Wednesday, 4th January, 2006

Splishy-Splashy

story fake-boobs drunk

(Because if anyone's got more claim on using Eddie-Izzard quotes as titles, I'd like to meet them)

How long after an event is it safe to talk about it? A month? A year? Five years? This particular story is about six years old, and I'm not in touch with anyone who features prominently in it. So I figure I'm safe

One of the Undesputable Facts About Transvestites™ is that if you even give them the slightest whiff of a fancy dress party, they'll start wetting their knickers and trip off down the street clicking their heels. Of course, there's always the delicate balance to draw between the fine line of "having a blast and looking great", and "putting just that little bit too much effort into your outfit"

But still. About 6 years ago, in 1999 when we all had one eye on the calendar in the same way that we look at the mileometer in our cars just before we clock 100,000 miles (I'm getting close), I used to work in a nightclub.

It wasn't a particularly glamorous job — it wasn't like I was some kind of butch bouncer or some kind of run-around-with-an-earpiece-in-barking-instructions-to-people organiser. I was a glass collector.

The pay sucked, the hours sucked. But I was back at Uni at the time, plus I was working another job, so I was really only doing it for the pleasure of it.

Seriously, I got a lot of fun out of it. I used to love swanning round the nightclub, 50 glasses perched precariously on top of each other, cursing under my breath at the teenagers who didn't ever quite grasp the dangers involved in getting in the way of a guy with a ton of glassware.

But one of the biggest bits of fun I got out of it, was being part of a rather fun group of staff.

Dunno what it was — maybe it was the camaraderie, or the sense of pride that the manager used to imbue in us. Whatever. We were, as I recall, a pretty serious bunch of people to bump into on a night out.

I think, perhaps, above all else, it was the sense of release that being on a staff night out brought. We'd been stood there for weeks on end, serving little oiks, watching them get more and more paralytic in our faces as we had to take every little bit of shit that we had thrown in our face.

Students weren't like that when I was young

One night though, someone announced that we were having (joy of joys!) a staff fancy dress party. I'm not sure how many people there knew I was a trannie, but it didn't really matter — like I said, one sniff and I was leafing through the local fancy dress shop catalogue with slightly too much saliva on my lips.

Me and a friend decided we would go as those burlesque woman you see in Western films — you know, waspish corset, bustle, stockings and a bunch of feather sticking out of your arse. I remember getting ready with her before we went out at my house, and I'm sure I looked good.

(Although, having seen the photos of the event some weeks later, it must have been one of the first instances of my powers of self-delusion )

There are various things that happened that night. At one point, me and my friend found ourselves up on the local campus, traipsing through one of the bars to try and find her boyfriend. At another point, I definitely recall trying to diffuse a curry-delivery-situation on the front door after someone ordered £50s-worth of curry and then denied it. (I happened to know the owner of the restaurant, happily. Although I don't think he was quite expecting to see me appear in a corset and stockings. Even then, I ended up paying, and by the time I'd explained everything to him — like why I would look more in-place in a saloon — everyone had eaten all the food. Fuckers)

But the best story of the night happened much later on. A long time after I'd gone past my alcohol-threshold (which was a lot higher in those days)

I'm not sure the entire series of events — I know it involved a conversation along the lines of: "But you have a girlfriend", "Yes, but you have a boyfriend" (or something) — but I seemed to find myself lying on my back underneath a rather stunningly attractive PVC nurse.

I'm afraid I'm going to have to get a little graphic here You know that Monty Python song "Sit On My Face"? It was kinda like that.

*bouncy bouncy*, *munchy munchy*, *squishy squishy*, *grindy grindy*

And then, well, *sploshy sploshy*

Lying there, on my back, arms wrapped tightly around thighs and face buried deep into, *ahem*, well, you know, I suddenly felt a gush of warm liquid envelope me.

"Dear God", I thought. "WTF?!"

I'd heard rumours of things like 'female ejaculation' — stories told behind bike sheds and by boastful friends of instances where their sexual prowess had been so great that it had caused a tidal-wave of fluid to come spurting out of their partner — but I'd never really believed it.

But it had to be true. It was happening here in front of me. All over me, to be precise.

But suddenly, the girl I was with leapt off me and gently backed away from me.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" she kept repeating.

And it was about that point when it dawned on me — this wasn't the mythical nirvana of female ejaculation. This was something else. And why was she apologising? Did she just..? Was that..? Ew!

The thought that I'd just been weed on, rather than achieve legendary tongue-stimulation status, started to form at the back of my mind.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" I didn't mean to make you sick!

Eh?

"Sick? I wasn't sick. I thought you'd just peed on me"

"Ew, no! So what was that?"

...

Every time I try to tell this story, I never quite get it right. I always manage to leave out one important factor that I should include right at the very start.

This was, as I said, a long time ago. It was long before I'd 'upgraded' my trannie-status to someone who had enough money to afford all the right bits. Two years later, I was financially chuffed enough to buy a proper wig, and some hips, and — most importantly — some tits.

But at the time, I had to make do with what was around me.

I tried all sorts of things — rolled-up socks, rolled-up pants, stockings full of bird-seed. But I could never find anything that would bounce and wiggle and feel like breasts.

But one day, I had a brainwave. Remembering the secret pleasure I used to get out of lobbing waterbombs at other children, I theorised that you could make fantastic boobies out of a couple of water-filmed condoms.

And I was right — they felt and moved wonderful. There was just one little hitch.

...

I don't need to finish this story off do I?

We stood there, staring at each other for a second or two, gradually replacing the gross-out theories in our heads with the much more palatable truth.

She hadn't wet herself. I hadn't thrown up.

I was just a little more flat-chested than I had been at the start of the night.

I bet it was embarassing at the time

No, not at all. In fact, I distinctly remember thinking "Cool. All I need is some kind of online personal publishing system to be invented, and this'll go down a treat"

I Despise Lorraine Kelly

television diet

There. I said it.

Any particular reason?

Tonight in particular? Well, I was just getting really fucked off with her inane "scientific" experiment to see "which diet is the best" by picking a handful of women at random and subjecting them to various diets — then assuming that they're all perfectly representative of the entire female population of the world. And, and, and...

...and sitting there with some kind of facile "understanding" written across her face while she listened to dullards talking about how they'd reacted to a complete change in diet over the course of — I dunno — 6 minutes, nodding inanely and then turning round to the camera at the end of the hour-long show and saying:

"Of course, to lose weight, eat less and excercise more"

Well duh. Stupid fat Scottish cow.

I wasted an hour of my life on that. Thank God that (a) I'm never awake in time to see her in the mornings, and (b) Derren Brown in on now, goading Middle Management into making complete twats out of themselves for my viewing pleasure.

Not the Lorraine Kelly thing. The other thing.

What was wrong with that eh? Trust me Tiffany, if you lived in the UK, you'd quite easilt share my utter loathing of Ms Kelly

What does "hoon" mean?

This is not the most important question, surely K? I'm more intrigued Lana, why you would tie a condom to your car aerial