The Dumbbell

To relax, Eddie liked to lose himself in Twitter threads written by the most rabid TERFs on the internet. He would scroll, his phone screen the only source of light in whatever basement or bedroom he had flirted his way into that night. He would wade through quote tweets, analyze likes. He would pause at photos of keloided scars carved along flat chests—always thin and hairless—and rub his own.

Another beautiful girl ruined. 
This “doctor” should face the wall. 

Eddie felt plenty ruined. But had he ever been beautiful? It was hard to remember, a decade into transition. He had been on the road for just as long, touring straight out of high school, alone with his guitar and hiking pack and sweaty bus tickets that bled ink onto his fingers. He’d tried hitching it with bands—a hardcore trio, a folk punk group whose ever-growing membership openly fought on stage—but they never lasted. Everyone always wanted to go home before him. 

Years passed by in a vaseline blur, sticky and tactile. His body was a glue trap that gathered all kinds of flotsam: unexplained bruises, living room stick-n-pokes, fat gained and lost. Performing made him feel sexy in a way that embarrassed him when he thought about it later. He loved the sweat of it, the swagger. He loved the few humid inches between him and the pit, that ecstatic spiral of bodies stirred as if by heaven. He even loved the concussive threat of a kick to the head. It had happened before: a plum-sized welt and angry split skin, rivulets of blood tracing his cheekbone and dripping into his mouth. He liked the taste of blood. That much, he wasn’t ashamed to admit.

Eddie didn’t plan. He hitchhiked into cities and showed up at open mics, asking the crowd for a couch to crash on mid-set. Sometimes, after someone offered, he would find himself clinging to the arm of that couch as the host inched closer, little by little, saying something like, “I’ve always wanted to taste—Can I say it?—boy pussy.” 

He tried to take it as a compliment. He didn’t have anywhere else to go, after all. Touring didn’t leave room for neutral experiences. It took away options, the illusion that his decisions meant anything. That was fine with him. Changing his sex was supposed to be the ultimate choice. Why should he have to make any others?

Tonight he really scored—a shower and a bed all to himself. It’d been a short, damp walk from the bar. His host for the night, a rail-thin man who admitted to being too old for this communal living shit despite still doing it, had insisted on carrying his heavy pack. Eddie braced himself for the consequence of the gesture, the hand on his ass or mouth on his neck, but it never came. The host just pulled back one of the curtains that made up two walls of the “room” and gestured Eddie inside. 

“Ignore the cigarette burns. Miles is at a silent retreat but he doesn’t live like a monk. There’ll be coffee in the morning.”

Comfortable and naked save for a towel, Eddie settled onto the yellowed sheets with his phone. Not even the gym bag stench or the weights he’d stubbed a toe on could sour a free bed. He flipped his pillow, turning the hair-wetted side away, feeling clean and pleased with himself. He was reading a thread by a mother grieving her child. 

She doesn’t appreciate her beautiful body (no girl
does) but I never dreamed she would take it this far.
When I think about how she’ll never breastfeed
all I can do is cry. She stopped taking
my calls. I’ve lost her completely.

These women cared very much about his womb and its ability to incubate white babies, though they didn’t always say it out loud. Instead they expressed concerns, asked questions; Eddie could read between the lines. They wanted him pregnant and keening. They wanted, he guessed, to grow foot-long cocks and fuck him themselves, squeeze his nipples until milk beaded through the scar tissue. But no—it wasn’t possible. He’d never feel the shock of the speculum again, never white knuckle through three minutes in a bathroom while, in spite of every curse he could think of, a positive result materialized. He’d made sure of it.

The curtains billowed as someone walked past. Eddie spotted a pair of feet and heard the bathroom fan rattle on. Light melted through the curtains from the open door, and piss splattered against the bowl. Eddie’s dick stiffened under his towel. He considered going in there—surely the open door was an invitation—but thought better of it. Maybe the guy really was straight. But wasn’t that hot in its own way? It was maybe even hotter. Eddie’s groin throbbed. He leapt from the bed and tore a curtain askew, his towel falling to the floor as he spun back to the mattress and sprawled out. The toilet flushed. Eddie tilted his ass appealingly towards the gap. The light flicked off. He arched his back, a twinge running up his spine as the sheets tugged against his cock. Footsteps plodded towards him. He closed his eyes. He focused on making his every cell fuckable. Then the curtain rippled, and the footsteps passed, and the blur of the host disappeared into the dark. Eddie was left alone.

Oh well—he had run out of condoms a few cities ago. Eddie’s stomach growled. He had forgotten to feed himself again. It was true that he was forgetful, but even when he did remember, he would sometimes skip a meal anyway. He had to stay sharp, keep his hips narrow, or at least save a few bucks. Of course he wasn’t making any money—every crumpled five went towards beer or his next bus ticket—but that was part of touring’s appeal. He wasn’t playing into the middle class hoarding scheme, no thought spared to a savings account or emergency fund. It let him imagine himself as outside of the economy. The road took care of him, one way or another, even when he wasn’t always safe. He’d heard somewhere that safety was a flawed framework, anyway. 

