Lucia's Noir

Wow. those seedy noirish pulp novels are soooooooo wooky!

'I was an NY Tgirl' - what a fab title. Ok, here's my startling little lump of spoofy noir....

Ned Chamberlain was skulking in the squad room drinking neat Jack Daniels, stroking his luxuriant beard, smoking his pipe and jerking off to Jordan when the boss stormed in. 'Ned', he grunted, 'You're off the Paraquat case. We've a new assignment for you. This one has come down from on high'.

'What? From Allah?' he gasped.

'No, you gibbon's ass', snarled the boss as he picked up the bottle of JD and smashed it over his own head. 'Go home and get some sleep. You look like shit. And don't shave. I'll pick you up tomorrow at nine am.

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Ned and his Boss drove through the wall of traffic to a run down beauty parlour on the Lower East Side. 'These goddam streets. They give me the shinkies', growled the boss.

'So what's the beef, Boss. We busting this joint?', queried Ned.

'Look, Ned. I'll level with ya. We need to get somebody inside the Hieronomous gang. Hieronymous has a thing for Tgirls.'

'What's a Tgirl? Is it like a g-man? Some kinda hard-balled chick who's a Fed?' I'd never heard the saying 'Tgirl'.

'Gee, Ned. You sure are dumb. You know what a tranny is?'

'Sure. It's a guy who has a disturbed mental compulsion to wear women's clothing'.

'Good man, Ned. Now do you get the picture? Why I brought you here?'

'Lemme see. Yeah! You want me to go into the beauty parlour and ask if they've seen any trannies hanging around. Then you want me to lean on one of them until he agrees to go work for us, yeah. Am I right? Sure, Boss... I figured it all out in a jiffy'.

'Wrong, you idiot! What's the matter with ya?! Have yez got purple sprouting brocolli for brains?!! You think we'd trust some simpering street tranny with a job this important. Wise up, wiseguy. You've been specially picked by those on high. Like it or not, Ned, you're walking into that parlour and not coming out again until you're a Tgirl'.

The boss was angrier than Ned'd ever seen him. It was all he could do to ask 'Why me'.

The boss looked down at the floor of the squad car muttering, 'Shoulder length hair. Nice ass. You figure it out'.

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We now have to endure a Hollywood type fade to white (sorry, no black pages on TVcheeex yet) which will serve to indicate the passage of time. In this case, quite a few hours. It's already early evening.We open on a shockingly glamorous overdressed women slowly picking her way along the sidewalk. She's heading West towards the meatpacking district and seems to be having great trouble walking in her heels. To maintain her balance she clings to the walls and when she reaches an intersection, flings herself across in a mad charge and grabs hold of the nearest lamppost for dear life. As she blunders along we hear a voice over - Ned's disgruntled interior monologue.

'Jeez! The Philippino women in that parlour really did a number on me. By the Prophet's Beard, they didn't just pluck out my beard. They waxed every last hair off my body. And then they burnt my clothes. Not only that, they threw my precious pipe on the ground and smashed it into a thousand pieces with club hammers. My granpappy gave me that pipe! The rats!! Then they started rubbing oils all over my body and coated me in French perfume and make up. Christ, this lipstick tastes like cold goose fat. And this damn mascara is sticking my eyes together. And these damned shoes.. I ain't never been in such pain. Not even when I took Lefty McMinsky two rounds in the ring and he bust my glass jaw in seventeen places. Jeez. That damn parlour. What a sleaze-pond. A haven for kooks and oddballs. Sex wierdos in serach of oddball thrills. And those crazy Phillipino women. They sprayed and puffed up my hair so I look just like a goddam women. And then, worst of all, they pierced my ears, jammed in a pair of hoops earrings and proceeded to stick red plastic nails on the end of my fingers. They feel like the mitts of Fu Manchu. Christ.. how do women put up with this stuff? I had no idea their lives were such hell'.

Then the thought hit him. What if his fiance Julie saw him dressed this way? And she a good catholic girl from a good family And worse. 'What if the guys from the precinct ever catch me dressed like this? Life won't be worth living. Why oh why did I ever agree to follow the bosses orders?'

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The full realisation of his predicament suddenly weighed him down. Ned stopped to catch his reflection in a shop window. Yet again, his face reddened as he clocked what he was wearing. A short shimmering dress festooned with bright red sequins. A cute matching bag was perched on his forearm. His depilated legs looked impossibly thin and unfamiliar encased in black stockings. His feet were wedged into a pair of provocative red shoes. He looked at his face and hair. In despair he cried aloud, 'Christ almighty! I look like a goddam hooker!!'

So involved was Ned in his misery that he failed to notice the prowl wagon slowing to a halt behind him. As the engine flicked off, a thick-necked Irish bull leaned out of the passenger seat and shouted at him in a saucy leer, 'Hey, Dollface. can New York's finest by any chance lend you a hand? You need a ride, baby?'

Ned turned to face them and without thinking things through answered in his own voice, 'No, I'm fine buddy'.

