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Ars Erotica
October 2003 Nightswimming I'm not sure all these people understand/It's not like years ago The fear of getting caught, of recklessness and water. They cannot see me naked/These things, they go away, replaced by everyday. - REM, 'Nightswimming' My root - the thing that queered me up good and proper - was a summer camp novel. Victoria Furman's 1964 opus Five In A Tent is the story of Baltimorean Chris Walker, summering at Camp Alpine New Hampshire. There she meets a range of characters, including her tentmate Elaine "Call Me Barney" Barney, who just happens to live in Baltimore suburb Towson. Conveniently, this means that Chris and Barney only have to rent the U-Haul by the hour. Since it's a young teens book, they're only about as queer as Ernie and Bert, so there's a lot of room for imagination. I had so much imagination I read it at least a dozen times, and there were even those days where I considered turning into one of those horse-obsessed girls like Chris Walker, who had a thing for palominos. I'd do anything to get a Barney of my very own. I wanted so badly to go to summer camp, but the trouble was that day after day people kept insisting that I was, in fact, a boy and that as such I was expected to engage in highly unnatural activities, like football and pretending to think about nothing. But worst of all was going camping with a bunch of stinky, cro-magnified Boy Scouts. While they held each other at knife-point I read my novels with a flashlight and wished for Red Ruby Riding Boots so I could click the heels and find myself riding the range at Camp Alpine. Like jails, passports and swimsuits, they don't tend to make summer camps for transsexuals. Fortunately, along came Dark Odyssey. For a long September weekend, folks came together from a range of communities: transgender, BDSM, pagan, polyamorous, tantric, kink and queer, to name but a few. While many attendees claimed membership in several potential categories, the end result was a uniquely beautiful cross-section of the population. It was impossible to concisely describe to my immediate circle what Dark Odyssey was going to be, so I started calling it Perv Camp, and at least that got a point across. But even I had no clear idea what to expect, except that it would be no Camp Alpine. We'd have no horses, but plenty of the same accessories. Suddenly, people were admitting to me in half-embarrassed tones that they were still Vanilla, as if a simple conference registration had made me Mint Chip. Had my taste changed already? Eeek! I had no idea that this conference was a first time attempt to bring together folks from such a disparate range of marginalized communities. Sexual spiritualists nestled with heavy players. 24/7 dominant/submissive pairs mingled with unbridled libertines. Christian Republican nudists volunteered with anti-capitalist non-op trannygirls. 'Twas a potential tempest in a G-spot, a hotbed of seasonal varietals, a garden of earthly delights, and especially if we all got along. And while I can't speak for everyone, it seemed to me that Dark Odyssey did in one weekend what the LGBT community has been giving lip service to for years. It helped, of course, to have my judgementalism nipped in the bud. At my first meal, I sat next to a fabulous, engaging woman who, it turned out, was teaching the one class in the catalog that had pressed my political outrage button. Turns out she wasn't a fascist at all, and her class would be amazing. After that first dinner, I scampered back to my cabin and hung my judgementalism from a ceiling harness with a ballgag in its mouth. Next morning, at breakfast, I dined with the phenomenal Kate Bornstein and Barbara Carellas. Later in the camp, I took some phenomenal courses from them -- but those are verbal stories, best served at beach bonfires and sushi dinners. You buy and I'll blab. For now, let's just say that usually when I meet the famous ones, it's a letdown; and this contrast only made meeting Kate and Barbara even more wonderfully fulfilling. Buy Barbara's Urban Tantra book when it's released this fall; it'll change you for the better. Towards the end of Five In A Tent, Chris and Barney and the rest set candles sailing on little boats into the camp lake at dusk. They sing, they bond. The way a finale ought to be. My final night began with Tristan Taormino's anal fisting demonstration. As she wrapped up, scooping the latex and used toys into bags, she assessed her levels of success with her various models, and I was suddenly reminded of what you're supposed to learn from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance -- that it's the journey that matters, not the end. And the most phenomenal changes come when you are open to receiving change. I mean, fisting is fisting, even if it's only three fingers. Even if it's only up to the thumb knuckle. With preparation, perhaps with each successive dark odyssey, you will be open to more. That night, I went to the bonfire alone and hung out with all these dancing naked people of all shapes and sizes and ages. It was the best cure for the beauty myth ever, to be in such close contact with people who seemed unburdened by body shame, even if they were 'fat' or 'old' or 'butch.' I sucked down a liter of Chimay Red and stared into the fire, thinking about how I'd managed to get all the way through Perv Camp with nary a kiss nor a caning, thinking about how much body shame I've managed to accumulate as a woman, as a transsexual, and as a dyke, and thinking about how much I needed to go swimming. Non-op trannies don't go swimming. Like I said, they don't make swimsuits for us. And so a little tipsy, I praised the full moon, stripped down to nothing and dipped in. It was warmer than the chilling September air, which was weird. I soaked until I was wrinkly, then walked back to my cabin with nothing on but the diamonds on the soles of my shoes. Rahne Alexander casts her trannyfemme magic daily at xantippe.com. Return to Ars Erotica Index |
