The Complete Lockpick Pornography

by Joey Comeau

  “Prag,” I tell her, and she laughs out loud. She’s got an explosive, ugly, fucked-up laugh. She spits out the ice cubes that she’s been chewing.

  “Your name or your designation?” she asks, and I grin.

  “It depends on what kind of mood I’m in,” I tell her. “You the girl that can get me up onstage to read some poetry?” and she nods.

  “What you got?” she asks, and I tap the side of my head. “Come on,” she says, “let’s hear it.”

  “I only really feel comfortable up onstage,” I say. “I feel like my poems are meant to connect with a wide spectrum of feminine energy, and I tend to get embarrassed when I read them one-on-one.” I try to look embarrassed, but Michelle is nodding. Did she roll her eyes? I hope so.

  “No, totally,” she says. “I’ll get you up after the next girl.”

  Richard appears beside me and takes my hand. His fingers are sweaty against my knuckles.

  “Can we go soon?” he asks, and I nod.

  “We’ll be leaving very shortly,” I say into his ear. “Trust me.”

  Soon Michelle is up onstage and pointing at me. I make my way through the crowd and climb up beside her, in front of the microphone. There are a couple of catcalls, and I smile. Michelle gives me a kiss on the cheek, and she steps down into the crowd again.

  I’m under the lights and sweating already. This is childish and stupid, I know. How long have I been pulling shit like this? What will it even prove? But I see Richard grinning in the audience, his lips wet and his eyes inviting, and I know that when we get out of here he’ll tell me how awesome he thought it was, and we’ll fuck in the back of his car.

  So I pull my shirt open and tear the moustache free. Without the moustache on my lip, my face is still masculine, and it becomes apparent that it wasn’t that little bit of hair constructing me. I haven’t changed, but I have. I’m not wearing an undershirt and I don’t have breasts. Girls are already yelling “Boo” at the stage, and I can see a big security guard headed my way through the crowd.

  “My name’s Prag Titmouse,” I say, “and my poem is called ‘What the Hell Is Wrong with Lesbians, Because Cock Is Awesome.’ I hope you like it.” I pause and clear my throat. Michelle is there at the edge of the stage, the only face that’s laughing. I smile at her. “What the hell is wrong with lesbians?” I say. “Because cock is awesome. The end.”

  I jump off the stage and grab Richard’s hand. Michelle is right there and says something I can’t hear. I grab her hand too. Richard’s eyes are wide, but he’s smiling as he runs beside me. We all take a path that lands us some kicks and punches from the girls we pass, but gets us to the door and avoids the bouncers. In the street outside I’m shaking with laughter. Michelle is still saying something, but I’m near deaf. We run for a couple of blocks, until we’re sure that nobody is following us.

  I’ve got that feeling back, like I’m a part of something queer and strong and worthwhile. When I read about “the movement” in the paper, or see queers interviewed on TV, I don’t feel like a part of it, I don’t feel like I’m represented by that toned-down image they’ve created to help straight people “tolerate” us. I’m a part of something more honest.

  I’m a part of that smile of recognition I get from the store clerk when he realizes I’m gay too; I’m a part of that smile on his face as he looks the other way and I slide a book into my jacket. Richard and Michelle are too. I feel so close to them right now, I want to fuck the air.

  “Goddamn it,” Richard says, leaning against a car. He’s laughing, out of breath. “Goddamn it,” he says again.

  Michelle is shaking, and I stick my hand out to shake. Another firm handshake, this time as myself and not a girl faking it, and Richard gives her his too. He’s still in costume.

  “We’re going to crash a high school party,” I tell her, and Richard gives me a strange look. I know he wants to fuck in the car, but I shrug at him in return and smile. Plenty of time for that later. He shrugs too, but looks a little disappointed. He’ll get over it. I want to have some fun tonight. “Are you down?” I ask Michelle. We’re walking again.

  “Sure,” she says, then looks over her shoulder, the way we came. “I can’t go back there tonight anyway. They’re going to think I was in on it.” She smiles. “I wish I was. What are we doing at this party?” We’re at Richard’s car, and he pulls his keys out.

