Column IX: The Latex Confession

I never meant a single word I said when we first crossed that line. Micky knew it. He felt it, he liked it, and so we did the unspeakable anyway. Friday night was simply good. So good, in fact, that we kept our mouths completely sealed, laying next to each other on a freshly broken full-sized bed in silence.

Micky:

Sooo. Do you still want to go to this ball?

Sloane:

OF COURSE!!

Micky:

Lol, when should we get up?

Sloane:

Maybe now. I don’t like to rush to get ready.

Micky:

Okay.

The silence returned.

"Why are we acting like we’re eleven?" I finally asked, sitting up to deliver my lecture like a mermaid freshly washed ashore. "Like some old bitch came and caught our tongues."

Micky looked puzzled. He scrolled aimlessly up and down our message log. "I’m sorry, Sloane," he murmured, pulling me back down against his shaved chest. He rubbed my forehead, blessing me with a quick peak, before dropping the bomb. "Since you started transitioning, this has all been hard for me. I’m honestly confused with myself and my attraction for you."

He held me tight, but I could feel the heat violently rising beneath my skin. I was paralyzed. In my eyes, yes, I was changing physically, but I assumed the people in my life would understand the mental and spiritual ascension that came with it. For several seconds, my mind spun: How could my renaissance feel so entirely wrong to him? That continuous, crushing feeling of rejection, twisted by his own fear, created a storm of absolute disgust inside me. As the revulsion settled into my bones, I couldn't help but wonder: Why can’t I stop falling in love with bums?

"So I guess I’m just a freak to you," I snapped, ripping myself from his grip and sprinting to my bathroom.

I slid down the door, burying my head in my arms, and poured my eyes out onto my lap. Sitting behind that wall, I plugged my ears, praying the betrayal would evaporate. Will he come check on me? I prayed.

But Micky just laid there on the cozy bed in my air-conditioned room, letting his confession loop in his head. Without a doubt, we had missed each other terribly yesterday. We still did. We just hadn't realized we were missing the old versions of ourselves.

I stormed out of the bathroom, my bright red eyes on full display. "Can we please be ready in the next hour? I want to go out ASAP," my voice cracked.

Over the next sixty minutes, I pulled myself together, blasting Beyoncé’s I’m That Girl on a relentless loop. I let the beat wash over me, reminding myself that my new estrogen journey was my own personal renaissance. I threw together my look in ten minutes flat: black track shorts, an oversized tee with "CUNT" printed in bold pink font, and my reliably dirty white Air Force Ones. Another five minutes went to my speedy summertime makeup.

Meanwhile, Micky spent thirty minutes just aggressively digging through his enormous suitcase. We kept our distance in that tiny room, entirely wordless. His bag was a chaotic mess of pants, jeans, boots, sneakers, a few sweaters, one short-sleeve shirt, and a jacket.

"I see you didn't pack for the weather," I giggled, finally breaking the ice.

He ignored me, continuing his scavenger hunt. By the end of the hour, he had assembled a heavy black Nike sweater, black skinny jeans, black boots, and thick silver chains around his neck. He stared at himself in the mirror and let out his first smile of the day. I just rolled my eyes and touched up my eyeliner. Micky took another fifteen minutes to shower, then another fifteen to actually put the winter armor on in the heart of summer.

"Are you ready yet?" I asked. I was aiming to be polite, but my voice screamed of frustration.

"Almost," he replied, going right back to gazing at his reflection with the bathroom door wide open.

I collapsed face-first onto my soft bed, puffing my cheeks out. Another ten minutes flew by while Micky vigorously brushed his ginger hair, attempting to force his two-week-old waves to cooperate.

"Micky! It has been two hours!" I yelled. "Your waves are not going to swim in ten minutes. I wanted to leave an hour ago, and it already takes an hour to get to the Latex Ball on the MTA!"

"We can Uber!"

"I don’t have the money for that, Micky."

"Calm down! I’ll pay, gosh."

I wanted to argue more but I knew it would get me nowhere. Eagerly, Micky packed his unnecessary winter wardrobe back into the suitcase, grabbed his black tote bag, and we were finally out the door.

The ride from Ridgewood-Myrtle to Manhattan Terminal 5 took forty minutes and cost him forty-five dollars. With traffic, it pushed to a full hour.

"This would’ve taken the exact same amount of time on the subway," I muttered. "You just wasted so much time, like you always do."

"Just because you’re becoming a woman doesn’t mean you have to be a bitch!" Micky fired right back.

The Uber driver’s eyebrows practically hit her hairline in the rearview mirror. She glanced between us, leaning closer to the glass, waiting for the reality TV show in her backseat to continue. With thirty minutes left of the ride, I silently removed my hand from Micky’s thigh and scooted as far right as physically possible. Micky stared at his lap for the rest of the trip. I stared out the window, letting the crowded city blur past me, desperately trying to dismantle my own crowded thoughts.

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