I GUESS I’D BETTER GIVE you my name, Armand Deschamps, and I’m the teller of this stellar tale.
To describe Josette, is a bit difficult as I am not a writer, no Faulkner, me, but I’ll do my dead level best. I work as the CEO in my father’s Publishing Company, Artifice, which is located in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. There are a lot of snakes in this neck of the woods, including those in pants. Ah, men. I am a gay bird and that is in no to say I’m happy.
I’m a bit of curmudgeon and don’t get on with a lot of people. I know Josette like the back of my hand. Ever hear of Pygmalion or more commonly known as My Fair Lady. Oh, come on now, you can’t say you think Professor Higgins was a straight man. Most straight men want to get women out of ball gowns, not into them.
Before I go on, I’d best describe Josette as I first met her. She was a platinum blonde and had long wavy locks which reached damn near down to her ass. She had indigo eyes and the face of a fashion model with on little dimple in the middle of her chin. Her eyes were wide set and had the look of anticipation in them; As if one day she would own the world. She was thin, lanky, raw-boned and athletic looking like a runner, and as raunchy as a she bitch in heat. She grabbed my cock and said, “Buy me a drank, honey pie. I forgot my change purse.”
I told her I was gay and to kindly remove her hand from my cock, then I ordered her a boilermaker which is a beer and a shot of whisky, Jack Daniels Green, as that’s what she was drinking. And then she said, “That’s righteous kind of you. I’m a little short on cash, so could you kindly take my tab, too.”
It was so ballsy, I had to laugh, and I decided this was a creature I wanted to know. Relying on the “kindness of strangers,” AKA Tennessee Williams. I asked why she was in a gay bar and she replied it was the only bar open on Sunday and that the church people were buzzing around like a bevy of happy bees, and it got on her nerves. Then she said she wondered why there were so many men with no dates: it never occurred to her that they didn’t like, to use her word, “poontang”. She confided in me that she was disappointed in her small breasts and mad at God that she didn’t look like her role model, Dolly Parton. She was forthright about her ass saying, “You could set two martini’s on my cheeks and spill nary a drop. I got ass for miles.” I saw it was true and told her that gay men didn’t like to discuss women’s anatomy on the whole and in most cases. One thing about Josette is that she never edits what she says or considers the audience she is speaking to. She was no manipulator and was honest as a small child.
She was apt to say, “I wish I was forty D cup; then I’d rule the world.” I told her forty D would make her tilt over and it was too much of a good thing, and she’d laugh her raucous laugh and toss back her wondrous silver hair.
I should note that this was an upscale gay joint with a black marble bar, green velvet bar stools and a disco dance floor where bare-chested gay men grinded against each other. The ceiling was completely covered in neon art designs and the coloured lights danced in her eyes. When It’s Raining Men by the Weather Girls came on, she dragged me onto the dance floor. She literally made love to the music, and I being a “preppie gay” felt somewhat embarrassed. But the men loved it and several complimented her on her “realness.” And she said, “Of course, I’m real. Real as you can get, darlin’.” I had to tell her they thought she was a Queen and then explain what that meant.
“No, you’ve got to be kidding. Men in women’s clothes? She replied, astonished. “How does the dick fit in pantyhose?”
