Life Within the Gilded Cage

The Thigh Master

For years, my Saturday routine has been to go to the hairdressers, then go grocery shopping. My hairdresser, Wayne, is a dear friend that I've known for over 12 years. He's half Puerto Rican (I'm not sure what the other half is), about 40 years old, but looks 30, with a head of short bleached blonde hair, and an easy laugh.

If he likes you, Wayne can be one of the most generous people in the world. We had a mutual friend, an elderly woman, beloved by our entire town, that performed in stage shows in her younger days, who couldn't afford to pay to get her hair done. Wayne told me if I would pick her up and drive her to his shop, he would do her hair for free. That's really how I got to know Wayne, because I picked this woman up and drove her to Wayne's for years. Eventually, since I was there, I began letting Wayne do my hair, and we've been good friends ever since.

The interesting thing about Wayne's shop is that it's for black women. Wayne, our elderly friend, and myself, are the only white people in the shop. I tell Wayne he's half black, and it's true, there is a part of him that seems to think he is a black woman. He loves to cook, and his collard greens and hamhocks probably rival those of any black woman's.

Because he loves to cook, Wayne is a popular party guest all over town. If invited, he's sure to bring not one, but several, aromatic dishes -- roast pork, olives stuffed with goat cheese, or sausages so tender they almost break apart.

On the other hand, Wayne has a sharp temper, and an even shaper tongue. Nor is he very forgiving. He's the type of person that if you cross him once, you've made an enemy for life. Put a drink or two in him, and he'll not only let you know, he'll let everyone within the room know quite loudly what he thinks of you.

Every Saturday morning I call Wayne at the shop to find out what time he wants me to come in. I'm always his last appointment. Wayne lost his license due to a DUI in February, and so after he does my hair, we do our grocery shopping together, and then I drive him home.

We also go out every Saturday nite together to our local watering hole, the Raven. Wayne's house is on the road that I take to drive to the Raven, so I pick him up along the way, and he can drink his Irish whiskey to his heart's content, without having to worry about driving home.

The funny thing is, because we come and go to the Raven together every Saturday nite, most of the town thinks we're a couple. As if. Of course, that's New Hope. Walk out the door together with anyone, and the town has you sleeping together.

Last Saturday night, from the moment we walked into the Raven, I was surrounded by familiar faces. The Raven's a beautiful bar, with richly carved oak walls, and old fashioned engraved white ceilings. I think the bouncer, Shane, has a little bit of a crush on me. He always has a hug and a warm smile for me. He's a big guy, and not exactly cheery to everyone, but he always seems to brighten up when he sees me.

It seems that way with almost everyone I run into at the Raven. I've been going there since 1990, and consider it my version of the "gay Cheers." It's the one place in the world that I can walk into and literally everyone inside knows my name. Of course, it helps to be the only transsexual in a town of about 1,000 people. For that reason alone, I sense that a lot of people are curious about me, which makes it extremely easy to meet people. Too, I've been in a documentary film made about our area, and most of the locals have seen the film, and I play a prominant role - so even if I've never met someone in the Raven before, there's a good chance that they already know about me through the film.

My friends tease me, because it can take me an hour to get from the coat room to the bar. It's like going through the receiving line at a wedding. Every step I take I run into someone I know that wants to chat. Which is why I go to the Raven. It meets all my social needs. In just 2-3 hours, I get to see all of my friends, plus meet a few more.

By the time I made it to the bar, the bartender Joe C., a tall young man with the clean-cut good looks of an athelete, and habitually wearing a baseball cap, said to me: "You're like a celebrity in this town. It looks like everyone wants a piece of you tonight."

"I love it," I replied. "For me, this is better than group sex."

Joe blushed, "I wouldn't know about that!"

"Trust me," I grinned at him. "This is better."

Then suddenly I felt someone tugging at my arm. Oh no. Tony. Hump-my-leg, 5'5", half balding Tony. Postal worker Tony. A man I'd nicknamed the "Thigh Master." A man that I foolishly once went home with. It was probably the worst sex of my life - but for him, it must have been the best, or so he says, because he keeps hoping for a repeat performance. Not that it'll ever happen. Not in this lifetime.

That said, Tony is a nice enough guy. He's separated from his wife and two daughters. He tries to impress me by talking about his Porsche, Corvette, and motorcycle (not that I care - a car is just transportation to me). What makes me uncomfortable is the way he looks at me - sort of like a hungry puppy at it's mother when all her teats are full. I don't want him getting the wrong idea about our single rendevouz.

So as soon as I saw him, I put on a fake smile, kissed him on the cheek, and said, "Nice to see you hon. Excuse me for a sec, I need to run to the bathroom."

Thank God for the ladies room. I spend more time there powdering my nose, and hiding from stalkers and losers, than I do using the toilet.

The bathroom was occupied, and a friend name Marty was outside waiting. Marty is 50ish, tall and slender, with thinning hair, a long face, and an operatic voice.

"I see your little straight friend is here," Marty said.

"I know," I frowned. "Hopefully he doesn't ruin my whole night. Maybe I should just sneak out the back and go up the street."

"I think he's adorable," Marty said. "If you don't want him, I'd love to take him home."

Not that Tony would go with Marty. He wasn't gay, he a trannychaser with a taste for boy-girls. "He's all yours sweetie. If you can get him out of here, you'd be doing me a big favor."

"Why don't you like him?"

"Well, I actually went home with him once - about a year ago. I must have had too much to drink that night, or maybe I was just ovulating, and horny, I don't know. But for some reason I went home with him."

"And it wasn't any good? What, does he have a small weed wacker or something?"

"No, it wasn't that." All gay men are deeply interested in the size of other men's penis. Truthfully, I couldn't remember a thing about Tony's. It really didn't matter to me. "When we were making love... something sort of, well, FUNNY, kind of happened."

"Funny?"

"Yes. Everything was fine, as I remember, till he wanted to make love to me from behind, with me on my belly. I made he wear a condom, and when he went to stick it inside me... well, all he did was put it between my thighs - but he thought he was inside me. I guess he couldn't tell with the condom on. So there he is, slamming between my thighs, all the while, thinking he is inside me, making love to me."

"Oh dear," Marty chuckled.

"There he is, humping away, making all sorts of noises... 'Oh yeah baby... oh God... it's so good... you feel so good... oh baby.' At first, I thought I would try to manuever around, and slip him inside me, but then I realized, what the heck, he's having so much fun, why ruin it? He starts saying things like, 'Is it good for you baby? Do you like it baby? Oh God, I'm going to cum!' So I just went along with it, moving and grinding. My face was in the pillow, laughing actually, at the ridiculousness of the situation, only he thought I was moaning! When he finally came, I faked it like I was cumming with, all the while thinking, 'Oh my God, I am truly a REAL woman now, I'm faking my first orgasm.'"

Marty laughed.

"After he caught his breath, Tony said, 'Wow! That was great! I hope that was as good for you as it was for me! You did cum baby, didn't you?' I told him I came like fireworks, and he believed it. All the while, I was trying my hardest not to laugh in his face. The whole situation seemed so ludicrous, but I really didn't want to spoil his fun."

"So that's why you don't care about him. Now it makes sense."

"Exactly. I call him the 'Thigh Master.' In fact, the story has gotten around so much, that I'm afraid that one night Wayne will get drunk, and call him that to his face. Wouldn't that be a mess."

"I'm surprised Wayne hasn't done it already."

"Anyway, whenever Tony comes in here, looking for me, I find it hard to talk to the man with a straight face. I think about our night together, and I just want to giggle. He thinks it was the best sex of his life, and me, well... at least he taught me how to fake an orgasm."