I was a young man back in the early 1980s, five feet four, skinny, wearing my blonde hair shoulder length and some make up. I also wore tight blue denim stretch jeans. Add to that, Portsmouth was a dangerous place with. So maybe I was asking for it, walking around the old High Street area, shamelessly a posh upper middle class student with a purse worth stealing. Trouble was, I was a transvestite, wearing blue silk panties and a matching bra under my jeans and tee shirt. There is an alleyway behind an old pub, and that is where the incident happened, after dark on a warm October night. Clearly they thought they had a girl when they grabbed me and whined in a local accent that sounded almost cockney, pushing me up against a wall, rough hands gripping my chest and my almost sexless crotch. My excited gasps as they hurt me there were the signal for what happened next, an involuntary orgasm embarrassingly close, as my face was slapped, and my full lips kissed and probed by a tongue like that of a giant lizard. It was the night that changed my comfortable life, reconciling me with the slut that I am, along with a life of humiliating orgasms, pain and humiliation.