NOAH TRUONG
Persistent Desire
The first time we met, I barely carved out a path to you. Too many greedy butches besieged the way. I competed against a soft blonde, each of us trying to cover the other’s voice to ask you out. i’m going there. i’ll be there at 9. will you come ? where r u headed to ? can I get your number ? will you take mine ? It felt like falling back in a teenage boyish girl body, pulling a face on the bench of a track field blurred by the voracious stomping of a group of boys in sneakers and track shorts. Their temples drenching their wild eyes like those of domesticated horses. Lust. Envy. Hate. Lust. Envy. Hate. Each one of them debating which of these three corridors of madness can best carry them to the finish line. (but the butch seemed nice as far as I can remember, evthg cool).
I never meant to be on the race. I skipped as far as the information session. You were fresh blood, a dancer, American, assertive. A mesmerizing lesbian. I’d rather just go home and watch Daria for the 12th time.
Daria likes to lose. She dismisses winning before the race even occurs. She shrugs it away and finds herself a team of like-minded weirdos who will sign up for chess.
I am Daria. A thorough, content loser. I do not race for the shiniest cup or the highest rank of the team. I lose with the inner grace of the surrendered. My retreat feels like chivalry. There is discreet greatness in caring for the smaller feats.
You flew back.
I did not think of you then, except as: « far away ».You came back in the last days of June. Exactly 57 weeks later. I didn’t count: Google Photos says so. It was Paris “Pride des banlieues”. I extended you an invitation to partake in the party. Queer hospitality. I thought so little of me at the time I was surprised to see you cross a lawn to meet us. Do you know of the days when the tiniest kindness robs you of your composure? I hid in any friend’s lap. Sunbeams scared me away.
We hadn’t had a chance to talk before. Then we did. You grew up with English and bits of Tagalog. You liked poetry. I told you my dad was born in Manilla. You wanted to know about the lesbian authors I liked, and when I listed them, I kind of remembered my voice used to be firm.
Note: when having faced violence, one is always keen to enumerate all that one has learned “from” it. It goes like: look, had I not suffered this, perhaps I would not have understood [replace with whatever bullshit]. I do not share this opinion. I was scared. I wish I could have had a chat with you without peeking behind my back.
I said: “we will not have sex”. Later: we had sex. You asked me why I changed my mind. I said I could only mean “yes” after having said “no”.
I enjoyed it. You flew back. I did not think of you then, except as: “at a distance”.
June. 57 weeks later. I didn’t need counting. By then, I could call it a pattern. One of the hardest years of my life had passed. I somehow felt better than ever.
This is not contradictory. When you face violence in an intimate context, leaving is liberation. No matter the cost, the ordeal, the side damages: you can only win and get better. I got better. I was hurt. I was betrayed.
Just a little before you came were the nights that heard me say out loud to the grey wave unwrapping under the handle of my bike: “smile because it’s over”.
We both altered our plans to meet. It was a matter of three text messages, 7 words each top.
I usually resent people who aren’t texters. I get angry at them at a distance but I submit to it. I do worse out of shame. All the feelings I have, my thoughts, my bad jokes. I shave them off.
See 4.
We fucked (for details, see 19).
You were sweet.
I topped (like I do). I kept asking if you were okay. Afterwards, we spoke about the Joan Nestle’s butch femme anthology Persistent Desire. You said (your whole light brown nudity still exposed at arm’s reach): “use me, as I want to be used.” You aimed to brush shame out of me like trimmed hair on the shoulders of a young butch. Or a weary trans man.
Your moaning disheveled me. You trembled when you came.
See 1.
I met up again with you the next day with the phlegm of a hard-discount buy. Just happy to be here. No hard feelings if you go for the first-range brands or call it quit. A counterfeit bag with attitude. I got surprised every time you reached to touch me.
We fucked again.
You didn’t text. So I didn’t.
See 4.
You were leaving the next day.
See 3. See 24. See 15.
I cancelled the plan to meet you.
See 2. 9. See 13.
You cried.
I’m sorry. I was scared. For a moment, I forgot within each of us queers, there is a child that once walked up to the classroom stage and raised their finger to claim: I am worthy of love. I forgot we have all been a solo demonstrator in a packed, endless corridor of enemies.
I see you now. You tucked your tenderness beneath the razor-sharp line of your undercut. You sharpened a round yearning. Your sturdiness is a desire to be held.
See 10.
Come back next year. I’ll call you spring. I’ll call you summer.
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Noah Truong was born and lives in Paris. He is the author of two poetry collections: Manual pour changer de corps (Cambourakis, Paris, 2024) and Et Pourtant (Paulette Editrice, Lausanne, 2025). His works have been translated into English, Portuguese, Vietnamese, and Czech.
