Baby Doll By Mykola Dementiuk
Afterword by Sally Miller
Copyright © 2011 by Mykola Dementiuk
Synergy Press ISBN 0-9758581-2-2
Introduction
MYKOLA DEMENTIUK’S superb storytelling shines
throughout this tale of a young adolescent boy growing up in
New York City. The boy, at fourteen, has his life centered
around the East River Park rather than Times Square like in
Mykola’s first book, Times Queer.
On the surface the story appears to be about teenage sexual
experimentation, but underneath is revealed a boy’s thoughts and
desires, yearnings and fantasies, questions and musings, with a
dark underpinning. Read along as the boy makes an exciting
discovery in the park and follow his sexual adventures. You may
finish wondering about his past and his future.
Mykola’s courage in writing about such topics as teenage
sexuality, cross-generational relationships, and cross-dressing in
today’s world should be admired. The discourse on
femininity/masculinity/gay/
whether you agree or not. Perhaps it will bring questions to your
mind.
Sally Miller, Editor
Flemington NJ
July 2011
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BABY DOLL
HIS REAL FASCINATION was with words, all sorts of words.
Yet the object described by the word rarely had as much hold on
him as did the word itself, the letters and syllables which
controlled the definition. Sometimes he played with a single
word for hours, twisting it in his head, reciting and feeling its
curves with his mouth and tongue. Spelling it forwards,
backwards, shifting the letters about and creating other words,
nonsensical words which made him wonder what object could be
created to be assigned to that word. Eventually the word he
started with, again spelled correctly, had even less meaning and
definition and now seemed totally ill-suited for the object it
supposedly defined.
The words and objects of the feminine were always the most
fascinating and played with. Not so much the physiological
variants describing breasts, buttocks, or vagina – tits, ass, cunt –
those were even more nonsensical and perverted than any he
could contort. Gazongas, jugs, twat. What idiot made those up?
But the feminine words rarely heard in daily conversation –
brassiere, panty, girdle – these words were out of bounds for his
gender. Since he had no right to bring them up, much less join in
the conversation when they were uttered, he had only his
fantasies of what they could look like, how they could smell, and
most of all, how they could feel sliding on or off a body.
It’s absurd, but how often in a lifetime will a male have need of
the word brassiere? How many times will he utter the word
skirt, or slip, or chemise, or nightie, or panty? Words of the
feminine are like the secret unknowable words claimed only by
the cognoscenti, ancient holy words that summon Death when
uttered by the uninitiated, by the unworthy, the un-female.
Though he knew the words, played with and muttered them
when he imagined (and longed for) the objects, or stared greedily
at the glimpse of one – a swatch of a bra under an upraised arm,
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a panty-line in tight-curved pants, a girdle in a store window – he
had still not entered the realm of actually touching them on a
female body. He was only fourteen, and had been suffering the
burdensome and explosive ache of male virility and teenage
virginity.
The ache probably would have resolved itself in the way it
always had: an attraction to a girl, a hand clasp, a kiss, a grope,
an entry. But in the all-boys school he attended the only females
were the middle-aged teachers and administrative secretaries.
They were as unapproachable and unattainable as the knowledge
they professed to teach and know but which somehow never
sank in or seemed to have any relevance as to why it should sink in.
It wasn’t long before he started cutting classes, wandering the
streets, masturbating in public restrooms, and spending entire
days exploring the East River Park. Yet if he longed so much to
make contact with a girl, he was definitely in the wrong place.
He would have done better in some of the nearby parks close to
the all-girls’ schools, where they chattered and gossiped on park
benches, their skirts high on their legs, their blouses tight on
their chests, their budding femininity like the welcome warmth
of a spring day compared to his desolate wintry longing.
