sex and the clitty

by l.satori aka Laurie S.

SYNOPSIS: Can a transgendered gal find love?

1

Elizabeth and I had finished all the preliminaries and were down to the main event -- her love life. We had enough coffee left to hold our booth, but had finished roughly seventy-five percent of our brownies, which was all we were allowed to eat under the Code of Living for Single Girls in New York.

"He's fabulous, Carrie!" She hooked her beautifully formed right leg over her lovely left knee. As she did, four guys watching on the other side of the coffee bar grew interesting bulges.

Elizabeth's affair should serve as a cautionary tale for those who believe Tennyson's ' 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.'

Once upon a time, an English queen came to New York. Elizabeth was young, sexy, fabulous, and horny. Immediately, she hooked up with a handsome, eligible bachelor. Michael was rich, good-looking, and well hung. They met, in the usual way, at a dance club.

Michael spotted her at the crowded bar. Blonde, in a silver lame evening gown that clung to her gorgeous contours like a second skin, Elizabeth smiled seductively when she noticed Michael eyeing her.

He needed no more encouragement.

Walking up to the babe at the bar, Michael said, "You're very sexy." He paused for a moment, as he looked her over all the way from her silver enameled toenails to her exquisite facial features framed by a wild blonde mane. "You are the most beautiful girl in the club tonight. And did I mention you're very sexy?"

Elizabeth smiled and said, "Flattery works, but you had me when you first glanced at me."

Michael was tall, athletic, well dressed in a Hugo Boss jacket, and very confident. Noticing her accent, Michael asked, "Are you English?"

"Yes, from London," she replied.

He smiled. "One of my favorite cities."

"Really?" she asked, wondering if she could also become one of his favorites.

He touched her hand affectionately. "I've been there many times on business, but I like its swinging nightlife too."

"So you mix pleasure with business?" Elizabeth glanced down at Michael's crotch to see if she had his full attention.

Michael was intrigued. "Pleasure or business? Which would you choose?"

"Pleasure," she answered without a moment's hesitation.

Michael snuggled up to Elizabeth and kissed her on the lips. He obviously didn't believe in wasting time.

After an hour or so of drinking, dancing, and dry humping, Michael invited Elizabeth back to his place.

Michael's upscale condo wasn't far from Central Park. Elizabeth thought Michael had to be very rich to afford the location. The apartment was furnished elegantly because Michael had given the interior decorator a limitless budget to work with and she had exceeded it. At least that's what Michael claimed.

After Michael opened a bottle of Dom Perignon from his special reserve, the two settled onto the sofa for some stimulating conversation and uninhibited foreplay.

When Michael's hands wandered over Elizabeth's perky breasts, she moaned with pleasure. But when his wandering hands reached down toward her irresistible crotch, Elizabeth grabbed Michael's hands before he could probe any further.

Elizabeth knew she had to talk to him. "Michael, I'm not sure we should have sex. I just met you tonight."

Michael looked into Elizabeth's eyes and answered. "Are you worried that I won't respect you in the morning?"

"It's not just that."

"Then what?" Michael asked.

She hesitated for a moment. "I'm afraid that I haven't been completely honest with you."

"Really?"

Elizabeth quivered with anxiety. "Yes. I'm not what I appear to be."

Michael grinned before he spoke. "Are you worried that I won't like a chick with a dick?"

There was a look of shock/disappointment on Elizabeth's face. "You knew?"

Michael spoke quickly. "I thought you might be, but honestly I wasn't sure until a moment ago."

Elizabeth smiled. "You like T-girls?"

"I'm a trisexual. I'll try anything."

When Michael pulled down Elizabeth's panties, her 'clitty' was every bit as big as Michael's dick.

The sex was fabulous. Elizabeth was a skilled cocksucker. She teased Michael's penis in the vigorous way a dog licks water out of a bowl.

With Michael lying on the bed, Elizabeth sat on top of his love pole and rode him like a cowboy on a fucking bucking bronco.

After a night of exhausting love making, Michael called a cab for Elizabeth, assuring her that he would call her soon to set up a date.

When a week had passed by, a heartbroken Elizabeth phoned Michael to find out why he hadn't called.

Michael was apologetic, saying he had been so busy with his import-export business. He had a business trip to Tokyo coming up. He'd call her after he got back.

Elizabeth told me, as she finished drinking her coffee, Michael never did call -- an all too familiar story.

Later that night, I sat at my laptop. 'When had men become so inconsiderate and callous?' I typed.

Are transgendered girls destined to be thrown away like yesterday's trash?

