AUTUMN CHANGES (The Unofficial Autobiography Of Red
Jordan Arobateau) Vol. III.



1960.
The night of the Compton cafeteria riots began the
same as any other; drag queens and transsexual
hormone-shooting girls worked doing prostitution for a
living periodically came into this all-nite diner from
out of the dark doorways and corners where they met
their customers; satin butts seated sideways on
carhoods; big lipsticked mouths hollering; “YOO HOO!
SAY YOU HONEY!  COME OVER HERE DARLING!”  at passing
tricks; and assembled together at one or more tables.
Also the girls from the drag circuit; and just plain
ordinary tv’s who had no other social life but the
midnight streets.  The police had a habit of driving
by these tranny hangouts, in their squad cars, scoping
them thru the plate glass windows as they sat together
at a table like colorful birds with big wigs,
too--made up faces vainly struggling to hide beard
stubble; stirring teaspoons round & round in coffee
cups CLICK!  CLICK!  CLICK!  while telling tall tales
using exaggerated gestures--spending their hard
pinched pennies, such that a ‘po tranny ‘ho could
hustle.  The cops would come thru the glass doors, go
up to a tranny table and check ID’s, disrespecting
them by calling them ‘sir’; “SHOW ME YOUR ID SIR!”
And routinely arresting them for solicitation or
female impersonation.

That was the night transwomen fought back, stood up to
the cops in their highheels and tight dresses; as big
or bigger then some of the cops were, smashing
glasses, throwing chairs at the uniformed marauders
and driving them out.  The event made the frontpage of
the next days news.

************************************************************************************

So this was the Transmans style since a very long time
back--way back in his teens.  He would hole up in the
place he was staying for a while & do 3 or 4 paintings
at a stretch--go out to a gay club briefly for 2 hours
each night and stick his head back into human company;
then finish them up in a flurry of colors, turpentine,
linseed oil, oily rags, caked pallet knives--complete
the works by painting night and day--then rejoin the
world and go out and get into a lot of adventures for
an indeterminable amount of time, until his creative
force reformed once again into a new project, with its
inexorable forces not to be ignored nor put aside.












OUTLAWS!   The Outlaw Chronicles  Vol. 4


OUTLAW:  A female who has been rejected or excluded
from traditional society.  A rebel.  An outcast.  A
female who is scorned.  A female denied normal legal
protection & rights. 

THE OUTLAWS:  A club consisting of dikes; butch/fem,
leatherwomen, sexworkers, transsexuals & androgenous.
Women who walk the edge.  They are considered by
society to be lawless.  They are pioneers on the
frontier of sexual freedom and individual rights.

FREEDOM:   Where freedom is outlawed, only outlaws
will be free.


**************************************************************************************


Saundra’d always heard rumored Lou was poor--and that
she lived with that crazy woman Cookie--both down in
some ratty downtown area.

The only worse area in the city was her own--the black
ghetto outskirts.  Smoke smoldering on the horizon.

“Going down to the club tonight?”  Sez Lou.

“Might.”  Sez Saundra.

“Ever go on Country Western night?”

“Yes!”  Saundra lied.

Realizing her lack of enthusiasm for Country Western
dance which she hated--& wanting to get to know Lou
better, Saundra tried to sound extra interested; asked
about it.

As they settled onto thick upholstered seats in the
close confortable interior of Lou’s big car, and the
doors slammed making privacy; Saundra sez: “Lou, what
does the term Country Western actually mean?”


“Country Western.  Just what it says it is.”  Lou
began in a wistful drawl, eyes going moist as she
looked out the windshield into the horizon, & into
memory. “Music about the country.  About mountains and
plains and cotton fields and farms.”

The hour ticked by.

In a while, Lou did what a Warrior Butch is suppose
to.  She slid across the seat and took the willing
Saundra in her arms.

“I got to tell you... I’m not exactly rough trade.”
Sez Saundra in a confidential tone.


“Ah knows thet.... Ah mean, Ah figured.”  Sez Lou.

“YOU KNOW!  Who told you!”

Lou did not reply.  But leaned into her, began
stroking her dark chocklet body; her arms, then the
inside of her thigh; then her other arm slipped around
the pretty young woman’s back and expertly reached up
under her sweater & unhooked her bra.  Her juicy brown
breasts bounced free, rapidly Lous course white hand
reached up under the front of Saundras pink sweater
and began to squeeze her big tits firmly, masterfully,
squeezing one nipple, then another; as Saundra closed
her eyes and moaned, leaning into Lou, deeply, her
breath grew rapid.

Lou did all she could do in a car in broad daylight
and in plain view.  As fast as possible--to get
Saundra as hot as she could--and maybe they could go
off to Lou’s hotel and finish their love-making naked,
body to body, all the way to orgasm.

Lou couldn’t stop herself.  She pushed the brown woman
down on the front seat, one hand firmly grasping one
big breast, and bent down and began to suck her dark
brown nipple.  Saundra wreathed and moaned, fire lept
in her thighs.  Lou pressed a meaty hand to the young
woman’s wet crotch and began to rub up and down
against the cloth; mashing it into her pussy lips.
Inside her head Lou was thinking longingly about
tonight & Cookie--would she be there to lay down under
her and get fucked long and deep by her White Warlord;
and fulfill the informal love arrangement they had...
Or... if she wasn’t... this pretty black woman would
do just nice.....


**************************************************************************************


The night is very great.--They seemed to fall into it.

Moon floated in a veil of delicate clouds across the
bedroom window outside their house. Sleezy & Lady lay
in their bed, arms encircled each other’s torsos; they
were so tired.

The cost of attending the alternative school wasn’t as
great as some of the private ones they’d priced.  Lady
took in 2 more children which was extra earnings.
That left Sleez to go moonlight a 2nd job, part-time,
to make up the difference.

