Thursday, March 21, 2019

A Very Pretty Boy

"After putting it on, you take a tissue, fold it up, and press it to your lips like this," my mother said, appearing to kiss the Kleenex, as she demonstrated to me the proper way a lady put on lipstick. I had been standing there, enchanted, a child of perhaps nine or ten, watching my mother doll herself up for an evening out.

It was the only education in the feminine arts that my mother ever shared with me. Perhaps its uniqueness is why I remember it so distinctly. Being that I was a boy, I guess I should be glad that she bothered to share even that information with me. In the decades that have passed, I have sometimes wondered why she even did, since my interest in femininity was always a sore-spot between my mother and myself. The only one we ever really had.

My mother was a very beautiful woman - a real looker. She was also quite the clothes-horse, and other women always complemented her on her outfits and her fashion sense. It being the early 70's, a woman making herself presentable for public consumption was a much more involved procedure than it generally is for women today. Curlers, hairspray, foundation, eyeliner, mascara, blush, lipstick, and then foundation garments, garters, stockings, and a slip, before the beautiful dresses or skirts and blouses even went on. I found it all fascinating; much more fascinating obviously than would be normal, for a normal boy.

But I had never been a normal boy. Instead, I had always been a very pretty boy. I remember how women would always tell my mother how "Any woman would kill to have such beautiful blonde hair," or such long pretty eyelashes, or such high cheekbones, or cute nose, or pouty lips, as her little boy did. I remember many women telling my mother that "I should have been a girl," that I was, "Almost too pretty to be a boy,"

Perhaps in the beginning my mother accepted those statements as the innocent, well-meaning compliments on my beauty they were intended as. But as time went on, I mostly remember how irritated she would become at them. Until finally, she no longer allowed me to wear my hair longer, and had the barber cut it very short, and any display of feminine behavior on my part would result in my being corrected that "Boys don't act like that," or "Boys don't do that," and the withholding of affection and praise until my behavior became more acceptable for a male child. It wasn't until after my mother's death, fifty years later, after I had transitioned, that I learned from an aunt what had started the conflict between her and my mother that I was always aware of  growing-up - my aunt had observed me playing so gently and happily with my female cousins at some family event, and had commented to my mother that I was "More like a little girl, than a little boy." My aunt hadn't meant it meanly, it was just an observation of an obvious fact. But it infuriated my mother, and I guess my mother never got over my aunt implying that her son, that she wanted to be so proud of, was a sissy. Because that's what boys who acted like girls were considered back then - and it was a very embarrassing thing in those days.

My first playmates when I was a child, before I started school in what would have been the late 1960's, were girls. There was Irene, the only child daughter of the Ukrainian immigrant couple who lived behind us, in our brand-new 60's tract house development, and Satchi, only child daughter of the Japanese couple who lived next door. There were boys in the neighborhood, but they either lived way down the street - farther than I was allowed to go at that age, or were a few years older, and not suitable playmates for a 5 or 6 year old. Naturally, being outvoted, we tended to play girl-games. I don't remember there being any issues of me doing that with them, until one day, when we were playing at having a Tea Party in Satchi's backyard, and my mother came outside from her housework and discovered to her angry dismay that her son, like the girls he was playing with, was dressed appropriately for such an activity, in one of Satchi's little-girl dresses. Though I don't remember exactly how it came about, or if Satchi's mother had helped, I do remember the dress: it was a pretty blue dress with white polka dots, and a blue ribbon sash at the waist, above the short, poufed-out skirt. I remember her first seeing me wearing it, and the confused look on her face, before it turned to anger. She clearly didn't recognize me, at first, not with the matching blue ribbon holding my longish blonde pageboy hair behind my ears, and even matching little blue flats with a strap over the instep, and white ankle socks. She was furious. I remember when it finally dawned on her that this pretty little blonde girl was her son, she grabbed me by the arm, dragged me in the house, yelled at me to take it all off, and put on my own clothes, then took the dress and shoes back to Satchi's house, and gave her mother a piece of her mind for allowing her son to do such a disgraceful thing. That was the end of me being allowed to play with the girls. I really had no idea what I had done wrong. It was very confusing for me at that age.

