TRIXIE'S DIARY - January 27, 1992

 

 

Friday might have been one of the scariest, most potentially dangerous nights I’ve ever had, which I guess is saying a lot considering some of the craziness I’ve encountered over the years.

I mean, this is my life? Really? Who do I need to talk to so I can get a refund? You’re supposed to know the answers to these things, Miss Diary. Not like anyone else is offering.

One of my co-workers, a basketball player-sized African-American queen who goes by the name Karma L. Apple, confided in me a couple of nights ago. We were at work and she invited me outside for a smoke break. I think cigarettes taste like a stale fireplace, so I declined that portion of her invite but joined her for the talk anyway because I’m polite like that. It was nice to be acknowledged by someone other than Jesi for once. Not to take away from Jesi, but sometimes we don’t work the same nights, and it gets a little lonely when some of the other queens are being bitchy and probably gossiping about me. Am I just being paranoid?

I think Karma must have heard me one night when I was complaining to Jesi about the size of my boobs, or maybe she sniffed me out some other way, but the fact of the matter is she figured out I was trans. Turned out it didn’t matter much because Karma said she thinks she might be too and wanted to pick my brain about it. She more or less lives as a guy outside of work right now, but she’s been starting to realize something isn’t right. She’s pushing thirty, too. Girl, what took you so long? Makes me feel fortunate I figured everything out and started transitioning so young. Maybe the only real blessing in my life at this point.

Karma said she wanted to at least get her lips done soon if nothing else and asked if I wanted to come with her to a silicone pumping party. I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. Sounded kinda funky, but she said if I had a couple hundred bucks saved up, maybe I could do something about my itty bitty titty problem. Her words, not mine. Grrr. Or I could just come with her for moral support. Events that are only spread by word of mouth always weird me out, but I figured safety in numbers would be a reasonable approach.

I still brought some money, though. Just in case. Better to be prepared, right? Do you think less of me, Diary?

I was already pretty sure this whole deal was not on the up and up before we got there. Lo and behold, we show up and immediately the first red flag is flying proudly. The party’s in the shittiest part of shitty downtown, in some ultra grody apartment that would make a corpse gag. Right outside the front door it smelled like seaweed that had been thrown in a bonfire and left to rot. Inside there were hints of bleach. Let’s just say my nostrils were itching like a motherfucker. The hostess seemed friendly enough, but she wasn’t exactly easy on the eyes. Her face was rubbery and droopy, like the Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz had gotten frisky with some Silly Putty. I was so ready to get the hell out of that place the minute we arrived, but Karma needed me.

The seating in the living room was kind of random. A few plastic folding chairs, a deflated loveseat and a giant beanbag with a tear that was letting some of the stuffing pellets escape anytime the girl sitting on it moved. The other guests looked nervous as hell. There was a thick, quiet tension floating in the room. It was kind of like looking into a mirror. Not literally. Duh. I just mean that these other girls had pretty much the same needs and desires that I do, and they were doing something about it. I’ve felt that desperation to make sure my mind and body match, that yearning to realize, at any cost, my potential as a woman. I just think this was a terrible way of going about it. If nothing else, I gained a heaping pile of street smarts from the nights I was forced to sell my body. No way in hell my hard earned money was leaving my purse that night. This pumping party was bad news, so I begged Karma to take us home. She was still convinced it was a good idea and wanted to move forward. Hell, she wanted to be first in line.

Cowardly Lion started talking about how the rest of the night would go down, but I couldn’t really understand her. It sounded like she had a mouth full of saltines. I feigned boredom and started glancing around the room, counting the peeling spots on the walls and the blotchy stains on the carpet. It probably would have been quicker to count the clean sections. Underneath one of the folding chairs I noticed a paper with some random notes and instructions scribbled on it. Part of it said: Industrial silicone mixed with paraffin wax and peanut butter. Pumped directly into the body rather than implanted under the skin in sealed sacs. Cost effective and no license necessary. I stuffed it in my pocket and took it home with me. You really think I could remember all of that, Diary?

Next thing I knew, Karma was lying on some sort of makeshift operating table. Hell, I think it was actually a fucking coffee table, for Chrissakes. Cowardly Lion was hunched over her, and she wasn’t even wearing gloves, much less anything else that could be considered medically appropriate. The minute I saw that needle approaching Karma’s lips, I started to feel sick and got myself the hell out of there. I tried not to make a scene, just tiptoed out and closed the front door as quietly as I could.

God, I’m a terrible friend.

Sucks that I had to take a cab home, but I know almost every nook and cranny of those streets and just how dangerous they can be at that time of night. No way would I want to walk them alone, and it was way too late to call Jesi and bother her for a ride. Times like this I miss the Zanes and the protection they offered. Well, not really.

Now it’s Monday, and Karma still hasn’t come back to work. No calls or anything. She pretty much always works weekends. I keep thinking I should go to the police, but I know it would be a waste of time. They’re not going to care much about girls like us disappearing. Probably just fine with ridding the world of another freak.

I hope she’s okay.

Do I even believe there’s a chance of that at this point?