ME AND
BOBBI© by George
Wilkerson
Southern Discomfort: Part Two
Ed. Note: Bobbi/George is sharing an internal conversation with us, and in effect, outing herself to the world. We think you'll find her (and his) point of view interesting. [Bobbi/George is also the manager of Bobbi Jo's Trading Post , a web site where TG's can auction off and buy clothing and accessories. If you have comments about the column, please feel free to write to the author
Bobbi |
It seems the time goes by so much faster when she's out. I peek at the clock and it's 6 p.m.; the next time I peek it's past midnight. On this night, I'm there, but I'm someplace in a farther corner of her mind. It's where she puts me when she's in full bloom and tonight she is blooming brightly. The little bar is crowded with other girls who are chattering away with each other and laughing. And I'm so far away from her that I don't hear the conversation at first.
"...was so gorgeous, wasn't he?"
The girl beside us is talking excitedly to an older girl. The smoke from their cigarettes circles their heads so that the neon bar light makes multi-colored halos above them.
"Yes...yes, I wish I'd had enough money to buy a date with one of them."
We realize now that they're talking about the dates that were auctioned off. About 25 of the members of the Atlanta Gay Mens Chorus were "sold" to the highest bidders. That evening, their dates came to their rooms, dressed in tuxedos and carrying corsages, and escorted them to the "prom."
"Yes...me too. But...well...."
The older girl grins. "They were gay."
The younger girl chuckles slightly. "Yes..."
The older girl gives an understanding nod. "I prefer straight men...I mean, men who like women. You know?"
"Oh yes...straight men. I mean, I'm a woman, aren't I? So why shouldn't I?"
The older woman sips her drink, takes a drag from her cigarette, leans her head back, and blows the smoke toward the ceiling. "Yes...well, I guess that's true. I mean...sometimes I feel like I'm a lesbian. You know?"
The younger woman nods repeatedly and attempts to imitate the older woman's smoke blowing style. "Oh...yes. I know exactly what you mean. Sometimes I can't make up my mind. I mean, if there's a good looking guy and a good looking girl, I mean..."
"That's right. And if the good looking girl is one of us, well then..."
"Oh yes...then I'm a lesbian, I guess."
The older woman leans forward, almost surreptitiously. "I don't think of myself as gay, though."
The younger woman shakes her head. "Me neither."
Now Bobbi whispers to me. "Look."
I merge my gaze with hers and watch the older girl, her hand on the younger girl's leg, stroking her calf ever so slowly, then sliding it up and under her skirt. We look away, turning our back to them. "You have wonderful legs," the older girl says softly.
The younger girl doesn't answer.
"I'm in room 126," the older girl continues, then turns to the bar, finishes her drink, and slips from the bar stool. "I'll be waiting," she says, putting out her cigarette and stepping away. "OK?"
The younger girl nods.
Bobbi turns slowly on the bar stool and watches the older girl leave. Within moments, the younger girl finishes her drink, puts out her cigarette, slips off the stool, and turns toward us.
Bobbi smiles and winks. "Have fun," she says.
The younger girl smiles slightly. We can tell she isn't sure how to take the remark. She nods and walks away.
Bobbi turns back to the bar and lifts her glass toward the bartender. "Another wine?" he asks.
"Please," Bobbi says.
We sit quietly. When the wine comes she takes a sip and places the glass carefully on the napkin. "Well?" she asks.
"Well, what?"
She wrinkles her mouth into a smirk. "I know what you're thinking," she says. "So you may as well say it."
I sigh heavily. "You know," I say, "I sort of resent the fact that the only time you talk to me is when there's no one else around."
She shakes her head. "Get real," she says. "The fact is that if you weren't always around and I was, I probably wouldn't ever talk to you."
I sigh again.
"So...out with it? What's the problem?"
I reach for the wine, but she pulls my hand back. "Not until you tell me."
"OK," I say. "But you know what it is; it's this semantic game everyone plays: gay, not-gay, lesbian, straight. I just wonder how many of us are like those two. I mean, I know what the popular notion is...crossdressers are heterosexual. Right?"
"And...?"
"Well...who came up with that? How do you get reliable statistics on these things? How many of the ones who say they're hetero get it on with another TG, or an allegedly straight guy? And how many more of us, even if we haven't done that, still fantasize about it?"
Bobbi smiles. "You're privy to my indiscretions. Does that tell you anything?"
George |
I shake our head. "Of course not. How do I know that you're not just an aberration?"
At that, she grabs the wine glass. "I'll drink to that," she says. "I have always thought I was an aberration...or is that an apparition?"
I take a drink too. "I'm serious," I say. "I'm just a little tired of the semantics. And frankly, I don't think you'll find a group of people anywhere who are better at abusing the language than..."
"Bobbi?"
My remarks are interrupted by a new friend. It's Meredith. "Is anyone sitting here?" she asks.
Bobbi smiles and shakes her head.
Meredith sits down and opens her purse, extracting a five dollar bill from a pocket inside it. "I thought I heard you talking to someone," she says.
Bobbi shrugs. "Just to myself," she answers.
Meredith orders a drink and turns to us, her eyes wide with excitement. " I wish I'd had enough money to buy a date with one of those fellows from the choir," she says.
Bobbi leans forward and pushes me back as far as she can. ""Yes...me too," she says. "But...well....a part of me wishes they weren't gay. You know?"
[NOTE: This column, with names changed of course, is based on a true incident, but should not be construed in any way as a reflection on the Southern Comfort convention or those responsible for it.]
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