NyLon! – Chapter 6

As any radical tourist from Padua would explain, Brompton is the gayest area in London. And as we were used every other week, with the girls far away on the other side of the pond, all dressed up me and Andrea park his van in Philbeach Gardens for the Monday night Lipstick party. My Turkish friend is all in red from the wig to the varnished d’orsay, me blonde in a more sober black on high heels sandals, both of us shaking on those stiletto tortures that are the second most beautiful feeling of earth. The Monday night Lipstick party at Philbeach Gardens were pleasant social occasions crowded of cross-dressers. Some beyond their fifties, hurt in their soul and made bitter for having not been able to freely express the other half of their sexuality in their best years, by now in decadent bodies, some deprived of hope and pathetic others in the gross exhibition of bitchy attires, but on the whole all kind and funny ones. Except the bald and fat American tourists who came to look and laugh. Goodness knows why Americans were always the only ones to annoy. Was it a matter of an entire people with psychiatric problems? No, unfortunately, the rumour had scattered and all the fat bald men from Iowa took advantage of the low-cost Svirgin flights to do in old Europe what they were ashamed to do at home. Bah, politics, politics, I couldn’t help thinking of anything else.

I talked about that to Andrea shagging on the front seats while Andrea was shagging Nicola in the back of the van, furnished with double bed, television cameras, mirrors and Jacuzzi, which since it was Italian should be pronounced Iacuzzi, not Giacuzzi like Americans say, polemically I explained to Andrea. I do realise that there is a little confusion here, let’s clear it. We had finally towed the two most beautiful transexuals in the party, having courted them for a long time. Nicola is the ladyboy maitre d’O oh the Thai restaurant on the upper floor, with a breath-taking dreamy mouth. Andrea was another Andrea, the bartender whose pair of wonderful natural tits always waved under my nose. Hormonal, yes, but not surgical, real boobs, not those unpleasantly silicous to the tact. Time would have made them moped and wrinkled, but now still meat cooked at the right degree between tenderness and consistency. It happened that in changing sex these two miserable jaguars choose names that in English are feminine but masculine in Italian. This is in order to clear that when I write about Andrea’s tits I mean those of the transesexual bartender, not my Turkish friend’s. Mind, we are not faggots at all!