When it’s time to leave, a friend declares, I’m taking the gals home. Her face twists, clocking my rage as I say, Oh I didn’t know this was a gender thing. Boy Car, Girl Car. But—of course. All night: Boy Song, Girl Song. Rattled, AlphaGal apologizes as I spiral, storming out of the bar. DudeFriend follows, tries calming me down. Maybe I’d calm if AlphaGal were corrected. But she is comported and I am the mess. She is the gal and I am the fag. When this gal sang her gal song all the gals in our group woo’d her, giggled and grinned. The gals took a gal selfie without me. I am useless to them. Neither properly pussy’d or hetero-dick’d.1 What can I do. Everyday I barter my shimmer for love. I wrote my name on that list because I like my name called. I sashayed to the stage. The intro twinkled. Maybe he’s right. Maybe there is something the matter with me. I just don’t see how a world that makes such wonderful things could be bad. Look at me: Ariel, the littlest mermaid. I want moooooooooooooore. I am no virtuoso. But that shouldn’t matter. What courage: belting to truckers and Trumpers. My friends barely cheered. As a little boy, no matter how hard I ironed my wrists, I still was a girl. Now as a gworl, belting Gal till I’m hoarse, I’m still rendered a man. Oh. You people. You are not my friends. I am not your fan. When you sing your songs I will caulk my ears. I hurt your feelings and I’m sorry. I hate hurting your feelings and I hope not to again. I forgive AlphaGal. That is the truth, and that is a lie.
1 2003, minivan carpool— blonde mom gleams, leads blonde girls in song — She’s a lady! Oh, whoa whoa! She’s a lady! — *I’M* the lady — my gender, their game — I cry/shriek — STOP! STOP! — Nobody stops— The blonde girls, they sing