EROTIC TALES
FOR
ENLIGHTENED MINDS
Short Stories
By
Martin Brant
Erotic Tales for Enlightened Minds
Copyright 2009 by Martin Brant
Smashwords Edition
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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Contents
Born in the Wrong Body
A Day on the River
Charlene’s Daughter
The Jew and the German
Two Husbands
The Chrystal Carafe
The Male Nurse
Abducted
The Life Model
Born In the Wrong Body
Out shopping one day, shortly after I turned sixteen, I walked down a well-lit hallway that led to the public restrooms. Rounding a turn in the hall, the two doors came into view on opposite walls. Before turning away from the women’s room, as I stared at the door, quick flashes of a more Utopian life passed through my mind. A middle-age woman glanced my way before disappearing inside. It would have felt natural to follow her in, though that would have made her gasp in horror.
That’s because I still looked like a man, barely a year out of a late puberty. Not a masculine man, a wimpy one. Still, during puberty, my body had changed in a way that broke my heart. When the other girls at school were looking at their new breasts in the mirror, I was looking at a penis that had gotten larger.
Call it a temporary lapse, me wanting to forget my body’s configured differently than the other women that use that room. Given certain circumstances, I would have these fleeting fantasies of feeling normal; usually followed by memories of the day my mother, after catching me looking at myself in the mirror in a pair of nylon panties, went through every drawer in my room and threw out all the female intimates I had hidden; or those days in junior high PE class, changing into those awful gym shorts in that fowl-smelling locker room, invariably humiliated when Johnny Perkins taunted me, mocking my slender hairless body, my girlie white skin, my small boyish penis.
It was my sense of self, my feminine sensibilities that urged me to use the restroom I felt most comfortable in, instead of facing the lifelong dread of making myself go in and pee with the men. It didn’t matter the rest of my world saw me as a man, for me it was impossible to accept. It didn’t matter my shoulders were small and my protruding nipples sometimes felt swollen and sensitive, as if they were about to blossom into full blown breasts (but never did); I was stuck with the basic shape of a male. It didn’t matter if I secretly shaved my underarms and legs; I still looked like a man. But I’m not. Not then, that day at Macy’s; not now. I’m a woman. Born a woman and destined to stay a woman for the rest of my life.
I had been looking at the swimsuits in Macy’s, wondering what I would look like in a stringy two piece, never mind being almost decade away from all the necessary treatments and operations. I would do things like that to escape the tormenting world I lived in, always checking to make sure no one who knew me was in the store before holding something up in front of the mirror to see how it would look on me.
So how do I describe the conflicts that haunted me every time my parents looked at me with unspoken questions and doubt; every time the boys mocked me and called me a sissy while the girls looked on with detached pity; every time I saw a dress in a store window I’d love to try on, but to do so meant I must be a pervert; every time my eyes fell on a boy’s lips I would love to kiss, only to realize kissing me was the last thing he would want to do? How do I tell you how wretched I felt every miserable time I considered patronizing a gay bar to find out what it would be like to sleep with a man, only to walk away in shame and self-loathing before entering the door?
That day at Macy’s I was still a college degree and a few years into my career away from my first hormone injections, a physical and emotional transition that’s enormously expensive. It had been one more of one day at a time. When I finally finished my last two years of high school, I still faced three years of loneliness without ever having a date. I couldn’t bring myself to ask a girl out. What was the point? I was attracted to men; not gay men, but men who were attracted to women, perhaps the most confounding aspect of this unwanted torment. My misguided genes had reduced my options for romance to zero. But by then I had a plan.
In college I learned it’s called gender angst: an overwhelming feeling of being a woman born with a male form, a dread of passing in front of a mirror, a love/hate relationship with one’s body, especially one’s genitals. You long for a man’s breath whispering in your ear, only to realize you’re the one expected to be the whisperer, and it’s suppose to be in some other lovely young temptress’s ear. You want to feel smooth and soft and feel a light airy dress caressing the curves of your body; instead, you find yourself standing before a steam-filmed mirror, shaving off the hair that threatens to hide your jaw, something no woman can imagine herself doing.
Growing up, I never felt a sense of controversy about who I am. Only despair. Through puberty and my teenage years, and on into adulthood, I never felt an urge to act or look like a man. I did, however, struggle to be accepted, failing no matter how hard I tried to fit in. I identified with the girls, but didn’t look like them; I looked like the boys, but couldn’t understand why they liked to play baseball, or hit each other on the arm, or yell catcalls at the girls. Eventually, I quit trying. Except for Christie. I’m not sure I could have survived my adolescence had it not been for her, the girl down the street, my best friend. Somehow she understood I was different and accepted me for who I am. I’ll never forget the hours we spent together, confiding in each other, giggling about incidents that had happened at school, gossiping about classmates. It didn’t bother her if I behaved like a girl. One day in her room, when her parents were away on vacation, she applied makeup to my face. I still remember how it felt to sit staring at my reflection, watching the metamorphosis. “You’re beautiful,” she said, admiring her handiwork. “Too bad you’re not a girl.”
In college, I approached my psychology professor one day after class. He sat behind his desk quietly listening to my story. Then his eyes lifted and he studied me. “So this is why I have an IT major in my psychology class,” he said as a sympathetic smile formed on his face. We met later in a coffee shop where he began an impromptu psychological analysis; which, for the first time in my tormented life, happened to be the first time I was able to talk to someone about who I am, the first time I had felt a sense of relief. Eventually, after several more discussions over coffee, he concurred with my plan—I was a natural candidate for sexual reassignment.
