Page 24 of Best Woman

Deciding we’ve spent far too long around straight people tonight, Kim makes the executive decision that we need to find the closest gay bar and “recharge.” The closest gay bar happens to be a spot I know rather well, as it was where I used to cruise the summer between high school and college when I realized I was about to move to New York City and had no idea how to cruise.

Hudson’s didn’t exactly prepare me well, because I was young and cute enough that all I needed to do was walk in to have my pick of the patrons—not that the selection was huge.

As we enter, I realize not much has changed.

Same weathered vinyl booths, same stale smokey air, same peeling Tom of Finland posters dotting the walls.

The jukebox in the corner is playing Donna Summer but no one is grooving on what could only generously be called the dance floor.

There are only a few patrons scattered around, but they all swivel toward the door when we enter and immediately dismiss us when they see we’re women. Some things never change.

“Ladies,” drawls the old queen behind the bar—a loving moniker I’m sure he’d appreciate. “What can I get you?” We order beers and walk them over to a faded pool table where, at Kim’s insistence, we start setting up a game.

“Why do you think I suggested it? Bend away, Rosenberg.”

It doesn’t take long for her to realize I wasn’t joking. “You are fucking terrible at pool,” she says as I scratch for the third time.

“I have dismal hand-eye coordination. Also”—I do a Beyoncé voice—“ I been drinking. ”

We chat about our plans for the next day as we continue our game. Kim has a few maid of honor duties to attend to, while I’ll be spending my evening at Aiden’s bachelor party. Before that, I’ll be seeing my dad.

Dad hasn’t been in the best of health the past few years and needs help locating his wedding suit, which is trapped in the detritus of his house, which would not be out of place on an episode of Hoarders .

He’s somehow roped Aiden and me into helping, insisting that he needs some quality time with us while I’m in town.

I exhausted every plausible excuse to get out of it before finally admitting defeat.

Also, the prospect of unearthing some of my favorite childhood books from the depths of his garage is enticing.

Kim sinks one of her balls into the corner pocket. I wish she’d sink me, but I shake it off. That’s not what we’re doing here, despite how increasingly date-like this whole evening is starting to feel.

“Tonight was chill, right?” Kim asks. “Using the buddy system seemed to help.”

“It did. Having a buffer between me and people I barely remember from high school was great.” Having Kim less than a foot away all night had been far better, but I don’t want to admit that.

It would be too thirsty, too overeager. It’s clear at this point that there’s something between us—besides a whole bunch of lies—but I think now the proverbial ball is in her corner.

Pocket, I guess, since we’re playing pool.

“Good, I’m glad. I saw you talking to Otsuka. You guys have a thing going?” Her tone is casual, but there’s a real question in those words.

“Yeah, we’re kind of…fuck buddies, I guess?

” Ugh, that’s such a disgusting term. “Friends with benefits?” That sounds super gay.

But then again, sex with Ben Otsuka is kind of gay.

There’s a certain freedom in having sex with a man, as a man, that I no longer get to participate in anymore post-transition, this we’re all dudes here vibe that is hard to put my finger on—in.

But with Ben, maybe because he’s one of the few people I’ve had sex with before and after transitioning, that feeling of pure sexual camaraderie never faded.

“He’s cool,” I say, lamely. “And seeing him is one of the parts of all this that doesn’t suck.”

“You deserve for this to not suck.” Kim’s so sincere, and so sexy, I keep catching myself staring at her for too long.

I remind myself that’s why she’s here. She is being kind, showing me the kind of solidarity that was rare growing up down here as a queer kid.

She doesn’t even care about my casual hometown hookup!

That reads friend zone…or maybe it’s because we’re both gay sluts who like sex and aren’t shy about it.

From the bits and pieces I’ve gathered, Kim leaves a trail of obsessed women in her wake, so it makes sense that she wouldn’t be judgmental.

But if I want to be one of those obsessed women, I’m going to need to step my proverbial pussy up. Kim knew me when I was a pimply teenage boy, and I’m using every weapon in my arsenal to have her look at me and see a woman she could date.

Some of this must show on my face because Kim’s brows crease. “Everything good?”

“Yeah,” I lie, lining up to flub another shot. “Just peachy.”

“Are y’all almost done?” asks one of the other patrons, a sour-faced man with enough gold rings on his fingers to make Gianni Versace jealous.

“As fun as it’s been to watch your match, we’d love a turn.

