Ladyboys at Babe Central

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Originally posted 2023-08-10 20:21:34.

There is nothing remarkable about meeting ladyboys here. Sex is on the agenda and ladyboys live for sex.

The area we live, in Balibago, is not a red-light zone; it’s a quiet – well except for the videoke ‘occasions’ – middle-class residential neighbourhood. Most people work outside the sex business, either locally or uptown in Angeles City. There are a few bar-girls who rent houses in the area but they don’t bring it home; that’s not the Filipino way. Here, they’re just ordinary girls with jobs, no matter what the demands of their professional lives might be. On their days off, they sit out in their yards, drink beers and chat with friends, just like women all over the Philippines.

Remember, the Phils is a modern matriarchy; inside the home space, women are in charge, no matter whether they be mothers or whores – and sometimes they are both. You could have a half-dozen bar girls living next door and think your neighbours were bank clerks – which might cause you some surprise, were you to encounter one dancing naked on a bar-top, delicately plucking thousand-peso notes out of beer-bottles with her moistened labia.

Babe Central
Gosh, fancy meeting you here!


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I’m in Cebuana in Kanto, Angeles City. Kanto is always interesting; it’s at the MacArthur Highway end of Walking Street. It’s usually well-populated with pretty women, both trans and natal. Many are available for adult entertainment.

This is not my purpose today, however. Using ATMs to transfer money from the UK or Europe costs roughly three times what a direct transfer for self-collection costs. Cebuana, nominally a chain of pawn-shops, is an authorised pick-up point.

I fill out my claim form with the amount and reference number and hand it to the cashier, saying ‘I’m senior’. One of the few advantages of being in my seventh decade is that I get some perks in the Phils and one is not having to wait in line. Well, at least, not for so long.

I take a seat and look around. There’s a pretty young woman chatting to her not-so-pretty friend to my left and on my right is a mixed crowd. Everyone is Filipino. I settle in to watch the Cebuana brain-wash screen while I wait for my claim to be processed. It usually takes around ten minutes, longer when it’s busy.



Then I see her. Tall, willowy, that incredible tan skin. Pink top and, of course, microscopic cut-offs showing about thirty-eight inches of pure leg. Her hair is long and fine and she’s wearing it down. She bends over the shelf where one completes the claim forms, delicately brushing the hair from her face. Her bottom is slim and well-shaped, no silicone in there. Because she is so tall, she is obliged to adopt a sexually suggestive pose to write out the form, as the shelf is placed to accommodate Filipinas a good foot and more shorter than she. It is exciting.

As she turns towards the cashier, I see her face. She’s not the prettiest ladyboy I’ve ever seen, but given her height – she’s taller than I am and I’m six foot – her features are extremely delicate and fine. She’s young, too, early twenties. With more years on hormones, she’ll mature well.

This fineness is carried through her body; her upper torso is slender and light, her waist is slim and then she has those hips…oh, those ladyboy hips. And then the legs begin and never seem to stop.

babe central


I smile as my eyes come to rest on her feet. She’s not wearing slippers (flip-flops) but instead a pair of white galoshes known as ‘Crocs.’ They seem somehow out of character, then I realise: she likely has feet larger than size 12, which makes finding footwear in the Phils a trial, as my friend Andie always tells me. The galoshes might just be all she can find that fit and are comfortable.

There’s definitely a market in the Phils, for extra large women’s shoes. I mean there are just so many transwomen here and most of them have those feet.

My name – ‘Sir Roderick’ – is called. I can never quite get over the instant inflation of my social rank that Filipinos apply just by being polite; I long ago stopped trying to correct them, saying that ‘Sir,’ as a prefix, is only applied to Knights of His Majesty’s sceptred realm. Now I just smile and bask in the radiance of the cashier’s grin. She’s a pretty girl and we kind of know each other because I come to this place so regularly – I don’t like keeping large amounts of cash in the house – and she flirts.


I count my blue thousand-peso bills and sort them into their pockets – rent, household, fun – and turn towards the door. Legs has taken a seat near to it and is displaying the kind of limbs that only a tall ladyboy has – and she’s flashing the skin the way only a ladyboy can. Or maybe that’s me. I have discussed this often, with other men who have tasted this passionate fruit and they all describe the same things – the quickening pulse, the sharpening breath, the gentle but insistent pressure down below, just at the mere sight of a ladyboy.

The girl’s arms are a match for her legs, long, so smooth and fine. Although I don’t try to, I mentally circle her wrist between finger and thumb and I know that it would pass easily. She reminds me of a filly, a young horse; all legs and prettiness. It’s not an image one forgets.

