Kiss at Midnight
photos by Zenaido Zamora &
Emmett Orgass
New Year’s Eve 2023.
This might be the happiest I’ll ever feel. Partially because I’m dancing with my best friend Michael. And partially because I am hippie flipping, a term I just learned a couple nights ago when I told some friends I wanted to try mushrooms and molly at the same time.
Michael’s ever so slightly shorter than me. His frame is sturdy and he dances like Nathan Lane in The Birdcage if he were drunk and high. He spills his drink on my shirt and I wring it out over my tits to be funny. There are other people in our orbit, of course. But we’re mostly here for each other. We arrive together. We go to the bathroom together. He chain smokes while I throw up on the side of the building. We dance. We flirt. We kiss each other at midnight. It’s heaven.
I never used to like dancing, but somehow it’s become my entire life. Conversation is limited to what you can say with your eyes and your body. I’m tired. I’m horny. I’m having a good time. I want you. I’m ignoring you. Dance with me. Kiss me. Fuck me. Hold me.
The language of physical touch is primal. It avoids the limitations of spoken language. No missteps like when someone “they/thems” me and I have to politely explain that happens to be quite rude to most trans women, since many of us spend a significant chunk of our lives trying to “earn” womanhood, and then inevitably receive the “Well, I wasn’t sure, so I was trying to be polite,” response, which just makes me feel like I’m not serving enough cunt to be out in public.
None of that exists when you’re in a room that’s too loud for talking. Just balls of energy that sense compatibility based on factors never specific enough to develop insecurities over. Either party can walk away as soon as it stops being fun.
Early June 2022.
The first time Michael and I hang out one on one, I happen to have mushrooms. and we ended up doing them together. It’s my first time. I tell Michael I’ve never really danced before. This is ridiculous to him and he immediately puts on music and shows me his signature move–one hand holding a drink and the other raised high above his head, bopping around the living room. He puts on Primadonna and tells me to dance with him.
At first it feels embarrassing. My body makes a timid move and recoils at itself. Michael grabs both of my hands and plays marionette with them while we giggle and sing along. Then I realize that moving your body feels good. Like, really good. I kick my legs and wiggle my fingers and jump up and down with abandon and then suddenly I find myself connected to all of humanity through dance. Michael laughs and says that’s the drugs, but I think I’m really onto something here. He says I look like a fairy.
We’re up on the roof looking at the clouds. I hug Michael from behind. He’s so warm. He smells good. I’ve always had a crush on him. My fingers trace a message into his arms and I think he manages to decode it because he turns around and kisses me.
Are we gonna fuck?
I don’t think I’m into you like that.
Were you into me like that before I transitioned?
Yeah.
What’s different now?
I’m pretty sure the parts of your body I think are hot are not the parts you want me to think are hot.
Michael has been one of only a few people to know me through my long and confusing gender discovery journey, and something clicks just then. I don’t think I could put my finger on exactly why, but it feels genuine coming from him. Maybe it’s the drugs.
December 2023.
I’m dancing in my bedroom. Tears in my eyes. Watching my body move in the mirror. God, I seriously look so pretty crying. My reflection moves her perfect mouth along to Primadonna, which turns into laughter, which turns into loud, indulgent sobbing. I sniff some poppers. After a few months of trial and error I finally have my perfect hour-long curated listening experience for hitting poppers and crying. My first instinct when it comes to grieving rituals is self-destruction. What else do you do when your best friend dies?
It’s funny how being sad about other things brings up my feelings about him. Earlier today I received a call where they let me know that due to administrative issues my bottom surgery is going to be postponed. I’m staring at the wall while the devastation sinks Then I cry. I cry and I cry. Just like I’m doing now, watching myself in the mirror, missing Michael, envisioning him here with me. His raspy voice. The smell of light blue American Spirits or Marlboro Reds on his clothes, depending on his mood. His arms, stronger than I expect now, squeezing me until my sorrow disintegrates and there’s only love left in the room.
New Year’s Day 2024.
