Italy Tranny

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Italy Tranny
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Followed by Italian She Male 25 (2006)
Credits are confusing, as Gia Darling get's possessive producer credit for what turns out to be just one of hundreds of dreadful Andrea Nobili videos from Italy, recycled under another name. That's just evidence that so many of these Third World Media and White Ghetto Films DVDs about trans-females hailing from Italy, Brazil and Argentina are random footage, often bought and misrepresented as original material. This one has plenty of pegging and an emphasis on big dicks on the ladies, but all concerned seem bored -just another gig no more interesting or stimulating than prostitution. Smatterings of dialog in Italian is left untranslated and the overall effect is most dispiriting.
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The Perils of Working as a Trans Prostitute in Rome

Silvia Marchetti , OZY Author




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I n this occas ional series, OZY takes to streets and neighborhoods across the globe to ask a simple question: “How was your day?”
Tough and sad, as usual. I’m a transgender prostitute living in the worst place on Earth for people like me: Italy. Not only am I a sex worker (seen as bad enough on its own over here) but I’m trans, which translates into being a hybrid monster, a pariah to keep at bay. 
I spend my day either locked up in my room entertaining clients inside an apartment I share with other colleagues or out on the street looking for work. Luckily that happens less often as I have regular clients who prefer to visit me, and we communicate by email.  
Oh, you’d be amazed by who my clients are … actors, politicians, doctors. Men with a family and kids, above suspicion, who you’d think were straight, heterosexuals. Well, honey, that’s just appearance: They all tell me that having sex with a trans has no equals. 
But when I’m out in the city, it’s hell. Women prostitutes see me as a threat, a nasty competitor, so they don’t want me hanging out in the same spots where they do for fear of stealing their clients. So we trans get together in particular areas of the historical center, and clients know where to find us at night. 
My social life sucks. My only friends are the ones I share the flat with, and they’re all trans. I’m never carefree. I can’t take a nice stroll, nor go shopping, without feeling sad each time. Even when I stop at a bar to sip an espresso and enjoy the scenery of Rome’s sunny piazzas, people stare at me with hate. I can read disgust in their eyes. They keep me at a distance, as if they were scared I could infect them with some kind of disease. 
When I go out to dinner, any clients who walk into the tavern avoid sitting at the table next to mine. I see them zigzag toward the opposite side of the room. And if I need to go to the loo, it’s always a tragedy. I pray I just don’t bump into anyone else.
Life as a trans in Italy is hell. Even more in Rome, home to the Vatican. Locals have a bigot mentality and are still influenced by deep Catholic roots. There’s just one neighborhood in Rome where gays, lesbians and trans are welcome in bars and clubs, but even there, residents run away as soon as they see us, locking their palazzo doors and shutting their windows.
Sure, we’ve had one trans politician who was elected in parliament a few years ago, but that didn’t help change the perception Italians have of us. When I pass by, couples giggle at me behind my back and some even shout out bad, vulgar names in a tight Roman dialect. I try to avoid taking public transports for this reason. I have a trans friend who works in the U.S. and tells me it’s another world over there. 
It might sound crazy, but I would like to be recognized as a professional worker. You know, pay taxes and have my own VAT, that sort of stuff. I don’t want to live in the darkness like a nameless zombie for the rest of my life.

