The use of the word Tranny is not intended to be disrespectful. I use it as it was used in the past as a simple description of a fem cross-dresser who, although born a male believes ‘she’ is really a female and responds sexually as a female. The word ‘tranny,’ considered politically incorrect by some, is still heard every day.
*****
This tale took place a good while ago when I was younger. Most details remain clear in my memory. Strangely, at this moment I can’t remember her real name, maybe because she changed her name every month?
She was a Tranny or pre-op T-girl, if you please, about 19 years old. She complained her competitors would cancel her insertions on ‘Craig’s List,’ and she thought changing her name in her weekly adverts would foil them.
Sometimes she was ‘Alice,’ and sometimes ‘Tigress.’ I liked the name she used when I first met her, she called herself ‘Callista.’ Anyone could see, even with the name changes, that the same person placed the internet advert. In her Craig’ listing, she described herself, always including the phrase,
“Callista, a young ripe Filipina transsexual, seeks tender companions, open to all requests.”
She used a lot of names. Who knows if the name changes had any effect on her competitors? —or was all of this a charade? When you are in the middle, you don’t always know what is really going on and what was her real name? I just don’t recall.
Let me describe her; she was a young Philippine, born in the United States. I think her skin was almost white, perhaps a light creamy tan. When you buy a hot dog at night, do you really pay attention to the color of the mustard? I thought she was beautiful.
Callista had long black hair and an oval face with moderately hooded Asian eyes. Her fingers were long and graceful, and her nails long and always painted or polished in different colors. She was tall for someone of Asian descent. When I came into her room in the early mornings, I would find her in the nude, but she would roll over, silent, lower the sheet revealing her plump rear end, begging me to disrobe and mount her.
Callista had no visible hair on her body, just a few pubic wisps. Her cock and balls were so small, almost invisible, always hidden between her thighs, making her look even more feminine. I don’t know how she was so well-groomed in that crazy house where she rented a room, but she was always clean, perfumed, and tasted good.
Callista loved animals. She had a little dog, a white poodle she called “Tinkerbell,” and two yellow canaries, so tame they would fly around the room and land on her hand. Like most members of the third sex, she was at odds with her family, Evangelical Christians, who strongly disapproved of her lifestyle.
On more than one occasion, Callista said,
“My Dad says, ‘God will punish me for what I do,’ but I say God should and punish them.”
Callista’s family believed this young girl was the scourge of civilization and the impending biblical destruction of this world was right on her shoulders. Although they lived in Los Angeles, Callista’s parents only saw her on rare occasions. Callista had left her family a few years before, forming a liaison with a wealthy Chinese student who provided the money for the dog and her possession of unusual sex toys, including an automatic “Fuck Machine.” That relationship was mostly over, and now she lived in a rented room around the corner from the McDonald’s in an old house populated by drug-addled degenerates.
I didn’t find her from her ads on Craig’s List. The first time I saw her was in the small supermarket near where I was living. As she passed me on the aisle, I immediately knew she was a T-girl. I found her attractive, and I backtracked to look at her again. To my disappointment, she had disappeared.
Several months later, on a spring afternoon, I saw her again. She wore a very short red miniskirt and a coral orange frilly blouse, walking towards the bus stop in front of the MacDonalds’ wearing stylish dark sunglasses, looking like a young cute, shy Hollywood girl who had lost her way.
I certainly wasn’t going to let her disappear again. I walked up to Callista, asked her name, started a conversation, I asked if she lived in my neighborhood, telling her I had seen her in the market. She seemed flattered that I remembered her,
“Oh, I used to live over there, but now I live here.”
Within a few minutes, she gave me her new address and phone number.
As it happens in Los Angeles, it was a holiday weekend. The streets were empty. I called her in the morning repeatedly with no success, but I got through to her in the afternoon.
“I had to go get the phone’s Sim card recharged, don’t call me so much. They charge for every call even if I don’t pick up.”
“I’ll give you money for a recharge. Can I come to see you?”
Within the hour, I was at the door of a small tumbled-down, dirty clapboard house on a side street I didn’t know existed. Scraps of wood and signs of haphazard construction material littered the tiny front yard surrounded by a rusty wire chain-link fence.
Her landlord, Hugo, was the Lord of the Manor, if not the Lord of the Flies. Hugo was a tall skinny fifty-year-old long-haired gay, with a ragged beard. He always looked dirty but also dangerous. Callista’s room was at the back of the house. To find Callista, I had to knock at the front door, where I was greeted by Hugo, who reminded me of Cerberus, the three-headed dog that Dante’s described as the Gatekeeper to Hell. Hugo opened the creaking door, shedding old peeling lead paint, and pointed me down the hall to Callista’s rented room.
Callista explained that several years ago, Hugo had inherited the broken-down house from his grandmother and was in the process of restoring it. However, even though Hugo often had a hammer in hand, progress in a significant renovation seemed very slow. The only progress appeared to be the installation of a sex swing that required round eye-hooks to be installed in the ceiling. The person standing in front of them with an erection could push the swing back and forth to facilitate anal intercourse might penetrate the person suspended with their naked ass exposed.
Hugo was always semi-nude, frequently wearing a short wife-beater armless shirt while his large genitals were in plain view. When I asked to see Callista, he seemed confused and disappointed. When I used the word ‘tranny,’ Hugo smiled and pointed down the hall. When my gaze fell, I could see Hugo was hung like a horse, but he was more interested in being ridden than in riding. He worked part-time in the early afternoon for a sandwich shop around the corner, doing deliveries on an old bicycle. Hugo liked to put his arm around me, squeezing my muscles, asking if I would like to come in and visit him and have a drink or smoke.
When Hugo said, “smoke,” he lifted his hand to wave his fingers, indicating he had in mind “special smokes,” if you know what I mean. This time period was many years before the legalization of pot. He’d pat my ass with his other hand, or he’d playfully try to grab for my cock. I did my best to avoid Hugo, who was obviously interested in more than a gay handshake. I wasn’t gay, and I wasn’t attracted to gay men. I narrowly confined my interest to very feminine trannies, the third sex as far as I was concerned.