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Photo: Chad Kirkland
“Once, when I was
on Jerry Springer ...”
I love starting sentences like that—it always gets
people’s attention, but alas, it’s true. When I was 29,
some friends of mine had made up a tawdry story
about a fucked-up love triangle and pitched it to the
show. It was good enough to get us on a whirlwind
trip to Chi-town where it was filmed, and, let me tell
you, it was as unglamorous as you would probably
imagine. The show, titled “He-She Love Confessions,”
is an experience that I would love to forget, but have
simply had to find the humor in—like laughing off the
fact the interns robbed us while we were on stage.
Yeah, it was that sketchy.
HE-SHE
LOVE CONFESSIONS
By Princess Kennedy theprincesskennedy@yahoo.com
“Helen Keller you ain’t!” Princess Kennedy’s the
classiest broad on daytime television.
The storyline we pitched for the show was that I was
involved with two other trannies, cheating on one
with the other. Apparently, the story wasn’t spicy
enough for the JS Show, ‘cause they called me and
asked if I could possibly find a boyfriend that didn’t
know I was really a guy —hilarious. So I drummed up
a boyfriend, a coworker of mine, and to this day, I’m
still making it up to him.
I actually get a lot of questions from people about
this subject, questions like, “Have you ever been with
a guy that didn’t know you weren’t a girl?” Since I
don’t date within the Helen Keller community, the
answer is “Fuck no! Do you think I’m some sort of
idiot with a death wish?”
I have talked about my habits and rituals in columns
past, so I think just about everyone knows that I date,
but I have never really explained the sub-culture that
is my dating pool. No, I don’t date in the gay scene—
I’m not into gay boys, nor are fags into chicks with
dicks (something to do with the chick part). Readers,
I give you the “Tranny Chaser.”
There are about 100 different levels of tranniness,
which also rings true with the chaser. There is the
guy that is full-on homo, but feels he needs to make
a stop at the tranny shack before gay town. There
is the unfortunate fly that gets tangled into a web
of a party (I have a saying that goes, “The only
difference between me and a girl to a guy is a shot
of Jäger and a bump of coke” and, believe me, I’ve
tested this theory. It’s true). Then there are the normal,
everyday guys who have a hankerin’ for a girl who
has something extra. I’m constantly amazed at the
guys who approach me to go out —boys you know.
No worries gentlemen, this is not an outing session,
so relax.
The one thing that both works for and hinders my
dating life is the fact that I’m so well known around
town. I’m out and about all the time, so I’m accessible,
and I never have to talk about who or what I am to
people because, well, you’re reading about it right
now. I’ve taken this for granted.
About six months ago, I received a message on
Facebook from a really cute guy telling me he
thought I was pretty. I didn’t really think much of it,
except for being flattered, and that was that. Flash
forward to a month ago when I commented on his
intense back tattoo and we started chatting, a lot.
We got to know each other through 20 Questions
Facebook messaging, which turned into an exchange
of numbers, and a whole lot of texting ensued.
I really liked this guy. He was really sweet, really
good looking, taller than me (not a requirement),
had a super great body—cage fighter, yum—funny
and not a total dumbass (but enough that I thought it
endearing). Finally, the moment came when he asked
me out on a date. I don’t actually get asked out on
dates much. Guys are too pussy to ask me out for
various bullshit, I-would-never-say-yes reasons, so I
was all excited. We decided to meet somewhere for
dinner, then go from there.
I made sure I looked really cute in my favorite
white jean mini (featuring leg), H&M tank and new
Converse gladiator sandals. As I stood outside Eva,
my stomach was totally in knots as he walked up. My
nervous excitement turned to terror as I saw the look
on his face as he got closer.
“No fucking way!” I said to him as he awkwardly
approached. “Tell me honestly you didn’t know I was
a tranny!” Yep, my—and his—worst nightmare was
unfolding before us. Two very important fuck-ups: 1.
We had never talked on the phone. 2. He had never
looked at anything on my FB except for my bikini
shots—Photoshopped, duh!
Quite contrary to what you are thinking now, Mr.
UFC was very cool and insisted that we keep the date
as scheduled, since he was just as much to blame. He
was really sweet, which fucking sucks, and I spent
the night answering questions about myself, which
could have been avoided if he ever picked up an
issue of SLUG. I have to say, though: Mr. UFC, if you
are reading this, everyone could take a lesson from
your openness and understanding, but I’m calling
bullshit. Whether you chickened out, or wanted a
funny story or whatever the deal was, as far as I
could tell, Helen Keller you ain’t!
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