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A TRUE STORY FROM THE 1980s

"Town centre please", I half whisper to the conductor. Getting sussed on the upper deck of a crowded bus filled with Saturday night revellers does not figure in my plans.

A breathless "thank you", and I pop my purse back into my little girly handbag, clasping my see-through umbrella closely to my pvc-clad breasts. The point of no return has long-since passed. There are no options - brazen it out and enjoy being a girl, plain and simple.

My stop arrives. I delicately press the bell, crooking my leather encased wrist in the required way - a daintily poised, outstretched finger.

The relief is only momentary as I flounce out onto the pavement, leaving behind a chorus of smut from some likely lads on the lower deck.

Cars start to kerb-crawl me almost immediately. I had not realised quite how obvious I was being. Blonde hair cascading onto a wickedly short black pvc mac and stiletto-heeled boots send out a very clear signal. My alter ego always admired girls brave enough to dress really tartily and Katie encapsulated this look tonight. I fully intended to find out just how shallow the male species could be when faced with a fantasy sex-doll for sale on a pavement.

The red-light back-streets of Plymouth look seedier than usual as the rain bounces off my brolly and my streetwalker's uniform. This is the 80s and, for all I know, I am the only trans-girl streetwalker in the entire world. This is even more exciting than my first sexual romp - with Busty Brenda in the back seats of the Odeon Cinema.

I pointedly ignore the first few cars, suddenly aware that I have not thought through the implications of my slutty adventure.

What on earth do I say? Am I going to charge them and, if so, how much and for what? How will they react if they realise that I am not the real deal? Will I get raped and what happens when my stud finds the extra bits - will he go berserk, chop me into little pieces and shove me in a freezer? Oh fuck it!

Determination kicks in. My wife will be back from the States next week and I may not get another chance for a long while. Worse still. she may decide that she has outgrown the look and discard her wigs, her pvc outfits and heels, most of which I had used low cunning to coax her into buying.

'This is it girl - do it now or suffer a lifetime of "what ifs". My 'clitty' stirs in my lacy panties as I contemplate my fate.

The next posh car that slows to a stop I'm getting into. I slink a little further down the dimly lit road to a spot where the road widens, making it easier for a kerb-crawler to be a little less obvious. Passers-by give me the once over, women with a sneer, guys with a furtile smile, others too intent on getting out of the rain.

A Merc judders to a halt and, before I have exchanged a word, I'm in and show-casing my lip-gloss and awaiting the words that will set me on a life-time of slutty debauchery - in between marriages and live-in loves that is.

"Hello, you look nice, I love girls in pvc - his hands are already at my stocking tops.

Katie is thinking on her heels now, "I'm sorry, but I'm in my period." Wow, where did I dig that one up from?

Next my pvc-clad tits get the treatment, "Really sorry baby, but my breasts are sore from my period," Inspired!

My gloved hand rests on his cock and I can tell that he means business. "You look so sexy" he blurts out boyishly, as he surveys me like a slave-girl in a market, "shall we go somewhere?"

I suggest the nearby Millbay area and we set off at a steady pace.

This guy is clearly not a serial kerb-crawler - he has not mentioned money or what I am willing to do. He seems mesmerised by my slutty outfit, repeatedly taking his hand off the wheel to stroke my mac and fondle my knees and my boots.

I pre-empt the situation and, as we drive along, I explain that my husband is at sea and that I'm lonely and just looking for some fun. This further stroke of genius puts me in the position of not having to submit to full sex and he seems blissfully unaware of Katie's little secret. He is middle-aged and a bit reserved - I don't need some raging stud, hellbent on fucking me over the bonnet (hood of his car).

The moment came. I sank to my knees and sealed my lips over his straining manhood, my gloved hands clasping and stroking as his hand rested firmly on the collar of my mac. The climax came without warning and with a Vesuvial explosion. I gulped and gagged and gulped again, but it still dribbled all over my chin and down on to my tits. Katie had come of age as a girl, if not a total slut - an act of submission second only to getting a rigid cock rammed up her arse, a lesson that was then many years distant.

The docklands of Plymouth are not every girl's dream of a 'first time' venue, but it did not devalue the enormity of the occasion for a budding strumpet like Miss Katiekinks - slut of the parish and thrilled to be so.

Mr X was a bit of a sweetie. He drove me all the way home - I busied myself fixing my lipstick in the rearview mirror, savouring the opportunity to be the little woman. We parted only after I promised to meet him in town the following week. I even felt guilty about that - I can't be all bad.

Eighteen years and a thousand sexual encounters later, I still count that experience as the most mind-blowing of all - as boy or girl.


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