She has given herself a new name, “Tennille,” as in the Captain and Tennille who sing “Do that to me one more time; once is never enough …” Now she is going to show Miss Licorice Cheesecake what a real honey pot can do. Like, yeah, Big Mama, we cool!
When Tennille cruises Surawong and Silom Roads, men chase her like hungry rats. At first she pays no attention to the whistles and calls and funny noises. She hides behind her dark shades, keeps on trucking. But after a few nights, the glasses come off. Now she makes eye contact, smiles at cute ones, throws some body language into her strut when she passes women. Pretty soon everyone knows Tennille can strut her stuff. She even goes into some of the clubs on Patpong Road, Number One, Soi Superstar. But she does not stay long because men start getting the wrong idea, and the regular B-girls give her looks that singe her hair. Still, she is having fun.
Once she runs into Ingrid and her sailor boy coming the other way down the street. Tuki all at once hates Ingrid, and wants to be her. Girlfriend, then wife, then mother. Ingrid will have that life soon, Tuki knows. She turns Lionel Richie way up in her head, raises her chin, and walks on by.
Ingrid tries not to notice, but she is checking out Tennille’s new black leather mini out of the corner of her eye. After she passes them, she stops and turns halfway around. Sure enough, sailor boy is watching her over his shoulder, until Ingrid jabs him in the ribs. Tennille gives her a little smile, like gotcha back.
THIRTEEN
“Want to get out of here, la?”
He can tell from the scratchiness in her voice that she has had enough talking for a while. It will almost be noon. There is a hot southwest breeze blowing. The sky is powder blue.
“Sure.”
“The beach? You have a swimsuit?”
He smiles. Man, is he prepared. When it is summer on Cape Cod, you should always carry a swimsuit and a beach towel in your ride.
It is only when he has slipped into the faded pair of red surfer’s jams in her bathroom that he wonders what she is changing into for the beach. A woman’s suit must be out of the question for a queen.
He is sitting in a hammock outside the bungalow, swinging, sunning himself, wondering if any of this Vietnam and Bangkok stuff is relevant to his case when he hears the padding of her feet and turns to look.
“Jesus!”
“Something wrong?”
She is standing in front of him wearing big tortoise-shell sunglasses, lipstick. Not much else. Yards of flesh are showing above, between, and below a lime-green Malia Mills bikini. It is high waisted like support panties, but the side panels are cut out so that he can see every inch of her long legs. On the top end she is wearing what looks like a sports bra. In one hand she swings a purple beach towel, and in other she dangles a Kenya bag with street gear folded neatly inside. Her hair is up off her neck in that outrageous ponytail again, a fountain of black and gold curls.
“You look unbelievable.”
She smiles. It is a cute, almost bashful smile that he does not expect.
“I won’t embarrass you?”
He shakes his head no. Hell no, he thinks. You look like a million bucks.
“Good. Then we can drive back over to P-town. I want to take you to the Slip. It only has a beach when the tide is out. But there is a great deck. We can talk more there, by the pool. I must be crazy, la. But I feel so … so free today. You gave me this. You freed me, Michael.”
Yeah, for about twenty-eight more days, he thinks.
During the ten-minute drive to P-town, he keeps quiet, but she feels his eyes flashing over at her.
“Okay. You are a little curious, am I right? You want to know how I hide my secret.”
He feels himself blush. Well maybe, sort of.
She says that in places like Japan, China, India, Thailand, where males have been impersonating females for five thousand years in the theater, drag queens form closed societies. And there are certain tricks that the old queens pass on to the little princesses when they begin to reach a certain age.
“Old queens are always on the lookout for, you know, princesses—young boys who look like girls or little boys who wish they were girls or a little girl trapped in a boy’s body.”
He nods, guesses he can understand that.
The young princesses keep the family, the “house,” thriving. It is the budding little princesses who bring the money into the house, either through traditional theater, burlesque like the Follies, escort services, or straight-out prostitution. And the children come. Some are street kids with no homes, some get bonded to the house by poor parents, some grow up in the house, like Tuki.
“Whatever. When the princesses’ bellies begin to sprout hair, the queens teach them the trick of pushing their jewels back up inside their bodies and out of the way, la. Over the years this little trick becomes possible even after the princess’s jewels have … well … you know. I do not think any more about getting tucked in the morning than I do about brushing my teeth.”
For a second the Jeep swerves off the road, kicking up sand. He has a look of pain on his face. He is trying to imagine tucking his own … Christ! He arches his shoulders back to clear his mind.
She says that the word on the street is that drag queens take female hormones—estrogen shots. That part is only really true for real TS, as in transsexual, types like her. She uses electrolysis and estrogen to slow the growth of face and body hair down to a trickle. After a couple of years of use, female hormones, taken in combination with an antigen to block testosterone, softened her voice, made her breasts and butt swell.
“But, here is the total truth: no safe amount of estrogen will shrink a princess’s chaang back to the size it was before she grew up. The old Asian solution to all of this is string.”
