by Jeri Estes
I hit the wet pavement running and yelled, “Charge!” I stumbled in my four-inch stiletto heels. Picking myself up, I hiked the satin midnight blue gown up above my knees and sprinted again with my troops behind me.
As we made our way to the back door of Chuckkers, my first lieutenant, Junior, passed me with long strides. She looked marvelous, revealing a firm thigh in the split of her red Flamenco dress. My henchman pushed the door open, dropping the Spanish fan that was wrapped around her wrist. She held the door as we filed in.
The barmaid Kitty, holding a huge tray of drinks above her head, stepped aside to avoid being knocked down by the passing troop of strange entertainers. We marched up the narrow stairway to Carla’s office.
I heard Kitty’s lust-filled voice behind me. Like a cat in heat, she whined to Asian Pearl, “Love the Lennon glasses, you Brit bad boy.”
Asian Pearl shot back, “Nice tits, bitch!”
Kitty moaned, “I’m off at two.”
I tossed my long hair over my bare shoulder and yelled, “Move it, Beatle boy!” as I rescued Miss Kitty from death by chopstick.
We ascended to the top of the stairs and rushed into the office. Carla, the drag queen owner of Chuckkers, usually shied away from violence in her club. Tonight, however, she fully supported us in this momentous battle defending our gay turf.
The room was arranged with rows of little brown leopard-skin chairs, placed neatly in front of a large blackboard in her spacious, gaudy office. The walls were covered with expensive fuchsia fabric, and a zebra-print chaise lounge occupied the corner. From the ceiling hung a glittering chandelier spotlighting a nude Greek Adonis statue with a laurel leaf crown on its head and a pronounced penis. The walls displayed huge blown-up photographs and oil paintings of Carla, the queen herself, in poses of her favorite idols: Marilyn Monroe, Judy Garland, Betty Davis, Barbara Streisand, Diana Ross and Mae West.
In the corner was a fabulous wet bar stocked with a plethora of top-shelf liquor and fresh ice, awaiting our clandestine assembly. As we filled the room, I told the girls to help themselves to a drink and take a seat.
I filled a water glass full of Jack Daniel’s straight up and downed it like a shot. Growing more and more annoyed, I peeled the partially attached false eyelash off my eyelid and stuck it onto the side of my glass. I searched for my lighter and pack of Pall Malls from their new home in my cleavage, which was supported by an awful wired push-up bra. I took out a cig, threw open my lighter and carefully lit up so as to not burn my wig.
Standing in front of the chairs, I called the meeting to attention. I turned for a moment, bent over, and adjusted my tits. My girls settled into the chairs behind me. I found it challenging to get into the mindset of a commanding officer while in heels and a dress.
I saw waves of apprehension running through my troops. Sensing the stage fright as the amateur hour grew near, I told them, “Calm down, ladies. You all look great. Just think of it as playing army and Halloween all on the same night. If you can face fuckin’ tricks, gangsters, pigs and squares, you can certainly get through this meeting. We’re gonna keep it short and simple.”
I heard a knock at the door. Rascal extracted a small silver pistol from her garter belt and leaned her massive body against the door. In her squeaky voice she demanded, “Who the fuck’s there?”
A rough voice bellowed through the door, “It’s Red. Lovey Lupree is here with me. One-hundred-and-one and you’re done.”
I picked up a piece of thick chalk from the blackboard and said, “Let ‘em in.”
As Rascal opened the door, a breeze from the South fluttered in, with the smell of fragrant magnolias surrounding her. The room gasped, enchanted with the gorgeous Creole as she sauntered in, twirling a large parasol. She wore a sea-foam green, spaghetti-strapped dress, revealing voluptuous breasts. On her ears were teardrop diamonds that matched her diamond-studded front tooth.
Lovey smiled as she sashayed toward the front row of seats and said in a singsong upbeat tone, “Lovey Lupree’s here, as you can see. I wanna be part of history. We’re gonna fight and make it right. It’s time for them to pay for that hooker heist!” She gave the room a broad smile and added, “The pigs can’t get us ‘cause we’ll be in plain sight!”
Little Rosie was adjusting the huge rubbery dildo that was strapped to the side of her leg and poking her thigh under her pants. Lovey held her parasol over her shoulder, refusing to set it down. I imagined that it had a retractable blade on the end, just like her deadly umbrella.
