Tommy and Bobbie
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Bosomy Bobbie free porn video
"It's Bosomy Bobbie," I say to Anne, holding my hand over the receiver.
"Tell him we're not here. Tell him we're not her... tell him whatever
you want."
"He's all dressed, he says. He's got that whiny tone in his voice."
"That's the only tone he has!" Anne screamed. "Oh God... why hath thou
forsaken me? Alright. Tell him to come over but use the side entrance."
"What side entrance?"
"You know, the one next to the imaginary elevator."
"Oh, that side entrance... Yeah, she sez it's okay. Come on over. Yeah.
Yeah. That's great. Really great. See ya."
"What's great?"
"He's up to 52 E. It's a personal best."
"Bosomy Bobbie! My, how you've grown," Anne says as Bobbie rolls in.
"Did she tell you? 52 E."
The three of us in unison "A personal best!"
"Uh huh. But I'm not Bosomy Bobbie anymore. I'm Sweatergirl."
"Uh oh. Does Bobbie know his body is being taken over by a transvestite
with very bad taste."
"I prefer drag queen. You know that," he sighs. Then his face
brightens. "I've decided to concentrate on sweaters."
"Focus, focus, focus..."
"Exactly! I think I'll have more credibility if I have a 'signature'."
Bobbie draws out the last word and spins into profile, narrowly missing
the door jamb.
"Well, the action figure will be more dynamic anyway. Bosomy Bobbie
always struck me as somewhat regressive. Sweatergirl performs feats."
"Yes, feats... Of... daring... do," Bobbie says swerving dramatically
with each syllable. "But you... you're looking rather luscious as well
this evening."
"I put on an extra cup size just for you."
"No, really, you are so glammalicious."
"Liz, get me that Dictionary of Drag, will you?"
I pause for effect. "Let's see... Glammalicious, a glamorous but taste-
free clam."
"Bravo, Liz!"
"I'm more of a clam than you'll ever be, Liz!" Bobbie says, continuing
her booby punctuation.
"Take back your mink. Take back your poils..."
I walk back to the bathroom to pee and check my makeup. Anne has
wonderful mirror placement, one in back and one in front of the toilet
so you can always look your freshest no matter how femme your feeling.
I opt for the standing position so I can observe my lusciously femmed
self peeing. Oh, the heavenly contrast of lipstick and cock. Such a
debauched display. Lightly teased blonde pageboy wig with thick bangs
falling to my eyebrows. A wig for all seasons. You have to be careful
with these mirrors though. You start to get aroused mid stream and Anne
has a fit. "My bathroom shall not smell like a Paris pissoir. Be a lady
or use the bathtub," she's declared more than once.
"What are we doing tonight?" I ask as I re-enter the room.
"Well, you're glossed for action, Liz. Maybe we should order a pizza
boy."
"Oooh, that sounds like fun," Bobbie sex, examining her profile in the
mirror over the mantel.
"We've done that. Remember?"
"Yes, but maybe this time we'll actually get a boy, not a Goth
pincushion."
"Honey, you wouldn't know what to do with a boy if you had one."
"I would," Bobbie intones balefully."
"Right. My two little slut wannabees, looking to get stung. I'm the
only girl here who's ever been queer."
"Tell us again about the rabbits, Anne," I plead. She shoots me a dirty
look.
"I was young..."
"...so was he..." Bobbie and I join in.
"Okay, okay... I rented a movie if anyone's interested."
"Not 'The Valley of the Dolls' again."
"What's wrong with 'The Valley of the Dolls'?"
"Well, for one we've seen it at least four times. Two I'm so over
Barbara Parkins..."
"Well, I'm not," Anne says.
"Clearly."
Anne demurely pushed back her hair over her ears and smiled coyly up at
me. "Barbara wouldn't like that tone in your voice," Anne says.
I admired him for sticking it out with Barbara. One could pick worse
mentors. She had a great voice and Ann mimicked it with her own dinner
theater Tennessee William's flair. Sometimes I wondered what Anne was
like as a guy. His intonation was so flawlessly feminine. I sound more
effeminate than feminine and I always wanted to take the next step but
I was afraid. Like the little boy whose face froze in a grimace, I was
wary of getting back over the line when I needed to.
