Trannyshack Reno

We went to the first Trannyshack Reno. There were four of us. We drove up decked out in our best drag, marijuana and ecstasy in our pockets, blaring pop music. It was a fast and fun drive complete with strange looks at drive-thrus and gas stations.

The neon lights and crisp white snow welcomed us to the high desert bug small town. It was a warmer welcome than the one the concierge gave at the hotel. We set our bags down, washed up, and got read for the show still blaring the pop music, cocktails made of 90% liquor in our hands, bellies, and heads. A swallow of ecstasy and puff of joint later, we went to the show.

We danced madly and hooted loudly. We hit behind the stage curtains and tripped on steps. We drank and drank and drank.

We meandered the streets ending up at a nameless casino with a buffet, hungry and parched from the copious amounts of alcohol and THC. We sat ourselves and waited for the server. And we waited as our bladders screamed and our make-up faded until two of us had to visit the girls' room.

The left and we continued to wait for the server. She arrived.

"Excuse me," she started, "but we caught your two friend in the women's restroom. While it was okay for one of them to be in there, it wasn't okay for theother. We are going to have to ask you to leave."

"What," we both asked.

"I'm sorry. Really, I am. I know how this sounds, but it's company policy." She looked concerned hoping we wouldn't make a scene. She put her hands on the table and leaned in. "Listen. I'm a lesbian. I do know how this looks, and if it was up to me we wouldn't be having this conversation. But I need you to please leave."

A gentleman in a suit was watching from the corner, and a scream erupted from outside the restaurant. "But she is fucking beautiful! What the fuck? Get your hands off me. Can't you see she's all woman. God damn it! She's more beautiful than your ugly ass. Yeah. I said it. You have an ass of a face!"

The server looked nervous. We quietly got up and left.

"Fuck you! Get your hands off me you prick."

We gently grabbed her arm and started to escort her and our other friend out of the casino.

"This place fucking sucks! Can't you see how beautiful she is. Look at her. Look at her!" She screamed as we rode the escalator. "Fuck you! What are you looking at?" She yelled as we passed the slot machines. "What the hell just happened?" She asked as we walked through the door into the wintry early morning.

The snow was falling and the neon lights refracted against the crystalline flakes. It was bright for 4am and no one passed us on the street.

"It's warm, and I'm tired," she said, and she sat down on the sidewalk.

"We're fucking beautiful. I love you all," she said as she passed out.

We all looked at each other and laughed. We were beautiful and loved and no one could take that away.

The Damned Unite

Our favorite late night activity occurred on our balcony. We lived on Geary between Larkin and Hyde before the police cleaned it up. (I don't think they were too successful.) Our street was the battleground between the trans* prostitutes of Post Street and the bio-girl hookers of O'Farrell Street. There were lots of fights and yelling.

The activity was simple. We sat on our balcony and when the police came around yelled, "5-0!" They'd duck behind cars, hop in to the only open convenience store (it was only open from 11pm to 5am), try to pull down their non-existent skirts, start walking faster. We did it every weekend.

I miss those nights. It connected me to parts of life other condemn. I am comfortable there for I, too, have been condemned. And the damned must unite.

Stolen Playgirls

 
B. Dalton carried Playgirl. I visited frequently and shoplifted copies. I would walk over to the magazine rack and casually peruse Home and Garden, Marie Claire, Vogue, and Women's Day, and when the clerk wasn't looking I'd grab a Playgirl and shove it between the pages of one of the myriad women's magazines. When the clerk turned away again, I would shove it up my shirt or down my pants and move to the sci fi or mystery section. Another ten to fifteen minutes later I left looking dejected that I didn't find what I was looking for, heart pounding hoping I wouldn't get caught.

The magazine was masturbatory gold and got tucked away between the mattress and box spring next to the naked men birthday cards I stole from the drug store. My stash was my fantasy and needed to be hidden between things. They invaded my dreams, and I woke up wet.

This continued until my mother decided to clean my bedroom or make my bed or snoop and found the naked men between mt sheets. She threw them away, confronted me, and I denied the whole thing scared that they would send back to a shrink to become straight like they did in the eighth grade.

"They aren't mine. It won't happen again," I said.

We all lived in denial for a few more years.