
From Tuscan to Tucson
Part 1
By Bethany nee' Cissy
Subscribers can read Part Two
It feels like this has been the first chance I've had to sit down for quite some time. On this day, one week ago, I was vacationing in the lovely Italian Tuscan Region roving the Piazza del Duomo in Florence, then it was time to rush back to reality... sort of. An 8 hour flight, a quick turn around at home to refill the luggage and off to Tucson for some welcome high paying work... but now, after all of that fun, it occurred to me that exhaustion might be setting in.
You'd think I'd have learned by now, but some lessons never really sink in. Here I sit in First Class, finally on my way home, tired and starving... and what am I having for breakfast? Kellogg's Cornflakes!
Oh sure, it's my fault. As usual I didn't ask enough questions... I just acted as though my fantasy version of the First Class experience would be the standard issue. Oh, what a foolish girl I can be.
I guess I was seduced by my new elevated flyer status. You see, as my just reward for all of the traveling I do, American Airlines saw fit to make me a GOLD member. This honor allows me a variety of rights and privileges including high speed check-in and, if I so choose, the ability to upgrade myself from Cattle Car to First Class Deluxe.
Let's work our way backward, shall we.
Just this morning... So there I was, still picking last night's mascara out my eyes, blurry from less than two hours of sleep and checking in for a homebound Sunday morning flight which leaves at the completely unreasonable hour of 7:00 AM. With me, as usual, is the infamous electric blue bag stuffed with what seems to be about 300 pounds of femme wardrobe, hair and make up (it was only 250 when I arrived... but I found a killer sale).
Suddenly I hear one of those disembodied Field of Dreams type voices... .(actually in my case it's the lispy Field of Queens version)... "Use the upgrade, have some fun... " "What? Who? Who is that?" "It's me silly... your fairy godmother" "I don't get it. What are you trying to tell me?" "Use your Advantage Gold thingy, silly. You're tired and you deserve a little luxury"
She was right. It was going to be a long flight, almost 4 hours (or so I thought until I realized that Chicago was two hours ahead of Tucson due to the Daylight Savings switch over), that would be a lot of "smooshed into a Coach seat" time. And... I was hungry , god knows, that economy class breakfast (crummy little banana and a muffin) would never suffice.
"I'd like to upgrade please because I'm an... (fanfare please) Advantage Gold Member", I say to the ticket agent. "No problem, but unless you have the special stickers you'll have to buy them for this trip" "Buy?", I asked, "I thought, I could trade my mileage for upgrades." "You can if you arrange it 24 hours ahead.." "Oh... " So here I was at a decision point. Pay an extra $100 or stay in Coach. That's when this convincing fantasy kicks in...
I'm sitting in a wide, wide luxurious seat; leather with a footrest, my own video screen, my PC plugged in a special power jack. Breakfast comes, its a sumptuous repast, gourmet omelets, freshly baked breads, thinly sliced lox, chocolate covered pastries... mmmmm.
"Okay", I said without bothering to validate my fantasy, "I'll pay the $100, for first class, gladly."
I can't tell you how proud I was. I wanted to show everybody... ."look, 3F, you know what that means don't you... .uh,huh... First Class... It means I am somebody! And where are you sitting? Oh, 25D, the middle seat over the wing? Tee-hee, how nice for you. Oh, look..PRE-BOARDING time... gotta go"
So I got on the plane... Shit! It's a 727, an old one. "Hey where's my personal video? I wanted to watch The Crying Game (for dress up tips, naturally). And where's the leather seat, the foot rest?" This was starting to get ugly... these seats haven't been updated since 1975! Oh well, at least there was still gonna be that great breakfast. Wasn't there?
Granted, I had an extra-wide seat. And, they did give me a Mimosa without charging me extra for the Champagne... I sat quietly hoping for the best and thinking about last night. (a little flashback music please)... .
Just last night... "You look funny", said Joe, a very drunk Hispanic guy who had been starring at me for much longer than the usual time allotted for a polite glance. I had just walked into the Graduate; a seedy Tucson Gay Bar and this intoxicated person had apparently appointed himself the official greeter for entering "Drag Queens".
"I look funny?", I said, prompting more information but not pleased that the first thing I was going to hear after 3 hours of making myself perfect was "negative feedback".
"Yeah, you look like a old Jewish lady... that Blonde hair... you look like... ", and then he said the words that crushed me, killed my confidence and humiliated me beyond all humiliation... "Joan Rivers"
The last time I heard those words was almost a year ago during a similar exchange in a New York City gay bar... it ruined me that night too. What is it about some gay guys? How is it that their whole frame reference for womanhood gets boiled down into campy stereotypes: Mae West, Dolly Parton, Marilyn Monroe, Farah Faucet, Diana Ross and... ..(turn head and spit)... .Joan Rivers.
And if that's the case, wouldn't it be better if I was getting classified as somebody other than Joan... .couldn't there at least be a Paula Jones (of Bill Clinton sexual harassment fame) classification, I actually look more like her, maybe a little better.
