I suppose the complainers are miserable twats, sure, but worse, they’re uninformed and unevolved. I thought they’d appreciate the recognition, most people walk by or over trannies and hope that they’re an imagination’s figment. I instead paid them respect through recognition, but frankly, like the Diana inquest or the war in Iraq, I fear time has been wasted.
But I do love this piece.
GT Magazine,
April 2008
Scott Capurro
What does one do about trannies? One must do something because they’re using our NHS. One should have a stance. The new trend is the transition from male-to-female, both the unresolved pre- and the braver post-op, with their shiny, pubescent facial hair and round, soft features. With innocuous names like ‘Bob’ (once Katherine, a sweet local actress) and ‘Roy’ (previously a macrobiotic mother of two), they’re even employed by my gay sauna, manning the front desk, offering locker keys and coy, chubby smiles.
Gender lines blur as sexuality takes a back seat. Let’s face it – these days, being gay is as common as poverty. Queers are everywhere, doing everything. I never thought in my lifetime I’d see homos behaving normally, raising monsters and appearing on Judge Judy, but then who could predict Labour’s collapse? Perhaps an evolutionary scholar who understands that liberal politics, when successful, has no common enemy and so nowhere to turn except down. The Greeks should’ve despised the Romans more, and Gordon Brown should bomb Sheffield, although with one eye I fear he’ll miss. And I have friends in Derby. They’re not good friends of course, but they are a potentially rarified breed known as ‘birth males’.
Are men, we, I, even you, so successful, even in Sheffield, that everyone wants to be us? Perhaps because women make less money and in exchange get raped and beaten a lot more, many real chicks are molding their clits into cocks. Which seems odd, since boobs on a girl are hot, but man boobs on a tranny man are definitely not. And all the trannies at my sauna have moobs. Floppy piles of sweaty flesh, sticking to their black t-shirts, leave a bottom rim of moist for one to gawk. Where else should one look? Their eyes are feminine, giving them away, leading me to say ‘Thanks, ma’am’ when grabbing my white towel. And ‘ma’am’ in a gay sauna is as welcome as, frankly, a ma’am, which is to say not at all.
One assumes the sauna owner, perhaps a recent cock convert, prefers his trannies matronly, but when I’m banging away at an out of towner, I don’t want to be stared at by my mom. Like lesbian wardens they peruse the hallways, denim-covered thighs whooshing, replenishing condoms whilst checking for unsuitable sexual behavior, ignoring the fact that their being there is most inappropriate. Because no matter how many male hormones they consume, they’re still full of, if not femininity, then female power, which is infinite and, if one is at all perceptive, distinguishable.
I stare at the porn to distract, and there are more trannies, three in fact, on all fours, being fingered by someone off screen. Like Mark Twain, I’m deluged and slightly nauseated. I stumble into someone bald and small, flat chested and tattooed, bent forward and orally available. I run my hand over their smooth white ass, then reach between their pale legs, expectations lowered by circumstance, and I discover that yes, less is sometimes less. Not bad. And in fact, the mouth is expert. But I can’t suspend my cravings.
When leaving, the same little tranny, now back in uniform, giggles.
“You’ll never guess what happened,” he says.
One shudders, imagining the surprises that might unfold.
“I saw someone I liked, and he passed right by me to have sex with you. Can you believe it? I’m never turned down.”
Pity soars. The blatant hatred and mock disbelief, even within his community, that this person faces must seem insurmountable. I place myself, momentarily, in his tiny shoes. Cock, whether bought or not, doesn’t make the man. Unabashed competitiveness can, and he has that in spades.
I leave, loving my penis. Mine’s not big but it works, and it’s sort of pretty, or so I’ve been promised. But if I were having something surgically sewn to my groin, something that would make me feel more valuable, I can think of so many better options. Like, I dunno, a bottle opener. I’d be the life of any party. How about a Nintendo game, for long flights? Or a cash dispenser, saving me the torture of stumbling through Soho late on a Saturday night. Although for the delivery of bills, a slit would have to be added, which seems to defeat the purpose, unless dropping cash out of my ass is more than just a metaphor for my mortgage. Maybe I’d have a mirror glued to my pelvis, since all anyone really wants to see is a reflection of themselves.