The Tranny Lover - Judy, Judy, Judy

-------INTRODUCTION--------

All the characters in this story are over the age of 18. It is a true story that took place in the 1980s and 1990s. Most of the people in this story are still alive, but sadly, not all.

The word "tranny" was not derogatory back then. If you find it offensive, please realize that it reflects love, admiration, and concern. These "girls" altered their lives and ours, struggling to become women at great personal expense and hardship. Transformation was their goal. What they desired most. They needed to demonstrate to those on the outside, what they were on the inside.

Once the gender line was crossed, these "girls," we're unable to find employment. A lucky few gravitated to work at the LGBTQ center in West Hollywood, typing on computers with their long glued on fingernails. Some found part-time work with understanding employers. Kathrine Van Pelt, a famous international escort, worked part-time at the Parisian Flower shop that Joe Dimaggio had paid to place a red rose on Marilyn's grave every week. Tiny Tucker, the tranny ginger, only 5 foot tall, loved women, not men. She worked nights as a waitress at the Klondike, hoping to meet women who loved trannies. Tiny succeeded.

The remaining "girls" had little choice but to become sex workers. The attention their suitors paid them bolstered their esteem and self-realization that they were women. Prostitution provided a stream of income. Being fucked by strangers and shunned by society was, for some, too high a price to pay. Drugs, suicide, and the Aids epidemic lay ahead. Sadly, some were to pay the ultimate price for their decision.

"JUDY, JUDY, JUDY..."

"Judy, Judy, Judy," a memorable cinematographic line, is credited to Cary Grant. He made the line famous in the film "Only Angels Have Wing," but Grant never said it! Jeff Storch, his noted comic impersonator, made it famous on the old Ed Sullivan's Sunday Night Variety Show.

Maybe it wasn't Grant, but I said, "Judy, Judy, Judy" many times, back when I fell for Judy, a transsexual prostitute. I said it with my heartfelt affection, my arms around her waist, holding her by the hips, my hands on her succulent tits, my cock deep inside her gorgeous ass.

When I'd first met Judy, her street station was at the front of a Sporting Goods store on Western Avenue. The entry into the old storefront was deep with show windows. Judy could stand back and choose whether to hide from the police, and dangerous stalkers, or come out of hiding and stand on the street.

I'd met her there a few times. In the beginning, she performed blow jobs or what some call cock sucking from the passenger seat of my car, what the erudite call fellatio. Call it what you want, Judy was good at it. When she blew you, you could see she was a girl who loved cock. She treated your dick as if it were a little puppy. Caressing it, kissing it, calling it Spanish love names, before taking it on that magic carpet ride that left your ball sack as empty as a crater on the moon.

One night I couldn't find her at Judy in her usual place. I saw a short boyish tranny who sometimes stood with her. The other "girls" called her "Chino" because she had what Hispanics call "Chinese eyes" from their Aztec heritage.

"Hey, Chino, where is Judy?"

"Judy? Oh, Judy Blue Eyes," she responded.

"Not here now, come back later."

I drove off very disappointed.

The next time I saw Judy, I asked for her cell phone number. We stopped meeting on the street. I'd make appointments to visit her at her apartment on a side street near Los Feliz. We continued as before, the same-sex acts. I wanted more. As time passed, she felt more comfortable with me. I'd press her, "to give up her ass."

I'd say, "Let me fuck you. Please, Judy, I have to be inside you."

She shook her head and explained,

"I only have anal sex once a week with a wealthy client. He pays me a lot of money."

That was that. I left the topic there for the moment. I never asked Judy if he went bareback.

Judy loved to talk. She was a great storyteller, stories I couldn't have imagined. There were celebrities she or her girlfriends had entertained. A local politician who used his office desk at City Hall as a bed for sexual trysts. The rock and roll singer with the big head of hair who would insert an 8-inch dildo in his ass before being sucked off. The fat comic who insisted that "Peppy," his tiny Chihuahua had to watch, and on and on.

The "piece de resistance" was her encounter with a famous singing couple who had a weekly TV show. The desk clerk at the Neville called Judy. She ended up in a champagne threesome. Judy, naked on all fours on the bed, sucking the husband's cock while the singer's wife, her arms around Judy's waist, squeezing her big tits, fucked her with a black strap-on. Then the wife asked Judy to fuck her. Judy said, "No, I don't do women." At that point, "the husband got a hard-on."

