This is a painting I did in twelve minutes with a children's watercolor set. It is of a tranny named Belva whom I met in the Romantic Fiction section of the Carlsbad Public Library. I was browsing for images of exotic canaries in the next isle over from Belva when I heard her distinctive and glamorous sniffling. It almost sounded like she was sniffling to the tune of Cher's, "Do you believe in love after love?" which happens to be a favorite song of mine and fittingly for her (remember she was a transsexual) a heroic gay anthem. The sound of her sniffles was intoxicating, like mimosas on the beach on a warm summer morning. No lies, Belva should have won a freakin' grammy for her sniffle rendition. It sounded like God. You see, Belva has a glorious set of nasal passages, as gorgeous as bone china, even if they are full of transconfused snot.
Curious to match a face to sniffles, I peered through the books on birds for a peek. The first part of her I noticed where her six inch silk platforms. They were the kind of physically restrictive shoes only a geisha would wear in twelfth century Japan. I admired the pain she must have endured in presenting her desired image to the world.
However, I was ashamed of myself and the rest of the public library for not hearing the clacking of Belva's shoes on the linoleum. None of us had apparently looked up from our mundane reading on canaries, genealogy trees and the biographies of famous scientists to notice a Fabulous-Sheman shuffle across the floor in size fifteen silk platforms. God mother fucking damn, the general public is so freaking self absorbed.
Anyways, back to the peeking. Her battleship sized shoes plunged out of a floor length 1920's harem gown. The kind women wore in silent movies as they cried into martini glasses brimming with bathtub gin and chain smoked out of porcelain cigarette holders. She wore a string of pearls that she kept twisting in her ape-sized (but manicured) hands. When her sniffles got overwhelming, she bit down on the pearls to silence her cries. I thought that was very courteous of her because libraries are supposed to be quite.
As for her man bulge, it looked pretty hefty which contrasted the soft, light pink fabric of her harem gown. I swear her penis must have been fifteen feet long but somehow it did not shock me. Why? Well, she carried it as elegant as a geisha bowing during a tea ceremony. Hell, her big man dick might as well have been a feather boa that he-bitch carried it so elegantly. As the great gay icon Rachel Zoe once said, "Style is how you put things together-glamour is a state of mind." Belva's mind must be seated on a Parisian Rug and her neurons must be strung together like a string of pearls...cuz she exudes glamor. Even her tears fell down in bubbling drops, like champagne erupting out of a wedding fountain.
The part of Belva I loved the most was her face. It was exquisitely framed by a huge throbbing Adam's Apple. Her features however were very dainty. It was almost as if her ears, eyes and lips were cut out of a teatime doily. Glorious lumps of mascara gooped up all over her piercing blue eyes and her lips were stained with red tranny gloss.
My soul had enough, I had to say something to make her stop crying, "My God, you are beautiful" I whispered through the books, somewhere between Hummingbirds and Owls.
"Oh! My, thank you for noticing. Do excuse me for my appearance, I don't have a kerchief, " Belva tearfully chirped, biting into her pearls. The squints of our eyes focused in on each other through the shelves.
I pulled the scarf from around my neck and slid it through a space in the books, "Here, use this" I said. "Why are you crying?" I asked.
"Oh. That. Well I just found out I was born a man. Isn't that awful? Fourty-three years of living and I never put it together" she sobbed.
"Holy shit. How did you not notice?" I asked.
"My mother wanted to protect me from my true identity so when I was young she drew a picture of a penis and said it was a vagina and then she drew a vagina and said it was a penis. I never knew that this huge lump between my legs defined me as a man. I assumed every vagina looked like mine" Belva spoke sincerely.
"Holy shit." I said, my throat drying up in shock.
"I know. It wasn't until I read this Danielle Steel love scene that I put it together. She has such elicit sexual description. I read this scene where a caveman put his manstick in his lover's cave like vagina and I thought....what?!! My vagina looks nothing like a cave, it looks like a stick! Then I looked up vagina in the encyclopedia and I have been sobbing ever since" she bellowed.
I had no idea what to do. A tranny in six inch heels sobbing over her vagina not looking like a cave? My UCLA education had not equipped me for this...but my heart had.
"What is your name beautiful girl?" I asked.
"Belva" she replied.
"Well Belva, you look like a woman to me. What is an encyclopedia? A book of "facts" printed on paper? Belva, vaginas are not printed words on paper, vaginas are a state of mind. Vagina is an attitude. Just because your vagina looks like a fifteen foot penis doesn't make it any less a vagina and no lack of vagina makes you any less a woman. " I proclaimed with all my vagina and heart.
"Really?" Belva asked.
"Really" I said.
"You must be an angel" Belva said returning my scarf, now covered in goopy mascara tar.
"I am no angel" I said, "I am an artist" and I proceeded to paint her exactly as she had looked to me....as a beautiful teary-eyed woman.
Powered by Podbean.com