From: scoopnet@access.digex.net (Gary Landers)
Subject: Castro Street Story: Beyond The Cocoon
Date: 30 Oct 1993 22:23:39 -0400
Organization: Smut Lobby
Keywords: mm teen trans
X-Moderator-Review: 7: fascinating writing, but peculiar characterizations

          Castro Street Story: Beyond The Cocoon
                         G. Landers  10/29/93


    Chris first had sex at 14. Uncle Claude was a jovial, 
well-liked man no one suspected. He owned a carpet company 
and on occasion employed his nephews as helpers. One 
weekend he specifically asked for Chris.  The comment was 
made, "Why would he want only Chris?"  but nothing more 
was said. He picked Chris up the following Saturday 
morning. They laid carpet then went to a motel "to rest 
before the next job." Chris knew it was coming. He had 
long had his suspicions. The room was tacky and smelt of 
stale cigarette smoke. Uncle Claude was sweaty and 
nervous. He told Chris he wanted to shower. Chris said 
nothing. It wasn't he was frightened, far from it; he was, 
in fact, fascinated by his Uncle's transformation. It was 
like watching an event occur in nature-- a snake shedding 
skin, two dogs stuck together as the male's penis 
deflates. Chris wanted to know mystery of the thing. When 
Uncle Claude called from the bathroom he went in. The 
overweight man was naked and red-face with lust. He undid 
Chris' zipper and gasped at the size of his nephew's 
penis. Chris let him felate it and watched in awe when it 
splattered over the whimpering man's face.

     In the middle of the school term a kid from New York 
City came to Ludlum High. The word went out he was "gay." 
Other "effeminate" kids were called "fags," "homos" but 
never "gay."  Chris watched the kid from a distance. His 
clothes and mannerisms more radical than anything at 
Ludlum. He dressed in a daring, bi-sexual way Chris never 
would. One day, he wore a woman's scarf around his neck. 
Chris was certain the teachers would make him take it off, 
or worse, the students would ridicule him. Neither 
happened. No one appeared to notice although Chris knew 
everyone had. The kid had flaunted his homosexuality and 
gotten away with it.

    "How long have you been gay, Chris?" the kid asked.

    Chris hesitated. It was such a unnerving question to 
answer in the school cafeteria with so many thousands of 
ears everywhere.

    "I don't know."

    "When'd you come out the closet?"

    "`Out the closet'?"

    "Yes. Your first time?"


    "Two years ago."

    "Did you like it?"

    "I didn't like him. It was my uncle. It was wrong."

    "But did you like it?"

    "I hate to say `yes' because I know it was wrong."

    "Ok, it was wrong-- now, did you like it?"

    Chris thought back to day in the hotel room. He 
remembered how his body had jerked and spattered.

    "Yes, my body liked it, I guess."

    "Of course you did. You're woman. It's only natural."

    "Natural...?"

    "Sure, you're like me-- woman in a man's body. There's 
a lot of girl's like us in New York City. All the gays are 
coming out the closet in New York and half of them are 
younger than we are."

    The kid told Chris about his own first time. It had 
been with his cousin. His parents had gone away for the 
weekend. The kid had wasted little time in seducing the 
older boy. They screwed like rabbits-- on the couch, on 
the floor, in the kitchen sink. In time the cousin became 
crazy in love with him; begged him to marry him, crazy 
shit like that. The kid swore he didn't know what had 
happened to the cousin. No one knew what to believe. They 
had the cousin committed to a mental institution. That's 
when the kid realized he was a girl in a boy's body. 
Everything fell in place after this.

    "You've got to get to New York, Chris. You don't 
belong in a place like Ludlum, Kentucky. No real woman 
does...."

    The kid was murdered a year after arriving at Ludlum. 
His mutilated body was found in a cheap hotel room. Chris 
was violently ill at the funeral. He could not return to 
school. He dropped out and got a job. Everyone understood 
when he boarded a Greyhound bus for New York City a few 
months later. He had just turned 17.

    Before the bus entered the Port Authority Bus 
Terminal, Chris went to the restroom and lightly combed 
his hair. It hadn't needed more than this. The modified 
page-boy cut was almost maintenance free, but than his 
hair had always been easy, blond and easy. No one had ever 
faulted him on his hair-- on his slender thin-boned body, 
his delicate almost girl-like features, his distinct 
feminine nature, but never his hair. God had been more 
than generous in this department. And if the Port 
Authority Bus Terminal was representative of New York, his 
hair would stand out as it never had in Ludlum. So many 
black, brown, and yellow people and all of them charging 
across the terminal like there was a fire 
somewhere...Well, most of them, anyway... A tall, 
hawk-like black guy hovered from one corner of the 
terminal to the other; a big fat lady dressed in rags sat 
against the wall immobile as a beached whale; a security 
guard (or was it a police officer?) strutted here and 
there like a cock on the walk.  Chris reached into his 
shoulder bag and withdrew a pack of Merit Lights. He had 
finally made it to New York. Ludlum Kentucky was now a 
million miles away. He slid his hand over his pant pocket 
as he had throughout the long bus ride from Ludlum. The 
great lump was still there, all $947 of it; more money 
than he had ever had before.

    "Got another smoke?"

    Chris turned. It was the tall, hawk-like black guy.

    "Sure," Chris said, extending the pack of Merits, "If 
you don't mind Merit Lights...?

    "Hey," the black man said reaching for the pack, "the 
way I feel, I'd smoke dried shit if I had something to 
roll it in."

    His fingers were long and black as was the rest of 
him-- long and black. His nose was an aristocratic thing 
not at all flat. His lips thick but well-formed. His eyes 
large and piercing. Chris felt himself shiver. They did 
not make men like him in Ludlum, Kentucky.

    "Just get in?" he asked, examining Chris with  
piercing eyes.

    "Sort of."

    "Mind if I cop a squat?"

    "No, it's ok."

    The black guy took the seat next to him.

    "Going to school or just hanging out?" he asked, 
exhaling a long column of smoke.

    "Relocating," Chris replied.

    "Oh...?"

    "I'm from Ludlum, Kentucky."

    "Where you bunking?"

