Page 20 of Nearly Roadkill: Queer Love on the Run

Yeah, I tend to hide my emotions and go for girls who wear theirs on their sleeves.

‘Men’s clothes’ are just more comfortable for me.

That doesn’t make me male, any more than straight women who started wearing pants in the ’60s were trying to be men.

Too simple. The way I relate to women isn’t about conquest, or trying to dominate her (unless she wants it ::grin::), but a celebration: strong, proud butch, and strong, proud femme.

There just aren’t words yet, I think. I know, and my girlfriend knows, what we mean. But it’s hard to explain.

—Spike

Kinda got to me, know what I mean?

—Scratch

To: Scratch

From: Winc

Subj: Ohhh, If *that*’s butch…

… then I like butches. You’re kind of like that, you know? ::smiling:: Wonder what you would call yourself, if anything. ::raising a finger to your lips:: I’m not really asking. Well, maybe a little. But if you’re ready to try it out, then let me set the scene a bit:

::stepping back quickly, ze draws a hand across hir face, as though ze were lifting a veil into position.

Hir features lose their focus, soften and blend.

A well-practiced smile forms on hir lips, the smile of a girl who’s been around the block a few times.

Her hair falls in taunting copper waves.

She stands facing you, close enough to feel her breath at your shoulder.

She’s tall in heels, just a bit shorter than you.

She smooths out her skin-tight dress, looks up at you.

When she speaks, her husky voice goes right into your heart, to a place you thought you’d walled off years ago::

“Let’s go to a Private room called Key Largo. Name the time…”

::she looks back over her shoulder::

“You know how to name the time, don’t you?”

::laughing softly::

“You put one hand *here*, and the other hand *here*. I’ll do the rest.”

::the door clicks shut behind her, the sound of her sharp stiletto heels echoes down the hall, fades away, and she’s gone::

—W.

To: Winc

From: Scratch

Subj: Key Largo

::moan:: Wow.

Um:

She glances up toward the mirror over the bar.

She’s got a stern, serious face, the kind of face that looks good to a certain kind of woman.

She stopped wearing anything but men’s clothes years ago; these duds fit her like a glove.

Wide-brimmed hat pulled down over one eye, baggy pants that keep a lot to themselves, and two-toned shoes, her favorite pair.

She sees the broad in the corner and shakes her head, grinning at the bartender.

“Why didn’t you tell me she walked in the door, Jack?

” The bartender shrugs and wipes a glass.

“I knew you’d notice her sooner or later, pal.

” In spite of her better judgment, she lifts her hat, and says in a low voice, heavily inflected with the state of New York:

“Key Largo it is, tomorrow, noon. Don’t be late.”

SCRATCH JOURNAL ENTRY CONT’D

I may not know much about tech, but I do know about old-fashioned greed, and Big Bizness is already worming their wormy ways into “the Net.” Allied Consumer Industries (ACI) is an insidious consortium of marketing companies, just as creepy as marketing groups can be.

They can’t narrow down the demographic because people are being everywhere as everybody.

So how do you target ads to multiple personas?

People don’t want to be pinned down to any one type. My kind of people. Hee hee.

Toobe tells me that there are various mysterious announcements warning people to be on the alert for me and Winc for god’s sake. But a happy accident is that there are more than just one Scratch or Winc!

Random sample of rooms where people swear they saw them:

Alt.sex.fetish

Alt.noob.chat

Alt.deaf.bbs

Alt.bellybutton

Alt.movies.action

Alt.dykes.inyerface

Cracks me up. Finding a needle in a haystack of needles.

END SCRATCH JOURNAL ENTRY

NARRATIVE ENTRY, JABBATHEHUT

“I don’t know what to make of this, Shel,” Budge says flatly.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he withdraws several neatly folded pages of text logs of his chat room adventures earlier that day.

“What’s with this ‘stupid bitch,’ and ‘bite me,’ and, well, worse; you’ll read it.”

She skims quickly, mouth pursing.

“I’m a regular guy,” he continues, confused. “I’m not some pervert or psycho.” He quietly concludes, “Every one of those people was downright mean. And for no reason, Shel. For no goddamn reason.”

“Every one of those men was downright mean,” she says, her voice slow and even. “And the reason is, you weren’t one of them. You were a woman.”

“I don’t get it,” he says finally. “You know me.”

“That’s the trouble; there’s not that many like you.” Her voice gently challenging, her fingers resting on the back of his hand. “But you still haven’t got a clue, have you?”

He grins despite his discomfort. “Aw, c’mon. ‘All men are creeps,’ is that what you’re gonna say? G’head, I can take it. I’m a big boy.”

She looks at him evenly for a moment.

“What do you suppose it would be like,” she says, “if every time you signed online—no, every time you walked out your front door, you could expect that kind of treatment? You’d never know where or when it would come from, but you’re always ready for it.

Under the smile, under the come-on, even under the greatest words you’ve ever heard, someone’s waiting to hammer you if you don’t respond just how they want you to… .”

