UNTITLED

by
Laura Calgie

I�m from some shithole about ten miles away from anything worth bothering about. I�m from a family of knuckle scrapers and alkies. I�m from a mother who whored herself for cheap wine and cheaper shoes.

I live only in my own head.

I stay in a blank two bed that smells of damp and onion. A cheap, Ikeaed box. My neighbour across the way is anonymous, knocked up frequently by the police during Jeremy Kyle. Upstairs are rebel songs and Bucky. Next to them is cotton wool and Tweed. My best pal is the bloke in the offie down the road. He doesn�t judge and sells me gin.

I hardly live at all.

I never really remember my last physical fuck. It�s mainly mental. I frequently socialise with Liza, Barbra, occasionally Audrey, often John Waters. No-one else is worthy of my mind-fuck life. I sleep with cheap nylon, crap boas, tack. I get my rocks off for internet sites that sell size nines and above. My other best pal is the postman. He keeps his judgements to himself. Maybe he gets a kick from taped-down bawsack.

My brother�s a cunt. Last I�d heard he�d chibbed a warder. There�s only so much abuse a young boy�s scrote can take. Thank fuck I had no real attachment to it. I used to stand in maw�s room while she got ready, so I�d smell of her. She�d leave, and I�d slide into her other good shoes. He�d catch me, kneel on my legs, slam the heels into me. I let him, mostly.

Gran�s house was good, but. She was always daft and deaf. I felt bad, sometimes, about nabbing her Coty. I drew the line at the half-empty Coral Pink. Didnae go with the Celtic top maw made me wear.

Nobody loves a wee poof.

Don�t make life hard on yourself, son.

She made it hard not to.

About twelve, the other boys cottoned on. �Yer maw�s a hoor, a dirty hoor. Ma da says she�s a crap shag. Ah, ya wee poofy bastard, ya dirty cunt.� Didnae touch me, but. Cos of ma brother. Big prick.

My first taste of irony, other than being born with a cock, was the Blessed Mother in the living room alcove. Naked Jesus watched me sleep. It�s a shame wee boys arnae allowed Communion veils. I sat tight, kneeled and leaned, til my nose brushed off Louise Paterson�s satiny cross stitched onto the net, and prayed to Christ to make me right. Now it�s like he was just a cock tease.

Fucking Tims. Soldier�s Song all fucking day. Reminds me of the cunt brother. At least they Sergeant Pepper dicks have nice uniforms. I need to force my hand not to adjust my balls. I only sometimes think about it. Most times I disguise it, especially from myself. Some days, not often, I�m standing with the big bread knife and I�m ready. I always put it back, it being blunt. Eight more months to prove to them my body�s fucked. I�ve lived as a woman my whole fucking life.

I like it best when I�m sitting neatly on the low wood bench. A telly bolted in the corner shows rut fucking and spunking on loop. I leave the door ajar. Always my best stockings, the postie�s wank fest size nines, dressed just like mummy. I swing my heel on the drooping bed each time I hear footsteps. A tranny fuck�s always good for a story. I like to listen to the buses below. I always shower afterwards, and cry.

I only care about getting out of this static mess. The shrink looks like me without the twisted head. I never twisted it. Little bald, intense man, writing down my fakeness. I can�t be real to him. He can�t believe. How can you sit there, being something you�re not, trying to be something you should be?

I don�t fucking get it.

Plenty bubble in the bath, hide the shame. Barbra�s the only bitch that compounds my belief I�ve got the balls (excuse the pun) to follow through. Don�t rain on my bastard parade. It�s only music. All the pain and angst you can squeeze into a song means nothing cos it�s someone else�s. Ave Maria. Maw�s role model. She�s no even close to Biblical whore.

There�s nothing to like here. Not even my mind. Don�t like what�s been done to it.

I can sit on a phone, call myself Susan, pull it off. I do. I work for money and anonymity. Fuck eight months. The dirty whore mother left me half a Right-To-Buy, which turned whole after the cunt brother stabbed a Paki for no selling him wine. Miracle she�d had the savvy to buy it. Her mind was fucked but her head was screwed on. Anyway, two more months and I�m fucking off to Thailand to collect my new self. Barbra�s coming.

It�ll be a blessed relief. Maybe I�ll buy a Communion veil. I�d show her what I�d become. Look, mummy, I�m just like you. I fuck strangers for zero gratification. Only my shoes aren�t cheap.

I love you despite myself.

You taught me not to nurture fear. I�m your legacy. I watched your small box in full mourning dress, Liza on my mind.

� Laura Calgie
Reproduced with permission