After college, one year into my new job in the information technology industry, I finally started the hormone injections, planning to eventually have breast implants; but decided against that when my own reached size C on their own. By the time I had worked two years, I had just about saved enough money for the final operation, the procedure that would remove my testicles and transform my much-ignored penis into a vital effervescent vagina. It had become a matter of being prepared emotionally for the last step; a step that, as it turns out, also involved a certain man I had fallen in love with; a man that, much to my surprise, had become indecisive. Today, if you saw me in a swimsuit or wearing nothing more than a pair of panties, and my genitals are pulled back and securely taped into place between my legs, you’d think you were looking a very attractive young woman, if I do say so myself.
Since I wore loose-fitting business clothes to work, no one noticed my body’s subtle changes. My hips had become fuller, providing me with more of an hour glass shape. My ass had rounded and taken on the more pronounced curves of a woman. My legs looked less muscular and more feminine, even longer, though I felt certain that was an illusion. Much of my body hair had thinned and or disappeared. The more stubborn hairs were dealt with by way of laser hair removal, including my face. I had quit having to shave. My arms had grown slender and felt weaker. My entire body mass was softer. Many of my male coworkers wore long hair, so no one paid heed to mine as it grew longer. In the privacy of my apartment, wearing full makeup, I finally looked like I wanted to, everywhere except between my legs. It was time for the next phase.
When I approached my supervisor with a request for some of his time, he invited into his office. I sat across the desk from him not sure where to begin. “I’d like to transfer to the San Diego office,” was the strategy I decided on, and he looked at me somewhat surprised.
“Is it the weather here in Chicago?” he asked humorously.
I knew he would be reluctant to go along with the transfer, so I decided to risk leveling with him. “It’s a personal matter. I’ll also need a little time off before I start the new position.” That said, as briefly as I could, I continued with my story, watching his face freeze in an expression of disbelieve. When I told him the hormone injections had given me female breasts, his eyes dropped to my chest. Seeing the doubt within them, I unbuttoned my shirt and held it open. His eyes widened on the wrapping that flattened my breasts.
“You wear that everyday?” he asked.
“I have to.”
Fully informed, he sat staring at me, as if his sensibilities were catching up with the unexpected words that had entered his ears. Then: “I see. I uh, well … guess I never suspected that about you.”
“Then you understand?” I pleaded. “You understand how difficult it would be to stay here, leave one day as Michael, show up the next day as Michelle? I’m not sure I could endure that.”
“Yes, I can see that.” He picked up the phone, called the San Diego office and asked to speak with someone in human resources, then smiled at me when he hung up the phone after a five minute conversation. “They would be glad to have you transfer there.”
Relieved, I lowered my head and rubbed my brow with my fingertips. It took less than a week to arrange the transfer. After my last day in the Chicago office, to celebrate, I donated my men’s wardrobe to the Salvation Army and went out and bought a new dress, a pair of new pumps, a new hand bag, new bra and panties, along with matching accessories. I would never look like a man again. I would never again bind my breasts to flatten them. I was unpacking my belongings in my San Diego apartment three weeks later, with a one month vacation in the interim, which I would use to psychologically adjust to being the woman I had always been.
More shopping, getting acquainted with San Diego’s boutiques and department stores: dresses, skirts, belts and high heels, women’s business suits and underclothes. I took long walks on the beach in my new swimsuit, looking great with my danglings taped securely in place. I freed the feminine nuances I had always suppressed: the lithe movements of the wrist, the walk, tossing the hair, the coy glance, crossing the legs, arching the back, thrusting out the chest. I got used to people dealing with me as a woman: the like-minded wink of a department store sales girl, men holding the door for me, glancing at my chest, feeling their appraising eyes, not to mention the glaring eyes of envious women.
I met Brad in the corporate cafeteria on my third day at work in the San Diego office. He placed a salad and a glass of water on the opposite side of the table and sat down, glancing at me.
“You’re new here,” he said, reaching for the pepper shaker.
“Third day. I transferred from Chicago.”
“Ah. Beautiful city. Too cold for my blood.”
“Good thing you live here, then.”
‘Yeah. I like it here. Been here three years. Moved from Miami after my divorce.” Evidently he noticed me looking at his salad. “I’m trying to lose fifteen pounds,” he explained.
I smiled. I had noticed a hint of a belly before he sat down.
“Well, how do you like it so far?”
“San Diego or the job?” I asked.
“Either one.”
“I love San Diego. Gotta get used to how casual things are around the office.”
“Casual but productive. That’s the way things are in California. People like to enjoy life, even at work.”
“I like that.”
He looked at me as he chewed a bite of the salad. “I could show you some of the city; that is if you’re not already spoken for.”
My stomach fluttered. My first date. Twenty-six years old and facing the first time a man asks me out. I had debated this moment for years. That it was happening now, before the final phase of my transition, I felt an onslaught of mixed emotions. My instincts were telling me to wait, warning me of probable disaster; on the other hand, my soul wanted to reach out for a friend. It had been so long since I shared a conversation with someone, I was starving, not to mention how attractive he was, even with the fifteen extra pounds.
“I’d enjoy that,” I said. My desire to have a man interact with me as a woman had defeated caution.
He smiled. “By the way,” he said, extending his hand across the table, “I’m Brad. Brad Smith.”
