Young Times (continued)
The first sign of life was a slender arc cutting the darkness somewhere near my left eye. Funny, as hard as you try, you cannot open both eyes at the same time. One opens a micro second before the other.
But I digress.
The second sign of life, coming before my left eye had a chance to open even partially, was a stab of white hot pain somewhere in the back of my brain. So far, coming back to life wasn't all that appealing and I decided to give it up. And, with that decision, I vowed to stop thinking for a while and play as dead as I possibly could, hoping the pain would disappear.
After what seemed like a few minutes of deathly inactivity, my eyes crept open, ever so slowly. And painfully.
Somewhere up above me there was a ceiling, the kind with those large tiles they use to drop the height. My apartment it wasn't, and as I tried to focus without blinking, more of the room came into my peripheral vision. Papered walls, some kind of vertically striped pattern from floor to ceiling, what had to be a window covered (thank God for that) with thick gold drapes, and a window air conditioner humming along like the devils own ice pick to my brain.
Fighting the urge to vomit, I pushed myself off the pillow, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and steadied myself upright with my hands on the bed. Things were slowly coming into focus and registering in my mind even more slowly. I have always been a `see it to understand it' person and the sight that greeted me now immediately jogged my memory, even if fragmentally, as I tried to put all this in perspective.
I was naked, which is not unusual as I often sleep nude, my clothes in a heap on a chair across the room and my handbag hanging on the doorknob of what had to be the bathroom door. To my right, on the dresser along that wall, what was left of a 24 pack of Bud Lite, no more than a beer or two by my estimation, an overflowing ashtray, and a MacDonalds bag. To my left, a night stand, with another full ashtray, a crumpled beer can, and what appeared to be several used condoms.
I know the aftermath of a party when I see one and this had definitely been a hell of a party. Through the fog and the simmering pain I started piecing the memory of this one together.
Cowboys! From some dirt scratch chicken farm down near Lake Lanier in Georgia, dead heading it back down I-81 from a delivery up in PA somewhere, looking for some truck stop action here at the Daleville exit. Finding that the price of pussy was beyond their means, and not queer enough' to utilize the free services offered by any of the trolling gays who frequent the motel parking lot, they opted for a tweener' recommended by one of the overpriced (in their opinion) hookers who gave them my phone number. Never one to pass up a party, however lame the setting, I had shone up 30 minutes later and garnered their approval as passable enough to `have some fun' with. Which we apparently did. And then some!
As I caught sight of myself in the dresser mirror I reflected on that fact. At 48, I'm no spring chicken, but I've always been blessed with a slim body, an attractive face, and natural blonde hair to die for. Years of hormone use, and abuse, have rounded the curves in all the right places, while keeping me hairless enough that I only require the minimum of shaving. Oils and skin moisturizers have left me with soft, silky, creamy skin that women spend hundreds, if not thousands of dollars on maintaining. And, although I wouldn't exercise on a bad bet, my eating habits and metabolism have cooperated to keep me slim and svelte. I've purposely not attempted any kind of breast augmentation beyond what help the estrogen gave them and they've developed into nicely formed A cup boobies that show well in a padded bra. Given my height of 5 feet 5 inches, my body is, what I consider, perfectly proportioned in size. My `clitty', always undersized, has for the most part tolerated the hormones fairly well. I can get it up, with a little help, when I need to for some of the bi sex boys who dig that.
Leaving the relative security of the bed, I do a slow shuffle across the room to my handbag, where I know relieve is just a hit away. I return to the bed with the joint and fire up my first one of the day. The relief is near instant as I ease my head onto the pillow and watch the smoke curl toward the ceiling. As the pain recedes the years roll back and those far away memories take over...
Young Times (the between years – pt 1)
As full of opportunity as it sounds, being a gay male prostitute in Roanoke is not the financial gainer it's cracked up to be. As many potential customers as there are, there are more bi and gay men willing to give it way at the various hook up venues in the area. Roanoke is teeming with faggots and any chance one has to actually charge for a blow or a fuck is slim to none. Let's face it, when you close your eyes one warm mouth is as good as another, and once you get past the stigma of being with a queer it's hard to justify paying $20-25 to cum in a gay prostitutes mouth when you can do the same thing with a troller at an adult book store, or at a rest stop for free.
