Tell Me I'm Worthless(16)
I take a long drink of water, and light up a cigarette. The smoke in the low-quality playback blurs my face.
“Boobs are amazing, aren’t they? Just touching them. Just thinking about them. I know. You can’t hide it from me. Sure, you’re a straight man. But you think about what it would be like to have boobs, don’t you? You daydream about lying in bed and holding your chest firmly in two cupped hands. That’s okay. A lot of men do that… a lot of men dream about slipping their fingers between their thighs and finding a soft wet cunt there.” I lean in close to the camera so the only thing visible is my lips. “You want to suck dick, don’t you? When you were in that gay club you wanted to go into the back room with the biggest man there, the biggest…” I can feel myself hesitating. “Take the biggest, blackest cock in your mouth.”
The black cock thing is… uncomfortable. I know that. But if they ask for it, when they send me money for the video, I make sure to include it. I’m not in a position to say no.
“You’re a fucking sissy,” I say, “and the only way for you to be a woman is if you suck a cock, is if you bend over and take it in your little pussy, whimpering like an animal, squealing like a pig.”
I get up off the bathroom floor feeling gravity right itself around me. I walk, tentatively, into my bedroom and crawl into my bed. In the poster opposite, the singer’s mouth is open, stuck forever in the middle of telling a racist joke. His eyes would be moving in their sockets if he still had them.
I love the smell of bleach. I sometimes wonder if I am a bad girl because I am not particularly clean. I don’t mean ‘bad girl’ in the way that I am a bad girl whilst I get fucked, I mean that I wonder if I am… insufficient. My mother told me once, with genuine confusion, that I used to be much neater before I came out to her (“before you were a girl”), and now that I am out (“now that you are a girl”) I am a mess, and that this is not how it should be, because girls should be clean. And when I clean, on video, I look like a man, I look like a man doing a bad impression of a French maid, or something like that. I look like a drag parody. But whatever, it makes me that extra twenty pounds, and I can spend that money on weed, or on a cheap bottle of vodka, or maybe even on food. But still. I look like a man, and I try not to watch the videos. Gender is as much about the air around you, the kind of place you are in, as how you look and how you act. And how you feel inside barely means anything at all, in the grand scheme of things.
In the House, Hannah looked beautiful in the torchlight.
She didn’t look it, but she loved metal, and she always found herself the object of the affection of pagan-seeming men with huge beards and runic tattoos, because she was small, white and blonde. She never reciprocated that affection of course. She fell into the orbit of Ila and I, became our third wheel, in a way, although Ila and I never actually dated. We met at university and were grouped together by a bored seminar tutor who was filling out his work hours to try and get back to his PhD. By that point, Ila and I had already met. We went for coffee practically every day, and I talked about Heidegger, and the flaws of his view of existentialism. To that, Ila would poke me in the ribs, and tell me I missed out the fact that he was a Nazi, that was a pretty big flaw, all told, and I would roll my eyes. Hannah was a strange addition to this equation. I’m not sure she could have even told you who Heidegger was, let alone what he had said or done. But pretty soon it was always us three, we would sit and drink rum, listen to Burzum, which Ila would say made her uncomfortable, but when we were drunk enough the three of us would be jumping around the room and screaming, and Ila, despite her brown skin, would joke about the purity of white women, her eyes on Hannah. I did that too. I’ll admit that. I wouldn’t do that now, of course. I crawl from bed again to make a black coffee. I’m supposed to be filming some sissy hypno today, but the thought of that makes me wobble on my feet. I go back to bed, holding the steaming mug in one hand, trying not to spill it on my sheets.
When I was younger, I used to use 4chan, and I would post pictures of my face, asking if I passed as a girl. no you don’t you look like a man with that jawline you will never and on and on, that was the response, and I would respond similarly in turn when others, the same people who had said that, posted pictures of themselves, desperately trying to look like girls from various anime, angling the camera so it made their eyes big, white, shiny, sticking out their tongues. I posted stark black and white pictures of me, with my thick black glasses and my long hair. ur hair doesn’t look like a girls hair it looks like a mans hair which has grown long. The window for passing, according to 4chan, is between twenty and twenty-five, so I’m edging into hon territory now. Pictures of white trans girls aged seventeen with pink wigs pulled down over their faces making peace signs, and in the background, hanging on their wall, a red flag with a white circle in the middle and two black lightning bolts. Or their fursonas, dogs with tongues lolling out, dressed in sexy SS-uniforms, but with space for a human cleavage. anyone ever notice how trans tits look like dog tits lol. If you scrolled down the board you realised that almost every girl on there was white. The ones who said they were Japanese never seemed to post pictures, so everyone assumed that they were also white, and just lying because they wished they were Japanese. I never did any of this, of course, I never had a fursona, and I definitely never posed with Nazi flags. But I still look at those places sometimes. I still press my head into the corners of the internet. Sometimes I look for clients there, sometimes I look for things that will make my skin crawl. On a fetish forum I wouldn’t be able to find again, I came across a long, repetitive string of German words when looking for people with sissy fetishes. The person who posted it had no personal information on their profile, and this was, as far as I could tell, their only post on the site. The translation is probably somewhat inaccurate, because I only used the automatic Google translation tool. But I don’t think it was exactly coherent anyway. And when I read it, I felt – I became sure – that the author was addressing me and me alone.