Chapter 9: Pink Pussycats

All good things come to an end and the six-week Reduced Operations Period at HMS Chelmsford ended on 15th January 1974.

The Wrens and Leading Recruits were very busy as that day approached. The Depot needed to be de-winterised and preparations made for the return of the Ship’s Company, the other Recruits, and the Wrens from their leave. Even Petty Officer White sobered up for the last week to oversee things.

Knocker was wary around Leading Recruit Jones and the other lads and ran things from his cabin. The Wrens were very sad that they would once again have to become male grommets and the Leading Recruits were sad that they would be losing their lovers.

There was much discussion in the evenings at the wet canteen about where things should go once normality returned.

Michele and Jason maintained their relationship but things had cooled; there was no infatuation between them, it was just sex and Michele was quite relieved; she’d had enough of Jason’s jealousy.

The other three couples still behaved like lovebirds and were lamenting the day when their relationships would resolve.

As usual it was left to Michele to provide a solution. On the final evening before they would have to clean and return all of the uniforms and other female paraphernalia they had purloined from the Wrens block, the subject came up again. The six lovers were stymied as to where to go and what to do; they really wanted their commitment to each other to continue.

“They don’t have to end,” Michele interjected whilst drawing on her ciggie.

“What?” the others chimed in unison.

“Your relationships; they don’t have to end,” she sipped her gin and tonic.

The others looked at her expectantly.

“Of course your days of canoodling on board HMS Chelmsford are gone; but what happens ashore, stays ashore.”

“We all have a five day furlough coming our way as compensation for being the hook rope party while everyone else was on leave. You add in the weekend that’s seven days.”

The others nodded.

“I propose this. I’ll take my three protégés ashore and take them shopping for everything we need to crossdress.”

“I’ve taught you girls enough so that once you have what you need; you can do a decent job of femming up on your own.”

The three Wrens nodded and the three Leading Recruits listened eagerly.

“You get cheap lodgings ashore and you can carry on doing your thing for seven days and then every weekend after,” Michele explained.

“You’re fucking brilliant Michele,” Polly beamed and the others agreed.

“I want one thing in return,” Michele cracked an ice cube between her teeth and the girls and boys saw mischievousness in her eyes.

“What?” they chimed.

“I want a girl’s night out at Pink Pussycats,” Michele smiled at her three girlfriends.

“Oh god yes!” Polly came in first.

“Oh yes please!” Mary followed.

“Really?” as usual Doris was unsure of herself.

“Fuck me Doris I think you’ve lost a stone over the ROP and you know how stunning you looked on New Year’s Eve,” Michele reminded her.

The girls and guys all smiled as they recalled their New Year’s revelry; the party was wilder than their Christmas Party but Michele was disappointed that Lieutenant Winters hadn’t dropped by for a New Year’s shag. When Michele had jokingly bought the subject up on the night, Spike had gone into one of his usual jealous sulks and Michele had to bring him around by paying him undivided attention.

“Great idea!” the lads chimed in.

“Oh fucking no you don’t! It’s a girl’s night out! You can shag these three senseless on the other six nights but I’m having my girl’s only night!” Michele dictated.

“Sounds great!” the Wrens were excited about being out on the town as girls, even Doris was excited.

“Sounds shit!” the lads lamented.

“Oh fucking grow up you lot. It’s just sex! We’re four transvestites and you’re four men; what do you think you’re going to do; live happy ever after?” Michele snapped.

The others looked hurt but Michele was right; their days spent as full time lovers were past. The illusion of the four young men with their four young women would dissolve tomorrow when the Wrens went to cleaning stations on their kit and returned everything back to the Wrenery and the dry canteen.

And so it came to pass, on the morning of Monday 15th January 1974 PO White fell in his hook rope party of four Leading Recruits and four ‘grommet’ new intake recruits. He reported to the OIC of the Recruit Training School who was relieved that the rabble hadn’t burnt the place to the ground.

They were dismissed and allowed to proceed on leave until the following Monday.

The eight Recruits boarded the leave bus and the Leading Recruits made a show of haranguing the grommets, but their heart wasn’t in it. They sat at the back of the bus smoking; they didn’t really want to see their sweethearts in ‘male mode’. They didn’t want Mick, Doc, Brian and Ray; they wanted Michele, Doris, Polly and Mary.

When the bus hit Cheltenham High Street the grommets got off and Mick Nyland led his cohorts through a maze of backstreets to a nearby lodging house that was only a few doors down from Pink Pussycats. Michele had found the place advertised in the phone book and called ahead and the lady who answered professed that the place was ‘tranny friendly’.

“Oh we get em’ all ere’ luv.”

“Trannys, crossdressers, tranny chasers, homos, queers, sailors the lot!”

“I don’t care what they get up to as long as they keep the noise down and they pay for their lodgings up front,” she sniffed.

“Perfect,” Michele replied and booked four rooms.

They checked into their dodgy lodgings, stowed their kit bags and met in the lounge which sported an old black and white TV, two stained and ripped overstuffed couches with matching lounge chairs, a cigarette burned coffee table with out of date magazines on it, and a fly-specked window draped with greying net curtains. It smelt of stale cigarette smoke, stale beer, old farts and mould.