Up until this moment I had actually been having a tremendous day. At around 3 PM (after a different 3 hours of getting ready) I ventured out into the wilds of Tucson. I sported my carefully crafted brunette "Jeans Casual" look and though I was pretty nervous about being "out" in a new place, I was definitely passable.
Sure, I always look a little Jewish... but I like that. I keep wanting to re-capture all of the years I missed as a spoiled Jewish American female..or JAP (P for Princess). In spite of my prominent nose, I think I could be happy as a 30-something Princess type... .
I imagine I'm married to a successful broker living in a fancy country club community. We own a contemporary house that I designed myself. While he's working during the day, I shop, make myself even more beautiful, flirt with gorgeous young men and travel with my best friend, lets call her Mindy, with whom I've had a brief lesbian affair. We go to the South of France and sunbathe naked on the Seine. I stop to lovingly put suntan lotion on her back and she turns and smiles and... wait, I wrote that story already.
So anyway, I'm heading out for my Tucson shopping excursion looking like a young, happening "JAP" with long brown hair and slender hips.
Having done a little detective work, I managed to locate the "artsy" part of town, a place popular among University of Arizona students, stoned hippie incarnates, tourists in the market for kitschy collectibles, the local gay community and generally anyone in search of the safe but "colorful" side of town.
Before driving away from the hotel, I checked my make-up in the brilliant dessert sunlight... a little touch up, but not bad. You'd have to get extremely close to spot the hint of blue shadow that no beard cover ever seems to hide.
Tucson, like a lot of dessert towns, just seems to have been dropped, with little rhyme or reason, into the middle of the southwestern wilderness. Partially surrounded by purple foothills and blanketed by a giant cloudless sky, the town resembles a small spiral galaxy with a dense center that sprawls forever and then suddenly fades into age old Sugauro cacti and sage brush.
I'm staying at one of the most exclusive resorts in the state, which for my taste is far too removed from town and even though the drive to the locally renown 4th Street area only takes 20 minutes, it feels like forever on winding dessert roads.
Upon reaching 4th street, I have to drive several blocks in search of legal parking. The last thing I wanted was to have my rental car towed and end up stranded in my femme state. The paradox of my delicate appearance and my unusually deep voice would not be handy if I was forced to negotiate my way out of trouble, or worse yet call the hotel for a ride "home".
I ended up parking at what seemed to be the southern edge of the "strip". This fringe area seemed to be a popular starting point for tourists who shop their way north and then loop back on the opposite side of the street.
As though they were paid by the local commerce group to mark the start of the "colorful" area, street musicians and less talented panhandlers lined the sidewalks creating a pastiche of sound and color. This dubious reviewing stand heightened my feelings of self-consciousness even though they hardly qualify as guardians of the public aesthetic.
I hopped out of the car and headed north, following the accepted tourist migration pattern. Effecting the subtle but sexy walk that I've perfected over the last year, I turned up my nose and quickly passed the gritty sideshow hoping that they didn't even notice me walking by.
The staple business, aside from a wide array of trendy little bars and restaurants, is a host of re-sale, "vintage", clothing and jewelry stores. Each with it's own take on what's special about reselling old stuff.
I was glad to be out and this was definitely the neighborhood for it. The passing parade of street people, "hippies", students, tourists, created the perfect background for me. Were I to be "read" and recognized as not entirely female (it may have happened a couple of times), it didn't make any difference... most of the crowd was much stranger than I.
In spite of the TG conducive atmosphere, the shopping choices seemed fairly uninspiring. One block, a second block, a third block... .I really wasn't in the market for "vintage" clothes, I was hoping for new stuff, things I could I wear which help me blend and not look like I'm late to the Cross Dresser's Ball.
Then, as I came to the end of the "strip" I saw these really beautiful dresses, hip but with a touch of traditional southwest, a little place called Creations. I crossed the street and hurried inside. If nothing else it was a refreshing to lay my eyes on something that hadn't been worn before.
"Hi, how are yeew?", said the shop girl with a distinct Texas meets Indiana accent In spite of my "voice paranoia" I replied, "Fine" and smiled and waited to be "read"... but happily, she just kept attending to her work and seemed non-plussed. So I commenced with my shopping.
This was an unusual variation of Juniors clothing, cool but with a regional feel, I'd have to describe it as New Age Southern Belle. While many of the dresses and skirts bore a lot of similarity to the young, snug, and almost oriental looking winter styles I'd seen in the midwest, they were graced by more delicate patterns and colors and a goodly helping of frills and lace. A quick look around gave me the impression that everything in here could be worn with cowboy boots and a blue jean jacket.
I was tentative at first, "Just look around and leave", I told myself, "you're better off if you avoid interacting with people."
And then I was overcome with the power of the moment. Here I was, as Bethany, my authentic self, out in the straight world, untrapped.
"I have a right to be here", I argued back, "I know that shopping probably isn't the most poignant expression of my being but doing it and doing other simple things like walking down the street or sitting in a coffee shop connects me with the world. It breathes life into me and publically validates my existence."
"Yeah, yeah... alright already. Don't get heavy on me", capitulates my doubtful self "AND besides", my mood changed for the better,"... .did you see these prices?", and with that as the final justification I happily started picking things off the rack.
