"Lola" TRANSLATED

    I made her acquaintance in a nightclub in the red-light district of central London where the sparkling wine is, shall we say, very much on the doux side.  (That's spelled D-O-U-X.)  She approached me and invited to me take a turn around the floor.  I asked her name and she said it was Lola.  (That's spelled L-O-L-A.)
    I'm hardly the most hot-blooded fellow and when she embraced me, I was sure I had fractured some vertebrae.  Which got me thinking: I'm a reasonably intelligent person and yet I couldn't figure out why she had a feminine gait but a masculine voice.
    In the light of incandescent bulbs made to look like tapers, we continued to drink the overly sweet sparkling wine and dance throughout the evening, until at one point she hoisted me onto her lap and invited me to her home.
    I must admit, I'm a fairly staid fellow but when our gazes met, I nearly fell in love with Lola.  But then it finally dawned on me: Lola is a male cross-dresser.  I rebuked her and quickly headed out of the club, but just as I reached the door, I knelt down and our gazes met again and, well, I was a goner.
    I've since grown perfectly comfortable with the fact that Lola is a cross-dresser and I don't want her to change.  After all, there will always be some gentlemen who adopt feminine traits, just as there will always be some ladies who adopt masculine traits.  Everything is so unstable in this life — everything, that is, with the notable exception of Lola.
    Truth be told, I'd moved out of my parents' house only days earlier and was a virgin.  This confession visibly amused Lola, who squeezed my palm and vowed that she would personally induct me into manhood.  Believe me, I know I'm no Tarzan; nonetheless, I'm quite self-possessed and I'm comfortable with the fact that I am cis male, as is Lola.