  “Breaking hearts,” Richard says, pulling open his car door. “Maybe making friends.”

  We climb in, and Michelle gives us her backstory. She only works part-time at the dyke bar, just a way to meet girls. She moved here from up north because she was tired of the cold, tired of living in a town with fifteen lesbians who had each other on speed dial.

  “It’s hard to look good when you’re wearing a parka half the time,” she says. Richard nods. He’s from up north too — further north than her, I’ll bet. “I’ve just been kicking around since I got here.” Michelle lights a cigarette. “Sleeping around a bit and trying to avoid the drama. I work part-time to pay the rent and buy my groceries, and spend the rest of my time doing what I want.” She laughs and corrects herself. “Doing who I want.”

  Richard’s friend Alex meets us in the parking lot of her high school. A dance is just letting out, and severe-looking men and women — her teachers, I’m guessing — stand at the door and watch the kids leave. Alex looks sharp, wearing a suit like ours, and her facial tattoos are impressive in their sheer size. She’s got thick black rectangles crossing her cheekbones.

  “So here’s the plan,” Alex says as soon as she’s in the car. “I pick a boy and start flirting with him.” She’s talking to Richard now. “I pretend I’m drunk and easily taken advantage of, and he gets all blood-drained-from-his-head and takes me upstairs.” Richard is driving, watching the road, but Michelle and I are leaning forward. “He lets me blindfold him . . .”

  “And then Richard fucks him,” I say, and I’m grinning like an idiot. “Or sucks him off. He does it instead of you, but the boy doesn’t know.” Alex is looking at me now, for the first time. “He’s blindfolded, and getting the blow job of his life, and until he opens his eyes, nothing is wrong. Everything is perfect because in his head it’s perfect.”

  Alex turns back to Richard. “Imagine the look on his face,” she says, “when he finds out it was a guy instead of a girl sucking him off. Imagine how angry he’ll be.”

  Richard is still watching the road.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says. “There’s not really any consent involved there, is there? When he opens his eyes and sees the two of us there, he’s going to feel taken advantage of, used. Won’t he?”

  I snort and lean forward again. “It’s like gender play,” I say. “You’re a girl, sucking him off. You’re Alex for that ten minutes on your knees, because all Alex is to him is a mouth. And, Richard, if an ass is an ass, then a mouth is a mouth.” Richard blushes and glances sideways at Alex. I realize that those were her words and not his, that he was just repeating them. “You’re not a boy until he opens his eyes, and then what does he do? He’s just had an amazing orgasm in your mouth. He’s been moaning about how fucking awesome you are, and now that’s all recontextualized. He has to go back and reinterpret everything that just happened, with a faggot sucking him off while he bucks and moans. It’s perfect.”

  Michelle hasn’t said anything, and I give her a sidelong look. She’s watching me quietly, on her second cigarette. Alex is turned around in her seat now, facing me.

  “If Richard won’t do it,” she says, “will you?” and I nod.

  “I’m better at it than he is anyway.” I grin, and Richard shakes his head.

  “Fuck off. I’ll do it,” he says. “Now tell me what exit we’re taking.”

  At the party Richard goes off with Alex to deflower a high school boy, and Michelle and I find a spot near the keg and sit down. “SpongeBob is totally a fag,” a boy next to us says, and the whole group of drunk kids are laughing.
“He’s always hanging out with that fucking pink thing. He’s a bum boy.” He says all this with a fake lisp and Michelle rolls her eyes, but I turn around to face them.

  “Who else is gay?” I say. “Tinky Winky’s gay, right? That purple Teletubby?”

  “Yeah.” The boy nods. “And Batman and Robin have got to be gay. Come on.”

  “That Hanna-Barbera cat thing,” says a girl. She pauses to think of the name. “Snagglepuss. He’s a total queer.”

  Michelle turns to look at the girl. It looks like she wants to say something, but before she does, someone cuts in.

  “Bert and Ernie,” he says. It’s a boy with a T-shirt that says something in binary code on it. He’s got his glasses taped at the corners, even though they’re obviously brand new. “Probably Oscar the Grouch too. He was like a bitter old faggot. Kermit the Frog’s little nephew.” He adjusts his glasses with a practised move. “They should form a team and fight crime.”

