Column X: The Latex Ball 2022
We finally pulled up to Terminal 5.
"Thank you, gentleman, please leave me a good review," the Uber driver smiled, throwing up an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
My heart dropped out of my stomach and shattered somewhere around my ankles. I am a girl. The thought stayed stuck behind my teeth as Micky and I exited on opposite sides of the street.
"Thank you," Micky replied to her.
"Wow. She really just called me a man," I whispered, my eyes watering. Somehow, I blinked hard enough that the tears dried up before they could fall. Micky kept his mouth entirely shut. My cheekbones fell; my brow bone hardened.
We walked in total silence toward a massive line stretching down 56th Street. Time stood completely still as we anchored ourselves to the back. I didn't even bother analyzing the gorgeous faces lined up around us; I kept my eyes locked on the cracked concrete until we reached the front. We flashed our IDs, secured our red wristbands, walked through the metal detectors, and finally arrived: The Latex Ball 2022.
Magic and power collided in the room. This was the ballroom’s most renowned event, honoring the community's movement toward liberation.
I finally lifted my head, and I gagged.
I had spent the last six months in upstate New York meticulously studying the fem queens, the women in the ballroom scene of trans experience. The fem queens curated, pioneered, and shaped the community, leading as mothers for lost queer youth. They transitioned from existing as beings that society desperately needed to control, suppress, and weaponize, into women aligning with their truth and standing in their power like superheroes. They were the ones who coined the term "dolls" for their otherworldly aura.
I’m soft. I’m cunt. I’m giving what you want.
I started entirely feeling myself over the echoing Vogue beats, deeply inspired by the 80s and 90s street hip-hop and house eras, back when the girls, the gays, and the straights all danced together before Mayor Giuliani outlawed any type of fun. I had never seen more than one fem queen in a room at the same time. Here, the building was overflowing with dolls. High cheekbones, striking curves, and soft skin. tried to play it cool, but my sheer awe was obvious.
Behind me, Micky was staring too, looking back and forth between me and the dolls, paying the butch queens (the cis-gendered gay men) absolutely dust. I could see the gears jamming in his head. The sight of us triggered feelings that made him visibly tense, locking his body into strict, confused rigidity.
"Y’all already know who this is. She doesn't need any introduction. The one and only: ICON MEEKA ALPHA OMEGA!" the commentator’s voice boomed through the arena.
The icon strutted down the runway, forcing the room to honor her hair, her titties, her heels, and her curves. Radiating pure cunt, she showcased her courage for the international community to worship. Meeka was one of my ultimate inspirations. Meeka once said: "I was loved, I came from love, until my mother realized that she didn’t have the capacity anymore to love a child like me. But whatever she gave me, that was enough. Through the ballroom community, I was able to connect with people who taught me that I deserve to have an abundantly joyous life."
An abundantly joyous life. That was exactly what I aspired to have. I desperately needed to surround myself with abundantly joyous friends.
And yet, standing right behind me, Micky remained completely frozen. Sweating through his ridiculous all-black winter wear in the middle of summer, wearing a deep frown, he stood there quietly judging a spectacle he couldn't begin to comprehend. I turned my back to him, facing the runway, and finally let myself enjoy the flash of my own future right in front of me.
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