Date: Tue, 3 Sep 2013 18:30:58 -0400
From: sissi lesli <tvlesli@gmail.com>
Subject: Young Times - first installment for the transgendered section

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