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The Whale and The Porpoise

By Bethany nee' Cissy

My first trip to Ft. Lauderdale, and as usual I tried to find a companion, a local TG guide "sister," or maybe a sexy guy for a date. Over the last few months I had found some nice prospects. First there was ongoing conversation with Arlen. He was enthusiastic about my visit:

"Hi Bethany, Sorry it took me so long to get back to you. I have been very busy at work... I am very excited about you coming to Fla. I can't wait to see you. Please tell me where and when. I will arrange to visit you at your hotel or get one of my own in your area."

Then Arlen disappeared the way some people (especially TG admirers) just vaporize on the Net. One day they're writing you love letters, begging you to visit, and then when you plan to show up — poof — they're gone. Just a memory, a tease, simply a group of electrons organized in such a way as to make you think you'll get laid. When I realized that my dream date with Arlen was just another case of Hunkis Noshowis (the technical term for promising admirers who get cold feet), I sought out "sisters" for advice about the area, vis-a-vis Internet addresses for the local TG groups.

"Hi there,
I'm a TG M to F person from the Chicago area who will be visiting the
Ft.Lauderdale area next week 10/3 -5. Are there meetings or places
(clubs, restaurants etc. ) that you can recommend?"

"Hi to you too,
Is there tea in China. There are a lot of TG friendly places in Sunny Ft.Lauderdale.
Don't you remember the movie "Where the girls are? So I changed the title a little.
Just kidding. Theres lots to do, lots to see. Etc. All kidding aside.
Are you coming alone or with your significant other. Let me know exactly when you will
be arriving and if you want someone can meet you.
There are meetings every Thursday Night in Palm Beach. Our meetings are on
the second Saturday of the month.
Don't worry though. There is lots to do and lots to see. Right now we are waiting for Hurricane Georges.
Tina"

"Hi Tina,
Thanks for the warm response. I'll be arriving Monday evening and leaving for Southern Comfort Weds.
Given that I'll be away from less approving significant others and in a TG supportive
fun place I'd love to go out and explore, meet people and basically take time to enjoy my "girl-ness."
Having said that, I'd love to connect with you or other TG people. I'm assuming that not much happens on Tuesday nights but if you're interested, I'd love to get out that night preferably with a Ft. Lauderdale "sister." Thanks again,
Bethany"

I waited-and waited-and waited. Was it something I said? Had she succumbed to the hurricane? Poof! Another disappearance. Another memory, a tease, simply a group of electrons organized in such a way as to make you think you're going out on the town. With all of these Net disappearances I was thinking of hiring a Private Eye to get to the bottom of the mystery. Still wanting real information — Tina had disappeared* before I could get the name of any clubs — I got on the Net once more and found a plethora of info on Ft. Lauderdale. TG Forum listed a promising looking place:

"The Whale & Porpoise
E. Oakland Park Blvd (2 Bl. east of Federal Hwy)
Ft. Lauderdale, FL
One of the owners is always in drag. Gay club with large TG clientele."

Once I arrived in town I did a little reconnaissance work locating both the Club and the up and coming gay area known as Wilton Manners. As usual, my adept sleuthing involved driving around lost for a couple of hours after work. Happily the Whale and Porpoise turned out to be surprisingly near my hotel. At last I had a destination. Jesus this was a lot of work!

Now, and in spite of all of those people who had teased me into thinking I had contacts here, I readied myself for my big night out in Ft. Lauderdale. By 11:30 p.m. I was fully Bethany. Sweet, casual and brunette, in a simple long summer skirt, (slit to the thigh), red painted toe nails peeking through high heeled sandals, a low cut halter and a little sweater for protection from air conditioning, and straight onlookers who may think I have unusually large biceps for a girl. I headed out. It's funny how routine this has become. I used to have great trepidation even leaving my hotel room for just a minute. Now I was nonchalant, swishing calmly down the hall, into the elevator and through the lobby.

Then I got nervous. It's like one of those sudden awarenesses. You realize your doing something you didn't think you could do, riding a bike, driving a car, passing as a woman walking through a hotel lobby. The shear realization is shocking enough to make you stop and falter. I faltered. A sudden attack of passaphobia hit me. As I crossed the wide Hilton lobby I worried about humiliating stares, giggles, house detectives getting suspicious.