As we pass, our eyes meet. Is there a flash of communication? Maybe. Ladyboys can be inscrutable with Western men, especially here. If she’s not a prostitute, she might be embarrassed to be taken for one. It’s of no matter, as I have my own tiny bundle of ladyboy insanity waiting at home, so I just nod to her and step out into the parking space outside, where my trusty steed, my Motorstar scooter, silently awaits.


Clearly, it’s one of those days. The highway is jammed; I forgot it’s schools-out time and there are three on the way home. Fleets of tricycles, not to mention the swarms of huge SUVs belonging to mums, are crowding the highway. I hang a left into a side-street, using a rat-run I know that will avoid most of the traffic.

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I haven’t gone but fifty yards, leaving the metal chaos and cacophony behind, when they glide into view. Four of them, walking abreast. They’re all wearing the ladyboy fatigues – t-shirts and cut-off shorts, slippers on their feet. They all have long black hair and even longer brown legs. They make quite the sight. They’re all, I’d guess, around twenty, though the hormones make it hard to tell; the smallest is maybe five foot four and the tallest five foot seven or eight. They’re taking up as much room as a car. The tallest – and, by happenstance, the prettiest – is walking at the end of the line and her eyes catch mine as I slow the scooter; I have to, there’s a vehicle coming the other way.

This one’s not demure like the leggy one in Cebuana. She’s not in a contained space where she has to watch her behaviour, she’s out on the street. Her hot black eyes say it all: Do you want to fuck me? I’m here.

A younger me might have taken her up on it, too. The intent was clear, the soft lick of those luscious lips, the caress of tongue on them – signalling what exactly she could do to parts of my body normally hidden from view. She juts her hip, just enough so she knows I’ll notice, as I accelerate past her. I sigh. There is no doubt that underneath her few and skimpy clothes, there lay a heaven, a perfumed garden of physical pleasure. But, I remind myself, I am taken.

Babe Central.

I call the local convenience store Babe Central. That’s only partly because of Mary-Jane, Diane, Lalaine and Mary-Louise, but four of the gorgeous young women who work there. I swear the owner has some taste in girls. No, it’s also because this is a magnet for the other type of desirable babe.

Babe Central

I usually wander up there once or twice a day. It’s a stretch of the legs and it lets me exercise Pikachu, Sam’s dog. I have to admit though, that’s an excuse. Just the talent employed in the shop is attraction enough. And, mark you, this is a corner shop, not a go-go bar and these girls are not prostitutes; they’d be horrified to be thought so. It’s just a fact of daily life here: the women are gorgeous. And more than that, they’re nice. They like to chat and flirt with men, especially older men. One of them, Diane, has already let me know that she is interested.

So often I am reminded, here, of passages from Jerome K Jerome’s books, Three Men in a Boat and Three Men on the Bummel. They describe a sweeter, kinder life, when women were treated with respect as women and girls were for flirting with and being pretty. They became women when they became mothers and in that moment their status was elevated. They became authority figures, the nuclei around which families, indeed, whole clans, revolved. The West has lost its innocence, its charm and really, its value, in succumbing to the pestilence of feminism, which at once deprived women of their status and made them the mere equals of men. No longer were they on pedestals, for men to dash themselves at the feet of; now they were to be men themselves and all men had to become homosexual, or at least, to emasculate themselves, just to be with one of them.

These horrors are still held at bay in southeast Asia, as they are in most of the world. Western culture is an outlier and the ghastliness of Usican Cultural Marxism the outlier of an outlier. As long as there are real men and women here, freedom will persist.

Babe Central


Despite the enthusiasm of Mary-Jane, (tiny and passionate, with dark eyes and perfect heart-shaped face) Diane (dark and smouldering with flickering eyelashes and a turned-up nose), Lalaine (tall and fair-skinned, giggly and ridiculously easy to tease) and Mary-Louise (young and pretty, with a backside ‘like Jell-o on springs’) for flirtatious dalliance – or maybe they’re just being friendly, though Diane refused to speak to me for a week after she found out I was with Sam – despite all of that, the real attraction of Babe Central is the number of ladyboys one can spot there. Remember, I have to walk past two other shops to get to it; the attraction has to be significant.

Tonight, I have strolled up with Pikachu to get a couple of burgers, because neither Sam nor I feel like cooking and anyway, Diane makes great burgers.

