Lola, Good to get your letter and pictures. Your Halloween costume was ravishing. How did you manage that cleavage? Many Halloweens have come and gone and still I've never gone out in drag. Where would I go in Pocatello? The Dew Drop Inn? Get stomped by a bunch of spud duds or picked up by a potato farmer. "Say, weren't you Miss Red Russet of 1968?" No thanks. Of course, that didn't stop me from celebrating in my own way. After accumulating all my red stuff, panties, brassalette, garter belt, hose, heels, wig etc. I set it all on the bed and then in front of my camera with a red filter I did a reverse striptease until I resembled something that stepped out of the Frederick's of Hollywood catalog. Tawdry Audrey. The capper was a red silk dress, red feather boa and a hat with a red veil. Tina Louise and Jill St. John or Boy George never looked this good. I think. I'll reserve judgment until the pictures come back. It was a marathon play session, starting at 6:00 pm and ending up around 3:00 am. One of the things the vocational brochures never tell you is how much work being a TV is. I remember standing in my counselor's office looking over the pamphlets. "So You Want To Be A Drag Queen" leapt out at me. Of course it stressed the glamour, the fascinating people you meet, the chance to wear sequinned gowns and travel in the back of limousines. No where did they mention lugging cameras, lights and full length mirrors around or how much make up costs or how your eyes burn when you smear the eye make up remover over the mascara or the strange looks you get when you take five wigs out of a shopping bag at the beauty parlor like a pervert trapper bringing pelts to market. Then there's the odd delicacy with which the woman behind the counter asks how you want them done. Sometimes I've undergone this ritual with a full beard. "Well, on this one, a flip with thick bangs and this: could you make it . . . a little . . ." "Fuller?" "Yes, fuller. Now on this one . . ." And so on. Actually I've had good luck with beauty parlors. Wig stores too. Once I went to Wig World or something like that at a mall in Boise. I bought two wigs including a blonde one on sale. Somehow I got the idea that the convivial filipino sales woman knew I was buying them for myself and as I was writing the check I said something like, "Oh, boy, I've never been a blonde before." Just about finished her off. After that I kept my ejaculations of delight to myself. The Halloween party you went to sounded wild. Wish you had made a video of it. I have never dressed up with other transvestites before. It's something that I have mixed feelings about. I always think "What if I don't like these people, find them repulsive." The guilt and self-hatred that is part of our secret pleasure is behind this hesitancy I'm sure. I think of that Groucho Marx quote: "I would never want to belong to a club that would have me as a member." It's the double-bind of our kind. For me, the spell I conjure would be broken by the presence of "others." On the other hand, I'm curious to see "others" in drag. I have no idea what that would be like. I don't know whether I could bring that being out into the open. She's such a dark creation of wonder and monstrous sexuality I can't see cheapening her by being some kind of campy queen. Not that it wouldn't be fun to camp it up. But it might unravel the poetic mystery, bring it down to earth in a tawdry way. The strange thing is: my creation is a tawdry creature, a clawing, ravenously lusty wench. I could never put on clothes for teatime with the ladies. I'm not a homemaker, I'm a homewrecker. I have taken pictures in the kitchen with mixing bowl and spoon but they always manage to project a certain lewdness. As though making a cake were an orgasmic act. I suppose it's camp: Sweater Girl Meets Betty Crocker. I'll send you the pictures. I also made movies this time. Super eight. Should be interesting to see how they turned out. I tried to borrow some of the glamour from the Blue Venus era of filmmaking where a spotlight creates a filmy nimbus over Marlene Dietrich's head no matter where she is. In the nightclub, on the street, on the john. Talk about a TV fantasy: to be perpetually swathed in smoky light, the radiance of a goddess. Again, I haven't got the film back so I'll have to wait and see what kind of success I had. I tried something new this time. I didn't allow myself the luxury of orgasm for the entire eight hours. It was a difficult exercise but I had so much I wanted to accomplish I felt I would compromise my intentions if I got carried away and soiled my panties prematurely as it were. And though I was close, close enough to have blue balls for hours