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Cheap Silk Panties

Tommy Ray Lester liked to hang out in the drag queen bars in the Tenderloin. The low-rent, often toothless, drag queen whores were fun to drink with, and the drinks in these joints were among the cheapest and the stiffest in San Francisco. It could be high noon with the sun burning bright like a 100-watt cop flashlight shining in a junkie's eyes and it would still be as dark as a Mississippi midnight in Miss Amanda's. The bar amounted to a narrow corridor with the entrance on one end, the restrooms (for customers only) on the other, a dozen or so bar stools, and a juke box in between.

Tommy Ray Lester was nursing a pitcher of beer, which was getting warm, and trying to burn the slow-moving fruit flies that had gathered around the bar's filthy tap guns with the cherry of his cigarette. "Roxy" (who, in spite of a giant red wig, looked like a truck driver in a sleeveless sun dress) was lip-synching Judy Garland's "Over The Rainbow", which was playing way too loud on the juke box. A sailor in full uniform was buying drinks for a youngish number with real tits known as "Nora", who usually drank beer but was now drinking White Russians. And then there was "Tolstoy", a 90-year-old Sammy Davis Jr. look-alike who never spoke and always carried a weathered copy of War and Peace.

It was the end of the month and everyone was broke. The regulars were all drinking on small tabs to be paid in full on check day, the 1st. Tommy Ray Lester didn't get a check; he hadn't been in the city long enough to sign up for G.A. He had been living on what was left of the two grand he'd netted from selling his ex-girlfriend's car. His room was good for another week but he was down to 38 dollars and a pack of smokes. He thought about selling his .22 Magnum Gambler's Derringer, but it was all he had -- and then it hit him, like a stand-up triple down the third-base line: he would rob the joint, on the 1st, around closing time. There would be at least a grand, maybe two, in there on the 1st. It would be dark, everyone would be drunk; Tommy Ray Lester was forming a plan.

It was 11:30 PM, Friday, October the 1st. Tommy Ray Lester was putting the finishing touches on his drag queen disguise. Standing before the cracked mirror in his rented room at the Windsor Arms Hotel on Sixth Street, he couldn't help but admire what a fine looking woman he made. He was tall and voluptuous (with the help of two Ziplock sandwich bags filled with kitty litter and stuffed securely into his tight-fitting bra). He almost considered calling off the job in favor of the money he could make working the streets of the Tenderloin, but that would be almost as dangerous and much, much more embarrassing in the event that he was caught. He had to admit there was something very sensuous about feeling the soft silk panties gently rubbing against his now fully-erect cock. But there wasn't any time for kinky shit now; he had a job to do. After carefully applying the ruby red lipstick, he bit down on a napkin with his lips to get rid of the excess as he had seen "Roxy" do. Now it was time for the wig. He had chosen to be a brunette, the darker, the better, in case there was a chase. Tommy Ray Lester checked the contents of his purse: the Derringer, a pack of Virginia Slims, the make-up, and a brown paper bag for the money. He took a deep breath, hiked up his bra, and stepped out into the star-filled night.

The short walk to Miss Amanda's was uneventful. While shopping for the thrift store drag, he had chosen a simple pair of black flats, which were lighter than his usual boots but easy enough to walk in. He stepped inside and surveyed the scene. All the usual regulars were present and twice as many potential tricks. The juke box was blaring out a horrible Whitney Houston song that had all the "girls" lip-synching again. Tommy Ray Lester, a.k.a. "Daphnee", took the last remaining seat at the bar, ordered a gin & tonic, and lit up a Virginia Slim. It was then that he noticed his hands. He had forgotten all about the hands. They were rough and big with short dirty nails and no nail polish. He straightened his back, stuck out his kitty-litter titties, and demurely folded his now freakish hands into his lap.

