‘Twas Feb Fourteenth —
A day of days!
I dialed you up,
My heart ablaze.
Seeking sexual succor
With a well-turned phrase
And erotic talk,
Without clichés.
You led me into
A tangled maze
Of forbidden couplings
In perfumed chalets;
Carnal samplings
from mixed buffets;
Symphonies of lust!
Psychosexual Monets!

Our call’s now over,
I’m in a daze.
I linger limply
Upon my chaise.
My credit card’s
In a depleted phase.
But your call!
Ah! It was a polonaise!

I’ve penned these words
To give you praise.
Five-stars are silly.
You deserve bouquets!
Angela, the nymph
Of the phone-ways.
You’ve turned my loins
To mayonnaise!

(isn’t he a doll?  thanks, PQS)

 

An Innocent Transsexual’s Quest for Meaning, Commitment, and Gender-Dysphoric Redemption amid the Wormy Venality and Squamous Debauchery of the Worst Hell-Hole in Texas!!  

Chapter VI:  Enlightened Penology Comes to West Texas Correctional.

In a pensive mood, Senior Prison Guard, Mary “Biff” McGurk, swirled her steaming mug of morning coffee with her pudgy right thumb – a mannerism that she had picked up after watching a documentary on the lives of lumberjacks in the Pacific Northwest. Starting every morning with a cup of java and two or three unfiltered Camels in the prison cafeteria was a long-standing ritual for Biff. It gave the burly lesbian a chance to relax, meditate upon her schedule, and organize her thoughts prior to another day devoted to disciplining cons. For Biff, this particular day promised more responsibilities than usual. Among other things, it was the last day before The Warden’s anticipated return to the prison. Biff wanted everything to be just right on his arrival. 

The Warden had been gone from the prison for two weeks, attending an annual educational seminar in Galveston. As Senior Guard at West Texas Correctional (and the only WTC employee possessed of an Associates Degree in “Modern Criminology”), The Warden had left Biff in charge of the institution during his absence. 

The importance of her selection was not lost on Biff.  She saw it for what it really was — a test. 

The last time Biff had been left in charge, there had been an unfortunate inmate knifing.  Worse, the institution’s fabled basketball team had abused its gym privileges and effectuated a daring mass escape.  The Warden had been displeased with these occurrences and Biff, wrongly blamed, had been in his doghouse for a long time afterwards. 

Given a second crack at responsibility, Biff wanted to be “pro-active.” She was determined to use the two weeks to institute several reforms in the prison’s operations.  Upon his return, The Warden would find that not only had nothing untoward occurred at WTC, but that Biff’s changes had improved the operation of the place!   

Biff’s first innovation involved a much-needed security upgrade. Now, instead of nightsticks, each of WTC’s 57 prison guards carried spanking-new “X-27 Musculo-Electrical Debilitators” in their holsters.  

Biff had become aware of the X-27 Musculo-Electrical Debilitator from a promotional video she had cannily retrieved from The Warden’s office wastebasket – where, for some reason, it had apparently been discarded without first even having been viewed. According to the video, the X-27 had the advantage of allowing its users to zap miscreants “musculo-electrically” and “non-lethally.”  This had immediate appeal to Biff, who always viewed innovations in police technology with the same sort of respect that a Catholic schoolchild normally reserves for the Pope.  

“Damn!  That sucker’s just like one of those phasers that Captain Kirk and Spock used to use on Klingons and Romulans!” Biff enthused, raptly watching the X-27’s promo. “It’s like what happens when ya put a phaser in the ‘stun’ position. Ya don’t kill the aliens. They just wish they was dead!”  The thought of transferring this new Star Wars-technology to West Texas Correctional, and using it on aliens of the Hispanic variety, immediately occurred to Biff. 

There were added selling points. The X-27 came with lots of nifty gadgetry. There was a laser-guided sighting element and an optional mini-video camera that could be rapidly turned on or off with a quick finger flip so as to avoid, if necessary, unpleasant Rodney King-like situations where videotaping would be inappropriate. There was a “Sim Suit” – which looked like something Neil Armstrong wore during his famous moonwalk. The wearer could then be targeted “to allow for safe live-training simulations” and “scenario firing at a ranging dynamic target.”  The Taser even came with a fashionable and professional-looking leatherette holster “ideal for rapid extraction by trained law enforcement officials.”  

“People like us prison guards, they mean,” Biff translated, nodding her head in emphatic approval. 

The Musculo-Electrical Debilitator had the additional advantage of being manufactured by child laborers in grimy sweat shops on the Asian rim, enabling it to retail for 49% less than its closest competitor — the American-made Z-78 “Police-Buddy.” This cost differential was not lost on the always-pragmatic Biff. 

But what really “closed the deal” for Biff was the video’s depiction of actual “field use” of the Taser.  Here, campus police were shown using the X-27 to administer multiple “musculo-electronic bursts” to the body of a student radical that had been hell-bent on disrupting an otherwise peaceful university lecture.  

“Probly a fuckin’ Commie!” Biff noted immediately upon viewing the radical.  Biff knew a Red when she saw one.  

At any rate, after repeated beatings from their wooden truncheons had failed to totally silence the stubborn radical, two of the alert campus police shown in the video began blasting away at him with their X-27s.  The effect was immediate and telling.  Upon “musculo-electrical” impact, their target was left twitching violently on the floor of the university lecture hall, completely immobilized and at last susceptible to expert handcuffing by the alert campus deputies. Viewing all this left Biff entranced.  

“They shoulda just zapped him right away and not bothered with their nightsticks!” Biff exclaimed, grinning happily as she watched the electrified pinko flop about like a spastic chicken.  “We gotta get those things issued to every guard in this place. Mark my words, that baby’s gonna revolutionize prison discipline!” 

Aside from its obvious utility in dispatching students, Biff’s agile mind readily conjured up other potentially useful prison applications for the X-27. Biff envisioned herself using judicious bursts of the X-27’s high-amperage firepower on inmates handcuffed to chairs, thereby ferreting out secret escape plans, clandestine marijuana rings; and cleverly hidden pornography stashes. 

