Passing the Dungeon
‘Ho, Lola Daly! A word, if you please!’ Boss on the lookout for me.
Stepped inside, accepted quick drink.
‘Is it true,’ Boss demanded, ‘that Ferret-Face Kilbert is keeping Osama company on Friday nights while rest of ye are running around wearing ladies’ clothing?’
Aghast! Utterly aghast! ‘How you know about ladies’ clothing? Is meant to be secret.’
‘No secrets in town like this, Lola Daly. Not for long. Never really believed your revenge-clothing movie-club story, so last night spied on ye. The three of us hid outside and looked through windows. Surprised you didn’t hear us laughing, the scarths and screeches that were coming out of us.’
‘Almost slipped another disc,’ the Master said. ‘Laughed so much.’
Cripes above!
‘Am hurted you didn’t trust me, Lola,’ Boss said. ‘Thought we were friends…’
‘Are friends, Boss, yes, we are friends.’ Shamed. Has been kind to me, bullying me to get dole, buying vitamin B capsules, etc. ‘But not my secret to give away.’
‘Know exactly who every one of your “ladies” are. Ran check on licence plates.’ Tipped his head at Moss. ‘Moss is “connected” that way. Found out names and addresses.’
Oh God. If Noel knew that his Friday-night activities were public knowledge, he would have conniption (whatever that is). And one of my ‘ladies’ was officer of the law…
Laid my hand on Boss’s arm, not something would usually do, except in time of crisis. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone,’ I beseeched. ‘I beg of you… These poor men… it’s only outlet they have.’
‘Who would I tell?’
‘Everyone, of course!’
‘Sure, what harm are ye doing? Not like ye’re making snuff movies up there. And haven’t you given the rest of us great oul’ laugh.’
‘Cease and desist. No laughing at the trannies!’
‘Actually,’ the Master said, in pompous, pompous voice, indicating incoming lecture, ‘incorrect to call them trannies as none of them gay.’
‘Spuds Conlon is.’
‘He is not.’
‘He is.’
‘Drunken encounter on shore leave in Singapore doesn’t count.’ Long dissertation from the Master on sexuality and cross-dressing ensued.
The Oak
Although Sunday night, place thronged. Festive season doubtless to blame. Had to wait ages for my non-lumpy soup of the day. Poor Osama run off his Egyptian feet.
Considine in the thick of large cluster of macho men, wearing sizeable muddy boots, sitting with muscular legs wide apart and dwarfing pint glasses in their manly hands. His potholing buddies, I deduced. If only they knew what Considine got up to on Friday nights… But perhaps they did. After all, Gillian knew.
Rival cluster of surfy people, including Jake. Braced self for abuse, but he ignored me. Too busy doing elaborate tongue-kissing with Jaz. Jaz was the tattoo girl from party in surf boys’ house all those
weeks ago. The one who’d said to me, ‘Remember my name,’ and I had promptly forgotten it.
Jake gave me sneery sneer, then increased snogging intensity and slid his hand under Jaz’s waistband, openly groping her left buttock.
I gave kindly smile. Hoped they’d be happy. Was horrified to discover this wish was sincere. How could I be so unaffected by seeing him with another woman? Had he meant nothing to me? Was I numb, strange, damaged oddball who would never have normal relationship again? No. Reminded self: had been mad about Jake until he began displaying signs that he had plans to wreck my head.
Also, let’s not forget, had been on rebound.
Unable to sleep. Waiting for dawn.
Memories of Paddy bothering me. Had actually been woken by them.
Tried to think of happier things – Operation Badger’s Arse coming together nicely. Minivan booked from Gregan’s of Ennistymon. (‘For all your car-hire, pharmaceutical and undertaking needs.’ Catchy slogan.) Chloe had organized it.
But couldn’t lift mood. In blackness of predawn, felt lonely, lonely, lonely and wished could talk to Chloe. She had understood when had told her about Paddy. No judging. Just kindness.
Incredibly strange situation. Chloe available to me only one night out of every seven, like once-a-week Cinderella. And not as if could ring her in the meantime, or anything.
Closed eyes, trying to fight past bleakness and go back to sleep. But couldn’t shift the terribleness.
‘Mum?’ I asked.
But instead of hearing her, a horrible Paddy memory flashed into head.
‘Mum?’ I called again. But the awful pictures in head insisted on playing themselves out.