  I almost laugh out loud. Brilliant. Before I can say anything to Michelle, she’s standing up.

  “Let’s go see how Richard’s doing,” she says. She takes my hand and helps me up from the couch. My mind is flooded with images of cartoon characters and Muppets, gay terrorist comic-book heroes. Halfway up the stairs we can hear a boy yelling, “What the fuck?” over and over. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.” Michelle starts running and I follow.

  Two boys have got Richard on the ground, and they’re kicking him. They’re not doing a very good job of it, because they’re so drunk, but they’re trying really hard. Another boy is holding Alex back, but she is giving him a hell of a struggle. Michelle is on top of them before I’m even at the top stair, and she is all elbows and knees. Alex breaks free and suddenly the tides have turned. I’m not into the violence; I’m too busy thinking.

  I help Richard up, and he doesn’t have any bruises on his face or anything. He’s holding his side, and I say, “You all right?” and he nods. “Anything broken?” I say, and he shakes his head. “Good, because I have an idea.”

  “What?” Richard looks around at the fight that surrounds us. “Is your idea to get the fuck out of here?”

  “Nope. You know how everyone jokes that Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street are gay? What if we got ourselves some masks, and became Bert and Ernie? What if we took the ridiculous idea that characters on a children’s show are gay, that they are a threat to ‘traditional family values,’ and we made it come true?”

  “You mean, like, put on the Bert and Ernie mask and fuck somewhere in public?” he says, and I shake my head.

  “No, I mean put on our Bert and Ernie masks and videotape ourselves breaking into people’s homes and leaving pro-gay children’s books on their kids’ bookshelves. You and me and Alex and Michelle, assuming the identities of gay cartoon characters and going out every night to threaten ‘traditional family values’ as best we can. Breaking into a television station and changing the Saturday-morning cartoon programming? Pirate TV without all the expensive equipment.”

  Michelle has stopped punching the guy nearest me and looks up. The guy looks unconscious. I’ve never seen someone beaten unconscious before. That’s lesbians for you.

  “What good will that do?” she says. “We’re just giving weight to their arguments, aren’t we? I mean, there are people on TV accusing us of doing just that all the time — corrupting children.”

  Alex is in the background somewhere, yelling, “And he fucking liked it. Ask him.”

  “So why don’t we do it for real?” I say, and I help Richard to his feet. “We aren’t gonna talk these people into liking us. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. They’re bigots through and through.”

  Richard is grinning now.

  “But we can brainwash their kids,” he says, finishing my thought. “Why aren’t we trying to recruit? We get accused of it all the time anyway. I’m in. Dibs on Ernie.”

  I look at Michelle, and she still looks wary.

  “Well,” she says. “I don’t know. Who would I be? What lesbian cartoon characters are there?” Alex comes up behind her and slides her arm around Michelle’s shoulders. “She-Ra? Was She-Ra gay?” Michelle says. “Is that even a recognizable mask? They’ll think it’s Bert and Ernie and a couple of random girls in masks.”

  Alex shakes her head.

  “There are tons of dyke characters,” she says. “I’ll be Wonder Woman and you can be Velma from Scooby-Doo. And just so people can tell what the masks are, we’ll wear those five-dollar plastic kid costumes too. People will figure it out.”

  We make our way downstairs and through a house full of sullen, staring teenagers. I notice that Richard stops holding his side until we’re outside.

  In the doorway Alex stops and turns to face them all.

  “Thanks for everything, guys,” she says. “See you in class!” She runs down the driveway and climbs into the car. “Where can we get masks at this hour?” she says. “Can we start tonight?”

  Chapter 3

  Richard’s cell rings at eight, and it’s Chris asking to talk to me. “I’m not here,” I whisper. Richard relays the message, and I think about what a disaster it would be if I tried to get Chris involved in this cartoon-fag terrorism thing. He’s probably already thinking about getting rid of the TV we stole for him, terrified he’ll get arrested somehow. Richard turns the phone off and falls back asleep.

