The Crazy Russian

“Do I get to weigh in?” Darius asked.

Darius, Tiger, and Rat were browsing the Sunday farmers’ market downtown, under the bridge on Saratoga. The smell of funnel cakes wafted through the air. Rat was eating bread and butter pickle slices from a tub of pickles.

“No.” Rat replied, slurping pickle juice from the container.

“You’re not trans, sweaty.” Tiger added.

“I’m not, but!” Darius paused, watching Tiger and Rat raise their eyebrows, ready to pounce, “I am the cisman who will be shouting your name later when I cum on your tits.”

Rat pretended to vomit.

“Wow! Sex negativity, I see you.” Darius chided.

Tiger blushed and felt her clit pulse under her skirt.

“Babe, don’t get me worked up in public!” She squealed.

Tiger wrapped her arms around Darius’s chest and squeezed his pecs as she nibbled his neck.

“You two are sickening.” Rat said, taking another swig of pickle juice.

“You are literally drinking pickle juice. How are you so high on your high horse?” Darius scoffed.

“Look, babe. I love you, and you’re right, you have a stake in this, but this is my name. It will be mine even after you’re gone.” Tiger said gently.

“After I’m gone? Are you planning to leave me?” Darius asked.

“No… But you know!” Tiger searched for words, “Nothing gold can stay, ponyboy. Shit happens. Anyway, it’s my life!”

“I love the number of movie quotes you used just then.” Rat added.

“Thanks, I try.”

Tiger paused in front of a booth selling sarongs, admiring the shimmering fabrics.

“You know you gotta touch them.” Rat said, nudging her.

“You know me so well.” Tiger sighed, walking over to the hypnotic display.

She picked up a purple skirt with metallic gold threads hand stitched along the hemline.

“If you want it, I’ll get it for you,” Darius said.

He walked over to Tiger and wrapped his arms around her, kissing the top of her head. Tiger loved how delicate she felt in his arms.

“You make me feel like such a woman.” She said, resting her head against his chest.

“You are a woman.” Darius murmured into her hair, “Which is why I don’t like ‘Tiger’ for you.”

“What are you saying?” Tiger asked, pulling away.

“I get it with Rat, but you’re not nonbinary. You’re a woman, and I just don’t think ‘Tiger’ is a feminine name!”

“Gender is a construct that varies across cultures, just because you’re ignorant, doesn’t mean Tiger has to be.” Rat snapped.

Darius threw his hands up in frustration.

“Ignorant!” Darius exclaimed in exasperation, “So I don’t get to say anything?”

Tiger replaced the skirt on the rack and patted Darius’s arm.

“Look babe, you don’t get to tell trans people how we get to live our lives. I know it’s hard.” She said, condescending.

“I’m not talking about all trans people, just my trans girlfriend, who I love and who I want to one day marry and maybe start a family with.”

Darius fell silent and crossed his arms, his brows furrowed.

“Babe!” Tiger exclaimed, tearing up.

“Y’all are so basic sometimes.” Rat said, wincing.

“Don’t be so jaded, Rat. Trans marriage is still a subversive win.” Tiger replied between kisses.

“Look, just because you maybe want to get married one day, doesn’t mean you get to tell her what to name herself. That’s so antiquated.” Rat added.

“Facts.” Tiger said, dabbing her mascara.

Darius sighed, looking at Tiger. Rat burped loudly beside them, then sniffed the air.

“Whew, that one was a stinker.” Rat remarked.

The smell wafted over to the doting couple. Darius wrinkled his nose. Tiger covered her mouth.

“You’re such a gutter monster, Rat!” Tiger exclaimed, rolling her eyes.

They continued walking through the market: past a cluster of children doing double dutch; an elderly Black man in a dashiki playing hand drums to a group of people performing a dance routine; a long, winding line of people waiting to place their order for expensive vegan falafel. Darius held Tiger’s hand as they strolled, taking in the sights and smells. Rat watched them out of the corner of their eye. Rat was happy for Tiger, as much as Darius irked them occasionally. He was a good man with a good job, who seemed to genuinely want to love and support Tiger, apparently even marry her. It was a major statement to make, since they’d been dating for less than a year. Rat worried that Tiger was getting ahead of herself, but then again, who were they to judge? Life was all about taking risks for happiness or self-actualization, and Rat had taken plenty of their own. But it was one thing to take risks for yourself, it was another to let a man guide those decisions.

