“Have a nice evening, Miss Scratch,” said the security guy as I escaped the sticky climate of the club. I could not tell what I hated more – that he called me Miss, or that it was six in the morning.
The gig had taken everything of me, leaving me with a feeling like limp toast. Granted, Neon Palace was the place to be in Canterlot and paid accordingly. Also, the crowd was hella awesome! Still, as I crawled through the streets of the slowly awaking city, all I wanted was to be back home.
Who would have known that I could get so attached to lame old Ponyville, a place where the most exciting party of the week was typically some cuteseañera with pink napkins and orange juice. A place where you couldn’t even blast My D is Freaking Huge Extended Remix at full volume once without getting shut down by the neighbors. It was where exciting went to die.
A fond smile spread beneath my purple shades. What can I say – there was a reason for my sentiments for the town, a reason with a charcoal gray coat who liked a quart of milk per one cup of tea and would sure as Tartarus scold me for working so long at night if she knew about it. My sweet, sweet Tavi, the stars in my sky.
I arrived at the cave that was my hotel room and basically just fell onto the bed. All I could think of was her. If she were here to hold me, if she were here to stroke my mane until I fell asleep, that would make it all okay.
Room service woke me up four, five hours later. I guess that in my sleepwalking earlier I hadn’t thought far enough to put the Please Don’t Disturb sign on the door. What I now got in return for my negligence was “I’m sorry, Miss,” and “Can I get you anything, Miss.”
Not a Miss, thank you. I gulped down the bitterness in my throat and ordered a coffee.
The drink came lukewarm, and I swallowed it slowly, sitting on the tiny bed hugging my forelegs around myself while I waited for it to warm me up. I was still tired as heck, not only by fault of my lack of sleep.
There exists a kind of tiredness that no amount of caffeine in the world can cure.
After allowing myself another ten minutes or so of feeling bad I got up, head spinning, and shuffled into the bathroom. Tavi had this super important solo gig at Canterlot Colosseum the next day, and since I was in the city anyway I was staying a day longer to join her. Don’t tell anypony, but I actually love seeing her play!
Since I was supposed to meet her at the station later, I made an effort to upgrade my current zombie aesthetic to something more presentable. It was not very successful. My mane was all over the place, my eyes bloodshot. I stared at my form in the mirror with growing discomfort. That was a thing that mirrors did to me – they made me look at myself. The pointy nose, the round forehead, the slim jaw … ugh, I hated it.
Hiding behind my shades I turned away.
I got to the station a little late, mainly because I had chosen a spontaneous detour to buy flowers. She was waiting for me, hugging her cello case and rhythmically tapping her rear hoof on the paving of the platform. Despite the wait, though, her face lit up in joy when she spotted me.
“Vinyl!” Boy, had I missed the sound of her voice! Imagine your favorite piece of music that even after a thousand replays never got old – that was her voice to me.
She smelled the roses I gave her – pink ones, her favorite color. “What are these for?” she asked. I just smiled and kissed her, because they were to make her happy, and she understood and thanked me.
I took her cello, carrying it on my back, to which she objected at first. Whether she was worried about me or about the instrument I could not tell. Finally, she accredited the gesture with a smile.
“My strong and beautiful mare,” she said, not noticing how I choked. She doesn’t mean it, I told myself. She doesn’t know.
Why wasn’t I telling anypony I was trans? I had never been in the closet about liking mares, either – if anypony had a problem with it, screw them! Why was this so different? It made me vulnerable on an entirely new level, and that scared the crap out of me.
“How was the train ride?” I asked over my shoulder while we swam through the crowded street. My voice came out raspy and squeaky, and I instantly regretted opening my mouth at all.
“Fairly uneventful. And how have you been doing?”
“Fine,” I said.
How was it justifiable that we were still together? Octavia certainly deserved better than a liar.
But once we arrived at the hotel – a real fancy one this time – she seemed content enough with me, talking about the lineup for the concert while sipping her Mulenar, me sitting with her, a foreleg around her shoulder. She smelled soft, serene. Roses and colophon. I inhaled and tried to hold on to the scent forever.
A passage of Tchaiclopsky played in my head, Luna knew why, which reminded me of about every time we had gone out over the past three years. Beats me how I ended up with her, of all ponies, the kind-of-snooty mare who didn’t believe in music that contained less than ten different harmonies per page.
A little later she went off to rehearse. We met for dinner at the tiny old café where we used to hang out when we were in college, and went to bed at nine. She apologized for wrapping the day up so early, twice actually, but I understood that this concert was a big deal. What can I say, I was still dead tired, so I didn’t mind the slightest.
I didn’t witness her falling asleep or waking up. When I opened my eyes after what felt like, and might as well have been, thirteen hours of sleep, she was up and about, polishing her cello and sorting sheet music and stuffing cookies into herself. Despite her preoccupation she noticed me and paused her bustling to plant a peck on my nose.
I ate toast for breakfast while she disappeared in the bathroom for an hour or two. When she returned, with her mane and makeup done, I almost didn’t recognize her.
