21
Sasha
Tonight’s experiment: the short skirt.
For people assigned male at birth, there’s a bit of an uneven record as to whether your thighs should appear in public (actually that’s true for everyone, but I’m going to stick to a limited topic). If you’re an action hero walking sexily out of the ocean and/or you professionally attend the gym and are essentially hairless, okay.
Otherwise, not so much.
All this fluctuates by era and culture, but where and when I learned these rules, two leg-holes on your garment are generally also essential. But men wearing towels after getting out of the shower? Classic sexy. Kilts, kind of a divisive subject. Still, often considered sexy. Yet skirts are somehow their own category. Of course, I’m not a man anyway, so to hell with all of that nonsense. Though knowing that’s how most people will judge me makes it hard to ditch the aforementioned nonsense.
What I’m getting after is that I’m here for anyone’s thighs if they want their thighs in the open. All thighs, not just the hairless ones that are a “perfect”
shape. Do all the lies I’ve ever heard about legs worm into my brain as I head to Initialism? Absolutely. The first step is knowing it’s nonsense. The harder step is to stop applying that nonsense to myself and everybody else.
I wouldn’t have imagined some random bar = safe place for Sasha to experiment with wearing a short skirt. (It’s not that short either. One step at a time.) But Quinn convinced me it’d be okay.
We were in class a couple days ago, and, as usual, learning our own material while something very power-ballady played from our teacher’s stereo. Quinn was wearing his safety goggles on his head. I was wearing mine in the way that protects your eyes because I had no clue what I was doing.
“Want to come see my band on Sunday?”
asked Quinn. He shot finger guns that landed squarely between ironic and genuine.
“You can watch me hit a bunch of drums to work out my repressed rage.”
“I’m already in! Lillian invited me.”
Quinn raised one eyebrow. Presumably he ditched the safety goggles to allow him that range of facial motion. “Wow.”
“Under no circumstances are you allowed to say ‘wow’ and go back to reading the textbook.”
Quinn made a show out of slowly flipping a page before answering.
“Lillian’s sure the show’s going to be a train wreck. To be fair, she’s usually sure it’s going to be a train wreck until she gets onstage. And sometimes after she gets offstage. She’s the worst at telling anyone we’ve got a show at the best of times, which band-wise, this … isn’t.”
“Her ex?”
“Yeah, there’s the thing with Emelia. You might have seen her around. Redhead, very adorable, kind of short, excellent ponytail game, usually being nice to somebody? The two of you would get along.”
I told him to put his goggles on, because there was a decent chance I’d blow something up with the next step. Quinn seemed mildly disappointed when there were no flames.
“It’s at Initialism, though,”
he said.
“So you should come even though we might go down in flames — much as this beaker did not. Initialism is a goddamn queer haven.”
From what he told me as we kept talking, it sounded like I could wear whatever I wanted.
I arrive at Initialism at eleven on Sunday night. It wasn’t a very long bike ride from where I live, though I still managed to nearly die twice trying to navigate the unexpected challenges of riding a bicycle in my chosen attire through a city that’s mostly potholes.
Initialism turns out to be an unpretentious two-storey building next to a board game store. The upper floor looks like it’s been empty for a while, but the main one is bustling. The venue’s attached to a restaurant with big windows showing a wooden counter facing the street. The air’s a little cool, but people are still out on the porch drinking and eating. I lock my bike up the way Lillian taught me. Though there’s no shortage of single-speeds and fixies attached to signposts and the patio fence for me to use as examples.
Above the entrance, exposed light bulbs pour warm light onto the sidewalk. They spell out the word INITIALISM. There’s no lineup and no bouncer out here, but I can hear indistinct music leaking from inside. Just the sensation of the long sound waves of the bass and kick touching the inside of my chest are enough to draw me in.
Inside, it’s immediately apparent that there is nothing fancy about this place. It’s built inside one large, low room divided in half by a loose definition of a wall (a frame covered in bare plywood).
To the left is Initialism, the source of the music. To the right, there’s the food-type establishment called Munchies Arcade and Culinary Delights. It’s adorned with an assortment of food-themed neon signs blinking on and off.
I turn into Munchies without taking much of a glance into Initialism.
That’s where they’re IDing people to get in.
Quinn explained to me that it won’t be a problem age-wise. Since Initialism is enjoying legal loopholes surrounding concert venues and alcohol, they’ll just put a “minor”
stamp on my hand. Quinn doesn’t know my particular anxieties around showing people my ID.
On the Munchies side, I’m brought to a full stop.
The restaurant side of the makeshift wall is covered in bright, semi-erotic street art featuring a lot of androids. It’s really beautiful and queer in every sense of the word. Most people are ignoring it or leaning against the wall, an android reaching out to embrace them. They’re just there, massive and sprawled and undefinable.
I can hear the music coming through it, like the bright world pictured there is churning it out. Electricity and vibration. The deep fryers sizzle. The pinball machines at the back of the room jangle and whir.
Somehow, I know if I stepped inside the art, I would feel completely safe.
There’s another thing that’s remarkable to me that perhaps I should have noticed before getting mesmerized by the wall. As far as I can tell, there’s a whole diverse mess of visibly queer people around. Not everyone, but way more than usual. Also, rather more varied. Since Initialism is all ages, some of them are young like me.
They seem comfortable and free and impossibly cool and leave me with aspirations, inspirations and the sort of crushes that make me wonder if I want them or want to be them. Like four different instances from just the people I can see.
