Belmont Avenue in Chicago becomes the official gathering point for black tranny hookers after 10 p.m. My friend, Brian, used to live on the top floor of a two story apartment building on this street and on warm summer nights we would drink ourselves shitfaced while watching the affairs of the young she/he nightlife that would play out on the street. Many of them are built like brick houses in heels and there was always something interesting and ridiculous to watch, whether it was an impromptu dance competition or public screaming match. One night, Brian spotted a girl walking down the street and said to me “Dude, look at that girl. That’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I think I’m in love.” I looked over the side of the building and upon very quick examination said “Yeah. Um, Brian, that’s a dude.” Brian seemed lost as he watched her continue her slow walk down his street and said under his breath “I don’t fucking care. Girl’s beautiful.”
There were many more nights of drunken tranny-watching and it damn near became a reality show unto itself for us and the crowd on the roof grew. We all knew the regulars, their Johns, the bums who would start trouble and the police assigned to Saturday night’s beat. It was better than television wand had ten times more authentic drama than that For the Love of Ray J bullshit. And every time that girl would work her inevitable saunter down the street I would say to Brian “There’s your girl.” and his head would whip around to see her. She was the star of our favorite episodes including “Huge Tranny Roundhouses Crackhead in the Face (ep. 5)” and “That Bitch Just Grabbed My Weave! (ep. 7)”.
I don’t think she ever saw us and Brian never made any attempt to talk to her. What could he have said? “Hi. I’m Brian. I’m not interested in your sexual services, but I did want to tell you how beauftiful I think you look when I watch you from my adjacent roof.” It’s strange to think that during the entire time of her street-walking tenure on Belmont she didn’t know that only two stories above her sat a straight white boy who cared very deeply about her.
One summer she never came back and we didn’t see her anymore. Brian moved out of the apartment and didn’t say a word about her. I have no idea where she could be, but I like to think that in Brian’s head she’s living in Morocco with a young Arab prince who fell in love with her on his diplomatic trip to Chicago. She has a wing of his palace to herself and her acrylic nails are attended to by five different servants. I’ll bet that thought makes Brian happy.
Belmont Avenue. Come for the black transsexual sensual services. Stay for the love. Ha! Gross.
Belmont Avenue in Chicago becomes the official gathering point for black tranny hookers after 10 p.m. My friend, Brian, used to live on the top floor of a two story apartment building on this street and on warm summer nights we would drink ourselves shitfaced while watching the affairs of the young she/he nightlife that would play out on the street. Many of them are built like brick houses in heels and there was always something interesting and ridiculous to watch, whether it was an impromptu dance competition or public screaming match. One night, Brian spotted a girl walking down the street and said to me “Dude, look at that girl. That’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I think I’m in love.” I looked over the side of the building and upon very quick examination said “Yeah. Um, Brian, that’s a dude.” Brian seemed lost as he watched her continue her slow walk down his street and said under his breath “I don’t fucking care. Girl’s beautiful.”
There were many more nights of drunken tranny-watching and it damn near became a reality show unto itself for us and the crowd on the roof grew. We all knew the regulars, their Johns, the bums who would start trouble and the police assigned to Saturday night’s beat. It was better than television wand had ten times more authentic drama than that For the Love of Ray J bullshit. And every time that girl would work her inevitable saunter down the street I would say to Brian “There’s your girl.” and his head would whip around to see her. She was the star of our favorite episodes including “Huge Tranny Roundhouses Crackhead in the Face (ep. 5)” and “That Bitch Just Grabbed My Weave! (ep. 7)”.
I don’t think she ever saw us and Brian never made any attempt to talk to her. What could he have said? “Hi. I’m Brian. I’m not interested in your sexual services, but I did want to tell you how beauftiful I think you look when I watch you from my adjacent roof.” It’s strange to think that during the entire time of her street-walking tenure on Belmont she didn’t know that only two stories above her sat a straight white boy who cared very deeply about her.
One summer she never came back and we didn’t see her anymore. Brian moved out of the apartment and didn’t say a word about her. I have no idea where she could be, but I like to think that in Brian’s head she’s living in Morocco with a young Arab prince who fell in love with her on his diplomatic trip to Chicago. She has a wing of his palace to herself and her acrylic nails are attended to by five different servants. I’ll bet that thought makes Brian happy.
Belmont Avenue. Come for the black transsexual sensual services. Stay for the love. Ha! Gross.
