A Gay Transsexual Fantasy

Not Tonight

“The maracas on that hot tamale… are very nice, eh?”

There’s taco sauce on the man’s lapel, a dab on his right eyebrow. He’s near bellowing. My guess, he thinks no one in this Mexican dive understands his tasteless comments. He’s almost right.

Given the job of entertaining Mr. Chuck Engel, Arturo and I knew immediately where to take Mr.” I’m straight”—of the sub-genre; American-tacky, whose johnson, he doesn’t mind letting the whole place in on, is just about scratching a hole in the badly stitched crotch of his golf-pro-aping-attire at the sight of the strippers on stage.

“Miguelito,” Arturo’s winking at me, poking his head at Antonia and Margarita on stage, letting me know, he knows what Chuck wants, what he thinks he’ll burst if he doesn’t get, what Arturo would love to see that he does get—a lap dance from Ms. Antonia/ Maracas.

Of course, Margarita would fit the bill. Lady has go-go-ed her way from the Alaskan pipe line to Tijuana. Moreover, she is a lady, born at San Miguel Hospital, in the town of the same name.

Antonia, though, she ain’t a natural double-x chromosome, even if Chucky thinks he’ll pop a button if he doesn’t—hell, if he does, get her minimally-pantied-would-be-pussy on his practically unclothed cock, doing the Lambada.

Antonia was born Antonio.

In my mind, I can hear ol Chucky, what he’d think; that there’s trim on my breadbasket, sweet boyish ass whittling my weenie with sweet ass-cleft, thighs on my thighs, a little fatty-squeeze-an-inch-able at the tops, but creamy to touch, and yummy to knead when they buff my lap, sideswiping my package, bumping it, bumping it lightly and friskily with something, something not hollow, something that pushes back, fat and fulsome, bonking my bonker… Damn, a fucking prick.

At which point, ol Chuck would have to admit his bonker was fit to bonk, alright, aroused at the thought of bumping uglies with a fella, aroused by the thought of a rough hand on his assets—by the thought of fat fingers up his a-hole—by the idea of how that a-hole could be bottled to geyser-erupting fullness, fucked, and fucked and fucked some more by a runaway subway sans breaks, jumping the line of his channel till butt and bird’s nest collide.

I eye him eyeing the women and know. He’s thought it.

I eye Arturo, shake my head. He eyes Margarita, who eyes him back.

She’ll dance for Chucky, disappointing him slightly, though how much, he won’t really know.

He doesn’t have to know tonight.

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