    "Probably in the East Village."

    The security guard walked pass and gave the black guy 
a scowl.

    "Are you from New York?" Chris asked.

    "Nobody's from New York."

    Chris laughed.

    "I'm looking for a nice, inexpensive place to rent." 
Chris said. "Think I'll find one?"

    The man turned and looked at Chris squarely.

    "Let ya' bunk with me for a lot cheaper than any 
hotel," he said. "Got a two room suite right around the 
corner."

    Chris was at once stunned by the man's offer. He felt 
the blood rushing to his face.

    "I could never do that," he said, looking away from 
the black man's eyes. "I don't even --"

    "-- Why not take look at the place first, then 
decide...?"

    "You don't understand. I could never --"

    "--Man, stop being such a square. Everything's on the 
up and up. All black people ain't gangsters and thugs, you 
know."

    "That's not what I meant...!"

    There was more talk, then they agreed on something and 
walked out of the terminal.  The security guard gave the 
black guy a fearsome scowl. In time, Chris would come to 
believe this scowl wasn't nearly as menacing as it should 
have been.








    Outside it was all New York. Everything he had 
expected to see. It was 6:00 pm. People were charging 
about as thick and hurried as in the terminal.

    "It's up this way," the black guy said, nodding with 
his long chin. "By the way, my name is Johnny....Johnny 
Pounds. What'd you say your's was again?"

    "Chris Bartholomew..."

    "Put it there, Chris," he said, sticking his long arm 
towards Chris as they walked. "I gotta feelin' this is 
going to be the beginning of a very nice arrangement."

   Chris began to feel the first pangs of worry. This was 
nuts. Idiot tourists like himself disappear and are never 
heard of again after getting talked into situations just  
like this.

    "Listen, Chris. Here's the deal,"  Johnny Pounds said 
suddenly turning towards Chris. "You can stay at my place 
as long as you like. I'm only gonna charge you 20 bucks a 
night-- what do you say?"

    "Huh?"

    "20 bucks a night. Can you afford that?"

    "I can afford it."

    He was alternately looking over Chris's head, then to 
the left and right of his head, then directly in Chris 
eyes.

    "Ok, you can pay me now...sompthin' I need to pick up 
before we go upstairs."

    Chris reached to his pocket but stopped before pulling 
the money out.

    "Look," Johnny Pounds said, reading Chris' mind. 
"Here's the key to my place. Apartment 103. Let yourself 
in. Get comfortable. You can take a shower if you like, 
whatever. I won't be but a second. It's the building right 
in back of you, man."

    He was holding the key low at his hip so only the two 
of them could see it.

    I trust you, Johnny," Chris lied.

    "Here," Johnny said reaching to Chris's shirt pocket 
and letting the key drop in. "Now the twenty if you still 
wanna go through with the arrangement."

    Chris pulled a twenty from his pocket and handed it to 
him.

    "Now go ahead and freshen up," Johnny said taking the 
twenty. "I'll be home in two shakes of a rabbit's tail."

    The key actually tuned the lock. The door actually 
opened. A beautiful Persian cat padded over and curled 
around his leg. He flipped on the light switch. The floor 
was carpeted with a commercial type carpet and the 
furniture looked second hand but the place wasn't a dump. 
Things were kept up. Jazz music was piping in from 
somewhere. K-Mart type framed pictures on the wall...a 
black woman with a large afro and spear; a print of child 
with dark, lemon-sized eyes, a montage of John Kennedy, 
Robert Kennedy, and Martin Luther King. Clean white 
curtains. A bowl of candy kisses on the coffee table. A 
good smell here, too. Room deodorizer somewhere. Not 
Buckingham Palace, but the place was ok.

   "Meow!"

      And how interesting that a man like this Johnny 
Pounds owned such a beautiful cat...So well-fed and 
trusting... Maybe he eats them...

    Chris walked deeper into the room. There was a framed 
photo on the small table at the end of the crushed velvet 
couch. He picked it up. It was a nightclub photo of Johnny 
Pounds sitting in a wicker chair with a blonde on his lap. 
Chris put the photo down. He walked out of the living room 
and entered the kitchen. There was a large black frying 
pan and pot on the range, both covered. He lifted the top 
off the frying pan. A T-bone steak in thick gravy. The pot 
on the back burner would be white rice, he guessed. He 
lifted the top. Perfectly cooked white rice. He was 
suddenly hungry. He thought about what his host had said, 
"Relax and freshen up, man--" --Did that mean eat, man?

    "Meow!"

    He walked from the kitchen pass the bathroom and 
peeked in the bedroom. One bed. Queen size. So this is 
where Johnny Pounds, pounds... Stay out of here, 
girlfriend... He turned and walked to the bathroom. 
Narrow, like the kitchen. An old-fashion bathtub with a 
shower connected to it; cheap, plastic shower curtains. 
And even towels, white towels with, "The Roosevelt Hotel" 
emblazoned at the bottom in blue. Now where ever did he 
buy these...?

    "Meow!"

    He went to the living room, got his shoulder bag, and 
returned to the bathroom. The latch on the bathroom door 
was unhinged. No way to lock the bathroom door... Chris 
shrugged and began undressing. The shower would be good 
and in his shoulder bag were a fresh pair of underwear and 
socks. He left his shoes and shirt on the floor but placed 
his jeans at the end of the tub where he could see them. 
He bent and turned the faucet on, adjusted the water, 
turned the shower knobs to full blast, then stepped into 
the tub drawing the curtain around him. The water came 
down hot and hard.

     He felt Johnny's presence. Even the spray of the 
shower and opaqueness of the shower curtain, could not 
conceal it.

    "Nothing like a good, hot shower, hey?" Johnny asked 
loud enough to cut through the sound of the water.

    "Yes," Chris said his body now rock still.

    "Got some clean nightclothes for you to wear so you 
don't mess up my satin sheets. Put 'em on when you finish 
your shower, you hear?"

    "Yes, sir," Chris replied, instantly feeling 
incredibly stupid for having called Johnny "sir."

