I am less than half way through my Penang visit. Gaybutton asked for a full report when I got back to Canada, but I can't wait until then.
Yesterday I found myself in the room of a young Indian man, part of the Chulia St Trans community, which I discovered is headquartered in the Day and Night, the beer cafe immediately next to my hang-out, The Betel Nut, at the Chulia-Love Lane intersection, just across from the 7/11. I'll fill you in on how I got here soon, but first I have to straighten out the Boyfriend business. Somehow I was in Kamadeva's room (Indian God of Love), this charming young Indian man who was only beginning anything to trans--no hormones, no surgery--just some glitter over his very beautiful eyes. I wanted to scream at him not to change, but that would be rude to everyone. I was just in his room for a massage--I swear, just a massage. He had apparently heard that one before, and didn't believe me. Any of you who have read my posts know that muscle bears are my favourite animal by far, so I seriously did want a massage--at least when I first walked into his room.
He was tearing my pants off. I was shouting, "Stop that, you bitch!" etc. I actually meant it (I think), while, when he heard "bitch" assumed we were in play time. Every time he heard "bitch" he would scream and dive under the covers. That meant I had to dig him out while he was shrieking and wriggling, and we were both laughing. Every time I called him bitch--I had caught on by that time--he would again scream and disappear.
As he was tearing off my pants, my little Swiss Army Knife fell on the floor. He held it up in alarm. Then he pointed to my shirt, which he had not yet torn off me. It was my favourite tee shirt--white with blood stains all over it and the sentence, "This is My Rugby Shirt." (If you know rugby, you get it.) He couldn't read the inscription, so to him it was a knife and a bloody shirt. He had somehow landed a crazed, homicidal foreigner. "Why?" he asked. "I killed my boyfriend." "Why?" he asked again. "Because I want him to cum 5 times when he fuck me, but he can only cum 4 times." Kama looked at me in horror, then tried to escape by jumping off the bed. I grabbed him just in time and pulled him back to explain it was a joke. We gradually got it solved and went back to play time.
He struggled to figure out what it was I wanted. As he is doing this he is lathering me with this liniment that is ice cold. He quickly caught on that being feminine was not going to do it, so he switched to Mr Butch, assuring me he had had no surgery, and had a big dick. He could tell this was eliciting some interest from me, so he insisted I not only look at it, but feel it. Well, it was big--uncut so I know he wasn't a Muslim. Well, all this activity made me reevaluate somewhat about why I was there, and what I wanted to happen. Anyway, some time later I emerged from his room freezing cold from the linament, probably smelling like a horse that had just gotten a rubdown, and with a huge smile on my face. I tried to drop the smile as I walked the few steps back to the Betel Nut, but couldn't. The staff at the Betel Nut all knew where I had been and had a pretty good idea of what I was doing. They didn't seem to disapprove--it just made me a more interesting person. The next day I bought condoms and lube in the 7/11. That was a fun scene. The 2 guys on staff were all of 15 or 16, a few Westerners were there, so I decided to conduct the whole thing in Malay. The kids were embarrassed and unsure how to proceed--especially when I questioned them about condom-safe "lubrikasi." They showed my to the shelf where I indeed found both. Kama will be meeting me at 8 when I fully expect him to fuck my brains out.
Today I was in the Betel Nut, and saw all the trans women next door. So went over to say hello and to get the time established firmly for my meeting with Kama. I had to enlist the help of a transwoman who was sitting next to Kama to translate. When we got it all cleared up, I turned to walk to my seat in the Betel Nut. This asshole British guy who was watching the whole conversation asks me, "Do you like ladyboys?" "Why do YOU care?" I asked. "I was just interested." "Oh really? He's more than just a ladyboy," I said. "In a dress?" I then realized he was referring to the transwoman who was helping me, rather than to Kama. I just studied him for a moment, and said, "What do you REALLY want? I can get you anything you want, just tell me." He backed off a bit, and said that line we have all heard so many times: "No, I just like women" said with that smug self-righteous "I'm normal, you're all a bunch of perverts" tone.
Most of us have heard it before; some of us have even said it. I have--when I was a kid--like to a man who was asking if we could get together again--after he had just blown me in his car--after he had picked me up off of a certain dark street, deserted except for some other young men walking slowly one way or another, and pausing under streetlights. Yeah, I was just out for a walk. Who was I kidding? Not the driver. Not even myself. I was trying to establish some straight credentials, an entree to a world I could never be a part of, a world I soon learned I didn't WANT to be a part of. When he said "No, I just like women" I said "Yeah right. Well, whatever gets you through the night. Just don't try to fuck MY head over." God, I hate that kind of pretense.
Next time I would like to discuss the whole trans experience as I see it here on Jalan Chulia. I was in for some surprises. Not as many as for some of you, perhaps, because my father was trans--Transgender father, gay son? Kind of unusual, especially in the 1960's through to 2002 when he died. No, I am not gay because he was transgender. It doesn't work like that.
Peace everyone--or should I say Shanti?