Get your kicks on the A66?
7:04 p.m. -- 2011-04-14
There�s a journey I make quite regularly, and if it�s around lunchtime, I like to buy something at a little bakery that I know, and then park up in a layby for a few minutes while I eat my noms.
So far, so mundane.
Today, I parked up, and started munching my sandwich, when I became aware of the person parked about a hundred feet in front. She got out of her VW golf, and I thought: wait a moment... that�s not a �she� at all!
Males project a certain solidity, which probably comes from having a heavier, longer torso. Inexperience with high heels doesn�t help matters... and the clincher was the big hair. Unless you�re prepared to be shaved bald as a coot, a wig is never going to look quite right... as far as I know, anyway.
So: there �she� was, trannying in a layby at half past one in the afternoon. And good luck to �her�. Why not? It�s a free country.
So, my trans-sister got out of her car, ambled around it once... and got back in. I wondered if perhaps I was witnessing on of the fabled �first time� activities, to be gushingly reported later that day on a blog or message board. The tranny, justifiably nervous in case he attracts the attention of a �queer bashing� mob wonders if his appearance is good enough to �pass� � to avoid undue attention and ideally, to return home without a trip to Accident and Emergency.
Perhaps the unknown tranny had parked up somewhere quiet, and undertaken a transformation before going for a drive �en femme�, I thought. Obviously, �passing� is easier when done at seventy miles per hour... and when one can lock the car doors or drive away if it all goes south. But having been for your drive, perhaps a daring, heart-hammering stroll in the layby in order to take the tranny ratchet up a notch, for that extra hit of tranny heroin before driving away, changing back and returning home.
How wrong I was.
But intrigued. I decided I could spare a few minutes, to see what developed. (I decided not to go and say �hi�...)
Twice more, �she� got out of the car, and walked around it, without apparent purpose. I appraised the ensemble, applying my usual perfectionism: hair, way too big. Likewise, hands. Not that there�s a whole lot one can do about that. Erm... and boobs, ditto. Too big! You can have too much of a good thing, love. The wine-coloured twinset looked more than a little old-fashioned, too.
Ah, well. None of my business.
I was just starting on my dessert, and thinking about moving on, when something else happened. �She� left the car again, and this time reached into the boot (trunk) for a red book or folder, A4 size. Immune to the dissonance presented by a bloke in drag on a Thursday afternoon, I was mostly surprised at how tidy the inside of his boot was: my cars are always full of junk.
Anyway, �she� stood beside the car for a couple of minutes, with the red folder on display. A driver on the opposite carriageway gave a single toot of his horn, and �she� waved, then got back in the car.
Curiouser and curiouser.
And really none of my business. I should have moved on. But of course, I have a journalistic responsibility to my Diaryland readers, so what are you gonna do? Here was some breaking news from Trannyland, rather than the warmed over reminiscences of a tranny-in-remission that I usually serve up.
A couple of minutes later, �Mr Toot� appeared. He�d obviously driven down to the roundabout, and doubled back. Silver van: a Ford Transit or something similar. Classy! Not.
Van driver parked just behind the VW Golf, and got out of his vehicle. The tranny didn�t get out and greet him, nor acknowledge his presence in any way that I could see.
The van driver lit up a cigarette, and sat on a railing, just smoking. His actions looked entirely natural and innocent, except that the location he�d chosen took him away from his own vehicle, and close to �hers�.
Was I witnessing a tranny mating ritual? Perhaps even a first encounter? I think so.
I revised my opinion of my trans-sister accordingly. No longer simply a fellow addict of lingerie and the like, but one of the �bi while dressed� set. Somebody who, it seems, believes that to fully experience femininity, one must bump uglies with a man.
Well... whatever. None of my business. But not a kindred spirit, after all.
So what would they do? Disappear into the back of the van together? Off into the bushes by the roadside?
We have no way of knowing, because at that moment, the men from the local council arrived and started picking up litter. They roamed up and down the layby, collecting all the thrown refuse that had missed the bins. It�s nice to know that the council does a job like this (I wish they were a bit more thorough in this regard where I live...) but their timing could not have been worse for a tranny and an apparent �admirer� of trannies who had (I believe) been about to engage in something consensual but tacky.
Thwarted, or perhaps startled because even a couple of blokes picking up litter are �authority figures� when you�re in their layby, the principal characters took off in convoy... and I finished my pastry.
And a few minutes later, as I resumed my own journey, I noticed that a black VW Golf and a silver van had both pulled in at the next layby.
It�s springtime, and love is in the air.
Or at least lust.
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