The butch drug her skinny butt home wearily,
nights.--But they weren’t too tired.

After a too short family evening; a late dinner,
Sleeze looking over the children’s homework, and
cuddling the baby; it was their bedtime.  And the two
adults had time to themselves.

“Grease it up baby!”  Sleezy called crudely, as she
loped into the bedroom--suggesting they have sex.

So here they lay, encircling each other.  Sex.  Their
bodies generate a terrific body heat.  Moon shone into
the privacy of their small bedroom, which was cast
becoming a pit of passion.

The bed rocked with the hot action of the butch
licking her lover; a long time.  As she rose back up
to top her, Sleezy could smell cuntjuice on her mouth.

Outside in the hall the bikers cat ‘meowed, tipped its
head inquisitively, listening at the door to these
interesting sounds--then sauntered away on four padded
feet.

Lady reached both hands up inside the butches work
shirt and began squeezing Sleez’s breasts which hung
over her, pendulous, white with pink aureoles at their
tip & thick pink nipples which hardened with arising
desire.  The butch propped herself up over Lady on her
hands & arms as if frozen in a pushup, and
breathlessly let the femme fondle her breasts.  Her
hot butch clit began pulsing with waves of desire as
she felt Lady’s fingers pulling her nipples, squeezing
each, kneading & pulling the heaviness of her breasts
as if she was being milked.  Lady’s panties were down
around one ankle--the butch having pulled them off to
dive into her soft pungent pussy & lick and suck her
pearlclit inside her sweet cuntlips.--But she had
stopped short.  Aching for want of release, Lady
spread her thighs further apart--but she’d have to
wait--briefly.  Lady kicked the satiny panties from
around her delicate ankle so they dropped to the
bedroom floor.  Lady moaned;  “Please let me suck your
tits, please Baby.”  And the butch bent down so one
pendulous tit hung over Lady’s face, and her hot eager
mouth groped for it as it swung, and fastened itself
on its stiff nipple and sucked deliciously.

Both dikes were ready to fuck right there.

The butch came to her with a real hunger in her loins.

Her woman’s soft body under her; Sleez began taking a
long leisurely fuck.  Ladys bare legs on each side of
her hips, toes wiggled in the air.  Hands slid over
the butches ass, and pulled her hips into the harbor
of her spread thighs.

By Lady opening her legs and Sleezy being slim
hjpped--she was able to push her pussy into the hot
fiery wetness of Lady’s pussy lips; and their pearl
clits worked off against each others.

Sleezy began a slow rhythmic pumping, driving her clit
up and down in Lady’s pussylips; it became faster, as
she was so eager for her, thrusting; her toes dug into
the sheets.


**************************************************************************************


It had begun this way:

So these party girls worked day & night shifts at
Madame Valorias sex industry corporate factory which
ground cum out of johns into the wee small hours of
the morning.

A lot of playing the game of success was just to
endure the boredom between earning big fuck money.

Frosty had been sitting on a massage table in room #3
swinging her stockinged legs and reading a copy of
Corporal--a woman’s dominixtrix magazine: and
absent-mindedly heard the voice of Madame Valoria down
the hall transacting business with a client.

Valoria was a short middle age woman around age 50,
blessed with good looks and a higher then average
intelligence--which qualified her to be boss and not
worker--much like the hierarchy of the Kapitalist
class.

This particular night was to prove to be special, in
retrospect.

“DO YOU WANT A SHOWGIRL OR A NICE AND SIMPLE GIRL NEXT
DOOR?

DO YOU WANT A SHOW  WITH ONE GIRL, OR DO YOU WANT A
SHOW WITH 2 GIRLS?--ONE GIRL IS ABOUT $120 PER HOUR.
2 GIRLS IS $180--THE USUAL PRICE RUNS MORE BUT WE’RE
MAKING A DISCOUNT FOR YOU!”

“............................”  Uttered the drab voice
on the other end, some intelligible uncertain drivel.

“YES !  BAMBI & ISADORA WILL BE AVAILABLE FOR YOU
AROUND 1AM”

“............................”

“BAMBI & ISADORA!  AT 1AM!  THAT WILL BE A LOT OF FUN
FOR YOU!”

“............................”

“WHAT KIND OF LADIES APPEAL TO YOU!”

He didn’t want Bambi, he didn’t want Isadora, he
didn’t want Frosty, he didn’t want Rosalind.  “They’re
all too tall.”  He says.

“WELL IT SOUNDS LIKE A PERSONAL PROBLEM TO ME !”
Yells Valoria, & juggles his phone with two other
ringing phones she’s got in her lap and under her
chin, all at the same time.

“He’s been here before.”  Offers a smallish heavily
made up young woman in her mid-twenties.

He asks if there’s anybody else, then he hangs up; &
Valoria hangs up her receiver with a SLAM.

So, 3 hours later, another call.

Valoria has 3 phones working; one in her lap with a
client on hold, the other two in her ears.  “WANT TO
SEE A MISTRESS?  WHAT’S  IMPORTANT TO YOU? --HOW SHE
LOOKS?   A NICE GIRL?  AN EXPERIENCED GIRL?  BODY
TYPE?  WHAT?  I HAVE 2 LADIES I HIGHLY RECOMMEND!”

It’s him again.

“I want to see Rosilind.”  Says Ralph.

“SHE’S GONE !”

“OK, can I see Bambi?”

“SHE’S GONE TOO!”

“Well how about Isadora?”  Says the feeble voice on
the other end of the line.

“THEY’RE ALL GONE!  WHY DON’T YOU TRY SOMEBODY NEW!”
Say’s Valoria, exasperatedly.

