Spreading the blues

Spreading the Blues

The other day I joined the rest of the world and went shopping. In one
of those hill-forts updated with the design of the age. The canopy of
artificial light stands testament that Leonardo should have designed a
bigger dome. Strange how things change isn't it? Whilst returning to
the already rat-like car park I was accosted. Not physically. As a
previously entrenched lesbian with all the associated trimmings I knew
how to defend myself, but you know what a new law does to the
chemicals!
"I'll even lend you the razor blades", offered the young petulant
teenager as she drove all of her robust fifteen years through blizzards
to come.
I reached for my unkempt goatee, my only visible sign of change evident
to the less fortunate. I don't know how men put up with it! It took
ages to grow but necessary if a fish is to continue the survival of the
species.
After she had passed I had time to stop and think about the exchange. I
tried to evaluate the finer points of her discourse by following all
the golden rules as had been exemplified by my English college
professor, a man adorned with a PhD in, of all things, romantic
fiction. He too had a goatee but, as was self-evident by his continual
reference to the male anatomy in romantic poses, his orientation was
very gay. His academic leanings were trapped in the subjectivity of the
self rather than any form of identification with the global and its
emerging identity. I had only wanted him for his brain, not for the pen
of the intra-species. Had I actually shouted in response, "my wrists
are my own not yours for the asking?" to the bemusement of the two old
ladies dragging their half-filled but already too tiring shopping
baskets through the slush underfoot. It appeared I had, as two
uniformed beat policemen, who don't know their truncheons from their
meat, approached and called me Sir. I didn't say anything that I
thought I might regret, instead thinking what it was about the police
to make them docile enough to think that this woman was a man?
It transpires that they already knew. A memo from the locum counsellor
whom I had the occasion to visit once whilst my regular contact was
away on paternity leave had informed them. His protestations stemmed
from his belief that, contrary to the biological processes of the
social biological model; my desire to have an inverted life was to use
the scientific word weird. His opinion was based on the misguided
perception that plastic and or oblique aesthetic surgery for gender
reassignment was a simple cognitive fault somewhere in my brain, and
one that caused the chasm between role and image. There were, he
insisted, easier ways to normalise the gender role you had evolved into
from the DNA and live with it, rather than considering undergoing such
a dramatic procedure. So much for the Data Protection Act when the law
transgresses it's own guidance.
I met Mrs Handleonit in the petite caf? as requested in her officious
letter found upside down on my seldom used doormat with welcome written
in big letters across the middle. She had already ordered for two -
filtered coffee in those delicate white upright porcelain cups you get
on the continent, usually accompanied by a savoury yet spicy biscuit.
Those ones that compliment the acidity of the Latin-American
taste.
"Mrs Hadda Handleonit", she said offering her delicate manicured and
polished hand that belied the cutting thrust of her scalpel's power to
change someone's life for good. "Glad you could join me. You know of
course why we are here?"
"Yes", I joked trying to assess her mindset, "but don't you think
people will become suspicious? I mean, I don't get asked by many
high-class whores to meet in public these days".
She returned my smile knowingly. "I see you have been practising
again".
"Naturally", I replied in my best defensive yet aggressive gaze, "how
else does one progress through life's Sodom and Gomorrah unless by
stealthful deception and the use of a slick tongue?"
"Whilst I appreciate your demonstration", she continued showing not a
sign of detraction from her stated cause, "I am slightly pushed for
time. Shall we make a start Ms&;#8230;.I mean Mr Ivor Biggun. By the
way have you thought of a more suitable name yet? From my point of view
that label, for want of a better expression you understand and nothing
personal about this for you may be well satisfied in the sexualised
aspects of your life, doesn't do a thing for me in the bedroom
department".
I declined to unleash the nurtured wit sure that the old bat that seeks
the comfort of a young robin would be fated in it's blindness. "Not
yet, I haven't met yet many men whose name I can respect. What is your
husband's name may be I could respect him?". I threw in as an after
thought, "he does know what you do for a living, right?"
Her laugh informed more of the novelty value of my seemingly male
oriented sexual advances towards her husband. "I see what you mean.
Forgive me, I am sometimes slower than the average. If I were to tell
you that, you might spot him in the crowd. I would prefer him to remain
the absent other if that's okay with you? It took me long enough to
find him. I warn you I am good in a catfight showing my determinedness
beyond the extent of our current issues at hand".
I had to ensure that we were not at cross-purposes. If a virus entered
our discourse the system would crash and jeopardise my transformation
into the new social butterfly seldom seen during her metamorphosis. "If
you mean my tits and vagina why not say it? You can only have too much
of a good thing if you actually listen to the people that are telling
you you are. That's not the point of social revolution?"
"Maybe not", she replied placing the empty wrapper of her savoury onto
the still immaculate saucer. "Do I detect a hint of indecision in your
voice?".
You could always tell and amateur psychologist from a professional with
their choice of words from the ambiguities of a language base. With
both hands intertwined over my heart, I confirmed that I was still
intent on changing the bull's eye. "Would I have been dressed like this
for eighteen months if I wasn't committed. The cowboy sitting on my
shoulder wants to ride off with another cowboy, not a native Indian
still searching for those lost gambling spirits.
"Fine, she said before standing to leave, her overt watch signals
having already told me that she was awfully behind schedule. "I'll make
a note on your file that you are still commitment to rid myself of the
excessive use of soft tissues and mediocre melodrama. Now if you will
excuse me&;#8230;"

