“Two hot nuts,” Phyllis orders, “one cum, one clean.”
The scar over what’s left of her Adam’s apple shows on either side of her red leather choker adorned with a gold cock ring. The rest of her getup is more hockey mom than dominatrix. She wears her hair in that ridiculously outdated Farrah Fawcett do, and the pearl buttons on her pale-yellow cardigan are fastened to mid-sternum.
To be fair, Phyllis can’t decide what kind of woman she is. Back when she still had a dick and was going by Phillip, I hired her to bar-back on show nights, to move through the crowd with cases of beer above her head, to restock ice, cut fruit, all that jiz. Weighing in around 270 and something like 6’5”, I knew she was my go-to guy if a pack of diesel dykes got rowdy. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my twenty-five years owning this club, it’s that Phillip was nice to have around.
Sometimes I miss him, but I’ll never tell Phyllis. Some things you just do not say to a person. That you miss the part of her she’s always hated is a good example.