Alex Rios’ furtive high school transition is suspected by friends, revealed to a lover and exposed by his enemies. With his intellectual hauteur torn away, he becomes the girl he longed, and was destined, to be.

My Awkward Phase
©Alexandra Rios 2019

The greatest lie is that what happens in high school doesn't matter, because life begins in college. I pretended to agree, although I never believed it, for I was the world's greatest liar.

Wannabees

I was hanging out with my friends Quinn, Barb and Anne in the Newspaper Office, our refuge at University High in Los Angeles.
A group of scantily clad Britney wannabees passed by, giggling inanely. I affected a haughty gaze but memorized their accessories and gestures. They ignored me, but my friend Quinn noticed my rapture.
“Having a Zen moment over that flock of mindless chicks?”
“Eye candy relieves my boredom.”
“Eye candy rots brains like sugar rots teeth.”
“Not to worry, they’re fake as aspartame.’”
Quinn crumpled a sketch and tossed it over his shoulder.
“Then don’t imitate life, get one.”
“Life used to imitate art. Now it imitates celebrity, attains meaning only by analogies to tabloid dramas.”
“Get off your sugar high, dude. Like Descartes said, ‘I think, therefore I am.’”
I rolled my eyes.
“Now he’d say, 'I text, therefore I am'”.
Quinn fist-bumped me, and Anne glanced up from her nearly finished cartoon of a snake devouring a superhero.
"Alex, you put the ‘con’ into conformity.”
Barb was on a computer, laying out our school newspaper, the Wildcat.
“How’s this for my lead? ‘Homecoming, Sadie Hawkins, Spring Fling, and Prom, Four Course Feast of Fake Nostalgia for a Sketchy School.”
Anne passed her the drawing.
“Here’s your subtitle: ‘Rituals for jocks and their chicks to feign monogamy.’”
“Perfect segue: ‘So the Marlboro men and their Stepford wives can breed the next generation of Smurfs.’”
I nodded enthusiastic agreement. But my solidarity masked the dissonance I felt at their denunciations of male sexism and feminine submission.
Quinn sketched a caricature of Barb as Joan of Arc battling robotic football players.
“Everyone’s been reprogrammed. We are the only humans left in this zombie zone.”
I struck an orator’s pose.
“I’ll play devil’s advocate. If we don’t record these adolescent passages, aren’t we abdicating our roles as journalists?”
Anne yawned.
“Been there, done that: we reported on date rape drugs last year, got a football player expelled.”
“I was three years a hostage in a monastery masquerading as a prep school. I want memories to sustain me during college.”
I gestured downing a shot, smoking a bong and snorting a line. Quinn crumpled and threw another drawing into the garbage can.
“Partying got you kicked back into this hell-hole?”
People often asked what Caulfield-esqe faux pas had gotten me ejected from my elite Jesuit prep school. The truth, that my Jesus-loving roommate reported me for dildo-masturbating while cross-dressed, was too embarrassing. I hewed to a safer fiction.
“I organized a rally for a suspended gay teacher, lost my scholarship.”
Barb gave me a thumb’s up.
“Their loss was our gain. Screw tradition, toss normalcy, and invoke chaos. Let’s gay date on Homecoming. Me with Anne and you with Quinn.”
“Truth or dare?”
“If not now, when?”
“Seize the moment.”
We anointed ourselves the Intellectual Mafia, and dominated debate, academic decathlon, yearbook, and journalism, pursuits to which our classmates indifferent. The ordinary curriculum was beneath us; we took mostly AP classes. We obsessed over Existentialism.
We were outsiders, friends only with one another. Quinn was openly gay, Barb was lesbian, and Anne and I classified ourselves as ‘questioning,’ which in my case meant that I was too intimidated to come out.
Uni High had been a top public high school but had been reduced to mediocrity by the legacies of busing and budget crises of the Nineties. Wealthy residents of the surrounding neighborhoods sent their children to private schools. Only a handful of gifted students remained, stranded by their parents’ modest finances.
In the traumatized aftermath of 9/11, the other students of Uni High had cocooned themselves in social certainties of the past. An overt display of our divergent sexuality at Homecoming would invite retaliation by the jocks who held high school rituals sacred, the Saved by Christ cult in whose eyes gays, lesbians and especially transsexuals were damned, and the gangsters who targeted LGBT students as vulnerable victims. The closet was the safest place to survive Uni High in the fall of 2001, so we held our fire at Homecoming and planned a more strategic escapade.

Secret Persona

Uni High was my neighborhood school, but I was an outsider. My parents shipped me off to an elite boarding school, St. Aybert’s, after a traumatic eighth grade when my classmates bullied the skinny nerd whose puberty had lagged. But St. Aybert’s had no tolerance for gender variance and stripped my scholarship after my junior year, leaving me no option but returning to Uni High, barely changed from the effeminate prepubescent that had left.
My male classmates had grown into roughshod manhood, and initially regarded the returning, half-forgotten waif with amused contempt. But that soon soured into resentment of my intellectual hauteur and derision of my androgynous appearance.
St. Aybert’s stringent academics and practice of muscular Christianity had stunted me socially. Exposed to the vulgar whirlwind of adolescent fads at Uni High, I became a pop culture junkie obsessed with observing the Byzantine rules, and skirmishes between the cliques and the genders.
I affected the pose of a sarcastic social critic. But my image was a façade, a cage and fortress behind which a secret slut languished, awaiting her debauch. She would willingly be drugged and smuggled out of Homecoming by a heartless jock, submit to casual back-seat sex, and be cast off and recycled for the next guy’s fun fuck. But she imprisoned by ambition and inhibition.
I didn’t dare reveal my feminine persona to the bigots and gangsters that ruled Uni High. I scuttled between my Advanced Placement classes like a refugee through a no man’s land. Jocks bumped me in the halls, dopers mocked me in the quad, the born-again Christians lectured me about conversion therapy, and the gangsters glared and mouthed “faggot” at me. Did the gangsters’ connections with crime and commercial sex let them peer through my intellectual condescension and see the submissive sissy slut inside?
She emerged only at night, when I stroked my tiny dick while fantasizing the assaults that I desired and dreaded. Imaginary thugs slapped my face and silicone breast forms while I dildoed my ass. I endured searing pain for the first moments of penetration, until my colon relaxed, and I plunged and tugged my way to orgasm.
I douched my ass to keep my toys and bedding clean. I practiced pulsing my anus to accelerate and accentuate the panic, pain and pleasure of penetration. I licked my toys and belly clean and learned to love the tastes of ass mucous, lube and cum. Each morning, I scrubbed away the sticky residues and hid my sex toys like my fantasies. I brushed and gargled the ass musk and cum from my mouth and resumed my pretense as a male merit scholar and class intellectual.
I cloaked my transsexual identity behind my intellect and accomplishment, imprisoned my inner girl until she could safely transform and take wing like a butterfly from its chrysalis. Secrecy was imperative, for when I was exposed at St. Aybert’s, I’d been forced out. My ambitions required me to conceal my transition at Uni.

Teacher’s Pet

I minimized facetime with the unwashed masses at Uni by taking all available Advanced Placement classes. Math AP wasn’t offered at Uni, so I settled for Algebra II, which I’d covered as a sophomore at St. Aybert’s. Mr. Rogers handed out marked up homework and was met by groans lamenting nearly universal failure.
“Let’s go over your problems. Marta, you had some problems with quadratic equations. Do you want to explain how you approached the problem, so we can get to the source of your mistake?”
“I got stuck, and finally just guessed.”
The class laughed, she blushed, and so did I. Marta Gonzalez had been an adorable sprite in Middle School, whose pert boobs, slim waist, olive skin and sleek hair foretold spectacular beauty. We became good friends, and I thought about her frequently after my parents bundled me off to St. Aybert’s. We exchanged occasional emails and texts, but we had lost touch by the end of my exile.
When I returned, she’d become Uni’s Jennifer Lopez, the girl I had always wanted to be. She had baby doe eyes, ballistic breasts, and pouty, full lips. She had dated the coolest jocks and coldest gangsters at Uni and floated between these mutually exclusive enclaves with ease. But her popularity must have distracted her from studies.
I raised my hand.
“Rios, go ahead and educate us.”
I went to the board, solved Marta’s problem in three easy steps, and she smiled and winked. The teacher called on a muscled, tatted Latino slouched in the back.
“Miguel, tell us your thought processes on the second question.”
Miguel Carranza had led the persecutors who’d driven me from Middle School to St. Aybert’s. He’d bloodied my nose in the school yard and incited his friend Jack to stomp my prostrate body. My father had bullied their names from me, and they’d been suspended.
“Let smartass Rios explain it.”
“Give your paper to Rios. Alex, tell us where Miguel went off the rails.”
“He never got on track.”
“Show Miguel how to solve it.”
I solved it and handed the paper back to Miguel, who snatched it.
“OK, Carranza, copy Rios’s work on the board.”
Miguel copied my solution, but added “Alex Rios, Sissy Faggot” beneath. The classroom burst into laughter; Mr. Roger’s erased the slur.
“Carranza, take this pink slip to the principal’s office.”
I approached Mr. Rogers after class.
“Can’t you get me out of here? Carranza hates me.”
“It’s a requirement.”
“I’m sure I could ace your final today.”
“Here’s last year’s final. Give it a shot.”
I finished the test in twenty minutes. Mr. Rogers let out a low whistle when he finished marking it.
“Even so, I can’t excuse you.”
“Then have me tutor the others.”
“These losers?”
“I need community service credits anyhow.”
The next class Miguel was assigned to my front row seat and I sat at a table in the rear of the class, tutoring Marta. I coached her through the mysteries of multivariable equations, and she giggled with delight when she finally solved one herself. Miguel scowled over his shoulder and raised his hand.
“Can I have some tutoring now?”
“Only after you write an apology on the blackboard.”
Miguel went to the board and wrote “Sorry for calling Rios a sissy faggot.”
The class burst into a round of applause. Mr. Rogers handed him another pink slip
“Get out, and don’t come back”
Miguel got suspended for sexual harassment and reassigned to a different section. Marta became my most frequent tutee and Mr. Rogers’ most improved student. We once again became BFFs, best friends forever.

Formulary

Perhaps my physique destined me to be transsexual. I was pale, slender and weak, always the last picked for every team and the slowest in every race. My balls had failed to descend normally. After they were surgically extracted my genitals developed like a pre-pubescent’s rather than a man’s. Adolescent gynecomastia caused my breasts to swell to A-cups, and my boy boobs were still soft and jiggly when at 16 I finally jerked myself to my first orgasm, fantasizing about being a girl.
The summer after I got kicked out of St. Aybert’s I noticed the onset of my long-delayed puberty. My pubic peach fuzz thickened, a wispy mustache sprouted, and my high-pitched voice occasionally cracked. I panicked at the imminent end of my androgyny and decided to delay the onset of my manhood until the girl inside of me could safely emerge. I’d studied the websites and done the research, knew what I had to do to keep my transsexual option open, while the ambitious boy and the romantic girl wrestled in my subconscious.
To keep me busy and out of trouble, my dad arranged an internship at the UCLA medical school coding data from drug trials. It was boring and lonely but gave me ample opportunities to rifle through medical supplies that the drug companies lay off at clinics. There were cartons of syringes and vials of estrogen and progesterone in the supply room. Fully aware of the transformative power of these drugs, I smuggled out needles and hormones and began self-administered hormone replacement therapy, or HRT.
I injected the hormones in my inner thighs, where the needle marks and the bumps left by the viscous progesterone would be less noticeable. The needles’ pricks and my pain became symbols and signposts of my passage. I imagined that the proximity of my injection sites to their target intensified their assault on my incipient masculinity.
My acne worsened at first, and then suddenly disappeared. My hair became smooth and manageable. After a couple of months, my nipples broadened, my body hair thinned, my muscles atrophied, and my skin became luminous and soft. My emotions swung between giddy joy and gloomy melancholy, punctuated by frequent outbursts of tears.
By the time I started my senior year, I had entered awkward phase of transition, when the effects of hormones become discernible, but not definitive. The skinny wimp who had left for prep school three years earlier had returned an androgyne. My altered appearance made me the target of incessant bullying, at lunch, in the halls, and worst of all, in the locker room.

Solving for X

Marta and Thad Jones, Uni’s star football linebacker, stared cluelessly at the equation I’d written on the blackboard. Thad shook his head.
“Only X’s I need to know are in football plays.”
“The world is full of X’s; algebra solves these unknowns.”
Marta cradled her face in her palms and smiled.
“Maybe they’re supposed to stay unknown.”
Was it New Age piffle, or sly innuendo about my chromosomal X’ and Y’s? I blushed and turned to the board.
“Thad, in football, what makes a good play?”
“Isolate a stronger or faster player against a weaker or slower one.”
“Exactly the same in math.”
I divided, subtracted, and multiplied the equation’s numbers by their inverses until the X was by itself, and the remaining factors were on the other side.
“Now it’s simple, X=5/Y. So, if Y is 10, X is-“
Martha shot up her hand first.
“Two.”
“Thad, what do you think?”
“I’ll go with that.”
“Close, but try this.”
I erased the Y, replaced it with 10.
“5 divided by 10 is-“
They answered “half” simultaneously, I fist bumped Thad and shook Marta’s hand, soft and delicate, it fit perfectly with mine. She blew me a kiss; I imagined her breath sweeping away the Y’s from my genome like the one I’d erased from the blackboard and replacing them with her bountiful X’s. I blushed again, turned to the blackboard.
“You’re getting it, let’s try one with three variables.”
I wrote another equation on the board.

Physical Education

None of the athletic torture I had endured at St. Aybert’s met Uni High’s mandatory physical education credit, so I was required to take Phys. Ed. I had never been fleet afoot, but HRT had so slowed me that my mile time was the worst in my class. The coach made me run an extra lap, so I was late to the locker room, which was almost empty as I mopped cold droplets of my hurried shower from the goose-bumped skin of my buttocks.
As I finished drying, I sensed appraising eyes staring at my naked body, heard muffled snickers, ignored them, hoping my indifference would discourage their invasion of privacy. When I bent over to open my locker, the towel parted and slipped from my waist, displaying my naked, upturned ass. Miguel laughed.
"Nice ass, Rios.”
“Isn’t one harassment suspension enough?”
He slammed me into a locker.
“Don’t forget middle school.”
He turned to his friend, Jack.
“Let’s fuck its ass in the laundry room.”
He snapped me with his towel, raising a bright pink welt on the curve of my left buttock. I stifled a scream and spun around, covering my privates and the slight bumps forming under my nipples, frightened but aroused. How could Miguel know my secret fantasies?
“I’m sorry, don’t hurt-”
“What sissy gets for messing with me.”
Miguel pushed me against the lockers and forced me to my knees. He unzipped, seized my head and pressed my lips against the fly of his boxers. The smell of his groin suffused my nostrils.
"Suck it, maricon.”
He’d tagged me with Spanish epithet for faggot. My face reddened but my terror was mixed with temptation. Part of me wanted to suck him, let him fuck me, but what would happen in the aftermath? Public exposure terrified me.
I wanted to transition in college, away from my bigoted classmates and my hovering parents. The policies of the school district mandated accommodation for transsexuals, but the practical reality was that transsexuals tended to disappear into a special school in Hollywood soon after they came out. If I got relegated there, my college applications would be toast.
A door banged, and Coach’s footsteps approached. Miguel flung me aside, spat out “fucking faggot,” and he and Jack sprinted to the exit. Coach eyed me with contempt.
“What’s your problem, Rios? Crybabies don’t get special treatment.”
Coach taught “Human Development”. He hated gays and probably thought transsexuals were even more despicable.
“I feel sick.”
“No excuses. Just do it, Rios.”
I promised I would, but instead, I faked a knee injury, forged a doctor’s note, and got excused from physical education.