After Judy brought me back to her lovely apartment, cock sucking wasn't enough. That was when she paid me her ultimate compliment. We ended up in her king-size bed covered with shiny pink sheets. We were like honeymooners. My lips met hers, her large breasts in my palms, her rosy nipples in my mouth. She lubed herself, rolled a condom on me, and graciously let me put my cock up her ass. That was when the ceiling opened up to a shower of meteorites and stardust. Making love to Judy was very special. Especially when she said, 'You can visit me anytime, even if you don't have money."

CITY OF SEX AT NIGHT

In the 1980s, the Aids epidemic had begun. At first, Aids was misunderstood and called "Gay Cancer," it was prevalent in the gay community. I knew people who died of Aids. The boss who hired me, a barber who cut my hair and an excellent doctor who had treated me. Those who were infected, even years before, now realized they were under a death sentence. The cause was discovered to be unprotected sex, all of a sudden, people were wearing not one, but two condoms. For others, prevention was too late.

The City Council, looking for someone to blame, threatened to close the bathhouses. Gay bars offered free condoms. Police were busy arresting tranny hookers and their clients. A transsexual prostitute, discovered to have Aids, was charged with attempted murder. Undercover officers tracked "girls" through sex newspapers where they advertised. Police solicited, paid for sex, then arrested them and seized the money as evidence. Judges ruled that was fair play.

On the street, the police would shake down both male and female prostitutes for a free fuck or blow job in the back seat of their squad cars. Few prostitutes complained. Infected cops HIV counselors were provided Aids councilors on the QT. Many contracted the disease. The number was sizable.

Even with the risks and harassments, the motels on Santa Monica Boulevard were festooned with sexy tranny hookers. They lined the Motel's outdoor staircases in colorful states of undress. They posed in front of rented rooms and along catwalks. In competition with each other, they staged impromptu stripteases, revealing their naked charms to outdo their competitors.

Gawkers on hot summer nights would let out whoops and catcalls of approval. Impervious to the threats of law enforcement, the "girls" scattered when the police van arrived.

During these displays, a client would stop to solicit one of the exhibitionists. As if by magic, a motorcycle cop would materialize from out of nowhere, blocking the car. He'd ticket the tranny if she were not wearing a seat belt and then ticket the driver for "stopping in a no-stopping zone for a transsexual." Try explaining what that ticket spelled out to your wife.

If the cop caught you in the act, on a dark back street, doing your thing with a tranny, or a tranny doing it to you, be it oral or anal, they'd arrest both of you. You would be booked, bailed out, and sent off to trial where you'd be adjudicated guilty. Judges always believed the officer's statement. If Jesus testified in your defense that the two of you were only talking, there was still no escape.

An upcoming comic movie star got arrested one night. He was only playing with the tranny's feet. I knew this story was true. That tranny was a friend of Judy. I asked her,

"Did the star fuck you?" "No, he just played with my feet."

His uncontrollable foot fetish, this single moment of indiscretion, earned mention on the late-night news. Unwanted publicity designed to deter repeat offenders destroyed careers. Try to explain your sexual preferences to your neighbors, boss, or fan base. We all knew the risks, but it was difficult to argue with our raging hormones.

Life became ludicrous. Male undercover police with 5 o'clock shadows began dressing in drag to arrest solicitors but stood out like sore thumbs from the beardless transsexuals. Undercover female cops in skin-tight leopard blouses and short mini skirts patrolled street corners to curb traditional prostitution. The unlucky "John" who fell for the ruse, was arrested and plummeted by the male cops. Entrapment was the accepted practice until lawyers began to use it as a defense.

Police harassment changed the sex worker's business practices. Most of the hookers now brought their clients home or to a motel. Sex inside cars, a frequent arrest target was reduced, public indecency arrests plummeted. A few years later, the internet would revolutionize sex working as a business model, and only desperate drug addicts would be found on the street hustling. The future was still ahead of us, but times were the present. We all forged ahead, knowing the options, trying to avoid the risks, and enjoying the delightful scenery on the streets late at night.

