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