Deadwood Deadmans hand Losing a bet
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Blue Eyes, Dead Skin free porn video
Blue Eyes, Dead Skin
by Alyssa Amene Palin
2001
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***
It was late summer. We sat on the wall at the end of the estate,
holding on to the crumbling bricks and looking out into the woods. It
was a strange mirror of ourselves as children; we used to play here on
the way home from the local primary school. We were older now and
living in different villages, but Andrew had asked me here to this
exact spot. And who am I to deny my best friend? We sat there in
silence for a long, long time.
"Alex," he said, finally, "there's something I've been meaning to tell
you. I just never know how to put it, or when to bring it up. It's...
it's been difficult."
He lapsed into silence for a minute or so. I looked away from the
sunset at that point, and looked at his face. He had that blank
expression which is so painfully difficult to read.
"It's just," he suddenly blurted out, and then ran out of steam, "oh, I
dunno."
"Andy, you don't have to tell me if you don't want-," I started.
"No," he said, interrupting, "I want to tell you. I have to tell you.
Too many secrets, you know how it is," he added, risking a smile.
Another long silence. After a while I opened my mouth to speak, but he
waved me down. I understood; he needed a few more minutes to order his
mind. I gave him those few minutes, watching the sun drop down over the
hills, and the cars on the main road in the valley.
"Do you remember when we were still at junior school, and we used to
race each other home?"
I nodded.
"And that one time when you tripped in the woods and hurt your leg?"
I nodded again. "I couldn't walk, so we stayed out talking all through
the evening. I swear my ears still hurt from the bollocking I got from
my dad." I chuckled at the memory.
He looked up from his feet for the first time since we'd got here, and
started to stare at nothing in particular.
"Do you remember what I told you then?"
I did, but I knew the only way he was going to get this out was to keep
talking. I just waited.
"I told you I wanted..." he shook his head. "No, this is stupid."
"It's okay," I said.
"It's just so pathetic," he protested. "It just sounds as if I'm some
whining kid with too much on his mind."
I put my hand on his shoulder. "Andy, I'm your best friend. I won't
laugh, I won't gossip, and I won't judge. Whatever it is, you can tell
me."
He nodded, and blinked away the faintest suggestion of moisture in his
eyes. "I told you I wanted to be a girl. I told you I'd always felt
that way, and I didn't know why they excluded me. Well, what I'm trying
to say... oh fuck it. I haven't changed. I'm a transsexual."
I just nodded. I couldn't say it surprised me, but then I hadn't given
the matter too much thought; I'd tried not to, anyway.
"Every single day," he said, quietly, "I wake up and the first thing I
do is look at myself in the mirror. The last thing I do before I go to
sleep is pray to be changed. Every single day I..." he trailed off.
This was a lot of effort for him, I could tell.
"I never wanted to be like this. I never asked to be different. I've
wished I was straight, I've wished I was gay; I've wished I was fucking
dead." He smiled, weakly. "None of it ever came true, of course. All I
know is that when I look in the mirror I see someone I despise."
I tried to interject, to tell him it wasn't all bad, but he interrupted
me.
"You know what it's like? I watch other people - girls - talking to
each other, talking to me, doing whatever, and it's like a knife in the
fucking ribs. All these things I've wanted to be able to do my entire
life, and they do them... so effortlessly. It actually physically
hurts. Right here."
Silence, again. I was having difficulty dealing with this, so I stayed
quiet as well.
"It's just not fair," he said. "I look at everyone else and all I can
do is hate them because they know where they are in their heads. They
don't hate themselves for every minute of their lives. They don't do
THIS to themselves." He pulled up the sleeve on his right arm, up to
the elbow. Exposing scars, old and new, that criss-crossed his upper
arm. A couple were still scabbed with dried blood; they looked almost
brand new.
"Oh Andy," I said, putting my arm around his shoulder and drawing him
to me.
"It's not right!" he almost shouted. "I don't want to be special, I
don't want to be wonderful. I just," he emphasised each word, "want to
be normal." He drew into the hug.
"What is normal?" I said; at times like this you resort to cliches.
"Don't give me that," he snapped, pulling himself away. "My parents are
normal. All the people who live down my street are normal. For fuck's
sake, even you're normal. I'm not; I'm a freak."
"Oh, you're not-" I started, but got cut off again.
"I want to cut my cock off, Alex. Ninety-nine percent of the people in
this country would hospitalise me immediately for just saying so, and
the other one percent wouldn't understand what I meant. My brain and my
body don't match, Al; I'm a freak."
"Maybe it'll go away."
Andy looked like he was going to snap back at me again, but he caught
himself and shook his head instead. I saw his fist clench harder; any
more and I was worried he'd cut his hand on his fingernails.
"No," he said, flatly. "I'm seventeen now. I've known since I was five.