He squints his eyes, cannot picture what she is talking about. Not sure he wants to.
“We call it a gaff, la. You can make one or pick one up at any drag shop. The ones you buy look sort of like an eye patch of triangular black cloth with a loop of elastic cord around either side. You wear it like a G-string, and after you tuck the jewels and pull the pinky back between your legs, the cloth holds everything in place. Some girls make their own by threading a loop of old pantyhose—for the string—through the cutoff cuff from a pair of jeans—for the patch.”
“Unreal,” he says before he can catch himself. Suddenly, he wants to ask how in hell she pees in that gear. Of all the cases in the country, he has to draw this sideshow. Is anything what it seems?
She is smiling again. Damn. Does she like blowing his mind?
“The queens in Bangkok showed me how to use a leather thong as a gaff when I was just a little princess: goat skin. Very soft. Cord so thin most people cannot even see it through sheer panties. Anyway, whether you see me from front or back, you see G-I-R-L above and below the waist. Right, la?”
His eyes veer to that lime bathing suit then dart back to the road. They are in P-town now. The Jeep is creeping west in the usual throng of traffic on Commercial Street. A couple of college boys on bikes cruise up alongside, stare at her breasts, smile. Like life is good.
Tuki gives them a look. A bluesy little grin.
She sighs. “Some girls scrape together fifteen thousand dollars or more and get a total sex change. Doctors castrate you, peel the skin off your chaang, cut out the muscle, reposition the urethra, and make—”
“Jesus! Spare me the gory details.”
She shrugs, gives a little sigh.
“Sometimes I think about this … maybe save my money … if you keep me out of jail.”
He feels his stomach churning. “Are we there yet?”
FOURTEEN
The Boat Slip is an upscale, weathered-wood, seventies hotel built in the style of a condo complex on the bay side, harbor beach. It has a big wooden deck around a shimmering blue pool. It’s a total gay scene. If you just want to catch some rays for a few hours and check out the current selection of studs, the Slip is the place. They have tea dances at four
, a dance club by night, theme parties. It costs you a few dollars to get in if you’re not a guest, but the Slip is a cheap show.
With her lawyer in tow, she stands in the shade on the edge of the deck at the Slip, waiting for the blurs of tan bodies and bright fabrics laid out before her eyes to settle themselves into shapes. As her vision clears, she sees a dark bronze Tarzan type with wavy dark hair, blue eyes, a long nose, heavy beard shadow. He is sitting up on his chaise, twisted like a discus thrower, showing off the unbelievable vee shape of his upper body. One leg is on the deck, and even from here you can see the line of his hamstring beneath the webs of dark leg hair that seem to meld with his black boxer trunks.
Michael rubs his eyes. He guesses why she likes it here. But how the hell did he let himself get talked into this little adventure? Men are staring at him. One of them just winked. Damn.
“I’m out of here, Tuki.”
“No. Wait. Stay. I want to talk … please. I’ll tell you how this all started.”
It is Memorial Day weekend, the beginning of June. The start of the summer season in P-town. There is a party after the Saturday night show. Everybody from the Follies is going.
They take the bartender Richie’s car. When the Range Rover crests a hill and comes out of the woods, she sees the reflection of lights in some kind of harbor or bay or river ahead at the foot of the hill.
The road dead-ends in a driveway before reaching the water. There must be thirty cars parked around this traffic circle—Jags, Benzes, Porsches. And standing at an Asian-looking entrance gate are two guys in suits.
They know Richie because they wave the whole entourage down a curved, sloping walk to the house. Meanwhile, Richie is babbling on about the show. He tells her that she was un-effing-believable tonight, and just wait until the effing critics publish their effing reviews because everyone is going to get effing rich.
She is hardly paying attention because her mind is trying to take in a long, one-story, teak-looking house that stands at the bottom of the hill by the water. It has a really steep roof and a gallery of open French doors. Richie is suddenly grabbing her hand and squeezing it. He says he knew that she would like this place. “It’s Shangri-La.”
The house is not Thai style, but it is close. It is sort of a pavilion. One wall at the end of the room houses a glass case displaying swords and knives with curved blades and big handles. She does not know much about such things, but she knows they are called dha in Southeast Asia. Suddenly, she is remembering the klongs of Thonburi, the River House, and….
“What?” Michael feels like he is losing her.
“Forget it, la.” She is looking around the Slip, smiling at the studs.
He feels his skin beginning to boil. She is driving him crazy the way she starts stories then cuts them off. Flirts with everything that moves. “Why? Why forget it, Tuki?”
“Not important, la. You want to know about the party?”
He is afraid she will clam up if he says even the littlest thing to hassle her. “Sure, the party. Tell me.”
When she gets to the entrance, she is back in Thailand for a second. Automatically takes off her sandals, leaves them by the door. Inside the music hits her. Brazilian jazz. It pumps from speakers all over a huge room with vaulted ceilings. One side of the room opens onto a deck over the water. Given her current company, she is expecting some kind of drag scene, but the room vibrates with a crowd of people who look like movie stars and models.
