A Trio of Terrifying Tunes

by Lauren Renée
 
One parody and two originals but all s-c-a-r-y.

 

Have you ever wondered what My Favorite Things might if been like if Peter Lorre had sung it? Wonder no more.

My Favorite Things
(as sung by Peter Lorre)

lyrics  © 2007 by Lauren Renée Hotchkiss

Things that are dead and things that are rotten
Creatures I've made that are better forgotten
Cockroach soufflé served on Vampire bat wings
These are a few of my favorite things

Old creaking doors and rattling chains
Digging up bodies and removing their brains
Thumbscrews and racks and of course guillotines
These are a few of my favorite things

Watching horror movies, eating spiders and flies
Graveyards at midnight, and things mummified
Thunder and lightning and blood curdling screams
These are a few of my favorite things

When the dawn breaks, when the sun shines
Till I feel I'm going mad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad
 

 

Why sick children and dangerous machines are not a good mix.

Johnny's Big Mistake
by Lauren Renée

 © 2008 by Lauren Renée Hotchkiss

Johnny was a gentle lad, a mild mannered boy
He did everything his parents said to do
The neighbors thought him so polite, an example to their kids
But then he changed - he became deranged

All the neighbors' cats and dogs began to disappear
Strange sounds began to come from Johnny's basement
He became withdrawn, he hardly talked to anyone
As he labored day and night on his strange machine

And how Johnny loved to play with his beautiful machine
Every day he'd scrub it down to keep it's grinders clean
He loved to turn the crank and hear the meshing of the gears
His victims cries of pain and fear were music to his ears

He'd go crunch, crunch, crunch
He'd go grind, grind, grind
It brought a smile to his face
And madness to his mind

No one thought that Johnny could be doing something wrong
But before long they began to grow suspicious
Soon parents would not let their kids play at Johnny's house
Because some of them would not be seen again.

Late one night Johnny snuck downstairs to play with his machine
But there was something wrong, the machine it wouldn't work
Johnny thought he knew exactly what the problem was
So he climbed inside to see if he could fix it

Meanwhile Johnny's mother was walking in her sleep
Her silent footsteps moving down the stairs
She moved toward the machine, and gave the crank a mighty turn
And with a scream her son Johnny was burger
 

 

Have you ever had a nightmare so frightening that you wonder if you’ll survive it, and yet knowing somewhere in the back of your mind that if you can just make it till morning you’ll be all right? Or will you?

Nightmare
by Lauren Renée

 ©2002 by Lauren Renée Hotchkiss

The day is over and all is still
As you lay in your bed late at night
But you will enter another world
As soon as you turn off the light

You smile as you sleep, having happy dreams
But sweet dreams can sometimes turn so bad
Disturbing visions come to torment you
Till you feel you're going mad

It's a nightmare

Hideous creatures of the dark
Parade before you eyes
But do not scoff or take them lightly
To anger them would not be wise

You toss and turn in agony
Tormented by spiders, rats, and snakes
You wish the dream would end, yet you fear it all the same
For perhaps they'll still be there when you wake

It's a nightmare

You wake with a scream in the dead of night
Imaginings fill your soul with dread
What's that shadow across the room
What's that underneath your bed

You lay awake for the rest of the night
Lying still, hoping they won't find you there
You pray you'll survive till dawn
When specters dwindle into bedposts
And boogie men turn back into chairs

It's a nightmare

Then at last the sun pours through the window
And you smile as it passes 'cross your eyes
For you know that you are safe until the darkness comes again
When you'll fall asleep and have another

Nightmare

Everett

by Lauren Renée
 
Don't go into the attic! They never listen.

 ©2006 by Lauren Renée Hotchkiss

"It can’t be true," I told myself as I struggled to move each foot up to the next step of the stairs that seemed to wind endlessly up toward the attic far above, and yet I trembled. I could feel my heart beginning to beat faster and my breathing come in shallow gasps as I moved slowly upward, for this was the place that Everett was kept, or so said my older brother.

~o~O~o~

I had always assumed that Bill was the eldest, but one night as I was getting ready to go to bed after we had watched a horror movie together on TV, he came into my room and in whispered tones began to tell me of Everett...the first born. A storm had begun earlier in the evening, and now the wind was beating the rain hard against the windows. Now and then the thunder boomed so close that we could feel the house shake. After one particularly violent thunderclap, accompanied by a flash of lightning that streaked past the window, the power went out. Bill smiled, almost as if expecting this.

“Several years before I was born,” he began, looking at me to make sure that he had my full attention, “mom and dad had another son...if you could call him that, for he was born a mutant, with 3 heads, 6 arms, and 8 legs. Somehow they didn’t have the heart to have him destroyed, so they chained him up in the attic, where they thought no one would ever see him.” He paused, looking toward the bedroom door as we heard the sound of mom and dad passing by on their way to bed, and then up toward the ceiling, and it seemed to me, through it to the attic far above. Just as he started to turn back toward me, I was startled by a flash of lightning that lit his face with an eerie glow. With fear in his eyes, he looked at me and said, slowly, “He’s still there.”

Bill had often teased me in the past, like the time he had told me about the monster that lived in the furnace. I had avoided the basement for months, until dad had finally marched me down there one day, opened up the hatch and made me look in and see that there was nothing in there but fire.

It was hard to tell if he was really telling the truth this time, or whether this was just another of his attempts to scare me. He seemed so serious though, that I almost found myself believing him. I could see that he sensed my wavering doubt, but he’d also aroused my curiosity. He knew this too.

“How did you find all this out,” I said. “Did mom and dad just come up to you one day and say, “Oh by the way, Bill, we have a mutant chained up in the attic, so don’t go up there, okay.” I was trying to be funny, only because I was starting to get scared.

“No,” he said, unaffected by my half-hearted attempt at humor. “One day I found mom’s cedar chest open, and found a scrapbook that I was never meant to see. It contained a birth certificate and a picture which I shall not even describe.

“One night when mom and dad were asleep I snuck out of bed, lit a candle, and crept along the landing toward the attic stairs.” He stopped once more, looking at me earnestly. “I’ll remember that night for the rest of my life. A storm was blowing outside, just like tonight, and the thunder crashed loudly as I slowly made my way up the stairs. As I reached the top, a sudden flash of lightning illuminated the attic with brilliant light, revealing the open door that led to the dark corridor where Everett was kept.”

“Weren’t you scared?,” I asked, still only half believing.

“Of course I was scared, but like a fool I paid no attention.” Once again that haunted look had entered his eyes. “I wish now that I had. Instead, I walked through the door and back toward the end of the corridor. As I neared it, I suddenly heard a noise that filled me with dread. It was the sound of chains rattling and of heavy, labored breathing that seemed to echo all about me. Suddenly a hideously dark and gigantic form loomed up out of the darkness, and seemed almost to enfold me. I started to scream, again and again, louder and louder, hoping that someone, anyone, would hear me.

“I don’t remember anything else until I woke up in Dad’s arms as he was carrying me down the stairs and away from that infernal place. As we reached the lower landing he stopped and looked earnestly at me.”

"Son, promise me you'll never go near the attic again."

"But why, wh...?"

"I'll tell you more about Everett one day...when you are older, but for now, just please do as I ask."

Just then mom ran up to where we stood at the base of the stairs.

"Thank God you've found him...alive," she said, hugging us both.

Dad looked at me once more and said, “promise me one other thing, son”

“What, dad?”

“If you ever have a little brother,” and here he looked at mom with a half-smile and a mysterious glint in his eye, “remember this night and warn him.”

“I will. I promise.”

“They didn’t say anything more that night,” Bill continued, “at least in front of me. Since it was after midnight by then, they took me directly to my room and mom tucked me into bed. I didn’t sleep that night, though, nor for many nights thereafter.

“I had been curious, just as you no doubt are now becoming, but I had no older brother to warn me, except...” he paused a moment, looking up once more toward the attic, “...him.
“And now you know why I’m telling you all this, because of that promise I made to dad.” He paused once more, looking like he was trying to decide whether or not he should tell me something else.

“What is it?”