“How do I look?” she asked. How did she look? Her face was plastered and her eyeliner looked like it was about to pry itself off of her and fly away. That’s stage makeup for you. Her mane sat in a luxurious bun on top of her head, a fat jellyfish with tentacles of hair falling into her face.
I gave her a nod and hoof-up, watching her slip into her dress. The garment she had chosen had a mauve sort of color and hugged her curves in a way that made me look forward to after the show already.
“What are you going to wear?” she asked while adjusting the fabric around her shoulders.
“I got a suit, it’s still in the laundry.” My morning voice was extra raspy and weak today. “I’ll be picking it up real quick after you’re gone.”
“Sounds good.”
I smiled, and casually stroked her butt when she passed me to pick up her case. I knew that she’d love to see me in a dress. So did my mom. They both knew that it was not going to happen.
Soon, Tavi was off to rehearsal, leaving me alone with a kiss and my unresting mind.
We had been to this ball once, Tavi and I – one of the few occasions she had dragged me along – and I heard this guy ask her if I was her coltfriend. I mean, he’d only seen me from behind, but still, that felt so indescribably good! Like the first ray of sunlight was warming me after a dark winter, or something. Tavi then laughed and answered, “kind of.”
Am I a kind of? Is that it? And, more importantly, did I want to be a kind of for the rest of my life?
The whole reason I played Neon Palace now and again was to gather cash, so that I could pay for all the different procedures that I wanted – that I needed.
“It is important that you are ready,” my therapist would say. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I didn’t. He was a real friendly guy, and yet, all I wanted was for him to shut the hell up and just give me the damn T. Then, maybe things would be easier. I could tell Tavi, I could tell the whole world, if only I had my prescription in hoof. That I told myself, anyway.
I mean, what was I scared of? I knew that Tavi wasn’t the problem; she loved me. I wanted nothing more than for her to know and be okay with it so I wouldn’t have to worry anymore. And still, every time I even thought about mentioning the topic both my mind and stomach vetoed distinctly. Maybe I really was a kind of, because if I were a definitely, why would I still be here?
The concert was cool, but despite that, I couldn’t really enjoy the time at Canterlot Colosseum. I found myself shifting from one hindleg onto the other, trying, and failing, to ignore the constricted feeling in my throat and just focus on the music. I had no idea why my dysphoria was so bad today, or what to do about it. I was already wearing a suit and my shades, which usually helped, but apparently that wasn’t enough.
When the show was over, I waited for Tavi at the entrance, who came out a while later with a colleague, a Mister Horseshoe Pain or whatever his name was. Didn’t know the guy, but he had accompanied her on the piano today.
“And this is?” he asked her as I approached.
“My marefriend,” Octavia answered, making my heart drop into my designer dress pants. It was never great to be misgendered, but from her, of all ponies, it hurt the most.
I saw in the glances she shot me that she registered my distress, but she was a sensible enough mare not to put me on the spot in front of some guy that I didn’t even know. I was sure he had no interest in getting dragged into this either.
Maybe she would ask me about it later, when we were alone. Maybe I would even answer.
To be fair, it wasn’t as if this was the first time she caught me when I was feeling a bit off. Usually I didn’t talk about it, ever, but I did wonder: how much of what I was going through could she have guessed by now? Was she suspecting something?
But she didn’t say anything, even after she and her piano friend parted ways. She had probably just forgotten about it in the euphoria of today’s success, or maybe she was finally giving up trying to get through to me.
In the evening, after a dinner at Le Jardin Royale that, fortunately, she paid for, we arrived back at the hotel. I can’t say that I wasn’t feeling dysphoric anymore, but her company did have a soothing effect on me, as always. While we chatted about this and that and almost guiltily enjoyed the decadence of the five-star-cuisine, all was good. I could forget anything gazing into those eyes that were sparkling as she recited the tale of her college teacher and the elephant for the n-teenth time.
Only when we arrived back at the hotel room, a letter waiting for me on the little desk snapped me back into reality. I snatched it off the table, recognizing the sender as my therapist. How had the post service found me here, anyway?
“Who is this from?” Octavia wanted to know.
“Just some guy I know. Hold on a sec.”
I made sure that she couldn’t see it when I opened the envelope. Usually I would have preferred to read it when I was by myself, but now that it was in my hooves I could not wait any longer. What if this was what I was waiting for so badly? The final call to liberation?
“Dear Mr. Scratch,” it read, inflating a balloon in my chest just with those two letters in front of my name.
But as I read on, the rest of it did not live up to the expectations. There was no “see me to discuss your dosage,” or “congratulations, you get 20% off your next MGR*” – yeah, don’t laugh, these magical procedures are expensive as hell. It was just a note that the doc was sick and my next appointment had to be rescheduled.
*MGR: Magical Genital Reconstruction, aka “bottom surgery.” I’ll spare you the gorey details.
