Krieger - Nina here nor there: my journey beyond gender

Nina Here nor There

My Journey Beyond Gender

Nick Krieger

Beacon Press

Boston

For
The Boys

Contents

One. Ta-Ta Tatas

On a Saturday afternoon in May, tucked into a friends backyard near my house in San Franciscos Castro neighborhood, only a few blocks from the supersize rainbow flag, the memorial triangle of pink stones, and the landmark marquee of the Castro Theatre, women surrounded me. They were my older, established, financially secure, coupled-off, home-buying, capital- L Lesbianas in women-loving-womenfriends. With money, influence, and good looks, they werent quite mainstream, but part of the emerging gaystream, those targeted by the New York Times, Hillary Rodham Clinton, and marketers of the pantsuit. I called them my A-gays.

Our host, Stephanie, appeared at the top of the stairs, sporting a J. Crew sweater, gold necklace, and designer jeans that hid a small tattoo by her hip. Helloooo, ladies! she shouted, before descending into the yard. Her girlfriend, Beth, followed close behind, sporting a collared shirt, silver thumb ring, and cheap khakis that hid a small tattoo by her ankle.

After a lifetime in the womens athletic scene, I was accustomed to the understated casual wear, parties reminiscent of halftime huddles, and a definition of ladies that implied ass kicking rather than good manners. My connection to everyone in the backyard crew stemmed from soccer, a sport Id stopped playing a couple years before, tired of competition and commitments that required me to run around at specific times.

I came to this postgame gathering to see Zippy, a tiny and witty monkey-like thing whod recently moved to LA for a film career and was back in town for a visit. She and I were younger than the others, less accomplished, A-gays in trainingalthough we werent really on course to pass the entrance exam. We sat across from each other on folding camping chairs, rickety on the yards uneven slabs of stone. Pockets of flowerbeds and banks of shrubbery sprouted around us, the dirt still wet from the morning rain.

Well, isnt this my lucky day, Stephanie said, placing one hand on my shoulder and the other on Zippys. A special day indeed when you kids come out to join us.

Zippy sprang out of her seat, shooting her tricolor pompadour-mullet to the sky. Well, wouldnt you know, its my lucky day too, be-otch.

The two of them hugged before Stephanie opened her arms toward me. Always a pleasure.

Had Stephanie not meant every word, her exaggerated pleasantries wouldve been embarrassing. I felt myself blush all the same from her kindness.

Hows your writing? she asked.

Yeah, how is your writing? Beth seconded. And when do I get to see what youve been working on? She winked, just as she did at the office when she caught me with one of my essays open on my computer.

Beth had contracted me to do web writing at the bank where she worked and considered my employment supporting the arts, as did a handful of other A-gays Id worked odd jobs for over the past three years. They couldnt get enough of the mass e-mails and blog posts I sent from my tripsbackpacking in Eastern Europe and Southeast Asia, bicycling from Canada to Mexicoand, much to my appreciation, always helped my traveling-writer lifestyle by employing me and buying me drinks whenever I was back in San Francisco.

I knocked around a few pebbles with the toe of my hiking boot. At the rate Im going, Ill have some quality writing in a few years, I said.

And I got first dibs, Zippy jumped in.

Well, Ill be waiting patiently. Beth offered me an encouraging smile before turning to Zippy. For your next film project as well.

Zippy motioned me back down to our seats and scooted hers closer. So, what are you working on? she whispered.

Ever since Zippy had read one of my early travelogues, forwarded by a mutual friend, shed been my biggest fan. When I returned from that trip, she found my number and called me six times in one day, begging to hang out, a near stalking that mightve scared me had I not been laughing so hard from her messages. We ended up chatting for hours about our book and film influences and passions, barely stopping to breathe. For a few weeks, early in our friendship, I thought I might be in love with her, until the moment she flipped upside down on her couch, inhaled a whip-it balloon, and I knew she was too out of control to date. Zippy was a best pal, the only one Id ever showered with, which had happened once when we were unable to pause an exciting conversation.

Of all the things Id missed about Zippy since she moved, it was our artistic talks, creative speed as we called it, that I missed the most. I told her about the essay collection I was developing out of an unfinished one-woman show she and I had collaborated on about my futile quest to find a girlfriend, now going on nearly seven years.

Whos your latest crush, or should I say character? Zippy gibed, nudging my foot with hers as if we were both in on the joke that my life only existed to serve my writing. Let me guess, unrequited?

Yeah. Shes straight. I avoided Zippys eyes, knowing they would be both chiding and compassionate, as I described the flighty girl in my graduate writing program. She confessed to having a crush on me. Then for the next three months, whenever we went to a bar after class, she made sure she was never left alone with me.

Classic. Zippy slapped her leg a few times. A half-dozen zippers fluttered on her baggy pants. They looked like something Michael Jackson wouldve designed for MC Hammer, but on Zippy they seemed cool. Everything did.

From my jeans, I pulled out a glass bowl and weed from a medical dispensary. Id claimed anxiety to receive my cannabis card, although New York City Jew wouldve been equally accurate. I packed the bowl and waited for Zippy to take the first hit.

It gets worse, I said. I lit the last patch of green and inhaled deeply. I finally got her alone and made a move. She said she wasnt ready. I blew out my frustration in a huge cloud of smoke. The following week, she asked me to walk her home and invited me up. We ended up messing around in her bed. I stayed over, but no sex. She said she wanted to, but pulled time of the month. I still dont believe her. I tapped the pipe against my hand. The ashy residue stuck. We met up a few days later at a literary event. She brought some guy. He groped her the whole time.

Why do you do this to yourself? Zippy asked.

Dude, this guy was such a loser. She could do so much better.

Like you?

Yes, like me.

But shes not a lesbian.

I banged the pipe on the stone at my feet, nearly cracking it. In the hammock across the yard, two women lay entwined, swinging gently. Next to them, Beth was curled into Stephanies lap. I prefer straight girls, I said.

You do see the problem, right? They dont like the hooha.

I grabbed my Milwaukees Best, one of the many leftover cans from the soccer field, out of the chairs cup holder. The beer tasted like piss, but I chugged the rest, the same move I made when anyone implied they might want to get near my hooha. Leaning back into my chair, I could see through the protective cover of the trees. My eyes followed the white trail of clouds off into the distance. I could really use a trip, I said.

It hasnt even been a year. Arent you just getting settled? Zippy said. How are your new digs, anyway?

I thought of the parties at my house, my roommates friends with tattoo sleeves and septum piercings, boyish and manly dykes flaunting all that had been ingrained in me as disreputable. Its an education. Picturing the chest scars of the few folks who often went topless on my back deck, I added, And then some.