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Castro Street Story part 3
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Archive-name: castro-st.3
Castro Street Story : Part Three
by Gary L.
"Agrapito!" the girl coming out of the elevator called.
It was that very pretty Mariolito girl Julio had seen
coming and going. The small brown one with the saucy
mouth, flashing eyes, and thick black hair; the one he had
looked away from whenever their paths had crossed. He had
never thought about why he reacted this way at her
approach. He had never wanted to become that introspective
about it.
"Ah, there you are, Agrapito! Mama was
wondering...your food is getting cold," she said to her
stepfather although her eyes were locked on Julio.
"Oh, Maria, I was on my way up," Agripito said,
smiling as he reached to put his arm around her shoulder.
"My friend and I were talking...You two know each other,
do you not?"
"No, I have not had the pleasure," Maria said quickly.
"Well, then... Julio Colon, this is my daughter, Maria
Sanchez. Julio is from Havana, Maria. We knew each other
in a fashion. A first class musician, he...why, I have
heard him myself with my very ears!"
"Charmed," Maria said, now demure as she offered her
small soft hand and warm brown smile.
It is one thing avoiding the magic of a lovely woman
>From afar, quite another attempting to do so when you are
the object of her interest and standing unprotected flat
in front of her.
And she began to weave her spell right off. She did
not precisely know why she wanted this Julio Colon. At
that very moment he was surely the poorest man in America,
and further, he did not even speak English; but yet, there
was something, something about the way he stayed to
himself-- to his room, avoiding the others-- something
about the way he had not gone after her, and, yes,
something about how he had gone and gotten himself an
American girl-- even though she was a witch (for this too,
increased the intrigue about him)-- and more...Her "gift"
for such things told her there was more, things she knew,
could always feel about people, and this boy, this Julio
Colon, was not an ordinary man. Here was someone with a
mark, a mark that she could now see as plain as if it were
a halo over his head, a mark of a boy who one day most
certainly be a man of respect and consequence.
"Well, then, Julio Colon," she said brightly. "You are
invited to have dinner with us since you are the one
responsible for keeping my Papa, late. It is either that
or Mama will have both our heads on a stick. Him for being
late, and me for not being able to find him."
A clever girl, Julio thought. And her invitation meant
not to be refused, and further, what excuse could he give
anyway? He was a Mariolito just like her step-father with
a little room in the hotel, no job nor family. He could
mention Crystal but that would not be right. The brown
girl in front of him would have every right to smack him
for evoking such a thing (certain things were understood
even if there were no logic to them). There was nothing he
could say. He had been away from woman too long to
remember how to refuse them. He would have to go along.
"No Mcdonald's for you tonight, Julio, I'm afraid,"
she continued hooking her arm around Julio's. "Your
punishment is to be a good home-cooked Cuban dinner, my
tall thin friend."
They laughed and went to the elevator. For the first
time in 10 days, Julio had stopped thinking about Crystal.
__________________________________________
Two days later, Crystal was not taking any more
customers. She had decided that the shampoo, rinse and
tint she had given Mrs. Katz was going to be it for the
rest of the week. For the first time in over a year her
regulars would have to reset. Crystal was in love and
nothing was going right. She needed time to sort things
out, to be reflective and seek advice. She was in the back
office of "Bay City Beauty Parlor" looking out of the
one-way mirror on to the floor. Ten women sat in ten
chairs with ten hairstylists in attendance. The new kid
>From the beauty school was at Crystal's chair giving a
perm. She was a smart kid, she'd do all right. Crystal
turned and walked to the large mirror on the wall and
looked at herself.... Pretty, blond, under 30, nice tits,
slender, great tawny legs...blond ambition, what else
could a man want?...A vagina...No! Any little tramp had
that! I've got more...so much more to give...!
She frowned, went to the desk, got her handbag,
removed a tube of lip-stick then returned to the mirror
and applied a fresh coat to her lips. And why should that
be so important anyway? He was really nothing, really, an
ignorant little piece of Chico trade who didn't even speak
English.... God...! Maybe he was a virgin.. Geez,if so, he
might not even know the difference... Fool! Your cock is
probably longer than his! Stop this madness now, bitch!
Stop it now, you silly bitch or I'll tell him myself...!
But he's man, and said he loved me and wanted to marry
me.... He had said it! I heard it! I know I did...! Don't
you understand...? Don't you know that this is what we've
wanted and suffered for since the beginning...? This...?
All the blows, sneers, insults, and now here right out of
the sky, the love of a man and you're too afraid to be
woman enough to accept it... You're a sham! A female
impersonator! You don't deserve the love of a man, you
nasty faggot!
Crystal stepped from the mirror took a last look at
hersel,f reached for her bag, and took the rear door out
to the alley. From here she walked to the Metro and caught
the subway to Oakland. A few blocks from the Oakland
station she entered a badly painted row house on a
impoverished looking block. When she knocked on the old
wooden door, Tom Bailey, a black, 45 year old former drag
queen known as "The Countess" opened it and greeted her
warmly.