Having identified a theme, I decided to do some research about transgendered 'ladies' for my New York Gay Times column. 'Would guys get into a long-term relationship with a transgendered gal?'

I am transgendered. Plus I have great sources -- my friends. I visited many different places around town to seek answers to my question. I conducted interviews in Central Park, at coffee shops, in Times Square, at an indoor rock climbing facility, and at a workout gym. Some of the comments were insightful:

"Yeah, I'd have sex with a T-girl if she was beautiful. I mean some of them are every bit as beautiful as a real girl. But I don't know if I could have a long-term relationship. I mean, what do you say when you take her home and introduce her to Mom. 'Mom, I'd like you to meet Virginia. Although she looks gorgeous and has a sweet personality, she's really a he.' I don't think that would go over very well."

- DAN TAYLOR, Army Lieutenant, single man

"I know guys are willing to have sex with me, but finding true love has been really difficult. Sometimes, after having sex with a guy, I'd get the brush off and he wouldn't want to see me anymore. At other times, I'd see the guy a few times, but no guy, so far, really wants to make a long term commitment."

- MIRANDA (RANDALL) NIXON, ESQ., Corporate Lawyer, unmarried pre-op transsexual

"T-girls have it tough. A gay guy wants a real guy -- not a pseudo girl. A heterosexual guy wants a real girl. So who wants a T-girl? There are some tranny lovers, but they usually have, in my experience, a lot of hang-ups or are real social misfits. So far I've had to kiss a lot of frogs in my search for Prince Charming."

- SAMANTHA (SAMUEL) CATTRALL, Public Relations Executive, single shemale

"I'll give you an answer on the condition that I remain anonymous. I've seen some trannies at clubs. Some of them are obviously men in dresses. They have a five o'clock shadow, a deep voice, muscular legs, and a protruding Adam's apple. You wonder how they even dare to think they could look like real girls. But, on rare occasions, some of those gals look absolutely gorgeous. Some look like fashion models or movie stars. I could see myself having sex with someone like that. As for a long-term relationship, that would be impossible, unless they had a sex change operation. Even then, their past would have to remain a secret. Now that I think of it, that kind of a girl could be very intriguing."

- ANONYMOUS WANKER, toxic bachelor

"I'm heterosexual and proud of it. Not that there's anything wrong with being different. Frankly, I'd never consider having sex with a transsexual. It seems like half of them are prostitutes and the other half are drug addicts. Virtually all of them are looking for a sugar daddy to help finance their sex change operation. Besides, there are millions of beautiful women in New York and very few of them will give you AIDS."

- ALEX HITCHENS, Date Doctor, bachelor

"A sexy T-girl is a real turn-on. I know a T-girl who is so gorgeous she works as a fashion model. Not only is she beautiful on the outside, she's beautiful on the inside too. And what a great dancer! She puts me to shame. But, like a real beautiful girl, she's outta my league. Rich too. I'd be happy to have a long-term relationship with her. Who wouldn't?"

- TONY MANERO, Paint Shop Assistant, single man

"What kind of a question is that to ask? Do I look like a homo to you?"

- LARRY WHITNEY, Cable TV Installer, married man

"Transgendered girls are the best. Not only do they look glamorous, they know how to give guys real pleasure. They know how to stroke a cock because they have one too. There's nothing better than a sexy tranny."

- TESS TICKLE, Female Impersonator, single male?

"Would a lesbian ever consider sex with a crossdresser? I met a gal once at a club. I thought she was really hot. I even took her home with me. But when I found out she was a he, I was really angry. Even though she lavished praise on me for being beautiful, I threw her out. I want a real girl -- not some gay deceiver who just made a complete fool out of me. The nerve of that queen!"

- ELLEN O'DONNELL, Talk Show Hostess, female in a common law relationship

"Being a gay guy, I'm just not interested in having sex with a transgendered girl. She could become a good friend or confidant, but she just wouldn't turn my crank."

- STANFORD GARSON, Talent Agent, unattached homosexual male

"Finding love is hard for anyone who plays by the rules. For me, being transgendered makes it almost impossible. In my case, it's all about the odds. If 50% of the people are female, and the other 50% is male, it should be pretty easy to find love with a person of the opposite sex. But how do you find your true love when you've changed your sex? Are there a lot of people who will even consider you as a potential partner when you've changed your sexual identity? Unconditional love? Love is blind but not that blind."