When I was a child, there were no video games, Internet, or even VCR's and videotaped movies. When not in school, kids played, mostly outside, and mostly games that we created ourselves. We acted-out our favorite TV shows, or movies, or stories from books that we had read. And generally, after a certain age boys played with other boys, and girls with other girls, beginning the separation of the sexes that would rule our lives, until we were older, and our interest in each other would become more natural, acceptable, understandable, and prurient.

My playmates become other boys, and the games changed, become more physical, active, and typical of boys. I was never interested in sports. I was poor at baseball, and always being the smallest kid my age on the street, generally got murdered in football. But I did enjoy playing more creative and imaginative games, especailly those where we acted-out playing our favorite TV shows, or movies that we had seen.

If we played Star Trek, I would rarely be Capt. Kirk or Mr. Spock, nor even Bones, Scotty, or Sulu or Chekhov - instead, I would be Yeoman Rand, the gorgeous, obedient bombshell. If we played Hogan's Heroes, I would wind-up being Tiger, the beautiful, blonde French Underground agent, captured by the enemy, and patiently waiting to be rescued from the clutches of the Germans. Willingly, because those were the characters I was able to relate to, and that I wanted to emulate. None of the other boys teased me about it at that time - none of the other boys wanted to play the girl.

But if my mother would catch me, innocently wearing one of her or my younger sisters dresses, or a pair of her heels, mincing around, or tied to a chair as the Damsel in Distress as part of our play, there would always be holy-hell to pay. Eventually, as any child would, I learned to put aside my natural inclinations towards the feminine, and did what obviously pleased my mother and the other adults, and began acting more like a boy. I was never comfortable with it, but children tend to do what pleases adults, and so did I. With time, acting like a boy, became second-nature to me. If I did so I received praise and acceptance, not just from my mother, but from others as well. But it was never my first nature.

I accomplished and achieved it for the next thirty-five years by second-guessing everything I said, and everything I did. Every word, every mannerism, every action would be fed into a mental flow chart to be evaluated if I was acting masculine, or feminine. With time I didn't even realize I was doing it anymore. It just became what I thought was acceptable or unacceptable behavior.

There is always a price to be paid for acting against one's nature. In my case, I became a disruptive child in school. Smart-alecky, rebellious, always at odds with the powers that be, and the system itself - the system that was always trying to tell me I was something that I knew I was not. I also learned to take what I learned with a grain of salt. The system told me I was a boy; what else was the system lying to me about? I also became more withdrawn than I was when I was a younger child - less trusting of others, and preferring to have a a couple close friends, rather than to be liked or appreciated by the majority. But even with those few close friends, there was always a wall - thoughts, and a secret that could never be revealed. Especially as I grew older, and closer to adolescence. In those days, the worst thing you could be, the worst insult you could hurl at another boy, was "fag," or "sissy," or any other suggestion that you were not wholly and totally male, heterosexual, and just like every other guy.

Looking back, I'm surprised that I didn't become an actor. To achieve my male disguise, I created a character that I played. That character was exactly the opposite, I now see, than who I really was. I also now see that it was why I always had trouble forming close-relationships with others. Whenever I started becoming really close to another person, either as a friend when I was younger, or as a romantic interest later as a teenager and adult, I would always end-up doing something eventually to wreck it, and end the relationship. I never understood why, but whenever someone else really began to like me, or try to get very close to me, I would be overcome with uncomfortableness about the relationship. It wasn't until after I transitioned, and finally got to be myself that I realized that what I had felt, and what had made me uncomfortable, was my guilt. Though I wasn't conscious of it, subconsciously I think I new that I was a phony. This person that the other person had begun to like was a phony, and I knew it. They weren't liking me for who I was, they were liking or falling in love with the character I played to hide my feminine nature. That pattern repeated itself over and over in my relationships with everyone from grade school, to my late 40's. In my entire, now 56-years I have never had a long-term romantic relationship with another person. I always ran for the exit, jumped out of the car, or did something terrible to the other person before it could get that serious - before I would have to be honest with that person about who I really was.