A few weeks later we had another of our regular meetings, again in
public, held in order to accommodate everybody to the fact that there
existed amongst them a freak. This freak was bent on destroying the
sanctity of the human body by fragmenting it even further into sub
classifications of minor and major medical classification mechanisms.
Everyday the library was acquiring more books written by authors under
a nom de plume and yet the public medical profession still refused to
endorse the rapidity of the operation until they had probed their
intent and completed their scientific laboratory practices. After all,
everybody has a history to tell. The level of interest shown by other
similar like-minded people mainly concerned me. Why had these people
decided to out themselves and on television? Was this not merely adding
portrait to the gallery already exemplified by our forefather's
penchant for the unusual?
"For how long do I have to be subjected to these questions before you
make a decision Mrs Handleonit?" I asked before she had even sat down
on the leatherette covered pub bench. Today had been earmarked for a
trial in a more male oriented environment but it so far had been a bad
refurbishment.
"Not long now", she assured picking over the free nibbles before
selecting a pretzel. "May I say you do not appear to be showing any
signs of distress yet? That must be a good sign, no? It demonstrates to
me that you are more comfortable with your male than female persona,
sooner than I had anticipated actually". She made a note on her opened
pen poised pad.
I should have told her that it made no difference because all gay bars
smelt the same. Because of this previous socialisation it meant that I
didn't have to flash act the role of an air headed tart that could do
nothing more than flash her eyes and tickle the keys in some abstract
way just to get served at the bar.
"If my body isn't sufficiently prepared, for want of a better
expression", I continued, "This place seems to have ample supply of
spares, but none of my choosing. By the way", I asked quickly noticing
the lack of extended polished nails that usually adorned those
glove-felt hands, "are you leaving early again?"
The two builder's jeans clad young labourers turned from the
reflections of their work colleagues faces in the tabled stripped pool
balls.
"Want this one? asked the taller of the idiots whilst angling his groin
to front, grabbing his once dormant crutch suggestively. He foolishly
continued instead of letting the lady walk under the scaffolding
without recourse to damaging the metal uprights from the distractions
of the whistles. "Or maybe you want this one", he offered grabbing the
crutch of his colleague.
His colleague protested that his crutch had been gripped too tightly
and tried to withdraw.
"You see", I said motioning for my accuser to turn and witness the
display of manliness, "as long as I don't suffer the after effects of
the Frankenstein effect there are plenty of spare pricks to go around.
And what better than a willing scientific subject".
Mrs Handleonit reached for her small briefcase. "What use the next
generation until this current one has demised. We can leave if you
would prefer? Stand up comedians need better tricks than that to keep
me even the slightest bit amused".
"No", I confirmed, "I think that decision is already in your court.
It's you that they are talking to".
"Then let's hope you don't inadvertently pick up on those traits during
your chemical restabilisation", she countered turning her back on the
still gaming poolers.
"Hardly likely", I retorted assuring her that overt displacement of
sexual activity was a sign of weakness no gay porn actor was trained to
tolerate. As we walked away from the half empty glasses I asked, "Do
you think they would perform for us naked on the table if we asked them
to? You know get their erect pricks out of their trousers and screw
each other to death on the promise of some felt?" The words fell on the
carpet, discarded like the split placket of peanuts now crushed
underfoot by the heavy trough traffic. The builders returned to their
thoughts of revenge and retribution for some alleged colleague
misdemeanour. "What are limits of debt owed by so many to so
few?"