“Hell, I bet some of the bozos here that are always trying to kill themselves would think twice about it if I zapped ‘em a few times!” Biff mused.  The potential “non-lethal” uses of the X-27 at West Texas Correctional did, indeed, seem endless. Therefore, using her authority as “Temporary Warden,” Biff wasted no time in placing the necessary order and insisting on expedited delivery of the fantastic new weapon. 

To help pay the $30,723.00 cost of arming each of the prison’s guards with the X-27, Biff implemented another long-needed change at West Texas Correctional — the installation of a souvenir stand bearing the wholesome name of “Ye Olde Prison Gift Shoppe.” 

The thought of establishing a gift shop at WTC had been percolating in murky areas of Biff’s cerebrum for a long time. It strongly appealed to her mercantile instincts. Relatives and loved ones usually arrived at West Texas Correctional on their visiting days empty -handed.  Most had learned from prior visits that all gifts or packages intended for cons were seized and subjected to thorough searches by WTC’s ever-vigilant coterie of guards.  Furthermore, following such searches, no visitor was ever permitted to give anything directly to a WTC inmate. Instead all deliveries were made by WTC’s turnkeys. 

“Leave it with me, Ma’am.  I’ll see that he gets it!” was a public pronouncement solemnly made by solicitous guards to every tender-hearted donor bringing a package from home intended for a con.   “Leave it with me, Ma’am, I’ll see that he gets it!” was also a statement certain to generate peals of private laughter among WTC’s bevy of jovial and fun-loving guards, who after mouthing it, invariably confiscated anything of any potential worth or value. Biff had personally obtained a dandy set of Ray-Bans, as well as a regular supply of homemade cookies and several appealing nude photos of prisoners’ wives through her participation in WTC’s inspection and delivery process. 

Thus, to Biff’s way of thinking, “Ye Olde Prison Gift Shoppe” made a lot of sense.  For one thing, it was a lucrative way of profiteering on visitors’ well-intentioned impulses to give incarcerated loved ones pre-approved tokens of their affection. For another, the same visitors could buy a little souvenir of their own – like a key chain or an ashtray – that would suitably memorialize their own happy visit to the penitentiary.  

“Hell, this way we’ll get ‘em coming and goin’!” Biff grinned, as she shared her “Gift Shoppe idea" idea with Tansy Delgado, The Warden’s Tex-Mex secretary. 

Tansy did not share Biff’s enthusiasm.  “I dunno, Beef,” Tansy responded.  “I yam steel kinda wooried bout alla thoze Tazeer theengs you buy.  Now yoo wanna do thees.  Maybe yoo be better wait an’ ask The Warden wen he come back foorst. The State maybe haf a law or sometheeng ginst all thees.” 

“Don’t you worry about the State, Tansy.  I already checked the regs,” Biff responded.  "There ain’t nothin’ about no gift shops in any o’ them books one way or t’other. I’m a-doin’ it!  I gotta pay fer them Tasers some kinda way and this here’s a sure-as-shit money-maker! Get me the phone number fer Hallmark Cards!” 

Biff’s resultant brainchild — “Ye Olde Prison Gift Shoppe” — was strategically placed next to the Visitor’s Entrance to the prison – just past the institution’s row of metal detectors.  On opening, the emporium featured a display area containing a festive assortment of trinkets, high calorie comestibles, and items of cheap clothing. Cards, coffee mugs, candy-bars, ashtrays and T-shirts were all on prominent display.  

The cards were specially ordered by Biff to be “Prison-Specific.”  The delivered product featured poignant thoughts like: “To My Darling Husband in Prison”; “My Heart’s There With You in Jail, Honey”; and “I’m Still Waiting For You Here Beside the Old Oak Tree“(opening up to an arboreal feast of gnarly trees festooned with yellow ribbons).  

The Gift Shoppe’s specially designed souvenir T-shirts were in red and blue. The fronts of each depicted, in white, the silhouette of the prison’s guard towers as seen from a distance in the moonlight. Their reverses offered several lettered options:  “I’m the Proud Parent of a WTC Inmate”; “My Husband’s a Model Prisoner at West Texas Correctional”; or “My Loved One’s Getting His Mind Right at WTC.”  

Biff provided a cash register for the Shoppe and installed a Trustee to oversee its activities.  A large sign behind the counter read: “GIVE THE PRISONER YOU LOVE A THOUGHTFUL GIFT! – WE ACCEPT ALL MAJOR CREDIT CARDS! SE HABLA ESPAÑOL!” 

Uncertain whether “Ye Olde Prison Gift Shoppe” alone would generate sufficient revenues to pay for her much-needed X-27s, Biff had presciently hedged her Gift Shoppe bet by administering another imaginative tweak to the prison’s commercial affairs. 

The Warden’s long-standing policy at WTC had been to charge $6.50 per minute for all collect outside telephone calls placed by inmates to their loved ones and attorneys. Trading on her own recent small business experience as a phone sex operator, Biff saw no reason why The Warden had chosen to be so conservative. Using a calculator, Biff quickly determined that at $13.00 per minute, 42 inmate telephone minutes alone would nearly cover the cost of one of her new “Musculo-Electrical Debilitators.”    

“Hell, The Warden thinks small. I think big!” Biff chortled. “I’m doubling the per-minute price!” 

Still contemplating her many reforms, Biff swallowed the last of her coffee. A glance at the clock on the wall near the exit indicated that it was nearly time for her to go on duty. There was still some unfinished work that needed to be done before The Warden returned. For one thing, Biff had to put the finishing touches on a lecture she was preparing.” 