”I don’t know if I should tell you this, but...”

“What?”

“Well, you probably have always thought that, except for Doug, you were my only little brother...”
“Y-you mean I’m not?”

“No...” He paused a moment, considering, before he spoke again. And when he did he seemed to be changing the subject.

“You know that I am quite a bit older than you, right?”

“Yeah. So. What’s that got to do with it?”

“Well, there have been several other little brothers over the years, little brothers who had not believed me and had wandered up to the attic never to be seen again.”

“And why wasn’t Doug eaten by ...by the monster. Didn’t He ever go up to the attic?”

I was really getting really scared now, and the storm outside, which had grown still fiercer, wasn’t helping.

“Oh, he went, all right. But luckily Dad was able to save him in time, as he had me. Don’t ever ask him about it though. Even now he won’t speak of it. He was fortunate. The others were not.”

Just as he’d finished saying this, we saw candlelight under the door.

“Bill, are you in there bothering your brother,” mom’s voice called out. We’d never even heard her footsteps, but mothers are like that.

“No mom, I was just saying goodnight.”

“Well, go to bed. It’s time for both of you to go to sleep.”

“All right, mom.”

He got up to leave, but as he reached my door, he looked back one last time and said softly, “remember.”

After that night, I'd often lay awake late at night imagining I could heard the faint sound of Everett’s chains rattling. And as I'd lie there shivering in my bed, my heart pounding but afraid to move for fear that he would know I was awake, it almost seemed that I could hear his dry, rasping, labored breath echoing through the house.

One day, when Bill was out, I decided, despite his warning, to ask Doug about it anyway. He merely looked at me, though, and didn’t say a word. He just closed his eyes tightly for a moment, as if trying to forget a memory almost too painful and terrifying to remember, and walked away.

Mom and dad weren’t much help either. When I’d asked them in the living room one night, Dad simply said, “We will not speak of it...now.” He gazed toward mom who looked back at him, almost pleadingly I thought, but he would say no more. At last she turned toward me and said, earnestly, “Listen to your brother, dear.” That was all.

One day, however, I saw her walking toward the attic stairs with a bucket of raw meat. I didn’t even ask her who, or what, it was for. I already knew. I began to wonder whether they were all in on the most elaborate prank that Bill had pulled on me yet or whether it was all real.

~o~O~o~

I had reached the first bend in the stairs now, a small landing littered with old books and papers that had never quite made it all the way up to the attic. Stopping for a moment and looking back the way I had come, I though I saw Bill’s head, a strange smile upon his face, disappear around a corner. Turning around once more and looking up, I saw the dimly lit attic looming above me. Slowly I continued upward.

At last I reached the top step and stood gazing at the open expanse of the finished attic and at the door that led to the dark corridor that was Everett's domain. How different it all looked than in the daytime.

The room was filled with trunks of old clothes, boxes of books, my uncle's abandoned accordion, piles of toys, and other cast-offs of the generations of Hotchkisses who had lived there. Spread across the floor was an old, threadbare carpet which had once been mock-Persian but which was now so faded that it’s original design was almost impossible to make out.

Outside in the night sky, the quarter moon, shining through the wind-blown bare branches of an old oak tree that stood not far from the window, cast a pale, uncertain light about the room, creating shifting shadows that seemed to give life to all the objects they touched. In one corner, a stuffed crocodile lay crouched in a threatening attitude, as if poised to pounce, and the old Evinrude outboard engine, on its gimbaled stand against one wall, looked, in the gloom, like the moving head of a Tyrannosaurus.

Suddenly a gust of wind blew through an open window, and the corridor door, which I thought had been shut, slammed back against the wall, sending my heart up the chimney, and echoing down to the basement far below. An eternity seemed to pass until my breathing came back to normal and I once more began to move toward the now open door that beckoned me to Hell.

With shaking fingers I lit the candle I had brought with me, for there was but one light on either side of the dark corridor that wound around 3 sides of the attic. Though I knew that it must have been just my imagination, the darkness felt so intense, so strong, so...entrenched, as I walked through the doorway, that it almost seemed to laugh at such feeble attempts at illumination, attempts that could not begin to light the murky and ancient blackness that lay within.

By the weak, uncertain light of the candle, which barely kept back the flickering tongues of darkness which seemed intent on devouring me and the puny, intruding light that I bore, I saw dark stains on the floorboards, leading back toward the rear of the house.

Slowly I made my way toward the darkest corner of the corridor, back beyond where the Christmas ornaments were kept. As I crept along, strange sounds seemed to pulse through the musty gloom. Was it Him, I wondered, or merely the pipes and wiring, the arteries and veins which gave life to the house itself.

Suddenly the door behind me slammed shut once more, blowing out the candle, and plunging all into total blackness. I ran towards it, stumbling over something in the darkness that seemed to move and skitter away toward the end of the corridor, and frantically fought to open it. It was locked. I was trapped, alone with....

As I fumbled to re-light the candle, with hands shaking almost uncontrollably, a strange sound came from behind me; from somewhere within the impenetrable darkness. My heart began to burst within my chest.

The candle lit at last, I watched in horror as a shape began to emerge from the shadows, moving quickly toward me, inexorably, all claws and fur, its shadow immense. Was it...? but no, it was just my cat that had followed me up the stairs.

I had just let out a long sigh of relief, for I had forgotten to breathe, when suddenly a terrifying realization filled me with horror: What had frightened her?”

I watched as she shot past me, fur bristling. Crouching at the base of the door, she began to make a low rumbling sound in her throat as she clawed frantically at the crack under the door and the one glimmer of light that promised ... survival, occasionally looking back toward me,...no, beyond me.

With a feeling of dread, I turned slowly around once more and suddenly... I saw it. No story, no warnings, no amount of preparation could have prepared me for the sight that now met my eyes. With a heavy shifting sound a shape had lifted itself out of the gloom, hideously darker than any darkness had a right to be. It rose up, and up, a towering shadow of blackness, a hissing issuing from three sets of dark and formless lips. Slowly it began to move toward me, dragging its chain as it came. As it grew nearer, my nostrils began to fill with a noxious smell, and I felt myself beginning to grow nauseous and dizzy. The last thing I remember was a feeling of falling toward the floor, and the impression of the door opening, once more, behind me.

I awoke, screaming, my throat raw, gasping, as I struggled for breath, until at last I couldn’t scream any more. I was alone in the darkness; in my own bed, in my own room. Safe. It had been only a dream then....or had it?

My heart finally began to return to normal, the room no longer ringing with the screams which had awakened me. But above in the attic I heard, very slightly, the sound of chains rattling and a soft chuckle in the distant darkness.

"There will be another night, Bradley, another night. Not tonight, but soon."

But it never happened.

Eventually, I got over my fear of Everett and the attic became my favorite place to read. Everett and I even grew to be friends. Though those outside the family called him imaginary, as did my own family much of the time now, I knew better. He was very real.

As the years passed, I grew up to be a writer and a musician, and as for Everett..., why he became a lawyer, for which he was inestimably well-suited by nature.

~o~O~o~

So, you query, where is the transgender element? Well, the main character is me as a young child and I'm post-op TS now, so it may be loose but it's there. Bill, BTW, sensing that there was something different about me even then, would tease me unmercifully, calling me "Bradelina." Everett, as far as I know is not transgendered, more trans-species.

GENDERELLA

 
by Lauren Renée
with apologies to Perault

 
The fairy tale you only thought you knew

 ©2002 by Lauren Renée Hotchkiss

Once upon a time there lived a woman who married, for her second husband, the most macho, red-necked, and thoroughly unrelenting male that ever lived. He had two daughters, Transvestia and Transsexuella, who, though female, were very much like him in all respects. The woman, on the other hand, had a son, Al, who was of the sweetest, kindest and gentlest disposition. The step-father could not stand this young man because he was so pretty and delicate and not at all what he considered a “man” should be, and also because he made the lack of femininity of his own daughters all the more apparent. He gave Al a job with the construction company he owned, doing the hardest, lowliest, most backbreaking work imaginable in the belief that this would make a man out of him. He had to break out cement, tear out sheetrock, take debris to the dump, and do all manner of things for which he was not suited by nature.

