How Long

Matt Richardson How Longr (forEddieLong) My lover and I broke the fall of the last televangelist. He landed directly on the soft underside of our bellies, leaving us without air for some time. He got up, without thanking us, speaking in platitudes and dialing his limo driver. When he finally noticed us, he looked at me and knew right away that I was not born with a penis. We heard a chill run up and down his spine. I took my boyfriend's hand. Faggots? he said, spitting. The question mark landed on my chest and the F tangled in my facial hair. I was picking Gs out of my afro for days. My boyfriend, he scanned with x-ray percep tion and dismissed him as banal. Garden variety queen. But the likes of me he had never seen before. He circled me, scanning me up and down—a faggot that is not one? Why? Why not stay a woman instead of becoming an abomination, he asked. I kissed my lover, full lips to full lips. Finally, I said, I took seriously the responsibility you gave me to save Black men from themselves. So, I found the one inside myself and now I'm taking very good care of him. Feminist Studies37, no. 2 (Summer 2011). © 2011 by Matt Richardson 387

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