Tranny Tales Ch. 04: Franca – La Bolognese

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Note – The term “Tranny” is used with the utmost respect, at the time of this story it was commonly used and not considered politically incorrect. Also, the conversations in Italian have been translated to make the dialogue easier to understand except where the expressions are obvious. These stories are based on true events.

***

I met Franca a long long time ago; she was what the Italians call a “Madonina,” quite simply a tranny prostitute that worked the street. Not any street in this case, but on the corner of the street where I lived at that time.

I was a young man attending The University in the Italian City of Bologna, studying for a professional degree. During the Vietnamese war, America was in turmoil and Italy seemed a safer place to be, particularly since military deferment was offered to graduate students in medical studies. When I saw many of my high school friends coming home dead from Viet Nam in yellowed pine boxes, I seriously considered continuing my studies and took off for Italia. I soon found out that besides academics, there was much to be learned about life.

Being young, I was curious about the ways of the world. I thought it very entertaining to take a midnight espresso or a glass of Fernat Branca, the atrocious artichoke concoction they recommend you drink after a heavy Italian meal, down at the café on the corner of the Viale where I could observe what was going on.

The old city is about two miles inside the Ciculvaladazioni, which of course is that section of the Autostrada that forms an outer the ring around the city. For those of us who lived within the ancient city walls, we were surrounded by another ring, called the Viale. During the day the Viale was circular thoroughfare, a wheel that circled the old walls and was intersecting by streets that formed spokes that took you to the center of the city. That was where the Ancient Towers still stood. The famous Towers, build in the 12th and 13th centuries, once numbered close to two hundred, but there are still some twenty that remain standing like erect penises jutting up here and there where you might not expect. They were erected as if entries in a contest, a pissing contest between competing families, to see whose tower was taller or better. The interiors were ancient wooden staircases, now mostly rotted away, with several exceptions, and since the towers serve no modern purpose and the families who once paid to construct them are long dead, it was rare that the city repaired them. Although you could look at them from the outside, there was no longer any way to climb up inside them; they just stood there in their impotency like much of Italy that remained from the past.

Why was the Viale so important? At night it was a sea of sex and debauchery, a showcase where a every variety of sex workers, each with specialties of their own, station themselves at various corners awaiting their clients, curiosity seekers and as you might expect, nasty cat calls. I’m embarrassed to admit being in the back seat of an old Lancia with a group of Italian students who one night stopped at every corner and asked the puttanas if they would provide anal sex (ti voglio fotteri in culo?), to which the whores would yell back, “You fagots, go fuck your mothers.”

Of course if you wanted anal sex, the transsexuals were happy to accommodate in their apartments or your hotel room, although they mostly sucked cock for a modest fee on a darkened corner in your parked car. Be prepared, they always asked for a “fassoleto” (handkerchief) to spit the cum into.

Bologna was famous for a night life filled with “Busoni or Finocchio (Gays)”, “Puttanas (Whores)” and “Transessuale (Transsexuals).” Prostitution, though not a respected occupation, was quite legal and accepted by the populous as the way sexual deviates earned money. However, it was not unheard of for a street worker to save up enough to buy a bar or small restaurant. Even the great Julius Cesar supposedly started as a towel boy in the bathhouse where sex was gay sex was no secret. Men were meant for pleasure and woman for reproduction. The police only interceded on the Viale to break up catfights or to defend the code of decency, as when a Puttana went topless, something those of us who drove by were always looking for.

At that period of my sexual infancy, my own sexual education had consisted mostly of missionary style mountings of a young college cheerleader in the back seat of my Uncle’s Chevy on frozen nights on the back streets of the American Midwest. The wide variety of sexual coupling going on here in Bologna was unknown to me until I arrived here in the City of Red Earth, as the Bolognese liked to refer to their city.