He prowled the solitary park lanes, back and forth, up and down,
idling, staring at the river, every now and then spying on a
couple entwined on a park bench, but rarely coming upon a girl
alone or a group of girls together. Once he did follow a woman
walking a small dog from the park entrance at the Houston Street
ramp to the 10th
Street exit, almost twelve blocks, the little dog
yelping and tugging on its leash the whole way. But he didn’t
dare follow the woman out of the park, even though he was
certain the woman smiled down at him from the highway
overpass.
All he saw was the arc of her panty line disappearing under the
curve of her tight rounded buttocks. He bustled to the closest
restroom and ejaculated before he had even freed his erection
from his pants. Only later, wiping himself off, did he realize he
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could have gone after the woman, that her smile was a definite
invitation to follow, but by the time he returned to the ramp and
looked across the highway, there was no sight of her.
For days afterwards he lingered around Houston Street, hoping
she’d return. Then he’d rush to 10th Street, fantasizing she was
crossing the ramp there, then back to Houston Street where she
had crossed over that first time. He constantly studied the
windows of the housing project on the other side of the highway
overlooking the park, thinking, hoping, praying he could spy her
half-dressed image in a window. But either her shades were
down or she lived elsewhere, and he never saw her again.
Yet was it really the woman he longed for, or the idea of female
clothes on her body? Touching the clothes, stroking them,
disrobing them, one by one, article by article: blouse, bra, stirrup
pants, stretch tights, tiny panties.… What then?… For days he
masturbated to the image of her tan-colored pants – in them she
had appeared nude, cinching her waist and ass and thighs in a
hold as he couldn’t imagine. What would it be like to be clutched
in such a constricting clasp so as to be almost frozen and
immovable?
Yet she had no problem moving, in her stirrup pants, on heels
that tightened and firmed the supporting leg flesh, puffing her
ass, arching her belly, pants holding in a blouse that squeezed
her breasts, round, high … inviting? What could create that
look? Clothes alone? Outside the park the unattainable images of
beautiful girls in beautiful clothes seemed like a taunt, an insult,
almost a threat; but in the park, in imagination and memory and
longing, the possibility of clothes was real and certain. If clothes
make the man, they can undo or redo the boy.…
At first he couldn’t believe they were an actual pair of panties,
but they were the color – pink, what else? – and the size – almost
palm size – of a real pair. Except for the soiled hardness at the
crotch they were satiny and enticing, but too new-looking to be
lying discarded on the grass. Another swatch of nearby pink
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caught his eye, and he was almost afraid to believe it, like some
kind of miracle or gift from the Universe: a bra, a pink bra to
match the pink panty!
Where was the girl that went with them? Also lying somewhere
about? He looked at the two articles of clothing, his penis stiff,
and snatched up the panty. He shuddered at the feel of satin – the
first time he had ever touched panty-satin – almost blinded by
the sensation spinning up his arm and through his body. Like a
thief suppressing his greedy enjoyment and victory for later, he
quickly shoved the panty in his pocket. But the bra he lingered
over, stealthily walking around it, examining it from each angle,
gingerly nudging it with his foot as if scared something might
jump at him from under the crushed satiny cups.… What? A
mouse? A spider? A tit?… He snatched up the bra.
He clutched the underclothes in his fists, one in each pocket,
pulsing his fingers in and out of the material, and walked quickly
to the nearby restroom. It wasn’t so much that the bra and panties
reminded him of a woman, a girl, a female, but of things
feminine, that is, of stereotypes of the feminine: of softness and
gentleness, of lolling about on satin sheets, caressing oneself in
powders and creams, in bubble-baths and perfumes, of being
taken care of and loved, and all because of one’s natural
birthright of having been born female.…
Where did these skewed images of the feminine come from? A
mother who nightly cleaned Wall Street offices? A drunken
father who catered to 3rd
Avenue addict/prostitutes, then came
home to beat his wife? Teachers and nuns in a grade school who
periodically ejected him as unfit for class participation? Too
many television shows with beautiful actresses playing roles they
could never be in real life?