With a commanding voice I took control of my crew. “Okay, everybody calm down! Let’s get back to business. You look lovely, Lovey. I’m sure our southern friend agrees that all of this bullshit has hurt every one of us in the pocketbook.”
Lovey Lupree quipped, “How do you make a whore moan? You don’t pay her!” She laughed out loud and the rest of my crew followed suit. For the first time this evening, everyone appeared relaxed.
“Now girls,” I continued, “I grew up watching gangster movies and learned a thing or two from them. If a mob boss wanted someone whacked or worked over, they always brought in thugs from another town to do the job. Usually that unknown muscle came from a small town in Italy, but in our case, it’s Mexico.”
My crew chuckled as I continued. “Knocking off a head boss like Prince would threaten the other Fillmore pimps. That could bring us more enemies and a bloody battle we don’t want to fight.” I paused to emphasize that point. “The Prince problem can be handled in more creative ways. We’ll take his crew out quietly, one kneecap at a time. I’m going to try and keep it civilized.”
My crew was captivated by all the planning. “As the war escalates between us, it will put all the other Fillmore bosses under the spotlight. The mayor doesn’t want violence in the city. The powers that be are trying to hustle war on poverty dollars from the Feds. The pigs will start hassling every pimp in San Francisco. Luckily, we have an advantage the men don’t have to survive the heat. Thankfully, we have friends in high places. The disruption to the Fillmore pimps’ business will persuade them to pressure Prince to call a truce.” Several girls nodded, understanding the reference to Carmen.
“Tonight, we will do things the old-fashioned way and apply a little muscle. We’ll be on stage in full view of the Tenderloin, so when the shit hits the fan it can’t be traced back to us.”
I checked my watch and gave my battle orders like a general. “Ladies! On stage right now! Break a leg!” I led the way through the door and down the stairs. My tits bounced to the sound of my girls’ giggles.
The brass of the Motown band at the rear of the stage glistened under the stage lights. Miss Carla held a silver microphone in her hand. She was dressed in a long, black-sequined gown and glittered with excitement. Her Marie Antoinette-styled hair rose like a skyscraper toward the ceiling. Strutting onto the stage, dangling the mic cord behind her like a train, she announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, Chuckkers proudly presents, Doris and the Dykettes!”
The crowd erupted in thunderous applause. Junior, Lovey, Rascal and I stood in the wings. We watched Doris march on stage with Little Rosie. Asian Pearl followed closely behind, angrily cussing in Chinese as she fixed her wig. The pounding beat of the Motown rhythm band lit up the stage with the music of “Proud Mary.” Doris hiked up her dress up like Tina Turner, revealing plump legs as she flew onto the stage dancing.
She grabbed the mic, pranced down the stage and sang, “Left a good job in the city….” Asian Pearl and Little Rosie spun their arms to the beat, shouting out, “Rolling, rolling, rolling on the river!”
Little Rosie added a few moves of her own, swishing her hips with a Latin flair from left to right. Her tight trousers disclosed an unwelcome bulge that she self-consciously kept pushing down against her thigh. Asian Pearl pushed Little Rosie, who bumped her while shaking her ass in Pearl’s dance space. Pearl kept swirling her arms as she shouted, “Move it, bitch!” Miraculously, the femmes finished the number without killing each o
ther. The packed house cheered. Doris & The Dykettes were a hit!
Doris, Rosie and Pearl bowed and ran offstage. Doris passed me and said, “Break a leg, Jesse!” Miss Carla took to the stage again, blowing kisses to the singers as they exited. The glittering queen walked to center stage and dramatically paused until the crowd was quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen, now the surprise act you’ve all been waiting for. I present to you, the sexiest, hottest, badass bitches this side of the Golden Gate.” Excitedly Carla shouted into the microphone, “The Tenderloin’s very own…Jesse and Her Outlaws!”
As a thunderous wave of applause burst over the stage, terror jolted through me. I felt nude in my low-cut dress, panty hose and g-string. I looked at the clumsy butches in heels behind me and prayed. Waves of catcalls and roars of applause shook the room.
“Ladies!” I shouted to my butch enforcers. “Tits up!”