"But we love it in yours, Anne," I say, leaning down to massage her
shoulders.
"Thanks Lezzy."
"That's Liz to you, honey."
"Liz. Lez. What's the difference?"
"Well, we've ruled out the ritual Valley of the Dolls circle jerk. Any
other ideas?" I say.
"What about going down to The Zipper?" Anne asks.
"Not unless Bobbie bobs her boobs by a factor of five," I say.
"Three," Bobbie says.
We're off.
The Zipper was a strange little bar that, for long periods of time,
would go dormant. You'd go one week and it would be hustling and filled
with oddities and the next week, same night of the week, the door would
be padlocked. No explanation. Anne called it "Wigadoon." What I liked
about it was its sense of history. The walls were lined with black and
white glossies of girls from earlier eras. Finocchios, Club 61, The
Matchbox Revue. It was a world class collection and it never lost its
Lost World fascination for me.
Glam with a capital g. Mountainous hairdos, false eyelashes thick as
black toothbrushes and all that form-fitting lame. Anne and I weren't
cut from that cloth. We favored a more suburban matron gone to seed
look. Not so much Kitten with a Whip as Cat with a Whisk. A wicked
whisk to be sure. Bobbie, of course, was from her own particular
fashion planet, presumably the one where Ubu Roi lived in bulbous
splendor with his wife, the Michelin Man. But these girls... Jackie
Mayes, Lavern Cummings, Kim Christy and the youthfully plump Chrysis
before she went International... such style, they were the shadow of
50s and 60s Hollywood. Inspired by Gina Lollabrigida and Diana Dors or
was it vice versa. Everyone was a drag queen back then. And the
pedestals were pure papier mache.
Sally the bartender said, "Whaddaya want, girls?"
Blonde with a sort of Jabba the Hut after glow, Sally looked like she'd
made it half way through her sex change and either ran out of money or
inspiration. Her breasts dribbled down her chest like a pair of runny
eggs. She didn't seem to care. She was safe in her sinecure and pretty
handy with a sewing needle too.
"I'll have what Meg Ryan's having," I said not expecting her to get the
joke.
She didn't. "You'll have to refresh my memory, baby. Meg doesn't come
by much anymore."
"She'll have what I'm having. Vodka tonic please," a husky contralto
intoned from the behind us. I turned to find Elly May walking up to the
bar.
"Hi girls."
"Well, Miss Elly May, don't you beat all," Anne said.
"Most but not all."
Elly May was a piece of work. Her dead on imitation of Elly May from
The Beverly Hillbillies was stellar: tight flannel shirt knotted at
waist, tighter blue jeans and big blonde haystack tied into a ponytail
that wrapped around her neck most fetchingly. But she claimed never to
have seen the show...even once. She said when her mother died she
inherited a trunk full of old TV Guides and found Elly May's look
there. Who were we to judge her? She obviously had none of Elly May's
cloying mannerisms so maybe it was true. We all noticed she never
lacked for attention. Reviving an old masturbation fantasy from the
vaults of 60s TV was a surefire way to get dates among a certain well-
heeled section of the baby boomer contingent. Still our Elly May had
difficulty getting beyond the first drink with most admirers. They all
wanted that eyelash batting innocence and she definitely didn't have
that. But she did have the look. I found it rather compelling from afar
myself. Up close and personal she seemed more like a time traveling
cheerleader from a mythical Midwestern college.
"Ever do the cheerleader thing, Elly May?" I asked her.
"Never. I hate sports." Well, there goes that fantasy.
The tranny chasers were stationed around the room like CIA moles. They
came in two flavors: the regulars, who attended the bar on a regular
basis, were on a first name basis with many of the girls and provided
their own backs for the pedestal they put the girls on and the one-
nighters, in from a foreign country where the language of their kind of
sex wasn't spoken. It was a toss up as to who was sadder. Both radiated
a kind of downbeat eunuch energy.
