Busted While Driving En Femme

By Ginger Collins

It was a beautiful, San Francisco, early evening, and I was enjoying it thoroughly as I drove my second-hand, 15-year-old, 911 Porsche from my apartment at the foot of Telegraph Hill near the Embarcadero to a club in the Polk St. “Gulch” that had been recommended to me. I don’t usually drive in heels, but on this occasion, I was dressed “to the nines,” and I didn’t want to bother dragging along a set of flats with me in the car. Besides, since I drive so infrequently in heels, it was different, and thus, fun.

Vanity is a curse, and every block or so, I would check my personal appearance in the rear-view mirror. I liked what I saw. My hairstyle, earrings, prescription glasses, and makeup were just right. I was especially pleased with my eyeliner. Sometimes, I don’t do it well. Tonight, though was a winner. I looked seductive and sexy, and not at all trashy. As for my lips, once again, the makeup gods must have guided my hand as I applied multiple, lustrous coats of a scarlet red, creamy texture from the tube labeled, “Jezebel.” The result was an impressive butterfly. Similarly, the powder, perfume, and soft caress of my carefully selected evening clothes made me feel ultra feminine. I was purring like a cat. So was my sports car’s 3,605cc engine with the Bosch Digital Motor Electronics system.

You can imagine my shock and surprise, then, when checking my appearance in the rear-view mirror for the umpteenth time, I saw the unmistakable flashing lights of a SFPD Black and White one-car length behind me. Uh-oh! It couldn’t be me, could it? I hadn’t been speeding or running red or caution lights. What followed next was the blast of his siren. It surely was me! I pulled over the first chance I got and came to a complete stop. Like a predatory creature, the B&W mimicked my movements. Blessedly, its siren was silenced. although its flashing lights continued their obscene, flicker-vertigo-inducing rotation. We, both, sat there for several minutes, I in my car, the police officer in his, as he no doubt ran my license plate through the system for ownership, theft, and any outstanding warrants. In the meantime, my anxiety meter was pegged.

Somewhere in a backroom of my brain I remembered the advice that when stopped by a police officer you should remain seated and keep your hands visible on the steering wheel. I did so at the traditional 10 and 2 o’clock positions, and prayed that everything would turn out alright. I looked straight ahead and tried my best to seem relaxed and casual, although I was anything but. My freshly lacquered, long, press-on nails glistened in the approaching darkness as I nervously flexed my fingers.

After what seemed like an eternity, the officer climbed out of his vehicle, walked slowly over to mine all the while assessing the situation, and leaned down to peer at me through my open window.

“Madam, do you know that your right taillight is inoperative?” he asked in a polite, neutral voice.

“No, I didn’t officer,” I somehow managed in my best “damsel in distress” response.

“May I see your license, please?” was his next question. Again, a neutral tone with no hint of hostility.

“Of course,” I replied as confidently as I could. The moment of truth had arrived. Fight or flee? Unfortunately, I couldn’t do either. With resignation, I settled into my seat and waited for the invariable humiliation. My long fingernails, which I am not used to, made it difficult to extract my license from my clutch purse, but after several stabs, I produced it.

“Madam, your license says ‘Mr. William Collins.’ That doesn’t match your appearance.” He paused. “Could you please show me secondary identification as well as your vehicle registration and insurance card? Also, would you kindly accompany me to my car? We need to sort this out, and don’t be alarmed. I’m sure that there is no problem.” He smiled genuinely, and my transgender antennae, which were on full alert expecting an imminent attack, went down several threat levels. For some inexplicable reason I trusted him.

He opened the car door for me and held it as I almost expertly executed a feminine egress from my car without embarrassing myself, but at the same time, flashing a touch of thigh highs clipped to a garter belt. Then I click-clacked back to his B&W while a slight breeze played with my hemline. Strangely enough, I was no longer scared.

He went through my documents slowly and with thoroughness. I could tell that this was one street-smart cop. Yet at the same time, there was neither belligerence nor disrespect regarding my obvious charade, namely, that I was a cross dresser; however, I felt that he was surreptitiously eyeing my dress and demeanor critically from head-to-toe. It was rather curious, but in my now relaxed state, I assumed that he had seen it all and that I was merely a minor pawn on a huge chessboard called “Life.”

Moments later, as he handed me back my documents, he said, “Everything is in order, Ms. Collins. I’m not going to ticket you, but please consider this as a Warning. You need to get that taillight fixed pronto. I recommend that you drive home immediately. Unless I get a call, I’ll follow you to ensure that you don’t get stopped again. Okay?”

“Yes, thank you, officer,” I replied as softly as my testosterone-laced voice would allow. “I am grateful for your courtesy. By the way, what is your name?”

“Officer Parish.” His voice was smooth and friendly. “Take care,” he said as he offered me his hand. I noticed that despite his firm handshake, he had long fingers with well-groomed nails. True to his word, he followed me home. Once there, he flashed his patrol car’s lights as I parked and was gone. A little part of me was sorry that I would probably never see him again. Sigh! Subsequently, I mixed a double scotch, slipped into a delicate peignoir, and clicked on Turner Classic Movies.

Fate must be the hunter, though, because six weeks later when I finally made it to the “tranny” bar I had earlier intended to go, I sensed a familiar presence take the seat next to me at the bar. We turned to look at each other with mutual admiration. I was once, again, “dressed to the nines.” This time in a pink embroidered jacket dress with matching dressy pumps with covered heel. I was feeling frisky and horny. My newly arrived companion was gorgeous. She was attired in a white, one-piece lace dress with a Sheer hat and embellished mesh pumps. Her makeup was impeccable. This lady knew style.

I proffered my hand and said, “I’m Ginger Collins. For some reason, you look familiar.”

She smiled warmly as she took my hand and replied, “I hope so. I’m Officer Parish. Did you get your taillight repaired?” Her voice was smooth and friendly, her fingers were long, and her nails were well groomed, and this time, polished as she seductively intoned, “Please call me, Bunny.”

And I did, long into the night and into the next day!