This smallish woman--very business like with pretty
firebrand red hair, dyed; and big breasts--very
big--poking out, slipping and bouncing loose under the
velvet cloth of her blouse offers herself as a
prospective date.--But this too is rejected by the
picky Ralph.

Madame Valoria had many visitors to her parlor and
would, occasionally, stop work long enough to
philosophize.  She set down all 3 phones on hold and
declares:  “Men have these performance issues.  Sex,
it’s like duck hunting, you go out and have a
wonderful time and sit out in nature, breath the fresh
air, eat, drink, relax--and still not shoot a
duck..and STILL have a wonderful time.  Honey, it’s
the play, the fun, the touching, the closeness; that’s
important too.  Sex, it’s not a driven goal-to-the-end
product!”  Then she picks up all the phones and
resumes working.

“How about Rita?--She’ll see you.”  Says Valoria,
casting a sideways look at the smallish redhead
volunteer.

“I’d like to do somebody annually.”  Replies Ralph.

“WELL YOU’LL BE CELIBATE IF YOU KEEP DRAGGING ON LIKE
THIS LONG ENOUGH--AND YOU WILL DO SOMEBODY ANNUALLY!”
Valoria screams, drolly. And covers the mouthpiece of
the phone with one manaquored, expensive-ringed hand
to explain to the room full of girls, who by this time
have left their bored reveries to turn and listen; “he
means anally!  I should ask him does he want this by
the year 2000?”

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!”  The girls laugh in unison.

“I see no good reason to give up sex just cause it’s
anal--not annual!” Jokes Valoria, her phones
desperately waiting on hold.

So she returns to Ralph, shouting boisterously into
the receiver; “AND WHAT DO YOU WANT THIS LADY TO LOOK
LIKE?”

“..............................”  Mutters Ralph at the
other end.

“I SEE!  WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO WITH THIS
SUBMISSIVE FEMALE?”

“...............................”  Ralph replies in an
almost intelligible monotone.

Madame V lifts her head up from the phone cradled in
her neck to announce to the room full of sexworkers:
“ARE THERE ANY SUBMISSIVES HERE WHO ARE CONFORTABLE
WITH GOLDEN SHOWERS?”

A few hands shoot up.

Valorias back on the phone with Ralph:  “You like to
watch a lady go to the bathroom?--Number One or Number
Two?  Both of it?---That should be easy!”

So then Valoria puts the phone down on the table and
begins to ask around the room of available girls.

The most experienced at toilet play is down the hall
with a trick--busy.  Then Frosty hears her name called
down in room #3.

And Valorias explaining to Ralph, in a more
confidential tone (now that they’ve gotten to know
each other a little better) “in the future call early
in the day to see if I can find somebody who’d be able
to do that!”

Then, switches the phone to her lap once more, and
yells out: “WELL GO GET FROSTY THEN!  GET SOMEBODY!  I
NEED A VOLUNTEER!”

A young woman in slip & garter belt raises her hand;
“I haven’t gone yet today, make it later in the
evening and I can--after all that Sushi we just ate.”

“I got a hard enough time going to take a shit just
for myself.”  Confided a leather dominextrx lounging
on the sofa, to the submissive beside her.


************************************************************************************


It was Autumn, 1993.  Oils milled with a hundred queer
women.  We had come so far from The Well Of
Loneliness!--in which it’s just one individual vs. the
cruel world.

Johnny cleaned the oil out from under her fingernails
and went to the Sunday feast.  The stiff black cowhide
of her jacket shone bright.

Biker women, each from their separate rooms around the
Old City could go out once more and fill themselves
with the lesbian community.

It was the story of women’s courage in daily ways.
Courage woven between the fragile framework of their
lives.







LADIES’ AUXILIARY OF THE LEFT/CHAMPAGNE, FIRECRACKERS,
GUNSHOTS, & THE SMOKE FROM THE DEATH FACTORY  (My
Diary 1967-1977)


Miriam was a Communist, and for a while my life was
red.  We lived together 6 months.  Later we were to
break up and move to separate apartments in the same
building in Oakland.  And one day while I was visiting
her, two FBI agents came to the door and asked her,
“Do you want to tell us about your trip to Cuba?”

After they left, Miriam sits in her rocking chair
amidst her plants with the orange kitten on her lap,
rocking, ponders, sitting, posture perfect at hr short
5’1/2”, curly black hair framing her face; “... now
how did they find me?  That’s been 2 years ago....”
She worried a bit.

Miriam had been to Cuba cutting sugar cane &
witnessing the workers state under Fidel Castro.

I sat on the couch, thumbing thru some radical
literature.  It was nothing new to me to be around
folks who were being persued by law & ‘justice’.  At
least it was for higher ideals and not being a rip-off
artist, or a dope smuggler.  Already I had one friend,
a white southern bell who the Klu Klux Klan had burned
a cross on her front lawn in Texas when she was in
Junior High for opposing segregation.  And another
black sister who’s infamous uncle was wanted I 52
states for conspiracy to riot & overthrow the
Government; a freedom fighter; his picture in a black
leather jacket with a string of bullets around the
waist in the CIA files.  But that’s getting ahead of
my story.


*********************************************************************************

I come into a little money ($5) and go immediately to
a restaurant.  The waitress is lounging around.  She
struts over carrying a little red rag, and glasses of
water.  Is grumbling to the cook about the rally in
Civic center yesterday: “They’re punks, whores,
niggers & Jews.”  (In otherwords, everything that’s
good. They’re saints.)  But what she’s saying is
they’re not white, thus they’re sick.  Freeks.

Now, I ask you readers of this secret
diary--correspondence from the war on the battle
front--how many murders can be attributed to Hitlar?
It is also the waitresses, cabdrivers, factory
workers, business people, soldiers, & writers of a
country.

