Hot Tranny Nights.

The way I see it, as a writer, it's my job to get into trouble. Maybe if I were writing, say, children's picture books, I wouldn't need to draw so much from experience. "Sarah, see the crayon? What color is the crayon, Sarah? That's right, Sarah! The crayon is blue. No, Sarah, don't eat the crayon!!!" But you know even Maurice Sendak was on shrooms or whatever when he did Where The Wild Things Are. (Let's not even talk about Lewis Carroll.)

That's why I attempt to have as many experiences as possible, and often find myself doing what others just won't do. I find late nights normally hold the most interesting happenings, not surprisingly. Staying up late has enabled me to see an entire world that most people sleep through.

Case in point: Friday. With a friend, I attended a "Cirque de Summer" party in the (Hollywood) hills at the home of an actress who tends to bring in a fun YoHo crowd. (That's Young Hollywood for you Manhattanites, but don't worry, people in LA don't actually say that - I just made it up.) Last time I attended a party there, they had face-painting, fire-breathing, and a bouncy castle. This time, there was make-your-own cotton candy, a photo booth, and...a bouncy castle, which apparently is a staple. (Maybe the bouncy castle is guest house?)

As sometimes happens when I drink, I forgot to stop drinking. I tend to become clueless about the fact that imbibing does not take you to a plateau, where you reach a pleasant state of drunkenness that remains constant throughout the evening. Instead, boozing is like a mountain. For awhile, you're going up, but then you reach a brief peak and from there it's down, down, down. Because I neglected to answer many calls and text messages, I got left at this party until very late, and while I can't remember exactly what I was doing the whole time, I am certain it was fun. I have photographic evidence! (But if you think I know most of the people in those pictures, you're wrong.)

Once the party was finally over, even for us Johnny-stay-latelys, I ended up having a good 2 mile walk back to my car. This was not a direct journey. At one point I stopped in a park to sit down and focus on my text messaging (and, I think, urinate). Then, on Santa Monica Boulevard, I was cat-called by a tranny hooker.

[Author's Note: I have recently been enlightened that the term "tranny" may be considered derrogatory by the transsexual community. From here on, I will not use "tranny" to describe a transgendered person unless they are, in fact, acting like a tranny to boot.]

Now, some people would just continue walking when a tranny shouts at the them on the street, perhaps with a polite nod or a gracious smile. Not I! Being a writer, and therefore a fearless explorer of the human experience, I decided to stop and see what they wanted.

Money for sex, it turned out. Not surprisingly. The first tranny hooker's name was Tiffany, and she was Latina and quite ravishing in a tight, short black dress. She may have been a little overly made-up, but so are plenty of actual girls, so I think she could easily pass for the real deal. (At least when you're wasted.) Her square-jawed friend was not so fortunate. She looked about as feminine as I did last Halloween when I dressed as Carrie Bradshaw - anyone who witnessed it will tell you: not pretty. Tiffany's friend was having none of me, probably because she guessed (correctly) that I was not in the market for a tranny hooker on this fine evening (or any other). Tiffany didn't seem to mind: she called me "baby," sat on my lap, and forced me to feel her tits. (She tried to get me to feel her dick too, but I declined on that one.)

It was pretty fascinating. They shared a few stories about their likes and dislikes, their experiences. When a john they didn't like drove by and stopped, Tiffany would cling onto me and proclaim that I was her "white boyfriend." (Apparently she doesn't do black guys because they're too rough.) The girl had a pretty filthy mouth on her and kept offering me sex (whether or not it was for free, I didn't ask). She groped me and unbuttoned my shirt and somehow none of this concerned me, even with shady ass johns stopping and staring at us and cops driving by semi-frequently. (We were sitting at a bus stop.)

Eventually Tiffany's tranny friend disappeared and soon a young black gentleman came by asking for a cigarette. I nodded at Tiffany, who I'd been bumming off for the evening, but it turned out she and "Christopher" were old friends. He was a boy prostitute. And he wasn't very happy with Tiffany's white boyfriend. He tried to argue with me about how I'd been rude to him, and since my only defense was, "Hey, I didn't know you were a hooker - I thought you were a trick!" I just kept my mouth shut. Good call, since soon afterward he decided to show his razor blade that he keeps for protection. (As well as his white athletic socks that could've been Nike except for the "Fuck You" sewn into them.) Tiffany attempted to defend me - "he's really nice!" - but Christopher was not a fan of me. I'd already been playing "novio blanco" for about an hour and by this time I was sober enough to drive, so I made my exit while Tiffany was "taking a walk." None of this seemed particularly strange until the next morning, when I remembered my hour at the bus stop, read over some text messages, and found myself with photo booth pictures of people I struggled to recall.

Good times! All in all, I have to say it was both a fun and educational evening, and one I would never have had if I wasn't so open to adventure. Can't wait for the next one...