Let me return to the subject of this story, Franca. I had seen Franca several times working our busy street corner but also in the corner café. I tried my luck at befriending her one night by offering her a coffee. For some unknown reason I found her very attractive and quite sexy. It was a cool misty night ankarakazan.com when the fog was pea soup thick; you could hardly see ten feet in front of you. Certain times of year the warm Mediterranean air would push into the colder continental shelf and every thing would be shrouded in this dense fog.

“Ti posso offrire un café Signorina?”

Franca smiled quite charmingly and to my delight accepted my invitation. She entered the café, her hair glistening from the condensation of the fog, opened her tan raincoat, folded it in two and laid it over a chair, seating herself at the little round table next to mine.

“Tell the Barista what you like,” I suggested.

She ordered a double espresso restretta, which meant two shots of strong Italian coffee with very little water and she asked the barista to pour a shot of grappa in as well. Grappa, a alcohol made from the stems and seeds of grapes, a byproduct of the grape harvest, is an acquired taste but mixed with coffee and sugar it is very palatable and warms you up. She sipped the cup and asked if I had a cigarette, I didn’t smoke, but before I could answer, an older guy materialized from out of nowhere and placed a cigarette in her mouth and lit it for her.

“Garcia Giorgio,” she said. I became aware of how feminine her voice was, and there was a slight huskiness like a Loren Bacall.

Looking at me through heavy false eyelashes and artful mascara, she said, “Francese?”

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

“Well,” she laughed, flicking an ash on the coffee cup’s saucer, “We’re going to Paris this weekend.”

“Oh that should be nice.”

“I’m going with my girl friend to get our tits done. No one does it like the French doctors.”

“Oh, you must show them to me when you return.”

“Oh non ti preoccupa (don’t you worry), I most certainly will.”

We continued to chat; I recommended an old and inexpensive hotel in Paris off the Rue de Carnot called the “Electric Hotel,”

I imagined it was probably one of the first hotels to be served by electricity.

“Thank you,” she replied, but we already are booked in a five star hotel.”

That certainly put me in my place. When a Carabinari (a policeman in stylish 19th century costume) pushed opened the café door moments later, she bid me goodbye and disappeared into the night before the door could close.

About a month later, I was sitting again in the corner café, when in walked Franca with a fabulous pair of tits jutting out of her low cut red blouse. She wore a gold metallic mini and long knee length red patent leather high-heeled boots. The weather had turned cooler so she wore a mid-length stiff red leather jacket with a wide collar.

“Ciao Caro (dear),” she whispered, although I’m sure everyone in the place heard her, I smiled and she sat down in the empty seat to my left. Once again that sexy voice excited me.

“How are you Dottore?”

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

“Male,” I said, (badly.) This is the year of the scopero (strike), every one is on strike. We can’t even get into the University to take our exams. First the bidellos (janitors) were on strike, now the Chinese students are occupying several of the buildings where my exams were supposed to be taking place.”

“Don’t worry Caro, la vita passa in fretta (Time is on your side/ life passes quickly)”

“So how was your trip to Paris? I see you did not come back empty handed or should I say empty chested.”

She moved closer to me, “Here,” taking my hand, “feel my seni (tits), aren’t they life like.”

As I reached to caress her pink skin my cock made a tent pole in my pants.

“Oh, you like them,” she said, noticing immediately the effect she had on me.

“I’m not working to night why don’t you invite me 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, just before the twin towers. An Eastwood Western was playing. I generally went to the art cinema that was sponsored by the city and screened classic Italian films, but what the hell, if she liked westerns so be it. I bought two tickets and in we went just in time to see the pre-show commercials which featured a sexy redhead quaffing a bottle of Coca-cola with the bottle so deep in her mouth, her eyes opening so wide, that everyone in the place knew she was imitating a blow job on the bottle. Fellatio was a Bolognese specialty known as the “Bochino. (in dialect),” a practice that Bolognese women prided themselves as being expert. Mothers were sure to teach their daughters every nuance. The crowd had come to life with the Coke ad and amid smiles and shouts from all around, we sat down. The lights were still on, and Franca studied the crowd with an intensity that a woman would never have mustered. Women would have averted their eyes, but not a prostitute; she could have stared down the entire theater. At the same time I realized half the theater was staring at us, which meant me. They all knew by her makeup and outfit that she was a transsexual prostitute and whether it was curiosity or distain, they held us in their glance until the lights went off and the cinema news boomed on.