- CHARLOTTE (CHARLES) DAVIS, Art Dealer, unmarried T-girl

"When it comes to love, I'm a hopeless romantic. Ideally, I'd love to find my soul mate. She'd be beautiful in every way. If that girl was a transsexual, I don't think it should matter, at least in theory. People are what they are. If we were in love, I'd marry her in a New York nanosecond."

- SKIPPER WEBER, Website Designer, bachelor

2

We arranged a get together for Miranda's birthday at Lucky Cheng's Restaurant on First Avenue. Although little was expended on the decor, it was an eatery known for good Chinese food and its fun T-girl waitresses.

Gretchen, our slim, sexy, Philippine waitress kept the alcohol flowing, which loosened our tongues.

After a tasty Asian dinner, the birthday cake was delivered by a gaggle of diva drag queens singing 'Happy Birthday.'

Attired in a black, velvet DNKY dress, redhead Miranda Nixon beamed with delight as she blew out the candles.

Another thirty-something birthday party shared among four unmarried transgendered gals. We all would've preferred an engagement party or a wedding celebration.

"Being a shemale," Samantha began, "gives me the best of both worlds. I look like a beautiful woman and I know exactly the way a man thinks. So I can satisfy a man better than any real woman can." Samantha, blonde, supremely confident, and gorgeous, was a successful public relations executive and an inspiration to all shemales! She routinely slept with New York's young, handsome, eligible, up and comers.

"The sex can be great, but is it enough?" Charlotte asked.

"What do you mean?" Samantha responded. "The sex is on my terms. Most of the time, I just want to get fucked. I don't want a relationship unless he's a five tool guy."

"A five tool guy?" Miranda asked. "I can guess what one of the tools would be. As for the other four...?"

"It sounds like a baseball term." I offered. "A five tool guy is a ball-player that has all five skills: a great arm, a good glove, speed on the base paths, hits for average, and hits for power."

"Right," Samantha affirmed. "I'm looking for a five-tool guy who has a great job, a great place to live, a beautiful mind, a great body and, of course, a man who swings a big bat in the bedroom."

"Samantha," Miranda said between bites of the birthday cake, "you're so crass."

"Don't you mean practical?" Samantha countered. "C'mon. Most real women want a husband who can be a good provider. It wouldn't hurt if the guy were handsome too."

"I agree," I said, as I placed my wine glass back on the table. "A woman today is unwilling to settle for a guy just because he's the one who asks to marry her. There are a lot of single women who want to find Mr. Right and they're willing to look beyond the usual suspects."

Charlotte added, "I'm not sure men give transgendered girls the respect we deserve. Sure they might want to have sex with us if they find us hot, but will they want to get into a long-term relationship. If gay marriages were legal here, would they want to marry us?"

"We could always go to Canada for the ceremony," I said. "I don't know many T-girls that have had husbands, but there are some. I've met a few that have had rock solid, long-lasting relationships."

"But for every one of those happy T-girls," Charlotte began as she played with a tendril of her brunette hair, "I bet I could find a handful that were unhappy."

"Sometimes 'a handful' is all they want," Samantha giggled devilishly.

Miranda waved her fork. "The divorce rate is sky high in this country. About half the marriages end in divorce. Why would the chances for T-girls be any better?"

"I just want a man I can love," I said. "So far, the men I've met are selfish, unreliable, inconsiderate slobs or they are found lacking in the required intellectual and physical attributes."

"Men are pigs," Samantha said. "Take them for what they are. If they're good in bed, fuck 'em."

Back at my apartment, before retiring to bed, I did a little online research about transgendered people for my column. What I found was disturbing.

The main conclusions of the studies were:
- transgendered people have much higher than average unemployment rates
- their average income is below the poverty line
- a high proportion have been fired from their job
- many transgendered people have been denied employment
- a large proportion have been harassed in the workplace
- many transgendered people have experienced homelessness
- some transgendered people complain they're excluded from health care benefits in seeking coverage for SRS
- the Bush administration recently denied SRS as a tax deduction

I had been fortunate in beating the odds. So were my friends Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte.

What has allowed us to beat the odds? Intellect? Beauty? Determination? Luck? Perhaps it's a combination of all of the above.

3

"It's a difficult time to be straight," Stanford said. "The lifestyle of straight people is confined by rules and expectations. There's pressure to get married, have children, and then support them 'til they're fully educated."

I was having dinner the next evening with Stanford Garson, a talent agent who, unfortunately, was down to one client. I worried that Stanford might not be able to afford the meal at Forzani's, a trendy Italian bar/restaurant in the theater district, so it was my treat.

"Gay people can experience romance," Stanford continued. "They aren't weighed down by responsibility, obligation, and legal stuff."