“I see you spinning out.”

Rat snapped out of their thoughts. Tiger had migrated to be beside them. She grabbed Rat’s hand.

“Sorry.” Rat replied, embarrassed.

Tiger turned to Darius and grabbed his hand too.

“If you want to marry me one day, you have to be down to really marry me. And if I decide my name is ‘Tiger,’ you better be prepared to see ‘Tiger’ on our marriage certificate.”

Rat wrapped their arm around Tiger’s waist, looking up to see how Darius would respond. He stared off into the distance for a minute, as they walked together. Rat could see his mind at work, performing calculations. They didn’t like that it was taking him this long to agree to something so obvious, but Rat decided to breathe away their objections. Tiger was their friend, but she was her own person. She could make her own decisions for herself.

“Well…” Darius paused, looking at Tiger who was staring back at him with urgency, “I will love you, no matter what. And if that ‘you’ is now ‘Tiger,’ well, I guess now I love Tiger.”

“Be more convincing, bro.” Rat heckled.

Darius frowned at Rat in irritation. Tiger rubbed his arm encouragingly. She wasn’t letting him off easy. He took another deep breath and continued.

“Look, I love you, Tiger. You are intelligent, stunning, and you make me want to be a better man.”

Tiger began tearing up again. The tip of her nose turned red. She covered her face, trying to hide how much she was feeling.

“Tiger, I will love you until the day I die.” He continued, pulling her back into his arms.

“Let’s not make promises we can’t keep, sir. Until death--” Rat said.

“Let’s not butt into other people’s business, Rat!” Tiger said, cutting them off.

“Fine.” Rat replied, returning to their tub of pickles. “I’ll leave you two love birds in peace.”

“Finally!” Darius said, and kissed Tiger.

The market bustled, but in that moment, there was nobody but Tiger and Darius in the entire world.

***

Six years had passed since then, and a lot had changed, yet simultaneously so much was the same. Tiger had gotten promoted to curator, and Darius had taken a position at Howard University teaching an art history course. They were still in love, but it wasn’t the same sort of intoxicating new relationship energy as before. Time had tempered their passions, and the proposal Darius had hinted at many moons ago had yet to come to fruition.

Tiger looked at her bare ring finger as the trio sat together for dinner.

“What kinds of wigs did you two get?” Darius asked, scooping a pile of kale salad onto his plate.

“My normal basic bitch shit.” Rat replied between mouthfuls, “Nothing fun.”

“Did you get anything, minha Tigrinha?” Darius asked, turning to Tiger.

“No,” She said, blowing steam from her hot bowl of pozole, “I have too much stuff anyway.”

“How was work?” Rat asked.

“Fine. The students are still adjusting back to being in class after the holidays. How about you?” Darius stuffed a mound of salad into his mouth, dressing flicking onto his upper lip.

“Same shit different day,” Rat replied, rote.

“Do you even like your job?” Darius asked, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

“Does anyone like work?” Rat retorted.

“You know, you do have an MBA.” Darius said, carefully.

“Money, bitches, assets? Or a motherfucking big ass?” Rat said, slapping their thigh for emphasis.

“Darius, leave Rat alone. They didn’t ask for advice.”

“Yeah, I didn’t ask for your advice, Darius.”

Rat dipped a large chunk of bread into their soup and let it sit, absorbing the broth. When the bread was thoroughly saturated, they crammed the bread into their mouth in a single bite, struggling to chew the oversized morsel.

“I’m just saying that you have options.” Darius replied, annoyed he was getting ganged up on yet again.

“I have options because I’m rich, bitch,” Rat said, their mouth still full of bread and soup, “And I’m rich because I’m a fucking whore. Literally. I fuck, therefore I am whore.” They snorted, laughing at their own joke.

“But you can’t be a stripper forever.” Darius retorted.

“I can be a stripper until I’m at least forty. I mean, you can’t be a professor forever.” said Rat.

“What do you mean?” Darius replied, confused.

“I mean, you get paid shit, you’re an adjunct, you teach an elective course that people should be taking at one of the real art schools nearby. Who even shows up to your class?”