Had been sick with severe flu sort of virus. So unwell that I was staying in Paddy’s apartment for few days until was better. In mornings before he left for work, he dosed me with Uniflu and Lucozade, then same again when he got home at night.
One of those nights, heard him come in. He turned on lights and woke me from sweaty, delirium-style sleep in which had been dreaming about walking through enormous house, looking for bathroom. Half awake, realized wees needed to be made and after few moments of desperately wishing had colostomy bag, forced self from roasting-hot sheets and into bathroom.
Was sitting on toilet, my forehead leaning against cool of tiled wall when saw that Paddy had followed me in.
No big deal. From very start, he’d insisted on bathroom open-door policy. Never really got used to it, but considering everything else we got up to, insisting on privacy to make my wees seemed pointless.
‘How you feeling?’ he asked.
‘Sick as dog. How your day?’
‘Ah, you know.’
I got up, flushed, ran hands under deliciously cold tap and when tried to return to bedroom, Paddy blocked my way.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘You.’ He pressed my back against rim of sink.
He couldn’t be… In my condition…?
But hardness of his erection through his trousers left me in no doubt – yes, he was looking for sex.
I could hardly stand.
His hands were on my shoulders and he was kissing side of my neck. ‘Paddy,’ I said, ‘not now, don’t feel able.’
He slid palms of his hands under my pyjama top and tweaked each nipple into erectness. Had to bite back urge to scream.
In a moment, his lad was out and he was tugging at my pyjama bottoms. My still-erect nipples were rubbing against nubby pyjama fabric and the sensation made me want to tear at my skin.
‘No,’ I said, louder this time. ‘Paddy, I’m sick.’
Tried to twist away from under his grasp but he was so much stronger than me. ‘Paddy.’ Louder this time. ‘I don’t want to do this.’ But my pyjama bottoms were yanked down to my knees, my thighs goosepimpling at the air, and Paddy was shoving his way up into me despite my dry resistance. It hurt. Short brutal thrusts, each one accompanied by a grunt.
‘Please –’
‘Shut. Up.’ Ground out between clenched teeth.
Instantly I stopped struggling and let him batter his way into me, the rim of the sink digging painfully into my back.
The grunts got louder, the thrusts became more like stabs, then he was shuddering and groaning. He went slack, draping his body over mine, so that my face was buried in his chest. Could barely breathe. But didn’t complain. Waited for him to do whatever he needed. After some time had passed, he pulled himself out and smiled tenderly at me. ‘Let’s get you back to bed,’ he said.
I stumbled towards the bedroom, and because hadn’t known what to think, decided it was best to think nothing. Day or two later, I decided his behaviour was understandable. Because had always gone along with the kinky stuff, he must have thought my sex drive was as high as his and not even a bout of flu would diminish it.
Chloe arrived. Gave me hug. Since had spilled the beans about Paddy and the Russian prostitute, seemed natural to hug.
‘Am early,’ she said. ‘Hope you don’t mind. Just wanted to check you still okay to drive tonight. Confident about route, etc.? Can go away and come back at eight-thirty when others arrive, if you like.’
‘No, come in, come in.’
‘How you feel?’ she asked. ‘After the stuff you told me on Friday? Hope you weren’t embarrassed? Or sorry you told me?’
‘No, Chloe. Actually remembered other stuff.’
Then was telling her, about the time had the flu. Then other memories came spilling out.
Chloe kind. Didn’t say, ‘Why you not just leave him?’ Didn’t ask anything frightening or unanswerable. Just listened and held me tight and let me cry.
Lying on bed, eyes covered with two cotton pads soaked in cucumber toner, to bring down crying swelling. Excited shrieks and screeches from downstairs as ladies changed into their glad rags.
Operation Badger’s Arse officially launched. Natasha, Blanche, Chloe, Sue and Guard Dolores Lyons all seated in minivan, Chloe in front beside me. Everyone in their dazzling finery (apart from Dolores who was dressed as female guard, right down to the truncheon). Was feeling considerably cheerier. Cannot beat a good cry.
Club HQ, Limerick
Parked the minivan. Piled out into car park. Mood high-strung. Combination of anticipation and anxiety.
This would be first public outing as a lady for all of them (except for Chloe who had done it many times in Seattle). What if Natasha had her information wrong and this Club HQ was simply normal, trannie-free disco? We would not walk out alive.
But from calibre of other women in car park making their way towards club entrance – adjusting wigs and private parts, saying, ‘Oh shite,’ in male-sounding voices as they went over on their ankles because of height of their heels – I deduced we were in right place.
