Spenco Soft Touch Breast Forms into the cups as he shifted them over his own small breasts. He inspected himself in the mirror. The bounce of the breast forms felt real; the darkened areola and preformed nipple protruded from the soft nylon to good effect. Someday silicone implants. Damn the risk.
Leslie Lancaster was slight of build—another failing for which his father had never forgiven him. The 38-C padded bra fit him well, and he could sometimes slither into a size 8 dress. He had been secretly cross-dressing since puberty, for three years now with his sister’s help, and he was not a virgin except with a woman. After his breakdown, Lydia had urged him to make the transformation here in London, away from Mom and Dad and Colorado. Long pendant earrings framed his face and made the short pageboy look sexy.
Preliminaries completed, Leslie tugged on a pair of opaque black tights and a very brief black miniskirt. Then a loose black silk blouse that allowed his silicone breast forms to bounce with his gait, and a black cotton jacket with minimal shoulder padding. His shoulders were small, and he looked very sophisticated in an off-the-shoulder party dress. His legs were good, and the jacket and micro-miniskirt made his slim hips less obvious. Black stiletto pumps finished the ensemble, and Leslie had already learned to walk on five-inch heels on London pavement. He examined his face in the mirror, decided a hat wasn’t required, and picked up his handbag. No trace of Colorado.
And he was a she.
Leslie usually turned her tricks on Soho when the tourists were about. Arabs paid well. When money was tight, it was Nightingale Lane and Ramsden Road and Oldridge Road and hanging around The Grove. No Arabs in limos. Quickies in side streets. Maybe a beating. Best to work Soho. Or Kensington. Quiet park bench and a knob job. Chase down the come with a half lager at The Catherine Wheel. Ten quid extra without the condom. Sometimes she got extra when the John groped her cock. Sometimes a bloody lip. She carried mint-flavored Mates, not-lubricated, reservoir tip. Kept her breath clean and fresh.
Now then. Leslie Lancaster was sitting inside The Munchkin on St Giles High Street off Charing Cross. The pub had earlier been named The Munchen and had just been renamed The Conservatory, but would always be known as The Munchkin. Leslie had three friends she often met there before strolling over to Soho or wherever.
There was Samantha Starr, a lovely transsexual just beginning to show her age, which was probably twenty-five but old enough to advise Leslie on her chosen path; she was Leslie’s best friend and everything Leslie wanted to become. There was Jo Crowther, a slim dyke who had her suspicions about Leslie, but who was too caught up in her abstract paintings to bother pressing further. And there was Philip Anthony, a graying poet, extensively published, peripherally distributed, eternally inebriated, who was clueless about Leslie or he would have been interested. Leslie had met the latter two through Samantha, and she had met Samantha whilst crouched over the toilet with an unsecured door one evening at the Ladies’ in the Munchkin. Yes, women are far messier: never sit down on the seat. Samantha had become her mentor and guide, and sometimes Samantha arranged special sessions for better money than the streets.
Samantha said “You’re looking very trendy this afternoon. Very much the London office girl.” Samantha had on a long blond wig, but was otherwise dressed almost identically to Leslie—thus the joke.
“Yes,” said Leslie. “I fear it’s catching this season.” Her low American accent translated well as a woman’s voice to British ears, accustomed as they were to overseas mauling of their language.
“It suits you well,” Jo commented, lighting her cigarette. She weaved the smoke away, remembering that it made Leslie cough. Jo was Irish and had lovely auburn hair, shorter than Leslie’s. They were of a similar size but Jo was wearing a black leather jacket and artfully torn jeans.
“Thank you.” Leslie had never made it with another woman, although Samantha had shown her what to do. She sensed mutual interest and made her eyes wide and innocent as she finished her half lager.
Philip stood up and pointed at their glasses. “Same again, ladies? ” He and Jo were drinking pints of bitter, Leslie and Samantha half lagers. Philip saw himself as an aging cavalier poet, surrounded by a court of adoring young ladies, and as such he was good