  I lie there and think about Chris. His contacts at the newspaper would be good for publicity, but his guilty conscience would do us in. I took him with me to church, six months ago, on a day when the topic was “The Problem of Homosexual Indoctrination.” We stayed in the parking lot, and I slit every tire on every car. Chris gave his own sermon, on the unhealthiness of anger.

  I gave him a stack of flyers for a roadside-assistance service. It was run by a man who funded anti-gay-marriage commercials on TV and in the newspapers. The slogan at the top of his flyer was “Let Us Help.” One went on the windshield of every slashed car.

  Chris didn’t appreciate the beauty of turning our enemies against one another. “They aren’t our enemies,” he said on the subway home. “They’re human beings, just like you and me.”

  “I think they’d disagree about the ‘you and me’ part,” I said.

  No, Chris isn’t going to get involved in this. Richard is asleep beside me, and I climb out of the bed as softly as I can. Slitting a few tires and inciting a few angry phone calls is nothing compared to what these people deserve. I’m tired of the moral high ground. We’ve already got more than our share of Gandhis in “the movement.” We need a General Patton.

  No bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor bastard die for his country.

  My underpants are hanging from the bathroom doorknob. My hair’s probably standing at all angles because I fell asleep with it wet. In the morning light I feel all riled up. I want to run down to the lobby of the building and out into the street. Instead I lean over Richard’s sleeping body and kiss his cheek. He looks so peaceful. I should reach under the blankets and wake him up properly.

  But I don’t. I take his phone and head for the balcony.

  I should have written down Mrs. Hubert’s telephone number yesterday. If anyone in the straight world is capable of understanding, it’s going to be the frustrated housewife, isn’t it? I hate that I feel the need to try to explain. I find a phone book.

  A man answers.

  “Hello?” he says.

  His voice is dark and quiet, and I have it all right there in my head. I want to say, “Love and sex are separate things, sir. Don’t you feel trapped sometimes by the guilt-enforced monogamy of your marriage?”

  I open my mouth, but fail to say, “When you lie down with your wife one night, the third Wednesday of the month or whatever your sex schedule is like in fifteen years, and you realize that the drugs have stopped working, are you going to regret not being able to fuck your wife anymore, or are you going to regret not stick
ing it where you wanted when you still had the chance? Regret is an ugly thing.”

  Instead I listen to him breathe, and he hangs up the phone. I’ll try again around noon. I call the number Michelle wrote on a napkin for me, and it rings and rings and nobody answers. I check the number and dial again.

  “What?” she says. Her voice is muffled, but it’s definitely Michelle.

  “Hey,” I say, “did I wake you?”

  “No, we were just getting up. We’re going to have some breakfast and then head down to try and find some masks.” In the background I hear Alex saying, “Is that them? Hey! Death to the cartoon heterosexual paradigm!” And I laugh because I totally forgot about our war cry. Michelle continues, unfazed: “You and Richard are going to get the books? Do you want to meet around six tonight?” Alex is still yelling in the background, “Smash the straight cartoon state!”

  “Yeah,” I say. I’m glad Michelle is involved. She’s got a good head on her shoulders. The way she laid into those high school boys with her knees and elbows was like a graceful lesbian Muay Thai fighter, and she acted without a second thought. She has her reservations, but she isn’t going to let that keep her from taking part.

  “All right, we’ll give you a call on Richard’s cell when we’ve got our disguises. Alex thinks we should shoplift the masks, so that nobody can put our faces to a Wonder Woman and Velma costume when the police start following up leads.”

  “That’s a good plan,” I say. “She’s shoplifted before?”

  “My understanding,” Michelle says, “is that she’s an old pro.” Alex laughs in the background. “Mickey Mouse is a closet case! Minnie is his beard! Out of the closet and into the streets of the Magic Kingdom, you chickenshit mouse faggot!”

  “I’ll talk to you tonight then,” I say, and I hang up.

  Alex is pretty great too. Enthusiastic anyway. When Richard wouldn’t go through with the plan at the party, Alex tried to talk him into it right there. The blindfolded boy heard her whispering and started yelling for his friends. Michelle and I showed up just after they did.