Of course. I sank onto the floor, not sure what I was going to do. The whole thing felt like a dirty trap I had landed in. I buried the letter in the pocket of my dress pants, returning to the living-room-slash-kitchen in defeat.
Octavia looked up from the bottle of champagne she was about to open, and the complacent smile she had worn all evening dropped in an instant when she saw me.
“Vinyl? What’s the matter?”
The hotel room seemed to warp around me, like a dream that collapsed, leaving me alone in the cold reality. Time also seemed to stretch. I tried to think of something to say. Anything that would allow me to bail out of this conversation and keep pretending things were fine. But they were not.
What was I waiting for? To become more cis? Believe me, I had tried that, and it wasn’t working.
“Tavi …”
It wasn’t fair, because she was a gorgeous mare who should celebrate her great musical success instead of worrying about me. She hadn’t even gotten out of her dress yet.
“Look, Tavi, we gotta talk about something. Something serious.”
She put the bottle down and instead grabbed two stools, one for herself and the other for me. I sat down, legs trembling, and observed the wall across the room. Sure was smooth and white.
“Has this something to do with the letter?” Octavia tried to help.
I nodded. “It’s from my doctor.”
“Your doctor? Vinyl, what is going on? Are you …?” I could see she was on the verge of getting hysterical.
“I’m fine,” I said, regretting the words as soon as they left my mouth. Liar!
“What I mean is, I’m not losing my hearing or anything. I’ve just been working through some stuff, and Doctor Horsington is my therapist.”
Her initial relief when I said I was fine quickly vanished at therapist, but she waited patiently for me to stick together the chain of words in my mouth that I so desperately needed to say.
“Tavi, I am not a mare.”
“You … are not.” Even though it was not exactly a question, she balanced those words on her tongue carefully, as if she was contemplating whether or not she understood what they meant.
“I’m not. I’m a stallion, actually.” I fumbled with the plastic seat cover of the stool. “Or that’s how I see myself.”
I waited for a reaction, still looking dead ahead, unable to meet her eye. Luna, let her not freak out.
“Well,” she began.
My chest stung with every breath, threatening to burst under the tension. My mind played back static, and my temples were pulsing to the rhythm of my heartbeat, like a subwoofer during a house song. The bpm were pretty much the same, too.
“Well, that does explain a lot,” Octavia said.
A snort escaped me. “I know, right?”
My brain still tried to catch up with the situation, but it was apparent that, one, I had actually said it, and two, she was actually keeping her cool!
Octavia leaned forward, folding her hooves on her knees. “I’m afraid this is an entirely new topic for me, though, and I am not certain if I understand completely. Could you explain a little more?”
“I’m trans. That’s transgender, not identifying as the gender I was assigned at birth.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Assigned?”
Right, gotta explain the terminology. “You know.” I made a gesture with my hoof, not sure what it was supposed to symbolize myself. Good thing I hadn’t become a teacher, after all. Why would I do that? Well, it’s what other ponies made of their music degrees.
“They look at you when you pop out of your mom, and decide that you are going to be a filly. Except in my case they were wrong. I mean, growing up I never really thought about gender that way. Everypony told me I was female – a little troublemaker tomcolt – so who was I to question them? I only realized I’m trans a few years ago.”
She did look a bit shocked now.
“I should have told you sooner,” I hurried to say, “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not blaming you, Vinyl.” I could still see the gears turning beneath her forehead. “Wait, should I even call you by that name anymore?”
“Yeah, Vinyl is fine for me.”
She put a hoof on my cheek and looked me in the eye. “I am glad that you are finally sharing this with me, after carrying it with you for such a long time. This cannot be easy for you.”
Oh, she had no idea! I felt my eyes getting misty, nodding at her like one of those wacky toy things.
She let go of my face and grabbed my hoof instead. “Now, please tell me if there is something I can do to help you, okay? Whatever it is.”
“Could you use he and him as pronouns for me? I kinda wanna die a little every time somepony calls me she.”
“Oh, sorry, I’ll try. Anything else?”
“I can’t think of anything. Just, you know … be there.”
I blushed a little – I was terrible at saying romancey stuff like that, but she squeezed my hoof and leaned in even closer, the familiar gravity of her presence pulling me into her orbit.
“Still,” Tavi mused, her coat and mine now touching briefly, “this might take me some getting used to. I will do my best to remember about the pronouns, but it is not entirely impossible that it will slip me at some point. My sincerest apologies, should I ever make you uncomfortable.”
“That’s totally cool, as long as you try.”
“Well.” She smirked. “I can’t let my coltfriend down, can I?”
I could’ve kissed her for saying that, and so I did.
Despite her reassuring words, Tavi still seemed to be digesting what she had just learned. But she did her best to humor me, clinging to me like a mare in a James Colt movie, whispering in my ear, “you’re my stallion.” I could hear in her voice that she was getting into it.
“My amazing, handsome stallion.”
I cried in her forelegs for a while. Screw all the hormones in the world, I thought. Whatever medical wonders they could do for me, I knew that nothing could ever make me feel as okay as I was than right there and then.