The “Biff McGurk Prison Lecture Series” was the last reform that Biff had implemented. The “Lecture Series” was a concept that owed its origins to the extensive training in criminology that Biff had received at Amarillo State Junior College. That training had taught Biff that prison life could sometimes be stultifying and boring for the cons. Keeping prisoners’ minds active and focused on mentally enriching and educational endeavors served to advance the criminal justice system’s avowed rehabilitative goals. Hence, the “Biff McGurk Prison Lecture Series.”    

As implemented, Biff’s “Lecture Series” was to be a weekly affair with attendance made mandatory for all of WTC’s inmates. Biff delivered each address personally. She would come up with an appropriate topic – always something stimulating and educational — and then be responsible for the content. It was a lot extra work for Biff, but she figured it was worth it. It would certainly impress The Warden and it would also help the cons to reassimilate into polite society.    

Biff’s first lecture was a controversial ethnographic jeremiad entitled “The Latino Threat to American Culture.” It featured 90 minutes of Biff’s own insightful commentary supplemented by selected excerpts Biff had videotaped from episodes of CNN’s “Lou Dobbs Tonight” show.”  

Sadly, her lecture had not been very well received. The prison’s Hispanic element was particularly disapproving – hissing and booing whenever Biff darkened the auditorium’s lights to run the taped excerpts from Lou Dobbs. Despite this inauspicious opening, the Lecture did have some positive aspects.  For one thing, it gave Biff the opportunity to satisfactorily test the efficacy of her new X-27 on one particularly vocal Mexican prisoner. 

Biff had higher hopes for her second offering — a slide show with commentary that she had elected to call “The Many Benefits of Travel.” Although still in outline form, Biff had decided to build her second lecture around photographs she had taken during her recent visit to Amarillo’s famous “Outhouse Museum” (an edifice chronicling Texas defecation architecture from its early adobe days during the time of the Spanish Conquistadors on down through to the present). Biff’s mother, who was the Museum’s curator, had supplied Biff with plenty of color brochures providing in depth descriptions of some of the more fascinating exhibits. Biff hoped to distribute these to the cons as supplements to her lecture. She wanted to have her finished presentation available and ready for airing upon The Warden’s return. 

“Yes, it sure has been a busy two weeks, “ Biff thought to herself as she pushed her paunch away from her table in the cafeteria. “But I guess it’s time I get my ass to work!” 

The first item of the day on Biff’s agenda was a short visit to the prison’s infirmary. 

“I better check the status of that goddamned Mexican I zapped at the Lecture,” Biff muttered, with evident irritation. “How the hell was I supposed to know the asshole was on a Pacemaker?”

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ auld lang syne.

Despite my sassy and sometimes cocky demeanor, I do have my mushy side (leave the Bitch Slave Boys to their dreams) and Robert Burn’s song actually always causes the tears to well.  Even typing them here, the music and words ran through my head, then took a detour right straight to my heart.

I’m actually going to a party this evening, which should make your jaw drop, because New Year’s Eve with all its forced frivolity is something I normally and obstinately avoid.  Don’t worry–I won’t drink and drive.  And won’t even get drunk.  Maybe a slight buzz if the mood is right, but I do mean just right.

A fair to middling year as years go.  But I blogged and you showed up.  Some of you called and we explored your fantasies, some of you wrote emails to say hello or comment privately on a particular post, some of you commented here, some of you were silent…but I felt your presence.  

We started the year out with a (much celebrated) public lynching for chrizt’s sake.  It broke my heart.  And you understood. 

I got sidetracked with way too many projects and — for a while — didn’t blog as often as I should have (no new savants in 2007!  But I promise more in 2008) and you still showed up and I love you for it.

You sent me dirty pictures and I published two that I thought were super sexy here and here.  And everybody agreed with us whole-heartedly … proving that we do, indeed, know what is fucking hot! 

Our resident Pervert Savant kept us entertained with his very original and always hilarious installments of Lingerie on the Razor-Wire, The Poignant Story of a Young Pre-Operative Transsexual Forced into a Life of Twisted Sex and Degradation in the Sordid Confines of America’s Penal System!

We went to a wedding.  And I must say that you looked absolutely dapper, my darling. 

I shared with you the inter-office emails my sister, Bethany, forwarded to me — including God vs. Devil and What Men Do with Post-Its.

We went parochial and liked it so much we did it again. 

We got hot and bothered, down and dirty, all fired up, queer kinky and lesbian lovely.  It was downright decadent and we didn’t even have to wash out our mouths with soap afterwards.

Humiliation was the kink du jour, so I was in turn a Righteous Bitch, a Heartless Vamp, a Cuckolding Brat.  And then I laughed my ass off while you begged for mercy.  Admit it, you loved every minute of it.

I lamented and you held my hand.  I was tacky and you pretended to not notice.  I bragged about my this and that and you were happy for me. So I bragged some more and still you were happy for me.  I fucked off and you waited patiently.  I got on my soap box and you didn’t even roll your eyes.  I pontificated and you just smiled.  I bloviated and you acted like what I said mattered. I fucked around with everybody and anybody and you forgave me. Or maybe it’s just that you like to watch?

We read poetry.  We found some cuckold poetry.  And then there was the poem that made me cry the very first time read it.  And who can forget Shakespeare’s sonnets proving he was a pussy-whipped cuckold?

I kissed you.  It was very French.  Did you like it? 

I fell in love or lust  — or something in between —  over and over again …with Bitchy Jones  …with Supervert   …with Jerotic  …with Slip of a Girl  …with Sweat Shop Sissy  …with The Provocateur.

Did I say fair to middling?  On second thought, it was a simply lovely year.

xo, Angela 

Biff is back and you're not going to believe what she's up to now!  In what I believe is the funniest Razor-Wire installment yet, our erstwhile damsel has decided to bring in some extra cash by starting a secondary career in Phone Sex.  Ouch! 

A warm thanks to my generous and brilliant friend, Pervert Savant, who writes so deliciously well and with such humor.

Previously:   Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4 

Lingerie on the Razor Wire

by Pervert Savant

The Chilling Story of a Young Transsexual’s Search for Love Amid the Mindless Brutality, Recidivist Squalor, and Unrelentingly Tasteless Tattoos of the Most Corrupt Prison  in Texas! 