Al bore all this patiently, not wanting to upset his mother by complaining to her about his lot. Though he did the job as best he could, everyone but his stepfather could tell that he just would never be like other men. Because of his more feminine nature, his stepsisters began to call him “Ella”

Al was allowed to wear only the most macho of clothes, and though he would much rather have worn the pretty dresses his mother wore, this was not possible. The sweetness and goodness that shone in his face, however, made him a hundred times more beautiful than his ugly stepsisters could ever hope to be, however richly they might be dressed.

One day the Queen’s Daughter decided to give a very grand ball to which all the great people of the kingdom were invited. Transsexuella and Transvestia were highly delighted to receive an invitation. Poor Al was not invited. At once they began to busy themselves trying to choose the gowns that they should wear to the ball, but having no fashion sense nor skill with makeup, they had to at last ask Al for his help, as he knew their clothes and how to use their makeup better than they did.

At last the day of the ball arrived. Though Al was sad that he could not put on a fancy gown and go to the ball with his step-sisters he very sweetly offered to help them with their hair. As there was no one who could do it so well they gladly consented. Yet even as he worked, they said unkind things to him.

“Ella, don't you wish that you could go to the ball?, but then again I suppose you wouldn't fit in .... unless you wore a dress, hee, hee.”

Al made no answer. He went on arranging their hair till at last he had them looking as good as could be expected. Soon it was time for them to leave. He stood at the door waving goodbye as they were driven away in a rented limousine. He looked after them until they were far out of sight, then went to his room and started crying.

But Al, like all good transgendered folk, was watched over by a fairy godmother, and as he sat there in tears, she appeared before him.

“My dear child,” said the strange little old lady, “why do you cry.”

“I wish - I wish I could -,” Al could not finish speaking the words through his tears.

“You wish,” said the fairy, “that you could go to the ball. Is that not so?”

“Yes! Oh yes!” answered Al, sighing.

“Well, but promise to be a good girl, and I will see that you go.”

She commanded Al to go out into the garage and get out his old VW Beetle. Al went obediently and backed the old piece of junk, backfiring all the way, out into the driveway, though he couldn't see how that would help him get to the ball. But then lo and behold his fairy godmother touched the Beetle with her magic wand and before Al's delighted and unbelieving eyes it was transformed into a stretch limo.

As Al looked at the magnificent limousine, his kitten came scampering by, and with but a touch of the magic wand was transformed into a chauffeur for the evening.

“Now”, she said, “you have a limo fit to take you to the ball. Are you not pleased?”

“Oh, yes,” cried Al, “but must I go as I am in this old pair of levis and torn tee shirt.

She smiled, and once more waved her wand, and at that moment he became arrayed in an elegant formal length black velvet evening gown and was bedecked with diamond jewelry. The fairy then gave her a pair of the prettiest glass slippers in the world and said as Genderella stepped joyously into the carriage:

“One command only must you obey. No matter what happens, do not stay at the ball after midnight. If you do, your limo will instantly become a beetle again, your chauffeur a kitten, and you will once more be dressed in drab.

Al, now Genderella, promised to obey, and with a word to her chauffeur was driven away.

The Princess, being told that a lovely young lady that nobody knew had just arrived at the ball, went out to welcome her. They exchanged greetings, and the Princess escorted her into the hall where the company was gathered. As she entered, there fell over all a deep silence; every one left off dancing and the violins ceased to play. On all sides, ladies and gentlemen whispered, “How beautiful she is!”

The Princess conducted her to a seat of honor, but as they sat there a strange stirring began in her heart. She was strangely attracted to this lady in a way in which she had felt before only for men. It confused her. But soon, overcoming her perplexity, she led her out to dance.

Genderella danced so beautifully that all admired her. She was kind and courteous too, even to her ill-tempered step-sisters who did not for a moment recognize in this lovely lady their little half-brother. At last a splendid feast was served, but in the midst of it all, Genderella heard the clock strike the quarter hour before twelve. She rose and said farewell, and then hastened away as fast as she could.

When she got back home, she found her godmother waiting. Gratefully she thanked the little old lady for what she had done, but as she was telling her all that had happened, her two step-sisters arrived home from the ball. Genderella's fairy godmother quickly changed her brocaded gown back into tee shirt and jeans again and disappeared in a twinkling. In his old clothes once more Al met them at the door.

“If you had only been at the ball,” said Transvestia, “you would have seen the finest, most beautiful lady that you have ever laid eyes on. She was very kind to us, too, and showed us much attention. But a boy like you would know nothing of such loveliness.”

Al asked if they knew the name of the lady.

“No,” Transsexuella answered, “no one knows her name, but the Princess would give half the kingdom to learn who she is!”

The next night the Princess asked everyone again to a ball that she might once more see the beautiful lady. Al's two sisters went, and when they were gone and the house was still, her fairy godmother came as before and made Genderella ready. The gown she wore on the second night was even more lovely than the one she had worn before. The Princess welcomed her with beaming eyes and stayed always by her side. Not a thing was less fine and splendid than before; not a person less kind and courteous than on the previous night. Indeed, the music was so beautiful, the movements of the dance such wonders of harmony and grace, the room so bright, and everything so full of joy that Genderella never thought of how time was flying.

Suddenly the great clock of the palace began to strike twelve. Hearing this, Genderella fled. One! Two! Three! Four!. Though nimbly as a dear she ran she began to panic. Five! Six! Seven! Eight!. She had just reached the broad steps outside the palace when one glass slipper fell from her foot. Nine! Ten!, she dared not stop to pick it up. Eleven! Twelve!. Suddenly her Gown turned back into faded levis, the limo disappeared, and the kitten scampered off toward home.

As fast as she could, Genderella followed. All she had left of her finery was one glass slipper, the mate to the one she had lost.

In great dismay, the Princess ran out from the palace after her, but not a sign of her was to be seen. The guards at the gate said no splendid lady had passed them, only some guy in a old pair of levis, who ran as if for his life.

The Princess was very distraught and had a search made everywhere, but all she could find of the beautiful lady was the one glass slipper she had dropped. For days and days she had her servants march through the length and breadth of the kingdom, giving notice with fanfare of trumpet that every lady in the land should try on the glass slipper. Knowing that none but the rightful owner could wear it, she gave orders that whoever it would fit should come to live with her at the palace.

They began by trying the slipper on the duchesses and the other ladies of the court; but it would fit none of them. At last it was brought to Genderella's two step-sisters. Both tried it on, but of course their feet were much too large for the glass slipper. Al, meanwhile, stood by and watched what was going on. He knew his slipper and when her sisters had failed, he said to them meekly:

“Let me see if it will not fit me.”

His step-sisters burst out laughing. “Could a man wear such a slipper?,” they cried. But the messenger looked very earnestly at Al, and said that it was only fair that he be allowed to try it.

So Al sat down and the gentleman held the slipper up to his foot, and behold!, it went on easily and fitted him like it was made for her, as of course it was. Transvestia and Transsexuella were dumb with amazement, but their amazement was greater still when Al pulled from under a chair the mate to that beautiful slipper. Thereupon in came the fairy godmother, who touched Al's clothes with her wand, and lo! they became more magnificent than any she had worn before.

His step-sisters, finding Genderella to be that beautiful lady who had been so kind to them at the ball, threw themselves at her feet to beg her pardon for all their ill treatment of her. Genderella lifted them up, kissed them, and said she forgave them with all her heart.

She was conducted to the Princess, who thought her even more charming than before and invited Genderella to live with her at the palace. Genderella, who was as good as she was beautiful, gave her two sisters a home at court. Her goodness made them ashamed of themselves, so they tried to conquer their pride and ill-temper, and grow to be more feminine young ladies.

And so they all lived happily ever after, or something like that.

I Don't Think We're in Kansas Anymore

 
by Lauren Renée
 
What happens when a post-op TS lesbian and her genetic lesbian lover run into trouble in Oklahoma while on a motorcycle trip.

