From Bourbon Street to the Boudoir

By Roberta Angela Dee

In June of 1982, I drove for 21 days from Long Island, to Gretna, Louisiana. Actually, I drove to a town called Killona where three nuclear power stations were positioned not far from the Mississippi River. The river provided cooling water.

Killona is an industrial town. Dow Chemical has a huge plant there. They manufacture an important ingredient added to anti-freeze. The entire area smells of chemicals and sulfur. Added to an already disagreeable smell is the stench from stagnant and chemically saturated pools of water.

The main roads to several of the plants are flanked on both sides by cemeteries. These cemeteries serve as the final resting ground for former employees. Most have died from various forms of cancer -- possibly a result of the chemicals they had handled and inhaled year after year.

Louisiana's high water-table makes it necessary to encase the bodies of the deceased in concrete caskets above ground level. Behind the fields of bodies, one can see fumes rise from tall stacks that rise above the production facilities. These stacks release the air-borne by-products of the production process. It all looks unhealthy and unsafe.

It appears that Mother Nature cursed this place and makes it obvious that she will not visit it again. It caused me to have a second thought as to why I had accepted a position here in the first place.

After parking, I walked to the security gate. I was greeted by an armed guard who -- after examining my driver's license -- called the production manager. Another armed guard issued a temporary clearance badge and escorted me to the manager's office.

The production manager was an elderly gentleman, slightly overweight, and with a full head of gray wavy hair. He introduced himself as Jack Frost.

"You're certainly a tall one," he suggested, after indicating that I should have a seat near his desk.

"Six feet," I answered, casually, as if reporting just another statistic.

He seemed a bit nervous, or was perhaps intimidated -- as some men are -- by a tall woman.

"So, did you have a safe trip?" he asked. "Did you fly or arrive by car?"

"I drove," I answered, confidently. "I completed the trip in 21 days."

"From where?" he asked.

"Long Island," I replied.

"Oh, a New York City girl," he announced as if my accent hadn't already revealed I was from the Northeast.

"Actually, Long Island is quite different from New York City," I informed him. "Long Island is a lot more suburban -- not as suburban as this place, but not nearly as populated as the city."

"You'll start Monday," he announced, abruptly returning his attention to business matters. "The hours are 6:00 AM to 4:30 PM. Ten hours a day, seven days a week. Can you handle that?"

"Not a problem," I answered. "I worked 12 hours a day, seven days a week at the Michigan plant.

"For how long?" he asked.

"Six months."

"This should be a piece of cake then," he replied. Then pointing out his side window, he said, "That's the trailer you'll be working in. You'll report to the Quality Assurance Manager."

He escorted me to the door and directed me back to the guard shack. The guard examined my badge, then recorded my departure time on his clip board.

When I reached my car, I decided that instead of driving back to the motel, I would drive straight out to The French Quarter in New Orleans. It would probably be my only chance to visit the famous tourist site for quite a while.

While strolling through the Quarter, I was fortunate to see and hear some of the most talented bands, singers, impersonators I had ever seen or heard in my brief and wonderful lifetime at the age of 33 years. Talent was everywhere. In the taverns, on the streets, and even in the shops. I worked my way up along Bourbon Street, and reached the gay bars.

At one of the bars, I met a most fascinating woman. Her name was Rebecca and she was originally from Detroit. She had only recently moved to Louisiana, and was looking for a roommate to share her two bedroom apartment.

I told her that I was transgendered and defined this to mean that I was transsexual and comfortably living as a woman without any intention of ever having surgery.

She looked down at my breasts, and asked how long I had been taking female hormones. I told her I had been taking hormones for several years, and she seemed absolutely amazed and intrigued by the fact that she had perceived me to be genetically female. She then asked if we could go somewhere where we wouldn't have to shout at each other. We immediately, left the gay bar and walked down to Gunga Din -- a club where female impersonators perform and often socialize.

Shortly after we were seated and had ordered drinks, Rebecca told me that she was bisexual and had always been intrigued by anyone born biologically male and could live and socially function as a female.

"Then, you fully accept me as a woman, although I've not had surgery?" I asked.

"Of course I do," she answered. "You're a woman in mind, heart, and spirit. That should be all that matters. Surgery has nothing to do with it. If you had cancer and refused surgery, it certainly wouldn't mean that you no longer had cancer. So, why should I perceive you as any less of a woman, simply because you've not had surgery."

"I ask only because it's the way most people feel." "Well most people are assholes," she replied. "Taking a penis and reshaping it to function as a vagina does not make one a woman."

Pointing to her heart she added, "You have to be a woman in your heart. Pointing to her forehead she said, "You have to be a woman in your mind." And, finally, while pointing to her chest, she said, "You must spiritually be a woman."

"I agree with you with all my heart," I commented. "You're an exceptional woman."

"And so are you," she replied.

It was very refreshing to talk to a woman with an open mind about the way I've chosen to be transgendered. She was equally open minded about crossdressers.

"I judge crossdressers the same way I judge anyone," she stated. "If a crossdresser dresses like a slut and behaves like a slut, then I don't try to treat that person like a lady. I treat them the way I would any woman or man whose behavior was socially unacceptable. I'd ignore that man or woman. But if I meet a crossdresser who dresses like a lady and behaves like a lady, then there's absolutely no reason for me not to treat that individual the same way I would treat any other lady. There's no reason whatsoever.

"Good for you," I exclaimed. "I wish you could talk to all of my transsexual and transgendered friends. So many of them have been brainwashed to believe that you must have surgery to be a transsexual. Or, they've been brainwashed to believe that crossdressing is wrong and somehow deviant. Your point of view is not only refreshing, it's healthier for the individual than anything I've heard in a long time.

She leaned forward, moving her lips very near to mine, and said, "Well, you seem like someone who would make an excellent roommate, sweetie, if not something more."

"I'd love to be your roommate, girl friend," I answered, "but when do I get to find out about the 'something more'?"

She smiled, gave me a sweet little kiss, and said, "You could find out tonight, if you're interested."

That same evening, I showed Rebecca just how much woman Roberta could be.

But I'll save the naughty details for a little later. OK?

Roberta Angela Dee
RADANGLE@aol.com