Flash Fiction Friday: The Lady Boys
I came out of the hedonistic ’90s with a degree in history and politics, straight from Liverpool, only to land in London as a showbiz reporter. The irony wasn’t lost on me. Instead of using my degree, I sank into the city’s excess. Drugs were everywhere, and I didn’t say no.

The endless nights wore me thin. Once, I thrived as the life of every party, men competing for my attention. But I didn’t want one-night stands. Friends said I looked like Rhona Mitra, though I never believed them.

Still, when I hit the dance floor, wired and fearless, I owned it. The DJ spun James Brown’s Sex Machine, and I let loose, arms in the air, hips swaying, as girlfriends pulled their men away. My Scouse wit only fuelled their jealousy.

The lifestyle, though, hollowed me out. I dined on Michelin-starred meals, drank at Mayfair’s Met Bar, and wrote about D-list celebrities desperate for attention. The hooray Henries laughed at me while flaunting their wealth, as if the world itself belonged to them.

One night, an Earl ranted about Eton and empire, convinced the upper classes were “born to rule.” I smiled, pretended to listen, and lined up another hit.

But deep down, I knew the truth: in that world, men didn’t want my mind. They wanted flesh. That became painfully clear when my friend’s boyfriend tried it on. I refused. Days later, she attacked me in a club—fists, stilettos, blood. Her betrayal left scars, but worse, it blackened my name across the city.

Paranoia followed. Sleep deprivation pushed me close to collapse. When my doctor diagnosed ADHD, everything clicked—the chaos, the recklessness, the spiralling. “Give the drugs a miss,” he said. “They’re breaking you.”

I disappeared. Quit my job. Cut everyone off. For three years, I lived like a hermit, painting again, as I had in my teens. Slowly, I pieced myself back together. My doctor encouraged me to pour my energy into something that mattered.

Travel helped. Vietnam called me back, and I embraced it differently this time. Until I met Tan. A ladyboy, once a Buddhist monk, now a carpenter. She didn’t drink, but she smoked—and soon I did too. Her joints carried me into dangerous territory, unlocking doors better left shut.

She persuaded me to open a Ladyboy bar for tourists. We called it SUPER-HEAD. Neon lights, palm trees, wild shows. The business thrived. We became lovers, tangled in lust and chaos.

But cracks appeared. The punters weren’t tourists. They carried guns, looked dangerous. Tan grew tense. My paranoia sharpened.

One night, stoned in hammocks under the setting sun, I saw it clearly. The bar was a front—for drugs, money laundering, danger.

When I confronted her, Tan smirked: “It’s your name on the bar, Clara. If the police come, it’s on you.” My world shattered. She mocked me, laughed at me, and told me to leave.

So I did. I ran with nothing but my passport and fled Vietnam, Tan’s laughter echoing behind me.

Back in London, I checked myself into rehab. For the first time in years, I felt relief. I swore I’d never go back—not to the drugs, not to the chaos, not to that life.

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