Go to mail a letter to a revolutionary friend in New
York that sex:  “I see the bumper sticker that reads
1984 isn’t far.”

A person becomes what she thinks about all day long.
I must work at regulating the inward dialogue--&
become positive.

Strange, to be so old, yet to be so modern.

Night.  Lamps cast golden arcs of light onto the
wooden floor.  Sitting there at my table, a board.
Tapping a pencil; thinking about the
pandemonium/paranoia.  The conditions that make a
criminal out of me.


***********************************************************************************

In my woman’s group we talk about rape.

It’s more difficult to describe rape.  It’s easy to
describe rape as violating women--physically.  But the
other type of effects of rape on the psyche.  And also
the slow rape of people & nations, like our lesbian
nation.  The atrophy of the spirit.  The gradual
wearing away--like rocks break down into sand.

Sometimes people just go wild from it.  Have no
concentration of purpose left.  No intensity. No
control.

I speak thru the vechile of women’s liberation, but
let me tell you that it is a universal, sexless thing
I’m interested in.  Beyond gender definitions.

This is my work.  I am the court reporter for the
world.  I make my stand, drudging.  Not budging. &
grudging.

**************************************************************************************


I was fisting before it came into style--Before
Stonewall--long before the undreamed-of lesbian sex
revolution of the 1990’s.  Not that I had any great
sexual prowess.--I was naive about many matters of
love--the emotional needy stuff--as well as sex
techniques.--I was only 23 and the world too was
young.--It was uninformed.--It was only 1969.

One Saturday night I met a woman in the north Beach
bar Mother Mirth.  She was big boned, buxom, a femme,
pale skin, long blondish hair, jangling jewelry.  A
more mature woman then my usual pickups.  I found out
later, a bisexual also; not a total dike like me.

I got lucky and took her home to our condemned
building to make love.

Climbed up the worn stairs; gusts of wind blowing thru
the front entrance after us.  Smell of oil paints
drift out of my cold room.  I slammed the door to my
place & raced around excited--lit my love candles; a
dozen or so, wax half burnt down in saucers.
Flickering candlelight lit our shadows across the
peeling walls.

We stripped naked against the backdrop of this
romantic flame, and by moonlight & neon rays of
streetlamps outside the front window.  Lay under my
sheets, and I caressed her body, sucked her nipples.
Petted her full warm tits.  French kissing, tongue
dripped into her mouth.  She parted her thighs and I
licked her sweet tasting pussy with the desperate need
of horniness and loneliness.  I felt the pearl of her
clit and went into her hole to begin screwing her with
my fingers.  There was not much resistance from her
cunt muscles.  Once inside her hole seemed
enormous--could barely feel the sides of her pussy.  I
romanced her, stroked her tits with my other hand; we
kissed, we played; a few hours passed in which I had 2
orgasms--one in her mouth, one on top riding her a she
moved for me and caressed my back.  We lay together
enjoying pleasant sensations of each others body.
Moon shone in the front window thru filmy curtain
holes.  The room had grown cozy from the four blue
flame burners on the stove.  It was 3am.  I realized
she hadn’t yet cum--and the night was passing.  So I
had begun again, stroking her cunt.

Propped up on one elbow I looked down at her in the
flickering light of the candles; blond hair splayed on
my pillow; she opened her large eyes, looked at me,
opened her rosebud mouth; :”I want to show you how to
do something.”  She said.  “Take your fingers out of
me.”  She gave me orders.

I pulled two fingers out of her cunt, wet with mucus.
“Now show me your hand.”


**************************************************************************************


JOPLIN DEAD!  JIMI HENDRIX!  DIED OF OVERDOSE!  JANIS
JOPLIN DEAD!”  Headlines screamed.  Just 2 short
months apart, two rock stars.  Stars who are legends
of our time.  Both of them OD’d on heavy drugs.

Anybody who sings the blues is the mother of the
blues.  They died with soul.

**************************************************************************************

It’s still the barricades.

I remember the women in the Paris Revolution.  Their
commune barricade with boards, & doors and sticks, and
any kind of wood, sealing off the alleys of the
city--fighting.

There has been a plot to silence truth, to keep people
from being informed, to suppress knowledge that would
illuminate human lives--since this world began.  What
in the hell is it?  A struggle for power?  Kings,
dynasties, Institutions--all loose their power when
certain facts are known.  But we must never silence
information. 

For the brief time I’m with Ellen I’m on top of the
world!  Flying high.  It feels funny having something
to loose now.  Before, I was bitter, but free.
Watching thru the stained glass of windows the blondes
inside with their spending money,  their glasses in
air making a toast, uproariously, heads tossing, eyes
sparkling, mouths open in laughter.  Jealously hating
them.  Now they’ve let me in, and I’m afraid.--Of my
own kind outside.  I know the brother responsible for
those slashings in Berkeley & I know why he did it.  I
don’t know his name, but just where he’s coming from.
I use to be that type, although only in fantasy.  My
hate was so great.  Thank God I never acted on it.

Months ago the Cadilac broke down for the last time.
I scrap it & get $50.  Take the last of my savings
from work and buy a truck.  A gray truck.  It proves
to be sturdy & endures like Rounds my faithful beast.

Oh, I quit my job.  The Karate class staggers along
with only 3 members.


**************************************************************************************


We split up.  Go our separate ways.  I pass thru a
string of communes like an  undigestible
object--coughed up again and again by the intestines
of that body which is not acclimated to my
taste--individuality; my shape--of things to come; my
seasoning--black, rough, gay, from the ghetto; and my
aroma--that dream.  That dream to achieve the
impossible that makes you step on peoples toes--not
realizing,  because your eyes are focused on stars.

