This story is about a young man's quest to fix a major birth defect--he was born without a penis. On his quest he meets his soul mate and many other soon to be friends.
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Chapter 6--Confessions Over Tea
Chris returned to the hotel morose and silent. He was ozone charged air before a storm that hovered undecided if to break or fade. Hank and Dion were so intricately woven into his life. He had a whole set of behaviors learned for life on the street, necessary to survive: hoarding, wariness, protectiveness, caution, paranoia. All little ticks that twitched at sounds and contact. The storm faded as Tom nuzzled into Chris's neck. Chris turned and kissed Tom with the fervor of the lost. I changed from middle class suburbia to homeless and the streets and survived. This change I will survive too.
Tom pulled away from the kiss. "What would you like to do today?"
"I suppose we could stay in bed." The tease in Chris's voice was both serious and playful.
"Yes, we could." Tom kissed Chris's left eyelid. "But" He kissed Chris's right eyelid. "I thought a museum--The Field or the Art Institute." Tom kissed Chris's throat.
Chris directed Tom's lips to the other side of his throat for another kiss. "I liked that. I was to the Field in eighth grade. It was huge and I saw only a fraction, but I never went to the Art Institute."
"The Art Institute it is." Tom smiled and disentangled himself from Chris, who frowned. "Breakfast in or out?"
"You in me or out of me, very difficult choice."
Tom cuffed Chris on the shoulder. "No serious, breakfast in the room or a restaurant. The Ritz has a fabulous Sunday brunch."
"Never been to the Ritz. My tuxedo needs to go to the cleaners. Too fancy for this street waif." Chris hid a frown. The Ritz, unreal. Was he Holly, Vivian, or worse Eliza? Girls who are boys don't meet rich, handsome men who sweep them off their feet, profess love and live happily ever after. That is not reality. Why is Tom doing this? Am I charity, or is he a pimp, or does he get his jollies from freaks? "In would be good." Chris walked over to the refrigerator and opened it. "The fridge is well stocked: eggs, sausage, several cheeses, bagels, muffins, and scones, OJ, and champagne." Chris looked at Tom that spoke mischief. "I'll cook."
"Not only hot but domestic too. What can a man ask for?"
Tom folded the napkin on his empty plate. "That was one of the best cheese and mushroom omelet I've had in a very long time." Chris smiled and dabbed a drip of mimosa from his lips. "Where did you learn to cook like that?"
Chris winced, "I was raised a girl and girls cook. My parents entertained often and my mother loved fancy meals--Julia Child, Mario Batali, Jacque Pepin. She was always watching cooking shows and experimenting. I was her sous-chef."
"Jez, what else do you do?" Chris started gathering up dishes to put in the sink. "Oh, leave that. Housekeeping will take care of it." Chris continued to put the scrape the plates into the garbage and rinse the dishes. Tom just smiled at Chris's backside. For an instant an image of bacon flashed through Tom's mind, solid and delicious. Weird. "Do you also sing, dance, play a musical instrument, compose symphonies, paint, sculpture, solve hyperbolic formulas? What other talents are yet to unfold?"
"I sang in my middle school chorus, alto."
"Sing check"
"I started ballet when I was three. My mother said never too young. I think she hoped I would be a prima ballerina. Guess I squashed that dream among other." Chris gave an uneasy laugh, "Seven years down the tube."
"Could always continue as a male ballet dancer. Another Baryshnikov or Nureyev. So now we add dancing. Anything else?"
"Five years of classical piano." Chris laughed, "My piano teacher, when my mother was not around, allowed me to play Madonna, Billy Joel, and Springsteen." Chris laughed again. "They just do not sound the same on piano."
"Anything else?"
"NASA asked me to do some programming for them on a Mars exploration satellite." There was a quaver in Chris's voice.
"No shit!" Tom looked at Chris with total awe on his face.
"No shit" Chris said in an even tone. "I worked on the part of a program that started the camera." Chris paused on the brink of tears. "I never finished the project because my dad kicked me out of the house. So much left unfinished." Tears flowed down Chris's cheeks.
Horror, shock, Tom as he rushed to hold Chris. "One other thing I am good at," Chris managed to choke out. "Acting, I was usually the lead in high school plays."