She can see him strain to grasp it. He’s working hard.

“So you’re saying that Scratch and Winc… they’re women? That’s why they keep changing, running…”

“… playing,” she finishes his thought. “They’re playing.”

That smile of hers.

“They’re free. That’s what they are.”

“Huh?”

She continues, absently stroking the back of his hand.

“I don’t know if Scratch and Winc are women or not.

No one does; maybe that’s why everyone’s talking about them.

But they could be Black men, Latina women, that guy in the wheelchair outside our building, old people.

The Asians at SUNY. Gays. Lesbians. Children.

Anyone who can’t speak up because they’re afraid of being put in their place. Or worse.”

“Whatever they are, they’re showing us a place where there’s no fear.”

Their eyes meet. He’s dizzy; it’s because of her, and she knows it.

END JABBA NARRATIVE ENTRY

SCRATCH JOURNAL ENTRY

Whew, Key Largo! I logged it all!

Online Host

*** You are in room “Key Largo” ***

Johnny: Hey, dollface. What’ll ya have?

Frankie: ::turning:: You talkin’ to me?

Johnny: Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you. You see any other good-lookin’ broads in here?

Frankie: ::giving you a long even look:: And how many times have you used *that* line? ::lazy smile::

Johnny: How often you give a slow turn like that? ::small twitch of lips::

Frankie: ::slow smile:: Only when I’m expectin’ to see something I like.

Johnny: And did ya?

Frankie: ::nodding:: Oh, yeah.

Johnny: So, whaddya drinkin’?

Frankie: ::pulling out a cigarette:: Comfort and coke. Light on the coke.

Johnny: Comin’ right up.

Frankie: ::looking deep into your eyes::

Johnny: ::looking into your eyes, lighting cigarette:: So what brings you to these parts?

Frankie: ::shrugging:: Maybe I heard the ponies are runnin’ sweet… then again… maybe I’m the one who’s runnin.

Johnny: You got a weakness for ponies? Or runnin’?

Frankie: ::throwing my head back laughing:: Right now, I’ve got a weakness for good-looking butches.

Johnny: ::ducking head:: Is that right? ::sly smile:: Kinda bold, ain’tcha sister?

///GOOD EVENING, EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT?///

Johnny: Oh, sure sure, it’s all right.

Frankie: ::turning:: Hello, Eye… yeah, me and my… escort, we’re fine.

Johnny: Nothin’ doing here, Eye.

///FINE. HAVE A NICE ONE. LOVE THAT MOVIE!///

Eye has left the room

Johnny: Movie? Oh, the room name… Jesus! Must’ve followed ya in.

Frankie: Scratch?

Johnny: Yes, Winc?

Frankie: That’s scary! ::moving closer to you, shaking::

Johnny: Yeah. Since s/he came *in* to ask, maybe the Eyes can’t monitor us from outside the room.

Frankie: ::quietly:: Maybe, maybe not.

Johnny: You know, sweetheart, I might be bad news for ya.

Frankie: ::looking up into your eyes:: I’ve had my share of bad news.

Johnny: I bet you have.

But I’m on the run, see. You might say I got myself lost.

Frankie: ::arching an eyebrow:: Why ya runnin’?

Johnny: I got my reasons. What about you? [My screen just froze, Winc. Careful.]

Frankie: ::offhandedly:: I had a run-in with a… [huh? You signed on with a… you-know-what, right?]

Johnny: ::cupping your chin in my hand:: Maybe if it looks like an ordinary love scene, they won’t bother us.

Frankie: ::pressing softly against you:: Yes.

Johnny: ::talking real low in your ear:: What’s that perfume you’re wearin’?

Frankie: ::laughing softly:: It’s called Trouble. You like the smell of Trouble?

Johnny: No, but I can guarantee the scent will follow me.

Frankie: ::softly, almost to myself:: Trouble, spelled B-U-T-C-H.

Johnny: Maybe you should just be quiet for a minute. ::kissing you hard::

Frankie: ::struggling:: ::pulling back, breathing hard:: Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t ya?

Johnny: No. I’m not. You’re a new kind of trouble for me.

Frankie: ::wiping my mouth with the back of my hand::

Johnny: Sorry I got fresh.

Frankie: ::laughing low:: What did you say your name was?

Johnny: I didn’t.

Frankie: ::sizing you up::

Johnny: Ladies first.

Frankie: ::smiling:: Some folks call me Frankie… and you’re…?

Johnny: Well, wouldn’t ya know it? They call me Johnny.

Frankie: Just my luck.

Frankie: You know that story, don’tcha?

Johnny: There’s a jukebox here. Maybe they got that song.

Frankie: ::turning, spotting the juke against the wall:: Play it, Johnny. Go ahead.

Johnny: Dance?

Frankie: Sure… why not. ::tugging my skirt down:: ::moving close into you, pressing my breasts against you::

Johnny: ::breathing in your scent above your head::

::pressing close to you, not speaking::