Blacktress watches as her I-phone lights up and sings a digital blues riff.

“Hey Sam,” she says eagerly.

Her agent talks quickly as if Blacktress is a stenographer in need of a challenge.

“ Sotheywannaseeyouforthisthing. Saglowbuget.  Theroleof… Chantal.  A gorgeous pre-op tranny hooker.”

Is there even such a thing?  Blacktress wonders.

He goes on.

“The producer’s got a name.”

Blacktress rolls her eyes.  Don’t we all?

Sam powers on.

“They’vebeenlookingallover.  They’ve seen boys, girls, he/she’s, and shims.  Younameit.  Theycan’tfindit. Gogetit.”

Perhaps Blacktress should be insulted that out of all the roles auditioning in LA tomorrow, she’s been called in for one that more than hints at the boyishness of her slim hips and size eleven feet.  But instead,  she dives right in to crazy actor prep mode.

The day of the audition, Blacktress readies herself for a transformation.  First she piles on every shade of eyeshadow she owns.   She then digs into her secret drawer, which houses her diary, her vibrators, and the left over hair from every weave she’s had over the last eight years.  She wraps the scrap tracks around her bun creating a phony tail she nick names, “Tyquisha.”   Blacktress then squeezes herself in an outfit so embarrassingly revealing she has to cover up with a heavy trench coat in order to leave the house with her dignity.

As Blacktress steps out of her apartment building the midday, LA sun greets her with an unmerciful beam.  Its supposed to be fucking winter, she thinks. Three of her neighbors sit on the stoop out front.   Blacktress would rather roast like a Hebrew slave in her leather trench than reveal the broiling, tranny hooker beneath.  She smiles demurely in their direction and then darts to her car.

Thirty minutes later, Blacktress arrives at the casting office and almost immediately wonders what the hell she’s doing there.

I know I’ve got some big old feet but there’s no way anyone is gonna buy me as a full on dude, she thinks.

Blacktress peels away the trench, beneath which she’s been sweating buckets.  Well at least maybe I’ll smell like a man, she thinks.

Blacktress clears her throat in preparation to drop it a register and takes a seat between her competition:  two women double her size who appear to be either WNBA starting forwards or Masai warriors.

There’s no fucking way.  Blacktress laughs to herself.

Nevertheless, once inside the room Blacktress gives it her all.  And minutes later, she is folding herself back inside her personal sweat lodge.  As she heads out the door she glances back at the room filled with types that range from the androgynous to the ambiguous.

No –fucking –way.

As Blacktress endures the steamy, menopausal walk back to the car, her I-phone lights up and sings a digital blues riff.  Her agent goes into auctioneer speak.

“Hey.  Thereinlovewithyou.  Youkilledit.”

Blacktress, giddy, grabs a pair of invisible testicles in celebration.  Eager to share the good news, she immediately calls her friend Ann who has been on an epic, devastating and punishing quest to find love in LA.

“So you’ve been looking for the perfect black man, looks like I’m it bitch.”  Blacktress brags triumphantly.

“What are you talking about?” Ann says confused.  “I’m not yet ready to turn lesbian.  But give me six months I may reconsider.”

Blacktress laughs.

“I’m not a lesbian.  I’m a thespian goshdarnit!”

And with that Blacktress flings off her trench coat.  Rejoicing in the breeze, she struts back and forth turning Vine into a concrete catwalk.

Blacktress tip of the Week:  Don’t underestimate yourself.  Have the balls to take a stab at anything.

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