kitten

By Olive Nuttall

Rosemary, a trans girl, has many conflicting qualities. She' s super smart but flawed, polyamorous but timid, promiscuous but inexperienced. She' s surprising, and surprised by herself.A call that Rosemary' s grandmother is dying puts her on the bus from Te Whanganui-a-Tara back to Kirikiriroa. There, with her mother, half-sister, and other family and friends, she remembers the damage of her past. And then Thorn Rosemary' s long-distance daddy shows up. Often wildly funny, and with a tender, matter-of-fact closeness to the enigmatic Rosemary, kitten has the wisdom that nothing in life is straightforwardly good or bad. It is a novel for readers who want to be seen and understood, or to see and understand.For all its darkness and hurt, kitten is a wholesome and consoling love story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria University Press
• Release date: Mar 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9781776921911

Book preview

one

I have eighty matches in my area on Tinder. That’s bisexual Tinder, by the way. I’m open to anyone who wants me. I match with a lot of cis guys, but those aren’t real matches. Cis guys just swipe yes on every girl and then if any girls swipe yes on them they go back and cull the unfuckables. So I match with heaps of guys who realise I’m a tranny and straight away unmatch me. Thank gods, honestly. Cis girls pick more judiciously, so I love it when we match, but they’re always femmes and they never message first. Fuck that. I don’t wake up every morning and take 200mg of spiro and 3mg of estradiol not to be pursued.

The only ones I ever message first are big cis daddies with beards, and I only do that because the mutual objectification is easy and I know they will immediately call me their little slut, and they love to tell me what they’re gonna do to me, and I know that when I message them about my never-yet-fucked arsehole they are squeezing their cocks in their heavy fists, and when they abruptly quit messaging after the first few frantic minutes, I know I will never have to meet up with them, and at the end of the day, sometimes I just need to know that somebody, somewhere, is thinking about me when they cum.

Queers though—and I mean actual queers, not the might-as-well-be-straight LGBTQIA+ clean and shiny faux homos that wouldn’t be caught dead in bed with a girl like me—are obviously the cream of the crop. When I match with another doll, I find her Insta and scroll through it from start to finish. Some girls start Instas at the beginning of their transition, but if you scroll back on other girls, they’ve kept all the photos from their boymoding life. I could never, to be honest, but I’m also kind of jealous that they can. Like, how come they aren’t ashamed? Anyway, I love matching with the girls. It’s always a revelation. Not only do I have sisters hidden all within an 80km radius of my bed, they might also want to commit incest with me. But that never happens because, like I said, I never message first.

The real hotties are the trans mascs and the non-binary people. They always message first, and they normally want to know me before they fuck me. Which is gorgeous, because even though I’m thirsty all of the time, and I am categorically a slut, I can’t really get there with an actual person unless I can fall in love with them a little bit first. I thought that was gonna happen with James.

I’d been messaging James on Tinder, and then Insta for the last fortnight. He was polyamorous, like me, and a total hottie, plus he was t4t like the girls in that Torrey Peters story. He had lots of pics of him shirtless, at the beach and at cute queer parties with his friends. I liked the hair that covered his soft belly and flat chest, and his PhD and receding hairline pinged hard on my daddy radar. It’s so cheesy, but honestly, I really liked his smile. He smiled in all his photos, and he had one of those really bright gorgeous ones, all cheeks and shiny half-closed eyes. All of his messages were super sweet. He told me I was beautiful, and asked me all about my life, like actual proper conversation.

He asked me out on a date first—which I love—and suggested we go to the beach—which I don’t love. Even before I started getting laser I was basically a vampire, so the beach is like my number one hostile environment, and then I didn’t really have any money to go out for food so I made some excuse about that, and in the end James just invited me over to his, which suited me perfectly.

James met me at the door of his little colonial flat with that gorgeous smile and a posy of white lilies. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I have no idea what flowers mean. Are these okay? I hope they’re okay! Did you have any trouble finding me?’

I laughed and blushed. I love getting flowers, and honestly, I feel like white flowers have something to do with death, but that was okay, because I’d tried to dress up in, like, a sexy soft goth look, so it was on theme, and I loved that he got them for me anyway.

We sat at James’ kitchen table with his flatmate, Charlie. Charlie put on Orville Peck and James rolled his eyes.

‘Charlie loves sad cowboys.’

Was I allowed to laugh at Charlie?

Charlie shrugged. ‘It is what it is.’

I cleared my throat. ‘I used to watch Brokeback Mountain once a year at least—before I came out—to, like, get all my crying done.’

Charlie grinned. ‘I bet you cry all the time now though, right? On estrogen?’

James flicked on the jug and gestured at a stack of herbal teas.

I asked for peppermint because I was worried James would think I had bad breath, despite my freshly brushed teeth, the litres of water I had already drunk that morning, and the two breath mints I had sucked away to nothing on the bus ride over.

Charlie leaned forward. ‘It’s just that I’m pretty sure T has blocked up my tear ducts.’

James mmmmed his agreement.

‘I used to cry A LOT,’ continued Charlie, ‘but not since T.’

I thought about it. ‘I noticed a difference. Even before I started HRT, though. As soon as I realised, Oh shit—I’m a woman, I started crying over everything. But I don’t know, maybe I already had low testosterone?’ This was kind of a half-truth, because I know I used to have pretty high testosterone. My-body-will-probably-never-recover-from-it high testosterone.