    Johnny laughed and walked out of the bathroom. Chris' 
breathing returned to normal. Always he had gone to great 
lengths to avoid being nude when around other boys. In 
school it was he who was always the last out of the locker 
room. And for good reason. His penis was too big. He'd 
have preferred a much smaller one; say, one the size of 
Uncle Clyde's, or better, none at all, or better still, a 
vagina. Why couldn't he at least been born a 
hermaphrodite...? Would that have been asking too much, 
damnit...?

    He rinsed himself and stepped out of the tub. His 
brain flooded with hot blood the instant he saw it. It 
could have been a ghost so startled was he by it. Pink and 
lacy made with little more material than a bikini-- a baby 
doll nightie! Johnny had left it over the shoulder bag!. 
Red-hot shame. Rage. Fear. His legs were weak. He needed 
to sit. Still wet he went to the commode and sat on it. He 
wanted to cry but his tear ducts said, no, not yet. Now, 
all at once, he suddenly wished he was not "gay." Please 
God not like this. Gawd! How had he gotten himself in a 
corner like this? Why hadn't he seen what this black 
bastard was after?

    And he would be in there waiting; waiting for me to 
come out wearing this pink nightie... Bastard! Why 
couldn't these bastards just ask for what they wanted? Why 
did they always have to humiliate you first? I know I'm 
gay but that doesn't mean I'm retarded....Dirty, sneaky 
black bastard...You get nothing for being such a low-life 
-- nothing!

    Chris slipped on his jeans and put on his shoes and 
shirt. He reached for his shoulder bag then cursed that in 
his haste he hadn't put on the clean underwear. He took 
the shoes back off and sipped out of the jeans.

    "I can heat up some steak I got here, if you're 
hungry," Johnny called from the kitchen.

    "No!" Chris hollered.

    Nude again he picked up the nightie to get to his bag 
and stopped. The softness of the material was comforting. 
It was frilly, and gentle, and all the things he wanted 
from life but had never had. Under different circumstances 
he'd have stolen time to secretly wear something like it.  
He cursed and threw it across the room.

    "Fuck this shit! My first night in New York and here I 
go again!"

    "You say something, Chris?" Johnny called from the 
kitchen.

    There were tears in his eyes, now; fat tears streaming 
down his pale cheeks. Nothing mattered. He could not 
escape it. He was born to miserable. Born to be every 
perverts plaything. God was twisted and cruel and watching 
from above laughing like crazy. Why fight it? He had been 
born a faggot and would die one no matter how hard he 
fought. Still naked, he walked to the kitchen and stood at 
the entrance his fists balled at his side.

    "Let's stop playing games, Johnny" he said still 
unable to stop the tears from streaming down his face. "If 
you want it, come and get it, nigger!"

    Johnny Pounds turned from the frying pan his eyes wide 
with surprise.

    "My, my, my," the black man said, his voice suddenly 
thick and electric, "Now ain't we a sight.... Ain't we a 
sight, indeed...."

    "Meow!"

     He could not get out the bed. He looked at the 
heaving slab of blackness stretched next to him. They were 
both naked. The thin blanket was somewhere off the bed, 
probably in the sink or on the roof, it would not have 
surprised Chris. It had been savage. And, yes, it had 
hurt. And he had screamed at Johnny as had churned and 
churned him and taken him past pain to a point where his 
body became pleasure; hot, nasty pleasure that made him 
buck and whinny like a mare in heat as Johnny rode him. 
And Johnny had indeed rode him; rode him to a place he had 
not known existed; a place beyond the cocoon where all the 
mysteries were laid bare; where for the first time he saw 
the full truth of the woman he was. There would be doubt 
after this, no apologies, no turning back. No matter what 
they did to him he was woman and would live the rest of 
his life as one. The mindless, hungry lioness inside had 
finally been released and she was far stronger than the 
male body that had caged her. Far too strong now to ever 
hide again.


    And it was morning-- no, early afternoon -- and he 
could not get out of bed. The compromise he made with 
himself was that he'd prepare breakfast and then leave. 
This would give him time to bolster his resolve; fight the 
urge to stay there forever. He got out of bed, put on one 
of Johnny's shirts, and went to the kitchen.

    "Meow!"

    Eggs and a kind of thick bacon. It came in a hunk. He 
found a frying pan, sliced the stuff, and began frying. It 
occurred to him he  was making breakfast for the very man 
he had called a bastard only the night before. He laughed.

    By the time the knock came on the door, he was done.
Johnny was in a night gown peering through peep hole at 
once.  The man he let in was black and fat and broke out 
with a wide grin when he saw Chris standing in the 
kitchen.

    "Hi, Sunshine!"  he called to Chris.

    Johnny grunted and pointed the man to the bedroom.

    Chris was speechless. The realization of the picture 
he cast in Johnny's big shirt, his blond hair in disarray, 
a spatula in one hand, a pot-holder in the other, 
immobilized him with embarrassment.

    A few minutes later the sound of the man leaving and 
Johnny was in the kitchen grinning.



    "My, my, ain't we a regular housewife," he said 
standing at the entrance of the kitchen so to take in the 
full view of Chris.

    "Good morning...I thought you might be hungry..." 
Chris said not daring to look him in the eye.

    Johnny laughed.

    "Hmm...smells like my granny's kitchen in here," he 
said, "all except I don't see hide nor hair of no biscuits 
and grits.

    Chris felt himself go red again. He did not know 
whether Johnny was making fun of him or what.

    "My buddy, who just left," Johnny continued, "thought 
you where my ex-wife standing up there a potholder in one 
hand, a spatula in the other and all that pretty blond 
hair everywhere...ha, ha, ha..."

    Chris took the coffee pot off the range and began 
filling one of the cups he had laid out on the table. This 
done, he put the coffee pot back on the stove sat down at 
the table before the plate he had fixed and said,

    "I made scrambled and fried eggs cause I wasn't sure 
what you preferred. I Figured out how to cook your bacon 
and fried ten slices. There's warm buttered toast in the 
oven and you can see the coffee percolating in the pot. 
Now you can stand there and make fun of me if you want, 
Johnny, but excuse me, I'm hungry and I'm going to eat, 
and then when I'm finished, I'll be leaving here, and you 
better not try and stop me, you asshole."

