Our physicality is also a narrative. What we look like is often how we are seen, and what people see is what they desire us for. Inside I am not a daddy, I am not masculine (whatever the fuck that means), I am not butch or tough or muscular. But on the outside I am all of that and sometimes I attract men who are attracted to that sort of thing, big muscular masculine older men. I like to play with that, though often the men who like big masculine men are not into the whole genderfuck thing. They want you to be in control. (Like, don’t they know that 9 times out of 10, it’s the bottom who’s running the show.) Last night in the sauna I was making out with this cute guy who was so into being “a total top” that I couldn’t resist calling him my pussy-boy just to fuck with his head.
What I also want to talk about – I’m not digressing; I’m staying on the subject – is the brilliant movie My Friend from Faro. Besides the fact that if you watch it online you’ll be helping Peccadillo Pictures, the fabulously queer distributors of queer movies in the UK, who had all their stock burnt down in the recent London Riots, you’ll also be treating yourself to refreshingly good storytelling, great acting, and a very sexy lead. Anjorka Strechel plays Mel, a girl who looks like a boy and acts like a boy. She gets a work colleague to pose as her Portuguese boyfriend for a family dinner… oh, I could tell you the whole plot, which is quite a complicated story to tell, because it’s a story of multiple identities and being a different person for different people, and in the end upsetting some people, but really the end is a happy one, and Miguel and Miguel who are neither of them Miguel, ride off into the sunset, or to Portugal, to be precise.
The film made me think about our physicality, about what we present to the world just by being who we are, by the clothes we wear, the way we walk, but also just through genetics, through our being. And also: what some people see and some people don’t. Like my friend McKenzie, for example: some people call her sir. Some people call her mister. But to me she is a beautiful strong woman, feminine (whatever the fuck that means) in many ways, gentle, but also direct and honest. She dresses like a dandy. She is debonair. Bright colours look good on here, and some people still see: Man. It’s like there is a lack of fluidity in people’s imagination sometimes, a lack of playfulness, an inability to see beyond short hair and trousers and imagine something a bit more complex (or do I mean simple) than “man” or “woman”. Okay, I admit, I do have a thing for trans men, but that’s for another post.
I loved the sexiness and the playfulness of My Friend from Faro in much the same way as I enjoyed playing with the guy in the sauna last night, although he was too rigid, too set in his ways to be completely playful, to imagine beyond what he had decided he was. He said I was exactly what he liked, he said he was “so fucking turned” on by me, and yet I clearly wanted to fuck him, to have him on his knees sucking my cock. I was clearly bigger than him, stronger than him, older than him, and I held him in a way that a daddy holds his boy and he liked that. He wanted to do what I told him. I could see that. I could see that from the moment we met, from the moment we stepped out of the steam room and into the passageway and I pressed my body against his and went for his lips with my mouth and he turned his head to the side.
“Kiss me,” I said.
“I don’t kiss,” he said.
“You’ll have to,” I said, whispering the words into his ear. “Otherwise I’m going.”
“Why’s that?” he said.
“It’s part of the deal.”
“Deal?” he said. “Is there a deal?”
“There is,” I said, and put my mouth against his, touched my tongue to his lips, and his mouth opened, and we kissed.
“Well,” he said. “I’ll definitely kiss if you kiss like that.”
“Good,” I said.
And we kissed some more.
“Is it always this easy to get you to do things you don’t want to do?” I said.
“Sure,” he said, and threw his arms up in the air. “Fuck me.”
But he was lying. That was not what I would get to do. Just as Mel in My Friend from Faro lies to the girl she fancies and says, yes, I’m from Portugal. What’s your name? the girl says. Guess, Mel says. And the girl tries, but she can’t, so Mel tells her: Miguel, which is when things start to happen, good and bad.