afterward, I didn't lose it. It becomes a kind of religious discipline after a certain point. A challenge to one's ability to remain interested and alert without the longed for reward. Not that I think we should abstain from what gives us the most joy but that can always come later, so to speak, after the pictures, film or memories have subsided. The sweetness of the achievement is then mingled with the erotic adventure. I suppose inherent in what I'm saying is that drag is an art even when practiced in the solitude of a one-room apartment. And that, as an art, it's goals can be broader than a mere spunk spill in the sink. Though I have done that a thousand times and don't disparage it, for me there must be greater rewards, something if not of lasting value then at least a memory of a vision extended, carried out and completed. It's the Zen of Drag cumming soon (but not too soon) to a bookstore near you. Reading this over it seems quite pretentious. We'll see how successful abstinence is when I get all my stuff back from the lab. Charlotte Lola, As I write this I'm wearing a burgundy turtleneck over a 36 B cup black lace bra. My hair is brunette, shoulder-length, with thick bangs and falls in smooth Js along side my face. I feel like a demure secretary with a throbbing knob creeping up over the top of my pink panties. But no one can see it hidden under a pair of ultra-tight Calvins. The other secretaries are jealous because I dress as I want: sexily and have men reeling as I walk to the watercooler.
"Charlotte, you're new here. And we've neglected a little initiation rite that all the secretaries are obliged to perform," the boss says. "Barbara and Yvonne will assist you." At this remark the women grab my arms and escort me up to his waiting cock. "Now you'll get what you've been asking for," Yvonne says pushing my head down over the throbbing rod. The phone rings. The boss leans back over the desk to answer causing me to gag as his cock jerks up into my mouth. Yvonne holds my head steady over the cock. "It's for you," he says to me, holding the phone down next to his groin. "Holwo." "Miss Corday, this is Wig Wam Boutique. Your wigs are ready." "Swhank oo." "You don't sound so good, honey. Are you taking something for that?" "Es, swhanks," I say as cum starts flooding into my mouth. "Oh, that's good. We're open till five." The boss lies back on his desk panting with exhaustion. Yvonne pulls her panties down and says, "Now me, honey. I've wanted that tongue ever since you came to work here." She leans up against the desk and spreads her lips far apart then pushes the muggy coils of her sex into my face. My tongue finds her clit and starts to flick lick it. "Barbara, I think Miss Big-Ass is wearing a wig," she says pulling my tangled curls up off my head. "Oh, my God," she screams. I stand before them, disheveled, undone and very obviously not the sexiest woman in the office. Not even a woman. Lola, I hope you don't mind the masochistic fantasy. It just appeared as I was typing. It's a part of being a TV, for me, at least. And TV pornography is so full of forced dressing, dominatrixes, whips and cruel punishment for crimes against nature. But the punishment is its own reward. The great paradox of the sexual outlaw. Real punishment would be isolation from our toys, our childish things and a forced march into adulthood without the crutch of sensuous lingerie clouding our vision. But where is the magic, the excitement, the tantalizing lure of despair in being an adult. I'm ambivalent today, Lola. I've been depressed about the future lately. Being a TV is not about the future. It's about the present, and the past and heaven but it has nothing to do with aging, sagging, balding or the face that can't hide under a thick layer of greasepaint. Where do all the old queens go? "Barbara, our Miss-Ass is a guy. A phoney. Let's see those big tits of yours, honey," Yvonne says ripping my blouse off. I fall to the rug. "You were very good, honey. Very good. But now you're not so convincing." Charlotte Lola, As I write this I'm wearing a white peasant blouse and a denim sheath skirt, my hair is black and falls in loose curls around my face. Tonight I am Consuelo, my teenage fantasy grown up, older and wiser but still able to turn heads. This will be a quick note to let you know I haven't hung myself with a pair of fishnet stockings. When I get depressed about being a TV I don't think it does any good to hide those feelings or to pretend this life is an easy one. It isn't and whether we choose it or feel it has been chosen for us doesn't lessen the loneliness we all feel as Tvs or as humans. Charlotte
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