The face of the cop twisted into disbelief and then contorted into a sneering grimace of hate and outrage. 'Bejahsus, it's one of them filthy tranny hookers. I thought we'd run the last one out of town a month ago. Get the stinking freak!' The back of the paddy wagon burst open and ten or thirty screaming cops attacked in a frenzy. The last thing Ned felt was a billyclub smashing into his face as most of his teeth flew across the road.

Two weeks later they dragged the body of out the East River, still wearing the sequined dress. Julie avoided the funeral.

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Gee, doncha just love those politically correct, gender sensitive publications boys 'n' gurls?

topsy turvy

Topsy turvy is a t-girls life. From an early age we perceive that we have a very different take on our lives than do others.

I mean, how do are you supposed to explain to daddy at the age of five that you wanna play with dolls and not with toy cars? Or convince your disapproving boy buddies that the elegant skills of netball are far superior to the bruising thuggery of playground football?

harsh mistress

At the times in my life when I tried living full time and seriously considered transitioning it was my impending poverty - and the way that plays you into the hands of the disgusting institutional benefit and health system - that really decided me against it. Yes, I'm a terrible coward but I also know I need to certain level of control over my own destiny. I refuse to be defined and deliniated by uncomprehending idiots!

One T-friend suggested I join her in the sex industry, offering to help me get set up as - believe it!!! - a dominatrix. It was all a bit seedy for me, I must admit but also I thought: 'Gosh, how could I do the dom when I hate hurting anything. Even little baby houseflies?'

I realise now that this sensitivity would have qualified me perfectly for the job. They would never admit it in a zillion quintillion years but there is nothing your average 'straight' man-thing would enjoy more than being chained up and thrashed silly by a dominatrix who whispers with breathy conviction, 'This is hurting me a lot more than it's hurting you'. And the icing on the cake is when you slip those black panties down a notch to reveal that little twiglet you keep tucked between your legs. That's when their eyes pop.. as you reach once again for the punishing cane.. eeeeeeek!!!

cigarette butts

Gawd.. it took me the longest time to come to terms with the fact that I was born with what the medical community have scientifically and prosaically termed 'a very small penis'!!!

The jokes from other boys started in the changing rooms in my last year at primary school and continued up into adolescence. Typically dumb comments such as, 'Most boys are born with a cigar but you were born with a cigarette butt'. I imagined it was down to my wishes coming only half true. As a young boy I prayed and prayed that hated stub would disappear from between my legs allowing me to turn into a proper girl.

Perhaps my most embarrassing incident occured when a gruff but likeably paternal Scottish PE teacher held me back after class and delivered some rather awkward advice. He kept saying. 'Problems down there' and for half the conversation I honestly thought he was referring to Australia leaving me totally confused. Eventually, he summoned the courage to get blunt and suggested I seek some professional help. 'Sonny', he said in that concerned but thoroughly unhelpful schoolteacherly way, 'Someday you'll have a wee wife and frankly, she'll need more than you've got now. Doon there. Do ye understand me, Sonny?' I must have turned ten shades of purple during the ordeal.

Later, when I had my crazy spell of ignoring my T-ness and pretending to be a regular man, I had nightmares whenever I managed to find myself a girlfriend. I was horribly conscious that at some point we'd have to do the sex thing and that I'd strip off and she'd just kill herself laughing at me. Of course, I'd delay having sex as long as I could. When it came to the crunch and we got down to making love I had far more success using my fingers than employing my underwhelmingly tiny girlycock.

It was actually a real relief when I finally accepted who I was and gave up GGs, deciding to devote myself (sexually that is) exclusively to delicious man-things. One of the fabulous things about having a tiny girlycock is that it's soooooo easy to tuck it away in your panties.

But ironies of ironies. In no time at all I was shocked to discover that gentlemen actually prefer well hung T-girls. It's a big part of the thrill to them. Damn and triple drat!! Lucia just can't win in this cigar-obsessed world of ours!!!!!!

blob blob spoldge splodge!

Blob blob spoldge, Gosh, gurls. Remember back to those first tremble-handed years of putting on your mascara. Half an hour of carefully applying your make up. Time to rush rush. You're already late. One final touch to go - that definitive second coat of mascara... ARGGGGH!
Big black splodge right across the bridge of your nose!!!

Indiscretions

As exhuberant Tgirls, sometimes that enthusiasm gets the better of us. I started my indiscretions at an early age - I blame it on my near-total innocence.

I was nine, maybe ten, when I invited a male school friend back to our flat knowing ma. pa and sis were going to be out. Once home, I took him straight into my sisters bedroom, grabbed a bunch of her things and started dressing. All the while I was blithely delivering a running commentary on how I much prefered being a girl and what a delight it was to wear dresses, skirts etc. I had cute half length hair back then (which my dad absolutely detested and regularly urged me to chop off). My lovely sis had taught me how, with a bit of crazy back combing and brushing, I could work it up into a not too bad girlish little bob.