"Hi, girlfriend, my, don't you look chic today!" The
Countess said smiling broadly.
"You gotta be kidding-- I feel like a $6 hooker after
the Seventh Fleet--"
"Hush, girl--, " the larger transvestite said, pulling
Crystal in, "and stop talking like that 'fore you rise the
dead."
They went to the kitchen and settled down. The
Countess sat two bowls on the table then filled them with
piping hot black-eyed peas and ham hocks from the large
kettle on the stove. He then opened the oven and cut two
hunks of cornbread from the pan warming inside. They ate
and gabbed and then got to the subject Crystal had come
>From San Francisco to talk to the older queen about.
"He asked me to marry him," Crystal offered in a voice
she tried to make sound offhand.
The Countess grunted, swallowed a mouthful of ham hock
then said, "That's a good sign, it means you're working
him good, girlfriend."
"Maybe a little too good," Crystal said letting her
face show concern.
"Humph," The Countess said, and then: "Wanna another
ham hock, baby?"
A few minutes after he had refilled their bowls he
finally responded to Crystal's comment.
"Let me tell ya something I thought I schooled you
children to a long time ago," The Countess said sucking
the morrow from the ham hock bone. "You can never work a a
freak `too good.' And don't you ever forget that. You're a
woman, baby, and that's your job-- to work a freak--"
"--But he isn't a freak--
"--They're all freaks, and don't interrupt me, chile,
while I'm interrupting you or I'll put your little white
ass over my knee and see if I can whip some sense into
your head from that end."
Crystal laughed and feigned a swipe at The Countess.
"Don't...!"
The Countess was clearly more than some middle-aged
black man with a receding hairline and formidable
pot-belly to Crystal. Tom Bailey was Crystal's "mother,"
the once international beauty who under the stage name,
Countess Lambasia, had been San Francisco's most legendary
transvestite success story ever. The older transvestite
had done it all, three marriages, The Jewel Box Revue, La
Cage Aux Follies, magazine spreads, movie roles, the
works. His early success had come 20 years earlier in
Italy where for years he appeared in the clubs and in the
media before any of the paisanos had a clue to what he
really was. Back then his beauty had been completely
feminine. Tall, willowy and very black, he once had spent
an entire week on the French Riviera attending all the
celebrity spots dressed in little more than a string
bikini without anyone becoming the wiser. That's where he
had picked up his first husband, Alphonse Ludendorff, an
Italian Count loaded with lira and blue-blood.
"Alphonse didn't find out until we'd been married two
years, but by that time I didn't care anymore. I was tired
of him always wanting to hump me like a dog and I guess I
thought by letting him find out it might cool his nature
down a bit--- I mean, four and five times a day, that was
too much even for an old slut like me, honey-- but shit,
let me tell ya about that freak, baby girl...After I told
the horny little bastard what time it was -- he got worst!
I mean, I couldn't believe it! I was going on stage
bow-legged and cross-eyed because this madman couldn't get
enough!"
The Countess belched, shook his balding head, then
continued,
"But those were the days. Shit, I wonder where that
little freak is now. I haven't had that kind of attention
in a long time. Girl could miss that after awhile, you
know what I mean, Crystal, honey?"
Crystal looked at The Countess and smiled. If his
ex-husband could see what a fat, balding, greasy ham hock
eating man his ex-wife had turned into he'd gag...no, he'd
gag, choke, vomit, then run to the window and jump out
while pulling his hair from his head and screaming bloody
murder. Transvestitism is for the young, that much was
painfully clear. "Get 'em while you're young," was what
The Countess himself had always said. "Cause tomorrow you
turn right back into a big, hairy ass man, baby."
By the time Crystal left her friend's house her mind
was made up. Yes, she would let Julio make love to her the
next time they met, and, yes, she would marry him if she
could. Her life so far had been hard and mean and if this
was going to be her opportunity to finally add some
sweetness to it, no matter how short, she meant to do it.
And not just do it, but fight like a mad banshee to get
him and keep him. At least then when she got to be as old
and ugly as The Countess, she'd have maybe one tenth his
memories.
" I'm telling you, Crystal, you gotta, work 'em, honey--
work their hot, freakish little assess while you can!"
Transvestite Blues: FIVE
the Great Gary L.
There is a bar on lower Castro Street called "The Gilded
Grape." It is two blocks away from the Mayflower Hotel
going in the direction of the docks. It is an unusual
place even for San Francisco. It is, perhaps, one of the
most renown transvestite bars in the world. A place where
all the women one sees are actually men in drag. To the
passing stranger, however, this masquerade is often not
discernable. The building itself gives no clue. From the
outside one sees a facade much like that associated with
the Parisian side walk cafe. There are the large trellised
windows, long tent-like awning, and then cafe tables
arranged tightly together. Quick, slender, waiters flit in
and out with orders, and all this is quite European and
quite pleasing to see if one is passing by in the morning
when the straights and gays are sitting in the sun eating
bagels, drinking coffee and reading their newspapers.
