Tranny Tales Ch. 04: Franca - La Bolognese

TRANNY TALES CH. 04: FRANCA - LA BOLOGNESE

Bolognese transsexual prostitute breaks in a lover.

Note - Dear Readers--I use the term "Tranny" with the utmost respect. The word was considered descriptive and politically correct when this story took place. Conversations in Italian are translated into English to make the dialogue easy to understand. When the meaning of the Italian expression is apparent, there is no need to translate. This story is based on actual events in the late 1960s, a wonderful time before HIV colored the world and sperm was only a talisman, not a death sentence.

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I met Franca a long ago; she was what the Italians call a "Madonna," in her case, a transgender prostitute that worked on the street. Not on any street, Franca worked on the corner of the street where I lived.

I was a student attending 'The University of Bologna,' studying for a professional degree. America was in turmoil during the Vietnamese war, and Italy seemed safer since US military deferment was offered to American medical students.

When I saw my dead high school friends shipped home from Vietnam in yellow pine boxes, I thought it best to continue my studies. I applied to medical school in Italy. The night I arrived, I realized I had much to learn in Italy besides academics.

I was young, with an exaggerated sex drive, which hasn't waned. I was curious. I thought it was entertaining to take a midnight espresso or a glass of Fernet Branca, that atrocious artichoke concoction recommended after a heavy Italian meal. I'd walk down the long stairway from the medieval building where I lived to the café on the corner of the "Viale," where I could observe the 'goings on.'

At night, after 11 pm, the day crowd disappeared, and the corner bar was filled with prostitutes of both genders, a few Italian on-lookers, and an occasional customer looking for "amicizia." It seemed as if everyone knew each other. As a foreigner, I was accepted. Italy has always welcomed outsiders, and Bologna has been a University town since 1088.

My medical education progressed slowly, but I soon learned that Bologna was famous for its nightlife. 'Busoni' or 'Finocchio' (Gays), 'Putanas' (Whores), and 'Transessuale' (Transsexuals) filled the nights. Prostitution was not a respected occupation but was entirely legal. The populous looked with sympathy as this was how sexual deviates earned money. 'The Life' was not a dead end. Upward mobility was possible. If a streetwalker saved enough lira or found a benefactor, purchasing a bar or a little restaurant was likely. The great Julius Caesar started as a towel boy in a Roman bathhouse where gay sex was practiced openly. In ancient Rome, sex with men was for pleasure, and sex with women was for reproduction.

The city of Bologna, magnificent in its ancient architectural beauty and famous dark red soil, is within two miles of the "Ciculvaladazioni," a circular looping section of the Autostrada forming a ring around the city's center. Those living within the ancient city walls were surrounded by another ring called the "Viale." During the day and the busy nights, the "Viale" served as a circular thoroughfare, a wheel that circled the old walls intersected by streets that formed the spokes. These spokes provided the many entrances to the city center. In nearby Florence, Dante looked to the Bolognese city as a model of confinement.

If you enter the 'spokes,' you arrive at a large piazza where the Ancient Towers stood. Built during the 12th and 13th centuries, the Towers once numbered two hundred. Only twenty towers remain, standing like erections jutting up like schoolboy erections on a church pew where the boys hunger for the girls on the next bench.

Initially, the towers were like contest entries, a pissing contest between competing families to see whose tower was taller or better. The narrow, dank interiors once held wooden spiraling staircases now rotted away. Since the towers serve no modern purpose and the wealthy families who constructed them are long dead, the city rarely repairs the interiors. Although one can view the exterior, one can no longer climb up inside and enjoy the cityscape. Like much of ancient Italy, the stone monuments stand impotent, confronting the bustling modern world in silence.

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At night, I was fascinated with the Viale when a sea of autos cruised them for sex and debauchery. The streets were a showcase of every variety of sex workers, each with their own specialties. You'd see the same sex workers night after night in their chosen spots.

The "girls" would station themselves on various corners awaiting their clients, curiosity seekers, and occasional nasty catcalls. I'm embarrassed to admit, one night, I found myself in the back seat of an old Lancia with a group of Italian students, perhaps influenced by Marlon Brando's buttering of Maria Schneider's ass hole as a prelude to anal in the film, "Last Tango in Paris. The driver stopped at every corner and asked the "putanas" if they would provide anal sex,

"Ti voglio fotterti in culo?" to which the female whores would yell back, in dialect,

"You fagots, go fuck your mothers."