"Legal stuff?" I asked.

"You know, things like alimony or child support after a divorce. Not too many gays go to court for palimony. No kids, so there's no point."

"Can you describe an ideal romantic evening?"

Stanford smiled. "We'd begin with a romantic candlelight dinner. Of course, my date would be the hottest guy in Manhattan. He'd have on a Calvin Klein suit. He'd have the top three buttons of his shirt undone, revealing just enough of his well developed pecs and sexy chest hair."

There was a look of surprise on Stanford's face.

"What is it?"

"Don't look now, Carrie, but I just spotted your ex-boyfriend at the bar."

I couldn't resist the temptation to turn around. It was James 'the jerk' Kirk, a mistake that happened at 25, 28 and 30.

James was one of the hottest guys in New York. He was the best sex I'd ever had. But he wasn't monogamous and the lack of loyalty was toxic to my appreciation of him.

"Whatever you do, Carrie, don't go over to talk to him. He's poison and I don't want to have to put Humpty Dumpty together again after he destroys you for the fourth time."

"Pardon me, Stanford. I have to go to the ladies room."

I sauntered toward the washroom, a path that took me right past the end of the bar where James stood.

Fortunately, James turned toward me. He smiled.

"Carrie!"

"Hi James."

We embraced and I kissed him on the cheek. He still looked hot. He had matinee idol looks plus a muscular Mr. Olympia type body, with washboard abs, that I adored.

Then, the past reared its ugly head. James Kirk raised a Spockian eyebrow. "I thought you weren't ever going to speak to me again."

"All is forgiven. You're looking good."

"Thanks, I'm trying to keep fit. And you're looking marvelous."

I smiled seductively. "Are you seeing anyone?"

"No. How about you?"

"No one special. What are you doing later?"

"Not much."

"I'm with a friend. Could we get together, tomorrow perhaps?" I asked.

"Sure."

"What time?"

"How about 2:00 p.m.?"

"Okay, at your place?"

"Sounds good."

When I returned to the dinner table, there was a look of incredulity on Stanford's face.

"Carrie, how could you?"

"Just relax, Stanford. "This time I'm not going to get emotionally involved. Think of it as research for my column."

The next day, as I rolled around in the sheets of James Kirk's bed, it occurred to me that he was still the best sex of my life, even if he was a selfish prick.

James had a dick that was as stiff as a dildo, and he could go all afternoon.

After I brought him to climax for a second time and I shot off my load, it was time to leave. I was spent. My batteries needed time to recharge. Also, my mangina would ache for days.

"James, I've got to go."

"Babe, you're not gonna stay?"

"I can't," I lied. "I've got people to meet this evening."

I quickly put on my turquoise colored Chloe top and coral Vivienne Westwood skirt.

"But . . ."

"You were fantastic. I'll be in touch." I almost twisted my right ankle as I slipped on my Manolo Blahniks and scurried out the door.

It was great leaving on my terms. No emotional attachment. Maybe Samantha was right. 'If they're good in bed, fuck'em.'

4

When I emerged from James Kirk's apartment building, there was a spring in my step. The sun was shining. I was glowing. There's nothing like good sex to lift your spirit.

Perhaps I should have paid more attention to the pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk. Some fast moving guy accidentally bumped into me. My Gucci handbag fell to the sidewalk spilling my billfold, keys, cell phone, compacts, brushes, lipstick, and ten Trojan condoms all over the place.

As I scrambled to gather up my belongings, a kindly gentleman picked up the condoms and my lipstick.

"Here you go," he said with a smile.

"Thanks a lot." I noted he wasn't wearing a wedding ring as he handed me the condoms. He was tall, well dressed and very, very good-looking. He had a rugged, Mediterranean look. Maybe he was of Italian or Greek descent. He was so hot I had an instant hard-on.

"My pleasure coming to the rescue of a damsel in distress."

"A slight exaggeration."

"Right, you're well-protected . . . by a phalanx of Trojans"

I laughed. "Thanks again."

Sheepishly, with an embarrassed smile on my face, I walked away.

Hoping he was still watching me, I shook my booty enticingly, even though it felt like I had a Peter Piper's pickle jammed up my ass. After taking a dozen steps, I glanced back over my shoulder, as if checking for oncoming joggers or sidewalk bicycle kamikazes.

The hot guy was still looking at me, as if he was trying to etch a photo of me in his memory. He waved good-bye.

I stumbled as I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk. Damn -- Manolo Blahnik high heels are hazardous to one's health.

