This is the true story of how I met a very rich man and how he helped me decide to live.

I don't know if I should tell you to enjoy it, it's not exactly the sort of story you enjoy.

A True Hero.

I was standing there in the frozen crystalline light of early evening in New England, just approaching winter. I wasn’t really sure what to do with myself. There I was dressed in a short nylon miniskirt and a strappy top and a pair of glue on tits. The heels I was wearing were so totally not suited for wearing in the six inches of snow that had fallen since that morning when I climbed into the cab of that trucker seeking a safe place from the cold. I would say that he tricked me into wearing the outfit I’m, in now, but that wouldn’t be true, or fair to him. The truth is that when he offered me the opportunity to take a bath and then get dressed up and pretend to be his girlfriend, I jumped at the offer.

For me, it was like something out of a fantasy, and when we shared a steak dinner later with me dressed as his woman, I was his; he didn’t even have to try to get me into bed. I was a little girl being swept away by Prince Charming, Rapunzel and Snow White all wound up into one. He murmured sweet nothings into my ear while he pumped into me with his rampaging manhood and I came into the silk panties he had given me to wear, stimulated only by his hardness inside me and his belly rubbing on mine with his firm strokes of passion.

I was very young then and I did not realize that I was being taken advantage of. If you had asked me then, I would have said that I was taking advantage of him rather than the other way around. Once I got the makeup on and the bra strapped around my torso, I was the aggressor. I stroked his maleness and I even tried to suck him off, but I was too eager to offer him my not quite virginal rear passage to make more than a passing attempt at oral sex with him. That was a good thing, because I discovered later that my gag reflex worked just fine and trying to deep throat dick made me gag and want to puke..

So I moaned and twisted underneath him while he drove himself into me in the narrow confines of the sleeper compartment in his truck. He came into me almost violently that first time. The second time was just before dawn and I awoke to him exploring my already sore hole with his hard member. My moaning then was half pain and half pleasure. He fucked me until we both reached orgasm and we went back to sleep, thoroughly sated. The third time, I almost shoved him off of me when he tried to introduce his tumescent member into my swollen and sore love tunnel. It felt so good that I let him have me again and there was a third eruption both within me and with within the confines of the silky panties he had encased me in when we started playing.

I was beyond bewildered when he abandoned me after we ate breakfast that morning. Right after a delicious breakfast of blueberry pancakes he had fucked me again and then kicked me out of his truck without even a thank you. He’d even kept my old boy clothes so I was stuck in slutwear in a truckstop in New England in the early winter and snow was falling on me while I shivered with terror.

I think the driver who picked me up from that place must have been one of the last true gentlemen in New England. He fed me and gave me money before he dropped me off in a little fuel stop in the middle of nowhere, saying his wife would never understand if he brought a teenage girl home. He gave me 20 dollars to eat with and apologized that he couldn’t give me more than that.

To say that I was scared would have been the most severe understatement ever made in the history of mankind. I was a boy dressed as a girl with fake tits glued onto my chest and wearing heels and a miniskirt, in the cold. I can’t even tell you how long I spent wishing the tits on my chest were actually mine and that I could give the drivers who were staring at me what they wanted. Unfortunately all I had to offer was my already abused back passage and even that was a bit the worse for wear just then. I felt so dirty walking around the parking lot, knowing all the truckers were staring at my ass through the thin miniskirt I was wearing.

I was sort of right to be afraid, but in truth, I lucked out again. A Driver offered me a meal and I took him up on his offer. I would say he turned out to be a perfect gentleman, but that wasn’t quite the truth. The truth was that we wanted sex from me and he wasn’t even turned off when I told him I wasn’t a real female. He took me to his home in Newcastle and gave me clothes to wear, although the only clothes he had that would fit me had belonged to his ex wife. The sex between us was wonderful. He took me to amusement parks and drove me around the countryside of Delaware in his convertible sportscar. I was sure I was in love with him and he even offered to marry me.

I probably should have taken him up on that offer. I didn’t, and our relationship ended at a truck stop on Interstate 40. When I left him, I was dressed in blue jeans and a western shirt with fake pearl buttons. I cried for almost a day before I caught another ride headed towards California.

