I hold up a pastel blue top with a scalloped neckline. “How come you don’t wear these clothes by day? They’re stunning.”
Loncey still avoids my eye contact. “Because,” they begin sounding confident but then all that collapses and their shoulders sink. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the last claws of misogyny or more likely, misogynoir in me, but I just always felt like it would be too much. You know, being Black, being queer, being non-binary, being poly, being a sex worker… I just feel like wearing clothes that are considered feminine would just say something more about me, and aren’t I expressive enough as it is?” They rub a hand over their face. “But even as I say that, I want to call bullshit on myself.”
“I know that feeling.” I nod. “And I think I understand what you’re saying. It’s like these clothes are gendered, even though they really shouldn’t be. They’re just clothes for fuck’s sake, but they represent something that you’re not sure you want to be seen as.”
Loncey’s eyes finally find mine and I can’t help but think how lost they look. I can almost see what they looked like as a child and it pierces my heart in the sweetest way.
“It’s not like I don’t like the idea of being feminine, or that I don’t like femme people or things. I think one of the reasons non-binary makes sense to me is because I feel deeply connected with my feminine side and I like that. A lot. But I just know that when I share this with the world, other people’s opinions seep in, they become part of the story, part of the narrative that right now I have complete control over. All of a sudden my non-binary identity becomes open for discussion again, and that already happens way too much. And that’s not to mention how much more at risk Black trans femmes are of abuse and violence, and worse.”
They release another long, heavy sigh.
“Also, I shared this side of myself with somebody once, somebody I loved, and it didn’t go so well.”
“Really? What happened?” I ask as gently as I can, but still Loncey’s face hardens. I half-expect them to ignore my question but they don’t. They have a wry smile on their face as they start to talk.
“Geneva was the one who told me to play up to my queer viewers. She knew I was pansexual at this point, but we never talked about. She never acknowledged or validated that part of myself. I think she thought it was a phase, that was all in the past as soon as I got with her. And yet still, she told me to be open about being pansexual because to ‘keep the gays happy’ because they would help pay my bills. So I thought she’d be cool with me wearing these clothes I liked to wear. Back then it was silk boxers. They weren’t even so-called girls’ clothes. But she didn’t like them. She laughed when she saw me in them the first time. I can still hear that cackle of hers echoing in my head.”
I put my hand on their shoulder and massage the warm, smooth skin there.
“That's not cool,” I say and it sounds so inadequate for the comfort I want to give them.
“Yeah,” Loncey agrees and tilts their head towards where my hand is massaging their shoulder. “I should have broken up with her right then and there. But I didn’t. I thought I needed her. To be successful online. And in some ways, I thought she was right. That I was wrong to play with clothes in that way. It played into the way I also thought I was wrong to feel like I wasn’t a man. If I stayed with her, I also stayed in this bubble I thought was safe. But instead I just ended up eroding not just the trust between us but my own sense of self, and my self-trust.”
I keep my fingers on them, stroking slowly. “Isn’t it fucking ironic? The ways we hurt ourselves to try and avoid pain.”
They huff out a dry laugh. “Pretty much.”
“Why did you break up in the end?”
Another humourless chuckle. “She cheated on me.”
“What?!”
“Yep. Her boss at work. They were married within the year of our break-up.”
“My flabber is gasted,” I shake my head. “What a cunt.”
Their laugh finally has some real amusement in it. “Yeah. She was a cunt. Fuck, that feels good to say out loud.”
I dig my fingers a bit harder into their warm skin. I want them to know I’m proud of them for that, and I’m grateful they shared.
“Can I see you, though? Wearing some of this?”
“You want to?”
“We could do a fashion show!”
Loncey laughs but then looks at me and stops. “Oh, you’re serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
And that’s what we do. We tip out the contents of Loncey’s negligee drawer onto their bed. They put on Prince’sGreatest Hitsand we take it in turns putting on a different camisole top, a nightie or a matching set and we prance around the cabin like it’s a runway. I throw myself into it from the outset, swishingmy hips, throwing my shoulders back and then tossing my hair almost violently when it’s time to turn around. Loncey is slower to get into it but sure enough, by their second outfit, they’re strutting with more purpose and pouting like the catwalk model they really could be with their high cheekbones, commandingly straight nose and piercing dark eyes.
It’s not long before we’re taking it to new extremes, throwing our arms around, putting hands on hips, and then Loncey shocks me by doing a perfect ballroom death drop, which I would have thought impossible considering what limited floor space there is. But they do it, collapsing to the floor quicker than a busted deckchair as Prince hits the chorus ofWhen Doves Cry.And that has me bending over, wheezing with laughter.
“Fuck,” Loncey grunts as they slowly get up. “I think I put my back out.”
I should probably move to help them up, but I’m so overcome with laughter that it’s all I can do to fall back onto their bed.