 © 2003 by Lauren Renée Hotchkiss

Laurie's breasts pressed hard into Wendy's back in warm, comfortable vibration. She smiled dreamily, relishing the weight and feel of them. It was so wonderful to have real breasts at last and to have found a lover who didn't care that she used to be a man. The roar of the Harley's engine was loud, as dawn broke across the Midwestern countryside.

They were half-way through a trip up the Pacific coast, along the Canadian border, and down through the Dakotas, Nebraska, and Kansas. As soon as they hit the Oklahoma panhandle they would cut west along 105 and start heading back toward California.

They hardly looked like the grad students they were, with their leather jackets, Levis, motorcycle boots, and their hair tied back with bandannas, but, after all, Cal Berkeley had always been a haven for those of alternative lifestyles.

Still half-asleep, and half- hypnotized by the drone of the engine, Laurie began to fall into a reverie, once more thinking about her family in Ohio and how she could never tell them about what she had done, nor the nature of her relationship with Wendy, afraid they would never understand.

As they crossed the state line into Kansas, the endless miles of farm land that stretched out before them seemed to grow more lush.

Wendy began joking, bringing Laurie back to the present.

"No wonder Dorothy left, but why the hell did she ever want to come back."

This began a whole series of jokes, and pretty soon they were pointing out scarecrows in the cornfields to each other and making bets on which ones were alive.

"Auntie Em, Auntie Em, here comes a cyclone."

"I'll Auntie Em you my pretty."

They were laughing so hard that Wendy almost lost control of the bike.

The back tire was starting to sound funny. They knew it didn't have much tread left. They'd stopped at one gas station somewhere back in Nebraska, but the way the mechanic had leered at them, and the rude and suggestive remarks he'd made when he'd realized their relationship, made them decide to just keep going and get the hell out of the Midwest before they stopped. At least no one threatened them in the Bay Area.

As they crossed into Oklahoma, they began to see a change right away.

Despite their jokes, Kansas had been beautiful, in its own way, but Oklahoma.... Almost immediately the lush cornfields had given way to dry dusty prairie, dust that caught in their throats, ...and their spirits.

The joking stopped immediately.

They rode for the next couple of hours in silence till, in late afternoon, they heard the whine of a siren behind them. Looking back Laurie saw a patrol car coming up over the crest of a hill and bearing down on them.

Wendy pulled over to the side of the highway and stopped, waiting as the sheriff got out of his cruiser and came up beside them.

He wanted trouble. Laurie could feel his hostility as he approached the bike and circled it slowly, looking them over. They could both see that he was trying to find something he could bust them for, but as they hadn't been speeding, and Wendy's license and registration were in order, there was nothing he could hold them on. He stopped in front of the bike and spit a long stream of tobacco juice into the grass beside the road before pulling his pilot shades down his nose and fixing them with a glare that looked like something he’d learned in Intimidation Class at the police academy. At last he spoke to them.

"You know this back tire's almost gone. Ya'll'd better get it replaced."

“We will, sir, as soon as we can” Wendy replied, expressionlessly.

Almost regretfully he began walking back to his car, but just before he got in he called out to them.
"Take my advice, girls"–the way he'd said "girls" grated against both of them but neither of them dared say anything–"get out of Oklahoma quick, 'fore you get hurt. I don't want to see either of you again."

Not waiting for a response, though neither of them felt like saying anything anyway, he'd gotten into his cruiser, slammed the door, and pulled back onto the highway.

They stayed there awhile, still shaken, wanting to put some distance between them and the sheriff, but at last Wendy hit the ignition and they headed off again.

They rode for several hours, nervously looking back over their shoulders, peering up the highway in front of them, and at every billboard sign they passed, but they never saw the cop again.

It was near sunset when they heard the roar of a powerful engine behind them. Laurie turned around to see a Ford Bronco coming up fast. It was almost like a scene out of Easy Rider, with two rednecks in cowboy hats, beers in their hands; there was even a gun rack in the back window.

It was almost funny, but the laugh died in Laurie's throat as she saw the one in the passenger seat take down a rifle from that rack and aim it out the window at them.

She heard the crack of the rifle and looked at Wendy's reflection in the rearview mirror. She could tell by the look on her face and the way her body stiffened that she'd heard it too. "Toto, I don't thing we're in Kansas anymore," said Wendy. "Hang on."

Laurie braced herself, hugging her lover tighter, as Wendy cranked the bike to full throttle, trying to outrun them.

It happened so quickly, it was over before she realized it. With a loud bang the rear tire blew, whether from another bullet or just from age she didn’t know, and they began to skid out of control, swerving across the highway. Suddenly the bike was down on its side, sparks flying from the skid guard as it scraped across the pavement. Both of them were still astride the bike, hanging on to the upper side, trying to keep from flying off or getting caught between the pavement and the bike. Feeling a dull ache in her hand, Laurie looked down to see her glove pinned beneath the left rear shock, a trail of leather and blood streaming out behind her where the glove was being dragged across the concrete at 70 miles-per-hour.

As they slid onto the shoulder and hit the embankment of a creek that separated the highway from the bordering fields, Laurie was thrown from the bike and landed on the bank. Ahead of her she heard a loud splash, and the roar of the engine change to a shrill whine and suddenly grow still.

She must have fainted then. When she came to she looked down in horror at the almost surreal sight of her hand, shaking uncontrollably in shock, the glove ripped almost entirely to shreds, and what was left melded to the pulpy red tissue that was once her flesh. The skin of her knuckles was gone, the glistening white of bone showing through. Strangely, she didn’t feel any pain.

She looked at it like it was some kind of unclean, unholy thing, separate from herself, and then forgot all about it completely as she caught sight of Wendy’s still form nearby, pinned beneath the four-hundred-pound Harley.

Laurie got up quickly and ran over to where Wendy was lying. Blood was trickling from her mouth, and one eye was out of its socket, horribly swollen and distended, softly bubbling like hot tar. Her neck was twisted at an unnatural angle, but she was still conscious. Laurie knelt down beside her, and taking Wendy's hand, strangely cold, in hers, began to cry. Wendy looked up at her, slowly working her mouth, trying hard to say something, but no sound came. Laurie tried to make it out, to read the message forming on her lips, but she couldn’t. At last Wendy gave up. Giving Laurie’s hand a gentle squeeze, she looked into her eyes and smiled.

Out of nowhere the thought returned to Laurie, of how she wished that she and Wendy could have been married, would have been married if it were not for the repressive laws of a culture that was afraid of those who were in anyway ...different.

"Why can't people just leave us alone," she said, but she didn't get an answer. Wendy had closed her eyes.

Is Transgenderism Wrong?

by Lauren Renée

 

 © 2010 by Lauren Renée Hotchkiss

During the course of our lives many of us in the transgender community have experienced some degree of guilt around the issue of our transgenderism. Beyond the usual fears most of us had growing up, wondering if it meant we were gay or wanted a sex change, we have also had to confront our feelings regarding whether it was morally “right.”

The Bible actually says very little on the subject other than a brief reference in Deuteronomy 22:5 which states: “No woman shall wear an article of man's clothing nor shall a man put on a woman's dress; for those that do these things are abominable to the Lord your God.” It is a quotation, however, that has been mistranslated and taken out of context from the original Aramaic text of the Torah, which in more literal translation reads: “No man shall put on a dress to enter the women's tent (fear of rape), nor shall a woman wear an article of man's clothing for the purposes of entering the holy temple (from which women were prohibited by ancient Judaic law).” It's change from a conditional to an absolute is reflective of both the political and moral climate of the times and of the biases of the translating body–take a bow, King James.

Some Biblical scholars believe that early Hebrew scripture passages such as this and a similar one which appears in Leviticus may were a response to the Jewish people's experience during their exile into Babylonia in the sixth century B.C. Throughout the Near East at that time, priests in so-called “pagan” religions tried to emulate the preeminent mother-goddess figures by becoming effeminate and often dressing as women. Judaism, which depicted a God who was indisputably and exclusively male, had no place for such mother-goddess worship. The priests of Jehovah, therefore, outlawed the practice of men dressing as women to keep the captive Jews from participating in these “heathen” rituals.