Then I heard a conversation between two hotel employees at the Bell Desk" "Sure, sure", remarked an unusually low feminine voice, "I'll check that tonight." "We need it now, I think," a different and higher feminine voice. I'd been looking down at the ground as I headed for the door. I figured that if I avoided eye contact and moved quickly I couldn't be too badly humiliated. But there was something about that low voice that made me look up. "Ya see, its right over here, okay?" said the voice. "Okay, great!," said the other. The conversation was taking place between two women wearing hotel garb, the female variant of a "Bell Boy" outfit. The woman with the higher voice was short and round, but the other woman was tall with a red pony tail and... a receding hair line? My god... she was transgendered! I knew it the instant I saw her, my eye after all is quite trained in these matters. She walked around confidently, giving orders, wearing surprisingly little make up. Her low voice, height and slightly mannish facial features validated my immediate impression. Well, good for Hilton and good for her. I'm always glad to see a TG person employed and in a public contact role, no less. I instantly admired her courage. My passaphobia passed. I recovered my confidence, lifted my head, smiled at the hotel personnel and headed for my car.

Following the route I had staked out in the daylight, I quickly found my way back to the Whale and Porpoise, now sporting a large but wholly unimpressive yellow neon sign. Gathering my courage once more, I stepped out of the car, locked it, and headed for the door. I had no idea what I'd find inside. It was a Tuesday night... I doubted much was going on. I was glad to be out, but I didn't really expect much. Similar to places I had visited in Denver and Austin during the week, I anticipated sitting in a mostly empty bar, breathing in too much smoke and spending the night in relative solitude.

As I approached the door I could hear live vocals — like a band was performing or something. As the door opened the sound tripled, it was a female singer performing "The Wind Beneath Your Wings." I stepped in. A blue neon Whale and Porpoise lit a classic Florida kitsch lounge. The room was dark, empty and orderly. Tall stools were neatly lined up along a winding antique bar. Now a male voice was singing from somewhere beyond the lounge area, there was laughing and crowd noise. "Waaaay down in the Red River Valley..." I followed the sound to a cavernous room, presumably the dance bar.

I surveyed the sparse crowd. Clean cut and almost too wholesome for most of the gay bars I've been to. There were a lot of straight looking women — of course I had no I idea if they were straight or not — but they were all so feminine. They wore attractive dress casual outfits and pretty jean/top combinations. It's not fair for me to stereotype, but if these were lesbians they looked very different from the "dressed down" and often "boyish" gay women I was used to seeing. The guys, sans the usual torn jeans, multiple piercings and facial hair, were also dressed in sexy but attractive casual outfits. Maybe it was local culture, or maybe it was social pressure from the "outside" world, but this group was refreshingly straight looking. As Bethany, I fit right in. The dressy but casual outfit was a good call on my part. With anything too stark or slutty I'd have stood out uncomfortably. I've come to dislike that "Hey, I'm a hot Transvestite bitch" look.

As I walked through the crowd to the bar I was pleasantly unnoticed. I hate those "Oh, look it's one of them Drag Queens" stares that I get when I enter a gay bar. (I usually look too feminine. This rules me out as either a lesbian or the kind of guy who would be interesting to the typical gay man.) I ordered some wine and found a seat so I could see the band. That's when I realized I was a spectator at the soon-to-be-famous Whale and Porpoise Tuesday night Karaoke. As I watched, I realized that there was quite a bit of talent in the room. One great performance after another. Pop songs, C&W, Jazz Standards, and even Broadway favorites. I decided the group was too good to be straight-they had to be gay. As a frustrated parlor performer, I'd sung and played the piano performing jazz standards for friends and family — I'd even done a fairly good job of Karaoke in the past, usually receiving compliments (I've had several years of voice and musical performance training back in my formative years). Now I wanted to give Bethany a chance. I've had all kinds of drag show fantasies — from steamy ballads to bawdy Burlesque, but I never really tried. I know I could sing in my femme voice, and had rehearsed many times for a show that was never to be. Did I have the nerve to start my singing career tonight? Maybe after some more wine.

While I was mulling it over Timmy appeared from nowhere. He literally rushed me, stood unnervingly close, and said, "Wow, you're really pretty! I'm Timmy, what's your name?" And then he gave me the classic Feelie touch and tried to kiss me.

Over the last couple of years I've become increasingly aware of the secret world of TG Admirers, those special men who love women like me. One of the things I've discovered is that they range from attractive sexy romantic Hunks to rather repulsive disgusting Feelies. Now while all Admirers are drawn to us girls, want to touch us and very likely have (or at least steal) sex from us, they vary wildly in the kind of things they'll say and do to get it. The really great Hunky types I've known say clever things, treat me with respect, offer sweet romantic compliments, take me out to nice places and then, having won my heart, invite me back to their room.

At the other end of the spectrum are the Feelies. The classic Feelie barely says anything romantic or otherwise. They move in closer and closer and then they grope, breathe heavily, and make you wonder if they're on the verge of climaxing, (also make you wonder how long they've been wearing their underwear -- if they have any.) I'm not sure what kind of accomplishment this is but I've had a chance to experience Tranny Bar Feelies in about 7 different states and 5 different countries, and I have to tell you that in spite of regional, cultural and language differences, all Feelies do the same thing.


