter). She seems nice enough, and I certainly respect anyone who has their shit sufficiently together at that 19. We were in the particularly bustling and always sordid ladies' room at Shrine when we compared hormone notes. Like me, she started in September and has shown noticeable breast growth. We're both on premarin, which is pretty much a given; however, I'm also on provera, another hormone, whereas she's on spironactalone, a testosterone blocker. I'd asked my doctor to put me on that initially, but she'd refused, saying it was unnecessary and that the estrogens would have the same effect, if slower. It sure doesn't seem unnecessary when your body is producing testosterone and you want it to stop NOW.

Rather than going directly into the bar as usual, my first stop upon arriving that evening was the dance floor to see if Tiff had shown up. For some reason I couldn't help thinking that's where she would be. Of course she wasn't, but that was where I'd run into Meesha and Tina and ended up hanging out with them at first. Eventually I excused myself and went into the bar, where I was spotted by Summer. She saw me from across the bar, waved and called me over.

Summer was particularly stunning, in full Cleopatra regalia. It worked quite well on her, to put it mildly. Of course, the one night I decide to have my hair down, she's wearing a black wig in essentially the same style.

She introduced me to her friend Velvet, whom she always talked about. Summer went into full gush-mode, going on about how well I was doing Betty and how proud she was of me. As always, nobody can stoke my ego quite like Summer.

She also told of how we met, a somewhat revised version which had her gravitating towards me rather than the other way around. Overall, she made it sound much more pleasant and comforting than I remembered it. This wasn't the first time, either.

And I didn't mind one bit. There was something actually quite perfect about the moment. We would never be together, period, no question, this was as close to her heart as I would ever be, and really, it was close enough. She was expressing an almost maternal pride and joy in who I was, in the role she had played in my development to this point. Maybe it was bullshit, I don't know. Maybe it wasn't reality. If so, it was better than reality, and considering how much reality I have to deal with under normal circumstances, I couldn't be happier to indulge in this occasional moment of fantasy when our paths intersect at Lilith. However or whoever she may be on a daily basis was irrelevant; this was how she would forever be in my heart, my crush with eyeliner.

Velvet and I hit it off quite well. If nothing else, her and I seemed to have a connection not dissimilar to myself and Maggie's girlfriend—which is to say, while we were both quite fond of the third person (well, I used to be fond of Maggie until she decided to take sides the moment The Ex and I broke up, but I digress), we tended to roll our eyes at the same time, and in regards to the same things. Summer's ex, Krycek, was a prime example of this. Velvet found him just as creepy as I did.

Meesha walked by at one point, and while I nodded hello, I made no attempt to introduce her to Summer or Velvet. I'm still not sure if this was wrong of me or not.

So maybe it was karmic retribution for that mild snub which resulted in me standing alone and no doubt looking remarkably pathetic by the end of the evening, waiting for someone who would never come.

Or maybe these things just happen.

Or maybe you're just fated to end up alone. That certainly does seem to be the niche you're carving for yourself, pushing away anyone who tries to get close. Eight and a half years, she was devoted to you, wanted to spent the rest of her life with you. Do you honestly expect that to happen again?


I finally heard from Tiff on Sunday afternoon, after spending the better part of Saturday and Sunday getting used to the idea that a further relationship will probably never develop between us. This isn't so much pessimism as it is simply accepting that things don't always go the way you want them to. Maybe we will get together, it's impossible to say. I sincerely hope so. But I have to prepare for another crash and burn.

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Monday, 1 March 1999 (suicaine gratification)
6:45pm


My mom, whom I'm in the process of writing, just wrote to say that the money came through and she's ready to honor her promise and pay off my student loans.

That'll put a whole new spin on the anger thing, huh?

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