Or perhaps each of us is born with an innate hatred of the other
gender, a hatred that in some, borders on jealousy and regret that
one has been cheated in being born different, being born male, or
being born female, and striving to correct that ‘error’ of the
commonplace with exaggerations of one’s unique difference.
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Dykes bullying like males, queens softening into females, and
each in a ‘new’ gender role as grotesquely facile as the one
they’ve rejected.…
The boy couldn’t wait to try on his new garments. The restroom
was cold, its brown wall and floor tiles doing little to instill a
sense of warmth or comfort. The name – comfort station – was a
misnomer, as there was no comfort here. It was strictly
utilitarian: you entered to pee, to shit, to wash your hands, and
you left. Even the toilet stalls were doorless – why have privacy
for a natural bodily function everyone had to do? – the toilet
bowls open and exposed, and though he had never been
interrupted while taking a shit, it was always a hurried roosting
lest someone did enter.
Even his chronic masturbations at the upright urinals, sometimes
six or seven times a day (not counting his evening ones at home)
were also hurried for fear of interruption, but he was always left
alone. On rainy days he stayed in the restroom for hours at a time
until the boring sameness of the urinals and stall and his own
repetitive jerk-off images drove him back out into the desolate
park.
There was nothing, or anyone, to be afraid would interrupt him,
but public places are just that, public. Just as he had often
unobtrusively watched lovers on benches, so he, too, often felt
himself being watched and observed, and would turn to catch
someone, usually a man, eyeing him from across the baseball
fields or on a pathway leading from the river promenade.
Thus it was a nervous and hurried disrobing. He wanted the
garments on him since he had first spotted them, disbelieving his
good fortune at their unexpected appearance in the dirt. But the
enigma of the girl who had worn them intrigued him: did she run
off naked in the night, pursued by someone equally naked, like
satyrs and nymphs gadding about in forests and woods, free and
uncaring of who saw or condemned or even joined in?
7
Perhaps he should have explored further, perhaps she had
discarded a garter belt nearby, or dark nylons, a skirt, a blouse …
but he shook his head, his breathing deepening, forcing him to
slow down, relax, take it easy … put them on one at a time …
the bra first.… He held it to his face, the bra surging into his
mouth, his nose and eyes into each curved cup, imaging he
smelled flesh, stiff nipples, soft tits, hungry lust and passion
aching to be touched, clasped, caressed, licked, sucked,
fucked.…
How did he naturally seem to know the complicated logic of
putting on a bra? It seemed like the most natural thing in the
world, at least for a girl.… He had once seen his mother do it,
and wanting to do the same, he tugged a spare bra around his
chest. She pulled it away, chiding him that when a boy puts on a
girl’s clothes his mother will die.… Mother was another elusive
word he played with, a word filled with so many meaningful
definitions and conjectures, so many threatening ones, so many
forgiving ones, so many worthless and meaningless ones too.…
He held the panties to his face, his eyes and mouth an expression
of fear and lust, his penis more stiff than he had ever been able to
rouse himself. With the first touch of the satiny material on his
legs the panties seemed to rise up his flesh on their own,
shimmering up his thighs and into the crook of his ass. Only his
erection proved a hindrance, the panty straining to cover, to
clutch, to smother the unfamiliar protrusion.… Then he heard the
footstep and saw the man. His face went white and his eyes
widened in fear. One arm automatically crossed his chest as the
other tried to shield his crotch.
With one more step the man was on him, tugging the boy’s cock
out of the panty, groping the flat brassiere cups, and the boy’s
ejaculation was immediate: sudden, shuddering, devastating. For
the first time in his life he had been sexually touched by another.
