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She found me as an insecure fledgling bisexual crossdresser, wobbly in three inch heels, with bad wigs and makeup, and turned me into a (mostly) confident girl out to take the world on my terms, striding through life in six inch stilettos. She was my Henry Higgins, and I was her Eliza Doolittle. She was my Sidney Poitier, who took me from crayons to perfume. To her, with love. Me? I was her wing man (girl?), proud and grateful. I met her at the West Hollywood Pride Parade in 2009. Even after the parade was over and the streetlights illuminated the advancing night, the crowd was heavy, with all manner of homos milling about, the sexuality thick in the air. A band played in a parking lot and I headed there. I was supposed to meet up with a friend by the bandstand, so I waded in, trying to move forward. The closer I got, the denser the crowd became, until I found myself just another sardine in the rainbow tin of the moment.Wedged in, I looked for a way out, but fate had brought me to. “You ever going to go out with him?” he had to know, it was a stupid question. But Riley never said no to him so was she keeping her options open?Riley’s face saddened when he asked that. “No,” she murmured. She pushed up off the car and turned to open the door.“Ri, wait, please,” he grabbed her arm and let his hand slid down to her wrist before pulling her to him. She wouldn’t look at him, fuck she was still mad at him despite her making the squad.“I’m sorry, for earlier, I didn’t know what happened. I’m just so…confused and I snapped at you. Please forgive me,” he begged on the last part.Still nothing, he gently tipped her chin up, nothing. “Riley, look at me, please.”Finally she looked at him; he saw such sadness as he looked at her blue eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, he bent down and brushed his lips against hers.She kissed him gently; the feel of her lips against his was wonderful. They were so soft and warm. He felt her tongue shyly lick at his lips; he adjusted his head to.
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