Chapter V:  Premium Phone-Sex from the Princess Mistress 

Prison Guard Mary “Biff” McGurk took a long swallow from her bottle of Tecate and glumly eyed the list of telephone numbers illuminated in a line on her computer’s messaging screen. 

Shit!” Biff muttered morosely.  “Looks like another slow night!” 

Eager to supplement her meager income as a functionary at West Texas Correctional, Biff had recently taken on a second job as a Phone Sex Worker. Her decision had been prompted by a colorful Internet ad promising easy money, the ability to work from home, and a chance to be one’s own boss.  Entranced by the prospects, Biff had signed an e-mail contract that promised an ability to start work immediately. However, despite high initial expectations, Biff’s financial returns from her new telephonic métier had, to date, proven somewhat disappointing. 

Biff’s pudgy fingers poked clumsily at her computer’s keyboard.  After a moment, a screen flashed, instantly revealing the litany of assumed names that constituted her recent phone clientele. 

BibOverallFetish called you at 6:15 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

SonicLunch called you at 8:02 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

SasquatchAss called you at 9:23 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

LemueltheMoonPie called you at 9:47 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

Fartlover called you at 10:36 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

BibOverallFetish called you at 11:07 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

BibOverallFetish called you at 11:10 PM (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER) 

Biff scrutinized her call list dismissively.  “Usual bunch of dipshits wanting refunds,” she mused knowingly while reaching for an unfiltered Camel.  “Well, fuck ‘em!  I don’t give refunds!” 

Biff took a deep drag from her cigarette and moved her cursor to her website’s “Customer Feedback” area.

  DATE        CALLER            RATING          COMMENT

Mildly irritated, Biff punched some more keys and moved to her New Caller List to see: 

PantyFemme called you at 12:07 AM on 11/19/07 (CUSTOMER WANTS A CALL-BACK!) 

“Hey!” Biff chortled.  “I got me a new one!”

Biff took another sip from her beer and flipped open the index page of her “Sweet Texas Honey New Operator’s Manual” searching eagerly for its entry for “Panty Fetishists.” 

“Sweet Texas Honey” was the name of the phone sex service Biff had recently joined.  Its website featured pictures of approximately 15 negligee-clad women, all with names like “The Duchess Lacey,” “Little Empress Puddin- Pie,” and “Queen-Bee Brittany,” each one purporting to have some sort of taboo sexual specialty. 

The site’s owner–a husky-voiced, 57-year old woman named Maisie O’Toole–had determined that her courtesans all had to be Princesses, Duchesses, or Queens–in addition to being “barely legal”, being “an experienced life-style mistress” and being possessed of “no taboos”.  These qualities were a guaranteed way – to Maisie’s way of thinking—of  attracting new callers. 

Of course, Biff had a picture posted at Sweet Texas Honey too.  And of course, it wasn’t really her own photo.  Biff’s ad featured a photograph of a svelte 19-year old brunette in a black leather corset bearing the nom-de-plume: “Her Exalted Highness Princess Mistress Biffie”. The photo had cost Biff $50.00 and had been purchased from a website catering to would-be PSOs. 

Despite her ersatz picture, Biff had chosen her business name herself – a small accommodation that Maisie permitted her girls, so long as the selected name fell within the broad parameters of Maisie’s tested keys to telephonic success. Under her elected sobriquet Biff had opted to insert her designated area of expertise — “Whiplash Cash Vixen and No-Limits Life-Style Mistress!” 

As an added come-on, Biff’s site featured–like those of the other geishas who toiled for Maisie –a brief statement detailing her personal likes and dislikes.  Biff had painstakingly written her statement after carefully reviewing those posted on the web pages of her erstwhile rivals.  After giving the matter some thought, Biff had penned the following come-on to her hoped-for future customers: 

GOT A FAVORITE FANTASY YA’D LIKE TO PLAY OUT?  WELL, HOW’D YOU LIKE SUM FIRE ANTS UP YER BUTT, DOGBOY?  HA! HA! OR HOW’S ABOUT ME JUST LAFFIN AT THAT FUNNY LITTLE BITTY PECKER YA GOT THERE?  HA! HA! WELL, I CAN BE SENSUAL TOO — LIKE I WAS YER SPECIAL GIRL FRIEND OR SOMETHING.  HEY! HOW ABOUT I DRESS YOU UP LIKE YOU WAS LITTLE BO-PEEP AND THEN I DO YA WITH AN OLD CORNCOB?  HA! HA! PRETTY FUNNY!!  I DON’T CARE. THAT’S OK WITH ME TOO. OR HOW BOUT I HOGTIE YOUR ASS AND TREAT YOU LIKE YOU WAS A HEIFER?  MOOOO!  MOOO!  I GOT MY BRANDIN’ IRON ALL REDDY HA! HA!  PRETTY FUNNY, HUH? SO CALL ME UP AND HAVE YOUR TOYS AND GERBILS AND OTHER STUFF ALL REDDY CUZ I LIKE ALL THAT TOO!  NO TABOOS!  I’M A LIFE-STYLE MISTRESS! BARELY LEGAL! YOU’D BE SMART TO CALL ME UP RIGHT NOW, PISSANT!  DON’T KEEP HER EXALTED HIGHNESS PRINCESS MISTRESS BIFFIE WAITING!!!!! AND REMEMBER!  NO REFUNDS!!!!  AND NO WEBCAMS EITHER !! AND I DON’T SELL PANTIES SO DON’T EVEN ASK!!! CALL ME NOW, WORM!!!  AND BEFORE YOU CALL, READ THE RULES!!! 

Thus prepared, Biff then began her work as an odalisque for “Sweet Texas Honey.”  After a spate of initial interest, her calls, inexplicably, had begun tailing off.  Thus, the fact that a “New Caller” was now awaiting her long-delayed call-back served to rekindle some of Biff’s original enthusiasm. 

