A Natural Woman

Wednesday was the annual stripper Halloween party at my club. If you’ve never visited a strip club around Halloween, you’re missing out. Strippers love to dress up. We’re the entire reason for the Leg Avenue brand, co-opted by sluts who want to be us for a night. Sexy nurses and Playboy bunnies with butt-plug tails abound. There were a few outliers: one being a White dancer who dressed up as something like an indigenous witch doctor with a bone through her nose, a belt of bones around her waist, ram horns, and a staff with a skull adornment; another Black dancer who dressed as sexy Scooby Doo with a DIY bag for Scooby snacks. I watched a dancer crank through a box of whippets as she pieced together how her dog had gotten loose. A lonesome cowboy handed out drinks to patrons who wanted to get loose and were willing to spend too much on a shot of bottom-shelf liquor. I dressed up as my take on a Renaissance angel, but was mistaken for the Statue of Liberty.

I had willed myself to work, even though my head wasn’t in it. Even though I’d spent the day curled up in the fetal position, crying between Zoom calls and editing a never ending essay.

On Monday I turned 29. I tend to go into an existential crisis around my birthday every year. There’s a deep loneliness to living that no amount of company can quell. The adage goes “born alone, die alone,” and I don’t think I fully understood that until recently. While I watched my aunt die, she expressed how profoundly lonely the experience was. She was leaving, and the rest of us were staying. Only she could understand the depth of her imminent departure. No matter how many of us called or visited. Only, it was worse for her: she had to die alone, aside from the company of the handful of doctors and nurses attending to her palliative end. On my birthday, I reflected on how lonely it is to have to live your own life. Nobody can do it for you, no matter how tired you are, and living is incredibly exhausting. I’m not suicidal, but there is a lot of gray matter between grappling with the suffering of living and wanting to end it all, and I am firmly somewhere in that nebulous middle.

And then on Tuesday, my partner of six years told me he was moving out. I’m not going to get into the details, since we are locked in a special “irreconcilable differences” sort of limbo, but it looped through my mind as I drove to the club Wednesday evening. Yes, I could have taken the night off, and I had more than just my flailing relationship to justify skipping out; however, I wasn’t going because I needed the money. I scraped myself off of the floor because Juan was coming dressed as Xiomara just for me.

Xiomara is the name of Juan’s honorary tia. Xiomara and her husband took Juan’s father in when he migrated to the United States and treated him as their son. As Juan plotted his return to drag, he channeled Xo’s energy in the woman he was transforming into. She was vibrant, and strong with a head full of curly hair.

“That’s why I like your natural hair so much,” he said.

I didn’t have any expectations about the final look. Juan showed me his progress along the way: a screenshot of a pair of shoes in an Amazon cart, a text about his mother helping to sew the dress. One of his friends from back in his early days of drag had volunteered to handle the makeup. Juan is not a person to half step anything. I knew that when he threatened to come to the club dressed in drag that he was entirely serious. With or without me present to witness, he was doing it.

I was scared. The strip club is a very performatively heteronormative space. The strippers are gay and the customers are all getting hard together in the same space, so it clearly isn’t a straight space. But because of the queer undercurrent, some people to feel like they need to pretend to be extra straight. I hear a lot of little homophobic comments made by insecure “straight” men. I didn’t know how Juan’s transgressive act would be taken, especially because everyone knows him. The club staff know Juan is my customer. He is valuable to them because he comes regularly and spends generously. They give him the VIP treatment, as they should. I worried about what they would say behind his back, not that there was anything I could do to control what direction their private conversations went. The only thing in my power to do was show up and support Xiomara’s emergence.

I wanted to take a shot and down a Redbull, something to calm me down and give me the energy I needed, but I knew neither would give me the joyful spark I wished for. Caffeine would heighten the anxiety propping me up, and alcohol would most likely lead to me hurting myself. It’s not easy taking shots in 8” heels, and yet so many dancers make it look effortless. Sadly, I am not one of those dancers. Instead I covered my sorrow in eye makeup, elaborate costumery, and my signature aloofness. It’s not that I’m aloof so much as socially awkward, insecure about belonging in most spaces, and incapable of talking about myself. Sometimes I wonder if I have some undiagnosed disorder stymieing my confidence, but the rest of the time, I wonder what it matters if I do? Sometimes I feel like an ever-growing list of mental issues does very little to actually address the numerous problems of existing as a super minority within a post-colonial society. Am I anxious/depressed/neurotic because of a cycle of abuse that began generations before I was even a blip in my ancestors’ mind’s eye? Was it because my grandparents settled in a small town next door to an oil refinery? Was it growing up on a diet of TV dinners, microwaved in BPA rich plastics? Was it an infusion of stress hormones released by my mother as she held me in her womb? Or was it nurture? The metaphorical row of dominoes set in motion leading to my current existence are just the subject of conjecture. How could anybody know for sure?

But anyway, I was a vision to behold, and that cloaked my internal tempest. Additionally, I was on the heaviest day of my cycle. I rarely work when I’m bleeding, but come hell or high water, (or in this case, the red river) I was going to work my entire shift and leave with no less than a thousand dollars.