    Johnny laughed.

      Few people gave Johnny Pounds any grief. He had once 
been a widely known light-heavy weight boxer and still 
visited the gym regularly despite his cigarette-smoking. 
And even in a gym full of other trained fighters, he stood 
out. Few moved and attacked the heavy bag with the raw 
power he did. Chris would sit in the small bleacher 
section mesmerized. There was something about watching a 
sleek, powerful man move his body the way Johnny could. 
First would come the shadow boxing. To shadow box was to 
dance-- shuffle and glide, dip and feint-- all in time to 
some inner rhythm. Less skilled fighters would stretch, 
throw round-house punches, lose their timing and be all 
over the place. Johnny moved like Fred Astaire-- always on 
the beat, now shuffling a step or two while shooting a 
jab, then sidestepping an imaginary punch and countering 
with a hook to the kidney. A slick fighter. The kind the 
older pugs like to call "sugar."

    And after, when the sweat was wet over his muscles and 
his work-out over, he'd walk around the gym to cool down 
and this was when Chris would see how highly the other 
fighters regarded him. They'd pause from their 
ministrations to acknowledge him in the quick, quiet way 
street people had-- a nod, a mouthed "hey champ,' a fist 
raised slightly in the air. Johnny would nod back in the 
quiet dignity Chris had begun to find so captivating. A 
black dignity wholly unlike anything Chris had known 
growing up in Ludlum. Inscrutable, strong, capable of 
communicating all the things that meant strength and 
character no matter his weakness for young blondes.

    And what the people who saw them together thought, was 
anybody's guess. Take a big, good-looking black man, pair 
him with anything that even remotely resembled a female, 
and it was all right. Nobody would get out of line. Chris 
had first noticed this walking from the terminal with 
Johnny. They could go anywhere, it didn't matter, and 
always it was as if Chris was invisible so commanding was 
Johnny's presence.

    "Passing" was mostly hair and clothing according to 
the gay kid from New York. During one of Chris' first 
outings with Johnny he had worn his hair in a thick French 
braid. They were in line at Burger King and the counter 
girl had said, "Can I take your order, `Miss'?"  Her 
mistake had made his day.

    Then came the trip to South Carolina to attend the 
funeral of one of Johnny's relatives. Johnny told Chris, 
"If you're coming with me you need to get some dresses and 
stuff cause there'll be a lot of visiting going on."

    His words had worried Chris. Going to Burger King as a 
female was one thing, maintaining the illusion over a 
sustained period of time was quite another. A million 
things could go wrong. One doesn't become a woman 
overnight no matter how feminine he might look. There were 
things that needed to be learned and perfected and  
learned perfected again, and again, before a "girl" went 
public. On the few occasions he had ventured into a ladies 
public restroom, for example, he'd been far too nervous to 
even use the toilet so fearful was he that the police 
would bust down the stall door and haul him to jail. Then 
there were the times he and Johnny would run into a friend 
accompanied by a female companion. Suddenly Chris would 
get tongue-tired if the female engaged in girl talk. So 
much to learn and so many little terrors along the way.





    "Just get some nice things for yourself if your going 
with me-- you know, dresses, earrings, make-up, and shit. 
Fox yourself up, Chris. A lot of my people are going to be 
checking you out and I got a reputation for always being 
with nothing but sharp-looking womens...."

    He still had most of his money. Johnny hadn't touched 
a dime other than the $20 that first night. He'd have to 
go shopping, of course. If it cost every penny he had, 
he'd have to spend it. For the first time in his life 
things he dreamed were unfolding. He'd have to see them 
through despite his terror. He was in too deep to turn 
back.

    There was a girl in the building, a fair-skinned 
Puerto Rican girl Johnny called the "geek monster." She 
had been nice to Chris, had always called out, "Hello, 
Christy!" whenever they passed. How she knew his name, he 
hadn't a clue. He knew only he needed her help. The girl 
was a dresser despite what Johnny thought of her, a 
full-fledge fashion horse who even wore matching outfits 
when putting out the garbage. And she was about his size 
too-- an eight. That didn't hurt either.

    "Delancey street, girl, that's where I'm taking you!" 
Ida said, her eyes lighting with excitement.

    Chris had caught her in the hall.

    "Delancey street?" Chris repeated.

    "Yes, for sure, you'll see," Ida said grabbing Chris 
under the arm and walking him in the direction of her 
apartment.

    "Come inside for a moment, honey, and we can talk," 
Ida continued. "You picked the right person, girlfriend. I 
know all the right places and all the Jewish guys love the 
fuck out of my Puerto Rican ass."

    Chris met Ida the next morning dressed in tennis 
shoes, tight jeans, a bulky sweater and sunglasses. He had 
brushed his hair back tightly and affixed a dark blue 
handkerchief to hold the thick ponytail. He looked like a 
sweet college co-ed.

    "Chris, honey," Ida bleated with excitement. "See, I'm 
here, just like I promised."

    They hugged each other.




    "Let's have some breakfast first, said Ida. "C'mon, my 
treat, girlfriend."

    The place they stopped in was the kind of little 
restaurant Chris never would have gone to on his own. It 
was too ethnic. It had handwritten signs in Spanish taped 
to its steamy window: "Arroz e Frijoles $1.25"
Platanos Verdes... Yuca con ajo...."

    Ida began stirring things up no sooner then she 
stepped in the door:

    "Mira, Miguel, rapido, jibaro," she called to the 
round man behind the counter. "Ahora, Yo tengo una gallega 
para su kiesta!" ("Hey, Miguel, move fast, you hick. I've 
got a white girl for your ass, now!")

    Chris winced, then quickly said, "Buenos Dias, 
Miguel."

    Ida jerked around to Chris, "Honey, you didn't tell me 
you speak Spanish."

    "Just a little," Chris said.

    Meanwhile Miguel was beaming at Chris happily. He 
clearly liked what he was looking at.

    "You Spanish?" Ida wanted to know.

    "No," Chris said. "Just picked it up in school."

    "Whew," Ida said. "You almost had me worried for a 
minute."