The satisfaction of that touching was unlike anything he had ever
experienced in touching himself. Strange hands on his penis and
body, especially dressed as he was, and his destiny opened up to
8
immediate fulfillment, his eruption like a last and final release of
his solitary boyhood – an oozing, lubricating liquid that spilled
not only out of his penis and scrotum but from every pore and
sensate fiber of his body and soul. There was no buckling or
shooting, only a desperate clutching of the man, holding his
shoulders and wrapping his legs around the man’s as he was
lifted off the ground and pounded against the bathroom stall
wall. There was no penetration, yet the boy felt himself fucked
as hard and deep as any girl.
The rain kept him out of the park the next day – which it had
never done before – and the following day as well, though it
didn’t keep him from wearing his panties and bra and trying to
imagine what else could have happened had he remained with
the man and not fled like the coward he now felt himself to be.
Of course he had seen the man before – another solitary constant
in the constantly solitary park – and had paid him no mind as the
man circled after him down the park lanes, smiling, gesturing
toward the restrooms. He had even once unexpectedly turned and
asked for a cigarette, which the man eagerly offered and told him
to keep the almost-full pack.
Because it was pleasant to be pursued like that, followed like a
girl, having someone trying to pick you up, it was even more
pleasant to tease the pursuer, to bend over and tie a shoelace as
he hovered behind you, to lean and stretch against the river
railing as he gaped before you, to flit away if he got too close.
He often fantasized what it would be like to be touched as a girl
by a man – to be groped, kissed, felt, sucked … fucked. Because
it had to be a girl/guy type of thing: one fem, the other butch;
one top, one bottom; one dressed as a girl, one dressed (or
undressed) as a guy. His fantasies were very specific as to the
role-playing that would go on: it would be a strictly a
heterosexual lovemaking, and what difference did it make if the
two partners were of the same gender?
9
He had never had sex with a girl, and he could only imagine how
it could happen with a man. And what could have happened and
how were exactly the fantasies he now masturbated to: the man
atop him, behind him, inside him. Suddenly he began to realize
that the longing and craving for female clothing was more then
just a fetish or a substitute for a lost or unattainable female, but a
desire to be that female and have someone admire him, desire
him, love him, as he appeared in that clothing. Even if he had a
closetful of female attire it wouldn’t be enough to simply wear
the clothes if there were no one to dress up and undress for.
Masturbation was futile and meaningless if it was solitary and not
mutual with another’s.
But why the eternally-maligned complexity of transvestitism and
not the accepted ease of homosexuality? There were openly gay
boys in his freshman class who would have befriended him, who
would have supported and accepted him in his difference and
coming out, but he was repelled by their open sameness, their
clique-like conformity, by their flaunting of their difference as if
gay were better. It wasn’t that their brashness and openness was
as boring and obnoxious as the gang-cliques of thieves and
muggers who infested the school corridors and stairs and who
bullied, beat, and robbed students going to and from class. He
wouldn’t have joined either.
Transvestism is not endemic of gayness, wherein the ideal is
male, oneself or another, but more of a female phenomenon
intrinsic to the culture’s glorification of the feminine. Or at least
how a culture views and creates feminine stereotypes which
most females can’t even aspire to.
The transvestite doesn’t want to be a housewife. She doesn’t
want to look like Alice Kramden or Edith Bunker waiting for
Ralph or Archie to get home. She wants to be Christie Brinkley
and Claudia Schieffer plastered on magazine covers with Billy
Joel singing of love for his Uptown Girl and David Copperfield
never even once thinking of pulling a disappearing act.
10
Reality is never a problem for the transvestite: she wants it both
ways, and gets it. Reality is transcended by the denial that reality
has meaning, that creation cannot be played with, manipulated,
altered, rejected, and a new reality created. This new reality is a
woman unique and unlike any other, capable of softness and
hardness … evolution reaching its apex in the form of a woman
with a penis.…
He returned to the rainy park, his bra and panties a permanent
comforting part of him now, and walked the length of the park
and back before he spotted the umbrella-covered stranger
coming out a clump of bushes by the comfort station where they
had first touched. A teenage boy was quickly walking away from
the same bushes and disappeared up the promenade.