On the way I pass two girls. I always pass, never walk behind, because I know that unsettles women, especially here, where street-lights are few and far between. So I cross to the other side of the street, make plenty of conversation with Pika and overtake them. But not before I notice that one has spectacular undercarriage.

As I leave the darkened residential street and cross to the pool of light outside the shops, I notice that the girls have followed me. How intriguing; it looks like they are heading for the same place.

Mary-Jane is cooking

It’s Mary-Jane on the cooking tonight; Diane is nowhere to be seen, but she’s pretty handy in the kitchen too, so I order two burgers and fries, for the princely sum of one hundred pesos (two dollars US). Mary-Jane makes small-talk and tells me about her kids and her husband, who is an agricultural worker. Her older child is four and her younger just a year; yet Mary-Jane sports the body of a glamour model, if a scaled-down one. Having kids young definitely seems to be less damaging.

My attention is not entirely on Mary-Jane, despite her remarkable beauty. With the other half of my face I notice that the girls I’d passed are at the general supplies counter, chatting to Lalaine and Mary-Louise. Except, now revealed in the glaring neon light, the one with the stunning legs is not actually a girl. She’s a ladyboy, and a cute one at that. Her legs are perfect, sweetly curved and perfectly muscled, leading up to that trim tight bottom, which she has somehow squeezed into her pants.

Given that Mary-Jane also has a magnificent set of stems, about the same length and hers are on full display too, I am at a loss as to where to look. I suppose, back in Europe, I would look at the ceiling, but this is Asia. Girls here get huffy if you ignore them. After all, they know how gorgeous they are. And anyway, it’s okay to look, here.

I catch only glimpses of this little delight’s face, because her back is turned to me. She has adopted a natural contrapposto, leaning on the counter with her weight on one perfect leg, the other bent, touching the ground only at the toe, so I can see the delicate slenderness of her foot. She’s tiny, like Mary-Jane and Sam; being under five foot tall is common for Filipinas. It doesn’t make them any less explosive.

What glimpses I can snatch, however, tell me that this girl is pretty and that she is young. Maybe eighteen, maybe twenty.

‘You want chili sauce, sir?’ Mary-Jane interrupts my meditation on the unknown ladyboy’s perfect legs, exquisitely slender hips and delightfully globular bottom. I collect myself. Goodness, I’m practically a married man and if we’re to talk about perfect legs, hips and bottoms, there’s all of that and more waiting in my house, probably getting impatient for her burger and fries.

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Another night, same place

This time I’m at Babe Central to buy ‘my usual’. Small (225ml) Tanduay Dark Rum, one litre Coke Zero and two bags of tube ice – total cost 114 pesos. I buy these at the general supplies counter.

Diane is making hot moody eyes at me again, leaning on her arms a little further along. She is still in a huff about Sam and not quite talking to me yet. She pouts; this girl definitely fancies me and she’s clearly a fiery little tigress too. Twenty years old and a man-eater already. So she turned her face away when I arrived and waited to be served. Instead, it’s Mary-Louise who’s serving me. Mary-Louise is pretty rather than beautiful but she ain’t at all bad and she has a killer body, that’s for sure. She’s not fat but her bottom seems possessed of a mind of its own, wriggling around in her pants with every step she takes. It’s mesmerising.

I frequently have a reverie of bringing my unattached (and very handsome) sons here and letting the girls fight over them. It might be entertaining.

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Wiggling and jiggling

As Mary-Louise heads off for the Coke Zero (wiggle, jiggle, wiggle, jiggle), I become aware of a presence at my side. I glance round and there’s what looks like a boy there, about fourteen, stunningly beautiful and obviously gay. He has lovely eyes. Next to him is a girl around the same age.

The girl is cute rather than beautiful; in fact her companion, who has short hair, is much more lovely and, with long hair like hers, would be stunning. The boy’s dress is that unisex attire that short-hair ‘gays’ and ‘bisexuals’ here adopt whenever they can – in other words, as tight and revealing as a girl’s. I’d hazard that in a few years he’ll have his hair grown out, be taking hormones and have metamorphosed into the transsexual butterfly that lies inside the cocoon of every gay boy.

He – well, she is actually better – looks up to me, catching mine with a pair of deep dark eyes. ‘Hello, sir,’ she says, sweetly. There is no doubt about what she means, or what her unspoken suggestion might be. I want a man, sir; do you want me? Sir? The hot, passionate, dark orbs of her eyes gaze into mine with complete insouciance. She knows what being with a man is, even if she’s still a virgin, less likely than you might think. She already understands sex; she has smelled the heavy, foetid air of the dark chthonic swamp that is the flesh, has immersed herself in its amniotic fluid, even if only in fantasy. She understands sweat, sperm, the little death of orgasm; perhaps she even knows the exquisite yin-yang pleasure/pain of being fucked; and if she does not, yet, then every moment that passes until she does, is a moment wasted, a torture.