IN LOVE WITH THE PERFECT GIRL

Of all the "Belle de Notte," in the City of Angels, Judy was a most perfect creation. She was from south of the border but looked like a Swedish model. Her long hair, natural brown, bleached to a lovely golden blond. Her eyes were a sea of blue one could drown in. Some thought she was a Scandanavian tourist, out to earn a few extra dollars. She might have been British, but her smile was too perfect. A tiny crease made her eyes twinkle when she often laughed. Sweet music to my ears.

Judy's had a tiny nose and lips that were eminently kissable. Tall, (5'7"), slender and petite, except for her surgically enhanced breasts. Her tits were too grand but splendidly erect. Her hands were delicate with long fingers. Her small feet were beautiful, size 7 in high heels. Her buttocks were feminine, curvy, delicious. Her face, baby smooth, no hair anywhere on her body.

My poor Spanish was poor as was her English was limited. Still, we communicated. I learned that love, the simplest of emotions, is the most natural language.

One afternoon, I visited her and met her friend, a young housewife.

"This is Lara, my friend, mi amiga."

Judy didn't mention my name, but I offered it. The young woman took my hand and smiled. She was a nice young Mexican woman, about 19 years of age. Perhaps she lived in Judy's apartment building or nearby. When she left, Judy explained the girl was unhappily married, her husband was abusive. The pair would do their laundry together, drink coffee, and shop together. The majestic gilt theater district of the 1920s that closed many years ago was now a bargain center for clothes, shoes, and sundries. Stores sandwiched between the old buildings were run by Latino shopkeepers.

"We take the bus downtown and go shopping on Saturdays. She is in love with me," said Judy. "What can I do?"

I made no comment. I wasn't jealous. In my eyes, Judy was my girlfriend. I was aware of the reality of our situation. One might be suspicious of a transsexual's clients, but a female friend? I was happy for Judy.

Was this girl a sex partner? I was convinced there was no way Judy was having sex with her. Judy had forgotten long ago that she had a penis. She now had a "pussy." I'd spotted it on occasion, and it was quite small and nonthreatening. I never paid attention to that part of her anatomy. Once, out of curiosity, I asked Judy, "Would you like to fuck me?" She demurred, blushing,

"I could never do that."

I was certain Judy was too feminine to be fucking anyone. Not that it was any of my business. I said, "Hasta luego," as the young housewife carried out an overflowing hamper of clean laundry.

Back then, most hookers didn't have cell phones, but Judy did. It was easy to call her, to say good morning, to tell her I missed her. We never argued. When I said I loved her, I meant I loved being with her. I loved having sex with her. It wasn't an "I'll die for you love." I wasn't yet ready, but I would have defended her if anyone had harassed her. It was a casual happy free love, not the kind that ties you into knots. It felt good to be with her. We had no contract, no complications. I never looked for another companion Judy answered all my needs.

I helped support her. I'd have done the same for any girl. If Judy had other wealthy suitors, I never saw them. Her business affairs were invisible. We made no plans for marriage, but I knew I wanted to live together.

We got together a few times a week. We ate, we laughed, we had fun; we'd make love, sometimes twice in one night. Judy knew I was married. I frequently worked late shifts that coincided with the hours when the foreign exchanges opened. I did not have to account for time away from home. My wife was usually sound asleep when I returned home.

Judy wasn't the first transsexual I'd encountered. For some reason, unknown to myself, I found them fascinating. Their courage, their artistic flair, even their sense of humor, was unique. They lived for the night, the future was not their concern. I always made love to transsexuals with the same enthusiasm when I'd made love to young women. They seemed to appreciate my respect and passion.

Judy never discussed the quality of our sexual activity. She was obviously pleased. Other trannies had commented in detail on my sexual performance, saying, "you are good in bed, you are a good lover" or "you know how to fuck." I suppose they said that to everyone.

Only on one occasion did my actions find a critic. Several months before I'd met Judy, I picked up an emotionally frustrated blonde. She was obviously looking for love. I had seen her standing with several "girls" outside an all-night restaurant on Santa Monica Boulevard. I parked in the lot at the side of the entrance.

PAST RECOLLECTIONS

It was a warm evening, the blonde was wearing a yellow halter and matching short shorts on long legs, her ample breasts were threatening to spill out the front of her halter. Apart from the audaciousness of her costume, she was an attractive girl, whose only fault was an uneven complexion. I thought she looked French, but it turned out she was Brazilian. When she saw me staring at her, she approached and said, "Hello, Poppi."

