Father left off when she was two, but she always says it doesn’t mean shit. Works as the deputy head of a department. Leaves off the “deputy” part at high school reunions. Thought she was ugly at nineteen, dyed hair platinum blonde at twenty-three, at twenty-four likes to talk about how much everyone wants to fuck her. Doesn’t get along with girls—they’re so catty and gossipy. So. Creates her guy friends’ resumes, sometimes even sends them out. They all wanna fuck her, too. Forbids boyfriend of three weeks to respond to his ex’s messages. Hopes she never understands sacrificial unconditional love. Bleeds through her clothes every other period. Tries convincing her mom to get Botox. Doesn’t wear bras. Shouts at boyfriend of one and a half months to stop drinking so much. Accepts all free drinks that come her way. Knows how to tell a good story and how to tell it the twelfth time, too.
Extensively worried about what the cool kids are up to and about the dark circles under her eyes. Father drunk himself to death, and she cried though they hadn’t spoken in three years. In an open relationship she wouldn’t mind turning closed, but he’s a hotshot designer, so she sits under the gazebo drinking white wine with him, his ex-wife, and now-bride. “Has had enough,” so gets with his good frenemy. Doesn’t want to be overly public about the relationship, so posts a conceptual captionless photo of his nose to her Instagram. Likes to tell people she barely met just how bad her ex of two and a half years was in bed. Lacks a sense of humor, brushes it off as a linguistic barrier. Says her thinness is part of her “brand.” Doesn’t dance. Smokes socially despite a history of thyroid cancer. Keeps a few suitors online in different parts of the world in case she ever moves and needs a place to stay.
Lesbian and obsessive. Refused to have sex with the girl she was in love with at the opportune moment because of weight concerns. Wants her girlfriend to be sexually inexperienced, ideally considering herself straight upon first meeting. Wants her next girlfriend to ultimately become her wife. Still loves everyone she has loved “even if she would cross the street to avoid them.” Food fetish. Eats plates and plates of salads. After her father lost the house to gambling, she couldn’t pay tuition and had to drop out of college where she studied architecture to work as a bike shop’s manager. Her Iranian boss wanted to marry her and take her to his country even though he knew she liked girls. After she said no a thousandth time, he pushed her against the wall and tried to touch her. She screamed. He began crying and apologizing profusely. She worked at the bike shop five more months.
Daughter of a Wall Street guy engaged to a Wall Street guy. The former emails her every Christmas and on her birthday and sends money. Not a big deal. It was always like this. She touches herself every time the latter goes to the bathroom. They have set up a twice-a-month fucking schedule, but sometimes he’s so tired from work he asks for a raincheck. He doesn’t know this, but she used to be a heroin addict from ages twenty-four to twenty-eight. One time when high she tattooed a dot on her arm never to miss her vein again. She misses her cat Dottie but is scared to get her from her ex’s apartment. Has been kidnapped twice so far. Once as a kid, when her aunt took her from their house in Kansas all the way to LA as a distraction tactic for her runaway marriage. The second time when one of her drug-dealer boyfriend’s delivery guys stole some Mexican clients’ gun. “They were very polite, other than the gun to my head,” she says. “All ‘would you please’ and ‘thank you, Miss.’” Her belly button’s fake: a remnant from excess skin removal surgery from when she lost one hundred fifty pounds. Wants to have children because she “doesn’t want to die alone.” Doctors say pregnancy may be risky for her after the surgery, but she insists she carry the children herself. She’s getting cheekbone surgery this September.
I go to our local flea market on Sundays sometimes where all those butterflies stuck in amber are stacked on rows upon rows of infinity-sign bracelets, someone’s grandmother’s rings, and flamboyant, tasteless scarfs. Whenever I go into a woman’s room, I look for her altar of beauty products and letters in hearts scribbled in unfinished diaries. Since K. and I decided we’re better off living life as men, we can’t stop telling about what we no longer are. In the same way, I imagine, a sailor who swam hours and hours to get to land would tell the story in some pub that night.