Retreat from Rubicon

Surreptitious HRT had brought me to the threshold of visible transsexual transition, the tipping point where androgyny succumbs to femininity. I was torn by conflicting priorities.
If I interrupted HRT my skin would revert to oily acne and my hair to a tangled mop. Testosterone unopposed by female hormones would irreversibly the change my face and body into a man’s.
Transsexual transition delayed until adulthood produces imperfect results. Adult transitioners develop squared jaws and thickened brows, which even the most expert facial feminization surgeons cannot eliminate. Their voices are deep, their bodies are thick, so they are clocked, mocked and persecuted.
Adolescent transition produces a more passable result. If I continued with HRT, my breast and nipple development would accelerate. But the emergence of female secondary sex characteristics coincides with permanent and irreversible spermatic infertility.
I was ambivalent, determined to fulfill my female destiny, anxious about transitioning in a hotbed of transphobia and guilty over denying my father the continuation of the Rios lineage. The prospect of infertility worried me, but a future maturing as a male was even worse.
But my locker room encounter proved that I could not transition under the radar in the transphobic fishbowl of high school. I got a post office box for delivery of pharmaceuticals and found an online pharmacy to prescribe Aldactone, the commercial version of spironolactone (Spiro), an anti-androgen that stops masculinization. I curtailed my estrogen and progesterone intake and went in a gender holding pattern. I would resume my transition at college far from my parents and the intolerance of Uni High.
Spiro’s rough texture and acrid mint smell gagged me and nauseated me so that I barely ate. Weight loss made my thighs and arms willowy, accentuated the palpable nubs under my swollen areoles, and tapered my waist. I hid my interrupted physical transformation beneath dark, loose clothes and emotional distance from my classmates.
I counteracted Spiro-induced headaches and fatigue by stepping up my Ritalin. Wired with kiddie speed and suffering through night sweats, I struggled to masturbate myself to sleep. My sexual fantasies grew ever more explicit and violent. I ass-toyed and tugged furiously as an imaginary Miguel twisted my nipples and clawed genitals.
Uni High’s crowded corridors made me lightheaded and paranoid. Miguel’s hostile glare seemed to penetrate my façade and see the lurid sex fantasies of the girl hiding inside me, fueling ever more baroque and brutal nighttime fantasies.
But my Spiro and Ritalin strategy succeeded. My first semester grades were stellar, my college applications were filed, and the end of high school was in sight. Soon, I would be checking out of high school, moving out of my parents’ house and going to college, where I could make new friends and become a new me. I would matriculate college as an ambiguous male but graduate a gorgeous girl.

Sadie Hawkins

I cornered Anne in the Newspaper Office.
“You going to ask me to Sadie Hawkins?”
“NFW! Fake sex-role reversal,”
“Don’t over-analyze it,”
“A sham that reinforces female subservience.”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
I hated missing another of the dwindling agenda high school rituals. But when I checked my AOL account, I had an email from Marta. For Sadie Hawkins she had chosen her tutor. I was anxious about of her dating history, but the status a date with her would confer outweighed my caution.
"Dude, she's way over your head,” Quinn said.
Barb said “How lame, a date you didn’t even ask…”
“Lame was our cop out on Homecoming. Sadie’s our chance to reverse our climb-down.”
“Better things to do,” Barb said.
“We do nothing, go nowhere.”
“Got a plan?” Quinn looked up from his scribbling.
“Marta and I will cross-dress, Barb and Anne dress butch and lipstick lez. Double role reversals to parody Sadie Hawkins.”
“Glad to be the odd man out,” Quinn said.
Barb looked up from her computer screen.
“Will a gangster chica like Marta go along with this fandango?”
I texted Marta, she replied “OMG I’m so in”. She would sew Potter-inspired costumes, mine as Hermione and hers as Harry, at her father’s tailor shop.
I passed my phone to Barb.
“Truth or dare.”
Anne and Barb had a whispered colloquy and then they each shook my outstretched hand.
“A sensational send-up. We’re in,” Barb said.
I prepared for my detour into dating and possible seduction by stopping my Spiro. My erections and fantasies intensified as my testosterone rebounded. I tried to imagine myself fucking Marta, but to reach orgasm my dream reverted to becoming a gangbanged, submissive cum-bucket for a sneering, abusive crowd of gangsters.
In my morning shower, as I scrubbed the crusty remnants of my masturbation from my belly, I wondered whether I could ever banish the secret slut who was gradually taking over my life. Was my Sadie Hawkins drama parody, or wish-fulfillment? Was Marta cosplaying with me or laying an ambush to out and humiliate me for the gratification of her gangster friends? I was both terrified and transfixed.
Date Night
My mom was so delighted that I had my first date that she overlooked Marta's modest background. I placated her worries about our gender-bending costumes by explaining our wardrobes as satire and extracted a promise of secrecy from my father.
I picked Marta up at her family's apartment, a modest walkup in the bad part of Venice: a sink full of dirty dishes, a harried mom, a screaming baby brother, and a gaggle of homeboys playing a shooter on the PlayStation. They flashed gang signs which I couldn’t return and returned to their game, blasting away with renewed ferocity that I felt sure was intended for me. She introduced me to her dad, back bent, eyes squinted, and fingers calloused by long days of measuring and stitching. His gaze revealed skepticism of the callow youth who was taking his daughter away from her home.
“What’s your plan after high school, kid?”
“I’m going to college.”
He snorted disbelief, as though I had told him I was moving to Mars.
“Waste of time, money.”
He looked back at the soccer scores in L’Opinion. I stammered, wondering whether he was right. Why should a transsexual bother?
My gloom faded when we left the chaotic apartment and sat in my mom’s Acura. Marta was bubbly and kissed me as soon as she got in the front seat. I flinched, and she laughed.
"Seventeen and never been-"
“I’m eighteen, the older-”
Her tongue slipped between my lips and invited mine to dance. I twirled my tongue on hers and followed it into her mouth. I was melting into her, becoming part of her. She broke away. Our cheeks blushed; our eyelashes fluttered. Through dewy eyes I gazed into her soul and immersed myself in her inner beauty until I was overcome. She mopped the tears from my cheeks.
“You’re a good kisser. Let’s change."
I had a perfect place. My parents had moved my grandma to an assisted living from her modest Spanish bungalow in Rancho Park. They had tasked me to clear out her belongings and organize her papers and photographs, so I had a key. We slipped in through the side door and changed in Grandma’s musty bedroom.
Harry’s school uniform hid Marta’s lush curves and his scarf concealed her boobs. Hermione’s robe draped loosely over the emerging contours of my slim figure. We admired ourselves in the mirror and toasted our debut as the ultimate Sadie Hawkins couple with glasses of Two Buck Chuck.
I had been too timid to experience dances in middle school and had avoided St. Aybert’s mixers with opposite-sexed boarding schools. Unless you were a great athlete, or your family belonged to one of the exclusive clubs, you were untouchable at these stilted affairs. I spent the night of my only St. Aybert’s dance in the shadows, drinking contraband vodka but never getting drunk enough to ask a girl to dance. Although I was an academic senior, I was a freshman in social life. I didn’t know what to expect in the University High auditorium.
Hip-hop blared and the disco ball swirled strobe lights around the knots of students huddled in their cliques. Anne and Barb were Bonnie and Clyde. We huddled nervously in a corner as Marta’s gangster friends glared from their corner and the jocks and their dates gawked, incredulous at our stunt. I didn’t care what they thought of our burlesque of their celebration. Soon, I would be going to a UC or Michigan; they were going to Cal States, community colleges or fast food McJobs.
Miguel glared at me and Marta, ordered his henchmen, Jack and, toward us.
“Rios, what the fuck?” Seth pawed the fabric of my gown.
“He’s a girly-boy,” Jack said.
My face reddened. Had my visual metaphor revealed too much? I had to reframe the issue.
“Don’t you get it?”
“Don’t fuck with me,” Jack said. He shoved me into the wall, and I dropped my tasseled wand. He ground it under his feet.
“Like your skinny little dick.”
Thad Jones pushed us apart.
“What’s the big joke?”
“We’re switching roles, spoofing Sadie Hawkins-”
“No one’s laughing,” Thad said.
“Think about it. You’ll figure it out.”
“Think about this, faggot.”
Jack gut-punched me, knocked the wind out of me. I staggered into Marta’s arms. Thad blocked Jack from pummeling me to the ground.
“Back off, Jack. Rios’s stunt’s not worth getting this party shut down.”
Jack withdrew, snarling.
“We’ll see who gets the last laugh.”
Marta pulled me toward the exit.
“We went too far.”
Barb’s eyes flashed with rage as she intercepted us.
“The right wingnuts who blamed gays for 9/11 created this intolerance.”
I caught my breath, picked up my splintered, and waved it at the crowd.
“The Intellectual Mafia doesn’t cave to bigots.”
“Run now and we’ll never stop,” Barb said, “Let’s dance.”
Marta kissed my cheek.
“OK, but only dancing. No more speeches to ignorant people.”
Marta led me to the dance floor. I easily copied Marta’s sinuous salsa. Lessons from a season of Cotillion my mom forced on me helped me anticipate her well-practiced spins and turns. My body became one with hers. We energized the nervous crowd, and soon the whole room was dancing with us. Our costumes were stippled with perspiration when the music finally paused.
Marta hugged me.
“You dance great.”
“You taught me everything.”
“Had enough of this fun?”
I nodded. She whispered in my ear as we left, “The best is yet come.”
The Intellectual Mafia had demanded respect for gender diversity, and our classmates had grudgingly given it. We’d created a precedent, and my bravado toward the gangsters had redeemed my reputation. And I’d earned the right to spend the rest of the night alone, with Marta.

Duet

I pulled my car into the driveway at my grandma’s and turned to Marta.
"I'm not ready to say-”
“I never want to say- “
“Goodbye.”
I joined in Marta’s silvery laugh, trying to emulate its musical trill.
“Jinx, you owe me a kiss,” she said, and turned toward me.
Our lips met, our tongues touched and twirled, our bodies met, her breasts pressed against my tiny titties. She helped me unhook her bra, I helped her pull her costume over her head, and I kissed her swaying breasts. I massaged her mons through her lacy panties.
“It’s so smooth. May I kiss and wake the sleeping prince?”
She pleasured me, but my hormone-depleted cock remained as limp as a deflated party balloon, impervious to Marta's efforts. A two-week hiatus from Spiro hadn’t restored my functionality. I was humiliated, and half-expected an insult.
“I must be stressed out.”
“Me too. Let’s go inside.”
As I opened the door to grandma old house, I heard a car screech away. That seemed out of place in this quiet neighborhood, but I forgot about it as we relaxed on a velvet love seat. In the intimacy of the moment, I let down my guard.
"When we touch, I’m turned on. But is that because I want you, or to, be you?”
“I know, and that’s OK.”
“If I’m transgendered, you still want-”
She kissed me again.
“You are so sweet, brave, so much better than the others.”
I felt her warm breath on my cheek. Intimacy both comforted me and fueled the struggle between the warring halves of my psycho-sexual identity.
My male side battled with my feminine avatar, the star of an endless film loop of transgender sexual fantasy so engrained that even in the arms of a beautiful and willing girl I fantasized gender reversal. While I hugged Marta against my spindly chest, I imagined that I was the one crushed in a manly embrace. The boy in me wanted to sexually experience her but my feminine side wanted to emulate her.
She embraced me like I was a little doll. She was redolent of fertility, like the scent of vineyards at harvest. Cuddled and coddled, I got aroused. I was embarrassed, but she was happy.
“You’re so cute.”
“Not too small?”
“Perfect, pretty.”
“Help me.”
She rolled on a condom that draped like damp poncho. She straddled me, lay atop me, moaned delight.
“Papi, Si, si, mas.” Yes, Papa, yes, more.
The warmth and scent of her flesh tore down the wall of impotence that the Spiro had built, waves crested, a tide rushed forth.
“Sorry, I couldn’t stop-.”
“I was greedy.”
She pulled off and inspected the ill-fitted condom.
“Only a few drops.”
“I think you weren’t meant to be-”
“I feel like a girl.”
“I saw that middle school. It attracts me. With you I feel-”
“I wanted to be you even in 8th grade. I fantasized myself with your eyes, face, and body, coveted by all, belonging to none.”
She stroked her finger around the contours of my face
“It’s possible.”
“I can’t reconcile it with my ambition.”
“You must be true to yourself.”
“I want to be more famous than my father. He helped find HIV’s viral cause but failed to find the cure. Transsexuality could prevent me from-”
She shook her head.
“Not worth it, to live a lie.”
“Will you help me?”
“I’d love to, though my life’s a greater lie than yours.”
Her family’s facade of stability was false. She had been sexually abused by her uncle and on Sundays had fended off the predatory advances of her pedophile priest. Serial dating was escapism. Jock boyfriends used her for casual sex, and gangsters treated their girlfriends like whores. I was a beacon in a nightmare existence. Why hadn’t I known? Was I that arrogant?
I took her home at 2:00 a.m. I missed my exit from the freeway, like I‘d almost missed the turn that made her part of my life. I’d been so oblivious. But could I be transgendered and her lover? Maybe I was gay: a male-to-female transsexual who loves girls.
I awoke at 4:00 a.m. the next morning amid a nightmare. I was at school, and all the gangsters, dopers, jocks and even the art room crowd were screaming "Kill the tranny", as Marta pointed mockingly at me.
Our tryst had imperiled me. My condom had slipped from my undersized cock. I could catch an STD, or she might get pregnant. I had revealed my inner girl to someone who hooked up with Miguel Carranza, who already wanted to use me as his bitch. He would doubtless learn from her gangster brothers that I had brought her home late.
I retrieved the box where I kept my purloined medical samples, dry-mouthed an Ambien and stared longingly at my estrogen stash. My hormone fast had culminated in a tryst even more dangerous than transitioning. I craved the calm spirit and soft flesh that hormones bestowed. Impulsively, I injected Estradiol and progesterone, choked down a Spiro and fell asleep as fantasies fucking Marta and being fucked by Miguel alternated and merged.
My story in the Wildcat about Sadie Hawkins was an open letter to school board, demanding a more relaxed dress code as free expression. Two weeks later, the principal modified the dress code to allow cross-gender costumes at school dances. The Intellectual Mafia’s triumph was unpopular, and I feared retribution from the gangsters or recriminations from the jocks.
But Thad Jones flashed me thumbs up in the lunchroom, Miguel, Jack and Seth kept their distance, and everyone else got tired of post-morteming Sadie Hawkins. Now, the posters and the buzz had shifted to Spring Fling. And so did my fantasies. I tried to talk Anne and Barb into joining me as a Spring Fling Flower Princesses, but they refused.