” Behind him, a twink barely old enough to be here nervously clutches their drinks, sweating through his polo shirt.

“We’re still playing, but I’m sure she’ll beat me into submission very soon, and then the table’s all yours,” I say through a tight smile.

“Or not,” Kim adds as she bends over to line up a shot. “I might want a rematch.”

Versace rolls his eyes. “Honey, I’ve never seen you here before, but generally we all take turns. Maybe the girl bars have different rules.”

Kim snorts. “Which bars, exactly? There are less than thirty lesbian bars left in this country and the closest is in Orlando.” She fixes her cold stare at him. “Do I look like I spend a lot of time in Orlando?”

She doesn’t.

Our new friend sighs, long-suffering. “That’s not my problem.”

“Of course it’s not,” says Kim. “Why should you care if there are spaces for queer women to congregate, as long as you have somewhere to check Grindr.”

“I don’t think that’s a very fair stereotype,” the twink adds haughtily. “I prefer Scruff.”

“Clearly,” I mutter, shooting a glance at his date.

“We have as much right to be here as you do.” Kim still hasn’t looked up from our game, but she doesn’t need to.

The interlopers, along with everyone else in a five-foot radius (it’s not that many people, the bar is depressingly desolate) are giving her their full attention.

“This entitlement you have, because you’re some old white guy who thinks gay marriage was the pinnacle of queer political achievement, it’s not cute.

If we want to go best of three, we will.

And when she loses,” she adds, nodding toward me, “if I want to make her feel better by dragging her off to the men’s room, because why should there even be another bathroom in a place like this, and have my way with her while y’all line up outside and piss yourselves, I will.

Now will you kindly fuck off and let my girl and me finish our game?

” She punctuates the question by sinking the maroon ball, number seven.

I have never been so turned on. My girl.

“Whatever,” sniffs Versace. He grabs his twink and they retreat to a booth on the other side of the bar where they grumble and glare at us as we finish our game.

A few more beers and one embarrassing and anticipated loss later, Kim drives me home. I’m climbing out of her rental when she stops me with a hand on my arm. “I had a really good time with you tonight,” she says, and my stomach twists so hard, wanting this to be real.

“Me too,” I croak out. “The way you eviscerated that dude was…”—hot, so hot —“…impressive.”

“Oof, I kinda lost it for a minute there.” She looks chagrined, but also clearly pleased. “I’m just so sick of feeling unwelcome in places that are ostensibly for all of us when really, they’re just for cis gay men.”

I nod. “It sucks. I’ve never felt super comfortable in gay bars, even when people just assumed I was a cis gay man. But like…where else are we supposed to go? Straight bars?”

We groan in unison, laugh, and say our goodbyes.

There’s a moment, before I close the door and she’s still looking at me, when I let myself think what if, what if Kim grabbed my hand and pulled me back into the car and we made out like teenagers and she tucked my hair behind my ear and told me I’m a good girl or a bad girl or anything, anything, so long as I’m hers, wouldn’t that be wonderful.

But she doesn’t do any of those things, just gives me a little wave and watches me through the windshield as I walk inside.

The house is dark, but my mom’s keys are right by the door in the same place they’ve been for almost twenty years, so it’s easy to grab them and squeeze my palm around them so they don’t make a sound.

I wait a few moments to be sure Kim has gone before I let myself out the door I just came in, unlocking my mom’s car and texting Ben to let him know I’ll be there in fifteen.

I make it in ten.

We don’t bother with pretense this time.

I’m pulling my shirt off as Ben locks the door behind me.

Ben’s house—or perhaps just any space Ben inhabits—has always been one of the only places in Boca I’ve ever felt truly comfortable.

There’s an understanding between us born out of our familiarity with each other’s bodies combined with a life lived going to the same schools, eating at the same restaurants, talking to the same people, but always feeling slightly outside.

Ben’s just always been able to…pass better than me, and when we’re close like this—

his hands in my hair, his mouth on my neck, how hot he is inside

—some of that ease and self-assurance bleeds into me, if only for a little while.

“You good?” he asks later, stroking a hand down my back.

I’m not much of a cuddler, but it feels nice to lie curled up beside him, allowing that one point of gentle contact.

I wish, fiercely, that I could scoot back and press my back to Ben’s chest and let him hold me all night, let him love me. I wonder if I’d let Kim hold me.

“I’m fine.” I turn my head to give him a smile over my shoulder, then I get up and pull my clothes on.