During the course of the last three or four thousand years the whole subject of transgenderism was blown out of proportion and transformed into a societal taboo. The issue is not really one of what clothing we choose to wear upon our bodies, however, nor of the gender role we adopt – I mean c'mon, God could care less, – but of how we have been taught to feel about it. Objectively, then, it must be as “right” for us to express ourselves in one gender presentation as in another.

The societal separation of male and female is an interesting phenomenon, as it was very much an act of humanity rather than of God. The Almighty never decreed, as far as I'm aware, that things in life be segregated from each other as being either male OR female behaviors? The fact that we accord certain rights and respect only to one “sex” while denying it the expression of emotion and the display of the more gentle behavior that we allow in the other seems of little value in any real sense.

On the plus side, however, in appreciating spirituality we often develop an understanding of the connection between spiritual faith and gender journey. And in our experience of living psychologically, spiritually, and for some of us physically as both a man and woman, we come to realize that our path is to accept and integrate both within ourselves and to be a teacher and learner concerning inner balance.

Human history is full of examples of those who chose to live in the opposite gender to the one in which they were born, but perhaps the spiritual aspect of transgenderism is best typified by the Native American transgenderists known by a variety of names in different tribes but collectively known as two-spirit individuals. Such people were often respected spiritual leaders and healers thought to possess supernatural powers. They were revered for their two-gender status, and had the unique permission by tribal society to adopt the social roles of women, men, or both, by their own choice. Their greatest contribution to their culture, however, came from utilizing their special cross-gender insights to mediate disputes between men and women of the tribe. Similar traditions can also be found in the Shamanistic cultures of the Ural-Altic peoples of northern Asia and Europe.

There is no one definitive reason why transgenderism occurs. Opinion is divided in the medical and psychological communities as to whether the cause is hereditary, environmental, or due to physiological or psychological factors. Most tend to agree, however, that there is nothing psychiatry can do to “cure” transgendered behavior as it is not a mental illness. Studies have shown that it is not something that will generally go away with time, nor are efforts to give it up usually successful.

In our culture, we are all brought up to believe that there are only two gender presentations allowed to us, and that they are inextricably tied to the genetic sex into which we are born. We come into this world as either “little boys” or “little girls” and are expected to live the rest of our lives in strict accordance to the narrowly defined gender roles that society has “assigned” to each sex. This is fine, in theory, were it not for the reality that for some of us it just doesn't work.

The realization for some of us that we are not like others of our sex often begins very early in life, manifesting as a sense of innate inappropriateness of being grouped with others of our so-called gender and not allowed behaviors which seem natural to us. Many of us at this age begin “borrowing” parent's or sibling's clothes and dressing up as often as opportunity permitted.

A few medical facts about human reproduction are revealing:

A new fetus has no sex characteristics during the first eight weeks of a pregnancy. Following this, we go through a stage where we are all essentially female, producing both male and female hormones. It is the predominance of estrogen or testosterone that make us male or female in anatomical structure. Chemically the difference between these two compounds is very slight; a matter of four atoms of hydrogen and one of carbon. The difference then between “male” and “female” is far more delicate than we have been conditioned to believe.

Sexual development in the fetus is always biased toward female unless an extremely complex process of gender differentiation is imposed on the growth process. This gender differentiation process will normally be initiated only if the fetal cells have Y chromosomes with fully functioning SRY segments.

Perhaps the clearest proof of this female bias is that both males and females have breast nipples. During and after puberty, elevated levels of estrogen will cause breast and nipple growth in men as well as in women. Similarly, elevated levels of testosterone will cause beard and body hair growth and a lowering of the voice pitch in females as well as in males.

Fetal development reverts to female during any period when the gender differentiation process is interrupted. These interruptions can be caused by stress, poor nutrition, drugs, and even by deficiencies or abnormalities present within the mother's body. It is this gender differentiation process that produces, within all of us, physiological and psychological characteristics that are a blend of male and female traits. If the androgen push of this differentiation process is not sufficiently strong to be completely accomplished, physical and/or psychological transgenderism or ambigenderism results.

The Bible also contains a couple of interesting passages that seems to address this from a spiritual perspective: In Genesis 1:27-31 we find “God created humanity in God's own image; in the image of God they were each created male and female. And God blessed them...And God saw that everything God had made was very good.” Galatians, also speaking to this in 3:28 (KJV) relates "There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female [italics mine]: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus."

When a child is born, the first question usually asked is “Is it a boy or a girl.” If the answer is not clear, as in the case of physically intersexed individuals, surgery is often performed so that they can be “assigned” to one sex or the other so as not to upset the dualistic paradigm. Sometimes this is done without the knowledge of the parents

From birth, this paradigm is continually reinforced through a complex yet largely subliminal program of gender socialization. Although in the case of transgendered individuals, the gender role conditioning didn't quite “take,” it was nonetheless assimilated at a deep enough level that many of us feel we need to dress in the clothing of the opposite sex in order to give ourselves permission to display what we have compartmentalized as “feminine” or “masculine” qualities. This indicates that in addition to the biological element, we have the psychological and emotional aspects of both the feminine and the masculine within us. This being so, the concepts of male and female are not the “opposites” that we have been taught, but are, rather, compliments; two parts of one complete whole.

If one grants that we have both the feminine and the masculine within us, it follows that there must be a vast blending ground between the diametrically opposed concepts of man and woman; and yet the myth persists that there is not. No wonder that the two “sexes” often have such difficulty understanding each other when society has cast them into the role of “opposites.” Perhaps its time we question the whole male/female relationship construct. Obviously it is not working when our language, our social and behavioral mores, our entire society with all its movies, books, and television programs is full of instances of the “opposite” sexes unable to relate to one another. Interestingly, even when someone changes gender, there is still the expectation that they are supposed to trade in one set of behavioral and dress standards for another, rather than in any way integrating masculine and feminine qualities.

On a slightly different tack, one might consider whether a part of our motivation in crossing genders is the result of subconsciously trying to transform ourselves into the part of our inner being from which we have separated ourselves. Being conditioned to believe that we must look outside of ourselves in order to find someone with whom we can become complete – though frequently frustrated in the attempt –may well contribute to a forgotten awareness that wholeness comes from within. Because of this misperception, perhaps we have found it necessary to create a second person within ourselves, and manifest them externally, in order to fill an only partially recognized void.

Beyond the challenge of living a lifestyle for which we have not been trained or conditioned, there comes the further difficulty of integrating a relationship with a significant other into our lives and reconciling it with our transgendered lifestyle.

The desire to be in a relationship with someone with whom we can share our life is a basic human need, and not one which can be repressed without effect. Its lack can often contribute to feelings of loneliness and depression. Along with this often comes a fear of judgment and rejection by prospective partners due to our transgender issues. This fear can be particularly intimidating when it involves a person or persons for whom we care a great deal.

Although some of us are fortunate enough to find understanding, even accepting partners, many of us fear anticipated expectations and reactions. As a result, we experience the dilemma of either choosing loneliness or being in a relationship where we must pretend to be something that we are not. This often develops into a sense of low self-esteem in regard to relationships and, feeling that another could not be attracted to us, we keep ourselves from attracting a mate.

Though afraid of not being able to eventually find a relationship, we often come to a time in our lives when we can no longer pretend, realizing that whoever we one day might become involved with will have to be able to love us for who we are. Though we often feel very lonely, many of us feel that it is preferable to living a lie, and that it is better to wait for the right relationship, than to get involved in one that is not.

Perhaps aggravating the situation, is the popular misconception of all transgendered people as gay. Most people don't realize that there is a difference between sex and gender–the former being a biologic fact of birth, while the latter is an orientation of presentation. According to a poll taken by the International Foundation for Gender Education, 2/3 to 3/4 of us are heterosexual with the remaining percentile fairly evenly split between gay, bisexual, and asexual orientations. Interestingly, although the percentages are somewhat different, with a more even division between gay and straight orientations, this is also true for post-operative transsexuals

Although there are periods when being alone can be a very enriching opportunity for growth and awareness by encouraging inner discovery of self, there are times when the loneliness seems almost too much to bear, and we would just like to have someone to be close to. It is painful for most of us to consider the possibility that we may never again hear a partner say “I love you”.