I wish I could tell you that I was a good girl those 2  ½ years I spent on the road. I wasn’t anything even approaching a good girl. In fact, I was a slut who pretty much fucked anything that crossed her path. I spent most of my time dressed in the scantiest, girliest outfits I could find, and I was a complete whore. If a man even showed the slightest interest in me, I was his. It got to the point where the sound of a zipper unzipping was a mad sexual turn on for me and would literally make me salivate. I’m amazed I didn’t contract AIDS or some other nasty disease in those years because I never really used protection. Actually, that’s not quite true. I remember this one time outside of Little Rock that I made the guy wear a rubber. I’m not sure why even now, but I remember he made me inhale Rush(Amyl Nitrate) until I puked while we were fucking. Needless to say that was the end of sex that night and he ditched me at a pullover outside of town.

I was stuck there for almost a week. There was a place, I wouldn’t exactly call it a truck stop. It was more like a place where you could buy fuel and a porno novel and maybe pick up a hooker while you slept the night. I will admit that I hooked my way through that week, but at least I was dressed for it. The truckers treated me like what they called a Lot Lizard, a truck stop whore, and to be truthful, I couldn’t argue with their definition. I had in fact become a Lot Lizard, except that I was a shemale whore. I was innocent enough at the time to think that I was actually fooling people, but I now realize that was just my stupidity. They knew full well that I was a boy pretending to be a girl underneath the miniskirt and makeup.

I finally got a ride out of Little Rock and straight into hell, the driver who picked me up apparently thought I was a female and when he found out I wasn’t he almost beat me to death. He put me out on a freeway onramp somewhere in Arkansas in the middle of the night. Like I said, I was lucky he didn’t just beat me to death and leave me to die on the side of the road somewhere.

So there I was again, with my thumb hung out on the side of the road, my torn miniskirt and laddered pantyhose shining in the headlights of whoever came by, trying my best to look like a damsel in distress. A guy in an old beat up blue ford pickup truck finally stopped and took pity on me. He was dressed in a pair of denim overalls and at that moment, he was my angel. He gave me a ride and offered a bed in his home, saying he had plenty of spare room. I was ready to fuck him for a bed to sleep in(okay, I kinda tried to vamp him, but he wasn’t having any of it), but he turned me down. He didn’t just turn me down, he took me to a restaurant and fed me a delicious dinner of chicken fried steak and white gravy and fluffy biscuits. I cried in my gravy.

When I woke up the next morning, he gave me an entire wardrobe of both boy’s and girl’s clothes, although the girls clothes were considerably less whorish looking than what I had been wearing when he picked me up. He told me his name when he dropped me off , but it was many years before I realized who he was. His name was Sam Walton.

Yes, the founder of WalMart, the very same Sam Walton. I find it even more ironic to think that I shoplifted merchandise from his stores when I was a teenager, so desperate to be a girl that I actually stole panties (and a pair of black denim jeans, and a bra and a swimsuit and some pink ankle socks with frilly lace trimming) from there. I have to tell you, he was quite possibly one of the coolest human beings I have ever met in my life.

I can’t say that I have ever paid him back for even the clothes that I stole, but I did help one of his sons in the relief effort for Hurricane Katrina. It didn’t work out very well, but the old man’s kid did his best. It wasn’t his fault that FEMA didn’t like the size of water containers that he sent to help the relief effort. Still, to hear that FEMA had turned back 10 truckloads of water was a harsh blow when people were drowning in their attics and dying of dehyradration in the lower 9th ward.

I won’t even try to tell you that I grew up to be any kind of normal. I wound up settling down in Charleston and marrying a man who can’t even begin to handle my transgendered nature. If there is such a thing as a queer bigot, I married him. He has a major issue with me even dressing in skirts and such, and makeup is almost beyond the pale. To bring up the very notion of me actually being transgendered is to cause a fight which will last for weeks. He literally cannot tolerate the fact that I consider myself female because he hates women(Don’t ask me, ask him, he will tell you(Loudly)).

I haven’t dressed up in public in almost 20 years now. I was pretty when I was younger, but now I have aged and the ravages of age and hard labor have taken away my beauty. I look at myself in the mirror with my makeup and my pretty clothes(which I fished out of the trash when I was working on the garbage truck) and what I see is a worn out pretender who made a pretty whore when she was younger. I can’t even begin to tell you how much that hurts me.

I can take solace in one fact. Once upon a time, a rich man who I didn’t even know was a rich man took pity on me and saw my true nature when I was hurting so badly that I couldn’t even appreciate his kindness.

I’ll never forget that, and I‘ll never forget that man. He gave me an example to follow.

I only hope that I will one day be able to live up to the standard set for me by one Mr. Sam Walton, one of the angels of my life.