    He couldn't fathom what this was suppose to mean, if 
anything, but decided to leave it at that. This Ida girl 
was too wacky to try and follow each and every time.

    "Anyway," Ida said, turning from him to the rotund 
man. "Some coffee, please. And two pieces of raisin cake."

    She turned to Chris, "The cake's good, even if it is a 
little fatting, and plus, I'm treatin'."

    "Ok, Mi Amor--" Miguel started.

    "--Cut it, Romeo," Ida snapped turning back to the 
Boriquen with a frown. "We're in a hurry, Popi. We got 
important business to do today unlike certain chubby-wubby 
individuals I know, present company not excepted."

    Miguel laughed and winked at Chris. Catching this, Ida 
groaned "Ooh, my Gawd..!" then reached for  Chris' hand 
and went to the farthest table from the man.

    "He's such a pig, Christy, really," Ida said once they 
were seated. "Married and has at least 25 kids, but let me 
tell you what else about him-- let him get a little feel 
and you can eat here ten times a day free of charge. How'd 
you like to have a husband who treats the girls like 
that?"

    Ida continued her staccato rhetoric, then, when Miguel 
brought over their order, Chris watched as she rubbed her 
breasts against his arm even as she insulted him.

    "Thank you. Now back to your cage, Igor, rapido, 
before you spoil our appetites."

    Miguel was now red-faced and breathing heavy. He 
retreated to the counter leering like a fiend.

    "Such a pig..."

    When they finished and stood to go, Ida called out to 
him, "I'll see ya,' Miguel. Eh, do we owe you anything, 
honey?"

    "No, no, no," Miguel called from the counter, a leer 
still on his face. "It's on me, Ida, to welcome your new 
friend."

    "You sure?" Ida asked, now standing in the center of 
the aisle, her breasts and ass jutting out, a teasing 
arrogant look on her face.

    "Yes, it's alright," the man wheezed. "My pleasure."

    "Humph," Ida snorted. "C'mon Chris, let's leave this 
popcicle stand before I give him a nervous breakdown."

    And then a final jab as they walked out the door: "And 
if you're lucky, jibaro, I might be back for lunch, and 
let you cop another feel, you dog."

    Miguel's face lighted up like a Christmas tree. 
"Please do, please do," he gushed. "Mi casa es tu casa."

    "That'll be the day."

    Ida steered Chris in the direction of the subway. Her 
talk was still fast and informative: "The man is so weak. 
I would take all his money, but, you know, all the kids he 
has-- none of which he fathered, of course -- I don't want 
to take food out of their mouths, you see, so I just get 
freebies on the food. He loves it, honey. Can't you tell?"

    Ida was about 5"8 with what would have been a 
ballerina's body weren't it for her rude little ass. Like 
many Puerto Ricans, she had a complexion Chris would come 
to think of as "sweet yellow." And her hair reflected her 
mixed heritage too. It was long and brown with just a hint 
of woolliness. A hot little tamale, this one, street-wise 
and sexy for days. So why then did Johnny call her a "geek 
monster?"  And what exactly is a "geek monster," anyway?

    The subway platform was crowded, yet everyone  stood 
several feet away from the edge. Ida explained the reason 
for this:

    "There's a mad pusher going around the City, Christy, 
so be careful. He got three girls already. One white, one 
black, one Chinese. This sick muddyfucker don't give a 
shit about race or anything. He's an equal opportunity 
pusher, honey. He sneaks up behind you and "Zoom!" the 
next thing you know they're putting your body parts in a 
lawn and leaf bag. Dios Mio! I hope I don't go like that, 
Christy. It's so tacky, you-know-what-I-mean?"

    Their train arrived. They herded on board with the 
rest of the mob. All the seats were filled and no one 
looked anyone else in the eye. Everyone was in their 
quiet, little paranoid world, everyone except Ida who was 
still gabbing...

    "Then you have to watch out for the 'goose artists,' 
too. They like to get a free goose when they think you're 
the type who won't say nothing. Them you got to scream at. 
You go, `Hey dirtbag, touch me one more time and I'm 
calling the cops!' That usually makes them 
back-the-fuck-up, girlfriend. You-know-what-I-mean, 
Christy?"


    Once on Delancey street, Ida charted out their course:

 "First, we go for footwear," she said, looking down the 
street intently, "then we work our way up-- sabe?"

    Chris nodded. He had never seen anything like it. In 
front of them, extending for several blocks on both sides 
of the street, deep wooden carts filled with layers of 
clothing were stalled in front of tiny storefronts as far 
as the eye could see. Old fashion awnings rolled out over 
these storefronts and on the framework of the awnings more 
clothes hung. People milled everywhere. This was surely 
old New York, or at least, a part of old New York that 
hadn't died. And it was the first time Chris had ever seen 
an orthodox Jew.

    "Forget about the Puerto Ricans," Ida said frowning at 
an Hispanic man at one of the stalls. "They're just window 
dressing. It's the Jews who make the deals here...Oh," she 
stopped suddenly, then, looking at Chris as if she had 
just seen a ghost, she blurted,  "You're not Jewish, are 
you?"

    Chris shook his head.

    "Whew. You almost had me worried for a minute."

    There was a vast selection of shoes and boots-- 
Italian, Spanish, domestic knock-offs-- that ran the gamut 
of style and price. Chris dropped $200 on two pair of 
boots and a pair of heels. The boots were sleek and no 
problem because they were clearly bi-sexual. The heels 
were bought on Ida's urging. As much as he wanted them, 
Chris could not muster the nerve to buy them on his own. 
Once Ida saw the sparkle in his eyes, however, she had 
been relentless.

    "That's you, Christy! If you don't buy them I'll buy 
them for you...that's really you, girlfriend, I swear to 
God."

    The merchant was perplexed: "They look beautiful on 
you, honey. So what's the problem? he asked."

    "And they're really you, girlfriend. Can't you see!"

     Thus, Chris concluded really had no choice but to buy 
them. Ida clearly had no intention of leaving the place 
unless he did.

    "I'm glad you decided for yourself," she said as Chris 
paid the merchant. "Those heels are really you, Christy. I 
really mean it, seriously."