He took my hand gingerly, just my fingers, the way some men take a lady’s hand. My hand felt small in his, delicate, my forearm raced with tingles. “Michelle Johnson.”
“I’m delighted to meet you, Michelle. Are you free Saturday?”
“Yes. Not much on my social calendar yet.”
“How about we start with breakfast, then decide where to go from there. Say about nine o’clock Saturday morning?”
“Okay. Sounds like fun.”
We talked a while longer. He was in sales and service, two floors up from my department, computer network engineering. I gave him my address and we exchanged phone numbers. I felt his eyes on me as I walked out of the cafeteria, glad I had perfected my feminine stride.
The afternoon passed like a ride on an emotional roller coaster, giddy one minute, queasy the next, my head full of what ifs. My argument: We can be friends, nothing more than that. I could tell him I’m not looking for a romantic involvement; even though that was exactly what I craved more than anything else. Or I could risk more heartache by leveling with him, simply tell him the truth, then find out if he has the substance to be a true friend; find out first hand if an average man has a problem associating with a transgendered female.
Friday, for the first time since my career began, I found it difficult to focus on my job. Maybe all of this would be easier if I hadn’t found Brad so attractive, with that handsome jaw and those gorgeous brown eyes and that short disheveled hair. I tried not to think about how my hand felt in his; masculine hands I may very well have to be wary of, hands that under certain circumstances and left to their own devices, would almost certainly discover my secret.
Saturday morning he arrived ten minutes early. I had spent nearly two hours trying to decide what to wear, and nearly an hour before that on my hair and makeup. Ending up in a pair of fairly conservative shorts that reached mid-thigh, a rather unrevealing blouse and a pair of sandals complimented with painted toenails, I answered the door in a nearly breathless fit of nervousness. His disarming smile pretty much remedied that. Yes, this was a man I could be friends with.
The pancake house was his favorite Saturday morning eatery. He sat on the opposite side of the booth watching me browse the menu. He already knew what he wanted; I ordered an omelet.
“I thought about you yesterday,” he said when the waitress walked away. “I’m glad they transferred you.”
“It was my choice,” I mistakenly replied; it roused his curiosity as to why I wanted to come to San Diego, an area I didn’t want to venture into.
“Oh? Why?”
“Uh, guess I needed a change.”
“Boyfriend troubles?”
My face flushed.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that. It’s none of my business.”
“No. Please, I want you to feel comfortable asking me things you’re curious about.” I noticed I was fidgeting with my napkin. I moved it down to my lap. “It’s just that I haven’t dated in a long time. I feel a little ...”
“I haven’t dated since my divorce,” he said abruptly, as if to change the subject and neutralize my obvious nervousness. “It was a pretty emotional experience, even though I initiated it. Seven years. She never learned how to be happy. Something always not right, so she seemed to think. Anyway, I guess we’re both a little nervous.”
It was like he knew exactly what to say to make me feel calmer. “You haven’t dated anyone in three years?” I asked.
“No. Haven’t felt like it.” He reached up and scratched the top of his head, creating another cowlick. “I spent the first year trying to figure out what I did wrong, you know, what made her so unhappy. After I finally unloaded the guilt, I realized how good the solitude felt. I found out I could do things alone, go to the beach, see a movie, eat out. Then here recently, I realized how lonely I am. Most of the women at the firm are married. Those who aren’t, well, let me just say they’re single for obvious reasons.” He paused with a smile. “Then I saw you in the cafeteria, sitting alone, looking a little lost.”
I loved listening to him talk. I wanted to know everything about him.
“So you’ve never been married?” he asked.
My eyes lifted from the cup of coffee. “No.”
“Not interested in that?”
I was being drawn into a topic I wasn’t prepared to talk about. Play it by ear, Michelle, carefully. “It’s not that. Guess I’ve had an independent streak. I don’t know … maybe I wanted to prove something. Got totally involved in college, then my career. Maybe I wanted to be me before I offered myself to someone else.”
“My ex-wife should have done that.”
“So it seems.”
“Are you saying you’ve been you long enough?”
How do I answer him, such a buoyant, sincere question? “Maybe I have. Maybe I’m here, in San Diego, with you, to find out.”
“Then we’re on a quest, you and me. We’re both trying to figure out if we’re ready.”
Every word out his mouth was perfect. It was like a bittersweet challenge had begun. Now I knew what it felt like to be a woman swept off her feet. The challenge would be to keep just enough distance between us until the right moment; until I knew enough about him to feel confident enough to confide in him. I wanted to know, with reasonable certainty, that he would understand and accept me for who I am.
“Could we start by just being friends?” I asked.
“Why not? You could be my best friend; my only friend for that matter.”
Our breakfast arrived. Having the food in front of us gave me a moment to ponder what had been said so far. I was feeling far more relaxed. He seemed temporarily distracted by his breakfast, a burrito smothered in ranchero sauce, plate of hash browns on the side. It struck me as humorous; not just his enthusiasm for such a hardy breakfast, but also the contrast between the burrito and the salad I watched him eat on Thursday.
“Decide calorie counting isn’t for you?” I teased.
He looked up and his face morphed with embarrassment. “I sacrifice lunch and usually dinner; don’t you think I can indulge a little for breakfast now and then?” He glanced at the toast and small plate of fruit in front of me, then looked back up. “Okay, I’ll just eat half of it then.” He pushed the hash browns to the edge of the table. “We can eliminate those completely.”
