Miss Truliner (The Congress Fanfiction)

Miss Truliner

 (This story is based off of the characters from the 2013 film The Congress, written by Stanislaw Lem and directed by Ari Folman.)

Dylan had known she loved women since kindergarten. That was when she’d met; or rather bore witness to the force that was Alejandra Martinez. Alejandra, and her black hair, that fell like night made liquid in a cascade down her back. She always came to the schoolyard as though dressed for church, white stockings and patent leather mary janes in candy pastels that invariably matched her dresses. She must have had a hundred pairs. She looked like an angel; her behaviour however had been anything but.

            That’s what Dylan loved about Alejandra, her wickedness. It was evidenced in the way she’d swing her jump rope over her head like a lasso, snapping it at boys who dared to venture too close. Dylan thrilled to watch her tackle children in the sandbox, savaging them for offenses only Alejandra understood. By the end of each day, her stockings were run, her skirts torn, and she was all the more beautiful for it.

            Here was no porcelain doll, meant to line shelves and collect dust with a demure, unquestioning smile. Alejandra was a wild, unbridled chaos that wore beauty as a guise, tempting her prey into a dance with madness. Dylan wanted desperately to join the dance.

           She herself had only spoken to this exquisite loralei once, or rather been spoken to. Adorn in pale sea foam blue, Alejandra stormed over with all the tumult of an ocean tempest, spat in Dylan’s face and said with a delicious smirk “Dylan is a boys name.”

            Dylan, physically incapable of containing her exhilaration, promptly pissed her pants. She went home that day, her nose bloodied, head swimming with emotions she would only later understand.

            Of course, it was in the rabid assault of understanding delivered via a Google search. Her query seemed innocent enough: girls who like girls. Confronted with salacious pornography and a strange orbs of motionless silicone bolted on to women’s chests, she wanted to weep. These were mere pantomimes of romance, vulgar and meaningless.

There were no shortage of YouTube rants and Vlogs that called her kind abominations and unnatural. She learned the words “Bull-dyke” and “Rug-Muncher” that day. It was on this same web venture that she received her introduction to the archetype of those strange creatures society had dubbed  "lesbians”. These women wore their sexuality like a uniform, short hair, men’s shirts, barefaced and brazen. Where were the femme fatales, the tough but beautiful girls from the wrong side of the tracks? Apparently, they all liked boys.

She’d decided to supress her “unnatural” desires. Still, she never truly fell out of love with the allure of ruthless beauties and wicked princesses.

           She’d tried her hand at relationships with men throughout high school, going through the motions in a robotic, impassive fashion. In fact, it was her commitment to concealing the truth that made her an exceptional girl friend; everything was done for the benefit of her partners. She came to resent the obvious fact that they expected as much.

She’d stumbled across enough porn to know the right things to say, the sultry coos and groans that were expected from her. It was easy enough to take on the silly postures demanded during intercourse, and easier still to just lay there, as she did most times, and endure what she could only describe as being plunged… like a toilet.

The men never minded though. They always rolled over, drowsy but mollified; she was just a hole in the mattress. How she envied that luxury, to be so easily sated. Anatomy it seemed had played a cruel trick upon her.