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" Sei operata? Sei dotata? Quanto costa ?" Four youngsters in a sports car are hassling all prostitutes in front of the abattoir. Valeria, an elegant mulatta, turns her head and scans the square for clients. She will have to make €150 tonight.
The youngsters look like students; the car is obviously daddy’s. Earlier this night, they tried to get lucky with tourist girls. Now they are on a “ puttan tour”: Via Salaria, the abattoir, Viale Guglielmo Marconi, EUR... They are Valeria’s age. Later on this night, they will score drugs before going back to hotel Mum and Dad. Valeria had to leave home when she was 15.
Her father had gone berserk when he discovered that his son Valerio liked dressing up as a girl, to become Valeria. Whereas her classmates were going through puberty, Valeria was thrown straight into adulthood. No holding hands, no romantic strolls, but impersonal paid sex: 30 reais for a blow job, 50 for the full menu.
Unlike her peers, Valeria managed to stay clear of drugs. Violence, however, became part of everyday life. She carried a razorblade to cut her forearms in case the police arrested her – in Brazil, it was safer ending up in hospital than in a police station. In Europe, life would no doubt be better.
Hot air spreads around the abattoir a smell of meat, waste and excrements. On the pavement along the graffiti wall, between shattered glass and used toilet paper, Valeria tries to balance herself in high heels. The students turn around the corner.
Cars are jamming the square. Motorcycles are roaring through. Almost midnight and it is like rush hour.
Yet, Valeria has to make a living. She has to earn the money before dawn. Since her visa expired, every public space has become off-limits by day. Especially in August, when the city is near empty, a tall mulatta stands out even more. “Every morning I pay a private cab to go home,” she says. “Unemployed and retired Italians make fortunes driving us girls.”
Right next to the square a sandwich van radiates like a beacon in the night. A client drops Valeria off. She spots Paula standing at the van. Paula is Argentinean. She and Valeria often chat in between tricks. They communicate in a mix of Spanish, Portuguese and Roman dialect they pick up from clients. Still, Valeria and Paula are not close. In this square nobody is. Here, everybody is either a client or a competitor.
“Look at them,” Paula kicks off. “Office workers, civil servants, builders: ordinary people longing for adventure. Europeans chasing tropical fantasies.”
“Well Paula, the client I just had treated me really nice. He said I am very feminine. Maybe one day he’ll invite me for dinner.”
“No, mi amor ! Stop dreaming. Italians would rather be caught dead than being seen in public with a transsexual.” She turns to the row of cars and yells, “How does it feel, at home shagging the Third World?”
It is 02.00. A police car patrols the square. Instantly, all clients stop examining the girls, accelerate their cars and leave the square hoping the police will not make them pull over. Valeria removes her high heels and runs off barefoot. In 15 months, the police have detained 580 transgendered prostitutes on this square.
She hides in the high grass on the hills. The neighbourhood committee regularly asks the municipal services to burn it. Crouched between used condoms and rubbish, Valeria considers working in an apartment. She could rent a room in a side street of Via Condotti. The authorities do not control the apartment: the owner is an ex-carabiniere.
The police car is gone. One by one, the girls resume their places. Despite the risk of being sent to Rome’s detention centre – the mayor plans a unit for transsexuals – Valeria likes working the streets. She likes being in the open.
All day she hides in a monolocale that is tucked away in a Pigneto backstreet – Italian women call the police right away when they spot a transsexual in their building. An aged Brazilian transsexual with Italian citizenship owns the studio flat. The previous generation still succeeded in sham marriages. These naturalized transsexuals buy property and set up businesses in Brazil and Italy. They pass customs and do not worry about police controls when driving – they even took their driving licence in Italy.
Meanwhile, the Mario Mieli volunteers are on their weekly tour. The organisation has been helping foreign transsexuals since Rome replaced Paris as the world’s capital of transgender prostitution. While some volunteers distribute condoms, others follow up on girls taking medication – half the girls have hepatitis, more than one in ten has syphilis and two-thirds of the older ones have HIV. The organisation helped Valeria to take a course. Valeria would like to become a hairdresser. But apart from the hair salon a Brazilian transsexual owns near Porta Maggiore, only one other salon in Rome, the one in Via Urbana, employs a transgender hairdresser.
Hence, the beat goes on. “ Sei operata? Sei dotata? Quanto costa ?” Again and again. How much rudeness can a person take? Valeria is saving up for that last operation; she wants to become a woman. “But how then would I make a living?” she sighs. “I would lose all my clients.”
Around 04.00 loud and rasp voices fill the square. The girls, strung out on alcohol, drugs and hormones, are giving come-ons to the drivers and the passengers. Albanian gangs encircle the square. At this time of the night, many girls carry in their purse a night’s takings. The girls start leaving the abattoir in small groups. Empty spots appear. Valeria wants to leave but she still needs €120 to send a remittance.
Valeria sends money home to help her mother out. Last time she called even her father spoke to her. They had not spoken since she had to leave home. He told her that he was sorry and that she was always welcome. He used the remittances to buy himself a car.
An SUV pulls over beside Valeria. Its stereo is pumping electronic dance music. The two people in the front seat, a middle-aged couple, are visibly under the influence.
“Hey,” the woman shrieks. “Are you trans… gressive?” Her husband bursts out laughing. He clearly enjoys that his wife is doing the talking. At night, these women are more masculine, and these men more feminine than Valeria. By day, of course, they are beyond suspicion. “We’ll pay you a €100.”
“I don’t mind the two of you snorting cocaine,” Valeria says, “but I won’t. I don’t do drugs.”
“I see,” the woman says. She turns a superior smile to Valeria: “€50 then. Take it or leave it.”
The SUV vanishes in the night. They have dropped her on a desolate stretch of Via Emilio Longoni, two blocks east of the abattoir. Veteran transsexuals – women actually, since they are operated – are skulking the scarcely lit pavement. Two parked cars have thei
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