I crash at different pads.  Live in my truck.  Sleep
in a warehouse downtown.  I have curtains in the truck
& a 10 gallon tin drum to piss in.

When you’re poor you see the truth.

The goal is clear.  Nothing will be perfect until the
whole world will give it’s ego up and be a peoples
crash pad with no hassles.

One  by one the false ego castrated--which is the
answer to the human equation.  People are so absurd
trying to protect their privileges.  So false.  When
you are poor you can see thru them.  Those who won’t
let you spend the night at their house.  Those who
can’t spare a dime.  Or lend a helping hand.

Face the night alone.  A black cat.  The black night.
A heartache bigger then the darkness.  An ill wind
rushes towards me. Shape of my own guilt, lashing out
at me.  The eyes of the night bore into my soul.  And
no where to go.

Wake up in the truck.  Day.  I promise myself, ‘meat
tomorrow’.  Have to go out on the street & hustle.”

Periodically her savings would go down the
drain.--She’d sell everything she owned; records,
books, old magazines, clothes, furniture, tape decks,
to a variety of little shops.  Thrift shops, or 2nd
hand stores.  & it was so good to get that money in
her hands.  Crisp $5 bills and buy food to eat.

“I manage to stick at a commune awhile.  Where
Oravette Rameriz stays.  Get a job registering voters
for a Labor Union, & try to start my karate class back
up.

$30 Voters
37 Rents
12    “
20 Karate
$99.

I’m still selling my rent vouchers to a source and
pocketing the money.  Smart Creole!  That money stands
between me and starvation--and worse fear.  Fear of
having no security. My faithful beast looks up at me
with trust in her yellow eyes.

Those days hustling up a few extra dollars I wore my
blue airforce jacket I’d bought for $6 on skid row.
Sometimes the doorchecker at Jan’s Place hires me to
fill her spot at the entrance while she slips inside
for a beer.  I stand, black button in my hand
connected by a long cord to the jukebox, and watch for
the police, grimfaced.  Looking official in my
uniform.

**************************************************************************************

We spend our days--weekends, doing guriella tactics &
shooting our pistols at the range. But nights are for
intrigue.  Spying on Socialists in the Bay Area.  We
have discovered a local restaurant which movement
people frequent, & dine there.  Mirriam jabs her for
in air indicates coming down the asyle a crowd of
people with long hair & drab clothes.--50’s clothes
that have gone out of style.  “There are the Trotsky’s
Comrade.  With all of their rich CP ties.”  She sez.
“CP?  What’s that ?  Colored People?”  “No.  Communist
Party.”  Mirriam replies primly, taking a bite of meat
off her fork and gazing at them sternly thru fiery
eyes.

“Aw.  I thought yuh meant rich Colored people ties.  I
sure would like to meet some rich Colored people,
specifically a heiress.  A gay heiress.  Colored, like
me.”  Mirriam glares at me and says nothing. “I’m just
kidding dear.”  I sez.  Mirriam looks down into her
plate modestly and bats her eyelashes.

The crowd of people carries books & has treys of food.
Mirriam’s jaw falls open, she points her fork at one
woman; “There’s Ruth!  I knew  she was a secret Trot!”
I bend my head closer over the table to get in on the
intrigue and reply: “Up front she was cool, but she
was hot to Trot, huh!”  Mirriam makes her point:  “The
Red Guardian people arguing about what Stalin did in
1902, and what Lenin did, and the worlds burning down!
They sit around reading Trotsky’s collected works.”

“So Ruth’s a Trot huh!--A Trotskite.”  It’s hard to
believe this fat round woman could be a Trot--but she
sure could run on her tiny little feet--foreword.
Inexorably foreword.






TRANNY BIKER


The year of 1998 went by in a blur.  He/she was
sorrowfully using a lot of things.--Heroin, codeine
pills, plus the ever-present alcohol.

Then he finally decided to get a grip on himself.  To
clean up & make the decision which would affect the
remainder of his life.

Ronny had a lot of guns around his place, so it was
easy.  One night... he/she had been drinking, which he
wasn’t suppose to do--because of his diet to get thin
and thus be more mannish--plus out of health concerns,
and he was so miserable.

There’s a lot of cultures where self-murder is not so
terrible.  The Japanese have Hari Kari, disembowelment
with a ceremonial sword, which is considered an
honorable way to die.  The American Indians just lay
down and died and would not tolerate being enslaved
for 400 years by the pioneers newly arrived on their
shores.  When the Dutch took over Indonesia the whole
royal court took ceremonial swords and committed
suicide.  And so the Dutch invaders were more lenient
then with their other colonies, because they knew the
native people would do the same as the royalty, and
they couldn’t get them to work so hard.

It’s a way out.

Suicide.

The Catholics have this idea that to kill yourself is
a mortal sin.--It’s just a form of control.--It’s so
society can go on torturing you to death and torturing
you day after day, year after year, with no way out.

It’s a form of power.  A form of authority.  A
tyranny.

Ronny made a vow he/she was going to kill himself.  He
sat in his bedroom with his shotgun, and a pistol in a
holster; looked up to God and prayed..  He said; ‘If I
don’t get this body changed into what it’s suppose to
be--in my mind--If I don’t have more control over my
life, I ain’t never going to let it get to this point
again.  I’m going to end it.’

It would take this prayer to God finally, ultimately,
to turn his life around.  When he put that shotgun to
his head and vowed he’d take his own life. & God
answered his prayer.

And this was 5 years after having had the top surgery,
so he was already well on the road to a sex change.



*********************************************************************************

“Now these days, the young kids, they’re going even
further.  Kelly says in a low tone.  “They’re changing
their sex...”  The old bar owner was 75 years old, and
was amazed.