My friend sat on my sis's bed with saucer eyes saying not a word. I began to realise things weren't going terribly well and in that compensatory way (which is always a huge mistake) I plonked myself down right beside him and asked him if he'd like to try anything on. VAVOOOOOOM! He grabbed his satchel and was out the door like a jack rabbit.

Now, if this sounds like proto-Lucia being predatory,you couldn't be further from the truth. There wasn't anything the least bit sexual about this. I just really really really wanted to share this fantasic secret with my friend. I honestly thought the time had come to reveal my innermost dreams with him.

Alas. Doncha just know it. Already regarded as a bit of a 'fairy' by kids in my class, suddenly I was the walking pariah known only as 'He who dresses up in girl's clothing'. I was even taunted by a gang of six year old lads who sang 'He wears knickers' at me as I walked home.

I'll never be one to say, 'Keep yer mouths shut, girls' but, nevertheless, some old clichés do come to mind such as discretion being the better part of Tgirlydom.. eeeeeeek!

Lilly against The Mindbenders

As the evenings draw in and the cold mists gust across the winding rivers, cutting through the penumbral streets and avenues with an icy edge, we T-girls find ourselves desirous of the reassuring warmth of a man's strong arms once again, to hug us tight and chase away the chills. But the man-things get bored so easily, scurrying away into the night with a flimsy excuse, leaving us clutching our empty pillows and gin bottles.. sigh.

What we need then, are a few Tgirl tales to cheer us up. One of my faves is the story of young Lilly.. Tgirl extraordinaire.

Lilly was only fourteen when her parents decided they'd had enough. Lilly had always dressed in her sister's things but since taking on shop work at the weekends, she now had money to buy her own make up and cute little girly tops. Usually, Lilly stayed in her bedroom because she knew how upset her dad got to see her dressed as a girl. But one night Lilly popped down to make herself some pop tarts still wearing her walkman. She didn't hear that dad had some friends visiting and tottered right in on them. Eeeeek!
The upshot was one of dad's friends (who was of the T-phobic persuasion) stormed out of the house shouting, 'Darren, your kid's an effing bender. Sort it out!'

So Lilly, entirely against her will, found herself dragged up to see a specialist doctor in London. Poor Lilly. Her dad told her ominously, 'If there's a cure for this thing, we'll find it'.

Her mum had even helped her dress up for the occasion, believing the doctor would only grasp the problem by seeing Lilly as she really was. The doc sent her mum and dad off for a couple of hours and sat Lilly on his big leather couch in his huge bright office. His assistant brought tea and some fancy biscuits. It was all very cosy. But here's the thing. Lilly dressed as a Tgirl was astonishingly lovely and beautiful. She had a long wild shock of soft blonde hair, two adorable almond eyes and a peculiarly feminine shape about her.

As the doc leant over her, he caught a trace of the Chanel no5 her mum had let her wear. Mixed with Lilly's powerfully seductive pheromones, it made a mix that sent man-things crazy. Before he could stop himself, the doc had unzipped and, tearing Lilly's panties away in one barbaric thrust, had pulled her up onto him and began humping nastily.

Lilly wasn't shocked. She'd already had this treatment from a few of the older lads at her school. Some of them even kept a set or two of Lilly's lingerie along with a sexy outfit hidden in their homes just so they could more readily enduce Lilly to come visit and be their sweet sugar when opportunity arose.

Lilly noted with no particular care that the doc had no staying power. The act didn't last long. She watched the large antique carriage clock on the ornate mantlepiece tick away three slender minutes before she felt the doc's aroused horn shoot that hot slippery muck within her. She smiled at him as he pulled out. He stood and recoiled in horror, re-tucking his thing and zipping in a clumsy frenzy. The doc dashed into his anteroom and emerged a while later, still sporting a shockingly red face. He went to his desk and, glancing up at Lilly for an instant in that studied professional manner, fumbled in his drawer for a cheque book.

Without looking up again, the doc mumbled, 'Let's say.. er.. one hundred pounds.. er.. Must be a lot of money to a girl like you, eh?'

There was a timid note of hope in his voice that annoyed the hell out of Lilly. She gasped aloud in a tone of studied innocence, 'My, this office must have cost a fortune to decorate. Is that a Hockney over there? And the rent! My, how do you afford it?'

'How much, you little bastard?'.

'A grand, doc. And I swear my lips are sealed for eternity. Oh, and one other teensy little favour....'.

On the way home. Lilly's parents marvelled at the doc's diagnosis. 'I've never come across such a healthy compos mentis case in all my years of practice. Solid as a bell! As responsible parents I urge you to not only indulge but actively assist your fine Tgirl here in all her..er.. pursuits and endeavours'. Never again was a word spoken against Lilly, neither was she forbidden any outfit, no matter how provocative and gobsmacking.

As for her dad's horrible friend, a year later he was caught soliciting a policeman in a public cottage and ended his days working as a bearded lady in a lowdown and tacky travelling freak show.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!