After a certain age, around twelve or so, I was fully aware that I was not like other boys. They did things and acted in ways that I was at a complete loss to understand. Though I understood the few girls I knew better, I also knew by this time for the obvious reasons that I was not one of them, either. I didn't know what I was. There was nothing else like me in sight. The smart thing to do was keep it a secret. I took no chances that anyone would suspect that I was anything but what I appeared to be - a red-blooded, all-American, male.

I was a big fan of science fiction by this age, and also a devotee of reading every book I could get my hands on about UFO's, Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, and even Erich von Daniken's books about ancient astronauts. Only in those pages containing things that the rest of the world said could not be, and where nonsense did the world make any sense to me - I was nonsense, I was something that everyone said could not be. Clearly a boy, and yet, I knew, even then, not one. At times I even convince myself that I was not a human being at all - I was an alien, somehow stranded here on this strange planet, alone, one-of-a-kind. How I wished sometimes when I went to bed at night that the ship would come back and rescue me from this weird place where I had to pretend to be one of them to fit in.

And then one day, when I was fourteen, which would have been around 1977, I was home sick from school, and on the TV, I think it was The Phil Donahue Show, I saw the most incredible thing. A pretty young blonde lady who was only a few years older than me, was telling the story of how she used to be a boy! They said she was a transsexual. Finally, I not only had a name to put on what I was, but I know knew I was not the only one. Because up till then, I thought I was the only person in the world like me.

Understand, though transsexuals, and other gender-deviant people are everywhere these days, that was just not the case in 1977. This was not something that was discussed or talked about, or even generally known by people in that era. It was not only strange-sounding to people, it was downright blasphemous and sinful to many people, especially in the devout Roman-Catholic environment that I was a product of. Polite society didn't not even acknowledge that such things existed, and if they did it was clearly wrong, and such people were obviously freaks and weirdos. Which meant that though I now knew what I was, it also meant that my instinct to keep it secret was right on the money.

But there before my astounded eyes and ears she told her story, which was the same as my story. Though some of the details were different, it was the same feelings, the same confusion, the same going to bed each night for years on end praying to God that she would wake-up as a girl in the morning, until finally she, like I gave-up on God, who if he even existed, obviously didn't care. I would come to learn later, as the years went on, and I met others like myself, that we all share that same story, differing only in minor details. The shame, the guilt, the withholding of affection by adults for behavior and feelings that were not acceptably masculine-enough, it's always there, at least in the stories of transsexuals from my generation that I've heard. As well as the decision that desire must remain secret. In earlier ages, boys who knew they were actually girls went into the closet early, and most stayed there for the rest of their lives. I'm sure many of them still do.

My experiments in gender had by this time long-ago moved into the realm if the secret. I shared those feelings with no one. Often, perhaps most of the time, I even denied them to myself. But when I was home alone, my parents having taken my sister and gone somewhere, it wouldn't be more than a minute after their car was down the street and out of sight, that I was in my mother's, or my sister's closet, trying on their clothing, looking at myself in the mirror, and imagining I was a girl, and not the boy that I had been so cruelly sentenced to being.

I still have the memory of when at 15 or so, I tried on a beautiful red and orange off-the-shoulder peasant dress that my sister had just gotten, fluffed-up my short blonde hair - which had somehow managed to grow unusually longer than my mother had generally let me keep it - pulled my bangs straight across my forehead above my eyes, looked in the mirror, and could not distinguish myself from any other teenage girl. It was stolen moments like that which were my only connection to my femininity during those years. Overcome with how beautiful I could be if I was allowed to, I then dipped into her make-up. After the mascara and lipstick, there was no denying it to myself - this looked right, and felt right. This was who I was, and what I wanted to be. It was also when I learned that mascara ran if you cried while wearing it, because cry I did when I realized I had to take it all off, because my family would soon be coming home. From then on, all the way to current day, that always became the hardest part: taking it off - wiping-off the make-up, taking-off the wig or rearranging my hair back into a male style. Though I eventually stopped actually crying when doing so, it always has made me feel like crying.