    They continued down Delancey street. In many places 
the owners had hired Puerto Rican salesmen who sat on 
stools outside. The response when Ida and Chris passed 
such places was predictable....

    "Que Linda!"

    "Muy Sabrosa!"

    "Hey, baby, I got what you need!"

    "If you have it, I don't want it anymore,"  Ida would 
snap without losing a beat.




    Another good thing about shopping with Ida was that 
she was so noncommittal about Chris' transvestitism. Not 
once did she by word or action suggest there was anything 
at all unusual about a man shopping for woman's clothing. 
In fact, it had not even been necessary for him to tell 
her what he needed, Ida knew. He was to discover that 
among Puerto Ricans and Blacks this was quite the thing. 
He'd meet mother's and fathers who'd openly refer to their 
transvestites sons as "she" this and "she". This was to 
later explain his closeness to the Black and Hispanic 
community. No other people, including gay whites, accepted 
what he was so uncritically.

    Soon they were laden down with armfuls of stuff. He 
was exhausted. Keeping up with a ball of fire wasn't easy. 
The chica never slowed down.

    "$30! The guy down the street is selling the same 
sundress for $20!

    "So go to the guy down the street!"

    "Drop dead, you crook!"

    "Ok, lady, now please leave before I call the police."

    "Call 'em,  so I can tell 'em about that little 
peep-hole you got in the ladies dressing room.

    "That's not true!" the bearded man bellowed as if 
stuck with a knife.

    "Ok, then call the cops-- call 'em! I'll show em 
myself!"

    "Here, take the dress for $20, but please, I don't 
want anymore of your business. I got a bad heart as is. 
Aggravation like this I don't need. So, here, you win, 
already. I'm an old man. I can't take you people anymore."

    "Pay the man, Christy, and let's get out of this 
popcicle stand. This crook is breaking my heart, already, 
you-know-what-I-mean?"

    For helping him, Chris bought Ida a pair of boots.

    "No, no, Christy, you don't have to do this," Ida  
protested, her face a mixture of surprise and emotion. 
"Please, honey. You really don't have to do this, they 
cost too much."




    Chris had the salesman throw in a pair of panty-hose 
as well. Ida's help had been worth the 75 bucks and more. 
She had helped him get ready for South Carolina; at least 
as ready as a 17 year old well-dressed transvestite could 
get.

    The drove down in Johnny's 10 year old Chrysler 
Satellite. The big eight-cylinder rode the highway like a  
sleek cruiser on the open sea. The car got surprisingly 
good mileage, so Johnny let her rip at 75 most of the way 
down. And to cut travel time further, Chris fried two 
chickens and baked a pan of biscuits the night before. 
This, and a thermos of black coffee, would keep them on 
the road and out of Mcdonald's and the KFC's. They'd 
resupply near Lumberton if Johnny's schedule held true. 
The important thing was to knock off the main part of the 
trip while their energy level was high. This accomplished, 
they could grab a motel room, get some sleep, and finish 
the balance on the new day. Johnny had made the trip many 
times before. He knew how to do it right.

    They were going to a place named "Dog Island." Dog 
Island was in the South Carolina "low country," an area 
that extended down the South Carolina coast to Savannah. 
The place was steeped in history, according to Johnny. All 
the way back to the days of slavery and rice plantations.

   "You see, whites just couldn't handle the mosquitoes 
and wet heat of the swamps," Johnny begin to explain....

    "So about 200 years ago they began bringing in nothing 
but African slaves from rice growing African countries. 
Now these niggahs quite naturally were accustomed to swamp 
and wet heat. These were the `Gola' people. Had been 
cultivating rice as far back as any one knew. The 
strongest, blackest, most malaria resistant people in all 
Africa. Tailor-made for the low country rice plantations. 
Crackers didn't want no other kind of African after they 
saw how well the Golas adapted. No Mindigo, no Watusi, no 
Fulani. Nothing but Gola, or "Gullah" as they called 'em. 
That's all they wanted. Rice niggahs from Africa so black 
their gums were jet blue."

    Johnny paused to take a cigarette from the pack on the 
dash. Chris grabbed the Bic and lit it for him. Johnny 
took a deep drag then continued:

    "Hacked out all the beautiful plantations they had 
back then, these Gullah people did. Hacked `em where 
before was nothing but swamp and mosquitoes. Back then, 
there was mile upon mile of rice plantation as far as the 
eye could see, with hundreds, sometimes thousands, of 
black Gullahs working the rice swamps like black ants 
covering a hill. Well, on a lot of the islands white folks 
just left Black overseers in charge of everything and went 
to Charleston or Beaufort till crop harvesting time. 
Slaves stayed pure black, funny-talking and African-like 
to this very day. That's why we're different from your 
average run-of-the-mill black peoples. The majority of us 
are still pure-bred Gullahs."

    It was as if he wanted to tell Chris as much as he 
could about himself and Dog Island; prepare her for the 
things she was about to see.

    "Lot of history in this low-country, Chris. Lot of my 
people's blood, too."

    The food ran out near Lumberton. Chris decided he'd 
hold out till they reached "South of the Border" an 
amusement park just beyond the North Carolina border. They 
passed into South Carolina and took the first exit to the 
park. The crowd was a small, meandering one. Chris was 
more excited by the bright lights than apprehensive. He 
hooked his arm around Johnny's and together they strolled 
around the place like the most natural thing in the world. 
They ordered foot-long hot dogs, walked into a souvenir 
shop where Chris bought a glorious Southern Belle straw 
bonnet, and watched kids have a ball on the rides. No one 
seemed too upset. The cashiers smiled a lot and made a 
point of calling Johnny "sir," and Chris "m'am."

    When they returned to the car they were in the highest 
of spirits. Years later Chris would remember this evening 
with  special fondness. No matter how horrid things would 
end between him and Johnny never again would he meet a man 
he felt so comfortable with in public. It was presence of 
the man. A one in a million kind of style that said, "I 
may be black as ink. And a lot of you people may not like 
the fact that I'm here among you with a blonde on my arm, 
but I'm a man. And a man's got to do what he's got to do 
or he wouldn't be much of a man. And that's something 
that's bigger than me and you and damn sure bigger than 
this blonde that's holding on to me like he ain't never 
gonna let go."