He paused behind a tree, afraid, jealous (had the two been
together?) and tried to focus on the stranger. But on rainy days
the park takes on a misty stillness of vague quiet and disguise
that is hesitant and wary, the steady rain and fog-like aura almost
a primeval brewing of something new and unexpected lurking at
the end of the ever-connecting and re-circling paths and
walkways.
From his safety behind the tree the image of the stranger was like
a tease pulling and drawing him to come closer, to come nearer,
to come together and experiment with the safety of danger so as
to discover and comprehend the real mysteries of the park and
himself forever.
The boy stepped from behind the tree and the stranger looked at
him in pleasant surprise. The boy waited. He wanted it to be like
before, easy, instant. He wanted to be encircled by the man’s
arm, to melt in his touch, to come in his hand.…
The man approached and stood before the boy, smiling, shutting
his umbrella which was doing little to protect him from the wet
mist. The boy knew that if they were naked together the tips of
their hard dicks would touch and flit against each other. He shut
11
his eyes at the image, certain he was feeling a dick touch his
own, and orgasmed in his panties and pants…
Can penile ejaculation be called that when the penis is clasped
and clutched and curled against itself in a pair of panties, when
the ejaculation is restricted and contained in a seeping of trapped
liquid that is not shot or spurted but eased out in a flurry of
shudders and shivers that almost destroys one’s conscious
awareness? If the myth of female orgasms being entire-bodied
and long-lasting were true, and orgasm not merely confined to a
single organ expending itself in an instant, then what male would
not choose to be female and shut up his dick in himself to
experience that?
The boy fell onto the stranger’s raised thigh, their arms around
each other, blocking even further the release of his already
entrapped and bubbled semen. Being held by another only
heightened the pleasure and peace that swept over him. Melting
in a torrent of release, he was comforted by another’s presence
and assistance in his freedom, the man’s arms around him like a
safety belt, a life buoy. He swooned deeper, thoughtless,
swaying aimlessly into the unknown experience of life and sex
and love.
He felt a tongue in his ear and opened his eyes to the man’s
stubbled neck, the man’s mouth dipping to lick and kiss and
suck. The stubble tore into the corners of his lips but he sucked
greedily, his tongue flitting, his teeth biting, gnawing. His legs
once more girded and encircled the man’s as he clutched his
shoulders, felt himself lifted off the ground, and was dry-humped
against the tree by the buckling, shuddering, groaning man.
For a moment they stood still, then eased themselves off each
other, their breaths gasping; the boy got back on his feet, the
man’s hands pushed under the boy’s jacket and shirt, pawing his
bra and chest.
I’ve been looking for you, he said, and kissed the boy’s cheek.
12
The boy shrugged. The rain, he said, as the man pecked quick
kisses around his face.
I brought you something, the man said softly, breaking from the
boy and retrieving a slim frayed box, its corners crushed, from
inside his raincoat.
The boy looked curiously at the white-ribboned pink parcel, his
eyes widening at the swirled curlicued logo on the box:
Michelle’s - The Finest in Ladies’ Apparel. A line drawing of a
woman’s bowed head was etched in gold under the lettering, her
long hair draped down one side of her face, her lips puffed and
tinged with a smile, one eye demurely shut as if in shyness and
embarrassment. The boy just as shyly lowered his own head and
bit his lower lip.
Michelle’s - The Finest in Ladies’ Apparel. The words burned
into his eyes and skull because how many times had he passed,
and circled around to walk by again, the small Avenue A shop?
How many times had he leered at the window mannequins:
girdled, bra-ed, nyloned, baby-dolled, crotchless-pantied, nipple-
cutout-brassiered? How many times had he dreamed of an
approaching Valentine’s Day when the mannequins stood all in
red – red negligees, red nighties, red-hearted panties and teddies?