Babe Central
This is exactly what boys dream of…and some dream of being…

Anyone who thinks boys of thirteen or fourteen are not sexual beings is more stupid than words can describe. It would take a braindead feminist to think so. Even the religionards of the 19th and 20th centuries understood that boys are sexually driven; that is why they introduced the obscenity of circumcision on boy babies in the USA — to stop them masturbating. Parents were adjured to make their boy children sleep with their hands outside the bedclothes and all manner of curses and admonitions heaped on the heads of the tempted — they would go blind, they would turn gay, they would go mad, the palms of their hands would become hairy, they would die. And all that in vain, because every man knows that as soon as puberty hits, life for a boy becomes a permanent tightrope between excruciating sexual tension and release. It really does take the mind of a woman, obsessed with control over sex and power over men, to imagine that a fourteen year old boy is ‘innocent’. It’s a mighty joke, that one. Every opportunity he gets, he’s choking the monkey – either his own or someone else’s.

I don’t care if I do die, do die,
Just let the juice fly, juice fly.

The body and mind of a boy like that is a boiling broth of testosterone-fuelled fantasy. Sex is at his every turn, from masturbation with his friends, to experimenting with oral sex and penetration.

The fact is, by the way, that attending a co-educational school is a torture for a boy and they should be banned immediately. How could anyone expect a pubertal boy to study, when surrounded by the very sexual beings that most excite him? When cute little white socks and plaid skirts, not to mention the smooth thigh skin between, almost scream at him, every day? The only time he’s safe is when he’s with other boys and you know why? Because only with other boys can he discover sex without the risk of emotion or of being shamed — and without getting a girl pregnant. Bring back single-sex education, I say, and quickly, for the sake of boys.


Back at Babe Central.

I am in limbo, caught in this boy’s gaze like a moth in the flame. Looking out through his eyes is a girl, we both know that. We both know what that girl wants, too.

I’ve seen that hunger before, in the eyes of a ladyboy, admittedly older than this one. ‘Can you fuck me?’ with the emphasis all on the verb. ‘You want sex?’ head nodding in the affirmative. ‘I only date men who can fuck me; I don’t like to fuck a guy.’ Or, ‘I’ll date you if you promise you’ll fuck me.’ what about, ‘I can’t live without your cock,’ or again, ‘Yours is my dream cock; I finger myself thinking about it inside me.’

All of these and more have been said to me from the mouths of ladyboys so cute you’d think butter wouldn’t melt. Innocence my arse.

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This beautiful she-boy is no different, just as those girls were no different when they were her age. Sex is dick-shaped and they don’t care if it hurts. They are priestesses of the Goddess, perhaps, but they are certainly worshippers of the Dick Almighty. A ladyboy lives for the Moment of Truth: the instant when the anus relaxes and a man slides inside her body. The sheer sexuality that this engenders, the desire, the lust, the passion, is intoxicating not just for the girl, but for any man who has become the subject of her attentions. You have a choice: back off and run for cover or accept the challenge and fuck her.

Sex between a ladyboy and a man is not the same as sex between a woman and a man, simply because a ladyboy, in this definition, is pre-operative; she has no vagina. But all males have anuses and she is no exception.

Babe Central

Giving up the anus

When a ladyboy gives up her anus for sex, it is a moment of complete surrender. She makes the most private part of her body accessible to a man, opens it up, opens herself up to him, but it’s not to make babies: it’s for something else: completion. Sex for pleasure, pleasure alone, with no consequences, being penetrated; making real the woman. That is what anal sex is, for the recipient male; the absolute surrender of all control over one’s body, the complete submission to another. The boy is made girl.

This is why catamites in former eras, like Rome, were considered to have surrendered their masculinity. For a Roman, to be a man meant being masculine and being  masculine was to fuck; and to be unmasculine was to be fucked. Nobody in this condition could be a man, because his masculinity — any that had been present — was erased. They understood the nature of submission to the Dick Almighty. That this is the truth and remains so is something that many people in the West today, or at least in the pseudo-intellectual chatterati, have been denying since the 1960s.