Around this time, junior high school, is when I learned I had to man-up in the rest of my life, if I didn't want to be constantly picked-on by the other boys. I had spent the previous eight years at a Catholic school, but that year I had talked my parents into letting me attend public school, so I could be with the other kids from the neighborhood. I spent most of ninth grade running between classes, because there were always bullies gunning for the tiny, short little blonde boy with the high-pitched voice who looked and sounded like a girl. But the other boys I had hung-around with on my street soon started avoiding me at school. Junior high is a brutal place, a jungle, and I was a target - being seen with me made them a target too, so I guess they decided not to be. My only friend that year was the weirdest girl in the school, whom nobody talked to. She didn't bother with make-up, or her hair like the other girls did back then, all she cared about was Star Trek. She had the audio from all the shows recorded on cassette tapes, and we'd sit together at lunch or study hall and listen to them, and talk about Star Trek, and other science fiction. She told me she was actually a Vulcan. I really didn't judge her on that point. Who knows, maybe she was? I wasn't what I appeared to be either, and judging human behavior by the way we were both treated, being a Vulcan was obviously a nicer thing than being a human being. Vulcans didn't laugh at and make fun of me, or knock my books out my hand, or try to drag me into the bathroom to give me a "swirly," which is where they shoved your head in the toilet and flushed it. I came to really like that Vulcan. I don't remember her name anymore, but I hope she finally made it back to her planet, too.

I had learned my lesson that horrid year. There was no way I was going to survive high school if I didn't become someone other than who I was. So the next year, I decided to follow my parent's wish and transfer to an all-boys Catholic high school, and I set-out to become the complete opposite of what I had been up to then, which was very masculine.

I became a very different person. I started paying more attention to the way other guys acted, and began emulating them. I learned to both deepen my voice, and say as little as possible. Away went the talkative child, who always telegraphed whatever they were feeling by their facial expressions, replaced by a strong, silent young man, who's poker face gave away nothing of what they were thinking. I also figuratively put a rod up my ass, and began walking in a slower, lumbering, masculine manner, shoulders back, head up, with a calm, cool stride. All of a sudden, I not only had no more bullies, I actually made a bunch of friends! I even belonged to a group.  Sort of between the regular guys, and the brainiacs, light geeks, if you will. As sophomores, we  had friends who were juniors or seniors, so we were left alone by the jocks, who mostly amused themselves with the weaker members of their own group, rather than anyone else. And even the few troublemakers our own age left us alone, after I wound-up in a fight with a would-be bully who had a reputation for being tough, that left him with a broken finger, and a lung-full of Cleveland Spring puddle water. My friends pulled me off of him, they were afraid I was going to drown him. I might have. Something in me at that moment just snapped. I was tired of being pushed-around. That guy just picked the wrong target on the wrong day. But neither him, nor any other bully bothered me or my friends after that. And that, learned, is how it's done in manworld, at it's high school mentality phase.

I even played sports, and won a Varsity Letter in Swimming my first year at it. The facade I had so skillfully created was a smashing success. I was liked, respected, and thought of as a normal, masculine guy. Except, in my own mind, when alone, when the dirty secret I was so guilty of back then, the fact that every chance I got to be alone at home, I dressed myself as close as I could to how other girls my age dressed, put on make-up, and styled my hair in a feminine manner, and would stare absolutely thrilled and astounded at how beautiful a teen-age girl I was. It took very little in those days. I didn't shave yet, there was nothing but the lightest peach fuzz there, so no foundation was needed. Just a little mascara, a little eyebrow pencil, a little pink lip-gloss, comb my bangs across my forehead, fluff-up the rest of it with some hairspray and voila, young-man became young-lady. A very hot one at that. I was slim and lithe, with beautiful high-nordic cheekbones, big, blue eyes, and naturally golden-blonde hair.

