Ever imagined Daniel Craig’s Bond as a tranny tart being shagged by savage Russian spies? Would his taut, steely buns eagerly part to allow a foreign invasion? Aside from one sexy but cryptic reference in Skyfall, any notion of an out, gay Bond is still seen, inexplicably, as box-office poison. Still, don’t despair. As Clive Barker’s Pinhead whispered in Hellraiser, ‘We have such sights to show you’, and the exploits of real, gay spies in stockings would shock John Waters!
Let’s begin with possibly, the most puke-tastic sight imaginable; FBI director J.Edgar Hoover, a ferociously-closeted, self-loathing gay man, in full 1950s, cocktail dress drag. Christ, picturing Hoover’s preparation alone is sheer, mental torture; never attractive, with a face like a slaughtered goat, he slowly squeezed his gut into protesting pantyhose. Then – mincing at cocktail parties in pearls, slingbacks and bursting-at-the-seams Christian Dior – he’d casually sanction witch-hunts for other gay men with jaw-dropping, schizophrenic hypocrisy.
A complete cunt? Frankly, no venom imaginable can shoulder the contempt this scum-bag deserved! But – even quivering with fully-justified anger – let’s pull back, then viciously shove a deep, anal probe into the twisted, psychic butt-hole that spawns flaming, transvestite spies!
Me, I blame make-believe. As kids, we love dressing up, and many gay trannies never lose that fierce, ejaculatory, pantyhose rush. I mean, come on – what high can possibly beat impersonating your favourite Hollywood hag – or even Beyoncé – and doing it better? Still fiercely broadcasting male, come-fuck-me signals, devastating drag queens turn massed, bi-curious heads that real women never could!
How come? Because drag queens don’t come with whiny emotional, financial or child-bearing baggage – they’re just a raw, fiercely distilled quintessence of female glamour! Screw simple performance, it’s actually becoming living art! And it’s that sense of living large, of playing and getting away with sexually deceptive games, which paves the Rocky Horror road to transvestite espionage.
Arguably, that fabulously warped tradition began with France’s Chevalier d’Eon, who inspired the original, clinical name for transvestitism – Eonism. Christ, no wonder it died unmourned, but inexplicably, d’Eon – a frumpy dog at best – lived and served as a female spy for 33 years. Still, he bewitched Empress Elizabeth of Russia, but spent his later life cash-strapped in Soho, fighting duels with dickheads betting on his true sex. Gee, what’s changed? Nothing much – no wonder I’m tempted to strangle provincial arseholes with my finest, silk stockings!
And on that note, let’s unveil the simply unbelievable, shockingly true story of gay tranny whore and fine-art thief Vikki de Lambray. Ex-public school – aren’t they all? – de Lambray was chubby, attractive and fully primed for mass, passive sodomy. Superbly chic, she’d be slowly driven through the West End in a hired Rolls-Royce, with a huge, back-window placard advertising her services.
No wonder she made a killing – and got killed. Never discreet, she stole a trick’s wallet and credit cards – one of many, naturally – but was formerly involved with MI6. Oh-er, missus! And furthermore, de Lambray – stupid bitch – had threatened to expose her high-profile and influential clients’ preferences to national newspapers.
Subsequently – in still highly disputed circumstances – de Lambray frantically called the cops, claiming intruders had broken in and forcibly shot her up with soon-fatal smack. Who knows? All that’s certain is that de Lambray’s body is still holding elegant, transvestite court in a morgue somewhere, but hey, let’s toast the outrageous tart. Any tranny with the balls to deliberately change her name to Rothschild, making that family beg her to change it back, makes Gaga look tame!
So who needs Hollywood spooks? Someday – hopefully soon – big screens will teem with sexually diverse spies. Truth, always, is far stranger than fiction!
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