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On the town – Samantha gets lucky
Source: SMH
http://blogs.smh.com.au/allmenareliars/archives/2006/10/my_life_as_a_wo.html
For my first night as Samantha I wanted to go on a date with a bloke, just to see if I could pull it off, so to speak. When I asked some of my mates would they have the cojones to take me out for dinner, they surprised me with their lameness. “No way in hell, mate,” and “Go and get stuffed,” were a few of the nicer responses until I called me old China* and fellow writer, Tim Flattery. One of the smartest blokes I know, Tim is an author who has worked in development for film and TV and been one of Australia’s leading trend forecasters. He’s also pretty secure in his masculinity. “Bloody oath I’ll do it,” he said on the phone, “I’m gonna show the night of your life, pretty lady.” By the time I got home from my makeover on Friday, I was already running late and completely aflutter. My wig was wind blown, I needed to touch up my bison make-up and Tim was due in minutes. Samantha had only been in existence for two hours and already she was keeping a man waiting…
Thankfully, stylist Sofia Fitzpatrick had agreed to hang around and help me keep it together. After my first public outing, walking through city streets, I’d asked her to stay on for dinner.
“I don’t think I can do this by myself,” I said softly.
“I can’t believe how much you’ve changed in just an hour, you’re so much softer,” said Sofia and gave my hand a squeeze.
Faffing about in my apartment took a good half an hour as Tim waited patiently in the street for us. When we finally emerged from my building, I sought the refuge of silken shadow before shyly stepping into a pool of streetlight.
Tim was breath taken.
“You are truly ugly,” he said, refusing my offer of a kiss. I guess I’d have to get him plastered.
If you’ve never been to Leichhardt’s Italian Forum, let me set the scene. It’s a huge open courtyard, rimmed by about eight or ten restaurants. On Friday nights it’s packed with four to five hundred average Aussies, most of whom have never eaten dinner next to a 90kg cross-dresser. Which is why we chose it for dinner.
While our group searched for a good table, a big guy in a cut-off Diesel T-shirt locked eyes with me, then glanced back down at his fettuccine shaking his head, muttering “for f—‘s sake.”
He was one of the polite ones.
We took our seats in the open and ordered cocktails, because it seemed a girly thing to do, while the 40-something Italian waiter set our places.
“Here you go, mate,” he said and passed me my napkin. So much for looking like a woman.
Tim was gallant enough to explain to the insensitive prick my name was actually Samantha and the waiter, who looked like he knew where a few bodies were buried, nodded and played along.
“What can I get you, madam?” he said.
“A course of estrogen,” I thought.
Our dinner conversation quickly drifted to gender issues. Tim offered the opinion that sexuality, like the rest of humanity would continue to splinter in the decades to come, the ‘tribes’ becoming smaller, more diversified, perverse, unique.
“Normal is a setting on a washing machine,” he said.
One cocktail and a couple of white wines later, the first inevitability of the night happened; an eagle-eyed rose vendor appeared and I shamed Tim into purchasing me one.
“Buy me f
rose, you bastard,” I think was how I put it.Ten minutes later, the second inevitability arrived: I had to use the dunny… I mean the ‘facilities’.
As I click-clacked toward the women’s, a group of young guys in loud dress shirts sized me up and I steadfastly refused to look at any of them.
After doing that a dozen more times on the weekend, it dawned on me why so many women don’t meet men’s gazes on the street. It’s safer not to engage. You hope they’ll just ignore you.
In the stall, I sat to pee and listened to the alien conversations around me. I was expecting some small insight to the mysteries of the fairer sex but instead got blood and the beeping of text messages.
A girl in the next cubicle was apparently menstruating and was getting some help from her gal pal. Another chick was talking on her phone to her mum, worried about what time she was getting picked up. Aren’t we all, babe?
I tried to act casual as I walked out of the stall and reapplied my lippy but I could feel Ms Menstruation ogling my biceps. I said a little prayer she wouldn’t summon her boyfriend to smash me as she headed for the exit. Instead, she whispered to her girlfriend: “He looks hot.”
Walking back to our car, Tim started making noises about an early flight to L.A. A Subaru full of sub-morons slowed to give me and the girls a whistle before doing a burn-out. My friend, Camille Hardman, a documentarian who’d been filming my big date pushed Timbo for a goodnight pash but the bludger gave me the cheek instead.
Five minutes later I was brushed.