I learned very soon that men liked me too. Because there comes a day in every trannie's life, when they're no longer satisfied admiring themselves in private - that was just to convince themselves they looked convincing-enough, and wouldn't be laughed at, or worse. Now it was time to get other's opinions. The first time I ever went out dressed en-femme in public, I was 17-years old, and had just gotten my driver's license. I must have been extraordinarily brave that night. Somehow, I don't remember actually how it happened, my sister ended-up helping me. I still remember what I wore: a white silk blouse of my mother's, with the little bow at the collar, and her brown, courdory wrap-around skirt. As well as her high-heeled, brown, leather sandals, with suntan-colored pantyhose.  I remember my sister taking me into her room, sitting me down on her bed facing her mirror, and combing and styling my hair for me, and adding some blue eyeshadow and some eye-liner. When she was done I looked like Debbie Harry, dressed to work as a secretary. My sister assured me, "Nobody in the world can tell your not a girl," and I imagine that gave me the courage to do it.

I went to Gold Circle. Suddenly I was just another young woman out shopping after work. I blended right in with them. Except with some men. They openly leered at me, looking me up and down, and from the salacious approval they displayed, I knew right from the start I was passing. My goal was to purchase a pair of wooden-heeled, Candi's mules. Along with a stolen from the garbage can pair of my sister's jeans and one of her t-shirts that no longer fit her, it was to be the first item I purchased to go with my first, very-own female wardrobe.

Maybe had I been made, and laughed at right then from the get-go, things might have turned-out differently. I might have went back further in the closet, and never done it again. But my sister was right - nobody did have a clue. The women in the store treated my like I was one of them, and the men as I mentioned, seemed to take great delight in my presence. They said hello, and smiled at me, and held doors open for me, it really was a whole different world. I must have liked it, because that successful first experiment turned into an obsession.

When I got a job, and bought my first car, a '69 Plymouth with a huge trunk, my experiments became frequent, even obsessive. With my own money, I could now afford to go and buy my own things, instead of sneaking them from my mother or sister. The huge trunk on the Fury allowed me to hide them there, so they wouldn't magically dissapear like the girl things I tried to hide in my room. Soon I was getting dolled-up and going-out every chance I could get. It was still a secret from everybody, except my sister who seemed strangely acquiescent to it, not even ratting me out to my mom on those occasions when we would have a fight with each other over something as a brother and sister will.

It might have even stayed that way. But as fate always would for me, it intervened in a way that was about to take it to a whole new level. I will never forget the Summer of 1980.  That Summer-off between my junior and senior years, was also to be a Summer-off from being a boy. Mostly.

Sunday, January 27, 2019

Bimbos Passing In The Night

Three Years Ago.

If she wasn’t so delightfully stoned that the what could-be a wistfully painful reaction to the situation was instead just a gnawing numbness of realization, she might be shedding a tear or two, or a hundred right at this moment. But fortunately it had been really good pot.

Still, the peculiar perpendicularities and the awesome scope and reach of the joke that she had let The Universe play on her was clear enough to her in the blissful cannabolic haze of acknowledgement and understanding that allowed her to connect the widely spaced dots with less squigglier lines than she would have been able to when straight. But without the strong emotional reactions that the blessed bimbo gas had once again mercifully released her from.

Because that is essentially what she had turned herself into these past few years with his, now her’s, continued experiments of mixing marijuana with his deepest, darkest sexual fantasies: a bimbo.

A bimbo just like her friend, the now 30-year old woman sitting across from her in the hot tub. The only difference between them now she knew besides age and hair color, was that she was fully aware that she was now a bimbo - because that’s what she had purposely set out to become. While her friend was not, as she droned on about the latest loser she had embroiled herself with romantically - a 52-year old, unemployed, essentially homeless, divorced guy, with a drinking problem, and poor money handling skills. Her only major concerns seemed to be that she wasn’t really comfortable with the idea that she was probably going to have to support the both of them for the rest of her life, and that he seemed to be having some troubles performing reliably in the bedroom - which was like a real bummer, ‘cause you know, she really likes sex.