“Stop in the Name of Love” started up. “Follow me!” I ordered as I ran on stage. Using flamboyant gestures I picked up from Miss Zada, I sang lead while my butch buddies moved behind me like synchronized swimmers. I dramatically thrust my hand forward like a diva as I pleaded, “Stop in the name of love!”
I pushed my wig out of my eyes and looked behind me. I cringed as I witnessed the botched choreography of my backup singers. Rascal stumbled about, totally off the beat in tight shoes that tortured her toes. I made it to the finale, exhausted from balancing in my stilettos. As our left hands shot up like stop signs, we all shouted, “Stop!”
The audience roared as we took our final bow. Flashbulbs flickered before us as I caught sight of Doris enjoying a cocktail at the bar. She was sitting next to Captain Clancy and a couple of his undercover cops. The shocked expression on Clancy’s face was probably due to finally seeing me in a dress.
As we took a deep formal bow, we heard Rascal’s dress tear up her buttocks. Much to my dismay it was followed by the loud sound of her gun clanking to her feet on the stage. Rascal, looking like a wide-eyed Buckwheat, stood and gasped. I prayed that the distraction of Rascal’s huge bosom would divert Clancy’s attention.
Like alert soldiers, Junior stood close and acted like a shield while Lovey began to spin her parasol low to the floor. Behind the spinning cover, Rascal picked up her piece and daintily stuffed it between her huge tits. The quick maneuver worked.
As we left the stage, we heard shouts of, “Encore, encore!” Unable to escape Miss Carla, who blocked my retreat with an insistent push, I returned to the stage. I turned around and told my backup singers, “Let’s do ‘My Guy.’”
Junior answered, “You got it, boss,” as Rascal and Lovey nodded in agreement.
The band leader looked toward me for my cue. Over the wails of, “More!” I told him, “Play Mary Wells’, “My Guy”,” as my high-heeled dyke buddies loyally stumbled behind me.
Leading the way, I sang, “Nothing you can say can tear me away from my guy.”
Stunned, Captain Clancy watched from the audience as my back-up chorus chimed in, “My guy.”
I leaned forward, exposing my pushed-up cleavage. Gazing sexily at Clancy, I sang, “Nothing you can do ‘cause I’m stuck like glue to my guy.” Slowly, while emphasizing the lyrics, “I’m sticking to my guy like a stamp to a letter,” I pantomimed licking a postage stamp and a long envelope.
Playfully, I taunted the beet-faced captain as the audience sang along with laughter. Happily, I sang out, “No muscle-bound man could take my hand from my guy.”
Rascal, Junior and Lovey flexed their muscles to the beat in sleeveless gowns as they echoed, “My guy.” We finished our big finale. I blew a kiss to Clancy before bowing to our adoring fans. They crowded around us as my crew hustled back upstairs to reconvene our meeting.
Once in Carla’s office, we all grabbed a drink and celebrated our performances, congratulating each other and reliving the moment.
“All right ladies, good job. Let’s sit down and finish up our business.” I ordered. “I want to get the fuck out of these clothes.”
Everyone took a seat and quieted down. I knocked off a shooter of Jack and lit up a fat joint which I’d stashed in my pushup bra. After a long drag, I passed the bomber around the room. “Enjoy, ladies…you’ve earned it,” I said. A mellow hush fell over my exhausted crew as we unwound.
Just then, we were startled by an unexpected pounding on the door. Everybody jumped from their seats. Rascal rushed to the door again and squeaked, “Who’s there? What’s your code?”
When there was no reply or sound of Red’s coarse voice outside, I ran to the door and pulled out my gun from my garter belt. I demanded, “What’s your code, dude?”
Drowning out Red’s reply was the voice of Two Bits the hippie. Hysterically shouting like the house was on fire, she exclaimed, “Jesse! Boss, it’s me! I got an important message. Let me in!”
I put my .38 back in my garter belt holster. I instinctively turned around and waited for my troops to put their weapons down so I wouldn’t be hit by friendly fire.
I opened the door. Red’s denim jacket brushed my shoulder with his huge red beard. He was just a blur as he jolted past me. I stepped aside making room for his hyper companion. My nerve-shattered butches, relieved at seeing it was Two Bits, plopped down like tired old men. With their legs spread wide, they returned their guns to their garter belts and purses. The femmes, breathless from breast binders and fear, put their pieces in their suit jacket pockets and sat down alongside them.