The events of the world unfolded before our eyes; political happening in Rome, the Papa going to God knows where, a few rounds of a boxing match with Nino Benvenuti, the Italian champ and then it was on to the blood and guts western. Eastwood shot everyone in the dusty town except for the undertaker who took away the dead bodies in a wheel barrel. This lasted about an hour and thirty-five minutes and then it was over.

“Let me show you my apartment,” said Franca, as we rushed to get out ahead of the crowd, “it’s not far from here.”

“I didn’t bring any big money with me,” I said, “I’m just a student.” I didn’t want her to think I was in a position to pay for her services.

She smiled, “I’ll pay you instead,” she quipped taking me by surprise.

Franca was tall for an Italian, about 5’10 in her stocking feet. She had rounded shoulders and the whitest alabaster skin with pink cheeks. Her thighs were plump but her legs were long. We walked another mile or more arriving at an ancient building. I followed her into the courtyard where she took off her high-heeled boots in order to climb the stairs,

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

I followed her up the narrow staircase that rounded every story until we reached the fourth floor of what must have been a construction of the 1600’s. Of course with her short mini skirt I had a refreshing view of her intimate parts as she climbed in front of me. She had lovely graceful long legs, a heart shaped ass and transparent pink panties you could see right through. Since she was in front of me the view was surprisingly feminine.

“It is a bit of a trek to get up here but with the rent control it costs very little to live here,” she said, when we got to the top, “and it’s right in Centro Citta'”.

She was carrying her high-heeled boots in her hands and wearing heavy mesh stockings; one of her toes had partially broken through the fabric. I reached out to steady myself and found her tits in my hands quite by accident.

“Don’t be in rush sweetie.”

“Oh I’m sorry, I’m a little light headed after the trek up here, that’s all.”

“Piccinino,” She threw her arms around me, “Do you feel better now, sweetie.”

“I rested in her warm embrace, my head on her shoulder, her ear was right next to my lips, as the dizziness passed I started to chew on her ear lobe.

“Oh, so now you are feeling better? Let’s get inside.”

She pulled a skeleton key on out of her blouse; it was on a chain around her neck, she unlatched the door and with a push of her hip the heavy door flung open. The place smelled like an Italian restaurant.

“So you cook here.”

” No, that’s the smell of 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 had entered into what would have been a living room but there was a bed in the middle, and a door to what must have been the bathroom and an 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 that staircase to get up here. If you come up her a few times a day you don’t have to exercise.”

“You get used to it. Anyway come in, take off your coat, have a seat.”

She turned on the Filofusione, canned music that came out of a sleek aluminum box connected to the telephone line. There were five different types of music and no commercials. We sat there listening; I recognized some of the tunes were American pop songs being sung in Italian. Then Johnny Morandi came on crooning a love song. I looked into her eyes and something unexpected happened, she leaned forward and kissed me, taking a moment to gently chew on my lower lip.

“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.”

She unbuttoned her blouse, she was wearing no bra, and 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. They don’t cut a slit under the tit like do here in Italy. They put the implant in at the nipple and then inflate it. Well, that’s probably more than you really want to know, but they are beautiful aren’t they.”

“Yes,” I had to agree, they were amazing.

She undressed me while still wearing her mini, in moments I was completely nude, she leaned in kissing my penis,

“Oh che bello, la tua cazzo,” she noted and took my cock into her mouth to gently suck the tip. Then she slowly advanced until the whole erection, all seven inches of it, were down her throat, and then with agility I’d never even imagined, her tongue swooped out and begin licking my balls. My heavy breathing must have indicated I was not far from cuming, so she slowed and released me from her lips, her saliva and the cool air of the apartment broke my concentration and my erection became tumescent.