No job? No money? Homeless? Drinking problem? And a dick that didn’t work on top of it? What on earth was she fucking thinking? She wondered to herself: should I be tape recording this to play back to her when she’s straight? She was sorry, she thought, but the fact that he treated her nice and she had a lot of fun with him was not a sufficient enough reason for her to be this strung-out on a loser like that. Maybe one of those things could have been overlooked provided he had some strengths in other areas, but a guy with that many deficiencies was’t even worth a second look for a young, pretty girl her age. She’d be dealing with enough broken down male refuse like that when she reached her own age, which was coincidentally also 52. My God, she should be searching at least for a younger loser, who still had at least a chance of still turning his life around, instead of picking through the trash heap of masculinity that had already been tossed out by women older, and wiser than her.

She felt sorry for her friend. She was even inept at being a bimbo, which is like the easiest job in the world. And she was a natural born one too, not a constructed one like herself who had to actually work at being that submissive and accommodating to men. She herself at least picked men with jobs and dicks that worked.

It pained her. But not as much as something else that suddenly pained her, or more actually, pained what was left of him, some part that was still inside her after her transition to female several months ago. Her new woman eyes and heart were able in an instant to flip back through the years that he had known her, like some kind of emotional-dynamic Rolodex, and pick out all the clues that he had never noticed, which were now shockingly clear to her with her newly realized feminine emotional prowess, and then her brain, like some bimbotronic super-computer arrived at a startling and overpoweringly obvious conclusion that had completely gone over the head of the intelligent, but emotionally-crippled man that he used to be, before he became a woman.

This beautiful, 30-year old hottie, who liked to fuck like a rabbit, now sitting across from her in the hot tub, talking about men with her, like two women who are close to each other will do, had been in love with her when she had been a man!

It was suddenly so clear now. He didn't at the time, but she could now see the clues she dropped, and the cues he had missed. So many things that had never made sense to him, now made perfect sense to her, because that’s exactly how she would have played it too. Even the sudden coldness she had begun displaying toward him once she moved away to the other side of the country now had a reasonable explanation - that was when she threw in the towel - on him. On the them that in her eyes had a chance of being. That was when he became her past, and something she was trying to avoid, instead of attract. She wondered now if she had succeeded in getting over him? If not, how difficult and jarring that must be for her to now see her sitting across from her this way - a man she had wanted to love, no longer a man, but now a woman like her. It was with what she realized was a cruel attempt at self-humor that she contemplated the fact that her friend had always fallen in love with losers, was still falling in love with losers, and the he she once was had been not only no exception to that rule, but perhaps the biggest loser of her whole bunch of losers down through the years. They could at least still call themselves “men,” she could not.

He had never pursued her because he not only was already more or less committed to becoming a woman himself, but because he figured she was out of his league, both in her beauty, and with her being over 20-years younger than him. She really was young enough to be his daughter. In fact he knew her father, and he was only a year or so older than he was.

He had felt those pangs of love for her beginning as their friendship grew, but fought them back and stifled them, convincing himself that he would only embarrass both himself, and her by expressing any kind of romantic interest, and ruin the close friendship with her that he had come to cherish. In fact he treasured that friendship so much he even went further and emphasized both his transgender status, and his goal to transition as a female, as well as insisting to her that he was only attracted to males - which was mostly, but not completely true - because he figured it would knock any similar feelings she might develop right out of her pretty head, saving him from another time consuming, and ultimately painful detour from his 25-year long goal of becoming a woman. 

Because anyone with a brain would know that a pretty young girl like that could really have no real interest in a washed-up, broke, gender-dysphoric man, 20-something years older than her. It could only end in disaster.

So instead, he became like a good girlfriend to her. Someone whom she could trust, simply because he had no ulterior sexual or romantic motives. And he lived up to that, and never took advantage of her, not even in her most emotionally vulnerable moments. He was always there to listen to her, and to empathize with her over each new derelict, player and head-case she took in, fell in love with, and then had her heart broken by. But more than once he had thought to himself while listening to her cry on the phone, how much better he would have been for her than them, if he had only been younger, and had any desire to once again try to live-up to being what a woman wanted from a man.