As important as a relationship is to most of us, it is a fallacy to think that it, of itself, will bring us happiness or a sense of completion. A relationship, to be healthy and a positive expression of love, needs to not only be with someone with whom we genuinely love, but who loves us for who we truly are, not in spite of who we are. Both parties need to be complete unto themselves, seeking further growth through their commitment to one another rather than “needing” or seeking “completion” from each other.

One thing that often shifts in us as we get older is the desperate “need” we once felt around having to be in a relationship in order to be happy. Though we may continue to feel lonely, we realize that we don't ever again want to be in a situation of having a partner with whom we must pretend to be something that we are not, nor to get into a relationship that is not right, out of desperation.

We grow and learn to love through the acceptance of who we are. We are much less at peace when we do not allow ourselves to express the true spirit of who we are. It interferes with our ability to connect with others from the heart. Once we begin to open ourselves up to the totality of our being, however, we feel ourselves becoming more complete and open, and perhaps ready to attract the wonderful, loving life partner with whom we wish to share our lives.

And yet sometimes it seems that it would be so much easier if we could just forget all this transgender stuff, and just be “normal” (if one grants “normality's” existence beyond a societal consensus). Certainly it would remove a barrier that seems to exist between ourselves and others. As many times as we try to suppress our transgenderism, however, it keeps coming back. Most of us eventually realize that it is not something we can “give up” anymore than we can give up breathing, and that a part of our learning and growth process lies in the exploration, acceptance and integration of both the yin and yang of our being.

Although it's true that the gender presentation that many of us in the transgender community adopt may not be consistent with the accepted role for our anatomical sex, it is equally true that the role that we have been conditioned to accept for ourselves is often not in harmony with our spiritual truth. As paradoxical as it may seem, it is a situation in which one must live a lie, as others would term it, in order to live our own personal truth. What this suggests is that rather than being considered a losing proposition, transgenderism can be seen in the more positive light of expanding the entire gamut of gender and sexual identity and opening the door to the forward path of spiritual growth through the integration and balancing of the masculine and the feminine within us.

Following this line of reasoning, it becomes clear that it takes as much rationalization, albeit on a more subliminal or unconscious level, to decide to live according to the dictates of one's biological gender, as it does to transition from one gender to the other. It just appears easier to do so because it is condoned and continually reinforced by society, and so never questioned.

There is a tendency with the labels we use to separate from each other, to see things in terms of black and white. The reality, however, is that there is a wide continuum that exists between such polarized extremes of gay and straight; transsexual and transvestite; or masculine and feminine. Within each such label there is so much diversity and individuality, so many individuals that do not neatly fit the constructs of the definition, as to render it useless. Even among the non-transgendered there is such variety of supposedly gender-specific behavior that there is little validity to the viewpoint that “real women” or “real men” don't do this or that.

Beyond whatever stereotypes we use to separate from one another, we are all one, and neither the clothes we wear, our gender or sexual preferences, nor the color of our skin, are really of any importance. What is important is that we are all here for a purpose; to discover the underlying unity and oneness of all people, and realize the connectedness we share.

Transgendered labels are a particularly powerful button for some people, even inciting certain individuals to acts of aggression or violence. Though it's convenient for such individuals to place the cause of the problem outside of themselves, until they are willing to see how much has to do with personal responsibility, in deciding to make the conscious decision to examine their own biases and judgments and putting energy into eliminating them, the situation will not alter.

On the broader scale, the existence of aggression, violence, and war may have much to do with the sublimation of the full gamut of the feminine/masculine balance within each of us. Perhaps the evolution of the human race lies in our bringing to peaceful co-existence the male and female within ourselves. As we learn to accept that we are both and begin to integrate rather than divide the two, possibly we will find the peace and unity that is our birthright and no longer feel the need to strive against one another.

It is often said that members of the gender community are not like other women and men, as they have neither the socialization, physiognomy, or conditioning of the one, nor the psychological compatibility of the other, but such is often the way of change. Whether this involves, as it does for many of us, wearing the clothing of the opposite sex, or in just learning to see from others’ perspectives, it is all a part of our growth and personal evolution. Possibly, in time, the whole concept of masculine and feminine will no longer be necessary. As we develop in spirit, perhaps we will get closer and closer to the unity of ourselves and a schism will no longer exist between the male and female essences of our being.

We are now entering a changing age; a time when long venerated sex roles are being challenged. For the first time in recorded history we are afforded the rare opportunity to integrate our hitherto separate halves into a cohesive oneness; to explore, man and woman, the balancing of our male and female energy and to experience, what has, up until now, been considered the exclusive domain of the “opposite” sex. Perhaps, for those of us who live a transgendered or androgynous existence, there is a reason why we were born as we were: to explore gender integration on both an outer and inner manifestational level. In the process of doing this, we learn to become true to who we are, more at peace with ourselves, and more able to be of service to others.

Transgenderism is not always an easy path to follow. It is fraught with challenges of self-acceptance and the judgments of others, as well as difficulties in finding and maintaining relationships. Though some may regard it as a choice of loneliness, for those of us who feel guided to this path, it may more rightly be considered a choice of freedom. Perhaps, one day, the time will come when anatomy is no longer the arbiter of permissible dress and behavior, and it will no longer matter what we choose to wear, nor how we wish to behave, as long as we do no harm to others, when we will no longer have to think in terms of transgenderism or of expressing the appropriate gender, but of just being ourselves.

Whether we believe in God, the power of the universe, or the Great Goombah is of little importance. It is faith that is important. Faith in ourselves, our path, and our purpose. Isn't it time that we accepted ourselves and respected each other for whatever personal spiritual truth we are called upon to follow?

Oww!!

by Lauren Renée
 
Think electrolysis doesn't hurt. Think again.

 © 2006 by Lauren Renée Hotchkiss

It was some years ago, in the early stages of my transition journey, when I finally decided to start electrolysis. More than a bit anxious about the prospect, I began by talking to people that I knew that had had it. Some had experienced good results and didn't think it was too painful, while others had evidently been to the electrologist from Hell, for they looked like they were up for the lead in the remake of The Bride of Frankenstein.

Not getting any good referrals in my area, I started checking the yellow pages and making a list of the electrologists, and then began to make some calls. Some I screened out right away, either because they charged too much, or they were just too weird, ...even for me. From my original list of ten or twelve electrologists, I eventually selected five that I was actually going to make appointments with, figuring I'd choose the one that seemed like I could work with the best.

I still marvel at the fact that after seeing the first one on the list, whose name was Manoosh, that I ever wanted to try electrolysis again. She had insisted that our first appointment be on Halloween night, which should have been the first red flag.

The sky had been growing steadily darker as I followed the directions that Manoosh had given me; directions that led me beyond the edge of town and into the hills above. After turning off on a road that wound through the foothills that overlooked Berkeley, I eventually came to the address she had given me. I was amazed to find, as I looked through the gate of the estate at which I'd found myself, that it was a castle. The sky was black by now and it was just starting to rain, as the gatekeeper, who looked like a refugee from a 1930s Universal horror film, let me through and I began to make my way toward the castle which loomed ahead, darker than the night.

It had seemed to me that there had been a pleading look in his eyes, as if he'd wished to tell me something. But he could not, for as I learned later, his tongue had been cut out.

Thunder began to roll across the sky, so loud that it shook the ground. Startled, I looked up just as a flash of lightning lit the sky as bright as day and beheld strange kites being flown from the roof of the castle. I didn't have more than a moment to wonder what they were, however, for just then the front door opened.

Standing framed in that dark aperture was a very peculiar individual, who I took to be the butler or manservant. He was dressed all in black and spoke not a word as he led me through cavernous chambers, up winding stairways and along labyrinthine passages till eventually we arrived on a landing before a massive steel door. It was only later that I recalled that even though he had kept his face averted, I had seen the scars upon his throat where his vocal chords had evidently been removed.

