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{in petals} tiff holland About the time I was trying to decide whether to have a sex change operation but before I threw all my dresses and skirts, my slips and nylons in the trash, my boyfriend invited me to a fancy nightclub for New Year’s Eve. The disco ball made me nervous, I have nothing to wear, I told him, although I meant: I don’t know what to wear, I don’t know who I am. No problem, he answered. He drove me to the mall in his red Ford Escort, took me to O’Neil’s or Kaufman’s or Macy’s whatever it was called back then, found a black velvet bodice with a crinoline skirt etched in gold. Part of this is missing, I told him, though it was lovely. I couldn’t imagine myself in it. To me it was lovely like a painting or a flower, I could no more imagine wearing it than dressing in petals. He took me to the foundations department. I had already told him I was neuter, had told him on our very first date. He saw a clerk restocking against the wall. We need a backless, strapless, black bra, he announced, his voice floating over the underwires, his words catching in their cups, he paused. What’s your size? he asked me. I had never been in that department with someone else. I only owned athletic bras. I preferred styles that minimized and had considered wrapping my chest. 36C, I whispered. 36C, he boomed and in a moment the thing had appeared. |
