Jordan

I had a transgendered stuffed dog when I was a little kid. To the public, he was Jordan; named after Michael Jordan, who, at the time, was the pinnacle of "sportiness". And as we all know, being sporty really separates the boys from the sissies. Jordan was a flattened basset hound; probably meant to be more of a pillow than a companion. Jordan had plastic eyes and a few brown and black patches. It's name and it's spot were known to the world, but the way it felt inside was a secret. To me, she was Trixie. Trixie had long, floppy basset ears that routinely served as hair when I would style them in a knot on top of her head. Toys are the only thing we can control when we are young. It's the only power we are designated, so whatever I wanted that dog to be, it/he/she was. I had so much shame in me for being the way I was, the way I still am, that I brought Jordan into the mix and gave him Trixie. I gave him his own shame to bear. Gave him some of mine. Like that trashy slut the ivy leaguer hides from his parents, I never made my association with Trixie known. She was my little whore in Brazil and I'd use campaign money to please her. Jordan was on my arm and that was the facade.

The dog's ear eventually fell off and it's coat grew thick and coarse. I'm not even sure what happened to her. Goodwill, most likely. My mom always gave away our things when we were at school. But yeah, no clue.

I eventually went on to sleeping with guys that were way too old for me and letting my shame lead me into many situations that were unsound for a young teen. I look back now and I wish I had been going to bed with Trixie. We were seedy together.


-- Posted from my iPhone

Location:E 2nd St,New York,United States