He pounded upon the portal with the huge iron knocker which hung upon its embossed surface, the sound echoing through the entire castle.

“Enter” said a voice that chilled me to the soul.

As I entered the room and the door was shut, and I thought locked, behind me, I found myself in the presence of a late middle-aged woman of imposing and somewhat intimidating presence.

After introducing myself, I had just started to ask her some questions about electrolysis when she commanded me to lie upon the table that stood in the very center of the room. Too shocked to do otherwise, I complied, only realizing my mistake when it was too late to escape, for before I could react she had quickly thrown straps across my body and buckled them firmly into place. I was helpless, trapped, bound firmly in five point restraint that would have baffled Houdini.

Terrified, I began to look around me.

I don't know why I hadn't noticed it before, but I began to get an uncomfortable feeling of deja vu. I'd seen this room somewhere before, and then it hit me. It was an exact replica of Dr. Frankenstein's lab. The table upon which I laid, the banks of electrical equipment, the bubbling chemical solutions, even, I now realized, the kites flying from the turrets far above. All were perfect. The only thing missing was a hunchbacked assistant named Igor.

But then I heard her call.

“Igor, put down that brain and bring me...the machine.”

I heard the sound of a heavy piece of equipment being wheeled toward me, and glancing over I saw a complicated looking apparatus with an elaborate array of knobs and dials. A blood-red wire led from it to an intimidating needle-like instrument.

She shoved a wet, clammy grounding contact into my hand and then donned strong magnifying glasses that she said she needed to help guide her in the insertion of the wire-like “probe”. They distorted her eyes so much that she looked like some kind of Psychotic Martian Doctor from Hell. Igor then placed eye shields over my eyes, supposedly to protect my pupils from the glare of the bright light Manoosh had turned on to use during the treatment, but I realize now that it was really so that I would remain unaware of her look of sheer delight as she committed her heinous indignities.

She then turned on the juice.

As much as it might sound like the opening of a new Stephen King novel, I swear that as I lay there on the table, being jolted with electricity as the needle jabbed into my face I kept hearing the echo of the immortal words of the illustrious Dr. F. as his monster first opened his eyes, perhaps while lying on the very slab upon which I now reclined. “It's alive...alive”

After a few of the longest seconds the world has ever known, the hair root was destroyed, but then how could it have lived, considering that there was smoke coming from my face. With a chuckle Manoosh ripped the dead hair out of my face with a pair of dull tweezers.

I'd read all the official propaganda, that to be licensed in California an electrologist must complete 500 hours of instruction in skin and hair structure and growth, neurology, angiology, bacteriology, disinfection, dermatology, and blah blah blah... and that at the end of their training they are then required to pass a written, oral, and practical test administered by the state's cosmetology board before they are issued a license, but personally I think that this one was just given the chance to take a few swings at a dead pig with a cattle prod and then sent out to prey upon an unsuspecting public.

But I'm getting away from my story.

“Stop, I've changed my mind”, I began to scream. But she did not answer.

It was then that the eye shields had slipped a little from my eyes and I saw upon her wall the framed diploma from Marquis De Sade University, in Transylvania, and a commendation letter from Jose Torquemada. Looking back toward Manoosh, I could see her nostrils flaring with delight at the acrid smell of my frying flesh. She began to move faster, plunging the needle into my face, and ripping the hairs, sometimes several at a time, from my face.

Just when I thought that I couldn't take anymore, and I was ready to scream, it was over.

After arising from the treatment table, my legs shaky, but glad to still be alive, she spun me around to face her with one stevedore like arm, and gave me the following orders:

She told me to go home and apply ice to the treated area to cut the swelling -- in other words she wanted to eliminate all evidence of her abuse.

She stopped talking and began to look meaningfully from the ancient walnut grandfather’s clock against the wall to the door. A subtle hint.

“You mean that's it, I can go home now.” I began to give a sigh of relief, grateful to have survived the ordeal when she added:

“It couldn’t have been so bad. I only had the machine on 10.”

“How high does it go up to?”

“10. And just think, you should be done in another fifty treatments or so.

Ahhhh!!!!, I screamed as I hurriedly left the room

As I was passing through the waiting room, a man was coming in to read one of the interior electrical meters. “At night,” I wondered, but quickly dismissed the thought. As I was the only one in the room at that time, he asked me what kind of a business it was. When I replied that it was an electrology clinic he asked:

“What's that?”

Now I must admit that from time to time, especially when I'm in pain, I'm prone to fits of a particularly droll sense of humor. It was unfortunate for him that I had one of these attacks just as he was asking me a perfectly reasonable question.

“We transplant brains. (pause for dramatic effect) Oh, and by the way, we're looking for a few more volunteers. Doing anything after work?”

His face lost all color.

And speaking of faces he must have noticed the mutilated condition of mine just about then because he asked: “What happened to you.”

“It was . . . Manoosh the Impaler.”

He ran out without even checking the meter, and so did I.

I'm convinced to this day that the blood of the ancient Moorish torturers flowed undiluted in the veins of Manoosh the Impaler. As it had been an introductory session, she only worked on me for about 15 minutes, but each one seemed an eternity. Apparently she did not sterilize her instruments well, because I ended up with an infection which didn't go away completely for several weeks. Manoosh would have been thrilled.

The Encounter

by Lauren Renée
 
What happens when you run into someone at the beauty parlor as your new transitioned self.

 ©2002 by Lauren Renée Hotchkiss

I had a strange feeling of anxiety, almost panic, as I walked through the door of the beauty parlor. It was strange, I’d been here dozens of times before and felt perfectly comfortable, but this time something felt different. It was one of those odd sorts of feelings you get sometimes, you know the kind where things just seem somehow unreal but you don’t know why.

Everything seemed normal enough as I sat reading a magazine, waiting for my usual hairdresser, Sally. After about ten minutes or so she came around the corner of the counter into the reception area, smiling that winning smile of hers. Somehow she always had a way of making all of her clients feel special, which was probably one of the reasons why she was so popular and why it seemed to be getting harder and harder to get an appointment with her.

“How are you doing, Laura.”

The way she’d say this everytime I came into the shop wasn’t like it was with most people. You know, how friends and co-workers and others that you run into always ask you how you are, but don’t really want to know, especially if you’re feeling down. She really meant it.

“I’m doing okay. How about you,” I said automatically.

She didn’t answer right away, but instead just looked at me quizzically for a moment or two.

“That’s strange, you don’t look okay.”

I shrugged and tried to laugh it off.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, forcing a smile, “I guess I’m just feeling a little out of sorts today.”

She smiled again. “Well, I can’t promise to solve the world’s problems, but sometimes a new do will do wonders.”

We both laughed. The reserve I’d been feeling, if not broken, was at least lessened.

“Well, let’s get started,” she said, motioning me to follow her to her station.

I noticed a number of new photographs around the edge of the mirror as I sat down and Sally adjusted the apron on me. Most of them were of Sally in a wedding dress standing next to her handsome tuxedoed boyfriend, now husband, Brad. I recognized him from the times I’d seen him come into the shop before, to pick Sally up after work or to take her to lunch.

“Oh, you’ve brought in your wedding pictures!” My mood was picking up now.

“Yes, I just got some extra prints from the photographer.”

“You and he look so happy. How was the honeymoon?”

“It was great. Hawaii is so beautiful in September.”

“I’m glad you had a good time.”

“Thank you. So,” she said, changing the subject, “are we doing a trim before we start work on your perm.”

“Oh, just a little shaping, maybe. Just hit the split ends, but don’t cut too much. I like the length, basically, I just want to bring this dead perm back to life.”

Sally laughed again. “Okay. Why don’t you follow me back to the sink so we can give your hair a rinse before we start.”

She led me back toward the row of basins that lined the back of the shop, sat me down in a chair, and then leaning my head back began to rinse my hair. I always hated this part. No matter how I’d hold my head, I always seemed to get water in my ears.

I heard Sally say something, but couldn’t make it out over the roar of the spray and the water flowing past my ears. I liked Sally a great deal, but I never could figure out why she and the other beauticians I’ve had always talk to you when you can’t hear or can’t answer. It’s sort of like when you go to the dentist and he starts asking you things when your mouth is full of instruments.

