West 44th Street
Tranny prostitutes and a life-changing call.
A few years after leaving Miami, I scored a small one-bedroom apartment in New York City’s Hell’s Kitchen. After years of sharing a home with a husband, lovers, and friends, I was thrilled to have a place in the city I could call my own. Memories that will last a lifetime were created in that apartment. It offered me a late night view of Manhattan’s raunchiest tranny prostitutes and was the scene of a telephone call that would change my life.
From midnight to 6:00 A.M., the neighborhood’s six-foot hooker’s often kept me entertained or awake. I couldn’t avoid their noisy antics. My apartment was always hot, and its windows always open. The radiator perpetually hissed with lip-cracking heat in the cold winter months, while a box fan sat stationery in my bedroom window recycling hot air when it was warm out.
The prancing anomalies were a sight to see, especially when a foot of snow covered 44th street. They’d strut their stuff in ill-fitting corsets, thongs and four-inch stilettos oblivious to freezing weather. The cries of, “Yo honey, this nice John wants a threesome, you game? Tiffany baby, can you spare me a dollar?” bellowed in loud baritone cries that often led insomniac neighbors to shower them with bottles in exasperation. Every morning I’d happily tiptoe through a maze of used condoms smeared with excrement as I…
