Queer Theory
I remember the way. When I get there, I’ll have to speak like I’m drunk. You have to use the right words in the right order. I’m the drunk man, showing up to fuck her. I have to remember to be obnoxious. There’s a script to be followed…
…Michelle’s at home when I get there, and I push past, into the apartment. I storm to the back, and find the bottle of pain killers. “I’m stealing your pills,” I tell her, and I put two on my tongue and wash them down with liquor. Pills and Liquor, pills and liquor. We’re getting really dark and gritty now. Everything is shot through a blue filter…
“…We should take off our clothes and get right down to it. I’ve never done anything more than gnaw on a girl’s fake cock, and you clearly just need a good visit from the cock deliveryman. True or false?”
“Are you drunk?” Michelle says, reading from the script. She’s the sober woman who’s visited by the drunken lecherous male. She’s reading the script with her hair all shaved off like a dyke, but we can squint our eyes and picture any one of the dozens of appropriate TV actresses. Anyway, isn’t this the part of the movie that everyone’s been secretly waiting for, where the lead character and the awesome dyke character get together? It’s awesome that they’re fags and all, but “Kiss! Kiss!”
“Of course I’m drunk,” I tell her. “My nose is red, isn’t it? I’m hiccupping, Aren’t I? Now, pencils down! Take your pants off and let’s see if you passed. I want to see what it’s like to enjoy heterosexual privilege. This is what god intended, isn’t it?” Wait, no, that’s not my motivation. I put my hand out to steady myself on the wall. Focus. “I mean, if gender’s nothing, then what the fuck is lust? I’ve been getting hard over a concept, haven’t I? I’ve fucked post-op trannies, dickless and satisfying, because I knew they were men. Well, you’re a man. Spread your fucking labia or whatever the shit it is.”
“I’m not a man, and I’m not going to fuck you,” Michelle says. “I’m not into men. I like women. You know that.”
“So you don’t think that gender’s just a construction, then?” I say, and she shakes her head.
“I don’t care what it is,” she says. “It gets me wet to think about my body with another woman. The idea of a penis makes me physically ill. So, I choose orgasms. They’re satisfying and plentiful, and if I have to buy into a constructed ideal, so be it.”
Lockpick Pornography by Joey Comeau