Stabs at Happiness (20 page)

Kimberly sat like a woman, walked like a woman, had buttocks and breasts and legs like a woman. She didn't have to go to the electrolysis parlor because she never grew any facial hair to be removed. The estrogens had shrunk her penis, redistributed body fat—and in so doing had given her a good shape and lovely legs. The legs especially pleased her because you see a lot of drag queens with bad legs, legs in which the muscles stand out like cords. Women's legs have subcutaneous fat which accounts for their smooth shape. In high heels, the difference is strikingly apparent.

The delicacy of her facial structure made it seem hard to imagine her, even without the makeup, as a boy and not a girl. She had been dressing strictly as a female for the last three years. Pierced ears, shaved armpits and legs, boobjob, hormone shots and long brown hair. No one ever questioned her right to use the ladies' room.

The only thing she didn't have was a vagina, and she was fascinated with them. She wanted to understand them and how they worked. When she had a lot of money, she paid a woman named Janet de Sade to do an S&M number on her. She smoked Algerian hashish to get in the mood. She groveled at Janet de Sade's feet, which were shod in shiny shiny black patent spiked heel boots.

It made Jean-Luc sad when he contemplated the fact that Kimberly was not real. She would not last. Nothing does. Nothing does, but…

Jean-Luc knew Janet de Sade too. She wanted to star in a documentary about all the twisted things people paid her to do. Maybe he'd do it, but it felt like selling out. It was so cheap.

He admired people who sought to change who they were, who did not accept being born as a peasant, or as an awkward boy, as an Edward, Edwin, Edgar, Ed or Eddie… how he hated that name! Much better, even if partly as a joke, to reinvent oneself as Jean-Luc.

But everything was a joke, he told Kimberly, who was lying incompletely dressed posed on a pillow like
Olympia
for Manet.

Astronomy was a joke. Astrology was a joke. Biology was a joke. The Roman Empire was a joke. Cancer. The War in Vietnam. The Renaissance. Enlightenment. Industrial Revolution.

“Was that on TV?”

“Yes, Kim. That was on TV.”

“But they said ‘The Revolution will not be televised.' Was that a joke?”

“That was a joke. The Revolution was televised. It just didn't get very good ratings.”

“Do you have any more Dexedrine?”

He wasn't sure. Some of the white pills had scattered on the floor. He wanted to be organized, but there was some law of thermodynamics leading to Entropy which said, “Not so fast.”

Anyone might be cast into slavery in a region where small nations were constantly fighting and capturing large numbers of each other's citizens.

The Slave Auction, then, was a choice scene, thrilling the imaginations of the spectators, especially regarding the dispersal of the young, attractive specimens, who might be put to use as sexual toys.

Paul looked less effeminate when dressed up as the King, primarily because of the braided fake beard he wore. His costume consisted of a long, smooth tunic, partly decorated with rich embroidery in horizontal and diagonal bands. The headdress of the King was a fez-shaped tiara with a conical spike. He also wore a diadem, bracelets, mascara and rings.

The King enjoyed respect as a supernatural being not only from his officials but from other supernatural beings. He stood in front of a painted background, and then went up to his throne. He had an itchy back. Then he recited a poem:

For ten thousand miles

the landscape

Spreads out like

a beautiful brocade.

Gentle sunshine.

Light breezes. Smiling flowers,

All the birds sing together at once.

Humans and animals rise up, reborn, in the sun.

What could be more natural?

Oh beauty of the lion, the iguana and the red bird!

There is black & white footage of lions tearing apart roebucks and gazelles, then a closeup of the lion resting later, panting, his eyes closing—as he has seen all that he needs to see today.

Three muscular men in lion-costumes fuck a young man named Mario who is on mescaline and will not be heard from here again. He may imagine he is in prison. Sing Sing. Maybe this scene is somewhat evil, Jean-Luc thinks. He loves it though. He wishes he were Mario even as he wants Mario torn apart.

Jean-Luc moves his lips but says nothing aloud. These thugs want more money than was agreed. One of them punches Jean-Luc. His lip bleeds. They steal things on their way out, still wearing lion-costumes as they walk down Saint Marks Place, one carrying a small television set with antenna, extension cord dragging on the sidewalk behind.

There is graffiti on the walls.

By 363 A.D., the ruins of Babylon had been made into a royal game preserve for the Persian king Shapur the First. Most of the towers had fallen, but the walls, though breached in many places, still stood. Nebuchadnezzar had built these walls a thousand years before.

The Jewish prophet Jeremiah had said, “And Babylon shall become a heaps, a dwelling-place for dragons, an astonishment and a hissing, without an inhabitant.”

The Christians used Babylon, after Sodom and Gomorrah, as a symbol of man's wickedness and the wrath of God. Also, Babylon was used as a codeword for pagan Rome, enemy of the early Christian church.

Jean-Luc wasn't Jean-Luc Godard. But he had directed a version of
Breathless
when he was in high school. It was nine minutes long.

The Third Annual Miss G.G. Beauty Contest, including over fifty of the most gorgeous and convincing transvestites ever assembled, was so well-attended both by the community and the press that a large number of very unhappy local color type individuals had to be turned away at the door.

The twenty semi-finalists appeared before the judges in bathing suits, the true test of successful female impersonation. There were several “shims” or “she-males” within that group who could challenge the judgment of even the most discriminating connoisseur of femininity.

The contestants were rated for
Charm, Elegance
, and
Poise
, as well as, of course,
Sex Appeal
and
Beauty
. According to Kimberly and to several others “in the know,” it was all rigged in advance: the fix was in before they ever came out onto the runway. Some rich bitch from Long Island, named Darcy, whose sugar-daddy owned the lease, was crowned Miss G.G. 1973.

Everywhere corruption and depravity.

Raymond Faye was going to Paris soon to work on his next one-man show; but in the meantime he agreed to appear in just one scene as the Grand Vizier.

He was dressed outrageously, and would bring in different gifts from off-camera and drop them in front of the throne. Paul sat staring fixedly ahead, taking no notice, seemingly hypnotized or in a state of suspended animation, surrounded by the court of mannequins in exotic costume, moved into different positions between each shot.

“The King of Persia sends his regards,” said Raymond, in his droll manner, and carelessly dropped an armload of egg-beaters onto the floor.

“Amenhotep the Third, Pharaoh of Egypt, King of Kings, wishes you a very happy birthday,” Raymond said, and dropped a large vase, which broke into shards, disclosing a rubber snake.

Between each shot, the floor was swept clean. Beverly, who was generally willing to do the shit jobs when on drugs, brandished the broom.

“The Witch of Endor sends you her most pious solicitations,” said Raymond, as he let loose doves, which flew all around, followed by the camera even when they swooped out of the confines of the set.

“Princess Al Capone…”

Raymond took a bite out of a sandwich, one of several on a plate. A Ham and Swiss on Rye, from Aristotle's Delicatessen on 13th.

A slave boy, bound with Saran Wrap, courtesy of the King of Saran. The boy held a flower. He smiled right at the camera. Very nice. Oh, what a cute kid. Nude. He blinked his eyes. Moved. Stopped. Again the smile.

Raymond teased him with a long red feather, then felt him up. Kiss kiss. The King remained unmoved.