Eddie reached for his phone, but he was too horny to read anymore. He scrolled without absorbing anything. Even he had to admit that, in the end, these women were all pretty boring. As erotic as their disgust was, the outcome was tedious. Posting was their only hobby. Eddie shifted gears. He opened Twitter’s search bar and started looking for porn. There were hundreds of videos from accounts like @fak3b0yfixer or @detransme_baby, all of them skimmed from uncredited sources. Captions like, 

What every FTM wants 
is to be raped back into a girl,

or 

The only time you’ll ever 
have a dick between your legs
is when I’m fucking you.

Some of it was hot. He got the appeal, in a way. The humiliation of it all. A man had needs, and he was a man, definitely he was. A man who knew better than to not pay for his porn. Still, should he be blamed for getting off when he could, given the world, given everything? 

Eddie, on his stomach, started to grind against the mattress. He pushed the still-wet pillow between his legs and worked his hips harder, the bed complaining loudly as he thumbed past petite bodies convulsing beneath large, disembodied hands—welcome to the new government re-education center—lips stretching over cockheads, bangs falling across eyes—let your biology take over—breasts being cupped, slapped, studded with clothespins—even your orgasm is female—

Eddie was close. He was panting and mewing (did he sound like a girl?) and trying to get over the edge. Not that the climax would be any good. He consumed the videos with the same dead eyes he did the TERF screeds. He didn’t know which made him feel worse. At least the porn made him cum. And at least he would never be pregnant again. In the moment, though, brain flooded with pixels and endorphins, Eddie felt certain he could get knocked up, no abortion this time, the country was too far gone, and just when the thought almost did it for him, he scrolled to the next video. 

A man was on his back, legs wide, getting his hole fucked by another man. It was a FTM performer Eddie had followed for years. He’d already seen the video once, on the performer’s page, but here it floated again, clipped to just twenty seconds. The performer’s cheeks were rosy, lips cherubic. His chest was designer. There was something tender about the tilt of his head, about the way the top rubbed a hand across his stomach as they fucked. He looked like a version of Eddie who took care of himself, one who had money for better surgeons. Eddie’s breath hitched. He slowed. He read the caption—

anything with a cunt only has one job

—and felt the blood rush to his head. 

The performer, this man like him; he didn’t ask for this. Eddie didn’t either. He froze with two fingers hooked around the hood of his cock. He thought: That could be me. They’re talking about me. 

Eddie heard a moan, a real one. He whirled around, bunching the pillow over his crotch and batting away his phone. The host was standing at the edge of the curtains with a hand down his pants. 

“Don’t stop,” he said, “I was close.”

Eddie kicked his way across the mattress, falling in a crouch on the other side of the bed. His guitar case crashed against his back. His chest heaved. His ruined orgasm was curdling into a wet, hot anger. The host stepped forward through the curtains with a hand out, pants falling to his ankles. His curved dick bounced. Eddie dropped to one knee and landed on something hard. He grabbed it, hefting it above his head as he sprang back to his feet. The host backed up—it was a thirty pound dumbbell. Eddie kept pace, a step forward for every one back, until they were passing through the curtains into the living room. He swung wide, nowhere near contact. Black spots dotted his vision. He saw his arms in front of him but it was like they were a doll’s, like he was motoring through a video game. The host took another step back. The edge of the coffee table caught him behind the knee and he went down, sitting on the table with a thud, the cheap pine cracking under his ass as rolling papers and takeout containers flew away from the impact.

Eddie held the dumbbell over his head. He looked at the man sprawled before him. The host was sputtering, hands raised above his face, kicking at the debris. Eddie was naked. He was still half hard. His arms shook under the weight. A cramp twinged in his tricep. He was weak, so weak, even after all of these hormones. A failed woman—that’s what they would call him, whether he wanted it or not—and, really, what was it that he wanted? What did he want? 

A chill spidered across his scalp and down his spine. His arms gave out.

The dumbbell fell, landing behind him with a crash and rolling away. The host lowered his hands. He sat up, his eyes wide and beanie askew, a gray flecked hairline peaking out. His head was level with Eddie’s waist. The bathroom sink dripped. An animal skittered through the walls. The dumbbell rolled to a stop.

“You’re going to fuck me,” he said, “because I’m letting you.”

Eddie balled the host’s hair in his fist and tugged him to his crotch. His back arched as the man’s mouth wrapped around him. Hands reached up to cup his ass, widening his stance over the broken table and pulling him down. A splinter lodged in his calf. Hips aligned with hips, mouth with mouth, dick with dick, and all the while rain tapping impatient fingers across the skin of the flat roof. 

The host did not gaze into Eddie’s eyes. He did not kiss him on the mouth. But he did bring them to the couch, the leather worn so soft it felt almost alive, and he cradled Eddie’s head as if it might break, as if it would matter if it did.