    Miles and miles of trees and thick foliage and little 
rust covered farmhouses and grassy hills and multi-colored 
bill-boards and signs announcing towns named  "Shiloh," 
and "Yamasee," and it was ink-black outside, and the big 
Chrysler was doing over 75 mph, and the window was down, 
and the air whipping in pungent, low-country air, pregnant 
with flora and fauna and trillions of insects, and Chris 
was feeling lazy and horny just like a woman gets when her 
belly is full and she's alone with her man. He reached out 
and touched Johnny on the thigh.

    "Let's get a motel room, honey, I'm sleepy."

    The big car roared off the exit and followed the main 
road to a small motel. A few minutes they were on the 
floor grappling like collegiate wrestlers. Some time after 
this Chris lie awake entwined around his sleeping black 
man. He was like a slab of chiseled ebony, Chris thought. 
How would he ever wean himself off such a magnificent 
beast?

    He thought about what he would wear in the morning: 
Hip, crazy Ida had surely been sent to him by God. What 
else explained such perfect timing? The sundress was 
hanging in the closet with the heels beneath them. 
Tomorrow he'd arrive on Dog Island wearing both. It would 
be the biggest day of his life and he was scared to death. 
Things were going too fast, but what was he to do? Like 
Johnny always said, the thing was bigger than them. God 
was moving it all along for reasons only He knew. It's 
just bigger than them... Bigger than them...Bigger than 
them....

    Chris fell asleep.








    "Wow!" Johnny exclaimed.

    It was morning. Chris had just stepped out of the 
bathroom dressed in the sundress, heels, and straw bonnet.

    "Do you really like it?" he asked, avoiding Johnny's 
eyes.

    Johnny was standing in front of him now, naked and 
raw, his body answering Chris' question in the most 
tell-tale way possible.

    "But Johnny, no, no, we don't have time for that now, 
Johnny...."

    "Oh, baby, baby, you look so hot, baby...."

    "But John--ny...."


    Highway 17 snakes along the South Carolina coast down 
to Savannah, Georgia. Johnny and Chris had picked it up 
just below Charleston. From there it was a straight shot 
through the heart of low-land country to just beyond the 
Combahee river and Dog Island. The early morning sun had 
already begun to steam the lush marshland around the 
highway. The smell of brackish water-- seawater mixed with 
fresh water -- hung in the air. Off in the distance an 
egret flew beyond the tree line and vanished. Road kills 
in abundance. More ancient, rusted farmhouses. And then, 
lone black women at roadside stalls selling baskets.

    "Let's stop if we see another one," Chris said his 
face wrinkled in a childlike curiosity.

    "You can't afford what they're selling," Johnny 
replied stonefaced.

    "Let's stop anyway."

     Ten miles later another stall. Johnny slowed the 
Chrysler and pulled onto the service road. Chris put on 
his straw bonnet and stepped from the Chrysler looking for 
all the world like Scarlet O'hara stepping off the porch 
at Tara. He reached for Johnny's hand and felt it large 
and warm around his. The old black woman stopped her 
basket weaving and looked up. Such a sight required her 
utmost attention.

    "Morning, maum," Johnny said in a thick Gullah accent.




    "Aiyah, suh. N' e too Missus," the woman replied.

    "Good morning, m'am," Chris said.

    Johnny released Chris' hand and walked closer to the 
row of baskets hanging from the weathered wood of the 
stall. "E sweegras he growin' fine, enty?" he asked.

    The woman smiled broadly revealing a block of pearly 
white teeth set in jet blue gums.

       More conversation was had between the two, then she 
pulled one of the baskets from the wood and handed it to 
Johnny. Johnny smiled, thanked her, then reached for 
Chris's hand and began walking to the car. Chris followed 
not at all certain at what had just transpired.

    "If we wanna make Dog Island 'fore dinner time, baby, 
we can't fool around," Johnny said.

    "Don't you of all people talk about `fooling around' 
Mr. Johnny Pounds," Chris said.

    Johnny grinned but said nothing.

    "Johnny, that woman's gums where blue," Chris said 
after they had driven for a while in silence.

    "Sure, she's a full blooded Gullah, and my kin 
besides."

    "And..." Chris said, hesitating, then after a moment: 
"And she was the blackest person I've ever seen...."

    "Shoot," Johnny said with a laugh. "By the time you 
get back from the Dog, you'll be callin' people her 
complexion `high yaller.'"

    They continued down Highway 17. Chris began fingering 
the basket. It was a good basket, tightly woven and with a 
warm, earthy scent.

    "Them ole women been making those things since they 
brought the first African slaves down here," Johnny said 
noticing him. "Whole lot stuff from Africa these folk down 
here are still up on."

    "Like Voodoo?" Chris asked playfully.






    Johnny winced, then, looking very serious replied, 
"No, that's New Orleans with that voodoo jive. Down here 
folks believed in `conjuring,' and that was around long 
before they came up with that voodoo shit."

    Chris let out a carefree laugh. "Oh, I love it!" he 
said. "Now I know this is going to be a fun trip!"

Johnny looked down the highway without comment. This made 
Chris smile even more deliciously.

    They continued down 17. Then after they had gone a 
distance Johnny said, "Our turn's coming up in about 100 
yards."

    Chris looked down the highway for some telltale sign 
but saw nothing. Johnny began to cut his speed...Then 
Chris saw it-- a wooden sign no bigger than a breadbox 
that read:

             "Dog Island -----> "

    The big Chrysler churned up billows of dust as it 
rolled onto the dirt road. Chris leaned forward to take it 
all in. There were no road lights or anything. The road 
was barely wide enough for two cars, and up front, in the 
distance, he could see what appeared to be a body of water 
and a small dock. Several small boats were tethered to its 
moors. And next to it a parking area with about 30 in it. 
Folks came, parked their cars and boated to Dog Island, 
that much was plain. `Dog Island' really was an island.

    Johnny pulled the Chrysler into a spot and motioned 
for Chris to get out.