I am at Knockdown Center with some artsy gay friends. Everyone in my group is either making out or completely enthralled by the lights and music. I’ve been dancing for what feels like my entire life. In my mind’s eye, I’m playing out cool, esoteric conversations with myself that I could never hope to remember in five minutes. And of course, I’m thinking about how much I miss Michael. I say it out loud, like I always do on the dance floor: I love you, Michael. Wish you were here. I imagine putting my arms around him for a second.
Then, suddenly, a thought occurs that fills me up with black sludge. It feels sinful. It is sinful. Whether I like it or not, I realize that I am moving on. Just by waking up every morning and sleeping every night. I hate it. My choice now lies in whether or not I choose to resist.
I start to feel my throat getting tight. My body barely keeps up with the music. Then, tears. I excuse myself.
Outside, I try to dab off my tears without ruining my 2010 Taylor Momsen eye makeup. I meet a baby faced twink smoking alone. Light blue American Spirits. We briefly get to know each other. They’re from Kentucky or Delaware. They’re a barback or something who lives with three roommates in Ridgewood. We both saw 100 gecs here last month. I tell them my bottom surgery is coming up. They get excited about it, and jab me when I hesitate to say I’m excited too. It is exciting. I’m excited. I have something to look forward to. I go back inside because I’m freezing my tits off. I hug all my friends and get back to dancing.
In bed that night, I can’t sleep. If Michael were here he’d be smoking cigarettes on my bed while I play him songs on my omnichord. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
So much has changed since the last time Michael saw me. My hips are wider. My hair is longer. My boobs actually look like boobs. And pretty soon, bottom surgery. For a second, I’m worried that one day when we’re reunited in heaven or whatever, so much will have changed that he might not recognize me. But when I catch my reflection, she’s laughing back at me. I tuck myself in, count the days until my surgery and squeeze my pillow until I doze off.
New Year’s Eve 2023.
Michael and I are at my apartment winding down. Before he gets in bed he asks if we should try hooking up.
We’re compatible in every other way. Wouldn’t it be great if we had really hot sex?
Last time you said you weren’t into me as a girl.
I think that’s changed.
We try it. It’s funnier than it is hot. We both laugh and laugh and thank every possible god there is that we share each other’s feelings. We spoon for awhile before drifting off to sleep.
This might be the happiest I’ll ever feel. Partially because I’m dancing with my best friend Michael. And partially because I am hippie flipping, a term I just learned a couple nights ago when I told some friends I wanted to try mushrooms and molly at the same time.
Michael’s ever so slightly shorter than me. His frame is sturdy and he dances like Nathan Lane in The Birdcage if he were drunk and high. He spills his drink on my shirt and I wring it out over my tits to be funny. There are other people in our orbit, of course. But we’re mostly here for each other. We arrive together. We go to the bathroom together. He chain smokes while I throw up on the side of the building. We dance. We flirt. We kiss each other at midnight. It’s heaven.
I never used to like dancing, but somehow it’s become my entire life. Conversation is limited to what you can say with your eyes and your body. I’m tired. I’m horny. I’m having a good time. I want you. I’m ignoring you. Dance with me. Kiss me. Fuck me. Hold me.
The language of physical touch is primal. It avoids the limitations of spoken language. No missteps like when someone “they/thems” me and I have to politely explain that happens to be quite rude to most trans women, since many of us spend a significant chunk of our lives trying to “earn” womanhood, and then inevitably receive the “Well, I wasn’t sure, so I was trying to be polite,” response, which just makes me feel like I’m not serving enough cunt to be out in public.
None of that exists when you’re in a room that’s too loud for talking. Just balls of energy that sense compatibility based on factors never specific enough to develop insecurities over. Either party can walk away as soon as it stops being fun.
Early June 2022.
The first time Michael and I hang out one on one, I happen to have mushrooms. and we ended up doing them together. It’s my first time. I tell Michael I’ve never really danced before. This is ridiculous to him and he immediately puts on music and shows me his signature move–one hand holding a drink and the other raised high above his head, bopping around the living room. He puts on Primadonna and tells me to dance with him.
