The Invisible

When I was a child, I told my grandmother how much I wanted to be a woman. She told me that no one, not even most women, wanted to be a woman. This was my first erection: standing in the kitchen, pressing my preteen crotch against the cabinet, the friction between my jeans and my penis like something I’d never felt before, my grandmother prepping a dinner of macaroni and cheese and ham on the stovetop behind me, my grandfather talking on the house phone with his twenty-year-old girlfriend, my mom sleeping upstairs, my brother playing with his stuffed animals, pretending that they were alive and dancing, and me, standing in the kitchen, preteen crotch pressed against the cabinet, the friction between my jeans and my penis like something I’d never felt before, discovering that I had two souls.

Later on, Mom remarried to a man she met at the factory and we moved out of my grandparents’ house and into our own four-walled hell. I didn’t have any friends to hang out with so most afternoons when my stepdad dropped me off after school I’d sit in front of the television and watch what I wanted to watch because no one was home to stop me. I caught a documentary about this man who didn’t want to be a man anymore so he was getting large silicone implants. His hair was shoulder-length and his ears were pierced and I didn’t know what to do so I started touching myself. My first orgasm was like an oceanic oil spill, each blackened wave smashing on the shore of my body, my underpants ruined, my fingers sticky, the man who was no longer a man on the television, staring at me with eyes that weren’t yellow but seemed yellow in the afternoon glare that the sun cast upon the screen, and all I could think of was my grandmother, telling me that my premonitions about my body were just fantasies. And so fantasies they became.

For the next year I spent my afternoons at the family computer discovering the Internet, which really meant that I was discovering pornography, which really meant that I was becoming addicted to the fantasy of doing something that I would be shunned for. I found these pictures of women with penises on the Internet, but they weren’t just women with penises; I found pictures of men wearing makeup on the Internet, but they weren’t just men wearing makeup. They were more than what they seemed to be: they were manifestations of my desire; they were repudiations of my denial. At the dinner table, my mom often reminded me: “I asked God for boys, prayed to God to give me boys, and He gave you to me, and for that I’m more grateful than for anything else.” She forked spaghetti into her mouth, the red sauce spilling onto her factory-worn hands, splashing upon her hardened face.

I’d learned my parents’ schedules like the back of my hand so I could start sneaking into my mom’s closet to wear her clothes, to paint my face with the little makeup she owned. This was how I learned to make myself invisible. As soon as I snapped the bra onto my tiny chest, as soon as I slid into her only black dress, as soon as I pressed the gloss to my lips, caked foundation onto my pale skin, pink eyeshadow on my lids, mascara on my lashes, no one could see me, and it wasn’t just because no one else was home, no, it was because I became invisible. I was no longer a boy, but I was not a girl, either. I was not a girl, but I felt like one because I was not a boy. The oversized  black heels clomped on the hardwood floors as I paraded myself around the empty house. Her rings shone brightly on my fingers. When my time began to run short, I’d lay in my mother’s bed, in the bed she fucked my stepfather in, and imagine kissing someone, anyone, feeling less and less empty the longer I was invisible. And when I came, I came hard, harder than I ever had, came while dressed in my mother’s clothes, wearing my mother’s makeup, laying in the bed she fucked my stepfather in; when I came, I came hard, and that’s when I’d no longer be invisible. I’d look at myself in the bathroom mirror, my short, boyish hair, my made-up face, and when I cried, I cried hard, harder than I ever had, and I knew I’d become addicted to the idea of being invisible.

Let me tell you about this dream I keep having: I don’t like guys. I’m not a man or a woman, but that has nothing to do with whether or not I’m into guys. I’m sitting in a theater. Some Quentin Tarantino film is playing on screen. It seems like a mix of Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs. I have long, curled hair, red lipsticked lips. I look beautiful. I spent all morning in front of the mirror becoming invisible. No one would want to go on a date with an invisible person, and if they did it would only be to fuck them. I don’t really care. I’ve chosen the highest row in the theater, away from everyone else, so no one could see how invisible I’ve become.

Let me tell you about this dream I keep having: I’m with my girlfriend and she’s in love with me. I explain to her that I don’t like guys, which she doesn’t understand why I’m bringing up. I tell her that I’m not a man or a woman, and I also tell her that it has nothing to do with whether or not I’m into guys. She asks me if I’d ever go out with a guy and let him fuck me, and I tell her that I want to kiss. We’re in a theater. Some Quentin Tarantino film is playing on screen. It seems like a mix of Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs. She runs her hands through my long, curled hair, presses her lips against my lips, puts her hands on my breasts. She tells me I look beautiful, and I tell her it’s because I spent all morning in front of the mirror becoming invisible. We kiss again, this time our tongues twisting around in the cavern of our joined mouths. This is why we chose the highest row in the theater, away from everyone else. Her skin is soft, softer than I’d ever imagined. I tell her I want to give a blowjob, someday, that I want to know what it’s like to have someone else inside of me. I ask her why we can’t fuck and she tells me that it’s because I’m not into guys.

Let me tell you about this dream I keep having: I’m with a guy and he’s in love with me. I explain to him that I don’t like guys, which he doesn’t understand because of who I am. I tell him that I’m not a man or a woman, and I also tell him that it has nothing to do with whether or not I’m into him. He asks me why I decided to go out with him if I wasn’t going to let him fuck me, and I tell him that I want to kiss. We’re in a theater. Some Quentin Tarantino film is playing on screen. It seems like a mix of Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs. He runs his hands through my long, curled hair, presses his lips against my lips, puts his hands on my breasts. He tells me I look beautiful, and I tell him it’s because I spent all morning in front of the mirror becoming invisible. I ask him why he wanted to go on a date with an invisible person, and he laughs. I ask him how he knows that I’m beautiful, and if he’s just making a guess so he can fuck me. I don’t really care. We kiss again, this time our tongues twisting around in the cavern of our joined mouths. This is why we chose the highest row in the theater, away from everyone else. His beard is soft, softer than I’d imagined a beard might be. I tell him I want to give him a blowjob, that I want to know what it’s like to have someone else inside of me, so he unzips his pants. He asks why we can’t fuck and I tell him it’s because I’m not into guys.

Let me tell you about this dream I keep having: I know my father is dead, but he is alive and tells me that he loves me. I explain to him that I don’t like guys, which he doesn’t understand why I’m bringing up. I tell him that I’m not a man or a woman. We’re in a theater. Some film is playing on screen, but I’m not sure what it is. It’s just a still frame of a dark hallway, all black-and-white, the walls lined with empty picture frames. Nothing happens for an hour and twenty minutes. My father and I talk about everything all at once: he remembers taking me fishing when I was a boy, but he can’t imagine doing that now; he explains that there wasn’t anything he wanted more than for me to be a boxer and a mechanic and a husband; “How is your mother?” he asks, but I don’t answer. Instead, I stare at the screen as this woman begins emerging from the darkness. She’s skinny and covered in bruises and blood, and twitching. Her breasts have been split in two and her eyes are white and the closer she gets to the screen the more I’m sure she sees me, sees how visible I am, sees my father next to me, his tanned, rough arms around my pale shoulders in this dream I keep having, this infinite split down the center of my soul.

Zachary Riddle is a graduate of Central Michigan University’s Master of Arts in Creative Writing. He has been published in Apex, The Blue Route, Glassworks and OxMag, among several others. He has two chapbooks of poetry: This Labyrinth We Wander (available through Amazon), and Wingless (forthcoming from Finishing Line Press).