It was not my favorite greeting but very common in their world.

"And what is your name?"

"Giselle."

"Can I take you home, Giselle?"

"Sure, Poppi."

I asked her what she wanted. Her fee was quite reasonable. I walked her back to my car, a red Nisson sports car, opening the door like a gentleman.

"Oh, I like your car," she said as she buckled up.

I looked around to see if any police were watching us. None were visible. I closed the passenger door and went round to get into the driver's seat.

She lived not far away, a low building with two floors of apartments. I followed her inside through the front door. Her apartment was nearby, off a short corridor. She unlocked the door. Once we were inside, she turned,

"Don't kiss me, my breath is bad."

"Why," I asked?

She pointed with her finger at her mouth as if to say, "Sucking too many cocks and swallowing."

When she held up her hand, I could see her wrists were red and swollen,

"What happened to your hands," I said."

"Don't ask me any questions," suddenly she was defensive.

I apologized, but there was still tension in the air. It was a bizarre moment.

The apartment was a tiny studio. A bed, a dresser, a small fridge, and an electric hot plate. Clothes were strewn around. A small TV with its own little antenna struggled to capture a signal. I tried unsuccessfully to get it to work, it kept blinking at me as the picture moved up and down.

"Oh, leave it alone," said Giselle, "It's not working tonight. Go get undressed."

I walked around the bed and took off my clothing. I handed cash to the blonde and placed my wallet in my shoes. I put my clothes on top. Perhaps that might fool a thief, but there were only two of us.

I lay back on the bed, adjusting the thin pillow as she sat down beside me. She wasted no time bending over me, working my cock into a full erection with her hands and mouth. Taking a tube of lube from her night table, she rubbed the jelly into her ass. I was on my back. She maneuvered herself over me and put a condom in her mouth and expertly rolled the condom over my penis. Giselle raised her body over me, and deftly inserted my cock into her asshole.

She said, "Go slow." and little by little, she lowered herself until all of my dick was inside her. She began moving up and down. It was exciting to watch her breasts moving up and down. She continued, it felt good, but I realized I was not going to cum in that position. Ejaculation is a tricky thing, if my balls are not banging an ass, it is hard for me to complete the act.

"Let me get on top, I can't cum like this."

When she raised up, my erection slipped out of her.

"Lay face down."

She obeyed. I positioned myself over her, between her spread legs, my cock rubbing against her luscious ass. She reached back, took hold of my erection, and fed it smoothly into her well-lubed welcoming ass hole. Obviously bigger dicks then mine had opened that territory-wide.

The sex was impersonal up to then, what you might expect between two people who hardly knew each other. Now in control, I rolled her over and pushed my dick inside the intimate space. I began humping slowly, my legs spread wide between her allowing a full deep connection. I continued, holding her butt cheeks as I angled my cock in and out, hitting every side. Finally, I lifted and spread my legs over her ass, trapping and tightening on her ass cheeks with my thighs. I was not as deep now, but the feeling was superb. With a series of rapid thrusts, I arrived at that long-awaited moment. I paused, and then I thrust, forward, pressed tight against her plumb ass and came, my ejaculate filling up the condom. My stomach muscles tighten from the rapid movements. I relaxed, in position until the spasms ceased.

Perhaps I was too self-serving. I hadn't paid attention to Giselle's needs? From her impersonal attitude, I didn't think it mattered if she came or not. We had brief but unpassionate sex. I might as well have been fucking a hole in the wall. As I was dressing to leave she remarked,

"You really think I'm just another fuck, nothing special. You must do this all the time."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you pick up a girl, hardly talk to her, stick your dick in her, shoot your load, and then back into the night."

"I'm sorry if you feel that way. I think you are nice, very nice, stunning," I said, but she was unconvinced.

"Why don't you give me your number." I pulled out a pen. She dictated, I wrote it down. "I'll make it up to you next time."

I gathered my clothes, took my wallet out of my shoe, placed it in my pocket. Giselle watched everything I did, she smirked at that.

"Did you think I was going to steal your wallet?"

I didn't respond, I thanked her and started to rush out the door while buttoning my shirt. She put out her hand to stop me.

"Well, goodnight," I leaned forward to kiss her cheek, she pulled away.