‘Come on.’ Chloe and I strutted forward, the others falling in behind us, and were graciously granted admission.
Small, dimly lit place. Glitter ball. Bubbles of moving colour on walls. Loud music. Thronged with glamorous-looking women and happy-looking men.
‘Hello, sexy,’ one of the happy-looking men said to Natasha. ‘I love redheads. I bet you’ve some temper on you. Like to dance?’
‘Why not?’ Natasha said – and off she went.
We were barely in the door!
There is actual name for men who fancy trannies – ‘admirers’– and Club HQ was riddled with them. Dolores was next to be selected to dance. Her bloke said, ‘I love a woman in uniform. Care to take a twirl?’ Then, no time later, Blanche was swept away.
Sue, Chloe and I found a ledge to balance our sticky pink drinks on. Stared out at dancefloor. Some cross-dressers looked like real women.
‘Because they are,’ Chloe shouted above the music. ‘Wags. Wives and girlfriends of cross-dressers, who come to be supportive.’
Fascinated, I was. Had thought every woman would be revolted by her man dressing up in ladies’ clothing. Because I found it repulsive, I suppose. Not repulsive per se. But repulsive in man I was having relationship with. How could I ever find him sexy again, if caught him wearing pink frilly knickers?
‘Incoming bloke,’ I yelled into Chloe’s ear. ‘Will ask you to dance.’
But he didn’t. He selected Sue instead, and I was astonished. Chloe was the only one of my girls who hadn’t yet been asked to dance and she was easily the best-looking and best dressed – in claret wrap-around dress with lustrous sheen (both sexy and stylish), zig-zag patterned tights and ankle boots with stunning heels.
‘You’re giving off the wrong signals,’ I yelled at her. ‘Sticking too close to me. You go off and dance.’
‘No, am grand – Jesus!’ Chloe was staring in drop-jawed amazement at dancefloor. ‘Is that Sue?’
Stretched to see better. Jaw dropped just like Chloe’s. Couldn’t believe what was seeing. Astonishing the talents we all carry inside us! In one life, Sue, a taciturn, flat-cap-wearing, small-time potato farmer. But in this one, she was spectacularly gifted dancer. Moving her body like shimmering mercury. Lithe, lissom, head going one way, shoulders going another. Legs that normally looked scrawny as chickens’ were taut and defined in shiny tights. Creating quite a stir out there.
‘She really is grooving,’ Chloe said with admiration.
‘Who knew?’
Despite Chloe’s beauty no one approached her and eventually she said, ‘Let’s have a dance, Lola. Better than standing here like pair of eejits.’
‘Okay.’
Fabulous dancer, Chloe. Great fun. Best time had had in ages.
Two admirers cut in on us, then cut out again very quickly when they discovered I really was a woman.
‘What about her?’ One of them jerked his thumb at Chloe.
‘No, she’s a man.’
He stared doubtfully at Chloe. ‘Ah, lookit, we’ll leave yiz to it.’
Everyone back in minivan. Returning home. Mood high-pitched and excited. Babel of voices as stories exchanged about admirers, the pleasure of being out in public as a woman, the many compliments received. Everyone happy.
Despite it being 2 a.m., many cars on road. Christmas parties and suchlike.
Progress slow.
Progress slower.
Progress stopped altogether.
Queue of cars like evening rush hour. Glow of lights from up ahead.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Garda checkpoint,’ Guard Dolores Lyons said. He indicated walkie-talkie. Silly of me, but hadn’t thought it was real. ‘Operation Sober Christmas.’
Garda checkpoint! Sudden and terrible fear filled vehicle. Not because I was drunk – I wasn’t. But was driving carload of trannies, one of them a guard, not only that, but
dressed
as guard, albeit female one. (Could he be done for impersonating an officer?) Knew what they were thinking – we would be hauled out of car, hands on roof of vehicle, frisked in private places. Families would be informed. Names leaked to press. We were sunk.
Turned to Chloe. Our eyes met. We both reached for map on floor.
‘I’m doing U-turn,’ I said, but she already knew.
‘I’ll navigate,’ she said.
I put foot on pedal and did immediate and neat turn in road, then whizzed back towards Limerick, away from the police. But Dolores had more bad news. ‘Other checkpoint up ahead.’
‘What you mean?’
‘I mean other effing checkpoint up ahead!’ Waved walkie-talkie to emphasize point. ‘We’re driving straight into it.’