I took a bite of melon, thinking fate had shined on me last Thursday. This was certain to be a fun day.
“Have you decided where we’re going after breakfast?”
“I thought you might like to see Old Town, San Diego’s historical district. It gives you an idea of what the early settlement looked like shortly after it was founded.”
“Sounds perfect.”
I wondered if other women take all of this for granted: having a man notice you, have him approach you and find himself smitten, changing his routines so he can spend time with you, holding the door for you, treating you like someone special, focusing on you as if, for this moment anyway, nothing else could be more important. I had often tried to imagine what it would feel like to sit in a man’s gaze, to have his undivided attention, to be able to read some of his thoughts when he glanced at my body. No fantasy or dream ever equaled actually experiencing it. It’s like he had taken me up in his arms and danced me away into our own little world, a world to be tailored by and for just the two of us.
So I’m a romantic. So I get ahead of myself on the path I happen to be on. So what? An occasion like this has been a long time coming.
Brad took the Taylor Street exit off southbound Interstate 8, then found a place to park next to the old San Diego Trolley Station. On the freeway, from the corner of my eye, I noticed him staring at my legs. When he opened the car door on the passenger side, he took my hand as I stepped out of the car and held onto it as we started toward the park. It seemed every tiny incident caused my heart to flutter: the feel of my hand in his, his quick glances my way, the tiniest hint of a smile at the corners of his narrow, velvety lips. Nothing to date, no new dress, no scant remnant of lingerie, no sultry shade of lipstick, made me feel more like a desirable woman. I nearly melted when I felt his hand move to the small of my back as we climbed a brief set of stairs.
Everything about Old Town enchanted me: the palm trees swaying on a Pacific breeze, the warm dry air, the ancient buildings lining the avenues that crossed the park, even the distant sound of traffic on the freeway. I loved walking beside him, the top of my head just level with his ear. I loved listening to him explain what he knew of the city’s history. I loved the way he tilted his head and looked up into the trees, as if he could see something no one else could. I loved carrying my handbag and no one staring at me, thinking I looked strange. I loved feeling like, and looking like, and being treated like a woman. I nearly panicked when he started for the men’s room and I caught myself before following him in. In the lady’s room, where I belonged, my heart resettled after a few moments of staring into the mirror.
We browsed through the gift shops, and thoughtfully ventured through the historic buildings and museums, always close to each other, often meeting each other’s eyes with a smile. I liked the way he used his hands, holding mine as we walked from building to building, placing one on the small of my back as we passed through a door. Once he brushed a strand of hair off my forehead, another moment of enchantment. Standing in front of a rendition of the original village square, both of us looking at it with interest, him just behind me, I felt his breath on my hair. I couldn’t avoid thinking about how wonderful it would feel to be locked in his arms.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” he said. “This whole area was arid then, a desert. An aqueduct off the Colorado River changed all of that. From desert to tropical paradise.”
Transition; that was something I understood.
We had tacos for lunch at the Old Town Mexican Café on San Diego Avenue. After that, we strolled over to the Bazaar Del Mundo, a Mexican square lined with lively specialty shops. At a stall attended by a weathered old woman, Brad bought me a frilly Mexican garter and I immediately wished I had worn a summer dress. I slipped off a sandal, lifted my foot onto a short brick ledge and handed him the garter. As he slipped it up over my leg, taking his time, filling his eyes, the affect sent gooseflesh racing across my forearms. He folded back the seam of my shorts, positioned the garter there, then unfolded the seam over it. A pensive silence took hold of us when he lifted his head and our eyes met. The camaraderie around us seemed to fall away. I had not realized how expressive a man’s eyes could be. It made me wish this day had happened after my operation.
I felt a horrible sinking sensation. I was looking at him as a desirable man, he was looking at me as a desirable woman, but only one of us knew what kind of sex it would have to be. Guilt devoured me. Why didn’t I have the procedure done before I started at the San Diego office? I wanted to take his hand, lead him to a secluded place in the park, tell him everything about me, then hear him say: That’s okay, darling. We can be together just as you are. Then I can be there for you when you go through the final phase.
I drew a breath and produced a weak smile. “We haven’t been in that gallery behind you yet.”
He blinked his thoughts away, looked over his shoulder, took my hand and led me into the gallery. We spent the next hour poking around in the curio shops before he suggested we take a drive over to the beach. It was late afternoon by the time we got there. The sun had softened in the western sky. We walked hand-in-hand near the edge of the water, stepping around distracted children and their parents sitting on towels, holding our sandals with our free hands, letting the more energetic waves wash over our feet. My thoughts vacillated between how wonderful it was to be with him and telling him.
But how? When? He thinks I’m the women I appear to be. Will he be shocked, put-off, revolted? Will he recoil and not want to touch me, or even look at me again? If I wait, will he be angry I didn’t tell him right away? Again that sinking feeling. I didn’t want this to end. Wait for the right time, I told myself. Get to know him better. Let him get to know you.
We sat next to each other in the sand and gazed out over the Pacific, Brad’s knees up, his forearms folded around his shins, my legs stretched out, one resting over the other.
“I haven’t mentioned it yet, but I’m impressed by all your accomplishments,” he said. “I wasn’t smart enough to get into the more technical end of it.”
“You were smart enough to get into the higher paying end of it, though.”