BFFs

Marta texted me to get together after school. Paranoia overwhelmed me. I concocted a recantation of my coming out.
"The other night, what I said, were fantasies. I’m still Alex."
"No need to hide.”
She kissed my cheek. The press of her breasts on my tender nubs disarmed my defenses.
“It’s scary. Everything will-”
“You need change.”
She grazed her lips against mine.
“My special girlfriend.”
“Does Miguel know?”
Her eyes flashed anger.
“He called you maricon.”
I sobbed, and she hugged me. I felt the pressure of her breasts and her warm mons against my body and melded with her. Our lips locked, and we rocked in one another’s embrace for what seemed an eternity.
“Did you feel it?”
I nodded.
“What happened?”
“Spiritual Union. My soul entered yours, and yours, mine.”
I resisted the impulse to critique the ‘rent a mantra’ guru whom she’d borrowed from.
“Hope that you got only my feminine parts. I’m a messy work in progress.”
“All of me, all of you. We’re BFF’s.”
Marta encouraged me to amplify my HRT-Spiro cocktail. My breasts grew and my nipples tingled. My pants got too tight in the butt and too loose at the waist, and my cock atrophied. My emotions swung uncontrollably between inexplicable joy and sudden sadness. My energy was so sapped that I upped my dose of Ritalin to sustain my academic momentum.
Marta and I spent a Saturday on Third Street Promenade, Santa Monica’s shopaholics’ paradise by the sea. At Victoria's Secret she selected lingerie and nighties in my size. At Forever 21 we picked tops, sweaters, pants, skirts and matching bikinis. We bought high strappy pumps at Cole-Haas. We stopped at the Clinique counter for makeup, polish, perfume, brushes and tweezers, and hair color. On the way home to Grandma’s place, Marta spotted a tanning salon.
“Can we stop there?”
I circled the block and pulled in the parking lot, recalling my Mom’s denunciations of tanning as carcinogenic.
Marta retrieved the bag with our bikinis.
“Too cold to tan at the beach, you need some tan lines.”
My heart leapt. A silhouette of tanned skin around the lily-white contours of my bikini would mark me as a girly slut like a tattoo.
“Scary, but so hot.”
“And temporary, they fade in a few weeks.
We got a twin bed, and lay side by side, held hands while the UV worked its magic. My skin tingled as we drove back to Grandma’s, the laboratory for our gender bending experiments.
I drew a bath and Marta slipped in with me. We soaped one another, and my flesh was electrified by her caresses. She stroked my cock with her toes, and it lolled, soft and slender, in the little whirlpool she swirled in the hyacinth scented waters.
“I love your hair, but it needs highlights.”
She shampooed, and then worked a scented product into my hair.
“Just a little, to make the colors come alive.”
She scrubbed my face with an exfoliant and smoothed it with moisturizer until it was soft and clear, a canvas awaiting the brush strokes of an artist. She gently toweled me, I slipped into a robe and she motioned me to sit at my grandma’s makeup table. She swept away the bric-brac and lined up the magic potions with which she promised to transform me.
She painted my toenails lavender, separated them with cotton balls, and frenched a white crescent over a natural rose base on my fingernails. She styled my unruly ponytail into a braid and piled it atop my head. She applied concealer to hide my skin’s boyish pores, sheer powder to lighten my skin and contrast with the mascara, eyeliner, pink metallic shadow with which she accentuated my eyes. She finished with a subtle swoop of blush to accentuate my cheekbones and applied rose gloss to my lips.
She loaned me a pair of dangly, filigreed gold hoops to replace my plain silver studs. I put on satin panties and thrilled as they glided over my tucked cock. She taught me to put on hose without running them and to clasp a push-up bra in the front before swiveling it to the back and fitting the padded cups over my nubile breasts. From my Forever 21 bag I selected a satin spaghetti strap top and a ripped jean miniskirt. She steadied me as I put on my strappy, tippy pumps.
She blew out and styled my hair. Platinum streaks glittered amid the gold.
When I looked in the mirror, I was stunned. She had chosen cosmetics and a hairstyle which complemented her own, so I resembled Marta's taller, thinner, blonder sister. She nuzzled me conspiratorially.
"You're a doll.”
“I’m a Bratz. I want to be a Barbie like you.”
We kissed, taking care not to spoil our makeup.
“Someday girls will play with Alexandra dolls.”
"I want try my new look on the world.”
"Before you can strut your stuff you need training."
She taught me the feminine way to walk, sit, cross my legs, and rise. She demonstrated, and I imitated a girl’s nervous glances on entering and exiting a room. She recorded and played back my voice and taught me the subtle differences of inflection and tone which differentiate male and female speech.
“I’m tired, let’s-”
“You sounded like a boy.”
“My head aches. I need to lie down.”
“Much better.”
We changed into our negligees and cuddled, kissed, and spooned on my grandma's bed. We traced the lines of our bikini tans, which marked like a map our erogenous zones. She fondled my dick through the lacy material, and it slipped out of its tuck. She sucked me and I kissed her pussy, and I rubbed my cock between her warm, wet labia.
“I have a present.”
She reached to her purse and retrieved a butt plug.
“Would you like to try this?”
I nodded and gritted my teeth as she pressed it against my anus. I pressed down against her thrust, and the tapered tip slid inside, then shot back out.
“Oh my God.”
She pressed again, and I pressed and suctioned my colon’s walls to admit the Latex dart. My anus clamped around the narrow base, and she tugged gently, massaging my ring from within.
“Do you like that?”
“I love it.”
I sprouted a three-inch erection. She covered me and eased my cock into her moist vagina and gyrated above me. Her breasts swayed like two cosmic orbs over my outstretched tongue. She pulsed the butt plug in my ass, and I rocked my pelvis to rhythm to the anal massage. I imitated her cries and moans.
The thrust of the butt plug’s tip against my internal boy parts and the tug of its base against my anal ring stimulated me so exquisitely that I spasmed to another premature orgasm. When I pulled out the condom was twisted askew and my seed dripped beneath the roll of rubber at its base. Her mons and labia glistened with her juices and my thin, watery cum. She rubbed it on her pussy and brought her hands to my lips. The combination of our flavors was delectable.
We got into 69-position, and she started sucking me as I went down on her. I feasted on her tangy vaginal juices, imagining that they were my own, and licked my semen from her labia, and imagining it was the seed of a stranger on my lips.
Her moans gradually turned to cries of ecstasy.
"Mas, por favor, mas, mas!" More, please more, more.
Her hips undulated, her pubic hair rasped my tired, tender lips and cheeks, and I fantasized that I was in her body, being fucked hard by Miguel in the Uni locker room. The rhythms her body reached a frenzy and her juices flowed hot and plentiful, until her arched back, taut thighs and muffled cries announced that she had orgasmed. Warm, fragrant dew wet my lips as her breath and hips stilled in post-orgasmic repose.
God, I thought, how much deeper and more fulfilling must her orgasm have been than the momentary spasm I had experienced. She stroked my cheek.
"Was that good, baby?"
"Great. Did you-"
"God, yes, so much.”
She kissed me again.
"You are fantastic lover. Much better than...”
We both knew whom she meant.
The grandfather clock tolled 2 a.m. I scrubbed off my smeared cosmetics, changed back into my boy’s clothes, took her home, and spirited my girly things into the back of my closet.
The next morning, after my dad’s anger over my curfew violation subsided, he trotted out a trite and belated homily about the risks of premarital sex. I laughed in his face and told him his speech was a day late and a dollar short. Sputtering rage, he retaliated by grounding me for a month.
Marta and I exchanged glances and texts, but we had little opportunity for extracurricular love play. My intensified hormone regimen boosted my boobs and nipples, broadened my hips and ass, and withered my cock, scrotum, and libido. I had to summon ever more violent nighttime fantasies of penetration and rape to climax and sleep. The butt plug didn’t penetrate deep enough to simulate the pounding I craved. I needed a bigger tool to amplify the penetration and the pain.

Sex Shop

I parked my car near an adult bookstore on Pico near the 10 Freeway cross-over. Customers, mostly slacker Latino guys, emerged clutching brown paper bags. I wondered why they bought their porn on paper instead of downloading, but what I wanted couldn’t be streamed from a website.
I counted the customers coming and going until all had left, and then I put on a hat and shades and skulked through the empty parking lot, opened a blacked-out door and pushed through a turn style into the cluttered interior. One wall featured faded back issues of shemale porn magazines headlining barely passable cross-dressers. Feigning nonchalance, I browsed a bin of battered VCR’s of Leilani, Dana Douglas, Pasha and Morelle De Keigh, tranny porn stars killed in the first wave of HIV. History had been hard on my predecessors.
Stacks of rifled-through inventory were piled on pallets and lined racks from floor to ceiling. I found a wall of sex toys, paraphernalia for every preference, from blow up dolls to handcuffs and chains. The dildos ranged from silicone monstrosities with textured flesh and bulging balls to therapeutic massage tools. I wanted something generic in case it was discovered, so I selected a tapered, seven-inch electric wand with no obvious anatomical details and a bottle of lube. I avoided eye contact with the clerk stare as I passed by more dingy piles of porn to the register.
“It’s an April Fool’s day gag.”
The tatted-up Latino clerk smirked disbelievingly as he handed me my change and bagged my purchase.
“Enjoy.”
I peered through the door to make sure that no one had followed me and sprinted to my car. My heart was still pounding when I got home.
When I finished my homework, I called out a cheery good night to my parents. I prettied myself with makeup and blew out my hair. I slipped into my negligee, slid beneath my covers and turned the dildo on.
It vibrated pleasantly against the crotch of my panties. I pressed it through the thin fabric against my hole, fondled my breasts, my nipples hardened into cones visible through the silk of my nightie. I thrust, then paused, my body adjusted to the intrusion, I thrust again, and my belly buzzed in harmony with the oscillating toy. Pain and pleasure sparked like a short circuit as I filled the hungry void inside me until I was breathless, sated.
I slid it between my lips to the back of my throat, moist and warm from my inner flesh, fragrant and delicious. My breath and pulse slowed; I felt a pang of emptiness. Pain had subsided to a pleasant neural buzz. My ass was hungry for more, I was addicted to alternating waves of pain and pleasure.
What must a real fuck feel like? This tool lacked the bulbous head of a real cock, and it was smaller than some of the dicks I had spied in the locker room. A bad boy gangster wouldn’t pause to let me acclimate. He'd ram in and increase my agony by fucking me ever harder and faster.
Fantasy of sex with a real male aroused me, I brought myself to a rare climax. My orgasm shot out with great force, but the drizzle of cum was almost transparent. The hormones had taken a lot of the boy out of me.
I licked my juices from the dildo and hid it in a corner of my closet. I was so exhausted that I didn't change out of my nighty as I slipped into a dreamless sleep. I slept through my alarm and woke with my mother standing over me, looking shocked.
"Alex, what are you-“
I pulled my rumpled sheets up to my neck to hide my nightie.
"Just stuff my friend loaned me.”
I averted my gaze.
She pulled the sheet back.
“Inappropriate, really.”
Her patronizing provoked me.
"How about some privacy? I could move out."
"Don’t leave home. But if your father-”
“He wouldn’t rip down my sheets.”
“I’m sorry, I’m worried. You’re alone, alienated.”
"Dad grounded me. Cosplaying helps.”
“Grounding was harsh, but he insisted. Where is this going?”
“Acting out, not taking action.”
Only Marta knew I’d transitioned. To the Intellectual Mafia I still classified myself as “questioning”.
"Give my life back, and I won’t need this,” I pointed to my nightie.
She nodded. I heard the clatter of dishes in the sink, and the rumble of the garage door.
I celebrated co-opting my mother with a breakfast of Ritalin and spironolactone chased by shots of estrogen and progesterone. I wore panties and a bra as I finished my homework and kept them on under my jeans and sweatshirt when headed off to school.

Pre-Prom

Graduation approached and college acceptances abounded. I outdid the rest of the Intellectual Mafia by getting UCLA and USC with faculty brat tuition waivers, and the University of Michigan with a full ride. Quinn was jealous
“For a prep school drop-out you’re quite the over-achiever.”
“Being the brown-boy son of an asylum seeker helped.”
“Only brown in you is your bullshit.”
“True, I am the greatest liar.”
“Your perfect email handle.”
Marta would go part time to a community college, working nights at her uncle's restaurant. If I went to UCLA or USC, I would be close, but I needed to break the tethers of my past, and Michigan had a program for transgendered students. Confident of my exit strategy, I dialed up my hormones to hasten my feminization.
My nipples enlarged and engorged. Layers of adipose cells, the foundations of my breasts, formed slight, round mounds on my chest. When I dressed for school, I wrapped my chest in an Ace bandage to flatten my breasts and protect the sensitive nipples from the stiff fabric of my boy clothes.
My scrotum shriveled and atrophied, and my cock shrank. My hair brushed out smooth, silky, and shiny. My skin tone lightened, and my body hair became so wispy that I could barely pinch it in my fingers to yank it out. I struggled to complete ten repetitions with five-pound weights or twenty minutes on my mom’s Life Cycle.
My awkward phase had evolved into an obvious phase. Baggy clothes were not enough to camouflage my feminine contours. I dreaded walking the halls of my school. I affected invisibility but attracted hostile glares from the gangsters, sniggers from the dopers, condescension from the jocks and appalled stares from the Christians.
My Newspaper Office friends were startled by my feminine looks. Quinn sketched a pen and ink portrait of me, as a Valkyrie with blonde hair and massive boobs.
"Like this caricature?”
I stepped behind him and examined his work.
“Make the boobs a little bigger, like Marta’s.”
He looked back at me condescendingly.
“It’s you, dude, even your new hair color.”
I knew that he knew but couldn’t acknowledge it. I was too steeped in shame to acknowledge it, so I reclassified my transsexuality.
“Marta’s helped me understand my duality. Everyone is a mix of both genders, both sexes, like yin and yang.”
He drew me near and whispered.
“Alex, the devious, clueless genius. Either yin or yang predominates.”
He flipped a coin.
“Tails, the yin side, you’re transgendered.”
“No fucking way. I love hot Latinas.”
I showed him my portrait of Marta as Venus, drawn in the style of Botticelli.
“Especially this one.”
He let out a low whistle.
“Good detail, dude.”
“Research, tireless research.”
“Or is it envy.”
My breath caught in my throat as his eyes stripped my pretense. My friend had decoded my rhetoric as deception. The louder I protested, the more he suspected.
But purgatory was about to release us. Our spectacular college admissions cemented our bragging rights. Except for our clique and Thad Jones, who got a jock’s ride at a mid-west football factory, most of our classmates were lucky to get into a Cal State.
The Intellectual Mafia soared over a target-rich environment. We celebrated our finale by editorializing against the jocks, the dopers, the Christians and the gangsters, attacking the culture of macho mediocrity that equated academic success with nerdiness and celebrated settling as a valid lifestyle choice.
The chasm between us and our classmates widened, but we didn’t care. We were lining up to take our places in the one percent. Years of social ostracism were about to give way to the upward social mobility that America’s elite universities provide.
I deflected my friends’ sarcasm away from Marta. For a few hours every weekend we ignored the future and lived in the present. I helped her with her homework and prepped her for high school exit exam. We went to movies on Third Street, saw all the chick flicks, and cried and laughed together. We bought bras, panties, makeup, little cotton sun dresses, camisoles, strappy sandals, and skimpy nighties. I invited her to Prom with a bouquet of red roses and a verse.

My life was a puzzle,
Of mismatched pieces.
I looked everywhere but
Found completeness
Only in you.
Marta, will you go to Prom with me?

She loved the poem and accepted on the condition that we would make only a brief appearance and then leave for a special girls’ night together at my grandma’s. When I texted my measurements for her to make my after-Prom outfit she replied OMG!
I tried to recruit to Newspaper Office to back me up.
“Sadie Hawkins empowered us to storm the next barricade.”
Quinn smiled sarcastically.
“Your ass got saved by Thad Jones, who you thanked by bashing in the Wildcat.”
“Full ride at Wisconsin with a 2.5 average? And how did he get 26 on the ACT?”
“He threw a great block for you at Sadie-”
“Protecting his precious party.”
“His isn’t the only college application tainted with fraud, my pseudo-Latino friend. Watch your back.”
Barb scribbled on her drawing pad and handed me a sketch of Marta leading me toward an abyss, where armed, tattooed gangsters lurked in the shadows.
“Can I keep this?”
“I’m saving it for your funeral.”
“Sadie proved that actions, not words, bring about change,” I said. “We owe it to the younger kids to push the boundaries.”
Barb and Anne exchanged whispers, and Barb put down her sketch book.
“OK, you’ve shamed us. But only if you show up as cross-dressed femme fatale.”

