This is what I looked like yesterday with no make-up except some eyebrow pencil. And yes, it’s a “selfie” from a phone camera, sorry.
This is a chatty, rambling post so if you’re looking for word economy, you’re in the wrong place anwyay as to anything I write — but especially today. I’m writing at least as much for my own mental well-being as for my audience. Interestingly enough, some folks actually like to read a lot of detail. Go figure. Maybe there are some other people who think as I do.
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Several months ago, I drove my 30-year old BMW down to Las Vegas to sell it on consignment. It didn’t sell. So, this week I rented a car one-way, drove down to Las Vegas and took my own car back, to drive it back home to the Reno area. Problem is, after sitting so long, even with a fresh battery, the car now refuses to start, and it’s automatic so I can’t push-start it. When I try long enough there’s a burning smell, as in the starter is burning up. I figured that renting a car in Las Vegas over the weekend means paying a way higher rate, so plan B is to spend the weekend in my favorite city and then Sunday night I’ll rent a car, drive back to the Reno area where I live, remove a starter from one of my similar cars, pack some tools and come back the next day to play Ms. Mechanic, hoping the car or starter doesn’t fall on my head as I’m working underneath it. I have an interesting life.
Here’s a picture of the car. It’s lovely. If only it would start …
Hotel prices are sky-high in Las Vegas over the weekends, except somehow for Hampton Inns, so I checked out of Treasure Island and checked into a nearby Hampton Inn.
I’ve done my share of escorting work and I miss the sex and the excitement, but it’s so much hassle to make it clear to clients that they’re buying time and NOT sex, and if I feel like having sex with them then I shall and otherwise not. I actually have them read and mark a paper to that effect, and some of my clients who are in law enforcement think that it’s all pretty funny. Bottom line: I don’t wanna get arrested for prostitution when that’s not what I’m doing. If the speed limit is 65 and I’m driving 64, then I want everyone to be pretty darn clear about that. Not that I think prostitution should be illegal or that there’s anything wrong with it or about choosing that as a way to earn a living. It just isn’t what I have been doing. Yet, anyway.
Escorting in Las Vegas this weekend would seem like the perfect idea. I look better than I ever have, and I haven’t had sex with a guy for many months, and extra money is always welcome. The problem is that there’s the hassle of convincing someone that really, I’m not selling sex so they should not have an entitlement mentality about it … they should try to seduce me instead, like if they were on a date with a hot girl, which in fact is precisely what this would be. And then there’s some risk that the cops or judge wouldn’t believe me anyway. So, instead I went online to Craigslist and found an ad from a nice-seeming and well-endowed gentleman who seemed to appreciate t-girls like me and seemed fine with safe sex, and my particular requirements such as always being on the receiving end of the festivities. In US-speak, a bottom girl, not a top. In UK-speak, I’m a passive girl. And, no money will be exchanged. That’s fine with me.
Transsexual hookers are a big thing in Las Vegas so I didn’t exactly wanna look like one, while standing outside my hotel waiting for the guy to pick me up. I figured the cops, hotel and maybe someone else might develop a more-than-idle interest in me, had I done so.
Before my date, I wandered around the Strip area. I wore some short shorts (not super-short, but enough to show off my long legs) … here’s what they look like nowadays, this being a picture from a few months ago.
Anyway, with no make-up and while wearing flat sandals, I walked along Tropicana Blvd. towards my hotel. A car drove past me and the occupants made the sort of noises that suggested that if I so chose, then in half an hour I’d be on my back in their hotel room, being ridden hard. Afterwards (I’m guessing) I’d either leave with a crisp couple of hundred-dollar bills or they’d beat me up, break my phone, steal my purse, rip or keep my clothes and throw me out of the room. I give these two events maybe a 50:50 chance though I haven’t ever actually done car whoring (or any sort of whoring, for that matter). So, as I’m mentally processing this, the car pulls over and stops in a traffic lane, clearly illegally, waiting for me to catch up to it. In another thirty seconds of me walking I’d be right by it, ready to get in and be whisked away to an adventure. I decide it’s flattering that just the sight of my ass and legs have inspired this much enthusiasm, but that’s not the sort of adventure I want. So, no thanks. I make a sharp right turn and cut across the valet parking entrance to the New York, New York casino. My would-be clients eventually lose patience, and the car takes off. So, what I got out of that was an implied compliment. That’s nice. Thank you.
