Candy And Jessica

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

Candy Cockstanding (Mrs) and (Mrs) Jessica Thruppenies were a couple of heavy boned, rough as fuck looking men who had somehow gotten away with posing as women for many years. They were pretenders, transsexuals or transvestites or trans-bloody-somethings, it was as obvious as the nose on your face, it was as clear as I don't know what to anyone who had seen them from closer than, say, forty yards away in a black painted gay Goths' dark room while wearing sunglasses or perhaps having their eyes munched out by a column of ravenous army ants or – well, I'm sure you get the picture. Unless, of course, you've just had your eyes munched out by a column of ravenous army ants or you can't bloody well read bleeding English. And I'm not saying that I've ever been in a black painted gay Goths' dark room, mind, not even for research purposes wearing double-locked concrete underpants, I'm just using my fertile imagination.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with men dressing as girlies or vice versa, of dear no. Lots of men secretly dress in their wife's/mother's/sister's more feminine clothing in their spare time and derive what you might call transgender or in some cases homoerotic pleasure from the strictly taboo yet thoroughly tantalizing act. I know I do. There's nothing wrong with that - look at Norman Bates, he liked dressing up as his mummified mother, and you couldn't have met a nicer young man. Well, not until he started hacking people to death with a bloody great carving knife, anyway. The first option is applicable in my case, by the way, not the last one, honestly, I'm not a funny feller. But even if I was, so bloody what? We're living in the twenty first century, for Christ's sake. It's the deception that I hate, its the thought of poor, stupid men who don't realise that they're sleeping with, and in some cases actually marrying spurious members of the opposite sex.....

The above statement, the bit about everyone knowing that Candy and Jessica were really blokes, and ugly ones at that, not the bit about the eye munching army ants or the bit about dressing up in suspenders, frilly knickers and a bra – ooh! - excepted Candy and Jessica's managing director of rival engineering companies 'husbands', of course.

In my humble opinion managing directors of engineering companies aren't known for having a fat lot going on upstairs, it's generally their overworked, underpaid minions that do all the technical stuff and scurry around like eye munching army ants keeping the business up and running. I'm biased, though, because I am such a thankless minion – and all the managing directors I've had to bow down to over the years are a trifle thick; they are in fact (and this is a well-substantiated scientific fact) slightly above slime moulds and slugs on the evolutionary scale - but Malcolm Cockstanding and Clive Thruppenies took the frigging biscuit.

The daft buggers didn't have a clue that they were married to ill-disguised blokes because they were completely ignorant of female anatomy (amongst a long list of other things). Cockstanding, the jumped-up little fuck, inherited the business from his father, and it was said that he was such a moron that he spent the first five years of his marriage trying to inseminate his 'wife's' belly button, but don't tell him I said so or he'll sack me. Oh dear, I've inadvertently revealed the fact that I work for Cockstanding Precision Parts And Pistons of Units 15 – 18 Hawksmoor Industrial Estate, Cannock, West Midlands. Oh bugger.....Because of their ignorance it never occurred to Cockstanding and Thruppenies to think of themselves as daft or as buggers despite the funny looks and poorly camouflaged giggles that their heavily made-up spouses attracted at their respective office Christmas parties when most of the staff were three quarters pissed – several heavily inebriated blabbermouths lost their jobs after those fiascos, I'm telling you.

“Buggers,” old Mr. Codswallop from down the road muttered under his breath whenever he passed number 16 and number 23 Acacia Avenue, Poshville, where both piss-poor female impersonators lived, on his way to or from the bookies to place a bet on the gee-gees or the newsagents for a packet of fags, especially when their fool 'husbands' were mowing their lawns, weeding their fancy flowerbeds, pruning their shop-bought bonsai trees, raking their Japanese fucking gravel beds carefully aligned according to the utterly bollocks principles of Feng Shui or washing their poncey top of the range Audis, vintage Jags or huge, petrol-guzzling Freelanders. “Dirty bloody buggers.....”

The callous, misunderstanding local populace avoided Candy Cockstanding (Mrs) and (Mrs) Jessica Thruppenies at all costs. In an attempt to overcome their desperate loneliness while their 'husbands' slept in their plush office suites for hours on end, ogled their pretty young secretaries, enjoyed ridiculously extended 'lunch breaks' down the pub entertaining business clients and knocking back endless gin and tonics (and, it was sometimes whispered, they hired firm-buttocked rent boys that they vigorously serviced in motels and public toilets) their 'wives' spent the bulk of their time not avoiding each other.

They didn't avoid each other in the hairdressers or the American nail parlour, the beauty salon or several expensive boutiques that they frequented; they didn't avoid each other in the jewellers or the greengrocers, the Waitrose delicatessen or the butchers and high class game dealer's, the bakers or the twenty two carat gold candlestick makers; they didn't avoid each other in Balloons, the puffy, criminally overpriced wine bar on the main road that was always overflowing with pointless human beings, or in Mothercare where they purchased clothes and other essentials (plus and awful lot of non essentials) for their spoiled adopted brats.