Prom

Marta was thrilled to be my accomplice in another role reversal, though we deluded our families. For them, I would wear the baggy tuxedo fitted to her curves and she a too-tight gown that fitted to my slenderer figure. She would make us over at my grandma's place before our Prom debut.
I fortified myself against the stress of the evening with a Ritalin and Spiro cocktail, chased with shots of estrogen and progesterone. The drugs were roaring through my bloodstream when picked her up at her hardscrabble apartment. Her father scowled and her brothers and mocked me while I pinned a white orchid corsage to the bodice of Marta’s pink chiffon gown.
Her mom wagged a finger.
“Take care of our princess.”
“For sure, and forever.”
I covered Marta’s shoulders with a shawl.
But it was a white lie. I couldn’t salvage her mediocre grades. I couldn’t protect her from her father, who thought education was wasted on a girl. She would work for meager tips at her uncle’s restaurant and take a few courses at SMCC. Trapped by her past, it would become her destiny. And I needed leave LA to fulfill mine.
We parked at my grandma’s and walked through the gauzy mist of a mid-May evening. Illuminated by the diffused glow of the streetlights, she’d never looked more beautiful. I threw my arms around her neck, kissed her full lips and stroked her heaving breasts. She ran her hands up under my tux shirt and stroked my rosebud nipples. When she released the kiss, I could barely breathe.
I opened some windows to freshen the musty atmosphere of the aging bungalow. I stripped from the tux and sat at my grandma’s make up table as she smoothed my skin with lavender moisturizer, applied face makeup, coifed my hair and painted my nails. She helped me into a satin pink padded bra and matching panties, accentuated by garters and stockings. I finished my eyeliner and glossed my lips as she sewed darts to perfect the fit of the chiffon gown.
I pulled it over my head, lightheaded from my drug cocktail and the billowing clouds of fabric that settled over me into a perfect fit. I slipped into strappy, stiletto sandals and posed before the bedroom mirror, lyrics from a half-remembered Broadway show came to mind.
"I feel pretty, oh so pretty.”
A raspy voice interrupted.
"Yeah, tranny looks so pretty, right, cuz?”
Miguel, Seth, and Jack were crowded the bedroom doorway.
"You’re trespassing. Get out or I’ll have you arrested."
Miguel grabbed my throat and pinned me against the wall.
“You asked us-”
“No, please, it’s-”
He choked me until I gagged.
“To be our whore."
“A game.”
“Game-on, butt-hole soccer, you’re the goal.”
He forced me to my knees and pressed my lips against his open fly. I inhaled the stale, male odor I remembered from the locker room, Alex yielded to his inner, submissive sissy slut.
My million masochistic Miguel fantasies replayed in my mind. Now they would now be re-enacted on my flesh. Had they read my mind, or had Marta betrayed me? Protest would be futile, or even provocative. I was their sex slave, and my survival depended on playing the part.
Miguel tore off my gown and threw me onto my grandma's bed. He gripped my hair in a tight, cruel knot on the top of my head. His tuxedo pants slid to the floor with a dull thud that could only mean a weapon. He yanked my head toward his groin.
“Suck it, bitch.”
I nicked him with a tooth. He gripped my throat with one hand.
“Bite me again and I’ll cut off your tongue off,”
“I won’t, I…”
He flicked open a silver switchblade.
He clutched my throat and backhanded my face. Strangulation and slaps brought tears and stars that clouded my eyes, through them I could see Miguel’s glowering face.
I nodded obedience, submitted to his demands, acquiesced when he forced me bottoms-up over a pillow.
“Check out that sissy tan.”
Miguel whacked the white skin where the tan lines curved apart.
“It turns pink when you beat it.”
They rained a dozen blows on my exposed bottom, summoning memories of my father spanking the little Alex. Now I was just as helpless and humiliated as the child my father had punished.
Jack held me down, Miguel pushed inside me, pounded my inner spaces, I acquiesced, forced myself into a role, porn dialog came to mind.
“Si, Papi, so big, so strong.”
“Tranny’s a hot little puta.”
“Must’ve practiced with the dildo it bought on Pico,” Jack said.
“Doesn’t need that toy now.”
They’d been stalking me. This rape had been plotted and planned. Was Marta a victim, or a conspirator? Miguel yanked out of me and stalked off, from the other bedroom I heard the thud of fists against flesh and Marta’s screams, and Jack took his place.
I turned my head to plead. Jack slapped my upturned face and pushed my face toward Seth.
“Shut up and suck, maricon.”
Jack thrust; an inferno roared inside me.
“No, no, no, too much, stop.”
I gazed upward into Seth’s eyes, he but was staring off into the distance, as if imagining he was far from this debauch.
“Good, yeah, baby”.
Jack was more energetic and ruthless than Miguel, with a talent for torture. He slapped, clawed, spanked and choked me.
“Yee-haw, it’s a rodeo pony.”
“Don’t call me it.”
“Rhymes with shit, what trannies are.”
“Then why-”
“Miguel’s payback. I’d just waste you.”
He cocked his fingers like a gun against the nape of my neck. Miguel was the instigator, but Jack was the most dangerous of these thugs.
Seth surprised me with a sympathetic smile and brushed a lock of my hair from my sweaty forehead.
"Jack, don't break our toy.”
“Already worn out, your turn, Seth.”
Seth made me shudder seismically, a volcano erupted inside me.
“Too much?” Seth asked.
I nodded, and faded back to the locker room at Uni. Seth rescues me from Miguel and Jack, sweeps me into his arms, and carries me to the laundry room. He poses me over a mound of moist, man-scented towels, and plies the dark canal inside me like a canoe over still waters, and when I turn my face to admire him, he meets my glance with a kiss, rather than a slap. After he finishes, we cuddle in the dark, and he strokes my hair and cheek while I lick him clean.
Jack slapped my face, disrupting my dream. Inside me, fireworks exploded with panoramic beauty, and my body absorbed the explosions like a well-prepared fortress.
Seth massaged my shoulders, then accelerated like a locomotive, slow but powerful.
“You good?”
I murmured affirmation.
Seth pried open my chrysalis and released a newborn butterfly. In the maelstrom of a gangbang, a cloistered maiden had roused like Sleeping Beauty and broken free. Had she needed a gang rape to find freedom?
Jack’s death head tattoos and menacing face reminded me why my inner girl had dreaded exposure, for she was in grave danger. She might even die tonight, on the first night she had lived. Jack threatened me gangster Spanglish.
“Slash the whore to pieces, feed it to the dogs.”
Jack’s forced himself into my throat until I choked. He smashed his hands over my ears, deafening me, gripping my ears like handles to lever my face. After he finished, I blinked and wiped away my tears, gulped and burped. I fought nausea, smiled and lied.
"Delicious.”
He slapped my cheek, spit in my face and stalked toward the bathroom.
“Too good for a faggot.”
Seth thrust against me, I bucked back so we met with audible thuds. I looked back and murmured.
“Am I a good little love-doll?”
He answered with a howl.
“Goddamn.”
When he finished, he patted my fanny affectionately.
“You’re great, Rios.”
I buried my face in the pillow to hide the conflicting emotions that my face would have betrayed.
“I was a virgin.”
“Everyone’s a virgin once.”
Two tsunamis coursed through me and pooled inside my belly. I lay in Seth’s shadow, curled in a fetal position on the damp mattress, re-born as a female from the ashes of my violated virginity. I still faced rape, abuse, and possibly murder. But if I died a girl, I’d die happy.
A second shadow appeared.
"I’m not done with you, maricon.”
Seth backed away. Miguel hauled me to my knees, but after Seth’s monster, Miguel was easy.
“Papi, I love it.”
He spanked my ass.
“Love that too?”
“Don’t hurt me.”
He yanked my hair and slapped my face.
“You tagged my turf, I should”
“No, we’re-”
“Kill you, Marta too.”
“Just friends.”
“Or pimp your tranny ass to all comers.”
Miguel finished, then threw my torn hosiery to Seth.
"Tie it to the bed.”
Seth bound my hands and feet to the bed posts.
"Miguel runs this set, I do what he says. I'll make it easy though."
Miguel pulled Marta into the room.
“Say adios to your maricon boy toy.”
She swung her fist at Miguel. He blocked the blow and slapped her face. Was it a cover for her complicity, or had she shared my defilement?
Miguel grabbed my hair and twisted my head to the sodden sheets.
“Complain to the cops, you and the cunt are toast.”
A round chambered into an automatic pistol that pressed the nape of my neck.
The room was lit by camera flashes. Lights dimmed, footsteps clomped down the hallway, the door creaked open and slammed shut, a car screeched away, and the house was dark and eerily quiet. I listened for the sounds of reentry or rescue, but I sensed only the hum of distant freeway traffic and the sweep of headlights across my grandma’s lace curtains.

Silence

I twisted my hands against the Seth’s haphazard knots and slid free of them. I stripped the rumpled, sodden sheets and stuffed them into the washer. I collected empty beer cans and swept up the shards of a smashed bottle of Cuervo Gold, cigarette butts, and the fire-scarred foil where they’d cooked the crack that fueled their rampage.
I trashed our tattered negligee and the ruined gown, removed my smudged make-up and nail polish and dressed in the rented tux and shoes. On my way home I drove past West LA police substation, but I couldn’t force myself to tell transphobic cops how my Prom date and I had been gang-raped by gangsters. The LAPD treated transsexuals as criminals and would probably think that I had gotten what I deserved.
My silence made me complicit in Miguel’s crimes and alienated me from the world of laws and rules. Concealment of crime is a lie, but I was addicted to lying, and my stealing syringes and hormones from my dad’s lab and fraudulent importation of spironolactone had made me criminal too. The street-smart Miguel had peered through my respectable façade and conscripted me into the lowest rung of his criminal gang, as a maricon prostitute.
I tiptoed into my parents’ house, took a Valium to calm my frayed nerves. My emotions wavered between revenge and remorse, acceptance and revulsion, ambition and abandon. My ass burned, my throat hurt, my flesh was crusted with spit, sweat and sperm and crawling with microbes, the stigmata of a despoiled virgin, sacred relics of my passage. I showered and douched, and an ecosystem of incriminating DNA swirled down the drain. Only the abraded skin around my anus evidenced their crimes and my transformation.
Miguel’s gang had forced me, but I had yielded, survived and even orgasmed. Jack and Miguel called me “it” but used and abused me like one of their gangster chicas. Humiliated and ravished, I experienced ecstasy in submission.
If I complained to Uni High’s administrators, they would shine a light on my secret life and deprive me of it, my father would ground me and confiscate my hormones. Miguel had promised retaliation, and I could not protect Marta or myself. There was no upside in protest. If I remained silent, I could stealthily continue following my path and hope that shame about fucking a tranny could silence him and his crew.

Morning After Pills

“It’s almost afternoon, Honey. Don’t you need to study?”
My mom’s face was blurry as I blinked myself awake.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Have fun last night?”
I couldn’t tell her that her darling son had been gang-raped by three classmates in her mother’s bed, so I lied.
“Totally awesome.”
“You were out past curfew.”
“Prom night’s supposed to be-”
She winked and kissed me.
“I’m so glad you finally experienced the social side of-”
“Me too, but I’m nauseous.”
I ran to the bathroom, pooped a pink-tinged slurry, vomited thick, gooey mucous and collapsed to the tile floor. My skin flushed and beaded with sweat. Was it the onset of HIV or post-traumatic stress?
I shot hormones and choked down Spiro and a couple of Ritalin and relaxed in bed with a book. Academics would put Miguel in the rear-view mirror and me back on route to college. Last night was a detour, my path forward was clear.
But studies competed with memories of being the gangsters’ sex slave. Who would take a transsexual seriously as a scientific researcher? Would my scholarships be rescinded if I tried to register as a girl?
Every time doubt and angst rose within me, I quelled it with the calming discipline of study. I never left my house that weekend and interrupted my studies only when I needed to eat or sleep a few hours. By Sunday night, I so exhausted and charged up that I took an Ambien and fell asleep with the light on and a book in my lap.
I have boobs and a sex change, lecturing a crowded auditorium. Beautiful but professional, my audience is rapt, and enraptured. Except for my marker’s squeaks on the white board, the hall is silent, but when I finished, the scene changes, and I’m writhing up and down a stripper pole. I crawl across a red lit stage, wriggle my ass in the faces of drunks who stuff bills into my sequined thong and paw my bare butt. A burly thug beckons me, and I slide into his lap and grind my pussy into his lap, massaging his cock with my labia as he nuzzles his grizzled face between my perfumed breasts.
I woke up sweating, heart pounding, and grabbed another handful of pills. I was at an unmarked crossroads. Which path would I take?

Outed

Mom rousted me.
“You’re going to be late-”
“Class is a waste-”
“You have too many absences, you could lose your scholarships. We’re too stretched to pay tuition because you cut class.”
Her heels clacked as she left, and I raged. The perfect match for my dad, the world’s biggest prick. Too bad she couldn’t fuck as many pool boys and personal trainers as he fucked grad students and lab techs. With equal shares of adultery, their marriage might have worked. It was already on the rocks and discovering at their son was girl would sink it.
Mom had been a Rose Bowl Princess, and I’d inherited her luminescent blue eyes, blonde hair, slim physique, and porcelain skin. But I’d inherited my long, aquiline nose and my ambition from my father’s tawny, tough Argentine side.
The soreness of my ass had faded to a tingle and my bruised lips had recovered. When I got the Newspaper Office, Barb and Anne exchanged whispers. Barb glared at me.
“You bailed on Prom.”
Anne folded her arms; I hung my head.
“Thad made us dance, he groped me, said he was going to kick your ass. A night in hell.”
“Sorry, we got delayed, too late to make it.”
“We know, your Prom Night pictures are all over the internet,” Barb said. “If you’d planned an orgy with the gangsters, why drag us into that snake pit?”
I staggered and sat on a table’s edge just before I fainted. My skin poured sweat, my stomach churned and my bowl spasmed.
“I’m sorry, I can’t, I’m sick.”
I usually avoided Uni’s filthy, dangerous bathrooms, but I was desperate. I opened a stall and blanketed the stained seat with shreds of tissue to keep the germs off my skin. My ass stung, and I sobbed as a hot hurricane gushed out. I heard whispers and giggles as I read the graffiti at eyelevel on the stall’s door.
Alex Rios, tranny ho,
Likes to suck and loves blow.
Alex Rios, tranny slut.
Loves to take it in the butt.
I rubbed at the inscription, but it was written in black sharpie. I perspired and hyperventilated as I peeked warily over the partition at a leering audience of faces blurred by my tears. I averted my eyes as I washed my hands but felt their mocking eyes boring into me.
I’d hoped that Miguel’s prized macho reputation would make him keep our encounter on the down low. But he had decided to up the ante by outing me with graffiti and internet photo sharing. Miguel rewrote my script for a stealthy exit from Uni as a pornographic exposé. Alex Rios had schemed and scammed to become a girl, Miguel and his posse had sealed the deal.

Principal

Milling students crowded the corridors, bumping and mocking me as I hurried to the Principal’s office.
Fabiola, the office receptionist, greeted me with a smirk and pointed to the clock.
“Home Room time.”
“I need to see the Principal right now.”
She typed a message on her computer, and when the response pinged back, she buzzed in to see the principal, an aging veteran of LA’s busing wars who was timeserving his way toward retirement. He motioned me to a battered, metal chair.
“What’s happening, Rios?”
“There’s a terrible graffiti about me in a toilet stall. Shouldn’t the janitors paint it over?”
“Already painted over two others. Where?”
“Middle stall, by the Newspaper Office. Can I be excused from school today? That graffiti’s scary.”
“Can’t run from insults. Got rules against graffiti, hate speech, harassment and such. Identify the offenders, I’ll enforce the rules. Who’s writing this garbage, and why?”
I hesitated to tell him, for what would come next? A couple of days’ suspension for Miguel, a beating or worse for me and Marta. I felt powerless.
“I’ve gotten cruel comments and I ignored them, but I can’t ignore this.”
“Sad truth is that most times, the victim knows, but is scared to tell.”
“I am scared. Can I leave? My classes aren’t-.”
He tapped his pen on a blank page and let out a low whistle.
“Got to have more than graffiti to excuse two weeks of classes.”
I started crying. The Alex Rios who had the best college admissions, the smartest guy in the school, was dead, killed by a single bad night. In his place was a frightened, lonely outcast whose few friends thought he’d betrayed them. When my sobs subsided, I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and looked up.
“I’m transsexual. Some boys from here forced me, took pictures, now they’re showing them around, boasting.”
“Rios, these things happen to girls. Want to be one you got to learn to deal with rumors.”
“That graffiti encourages violence.”
“Someone threatens you, then come to me.”
“That could be too late.”
“Tell you what, Rios. You’re a rare success story in this class of losers. Get your parents to agree and I’ll excuse you.”
“They only care about shipping me off to college.”
“I need some cover. Want to me to cooperate, explain the situation and have them email me consent.”
My heart pounded.
“My dad will-”
“Your problem, not mine.”
My choice was harassment and potential transphobic violence or the wrath of Eduardo Rios. But he would eventually hear the rumors.
“I’ll do it.”
He didn’t look up as I left Uni High for what I hoped was the last time.