“I suppose. A lot of it’s just good dumb luck. Being in the right place at the right time, when some autocratic executive finally decides to make a decision.”
I looked at him. “There’s a lot of IT companies going after those five million dollar contracts. It takes talent to convince them to choose us.”
He shrugged. I watched his eyes land on my feet and then drift up my legs before they met mine. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed spending the day with you. I don’t want to take you home.”
My gaze shifted to the final remnant of a wave retreating back toward the sea.
“The beaches are different here from those in Florida,” he said. “I was surprised by how cold the water is here. The coastline is a lot more rugged here, too.”
“I think California beaches are beautiful,” I said. “I’d like to see more of them.”
“Maybe we could do that together,” he suggested. “Spend a day driving up the coast.”
“I’d like that.”
“Ever hear of Black’s Beach,” he asked. “Just north of here.”
I shook my head.
“It’s the only nude beach in this area.”
A wave of horror swept over me. Did he notice my body stiffen?
“I’ve gone there a couple of times, you know, just to see what it’s like. You’re nervous at first, but after a while it feels natural. Gives you a refreshing sense of freedom.” His head turned toward me. “Think you could do something like that?”
I maintained my composure as best I could, wishing I could say: Yes Brad, I would love to do that with you, but after the operation. “You forget I’m from the Midwest,” I said instead.
He laughed. “Then we’ll have to stick to the more modest beaches.”
Actually, as I thought about it, I realized I was glad he had mentioned the nude beach. The fact that he had gone there implied he has an open mind. Still, I feared the moment I faced learning just how open his mind could be.
After a short silence, I heard his voice again. “I’ve never had a day like this in my life. You’ve made me realize how lonely I am.”
I looked at him. His head leaned closer. I had no will-power to resist. Our lips met. His hand came up and rested on the side of my face. The kiss, delicate, tentative, lingered. His smooth lips touched my chin, my nose, my upper lip. I felt his hand drop to my shoulder, then to my thigh. Nothing in me wanted him to stop. It seemed the fate of the evening rested on his sense of decorum.
His head pulled back slightly. “I like being with you.” He sat up and leaned back, his arms braced behind him. “My ex-wife and I were too young to realize we had nothing in common. We didn’t know how to enjoy things like this. Never tried. Now that that’s behind me, it’s like the world has opened up, showing everything it has to offer. I’ve had a lot of time to think about these things, to grow personally, to understand what’s important in life. I just haven’t had anyone to share it with.” A smile lit his eyes. “Then I saw you sitting alone in the cafeteria. You reminded me of me. Something clicked in my head. I wanted to say hi, get to know you. It felt strange, almost like I was compelled to sit close to you.”
“Brad ...” My voice felt weak. I was on the verge of telling him, of letting everything spill out, including the fact I felt the same way. Our lives were alike in so many ways, for an instant it seemed he would surely accept me for who I am. But as I looked at him, I saw more than a man with a wonderful heart. I also saw a man who would have a man’s expectations of what he would find between a woman’s legs. I needed time to think, time to plan how I would say it. I needed time to know him better.
He was looking at me, waiting for whatever I had to say. “This is all happening so fast. We don’t even know each other that well yet.”
“We will, though. That is if you want to.”
I sighed. “You have no idea how much I want to.”
“That’s all I need to hear.” He smiled with understanding. “Are you hungry?”
We ate at a seafood eatery not far from where we were, drank wine, talked, continued to get to know each other better, feeling more comfortable with each other. When he drove me home, we kissed just outside my front door, an ‘I like you very much’ kind of a kiss.
Then he reared back his head and said: “Should I leave?”
My heart skipped a beat. With him on the other side of the door, I would be vulnerable by way of my own desire. It was a war between my brain and my heart; but to watch him walk away would end a perfect day too quickly. My heart won the argument. “I have a bottle of wine and a movie inside.”
“If that’s an invitation, I accept.”
He sat down on the sofa. I poured the wine, excused myself and went to the back bathroom. Feeling uncomfortable down there, I dropped my shorts, slid the panties down my legs and pulled off the tape. My belly slackened with relief. My genitals had never been bound all day before. I rubbed them and then stood looking at them in the mirror, reddened and hanging guiltlessly between my legs, standing between me and the man in the front room. I hated them. Then I felt guilty for hating them. My penis and I had been strange bedfellows my entire life, not to mention a source of relief when my body ached with desire. Yes, as a woman I longed to feel a man inside me; but I could experience that now, as I am, couldn’t I. Back there is where I felt the ache. That’s where I felt sexually feminine.
After carefully taping everything back up, I adjusted the garter just below the seam of my shorts. Fresh lipstick, a few brushstrokes through the hair, then back to the living room. Brad looked comfortable, glass of wine in hand, feet up, back slumped against the sofa, fresh smile hinting delight at my return. In front of the wall opposite the sofa, I leaned forward and rummaged through the DVDs in the bottom drawer.
“Have you seen To Kill a Mockingbird?” I asked.
“You’re gorgeous, you know.”
My face flushed. It would take a while to get used to being looked at this way; I would never tire of it.
“I could sit here and look at you all night,” he added.
I turned and looked at him. He looked equally delicious, though it wasn’t in me to say so just yet. I held up the DVD.
“One of my favorites,” he said. “Sure, I’m game.”
