Loy Krathong Ka-toey Pattaya

I was born in 1952.

Doctors during that prehistoric period had no way of predicting an infant’s sex, however my mother was so convinced that her second child would be a girl that a year’s worth of pretty pink baby clothing lay neatly stacked in a crib. i imagine she experienced a more than a little disappointment after 20 hours of labor to hear the attending doctor’s words, “Congratulations, you have a boy.”

Some women would have resigned themselves to my having a penis, however my mother dressed me in pink dresses until I was 9 months old, when my father declared firmly, “He’s a boy. Boys aren’t supposed to wear pink.”

This infantile transvestite period inflicted little if no psychological scarring, but every November I fancy dressing up in the extravagant silk costume for the Thai festival honoring the water goddess, if only so I can say that I was a ka-toey for Loi Krathong.


This one-night transformation into that deeply-desired daughter probably would reward my late mother with an after-life smile. Unfortunately for my mother I have always resisted this urge, since no 55-year old man should wear a dress unless it’s to escape from prison.

Living proof?

John Travolta in HAIRSPRAY.

He was no Divine.


Of course few women over 55 are blessed by the fountain of youth. Breasts sag like deflated balloons, faces are withered by wrinkles, and butts succumb to the endless effect of gravity, however several years ago I went to the Sherry-Netherland in New York to meet a rich friend’s new step-mother. The billionairess was supposed to be 60, but her facial skin texture had reversed her age to 35. Only her world-weary eyes showed the passage of time.

None of it was surgical.


Her miracle doesn’t help me, because I would probably end up looking like Donnatella Versace or worse.

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