Family Meeting

I went home and buried myself in AP World History. World War I was raging when I heard my dad come in. I went downstairs expecting a battle bloodier than Verdun. My dad was in his office, reading email. My mom was chopping tofu. I cleared my throat.
“Can we have a family meeting?”
It was code for delivering bad news. My father shifted in his chair. I stood in the doorway.
“Does this relate to the email from your school? Don’t tell me you got kicked out.”
“I asked to be excused.”
My dad stood and glared.
“Don’t obfuscate. What happened?”
“Problems the gang element. They’re harassing me, writing threatening graffiti.”
“Why are you in contact with the riff-raff? I thought you were taking AP classes.”
“School isn’t just about classes. My problem is with some friends of Marta’s.”
“I knew that girl was bad news. Lie down with dogs, get fleas. Is she knocked up?”
“Not that. They found us together and got rough.”
My mom stroked my hair and smoothed my cheek.
“Can’t you see Alex is struggling?”
She put her arm around me and kissed the side of my neck. I smelled her cologne, felt the silky touch of her golden hair.
“Tell me everything, it doesn’t matter, I’ll always love you.”
I felt the bulwarks that I had built around my identity shudder, and then collapse under the weight of the truth. I focused my eyes on a tiny crack in the wall. I wanted to crawl into that crack and disappear.
“OK, this is hard, and I am frightened. But I’m even more scared of living my life as a great lie.”
“Great preamble, get to the point,” my dad said.
“Don’t intimidate him, it’s not helpful.”
“This psycho-babble isn’t helpful, it’s classic Alex, dissembling to evade responsibility.”
I was fueling the simmering clash between my parents. They had been to the verge of divorce and back more times than I could remember. This would surely push them over the edge. I wanted to retreat into the old Alex, and transition at college, away from them. Why had I rushed? Now, it was too late. I had to say it now.
“I’m transsexual.”
My dad swayed like he had been gut punched. He collapsed into a chair and cleared his throat. My mom recoiled from her embrace, as though she had accidentally hugged a stranger.
“What qualifies you to make such a bold diagnosis?”
“I’ve wanted to be a girl since I was a toddler. As I matured, my femininity emerged.”
“I am a doctor. Don’t my opinions have any weight?”
“You study viruses, and mom treats the inner child of menopausal matrons. I know who I am. You barely know me.”
“There are treatments, programs, we have access to limitless resources, and you make this call on your own? You purport to be a genius but behave as a fool.”
“If you knew anything about transsexuals, you would know that it’s a diagnosis that only the patient can make.”
My mom stroked my cheek, as though checking it for whiskers.
“You need to be professionally evaluated by a psychologist and an endocrinologist. You can’t decide this-“
“I’ve been on female hormones for months. I’m already almost-”
My dad slammed his hands on the table.
“That solves a mystery that’s been roiling the hospital. Someone was fired over the missing syringes and hormones. Don’t you care about anyone but yourself?”
“I’m sorry that UCLA fired an innocent, but not for anything else. I did what I needed-”
“Only a rash and egotistical lunatic could justify the theft of drugs to self-administer hormone therapy.”
“The hospital is still loaded with them, so its loss is negligible.”
“You’ve probably sterilized yourself. Your irresponsible hormone juicing means that your parents will never have grandchildren.”
“I’ll be sad if I can’t have a child, but sadder still that you care more about potential grandchildren than for your actual child. I can’t be your son; I need to be your daughter.”
“You disgraced yourself at St. Aybert’s with this garbage. I caved in to your mother and let you come home instead of sending you to military school. Now, you’ve degenerated even further. Enough, get the hell out.”
“Soon as I finish finals, I’ll leave-”
“Forget about UCLA. I don’t want your antics to undermine my standing on campus, and I hope that you would spare your mother the embarrassment of cross-dressing your way through USC.”
“I already accepted Michigan, because want to get away. But I need-”
“You can stay temporarily, if you return all the stolen syringes and hormones. Medicine is to be administered by physicians. Stealing a hospital’s supplies is like taking like taking illegal drugs. It’s criminal, and I’ll report you if you refuse.”
I nodded assent. I didn't need an official complaint to jeopardize my Michigan scholarship.
“And you live here as a boy. No cross-dressing, no cosmetics, and no sexual escapades.”
“Are we done?”
He slammed his fist on the table.
“We are done, until I see you change from self-indulgence toward mature adulthood.”
He walked back into his study and locked the door. My mom and I sat side by side at our dining room table.
“You and your dad will find a way to love one another again, some day.”
“Perhaps, but on my terms, not his.”
“Your father and I have many problems, we’ve compromised.”
“I can’t compromise on my identity.”
“My priority is that you are happy, and his is that you make him proud. If they conflict…”
“I’ll do both.”
She hugged me.
“I hope so. Think of all the fun we’ll have on Rodeo Drive.”
I returned to my room and the Western Front, wishing I could die a hero in a futile charge through no man’s land. I cranked up on Ritalin and did three all-nighters in a row as I readied myself for my finals. Five tests and four days later, I slept for eighteen hours. When I woke up, my dad had moved out.

Graduation

I didn't go to graduation and wasn’t invited to any parties. There were no awards available for senior transfers, and no one invited Tranny Alex to a beer bash. I heard there was a tittering of laughter when my name was called at commencement. When I returned my keys to the yearbook office, I altered my pictures into ghostly blurs captioned “image file damaged”. I wanted to erase my classmates' memories of me and to flush University High School from mine.
I couldn’t tell Barb and Anne that the orgy they saw on the internet pictures depicted a forcible rape. They would insist on my filing charges and would report the crime themselves if I refused. So, they remained embittered for what they saw as my reckless absorption into the gangster chica cult. Quinn stopped by to wish me luck and asked to see my boobs. I displayed them, and he whistled admiration. But gays aren’t attracted to transsexuals. His interest was purely academic.
The bruises, abrasions and internal trauma healed. Their dull pain was replaced by the tingling of newly awakened nerves. Sexual experience had rewired my libido, which now craved fresh stimulus. Carrots and cucumbers disappeared from my parents' refrigerator and into my hungry hole, but my feeble arms could not mimic the force of the gangsters’ throbbing cocks, I was unable to reach orgasm, unfulfilled, and frustrated.
Marta texted me and apologized for contributing to my downfall. She had dated Miguel concurrently with our encounters. She was gang property, and I was a trespasser. I had been Marta's revenge fuck for Miguel’s dalliance with a ninth grader. But she loved the girl that she had discovered inside me. She regretted the trauma our fling had caused and the ached over the empty space our parting left in her heart.
I would leave for college soon and leave all these troubles behind. I promised to keep in touch, and that we would dance at our fifth reunion. By then, she predicted, I would be the most beautiful girl in our class. I told her I could only hope to be half as beautiful as her.
I managed to avoid Miguel and Jack, but Seth spotted me from his passing car as I walked home from the Coffee Bean. I heard footsteps a few paces behind me as I turned the corner to cul de sac where my parents lived.
“Rios, hey, about Prom Night, I was fucked up, didn’t remember what went down until I sobered up a week later.”
“What you think happened?”
“Got down and dirty, had a good time. Didn’t you?”
My mind flashed back to him pounding inside me, the pulsing of his seed, the fiery orgasm that he elicited from me, his tender strokes and soft words. From that momentous night Seth had assumed a starring role in my sexual memory. But my wounded pride and paranoia prevailed over my desire.
“Not really.”
I turned and walked away.
“Take my number, we could hang out.”
I waited as he scribbled.
My soul craved a companion, and my body craved his caresses. The crevice that he had bored in my belly craved to be filled by him. I longed for him to ignite and stoke a fire inside me and then douse it with a flood of his silky semen to extinguish the flickering flames that burned within me.
He thrust a scrap of paper in my hand. I crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it in back pocket of my jeans.
“Whatever.”
I walked away, not wanting to let my erstwhile assailant know that I was crying about him. I wanted to recapture the submissiveness and sexual allure that I felt with Seth, but with new boys whose feelings would not be tainted by their perceptions of the old Alex.
I called the University of Michigan and arranged to start in summer school instead of waiting until autumn. I emptied my bank account to cover the expense.
University High School was a seething caldron of class, racial and gender biases, fired by post-9/11 insecurity and anger. I tried to delude my classmates by hiding a vulnerable girl inside the façade of an arrogant boy who ridiculed narcissistic jocks, deluded Christians, addled dopers, and loser gangsters.
Before Prom Night, I had been defended, and imprisoned, by my lies. But those bastions had been breached by the pictures of my cum-spattered face and ass on the internet. I had been ostracized by my friends for my lies about that shocking truth and humiliated by my enemies.
Every exile’s escape exacts a cost. I’d paid my ransom. My defilement on Prom Night unlocked my karmic cage and set free the girl imprisoned inside Alex Rios.
If anyone tells you that what happens in high school doesn't matter, they’re lying. If they tell you that life begins in college, prove them right.

I wrote and published The Greatest Lie, still available on Fictionmania, between 2001 and 2008. After reflecting on the many comments readers posted or emailed, I re-wrote it between then and now and have published it in two versions in Amazon’s Kindle Store
The Greatest Liar, Trans Fiction With A Purpose is found at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07FSQ3M3M. It omits explicit sex descriptions
The Greatest Liar, Trans Erotica With A Purpose, https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07NKXFW2J, includes explicit sex.
Both cover the same narrative, which generally tracks the The Greatest Lie but includes two new chapters which introduce new characters and events. However, nearly every phrase has been revised, and I hope improved.
Amazon’s terms of service prohibit publication here, but I priced both e-books at $2.99. Oy the Trans Fiction version is available in paperback for $14.99, which mostly reflects printing costs (my royalty is even smaller on the paper back.
Readers rave “an amazing novel that reads like a memoir, wonderful writing, eloquent, masterful, in-depth, incorporating research around everything.”
If you buy and read it, please review it on Amazon. I cannot overstate how valuable the feedback of my friends from here helped shape my thinking in reinventing this story. Thank you.

Alex Rios’ furtive high school transition is suspected by friends, revealed to a lover and exposed by his enemies. With his intellectual hauteur torn away, he becomes the girl he longed, and was destined, to be.

Alex Rios, snobbish highschool intellectual, begins his awkward transition through a relationship with a beautiful Latina friend. But their feminine idyll ends horribly when they are caught by her old boyfriend Miguel...

Chapter 1
Prom Night
by Alexandra Rios

This story is purely fictional and meant for adult audiences only! All resemblance to actual persons is coincidental. It contains graphic sex and forcible rape described in first person narration by its transgendered, teenage protagonist. If you are not an adult, or if you find this type of material offensive, please stop reading. You have been warned of the content. If you proceed neither the author nor the site host will be held responsible! A previous version of Chapter 1 (titled "The Biggest Lie") was originally posted to Fictionmania on January 6, 2002. Chapter 2 carries on our heroine's adventures and transformation.

The Greatest Lie
By Alexandra Rios

Chapter 1 -- Prom Night

The greatest lie that they tell you is that what happens in high school doesn't really matter: that life begins in college. I pretended to agree, though I never believed it. For as you will see, I am the world's greatest liar.

"Take Sadie Hawkins Day, for example," I said to my buddy Quinn as we hung around outside the art room, "what chickenshit! Just a chance for some cheerleader wannabee airheads to feed the egos of their dumb jock boyfriends."

"And their libidos," Quinn remarked sourly. Barb and Anne, our all-too-platonic art room friends, nodded their heads in agreement. They were far too hip to invite me or Quinn.

"Let's go to the Bergman film festival instead, Alex," Barb suggested.

I nodded in agreement, but did not commit. For the girl who lived inside me knew it was a lie. She would have been thrilled to ask a boy to go to a Sadie Hawkins dance, to spin in endless blind circles across the dance floor with her love, tiara glinting in the strobe lights, before collapsing into passion and bliss. But not with any of the slobs and idiots that ruled this school: the stupid pampered jocks who hassled me in the locker room and bumped me in the halls; the dopers who mocked me from their outpost in the quad; or the motorheads that eyed me with contempt mixed with pure aggression as they spat "maricon" or "faggot" at me whenever circumstances forced me into their path. Our school's thugs may have been complete idiots when it came to anything but petty crime or cars, but they seemed to be able to look through me into my secret soul.

Inside myself hid a girl whose existence was kept secret from my mom and dad and my art room friends. She never came out except at night, when I lay in my bed and stroked my modest dick while dreaming of being fondled, trussed, and ravished by imaginary male lovers. Each night, my imaginary breasts swelled with fantasy implants, and my ass was penetrated by many phantom cocks before I finally came, my ass up and my face buried in shame in my pillows. Each morning, I showered away the residue of my cum and my fantasies and pretended to be a high school boy, a merit scholar, and a class intellectual. This had been my life since junior high: a constant struggle to hide my true self behind my intellect and wit. I was trying with more or less success to keep the girl inside me alive and shielded from discovery and torment at the hands of the rough crowd at school.

The worst was gym class. My physical development lagged behind that of my peers. At seventeen, I was 5' 7", weighed 120 pounds, and had only 1" of thin blond peach fuzz above my undersized penis. My chest and legs were completely hairless. This led to incessant teasing in the locker room. Things reached their nadir in September of my senior year, when Miguel, one of the motorheads, confronted me after gym class.

I had leaned over to open my locker, and suddenly Miguel said, "Hey, chica, nice ass. I'm gonna fuck it. Let's go to the towel room." With that, he snapped me with his towel, raising a dark red welt on my pale ass. I spun around, distraught, for one of my secret fantasies was to be gangbanged in the towel room. Miguel seized my head and pressed my lips against his sweaty, bulging jock strap. "Hey, suck me, chica." The other guys in this section of lockers were all motorheads, and they looked on with lustful interest. I thanked God (who, officially, I did not believe existed) when the coach's whistle sounded and Miguel abandoned his assault. After that, I got excused from gym class.

After that, although I lived in dread of Miguel, my sexual fantasies became more and more explicit -- and violent. I was revolted by Miguel, but was entranced by fantasies of a cleaner, less profane Miguel sucking my breasts and making love to my virgin ass.

One day, as I rifled through my dad's medical sample box looking for amphetamine (my favorite study aid -- and I loved the way it shrank my balls) I realized that it was stuffed with birth control pills. I had read about the transformative power of these drugs, so I copped samples of estrogen, progesterone or anything that sounded like a female hormone. I began taking them occasionally, but while they had a noticeable effect on my acne (it completely disappeared) and hair (it became smoother and more manageable), I stopped after a few days, both to preserve my supply and to preserve my precarious grip on maleness.

Sometimes I thought there was hope for me as a male if I could escape this macho hotbed of a high school. College applications were in, and the end of high school was in sight. I was actually gaining some status as a class genius, and a poem I had written for English class had been published in the school paper. The girls all loved it 'cuz it was romantic. Soon, I would be checking out of this shithole, moving out of my parents house and going to college, where I could start out with new friends and become a new me.