I started the movie, fetched my glass and took a seat beside him. His arm came up and wrapped around my shoulder, our legs touching. The masculine smell of a man that had been in the sun all day competed with the wine’s bouquet. I had dreamed of spending an evening this way; and now, now that it was happening, I set about savoring every minute of it. Funny how the mind wanders under these circumstances, allowing you envision more evenings like this, even spending the night together, holding each other all night long, sharing breakfast the next morning. I let my hand rest on his leg; it felt firm and muscular. I wondered how hairy his legs were under the jeans.
At ten o’clock, I woke him up. He had fallen asleep twenty minutes before the movie ended, his head resting on my shoulder. He looked around, a little groggy, before looking at me and sitting up a little embarrassed. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I’ve had a few ten and twelve hour days lately.”
“I bet we walked ten miles today on top of it.”
“Yeah. I’ll be ready for the next ten, soon. Can I see you tomorrow night? Maybe for dinner?”
“How about we have dinner here? I have a wonderful spaghetti recipe.”
He beamed.
“Six o’clock?” I asked.
“I’ll be here.”
At the door he took me into an embrace. A kiss, slightly more intense this time. His hand dropped to the middle of my back, heavenly. I tasted his tongue just as his hand slid further down; he was drawing me closer by pressing his hand on my ass. When I tensed, the embrace dissolved.
“Tomorrow night, then,” he smiled.
I touched his lips with my fingertips and watched him turn and leave.
My heart was racing. I knew now he would be patient with me, that he would spend time with me without expectations, which gave me a sense of relief. I would have time to plan my approach. But why was I so worried? We’re two human beings who enjoy being together. We find each other attractive. What we could have seems so natural to me. Is it really that big a deal? These were among the arguments thrashing around inside my head, spinning around that phantom that kept saying: Are you kidding me? You know exactly what his reaction will be.
But why does that have to be a foregone conclusion? Aren’t there exceptional men in the world, men who are open to different paths, different adventures? Why not Brad—he certainly seems exceptional to me? Wouldn’t he recognize the possibilities? Wouldn’t he appreciate how warm and soft I feel in his arms? Wouldn’t he learn I feel as intimate inside as any other women? Haven’t I read a number of times how many men enjoy, perhaps even prefer anal sex with their women? Again the phantom: Are you kidding me?
I went to bed, fraught, indecisive, full of self-doubt; all of that mixed with joy and desire, a witches’ brew of emotion boiling in one pot, my belly. It felt good to remove the tape, to be free of it for a while. My genitals felt malleable and dewy. Sensations gathered there as I lay in bed, manipulating them, getting the blood circulating again, thinking about Brad’s lips and the way his jeans fit. I wondered if the sensation of an erection was the same sensation other women felt when desire made them wet. It was the one connection with total femininity I haven’t experienced, the one factor that remained vague to me. During my conferences with the doctors, I had been told that, after the operation, I would feel the same sensation as I do getting an erection; that in fact I would be getting one, the difference being it would be much shorter and hidden inside. From the outside I would look like any other woman. I would have a five or six inch vaginal canal. The glans on the end of my penis would be used for the clitoris. The doctors assured me that, during intercourse, I would experience the same sensations all women do, including the climax.
These facts intrigued, thrilled and frightened me. Everything so far about the transition had been easy; emotionally easy that is to say, easy to decide upon and follow through. The hormone injections simply supplied those human chemicals that matched my brain. The welcome changes in my body seemed natural, just late in coming. I had not had to cut anything off yet, or to have it reshaped into something else. So the battle continued to rage: Take that trip into the unknown and emerge as a physically complete women; or stay the woman you are now, the woman who happens to have a penis. But somewhere in my mind I already knew the answer, an answer that resolved issues on a number of levels: the day would come I’d be looking into those low bright lights and breathing that gas, surrounded by people wearing caps and surgical gowns, falling asleep for the last time with a pair of testicles attached to my body.
Three weeks later I had regained the ability to focus at work. Brad and I had been seeing each other several times each week. Many of those mysteries so common in a brand new relationship had been resolved; that is, of course, except for the one he still knew nothing about. We were easily best friends. We were beginning to envision a future together. There had been a few occasions our passion threatened to carry us away, but for my last second ability to stop his hand before it dropped too low.
During those moments of foiled passion, his frustration was beginning to show. I was fast approaching the eleventh hour. Our kisses had become intense and passionate. He knew the feel of my breasts and my ass but only through my clothes. He knew I had been getting as turned-on as he was, and his disappointment in my reluctance was written on his face. Yet he remained patient, leaving room for our relationship to grow in other ways. He seemed to believe the right moment would come, that he wanted me to be comfortable in taking that step.
That moment, by Brad’s estimation, judging by the want in his eyes and the determined hands that seemed to have a mind of their own, was upon us a few minutes after he entered my apartment come Thursday night. Earlier in the day we had planned to go out for dinner. He stood near the door and watched me search the front room for my purse. When I found it on a dining room chair, I turned and found him standing right behind me. He lifted the purse out of my hands and placed it on the table. He looked at my hair and reached up to stroke it with both hands. His hands came down the side of my face, my shoulders and arms, the look in his eye adoring. He had reached for the buttons on my blouse before I realized what was happening, lost as I was on the feel of his hands. When my blouse lay open, he lifted it off my shoulders and let it drop to the floor. My heartbeat quickened. I felt my penis trying to resist the tape. He reached behind my back, unhooked the bra and it joined the blouse moments later.