Now, 10-years down the line, here he sat, now a she, just like her, looking hot in her own bikini, drinking beer and smoking pot in a hot tub with a fellow bimbo, talking about men. Men like the one she used to be. Men who had a shot with this beautiful woman who fucked like a rabbit and loved like a hurricane. A beautiful woman who for the first time in his life had been someone who had taken him at his word, and accepted implicitly that he was not a man, and had begun treating him not as the love interest, and perhaps soul mates they could have become, but instead another woman, just like her.

Well played, Universe. You really out did yourself with that one. I didn't see it coming at all, she thought, looking up at the cold, windy, winter Ohio sky, with it's just a few, dull stars to witness this tragic black romantic comedy playing-out below them. Assuredly they were laughing. How could they not laugh?

Could she have been the one? The part of her that was still him wondered. The one that could have saved his life, saved his masculinity? Prevented him from allowing himself to descend into this silly, stupid, helpless, weak, lonely, and now dependent on men for love and affection form?

None of the three of them would ever know now she realized, hoping there was some of that really good bimbo gas left, so she could turn off what few brain cells she still had left tonight, and with them that faint, but possibly growing dull ache that was now beginning to grip what was mostly now her’s, but still a little bit his heart. What pain he must have caused her, she realized. Like he had caused every woman he had ever loved, or who was foolish enough to love him. Another measure of guilt, for his guilt-ridden soul that she had already discarded for the fresh, new, unblemished female one she now possessed.

Starting tomorrow she would do them both a favor, and not see or talk to her anymore, even as a friend. Not because she didn’t still treasure that friendship, and not because what was left of him didn’t still love her, but rather because she did. Because those never consummated, never even fairly explored feelings of love between them would be a melancholy pall always threatening to descend on any kind of relationship they might ever have now - now that she had made her choice, and chose womanhood over manhood. It would just be another albatrosic weight around both of their necks. A sad reminder of a past that could have been but never was, that neither of their hearts needed to be carrying on top of all the other burdens they already had. They had both already made their choices. She had moved 2,000 miles away to put the pain he had caused her behind her, and drown it in California sunshine and Pacific Ocean surf; and his choice had been to become a woman, to put behind her the pain that all women caused him, and drown it in the hard cocks of misogynistic men who appreciated the horny little ditzy blonde she had turned herself into.
It was the only manly thing she had left in her that she could do for her friend - just walk away. For once, for the first and only time since they'd met, be strong for her. Be strong for both of them.

Though she was not, and would not, her friend was young, and with time would forget. Forget what used to be her name, what used to be her face, and forget the pain and how he had so callously discarded her offer of love. She would go back to California, and he would just become a hazy blur from a different time, a different place - a different life. A person who no longer was, and no longer rated any tears or heartbreak.

She raised the bowl to her pretty, pink-painted lips, with her pretty pink-painted fingers, flicked her pink Bic, took another deep hit of bimbo gas, and defiantly blew the smoke right in the face of those cruel, still-laughing stars.

Sunday, January 13, 2019

The Rules Are Different Here

"The rules are different here," used to be a Florida tourism slogan, back in the early 90's. Then South Florida had a spate of high-profile car-jackings of tourists that became a recurring theme on the evening news, and a source of monologue jokes for Jay Leno on The Tonight Show, so they changed it to something else.

Florida, the Orlando area, at least, is a strange mix of the late 20th and early 21st Centuries. They have 45-MPH speed-limits in Business Zones, that would be 25-MPH back in Ohio. They have modern, computer controlled digital Traffic Advisory signs on roads that would never rate that expense back home, yet, at the same time Garbage Collection is done the old-fashioned way, by big, burly men lifting garbage cans and bags, and not by one-operator trucks with a mechanical arm that empties the city-issued bulk trash container on wheels into the truck for him.