But on the weekends, after noon, when all the
City workers are gone, an entirely different element is
suddenly upon the tables. Long-limbed, extravagant
looking women with wild hair and pealing voices. They do
not eat bagels and drink coffee but rather imbibe brightly
colored liquids from tall glasses while smoking long thin
cigarettes. They do not read newspapers and do crossword
puzzles but instead gab and laugh and keep ever ready the
eye or word for the men passing by.
"Hi, handsome!"
"Sexy bastard!"
"C'mon here and have a drink with me!"
" Don't be afraid, honey-- I don't bite....unless
that's what you like, you freak mothafucker...."
And so their talk goes. And they talk about everything
but really just a few things for there are only a few
things that are important to them.
"Girl, you look so hot, tonight, I hate you."
"Thank you, honey, but I love how you frosted your
hair it looks real hot."
"Who was that freak I saw you with last night he was
real hot?"
"Wasn't he? Just some straight who wants to leave his
wife and marry me. He thinks I'm muy caliente."
"Work him, girlfriend.
"Uh, huh."
They are very good these men who dress as women. And
at some point it was agreed that only the most
beautiful and "fem" of their lot would sit
outside during the day. This was their small conspiracy, a
de facto marketing strategy to keep business booming. At
any given time as many as ten of the girls spread around
the tables, flirting, flashing, putting on the sauciest of
shows for passing men. Later, after dark, the men would
return in hordes. The place would be packed with the
clerks, construction workers, lawyers, doctors of the City
lured back to Castro street as the half-women, half-bird
Sirens from Greek mythology had lured sailors to death and
destruction by the sweetness of their song. The Gilded
Grape girls were that good, and more.
The story goes that one afternoon a young priest new
to the City stopped in for bagels and coffee. In the back
some of the girls made a bet that, India Jones, a
supernaturally beautiful black /East Indian girl, would
not get be able to get the pious man to buy her breakfast.
In a little while she was sitting at his table with a huge
plate of sausage and eggs before her. They began
breakfasting regularly. He meant to save her soul, he
announced, but alas, in the end, it was his soul that was
lost. India was simply better at her work than he at his.
There was an affair and then one night in a fit of insane
jealousy he beat her so savagely her left eye was
punctured and smashed. It had to be removed. The priest
was quickly defrocked and sent to prison. India was no
longer permitted to sit on the outside after this. God had
had his revenge.
But things were different from when Crystal had been
a Gilded Grape girl, then, it seemed everything was
possible. Her youth, beauty and blondness were
unmatchable. Things would happen when she walked inside
and sat among the Black and Hispanic girls. She gave them
"class" as one of the older queens would say; helped them
draw a higher class of freak. And then, later, in the
evening, when it was packed inside she only had to plant
herself in a seat and sooner or later all the men would
swing by on some pretense or other.. They loved her smile,
her golden honey-pot of blond sensuality, her decadence.
India Jones was one of her running buddies then, as well
as Tasha Bullock, another black beauty, and "Cat", a
big-boned black who was not at all pretty but could knock
a man down with a punch and carried a shiv in her
pocketbook she was very quick with. There were other white
girls but they avoided each other. White queens knew it
was better to accentuate their whiteness by having darker
girls around. And then, there were many of the men who
preferred salt and pepper. The best of both worlds, a
white girl with a black girl chaser, and then, maybe, if
they were really freakish, a spicy Hispanic nightcap for
dessert. Freaks could be downright eclectic in their
tastes at times. A young Italian-American television
sit-com star, for example, had it in for a towering 225 lb
black girl with a shaved head named Tiny. The other girls
would drool over him but he didn't know they existed. At
closing it was always Tiny he'd leave with and then off to
her rundown roach infested apartment where they do
whatever incomprehensible thing they'd did together till
early the next morning when he'd leave for rehearsals at
the studio. He most have paid very well. Tiny never had to
take any of the other freaks home unless she wanted to.
And prostitution was indeed a way of life for most of
the girls. Although many were feminine enough to get
mainstream jobs as clerks, secretaries and such, few had
the order in their lives a full time job required. Also,
practically none even gave a thought to anything but
"living the life," an oft-heard expression that meant to
live for the moment, seeking to do the wild, pleasurable
thing over anything else one was ordinarily expected to do
in life. It was a impossible thing they sought. To be able
to go to the bars every night, drinking and partying and
going home with strangers and never having any other
responsibilities or cares. To live for love... A never,
neverland that, of course, doomed them all to dissolution
and despair in the end; but it was also what they
understood the price of being a glamorous woman was...a
tragic and early demise. Wasn't this what made the memory
of Monroe, Garland, Mansfield that much more romantic? How
could you be a diva if you weren't decadent? And who
wanted to grow old and fat anyway?
copyright 9/93
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