Freak Like Me

Almost Perfect – A (sort of) Book Review

I got this book ‘Almost Perfect’ in the mail today from German Amazon and the first thing I did was tear off the cardboard fur-coat and start tearing right into it. I’d ordered it for two reasons. 1. It has a beautiful cover. No, it’s like really, this cover was designed to catch MY eye– in my mouth-fixation stage, it is a female mouth–crisp, on white. smeared lipstick and reason 2.  the author of this book sounds like a real sweetheart <3 Superficial reasons, I know, but maybe apropos to a story about covers hiding more than meets the eye…

So I order, it arrives, and I had another session with W this afternoon. And there I was in his apartment, sitting naked on a piano stool in his room, lactating like a motherfucker, milk pooling on the ground while he painted me (long story about the lactation,  let’s skip it for now*), drinking bitter, good coffee out of a yellow cup and reading ‘Almost Perfect’. Some kind of jazz was on in the background and the book kept cracking me up. What’s so funny? W would ask. It was hard to explain.

I wanted to tell him, W, I’m really digging this book. I’m feeling it very much. And I was. I am. It’s about a snooze boy who’s world gets rocked when he finds out that the girl he’s set his heart on is actually packing heat. What’s a snooze boy? Oh, you know, one of those boys  from small, American towns, generally nice, into chasing a ball of some sort and you can’t imagine ever falling in love with one of them. They’re another species. No, from another planet. Exactly what’s fascinating for me about this book–it had the power to make me imagine  falling in love with a snooze boy.

Sage is a new girl at Logan’s school and I swear, the first time Logan describes her walking into his lab, I felt such a kinship for her. No, it was more. It was like, I was her. Big ego, yes? I’m sorry, that’s what I do when I read, I identify with the characters, and ‘Perfect’ only has two major ones, so I gotta be a him or a the girl who walks in the room looking crazy, talking a little too loud, being one of the guys. She’s not super pretty, but something about her gets under your skin and I thought Fuck, I wear fake fur! Torn jeans! Big boots! Crazy dresses! I have fantasized about cutting off my hateful tits too many times to count!

My ass was still on Ws piano stool getting a cramp when I got to the point where Logan kisses Sage for the first time. It’s a nice kiss. It’s a kiss he enjoys. And then, in a fit of guilt, she tells him why she’s been acting so strange around him, why her parents are so protective and secretive of her: Sage is a boy living as a girl. Or rather a girl who does not want to live as a boy. As soon as she is out from under her parents’ control, she will get a sex change operation and be a fully-functioning female.

Logan flips! He almost hits her! He lurches out into the streets! He vomits with disgust! His biggest fear is not ‘oh, how will it work with this girl I’ve fallen in love with… what now?’ His biggest and most immediate fear is… ‘holy cow, I kissed a boy and I liked it–even though she passes completely as, and considers herself, a girl. Even though nobody knows at school.. but if someone finds out… they’ll think I’m GAY!’

And when I read that part, I laughed out loud.

W: What are you laughing about?

This snoozey dude! I wanted to yell at W. I wanted to howl ‘What a freak!’ And the moment I thought that Logan was a freak, I realized ‘Perfect’ is great no matter what you are. If you’re a snooze boy. Or if you’re a freak. Because you will judge the other side and feel how it feels. I thought, what kind of backwards ass boy gives a shit about kissing another boy (especially if she looks completely like a girl?)… what are you living in? The sixties? On another planet? It made me think I’d never really met anyone like Logan before–I’d never been to the middle of the United States! I don’t mingle with people from super small towns. I have no idea what it’s like to be someone like him; to be afraid of these things because I am one of those degenerates Logan claims to have only seen on talk-shows before he met Sage.

But I like him still, that’s the perfection of ‘Perfect’. He’s considerate, he can be lovable. He’s a moody douche sometimes, but he cracks me up with his little one-liners.

“There she was, standing like a root-beer stand in the desert.”

“So you’re Logan,” he said eventually. He said it like being Logan was some sort of dark perversion.”

And this book makes me wonder. I wondered what is it like to be someone like Logan? To never consider your sex? To not consider it like you don’t consider the sky, or you don’t consider gravity? To just accept it? I guess it’s like being white, I never question that. But what can it feel like to feel at home in your body? To know this is who you are, and be comfortable with it? I wonder what it is like to be so terrified to kiss someone of your same sex? To not want to do it any more than you would want to taste shit?  I am thinking the opposite of everything he is thinking as he slowly comes to terms with why Sage needs to live the way she does, realizing that there are other ways to think and feel and be than himself. Like I need to keep peeking into these windows and remind myself of all those other ways to think and see and feel.

Heads. Tails. But the coin is the same.
(And don’t take my word, make up your own mind…. You can get this great book here!)

