Wisdom of the day:

If you 're gonna go Trans, better try to look good and passable in THAT order, or your life will be hell.

Now for what you 've all been waiting for. My life in the bush of ghosts. The sidewalk, dumy. There were good times, there were bad times, and there were ugly times, and I felt like a hero in a Western. Only the bad guys were winning, most of the time. But, what the hell, it beat being a regular 9 to 5 asshole every single angry inch of the road. And I 'd go back down there any day, cause, up here, it's all fucking hypocrisy, and lies and bullshit. But, well... I have my reasons, I 'm staying here. That's another story to be told in another file.

Memories now.

The good times, guess what, they came along with guys I happened to like, and who happened to like me. Usually, it was younger guys. Some were shy, some were regular trannytappers, others just passed by, stared and I liked them and caught them in my net of mystery and delight and carried them away panting into the night.

There was this guy. I was just starting, and I knew nothing about oral or anal sex, at least not from the receiving end. Totally inexperienced. He picked me up after I had just left my third customer of all times, and we went to Filopappou, the hill just underneath the Acropolis. A regular haunt of sickos like us, and also of bands of crazed folk musicians who load the night air heavy with the smell of weed and the sounds of tambourines and baglamades. My boy was handsome, he was. He was the tall, well built (but not excessively muscular) dark type that gay men all over the world associate with holidays in the Greek islands. A tourist atraction, you might say. He drove a Citroen GSA, and he was a construction worker, I think. There was no class barrier there between us, see? He parked the car somewhere safe from indiscrete perverts (we 're the discreet ones), and he asked me if I Drank any. "Drinking" is the Greek word for smoking, or dropping, or doing drugs of any kind. I told him I didn't mind a little spliff now and then, because I was trying really hard to get off the bad habits (which are quite incompatible with hormones). He took out a ball of aluminum foil from a stash, behind an air condition duct, opened it, and with the weed inside it, rolled a giant spliff, to my mixed horror and delight. We drank it, as we Greekos do, and we chatted a bit. He told me he liked trannies, and mentioned some names and faces that I didn't know. I explained I was a newbie. Now, to all you Europe- and American- bred readers, please, suppress those shrieks of dread. We near-oriental/ mediterrannean trannies, we like our boys to like us true and with no prejudice. The word "trannychacer" is non-existent in the vocabulary of the night. This settled? Good. I was just trying to make my point, see: sex is good when you get some, bad when you don't.

And we got a good deal of it that night.

And it was all good.

I remember going far out on that spliff of his. He pulled the Citroens' seats back, and laid on top of me, and I was somewhere near Orion. I asked him "do you want me to talk to you in French?". He laughed, and said "sure, go ahead". I started gibbering in my polished Paris accent. He loved it. He was big, and I loved it. He had a tribal tatoo on one shoulder, and I loved that too. I think he found my ass firm, and my asshole tight, which must have been good for him.

He was a kind boy, and drove me back home too.

You want one of the bad times, now. You 're screaming for it.

Here goes.

It was the 23d of October, a day before my birthday. I was feeling like having fun, and making some money on top, cause I was planning to go to Corfu next day, to find some friends I 'd left there. I had my best clothes on, my short golden dress, my knee boots, and my long black manteau with the (fake, don't yell) fur collar. I was feeling so glamorous, that night. I even put on silk stalkings and my best silk panties. I mean, if you 've worked a night on the streets, at least the one I walked, you know how you 're stupid if you put on stalkings and expensive panties for work. But I felt like a thousand dollars that night.

Then this bright red two-seater hovers down my corner of the road, and the guy on the wheel asks me how much.

He looked like some kid from the northern suburbs, the well known for their wealth and snobbism. I guess I felt flattered, the little stupid slut. The car looked at least as expensive as I felt, and the driver was young, blond, with a worked out body and a cultured accent. I said I wanted 10, double my usual fee. Reasonable enough to not drive the guy away, and high enough to not let me seem cheap, as the neighbourhood suggested. He said OK, and I climbed in the car. Damn me if I ever knew what sort of car it was, I 'm really bad with cars (hey, I 'm a faggot, OK?).

We drove to a parking lot near by. That was my choice with the cheap clientelle, because they didn't have to pay the hotel anything, see? I took the good clients in an expensive hotel a little farther away, but the north-suburbs' spawn didn't want us to go to a hotel, and I didn't mind.

