ghastly buso head

An Excerpt from



Kevin Andrew Murphy
Thomas S. Roche

Copyright 1995 Kevin Andrew Murphy & Thomas S. Roche, All Rights Reserved

Trona hated the bar, but it was somewhere she could go. They'd laughed at her everywhere else, so this was the only place left.
The Grey Mare was tacky and seedy, but she'd learned to cope. The others in the bar could tell that Trona was not a woman; in fact, she was exactly what she appeared to be: a very poorly constructed transvestite. But it was protective coloration-She wasn't the only one.
Trona looked at Valerie, across the bar. Valerie was one of those ridiculous drag queens who resembled a woman not so much as she resembled a mannequin. Her hair was right, her dress was right, her makeup was perfect-but altogether, it gave the impression of being fake.
And Trona hated her for it. Because as fake as Valerie appeared, she was still more believable than Trona would ever be. Trona looked down at her hands: large, hairy, and ridiculous on the stem of the mimosa. She had tried shaving them; she had tried depilatories; she had tried plucking the thick red hairs off the backs one by one with tweezers. But the lotion had irritated her skin; the hair grew back. She didn't even know why she tried. Her face might have passed on a different body; but on Trona's body, never. No one would ever believe her.
Trona watched with contempt as Valerie threw her arms around Mickey, the bartender. Mickey pushed Valerie away, looking uncomfortable. He was a college kid who didn't belong here any more than anyone else did; he was just trying to make some money. Nobody fit here, and they hated each other equally.
Bobbi dominatrix jpgThere was a sudden hush over the bar, and Trona followed the stares of all the other outcasts. There, at the entrance, kissing the doorman on the cheek, was a vision of androgyny-beauty, even-and Trona recognized her. It was Bobbi Rodriguez, the most beautiful Filipino drag queen who ever existed. She was a San Francisco legend, the female impersonator who had actually done what Trona and the others didn't have the guts or the money to do. Bobbi had become a woman.
And what a woman she was. Bobbi wore her trademark scarf and a revealing minidress. Bobbi was thin, frail, but with large enough breasts and enough curve in the hips to pass without a hint of doubt in anyone's mind. And her face was beautiful.
Even back when Bobbi was pre-op, she had been a headturner. Straight men had forgotten themselves when she'd done her act at the Option Club. But now that she had changed, she danced at the Mitchell Brothers' Theater. She appeared nearly naked, and the straight men went crazy stuffing twenty dollar bills into her G-string. None of them ever doubted that Bobbi was a woman. And Bobbi was a woman. A woman like the one Trona would never be.
Operations and electrolysis could do their share, and pills would help, but Trona would never be small and petite like Bobbi. She had a man's frame and a man's muscle and a man's voice that some men were stupid enough to envy.
She would trade it in a second. If she had Mickey's body even, just a little surgery and a few pills would make her a woman that men would admire. But no one would ever love Trona, or want to be with her.
She lowered her head, staring into her cocktail and trying very hard not to cry. She'd given up her marriage, quit her financial-district job, and taken a position as an underpaid clerk in a Tenderloin leather store, all in the forlorn and ridiculous hope that she could somehow make herself pass as a woman and recreate herself into something she wouldn't be ashamed of. And it had all come to this: sitting in a sleazy transvestite bar on Polk, crying into her fucking mimosa.
What did it matter if she cried? No one would notice, not for a fucking second. The people around the bar had become used to Trona's repulsive presence, and they had taken to ignoring her.
She felt a soft hand on the skin of her neck. Somehow Trona wasn't startled; the touch seemed to meld with her flesh.
"You okay, honey?" The voice was soft and cool, like a silk scarf, and Trona looked into the rich brown eyes of Bobbi Rodriguez.
Trona was shocked that anyone was even speaking to her in the Mare-least of all Miss Bobbi.
Trona went to speak and found that her man's voice caught in her throat. She shook her head.
"No," she finally said, in a hoarse whisper. "I'm alright. . . ."
Bobbi laughed a little and looked at Trona. There was something in those eyes that made Trona speak again.
Trona swallowed and felt the tears trickle down her cheeks. "You're just so beautiful. . . ."
"You're not the first person to say so." Bobbi was quiet, like a fawn, and a space cleared for her at the bar immediately. She sat down next to Trona and placed her hand on Trona's knee. "But you're very beautiful, too."
Trona didn't hear any mocking in the tone. "What's beautiful about me?"
Bobbi reached up and patted the curls of Trona's hair. "Your hair. It's lovely. Red is such a rare shade to get, and I can tell that yours isn't dyed. I always wanted to have hair like that."
Trona felt a soft blush steal over her cheeks. "Thank you. But it isn't much good by itself."
"There are all sorts of beauty. I think the finest sort of beauty is the beauty you find within yourself."
Trona felt her gut knot inside her. How dare a woman like this tell her about inner beauty? It was fucking easy for her to say.
Trona tried very hard not to start crying again. "What if the beauty inside yourself is at odds with what's on the outside?" She looked up at the lovely visage of Bobbi Rodriguez.
Bobbi's face grew soft, gentle, and Trona felt as the hand on her knee traveled up, from her thigh to her belly to the curve of the falsies beneath her sequined top, finally coming to rest on Trona's face. The fingertips were like a kiss.
"Do you honestly think I don't know what that's like? I understand. You must know that I understand."
Trona bit her lip. How could she hate Bobbi like that? She felt herself softening and collapsing against the other woman's soft, real breasts. Bobbi put her arms around Trona, hugging her tight. Trona knew Bobbi did understand. But Bobbi had made the transformation-a transformation that Trona couldn't make. The surgeons in the Philippines had worked their magic for Bobbi, but her case had not been beyond all hope. Trona's was. No matter how skilled the doctors or radical their procedures, there was no way they could turn an ox into a doe.
Trona began to cry again and looked down. She didn't want Bobbi to see. She felt pathetic and miserable, and abjectly unlovable. Certainly a real woman couldn't have sympathy for Trona.
Bobbi's hand snaked its way through Trona's hair, and Trona felt the warmth of Bobbi's body against her as Bobbi got off her barstool. Then there was a kiss on her neck, and Trona's hackles stood up. Something else stood up, deep inside the padding and the lace panties, beneath the loose, long skirt, and Trona felt a violent wave of self-hatred. But she couldn't deny that this woman turned her on. She felt a familiar desire, a desperate longing, and Bobbi's hand was under her cheek, lifting Trona's head gently.
"It's too loud here," said Bobbi. "Would you like to go somewhere?"
Trona's eyes grew wide. "With . . . with you?"
Bobbi's lips broke into a smile and she nodded. "With me."
Trona closed her eyes, letting darkness swallow the bar and all the ugliness of her life. "Yes, I'd like that very much."

And as Sheherezayd said, "Yet that is not the end of my tale...."
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