My friend Catherine, a real and lovely woman from Toronto, unknowingly taught me a lot about shopping one day. I acted like I knew what was going on but until we had spent a few hours as girlfriends in a Canadian discount mall, I was never really wise to the rituals and protocols of buying woman's clothing.
In this case most of the rules applied...
- Pick out everything you want to try first- By the time I reached the dressing room I could barely carry everything
- Guess in advance if it's generally the right price, color and size for you- I did a pretty good job of this too, although I was really wrong about the pink pastel patterned cowgirl skirt
- Take as many things into the dressing room as you can- The sign said "Limit 3" but I took that as a guideline and not a hard and fast rule
- Once you're wearing it, try and get a second opinion- This was tricky. I really didn't want to use my voice much so I came up with another system for getting feedback. After I was pretty certain I looked okay in the various garments, I exited the dressing room, walked slowly to the "public" mirror and carefully watched for reactions from sales girls and customers. This wasn't very scientific but I think it helped me avoid buying several items that may have embarrassed me later.
- Be very picky... don't delude yourself into thinking it'll look better at home, or that you'll lose weight by the time you plan to wear it- Wellll... I wasn't realistic and ended up with one dress that has a way of making me look like I'm wearing a very fashionable potato sack. Oh well. That's what happens when you don't follow good advice.
The prices really were great and I averaged about $11.00 per frock. Now all I need is a chance to wear all of the stuff I bought.
I must have spent over 2 hours in the place because when I finally hit the street it was five-thirty. Damn! And I still wanted to shop for shoes at this really wild looking store called Gate Crashers. I rushed down the block , attempted to open the door, but it held tightly in place marked with a "closed" sign. Oh well, I'd spent too much already.
Still, my shopping juices in full flow, I spotted Anethea, a jewelry store with a very interesting outdoor display and most importantly, it was still open. I stopped to look even though there were a couple of other women standing nearby. (I try to avoid close, daylight, inspection from women... they regularly seem to catch on.) One woman, about 35 with long exotic hair, sexy lace shawl, gauze see-through blouse, short skirt and bare feet was hovering over potential customers as they approached.
"You like?", she asked, a slight accent in her speech. As I inspected a sterling ring in the case she urged me some more, "I have more silver inside... c'mon go see." She sounded slightly Slavic, I have an ear for such things, and she wasn't wearing a bra, I have an eye for such things. I could see her breasts, dark nipples peeking through the gauze. That was enough for me, I followed her.
I'm not sure what caused the flaw in my logic, but somehow I had reasoned that because I'd saved so much on the clothing I'd just purchased, I could now afford to buy some new silver jewelry...
"Oh, you're right", I said, throwing my voice fears aside, "I love this little heart necklace" "Yes", she agreed as she removed it from the case, "its very unique... I love this swirl design... it's Navajo for luck." she handed it to me for inspection. I tried to put it on but struggled with the clasp. "Here, I'll help", and she gently took it from my hand and then stepped in closely so she could put it around my neck. "Now, there we go" and she moved in even closer, her tummy touching mine. "Thank you", I lifted my hair as she put her arms around me.
We were so close, I tried to keep it "professional' by avoiding eye contact but she stood there for a long time. I eventually succumbed and looked deep into her eyes. She looked back, smiling , I could feel her breath on my throat. Our lips just millimeters apart... . for me there was sexual tension was building. She played with the moment.."you tease", I thought, and then she finished and backed away... damn! I wondered what might have happened if I had I leaned toward her a little more, might she have kissed me?
"Oh it's very pretty on you... look" and she turned me toward a full length and stood looking over my shoulder... now her breath was on my neck. "You're right I'll take it" I really did like the necklace but it was her sexy presentation that really made the sale. She was so beautiful... you suppose she was looking for something to do tonight? I regret that I never asked her ... I could tell she was intrigued by me, there may actually have been a chance.
As I was leaving she gave me her card and encouraged me to "come again" It was a nice sentiment but I would have preferred to come the first time.
This brought the shopping trip to an end, it was 6:30 and all of the stores were closed. I felt I had gotten my money's worth on several counts, the most important of which was the reward of being out as my femme self for the afternoon.
A nasty hunger headache was settling in, so I decided to dine while I was still on 4th street. Instead of 5 courses and white linen service, I opted for a fast snack at New York Pizza, a self service storefront restaurant where a guy with purple hair and multiple facial piercings took my order. I think he listened to my voice long enough to give him a good "read" on my feminine authenticity, and though he continued to treat me as a lady,( he even opened my beer for me and brought the food to my table), he did subtly point me out to a couple of people in the kitchen. I knew this because soon after taking my order a couple of "chefs" appeared from the back to discreetly check me out. Each acted like they had an urgent need to get something critical to the food preparation process (like a plastic fork or one of those little salt packets) from the front serving counter.
I didn't care. I was glad to be thought of as unusual by people who, at least by mainstream standards for hair color, make up and nose jewelry, might be mistaken as aliens from a Star Trek episode.
To be continued...
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