“And some old dikes too I hear.”

“Watch what yuh say now people!”  The Leader, Georgie
commented, “‘Er yer libel to be accused of
Transphobia!”

“WHAT!”  They all laughed at this new word, foreign to
their ears.

“My mother use to tell me about my grandmother having
to stand up against Negrophobia.”  Sez Ross. “Yes
indeed.  My mother told me about it. It was in the
early 1900rds, they used that word.”

“Negro phobia!  Trans phobia!  Good GAWD!”  Georgenia
shivered her emense shoulders and put a painted hand
to her powdered cheek.  “Good Gawd!”

Ross scratched her curly salt & peppa hair
reflectively.  “Well now... I might not be a Br.
Bojangles... or a Leather Daddy, but my shoes have
done some walking... Yep.  They sure have.  I been
oppressed, depressed and repressed.  Gay wise, color
wise, and woman wise.  But these youngsters don’t want
to hear it.  They think they invented the word... And
it’s OK, I don’t begrudge them.  They’ll find out...
And I don’t envy the day when they do.”

“Who said they’re the only ones with a story to tell!”

“I’m gonna make an announcement about all this....
Transgender stuff.... at the club meeting next month.”
Sez George.  “It’s been going on around here too much
without a policy. Yuh can’t run a club without rules,
and polices.... Me and the other warlords been
discussing it amongst ourselves.  It’s time... We
didn’t talk about it a year or so ago; that’s when it
all began, because we didn’t know much about that kind
of stuff then.”  Sez the mammoth bulldagger George,
mater-a-factly examining the tips of her stocky bare
fingers which wiggled out of the ends of a pair of
leather cut-off gloves with decorative silver studs.
Pensive.  “All we knew about was MTF’s--men to
women--who as you know we was letting in the club back
as early as 1993.  I figure if a man goes thru all
that trouble to get his dick cut off and have the
doctors make him a pussy to put inside him and wear a
dress and high heels and become a woman, he should get
credit for it.--He should be accepted.  That’s what I
told the gang then.  And it was still an all female
club.  We hadn’t counted on the FTM’s; these guys
going all the way with their...transitions...”


**********************************************************************************

Outside wind’s blowing; the biker dikes in bluejean
jackets and sweatshirt hoods cluster around the fire
from the steel drum recounting a biker tale: 

He approached Johnny’s garage with some trepidation.
His newly lowered voice and bulky frame--whiskers on
his face and beginning to grow fuzz on his fingers
arms & legs.

The gang, many of them hard dikes accepted Ronny with
uneasy looks.

He parked his cycle and went over and stood among his
biker sisters where they swapped tales; to warm his
hands from the windy ride over the steel drum fire.

The gang is talking, but he’s barely listening, too
busy worrying.  His mind talking to him inside his own
skull.  ‘I’m having this sex change not to go off to a
different place and be straight...I already had to
leave my Florida home to go off and be queer.  I ain’t
pullen’ up my roots no more.  I’ve done all I’ve done
to myself to match what I am inside.  I must be known
as he. --But I don’t’ want to be out there in a square
world I already hate, which is narrow minded. And
boring.  Want to be with my own queer people.’

The fire raged inside the blackened drum, and a biker
tossed in some hunks of scrap wood; cinders shifted up
into the air.

A lot of bikers worked sporadically--living off sofas
in the homes of their sister Outlaws; so had all day
to stand around in the cold with oil streaked hands &
faces wrenching nuts and bolts on choppers.  Ronny had
to work at the plant, but was eager to be among them.

For awhile they talked about the upcoming party--An SM
Play Party at the home of one of the bi-girlfirends of
an Outlaw Warlord.

The mechanics checked the points, the compression,
replaced some cables and gaskets on a dikes scoot, and
gave her a new 6 volt battery and gassed it up.

“Yer ready to rumble partner.”  Sez Johnny.   Stands
back, wipes her oily hands on a red rag blackened with
grease, admiring her handiwork.

The next biker rolled her machine into the garage.  A
swift exchange of green cash money; or an agreement to
barter services would pay the cost of fixing a bike at
Johnnys.

The bike had a padded sea and analog gags.  Valves,
twin engine pistons, 4 speeds.

Johnny examined the oil pan.  “There’s strange carp in
yer pan.”  The bike had trouble.

Bikes stood around the area on center or side stands.

There were bikes held together by wire coathangers
twisted out of shape.

Discarded hunks of cycles; that had stayed here and
died.  Tailpipes rusted thru.  Dirt and thick cobwebs
woven thru the spokes of the wheels, metal rusty and
paint chipped off the gas tank.

Johnny’s voice floated thru the air;  “Floats in yer
carburetor..”

“Clutch plate....”

The cold air seemed to cool his soul after this fierce
break-up with his woman.  “Caroline wasn’t just the
woman-of-the-month.  We had got close. Or at least
that’s what I figured.  Guess I was wrong.”  Spent all
day in Johnny’s garage in the bitter cold assuaging
the bitter hurt; sharing his grief with the gang.
Took turns  warming his hands, face & the front of his
body as bikers threw chunks of wood into the raging
steel drum fire; then would turn around and face away,
toasting the length of his backside and legs while
staring blankly out into the dirt and twisted metal of
the abandon cycle graveyard, to beyond the bare
branched trees.

The dike gang worked on their cars, trucks, & cycles
all day, into the evening.  Soon only the heavy watt
lights in the garage cast its glow out into the yard,
and sparks jumped fro the steel drum like red & yellow
fireflies.  Only the bulky bagged clothed outlines of
dike figures could be seen; and their laughter
spilling out into the night.

