Saturday night was invited by the Wizard to go to a cross dressers club, London’s ‘premier’ transgender club, no less.
“You look so pretty” I told him, experimentally.
He sighed with satisfaction. He then told me about his new love, a whispery hippy girl. Inwardly I seethed. Surely it is the prerogative of the dumpee, not the dumper, to confess to meeting someone new.
“Why didn’t you ask her here tonight then?” I snapped.
“Oh she’s not into this, she’s terribly fragile. You can hardly hear what she is saying.” he replied. “Unlike me, she has no dark side. She’s into yoga. I love her energy. She’s really submissive.”
Knowing this guy is a power-tripping, game-playing sexual pervert par excellence, with a thin veneer of hippydom, all drawstring trousers and dreadlocks, it was all I could do not to scoff. In fact I don’t think I managed to hold back.
“It’s like all those men who fancy Thai women, thinking they are so docile. What rot! Those women are hard as nails” I commented.
I stood around bored out of my mind. It was the opposite of sexy. The vulnerability is so evident, wafer-thin under the pancake foundation.
“I don’t know who to fancy”. I complained to another bio-female.”The ones that look like boys are probably gay, the ones that look like girls could be either way, ‘gay’ (depending on whether they have had the op, which would mean they fancy women), or ‘straight’ (if they were pre-op and fancied women) or …well it’s all rather confusing.”
A female impressionist did a performance, miming to Cher (black Charles I wig), Kylie (blonde wig), Dusty (tight lurex evening dress). Her spandex leotard barely contained the bulge in her groin. Her face was odd, huge eyes and grin, no hips.
The wizard said “She looked so embarrassed.”
“Well that’s the difference between a real woman and a trannie” I shot back.