After cursorily perusing the Manual’s recommendations for the treatment of panty fetishists, Biff opened a bag of barbecued Fritos and a fresh bottle of Tecate and steeled herself for the upcoming task.  Pensively concentrating on Maisie’s suggestions, Biff dialed the number and, after a moment’s pause, was connected to her caller: 

“Hello?” the unknown caller drawled. 

Is this Panty Ass? Er…wait a minute…I mean, Panty Femme?” Biff intoned sweetly. 

“Er…Yeah.  It’s me.  Is this Sweet Texas Honey?” 

“It shore as hell is!”  Biff responded, trying to establish the quick rapport that Maisie had stressed was so important with new callers. 

“Well, howdy-do there, cupcake!  My real name’s, well, it’s Lester.” 

“Well this here’s Her Exalted Highness Princess Mistress Biffie.  Y’all lookin’ fer some fun, huh?”  Biff took a swig from her new Tecate and rummaged in her bag for a Frito. 

"You betcha, sweetcheeks!” the caller responded.  “I got me this little thing fer panties.  Do you specialize in panty-type calls?” 

“Shit yes I do,” Biff lied, languidly chewing her Frito.  “I’ll bet yew’d like to know what kinda panties I’m wearing right now, wouldn’t ya?  Well, sir I’ll tell ya.  They’re these brand new cotton ones I got in my favorite color – lime green.  I also got me a pair with all these leopardy dots on ‘em that I like too.  ‘Course they’re in the wash right now.  I usually wear them panties for my special occasions.  Most of the time though I wear Fruit-of-the-Loom boxer shorts.  Pretty sexy, those Fruit-of-the-Looms—all loose like.  I like ‘em cuz they sorta let the air in and keep everything all cool.  I like the name too. Fruit-of-the-Loom.  Fruit-of-the-Loom’s got a real nice ring to it.  Kinda wholesome.  Y’know, I’m a life-style mistress and I have my stable of subbies hand wash my Fruit-of-the-Looms.  Pretty sexy, huh?" 

“Well, that’s nice.  But what I was thinkin’ about was a pair of them sexy little thongs.  You know, the sorta satiny kind and in a real hot color…you know…like Fire-Engine Red.” 

“Well goddamit, you little dipshit…why didn’t you say so….Hey, now that I’m lookin’ at ‘em, why that’s exactly what I got on now.  Fire-Engine Red thongs.  I usually wear Fire Engine Red thongs under my regular clothes when I’m working on my job.  They’re real slick. Ya sit down wearing those things and ya feel like yer gonna slide right off a chair.  One thing about them though, you gotta be careful with ‘em after you take a shit.  Skid marks.  It’s tough to get skid marks offa satin. But yeah, that’s what I got on now.  Pretty too. Wish you could see ‘em on me.  But you can’t, I guess.  Cuz yore there and I’m here."

Biff paused to take another swallow of beer, listening for “feedback” from the caller.  “Feedback” was important.  Maisie had mentioned that in the Manual. 

“Well, look cupcake.  I was kinda wonderin’ how’d it be if I put on a pair of them thongs with you there…you know…sorta guidin’ me…tellin’ me how hot it makes you and all…y’know?” 

Biff burped and reached for another Frito. 

‘Oh, yeah, that’d make me hot all right – real hot.  Catchin’ you wearing my thong thingies.  Why, if I caught you in ‘em, I’d prolly get my whip and beat yore stupid ass real good.  Shit.  You’d look like such a dumb ass wearin’ my thongs.

What are you anyway?   Some kinda pervert?  Jeez-o-pete, I’d probly have you arrested and haul yore ass down to the police station.  What’s yore name again?  Lester?  Well, Lester, you strike me as one sick perp. I’d haul yore ass down to the station and turn ya over to the proper law enforcement authorities.  That’s my reaction.  I’d be hot all right. I’d press charges!  That answer yore question? 

“No wait.  See, sugar, you don’t understand…What I meant was, you just get me in them panties and…” 

“Hey, Lester…Listen here. Somethin’ tells me we ain’t getting’ off on the right foot.  Look, I know what you like.  I’m an experienced life-style mistress, ain’t I?  Just like my ad says.  And I orter know what’s best fer you, shouldn’t I?  I mean, who’s the goddam expert here? So you just hush-up a minute and let me describe myself ta ya.  See, I’m barely legal.  Eighteen is the legal age and I’m nineteen.  My measurements are 38-24-36.  That get you all hot?  And don’t call me ‘sugar’!  Call me by my name – Her Exalted Highness Princess Mistress Biffie.  Do I make myself clear?

“Er, yes Her Exalted Highness Princess Mistress Biffie.  Um…but what I was trying to say was that I….” 

“Look, toad-brain.  One thing you should keep in mind is that the Princess Mistress doesn’t like to be interrupted.  You been interrruptin’ me right and left.  Do you know who it is yore talkin’ to? 

“Well, I was just tryin’ to say…” 

“I don’t give two shits about what you were tryin’ ta say, you little turdlet.  I know what you like.  You oughta be arrested for it too….Wait a minute.  I’ll deal with you in a minute.  Right now I gotta go take a leak…And you better be here when I come back.” 

“But, Princess Mistress Biffie!  This call is costing me $14.95 a minute!  Couldn’t you just tell me how pretty I’d look in that red thong…you know…and sorta touch ‘em after I got into ‘em and all? Real quick like. And then…” 

“Look, bozo, who’s the Princess Mistress here?  You or me? 

“Well, you are, of course, Princess Mistress, but…" 

“That’s right.  How’d you like it if I put a little horney toad in them panties down there with your little Fredrick?  Them toads got spines.  That could cause you problems…” 

“No…I wouldn’t want that…But I was thinkin’ of somethin’ more….well…My fantasy’s more sensual.” 

“Ha!  You want me ta rub yore dick through yore panties and tell ya yer all pretty, heh?” 

