I’m in the Philippines as I write this. I’m sitting alone in the only restaurant in the only resort on the tropical desert island of Pandan. I’m surrounded by immeasurable natural beauty and an anaesthetising sense of tranquility. But it’s not the Philippines’ famed magnificence that has me currently captivated. On my mind is that other thing you associate with the Philippines. I’m thinking about lady-boys.
A lady-boy, for those unenlightened (or more likely, those in shameful, dirty denial), is a boy who has decided at some point to pack in the whole Y-chromosome thing, and restart life as an honorary member of the opposite sex (a lady). I don’t know the exact specifics of how this is done. I don’t know if there’s surgery involved or if they just start snorting estrogens pills or whatever. I think maybe they just trade in all their Steven Segal films for Hugh Grant ones, or something like that. My learned colleague, the Right Honourable Baggy Smacker M.D, assures me that anybody exposed to Hugh Grant’s wooden dictation of foppish Richard Curtis arrangements for prolonged periods of time, will eventually and without warning grow a vagina and breasts.
I was playing football with some local kids the other day on a beach. They were sweet and playful and none of them were and older than ten. But as idyllic and pleasing an image, a curious, fascinated part of my mind was trying to figure out which ones were the most likely to hit thirteen years of age and suddenly say, ‘Mother and father, I’ve decided to spend my life in drag and finance myself by manipulating the sexual impulses of ignorant white folk. Mother, what dress size are you?’
I’ve heard that the frequency of these Wo-Men is due to the quantity of broken homes in the Philippines, but I have a friend who never really knew his father, yet I haven’t seen him out on the street at midnight, in a little chiffon number, trying to sell little flowery necklaces to strangers stuck in their cars at intersections. I’m not saying he’s not out there doing it. I just haven’t seen him. But I’d be surprised to. If I caught him doing that and his excuse was, ‘I don’t have a masculine figure to look up to’, I’d happily lend him some of my Steven Segal films. Or I’d set him up in that theatre from Clockwork Orange and make him watch Starship Troopers or 300 on repeat for a week, slapping him across the head with a beer-soaked sirloin steak every time he fell asleep. Problem solved.
But back to the topic. Only the most dedicated lady-boys lose their penis. Via surgery, I mean. They don’t like, lose it down the back of a couch or leave it in a taxi-cab by mistake. You’re absurd to think so. Penises don’t just come off. Well, mine doesn’t at any rate. Not since I welded it on for good. BUT I DIGRESS.
My friends who live in the Philippines have me scared stiff. I’m sure they’re exaggerating, but according to their claims, there doesn’t seem to be a single genuine female in the entire archipelago. Everyone’s a lady-boy. I’m scared to even make eye contact with the locals, for fear of being lead into a trap of cunningly hidden homosexuality. I’m even worried about the pregnant ones.
But the thing that confuses me most, is the lady-boy ‘game plan’. It’s all well and good dressing up like a girl and looking like a girl and acting like a girl. Hell, we’ve all done that for a weekend (haven’t we?). But there must come a point in the night, once the lady-boy has successfully lured the hapless, naive white guy back to a motel, where the poor chap finally discovers that his escort has a fully functioning penis dangling between their otherwise feminine, smoothly waxed thighs. That’s the deal-breaker. Surely that is the moment where the white guy puts his pants back on and mumbles an embarrassed apology before returning home with the brand of disgust and shame still glowing on his hindquarters.
However, the ever-growing population of lady-boys must indicate that this is NOT happening. If they were being appropriately denied at this significant moment of discovery (or dick-scovery, if you will), maybe they’d start cutting their hair short, ditch their boob-tubes and head off to a normal gay bar like normal gay men. But no. There’s a apparently an alarmingly open market for this sort of thing. What this worryingly indicates is that some guys are discovering the meat and two veg, and thinking ‘Well… I’ve already paid for the drinks and the taxi and the motel. And… it’s only really gay if you’re the one taking it… Alright champ, on your knees’.
I think I may have hooked up with a lady-boy once. I’m not sure, but I did have this niggling feeling. I never saw the penis with my own eyes, but she did have short hair, did have a moustache, was wearing a basketball jersey, and introduced herself as Jared. But you can never really tell with the good ones.
I’ll leave you with a joke. It’s not my joke and you may have heard it before but I don’t care. It’s crude and offensive but it’s about lady-boys so it seems relevant and may even hold the answer we’re looking for.
What’s the best thing about fucking a lady boy? Reaching around and for a moment thinking you’ve gone all the way through.