Fan Fiction ❯ In The Mirror ❯ The Edge ( Chapter 5 )

AN: Well, I know nobody reads this, but what the hell, it's my story and I'm just going to keep writing it. Peace.

~*~

When you tell someone you're getting a sex change, it's kind of like opening a birthday present from your 76-year-old grandmother. You're not exactly sure what you're going to get, but you're pretty sure that you're not going to like it.

My mom, the officer's wife, the perfect loving supporter: she went into hysterics. I remember watching her flip out, all that eyeliner and mascara blazing black trails through the frontiers of her cheeks. Her perfect little girl couldn't possibly want to become a man. She tried reasoning with me. "But you've always dated boys!" And I told her that wasn't going to change just because I was becoming a man. I don't know how she couldn't understand it. It's very simple really: I'm a gay man. I was just born with the wrong equipment.

"You have two new messages," says the choppy, overly perky voice on my answering machine. It beeps, then mom's voice comes on. "Hi honey, I was just calling to check on you and remind you that your father's birthday is coming up next Saturday," the grainy, too-sweet voice says. "He really wants to see you, dear, and I think it's the least you can do for him. Please, Alexis, stop by, if only for a few minutes."

"Only if you stop calling me Alexis," I mutter to the machine.

"I love you, sweetie, take care," and the machine beeps. I'm putting away groceries in the fridge when a second voice comes on.

"Alex, it's Thomas," says the voice. "I know you're at therapy right now, but I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go out and get a beer with me later or something. Give me a call back either way. See ya."

There's a click and another beep. "End of messages," says the machine.

I'm biding my time putting away my groceries, trying to figure out if going out with Thomas is really how I want to spend my evening. For some reason, I just can't think of anything better to do. And I really don't feel like making my own dinner. So I sigh and, after slipping a cigarette into my mouth and lighting it, pick up the phone and dial Tom's number.

"Hey Alex." Stupid Caller ID. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd even call."

"Yeah, well I called," I say, taking a drag off my cigarette. "So where're we going for this beer?"

"Oh, just this new club called `The Edge'. I hear there's a good headliner tonight." I know he's planning something. When I don't reply for a few moments, he says, "Come on, it's on me…"

That's all the convincing I need. "Alright then, when and where do you want to meet me?"

"Your place is on the way, so I'll just come up and get you. I'll be there in about 30 minutes, okay." He hangs up without giving me a chance to dissent.

Sighing, I head towards my room. Might as well get something club-worthy on. After extinguishing my cigarette, I pull off my shirt, making sure the binding on my chest is keeping it flat enough. For a moment, my mind backtracks to earlier when that guitarist almost kissed me…

I shake my head and go to the closet. After searching through it for a minute, I find what I'm looking for: my low-cut leather pants and iridescent blue button-up shirt. I can't help but grin softly; I know this makes me look good. After changing pants, I pull on the shirt, buttoning only the middle three buttons. I don't really plan on going home with anyone, but it's nice to get attention. I'm in the bathroom fixing my hair when Thomas knocks on the door.

"Hey Alex," he says cheerily as I open the door. His dark denim jeans are much too tight and riding almost indecently low on his hips. His t-shirt, which is just as tight as his jeans, is sleeveless and cut just below the bottom of his ribs. It says "Drama Queen" in purple glitter.

I give him an admonishing look. "Jeez, Tom! Why don't you just wear a shirt that says `Blowjobs, $5'?"

He laughs and winks at me. "That one's in the wash."

I roll my eyes. "You're impossible," I say, putting my wallet in my back pocket and my smokes in the front pocket of my shirt. "Come on, let's go get that beer."

~*~

The crowd is just starting grow to a substantial level when the waiter sets down the order of bar burgers and two beers at our table. "The Edge" is an expansive club; a thrust-style stage covers the entire back wall, a sprawling dance floor with all the appropriate lights and fog machines makes up the middle, and along the side walls are rows of booths for those who either choose not to dance, or need to take a break from the commotion. Just in front of the entrance and between the booths is the main bar. The music, some kind of Trance, is already loud and pumping, making my entire body pulse with the beat.

After sating our stomachs with the miniature burgers and fermented hops, Thomas and I make our way out to the dance floor. Talking really isn't an option because you nearly have to shout directly into someone's ear for them to hear you.

The thing I love most about going to a club isn't the alcohol, or the social interaction, but just getting out there on the floor and losing myself. After a few moments of dancing, I simply forget everything. Time and space become null, and the music, the beat becomes the medium through which I travel. I don't care who dances with me. I don't care if I'm dancing alone. On the floor, I can almost imagine that I've become one with the music, and my issues with my own identity don't matter anymore.

My bliss is, as always, short-lived. The music fades out and the lights dim, and I find myself sweating and panting, following the crowd's stare up to the stage where a tall brown-haired man stands in the spotlight. He waits for the noise to die down some before speaking.

"I know you guys must be anxious to have some live music," he shouts so loudly the microphone is merely a formality. The crowd hoops and hollers in a token response. "Well, I can guarantee that tonight's act will put on one hell of a show!"

There's a buzz of excitement as the curtains part. "Give it up for Jaded Indiscretion!"

And time stops…