    "No one going over right now," he said eying the boats 
with the same sweeping gaze Chris had first noticed in the 
Bus Terminal.  "They'll be somebody soon, though."

    "Johnny you didn't say nothing about all this...Why 
it's like something out of a book," Chris said.

    "Not to me. To me it's old hat."

    He walked calm and easy to the dock. Chris followed. 
The old wood creaked and shivered under their weight. 
Johnny stood at the railing and surveyed the expanse of 
water before them. He exhaled a long column of cigarette 
smoke that held then wafted and danced over the water.





    "Now that forest you see is not Dog Island," he said, 
pointing to the green mass far off at the periphery of the 
water. "It's really just the backside of the mainland 
swinging out in front of us. We'll take that curve 
there...take it out to the Combahee to just before she 
spills into the Atlantic...that's how you get to the Dog."

    Chris reached and removed the cigarette from Johnny's 
hand. He took a light drag and returned it to between 
Johnny's fingers letting his lily white hand remain 
clasped on the top of Johnny's coal black one. Out on the 
water the mist kept steaming higher into the sky. A long, 
brown bird shot across the panoply. It was quiet except 
for the crickets and birds, And then... a man-made sound. 
The sound of an outboard motor approaching.

    "That would be somebody coming from the Dog," Johnny 
said his eyebrows knitted like a hawk's. "Use to be able 
to tell everybody's boat. Don't know this one coming, 
though."

    It came curving from the corridor, a little white and 
yellow motorboat a woman at the steering wheel with a baby 
in her free arm.

    "I can't believe she's driving that thing with a baby 
in her arm," said Chris.

    The woman cut her speed as she neared the dock. She 
then coasted to where the other boats where and cut the 
motor. Johnny headed to where to where she was docking.

    "Hiya!" he called.

    "Hi!" the woman called still concentrating on the 
boat. Johnny was there silently reaching for the infant. 
She handed it to him. Johnny turned and handed the baby to 
Chris. Johnny then turned back to extend his hand for the 
woman. The baby was no more than 6 months. Chris could 
feel the warmth of him through the thin blanket.

    "Combahee pretty mild today?" Johnny asked as he 
steadied his arm for the woman.

    "Not bad," she said. "Undertow pretty tame today, it 
seems."

    "Look like you were holding it down pretty good," 
Johnny said.




    "Me and the Combahee been getting along alright so 
far, I guess. Got no complaints, so far."

    She was short and stout, brown skinned and wholesome 
looking. Her hair was pressed in bangs the way black women 
wear their hair. Her voice was black Southern and 
unremarkable.

    "I'm Johnny Pounds and this here is Chris. I was born 
on the Dog. You must be new," Johnny said to smiling.

    "Yes, I'm Mary Williams. You must know Clyde Williams. 
I'm his wife."

    "Clyde Williams," Johnny repeated warmly. "I should 
say I know him. I'm just the one who taught that boy 
everything he knows about fishin' and huntin', that's 
all."

    Mary Williams smiled then looked at Chris as if she 
had all at once seen him. It was an open look of surprise 
and vexation; one that bespoke of the woman's inability to 
make sense at what she was looking at. Chris' smile was 
now frozen on his face. This was precisely the reaction he 
had dreaded.

    "And so where is that husband of yours," Johnny asked 
good naturedly.

    (And this was the thing about Johnny, Chris had come 
to notice. His complete inability to sense tension in 
others.)

    Mary Williams did not answer but instead reached for 
her baby. Chris handed the infant to her in one stiff 
thrust.

    "Out fishin' I reckon," Johnny said answering his own 
question.

    Mary Williams checked her baby than turned to Johnny. 
Her voice came out clipped and metallic.

    "You can take my boat over, if you like," she said. 
I'll be going back over in the school boat."

    "Well, that's right on the money, Mary,"  Johnny said, 
already stepping into the boat. "Sure do appreciate it."

    And then the woman was padding away towards the cars 
her baby at her shoulder his little black face staring 
back at Chris as if he too was not quite certain what to 
make of him.

    They transferred their things from the car to the 
boat. Then scanning the road in back of them to make sure 
no one was coming, Chris stepped out of his heels, hiked 
his dress up and began slipping off his pantyhose.

    "Wha' the hell..." Johnny cursed, momentarily stunned 
at the spectacle.

    "These are the only pantyhose I got, Johnny," Chris 
said smoothing his dress down and standing straight up. "I 
can't afford to ruin 'em walking in the dirt and 
everything."

    "Damn," Johnny said his face a mask of disdain.

    Chris rolled the pantyhose up, stuck them in his 
shoulder bag, then gingerly stepped into the boat. Johnny 
turned to the steering wheel. Chris looked at his back 
with a questioning, unsure gaze. Had he done something to 
turn Johnny off?

    The big black outboard sputtered right up. Johnny 
deftly backed it out from the dock into the open water, 
then revved it and steered it from the shore. In a momemnt 
they were out where the thick, tree shrouded curve was.  
They motored right down the middle of it. The curve was 
actually a water lane completely walled by tree and bush 
for a mile ahead. No lights, no development, nothing but 
the river and the walls of tree and bush. It surely was no 
different than it had been hundreds of years earlier. A 
place in no book, no movie, existing as remote from when 
the first white slavers ferried the black Golas to the 
rice plantations through it. And the big black outboard 
kept propelling further and further up the river. And 
Johnny was standing at the wheel tall, strong and black. 
Chris stood up and went to him wrapping his arms around 
Johnny's chest and leaning his body full against his back.

    "Hey, baby, what gives?" Johnny asked surprised at the 
feel of him.

    "I just wanted to hold you," Chris said, his voice 
soft and vulnerable.

    "But, baby, I'm trying to drive this thing."

    "Shut-up and drive then," Chris said, his hips now 
pressed against Johnny's buttocks. "And another 
thing...this black ass is mine tonight, you got that?"

   Johnny held on to the steering wheel and kept his foot 
steady on the accelerator. He his look of disdain had now 
changed to one of deep worry.





Friends:

        I read each and every e-mail religiously. Keep the 
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                      Gary


Scoopnet@access.digex.net

Enjoy!

The great Gary L.