Passing For black. Linda Villarosa

hanging. It’s just a demo. You don’t have to marry me.” Nervous laughter rippled through the audience. Everyone in the room started chanting “do it, do it.”

      As the chanting got louder, I couldn’t get out of this. I was too reserved to want to take part in this public sex show, but too polite to refuse. I walked up to the stage slowly, self-conscious and awkward, my backpack still slung over my shoulder. Suzy handed me a latex glove from a box at the side of the table. “Go for it, honey,” she said. “You’ll know when you’ve hit it.”

      I tugged on the glove, leaned down and stuck my index finger gingerly inside of Suzy. Pretend you’re a doctor, on TV, prepping a patient for gynecological surgery, I said to myself. I kept my eyes locked on Suzy’s pelvis. She felt moist but firm.

      “Sweetie, I’ve had two babies, you got plenty more room. Put another finger up there.” As the crowd switched to a new chant—“more, more, more”—I slid my middle finger inside of Suzy. Both fingers were rigid, shaking slightly. My backpack slid to the floor.

      “Relax. Higher.” She moaned slightly, her eyes squeezing shut. I looked away, not wanting to see her contorted “orgasm face.”

      “Scoot up, toward my navel. Now move your fingers around a little. Ahhhh, you got it, baby,” screeched Suzy. I could feel the muscles of her sex organ squeezing around my fingers like a vise. Oh, my God, would I be stuck inside of Suzy? Would we have to go to the hospital, tethered together, walking inelegantly into the emergency room like co-joined twins attached in all the wrong places?

      I felt a sudden movement to the side of me. The sign-language interpreter had thrown her head back, and was silently and, unnecessarily, mimicking Suzy, her hands moving wildly. Finally, I felt Suzy’s body go slack, and the tightness around my fingers eased. There was no need to ask, “Did you come?” Gently, I pulled my fingers out of her. The signer walked over and held a metal bin marked “medical waste” for me to throw the glove in. Applause swelled around me. For a quick minute, I felt less embarrassed than accomplished.

      “Thank you, sweetie,” Suzy said, her eyes glazed. She rubbed her buttery cheek against mine and made a kissing sound. “Anybody else want to try?”

      That was it? I thought. After the public intimacy, the connection we’d made, just that lame kiss? Not even the suggestion of a shared cigarette? An exchange of numbers? Hmmphf. Though this was highly weird and I was back to feeling beyond embarrassed, I also felt slighted, used, as I picked up my bag and walked toward my seat.

      Pushing past me, about twenty women raced to the stage, forming a neat line on the steps. Each one, wearing a latex glove, like so many Michael Jacksons, stuck their fingers inside Suzy, producing shouts of encouragement and gales of cross-eyed squeals. After each woman finished, she politely kissed Suzy’s cheek.

      Slouching in my seat, my legs extended toward the stage, I took notes furtively, knowing that this scene would bring a cigarette squarely between Lucia’s lips. Another great idea to add to the editorial bedpost. In just a little corner of my mind, I worried about the fairness of telling this story, especially knowing that the NO MEDIA signs were there for a reason. Would I be able to explain this weird, orderly and hygienic gang bang? Of course, I wouldn’t mention that I’d been a banger myself. Would Cait hate me when she found out that I was a media spy, airing dirty lezzzbian laundry?

      I pushed those thoughts into the back of my mind—though the idea of Cait being pissed continued to worry me. Journalism, even practiced at the highest ethical levels, was a sordid business. That’s why the best of the bunch had some line or some deceitful interview technique. Seducing people into revealing secrets and telling tales that were better untold was the goal, and done correctly it always involved dishonesty and sleaze to achieve it. I shouldn’t feel guilty writing about Suzy G’s escapades; she was putting her coochie out there, into the public domain.

      But even as I sat there, thinking about my profession with Suzy G’s orgasmic screams in the background, I knew that I hadn’t gotten the juiciest tale. What was the deal with those transgender folk, and why were the “women born women” trying so hard to keep them out? Before the end of the day, I needed to take a trip to the “safe space.” I stood up, and shoved my notebook into my bag, just as one of Lindsey’s thugs walked by. I brushed past her, as she looked me up and down.