I thought I heard the gentleman laugh. For all I knew, he was still watching me as I blended into the throng of people on the busy sidewalk.

5

Later that night, I met Skipper Weber for coffee.

As Skipper handed me a latte and sat down, he confessed something that I found rather surprising.

"It's been over a year since I've had sex." Skipper and I had met when I interviewed him for a story about online matchmaking. Skipper had developed the website for Love Life and showed me how to click through the various steps to find a mate online.

"You're such a nice guy. There must be a lot of girls out there who'd be a good match for you."

Skipper reminded me of musician Randy Newman in looks, except younger and without the mustache, and Skipper wasn't one of those 'Short People' either. Skipper was tall, had a mop of curly hair, and wore wire-framed glasses.

"Carrie, I was wondering if you could fix me up with a date. Perhaps, one of your friends?"

"I guess I could, although most of my friends are older than you."

"I don't mind older."

"Then what about one of my transgendered friends?"

"Sure. I'm open."

"All right. I'm going to a party at a club called KAOS on Friday night. Can you make it?"

"Sure, but whatever you do, don't tell her I'm nice. It's the kiss of death. It's like when a guy comes to the Love Life website and arranges the first date with a girl who's got a great personality. In the online world, 'great personality' is code for 'there are good reasons why her profile has no picture and very little background information.' "

I held back a laugh. "Don't worry, Miranda's not plain and she'd have an impressive resume if she ever joined Love Life." I wondered if Miranda would eat him alive. She tended to chew up men and spit them out if they couldn't hold up their end in a conversation. "Have you ever dated a T-girl?"

"No. Other than you, I don't know any." Skipper hesitated for a moment. "When you asked me the other day about whether I'd ever consider a long-term relationship with a transgendered person, it got me thinking. I know you. You're a very attractive T-girl. Why wouldn't I consider dating a transgendered gal?"

6

When I opened the door to my apartment, the phone was ringing. I rushed to pick it up before the answering machine kicked in.

"Hello, Carrie."

"Hi, Charlotte."

"I just phoned to tell you I can't meet you for that party tomorrow night."

"Okay. What's up?'

"I have a date with the publisher Darren Bushnell."

"Lucky you."

"What do you know about him?"

I settled into the cushions of my couch as I drew a mental picture of Darren in my mind. "A few years ago, he was on the top ten list of Manhattan's hottest bachelors. He's very rich. He's open-minded. He goes after whatever he wants."

"Don't tell me anymore. I don't want to know too much about him. I want to discover him for myself."

"How did you meet?'

"He dropped by the art gallery today. He was looking for some paintings to hang in his hallway."

"Does he know you're transgendered?"

"Not yet."

Charlotte played the mating game by a strict code of rules. She would tell a guy about her sexual identity if she were to ever go on a second date. Since she didn't believe in sex on the first date, shocking discoveries hadn't been a problem so far.

I smiled into the phone. "You'll have to tell me all the blow by blow details of your encounter with him. D'you promise?"

"If all goes well, sure."

"Okay, see ya."

"Bye."

7

KAOS was one of those upscale nightclubs where the cool, wealthy, and beautiful crowd hung out. The mix of people spurred a chicken or egg debate. Was it the rich guys who attracted the gorgeous girls? Or was it the beautiful gals that attracted the affluent men? Models and designers loved to hobnob with the rich and powerful.

Potentially KAOS was a smorgasbord of sex. There were so many beautiful women, lots of hot guys. The alcohol flowed liberally and the music was upbeat. It was a perfect setting for forming lascivious liaisons.

In a black, beaded Southpaw dress with a plunging neckline, I was dressed to thrill.

However, I didn't think love was in the air for Skipper and Miranda. They argued -- I watched and listened.

"I can't believe all the skinny girls that are here," Miranda complained. "They look like they all grew up in a famine stricken country."

"The belief that 'thin is good' is an obsession all out of whack," Skipper said, as he nervously pushed his glasses back into position on his sweat-slicked nose. "Did you ever see that Dove Beauty Evolution commercial on YouTube? The one that takes a model with a blemished face and, through the art of make-up and photo retouching, turns her into an amazing billboard image of beauty."

"And what if I've had a few artificial enhancements? Miranda asked. "If a girl gets a boob job or some plastic surgery to refine her nose, is there something wrong with that?"

"No, that's not why I mentioned the commercial. No one can live up to society's image of faultless beauty. It's almost impossible. Even the models need to be artificially enhanced."

Miranda wrinkled her brow. "Do you think I need enhancements?"

"None. You look fine just the way you are. Inner beauty is important. After the looks have faded, what's inside will still remain."