He went home late in the dark, back, under silver
starpoints.  Got in a hot bathtub of steaming water.
He liked the way his naked body was beginning to look.
Pink, hairy and muscular.  Popped two aspirins in his
mouth and washed it down with hot tea.  Fell into his
safe warm bed like a cocoon with 3 dogs lying on the
floor of his room.

His/her grief--the cold, the spark of human
companionship thru the day had driven it out until it
would be forgotten.

**************************************************************************************


Caroline was at the Dyke March.  It was lucky she and
Ronny didn’t meet up with each other.

“My no good boyfriend is probably out here--he’s so
stuck on the Outlaws Club.  He don’t have  a clue that
he’s not a dyke anymore, and it’s a dyke club.”

“Is Ronny here?”

“Who cares!  He’s a creep!  You know what he did to
me--it was the last straw!”

“What girl!  Tell us!”  Caroline’s pack of ratty but
pretty biker chicks clustered around her close, to
hear each word--as their dainty lady booted feet
marched a crisp staccato up the pavement.

“WELL!”  Now, that he’s in his transition,  all he
wants to do is stand in the mirror and try to look
slick and stand and pose these terrible man poses &
comb his hair.--Just like a girl!

Now that he’s a man he’s 10 times worse then a girl!
When he was a dike he didn’t care how he looked!  I
thought I was in love with a dike--a big bad butch
dike, but he’ changed into a man--& now he’s more
conceited then a girl!  Always grooming himself and
sprinkling on men’s perfume, and tying these ties
around his neck!--And you know what else he did!”

“WHAT!”  The four harpies widened their fishy
mascaraed eyes, plucked Caroline’s sleeve with their
long painted fingernails, urgently awaiting the next
juicy piece of slanderous gossip to fall from her
pretty mouth.

“So then she... I mean he comes home one day with this
packing thing to go in his jockey shorts.--He’s been
wearing jockeys and boxers--men’s underwear for years;
but now he’s gone and got a jock strap too. It’s this
horrible little jello-like plastic lump--it backs her
crotch and makes it look like he’s got--the equipment
yuh know...”

The four harpies gasped, tittered, hands over their
faces, while keeping up a crisp march along the parade
route.

“And he tells me, ‘there’s dikes who wear these things
who aren’t even FTM’s, so get a grip sister!’  That’s
what he says--to try to persuade me to like it!

‘AGGGGGGHHHH!  Take it say, it’s horrible!’  I says.

‘We been fucken with one for years!  What’s wrong?
This ones just not a big dildo, it’s a little tiny
dildo, it’s shrunken down.’  He says.

‘AGGGGGHHHHHHAAAGGG!  TAKE IT AWAY!  It looks like a
little chocolate bar!  Get rid of it!’  I yell.

He packs it in this jock strap and parades around in
the mirror.  With his skinny white legs and his big
muscley arms.

“AGGGGGHHHHHH!”  Cry the harpies in unison.  The four
women shrieked together, jumping up and down &
continued to march in their stiletto heeled biker
boots, flouncing their long hair, and crinkling the
leather of their biker jackets.

“‘AGGGGGHHHHH!  IT’S HORRIBLE!’  I told him.  “I’m
leaving!  Goodby!’”

The femme foursome marched along, swinging their
purses, their chins in air, defiant; leaving a lovely
scent of perfume in their wake.

“You can’t resist the world!  I try to tell him.

‘So if they try to kill us we’ve got guns, aint’
nobody going to stop us from picking up our guns to
defend ourselves!’  He tells me.

So then I find out about Tranny Bashers.  There’s
Tranny Chasers & Tranny Bashers--all this Tranny stuff
I didn’t know about.--Stuff he’s been keeping secret
from me!”

“Tranny Bashers--they go around kicking Trannys ass
huh?”  Queried a femme, wide eyed with interest.
“Just like they do us queers?”

“Tranny Bashers.  Tranny Chasers.  Tranny Meetings.
Tranny Conferences.  Tranny District Conferences....”
Caroline numbered on her ruby ring flittering hands.
“They got picnics for Trannys, a shelf in the public
library--all to themselves--about Transsexuals--they
have Transvestia--a national magazine---they have
Tranny everything.  More then stuff for femmes I bet!”

“It’s not fair!”

“I bet maybe they’ll have Tranny sex videos!”  Said
one imaginative biker lady.

“They already have.  TRANNY BANG!  Is a popular
title.--He’s got it.  They got Tranny sex videos--with
horrible sex among the trannys themselves!--And not
even a tranny and his lady--like it all started out in
the beginning!”

“Awwwwww!”  The femme princesses were confused in a
mix of emotions; awe, curiosity, jealousy, and...
attraction.

“Yes!  Can you believe it!  All that for them and
nothing for us femmes!  They got Tranny
doctors--doctors who will just treat Trannys and
nobody else!  Tranny Day at the free clinic--their own
special day for just them; they got Trannyshack, a
nightclub once a week for just them--& any poor
hapless girl they night be able to snag and drag in
there!  Special days at certain Tranny-friendly
restaurants where they all descend upon it and eat
together, banquet style; they got an SM Tranny
Finishing school--Miss Veras, it’s called; haven’t you
noticed all the Tranny columns in the gay newspapers
these days?  And Tranny Complaint letters to the
editors.”  As the girls merry voices floated off down
the parade route, Caroline could still be heard
remunerating the various Trannay perks; “Tranny
e-mail, A Tranny magazine the FTM International,
Tranny newsletters... Tranny archives in a major
university... Tranny hot-lines... Tranny... Tranny....
Tranny...”  Fading out into the day.


************************************************************************************

They were going in; this biker trash, refuse from the
teeming inner city of unemployment and pain; and knew
how bad they were hated.