It's not going to go away, it's not going to fade, I'm not going to get
better," he spat the last words. "I'm a tranny, I was born a tranny and
I'll die a tranny. Nothing but a revolting, misunderstood pervert."
I tried to draw him back to me, slowly. He followed my arm in, resting
again underneath my shoulder. "You're not a pervert," I said, gently,
"and you're not disgusting. No matter what you may think, or what
anyone may tell you."
"I'm disgusting," Andrew insisted, quietly. "I'm ugly."
I sighed. "You're not ugly, either," I said. In the privacy of my head,
I screamed, 'No, you most definitely are NOT!'
"I look in the mirror, and all I can see is a great, ugly, stubbly
mess. A mass of dry skin, flaky lips, spots, stubble and grease." He
chuckled, but there was no humour in his voice. "And I've got a fucking
massive Adam's Apple."
I looked at him. For all of his moaning, I couldn't see anything wrong
with his face. He caught my look, and smiled, grimly.
"Yes," he said, tiredly, "I know there's nothing much wrong with my
face, but it's my perception. My brain keeps telling me that when I see
myself I should see a girl. Preferably a girl with long limbs and a
nice face, but even a really ugly girl would be better than what I
actually see. Which is a great big, hairy ape. In the morning it's a
shock, in the afternoon it's just ugly, but by the evening it's utterly
depressing. I can't stand it any more."
That last statement alarmed me: I didn't want him to do anything
drastic. "So what are you going to do about it?" I asked, belatedly
realising that the words sounded like an ultimatum. No matter, he
didn't seem to notice.
"I don't know," he said. He paused for a moment, and then repeated
himself under his breath. And started to cry.
I couldn't think of anything to do except continue to hold him. I
couldn't think of anything to say that would make everything better. So
I held him, reassured him, stroked his hair. When he was ready to talk
again, he would talk.
***
I cried myself to sleep that night. Andy was my best friend: he knew
everything about me. Well, a lot, anyway. There's always that core of
yourself that you keep hidden.
I did indeed know how it was: too many secrets. When you grow up in a
group of small villages, convinced that you're the only homosexual
within a one hundred mile radius, you learn to keep your mouth shut.
I'd never gone through the 'denial' period I'm told a lot of
homosexuals experience - I never went out with girls or anything - I
just never said a word about my sexuality. Andrew had been the first
person I'd told, two years before, when we were sixteen. I poured out
my heart to him that night.
I remember us just standing there, when it was time to go home, holding
each other. He was squeezing me so hard and I was just drinking in the
moment. It had taken all of my willpower not to kiss him. I loved him.
Loved him so much, and I still do.
Neither of us had ever been the popular sort: both a little too scrawny
to be sportsmen, both a little too spotty to be attractive to the
opposite sex (not that that bothered me). So we'd clung together after
junior school, staying close to each other through secondary, for
safety as much as anything else. And in that time I fell in love with
him.
Every moment with him was so wonderfully ecstatic I would wish for it
never to end, and so exquisitely painful I would want to die. I had to
juggle the two sides of my relationship with him - the sexual and the
platonic - and only let one of them out at night.
Every night, since I was about twelve, my last words before I fell
asleep were "I love you, Andrew," as if, somehow, he could hear, and
reciprocate. It was all I ever wished for.
***
So when he told me his secret, I couldn't tell him mine. I was
supportive. We stayed up, and we talked, and we hugged. I held back and
held back and held back, until I actually started to feel dizzy. We
hadn't held each other like this since my confession, and I was going
insane just keeping myself from crying. Because I knew then that I
could never have him. Ever.
He'd explained to me that he was going to go all the way; take
hormones, have voice lessons, electrolysis, the whole lot. He was, he
said, going to have surgery.
For a moment I'd entertained some brief hope that when he had
transitioned (the term apparently coined to describe the whole, long
process) he would be attracted to men. Then I realised that even if he
was, it wouldn't help us any, because I doubted that I would be
attracted to him then. For the first time in my life, I cursed my
homosexuality. Why can't things stay the same?
I did kiss him, once. While he was crying, I stroked some of his hair
aside and kissed him on the top of his head, very gently, very quietly.
***
I haven't heard from him in a long while. I don't know where he is. I
don't even know if he's still a he.
He moved away, a few months later. His parents didn't exactly throw him
out, but they were uncomfortable having him around. So one day he just
packed up and left.
After a few months I had to get used to the fact that he wasn't coming
back. It was hard; I hated his family for driving him away. I knew we
could never be as close as I would wish, but I dearly wanted to be
around for him.
If coming out as a homosexual is hard, then there ought to be a medal
for coming out as a transsexual. But there aren't any medals. Just
hate, prejudice and fear. None of them ever made the effort to
understand him. I hate them, still.
I haven't heard anything for two years. I hope to hell I don't know
why.
*End
Emely
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