“What a fucking dump!” Polly lamented.

“It’s perfect! And it’s cheap,” Mick replied and they all grinned.

“Right let’s get cracking lads; we’ve some shopping to do,” Michele led them out the front door.

The first stop was an Oxfam shop where they bought cheap second hand jeans and shirts, they could get away with their navy issue black shoes but as Michele explained, they couldn’t go shopping for women’s clothes in their navy uniforms could they? They would stand out like the proverbial dogs balls.

They went back to their digs and changed into their cheap civvies and went back to Oxfam. Mick helped the self-conscious lads pick out some nice female attire and even went into the fitting rooms with them to help them try them on.

“I’m so nervous; those old biddies are watching us,” Doc Holliday whined.

“So long as we pay for everything they won’t care Doc. It’s Monday afternoon and no one’s out shopping so they’ve got nothing else to do,” Mick explained.

“I’m scared too,” Ray Maine whined.

Mick walked over to the counter and addressed a lady who looked to be in her sixties; she had a blue rinse in her hair.

“Excuse me. My friends and I are crossdressers and were looking for nice outfits to wear to Pink Pussycats.

The other three young sailors baulked; their faces crimson with embarrassment.

“Of course you are dear, I could tell. We get your type in here all the time. Now let me help you. Come on Velma lets help these young fellows choose some nice dresses.”

Velma went to the door and flicked the sign over to ‘closed’ and locked it.

“There, now have some privacy; let’s get you lot sorted,” she beamed.

The four ‘girls’ and the two old biddies had a great time trying on various dresses, blouses and skirts. They tried on shoes too. The good thing about the demographic that use Oxfam is that they are often larger sized ladies and the girls managed to get two pairs of high heels each. They also scored slips, brassieres, and nightwear. They even got a clutch-purse each.

For about twenty pounds they each had three outfits each and foundation garments. They had kept the wigs they’d purloined from hairdressers on board HMS Chelmsford, now they needed makeup and a few other purchases.

Having dropped off their bargains at their lodging they made their way to Debenhams on the High Street. Emboldened by their victory at Oxfam the four sailors did not hesitate and went straight to the lingerie section and purchased knickers, suspender belts and stockings; lots of stockings. Stockings seemed to get laddered and snagged quite easily during their canoodling sessions.

They allowed Mick to select their cosmetics because as ‘Michele’, he was the expert when it came to selecting and applying makeup. They stopped at the costume jewellery counter and bought accessories.

It helped that being Monday; Debenhams wasn’t particularly crowded so they breezed through, selecting their purchases and paying for them at the counters.

The four were very excited as they walked back to their digs.

“I’ll say one thing; it’s fucking expensive being a crossdresser,” Mary Maine was known to be a spendthrift.

“Maybe you can sell your arse at Pink Pussycats to make back some money,” Polly Perkins joked.

They stopped off at an off licence and bought lager, gin, and bottles of Brit Vic tonic water.

Back at their digs they crowded into Mick’s room, excited at the forthcoming evening’s entertainment.

“Ok you grommets. Someone pour me a G and T and light me a ciggy and sit down here one at a time so I can do your makeup,” Michele pulled her room’s only other chair in front of her; the makeup laid out on the side table.

Two hours later, Mick, Doc, Brian and Ray had transformed into Michele, Doris, Polly and Mary. The girls preened, giggled and nattered, drinking and smoked; waiting for day to become night and for Pink Pussycats to open.

At nine o’clock the four attractive transvestites sauntered into Pink Pussycats. There had been some trepidation about going out dressed but the four ‘girls’ had had plenty of practice walking in high-heels, developing a womanly gait. No one paid much attention to them except for a group of lads outside a pub on the corner who gave them a ‘wolf-whistle’.

The trannies all giggled.

“Show us yer knickers love!” one of the young revellers yelled.

Polly obliged and turned to face them and lifted the front of her dress and gave them a panty flash.

“Fuck me boys; she’s a stunner!” one of them gasped.

While the rest of the lads preened, joked and strutted, one of the group eyed the four girls intently.

“Four trannies off to Pick Pussycats,” the dark eyed, longhaired, brooding young man pronounced.

“You think?” one his cohorts challenged.

“I think,” he replied and finished his pint and licked his lips.

Pink Pussycats was a dive. The club was situated on the second floor over a dodgy souvlaki restaurant serviced by a rickety staircase. Shag carpet stained an indiscriminate colour after years of spilled beer, ground in cigarette ash, and god knows what else. It never really dried and sucked at the patron’s shoes like quicksand. The yellow nicotine stained walls were lit by sconces, every second bulb blown, the ceiling was supposed to be white but it had long ago turned yellow; the plastic chandeliers were cobweb riddled. Mirror balls hung from the ceiling, reflecting the coloured lights from various spotlights, the bar was long, dirty and had suffered thousands of cigarette burns. There was a line of booths along one wall and low tables attended by tatty couches and armchairs scattered around the room and a small dancefloor of polished wood with a discotheque booth at one end. It smelled of stale beer, cheap spirits, disinfectant and perfume.