The Internet Porn PimpChapter 29
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Streetcar free porn video
Streetcar
By Emily Carlisle
It was a beautiful, lazy summer's afternoon; I guess that's why I
had dozed off. Fortunately, I woke up just in time for my stop. I
stepped off the streetcar...
Streetcar?
...and started across the street, being careful to look both ways
before crossing.
I suddenly realized just what I was doing, and stopped dead. I
was way beyond confused, and coming up fast onto a real panic.
There hasn't been a streetcar through here since at least 1966; I
remember my boyhood sadness...
Boyhood?
...as the last of the cream-and-red beauties left the car barn
that one final time. Yet here was a Route 64 flyer, matter-of-
factly turning away. Bell clanging, big as life.
I looked around trying to become oriented in time and space -
that's what my therapist always says to do when I have a
flashback. Flashbacks have become more prevalent lately, as I try
to come to grips with half-remembered childhood traumas that I
won't go into here. This was no post- traumatic stress illusion,
however - of that I was certain. For one thing, despite my
desperate efforts, I wasn't becoming oriented; in fact, quite the
contrary. For another, I couldn't capture the sense of being,
well, me. Try as I might, I couldn't remember what day of the
week, or even month of the year it was. Hell, I couldn't even
remember where I was going, or why.
Oddly enough, I did know exactly where I was: in front of the
drugstore at the corner of Elm and DuMont. But wait - the last
time I had the nerve to actually drive through here (doors
securely locked and windows shut tight, of course!), the street
was littered with abandoned businesses and burned-out buildings.
No, fate had not been kind to our little town in the rust belt.
The working families of my childhood, with their whitewashed
fences and their painstakingly trimmed patches of lawn, had long
since moved away. Nowadays, only those too hopeless, too beaten,
or too far gone into booze or drugs could be found in the
remnants of what had been.
Like myself.
Yet, somehow, all that was reversed. My here-and-now was even
nicer, cleaner and brighter that my happiest childhood memory.
Lacking any particular plan, and with a curious lack of urgency,
I stepped into the drugstore and sat down at the soda fountain. I
had some trouble mounting the stool, which was only to be
expected due to my small size, and my efforts to avoid wrinkling
my new blue jumper.
Small size? Blue jumper?
Panic set in for real. I looked at my reflection in the mirror,
and saw a perfectly normal eight-year-old girl dressed in a white
blouse with a stylish robin's-egg-blue jumper. White socks
reached most ways up my skinny legs to my somewhat knobby knees.
I had on shiny black shoes that looked almost new, and rather
spiffy, if I do say so myself. I had light brown hair tending
towards blond, which hung most of the way down my back, and the
most intense blue eyes I have ever seen. I was, in short, beyond
cute heading towards borderline adorable.
This was all well and good, except that I am in reality an
overweight mid-40ish male, not particularly attractive, with
little hair of any color to speak of. I do have rather intense
blue eyes, but no one can tell, since my ever-present glasses
destroy most of the effect.
Except that, this time, I wasn't wearing glasses, yet could see
everything in its crystalline beauty.
I decided to take inventory of my possessions, which consisted
of:
- Four quarters, three dimes, a nickel and seven pennies,
the newest of these minted in 1954.
- A hardbound copy of "Mary Poppins in the Park", copyright
1952 by P.L. Travers.
- A Carnegie Children's' Library card for Amy Carlisle, age
8
Well, at least I wasn't broke and I had something pleasurable to
read. I've always been inordinately fond of Mary Poppins (at
least before Walt Disney turned her into Supernanny). The Amy
Carlisle ID was just a bit of a shock, Amy being my femme name
when I try to pass. Ah, well - nice to see that they got the name
right.
I decided to make the best of what was surely a chemically-
induced fantasy and ordered a small cherry Coke and a pack of
cheese crackers. Eleven cents! The soda jerk (what an insulting
term for such a fun job!) filled my order without a word, and
then went back to his dish washing. If there was anything the
least bit unusual about my situation, at least he hadn't noticed.
I finished my lunch (so to speak) with enthusiasm. I realized
that even though surely none of this was really happening, I was
having fun for the first time since Anne died.
Anne...
I left the drugstore with no particular destination in mind.
Perhaps I'd walk the two blocks to where I remembered a toy and
hobby store once stood. Perhaps I'd go to the movies - I could
hardly wait to see what was playing. Anything was possible -
perhaps I'd visit the park, or the playground.
The playground won out - I hadn't been on a swing in years - and
never once while wearing a blue jumper! It was at the entrance of
the playground that I saw her. I've never seen her before at this
age - eight or nine years old, at the most - and yet knew her in
an instant. The pigtails. The crooked front teeth. The bright
smile and the slightly amused expression that implied that she
had a secret, and the secret was on me.
Not caring any longer if any of this was real or imaginary, I ran
to her as fast as my eight-year-old legs could run. The tears
started streaming down my face as I called her name for the first
time in too many years.
"Anne, Anne, oh my darling, my dearest Anne!"
She hugged me, then simply held me as I wept out the years of
bitterness and loneliness. Finally, she stepped back, and stated
simply, "I've been waiting for you, silly - What took you so
long?"
"But Anne, you're dead." The words came out in a rush. That was
no illusion. That was painfully real. "You were my wife, then we
divorced, then you died. Of breast cancer. You were only 33 years
old. I cried and cried for weeks, and never did really get over
you." I had to tell her all the things I didn't have the nerve to
tell her when we were married. That I loved her. That I was
transgendered. That it was my fault that the marriage was a
failure. That I loved her. And that I needed her to forgive me.
But I didn't get the chance. She simply said "It doesn't matter -
we're together now - and will be forever."
With a dread realization, I finally understood. But there was
one question more that I had to know.
"Did I finally kill myself, then?"
"Of course not - you wouldn't be here if you did."
I decided then and there that details could wait. No sense
wasting a beautiful summer afternoon. Just one last thing.
"But why are you waiting here like this for me?"
"'Cause you're my best friend. Of course I'd wait for you."
"Last one to the merry-go-round is a bitter old man."
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