“Well, yes…I mean…something like that…” 

“Fat chance of that happening, dog-boy.  But I will do a fantasy session where I turn you into my little girl.  How’s that sound?  And I’m gonna name you Trollop.  I kinda like that name.  But first I have ta hypnotize you. 

Relax….Relax…Listen to my voice.  Start counting backwards backwards.  Slowly from 500.  Come on now:  499, 498….  You’re getting sleepy.  Did I tell you that I’m also a trained hypnotherapist?   Well I am! 497…count!  I can’t hear you counting.  Are you counting?  I can’t do no fantasy without cooperation!  Get to it!  I can’t hear you! 

“496…..” 

“That’s better.  Now, when you get down ta zero you will be fast asleep and in my power…Keep counting!” 

“495…Er…but Princess Mistress… that’s going to cost me a fortune!” 

“Keep counting!  You are growing more and more feminine as you count.  495…  More and more in Her Exalted Princess Mistress’ power.  Now keep counting, and when I come back here I want to hear you still counting…slowly…backward.  Count!” 

“Please, Princess Mistress…can’t we start at 50?  Princess?  Are you still there?  I can’t hear you.  OK…OK…494…493…getting sleepy…492…” 

“That guy’s voice sure sounds familiar,” Biff mused as she idly washed her hands after relieving herself.  “I could swear I’ve heard it before.  Fuck, I been talkin’ to so many of these perverts lately I can hardly wipe my ass right anymore.” 

Returning to the phone, Biff heard the caller continuing his countdown to erotic nirvana. 

“367…366…365…er….27…26…25…” 

“Goddamit!  Yore cheatin’ you little asswipe,” Biff resumed, immediately taking charge.  Maisie’s Manual stressed the importance of taking charge of submissives. 

“Er no…look…I can’t be countin’ that long.  My credit card’s gonna be maxed out!” 

“Okay…okay!  Look, while I was away I got me this strap-on.  You know what that’s for, right?  Bend over you little sissy.  OK, now hold still ‘cause I’m a-comin’ right in there!” 

“Wait a minute…I mean…can’t you be a little more sensual?” 

“You want sensual?  Hmm.  OK, take yer fingers and start a-pinchin’ yer titties!  Ain’t that sweet?  Ya got ‘em all hard fer me?  OK, now hold still cause I’m a-comin’ right in there!” 

“Look, sweetie, this ain’t workin’ for me; I’m sorry.  Ain’t all yer fault, I guess.  OK, I gotta hang up.  This goddam call’s gonna cost me a fortune.” 

“All right then, hang up.  But remember ta leave me 5 stars, OK?  And a tribute.  Mistress Biffie loves tributes!  Hell, maybe next time I’ll give ya a free minute.  OK?” 

***CLICK*** 

“WE HOPED YOU ENJOYED YOUR CALL WITH SWEET TEXAS HONEY.  TELL A FRIEND ABOUT US.  YOU CAN GET $50.00 OFF YOUR NEXT CALL!”

Finally, what everybody’s been asking for: More about the gang of the Razor-wire, courtesy of our esteemed Pervert Savant. Biff takes front and center this time. It’s her day off and we join her as she is preparing to paint the town Diesel Dyke red.

Catch Up: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Lingerie on the Razor-Wire

by Pervert Savant

A Heartrending but Sadly True Account of a Young Transsexual’s Struggles within the Mesquite-Scented Den of Homoerotic Iniquity that Today Passes for the Texas Penal System.

Chapter IV: Cocktails with Lupita

Head Prison Guard Mary "Biff" McGurk smiled broadly at the face in her bathroom mirror. Biff had just finished liberally slathering that face with a double-dollop of her favorite scent — Mennen’s Skin Bracer. The resulting manly aroma on her beefy jowls complimented the bolo tie, plaid cowboy shirt, and rodeo boots that were Biff”s regular "go-into-town" garb. Yes, it was Saturday night — Biff’s night off from the prison.

"Yeah baby!" Biff yelped approvingly to her reflected visage. "Biffy’s gonna have a hot one tonight. Hormiga better look out, "cause this is one babe that’s gonna have some F-U-N!"

Hormiga, Texas — Biff’s intended destination on this particular Saturday evening — was a prairie oasis located approximately five miles from West Texas Correctional. It featured a small gas station, a tiny grocery, a smattering of rundown mobile homes, and "Rosa’s" — an erstwhile feed store that one Dagoberto "Rosa" Gutierrez had converted into an air-conditioned cantina and gay bar — the only one extant within the arid geographic confines of Suggs County, Texas. In addition to the gay bar — which was aptly called "Rosa’s“ — Rosa also owned the gas station, the grocery, and most of the mobile homes that littered Hormiga. Not surprisingly, Rosa was also Hormiga’s mayor and the top drag entertainer in her converted establishment.

Biff adjusted the turquoise-encrusted slide on her bolo tie and made sure that the unfiltered Camel cigarette she had placed over her protruding left ear was at its customary jaunty angle. Then she carefully fingered her Stetson, making sure its crown was perched on her pate just the way she liked it.

"Your lookin’ good, honey," Biff intoned to her image. "them lezzies at Rosa’s are gonna be losin’ their money when you start knockin’ them pool balls around tonight!"

Satisfied that she was ready, Biff seized the snakeskin carrying case that contained her cue stick and sauntered out, in her customary fashion, to her lime-green Volkswagen Beetle loudly singing the lyrics to Tennessee Ernie Fordâ’s "Sixteen Tons" into the warm night air.

"I got one arm o’ iron, the other o’ steel. If the right don’tt get ya, then the left one weeeeel."

Biff grinned happily to herself. And why shouldn’t she be happy? After all, wasn’t she Warden W. Lester McCobb’s Top Prison Guard? His "Numero Uno" as Biff liked to refer to herself. The Real Thing. The Big Kahuna. Wasn’t she the only prison guard at West Texas Correctional possessed of an Associates Degree in Modern Criminology? Wasn’t she the one that W. Lester McCobb relied on to keep the prison’s fiercest cons in line? Yes, Biff had a right to be happy. She was the envy of her peers, an American success story.