Hated, here in America--the U$A, the land of the
suppose-to-be free.

The bikers found restaurants, and there got coffee,
used the restrooms and left their terrified waitresses
enormous tips.  Sprinkled water on their faces, &
stomped around in the mirrors of the men’s & women’s
toilet alike, posing & showing off their muscles.

A few of the clan didn’t have the stomach for all the
dirty looks they’d encounter, so elected to stay by
their choppers, sitting in the dirt of the parking lot
on the butts of their stained jeans.

All jammed around banquet tables in one care; a lot of
the bikers were sweating and they stank; but it was OK
because the ladies Georgenia, Dena, Lady, Gerri--the
ebony femme of KGT; Frosty, Caroline, Stella Dallas,
Star--the ladified butch; had dumped enough perfume on
themselves; drenched in it--so they had on enough to
cover about 5 people apiece--which amounted to 40
people--just about who was in the room.

After stomping around the mall, racing up and down the
lanes and screaming into various stores for the young
15 and 16 year olds; and a bit of pleasant but nasty
price consulting which consisted of flinging the
overpriced garments down on the floor on the floor on
the part of the elders; and oohhing & awwing! at the
sight of all the really nice stuff these suburbanites
had for themselves, they pressed on.

Made their way back to the rest of the gang, who by
now were impatient to hit the open road.

They were back rolling again.

When he cut loose on the bike at high speeds; power
soared into his veins like a drug.

Wind velocity and ability to move the bike as if it is
an extension of your own body in raw metallic force.

**************************************************************************************


The Outlaws Motorcycle Club Grand Slam Poetry
Contest--which became the first annual one--was held
in the autumn of 1999.

Lights were dim--but for the speakers podium, up to
which would file a procession of some 20 biker dike
entrants.

The judges sat to one side, pads of paper & pens in
their hands; giving the poets rapt attention.  Stryker
& Hawk co-mc’d the event.

Each contestant must read their own, original poem &
provide the judges with 1 copy of it.  The judges were
3 of the Warlords, Daddy, Rip, Royal, also with
Stryker, and Ross the middle aged Post Office
supervisor who was not a biker, not even a member, but
a fixture around Oils since forever, and who greatly
enjoyed the idea of the reading.

One by one the bikers climbed up on stage; passed into
the spotlight & took their moment of fame & glory.

The first biker took the podium; bluejean shirt,
jeans, thick soled shoes, wallet on a chain; crew cut
hair.  Solemnly she intoned: “Sail On Biker.

I sailed on thru a sea of shit.
Sailed on thru my troubles bit by bit.
                          Sail on biker, sail on.

I fought my way thru sacks of shit.
Found my way rugged,
and dues I had to pay.
Words of wisdom told me to aim higher.
                          Sail on, you mighty
                          motherfucking biker.”

“Is that all there is?”  Someone wanted to know.


Flustered with excitement, she took a bow to the
mighty applause of the gang.

Warrior Lou’s woman read next.  What followed was
amazing, because nobody knew she could read or write.
But Cookie had a secret.  She’d composed her poem m
inside her head--accompanied by jots of misspelled
words on crooked lines on a brown paper bag, scrawled
with a pencil she’d had to find.  She handed the judge
a photo copy of the misspelt paper bag in her own
shaky hand.

Hillbilly Lou watched proudly as Cookie took the
stand, round figure, demure, pink lipstick on her wide
mouth, eyes dazzling with silver makeup; hair combed
nicely, looking sweat; and waving this piece of a
brown paper bag like a stage prop---from which she
pretended to read--glancing at it from time to time
for dramatic effect--when in fact she had accomplished
the far greater task--she’d committed the work to
memory, and was free to look out over the crowd; her
ultra femmy eyes meeting theirs as she orchestrated
each line.

What Makes Momma Happy

What makes Momma happy
is to be the lady of the house.
To sit up in bed with my hair done & make up on &
fake diamonds and look nice.
Is my portrait of a perfect happy home &
me a happy spouse.

I got a country cousin who eats possum
& chews snuff.
Says she’s most happy in the mountains
shooten’ & growen her own vittels;
& that is OK.

I have a city cousin who eats food from a can.
Rides the subway and has telephone, TV,
and modern conviences at hand.
Goes to any city tavern she can find to play,
for fun, most every night or day.

Momma can be happy in city or countryside
its true.
Eaten’ hogmaws, or restaurant food,
As long as it’s with Lou.

I can grow me some pretty flowers in pots
to put around my house.
Pretend I’m in the country--and don’t need
to go back soon.

When I was just a bitty girl I thought I’d
just be happy to be cowgirl of the month.
On a pretty pinup calendar all over the rural South.

Now what makes Momma happy is not to be the
woman of a tycoon.
Just to be the lady of my house
Day, midnight & noon.

Now all you tramps & hell raisers
listen to me well!
I’m the wife of Hillbilly Lou,
Top Warrior of the Outlaws Clan!
And I will kick any bitches ass from here
down to bloody hell.
And pull out her ratty hair by every lousy strand.
Cut her, stab her, shoot her dead
and turn her pussy inside out.
If one more whore in this clubhouse
trys to step between me and my man!

All I want to do is sit up and look pretty
in my bed and have no strife.
Fix Lou’s dinner, run his bath,     
   and be a lovely wife.

Let this be a warning for you harlots
nosing round about!
Cause all that makes Momma happy is to
keep a perfect home &
be a happy spouse!

As she had this poem memorized, Cookie was able to add
chilling effects by glaring icily down into the eyes
of every rival in the gang who’d ever made a pass at
Lou--this getting her message across with thinly
disguised venom.  Which was the whole purpose of her
poem from the beginning.


***********************************************************************************





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