In McKenzie Wark’s bi-weekly column for Document, two trans girls commune above the noise

12:45 a.m.

X: Are you coming to the club or not?

M: It’s fucking freezing out—plus it’s a Friday, and it’s the holidays.

X: So it’ll be great! The cold will keep the tourists away. And a lot of people are out of town. You can’t stay home alone. Where’s Jenny?

M: She’s out of town.

X: What’d I tell you? Come on, call us a car.

M: Less than 10 bucks if we want it in three minutes.

X: What’d I tell you? Nobody is out.

M: Because it’s fucking freezing. I hope we don’t have to wait in line.

X: We’ll just text someone working tonight to get us in, if that’s the case.

M: Car’s nearly here, let’s get rugged up.

X: You need a new coat.

M: That one’s divine. What is it—maroon leather?

X: Guess I’ll have to coat check.

M: I know a good hiding spot near the bass bins at the back.


12:50 a.m.

X: Is this our car?

M: Ends in 48C—yep.

X: Did you hear about Natasha?

M: That doll who’s your ex-roommate?

X: She was on the subway and some man punched her in the face. Broke her nose.

M: Fuck, I’m sorry to hear that. She was always a bitch to me, but I don’t like to hear of any of us having to endure that.

X: I know, I had to kick her out of my apartment. We’re not friends. But still. Anyway, there’s good news.

M: How can there be good news?

X: Well, firstly, she’s off ketamine—what with the broken nose. And secondly, she’s getting it redone like she wanted, but it’s paid for.

M: How’d she manage that?

X: It’s Natasha… Oh, here we are. What’d I tell you? No line.


1:10 a.m.

M: Fuck, it’s cold in here. I’ll be dancing in my coat ’til I warm up.

X: Yeah. Want some mushroom chocolate?

M: How much are you having?

X: Eight squares.

M: Give me two.

X: You’re such a lightweight. I mean, no shade, honey.

M: That’s why I’m alive and still sane—relatively speaking.

X: Do either of us know any completely sane transsexuals?

M: I’m sure they must exist. Anyway, bring your coat and I’ll show you my hidey-hole by the subs.

“So long as the dance floor is dissipating more aggression than it generates, then it’s a good dance floor.”


2:45 a.m.

X: Thirsty. I’m getting a mate.

M: I’ll come with. You get them free here still?

X: Yes, but you’ll have to tip.

M: I’m a generous tipper.

X: It’s why you’re popular.


2:55 a.m.

M: The crowd is pretty chill. You were right. It’s a dancer’s night.

X: So far. It’s filling up, though. The vibe has a little aggression to it.

M: I don’t mind that—up to a point. It’s not like I don’t bring some of that aggression to the dance floor, too.

X: So long as the dance floor is dissipating more aggression than it generates, then it’s a good dance floor.

M: Still, it’s magical when you get in a pocket of dancers just feeding off each other’s energy. Sharing space, dissolving into it.

X: Until some dude barges in and tries to make it about him.

M: Or one of those couples who think they are the only ones here.

X: The couples can be the worst. You and Jenny are not like that.

M: Where’s your boyfriend tonight?

X: We had a fight. It was all my fault. I’m just letting things cool off before I apologize for the whole thing.

M: We’re just two transsexuals in love, trying not to fuck it up.

X: More dancing?

M: Let me go pee first.


3:00 a.m.

X: Time to get back on the floor?

M: I guess. I love this DJ, but he does bring a cishet crowd.

X: What happened?

M: Nothing in particular. I’m just getting that look a lot, and I’m not feeling all that well-armored against it.

X: I haven’t felt it.

M: Well, you pass, and I don’t, so what the fuck would you know?

X: Oh honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to doubt you.

M: Sorry. I was being catty.

X: It’s okay. Let’s dance some more. It’s still the only place I feel free.

M: Well, that and sex.

X: Sex doesn’t make me feel free.

M: It doesn’t?

X: You think you’re jealous of me, but actually, I’m jealous of you.

M: Fuck—

X: Real talk, girl. You’re in love, and actually, I’m not sure that I am.

M: Oh honey, come here. You’re getting a hug whether you want one or not.

X: Actually, I need one. Then let’s dance.

“Trans women should get in free everywhere that we get treated as a spectacle for straight people’s entertainment.”


4:05 a.m.

M: Think I gotta go.

X: I’ll come with.

M: Stay if you want.

X: Let’s get off the dance floor to talk.


4:10 a.m.

M: I was in a good groove there for a while, but that dude in the white shirt was giving me a hard time.

X: We could get him bounced.

M: It always feels like a cop move. I’d rather just deprive him of the pleasure of my presence.

X: Anyway, the club owners make their money off those guys getting drunk. We just had two mates.

M: And those were comped.

X: Well, people like us make the dance floor.

M: Trans women should get in free everywhere that we get treated as a spectacle for straight people’s entertainment.

X: You’ll get no argument from me.

M: Anyway, babe, I’m out.

X: Listen… Can I stay at your place tonight?

M: Of course, what’s the matter?

X: I don’t want to get into it, but I fucked up, and he’s really mad about it, and I don’t want to face him off my tits on shrooms.

M: Are you afraid of him?

X: It’s not like that. He’s a lamb. But that makes it worse. I just feel like shit when I fuck up and hurt him. I just feel like I don’t deserve to be loved, you know?

M: Oh babe, I know it. I really do. It’s hard for girls like us to feel like we deserve to be loved. But we do. Look at me! You deserve to be loved.

X: Shut up already, I’m going to cry.

M: Too late, we’re both already crying.

X: Let’s get out of here before my face runs. Should have known not to do smokey eye tonight.

M: I’ll make up a nice bed for you on the sofa.

X: I appreciate your tact, babe. I know that one time we fucked on molly was just what it was.

M: That’s just the trans girl way of saying hello.

X: I’ll call a car. Hey, the return is $15.

M: I guess, cold or not, the night is warming up.