iQueer in Space - Chapter One

I realise that anyone who reads this will find the things I find odd normal and my "normalities" odd. This is my point of view. My brain filters it. You will see what you want to see. I am here none the less.

Day 0 - Brisbane, Australia, Earth - 23rd July 2009

Before They Ripped Me Through Time and Space

Amateur drag had never been my thing, but fuck it that night I was getting up on stage anyway.

Waiting at the bus stop I was playing with my wig. Swishing it in my hands and flopping it on my head, draping it over my shoulders. I of course had my own short black asymmetrical cut hair, the wig was merely for the performance and its long golden girls were attracting attention already.

"Hey faggot!"

I turned around to see two guys about ten metres away. Of course they were wearing local rugby jerseys and had the slow meandering steps of thick footy thighs rubbing against themselves. I quickly shoved the wig back into my re-usable grocery green bag.

"Where're you going faggot." He spat in my face when he got close enough, not on purpose, but I could feel the contamination spreading. It spreads so quickly when someone touches you and travels down your spine, down your spine, down your spine and along your ankles. They tell me I shouldn't think of such things or that I should but not care that I should learn not to care about the thoughts. They said I wasn't right in the head, but even if I wasn't I still was contaminated, and the tiny speckle of spit was filled with the rugby guys essence, and it was travelling down my spine.

"Don't you got a tongue faggot?" I don't know how they expected me to speak when I was so contaminated, so filthy and gross. Move away, Move away, move away, but they didn't. I don't think the words came out anyway.

The bus came and I quickly jumped on. They didn't seem to want to go where I was going anyway. They walked away.

On the bus I listened to my iPod. I drove all night by Cyndi Lauper, exactly 4 minutes and 11 seconds long. I practiced mouthing the words. I mouthed the word faggot seven times after the song finished. Seven times to clean it from my system. An anti-bacterial wipe cleaned the spit from my face. I still looked forward to showering. I played Cyndi again, hopefully I wouldn't make a fool of myself with the song. Stupid friends organising an amateur drag night and making me perform, I thought, smiling. The bus trip took 27 minutes and I was in Kelvin Grove, at the university. To the guild bar, to my friends, to the drag, to the night.

Trik was waiting out front smoking.

"Hey boy," I said.

"Hey boy," she said, "are you ready?"

"Ready as ever." I twitched and the word, "faggot," came out of my mouth. Trik just grabbed me around the shoulders and put her cigarette in my mouth. I inhaled. It wasn't a cigarette after all, and the smoke was harsh but the feeling was good. Even the feeling of her skin through my arm felt less warm, not so much the burn of contamination but the slow osmosis of two symbiotic creatures sharing fluid. Running slightly late we installed ourselves in the disabled toilet and dragged ourselves up. Me with blonde curles and a red jacket dress and bare, pale naked legs adorned with army boots. I became Kludi. Trik yanked on black jeans, a blue striped business shirt (after I strapped down her breasts of course) and I drew on a dark Dali like moustache. I worked my make up as best I could around my stubble, I was a bearded lady after all.

"Did they just announced JP, is performing now?" I asked

Trik put her ear to the air, "Totes did."

Fuck, we packed our shit up by throwing it into our green bags and raced into the bar to see the short JP dance to JT. Not only did we want to see JP but also we hurried because we were next two in line to perform. Seven, seven, seven, seven, seven, seven, seven. Say seven seven times for luck in my head, the bad luck fell away.

"And now it’s time for that hostess of the runway, fashionista Kludi."

I grabbed the mic. "Vhy ello my Australian friends. You are looking hot tonight," and I may of grabbed JP's crouch at this point, "its time for me to strut my stuff down the runway, so someone please come and get this mic." I held out the mic and someone took it and the music began an instant later. The first verse I mouthed it alone, but as soon as the chorus started, as preplanned, but not prewarned, JP and Trik jumped on stage holding huge cardboard cut-outs of cars that they "drove" around me. A threesome mimed in the back of one of the cars ended the song. There was loud applause, there was always loud applause. I thought the word seven, just once.

"Get me a jug," I said to Trik, who grabbed my wallet from my bag and we spent the rest of the night with jug after jug of beer.

"Hey Kludi," Ryan said from behind me, "nice performance." I turned to face him and smiled, and probably blushed.

"Thank you," he sat down. Seven, seven, seven, seven, seven, seven, seven, seven, but no many how many times I thought it, the anxiety stayed.

"Are you coming out to the Valley with the rest of us?" Ryan leaned in to ask me.

SEVEN.

"No I have to work early tomorrow," I said which was true, not that that would stop me going out, but my hands were shaking and I felt sick. The contamination was oozing out from my stomach. I wanted Ryan to touch me, maybe he could fix it. See through me, I thought, see through me, make it go away, seven seven seven...

"Ok," he said, "I'll leave you to it." Ryan got up and left.

I went outside and had a smoke with JP and Trik, kissed each in turn and walked back to the bus stop.

The glowing bus sign said the 345 would take me home in 10 minutes, I sat listening to my iPod. 11 minutes later the bus came, I had listened to two and a half songs. I lifted up my arm and hailed the bus. The doors opened. I felt nothing unusual as I stepped onto the bus, but my vision blurred momentarily and as I refocused, all I could see was grey metal and three people in a purple one piece sleek clothing. I wasn't on the bus. I just remember thinking - This is not the bus, this is not the bus, I'm not on the bus, I should be on the bus, bus, bus, bus, bus, bus.

I barely heard one of them say, "Welcome to the 25th century."