Our third public meeting occurred just last week. It was a meeting
designed more for the sympathy vote than any chance to examine in depth
the progress I had made in becoming a semi-professional male. As time
can be of sand or semen, it remained of the essence as deadlines were
approaching for the corporate decision. Not that there was a need to
wait for the public decision. I had double shifted on many occasions
before my life of leisure began in order to accumulate the wealth
required for such a transformation; for both the pre and post-traumatic
stress syndrome that would undoubtedly arise. Luckily in the male
world, it was becoming more acceptable for a man to earn a living as a
pole dancer. How would I fair in the reassignment of economic-based
gender roles currently burning their way around the planet?
"Did you bring the results?" I half-heartedly asked, the grind of the
bureaucratic administration beginning to have an opposite effect by
uncovering a cynical, more anti-systemic framework for my thoughts. But
what use was a tantrum when the audience didn't respond?
Hadda placed the manila A4 envelope onto the bistro table ensuring that
it remained in no man's land. "Yes", she began, "but first you must
promise me something. I have some news of my own and I wanted you to be
my first ear. Promise if I tell you, you will keep it to
yourself?"
I agreed placing an order with the hovering black and white
waitress.
"I'm pregnant", she enthused attempting to rise in expectation of a
schoolgirl-like hug.
"Please", I calmed a hint of mockery anticipating my voice, "you don't
want to leave the impression that our liaison is for incorrect reasons
do you. Headlines are for those who have little else to do". I was
perhaps the wrong person to ensconce into her life plan not being that
enthusiastic about generating longevity of the species before, during
or after. Now in my emerging identity as a man why should that change
anything? Now what's in this envelope?"
"Not so fast", she ensured pressing a cold hand onto the results. "At
least you could reciprocate some of the attention, courtesy and respect
I have shown you during these difficult months".
I didn't react nor leach any sign of distaste.
"Please?" she insisted.
I apologised yet made her aware that this would be the one and only
time we would broach this topic of conversation. After all if a diver
is hanging on the line in decompression what better authors to read
than Dostoyevski and Foucault.
She leant forward slightly, removing her pinning hand in a gesture of
defiance more suited to the onset of war.
"I am really pleased that you have decided to demonstrate you
commitment to the human race and produce. Hopefully the routine scans
will show you that your progeny will be in good health, with all the
right parts in the right place. Above or below the waterline, doesn't
bother me. Now can we get on with this?" I urged, my thoughts already
on the text hidden inside.
"Of course", complied Hadda and with a last gesture of defiance added,
"In my excitement I thought that telling you would help you in some
way. Oh dear, and I thought I had learnt to handle all these chemicals.
I now understand how difficult it must be for you".
"When faced with the pressures of birth, I would probably feel the
same", I replied my tongue splitting at the end. "You said no. That
means another extension on the trial period, perhaps six months".
"I know", consoled Mrs Handleonit, "but I thought it was for the best.
My child will need a god father at some point in its life".

In a nutshell. Life under review after six months stamped all over my
case file. To be handed over to another caseworker spreading gospel and
other associated songs through the press. My outing to my new
forth-coming life put on hold until the system gets itself sorted out.
In a world of numerous musical opportunities, why should the turgid
blues be the only soothing ballad's to listen to? The prospects for a
date for my new prosthesis had begun to recede towards the extended. As
they mentally disappeared over the horizon it was hard to pull them
back from the impending disaster. It could have been an omen if I had
let it. Needless to say that I have tried not to, preferring least the
company of strangers eager to feed on the residue of life. But, as they
say, pigeons usually nest in the arc of the dome proving things don't
really change that much down here. Except on the outside.