Move 1: They watch you intensely, humorlessly, desperately.

Move 2: With absolute disregard for your personal space, they move in as close as they can without touching you and stare directly at you. (sometimes I begin to relate to the animals I've shamelessly observed at the zoo)

Move 3: Then, if you haven't chased them off by now — they do the Classic Feel. This has to be the least sexy touch I've ever experienced. If one can picture the trembling hands of somebody with serious Parkinson's disease, then you have a good idea of the fundamental mechanics of Move #3. Starting with your back or other non-sexual exposed flesh like a knee or an arm, they spread their hand wide, set it vibrating at high speed and then float it lightly along your exposed leg or lower back. That's when they breathe heavily and speak for the first time: " You like that?" "Oh sure, I think to myself, "I get incredibly turned on by this sensation. It's like having a 3 pound insect run across my back — God, I'm turned on!"

Move 4: And if you fail to stop them at this point then you'll likely experience this move, The Kiss. A big wet tongue kiss delivered from a seriously unshaven face. At this point I usually turn my head so that the kiss lands on a cheek and not my lips. That's what I did, Timmy's wet, stubbly lips made contact with my face and removed a substantial portion of blusher. So why had I let him move in that quickly? Truth is — he was really good looking, rare for a Feelie. So I figured he was possibly more of a Hunk, definitely drunk, with Feelie tendencies. Besides, I wasn't registering any purient interest from anyone else in the Karaoke crowd, a little fooling around might be okay, better than just sitting there. On the other hand I was disappointed about having been targeted so quickly — I was feeling pretty passable until Timmy homed in on me. I know it's partly the gay bar context, but I keep hoping my TG signal will be completely surpressed.

Move 5: Rarely successful for a Feelie, is getting to heavy petting. Should they be lucky enough to keep your interest, the groping and kissing gets more passionate, and then they start rubbing their errongenous zone against you, hoping you'll "play" with them.

After Timmy's kiss attempt I backed away, acted shy, reclaimed my personal space and started perusing the Karaoke catalog. "I was thinking I might try singing up there, what do you think?" I asked. Timmy was dumbfounded at first. You see, having some kind of "normal" conversation with a Feelie has a way of breaking their silent little routine. It acknowledges them as more than just a sexual pest, simultaneously elevating you (the TG girl) from sex object to multifaceted person. "Really," he said as he slowly woke from his sex trance, "You like to sing?" Timmy could be very attractive with a little work. He had thick dark hair and piercing eyes, handsome features and nice body. He was even dressed pretty well. But he needed a few improvements like a shave for instance and a little less sloppy drunkeness would have been nice. "Yeah, but I've never really sung in front of a crowd like this," I lied. (Bethany hasn't sung in public before — but the rest of me had.) I continued to ignore him and thumbed through the song catalog book. I figured he'd hover nearby. Besides if I was going to sing, it had to be the right number, it was going to be my debut after all. "Lets dance," he insisted. "Okay," I agreed, what harm could dancing do?

A Garth Brooks song I didn't recognize was being performed expertly by a guy in a cowboy outfit. Timmy took me in his arms very romantically and the Hunk in him started to peek through the Feelie clouds. We danced close and I enjoyed being swayed and turned as we moved to the music. He started trying more of Move #4 with overtones of Move #5 and I broke the Feelie trance by speaking again, "You want to sing something with me? It might be fun." "Oh, I don't know, I'm not much of a singer" Getting him to talk had the intended effect of slowing his groping. I guess offering him a new social dilemma helped to override his misguided petting. "How about a country song? You seem to be singing along with a lot of those." "I really love Garth," he said and then he began singing along. His voice like the rest of him had potential but he needed a little less of an alcohol induced slur. He took me in his arms once more and aswe danced again, I let TImmy kiss me.

After the dance it was time to pick a song to sing. "Okay, here we go," I said. "What about this song?" It was difficult to read the small print in the dim light and Timmy strained to see. I had a feeling that reading from a song catalog was not on the top of his list for tonight's activities, but he obliged. "Yeah, that's a good one, lets do that." I copied the number down on the little form they supplied and turned it into one of the MC's. "Thanks honey. You're in three more," he said.