But for the moment, Sadie Hawkins Day, and all that went with it, was the here and now. Reality hit me right between the eyes when I opened my locker. I discovered an envelope inside addressed to me, Alex Rios, from Marta Gonzalez, who had been the girl I wanted to be since I was a scrawny and scared eighth grader. Marta wanted me to go to Sadie Hawkins Day with her! I was totally freaked. Quinn told me, "forget it, man, she's way over your head," and Barb and Anne nodded in silent agreement.

I told them they were just jealous. I said, "Hey, it's an experience, and it's our last chance to do this high school crap. I can write about it in my autobiography when I'm famous." They rolled their eyes.

I accepted, and my mind went into turmoil. Mom and dad were so delighted that I had my first date that they overlooked Marta's modest social background. They had revelled in my scholarly achievements but I could tell they were wondering about me socially, and this reassured them. Was this my chance to banish the horny slut that secretly shared my life and become a normal guy?

If anyone could change me, it was Marta. She had an hourglass figure with well-formed breasts and pouty, full lips on a beautiful Latina face. She was a decent student and dressed nicely. Who cared if she had been with a few of the motorheads? She wanted me now.

I picked her up at her family's apartment, a modest walkup in West L.A. with sink full of dirty dishes, a harried mom, a screaming baby brother, and a hostile father who looked at me with the same contempt as the motorheads. Marta was bubbly and excited. She tongue kissed me as soon as she got in the front seat of my mom's Honda. I must have flinched, because she laughed, "Seventeen and never been kissed?" I blushed, and lied that it wasn't the first time for me.

We went to the auditorium and danced to Whitesnake and all the other shit music of that era. The motorheads glared, the jocks and their girls gawked in amazement. As I escorted Marta out of the dance, I felt like I was on the way to becoming a high school legend, my male reputation redeemed by my date with Marta.

I felt a stirring in my groin as we drove away. I pulled over at a local lover's lane and turned to Marta. "I'm not ready to go home yet," I started to say. Before I could finish, Marta had lunged at me, and we grappled and kissed across the bucket seats and console for the next half-hour. Finally, we crawled into the back seat, and as I kissed her swaying breasts she unzipped my pants and began to slurp, suck, claw, and pull at my cock.

I wriggled my hands into her lacy panties, and found her fragrant, swollen pussy. With a few strokes, my fingers found their mark and lit into her warm, wet cunt. I stroked, she sucked, we swayed in unison. But nothing happened to my skinny, shriveled and nearly hairless cock. It remained as flaccid as a deflated party balloon, impervious to Marta's efforts. Finally, admitting failure, we sat in the back seat and talked about ourselves. In the intimacy of a mutual failure, I let down my guard.

"Marta, when I look at you, when I touch you, I get so turned on. But I don't know if it's because I want you, or because I want to be you."

She said, "Um-hum."

"It's like the existentialists say, you can never really tell whether you are who you make yourself, or whether you are merely the sum of your experiences," I mused idiotically.

"I know, baby," she said, not knowing what the fuck I was talking about. She embraced me closer, like I was a little sister or even a doll. I went on and on, telling her of all my secrets and fears. She told me of a life of abuse at the hands of a bullying father and the sexually predatory motorheads. I finally took her home at 2:00 a.m., our minds racing but our bodies unfulfilled.

In bed, I jerked off dreaming I was Marta in the arms of Miguel, and then drifted off to sleep. I awoke before six that morning in the midst of a nightmare. I was at school, and all the motorheads, dopers, jocks, and even the art room crowd were screaming, "Kill the faggot!" at me. Marta was standing at the head of the mob. As the nightmare dissolved, I relived the prior night's events in my mind.

In the cold light of morning, the adventure that had begun so well had ended in disaster. I had confided the secret of my inner girlish self to Marta, whom I barely knew. Fear welled up inside me until I could barely breathe. At least it was Saturday, so I didn't have to go to school. But anxiety kept rising within me. From beneath my bed, I slid the box where I kept my purloined medical samples and took out a Black Beauty and a Valium and popped them both. On an impulse, I popped a 5 mg. Premarin too. Then I staggered to the shower on scarcely three hours sleep. It was going to be a long day.

I showered, fondling my hairless body and entertained alternating visions of Marta and Miguel fondling me. Finally, I slipped a soapy hand around my skinny, hairless ass and slid a finger into my anus. It slid in, and I was overwhelmed with a recollection of the same finger sliding into Marta's slick pussy the night before. It felt the same, only tighter. I was overwhelmed with the sensation that I, too, had a tight pussy. The girl inside me could at last get fucked.

I spent the weekend buried in the medical school library researching the hormonal treatment of transsexuals. I stopped by my dad's office, and as he was off doing "rounds," I copped about half his supply of birth-control pills. Counting the stash I already had, I had six months worth based on the the studies I'd found in the med school library.

That night, fear of what lay before me if I kept taking the hormones haunted my sleep even after I jerked off, and the reds I took just got me wasted. By Monday, I looked and felt like a like a wreck stayed home sick. Tuesday I was no better. My mom told me she would take me to the doctor if I wasn't better Wednesday. I was terrified that a blood test would show the large amounts of speed, downers and estrogen I had consumed since Friday, so I returned to school, consumed by dread.

But everything seemed the same. Except for Quinn, who made a snide comment about my needing three days to recover from my "Big Date," the people at school had moved on. They must have gotten sick of post-mortems of Sadie Hawkins Day, because now they were talking about the Prom.

I spied Marta talking with some of her chica friend across the cafeteria, and she shot me a warm smile. I found another note from her in my locker that afternoon. She wanted to get together after school to talk. We met in the parking lot. "About the other night," I began, "I was just talking about a lot of fantasies."

"That's all right, I think you are really interesting and I still want to see you." She blushed, and added, "Your fantasies turn me on."

I felt a surge emotion and relief, and replied, "That turns me on." We hugged, and I felt the pressure of her large breasts and her warm pussy against my body. Once again, I felt more like I was inside her feeling my embrace than outside feeling hers. I loved that feeling.

We planned a weekend rendezvous of shopping and pizza. I relaxed and went to sleep that night with just my usual jerkoff fantasy of getting fucked in the ass by a handsome but anonymous stud.

By Saturday afternoon, I had been taking estrogen for a week and my oily and acne-prone face was blemish-free. My body was outwardly unchanged, still skinny and nearly hairless. I picked up Marta at four, and we went to the mall. First we went to Victoria's Secret, where she selected lingerie and nighties in my size. I paid. Then on to Bebe, where we picked tops, pants and skirts. We bought shoes for my size seven feet at Cole's: high strappy pumps. We stopped at the Clinique counter for make-up, polish, perfume, brushes and tweezers. None of the store clerks suspected anything: it just looked a guy taking his girlfriend on a shopping spree.

Marta asked, "Where are we going to go for you to change?" I had just the place. My grandma was in a nursing home and my parents were still working on clearing out the house. I had a key. We slipped in through the garage and went to her old room.

Marta drew a bath and I relaxed in the aromatic oils. I slipped into a robe and she began her magic. She styled my shoulder-length hair, applied subtle tones of make-up and nail polish, poked a painful hole in my right ear and loaned me feminine gold hoops to replace my single stud. I put on satin panties and thrilled as they touched my hardening cock. Then pantyhose, a push-up bra, a spaghetti-strap top, and tight, short pink skirt over mules. When I looked in the mirror, I was stunned. I looked like Marta's taller, thinner, blonder sister.

"You're a doll," she said.

"So are you," I replied. I gave her a hug and we kissed, careful not to spoil our make-up. "Let's go out," I said, eager to try my new look on the world.

"No way," she responded. "First, we need some serious training." She taught me how to sit down, and rise from my seat, and the looks to make when I walked into a room. We worked on my voice and language. We ate pizza and drank some of grandma's old sherry.

At 10:00, we changed into our negligees and began making out on my grandma's bed. She fondled my dick through the lacy material and it hardened. She sucked me and I kissed her pussy, and I rubbed my cock on her warm, wet labia, bringing myself to the verge of orgasm. Her mons throbbed against my groin, but she would not yield to complete penetration as many times as I tried.

"I don’t have any condoms, baby, do you?" she said.

Of course I didn’t, as I had never dreamed that fate would place me in the arms of this exquisite creature.

Marta seemed uninterested in fucking, and that was fine with me, and I climaxed by rubbing my cockette against her swollen mons. Then I went down on her, first licking my own semen from her labia, and then feasting on her tangy vaginal juices. She moaned with pleasure, and soon her moans turned to cries of ecstasy: "Mas, por favor, mas, mas!" As her hips undulated with pleasure, her thick pubic hair rasped my tired, tender lips and cheeks, and I fantasized that I was in her body, being fucked hard by a faceless motorhead in the boys' locker room at Uni. Her cries, and the frantic motions of her body, rose to a frenzy and her juices grew hotter and more plentiful until she climaxed over my face. Then her cries receded to moans, sighs, and breaths, and her hips grew still in post-orgasmic exhaustion.

God, I thought, how much deeper and more fulfilling must her orgasm have been than the momentary spasm I had experienced.

"Was that good for you, baby?" she asked.

"It was great. Did you, you know, have an orgasm?"

"Oh my God, yes," she replied. "You're a fantastic lover. Much better than . . ." She stopped, and I wondered who she meant.

We lay in bed for a few minutes, and then heard the grandfather clock toll midnight. I changed back into my guy clothes, took her home, and spirited my girly things into the back of my closet.

My parents were really pissed off the next morning. My dad finally relented from his rage and tried to tell me about sex. I laughed and told him he was a little late for that. With that, they grounded me for a month.

Marta and I exchanged glances and passed notes to one another at school, but we had no time for play. I continued my improvised hormone regimen, and noticed that by scrotum was becoming more compact. Even though my nighttime fantasies of penetration and rape became more vivid and violent, I had an increasingly difficult time reaching climax. One night, just before the end of my grounding, I improvised a dildo from an old electric toothbrush. I wrapped it in a cloth and covered it with a condom. Behind a locked bathroom door, I prettied myself with makeup and blew out my hair. I slipped into my negligee, wrapped myself in a robe and scampered to my room calling out a breezy good-night to my parents. I slid beneath my covers and turned the dildo on. It vibrated pleasantly against the crotch of my panties. I pressed through the thin fabric against my hole. The vibrations tingled over my whole body. With my other hand I fondled my breasts and noticed with pleasure that my nipples had hardened and risen against the silken fabric of my nightie. I slid down my panties and placed the dildo against my tush. The electricity surged even more powerfully through my body, and my cockette began to harden for the first time in a week.

I reached to my bed stand for a tube of KY Jelly, which I slathered over the dildo and applied in a dainty dot on my hole. I clenched my teeth and began to press. The tapered head slid effortlessly into my rectum and I continued to press it up the channel. Two inches in, I gasped and tears welled in my eyes. A fiery electric bolt of pain shot through me and I could not make myself push it further. I squeezed it out and tried to catch my breath.

I reapplied KY to my anus, slipping my finger in and out. With apprehension mixed with excitement I again pressed the dildo against my now puckered rectum. It slid in effortlessly, and as I pressed it in further, the explosive pain again shot through me. My tortured body remembered that the dildo's recent exit had been almost pleasant, and so instinctively I pressed downward with my ass muscles while continuing to press up against the dildo. To my surprise, it slid all the way in and my sphincter tightened around it.

For a moment, I enjoyed the buzzing in my ass. Then panic started to build in me once again. Now that my ass had swallowed the whole thing from tapered tip to the broad base, how was I to get it out? Tears again welled in my eyes as I imagined a humiliating exposure in the emergency room of my dad's hospital. I pressed like I was trying to poop, and it popped out with a burst of pain as the base exited my now well-lubricated rectum.

My panic subsided, and I again slid it in, more carefully, and this time with only slight pain, mixed with increasing pleasure. My God, I thought, what must a real fuck feel like? At the tip this thing lacks the bulbous head of a real cock, and is only half the width of some of the dicks you see in a high school locker room. A real stud isn't likely to pause as I had to let my ass acclimate to its violation before fully stuffing it in: he'll ram it in and enjoy increasing the agony by ramming me faster.

The thought of these brutal realities of real sex with a real male warmed me. The buzzing of the dildo against my prostate stimulated my nearly dried up juices and with a handful of KY I was able to bring myself to a climax, my first in two weeks. It shot out with great force, but I was surprised that the puddle of spunk was small and very thin, almost clear. The hormones had taken a lot out of me. I popped the dildo out of my ass and hid it under the bed. I was so exhausted that I didn't change and slept the night in my nightie.

I slept a dreamless sleep, and woke with my mother standing over me, with a look of shock on her face. "Allie, what are you wearing?"

"Some clothes a friend gave me," I replied evasively.

"Well, it's not appropriate clothing for a boy your age."

"What's the big deal if I only wear it in bed?" I retorted, warming to an argumentative line.

"Well, if it's just in bed, I guess there's no harm. Just make sure your father never finds out," she advised me.

"Don't worry about that," I said. "Let's keep it our secret, and I promise to keep it under control."

"I certainly hope you outgrow this soon."

"I'm sure I will, Mom."

As I showered I was filled with regret and guilt at my faux pas. I felt worse for involving my mom as a conspirator in my emerging fantasy life. But the thrill of the fantasy overwhelmed my feelings of guilt. To celebrate my success in penetrating my ass and co-opting my mother, I popped a Black Beauty along with my Premarin and headed of to school in a buzz.

Spring break was coming, and every day brought news of college acceptances for the art room crowd. Quinn got into Columbia, Barb got Reed with a partial scholarship, Anne got Ann Arbor, and then I got the University of Minnesota with a full academic scholarship. (Sure I'm brilliant, but let's face it, a Spanish surname helps, even if you are really white.) My happiness was tinged with a little sadness, as I thought of poor Marta stuck going to the community college part-time and working nights at her dad's restaurant. But it would be a new beginning. Could I shake this transgender fantasy in a new environment? Had the macho culture of this awful school forced me to flee to femininity, or was it coming from within me?

I barely had time to say good-bye to Marta before spring break. My dad had been invited to speak at an AIDS conference in Sao Paulo, Brazil, and with my recent transgressions as evidence of unreliability my parents decided they had better take me along. I was excited to go, as I had read that there were lots of 'travesti' in Brazil. And there were. The lined the streets and crowded the corners of some districts, offering glimpses of their silicon pumped boobs and asses to passers by. They varied from the comical to the exquisite, and just being in that environment infused me with resolve to proceed with my own transformation. I had brought an adequate supply of hormones, but I needn't have. There was a huge variety for sale without prescription in every 'pharmacia' in or near the travesti districts. I went on a shopping spree and bought oral, patch, and injectable forms of estrogen.

In one store, I was offered a canister of liquid silicone and a syringe. This I passed on, and was instantly filled with regret. I never was offered that product elsewhere, and I couldn't find that shop again in the labyrinthine streets of Sao Paulo. But silicone would have added too much bulk to my already sizeable collection of 'mones. How would I smuggle this cornucopia through customs? My last purchase was an inflatable rubber dildo at a sex shop, which would serve as my drug cache. I slit a hole in the side, loaded in the contraband and taped it up to keep the merchandise clean and dry.

As the pilot announced our imminent arrival at LAX, I got up for a last bathroom stop. Fully loaded with my estrogen supply, the dildo was distended into a lumpy plug of alarming proportions. I lubed the dildo and my ass with KY, bent over the sink, and practiced my anal insertion technique. I hit a solid wall of pain, and could not make any progress. At that moment, the pilot's voice commanded passengers to return to our seats for landing.

"Oh fuck," I muttered to myself. "I waited too long." I tried again, but pain made my ass as tight as a baby's. I relubed, and closed my eyes and imagined myself in the clutches of a big black barbarian. It slipped past my rectum and stopped, and I nearly fainted with pain. The pilot announced that the stewardesses should prepare the cabin for landing. I was desperate, fearing the pain of the entry of this bulbous object equally to the pain of an airport bust of me in possession of my trannie 'mone stash.

There was a knock at the door. "I'm sorry, you have to take your seat."

