I stood and analyzed the photos for quite some time, before peering over to the drawer that wasn’t quite closed. The back of the frame to the overturned photo haunted me. I could almost hear a voice coming from the darkness, which repeated, “Lesbian” over and over and over.
Looking deeper, the tomboy with little makeup and short hair was me. There was an uncut centrally placed photo that dominated the board. In it, I was seated on my plaid chair, leaning forward wide legged, with my elbows on my knees and a bottle of some alcoholic beverage dangling in my fingers. No posing, just me in my favorite chair waiting for my friend Lynn to get ready for the club.
She was the friend in the photos always pretending to lick her fingers and touch her nipples, the one doing the infamous tongue through the peace sign at the camera. She was the one who snapped the photo of me and Annica after she told us to do the same. Lynn was the one who told me how good I looked in that central picture; I counteracted the compliment by saying it must be the chair. Is that gay?
I was wearing a brown button-down shirt with a pair of jeans and my 1930s newsboy hat, smartly purchased at the thrift store. Bringing back old styles was trendy. My makeup was overdone with dark colors, lipstick, and glitter, via suggestion from Lynn. A cross necklace dangled from my neck. My smile was big and happy. This photo of me was perfect. It just looked like me, very comfortable, and that’s why it was celebrated in the middle. With my new eyes there was an unfeminine tomboy beneath the makeup, sitting in that chair. This was very different from Lynn, who had long, curly hair and never went a day without lipstick or jewelry. My look was boyish even under the face paint—or was it dyke-ish?
I began to question the presentation of myself. Did I want people to notice subconsciously, or was there serious ignorance to how I portrayed myself? The query hit deep just like the pushpins used to poke through each of my red eyes. This anonymous friend who judged me didn’t know me but saw all too well.
Annica understood where my comfort level was with regard to my sexuality, having pieced it together over months. She accepted and never judged me even when I slept with a different guy every weekend. On several occasions she consoled me as I wept about hating myself. She smoked through her counsel, which made me feel as if my actions were a normal part of finding myself. She made it okay to feel confused and understood my struggle. It was always Hangover Sundays, after she had put out her morning smoke and picked up the alarm clock from the floor, when I needed the pep talk from her. My tears would be fresh, hot, and somewhat cut with alcohol as I sat on the edge of my bed ashamed “I did it again, Annie.”
She never gave me the privilege of a morning greeting when Sunday confessions warranted consultation. She skipped that unnecessary pleasantry to “tsk me.” The only time Annica didn’t blurt out something without taking a breath was when she hummed “mmm hmmm” in agreement with my Sunday declaration of guilt. It was usually accompanied with a shake of her head and a puckered mouth. This particular Sunday was no different.
“Why do I do this to myself, Annie? I don’t even like doing it. I’m such a slut.” Snot fell from my nose and began to dribble on my upper lip before I wiped it with my sheets to reiterate another empty proclamation against being the barracks ho. “Next weekend, Annie, I’m not bringing anyone home. Fuck that. I’m going to go out and have a good time with you and the girls, and I’m coming back alone. And if you see me getting crazy and trying to do the dirty with some asshole, you stop me, okay, Annie?” She tsked me before we agreed on a pact that would secure my new attitude against men, which got me excited about going out again. That was usually the reason to consider it at all.
So after coming home and frantically pulling my boots off, I’d begin my ritual in preparation for the infamous girl’s night out. I’d eat a little something, clean my room, shit, shower, shave, and lay out clothes for the club; that was my routine. The music played loud as we painted our faces, traded jewelry, and shaped our hair to look just right.
As we walked down the hall, all of the other horny young soldiers doing the same thing made the atmosphere comfortable. Each inhale in the hall was the scent of starch from the guys pressing their shirts, aftershave that was overused, women’s watermelon body spritz, and burning hair spray. The doors were usually left ajar, so walking by each room was like changing the station on your radio. A different song spilled loudly from behind the wooden doors, making it a tragic situation for the soldier who just wanted to catch up on sleep.
The building was alive and pulsating until nine thirty when everyone gathered into their groups of five or more and headed out with one poor sap as the designated driver. Then it was as if there was an outbreak of scabies and an evacuation had taken place. Every swinging dick was off the premises miles from militant control. Stillness befell the hallway, broken by that one random song from the person who hadn’t made plans in time and was left to sulk in their room. The lingering stench of weekend party preparations hung low and melted into one unidentifiable yet strangely familiar smell. This was life, every weekend for the first year of my military career.
The Ozone was huge and clean and full of new recruits to choose from. It was really up to me to decide who I wanted because they were all pawns. Every guy, whether interested or not, was very willing to sleep with me. Each one bought drinks and left me alone if I told them to because they were trained that “No means no” by the military’s zero tolerance for sexual harassment rules. The club was at my control. I called the shots and manipulated the pawns in my favor. There was serious humor in buddies cock-blocking each other to gain my attention. But they stuck together like true soldiers should.
There was always a wingman to whisk away any girlfriend warning me of evil intentions. There was also that damn non-discriminating friend who didn’t care that Lynn was slightly pudgy; he would nail her anyway. Annica had her share of wingmen make-out sessions from trying to convince me that I was worth more than taking an asshole home. Lynn indulged in her share of non-discriminating-friend fucks in the back rocks behind the club. She liked to show me the embedded stones in her knees to prove it. We all got what we wanted and the guys did too—everyone seemed happy.
Other than the trickery of women versus men and vice versa, it really was up to me to say no; I just didn’t. Annica saved me from myself a few times, but I was stubborn and told her to kick rocks, too. It was two steps forward and one step back. You can’t win them all.
One Sunday after the tears and the smoking session, Annica told me that her friend Steven was coming over. He was the fucker who labeled me gay. She swore up and down that he was cool and it was a perfect time to meet him because she was sure that we would get along. To my dismay, an hour later he knocked at our door, and, after a brief introduction, I excused myself before he had a chance to sit down. I wasn’t interested in meeting the likes of him, even if Annica approved. I did, however, take note of his thick glasses and very pudgy physique in the brief minute of introductions. This only pissed me off more as I rushed down the hallway to leave because by all appearances, the guy who judged me was a nerdy fat ass. Those who live in glass houses… well, you know the rest.
After I left, Annica told me that Steven barely waited for the door to shut before he labeled me once again. “Did you see that paperboy hat she was wearing? She is a lesbian with a capital L.” But as she explained, he is harmless and invited him to come over again and again. What can I say, she was absolutely right. I did befriend him in the days after our first encounter, and by the weekend I knew he was the queen of denial.