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WHAT THE DAY DID: A TRANSGENDER FANTASY
By Touch the Light “Your eyes get prettier every morning,” he says. I don’t say a word. Desire, not love, is shining from them. But when we kiss, my lips are quick to forget the difference. |
The day begins in much the same way every Sunday has done for the last few months.
I wake with my head nestled against Carl’s chest, my right hand resting upon the down below his navel. For a few moments it seems wrong to be in such intimate contact with a man. Then I recall how I writhed and moaned when he made love to me before we fell asleep, sweat-soaked and exhausted. My nipples harden and my misgivings disappear.
He stirs in response to the movements my gentle fingers make.
A grunt. A sigh. Manly sounds.
The arm enfolding my waist tightens its grip. I ease it downwards, away from my bulge.
Our smiles soon meet.
“Your eyes get prettier every morning,” he says.
I don’t say a word. Desire, not love, is shining from them. But when we kiss, my lips are quick to forget the difference.
The day embarks upon its predictable path. It leads me to the kitchen, where I sit on Carl’s lap to munch buttered toast, flicking crumbs from the front of my maternity dress as I try to prevent my eyes straying to the back pages of the newspaper he’s reading.
“You want me to piss off out of your way this morning?” he asks me as I begin clearing the table.
“Might be an idea if you did. You know what I’m like when I have to multi-task.” At the sink I press my hands into the small of my back. “God, two more months of this…”
“Then the real work starts.”
“Don’t remind me.”
The cups, plates and saucers all survive. I’m used to being cuddled, nuzzled and fondled when I do the dishes. Just as well, because it’s going to remain a permanent feature of my life.
I wait until the last teaspoon is in the rack before I caress the hands cradling my breasts.
“Couldn’t you have dried them first?” Carl complains.
“Don’t be such a baby.”
I turn and place a sudsy finger on the end of his nose.
“You’re asking for it,” he teases.
“You and whose army?”
“Shouldn’t be too cocky, not in your condition.”
“Listen buster, the only reason I let you get me in this condition was ‘cause I needed an excuse to stop wiping the floor with you when we went jogging.”
His answer to that is so slow and tender it has me wondering if I’ll ever draw another breath.
The day takes my partner off to the coast with his camera, and me out into a sun-dappled back garden. Cheryl is next door, pottering. She looks up and waves.
“Hi,” I call.
“Hello dear. How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
Although this is as far as the exchange goes, it proves we’re making progress.
She had to know. I couldn’t let her go on wondering why her neighbour’s new girlfriend never bothered painting her face, or had such an obsessive attachment to jeans, T-shirts and tennis shoes before she started showing.
At least she didn’t call it a disease.
I spend a little while in the greenhouse watering the tomato plants, then return to the kitchen. I brew a pot of tea to wash down the medication I still have to take. Nature is ingenious, but she isn’t infallible.
The day allows me to explore a new role as hostess. I greet. I fuss. I converse. I refuse offers of help. I bask in praise I feel sure I haven’t fully earned.
But John and Lynz are nice. They want this relationship to work. And if we’ve never poured out our hearts to one another, I know that Lynz will have similar memories to mine.
I’ll be blunt with you. There’s nothing we can do until this new regime kicks in, so to speak. That could take anything from a fortnight to three months. In the meantime you’ll just have to put up with the discomfort…
There’s simply no way to tell at this stage. Some do and some don’t. All I can do is reassure you that in the overwhelming majority of cases such as yours psychological readjustment is quick and complete.
I’m just glad it’s all over. More or less, anyway. But you know something, I didn’t spend three weeks in that ward lying in bed staring at the ceiling. I read stuff. And the message I received was clear. If I can get over one or two hurdles, I’m in for the time of my life. So how about it, buster? Care to give me a leg up?
The day grants me one special moment. Carl is kneeling between my outspread thighs, holding me close and thrusting his penis into my vagina with comical consideration for the daughter growing in my womb.
“Much more of this and I’m in danger of blowing it and laughing in your face,” I chuckle. “It’s okay. You won’t hurt her.”
He finishes and slumps beside me.
