12:45 Travesti

The lunchtime travesti whore with a nest of hair the color of rusty water has all the hyped-up curvaceous flourishes (the kind of terra cotta derriere upon which one can balance 3 wine glasses on the plain of the spine’s curve, the coccyx) that can stop men dead in their prowlish tracks. They stare from a suitable distance, hand-rolled cigarettes sticking to their upper lips, so awed by the riot of sensual planes they are rendered stunned mid-step oblivious to Pigalle traffic. A fleshy architecture that reeks havoc, erects a confusion of emotions and desires that combust contrary to expectation, decorum, and survival. And what is the glittery blush these travestis apply to the exposed portions of their bosoms which brings sparkle to their robustness?

She works the grimy doorway just off Boulevard Clichy, lined with its “Life Show” cabarets, Kung Fu theatres, cheap frite joints, mafia-protected sex shops andboits noirs, coin-op peep shows and video booths and the obnoxious barkers – “We have the life show with the Bongbongs!” – who try to corral tourists with fast talk deals way too good to be true. They stand their bouncing and weaving on their feet like bungling, demoted hitmen working the front. And yet, some among these passersby will figure how they might raise themselves above the more conventional tourists and this is why some go in, to later be able to tout their adventures to those among their bus tour group too squeamish to enter. And this small peephole they will call life. I am not like that and neither is she. We let each other know in some subtle manner – a glimmer, an almost imperceptible nod – that we are in this together. Je suis ecrivain. I told her much later. Je suis le grand histoire. She responded. We were both from the minimal-response-is-best school. Besides she wasn’t being paid by the word and neither was I.

[I later wrote a story about her for Paris Patois and, to my amazement, they published it. They were short on stories. Writers departing like crazy. For no apparent reason. Other than the fact that they were being treated like something between cattle and chattel. Well, a 218-word version [1118-word original] of it anyway. Her life as a boy in Palaiseau. Her fascination with spying on the hookers in the Bois de Bologne. He cross-dressing as a nurse. Her totally un-ironic declaration that she wanted to be a nurse – a real one. But when I went back to give her a copy of the Patois – her page dog-eared, photo by Manu – she was gone. And like a bicyclist who scatters pigeons when I approached the local denizens they all shrugged their shoulders like they were about to take wing and I never saw her again. But I don’t think it had anything to do with me or Manu taking photos of her. Or did it? I did ask around. Nobody knew. I did read the obituaries.]

But “our” travesti smirks, snarls, and stalks – I still think of her, Jean/Jeanne, in the present tense – her corner, right across the street from Bruno’s famous tattoo atelier on Rue St. Germain-Pilon. She makes the men ache with ... possibility, the possibility of engagement so, let’s say, distinctively underworld that it promises to tag your memories for the rest of one’s time on this grimy spinning ball.

“Une fille normale? Non!” She offers a kind of confused set of attractive/detractive signals which allows one to have contempt for this bawd while you (yeah, you too) are being piqued by the configuration of arousal signals s/he daily constructs out of paint, pose, and hormone. She enjoys, or the speed makes her look like she enjoys, these provocations. She is busy and she can be fast – 8 minutes. (Yes, I have timed several of her encounters with my alarm clock in pocket.) And yet whores like her spend as much time on their knees as any priest or penitent.

I see several pigeons across the alley from her, pecking away, bickering in a flutter of feathers over last night’s splatter of surreptitious puke. Even with some places offering the safety measure of watered-down cocktails, some still lose their heads and various lengths of their entrails. Who is it that noted they thought all puke looked like partially masticated Lucky Charms?