The journey home from Ron Storme's was just as entertaining as the rest of the evening had been. The A12 out of London contains a stretch of dual carriageway with traffic lights spaced every mile or so. Provided you can simultaneously drive and carry on a conversation through an open window, this is prime flirting territory. We'd already given a half-dozen guys something to think about on the way to the club earlier in the evening, and now, feeling suitably elated after a great evening's partying, we were ready for some more fun. And it wasn't long before the opportunity arose.
We'd just stopped at one of the sets of lights, when another car pulled up alongside. A guy was driving, and there were three young women in the back seat. They were looking at Rikki, Mary and me, and were obviously not quite sure what to make of us. We all looked back, and waved, at which point they started giggling. Then the lights changed, and we pulled away. A couple of hundred yards later, they passed us, and waved again, so we caught them up, and driving alongside them, wound our windows down. They saw we wanted to speak, and wound their window down too. The conversation went something like this:
"Hi girls! How're you doing?"
"Hiya! We're fine! Why are you dressed like that?"
Faced with this question, the average tranny usually backs down, and says something like "I've been to a fancy-dress party". Unfortunately, this is often clearly untrue, since a dedicated tranny will practice for many hours to achieve a convincing feminine appearance which the average guy usually doesn't even consider for a one-off fancy-dress party. In short, we looked too good to have just thrown on some make-up for the first time in our lives. So whatever we replied to the girls' question, they'd probably accuse us of being trannies anyway! I decided to cut a long story short, and shouted back, "We're trannies!"
"No you're not! You've been to a fancy-dress party!"
Oh, how bloody typical - hand them the truth on a plate, and they reject it! "No we haven't. We've been to a tranny party!", I insisted.
"Don't believe you!"
"How can we convince you?", shouted Rikki.
"Show us your tits!"
"Show us yours first!"
We slowed down as we approached another set of lights. Our car was at the front of one lane, and the girls' car was second in the other, but we could hear them telling the four guys in the car behind us what we'd just told them. The lights changed, and we pulled over into the other lane directly in front of the girls. The four guys roared past us, made obscene gestures through their open window, and yelled something about "fucking tranny perverts". We instantly recognised this reaction as being typical of the sub-species homo moronicus, the main characteristics of which are low intelligence, and an inability to express itself in coherent sentences. It's therefore impossible to reason with moronicus, so we just waved politely, and let them disappear into the night. Meanwhile, we'd considered the likelihood that showing the girls a set of silicone breast forms wouldn't help us convince them that we were indeed trannies, although the reward of having them 'show us theirs' would definitely be worth considering in another time and place. But now they were level with us again.
"Where've you been?", they shouted.
"Ron Storme's. Check it out - you'd love it!"
"Where?"
This evidently wasn't going to be easy. "Ron Storme's. It's a tranny nightclub in east London." That sounded convincing enough - we were on the road out of east London, and at 2:20am, it was a time that nightclubs typically turn out.
"Never heard of it, and we still don't believe you!"
"Your loss, sweetheart!"
At this point, Mary declared that this was probably a lost cause, and Rikki and I agreed. In any case, we lost the girls' car at the next set of lights - they turned off the road while we carried straight on.
Extract from a personal letter.