RANSVESTIA

For what must have been a full two or three seconds I'd been unable to speak. It was too incredible. Then, when the words had come, I spit them at her. "What is this? I'm no faggot!"

"My dear boy," she'd hissed, "WOMB is exclusively a female radio station. From the janitor right up to me. All girls. Only now and then we do have a boy like you come flitting in Donnie Doll

"Why you perverted freak," I'd yelled, "I wouldn't work in this dump. if it was the last radio station on the face of the earth.”

"See us when you get back from Denmark, sugar," she'd squealed as I turned around, "I'm sure nature has made a mistake we could correct here at WOMB." As the words had rained in my ears laughter filled the room from a large public address set-up. I'd looked in through a glass paneled control-room to see two of Sylvia's trained felines laughing their beautiful heads off as I bolted for the door. Their squeals carried out through the long corridor, and followed me clear outside.

Only the sudden sting from the butt pinched in my clenched fist brought my mind back from the insanity of that first and last encounter with Sylvia Stern. I sat up, realizing that I was about to gain my final revenge. It was now growing much darker. The red lights of the WOMB tower were more brilliant in their sensuous climb up the tall tower. The night girl would be pulling in any minute in her jazzy little sports car.

Maybe she would be one of the two in the control-room that first day. I began to go over it again. My real mistake had been running out of there. The average guy would have just let Sylvia have her fun.

But was I an average guy?

The thing a man hates most is to be called a sissy. And worse than that even, a queer. And Sylvia had hinted at all of it. She had some strange hold over me, some edge, some way of sensing fears and memories I had long since forced out of my mind.

Only during the last month those fears and memories had been coming back in pieces during the long hours at the turn-table, and in bits during the fitful nights in my flea-bitten apartment. But I could never fully piece the bits and pieces together.

There would be a dream centered in Jamaica Plains, my old home place. And there would be the faces of the mean Harris brothers. But the