When I got back, I found that Timmy had replenished my wine. Not a cheap gesture at $5.75 a glass. He must have had high hopes for a good return on his investment. Or maybe he thought that if he got me drunk enough I'd fall for the rest of his moves. Frankly, he was getting so drunk that I doubted he could do much even if he got me where he wanted me. Now the MC's, a stunningly beautiful brunette and equally sexy athletic looking guy, took the stage to perform a duet of "You Don't Send Me Flowers." Two more numbers and we'd be up. I didn't have high expectations for this performance tonight. Between Timmy's developing slur, the lack of an opportunity to rehearse, singing in a unknown key, and the fact that I couldn't remember the melody or the lyrics for the song I'd chosen, I figured we were doomed. Oh well, I knew I'd never see this audience again and at least I'd finally be on my way to fulfilling my Show Girl fantasy. After some more Feelie Thrust and Parry, with Timmy as the attacking swordsman and me the artful dodger, Timmy spoke, " So, what do you do?" I explained in very simple and loud terms (the volume of music dampened most conversation) the nature of my consulting work. "Very interesting," he said sounding momentarily lucid. "And how about you? What do you do?" "Oh... I'm in Groceries," he answered mysteriously. "Groceries," I thought, "maybe he's an eccentric food store millionaire. Yeah that would be okay. I could put up with some Feelie-ness for that (little Gold Digger that I am). Maybe I'll go stay with him at his extravagant beach house — spend an extra week or two — let him be my sugar daddy. That would be okay" Then I looked at him again. In spite of the potential charm I just didn't sense that kind of millionaire confidence. "Better clarify," I thought. "Groceries? So what is it that you do? Manage the store?" " No," he said. "Good", I thought, "that means he's more important. He doesn't just manage — he owns it or something." "Actually, I stock produce at Mr. Jacksonmart over on Federal" he offered without hesitation. Instantly the wind emptied from my sails. I sat seasick, bobbing up and down on the windless water. "Stocks produce?" At his age? (I figured him for about 35.) Nice guy, but can't I do better than this? "Bethany-you're up," called the MC. "Hey that's us," exclaimed Timmy grabbing my hand and pulling me up on stage. "Hi, I'm Bethany, and this is Timmy." "Okay, here they are folks, Bethany and Timmy performing an old favorite..."

Even as the intro was playing, I knew we were headed for a disaster. I couldn't find the starting note. When the first verse actually got there, we started a couple of seconds late. "Sometimes its hard to be a woman... giving all your love to just one man." I could hear my voice coming back at me over the monitor, and while it didn't sound bad as far as achieving some amount of femme pitch and timbre, it was way off of the melody. Timmy was even worse. Finally we got to the refrain... "Stand by your man, with two good arms to hold him... and never, never let him go." Finally a merciful ending and polite applause. Now that's the sign of professional performers, they're willing to encourage you even though you spent the last 3.5 minutes torturing them. God, I couldn't believe that I had actually played a part in doing one of those classically painful Karaoke performances — the kind that gives the whole pastime a bad name. I returned to my table, trembling slightly and downed the better part of my second glass of expensive wine. Timmy was oblivious to his part in perpetrating audio pollution. The dancing and touching we had done had rearoused his Feelie tendencies and he made the suggestion, "Well how about a walk on the beach? Its just a couple of miles away..."

Under other circumstances a romantic beach tryst would have been great — but did I want to take my chances with a drunken, impulsive, produce stock boy on a dark abandoned beach? Umm, maybe not. In spite of my interest in his flawed manly charms, I chickened out.

"No baby, I've really got to go. You've been really sexy and sweet but I can't tonight." I felt like such a tease but I got my stuff together and headed for the door just as they were announcing "Last Call." Naturally Timmy followed.

Out in the parking lot he tried again for the beach trip. When that didn't work he started to run down his options: "Well if my roomates weren't there, you could come to my place." "Roomates?" I inquired as I kept moving toward the car. "Yeah, my parents,they're both home"

Well, that helped to sober me up a little more. Timmy was sweet, and even better looking in natural light, but something told me I didn't want to get involved with a 35 year old guy who stocks produce and lives with his parents. As we walked through the parking lot, I gave him a little good night kiss and climbed into the car. Just then Timmy stood in the driver's side door before I could close it. I wasn't worried about violence, he was just turned on and didn't want to give up, I had, after all, done a fair job of teasing him. I looked down to put the key in the ignition as Timmy stood passively by with his body in the door. When I looked up I was greeted by Timmy's personal porpoise. "Oh please," he said "just a little trip to the beach." Now I realized a "trip to the beach" was a metaphor for something slightly less romantic. I gave him one more kiss and said, "Baby, I've really got to go." Fortunately, he gave in, put Flipper away, and stepped back from the car. I was relieved.

I started up the car and drove away. "What a night!" I said to nobody in particular. I drove on bleary eyed, the wine beginning to take its toll. "Well you did it baby... managed to get past Move #5 and without causing problems for my dry cleaner. True, it's only a small victory... but not bad for a weeknight"

* Just a side note. It turns out Tina did write back but thanks to some kind of AOL conspiracy (no I'm not paranoid) I didn't get the message until I returned from Florida.

All rights reserved B.Shar 1997

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