Tom stopped in his track and gave Chris the look of death, "You bitch, you fucking bitch." Chris darted away from Tom to the other side of the table. "When I catch you I going to kill you." Chris laughed and moved behind the sofa. "You can't run far enough. I will get you. I will hunt you down. I will pound your face into the dirt. You're a mean fucking bitch. You played me." Tom now was on one side of the sofa opposite Chris. Chris was laughing so hard that he was barely aware as Tom leapt the sofa and pulled both of them onto the cushions. Tom straddled Chris pinning him to the sofa and started tickling him. Chris squirmed but could not move. "Ticklish are you?" Tom relentlessly dug his fingers into Chris's sides. Chris was giggling so hard he was almost in tears.
"Stop, please stop." Chris panted out like an asthmatic dog.
"Not until you apologize. That was very cruel. You played with my sympathy." Tom stopped ticking but held Chris's hands to Chris's chest.
"I do not want your sympathy," Chris spat back, "I want you to see me as who I am--a reject. A talented, sensitive, kind person, but a reject."
Tom released Chris's hands. "I am sorry, but you are not a reject to me. You are precious and sensitive and kind and talented. You are those and so much more."
"One man's trash is another man's treasure?"
Tom moved off Chris and Chris snuggled upright beside him. "What your father did was horrible because you are not trash. He discarded a Picasso not realizing the value."
"So now I am just a series of abstract boxes."
"You know what I mean." Tom lightly hit Chris's shoulder. "Was anything you said true?"
"Everything except NASA, although I can program in Java and VBA."
"And the part about unfinished business?" Chris laid his head against Tom's chest and cried. Once Chris seemed to stop, Tom handed Chris a handkerchief. "Time to get ready for the museum. It will be a fun day."
"Three firsts today." Chris inhaled deeply of his tea, warm earth, rain and wool blanket--comfort for a brisk spring day. "What kind of tea is this?" Chris delicately placed the porcelain cup onto the sauce which rested on the white linen tablecloth with its bouquet of roses. His mother would be both proud and envious; proud that Chris was confident in the setting, envious that she was not the mentor for his first formal tea. Chris sighed and reached for an egg sandwich with caviar.
"Huh," Tom dabbed a bit of lemon cream from his lip and placed his scone on a plate. "Oh, the tea. It's Earl Grey."
"I've had Earl Grey, but not this. It's good with a squeeze of lemon," Chris smile at Tom. "I was saying that I had three firsts today."
"There were?"
"An art museum with my boyfriend, high tea, and the Ritz Carlton."
"Museums and tea are a necessity and the Ritz is a treat. Tom picked up a cucumber and sun dried tomato sandwich. "You must try these, so good," Tom engulfed half the sandwich and chewed slowly placing the uneaten portion at an angle on the plate next to the partial scone, like he was building an abstract sculpture. "What did you like about the museum?"
"The place is huge. It would take months to see everything. I loved the Water l
Lilies. In books it's hard to gauge size. They are far larger than I thought. And the colors are crisper. I also like the Old Guitarist"
"That surprises me." Tom added "in a good way. I pictured you more as Grant Wood."
"Which one?"
"American Gothic. The lady and man with the pitchfork."
"Oh yeah, it was fun to see; it being so famous. But I like things where I can create my own story around, more atmosphere"
"And what do you see in the Picasso?"
"Sadness, regret, experience? A photo was in an art book my mother bought me for my birthday. You could see the old man with his bent head. But the actual you see the faint image of a young man head erect--proud and confident."
"That painting was never one of my favorites. Old age leaving youth behind, just a memory."
"I did not see that. I saw an old man in thought before he plays, pulling on all the vitality of his youth. It is the guitar that unites them and the young man is his muse." Chris looked at Tom to be corrected. "I see wisdom, survival, and hope. I hope to be him when I get old"
"I think I have been too shallow with that painting. Maybe working in a looks and youth industry has narrowed my views." Tom reached across to the table and squeezed Chris's hand. "What did you think of the special modern art exhibit? I know I had to drag you through it."
"Thank you for forcing me through it. I actually liked it." Chris smiled at Tom and place his other hand on Tom's. "Keep forcing me to experience new things."
"Whips, chains, pain?" Chris pulled his hands away from Tom's and gave a look that would incinerate granite. "Just kidding. I not into pain or humiliation, but I did get a reaction. Please, if I want you do anything that you do not want to do, please let me know."
"Like postmodern art? Sushi? Snails?"
Tom laughed, "Those are some of the best things in life. I will nag you to experience new thing that will not hurt you."
"That is fair, but it works both ways. A Cubs game."
"Baseball is so boring. And the Cub haven't won a series in almost a century." Tom gave Chris a look like prove me wrong.