I couldn’t believe the sensations flooding my body. I felt his reverent eyes on my breast, the nipples crinkling into swollen peaks, my heart pounding. Then his hands found my breasts, cupping them, his thumbs stroking the nipples. He leaned his head and began kissing them, sucking gently on each nipple, turning my legs into noodles. As I swayed on his passion, his hands moved to the button that fastened the waistband in back.
If only I didn’t have to stop him, a vague thought in my mind; but when the button snapped apart, it jolted me back to reality. I had to stop him! I couldn’t let him learn my secret this way, not with his hands—that would be unforgivable. I felt his hands slide into my panties, down over the two mounds of my ass. I felt a squeeze, and then panicked. I grabbed his shoulders and held him back, nearly in tears, feeling the same need I could see in his eyes.
Hearing the familiar sigh of frustration, I looked up. “Brad, I’m so sorry.”
“Baby, what is it? You give me the impression we’re at the same place, then you stop me.”
I lowered my head. The fingertips of both my hands landed just above my brow, the fear and doubt overwhelming.
“What is it, Michelle? Something’s happened to you, hasn’t it? Something you haven’t told me about. Something that keeps you from being intimate with me.”
I looked at him pitifully. “What hasn’t happened to me is the problem,” I said, nearly sobbing.
“I don’t understand. You can talk to me. Please.” He guided me to the sofa and we sat down, him silently waiting.
“There is something you should know. I’ve been afraid to tell you. I haven’t figured out how to tell you.”
“Just say it. That’s all. Say it and I’ll listen.”
I looked up, lower lip between my teeth, eyes scanning the room, searching, searching for the right words to get me through this. “Are you by any chance bisexual?” I asked, my one hope that would change the face of this dilemma.
He looked at me quizzically. “No. Why would you ask that?”
“It would make this easier if you were.”
“You’re bisexual?”
“Brad, it’s not that simple, but no, I’m not bisexual. I was born physically different than I am now. I was born with a male body.”
Silence. A stunned look of disbelief.
“You’re a man?” his eyes dropped to my naked chest.
“No, I’m a woman. I have always been a female … a woman trapped in a man’s body.”
“Those aren’t real?” He sounded dumbstruck, like his questions were falling from space.
“Yes, they’re real. They came when I began receiving the hormones I should’ve been born with. All I have left is the final operation. I’m completely female except for that.”
His eyes lifted. He stared at me a long time. The adoration I had seen within them had evolved into anger and mistrust. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I ...”
A cold moment passed, a moment that, like a bellows stoking the coals of anger, gave him time to realize what he had gotten into. “You should’ve told me,” he declared hatefully. “We’ve talked about our future. You never said anything.”
“Brad ...”
He was already on his feet. “I better go.”
“Brad ...” I called out as he moved toward the door with stunned determination. “I love you ...” I whispered miserably when the door closed behind him, sinking helplessly to the floor.
I guess I sat in that spot two or three hours, staring at the door, seeing nothing. All my life I knew the pain of loneliness; the pain of heartbreak was so much worse. An ache. A physical ache. Invisible hands that tear at you inside your chest. It didn’t matter that I had not had the operation. I would’ve had to tell him anyway, then watch him walk out the door. A man wants to share his genes with the woman he loves, have children, see himself in those children and dote on them. I couldn’t give him that. I couldn’t give any man the one vital thing he wants with his gut instinct, let alone get past their typical, maddening, misguided egos.
Around midnight, I drug myself into the bedroom, stepped out of my dress and panties and tore off the tape. Did I feel hatred for my penis tonight? I couldn’t say. I wasn’t sure what I was feeling. Only that my dreams rested on the outcome of a certain operation, dreams that now seemed futile. What’s the use? Pain on top of the risks and three months of recovery. It seemed so pointless to go through all of that.
I lay awake all night, staring at the ceiling, feeling a kind of self-pity I had never known. The optimism for my future I had clung to for so many years had evaporated. I called in the next morning; there was no way I could work, no way I could risk ending up on an elevator with Brad. I stayed in bed, no will to get up, no strength in my arms or legs. It didn’t occur to me to eat. Only my bladder forced me to lift my weight off the mattress, brief trips to the toilet that dissolved from my consciousness as soon as I got back under the sheet.
Friday passed, then Saturday. Maybe I had eaten a few crackers, a sip of water or two. There were fewer trips to the toilet. Just silence. That was my new world, silence, and an apartment that had yet to feel like home, a city I was not yet familiar with, a job that seemed like the worst place in the world to suffer this emptiness, this aching heart. My future loomed like a dark lonely void. Why me? But then, why anyone? Why are some of us born with Downs Syndrome? Why do some of us die of cancer before we see thirty?
By Sunday morning I felt better. Well, at least I wasn’t disappointed when I woke up and was still breathing. I even felt hungry. I looked at the phone on the nightstand and nearly laughed. No, he’ll never call me. In the kitchen, I splashed my face and chest with cold water. The droplets ran down over my breasts and dripped to the floor. I looked down for the first time in three days, recognizing what, just then, seemed like an old friend. I almost laughed again. My eyes shifted to the pantry. Cereal and toast might sit still on an empty stomach, maybe a few sips of coffee. I had to figure out how I was going to deal with the rest of my life. I had to quit letting the little things get to me, like feeling envious every time I see a couple walking hand-in-hand on the street. I had to quit tormenting myself with the same old questions: Were the desires of my body to remain unfulfilled? Will I live my entire life in loneliness?