The police only interceded to break up catfights between prostitutes arguing over who owned the corner or defending the code of decency when a putana went topless, something those of us always hoped to see.

If you wanted anal sex, the transsexuals would happily accommodate you in their apartments or hotel room. If you could afford neither, for a modest fee, they'd suck your cock inside your parked car on a dark corner. If you ask for a "boccino" (blowjob), be prepared that the sex worker may ask for a "fassoleto" (handkerchief) to spit out your cum. Swallowing semen was reserved for lovers.

During my sexual infancy, my sexual education had consisted mostly of missionary-style couplings with a young college cheerleader in the back seat of my Uncle's Chevy. I'd successfully had coitus on frosty nights in the back streets of the American Midwest. I recall once being jerked off in the darkness by an aggressive college girl outside a student dance., but the variety of sexual coupling in the "Red City" was previously unknown to me.

The fog was thick as pea soup on that cool, misty night. One could scarcely see ten feet ahead. This situation occurred several times a year when the warm, moist Mediterranean air would push into the colder continental shelf, resulting in dense fog. I was seated in the corner bar when a transsexual, the Barista called 'Franca,' appeared at the door.

I had noticed Franca several times in the neighborhood. I thought Franca was attractive and very sexy. She had a warm smile and a friendly expression. I had seen her several times working our busy street corner. She was picked up frequently and driven away. An hour later, she'd be back in her spot.

Tonight, when Franca entered the café, her hair glistened from the fog's condensation. She took off her tan raincoat, folded it in two, and laid it over a chair, and sat at the little round table beside mine.

Franca smiled charmingly at me. I tried befriending her,

"Ti posso offrire un caffè, Signorina? Tell the Barista what you like," I suggested.

To my delight, Franca accepted my invitation. She ordered a double espresso "ristretto" (two shots of strong Italian coffee with very little water) and asked the Barista to pour a shot of grappa into the coffee cup.

Grappa, an alcohol made from the stems and seeds of grapes, is a byproduct of the grape harvest. It is an acquired taste, sort of a pungent vodka, but when mixed with coffee and sugar, it becomes very palatable and warms you.

Franca sipped the coffee and asked if I had a cigarette. I didn't smoke, but before I could answer, an older man materialized out of nowhere, placed a cigarette in her mouth, and lit it with a gold lighter.

"Gracia Giorgio," she said. I became aware of her feminine voice, although a slight huskiness reminded me of Loren Bacall. The gray-haired Giorgio returned to his seat.

Franca looked at me through heavy false eyelashes and artful mascara, she asked, "Francese?"

"No, Americano. Why did you think I was French?"

"Well," she laughed, flicking ash on the coffee cup's saucer. We're going to Paris this weekend."

"Oh, that should be nice."

"I'm going with my girlfriend. She wants to get her tits done. I had mine done last year, and no one does it like the French surgeons."

"Oh, you must show them to me."

"Oh, non ti preoccupa (don't you worry), I most certainly will, and she began to unbutton her blouse to show off her cleavage."

As I watched her immodest behavior, my erection pressed hard against my blue jeans as we continued to chat about Paris. I recommended an older, inexpensive hotel off the Rue de Carnot called the "Electric Hotel."

I said, "I imagine it was one of the first hotels served by electricity."

"Thank you," she replied, "But we are booked into a five-star hotel."

That certainly put me in my place. When a Carabinieri (a policeman in a black 19th-century costume) entered the café moments later, she bid me goodbye and disappeared into the night.

A month later, on a cool night, I was again sitting in the corner café when Franca walked in, her fabulous tits jutting out of her low-cut red blouse. She wore a gold metallic mini and knee-length red patent leather high-heeled boots and short stiff red leather jacket with a wide collar.

"Ciao Caro (dear)," she whispered, although I'm sure everyone in the place heard her. Once again, Franca's throaty, sexy voice excited me. I smiled as she sat down in the empty seat to my left.

"How are you, Dottore?"

In Italy, it is a sign of respect to call university students "Doctor" in anticipation of their degree, which might take as long as 6-12 years to complete.

"Badly," I said. "This is the year of the scopero (strike). Everyone is on strike! Students can't even get into the University to take our exams. First, the bidellos (janitors) were on strike, and now the Chinese students occupy several buildings where my exams were scheduled."