At last she was done, and turned off the water.

“I’m sorry, Sally,” I said as she was towelling my head dry, “I know you were talking to me while you were rinsing my hair, but I couldn’t quite make out what you were saying.”

“Oh, it was nothing very important. I was just saying that somehow the receptionist double- booked me this afternoon, so I hope you don’t mind if I work on someone else as well while I’m doing your perm.”

“No, it’s okay. I understand.”

“Good.”

She led me back to her station and we began to get started. There is nothing as obnoxious as the smell of the chemicals they use in perms. But sooner done sooner over, and the results were well worth it. I kept meaning to ask Sally about the new “natural perms” I’d been hearing about, the ones that don’t use such noxious chemicals, but I kept forgetting to do so till now.

“Sally,”

“Uhm?” She had her mouth full of bobby pins.

“What do you think of the new “natural perms.”

“Oh, they’re okay. I’ve only tried them on clients a couple of times. I’ve noticed, though, that the perms don’t seem to last as long. Do you want to try it next time? I can make a notation on your card.

“Well, no. Let’s wait till they get the kinks out of the technology. Maybe later.”

She smiled.

Then just as she was putting me under the drier I heard the receptionist call her from the front of the shop.

“Oh, dear, there’s my 1:30”

After a few minutes I heard her come back and glanced to my left side casually as I heard her seat another woman at the hair dryer beside me. For a moment I was startled; it looked like..., but I couldn't be sure, for Sally was standing between us now, fussing with my rollers, checking how the perm solution was doing.

But then the woman spoke.

“How are things going with you and that gorgeous new husband of yours, Sally”.

I knew that voice.

Sally's reply was lost on me as I fought to control the panic that hearing that voice again had stirred up.

I always knew that one day I would run into Catherine. I had rehearsed again and again how I would handle it, what I'd say; but now that it was really happening, I just didn't know what to do.

As if from a distance I heard Sally speaking once more.

“I've often wondered if you two ladies knew each other or were related since you have the same last name, but I've never had you both in the shop at the same time to ask before.”

The phone at the front of the shop began to ring.

“Well, I'll leave you two to get acquainted while I get that. The receptionist just went out to lunch.”

As my shield left I prayed that Catherine wouldn't recognize me. She looked at me curiously, as if trying to place me, but apparently she couldn't.
“Hi, she said, “My name's Catherine, and you're...”

“I hesitated a moment before answering.

“I'm Laura”

“Actually Miller is my ex-husband's name”, she went on, “I've been divorced for almost two years.”

“So have I.”

“Really!”

I could feel her looking at me curiously, trying to place me; I didn’t even have to look over at her, I could just tell.

I fought to control the magazine shaking in my hands as she began to talk about her ex-husband, and the terrible thing he'd done that she could never forgive.

“I won't even let my son and daughter go near ...him, now.”

I heard Sally hang up the phone, feeling grateful as she crossed the shop and stood between us once more.

“Well how are you two getting along”

Not waiting for a reply, she began to fumble in a box on the counter behind us.

“Darn, I'm out of #2 rollers. I'll go get some from one of the other stations. I'll be right back.”

I'd been thinking about my own life during the last two years, while Catherine had been talking. Before the surgery, I’d been required to go through more than two years of preparation.

I could still remember the nights of waking up in a cold sweat as the heavy doses of hormones I had begun taking began to reform my body chemistry. And the months and the pain of electrolysis–feeling like being stung repeatedly by a swarm of hornets as each facial hair was electrocuted and ripped from my face.

I remembered too the day I came home ill from work, and heard the rhythmic banging and squeeking coming from the bedroom, a sound I associated with my wife and I alone. I opened the door and found her making love with the neighbor from next door that I thought was a friend of mine. I left the room without saying a word. They never even knew I was there.

I remember running down into the basement, into the recording studio that I had just built, all the way accompanied by that sad and pervasive rhythm. I went into the soundproof recording room and shut the double set of doors. At last I could no longer hear that sound, and they could not hear me. I began to scream and scream until my throat was raw.

I remembered the separation and divorce that had traumatized me so much that I soon lost my job, my friends, and the house that I’d worked so hard to remodel.

Even with all the careful planning I had done, I had lost my wife, my home, and my job, all within six months. Had those years of physical and emotional pain and readjustment been worth it? And the weeks of pain recovering from SRS, and the later cosmetic and plastic surgeries?

I felt the tears burning down my cheeks as Catherine’s voice brought me back to the present. I caught my reflection in the mirror on the other side of the beauty shop. I looked exactly like I had always hoped that I might. But was it really worth it?

“You were saying you’ve been divorced for two years as well.”

“Y-yes”

Hearing the tone in my voice Catherine turned to look at me more closely.
“Don't I know you from somewhere dear.”

She was giving me that curious look of hers, the one I remembered so well, still trying to place me.

Finally I just couldn't stand it anymore.

I turned to face her and said quaveringly, “You should, d-dear”–how strange to say that word again–”I am your ex... I was your husband....once.”

I didn’t even wait for a reply. I just glanced over at her once, at her mouth working silently like a trout, as I got up from the chair, tears running down my face, and ran from the shop, still wearing that ridiculous apron and my hair in curlers and stinking like a coroner’s lab. Somewhere behind me I heard Sally calling after me, but I didn’t go back, and have never been back since.

Was it a rite of passage? Did I fail? Was I a coward? I don’t know, and I don’t care. All I know is that I just want to forget and somehow go on with my life. I know that in some people’s eyes I’ll never really be a woman no matter what I do. No amount of surgery could ever do that. There will always be differences. I suppose I’ll always be a little nervous every time I go to the doctor, afraid that he’ll find out. But I can never be a man again either. Must I always live in the past, afraid of who I may run into someday? Always between two worlds, like Mohammed’s coffin, and never a part of either?. Oh hell, I’ve done it to myself again; here come the goddamn tears again.

The Girl Beyond The Glass

by Lauren Renée
 
Knowing the other self that lies beyond the looking glass.

 ©2000 by Lauren Renée Hotchkiss

The Girl Beyond The Glass

I always felt when I looked into the mirror
There was someone looking back from there
Somewhere beyond where I could see
Awaited the one who was the real me

And as I'd look into her eyes
I'd see the soul past the disguise
But still I tried to live a lie
And keep her locked away inside

There within the mirror she waited
Softly calling out to me
With a desire that never faded
She longed to be free

Now so many years have passed
And still she’s there beyond the glass
But at last she's breaking through the fear and doubt
And the girl inside the mirror is coming out

Visions of Laura

by Lauren Renée
 
Long before I was Lauren I was Laura. But owning a name for my hidden identity doesn't mean I accepted her. In fact on one particularly bad stretch of the road to acceptance I tried my best to kill her off.

Visions Of Laura
 ©1987 Lauren Renée Hotchkiss

VERSE 1
No one's stirring late at night, in the silence of the darkness
As I'm lying here all alone
But in a place not far away, amid the swirling mist she lies
Beneath a carved and lonely stone
And I have learned to dread the night
For it is then that she comes to me, until the morning light

CHORUS
Visions of Laura - before my eyes
Visions of Laura - through tears that never dry
Visions of Laura - she won't go away
But maybe she won't come today

VERSE 2
I try to get her off my mind, to look to all that lies ahead
But my thoughts keep going back to her
Memories unbidden come, and then before reluctant eyes
Images of things as they once were
Once again I start to feel the pain
Darkening the future where the past should make no claim

(CHORUS)

BRIDGE
Oh leave me alone
Forgive me for what I did to you
Oh leave me alone
Let the past be; let me free

INSTRUMENTAL SECTION)

VERSE 3
I see her face out in the dark, there beyond the window pane
Trapped within a world she can't escape
Through the glass she calls to me, in words unheard above the roar
of the wind that forever cries “too late”
But though we shall forever be apart
Each vision's like an icicle that stabs into my heart

(CHORUS)

TAG
TODAY Today today today
TODAY Today today today
TODAY Today today today