Crisis in the Club

My-Azia Johnson

Tonight, the gender character I’m playing is familiar, commanding, and so pretty to consume. I chose to wear this hoe skirt to Dyke Nite because it still brings me joy, but also confusion. My gender journey hasn’t made my heart grow fonder for this trap that’s binding up my chance to dance freely. Despite all my bare skin, the only thing that feels exposed is the gross mischaracterization of how I view myself. I’ve indulged in the privileges of masculinity lately, and here I long for that freedom, but I don’t know how to style it. My petite frame is not a masculine archetype. I fear it reads as an uncompelling costume that doesn’t translate my power like I can with femininity.

Kinksters say cages can feel comforting, and I agree as I devour my reflection, striding past the mirrored wall toward the DJ’s booth. I am enthralled with this version of myself that hovers below the surface of my anxiety. When I’m grounded in my body, I can feel all the complexities crammed into this living art form. Laced bars latch my skirt’s peekaboo slits together, but are my intangible nuances shining in between? Do the weighty gold chains feel like a forced contrast? I guard the true meaning behind my gender performance, but I’m forced to swallow the fact that I can’t make everyone at Ottobar understand it. Like my leather harness, my ribs form a fragile dam blocking the muddy insecurities that threaten to spew out. I am reminded that these worries of my heart remain invisible to everyone on the dance floor.

Fuck. I’m holding my breath again. All this self-analyzing drowns out the DJ’s mix as the chaos rages inside me. Fear, delight, and mischief swirl around me as my heart agitates them into a whirlpool with each beat. Their soiled waters create a storm of confusion where off-tempo lightning strikes through my chest. Rebelling against the vortex of my emotions, I fight off the pull to go and hide in the bathroom. The last few weeks have left me drenched and heavy, and I’m sinking into the past as my new friends vogue around me. I hate feeling like I need a drink, so I lean on a core memory of my dad’s voice from the sideline, when he told me “You need a short-term memory, Boo, every time you shoot on goal.” Every time I catch my breath, I square up on my goal to break through the dark depths of my inner world and enjoy the present. The red stage lights refract off the pearls of sweat traveling down my chest. A fan blows my leg hair over the firm curves of my calves. I will not be beaten by low energy shit—not when I look this fine. But tonight, the tidal waves of anxiety keep smashing against my head until I’m gasping and spitting up salty self-criticisms. I’m grown now, so those missed goals are haunting, like the job offer that got buried in my inbox and made me too late to join the team. Or the audio messages I sent just hours before flashing my ID that still ring in my ears. It’s tormenting to hear my own voice quiver while severing ties with a friend who declared I brainwashed her into “supporting homosexuality.”

My dad’s sports adages also bring a sudden downpour of sadness. His best effort wasn’t always good enough. Corey only knew how to raise a son, but I was his only child. I am his namesake, Corie, an ironically androgynous choice. But when someone shouts over the music to learn my name, that’s not the one I give. His cryptic sports metaphors get partial credit for helping me, and for failing me, through moments of dissonance. They’re the closest thing to parental advice he knew how to give. I feel like I taught him so much. I showed him that people care about his voice, feelings, and experience. Paying a debt I never owed to earn his love cost me time and left me too fatigued to reach a higher ground away from my daddy issues.

Our queer spaces celebrate shedding the worries about being perceived, but at this moment, bumping into sweaty bodies and side glances, I’m exhausted from trying. “Slut” has no gender and claiming it always feels powerful because it requires shamelessness. I crave the unattainable combination of unrestricted independence and obsession-worthy desirability.

Corey coached me to never be caught in a weak position. Logically, I know this lens mucks up the colors of an authentic life and love. Even while being tossed back and forth between these lies of what gender means, it’s clear that none of these false binaries are my true opponent. Being closer to femininity has always felt like a riptide that would lead me further from my father, further from respect, further from the gift of control that’s not bestowed to femmes. I tread the gray areas in my seas of life, but the water kicks and slaps at me. Life has always felt volatile. I want to rest in the power of the gender fluidity I feel sloshing within me, but neither of us ever learned how to float.

Still, I’m leery of everyone who’s lured in by any of my gender characters. They are weak prey for me to consume or a booby trap for my demise. My femininity is restricting, but not powerless; its teeth are sharp and jagged. It urges me to constantly move and stay vigilant. If I ensnare you in my feminine trappings, you must be scheming to take something from me. No one ever means well for femmes. My well-trained peripherals catch those tempted by my allure. Sitting nearby where I’m dancing is a match that I’ve never met off the app; I always make a point to introduce myself first.

Miraculously, I made it to Ottobar’s closing time. Before I reach the stairs, someone throws me a line: “I love your harness, it looks really good on you.” I take the bait, just to reward their bravery, but I won’t be the one in over my head.