Starting when I was seven, I watched the guy
living across the street from me become a
beautiful woman. Yogi looked like he could've
played for the Jets, but he went away to college
& came back different somehow. He'd gone
from tight jeans & great man'*** to leather
miniskirts & stilettos; years later, she was best
friends with my buddy Monica, a former surfer
boy who was now a flirty blonde fond of demure
sun dresses, peasant skirts & espadrilles. Her
name wasn't Yogi anymore & Monica had once
been Mark, she told me. Watching [ ] as
I & she grew, she into a statuesque Latina that
could have been a model. Every ****** I've ever
known has been beautiful, very unlike the media's
jokey rendition of a man in a dress, or buxom
woman posing as a he, unlike the ***** drag
sometimes seen in the mainstream or the over-the-top
drag queen professional like a one-man circus
like RuPaul or Lady Bunny. Recently I had the
supreme pleasure of attending the retrograde Miss
America pageant, part of a mass movement of
debutante-like ingénue on literal parade in various
garments to be discarded. Heterosexual women
prancing like trained horses for money & influence.