“Rest my darling,” she stood up along side the bed and unhooked her mini skirt that she threw over the bed post, then she lifted off her long red hair, that startled me, it was a wig, and she rested it on the other bed post.

“You look surprised,” she said. “All of us wear wigs, it is looks more feminine then trying to grow your hair long.”

She looked more boyish without her sexy hair but her tits kept her in the feminine arena. She had a little bit of a belly under the tits and her ass was curved like a woman, like a large pear.

“Come, you fuck me now,” she got onto all fours on the bed and slapped her ass with her hand, took my hand and told me to slap her ass as well. I stood there next to the bed afraid to hurt her, but the pain was what she was looking for.

“When you make my ass red it makes the fucking so much better.”

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

“Come, come inside me now,” I knelt onto the bed behind her in doggy style and rubbed my cock against her ass without knowing where to put it when her hand came back, grabbed my cock and placed me into her and as I gently pushed forward it felt just like a woman’s pussy but without the slightly gritty texture, it was smooth and tight, it opened 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 bare and after several minutes I began to moan and it was obvious, I was cuming.

“Stay inside awhile, till your cock gets small.”

I did as I was told, at a certain point as I pulled out she caught my dick in what must have been a soft damp washcloth and wiped me clean. I was relaxed and relieved until she sat on my chest pinning me on the bed. She placed a small pillow under my head and her own cock, at first looking small and dimpled approached and sensing I should please her, my mouth opened and she lost not a moment before the entire cock was in my mouth.

“Suck me caro, suck me,” she whispered.

Pinned to the bed I had little choice but I figured what is fair is fair and I tasted her cock, a little salty and at first a little bit of stale urine taste, but that seemed to dissolve and as I got into the rhythm, her cock swelled and she rocked back and forth for the longest time, even entering my throat.

She suddenly dismounted and said, “it’s hard for me to cum this way, come into the bathroom,” she led me to the shower stall and instead of washing me she squirted the cold water onto my cock, then there was a tremendously loud “va vroom” as the tankless water heater ignited and hot water shot all over my waist, she swiveled the lever and the warm water shot out of second tube, she washed my cock and then she quickly washed my butt hole and then inserted the spray right into my rectum. In minutes the rush of warm water relaxed me and cleansed me, she swept the un-pleasantries down the large open drain and soaped up my feet.

When she turned off the water I began to shiver, she wrapped me in two soft towels rubbed me down and brought me back into the bedroom. A few moments later the shivering stopped, the gas heater started to glow and she massaged me under her covers, fingering my butt hole.

“Di, go on your belly.”

I rolled over, her finger kept rubbing my ass hole and she introduced some oil,

“Guardi, this is silicon oil, the newest thing in Paris, I used to use Virgin Olive oil but this is much better.”

“But I’m a virgin.”

She laughed, “Credimi. This is better and easy to wash out.”

She rolled back the blanket and although I was flat on my belly she mounted me in a sitting position, and something firm pressed against my buttocks, “relax, don’t resist,” and little by little she had gotten what I later saw was a good 8 inches of a slender uncut Italian cock, all the way inside me. She stayed motionless as she stretched my anus to accommodated her cock, although I was able to bare up to take it, my ass hole felt on fire.

“It burns, Franca,” I whimpered.

“It’s ok if it burns, just relax, I’ll put some more oil.” And with the adjunct of more of this wonder fluid, the pain subsided and I must say what I expected was going to be an uncomfortable moment was becoming more agreeable and I began to enjoy her cock, her tight balls that drummed on my balls, the smacking wack of her belly against my ass and as I reached back to caress her I realized my hands were bound by tight leather straps and I was helpless to resist even though I welcomed every thrust.

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