How many times had he jealously watched women entering and
leaving the shop, stalked after them and tried to build up the
courage to snatch their Michelle’s bags, or prayed they’d at least
turn and call, Yoo hoo! Could you please come up and help me
with my tight girdle and bra? It’s so difficult getting them over
my tush and titties.…
He took the small parcel and mumbled thanks.
Go on, said the man, open it. He lifted his umbrella and raised it
over their heads. The fine foggy mist hung almost motionless
about them.
13
The boy looked at the man, uncertain, hesitant, then slowly
unwound the bowed white streamlet of ribbon. Loose threads
dangled from the old-looking ribbon; it seemed as if the parcel
had been carried in the man's pocket for days. He pocketed the
ribbon, then lifted the top cover of the pink box. A sheaf of frail
white tissue paper – sort of brownish – shielded something black
and lacy within and the boy was afraid. He lifted the edge of the
paper and saw another slim ribbon, this one red and interlacing
the collar of a black negligee and tied in a bow at the neck.
The man flicked over the other edge of tissue paper and said,
Take it out. The boy daintily unfolded the black baby-doll
nightie and held it out at the shoulders. It was short, probably
waist-length, and he shivered at the thought of it pleasantly
tickling his back and sides and hovering over his stiff dick. He
bit his lower lip again, looking dreamily at the nightie, then held
it to his chest as the man reached under it and groped at his
crotch. Again his orgasm was sudden and instantaneous.
I can’t take it, he said slowly, regaining his breath. He handed
the nightie back. I’ve nowhere to wear it.
The man smiled. You can wear it in my place.
The boy looked at him, and at the nightie. Your place? he asked
softly.
I live right across the highway, the man said, pointing at the
brown project high-rise. I’ve seen you from my window countless
times.
The boy blushed and looked up at the brown building. He
recalled the woman and dog he had followed. Was he peering up
at the man’s windows, seeking a sex object, as the man was
peering down, seeking one, too?
They left the park together, the boy clutching his nightie present
and walking at the man’s side under his umbrella. They walked
without touching, the boy saddened by not being held and
14
caressed, desperate for the man’s arm on his shoulder as he
thought lovers should be, and his own arm around the man’s
waist or the crook of his elbow as if showing the world the two
belonged together, were a part of each other, were inseparable
from the other. They walked very quickly.
Whatever failures or betrayals he would stumble into and suffer
in his later life, the next few days turned into the realization of
everything the boy ever dreamed of and longed for and never
expected to have fulfilled. Each morning’s arrival at the man’s
apartment was a frenzy of arousal and kisses and anticipation of
what new articles of female attire awaited him – the man had a
closetful of clothes, all girlish, many wrinkled, on and off
hangers, much used and worn by someone in the past (that was
clear), but the boy never asked by whom or when.
The first day together he donned the black teddy over his bra and
panty and was amazed at the pliant simplicity of his body as his
legs were lifted and pushed back to his shoulders, the panties
flicked aside, the man grunting and prodding. He had anticipated
torrents of pain and hurt, yet clad in his meager clothes as a girl
he no longer thought in terms of anguish or agony but of desire
and wanting to please.
The art of clothing and self-adornment is often the art of alluring
and enticing, of pleasing and satisfying. But the art of clothing is
also the art of disguise, a flirtation with danger. A fashion
magazine he looked at in the man’s apartment showed a spread
of models looking like just-fucked whores: models on street
corners in lipstick-smeared poses, their nylons and garter and
minis askew, their bustiers twisted on torsos with one bra-cup
lower than the other as though just clawed and slathered, models
faking it at a thousand dollars an hour to look like ten-dollar
backseat-fuckers or two-bucks-a-blowjob addict-skanks. The gist
of the photo spread: just because you look like one doesn’t mean
you are one.