"I hope you're not making a comment about our age difference, Skippy."

"Skipper," he corrected. "No, not at all."

"You men are hard to please. If it's not our weight, it's our boobs. If it's not our nose, it's the wrinkles that come with age."

"Miranda, I didn't mean that."

"Skippy, is that your hand on my hand?"

"I'm sorry," Skipper said as he quickly snatched back his hand. "I was just trying to calm you down."

I should've rescued Skipper from the dangerous Miranda minefield of debate/discussion, but suddenly a man grabbed me in his arms and kissed me on the lips.

It was James Kirk.

I smiled. "Hi."

"Hey. Twice in three days. What a surprise!"

"What are you doing here?"

"I love a good party. I guess my luck's running good."

"Just don't expect to get lucky with me tonight."

"No, I'm here with someone. But I was really unhappy about they way you left me the other day. Then I got to thinking, now you get it. You understand the art of the fuck. Slam bam, thank you ma'am or man. Then you're up and gone. Sex without any entanglements."

"Right. The sex was great."

"Carrie, you're beautiful. So call me any time you want to have a good time."

"Sure, I'll call you."

As James made the phone call gesture with his hand, he smiled, and then turned around and went right back into the waiting arms of a hot-to-trot Asian beauty. She kissed him passionately. Was she madly in love with him? Several years ago, I was just like her. Poor thing.

Sex without commitment was good, but did I want more?

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Samantha.

"Do you know that guy over there?"

"Where?"

Samantha pointed to him standing among a group of guys dressed in suits. "That guy is the next Donald Trump, only he's single, younger and better looking."

I couldn't believe it. It was the hunk that had helped me pick up the condoms from the sidewalk the other day. He smiled and waved at me.

I waved back.

"Do you know him?" Samantha asked.

"No."

"He seems to know you. . . . Usually he only dates models and movie stars, but I'm as good-looking as any model or movie star."

Dressed in a revealing Diane von Furstenburg evening gown that teased and pleased, and with the inner confidence of a superstar athlete, Samantha was a sexual predator on the prowl.

"Are you going to take a shot at him?" I asked.

"You bet."

Meanwhile, in the theater district, Charlotte Davis was enjoying her date with Darren Bushnell.

As they exited the Marquis Theater onto 46th Street, Darren walked arm-in-arm with Charlotte.

"Did you enjoy the show?" Darren asked.

"I loved it. It was so witty and clever," Charlotte said. "I didn't know what to expect because of its title, 'The Drowsy Chaperone,' but it was so funny."

"It poked fun at the romantic comedy genre. It was quite the farce."

"Exactly."

"Speaking of romance, would you like to come back to my place? Not only will I attempt to captivate you with my gentlemanly charms, I have some newly acquired works of art that I'd like your opinion on."

The old 'show me your etches' line. Playing hard to get, she said, "Unfortunately, I have to get up early tomorrow morning to meet a client."

"I understand."

However, she felt Darren's grip on her arm slacken and she could sense annoyance and disappointment in Darren's facial expression. If she didn't play this right, she might lose Darren's interest. When guys spend big bucks for front row seats at the theater, they expect some kind of a return on their investment. "Oh, what the heck," Charlotte said. "I'd like to see your collection, maybe I could come up just for a minute."

Twenty minutes later, at Darren's fabulous mid-town apartment, Charlotte looked at an exquisite nude painting by Modigliani. "My goodness, it's magnificent! This belongs in an art museum."

"Perhaps. Maybe I'll donate it to a museum when I tire of it."

"Very impressive. I'm glad you showed it to me."

"I like beautiful things," Darren said as he held Charlotte in his arms. "And I love beautiful women."

Darren kissed Charlotte on the lips.

Charlotte, overcome with emotion, thought for a moment that she might swoon.

Charlotte could feel Darren's erection as he held her tight. Darren's tongue insinuated itself within Charlotte's mouth. He wanted her desperately.

What had Samantha called them? Five tool guys? Darren was a tool she wanted to nail.

Charlotte reached down to Darren's belt and started to undo it, all the while maintaining her lock on his lips.

Darren struggled to remove his jacket. He couldn't get it off fast enough. The silk tie and the shirt followed quickly. Almost simultaneously, Darren managed to slip the shoulder straps of the Trina Turk dress off Charlotte's shoulders.

Not once in the time they took to disrobe did they break their kiss.

And when Darren discovered that Charlotte had a clitty almost the same size as his humongous tool, he didn't care. He was so caught up by lust, he would've fucked a gorilla.