Charlie nodded. ‘Hmmm, maybe.’

I took one sip of peppermint tea and immediately burnt my mouth. I swallowed, blinking away tears, and asked James if he wanted to give me a tour of the house.

In James’ room, I closed the door behind us and climbed onto his bed. He had the collected diaries of Lou Sullivan on his bedside table. I picked up the book.

‘I haven’t read this yet, but everyone says it’s amazing, right?’ I laid back against his pillows and flipped open the paperback.

‘I love Lou Sullivan so much.’ James beamed. ‘It’s probably my favourite book.’ He sat on the bed beside me.

I turned to him and bit my lip. ‘Sorry if this is weird to ask, but does going on T make you like, really horny?’

James chuckled. ‘Um yeah, for me it definitely did, but then again I was kind of a horny teenager anyway.’

I nodded.

James moved closer. ‘Do you want to—’

I leaned in, cutting him off.

James kissed me and I dropped Lou Sullivan onto the bed beside us.

Orville Peck played in the next room. It was muffled by the wall—the way music sounds when you’re little and the adults have stayed up to drink.

I remembered the dark varnish on the frame of my parents’ bed. It must have been something cheap, pine with a veneer or a really dark polyurethane coating or something. Whatever was affordable in the early nineties. In the summer, my folks would put a mosquito net over the bed and leave the French doors open.

I wrapped my legs around James and wondered if he could feel my small hard girl dick against his belly through my panties, stockings, and skirt.

There was a party at my parents’ house that night. My dad had piled a stack of offcut branches and dry tī kōuka leaves in the backyard, and my mum had set it alight. A couple of aunties and uncles—not real aunties and uncles—had come out from the city to our house in the country. Also, my dad had my older brother, Hamish, for the weekend, which was really exciting. It was my first time meeting him, and when it got dark, my folks put the two of us down to sleep, together in their bed.

James tucked his hand between the bottom of my crop top and belly. He stopped there and met my eyes. I smiled yes. He slipped my top off, and I held my breath.

Hamish told me what to do, and I did it. It was too hot, with the duvet tented over our little bodies.

I sat up and James unhooked my bra. I tugged at his T-shirt, and he pulled it off. James kissed down my neck, and I dropped back onto the bed.

I was only little, four or five I think, but I knew it was an initiation. After that, it was a game we played when Hamish stayed with us. But I only really remember what we did the first time.

James sucked on my small titties. I gasped and squirmed underneath him. He kissed down my belly and pushed up my short skirt.

James looked up from my waist, serious and hungry. ‘Do you want this?’ He tucked his middle and forefinger under the waistband of my stockings and panties.

I nodded; my breath came short. ‘Yes please.’

James leaned out of his front door. I hung my arms over his shoulders, and he kissed me. I’m taller than him, but I couldn’t really tell when he kissed me. Plus, I love a short king, and everyone’s taller than you once you get down on your knees anyway, so what does it matter?

‘Thank you so much for everything.’ I stepped back onto the porch with my lilies pressed to my chest.

James blinked with exaggerated astonishment. ‘No! Thank you. Thank you for coming all the way over here.’

‘I had such a gorgeous time.’ I lowered my voice for his flatmate's sake—which was definitely too little, too late. ‘I mean I, like, really enjoyed getting fucked by you.’

‘And I really enjoyed fucking you.’ James gave me one of his big smiles. ‘Should I walk you to your bus stop?’

I shook my head. ‘Thank you for the flowers.’ I waved the posy and turned down his steps.

James’ neighbours sat on their front porch, chatting. I felt their eyes on me. They were wearing work boots and rolling fags from a pouch of Riverstone. I tried not to look at them looking at me, opting instead to keep my eyes on the footpath and feel a little sick. There’s that scene in the first or second episode of Euphoria when Hunter Schafer cycles home from the motel where this daddy has just fucked her. She’s dressed in a pastel goth fit, and her fishnet stockings are torn away down the back of her legs. The daddy ripped them like that before he fucked her. And it is so aesthetic. She looks like a goddess. James hadn’t ripped my stockings. I sort of wished he had. I tried really hard to just breathe and not imagine what I looked like to the neighbours as I passed by. They didn’t say anything. Just before the corner, I risked a peek back. They weren’t even looking.

I had a missed call from my mum and two from my dad. I took a seat while I waited for the bus and selected my mum’s number. Kia ora, this is Fiona Madden’s phone . . . I hung up and dialled my dad, John. The phone rang once.

‘Rosemary. Hi.’ He was out of breath.

‘Sorry I missed your calls—’

‘No, no, it’s okay. Actually, I’m up at the hospital. It’s your nana. Fi is in the ward with her now.’

‘What happened?’

‘Not sure yet. A stroke, they think.’

‘Are you okay?’

John made an awww sound to acknowledge my concern. ‘I’m fine. Fi is obviously worried about her mum. Look, if you can get the time off work, I think you should come up.’

‘Okay. Of course.’ I said this quickly, not because I wanted to, but because that’s what you’re supposed to say. ‘I can come.’ I felt instant dread and tried to hedge. ‘I think.’

‘I’ll buy you a bus ticket.’

Fuck. ‘Okay. I can come.’

‘Love you.’

‘Love you.’

John hung up.

I looked at the phone in my hand. The call time was displayed against a black background: Dad 1.47 minutes. I’d said, I can come. I hadn’t