The regulars would flirt like mad but they never got anywhere without
paying up front. The one-nighters mostly sat and furtively admired from
a distance. Anne loved to thread her trips to the bathroom through the
tables of these solitary admirers. She claimed she could feel their
compass points spinning in her wake. There was north, their wives or
girlfriends or a stack of old Playboys for the especially misbegotten,
and there was true north, Anne's padded hips in her now vintage Gloria
Vanderbilt jeans or Bosomy Bobbie's bulbalicious sweater filled with
the idea of large breasts rather than real flesh. These were guys who
loved to eat the menu not the food. It was hard not to be contemptuous
of them. At the same time they were better than mirrors for reflecting
our glory and they hardly ever let their levers get the better of them.
They were our perpetually fawning suitors knocked into a swoon before a
word was spoken. They were ours and, to an extent, we were theirs.
"How's it going, Elly May?"
"Too early to tell, Liz. Too early to tell."
"I love those little pink ribbons."
"Yeah, they do the trick, don't they?"
"Yeah."
"Aw... am I turning you on, Liz?"
She was toying with me. She knew I'd heard the rumors about her cock.
According to Anne who'd seen the "Thing" in the bathroom it was
positively "centurion." Just imagining it held captive in those jeans
brought me into focus in a way that few things did. I caught her
smiling at me in the mirror as I drifted into a big dick reverie.
"Cockteasing again, Elly May?"
"You're so easy to tease. I can't help it, Liz." She glanced around the
room. "Let's leave this place and go find some real action."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you're cute and I'm cute and we can do way more damage at a
straight bar than we can here, ministering to the lame and halt."
"I don't know. I came with Anne. She'll be hurt."
"She can come too if she wants."
"I doubt that she would. She likes the safety."
"Come on. Don't you want to see how good you are?"
"Yeah but..."
"Yeah but you're chicken."
"No, I just don't think I pass."
"Of course you do. Just think: you'll be a real girl in the real world
for a change. Believe me, nothing does it for your ego like cockteasing
in a straight bar."
"Frankly, I can't believe you pass with your voice," I said expecting
her to take offense.
"You have no idea just how versatile I am," she said, her voice
shifting into ultra honey-drenched femme.
"Wow, I'm impressed."
"Yeah, I rarely go into warp speed in this place. What's the point?
So... ready to go?"
"You're going in your Ellie May drag? Isn't that a little over the top
for the real world?"
"True. We'll go back to my place and go into full 'LBD' mode."
"LBD?"
"Little Black Dress."
"Ah... Got one for me?"
"I think so."
I told Anne I was going. She looked stricken for a moment. "You're
leaving me with the dim bulb?"
"You can come too. But not Bobbie."
"Oh come on. You're not interested in guys anyway, are you? I thought
you were here to cruise the girls."
That was true for the most part but the idea of going into LBD mode
with Ellie May had grabbed my purse. "It's something new," I said.
"Yeah, for you it will be," She looked as though she were going to say
something else but she just smiled and waved us on.
Fifteen minutes later we turned down Elly May's suburban street. Her
face clouded over immediately. "What's the matter?"
"Umm... my wife's here."
"Is that bad?"
"She's not alone."
"Uh oh."
"Yeah. Uh oh."
"We don't have to do this now."
"Yes, yes we do. Come on."
She parked a couple of houses away and we got out and walked toward the
house, heels clicking on the sidewalk without the usual frisson of
arousal. Elly searched silently for the keys in her purse. I looked
around to look at the neighborhood. It was dead except for the blue
glow of the tv sets. She put the key into the lock and turned it like a
safecracker. The door opened and we walked into the darkness, stealth
queens on assignment. The muffled sounds of voices came from the back
of the house. Elly took off her heels and I followed suit and we made
our way across the hardwood floor of the living room and soon stood at
the end of a darkened hallway where the voices became audible.
"Fuck me, fuck me fuck me," a women's voice moaned.
My heart sank as I watched Elly's shoulders collapse as the sounds
registered.
"Harder, harder... Ooh like that... yeah, like that, like that."
Elly turned in the darkness. She tried to speak but nothing came out.
"You fuck me so good, baby."
Pushing past me I could feel her voluminous hair brush against my face.