The cereal sat well in my belly. The coffee tasted good. I put on a robe and went out to sit on the balcony. Four floors up, I could see rooftops and the crowns of trees and the tropical flora that greened the neighborhood. I could hear the traffic on the freeway from nearly a mile away. I could smell the ocean and feel its breeze caress my face. By noon I had lost myself in a novel. There were ways to be happy. Ways to enjoy the small things in life that can be so important, even for me. There had to be ways to defeat loneliness and I would find them. I had already ruled out moving back to Chicago; there was nothing for me there anyway. I had taken on this challenge and I would see it through.
A week passed. I had reestablished a productive routine in the office, met a few new people, even turned down a date. Had I been anywhere close to being in the mood for a date, I still would’ve turned him down; the guy came on like a jerk. Anyway, whatever my personal destiny, I had just about accepted the fact there would be no traditional relationship for me. But there were other bright spots in my life taking form. I got along with my new boss, which started off well because he had reviewed my file and admired my accomplishments in Chicago. So at least there were a few things in my mind that had cleared up; those that hadn’t, I was in no mood to worry about.
I saw Brad the following Monday, some few yards down the hall as I was making copies of a morning report. He was waiting for the elevator, staring at me, making me feel utterly self-conscious. It almost seemed like a trance; he missed a chance to disappear when the elevator doors opened and then closed. I drew a breath and finished the copies as quickly as I could, glanced at him once more, then turned and hurried back to my office. It had drained me, seeing him, feeling those crippling emotions. Was he that disgusted by me, that he would stand there and stare as if he were looking at war criminal? Was that the look on his face? Too far away; I couldn’t quite make out what his expression reflected. I could only assume the worse.
I got the call Friday night. His voice shocked me, the last voice I expected to hear coming out of my cell phone. Almost two weeks had passed. I was far from over it, but at least the pain in my chest wasn’t so relentless.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he wanted to know.
“I should have. I should’ve told you I’d like to be friends, but that’s all we could be.”
“Can we talk?”
Dumbstruck, I wondered why. “I guess.”
“Do you mind if I come over.”
I looked down at what I was wearing. Did it matter? “Uh, no, I don’t mind.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I held the phone to my ear for some undetermined time after I heard it go dead. Would he want to come over to berate me, to let me know what a dirty deal I dealt him? Couldn’t he have accomplished that on the phone? I drifted over to the mirror. No makeup. I had already washed it off. My hair had been combed out. Nothing on but an oversized T-shirt and a pair of panties. Okay ... so this time he sees the real me. Why get dressed to be cussed out?
When the doorbell rang, I opened the door wide so he could walk in. We sat at the dining room table. He rubbed his left temple as if there were a pain in his head. He looked confused, ruffled, like he had missed a lot of sleep. For the first few moments, he had trouble making eye contact. As for me, well, what can I say—I had fallen in love with him.
“I regret walking out the way I did.”
Knock me over with a feather.
“Will you accept my apology?”
Hardly believing my ears, I had to gather my wits before telling him: “Of course I will.”
“I really do regret that.”
I waited.
“I felt guilty because I care for you. I like being with you.” His eyes raked over me. He didn’t seem put-off by my appearance. He glanced at my breasts as if they were curiosities to him, which I was able to understand. I had told him I had been born in a man’s body. It must have seemed odd that my chest in no way resembled a man’s. “I miss you,” he added.
His sincerity was in his voice and in his eyes. It was like he had things he wanted to say, but had trouble getting the words out. “We can be friends,” I told him. “You did nothing wrong. I felt guilty for not telling you and I still do. It wasn’t fair to either one of us. I was afraid of losing what we had.”
“That’s what I can’t figure out. What did we have?”
This question got to me. I wasn’t sure how to answer, but stupid enough to stumble in. “What we had was what it seemed, just different for each of us. To me our relationship was normal, two human beings who enjoy being together, perhaps falling in love. It couldn’t be like that for you; you just didn’t know it. You were expecting me to be like any other woman.”
“That’s just it; you’re not like any other woman. That’s why I like you so much, you’re different.” His voice sounded pleading.
“Just more different than you expected.”
“Yeah, I guess so. You were born a man.”
“No. I was born a woman, in a man’s body. The only way to deal with that is through medicine; let doctors fix nature’s mistake. And that’s what I’ve done. Except the final operation. That’s why I couldn’t let you put your hand between my legs.”
“Because you have a penis.”
“Yes.”
“So how could you think we could have a normal relationship?”
“Normal to me. I know now it couldn’t be normal for you. I was being selfish and didn’t realize it. No, I did realize it, I tried to pretend otherwise.”
“Oh God!” he moaned, rubbing his temple again. I was astonished he had been affected this way. Actually I was touched by it. He looked at me. “This operation, they cut everything off?”
“Not exactly. It’s complicated. Let’s just say things are restructured. My testicles will be removed. If things go as they should, you wouldn’t know the difference between me and any other woman, unless I told you.”
“But why would you want to go through that?”
“Do you know many women who want a penis?”
He stared, still confused, seemingly about matters beyond the technicalities of sex change. I sensed the angst on his face covered a lot of territory.
“I can’t see you as a man.”
“That because I’m not. Didn’t look much like one before the hormone treatments, not a masculine man anyway. The hormones gave me the body I should’ve had all along. Naked, I look like a woman with a penis.” I was surprising myself by how easily I spoke of these things.