At first it feels embarrassing. My body makes a timid move and recoils at itself. Michael grabs both of my hands and plays marionette with them while we giggle and sing along. Then I realize that moving your body feels good. Like, really good. I kick my legs and wiggle my fingers and jump up and down with abandon and then suddenly I find myself connected to all of humanity through dance. Michael laughs and says that’s the drugs, but I think I’m really onto something here. He says I look like a fairy.
We’re up on the roof looking at the clouds. I hug Michael from behind. He’s so warm. He smells good. I’ve always had a crush on him. My fingers trace a message into his arms and I think he manages to decode it because he turns around and kisses me.
Are we gonna fuck?
I don’t think I’m into you like that.
Were you into me like that before I transitioned?
Yeah.
What’s different now?
I’m pretty sure the parts of your body I think are hot are not the parts you want me to think are hot.
Michael has been one of only a few people to know me through my long and confusing gender discovery journey, and something clicks just then. I don’t think I could put my finger on exactly why, but it feels genuine coming from him. Maybe it’s the drugs.
December 2023.
I’m dancing in my bedroom. Tears in my eyes. Watching my body move in the mirror. God, I seriously look so pretty crying. My reflection moves her perfect mouth along to Primadonna, which turns into laughter, which turns into loud, indulgent sobbing. I sniff some poppers. After a few months of trial and error I finally have my perfect hour-long curated listening experience for hitting poppers and crying. My first instinct when it comes to grieving rituals is self-destruction. What else do you do when your best friend dies?
It’s funny how being sad about other things brings up my feelings about him. Earlier today I received a call where they let me know that due to administrative issues my bottom surgery is going to be postponed. I’m staring at the wall while the devastation sinks Then I cry. I cry and I cry. Just like I’m doing now, watching myself in the mirror, missing Michael, envisioning him here with me. His raspy voice. The smell of light blue American Spirits or Marlboro Reds on his clothes, depending on his mood. His arms, stronger than I expect now, squeezing me until my sorrow disintegrates and there’s only love left in the room.
New Year’s Day 2024.
I am at Knockdown Center with some artsy gay friends. Everyone in my group is either making out or completely enthralled by the lights and music. I’ve been dancing for what feels like my entire life. In my mind’s eye, I’m playing out cool, esoteric conversations with myself that I could never hope to remember in five minutes. And of course, I’m thinking about how much I miss Michael. I say it out loud, like I always do on the dance floor: I love you, Michael. Wish you were here. I imagine putting my arms around him for a second.
Then, suddenly, a thought occurs that fills me up with black sludge. It feels sinful. It is sinful. Whether I like it or not, I realize that I am moving on. Just by waking up every morning and sleeping every night. I hate it. My choice now lies in whether or not I choose to resist.
I start to feel my throat getting tight. My body barely keeps up with the music. Then, tears. I excuse myself.
Outside, I try to dab off my tears without ruining my 2010 Taylor Momsen eye makeup. I meet a baby faced twink smoking alone. Light blue American Spirits. We briefly get to know each other. They’re from Kentucky or Delaware. They’re a barback or something who lives with three roommates in Ridgewood. We both saw 100 gecs here last month. I tell them my bottom surgery is coming up. They get excited about it, and jab me when I hesitate to say I’m excited too. It is exciting. I’m excited. I have something to look forward to. I go back inside because I’m freezing my tits off. I hug all my friends and get back to dancing.
In bed that night, I can’t sleep. If Michael were here he’d be smoking cigarettes on my bed while I play him songs on my omnichord. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
So much has changed since the last time Michael saw me. My hips are wider. My hair is longer. My boobs actually look like boobs. And pretty soon, bottom surgery. For a second, I’m worried that one day when we’re reunited in heaven or whatever, so much will have changed that he might not recognize me. But when I catch my reflection, she’s laughing back at me. I tuck myself in, count the days until my surgery and squeeze my pillow until I doze off.
New Year’s Eve 2023.
Michael and I are at my apartment winding down. Before he gets in bed he asks if we should try hooking up.
We’re compatible in every other way. Wouldn’t it be great if we had really hot sex?
Last time you said you weren’t into me as a girl.
I think that’s changed.
We try it. It’s funnier than it is hot. We both laugh and laugh and thank every possible god there is that we share each other’s feelings. We spoon for awhile before drifting off to sleep.