"Just another minute, please," I pleaded. As if to underscore the urgency, the plane began to buck and sway in the bumpy air of pattern altitude: our landing was imminent. I put down the toilet seat and eased back on the giant package with all my weight. It impaled me and my eyes filled with white-hot tears. I ground my wounded bottom onto the package, which slipped in past my rectum, which closed over it with a painful elastic snap. I caught my breath and rose unsteadily to my feet as the plane careened bumpily down on final approach.

"You have to take your seat right now!" hissed the impatient stewardess. I stumbled out of the bathroom without having washed my hands and barely able to walk with the large lump now distending my lower colon.

"Oh God," I thought to myself, "I hope the fucking thing doesn't break: I'll die of an estrogen overdose." As I settled uncomfortably into my seat, the package practically brushing against my ribs, I got slightly horny at the thought of dying that way. The very plane felt like it was fucking me as the pilot extended the flaps fully and the ride grew even bumpier. Naturally, the plane bounced a few times after touchdown. At the first bounce, I turned my face away from mom to keep her from seeing my eyes goggling as condom moved inside me. Finally, the pilot engaged the thrust reversers noisily and brought the airliner to a shuddering stop. The passengers applauded when the plane finally rolled to a stop. I blushed and hung my head, as it seemed like they had all noticed, and were cheering, my last minute bathroom emergency. My father scowled, as my mother inquired idiotically “Are you feeling OK, honey?”

I staggered through customs without inquiry, except from my mom, who commented on my halting gait as I struggled with the wad in my gut. "I don't feel so good, it must be something I ate." That lie provided good excuse for the hour I spent in the bathroom at home as I painfully worked at expelling the now blood-smeared package from my ass. But when I got it out I had a year's supply of hormones at my disposal.

I had been taking hormones for almost two months and my nipples were enlarged. The beginnings of little titties were blossoming on my chest, even as my scrotum shriveled and atrophied and my dick shortened. My hair was smooth and silky, my skin was soft and had lost most of the little hair it had developed. My muscle tone had diminished, my hips were slightly flared, and my waist had narrowed. My boy clothes were too tight around my bottom and too loose at my waist. That first morning of my return from vacation, I took care to wrap my chest in an Ace bandage to flatten my emerging breasts and protect my nipples from the now harsh-feeling fabric of my black Gap turtleneck.

I had settled on a Goth look as the best camouflage for my femininity, and it only partly worked. As I scuttled through the halls at school, trying to affect invisibility, I noticed more than the usual angry stares from the motorheads and remarkable gaping from the jock crowd. Even the art room crowd seemed put off by my new look. Quinn remarked, "You sure look femme today, Alex."

"Thanks," I replied carelessly. "That's just what I wanted." I hoped my bravado would aid the disguise, and in Quinn's case, it did. The school was a target-rich environment for his sarcastic venom, and I joined in enthusiastically. After all, I hated all these people as much as they hated me.

Except, of course, for Marta. We approached each other shyly, like long-lost lovers. I had been away only two weeks, but to that was added the month's separation caused by my grounding. Spring Prom was upon us, and I left her a flowery note inviting her to be my date.

Bouquet of black
In a vase of white.
You light the world
With your indwelling light.
Flower of red
On your face so bright.
You are my heart's delight.

Marta, will you go to the Prom with me?
Alex

She loved the poem and accepted instantly. We agreed that after the school dance, it would be an all-girl event. I gave her my measurements to make my post-prom dress; she cooed appreciatively at my 34-24-34 figure.

The art room crowd reacted badly. "Alex, that girl is getting to you. You are getting weirder every day," Barb remarked nastily. The motorheads and their chicas increased their social isolation of Marta. The murmurs I heard as I passed their surly knot in the quad grew more and more ominous.

"God," I thought to myself, "can I really survive another six weeks in this shithole?"

We made our prom plans. I would dress straight for the dance in the standard rented tux. We would dance for a couple of hours, then we would slip out and drive to grandma's place. There would be weed and Chardonnay to relax us as Marta coifed and dressed me in a match to her own prom gown. Then our private prom would begin.

I fortified myself against the stress of the evening with a Black Beauty and an estrogen injection in my bottom. The speed and hormone cocktail was coursing warmly through my veins as I picked her up at her hardscrabble apartment. Her father scowled as her mother fawned over me. Marta was exquisite in her pink chiffon gown, which showed an inch or two of her sculpted cleavage but left much to my vivid imagination, which flitted from visions of her to visions of me in the same dress.

At dinner, we sat side by side and started with small talk. She told me that her dad was making her work ever-longer hours in his restaurant, without pay, and he was even taking part of her tips. She was trying to save for college, but he said it was wasted on a girl. I told her about the amazing things and people I had seen in Brazil, and she giggled as I recounted my airline adventure.

"Did you save the dildo?" she asked slyly.

"It was ruined, but I have another. A strap-on," I announced. She looked aghast at first, but then warmed to the idea.

The Prom passed like a short dream, buzzed as I was on my special drug cocktail and by the anticipation of a lustful night with Marta. Marta exchanged glances and a few hellos with her motorhead friends, but I spoke to no one. The art room crowd did not go to proms, and I had no other friends in the whole school. I saw Miguel and two of his cronies, Seth and Jack, and they shot me evil, hate-filled looks and mouthed "faggot" at me.

I cringed as Miguel approached Marta and me and said "Hey, bitch, how about a dance for old times." I started to interject, and Miguel interrupted and growled "Shut the fuck up, bitch. I was talking to the other bitch."

Marta told him to go fuck himself in Spanish and I said, "Let's get out of here."

We hurried to the door, looking back anxiously over our shoulders. We got into my car and I drove a few blocks and stopped. "That was so-o-o-o scary," I said.

"They're just a bunch of stupid punks," she said bravely. She never looked so beautiful as she did then, in the front seat of my mom's Honda, bathed in the light of a streetlight. I threw my arms around her neck, kissed her full lips and stroked her heaving breasts. She reciprocated eagerly and ran her hands up under my tux shirt and stroked my rosebud breasts. When, at last we released the kiss, I could barely breathe. I cleared my throat and we drove in silence to grandma's. We were oblivious to the world around us, each of us reveling in our shared feelings of love and lust.

We opened the door to the slightly musty atmosphere of grandma's house. She drew my bath as I stripped from the tux. She scrubbed my back, fondled my sudsy, girlish breasts, cleaned my hairless crack, fondled my tiny balls and penis. She rubbed me all over with a deliciously scented moisturizer, as I did my own face make-up. She coifed my hair as I painted my nails. Satin pink push up bra and a garter belt to match, garters and stockings followed. No panties, and my naked bottom and cockette felt obscenely exposed and vulnerable. The gown was a perfect match for hers, and a perfect fit for me. We posed triumphantly before the bedroom mirror. "We're beautiful," I said, turning to gaze into Marta's eyes.

Instead of the expected look of love, I saw a visage of horror and fright as she looked over my shoulder. Before I could turn to see what was the matter, an all too familiar voice snarled, "Yeah, a couple of real beauts, don'tcha think, boys."

I turned, and saw with shock and horror Miguel, Seth, and Jack, crowding the doorway to my grandma's bedroom. My knack for quick ripostes deserted me, and I asked stupidly, "What are you doing here?"

"We're here to fuck your brains out, you sissy faggot. Fuck you, for turning Marta into a queer-loving lesbo whore. Fuck you, for being a superior little shit and hiding behind all your bullshit that you are a maricon slut. We are going to fuck your brains out."

With that, Miguel yanked down the bodice of my gown, pulled pushed me backwards onto grandma's bed. Holding my beautifully brushed hair in a knot on the top of my head, he loosened his belt, and unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, which slid to the floor with a clank and a thud that could only mean a knife or a gun. His rampant prick was already poking through his boxers, and he levered my head toward it demanding, "Suck it now, bitch."

I took the glistening head into my mouth and licked and stroked it with my tongue. A meaty, slightly sour taste filled my mouth and nose. "I mean suck it, you fucking whore" he barked, as he gripped a knot of my hair and slammed his dick to the back of my throat. My gag reflex expelled him, and I must have nicked him with a tooth as his prick slipped out. He slapped my cheek roughly, and screamed, "Suck it or I'll cut your dick off right now!"

Tears welling in my eyes, I took his penis back in my mouth and concentrated mightily on this new skill. Soon, my head was bobbing in rhythm to his cruelly pressing hand and the thrusting of his pelvis. I hoped he would be done soon and this nightmare would be one step closer to ending. But he had other plans.

He pulled his dick out of my mouth and mounded some pillows in the center of the bed. He ripped off my gown, picked me up and heaved me, tummy down, over the pile of pillows. My ass, framed in the pink satin garters, pointed upward, and my face hung over the edge of the bed.

Miguel ordered, "Jack, take her mouth, while I take her from behind." Jack stuck his musky dick into my face and ordered me to suck it. It tasted even dirtier than Miguel's had.

Jack warned me, "Don't you fucking bite me like you did Miguel." That was a difficult order to obey, as Miguel rained a dozen blows from his rough hands on my exposed ass. I concentrated on the controlling the progress of Jack's penis from my lips to my tonsils, and the suction of my tongue and cheeks as he pistoned out.

I heard Miguel clear his throat and spit, and felt his phlegm land in a gooey spot next to my upturned anus. Quickly, his stubby fingers spread it around my ring, and then roughly entered. I gasped, almost breaking concentration on the perfect blow job I was trying to give Jack. Recalling the pain of the improvised dildo and my airplane experience, I knew this was going to be hard. I heard Miguel clear and spit again: he would be wiping that on his prick as a lubricant. I had the real thing in my purse, but my mouth was stuffed with Jack's hard and thick cock. Then it was too late. Miguel impaled me doggy style.

I remembered to press down as he pushed in, and initially, I was surprised how easily he slid in my ass, taking three quick shoves to bury it to the hilt. Then, I felt as if a firebomb had erupted in my bowels, as my body reacted to this abrupt invasion. I had the usual reaction, a gasp, and tears welled in my eyes. My concentration broke, and Jack's dick slipped from my mouth. He cursed, and I braced for a brutal slap, but he was too preoccupied and jammed it back between my lips. I quickly regained my sucking rhythm, for I was being ridden hard from behind.

Miguel relentlessly rammed his cock into the tight confines of my anus, and my body fought hard against my attempts to ease his passageway by pressing my sphincters down through his upstrokes. Each plunge brought more stars and tears to my eyes. My groans were stifled by the incessant plunge Jack's penis into my mouth. Then Miguel leaned forward and pressed down on my back, flattening the pillows and forcing my breasts to the bed, as he continued his assault. He wrapped one arm around my chest and began pinching my tiny breasts. With his other he clawed at my tiny dick, now even smaller under the influence of my drug cocktail and the pounding that his penis was giving my body.

I craned my neck upward to keep Jack's dick in my mouth and hoped they would both come as soon as possible so that I could get on to the next episode of this bad dream. But Miguel had other ideas. After five minutes of fucking me, he suddenly stopped. I winced as he yanked himself out of me as abruptly as he had entered, as my rectal ring suddenly went from stretched to contracted. He growled,"I'm sick of this faggot pussy. Your turn, Jack." He disappeared from the room, as Seth took his place at my face and Jack prepared to mount me from the rear. Jack rammed me as ruthlessly as Miguel had, and his longer, thicker cock added a new dimension to the pain in my abdomen. Seth's penis was larger still, and tasted mossy, but fresher than Miguel or Jack's. This taste soon was replaced by the slightly fishy, salty taste of his precum. Perhaps I could spare my ass a reaming from this rod, I thought as I slid Seth's dick from my lips to the back of my throat. "Feels so good, baby," Seth groaned.

Jack was an even more energetic fuck than Miguel had been, and was even more ruthless in his assaults on the rest of my body. He captured my balls and cockette between his thumb and forefingers and crushed and rolled them back and forth. He mauled my breasts and slapped my ass as he rode me. I swiveled my hips in unison to his lunges, hoping to bring him to climax. He yanked me up back to doggy style, causing me to lose suction on Seth's cock. I cringed and said, "I'm sorry."

To my surprise, he said, "Watch out Jack, don't bust her before it's my turn." Jack said "OK, take your turn," and ripped his dick out of my ass, which again contracted in a sudden spasm of pain. Jack pushed Seth away from my mouth and shoved his dick in, slathered in my ass juices. I remembered gratefully that I had used the hand-held in the tub to cleanse my ass thoroughly. By comparison to his uncleaned prick, Jack tasted wonderful now that he was spiced with the effusions of my ass. My reverie over Jack's cock was rudely interrupted as Seth's massive tool ripped into my puckered ass. It was the biggest I'd experienced yet, and probed places that neither Miguel nor Jack had reached. But he was a more considerate "lover" than they had been, thrusting more deliberately, and with greater imagination and precision. His fucking built more slowly and deliberately, like a train picking up speed as it left a station. Soon, he was fucking me with all the velocity and even more strength and length than either Miguel or Jack, and I found myself moaning with pleasure despite myself.

He fondled my privates and my breasts gently, to evoke pleasure, not pain or humiliation. I was soon responding to him like a real lover, and that incited him to even greater exertions. I heard him breathing heavily and slowly behind me and knew he would soon climax. I wanted to turn my head and look at him, but Jack's dick kept me facing forward. He had resumed his brutal assault on my face, now pounding my lips against his pubic bone and smashing his cock against the back of my throat. As his attack quickened, he began cursing me and calling me his sissy slut, his maricon whore, his cocksucking puta, that he was going to beat and fuck my faggot ass and fuck my fairy mouth whenever he wanted, and then suddenly he heeled back, thrust forward violently and uncontrollably, and spewed a load of foamy sperm down my throat with such force that I soon felt warm rivulets dripping into my stomach.

At the same instant, Seth grabbed my pelvis and rammed me his hardest yet. As he cried out I felt a huge orgasm explode halfway up my intestines. Seth kept pumping inside me for a dozen more wet, deep, slippery stokes, and it felt like the two great floods met in center of my tummy. After three gigantic gulps Jack had pulled out of my mouth and yanked himself and sprayed his jism over my eyes, nose, lips, chin and hair. It looked like a creamy pink fountain spurting into my face. When it had slowed to a trickle, he put it back between my lips and squeezed his balls to drain the last cum into my mouth. Seth's fountain too had finished, and now he glided his prick gently between the cum-lubed walls of my ass. Now I really did feel like a sissy slut whore.

Unfortunately, Miguel wasn't through with me yet. He came back in the room in a rage and yelled, "Get out of that little cunt-ass." Seth and Jack backed away and Miguel stuck his half-limp dick into my tired mouth. "Suck it, you slut," and I did, with new-found expertise. His dick tasted salty and spicy, and I realized with horror that this was the taste of my beloved Marta's pussy. He got hard as I sucked, and as he did, he pulled out and walked around to my rear.

Seth's jism was still oozing from my ass and dripping down my thighs, and my ass was still red and puckered from the half-hour of non-stop pounding it had taken. Miguel's member easily slid up my ass, as Seth's bountiful spunk provided superb lubrication. Miguel only lasted a few minutes before he started grunting and thrusting uncontrollably, and fired his load into my bowels. I felt the warmth of his sperm swimming up inside me, where it merged into the pool of seed that Seth had already deposited in me.

Miguel collapsed on top of me, as Seth and Jack relaxed and dozed in chairs across the room. He softened, and his penis slid out with a final pop and drooped down my thigh. A steady stream of cum mixed with my ass juices dripped down my crack onto my scrotum and onto the pile of pillows that propped my butt into position. Miguel grunted and lifted himself off of me, then staggered back to my face and whispered, "Lick me clean, bitch." I swallowed his flaccid dick and sucked off my juices and the mixed sperm. I prayed he wouldn't get hard again, but he did, and soon both Miguel was again pounding his dick into my exhausted mouth and throat, screaming obscenities and threats.