`

"Don't worry, Caro, la vita passa in fretta ( life passes quickly)."

"So, Signorina Franca, how was your trip to Paris? You look wonderful."

She moved closer to me, "Here," taking my hand, "feel my "seni" (breasts). Aren't they natural?"

I found her super attractive; maybe it was due to her perfect French breasts that she readily admitted resulted from Parisian plastic surgery.

As I reached to caress her breast, my cock made a tent pole in my pants.

"Oh, you like them," she said, immediately noticing her effect on me.

"I'm not working tonight. Why don't you invite me to a movie?"

"Well, I really should be studying for an exam, but what the hell, sure, let's go."

We walked down the covered portico to a small cinema near the Twin Towers. A Clint Eastwood Western was playing. I preferred to attend the art cinema sponsored by the city, where Classic Italian films were screened, but tonight would be an exception. If Franca liked Westerns, so be it.

I bought two tickets. We walked into the darkness just in time to see the pre-show commercials featuring a sexy redhead guzzling a bottle of Coca-Cola. The bottle was so deep in her mouth, as her eyes opened wide, that everyone in the theater guffawed, knowing she was performing a blow job on the bottle.

Fellatio was a Bolognese specialty known as the "Bocchino," a practice which Bolognese women prided themselves as experts. Mothers taught their daughters every nuance of cock sucking.

The crowd from the gallery had come alive with catcalls and laughter with the Coke advert; laughter and jeers as we sat down. When the lights went on, the people stared at one another. Franca studied the crowd with a blatant intensity that a woman could never have mustered. Women avert their eyes in public, but not a prostitute; she could have stared down the entire theater.

I looked around and realized half the theater was staring at us. They knew by Franca's exaggerated makeup and skimpy outfit she was a transsexual prostitute. The audience, with curiosity or disdain, held us in their glance until the lights went off and the loud Cinema News exploded on the screen.

The events of the world unfolded before our eyes: politics happening in Rome, the Papa (Pope) going to God knows where, a few rounds of a boxing match with Nino Benvenuti, the Italian champ, and then on to the blood and guts western. It was no surprise that Eastwood shot everyone in the dusty town except for the undertaker, who carried away each of the dead bodies in a wheelbarrow. The film concluded Ninety-five minutes later, and our hands were firmly locked.

"Let me show you my apartment," said Franca as we rushed out of the theater ahead of the crowd, "it's near here."

"I didn't bring any big money with me'" I blurted out, "I'm just a student." I didn't want Franca to think I was in a position to pay for her services.

She smiled. "I'll pay you instead," she quipped.

Franca was tall for an Italian, about 5'10, in her stocking feet with long, attractive legs. She had feminine rounded shoulders and white alabaster skin with pink cheeks. Her sensual thighs, visible under the short miniskirt, were womanly, and her ass was well-rounded. We walked a mile, arriving at an ancient building. I followed her into the courtyard, where she took off her high-heeled boots to climb the stairs.

"Excuse me, Caro, but I could never make it in these heels."

I followed her up the narrow spiraling staircase that rounded each story until we reached the fourth floor. I assumed the building was constructed in the 1600s. Since Franca climbed the stairs in front of me, I had an exciting view of her transparent pink lace panties encapsulating her intimate rear under her short mini skirt. I admired her long, graceful legs and her heart-shaped butt. The perspective was very feminine.

When we reached the top floor, Franca said,

"It is a bit tiring to get up here, but with the rent control, it costs very little to live here, and it's right in 'Centro Citta.'"

We arrived at the last landing. Quasi barefoot Franca was carrying her high-heeled boots and had torn her heavy mesh stockings. One of her toes had partially broken through the fabric.

After the climb, I reached out to steady myself and accidentally touched one of her tits.

"Don't be in a rush, sweetie."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm a little light-headed after the trek up here."

"Piccinino," she threw her arms around me, "Do you feel better now?"

I rested in her warm embrace, my head on her shoulder, her ear next to my lips. As my dizziness passed, I started to chew on her earlobe.

"Oh, so now you are feeling better? Let's get inside."

She had pulled a skeleton key out of her blouse on a chain around her neck. She unlatched the door. With a push of her hips, the heavy door flung open. We entered the dim apartment. The place smelled like an Italian restaurant.

