extending the wolf and rabbit allegory
cisheterosexual interactions with transsexual butches
“Wild. It’s all wild. We’re all wild. Even humans, so far gone from nature; their morals and Xanax and technology. All the trouble they’ve created for themselves, all the years passed since they knew what it was like to discover firsthand, since before day zero.”
— Luna Streets, The Bloody Truth (2025)
Girls and rabbits and men and wolves and somehow I must be both but neither at the same time. Preyhood is not ascribed to the kind of beast I am, and predatorhood somehow can never touch cis women, for what kind of rabbit has fangs? The wolves dressed up as twitchy-nosed things with the bushy tails and beautiful eyes, smelling like nondescript sweetness that stuns the mind and wonders why you’re not the same, why you cannot be the same. No, no, no, no reason, no return, masculinity is the killer of the chaste girl, the good girl, even when it’s worn by boys that aren’t boys but are lesbians.
Wolves in rabbit’s clothing aren’t given much credit for the carnage they can unleash when they come across a meeker animal, the kind that wear combat boots and steel rings. It’s a policing of a sort, Who Is Prey and Who Is Not. You should know better, your fellow queers warned you. How to explain this bewitchment that pulled me into depths that brought back my eating disorder and heavy re-consideration of Covid mitigations so others might know how sexy I am, how sexy I could be, the better kind of bunny?
A friend asked if I considered love to be sacrificial, this great act of losing myself. I’d kill the rabbit in me over and over if I have to, if it means I could be a Big Wolf dressed as prey, served on a dinner table to those I’m told to fantasize about dominating me while in a babydoll or little slip dress. But the thing about wolves like these, they have a boner for dominance in the form of backhanded power plays. Grin and bare this, the bitch (butch? fucking autocorrect) you didn’t need was me, it always was; I wonder how that got lost in your interpretations. To go from girl to butch and wolf as rabbit to the poor little Bengali virgin who got away would make anyone else’s stomach turn, but not wolves like you. I’ll die playing the role of the offering who couldn’t sniff out apathy as violence until death came to his door.
Luna Streets / “[killing] is a privilege.” I hid, I ran, I laid down for them to eat me. Do the vultures want my carcass as well, you think? I heard they love how butches taste once the meat’s gone bad.