“Damn Rat, don’t be mean.” Tiger said, clicking her tongue, “You can’t be burning my mans like that.”

“He started it.” Rat countered.

Tiger wasn’t sure whose side to choose. On the one hand, Darius had no business coming for Rat, on the other, Rat was being mean. To his credit, Darius appeared unphased.

“I hear you. Yes, the system is broken. But you don’t think it’s valuable to have Black queer representation in academia? You don’t think we need Black men teaching arts instead of sports?”

“Who do you think you are, James Baldwin?” Rat replied, rolling their eyes.

“I’m just saying, academia needs people like me. Don’t get it twisted, lil homie.”

“Darius, I’m not a businessman, I’m a business, man. And that business is my very masculine pussy hole. You could call it a timeshare investment, because everybody wants to buy time with this good good.”

Rat downed the rest of their bowl of soup. They didn’t want to defend their profession in their own home, over dinner no less. They stood up and brought their dishes to the sink.

“I’ll take care of it later tonight. I’m going up.” Rat said, and made their way upstairs to their bedroom.

Rat sprawled out on their bed and stared up at the ceiling. Of course they had options. Everybody had options, at least to some degree. Even the people who lived in garbage dump sites to scavenge for recyclable goods had some choice in the matter. They woke up each day and decided to continue performing their labor. Lots of Westerners with a saviorial complex would look at them as people without any rights, the lowest of the low, but that was bullshit. They were out there doing the dirty work that significantly reduced carbon emissions. Rat was at a different sort of bottom, doing the dirty work of sexual labor that so many people depended upon. The people who hired strippers weren’t creeps. They were architects and construction workers, teachers and rocket engineers, doctors, lawyers, and politicians. They were fathers who proudly showed off photos of their children, and who bragged about their wives allowing them some “fun” here and there. Pretty much everybody needed sexual release at least sometimes, although, Rat thought, most of the time people wanted other less obvious things. Men wanted to feel strong and virile as they faced their bodies rebelling against them, growing old and feeble. They wanted to feel seen and listened to, even as they felt their voice and power diminish with the new generation of leaders gaining power. They wanted to be held, and allowed to cry in the secret embrace of a stranger who wouldn’t tell anyone about their moment of fragility. They wanted to ask ignorant questions, and come to grips with the changing world, without being made to feel stupid. And all with a sexy “woman” as witness and caretaker. Rat was both professional dick handler, and professional man cuddler.

But Darius was right. It was a grueling profession, and while Rat could work it for years, the emotional labor they performed was wearing on them. There was a time when Rat had been soft and attentive to their clientele, but as the years had gone by, everything began blurring together. They’d had to economize their empathy for the sake of monetary goals and evading burnout. But even with all of the pacing and emotional distance, Rat was reaching a breaking point.

They unlocked their phone and opened their banking app.

$151,000

The number was affirming. It was the only concrete piece of affirmation that their labor was amounting to something. They were a compulsive saver. They paid rent, set aside a few hundred dollars for utilities and groceries, $1,000 for miscellaneous expenses, and the rest went straight into savings. Rat had a few objectives in mind. They wanted a nice home with some land where they could house their family and friends. They also wanted to one day open a club of their own, as daunting a concept as that was to consider. They were tired of working for men. Every club they had ever worked at was owned by some man who didn’t know anything about the business, and yet seemed to be full of tips for how to be a stripper. Rat wanted to see any of them put on lingerie and hustle for money in eight inch heels. They all seemed to have the same insights: don’t get tattoos, be nice, smile, “if you can’t make a sale, make a friend”: essentially be a good girl. Why? Because men are delicate creatures who are simply unable to survive unless you approach them with a full smile and diminutive attitude. And in turn, the men would…? Act terrible and forget all manners at the door. Rat couldn’t count how many times they’d had to entertain some man who looked like the head of a penis and yet who managed to make a derogatory comment about Rat’s appearance, or worse, explicitly discriminate against them because they were Black. If Rat had a nickel for every time they’d heard some asshole say, “I don’t date Black girls,” they would be able to buy the house and the club without a problem. The statement had become jarringly normal. Sometimes, Rat realized, they were subconsciously styling their Blackness away. Straight wigs, less time in the sunlight, pale foundation, and Kardashian contouring--these were strategic choices, and yet sometimes when they stood at home in their mirror at the end of a night at work, it was hard to take it all off and still feel attractive. The self they performed was so distant from the self they saw off duty. Which was maybe good. While the femme was being drilled into them by external forces, internally, they felt the most free moving about in their masculine form.

