Mamá is a virgin, heaven is reserved for the pure and you must not be gay. Homosexuality and Catholicism, even of the lapsed variety, mix like oil and water.
Years of guilty masturbation while mother sleeps next door dreaming of weddings. The only logical outcome is the transvestite. A man on sale with extras! Big boobs and a pair of dangling balls, a waxed ass to be used. Catholic men wearing wedding rings ride them like ponies all over the city. Pound out the lust, thrust away the guilt. Zip it up and go home.
Money is no defence against deviancy and fetish. All it means is that temptation can be bought off. Get rich to pay for the hotel rooms. Away on business my love, man business! Guilt and lust drive the black economy
Hence the Mercedes cars cruising the backstreets of the port district. White-knuckled podgy fingers, the cognac-sweaty faces leering at man whores in pools of orange light surrounded by moths. Dentists, doctors and overpaid stevedores choosing a caricature for ten minutes of desperate relief.
A different one every time. The act of buggery must remain anonymous, even if he has 36 DD boobs. Self-reproach mixes with the scent of cigars on the drive home. Breakfast with the kids after a long shower. Kiss the wife and go to work. A pretty secretary is a must. I must not be gay. What would mother say?
But it’s all over! The freak show is fading from the streets. Tourism is killing the tranny trade. Sex clubs, dark rooms, gay pride marches. The Millennials will fuck anyone. Deviation is fun. Liberation! Trannies are for carnival.
Those that remain are moving online. Transvestites have gone upmarket. They travel the country advertising their ass and their anonymity on websites. Spend a week in Las Palmas, absorb the sperm and the guilt, count the cash and move on.
A few remain on the streets. They cater to hard-core dentists addicted to the thrill.
Mother watches MTV. She wants grandkids. She doesn’t care!
Years of guilty masturbation while mother sleeps next door dreaming of weddings. The only logical outcome is the transvestite. A man on sale with extras! Big boobs and a pair of dangling balls, a waxed ass to be used. Catholic men wearing wedding rings ride them like ponies all over the city. Pound out the lust, thrust away the guilt. Zip it up and go home.
Money is no defence against deviancy and fetish. All it means is that temptation can be bought off. Get rich to pay for the hotel rooms. Away on business my love, man business! Guilt and lust drive the black economy
Hence the Mercedes cars cruising the backstreets of the port district. White-knuckled podgy fingers, the cognac-sweaty faces leering at man whores in pools of orange light surrounded by moths. Dentists, doctors and overpaid stevedores choosing a caricature for ten minutes of desperate relief.
A different one every time. The act of buggery must remain anonymous, even if he has 36 DD boobs. Self-reproach mixes with the scent of cigars on the drive home. Breakfast with the kids after a long shower. Kiss the wife and go to work. A pretty secretary is a must. I must not be gay. What would mother say?
But it’s all over! The freak show is fading from the streets. Tourism is killing the tranny trade. Sex clubs, dark rooms, gay pride marches. The Millennials will fuck anyone. Deviation is fun. Liberation! Trannies are for carnival.
Those that remain are moving online. Transvestites have gone upmarket. They travel the country advertising their ass and their anonymity on websites. Spend a week in Las Palmas, absorb the sperm and the guilt, count the cash and move on.
A few remain on the streets. They cater to hard-core dentists addicted to the thrill.
Mother watches MTV. She wants grandkids. She doesn’t care!
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