As young and hot as I looked I never had a chance in hell of beating that bargain.
Bill had miscalculated my street worth. He had miscalculated the whole equation of keeping an under aged sexual asset. And the combination of my expense (I had to eat, didn't I? I had to have clothes, didn't I?) versus what meager amount of income I could produce equaled a dismal financial situations that was going to cost either Bill or Clarence, or both, some out of pocket money they hadn't expected. That was strike number one.
Strike number two involved Cookie, Bill's girlfriend and former money maker. Cookie hooked for Bill and he kept her in an apartment in an old house somewhere in SE Roanoke with her aged mother. That arrangement hit the skids abruptly when Cookie was busted, not for prostitution but for shoplifting, 6 months ago. The store pressed charges, Bill didn't make bail, and Cookie was sentenced to a year in jail, six months suspended. Her mother passed away during her incarceration and now Cookie was out, short any income or income production during her jail time, with no other option but to move in with Bill until she could get back on the streets and pay her way.
And strike three came not 2 days after Cookie came to live with us. Clarence was arrested in West Virginia, in bed with a 14 year old boy at a motel near Bluefield. Never mind that the sex might have been consensual (after all, Clarence had talked his way into my pants in about 2 seconds), the bible thumping judge threw the book at him, set bail at $100,000, and scheduled trial for some 4 months away. No chance to get him out any time soon.
We had limped through strikes one and two, Bill muttering about how expensive all this was and how he might just have to put me on a bus home if Clarence didn't come up with my board, but strike three literally changed everything. Gone was any chance Clarence would foot my bill. Gone was any chance that I could contribute anything on my own. And gone, at least for a while, was any positive cash flow Cookie would provide. The writing was on the wall – I was expendable – my expense had to go. A bus ticket home would cost Bill just slightly more than it cost him to feed me for a month. So after a month he would break even and save money after that. He liked the math of that and didn't hesitate to let me know I was soon to be homeward bound.
Only I couldn't go home. The brief experience I had under first Clarence then Bill's care was enough to know that I couldn't go back to the small town I grew up in. My parents would kill me or, even worse, keep my under lock and key – physically and emotionally – to the point that life would be unbearable. The freedom I had at conservatory to be myself and the life I had lived for a short time here wasn't compatible with my family or anyone there. Discovering my sense of sexual identity had been done AWAY from there and I wanted, needed, to develop that identity somewhere else, anywhere else, than there.
I sure couldn't make any money legally. I was an underage runaway and I suspected that the police either had or were looking for me. I wasn't even allowed to leave Bill's house during the daylight hours, being chauffeured to and from the street by Bill only after dark. As I think back on it, I truly was desperate to stay away from home during that time, to the point that I preferred the locked up, lonely, existence over the loving, if overbearing, life I had left.
It was Cookie, quiet out of the blue, who hit on the solution. After listening to Bill degrade my poor performance as a street walker for the umpteenth time one day she observed, `Boy too pretty. Mo pretty dem trannys be. An dem trannys done git twenny dallas fo a blo. You think bout dat.'
After being around her for almost a week I still couldn't follow most of her nigger talking and, to be honest, I had no idea what a `tranny' was if that what she was saying.
Hummm' Bill replied, now dat sumthin. You think da boy make a tranny?'
Sho, ain't nuttin hard bout dressin like a gurl, shit I do dat eva day. Come heah boy' she said holding out her hand. Less see what Cookie can do wit you'. And with that she sat me in a kitchen chair and began running her fingers through my hair, pulling it back. With no money coming in, I hadn't had a haircut since running away from home and my hair was well over my ears and down the back of my neck. She pulled it back behind my ears and into a tight pony tail which she secured with a rubber band from her own hair.