Rat transferred a thousand dollars into their savings account.

$152,000

The app made a “cha ching” noise. It was Pavlovian. Rat felt relieved, watching their balance grow. They had initially aimed to hit $100,000, but when they met their goal, the idea of buying a house with only a hundred thousand seemed unreasonable. They would need at least two hundred, probably closer to four hundred to buy something nice and afford to fix the normal quirks all the old homes in Baltimore inevitably inherited: the mold, the foundational sag, rodents, and the lack of quality insulation. It was daunting to consider a change of that proportion, especially considering how comfortable their life with Tiger had become.

Rat peered into the hallway, trying to see if they could catch a glimpse of Tiger and Darius. Rat could hear the television on downstairs. Rat idly wondered what they were watching. Rat opened Property Finders and typed in their zip code. It was a calming habit. They liked to imagine themself in the homes as they took virtual tours. Sometimes they browsed mansions when they wanted to feel extravagant. Other times Rat searched the bargain bin lots, the kinds with nothing on them, not even plumbing. The lots probably weren’t even zoned as residential areas. They were all potential and heroin needles.

But that evening, Rat decided to search strip clubs. This search seldom yielded anything. Most of the time clubs seemed to change ownership via clandestine transactions. It wasn’t usually a public sale. Most of the clubs in Baltimore were owned by a few people. It was a dirty business, and not a lot of people wanted to get involved with an industry that was conflated with seediness. It wasn’t just the seediness of sex transactions, it was the other illicit transactions that raised alarm bells. A lot of the industry was facilitated by organized crime bosses, who preferred to dictate from afar. They could loiter, broker deals, launder their money in the clubs, and nobody would bat an eye. That was the main hindrance Rat saw in opening up a club of their own.

To Rat’s surprise, there was a club for sale. Rat wasn’t familiar with the area where it was located. The club was outside of Baltimore, way out in Rosedale, far from The Block where Rat had worked for most of their career. Rat zoomed in on the blurry image. It was a dilapidated tan building with a shabby red sign featuring a caricature of a sexy lady. The building was fenced off, as if it was condemned. Rat wasn’t sure what the story was, but it looked like a real turd. Rat scrolled, trying to find where the price might be listed. Suddenly their pulse started racing.

AUCTION ONLY, starting price $50,000. Email for details. Serious inquiries only!!!

Rat’s mouth was suddenly dry. Was this their moment? They clicked the email link and began composing their message.

To whom it may concern,

I’m interested in bidding on the strip club listed on Property Finders. Could I get more information on where and when the auction is taking place, and what I need to do to participate?

Sincerely,

Rat paused. They knew they would be fighting an uphill battle if they showed up to the auction presenting as the nonbinary clusterfuck they were. “Rat” would not get an email back. It pained them to consider resorting to their dead name. It had been nearly a decade since they’d used it, and hardly anybody even knew that that was the name on their birth certificate. They didn’t want to bring back something they’d killed, and yet, desperate times called for desperate measures.

Sincerely,

Mariana De Silva

Rat wasn’t sure if their clearly Latine name would count against them, but it was a risk they had to take. Rat clicked send, and realized they were sweating. They fanned their shirt, trying to dry out the sweat that was dripping down their belly. Calm down. You don’t even know if they’ll respond. Rat felt as if they’d placed a major bet, and yet they hadn’t gained or lost anything. They hadn’t made any wager. They’d simply mailed out an inquiry, and for all they knew, that email address could be bunk. Maybe all they’d done was sign up for some scam mailing list.

Rat massaged their temples. There was no reason to stress over something that hadn’t even happened yet. Rat grabbed their bong and needled the half smoked bowl. They took a hit, and turned on a pottery contest reality show, hoping to decompress when they saw a message flicker across the top of their screen.

-----New Message from The Crazy Russian----->

Fuck. It was real.