Suave Lorenzo

There is a comedy club in London that I love performing at. I like the staff, and they give me free drinks. It’s a really, dead snazzy place where big names headline and I get free drinks. The audience is always decent, and I get free drinks when I’m there, which I can’t remember if I mentioned already.

One night while I was waiting at the bar for a free drink, I caught the eye of one of their good-looking Italian bar staff. Lorenzo. By this point, I had already had a good few free drinks, and was readying myself for my twenty spot by looking in my notebook at the bullet points I’d made throughout the day. Something about anal, more than likely — I remember I was talking about anal a lot on stage around that time.

This was the summer time, so it was still relatively warm — so I had an extremely low cut dress on. Oh, I’d also just had a boob-job, so was feeling pretty confident in myself. As Lorenzo handed me the drink, he gave me a look. It’s a difficult look to describe, especially as I so rarely get a look like that. It’s a look which communicates, somehow, that he fancies me. He asks me if I am going on stage tonight, and I tell Lorenzo yes — I’m going up next. He compliments my appearance — respectfully. I can’t recall exactly what he said to me, but it wasn’t “nice tits, titty tits”. It was something more suave. More Italian. More Gino D’acampo.

Then he asks me out. Again, this never happens to me. Men, as a rule, don’t ask me out in person very often. Especially not handsome Italian men who are employed. In fact, I’m so taken aback by it, that I don’t believe him. I say “what? Are you really asking me out?”. He says “if you want to, yes”. I instantly tear a page out of my stand up notebook with all my edgy, groundbreaking bits on anal — and I write down my phone number for him. He smiles, thanks me and puts it in his shirt breast pocket. I am in disbelief. These tits are already paying for themselves, I think.

Suddenly, my name is called and I must ascend to the stage. I am giddy and feel as if I could float up to it. I’m so excited by what has happened, I don’t look at my notes at all. I feel as if I have to tell the crowd what has just happened — and I do. I tell them that a man has just asked me out (although I do not single him out). Then I say “I hope he knows I’m trans — because if not, he’s going to by the time this set is over”. It gets a good laugh, and I have just practised good relationship transparency, if not in a slightly unconventional way.

When I get off stage, I make my way down to the greenroom area to use the toilets — but as I enter, I bump into Lorenzo. He appears more awkward than before — all essence of suave diminished. He can’t look me in the eyes.

“You lied to me”. He mumbles.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“You didn’t tell me you were a man”.

“I’m not a man”.

It’s just me and him down there. I play out a scenario in my head where he beats me to death. I also play out a scenario in which he vomits and then in a few weeks, unable to deal with this assault on his sexuality he takes his own life in a TravelLodge. Both aren’t ideal, but in that moment I prefer the second one.

“So, that’s it then?” I ask.

He doesn’t respond to me. I feel extremely drunk now.

“Okay, whatever” I sass, and I carry on toward the toilet. As I do so, he doesn’t say anything — instead he makes his way back upstairs to the bar. In the bathroom, I look at myself in the mirror. I do look hot, but how is that my fault? He asked me out. I didn’t ask him to ask me out. Should I have announced I was trans at the bar? Should I have had it printed on a t-shirt, maybe? I think about the definition of the word “lie” and wonder if I did do that. A lie by omission? If my day to day existence is a “lie” then I am lying to more people on a daily basis than anyone who has ever lived.

I continue to look at my reflection in the mirror. Before he knew me as trans, I was a woman to him. Not just a woman, but a desirable one. Then, after he knew I was trans I was just “a man”. It’s ironic, because before he back-pedalled on going on a date with me, I thought Lorenzo was a man. And now, thinking about it in the bathroom of this comedy club that I love, I can’t in good conscious say that I think he’s a “man” anymore. To me, he is a bug. A cowardly little caterpillar, devoid of a backbone or the basic decency to let me down gently. Even if he didn’t want to go out with me anymore, there were other ways he could have done it.

I decide to leave early and go home. A strange thing happens as I leave though, which is Lorenzo grabs my arm as I make my way out of the door and says “aren’t you going to say goodbye?” This really catches me off guard, because it doesn’t follow logically. Is he fucking with me? Does he feel bad about the whole thing and is trying to establish some kind of friendly normalcy. I walk off into the night, alone and shout back sarcastically “bye Lorenzo!”.

I vow to myself not to allow this incident to taint my view of the club. I vow that I will return to the club, and I will continue to enjoy myself. And since that happened, I have done so many times.

I still bump into the cowardly Lorenzo from time to time, and he pretends that nothing weird happened between us. I suppose I do, too. Until I’m in the greenroom and I tell every single act on that night about it.

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