The Greatest Lie Part 2

Never take a long distance bus if other transportation is available. If I had just lobbied my parents a little harder, they probably would have sprung for the plane fare for my summer school session at Minnesota. They were still pissed at me about the problems I had at the end of senior year, but those same problems made it imperative that I get out of town. After all, when a teenage cross-dresser like me has been gang banged by a Latino gang once, it its only a matter of time before they (or their friends) come back for seconds, or even more.

Just spending a few minutes at the Greyhound Bus Station in downtown LA was enough to convince me that the creeps and losers that I was escaping from must have come from large families, because this place was full of them. The thought of spending three days on a bus with a cross section of this lumpen proletariat made me sick and fearful. Although I hid behind my Raybans, they gravitated to me. A greasy bearded, tattooed middle aged loser beckoned to me from the bench opposite me. I pretended to ignore him, but he rose and took the empty seat next to me. He hissed in my ear, "I tol-jah ta come eeer, pretty boy." He clamped his callused hand on my skinny forearm. "Wassa matter, dincha get it?" A flash of genius struck, and I responded "Je ne parle pas l’Anglais." He looked at me with disgust and stalked off, not noticing the Los Angeles Times lying on my lap.

That narrow escape brought me back to my immediate dilemma, the painfully distended bladder full of pee, and my fear of going to the men’s room at this dump. I hate public rest rooms, and have a difficult time peeing if I even think that somebody might be watching me. The alternative, waiting and trying pee in the swaying rear of a moving Greyhound while all of the passengers watched and waited, seemed even more daunting, so I took my carryon bag of estrogen, female dainties, and amphetamines and skulked as invisibly as I could to the john.