Both 'women' had chosen adoption because they had spent many thousands of pounds on failed IVU fertilisation treatment at the myopic Doctor Boggle's Paris Fertility Clinic, because enough was enough, their 'husbands' declared. And, I almost forgot to say, they didn't avoid each other on the corner of Acacia avenue, but they always parted before they entered their scrupulously well-kept homes. “It's only decent,” one or the other usually mumbled. “We're married 'women' and if we're not careful we'll have our nosy neighbours thinking we're bloody lesbians. Or something..... Maybe one day, when we really don't give a fuck any more, we can be a little more intimate, if you know what I mean.” Candy and Jessica weren't so uncouth as to take turns uttering those magical parting words.

Change, however, was on the horizon.

*************************

It was a warm but showery day towards the end of April, and through the front window of the American nail parlour owned by a Mrs. Serendipity (or something that sounded very much like serendipity) Patel on Higgledy-piggeldy lane Candy Cockstanding (Mrs) and (Mrs) Jessica Thruppenies were admiring the rainbow. “Marvellous, darling, nature in all its splendour and whatnot, isn't it?” Candy said, wearing a thick cappuccino moustache, though she carefully shaved her real one every morning without fail.

“It's delightful, my dear, I'm sure, but I'm afraid I'm too distraught to admire nature's splendours today.” Jessica replied in her comically high-pitched voice. “Candy, my love, do you mind awfully if I tell you something in confidence?”

“Not at all, ducks, just wait a moment until this young slip of a girl toddles off into the back room of the shop for something or other. What is it, precious, what's troubling you?”

“I, um, I can't say. Not here, anyhow, it's too public. That's Mrs. Thacker-Heinz over there, the ugly old bint with the hoss-chops and the inoperable squint – she's the heir to the internationally successful Thacker-Heinz bubble wrap empire; she's an awful gossip, she can hear a pin drop across a crowded ballroom, it's said, so don't say a word that you don't want broadcasting all over town. What do you say to popping round my place when we're finished here for a coffee and a chat? I'm in a dreadful tizzy, sweetie, and I'm past caring what the bloody neighbours think.”

“That would be a pleasure, Jessica, my precious. You'll be finished before me, I reckon, I'll put my mac on and keep my brolly up when I approach your house. Leave your gate open so that I can sneak round the back without raising too much attention, sparrow.”

“Lovely, darling, will do.”

*************************

“What is it, poppet, what's on your mind?” Candy said an hour or so later.

“It's Clive, my dear, I'm afraid the despicable bastard's having an affair,” Jessica replied, dabbing away a tear from the corner of one over made-up eye with a pink silk handkerchief as she handed her friend an antique china cup holding a steaming brew of freshly prepared Kopi Lewak coffee, which all the best people drink though it's made from coffee beans excreted by the Asian Palm Civet (Paradoxurus hermaphroditus, which says it all).

“Not again!”

“Yes, he's been acting strangely for weeks, but this time it's serious, and it's no cheap strumpet temporarily hogging his affections, I'm afraid. I don't know how to tell you this, Candy, but I've checked his phone on a number of occasions and to my horror he's been making an awful lot of calls to a Miss Denise La Phew, that awful, talentless female impersonator who's real name is Brian Reginald Pickles – he's a second cousin third removed of Danny La Rue, and he's riding on his relative's success. My Clive's been canoodling with a fucking man.....”

“Gosh, Jessica, that's absolutely disgusting! You must be completely devastated.”

“I am, and I don't know what to do.”

“Divorce the slimy, two-timing twat!”

“I can't, I really can't. I was penniless when I married Clive, you see, I was working in sodding Starbucks in Surbiton. Rather foolishly I agreed to sign a prenuptial agreement when he proposed to me - if I file for divorce I'll be out on my arse, I'll get sweet FA, and I simply can't go back to being an unwashed peasant.”

“You'll have to have him shot or run over or chopped up with a meat cleaver toes first, then. I'll do the dirty deed for you if you like, and I'll punch his fucking lights out before I grant him the sweet release of death; I haven't got 'hate and hate' tattooed on my knuckles for nowt, you know.”

“You would?”

“Yeah, no problem. I suggest you have an affair to to pay the fucker back somewhat before we finish him off nice and slowly and incomparably brutally. Pick someone he knows, and really rub it in - video every detail of the sperm-squirting sexual nitty-gritty and leave incriminating DVD's of you being shagged senseless from every conceivable position lying around. You can have a mess with me if you want, but don't think I'm forcing you or anything. I've always fancied you, Jessica.....There's nothing you could do that'd piss Clive off more than having an affair with another 'woman'. My balls – I mean my lady bits are throbbing in anticipation at the very thought of getting into your knickers.”

“Sounds good to me, Candy, my darling. My knob-end – I mean my lady bits are throbbing too. You wanna go upstairs, help me to set up the video camera and have a nice prolonged dabble, or fucking what?”

“I'll be up there in a flash as soon as I've powdered my co - chuff, you naughty little minx.”