I TOUCHED UP A TRANSSEXUAL IN THE KITCHEN. ROME 2003.

Matt’s convinced that one of the transsexuals gave me a blowy a couple of nights ago. In the kitchen of all places. He’s refusing to eat at the table in there because he reckons my naked arse was sat on it while she sucked me off. I’ve given up protesting, his mind’s not for changing. Just for the record, though, it’s not true. I only played with her boobs a little bit. But why ruin a good story, eh?

It was about 2am and all was quiet, nothing going on. I was mopping the kitchen floor when Amin called me from reception. I went to see what he wanted and found him standing there with one of the ladyboys from across the hall, the feminine one, wearing an open leather jacket with just a black lacy bra underneath. Well, feminine compared to her flatmates. Not feminine like Keira Knightly. She’d managed to lock herself out of her flat. Don’t ask how; I didn’t. She wanted to pass through our kitchen and climb over the balcony, but Amin didn’t want her putting her footprints on the floor I’d just mopped. I told him I’d only just finished sweeping up, so it was alright, she could come through. She was all over-the-top thankful, “grazie, grazie, grazie” in this weird stoned flirtatious tone, pushing out her Right Said Fred tits as she started to follow me through the door, but not before buying a couple of cans of beer from Amin. Once in the kitchen she opened the two cans, handed me one and then kicked the door shut behind us. I wasn’t really thinking anything other than how this was a welcome break from the monotony of the nightshift up until that point. “Cheers!” I sat and drank my beer while she paced around the balcony, peering over the edge checking the ground for rodents, trying to work out if she was capable of climbing over and dropping down to the bottom. I fully expected her to bottle it. I wouldn’t go over there, not with all those rats running around. No chance. Even when you can’t see them, you know they’re there, lurking. But if she was going to get into her flat, she was going to have to run the gauntlet, no two ways about it.

Not quite ready yet to take the plunge, she came into the kitchen, pulled up a chair and sat down opposite me. She wanted to chat. She also took her jacket off. Fair enough, why not? On her legs she wore a pair of leather trousers, and as she spoke my eyes flicked between her huge plastic tits, the ceiling, and her crotch area. Not because I wanted it. I definitely didn’t. I mean, seriously, I did not want any piece of that! But that didn’t mean I wasn’t curious about one thing: Was she post-op? From the looks of it, I would say yes. The trousers were tight enough and there was no hint of a bulge. But maybe she’d just taken hormone tablets and shrunk it down a bit but still had a little helmet tucked away in there. I just wondered what she was packing. You can’t blame me for being curious. You would be, too. She was just chatting about normal stuff, like asking where I was from, telling me about her home in Colombia, etc. So as much as I wanted to ask what the penis and balls situation was, it just didn’t seem appropriate. ‘Yea I’m from Brighton, a fun little town on the south coast of England. Have you still got a willy?’

After a few minutes we’d finished our beers and she asked if I’d give her a bunk up to help her over the railings. I said yea as long as she took her shoes off, which she did. So I bent down and formed a cup with my hands that she stepped into and I lifted her up, and as I stood up straight I found her tits, in that tight black bra, pushed right into my face while she struggled to get over. She wasn’t fancying it, I could tell. She had one leg over the railings but the other didn’t want to follow, so we were just stuck in this position for about a minute as she tried to summon the courage to take the final hurdle, the whole time my face right slap bang in her double D globes. She stunk of weed and rum. In that order. I think you’d agree I was in a pretty awkward situation, and it obviously showed on my face because when she looked down and saw the tip of my nose tickling her cleavage, a kind of weird frozen fear in my eyes, she started giggling and asked if I liked them.

I told her they’d done a good job, yea, they were alright. But I think she was under the impression that I thought they were natural and that she hadn’t been born a boy, because she asked ‘Who?’ Then she pulled her leg back over to this side and motioned for me to put her down. So I did. Then she said I could feel them if I wanted, and she pushed them towards me. So do you know what I did? I felt them. Both hands. Properly. Like I was checking fruit before purchasing. They weren’t as solid as they looked, but they weren’t fleshy either. I was squeezing them real good, not saying anything, just looking at them and playing, when she pulled the bra down and released the nipples. They looked like any other woman’s nipples. I touched them with my finger tips but decided I preferred just squeezing the whole breast. The entire time I was doing this she had her eyes closed. So picture the scene: You’ve got a transsexual Colombian in a pair of leather trousers, with her tits out, huge tits let’s not forget, eyes closed, with a heterosexual dark hairy 19-year old Englishman massaging those tits, in complete silence. In a kitchen. It’s fucking weird isn’t it? Well finally I realised that, too. It was like I stepped out of my body for a moment and took a look around and said “What the fuck?” and so quickly jumped back into my body to put a stop to proceedings. I was touching up a transsexual. In the kitchen. What is wrong with me?

Anyway, so I stopped groping the transsexual and said thanks for the feel. She pulled the bra back up with a disappointed look on her face. I said ‘andiamo!’ and led the way back to the balcony, just feeling plain weird and wanting to go back to monotony! I bunked her over the balcony, she dropped down to the other side, ran across the open space before the rats had time to notice, and then climbed over her own balcony and was gone. I made a mental note to not tell anyone what had just gone down. Ever. I opened the kitchen door and standing on the other side were Amin and Matt. Matt had got back from work and Amin had told him I was locked in the kitchen with one of the trannies. Obviously he’d not gone to bed after hearing that.

Matt just looked at me and said ‘What did you do?’ I wasn’t prepared for an audience. I looked fucking guilty. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I just helped her over the balcony.’ Matt wasn’t buying it. Who would? We had been locked in the kitchen for ages. ‘Fuck off! You were in there ages!’ ‘Nothing. Just nothing, alright? Jesus!’ And then he said ‘She sucked you off,’ and then pissed himself laughing. But I was still in shock at what had actually happened, which, to me, was more surreal than what he was accusing me of. So when I said again that nothing had happened, it was obvious I was hiding something. A blowjob. It had to be a blowjob. There was nothing else it could be. Amin was silent, just staring at me in shock. ‘We did nothing! Now fuck off, I’ve got a floor to mop.’

— -

I’m selling signed copies of my book Gatecrashing Europe to raise money for the charity Children With Cancer. If you’re interested, click here.

Like what you read? Give Kris Mole a round of applause.

From a quick cheer to a standing ovation, clap to show how much you enjoyed this story.