Tales from the Zebra Club – Part III

Be careful how you judge cross dressers.

Let me just tell you one more tale from the Zebra Club. Because there’s a lesson to be learned from it. Oscar had taken me to the Club for the very first time and not only did I have a ball but the whole scene affirmed for me more than one reason why I should cross-dress. I could have stayed all night until Oscar squeezed my soldier.

“Time to go, Tiko.”

“Oscar, darling. Where are you headed?” says Laura. Or is it Flora?

“Back to my place for Tiko to change carparkinto civvies. And then take him home.”

“Let me cadge a ride darling. Jaclyn looks busy.”

Laura or Flora indicates Jaclyn, nuzzling a well-heeled suit.

“OK, let’s go. I’m parked next door.”

In the multi-storey car park. Such structures tend to attract vagrants, newly arrived homeless families, stray dogs, drugs and alcohol, and consequently lots and lots of crime. The one adjacent to the Zebra Club is scheduled for demolition but still serviceable. And free. Dim, flickering, creepy-yellow, warehouse lights. Only two or three cars.

Behind a weather-worn white van three youths were obviously waiting for an opportunity. The clatter of our high heels must have alerted them. They must have smiled and nodded. Oh yeah this is going to be easy.

As we passed by the van they jumped in front of us, two of them holding rusty knives, and made to snatch our purses and hand-bags. One youth smiled provocatively. His remaining teeth stained by ganja. His smile vanished as soon as he realised, too late,  that his quarry were carrying more of the wrong sort of equipment – under their discernible panties – than they anticipated.

Oscar is fast. As though taking part in some savage African war dance. His face a battle mask, ugly and vicious, as a flurry of kicks, elbows, chops and high pitched grunts bombards the assailants. Blood splatters on Oscar’s skirt as he knees the ganja youth, who spits out his residual brown teeth, staggers up and stumbles away. The two remaining youths are soon stretched out on the asphalt floor. Moaning and retching for breath. “Hey man! Fuck. That wasn’t fair, man.”

Laura (or Flora) does not seem surprised at Oscar’s expertise. She kicks a sharp, chisel-toed white high-heeled shoes at one of the youths, then tuts as she takes out a tissue to wash away the blood from the patent leather. The youths are still prostrate as we drive past them in Oscar’s car.

   Before you jump three girls on their own.

   Be sure to check levels of testosterone.

To me it was a compliment. Those guys took (mistook) us for female. That I think is what a cross dresser wants – to be validated as ‘female’. The validation that you are feminine and you are enticing is a big pull for most of us, and if we’re not getting it from friends, family, or healthy relationships, it’s tempting to slip into getting it from wherever you can.

Is ‘validation’ the right word. Am I on the right tack here. There’s a ‘comments’  button below.


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