Biff slid her meaty haunches onto the driver’s seat of her VW and grunted approvingly when the vehicle’s engine answered to the turn of her key. She then expertly slipped the transmission out of neutral and into reverse, spun the tires raucously, and –“ after punching the radios buttons to her favorite Del Rio C & W station — set out once again on a familiar, tune-filled trek to Hormiga.

On arrival, Biff swung into her customary parking spot at the gas station across the street from Rosa’s. Emerging from the car, Biff could see that the weekend festivities at Rosa’s were already well-underway. Lupita LaLinda, a diminutive midget drag queen, was in the process of leading a conga-line of Rosa’s regulars out from the bar’s well-lighted entrance. The line was snaking around "Old Buck" — a large plaster statute of a Longhorn steer that Rosa had seen fit to festoon with Christmas tree lights. Old Buck was an advertising relic of the cantina’s glory days as a feed store and Rosa — always the opportunist — had artistically placed red and green lights on the noble bovine’s motionless form so as to spell out, in flashing letters, the name of her watering hole.

Biff snorted amiably as Lupita and the coterie of regulars circled the statue of the steer. "Dumb asses," Biff chuckled. "Hell, it’s only eight o’clock and Lupie’s already four sheets to the wind."

Biff’s appraisal of Lupita’s condition was not far off the mark. The tiny queen was attired in her Saturday night best — a minute cobalt blue, off the shoulder, sequined ensemble that Lupita had daringly accessorized with a peewee-sized feather boa and a matching set of platform heels — on which she was now pivoting none too steadily. The little Mexicanâ’s tiny mitts additionally clutched her customary beverage–a Mason-jar sized martini. Lupita was taking impressive swigs from the jar as she simultaneously steered her festive conga around Old Buck’s impassive backside. Inebriation was in the air. It was Saturday night in Hormiga.

Ignoring the tail of Lupita’s conga, and pool cue firmly in hand, Biff confidently strode into Rosa’s. And it was Rosa herself, from her customary position behind the bar, that was the first to greet Biff on her arrival.

"Hey! Lookie hoose heer! Eets Chon Wayne!" Rosa chortled loudly to no one in particular. "Yoo lookin’ reel good tonight keed-o! I kood smell that after-shave loshun yoo wear from feefty yards!"

Ignoring Rosa’s good-natured taunt, Biff swiveled her 230-pound frame onto a stool in front of the bar and growled: "Gimme a Tecate, you old pervert!"

"Hey, Chon Wayne he always dreenk weeksie. Wassa matta Sheriff, yoo seek or sometheeng?" Rosa responded.

Not waiting for a rejoinder from Biff, Rosa plunged her hand into a cooler and emerged with Biff’s requested quaff. Rosa was in her customary attire — a wide-skirted Mexican wedding dress, a jet-black wig that featured a large silver comb, and her ersatz coiffure crowned with a sweeping black-lace mantilla. Rosa was proud of her Mexican heritage and her get-up befitted her matronly station as the bar’s proprietor and Hormiga’s pre-eminent senior citizen.

Rosa handed Biff her beer and tried to maintain her banter over the noise of the drag-show that was underway on a small spotlighted stage to Biff’s rear. Biff decisively declined Rosa’s offer of a glass and took a pretentious swig of the beer from the tendered bottle. Rosa clucked disapprovingly:

"You donâ know who mighta be peesing on that beer fore yoo dreenk it, Sheriff. Yoo shood use a glass."

Rosa eyed the snake skin carrying case that Biff had placed on the bar and quickly put two and two together.

"Looks like yoo gonna play some pool tonight, eh honey?"

"You betcha, Rosa," Biff grinned, taking another defiant slurp from the beer. "An’ after I get through taking all those lezzies in your pool room for their paychecks, I’m gonna take some o’™ their tail too!"

"Well, buena suerte weeth that, Sheriff," Rosa sniffed skeptically.  "Yoo been comin’ een heer for tree years now an’ yoo ain’t peek up nada that I see."

Biff let Rosa’s rebuke to her social skills pass, opting instead to swivel around on her barstool to watch the show. The cantina’s featured entertainers, a motley group of Mexican queens known as "The Fabulous Cucarachas," had been attempting to lip-sync their way through an old Supremes’ number. The Cucarachas’ choreography, however, was being thrown into disarray by some of their admirers in the audience, who were tempting them with outstretched hands holding dollar bills. Seizing the moment, the prancing Cucarachas — one by one — had abandoned the stage and were now churning through the audience hell-bent on grabbing the proffered money. All the while, a grainy recording of "My Baby Love" continued to play –“ now somewhat pointlessly — in the background.

"Damn!" Biff muttered, eyeing the entertainers. "They look like a buncha zoo lizards in a feeding frenzy."

Bothered by Rosa’s observations about possible urination, Biff took a more-tentative swig of her Tecate. Detecting no untoward flavors, she then reached for her pool cue, and warily eyed the side alcove where Rosa kept her pool tables. Biff’s decision to adjourn to Rosa’s pool room, however, was abruptly interrupted, when Curtis McLurvey, a local gay rancher and an erstwhile member of Lupita’s conga-line, re-entered the bar suddenly and in an obviously agitated state.

"Rosa, you’d best come outside real quick-like. There’s sumpthin’ wrong with Lupita!"

Rosa immediately left her station behind the bar, adjusted her mantilla, and then followed McLurvey out into the street. Biff ambled along as well, together with the trio of Cucarachas and most of the bar’s other patrons. There, prone on the pavement outside and silhouetted in the blinking lights cast by the electrified statue of Old Buck, lay Lupita — rolling to and fro amid the shards of her broken Mason jar and moult from the tattered remains of her feather boa.

"What the hell’s wrong with her?" Biff queried, as the denizens of the cantina surrounded the midget queen on the pavement.