"We have hope, even if it is another century, which I hope not." The defiance and firmness in Chris's voice left little room for Tom to reply. Chris's tone softened, "My dad took me to several games a year. We had so much fun. He'd have a beer and I a soda and a hot dog. The crowd was raucous and didn't much care if the Cubbies won. You are outside, but the in the stadium the scent is more human, all those bodies throwing pheromones. I loved it; I loved being with my Dad." Chris toyed with his butter knife.
Tom took his hand from Chris's knee and took a sip of tea and a bite of his sandwich. "Chris, what did you like about the special exhibit?"
Chris took a pastry from the tray. "Oh, this is so good, raspberry and lemon" Chris finished it all on the second bite. "The eyeball looking at the hand was interesting sculpture. I'm not sure what it meant, but it was interesting." Chris paused and became thoughtful. "The photograph of the broken doll."* (See note)
Chris stopped and looked into his tea. Tom waited patiently. "That doll is me." A shuddered sigh, "I am a broken doll: parts disarticulated, unplayable." Tom moved his chair to put his arm around Chris. The few people that noticed only saw comfort. "I was a doll to my parents. A dress up toy that would look pretty in a wedding dress." A soft sob. "My mother groomed me for marriage; not the old fashion skills of sewing and cooking, but the modern cultivated independent thinking woman. I was my dad's erstwhile son until puberty then." Chris sat back in his chair to look directly at Tom. "But I'm not a girl." The statement was said with anger and pain. "When I turned twelve, I knew puberty was approaching. Some of the girls in my class had already blossomed. I turned thirteen and nothing happened. I thought maybe they wouldn't, and I could be a boy--minus a penis." Chris softly laughed. "Two months after my thirteenth birthday the curse hit along with breast, thankfully small." Tom moved closer to Chris. "I became very depressed, grades tanked. My parents thought I was on drugs. I attempted suicide." Chris stared into his tea cup like he was trying to read the leaves. "It is harder to do than most people think. I went to a psychiatrist. She spouted some psycho-babble about penis envy; it's a phase, gender identification therapy." Chris shook his head with a small laugh. "She had me imagine myself in dresses; I had to wear make-up, which I intentionally over did. I was miserable.
Thank god for Jefferson." Chris stopped and looked a Tom, who was listening carefully. Chris saw no judgment just concern. "Jefferson was a gay guy at our school. The only openly out one; the strongest, bravest person I knew. He was constantly bullied, but he never retaliated or broke. The more they bullied the more flaming he became.'" Chris chuckled at the memory. "Any way, I finally broke down and told him how I felt I was a boy and not a girl and I could not survive if I was a girl. He grabbed me in a big hug and said, `Honey, either you're a bitch lesbian or a boy in the wrong body.'" I shuddered at the thought of sex with a woman. "Definitely not a lesbian. Then you need to fix the body because yourself is a boy. I had never considered gender reassignment. For the next year I researched the topic. Jefferson was a constant support. And then I told my parents about my decision, which has led to me sitting here with you."
Tom sat silent looking for words that he knew Chris needed. "I love you, penis or no penis, boobs or no boobs. It is you I love." Tom placed a gentle kiss on Chris's cheek. "The psychiatrist was a quack, your parents were ignorant, and Jefferson was a good friend. I would like to meet him and thank him."
"You would like Jefferson, he is so funny and soo gay. After my parents kicked me out, I spent a few weeks with him and his parents. They were so nice but confused that this girl was staying with their son. He was out to his family so a male friend staying made more sense to them. I stayed a couple of weeks and then I lied and said I was going to live with an aunt. They offered to let me live there until I graduated, but they could not really afford another mouth or a screwed-up kid."
"Are you in contact with Jefferson?"
"No, I heard he moved to California to attend Berkeley, but nothing since."
"What about his parents?"
"As far as I know, they are still living in the same house."
"This week we will contact them and let them know you are OK."
"Sure." Both quietly sipped tea.
Tom finally broke the silence. "What do you want to do with the rest of the day: movie, shopping, bar hop?"
"I would like to go to a good bookstore, return to the hotel and read."
"I know just the place. Not a chain like Barnes and Noble or Book-a-Million. Funky, eccentric, and cozy."
*The art exhibit Chris and Tom attend is an actual exhibit at the Chicago Museum of Art -Exhibit: Shater, Rupture, Break https://publications.artic.edu/modernseries/reader/shatterrupturebreak/section/13
Exhibition dates: 15th February -- 3rd May 2015
This is the image Chris refers to.
HANS BELLMER (German, born Poland, 1902--1975)
The Doll (La poupée)
1936
Published by GLM, Paris
Book; 16.7 × 12.7 × .7 cm
Ryerson and Burnham Libraries