“You certainly know how to pick the right moment,” he wheezes.
“Then fuck me properly next time.”
“This isn’t going to turn into a love affair, is it?”
I shift my weight, letting my left breast settle against Carl’s face. As I knew it would, his tongue begins licking at my nipple.
“Does it matter what we call it?” I say softly, stroking his hair. “What we’ve got is…well, what we’ve got. The important thing is, will you still want to fuck me when I’m working myself into a lather over our youngest’s latest boyfriend?”
“Only if it’s all right with you.”
“Oh, I think you can take that as a given, my darling.”
Perhaps you can guess what the day did next.
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Comments
Strange
strange story good but maybe someone can tell me what the point is "what did I not get"
Kudos for your time & effort in posting all the wonderful short stories
THANK YOU :-) RICHIE2
From what I gather the
wife/woman was a man who received a gene altering treatment to become the opposite gender.
May Your Light Forever Shine
You Know More Than I Do
It's not why she changed that matters, it's how she and those around her dealt with it.
A lot of reading
between the lines, suggests this was not voluntary, and there were others also stricken. "Staring at the ceiling." I'm not sure about the nature of her and Carl's relationship, but he does appear caring about her and her unborn child.
Interesting way of doing this.
hugs
Grover
You're not meant to be sure.
You're not meant to be sure. He isn't. She isn't. But I think they stand a good chance of making it.
I agree with Grover, this was not voluntary
Sounds more like a new disease, some terrorist weapon, an industrial or lab accident. Even maybe a magical attack. But she was not the first changed.
But from the cryptic doctors(?) comments and her own feelings/interactions she will make it.
Even the neighbors seem to be warming to HER.
Hints too that any remaining male traits/habits are fading, replaced with the increasing joys of her new life. Sure is a hot little pregnant minx.
-- snicker --
Short story, very short so much must be guessed at but the tone of the story is of love and hope.
John in Wauwatosa
John in Wauwatosa
I'm With John On This One.
There's a lot to be read between the lines. That's the trouble with taking literature classes. The teachers/professors always wanted the students to state what the author meant. However, if you didn't come up with the same answer as the professor, you were wrong. The problem is, we seldom knew exactly what the author meant. Once I figured out that the professors liked to hear their own words coming back to them, my grades improved.
Portia
I Wouldn't Trust A Professor Of Eng Lit As Far As I Could Chuck
Then they should have been bloody ashamed of themselves.
One of the texts I studied at O level (aged 15 so most of us were inexperienced and impressionable) was Robert Frost's selected poems. We were taught how to analyse them, using the standard toolkit of diction, rhythm and imagery. One lesson the teacher said okay, this is how to take a poem apart. He chose 'Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening'.
You couldn't fault his criticism. It was direct and incisive. But at the end someone said 'Sir, I think some of the lines are quite beautiful.' The teacher, who was still in his 20s, said 'So do I. But I've got to get you through an exam. If it comes up on the paper then you don't like this poem. End of story."
Hmmm...
'A disease..." I like that one. It's much better than; 'Oh...it's just a phase...' or 'Oh you'll out grow it...' I was never really sure what the difference was between 'IT' being a phase and 'something to be outgrown' like a piece of clothing.
This is a very interesting little tale and your writing is quite strong. In other words...AH LIKZIT!!!
May Your Hand Never Fail...
Kelly
What we choose to believe
The comments alone, to me, show that you succeed in what I imagine you intend: to force the reader to become part of the plot. To engage the imagination to the point that we supply much of the story; that we participate.
For my part: I imagine this girl has been well supported: by family, a few close friends, and, eventually, a partner who loves her for what she is. I imagine her neighbors well on the road to accepting whatever it is that has caused the transformations. I glow happily with the thought that her rough patches were gotten trough...and that she has come to terms with what she has become: not just resigned, but eager to face what tomorrow brings.
Sometimes we need a quiet moment, an uplifting moment. You provide it. I am grateful.
sorry I missed commenting before
I like this one. The story does leave a lot to the reader's imagination, but since I do that sometimes with my stuff, I wont complain. (giggles)