I saw Xiomara as soon as she walked in. I had been trying to convince a Dominican/Hatian man to part with his money, but he clutched his twenties as if he was holding onto life itself. He told me I looked like a wife, not a stripper, and asked me to run away with him to Texas. I told him I just wanted one thing: to sell a fucking dance. He tried to haggle me into fucking him, but I wasn’t playing that game. Meanwhile, I watched the bouncers process who Xiomara was. The big lady wasn’t just a big lady, she was one of their well-known VIP’s. Axel whispered to Jorge who whispered to Chad. It was like high school students passing a juicy note. They let Xiomara in and she hurried over to me. The Dominican/Hatian man had left the club briefly, vowing he would return, but I’ve heard that a million times before. Sometimes they return, but more often than not they disappear to avoid buying a dance. Xo handed me a little Zales bag with a tiny jewelry box inside. I’ve always wanted to be the stripper whose sugar daddy brings them a gold ring or blue diamond necklace retrieved from the bottom of the sea, but it hasn’t happened so far. My theory is that it’s because I simultaneously give off an air of being too cool for anything traditional. I’d given up on the fantasy until I saw the little box. There was a gift receipt inside that read “dog tag”. Interesting choice, I thought. I opened the box, and inside was a little necklace with the Heaux in the Kneaux logo printed on one side and “...Selena” on the other.

“Because, I know you said on your podcast that sometimes you feel like Selena, but other times you don’t.”

It was so thoughtful and weird at the same time. I loved it for its esoteric gesturing. I hugged Xiomara close. She wore a black body-con jersey dress with keyhole cuts in the front and back revealing a bit of manufactured cleavage and shoulder blades; a pair of high-heeled Converse-style sneakers, and a blingy rhinestone “X” necklace. A shoulder length curly wig dyed to fade from dark roots to blonde tips tied the look together, adding a playful bounce.

“‘X’ for Xiomara,” she explained.

“You look beautiful,” I said.

“Thank you.”

It was a reversal of roles. Normally I was the one saying “thank you,” unsure of what else to say, but this time I could tell that Xo was experiencing her own mixed array of emotions receiving the compliment.

“How does it feel?”

“It feels like finding a part of me that I thought I’d lost.”

She attempted a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She fidgeted with the dress, her long bedazzled nails clicking delicately.

“How do you feel?”

She paused, reflecting, “The last time I was in drag, I was closer to your size. It’s a lot different now, seeing myself this way.”

It was the first time I’d seen Juan reveal so much skin. Every other visit, his body had been covered entirely in long sleeved shirts and pants. That evening, I could see his arms and the chest area revealed by the keyhole cut. His legs were out, covered in a few layers of tights, but I could finally see their shape. It was not only daring to come to the club in drag, it was also an act of bravery to reveal his body in such a visible way.

When I leaned against Xiomara’s side, I felt the familiar padding of a bra, and instinctively pulled back. I found myself unsure of where to touch. I deal with men and women at the club in two very different ways. Men, more often than not, can’t get enough of touch, especially boundary pushing touch. Groping a boner or pinching a male nipple is a treat, rather than a trauma-inducing violation. With women, I ask where I can touch and what they like. I don’t assume anything, even though more often than not, women are down to have a little Girls Gone Wild moment. But this was very different, and yet, was it? Femininity is just a drag performance. All it takes to start feeling like a natural woman is putting on the artifices: revealing skin, holding a delicate purse, feeling a coat of makeup on your face, and navigating basic functions with nails impeding your dexterity. Xo had to keep her legs crossed to keep her dress from riding up. It was that stiff poise that added the final touch of color.

I idly played with her curls: twisting them, fluffing them as I would my own hair.

“You really like the hair, don’t you,” Xo remarked.

“It suits you.”

“I knew this was the one as soon as I saw it. The ladies at the wig store were so excited when I came in. They wanted to see pictures after.”

“Did you take pictures?”

“I took pictures of the whole process. My sisters wanted to see, and I had to show my mom, since she made me the dress. She was the one who decided to add the lace detail.”

“That’s so sweet.”

“She’s the best.”

The interesting thing about Xiomara, was that her look wasn’t over the top. It wasn’t performance drag. She just seemed like a tia from the barrio. I don’t think anybody would have clocked her if Juan hadn’t introduced himself. She was a woman. It made me wonder a little if Juan would be Juan if he’d grown up in a different time. Maybe he would still be a “he,” but maybe if he had the privilege to grow up now, he might be a “she” or “they,” maybe even a “fae”.

Xiomara took me for an hour-long room. I was so sad, I could hardly maintain my train of thought, let alone hold a cohesive conversation. Xo showed me the pictures of her transformation. Juan looked, dead-eyed into the camera as foundation, then eyes and lips filled in Xiomara’s face. Juan actively avoids being in pictures. I sensed how seen he felt, being captured, but I knew he’d done it for me. All of it was for me. Which was why I was there, in spite of everything I was feeling. During the dance, I hit a point where I couldn’t do anything other than sit and hold Xiomara. I didn’t have words or an ounce of sexual energy to donate to our situation, but I had arms I could wrap around her body. I think she needed it as much as I did. She nestled her nose against my neck.

“I’ve come to realize that I’m hopelessly in love with you, but it’s different, because I know how it is, and for the first time, it doesn’t hurt to know that it won’t go anywhere. For the first time, it doesn’t hurt to love this way.”

I didn’t know what to say to such a declaration of love. Was there anything to say? I held her more tightly, pondering what it meant to hold so many hearts.

After the dance, Xiomara decided to stay. She’d purchased a VIP couch, and she had spent weeks getting ready. It would have been a waste to just go home after so much preparation. I wanted to entertain her, but I had work to do.

She watched me the entire night, going off with one man or another. I pointed her out to Evan, who had come by for moral support.

“She looked so crushed when she watched us going upstairs,” he said.

I hadn’t noticed, but I knew it was true. But I didn’t have the capacity to think about it. I had enough sadness for the both of us.