I reached out to touch her, forgetting I had tucked my purse under that
arm. It fell like a lead weight, the chain handle rattling against the
hardwood floor as if it were shouting an alarm. The sounds of furious
whispering followed by the bedroom door at the end of the hallway
flying open. A brunette in a thigh-length bathrobe, hair tumbling over
one shoulder and dramatically backlit by candlelight, appeared in the
doorway.
"What the fuck..."
I turned to run but suddenly the hall light went on and I froze. "Look
at this, Bruce. A couple of cockroaches in drag. Hi honey. Who's your
friend?"
A bare-chested man appeared with her in the doorway and she quickly
threw an arm around his waist.
"Don't worry. It's not a burglar. It's just my sissy husband and one of
his queer little friends."
The guy's jaw dropped. "What's going on?"
"I told you, Bruce. The girly girl in the big blonde wig is my sissy
husband. Isn't she adorable? Elly May, Elly May...this is Bruce, honey.
He's just been fucking me soooo good. Turn around and look at him, you
little sissy. You too, little faggy friend."
Like errant school girls we did as we were told, turning in unison to
face Elly's wife and her lover. Even in the dim light of the hallway
she was striking as she folded herself comfortably into Bruce's arms
and smiled, placing her hand over his crotch and squeezing it gently.
"Bruce has it here, honey. He fills me up. Mmmm, it feels so good when
he fucks me. It's so nice to have a maaaan again," she purred, oozing
the word "man" into five painful syllables. "What are you girls doing
here anyway? I thought Elly was gone for the evening."
Elly was silent, staring down at the tops of her heels peeking out from
beneath her bell bottoms. "I asked you a question, darling faggot
hubby."
"Gloria, please..." Elly said plaintively.
"Oh, Jeezus...I just asked you a question and you come back with that
whine. Were you and your little girlfriend going to have sex, darling
faggot hubby of mine?"
"No, Gloria, it isn't like that," I heard myself say.
"What's your name, girly?"
I hesitated then said, "LLLiz."
Gloria and Bruce burst into laughter. "LLLLiz," she mimicked. "Were you
going to fuck my little sissy husband, Liz or was he going fuck you?"
"No, no, nnno, it's not like that," I said, realizing with each step
our drama became more absurd.
"What is it like, Liz?"
In for a nickel, in for a dime. "We came here to change."
"To change... ah... I see... Change dresses?
"Yes."
"Well, please, don't let us stop you."
"Gloria, don't do this..."
"No, I'm serious. Bruce and I will take a break while you and Liz
freshen up. I'm sure Bruce would love to see you girls getting ready
for... Wouldn't you, Bruce?"
"Yeah. Hey, no biggie."
"C,'mon, we'll go lie down and you girls can do your thing. We're all
adults here, right?" She grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the
bedroom. "C'mon, Liz. We won't bite. We just want to watch."
I looked over at Elly. She couldn't look at me or at her wife. "Elly,"
I said, instantly regretting it."
"Elly! Is that what HER name is? I never knew. Elly... too much. C'mon,
Elly," Gloria said, dragging out the name. "Elly and Liz! I love it,"
she said, dragging me back into the bedroom. Elly followed reluctantly.
"Okay, Bruce and I will just lie back on the bed and you girls can put
on a little show for us. Okay? Elly? Is that okay with you?"
I turned to Elly and whispered, "Listen, let's just change and get out
of here." She looked up at me and nodded. "Go get the lbds." She went
into her walk-in closet. Gloria and Bruce, nestled together on the bed.
"Don't be shy, Liz. Bruce has seen a naked woman before, haven't you,
Bruce?"
"Yeah, but this is special."
"Isn't it though? Go ahead, Liz. Elly will back in a second. Get
started."
I unbuttoned the pearl buttons on my sweater and pulled it off, letting
it drop to the floor. Then I unwrapped my skirt and let it fall,
leaving me standing in my black panties and brassiere.
"Ooh la la, Liz. Very sexy. Please continue."