[*And now for a story about lactation. This section not for the faint of heart. I had my reading in Berlin last night (!!) and that meant one full day away from the baby Nazgul. By morning this morning, my rack was ready to burst. Of course that's when someone had to sneak a pipe-bomb on our plane or some such horseshit and there I was at Shithole Airport with increasingly aching, granite tits of death. 'Just milk yourself' J suggested helpfully on my phone. Sure! Milk yourself! Why not? Where to? The handicapped bathroom? Except there was always a line! What if someone got behind me and I spent ten minutes in there going fucking Heidi the milkmaid on myself? They'd want to lynch the non-handicapped girl when she got out, let's just say that. But the hurt was getting bad. I wondered if boobs can POP.  So I eased into one of the stalls in the fem. bathroom. Lots of females outside, tapping their toes, but I'll take my time here. Lift up my shirt and face the toilet, like a little kid about to whizz thinking


Why? Is this happening to me?

Do you think the milk was obedient and went into the toilet bowl? Fuck that. It went EVERYWHERE. It was streaming off the walls. It was pooling on the ground. It was getting on my shoes. It was getting on my nerves. Why me? In the middle of this, the loudspeaker squawks. They’ve finally removed whatever tero-item from our aircraft and it is boarding. Tout de suite! French for move your ass! Chop-chop! Right now! Two hour delays so we’ve got to step on it! I stuff my aching boobs into my shirt. I rip off paper and try, so impotently, to wipe down everything. Finally in desperation, I just toss an armful of toilet paper on the ground. I tear out of the stall, blushing like a teenager after a public WC wank gone horribly horribly wrong. Wash my hands. Women shaking their heads. Cluck. Cluck. Cluck. Just look at this stall.
Oh, suck me ladies.
Just catch your flight.
It’s done, all right, but
Boobs, man. Sometimes, they turn on you just like that.

10 responses to “Freak Like Me

  1. Thank you for this extremely kind review. I think you’d like my wife, she’s had to deal with the lactation at the airport thing as well. I remember a group of puzzled TSA guys huddled around the X-ray before Sandy finally broke down and shouted ‘It’s a breast pump, okay?’

    Never been to middle America? It’s a nice place to live, but I wouldn’t want to visit here.

  2. Pingback: She waited on the couch to die… « Brian Katcher - Author

  3. Oh my god…. the AUTHOR replied to meeeeeeeee……
    ::gets all starstruck::
    ::flutters this way and that::
    ::composure, composure::
    ::clears throat::

    Dear Mr. Katcher…
    Writing the review was my pleasure; W can attest to how much I enjoyed your book, and I wish your books and your future writing all the success : ) You are an inspiration for a writing zygote such as myself.

    On breast-pumps: Oh god, yes, I own one of those torture devices and briefly debated taking it with me, but I was only going to Berlin for a glorified night, and the pump is so bulky, with all those little parts… individual cleaning of each one… only one backpack, no check on luggage… and with my breasts still drained and the world stained in optimism, I thought: Oh, just go. You’ll be fine without pumping for one night. … the rest is history.

  4. I never thought I’d bond with someone over breast pumps. I remember my friend who traveled to Mexico and had to explain to security what her pump was…not remembering that in Spanish, bomba means both pump and bomb.

    I’ll be ordering your book soon.

    • Haha, never say never, right? It’s the power of the Internets! =D
      Bomba… haha! Yeah, I think some fear of that might have been the subconscious reason for why I shirked at packing my own pump a few days ago–I could just see a big tall fritz with golden hairs on his arms, hauling me off for a full cavity check after my grossly inadequate German failed to reassure him that my breast pump wasn’t some form of light artillery. (And a disassembled breast pump just looks damn suspicious.)

      And my book shares some themes with yours–I do hope you like it. =) (It is definitely written from the other side though…)

  5. OMG MOOF HAHAHAHAHA! (laughing about your breasts not the book review). If I could add another 3 stars to this post I would.

  6. “I tear out of the stall, blushing like a teenager after a public WC wank gone horribly horribly wrong.” This is the part that has me on the ground laughing.

    • Glad I could amuse you with my silly antics :D
      The funny thing is, is that I am a reformed public wanker (god, you don’t want to know that, whatever, it’s funny though, i literally got fired from a job for jerking off too much–I mean, they didn’t say that, they fired me for not doing anything, but that’s what I was usually doing in a remote bathroom, that and looking at art-books and photography books–it was a library, I was a failed 19-year-old library assistant hahahaha) anyway, so I do have a bit of expertise in the area and usually one emerges with a goofy flush, but never the raw SHAME that was public milk expectorating. Do not recommend.

  7. I almost forgot too… it is in the PASSTTTT. Shithole Airport’s bathroom reminded me…

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