"I dunno, Biff," Curtis McLurvey responded. "She was havin’ a good ole time an’ all of a sudden-like she just started rollin’ aroun’ on the ground. Ya think she’s one o’ them eperleptics? Maybe she’s chokin’ on her tongue!"

"Could be," Biff propounded sagely. "That’d explain all that rollin’ around. It’s a damned sight sure she ain’t doin’ it cause she’s religious."  Biff took the opportunity to take a thoughtful swig from her beer, which she had presciently brought with her from the bar.

"I know one thing," Biff added. "If she’s havin’ herself an eperleptic fit, I wouldn’t go stickin’ none of my fingers in her mouth rootin’ aroun’ for her tongue. You do that an’ she’ll bite one o’ yer fingers off, sure as shit."

The concerned crowd continued to watch Lupita writhe about in the mammoth shadow of Old Buck. Her painted face now resembled the color of her dress and her spiked heels were kicking about in potentially lethal arcs, causing the onlookers to step away in the interest of safety.

"Shit, she’s kicking around like a dyin’ click-beetle," Biff observed to Curtis. "But I wouldn’t worry none. If she’s just havin’ herself an eperleptic fit, it orter die down soon. Them things don’t last long. She’ll prolly be all right in a little bit."  To reinforce her prognosis, Biff took the opportunity to light up a Camel.

"Well, she don”t look so good right now to me, Biff," Curtis noted.  "She’s turnin’ kinda blue-like. Mebbe it’s somethin’ else."

Biff took another swig of Tecate. "Hell, what do you know, Curtis. You deliver a couple of heifers on your farm and now you think you’re a doctor. I say it’s eperlepsy, just like you first thought."

While Biff and Curtis continued their medical speculations, Lupita’s frenetic spasms continued apace. The pint-sized drag queen’s convulsions had caused her to roll under the immobile torso of Old Buck, leaving a train of detached aquamarine sequins in her wake. The sequins shimmered eerily in the winkling red and green lights adorning the steer that intermittently flashed out "ROSA’S.".

“You blockheads! Can’t you see that she’s choking to death!" someone in the crowd shouted authoritatively.

Biff, disconcerted and wondering who the blockheads were that the voice mentioned, spun her head around in the night, looking for a glimpse of them.

Biff quickly discovered that the observation had come from none other than Cherie D’Amour, West Texas Correctional’s Prison Nurse, who had pushed her way through a gaggle of concerned Cucarachas and was now attempting to find a way to approach Lupita without being impaled on the midget’s slashing stilettos. The crowd parted accommodatingly as Cherie — in stilettos herself — eyed Lupita’s frenzied spasms, trying to time them in order to optimize her approach. Unfortunately, Lupita was in no mood to cooperate.

"This is all I need," Cherie groaned. "My one night off from the infirmary and I wind up having to give first aid to a dwarf version of Gloria Estefan."

"Yoo go goorl!" one of the Cucarachas agreed sympathetically.

Exasperated, Cherie took a last drag from her Virginia Slim and then threw the cigarette aside on the pavement.

"Desperate problems require desperate measures!" Cherie muttered.  If I wind up breaking a nail on this, Lupita’s going to be paying my technician for a whole new set!"

Grabbing Lupita’s feather boa — which was providentially still wrapped around the midget’s tiny neck — Cherie managed to pull the impersonator out from under Old Buck’s stationary underbelly. Then, ducking another kicking spasm from Lupita, Cherie extended a nyloned leg of her own and, with the tip of her shoe, carefully toed Lupita over onto her stomach. As Lupita’s kicks subsided, Cherie seized the gasping midget around her cinched in waist, pulled her to her feet, and began pushing her ample breasts against Lupita’s back — something that brought Biff to a state of rapt attention.

Unfortunately Cheri’s midget-appropriate Heimlich maneuver had no immediate effect on the choking Lupita. Seeing this, Cherie abandoned it in favor of an alternate methodology — pounding on Lupita’s back with the open palm of her splayed hand. Cherie then reverted to another Heimlich — this time with more telling results. Lupita, eyes bulging, and still gagging, suddenly ejected a large green cocktail olive from the inner depths of her lipsticked gullet.

The Cucarachas, watching the arc of the olive’s trajectory, gasped in unison. It looked to all like a sinister and ominous green eyeball as it eerily landed and rolled for a time along the concrete pavement.

The source of her malady thus exorcized, Lupita responded with a brief spasm of markedly unfashionable vomiting. This too seemed to aid the healing process. While Lupita still looked none to well, the previously bluish tint to her complexion visibly returned to its normal matte finish. Relieved and cooing words of encouragement, Rosa and one of the Cucarachas obligingly assisted the petite entertainer back into the cantina. Most of bar’s other s patrons followed suit.

For his part, Curtis McLurvey retrieved Cherie’s purse — an expensive Gucci clutch that Warden McCobb had bought her after a seminar in Waco — and dutifully handed it to the young nurse. McLurvey too returned to the bar, pausing only to taunt Biff with a final "I tole ya it might not be eperlepsy" before doing so.

Cherie, now alone with Biff, swiftly removed her compact from her purse and began inspecting the damage that her exertions with Lupita had wrought to her makeup.

"That was nice work that ya did there with that midget, sweetcheeks,"  Biff observed.   "You got in there just before I was gonna take action. Y’know, I had a semester of First Aid at Amarillo State Junior College an’ I could see the situation was gettin’ serious."

Cherie, engrossed in refreshing her lipstick, tried her best to ignore the beefy lesbian. She managed this quite nicely until, suddenly and surprisingly she felt a distinctive tingling on the upper part of her chest. Looking down quizzically from her compact, she noted that two of Biff’s outstretched and unmanicured fingers had tightly locked around the tip of her left nipple.

"C’mon, baby," Biff intoned. "Let’s you an’ me have us a drink"

***

GET TO KNOW PERVERT SAVANT