They were wonderful: a faggle of beautiful, young boys who lived at Kathedral B. They wore skirts and had pink and purple hair and did colossal amounts of drugs, which seemed only to enhance their sexual appetites, which were already nearly insatiable.
Sex, for the fairies, was an affectionate gesture. If you liked someone, you had sex with them; it was as simple as that.
And what sex they had – in every room of the house and on the front lawn and in the park across the street, in twosomes and threesomes and often more. Once, at least, they had a fairy orgy on the roof, which they videotaped and turned into a safe-sex film. I think I still have a copy of it somewhere.
Nicky was my favourite. He was seventeen and had come to Toronto from out east the year before, when his father beat him to within an inch of his life because he was gay. He was still missing a front tooth, which made him seem even prettier.
I called Nicky my kitty-cat, because he would curl into my lap and let me play with his hair while he looked up at me and talked about all of the things he had done that day. Looking back, they were all of them cats, forever lounging and stretching and purring as the days passed slowly around them.
What I liked most about the fairies was that they genuinely liked women, even though they didn’t have sex with them. I never discerned revulsion just under their words as I have with old queens, for whom the female body is merely a whipping post. No, we were mother-sisters to the fairy boys, with bodies that were as deserving of pleasure as theirs.
There are no radical fairies in grad school, which is a crying shame. It’d be so much more fun if there were.