He fucked me on the hood of the car, and I was smiling because the whole scene looked like some porn sequence. I even wore stalkings, really. He had a good dick, and a good body as I said, but his face was plain for all to read. He was having fun, because he was fucking garbage. Um, that would be me. I didn't really mind the scorn, but I felt a bit deflated, because I realised I could have asked him for more money. He had to spare, anyway. Those guys always do.

At some point, he said something like "do you like it, pousti?", where the Greek word means "faggot".

"Hey". I laughed at him. "Don't call me that, it turns me off".

He nodded "yes".

He finished, and I felt moisture, in my ass.

It had happened to me before, the anal ejaculation thing, but I didn't think that was it. I mean, it didn't feel like... well... I hadn't felt anything that strong this time, y' know?

I pulled my frocks together, and I looked at him, cleaning his prick with a paper kerchief. It was bare.

"I took the condom off". He said.

Just like that. With a smile, like he had done something really clever. Really funny.

I started laughing.

It was really funny.

He had fucked me, a street walker, a trans, the scum of the gutter, and taken off his condom. The only thing standing between him and a buttload, and I do mean buttload of social diseases. Reeally clever boy. It was a really good laugh.

We got in the car.

"Why 've you done such a stupid thing?" I asked of him.

"Well". He said. "I like it better that way, you know?"

"Oh? And you 're not afraid I might give you something?"

He looked a bit more sober now.

"Like what?"

"Well, you know. Like, AIDS, maybe, or hepatitis, or any random venereal disease?"

That made him think.

"I 'm a street hooker, remember? I fuck with a bunch of people every night? It might be a bit dangerous for you to take off your protection?"

"Damn".

He said.

"I hadn't thought it. Do you... do you have... anything?"

"Well, last time I checked I was clean. But you never know."

"Well, I don't have anything either".

"I 'm not the one who should worry. My ass's the risk, not your dick. "

He drove me back, smiling hero no more.

For your information, I checked for Aids, Hepatitises A,B and C and venereals, every six months until I went monogamous (oh, yes), and up to then, I was clean. But that doesn't mean I didn't learn my lesson, that night. Which was, never trust a man with a red car, and a superiority/inferiority complex- unless his was just a class complex, after all. I don't like northern suburb assholes.

There you go. Bad time.

Now for an ugly one.

There was this guy whom I had taken a couple times before, he came as close as any else to be a regular customer. You see, the clientelle, usually came to pay a chick with a dick for a reason, the reason being the dick. The people who paid for what I gave them, I guess they qualify all right for "trannychasers". They picked up trannies because they wanted us to fuck them up their hairy butts. But, you see, I still don't think they did anything bad, or that they hid anything from their selves, as in, say, they were gay but didn't admit it, and subconsciously tried to use us as a first step in their homosexual sex life. Because, all of those guys, at least each and everyone that has been my client, knew exactly what they wanted of me. They weren't hiding from anyone, least of all themselves. Most were in their early forties anyway, and that's a long time past hiding behind your finger time. Most of them had families, and jobs, and money, and all of them liked women, and normal boys (as opposed to my androgynous abnormality) too. They were pansexual, and if I ever have to be sincere with my self, I will have to admit some respect towards that, because being so crookedly perverted as to sexually desire any possible form of the human body, is beyond even my own "liberated" capacities. There was this guy, a client like the others, he payed the special fee to come to my place and put on my clothes. And there, in the privacy and the intimacy, he told me something even more to the point than any respect or vanity I might show. He told me "I 'm just like you, you know"? And he was. Only, he had no intention to show it to the world and get humiliated for it. He had a family, he had a fortune, and he had a secret passion. Hey, who are you to judge, Batman? These customers of mine, they were just like plain old me. Only older. I could have been like them. Any time in the future, if I had put my foot down a different leg of the Trousers of Time. They were me, in another life. Another time.

Still, I couldn't bring myself to fuck them. Because I hadn't realised yet, and I was so vain. I couldn't see their need in me, and I had no idea how to satisfy it.

So they took me once, and never came back- they looked for the other she-males, the ones with the functional dicks.

Or was it functional brains?