Then it happened. I didn't want it to but I couldn't stop it. As I
stood before them in my heel, hose, panties and bra a tidal wave of
eros flooded over me. I felt so utterly helpless and so completely
feminine. My sex rose unassisted, clumping up as my hardening cock dove
downward into my panties. I could not straighten myself out without
calling attention to my state of arousal, something I was desperate not
to let Gloria see. I turned away from the voyeurs on the bed and, as
artfully as I could, tried to free myself. I knew how successful I'd
been when laughter erupted from the bed. My attempt to remain ladylike
while extricating my swollen member from its nylon snare must have been
particularly ridiculous. But the laughter, far from cooling my ardor,
seemed only to spur it on. It was the crucible that my femininity had
been born in, the humiliation of wanting to be something so clearly I
was not. Having my own body betray me was so improbably delicious. It
was as though the looking glass had opened and I had emerged from the
reflection as a woman at last. My Ann Jillian page boy was no longer
dynel but my own hair, my gel-filled inserts became one with my flesh,
my cock, its tumescence fully delineated behind my flimsy panties, was
now my shimmering pussy and my powerlessness as a humiliated male in
drag was now my towering strength as a woman in heat. I had never felt
quite so feminine as I did in this moment and the sheer deliciousness
of it all sent spasms of joy through my blood. The chemistry of the
moment had shifted and I knew I wasn't the only one who felt it. When
Elly returned with our dresses, Gloria now seemed anxious to end the
little dumb show she'd asked for.
"Why don't you girlies go dress in the living room. Bruce and I have
bigger fish to fry," she said, aiming for a level of confidence that
had already slipped from her grasp.
The use of the word "girly," for example, meant to wound and punish,
missed its target completely and only seemed to emphasize the very
qualities that Elly and I possessed and Gloria did not. We were
girlies. The girliest of girlies. In the shadows of our most private
moments we would take our girliness out and let it possess us. Behind
three locked doors in a vacant house, in the bathroom, in the shower,
our voluptuousness safely erupts beneath the falling sheets of water,
we step behind the waterfall to the girly world and coyly sponge off
our pendulous breasts, feel the weight of our hair piled Gibson girl
high and speak aloud in sibilant phrases the girly talk that self-
seduces us. "My breasts are sooo big," we might coo like a Penthouse
bimbo. "I'm such a girly girl," we say to the falling water as though
to a boobstruck suitor. In the safe house of our solitude, girliness,
girly girl girliness, extreme bimbosity reigns and our inner Anna
Nicole runs bouncing through the shuttered rooms, wicked in her wanton
babydoll femininity. Gloria had released that solitary creature into
the ether, made her flesh corporeal and in the dim halflight of her
nightstand lamp the power of my 38 C cup silhouette trumped her shrill
barked demands. I turned to Elly, who had let loose her hair from the
Donna Douglas pink ribboned pig tails and let its thick mane cascade
over her naked shoulders. "We're girly girls, aren't we, Elly Mae." My
voice had found its voice, not falsetto or effeminate but mining a deep
vein of confident hyper femininity.
I glance over at Elly and catch her sharing a discreet laugh with
Gloria, who, in turn, is grinning widely. Suddenly the whole dumb show
crashes down around me. Bruce and I are Rosencrantz and Guildenstern,
foils for an act that has had many, many productions. Now they are
howling with laughter but it's no longer the sort of humiliation that
I'm interested in. Even Bruce is laughing though I'm sure he has no
idea why. This is Gloria and Elly Mae's play. Later on, when the bit
players have left they'll relive the moments for their own teaspoon of
pleasure. In a way, I feel badly that they didn't make it to the third
act but perhaps they never do. Then again, maybe that was the third
act.
I drive back to The Zipper and find Anne sitting at the bar, chatting
up one of the sad tranny chasers. He looks like a life insurance
saleman. She gives me a look and I know that she knows. "You need a
drink. Go fix your face and Larry here will buy you a vodka tonic,
won't you, Larry?"
In the bathroom, Bosomy Bobbie is entertaining a gentlemen in one of
the decrepit stalls. "Yes, Mommy is very happy with her little man,"
she says to him as his mouth glides back and forth over her sex. "Very
happy."
Myra
- 14.09.2020
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