The Transsexual Alien Nation: Confessions of a Madman

By The Madman

The transgendered community in Los Angeles at the end of the last century was Area 51 for the urban sexual adventurer. No city on the planet catered to the prurient interests of transgendered women and their male admirers like L.A. in the 80s and 90s.
The Transsexual Alien Nation follows one mans clandestine plunge into and out of a freaky, super-heated, pre-online erotic maelstrom where flesh met flesh, fast and furious, temporarily unfettered by the constraints of mainstream society.
The Madman runs a dangerous gauntlet through alien territory and survives to tell a story about dangerous allure seen from a uniquely male point of view.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493176984

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by The Madman.

Cover: Image from an original commissioned painting named The Chairperson by Olivia De Berardinis, internationally famous and renowned pinup artist.

ISBN:                  eBook                             978-1-4931-7698-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner. For permission requests and any other information, please contact KAT Publishing @ [e-mail]

This is a work based on a true story. Actual events, locales and conversations have been recreated based on the author’s recollection of them. In order to maintain their anonymity and to protect their privacy, individuals’ names have been changed. Other identifying characteristics and details such as physical properties, occupations and places of residence have also been changed.

In addition, certain characters, incidents, and locales portrayed and the names used herein, are fictitious. Any similarity of those fictitious characters, incidents, or locales to the names, attributes or actual background of any actual person, living or dead, or to any actual event, or to any existing venue, is entirely coincidental, and unintentional.

Rev. date: 04/12/2014

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CONTENTS

Preface

Chapter 1:   The Transsexual Alien Nation

Chapter 2:   Meeting Terri Nicole

Chapter 3:   Figuring It Out

Chapter 4:   On My Own

Chapter 5:   Amanda (A Man, Duh)

Chapter 6:   Back to Terri

Chapter 7:   Transsexual Obsession

Chapter 8:   Dealing with Terri

Chapter 9:   Amanda, I Thought I Was Done with Her and That

Chapter 10:   Empty Tank

Chapter 11:   The Future

Chapter 12:   And So There Is an End to it All…

Epilogue

Standing on the water, casting your bread while

The eyes of the idol with the iron head are glowing

Distant ships sailing into the mist,

You were born with a snake in both of your fists

While a hurricane was blowing

—Bob Dylan—

Joker Man

From the Album Infidels

1983

Men know they are sexual exiles. They wander the earth seeking satisfaction, craving and despising, never content. There is nothing in that anguished motion for women to envy.

Pursuit and seduction are the essence of sexuality. It’s part of the sizzle.

Camille Paglia

PREFACE

I tell you, the whole lot of them has got me upside down and backwards and I don’t like any of it. It’s wrenching my gut, and what’s worse, I am starting to believe it. Every encounter is a roller coaster ride to the outer limits of human belief, or a complete waste of time. You figure it out pal. I’d just as soon wash my hands of the whole thing.

I wrote these lines so they could be recorded by a young animator who wanted to work out his voice-over chops in the mode of the classic 1950’s style Voice of God narrators. He went on to fame and fortune as one of the leading writer/producer/directors of his generation.

Although they were never written for any other purpose than to impart some drama to the kid’s recording demo, I ended up living every bit of those lines in a hare-brained, all-consuming adventure that bushwhacked me big time over several decades.

What follows is dedicated to the many fellow travelers in this world (and the throng of you who are reading this know exactly who you are) to give you some perspective and hope.

If you have been sucked into this vortex, believe me, this story is for you.

CHAPTER 1

The Transsexual Alien Nation

In the course of a lifetime, one can live several parallel existences indefinitely as long as the desire and the means to keep them alive persist. For the past 20 years, I was able to accomplish this feat in a city where doing this kind of thing is not just tolerated but encouraged.

Los Angeles is like no other city on the planet. It is a total experiment in unbridled urban living where anything is permissible within the boundaries of a tolerant police state and where what is imagined can almost always be realized, if you push the envelope just so.

Nothing about LA bears any resemblance to any place else in the United States. It is an exhilarating and empty canvas for the newly arrived. Only the motivated rich fiddle with this infinitely plastic tableau in order to clone a past life (usually out of boredom or for the sake of party conversation). For everybody else, anything goes, because nobody really gives a shit about who you were before you got here—unless and until you make it.

I had moved to Los Angeles from an East Coast city in the early 80’s. Before long, I threw off any lingering nostalgia for my hometown. I was an unleashed kid in a candy shop. This place was the future. I soon developed an insatiable appetite for LA’s sybaritic offerings regardless of how much time that took out of an already busy life and how debilitating the effects of that pursuit proved to be.

Although recently married, and attending film school, I found time to hang out with punk musicians and bohemian sculptors in a converted storefront Melrose Avenue loft. I sought out and banged several of my best friend’s bevy of girlfriends when he wasn’t looking—a strange way of thanking him for urging me to move to California in the first place

Then, of course, there was the hunt for the best drugs around at the time, including Quaaludes and more Quaaludes, dispensed to another con artist friend of mine from back East by quack Beverly Hills doctors for a kickback. The West Coast drug scene made what I was used to back east looks stupid by comparison.

During the week, I attended film school, basically a PR front for the National Endowment for the Arts complete with an authentic conservatory atmosphere. After school, I pursued the bizarre wherever I could find it.

Without natural born good fortune, or an in-place network or blood relatives in the business, the new comer to Hollywood is shit out of luck. It’s an industry town, and I soon understood the equation. After a year at the school, I managed to locate and hold down a series of jobs in the film business peripherally related to what I supposedly came to LA to accomplish. That’s as close as one normally gets.

However, the afterhours fun I was running into was far more interesting and intriguing than anything that the mainstream entertainment industry had to offer in the way of slave day labor, and it was the first time in my life that I could sample these delights without looking over my shoulder wondering if I was about to be burned at the stake.

My effort to do occasional penance for my misbehavior was yet another nose-thumbing at my assimilated, lukewarm religious upbringing. In between school, work and partying, I watched the TV ministry of one of the most brilliant and irreverent preachers on the contemporary scene whenever I had a couple of hours to kill. His name was Dr. Gene Scott.

If my mom had known about any of this, she would have keeled over well in advance of the generous time God had allotted her. As long as I called on a regular basis, however, no one was the wiser. My dad had already passed away; his death was one of the reasons I came west in the first place.

The rest of my relatives or so-called close friends didn’t really give a shit what happened to me anyway, so regaling them with a juicy tidbit of my life and times in the fast lane was sufficient to shut them up for the brief time I was in front of them during the pilgrimages I made back East to see my mother for several years after my arrival.

I made an effort to stay in touch with my boys, although it dwindled down to one friend in no time at all. Only that old crony was smart enough and cared enough to climb out of his daily rut to probe a little. He had been to LA one time and suspected I was up to no good.

He was right, and during prolonged conversations late at night in his suburban home under the influence of good Scotch and the Northern California bud I brought by, I would drive him nuts as I confessed to a life of excess and debauchery. In his desperation to somehow reconcile my imagined good times with his life of drudgery, he would condemn me to hell, or upbraid me like I was an errant child, but I knew he was terribly jealous and saddened by the road he had chosen.

My life was hardly the romp I made it out to be, but I was finally getting the last laugh on