The boy pored over the spread countless times. Not only did he
15
want to look like a whore, but also be a whore; and the man let
him, their conception of what a female’s role actually was, a
whore, in tune with each other’s.…
With the now-available closetful of clothes, skirts and blouses,
garter belts and nylons, lipsticks and makeup kits (he quickly
learned the purpose and proper use of the powders, creams, and
rouges), plus two blonde wigs, one shoulder-length, the other a
short bob reaching just to the neck, the transformation of the boy
into a girl, into a teenage slut, was as delightfully arousing to the
eyes as it was satisfying to his soul … and the man’s cock. Each
morning the boy couldn’t wait to turn into something even more
delightful than he had been able to delight in the previous day,
running through the clothes like on a shopping spree at
Michelle’s.
But the man was getting bored.… Though at first he was
bemused and curious at the boy’s ready and willing alteration
into a girl, it wasn’t exactly what he’d been after. The boy, no
matter his underclothes, had seemed different, more boyish than
the sissyfied pansy-teenage boys it was so easy to pick up and
bring to his place. Yet if he wanted to fuck a girl he could’ve had
that, too.
Teenagers were easy to seduce: in their uncertainty, fear, and
confusion about themselves, their body changes, their emotional
mood swings, their ignorance of their sudden sexuality, all one
had to do was praise them. That’s all, just praise them, affirm
their beauty or handsomeness. Hell, they were getting enough
criticism from everyone else – parents, teachers, peers – that
would haunt and taunt them for a lifetime. If you just simply
praised them and put them on pedestals as being unique and one-
of-a-kind you could fuck a kid a day and never run out of kids to
fuck.
But it was boys he had always been after: boys in jeans and T-
shirts, boys in baseball caps and sneakers, boys in BVD’s and
out of them. Even if some of the boys he brought to his place
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wanted to dress up as girls, they would eventually have to get
undressed and be boys again, but after two weeks of lipsticks and
perfumes, panties, bras and garters, he’d had enough of this boy,
or, this girl.…
It sooner or later happens in a relationship that one of the
partners begins to question the sincerity and honesty of the other,
as if the mere fact that sudden doubts now exist confirms the
validity of one’s suspicions that the other is not all he or she first
appeared to be. You can see it in the eyes, a hint of coldness
where there was once warm pleasure, or in the lips, a tightening
in the corners of the mouth where there was once a smile, or you
can see it in the entire body or character demeanor – a crossing
of the arms over the chest or unconcern of what the other’s day
was like. But for whatever reason, it’s evident that the other
partner in the relationship no longer wants to be in a relationship,
especially one with you.
Unfortunately, it’s also at this time, when talking it out should be
the first step in allaying one’s suspicion or discomfort, that a
silence descends to where nothing is discussed. Hence nothing is
revealed or discovered or soothed over until the suspiciousness
blossoms into paranoia. This becomes evidence and proof that
something was wrong from the start, therefore the relationship
has no point in surviving. I knew it! one exults in a certainty of
accusations, but can never fully explain, knew what?
The boy sensed the changes in the man: the unexplained angers,
the sarcastic criticisms, the impatience as he dressed or
undressed.
Why do you have to stash your dick between your legs!? he
flared one day, enraged by the smooth ovate bulge in the boy’s
pantied crotch. What the hell were you born with a dick for
anyway?
He made the boy keep his dick out of his legs, stiffened in his
panties, rising up his belly, a bulge in the front of his skirts,
which of course destroyed the illusion of femaleness the boy was
17
trying to create, to fashion, to mimic, to experience, to live. More
and more the man kept him from what he had lured him with and
lavished on him from the start, pouncing on him as soon as he
arrived in the morning, taking him male to male, fumbling
through jeans and shorts, and prohibiting him from wearing
panties or bra once in the apartment. Though it took skirts and
nighties and bras and lipstick to seduce the boy, he still was
more interested in what stiffened under the skirts than what the
charade of femininity pretended there wasn’t.
They’ll always be here tomorrow, he’d smirk, and shut the
mirrored closet where the clothes were kept