Look good awready' she exclaimed sit still and I git some make up'. While I sat there she lightly brushed some kind of powder to my face , under my chin, and to my forehead. Then she applied a pink powder to my cheek bones, followed by red lipstick. The lipstick tasted like wax, and she made me open and close my lips on a tissue she held to my mouth. Then she showed me how roll my lips together to spread the lipstick evenly on them.
Look dat Bill' she said as she stepped back to admire her handywork, boy done look lik gurl awready'.
Damn' Bill exclaimed fo sho luk lak gurl. Fo sho. Luk dat Lesli.' And with that, Cookie took me by the arm to the hall mirror to see for myself what she had done. The result was amazing to say the least. I had never been `macho', never exuded any of the testosterone male classmates had, but I had never imagined myself a girl either. But, here in front of me, was a different story, an altogether different person starring back at me from that mirror. Even if I didn't feel it then, I saw what Cookie was talking about, what she was getting at. Although I knew who I was, I saw what I could easily imagine as one of the girls I had gone to high school with. To someone who hadn't known me, the illusion would be even more compelling. But what was her point, beyond that?
Teah you what' Bill said, maybe we try put him wit dem trannys, see he kin make a dollah. You right, he pretty any of dem is'.
`Got to git some clothes on him. Dem shorts an dat tee shirt ain gone do it. And needs shoes too. Cain be barefoot up dare' she replied.
`Aight, git him shoes and if he make a dolla up dare git him a dress or sumpin. Ain goan waste a dolla on clothes til he make a dolla on his own', Bill countered.
I got shoes' Cookie said, I loan him shoes and you pay when he make a dolla. He goan make a dolla, you bet dat.' And with that she disappeared into their bedroom and the grungy bag she had brought from jail when she first came last week, returning with a pair of black high heels that looked like they had been run over by a truck. Several times. They were tight, but as she forced them from the front, my toes squeezed into a `V' and my heel popped into the rear of the shoe. The right shoe went on easier. I stood up without much trouble, but when I tried to walk my ankles gave way and I wobbled a few steps before catching the door frame and hanging there.
Jus take practice' she assured me, just go slow and hole dem hands out keep balance'. As hard as I tried, the fact that my heel was at least 2 inches higher than my toes made me feel as if I was standing on a hill, facing downward, and about to fall flat on my face.
`Stan still, get used to it', she instructed, and took me by the hand to offer support. I was still teetering, but gaining some semblance of balance, and being able to pull on her helped, if only slightly. This was going to take some work.
But while I was gaining balance, something else was happening. Positioned as I was in the doorway to the hall, I caught I partial glimpse of myself. I moved slightly forward to get a better look. The view that greeted me gave me a rush of confused excitement. Damn, I DID look like a girl, and not just a girl, but sort of a good looking girl. Although I had never been interested in girls, seeing myself like this was a kind of a turn on. While I wouldn't want to have sex with a girl, I wondered what having sex with a boy, or man, would be like dressed like this. Would this be `icing on the cake' for them? How would I feel? I had nothing against girls, I just wasn't attracted to them, I didn't fantasize about them the way I fantasized about boys. Hell, with one exception, girls and I did the same things to boys. And, that one exception didn't seem to stop some boys from having sex with me. Would my appearance turn them off? Or would looking kind of like a girl turn on other boys? And why hell was I getting a boner just thinking about it?
And it was Bill who put it all in perspective. `Damn boy, queer dressed up lik a girl just might make us a dolla. Dem tranny lovers line up git some a dat'.
Tranny lovers? Is a tranny a queer in girls clothes?
Nah' Cooke interjected, dem trannys say dey ain queer. Dey trans demeanered, ah sumpin'.
Well I doan geah a shit', Bill said emphatically, long as he make a dolla, he can be anthang he want'.
It was, to be honest, all over my head. All I knew was that standing here, in high heels, with enough makeup and with my hair pulled back into a ponytail, I looked a lot like a girl. And seeing myself like this was giving me a stiffy. And I felt that familiar sexual stirring that signaled a need a need for cock.
To be continued... tvlesli@gmail.com