Meanwhile, back at the swinging KAOS party, Samantha and I had scouted out virtually all of the prospects.

"Say, do you need to get some air?" Samantha asked. "I don't really need a smoke, but I understand there's a rooftop smoking patio here and there are some really rich and famous hunks hanging out there."

"Sounds intriguing." I was addicted to cigarettes. The non-smoking by-laws made smoking inconvenient. Conversely, it seemed to lead to greater camaraderie among the converted.

Samantha led me over to another part of the club and an elevator leading up to the smoking area.

We entered the mirrored cubicle with a fairly large group of partygoers, I felt somewhat claustrophobic. Luckily it was a brief ride.

Emerging from the elevator on the rooftop, I could see the patio was in full puff. One group of gentlemen sat on comfortable armchairs, enjoying their big Cuban stogies. There were many other small groups telling stories while they inhaled their nicotine fix. But here, beneath the moonlight, I noted the music was more subdued, and the conversation more animated.

Mr. Big, as I had decided to call the unknown hunk, was busy telling his buddies of his adventures in international trade, when Samantha approached him.

Samantha placed a big, unlit stogy in her mouth. "Say, would you like to try one of my Dominican cigars?"

Annoyed by the interruption, Mr. Big still acted like a gentleman. He reached into his pocket for his lighter and held it up to Samantha's cigar.

Samantha sucked air into her lungs to help fan the flames. It conjured up visions of Samantha sucking and stroking Mr. Big's cock.

"Thanks," she said in a sultry voice.

"My pleasure," Mr. Big replied. "However, when I smoke cigars, I smoke only Cuban Cohibas. They're the best of the best."

"I'm sure they're very good." Samantha leaned toward Mr. Big and whispered into his ear. "I do the publicity for this club. I have a key to a private room. Why don't we retire to that room to smoke a blunt? I'm much better company than a good cigar and you can light my fire all night long."

Samantha smiled enticingly, but Mr. Big said. "Thanks, but not tonight. Mind if I take a rain check?"

Samantha was crushed. Was she losing her touch?

Meanwhile, Skipper Weber was trying his best to charm Miranda. However, Miranda had had enough of Skipper and his 'nice' personality. At that point, she had concluded that Skipper was 'too nice' and didn't possess the animal magnetism to be a potential lover.

As they were leaving the club, Skipper asked, "So, what would you like to do next?"

"Skipper, it's been interesting talking to you. You're a nice guy, but I just don't think this is going anywhere." Miranda stopped just outside of the club entranceway. "Let's just say goodnight right here."

Skipper stepped forward. Miranda turned her head as Skipper tried to kiss her goodnight. Then Skipper grabbed her in his arms and threw her up against the brick wall of the building. He forced his open lips all over Miranda's.

Caught by surprise, Miranda found herself responding. Why hadn't he been more aggressive earlier? Miranda returned Skipper's fervor with uninhibited desire. If they hadn't been in a public place, Miranda would have ripped off Skipper's clothes and fucked him right then and there.

They settled for a lewd public display that might've got them arrested if the morality police had been watching.

Samantha was not one to take rejection badly. Mr. Big's brush off was long forgotten. Within a half hour, Samantha had lined up another conquest. When she intentionally bumped into James Kirk on the dance floor, she could sense immediately that he was like her in many ways. James Kirk had an insatiable sexual appetite.

And, luckily for Samantha, shemales weren't at all alien to James 'bi-curious' Kirk.

A little later, at the doorway of James Kirk's domicile, Samantha could feel James' hands reach around her and cup her breasts. He couldn't wait to get her into the sack.

"My, you sure are a horny one, aren't you?"

"Samantha, you're damned beautiful, and you know it."

"You are too."

Samantha reached toward James' crotch and rubbed it suggestively. "A hard man is good to find." Was it Mae West that had used that line?

Samantha grabbed James by the hand. She gently guided it toward her own crotch.

When James felt Samantha's enormous shemale clitty, James smiled. "I thought you might be a special girl."

They kissed in a long and loving embrace. It was the start of a beautiful night of passionate cock sucking and fucking.

It was getting late. The evening that looked so promising at the start had fizzled. I was resigned to going home unlucky in love once again.

As I emerged from KAOS onto the street, a shiver ran through my body. Unfortunately the weather had taken a turn for the worse. It was cool and a light rain had begun falling.

Looking toward fast approaching headlights in the street, I tried hailing the yellow cab, but it kept going without even a momentary pause.