I stall on going into Initialism, people-watching and ordering food off a menu Quinn says gets increasingly random and craving-
oriented as the night wears on until it’s cereal, macaroni and cheese, or milkshakes.
Eventually, I hear the band onstage finish their last song. Any time before that would have been a good moment to be something like alone when I show my card. Now the entrance gets crowded with people leaving or stepping outside to smoke.
I check the time, wait for a lull. When one hits, it’s now or never. I walk up and present my driver’s license in a terrified manner that makes the person at the door look more closely at it. Who uses fake ID to be underage though?
“You been here before?”
I stammer my way to saying I haven’t, while trying to seem very relaxed.
“Just know it’s your space. If anyone treats you in a way that makes you uncomfortable or threatened, even if it seems small, we’ll take you seriously. Talk to me or Christensen or Len.”
They gesture to someone with knuckle tattoos and heavy eyebrows that are dyed pink. I realize the person at the door isn’t suspicious. They can see I’m nervous, so they’re trying to put me at ease. It makes me want to give them a hug.
“And it’s five bucks,” they add.
I pay them, they stamp me as a minor, and I’m in.
Truthfully, the welcome was more impressive than the place itself. The entire establishment benefits from the dim lighting. Open room, concrete floor, scattered tables and chairs. Despite the lack of aesthetic, it’s busier than I thought it would be on a Sunday night.
I’m standing there feeling disoriented when I spot Quinn onstage. He’s swapping out the cymbals for his own.
When he sees me, he hops down and points toward the bar.
“Let me buy you a drink,”
he says.
“Something virgin.”
From onstage, where Lillian’s setting up her pedalboard, she calls after him.
“Virginity is a myth that perpetuates a false hierarchy of heteronormative sex acts!”
Someone cheers.
This is a weird place. I like it.
At the bar, Quinn asks what I want, I shrug, and he orders me a virgin mojito. He’s wearing a beanie with the same logo as the sweater he wore when I met him, though these waves are all green. His hair’s curling out from under the front. His tank top’s cut low at the sides, showing a dark gray binder underneath.
“Oi, Christensen!”
Quinn yells down the bar.
“I want you to meet the amazing Sasha Weaver.”
Christensen’s look stopped dead in an era — the combo of immaculately maintained beard and suspenders over his plaid shirt. He owns Initialism with his husband, who Quinn is adamant used to be a professional basketball player. Or baseball. Certainly a sport with a ball.
Christensen shakes my hand and does an actual multiple-move-fist-bump-secret-high-five thing with Quinn. I start praising the place to Christensen, saying how comfortable I already feel here.
Christensen aw-shucks away my compliments, but he’s clearly pleased.
“I figured, rich White gay guy like me, there’s space in the world for me now. Lots of places, at least.”
He leans on the bar and hands me my drink. Quinn’s nodding along like he’s heard this before.
“When I was a kid,”
says Christensen.
“there wasn’t much, and I remember that. There were people who carved open spaces for me. I owe my life and success to them. You got to take the good fortune you’re given and push into the future with it. That’s how this got built. It’s my responsibility to create a place like this. A safe place where young people like the two of you can be yourselves and there’s live music. Every. Single. Night. It’s not much, but Initialism is yours. I saw Taylor give you a spiel at the door, so you know I’m not lying.”
There’s a smashing sound at the other end of the bar. “Shit,”
says Christensen.
“A life of shattered glass. Quinn, you’re not going to wear your binder to drum, are you? You know exercise, binders … not the best combination.”
“Do you lecture everyone in heels on the risk of back injury?”
says Quinn.
“Relax, I did what I need to be safe. And I don’t even break a sweat drumming.”
“Fair, fair. I’ve never worn one. I just worry, but you’re the pro.”
He grabs a pen and mutters.
“Remember, not expert at everything,”
while he writes it on his hand.
Someone yells for Christensen and he yells back that he’s coming goddamn it.
“Enjoy these guys, Sasha. They’re the next medium-sized thing.”
Quinn takes a sip of my drink once Christensen’s gone.
“Does he always give that ‘when-I-was-young’ speech or what?” I ask.
“Basically. Lillian says his whole thing is a little virtue-signaling. She loves him too, though. He has really, truly, never given any of us a reason to doubt him.”
“Who is he?”
“Big music industry person of some kind. He moved home to be with his dying mother and never left. That’s another story he’ll tell you if you hang around. It’s a weeper.”
Quinn spins his stool around and hops off.
“Now take a seat, Sasha, cuz we’re the next medium-sized thing.”
I choose a table against the wall, so close that I can faintly hear the pinball machines on the other side over the canned music playing in Initialism. The band’s tuning up.
Lillian’s wearing her spiky jacket and a matte purple Telecaster guitar with pick scratches on the body from playing hard. Cyprus stands to her right at a keyboard with a two-octave synth above it. She’s wearing turquoise earrings that brush her shoulders. They have the visual presence of about four different earrings put together. Quinn is in the back behind the kit, attempting various drumstick twirls and dropping his sticks.
I think I recognize Christensen from somewhere, but I’m pulled away from the thought when the music on the speakers stops. A couple of other teenagers across the room whoop. Lillian glances up from her tuning pedal and squints against the stage lights to scan the room.
When she finds me tucked in my dark corner, she smiles.
The stage lights shift to a blue tinge. Lillian plays a part with an echoing delay, her boot on the pedalboard gradually building the volume as Cyprus’s keyboard part comes in. Quinn is bobbing his head even though he hasn’t started playing, already locked in.
Lillian leans in the microphone, so close her lips almost brush against it.
“Hey, everyone, we’re Wavelength.”