Now, that semi-regular one, on the other hand. He came back for more. And a third time. Don't ask me why, he just did. So, that night, I took him to Epiros hotel, the cheap option, with the dirty sheets and the smelly bedrooms (I will not describe the toilets- you 've been to a brothel, no? If not, sad for you). I took off some clothes, to expose some of the most intriguing parts of the merchandise, and I kneeled on the bed, the guy standing in fron of me. I unzippered him, and I condommed him. I started blowing him, and I felt his little thingy going hard, and then harder, and he wanted to fuck me up the arse, which he did. But I wasn't in the mood that night, so I took him out after a short time, and changed the condom, because it was getting lax, you see, and I started blowing him again. But it seems I was doing something wrong. He wasn't coming. I was so frustrated, mainly 'cause it's really boring to blow off a guy when you 're fatally bored, and it gets even worse when he's not coming when you know he should, and that makes it even harder to concentrate, because you 're really pissed off at him, not to mention your professional pride being hurt right in the middle of its' softer spot.

Then he got fed up with it. He grumbled something indignant, and took his dick off my mouth and back into his pants. I can't remember what he said, but the next thing he did, was pick up the money from the table, in the center of the room, were he had left it. Now, you must understand that the supposed reason that the money was on the table, was because it suggested that he could get it back if he didn't enjoy the treatment. But in reality, they were there, because I was not going to do anything if I didn't get the money first. The money was out of the guys' pocket and on the table, because it was mine. No way he was allowed to take it back. He had put his dick in me, and that was more than fucking enough reason for me to get paid, see? If we hadn't happened to be in the room with the table, the money would have gone straight into my bag anyway.

I jumped up and politely asked him, to give me the money. Guess what, he declined. I insisted. He declined further, and then he made the mistake. I don't blame him. I was just a little innofensive fag with titties, after all. He couldn't have known. He put on a hard face, and said, in a harsh voice:

"Shut up, or I 'm gonna get mad".

Then I got mad.

I can't remember much. I was yelling, "GIVE ME THE FUCKING MONEY" I was pushing him, I was punching him, and, suddendly, I was on the bed, with a chair in my hands, and he was bleeding from the forehead. And I could see his brow starting to form into a dark bulb the size of an almond. Then the guy from the reception burst in, and calmed me down, and he and the owner tried to make out what was happening. The guy tried to explain I had just hit him, like that, for no reason at all, that I had started it all, that he hadn't done anything, and shit like that. I was screaming this was fucking bullshit, and that he had fucked me and now he wasn't giving me the money, and he tried to deny everything, from the money to the fuck and back again. I kept screaming for my money, and the receptionist said "Look, you just stay here, both of you, and I call the police to sort it out".

Well, that was fine by me.

But not by him. Well, he said it was fine, but he didn't seem to believe it. We sat in the room, and I watched the blob on his head grow rounder and bigger, as I was getting dressed. Hah.

"Are you gonna give me the money, or do I have to get ugly again?"

He got up and started screaming once more, and he rushed out the door, with me behind him. The receptionist tried to stop him, but he failed. Well, to tell you the truth, I didn't really really mind. I was feeling a bit bad for having hit the guy so hard. I didn't really feel he owned me anything, so I let the money go.

A little later, I was on the street again, on my corner, which was just outside Epiros. Laura was with me, because it was a Saturday. Then, the guy appeared, in his car, an Autobianchi.

And he tried to run me over.

Ouch.

I had to jump out of the way, and that's no small feat with 10 cm heels. Laura kept her calm though, and she grabbed me by the hand, and stood firm, beside me.

Now, if the guy wanted to run me over, he 'd have to run Laura over too.

Both of us?

He 'd be as good as dead.

He roared and steamed a little more, until the receptionist came out, and told him he had called the police, and it was coming any second now.

The guy yelled he was from the National Tourism Organisation, and he was going to have the place shut down, but the receptionist just laughed him off. I mean, one look at the derelict form of the Epiros, looming ominously above us, was enough to see the joke in that threat. Close down, what?

The guy went away, and the cops arrived in the scene of the crime, late as usual. I believe they were lurking somewhere near, waiting for the fuss to be over. They came by, asked us a couple of questions, marked down the Autobianchis' plate car, which I ingenuiously had memorised, and drove off to file a report.

So much for security. Bah.

I never saw the ex-semi-permanent ex-customer again.

And there you go.

Good, bad, and ugly.

And with juicy little titties to boot:

Yours truly.

 

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