I took a few steps in the direction of the nearest intersection. I spotted another cab, held up my arm and yelled, "Taxi!" Again the cab kept on going. It just wasn't my night.

Would I have to walk home? Thirty-two blocks in my beloved Fendis?

A dozen cars must have passed by. Then another cab approached. I tried hailing it again, but I was sol -- shit out of luck. I was getting wetter and wetter by the minute. My Southpaw dress would never be the same.

Then a big black stretch limousine approached. It slowed to a stop at the intersection where I stood. The back seat window slowly rolled down. It was Mr. Big. "Would you like a lift?" he called out.

"Yes, thank goodness. I thought I'd have to walk home."

Mr. Big opened the limo door, then scooted over to give me space on the back seat. I climbed in and then closed the door.

"Where do you live?"

"My apartment is at 72nd Street and Third Avenue, third brownstone on the right."

Mr. Big repeated the location to his driver. The privacy window rose quickly and then the limo started moving forward.

"Fate seems to be drawing us together," he said.

"Yes, you came by at the right time. Thanks."

"You're welcome. So why were you at the party tonight?"

"Oh, I'm a writer. I do a column for New York Gay Times."

"I'm not familiar with your work."

"The name's Carrie Parker. I'm what you might call a sexual anthropologist."

"What does that mean?"

I was thinking that by the title of the newspaper, Mr. Big would know I might be gay. He might even have guessed I was transgendered. "I hang out at social gatherings to do research. I interact with people. I try to find out what makes them tick, and quiz them about sexual matters. Then I tell my readers what I've observed."

"So what have you observed tonight?"

"I saw a lot of rich men being pursued by beautiful girls."

"Are you sure it wasn't the other way around?"

"Not from where I'm sitting."

He laughed.

"Usually it's the guys who pursue the beautiful girls," I began. "Tonight I got the feeling that the rich guys were the prey. The beautiful babes could smell the money and were in hot pursuit."

"You may be right, but I didn't notice you doing any hunting."

"I have someone in mind."

"You do?

"Yes. Besides, I think a lot of wealthy men take it for granted that beautiful girls will throw themselves at the feet of the rich and infamous. I'm not one to kowtow to anyone."

"Good for you."

"Meaningless affairs are commonplace."

"Not for me they aren't," Mr. Big said. "I've never dated a girl that I didn't take seriously."

"Really." Did Mr. Big run counter to my theory about men wanting meaningless sex?

"When I fall for a girl, I go for her all the way. It's from the heart."

I wondered how he would respond if I told him I was a T-girl.

The limousine slowed down as it pulled up to the intersection of 72nd Street and Third Avenue.

My revelation would have to wait until another time. "From what I've seen, you're in a minority," I said as I opened the door.

"Oh, I get it. You've never been in love. That's it, isn't it?"

I paused for a moment to give the question some thought. For a moment, I was speechless.

"Thanks for the lift," I said, as I slammed the limo door shut.

As I walked toward my apartment, dodging puddles, trying to keep my balance on the slick sidewalk, I knew Mr. Big had hit a raw nerve. Had I ever been in love? Since I had never been married, obviously I had never found true love.

I turned to look back at Mr. Big's black stretch limo. It was still there, waiting for an opportunity to start up and merge into the traffic.

I scurried back to the limousine, and then banged on its heavily tinted rear window.

The rain spattered window descended and Mr. Big looked directly at me.

"Have you ever been in love?" I asked.

He looked at me and said with a self-satisfied smile, "Absofuckinglutely."

As the limo started up, the window quickly closed. I was left there in the street pondering Mr. Big's parting words.

True Love. That's what I'm missing.

THE END

THANK YOU: to Angela Rasch for the top-notch editing job. She is very generous with her help and is highly skilled. Angela edits the work of many TG writers. Also, she is among the very best writers in the online TG Fiction community. Please note that non-standard usage of single quotation marks in place of double quotation marks is one of my idiosyncrasies. Truthfully, I'd rather use italics, but that option isn't always available. I take full responsibility for any errors.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: 'sex and the clitty' is based on episode one of the television series 'sex and the city.' Darren Star produced the HBO series and Darren Star wrote the pilot. Susan Seidelman was the director. The series was based on a column written by Candace Bushnell for the weekly 'New York Observer.' Bushnell's column was published in book format in 1996. Sarah Jessica Parker, Kristin Davis, Kim Cattrall, Cynthia Nixon, and Chris Noth were the principal actors for the pilot. Some background information for 'sex and the clitty' was drawn from 'Sex and the City: Kiss and Tell' by Amy Sohn and Sarah Wildman.