This evening, a she-male with big tits said I was ugly.
Well, maybe not. But maybe. It’s possible I’m embellishing because I tend to do this when it comes to such matters.
I’m not embellishing that he was a she-male or that he had big tits.
These are irrefutable facts. That he called me “ugly” is disputable. And possibly, a figment of my paranoid and pessimistic imagination. Or he really did call me ugly. I will never know and this is moderately disturbing to me. I don’t care what he thinks of me. He’s a man! Well, maybe I care a little, insofar as his opinion is a relatively accurate reflection of my subjective sex appeal.
I really wish I knew what he was talking about. I wish I could relive the incident and look him in the face in order to determine if he was watching me when he said the Spanish word feo as I climbed the stairs of the Red Line Pershing Square station. Only then could I be sure he was or was not looking at me. And that would be my final answer. Doubt is a horrible thing.
Well, I’ll retrace it in a narrative. This is what happened. Or how.
My train rolled into Pershing Square this evening and I dashed out ambitiously and excitedly up the stairs toward the wondrous, smelly beacon of Pershing Square, LA’s downtown homeless mecca. As I climbed the stairs from the train platform, this is what greeted me.
A hideous manly she-male with clownish makeup that could barely disguise the manly base below in a futile effort to portray a girl. Most of these she-males don’t seem to care about looking “real.” I guess the subculture is about masculine and feminine coexistence. They are content to look and sound like men but somewhat contain the general perplexing appearance of a female. It’s a script for she-males. This one that walked toward me in Pershing Square was typical. There was no way he could ever be mistaken for a woman despite his harsh make-up and…humongous tits. This she-male had some huge breasts. Their cleavage was bursting from his skimpy blouse. He was walking toward the stairs as I ascended. Next to him was a guy who just looked like a guy. His voice was a man’s but it was punctuated by the predictable lisps. And those tits. Very clean-shaven chest. In and of itself, his cleavage was very…sexy. That’s all that was, however. He was rattling on in Spanish as we approached. This is what greeted me. To my right there was another ongoing spectacle. It’s important to mention this because it was also in the field of vision of the she-male. To my right there was a cute looking little Bulldog or terrier adolescent. Didn’t look like a stray or hungry. It was just standing there and next to him was a haggard old lady, might have been homeless, insane, hungry or all of the above. She was stooped over trying to feed the dog some Subway sandwich leftovers. Now at this moment, I heard the she-male walk by me and in the midst of his talking, utter the words “que feo!” Translation: “how ugly!” Ugh. That old self-doubt surfaced. I thought I’d left it far behind. I thought I was over it. But now, the cruel doubt was rekindled because of some goddamned she-male in downtown LA. An ugly she-male who said the Spanish word “feo” as he walked by and now I was tormented. Did he say “feo” or “fea,” the feminine form of the word? This might solve everything. Was he talking about the crazy lady feeding the dog?
This has always happened to me. I’ve always caught the tail end of snippets of conversation that darted in and out of my life and wondered if they were directed at me. It has happened so much, I’ve lost track of the incidents. I’m a paranoid bastard this way!
I remember at Cal Poly, Pomona, in the 80s, I was sitting under a tree on a cement bench when two girls approached from a distance. I thought one looked at me, but I can’t be sure. As they drew closer, I heard one tell the other “looked better from far away.” Believe it or not, this scarred me! My mood was killed for at least 5 years. I’ve never forgotten this They could have been talking about anything, but in my reverse-delusional mind, I was convinced it was about me. She was commenting on my dashing appearance when measured in miles, not feet. I think of delusional people and I think of people whose optimism is unchecked. In my case, my self-delusion is about unchecked pessimism.
I have historically misinterpreted statements and laughter (especially from strangers) as being about me. I’m egotistical and vain but only in the negative aspect. In fact, I’m over this she-male incident. Still, his comment will be filed but I’ll not care about it (only insofar as it’s blog material). It won’t ruin my day to think what this dude with double-C’s possibly thought of my appearance.
But if he can recognize ugliness in a man, can’t your normal vagina-enabled woman also?
Ah well, who cares, none of them put out!