Next stop was a gig for band Dallas Crane at the Metro on George Street, surely one of the top ten thoroughfares to get bashed in Sydney.
Sofia, Camille, another friend, Phedra, and I drove in, passing several large groups of guys carrying beer cans. For the first time in my life I can remember thinking, “I’m so glad I don’t have to walk past them.”
Later in the night, I saw a particularly large and raucous group of blokes heading my way outside McDonalds on George Street and crossed the road to avoid them. It was just easier.
I love a good rock show, but I was all wrong for the Dallas Crane crowd in my pashmina and high heels. By now I was getting sick of the stares and if I saw anyone who looked even slightly aggro, I headed in the opposite direction.
Many of you will say that the sort of aggressive looks and body language I felt from men was totally different from that experienced by a woman.
To you I say, is sunburn in Australia different to suburn in Hawaii? A little, perhaps, but the end result is the same and once you’ve experienced it enough times, you do anything you can to avoid it.
Still, I sucked on a can of VB and tried to enjoy the tunes. Dallas Crane, surely one of the country’s great live acts were tearing it up. Unfortunately, so were my shoes.
Next time a woman asks me to park closer to a restaurant or a theatre because her feet are hurting, I will take the time to do the extra lap looking for a better spot. I’m ashamed how many times I’ve ignored women’s complaints of walking in heels because by 11PM MY FEET WERE THE ONLY THING I COULD THINK ABOUT.
My toes felt like someone was pounding them with a hammer every step I took. I was grumpy. My hair kept getting in my face. My G-string was doing an appendectomy on me and I needed to fart really badly.
I told Sofia and Camille I was going back to the bar to sit down, grabbed myself another green can and settled onto that blessed chair to reflect on my grand experiment so far.
The cab-ride with the star-struck Asian taxi driver had made a particular impression on me because of the way the cabbie had talked to Sofia and I.
I wouldn’t call his attitude flirty, but it had been leading, suggestive, and his parting words of “maybe, I will see you around?” had left me in no doubt he would’ve come up for a cup of Bonox had I asked.
Talk to any woman about taxis and you’ll find they hold a shimmer of menace that most men have never experienced. We get in them and get out and that’s it, while almost every female I’ve spoken to has at least one story about the cab ride that could have ended very badly.
I thought also about the instant judgments I’d seen in people’s eyes as I walked through the city. It forced me to recall my own judgments and for some reason my mind wandered to young women and all the times I’d been less than discrete perving.
I thought of the looks of confusion on the faces of playful, childish females when they realised there was no going back, that those budding breasts they were sporting were dragging them into a new world, like it or not.
I don’t think men ever experience that shock of sexualisation like young girls do but it must be both terrifying and empowering, when childhood is stripped away and you’re suddenly seen as an object for sex.
The more I thought about it, the more disturbed I became by my own ingrained lusts, by the countless times I’d seen women as little more than holes and lumps to squeeze or poke, lick or leer at.
I felt tears in my eyes but controlled myself, swigged my Veebs and that’s when I saw Peanuts at the bar.
Peanuts is slim, blonde and we’d met through friends a couple of times when we’d both been in relationships. Something stronger than my shame made me stand and walk up to her.
“Nice handbag,” I said and Peanuts blinked at me for a few seconds, recognition flickering like a Fluoro light.
“Cute wig,” she replied.
Twenty minutes later, I’d convinced Peanuts my drag get up was “for social research” and not Sydney’s Gay and Lesbian Sleaze Ball.
When my chick buddies appeared at the end of the gig, I gave them some meaningful eye contact and they quickly got the message, leaving Peanuts and I to make our own way home.
Drinking ensued.
Back at Chez Samantha I took off my clip-on vintage earrings with a rush of pleasure that neared orgasmic. Peanuts smiled and I asked her, “Have you ever kissed a man dressed as a woman?”
Her shake of the head was a ‘no’ and ‘yes’ in the same movement and our subsequent kiss was sweet, cool and playful.
Things slowed down, soft fabrics skidded across each other, passions heaved and I felt a hand up my skirt. I pushed away from Peanuts.
“Can you take off my bra?” I said.
She fumbled for several seconds before crumbling into giggles.
“I can’t get it. It’s the wrong angle,” she said.
Luckily, I had no such difficulties with hers.
An hour later, as I held Peanuts and drank in the cool of my bed sheets on my waxed legs, it dawned on me that my transformation had leapt to yet another level
“Whattaya know?” I thought, “Samantha’s a lesbian.”
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