She is thinking she does not even begin to fit in with these people. Like, get me out of here. But she is loving the feel of the wooden floor against her feet. Maybe this place is not all that bad. There is a chef in a white suit and hat standing out on the deck grilling shrimp satay. She smells the ginger and onions and hot pepper and peanut oil and soy sauce. She cannot wait to get over to that grill for a few of those jumbo kung phao. And suddenly she is remembering long dinners on the deck of the Oriental Hotel in Bangkok.
Before she gets more than five steps into the room, the jazz cuts out. A horn sounds the call to post. Everyone turns to stare at her. She is really feeling embarrassed. Her clothes. After the show she dressed to blend into the crowd along Commercial Street. Her hair is pulled back in a barrette. She is not wearing anything on her face except a little cinnamon lipstick and eyeliner. Her clothes are total college girl—a ribbed, burnt-orange cardigan, a pair of baggy Guess jeans, sandals.
Someone’s arm hooks through hers. It is a blonde Hollywood type, and she is raising a champagne glass in toast. Tuki looks around the room, sees Nikki, Richie, Duke, Silver, and a number of the dragon waitresses from the Follies among all the pretty faces. She lets out a little flash of laughter, a smile. Nerves.
The next thing she knows the woman who has her by the arm is shouting. “Everyone must welcome to Provincetown, Tuki Aparecio, diva of the first magnitude.”
The crowd raises their glasses. Someone cheers.
She cannot help it, her smile blooms. A blush warms her cheeks. She does not know what to say. No one has ever thrown a party in her honor before. Her body takes over. She presses her hands together and bows respectfully as people do in Thailand. People clap. When she raises her eyes, someone has turned up the jazz again. Richie is standing there with a big goblet of Perrier with lime for her.
The blonde introduces herself. She is clearly the hostess—very slinky and rich, with serious gold around her neck and an aqua-colored silk sarong from Malaysia. But for some reason, Tuki has the feeling that this is not her house.
The hostess is stroking her forearm with both of her hands. She says Richie will show her around. There are a lot of people here who are hoping to meet Tuki.
Then the blonde is gone in a flash of color.
She does not know what to do. She feels dizzy. But Richie hands her a linen napkin, a skewer of grilled shrimp. He tells her to relax. Pretty soon these people will be her new best friends.
One night she comes home in her street drag. When she turns on the light in the dark room, there sit Brandy and Delta. Do they beat her and call her a street-sweeper slut? Beat her? No. They never touch her in anger. Call her names? Like she cannot believe.
They screech at her in Vietnamese for about an hour. She does not understand a word except the references to her mother and father. But she gets the message, because before the two of them finish with her, Delta has spit on her wig and ripped it into pieces. Brandy has thrown the whole mess out of the window.
“You want be beat by man, hook on pung chao, die with AIDS? Then you go in streets like cheap ho, la.”
“You young. You princess. You want respect. You start work in show. Tomorrow. Sleep now. Then make choice. Street or show. No both.”
When the light goes out, she hugs herself and thinks Luang kho ngu hao. Now I put my hand in the cobra’s throat.
FIFTEEN
Even though it is early June, the night has gotten warmer instead of colder. The stars are out, a fingernail of a moon sends a silver trail across the water. From the deck she can see that Shangri-La is on some kind of inlet. She does not hear any surf so it must be on the bay side of Cape Cod, not the ocean side. She cannot leave this deck. It is better than being at the river’s edge in Bangkok. No disturbing lights from a city on the far bank, no scents of charcoal from the cooking fires in the peasants’ houses up the klong, no whining of long-tail boats and water taxis drag racing through the night.
She stays out on the deck, back against the railing, eating kung phao, meeting amazing looking people who Ruby, the hostess, parades by for introductions. She starts to have fun. The men are right out of GQ. The girls are high as kites and funny. Some are trannies, most are not. But no sooner do they move away to dance indoors—where the light has been reduced to a few candles and subtle spotlights—than she forgets their names.
To her pleasure, the gods grant small favors and thankfully nobody asks her to dance. She is beginning to feel more than a little tired.
Tuki drifts to the far end of
the deck and collapses in a hammock lit only by the tiny spotlights reflecting off the silver, ivory, jade, polished-steel hilts and blades of the dha in their wall case inside the house.
Here there is nothing to watch except the ripples on the water from fish feeding just like they do back on the Chao Prya. From a distant speaker come the chords of a guitarist playing a song called “Cavatina.” The song is from the soundtrack of The Deer Hunter.
While she is thinking of nights riding the river taxis in Bangkok, a handsome man in his early fifties sits down on a nearby deck chair to listen to the music. He looks more casual than the rest of the guests in his Hawaiian print shirt, baggy chinos, and boat shoes. He is huge. Maybe six feet four with the hard, broad shoulders of a younger man.
Provincetown Follies, Bangkok Blues Page 6
