Life on Venus

I sometimes think the Midlands is a boring place to live, but then I get propositioned by a transvestite and I have to reassess the way I see the world.

For a moment, I considered it. I mean, it was a man, dressed as a woman, but it would still be a man, so I wouldn't be betraying myself or my sexual orientation. That logic made sense in my head. Unfortunately this particular cross-dresser was not a Sweet Transvestite in the vein of Frank-N-Furter from The Rocky Horror Show. But still, a part of me was curious. Would I get a funny story out of it? Yes, certainly. Would it be worth it? Perhaps not.

But I have always seen myself, a little conceitedly, as a very sexual being. Who cares who's going down on you, a voice in my head says, as long as they're doing it right!

I'm open minded. I watch a lot of freaky porn. So I said yes. This is it, my inner hedonist cried, you are about to cross your greatest taboo yet. You will soon know what it means to be free and uninhibited by society's sexual dogma.

Then I looked down. He/she was wearing ugly, sensible shoes. Thick, hairy legs were visible through laddered stockings. Their satin dress bulged and stretched unflatteringly, and a monobrow peered out at me from beneath a heavily fringed wig which looked like it had originally belonged to Lady Gaga. And I realised; this wasn't erotic, or liberating. It was sad and a tiny bit grotesque.

I backtracked so quickly I gave myself whiplash.

J.x