Yet it remains as true today as it was to Nero, when he, without a second thought, married a slave-boy called Sporus who looked like the wife Nero himself had just murdered. To Nero, he was fucking, so he was man and Sporus received his lustful organ, so she was a woman.

books by rod fleming

(By the way, have you ever wondered, as Freud did, why, amongst homosexual males, mutual masturbation or oral sex are so popular? The answer is simple: only men penetrate and there are no men amongst homosexual males. They are all women, but their presentation, as faux-masculine, means that men won’t touch them, especially in a crackpot world where it is suggested that fucking a male makes a man ‘gay’. So they have to have lesbian relationships with other homosexual males.)

In this understanding, boys and girls, prior to puberty, are the same, sexually. But girls are special. Girls are of the Goddess, they are the future Mothers. Modern matriarchies revolve around motherhood, not fatherhood. Girls are protected, because they will become mothers, when they are ready; and at that point a man will be mated with them, to be their guardian, protector and husband.

In this structure, women control their fertility so that they can ensure that the largest number of their babies survive to adulthood. They control the age at which girls begin to have sex and how and with whom they have it.

books by rod fleming

Men are programmed to penetrate

But men are programmed, because they are male, to impregnate as many women as they can. In other primates, this can cause violence, social disruption and the death of infants. So humans evolved another strategy: men could have sex with boys too young to be masculinised or to have beards. This allowed men the sex they wanted and maintained peace and order. It was a highly successful system.

In Sparta, in Japan, in Islam, in cultures all over the world, boys were and are fucked by men. This happens because, until they are old enough to grow beards, boys are the same as girls, in sexual terms. It is the practice that determines the gender: the penetrator is a man and the penetrated is a girl. In other words, sex between a man and a boy, in such a culture, is heterosexual sex, because the boy has not yet become a man; and before being a man, he is a girl. Boys become men, through experience, through being taught by older men; and one thing they are taught to do is how to have sex – by being the anal recipients of sex.

(By the way, don’t be fooled by all that nonsense about ‘intercrural’ sex. That was put about by a homosexual who was trying to sanitise homosexuality to make it more acceptable to a homophobic society. Greek men fucked their boys all right, and the boys accepted it with enthusiasm.)

What really changed the boy into a man, of course, was not being fucked or the ingestion of semen, either orally or anally, but time and the action of the boy’s own male hormones. Willy-nilly, sooner or later, a boy becomes an adult male, and in the West, that is all that is currently required to be called a ‘man’. It is a club with a very low joining fee.

 Babe Central

This is as true of Ancient Sparta, Rome or Egypt as it is today: boys will turn into men.

But what if the boy does not want to become a man? What if that boy desires men and to be fucked by them, passionately longs for it, spends every waking moment thinking about it? Well, Sporus is exemplary. If you want to prevent a boy from becoming a man, you castrate him. It makes little difference whether it’s done with the knife or a cocktail of hormones. Get rid of or switch off his testes and the process stops in its tracks.

In Babe Central, this is what I am looking at when I look into the hungry eyes of this boy-girl whose name I do not know. I am looking at an individual who has no desire whatsoever to be a man, because she already knows that she is a girl. She knows that her aching desire to be fucked makes her a girl and she also knows that her body, if left to itself, will thwart her.

But here’s a thing: if that happens, the boy-girl can never, ever, have what s/he really wants: a strong, powerful, straight man. There is no ladyboy on the planet who wants a relationship with a homosexual man. In fact, they don’t regard them as men, at all. They see them as women who didn’t have the courage to do what they had to; and, of course, they are right.

books by rod fleming

Make me a woman


Ladyboys are the courageous ones; the ones who put aside any chance of ever being a man or of fitting in to society as one, even an ersatz one, but who, instead, grab the stallion of fortune’s mane and cry ‘No! Come hell or high water I WILL NOT become a man.’

And that all begins with one thing, one overwhelming desire, one burning need: to feel a cock inside her body. That is what this she-boy whom I have but met, do not even know the name of and in any case, is too young in this bluestocking age of feminist New Puritanism, in which it is pretended that boys do not have sexual needs — a scandalous lie that only a woman could suggest — is offering me, here and now: ‘Fuck me. Take me. Let me feel it. Enter my body. Make me a woman.’

The penis, it turns out, is indeed the wand of making. It can make a boy into a man, or it can make him into a woman. It all depends on context.

I am grateful to Mary-Louise, who returns with my supplies and change just in the nick of time. I mutter my goodnight, my mouth as dry as sawdust, and scurry out into the dark. Life in the Philippines can be so risky for a man.

books by rod fleming


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