Tunnel Tranny

26 Jul

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First of all, this blog is in no way a personal judgement call on those persons who happen to genuinely enjoy decking out in the opposite gender’s accoutrements…for whatever means of pleasure it may provide them.  This is, however, about the appropriateness of time, location and circumstance for those who do it just for money, at my place of work.

…Which may be a little confusing seeing as I have often referred to this place as a public Brothel.  But it isn’t “really.”  The fact that we have our own Tunnel Tranny (like some people have their own Tunnel Troll) is not within the norm of our particular “business”…just so you know.

…It started several months ago.

Our offices take up a sizable plot of land, down in the port.  Busy traffic, and our neighbors, keep it safe and watched…I’ve never for a moment felt “sketchy” about working here, or unsafe in any way.  Ports are busy places.  And what with the rail right by us and the freeway, traffic is at a constant stream, roaring outside the windows and just down the street.

…But when it turns nightfall, I’d say this place would prob’ly turn into one the top ten places that you just don’t wanna be.  Too many shadows and large machines and containers to hide behind and inside and between…too many places to kill you and hide the body in. Too eerily echo-ee.  Also, we have this tunnel, a small overpass for the Amtrak rail that is literally just outside my own office window.  And a couple of months ago, a new phantom resident began pitching camp there, ‘tween whatever hours where we are not present. 

No one has ever actually seen him. 

…Which is really something, considering the span of hours we keep here, at the Bunny Ranch.  But we know “of” him, thanks to the wardrobe he occasionally leaves behind, and various other accessories.  We go on the presumption he is a man, given the size of his shoes, and various intimate clothing articles.  We go on the presumption of his “trade,” given the occasional cast-off makeup, accessories, fishnetting and wigs.

…He prefers being blond, for instance.  Short, curly cuts, most especially, but he does have an ironed “look” option as well. And he takes, “Maybe you’re born with it, maybe it’s Maybelline” to it’s most literal translation.  He’s not the greatest fashion-setter (unfortunately)…the other day we found a pair of brown go-go boots next to a crazy-print black blouse, and sweatpants. And his house slippers don’t match each other let alone his boxer shorts.  Also, he has substance abuse problems involving gross amounts of Rockstar and Wild Turkey (possibly together, possibly as chasers.)

…He doesn’t smoke (from what we can tell), but he does chew…which you would think might screw up his lipstick line at bit.  But I guess that doesn’t bother him too much, as we’ve no detection of mirrors…but he does enjoy a good morning newspaper. After a particularly disturbing appearance of a travel gas container, we’ve also concluded he’s either a sniffer, or a Pyromaniac.

…We still have offices though, so are placing bets on the former.

All in all, he keeps to himself though…his clump piles to his tunnel home.  Occasionally they redistribute into new grouping and staging areas…which we toss up as some kind of tunnel version of a multi-client house party. Occasionally they float a little too closely to our property line, but seeing as you couldn’t pay any of us decked out in full-out hazard gear to touch any of it, the piles remain as they stand…until such time as his next tunnel-cleaning, or orgy.

…Meanwhile, wardrobe comes and goes according to weather and season. This one time, he tried the life of a brunette without (I’m guessing) much success as the wig has never returned. And for whatever reason he sometimes leaves us Happy Meal toys out on the mailbox slab.  I think as a sort of peace offering. 

We don’t bother him, he doesn’t bother us. 

…And somewhere in his head I’m sure he feels more secure in the fact that we are here every day, watching his stuff.

We try to be good neighbors.

…But if he ever bakes us a thing of cookies and leaves ’em on our doorstep, I ain’t eatin’ ’em.

One must draw a line at some point.  And that is mine.

~D

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One Response to “Tunnel Tranny”

  1. Harlan July 26, 2012 at 5:34 pm #

    I suspect that your tranny gets around – at least as far as the Stadium neighborhood, anyway. Not long ago, while ambling toward the park after dining at a local bistro, we came across an abandoned blonde wig, a pair of gold plastic earrings (broken) and two empty cans of Rockstar behind one of the nearby churches. At the time, we suspected that the goods might have belonged to one of the local clergy – perhaps looking for a way to ingratiate themselves into the culture of the area? – but we quickly wrote that off to cynicism about the Catholics in general. Now, thanks to your post, we now think that these fashion items may be the property of a longshoreman supplementing his income in the clubs off of St. Helens. For the sake of the “they’re classier than we can ever hope to be” reputations of gay men everywhere, I can only hope that a) our local gay nightspots are now down to just one or two low-watt lightbulbs for illumination or b) this fellow’s continuing drag act is just a common manifestation of the old “the girls get prettier around closing time” cliche. In either case, I can only imagine the mental state one would have to be in to find a husky caffine buzzed longshoreman in a platinum wig the modern manifestation of Jayne Mansfield at 2 AM.

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