"So you cook here."

"No, that's the smell from "da Rosano," the expensive restaurant on the street below. Don't worry; they can't charge you for the smell."

I smiled at her humor and looked around the small apartment. We entered what should have been a living room, but there was a bed in the middle of the room. Nearby was a door that led to the bathroom. There was a tiny alcove with a sparse kitchen and a small refrigerator.

"It's home. I know it's not much, but it is "la mia casatina."

"Oh, it's very nice, except for the climb to get up here. If you climb up here a few times a day, you won't have to exercise."

"You get used to it. Anyway, take off your coat and have a seat."

She pointed at the bed. I sat down. Before sitting next to me, she began to unbutton her blouse.

Franca turned on the Filofusione, music from a sleek aluminum box on her night table connected to the telephone line. There were five different types of music available and no commercials. We sat there listening; I recognized some of the tunes were American songs sung in Italian. Then Johnny Morandi, a pop star, began crooning a love song.

I looked into her eyes, and something unexpected happened. She leaned forward and kissed me, taking a moment to chew on my lower lip gently.

"I want you." she said, "I want all of you."

"What do you mean?" I asked innocently.

"You'll see. Have you ever made love to a transsexual?"

I shook my head.

"Well, tonight is your night. We girls are exceptional."

Franca removed her blouse. She wore no bra. Her tits were standing at attention. No scars were visible.

"How did they get them so perfect?"

"Oh, the French know what they are doing. The surgeons don't cut a slit under the tit as they do in Italy. They insert the implant under the nipple and inflate it. Well, that's probably more than you want to know, but they are beautiful, aren't they?"

"Yes," I had to agree. Franca's breasts were amazing.

She began to undress me, unbuttoning my shirt.

"You are very muscular," she said.

"I used to wrestle in college."

She helped me remove my pants. In moments, I was completely nude.

She leaned in, kissing my penis, "Oh, che Bello, la tua cazzo," (how pretty, your cock) and took my penis into her mouth, gently sucking the tip. She slowly advanced until the full erection, all seven inches, was down her throat, and then, with an agility I'd never even imagined, her tongue swooped out and began licking my balls.

She withdrew momentarily, saying,

"You have massive balls filled with sperm. They will be less swollen after we finish making love."

Then she returned to sucking.

My heavy breathing must have indicated was close to cuming. Franca slowed her sucking and released me from her lips. Her wet saliva and the cool air of the apartment broke my concentration, and my erection became tumescent.

"Rest, my darling,"

Franca stood up alongside the bed, unbuttoned her miniskirt, and laid it over the bedpost. Franca lifted off her long red hair. Seeing it was a wig startled me. She rested it on the other bedpost.

"You look surprised. We all wear wigs; it looks more feminine than trying to grow your hair long."

Without her sexy long hair, Franca looked boyish. She was partially bald, but her tits kept her in the feminine arena. She had a slight belly under the tits, and her ass, like a giant pear, curved like a woman.

"Come, now you fuck me."

Franca positioned herself on all fours on the bed and slapped her ass. She took my hand and told me to do the same. I lay next to her, afraid to hurt her, but pain was what she desired.

"When you make my ass red, it makes the fucking so much better."

I complied, smacking her ass so hard my hand stung. When her butt was a rosy red, she said,

"Come, come inside me now."

I knelt on the bed behind her in doggy style and rubbed my dick against her ass without knowing precisely where to put it. Franca's hand grabbed my cock, and inserted me partially inside her. I gently pushed forward into her asshole. It felt just like a woman's pussy but smoother, without the texture of a vagina, and it was tight, opening little by little until I was all the way inside, pumping away as if I'd been doing this all my life.

The excitement was too much to bear. After several minutes, I began to moan. It was apparent I was ejaculating.

"Stay inside me until your cock gets small."

I did as she asked. At a certain point, my dick became flaccid and fell out. Franca caught my dick in a soft washcloth and wiped me clean.

I lay back on the bed and relaxed. Franca placed a small pillow under my head. I thought our time was over. But no, Franca swung over me, sitting on my chest, pinning me on the bed. At first, I could see her penis looking small and dimpled, coming closer. I sensed that I should please her, and my mouth opened without forethought. She lost not a moment before pressing what was now her swollen giant cock deep into my mouth.