Dude Looks Like a Lady

Hmmmmm, I’m trying to figure out how best to talk about this situation. First off, let me set the stage: it’s 2:34 AM and I’m fucked up. No joke. I am fucking hammered. OK, now that that’s behind us, let me tell you about my evening. After the Pearl Jam concert, which my buddies and I were tailgating at all afternoon, we went out in Hoboken to the bar formerly known as Miss Kitties. The bar still looks fairly the same and they still play the same great music, but now the place is a freakin’ sword fight, whereas it used to be a reputable hook-up joint. I’m serious, there was more sausage in that place tonight than a German gay bar during Oktoberfest. But I digress...

So there I am with two friends of mine and we are boozing...like seriously boozing. At one point in the evening I order a round of beers and three So-Co and Lime shots and the bartender - female, by the way (five points) - pours a shit-load of booze and lime into the shaker. She then proceeds to push the shaker and strainer across the bar saying, “there’s way more than three shots in there...have fun.” Fuckeneh! This happened again when I ordered the next round of beers and shots and the next thing you know we’ve had seven shots and four beers each in about an hour and half. OK, you get the point. We’re FUBAR’d.

So the shots start to do their business and as the beers keep flowing I start talking to this little blonde number. We’re kind of hitting it off and it’s late in the night so I’m thinking “sweet, I’m going to pull some ass tonight.” Then out of nowhere this thought pops into my head that I can’t seem to shake. Now, I’ve been to a lot of bars and talked to a lot of girls at bars, but I can honestly say that I have never had this thought enter my mind...ever. For whatever reason, I can’t seem to shake the idea that this hot little blonde girl used to be a man. Seriously, I’m not joking. It might have been the semi-defined jaw line or the voice that was a little horse-sounding, but let’s be honest, those characteristics aren’t that different than any other Jersey slut.

At the point I thought that I might be dealing with a post-op, we had already gotten comfortable (for the record, we had NOT kissed) and my hand was on her leg so I said fuck it and gave her the drunken “fly-by”...you know what I mean, the quintessential Crocodile Dundee hand to the crotch (although more subtle) and she completely checked out. Problem solved, right? Not so much.

At this point I’m telling myself that everything’s all good and that I should probably just go home with her. The problem is that I can’t shake the idea that this chick might have had a dick at one point in her life. I’m obsessed with this thought. I do a hand check - no man hands. I check for an Adam’s Apple - nothing. I even go so far as to run my hand across her face to check for whisker stubble - nada. So now I’m setting the odds of this girl being a post-op at about 100 to 1, but then again, I’ve never met a post-op and am by no means an expert in this field.

So what do I do? I get the fuck out of there, that’s what I do! As I’m leaving the bar with my friends they ask me what happened with the girl because they “thought I was money.” I told them about what was going on in my head and they completely dismissed my thoughts as if I was just being paranoid.

Let me tell you something about myself. I might be paranoid, I might even be a little crazy, but I’m sure as fucking hell not going to fuck a dude...or a girl that used to be a dude for that matter. I’ve got nothing again all those pillow-biters in Chelsea, but this door doesn’t swing that way. If that makes me crazy then dress me up like Elvis and call me Andy Kaufman.

After the last two weekends, don’t expect to see me in New Jersey anytime soon.

NYCDG