"Can I get you another?" asked an elderly gentleman dressed in rather expensive-looking tan slacks and a powder blue cardigan. "Why, certainly," Daphnee replied, finishing the drink in one hit, belching daintily, and flashing a seductive smile. Tommy Ray Lester never turned down a free drink; besides, he was down to less than five bucks and needed to work up his nerve for the job. The distinguished old troll didn't notice the ridiculously deep tonal quality of Daphnee's voice, or if he did, it didn't shake him. Now he started in on the cumbersome conversation: "Do you come in here often? I haven't seen you before." Sure he had, once or twice, but Daphnee, trying to say as little as possible, shook his head and said, "Not often." Without missing a beat the geriatric operator let another one fly: "Where are you from?" Jesus Christ, this was tedious, he was thinking... but the set up couldn't be better: he could keep the drinks flowing and keep his eye on the cash register and the door at the same time. "Georgia," he responded, figuring that the troll, who had a bit of a Boston accent, couldn't do much with it. "Really? Why, I've got a daughter who lives in Savannah. Whereabouts in Georgia are you from?" The old fox asked, incredibly.

Now Tommy Ray was getting pissed; anything was better than this shit. Hustling drinks as a female was not what he had envisioned himself doing after all he'd been through. "Excuse me, won't you? I've, ah, got to powder my nose." He got up and sashayed over to the restrooms, careful to enter the ladies' room. Now this was an experience: he'd never been in the ladies' room in a bar before or anywhere else for that matter. There was no stall, just a toilet and a sink. He tried to lock the door but the whole doorknob almost came off in his hand, so he put his foot up firmly against the door and took a piss the only way he knew how: standing up. When he got back to his stool there was another gin & tonic waiting for him. But the old timer was gone. Good for him - that was a class move. This meant after this drink and one more Virginia Slim, Tommy Ray Lester would have to make his move.

He downed the drink and threw the glass hard against the mirror behind the bar, shattering both the glass and the mirror. He pulled out the piece, aimed it at Miss Amanda and shouted, "Turn that fucking juke box off!" When she didn't respond he shouted: "NOW!" Miss Amanda snapped out of it and quickly killed the music. Tommy Ray Lester shoved his way hard toward the door, ripped the phone out of the wall and ordered everyone to lie down on the floor. "MOVE IT, GODDAMNIT! DROP THE FUCK TO THE FLOOR NOW!" They did. The entire bar dropped to the floor in unison. The spectacle of all those drag queens piled on top of one another like one big pile of dirty laundry normally would have made him laugh, but now he was too scared. What now? Shit!

Miss Amanda had also dropped to the floor and he couldn't see her behind the bar. "GET THE FUCK UP, BITCH, WHERE I CAN SEE YOU!" he screamed, "OR I'LL BLOW YOUR FUCKING PRE-OP BALLS OFF!" This was a mistake; half the people on the floor scrambled to get up. Tommy Ray Lester panicked and the gun went off: BANG! The bullet caught Miss Amanda just as her head was rising above the bar and sent her wig flying across the room. She screamed, stood with her hands high in the air and begged, "What do you want me to do? What do want me to do? Please don't kill me!" The rest of the patrons were in an understandable state of confusion: all the tricks were flat on the ground and most of the drag queens were crouching, not sure whether to stand up or lie down.

Tommy Ray Lester waved the gun at the crowd: "YOU, LAY DOWN! STOP LOOKING AT ME!" They dropped.. To Miss Amanda, he said, "Fill this up with cash," and tossed her the bag. His heart was pounding a mile a minute, his hands were shaking like an old-timer in detox, and his eyes were as shifty as a fucking car salesman but things appeared to be working out. "Hurry up, you fucking cunt, I ain't got all night," he said with more confidence now. Miss Amanda handed him the bag. The bar was still quiet. "Give me that bottle of Seagrams', too," he demanded, and she did. "Now come out from behind there and lay down with your sisters." Without hesitation, Miss Amanda, now a pro herself, followed his instructions. As he backed out the door he yelled, "GIVE ME ONE FOR ME AND MY FRIEEEENDS!!!"

Back in the relative safety of the hotel, he paid off the room for another three days and gave the Hindu desk clerk a twenty to keep his mouth shut if anyone should ask any questions. He changed back into his own clothes, counted out the money and started in on the whisky, but not before he feverishly jerked off while still wearing the silk panties. It had been a good haul: exactly $1,234.00. Sitting there on the fire escape, high above Sixth Street, sipping the stolen whisky and finally smoking one of his Marlboro's, he felt like King fuckin' Kong. When you had a few bucks in your pocket, anything was possible...

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