"Trigger Warning" - Jesse Peoples

Tick, tick, tick. Rhythmic drumming patterns quicken as I pedal faster, just going around the block. No big deal, no sweat. The rain feels refreshing in the steamy June morning. Aside from the weather, it’s a gorgeous day filled with the pleasures I enjoy most on my morning off from work. Almost there, I pause at the intersection, unsure of why. Most of the time I would cross the street earlier, to avoid waiting at the light; today is not most days. Green beacons beckon me across the street, and feeling sheltered by the established traffic laws and signals, I cross. Three heartbeats pound in my chest, like I know it’s coming. What I’ve always feared, being a cyclist. Everything seems to slow down even though I never see or hear brakes.

The sound seems to have been sucked from the day. No birds call, no rain splatters in the greasy gutters, nothing except the sound of my own screaming. When did I start screaming? I don’t remember. And this place is so dark, so I turn my head to the left to see what I can see. Tire tread, most likely cheap, most certainly about to run over my head. I crawl faster, trying to hurry, but it’s like someone poured water in the hourglass and time doesn’t know how to function. It’s frozen one second, leaping forward the next. The light from the overcast sky finally shines in my face as I reach the edge of the undercarriage, welcomed by the helping hand of a stranger. I finally realize he’s been shouting too, at the driver. “STOP! STOP! STOP! For CHRIST’S sake STOP!” He pulls me out, and the driver, with his front right tire inches from my face, finally applies brakes. The Helper pulls me out from harm but is afraid to move me. None of the people on the street know what to do. I can’t recognize any faces, because I can’t see: my glasses are embedded partially in my face and partially scattered on the ground. 

Priapism:  a medical condition in which the erect penis does not return to its flaccid state within four hours. Usually caused by some sort of trauma or medication. As I lay there waiting for the ambulance to arrive, I recall many people around but no one is helping me. They think my spine may be broken, or that I have some sort of internal injury causing the erection in my pants. It’s then that I realize I have to tell a potentially embarrassing truth: I’m female-to-male transgender, and the “erection” in my pants is not a potentially harmful medical condition.  Because the hospital is so close, they don’t cut off my clothes in the ambulance. They do take me to the closest hospital, which also happens to be the hospital in which my father is head of Human Resources. 

In the ER, laying naked as the day I was born on a hospital gurney, my secret that I’ve tried to bury, and ignore all my life is exposed, standing at attention for all the small city doctors and nurses to see. I only hope they’re more distracted with my health than the fact that I’m quietly crying in absolute and utter humiliation. Before my father comes in, my girlfriend enters the room. I start laughing, because at this point it can’t get any worse right? Covered in blood and unable to move my head, she comes to my face and smiles, seeing I’m okay.  “Honey, you’re never going to believe what I was wearing when they picked me up.” She looks in the bag of my personal effects, to find the dildo. “We have to get this out before your dad sees it. He’d be mortified!” she says, laughing.  And I can only nod, overcome with hysterical laughter.