This part of Las Vegas is NOT meant for pedestrians so it’s a long and weird walk from the Strip to the Hampton Inn, down the sort of abandoned sidewalks that would have had me nervous for my safety if I didn’t have a don’t-mess-with-me attitude and enough martial arts training to feel fearless.
Eventually, I get to the hotel. I want to look hot when I meet my date but not whorishly hot.
1. No make-up, just the eyebrow pencil I have been wearing all day
2. No special hair treatment
3. My legs and butt apparently look amazing (see above) so I put on a long skirt instead of my short shorts.
4. I tend to get complimented out loud when I walk around with my bare midriff, so I decide to keep on my long, mid-riff-concealing, kinda conservative top.
5. I can really rock a pair of 6″ stilettos but I decide against them too. So, flat sandals.
So, all I have to show off are my natural looks and a pair of fairly large fake boobs. My point is that I could have looked a lot hotter had I chosen to do so. (Incidentally, however conservative my look was, it was hot enough for my date to be very enthused about me. I ended up having a great time in the way I’d hoped for.) Back to the time-line as I was walking out of the hotel to wait for my date:
Imagine my surprise when, in spite of my toned-down look, a young Hispanic guy loses his self-control right at the front door of the Hampton Inn. He’s in his early 20s and is standing there next to his pretty girl-friend and a male buddy.
The way homophobia works is kinda complicated. The relevant person (always male, in my experience so far) is gay to some extent, 1% or 100% or somewhere in between, and he buys into cultural norms by which “gay” is considered a bad thing. So, he’s horribly embarrassed about it. He tries to hide it from himself and especially those around him so that they please, please not think he’s gay. It’s sort of the lame-adult version of the 5-year old boy who’s mean to the 5-year old girl whom he’s attracted to. Often the homophobe can manage to keep under control the precarious mess in his head, but what really makes things fall apart is when he feels sexual arousal towards someone in a way that makes him think it means he’s gay. Perhaps his “type” isn’t a big, hairy guy otherwise’d be feeling aroused and embarrassed all the time. But, many guys are attracted to t-girls, and we show up rarely enough. I happen to know that, hot or not, I look androgynous. I have many female traits as to my looks, but I know I don’t look 100% female.
Even with the slightest time-slice of social interaction or observation, most girls immediately figure me out as being a girl. With guys it can go either way. Some successfully figure out I’m basically a girl. Some guys get misled by my too-male-shaped brow and strong jaw, and they think I’m a guy. The homophobe at the front door of the Hampton Inn was in the latter category. If I were obviously a girl this entire thing would have been a non-event. The irony of the whole thing is that I fundamentally AM a girl and so whatever sexual attraction he felt was towards someone who, in the final analysis, is female, so … yeah, supremely ironic, the whole thing.
The homophobe sees me and starts shouting, as in: really loudly. He yells aloud that I’m so hot that if he didn’t have a girl-friend he’d be boffing me SO hard tonight. He didn’t say “boffing” but I’m trying to keep this blog from being R-rated so … you figure it out. On an on he went, yelling out what he’d do to me sexually. Now, keep in mind that this isn’t some budget motel in a bad neighborhood. It’s a pretty classy place. And yet, here’s this guy making a huge spectacle of himself. At some level I assume he intends to make it clear to the world that, oh, he’s being SO ironic and is meaning the exact opposite but the ultimate irony is that deep down, what he says is really what he means. It’s sort of sad that it’s preferable to the homophobe to yell out his deepest confessions in public, to the excuriciating embarrassment of his bewildered-looking girl-friend, rather than face the quiet judgment in his own mind that, hey dude, you might actually be as gay as a Maypole.
By now I’m psychologically impervious to this sort of thing. A thousand years ago, a more-naive version of me might have been puzzled or had her feelings hurt, but now that I understand homophobia I’m clear that it’s really not my issue. I’m just the catalyst.
And then, it occurs to me that I triggered this melt-down even in my dressed-down state. I kinda wonder what the reaction would have been had I sashayed past, leaving behind the scent of my fruity perfume, my toned midriff bare, elegantly swishing by on 6-inch stilettos, make-up and hair resplendent, shapely legs and butt looking extra nice. Maybe his head would have exploded.
For what it’s worth, dear pretty lady who is (or was) this guy’s girl-friend: I hope you are reading this, and … you deserve better.