Two Bits was speechless. Her eyes were wide open at the sight of Rascal in basic black with pearls. She looked like she was having an acid flashback.
“It’s camouflage,” I assured her. “Its cool man, you’re not fucked up. I’m really in a fuckin’ dress and yes, you’re right, that is Little Rosie with a dick.”
Red replied in his gravelly whiskey-soaked voice, “You look hot, boss.”
I tried to regain my dignity and look like a commanding officer in my dress and push-up bra. Remembering my manners, I tossed the bangs of my long, blond feathered wig off my forehead.
I watched the color come back into their faces and said, “Go help yourselves to a drink and then tell me what was so important that you had to interrupt our meeting.”
Two Bits walked down the aisle, looking like a flower child in a garden of glamour. The scent of pot and incense, dried watermelon seeds and wilted daisies wafted with her to the front of the room.
Glowing from her position of honor, Two Bits spoke in an out-of-breath, excited voice. “Some shit came down in Fillmore boss! It all started when Giuseppe walked out the back door of the pork shop shack—where the old, evil-eyed bitch cooks. When he went to his car, the Gomez Rexsauras jumped out from behind some trash cans. Bang! Bang!” she shouted ferociously.
“Joe shot Giuseppe’s kneecaps out, one at a time. Boom! Boom!” Two Bits used her hand like a make-believe gun and pointed down toward the knees of my troops. She shouted again, “Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!” Everybody in the room jumped to the rhythm of her beat.
“Giuseppe was down on his knees, in a pool of blood, begging, ‘Don’t kill me, man, don’t kill me, man!’ Joe went up to him and pistol-whipped him, smashing his jaw into a thousand pieces! Giuseppe went down hard, man.”
Two Bits paused, turned and looked me in the eye before she continued, “Joe kicked him onto his back and all his broken teeth fell out. Then the crazy Yaqui ripped open Giuseppe’s shirt and put his cigar out on his chest!”
Exhausted, Two Bits told us the rest. “Gomez burned Giuseppe’s chest over and over again. He kept saying, “This is for Linda from Missouri!” Then, he stuffed bags of heroin in Giuseppe’s pockets. I took off ‘cause I heard the heat coming. I don’t know where Joe is now, boss.”
Instantly, I put on a game face, though my stomach was roiling with a sickening awareness that I had just become “real street.” A ruthless gangster was born with the news. I became acutely aware of a new power I was feeling in my gut. It was wrapped in a sensation of calm
strength. Being a gangster pimp was no longer an act. The crippling of a man was a direct result of my order. Joe had just carried my request out to the ultimate extreme.
Everyone in the room was stunned at the news. Asian Pearl looked at me with a smile of satisfaction. The ice princess said with pride, “Jesse finally got that Fillmore pussy’s attention. Now we’re real Tenderloin bitches, and they’re in the wrong neighborhood!”
Fucked-up Giuseppe had been punished for his mutilation of Linda gang-land style.
Junior chimed in, “Joe Gomez is one crazy Mexican! Who’s standing now, Vato!”
Little Rosie jumped up and announced, “Giuseppe has bad karma! Now he’s the hostage! The pigs own his ass!” She gave a loud snap of her fingers and then said in true Elvis style, “Uh-huh-huh, thank you very much.”
I waited for the laughter in the room to die down. Rosie’s two-cents’ worth had given me an idea. “Ladies, this could be exactly what we needed. I am a student of the art of war, and there are some basic guidelines. It’s all about carrot and stick. We now are dealing with a classic hostage exchange. County Jail has Giuseppe, and we have the key to get him out.”
Junior’s eyes came alive with awareness as she excitedly joined in, “Boss, the cops and the D.A. dude can really help you this time!”
“You got that right, Junior.”
My Elvis wannabe had unknowingly identified our leverage, and my loyal henchman had reassured me that we had the clout to ask for a very big favor. The dirty cops that worked booking in County Jail would be our trump card.
With newfound confidence, I addressed my troops. “Prince knows we have people in our pocket that he needs. His brother’s only hope of getting out is for the evidence to magically disappear. And there isn’t a judge in San Francisco that will let Giuseppe out on bail.”
Lovey spoke up, “I know, as a black sister, that brother is in a world of shit! It would take a miracle to change a white judge’s mind!” Then Lovey smiled like a cherub and added, “Or a word from above from the D.A.’s office.”
