Yep! We all gotta die some time! But Lord, please don’t take me while I’m busting a nut in a tranny ho house! This particular prayer was NOT answered for the unfortunate guy featured in this story noir. May the luckless guy’s tranny-chasing soul rest in peace!
Yes, I know fucking around with the sex-for-sale set is all a lot of fun and games—that is—until you have a heart attack right in the middle of all the festivities and (God forbid) die in a ho house! Of all the indignities! I can just read the headlines now. JOHN SMITH, DEDICATED HUSBAND AND FATHER OF THREE, DIED YESTERDAY OF CARDIAC ARREST IN A SHE MALE BROTHEL. Talk about posthumous humiliation!
Well, normally, I don’t ponder such morbidity. I’m just not that fucked up of a guy. But recently, The Grim Reaper grabbed one of our compatriots in of all places (yes) a she male ho house, giving me the thematic material for this thoughtful essay. Here’s how this issue’s study in the surreal went down:
I have a client, a decent and honest she male, who suddenly began acting very mysteriously about a month ago. “Don’t call me on this phone,” she panicked one deadline day. “Call the girls on the commercial line.” And so for three or four weeks, I didn’t see the boss (very uncharacteristic) and traveled to a different location to arrange for their ads. Finally, after about a month, the madam appeared to give me the scoop: A trick had died after his session, and the girls instead of calling the police…simply threw him in the hallway and closed the door, hoping that nobody would figure out that just maybe he was a trick from the whore house on the fourth floor. Now this is a tough one. First, any person would freak out at the specter of someone dying in their apartment. But when it’s in a location filled with lawbreakers who are at once aliens of the transgendered persuasion—what’s a girl to do?
Well, I know that you call 911 to say that a friend died in your apartment—and nothing more! When the cops arrive, their only mission is to take care of the deceased—and not to call in the vice squad or immigration authorities to hassle the girls. Often (as in almost always), working girls don’t understand that the police are specialists and that the guys who take care of dead bodies aren’t the same cops who bust hookers. And mostly, they really don’t give a shit if you’re blowing guys for a living.
But the girls didn’t know this. All they knew was a guy was dead on the kitchen floor. So what would any heartless and very panicked flatbacker do? (Again)…push him into the hallway! And naturally, once the body was discovered, the police were summoned whereupon they knocked on every door and sooner than later realized that the guy was a dead trick from the building’s tranny ho house.
Bad news! If the girls had simply called the police and not moved the body, more than likely there wouldn’t have been a problem—or at least not one of the magnitude that ensued. Understandably, the authorities got way up the girls’ asses. Hence…all the mystery behind running the ads subsequently. The heat was on the boss—big time!
And this isn’t the first time I’ve heard of something like this happening. It’s actually the third! Some individuals are more pragmatic than say—a quartet of dizzy Mexican tranny ho’s. In the old Corporate Treasures, an 11 bedroom/three story brothel on 33rd and Second Avenue, a guy died many years ago. The security guard, who was a big black guy, had the sense to virtually carry the guy down two flight of stairs, and lay him against a light post on the corner. Leave it to a brother to think clearly in the line of fire.
On another occasion, an 86 year-old visited one of my clients, booked a girl, and proceeded to thump her in multiple positions until bango!—the party pill kicked in a little too hard and his motor began sputtering. The poor guy literally “came and went.” Dismayed, the girls did their best to put the man back in his clothing (all while he was pissing and shitting as he expired) and move him to the couch where he finally and mercifully died.
The madam was stuck and had to call the police. In an attempt to explain why the residence was almost entirely bedroom space with no living room, dining room, den etc., she explained to the responding officer that she rented rooms to several friends The cop listened to her bull shit and then got on his cell phone to explain “Yeah, I’m here in this whorehouse and the guy’s dead so send the coroner.” Nice try, honey. Cops just aren’t that stupid that they don’t know a house of ill repute when they see one.
And so…I have two pieces of advice on this matter before I close. If you’re a working girl and your client dies in the apartment, call the police immediately. Prostitution is a misdemeanor and barely against the law—or a sin in God’s eyes. Pushing a body into a hallway to stink the joint up is a sin on sooo many levels—and the authorities will treat your crime against humanity accordingly. In the case of the trannies, the boss wasn’t even there. But she certainly took the hit for her girls’ indiscretions what with the police all over her personal and business affairs.
And second, if you’re an aging trick trying to recapture your youth with a party pill, for God sakes, take it easy. I know if I’m in the clinches with a young hoochie who starts with the “faster, baby faster” routine, I respond with a “Calm down, honey! I ain’t tryin’ to die fuckin’ no ho! We do it my way…at my speed.” And so…I’m here to tell this story.