Men still honk their horns at pretty ladies, and hold doors open for them. If you dress the part.  In my case today, that was merely flared jeans, a gold-colored silk button front blouse, dangly-earrings, and brown leather boots with 2-inch wood-stacked heels. Daytime make-up, meaning just a little foundation, mascara, blush, and lipstick. That would not really rate as dressed-up on a Saturday afternoon back in Seven Hills, Ohio. It would be just how a lady my age who cares about her appearance might dress for grocery shopping and running errands. Sure my silk blouse is fitted tight, letting my brand-new, and still perky, C-Cup boobs jut straight-out, prominently; my heels give me a dainty, wiggly little walk in my tight jeans, showing-off my tight little rump, and flat, smooth, expertly-tucked crotch, but it's hardly hot-to-trot where I'm from.

Down here, it's foxy-lady. Both men and women look - the women, admiringly, and sometimes a little embarrassed of their own slovenly-dress, and the men, well, I can only describe it as over-joyed. They are so happy to see a femininely-dressed woman, wearing heels, and something tight, soft, and silky, with her hair arranged prettily, and wearing-make-up, instead of another wave of the sea of women in t-shirts, flip-flops and yoga-pants, hair in ponytails and chapstick passing for lipstick, that they treat me a little-bit like a movie star.  When I went into a local shop yesterday, there was only one other guy in the store with the owner. We went into the other room for my item, and when we came-out, there were 6 or 7 guys in there, all ready to greet me with smiles and helloes. The owner even joked with me while ringing me up, "You shure brought a crowd in with you." I just giggled.

I giggled. I haven't giggled in a long, long time. I've laughed, mirthlessly, a lot the last year or so, but I haven't giggled, since I was a massage-girl. with my down to my ass hair-extensions, wiggling around in a bikini or negligee and stripper heels, for men, for money; or since I was a simple hotel maid, with her bubble gum and old-school Walkman, dancing with her vacuum cleaner in her uniform and apron, and pantyhose and white soft-soled shoes; or since I was a receptionist at a local appliance store, in my tight sweater-top, and tight knee-length pencil skirt, black thigh-highs and 4-inch pumps, answering the phone, making the coffee, greeting the customers and offering them coffee. Not since I was full-on Bunny.

Happy, giggly, hot blonde, Bunny. With her simple jobs, whose main requirement was merely her female-nature, and her tendency to naively enjoy that nature. As Marylin Monroe once said, "I don't care if it's a man's world, as long as I can be a woman in it." When you're a pretty woman, that's all you have to be. Nobody expects you to be competent - and are impressed when you are. Nobody expects you to do anything hard - and is amazed when you do. But mostly, they are perfectly content just to have you around to look at - because even you, a 55-year old Parma Girl, is nicer to look at than what they see at home. And you answer the phone much sweeter and hotter than the bitchy woman accountant, who is the only other woman in the store.

In other words, since that lovely long-ago, year or so ago time before James made Bunny cut-off her beautiful, long blonde tresses (that cost her $812), then beat her back into that dark sound proof hole again, and only let her out on weekends. Because he needed to find a job that paid-enough, to pay the bills, and it was clear that the only jobs Bunny could hold that made that kind of money were stripper, and whore. And Bunny was to old to be a stripper.

In Ohio she was back in her self-imposed purgatory. And that fall from grace dropped her right into a prolonged functional depression, and a fear of pain - without the usually-accompanying fear of death.

But down here, where she wakes-up with palm trees glowing in the sunrise over her morning coffee, where everyone is always friendly and polite (except when they're driving), where little lizards scurry under the fallen leaves on warm nights, and the smell of camphor trees fill the cool, wet, morning air before dawn, Bunny has been released, again. She's happy just to be a woman. She's perfectly okay with being nothing more than some business lady's live-in maid and housekeeper. A place where she doesn't have to live-up to anything from her past, because nobody down here even knows she has a past. A place where she's cruising her '93 T-Bird between palm trees, bathed in sunshine, windows and sun roof open, 80's music playing on the stereo. . . in the middle of January.

The rules are different down here.