Jack stirred, and mounted me again from behind, and again began pounding his dick into my slick but tired ass. With a whoop of triumph, Miguel fired another load into my throat, and moments later Jack squirted another load of spunk into my ass. As Miguel slumped into his chair, Jack took position and my face and ordered me to clean his dick. I carefully licked his shrunken member, and was relieved it did not harden again.

As he wobbled unsteadily away, I felt Seth's large hands massaging my cheeks. He brushed my cum-streaked hair behind my ear and whispered, "Ready for me again?" I nodded my head and smiled, and he kissed my cheek tenderly. Then, he gently entered my raw behind and slowly accelerated the speed and force with which his cock crashed into my body until I found myself rising and falling with his motion. He cupped his hands around my cum soaked cockette, and to my astonishment, it began to harden. Our pace quickened, and I ground my tiny member into his strong hand in concert with his massive heaves into my inner spaces. I suddenly felt so full, and so warm, and so tingly, that as he gushed another warm torrent into my belly, I cried out and climaxed, three tiny drops into his palm.

He stayed inside a long time until he grew soft, and then he exited gently and painlessly from my body. "Did you cum?" he asked.

I nodded my head, and added, "Do you want me to lick you clean?" He offered me his softened penis, and I swallowed it hungrily, sucking and licking it clean of every streak of cum or ass juice. By the time he was clean, I had roused him to a slanty erection, and I asked if he was going to fuck me again. He shook his head no. Then he dressed himself and roused Miguel and Jack.

Miguel was still in a rage. "I'll get Marta, you tie the maricon to the bed," Miguel ordered Jack.

"I'll do it," Seth volunteered. He tied deliberately loose bonds to the bed posts with my stockings and garters, then covered me with a blanket. His eyes conveyed that he was sorry, and he said apologetically, "Miguel runs this set, so I got to do what he says."

I watched in horror as Miguel dragged a disheveled and crying Marta down the hall, and cried at the thought that she might have suffered the pain and indignity that I had suffered this night. Jack smacked my ass and said, "Good-bye, bitch. You were great." Seth gave me a pat on the head. Then the house was quiet, and I was left alone with only my thoughts and frightening memories. Eventually, I drifted off to sleep.

I awoke to the flicker of flashlights and the sound of unfamiliar voices. My parents had waited until midnight to call the police, and grandma's house was not exactly the first place they looked. They discovered me still tied to the bed and bums up.

"What have we here?" said the first officer.

"Looks like a female impersonator who got in over his head," said the other.

They wrapped me in the cum-soaked bedspread and took me to the station, treating me as if I were the criminal. I called my parents and told them where I was and that I was OK, but that Marta and I had been attacked by three boys.

My dad exploded in rage. "Just what were you and Marta doing at grandma's. I knew that girl was trouble, and I knew there's been something up with you." I told him I couldn't talk about it now. My mom got on the phone and said they were coming right down. I didn't want her to see me this way, and so I told her that I would call her after I was finished with the police report.

The police were unsympathetic and contemptuous. I asked to speak to a rape counselor. They said it would have to wait until morning. I asked if I could clean up, and they said that they needed to take a rape kit and that too would have to wait until the medical technician arrived in the morning. So I waited in the interview room, cum crusted on my face, hair and bums, and leaking more cum from my ass onto grandma's already sodden bed spread.

Finally, a bored-looking detective came in. "So tell me what happened here, Sonny," he asked. I gave him an overview, and he said, "It sounds pretty consensual to me. There wasn't any forced entry, at least not of the house." He guffawed. It was ten a.m. before they took the rape kit, another deep probing of my wounded ass, and noon by the time I was done with the rape counselor. By then, I knew I would never press charges against Miguel and the others.

When I got home from the police station, my dad shoved me a pile of pills and said, "It's the morning-after AIDS cocktail. If I were you, I'd take it."

I promised my dad I would stop cross-dressing and give up hormones, and I gave him back the remains of the birth control pill I had stolen from his office.

Naturally, I still had my Sao Paulo stash, and while I dialed back on the dose I kept up the daily cycle. Other than that, we never really talked about the events at grandma's house.

The rape counselor took care of the school angle and I never had to go back again. I finished the year on independent study and spent most of my time prepping for the A.P. exams, which I aced, naturally.

I never saw Marta again that year. I heard that she had been fucking Miguel before, during and after the time she had been seeing me, so it was no wonder he was so pissed at me.

I saw Seth from afar one afternoon when I was driving back from a shopping trip, but he was with the other motorheads, so he ignored me and I avoided them.

I pretty much lost track with the art room crowd, except Quinn who stopped over once or twice, "to see how I was doing." He had heard about my transformation, and it turned out he was mainly interested in seeing how big my boobs had grown. I showed off for him, and hoped my old friend would put the moves on, but it turned out his interest was purely academic.

I grew bored and frustrated, and very horny, for a guy-girl who couldn't get himself off any more. Finally, I called the University of Minnesota and asked if I could start in summer school instead of waiting until autumn. They said sure, but my scholarship money wasn't available until the fall semester. I emptied my bank account and got my mom to co-sign for a student loan. I packed my bags and left home the day after my eighteenth birthday. I think my mom and dad were relieved to get rid of me.

So if anyone tells you what happens in high school doesn't matter, tell them they're wrong or else they're lying. If they go on to tell you that life begins in college, well, I hope that they are right.

Bus rides can be adventures, from brutally humiliating to romantically fulfilling...
The Greatest Lie
Chapter 2
Don’t You Hate Buses?

WARNING! This story meant solely for adult audiences! It contains scenes of graphic sex and forcible rape described in first person narration by its transgendered, teenage protagonist. If you are not an adult, or if you find this type of material offensive, please stop reading, hit the back key or dispose of this file. You have been warned of the content. If you proceed neither the author nor the site host will be held responsible! This story is purely fictional. All resemblance to actual persons is coincidental.

 

The Greatest Lie

By Alexandra Rios

Chapter 2
Don’t You Hate Buses?

Never take a long distance bus if other transportation is available. If I had just lobbied my parents a little harder, they probably would have sprung for the plane fare for my summer school session at Minnesota. They were still pissed at me about the problems I had at the end of senior year, but those same problems made it imperative that I get out of town. After all, when a teenage cross-dresser like me has been gang banged by a Latino gang once, it its only a matter of time before they (or their friends) come back for seconds, or even more.

Just spending a few minutes at the Greyhound Bus Station in downtown LA was enough to convince me that the creeps and losers that I was escaping from must have come from large families, because this place was full of them. The thought of spending three days on a bus with a cross section of this lumpen proletariat made me sick and fearful.

Although I hid behind my Raybans, they gravitated to me. A greasy bearded, tattooed middle-aged loser beckoned to me from the bench opposite me. I pretended to ignore him, but he rose and took the empty seat next to me. He hissed in my ear, "I tol-jah ta come eeer, pretty boy." He clamped his callused hand on my skinny forearm. "Wassa matter, dincha get it?" A flash of genius struck, and I responded "Je ne parle pas l’Anglais." He looked at me with disgust and stalked off, not noticing the Los Angeles Times lying on my lap.

That narrow escape brought me back to my immediate dilemma, the painfully distended bladder full of pee, and my fear of going to the men’s room at this dump. I hate public rest rooms, and have a difficult time peeing if I even think that somebody might be watching me. The alternative, waiting and trying to pee in the swaying rear of a moving Greyhound while all of the passengers watched and waited, seemed even more daunting, so I took my carryon bag of estrogen, female dainties, and amphetamines and skulked as invisibly as I could to the john.

The public bathroom was even worse than I imagined. Instead of urinals, it had a long, canal-like trough, which was lined with pissing travelers. Even though I was wearing boy’s undies for this voyage, just the thought of pointing my tiny, estrogen-shrunk penis over a fetid river of piss, while being watched by a long row of real men pissing loudly and freely from real penises, gave me a bashful bladder. So I opted for the most remote of the littered, wet-floored and graffiti-covered stalls. Even though I preferred to pee sitting down, I would rather have died than have sat on the damp, sticky seat. So I squatted and waited nervously for the pressure in my bladder to overcome the nervous sphincter of my little cock. After a long wait, the pee came.

I pulled up my now unfamiliar boy’s briefs and struggled to hoist my tight Levi’s over my rounded tush. Why was I so nervous, I wondered? When I opened the stall door, I had every good reason to be nervous: there lurked the guy with the greasy beard from the waiting room, pretending to be waiting his turn for my stall. He covered my mouth with one hand and shoved my chest up against the wall, banging me so hard that my Raybans went flying, exposing my fear-filled baby blues. He snapped shut the door latch and put a 5" buck knife to my throat, hissing "sh-sh-sh" menacingly. With his other hand, he fumbled with his belt, button and fly, and his greasy jeans slid down his legs, revealing a long, partly hardened cock. He pointed to it, and nodded commandingly. I nodded back and knelt on the slimy, piss-sprayed floor, remembering not to regain my command of English. I lifted his tumescent member into my mouth.

He was uncut, when his head slipped out from under his foreskin it released a stale and sour slough of dried sweat and dead skin, which his pulsing prick pushed to the back of my throat. The reddish mass of his pubic hair was rough and clumpy, like it hadn’t been washed for a week, and it scraped rather than tickled the soft skin of my face and lips.

His filth was so overpowering that I could barely taste his pre-cum.

His shaft was long and ridged with veins. It was long and thin enough to pass my tonsils and slide down my esophagus, so I easily deep throated him. He placed both hands on the nape of my neck and forced my head up and down his long, slender shaft, my gag reflex rebelling at each forceful shove. I controlled it and steadied my motion by bracing on his hairy ass, keeping my fingers well away from his crack. Clearly, this character liked to be in control.

And controlling he was, ramming my face so hard and long that I began to pay attention to the public address announcements for fear of missing my bus. Too speed things up, I slipped one of my hands up between his legs and began massaging his blood-engorged balls. He moaned and began pulsing faster, and then the motion became jerky and more random and his load filled my mouth. And a huge load it was: I had to swallow three gulps to get it all down and keep my sweatshirt clean. When he was done, he tilted my face upward, as if to study it. Then, he spat in my face, slapped me and wordlessly opened the door and left.

I was alone, wet kneed on the filthy toilet floor, spit mixed with tears of humiliation dripping down my flushed and stinging cheeks. Then, I heard my bus announced. I grabbed my Raybans and bag, pulled myself to my feet, rinsed my hands and face and hurriedly gargled with the cold water of the stained and paper towel-stuffed sink. I ran off to my bus and jumped aboard just as the doors were about to close. God, I thought, if this is the real world, it’s even worse than high school! I noted with relief that greasy beard was not a passenger on my bus.

I found a window seat next to a Mexican woman and tried to compose myself. What rotten luck I had. When I dress as a boy, my effeminate good loos attracted the worst weirdoes of this world. I didn’t have the I.D., or the nerve, to pass full time as a girl. I felt trapped and helpless. Fortunately, this bus was filled with modest working folk returning to their families or heading off to factories or fields. I found their ordinariness comforting. None of them would take an interest in me, I hoped.

When we were on the Interstate, I went to the bathroom, bag in hand. I stuck my finger down my sore throat and forced myself to vomit. I washed my face and brushed my teeth about five times, to get the foul taste of my assailant out of my mouth. To get him out of my memory, I bared my ass and injected a double dose of estrogen, and popped a couple of tabs of Valium.

Then, to further boost my morale, I changed out of my jockeys and put on some flowered cotton panties and a matching training bra. I looked in the spotted and swaying mirror, and realized I looked frazzled and ashen. I put on a little mascara and eye shadow, and some lip gloss, and felt much better. I covered up with my Raybans and a baseball cap, returned to my seat by my Mexican madre. The estrogen/Valium combo, together with the rumble of the bus through the desert, worked their magic, and my troubles slipped away into sleep.

I must have slept through a stop or two because when I woke up "Mother Mexico" was gone, and replaced by a uniformed, six foot tall soldier. I was startled and thrilled: he was gorgeous, but sound asleep. I climbed gingerly over his massive thighs, to take a pee and make some preparations for some serious conversation after he awoke. He would be the perfect antidote to old greasy beard. I asked the driver our next stop: six hours non- stop to Denver, where I had a layover. Plenty of time to get acquainted and to make plans for a very special "lay" over.

In the bathroom, I prepared myself for "whatever" by douching my ass. No matter how little I eat, traveling always constipates me. How gross! I held it as long as I could as it swirled like a wild tide with the sway of the bus over the mountainous highway. I squeezed it in, imagining I was pregnant and in labor with the soldier’s baby. I brushed out my hair, applied foundation, spritzed with a subtle Eau de Toilet; interrupted, occasionally, by urgent feelings and expulsions from my gut. I changed from my bulky sweatshirt to a tight, rolled neck T, and draped a simple gold chain around my neck. For inspiration, I popped a black beauty and attached a couple of estrogen patches to the undersides of my nubile breasts. By the time I was done, I heard urgent knocking and angry Spanish through the door, but my tush was squeaky clean, empty, and lightly lubed, and I looked really cute. I stepped over the sleeping soldier again, this time gently brushing his thigh with my butt as I settled in my seat.

He stirred in the mid morning glare, squinted, turned to me, squinted again, and rumbled "Whoa, excuse you, Miss, errr, Good Morning!" He was befuddled by sleep and by the vision of me. I flipped back my baseball cap, raised my Raybans, and batted my eyes.

"Good Morning to you, soldier." Well, it emerged he was not really a soldier, Air Force Reserve, whatever that was, but what the hell. I wasn’t really a Miss, either. But I would explain that later.

His name was Jake, he had gone straight into the service out of high school, gone to college on government grants, and now he had to re-up for another year of active duty and three more in the Reserves. The problem was, he didn’t really like it any more.

After college (he had gone to Minnesota for two years!) the Air Force guys all seemed too rah-rah! He was sick of it and glad he had only six months left. I listened attentively, nodding, flirting, and agreeing with everything. Then I told him I was on my way to start college at Minnesota.

He was so excited, telling me all about the wonderful people and experiences. "You make it sound like Athens in the tundra," I said. He agreed completely, describing it as being like a modern day Greece set down in the Mid West. I told him how glad I was to be escaping LA. He wondered why. It seemed so tolerant, hedonistic, and creative. Not my high school, I said.

"Well, nobody’s high school is! Anyhow, you’re gonna love Minnesota."

But first, I thought, I am going to love you. "But enough about me," I cooed. "What’s next for you?"

"I have a couple of days leave in Denver, then I report to an air base in Colorado Springs, which sucks!" he said. I smiled inwardly. Soldier, you’re gonna have a leave in Denver that both sucks and fucks. I mentally rearranged my travel plans to defer my arrival in Minnesota.

By the time we pulled into Denver, we had made plans to get together for dinner and a night out exploring the city. We split up to get to our hotels, but I was so sure of myself that I changed in the ladies room at the bus station and saved my hotel money. I hadn’t eaten since LA, but I still wasn’t hungry, so I popped another black cad and a couple of Premarin. My estrogen level felt high, and my nipples and breasts ached with sensation when I pulled off the patches, but they had never looked bigger. They quivered and jiggled as I sponge-bathed in one of the ladies room toilet stalls. I felt better after I had cleaned my ass and cockette with a damp towel, and spritzed more Eau de Cologne all over. It felt cool and shriveled my balls nicely. Then I moisturized and lubed myself lightly.

It felt good to get out of my dirty-kneed Levi’s and into a pair of Capri’s and my mules.

None of the ladies batted an eye as I preened in the mirror, adding lipstick to my gloss, and color to my cheeks. I popped some dainty gold hoops in my ears to match the necklace. The woman next to me noticed my self-inspection and commented "Don’t worry honey, you look great!" I was so thrilled. I thanked her, wondering how I would tell Jake about my special problem.

We had agreed to meet at one of those beer and burger places, and I arrived first and ordered a diet coke. Like clockwork, one of the local losers sidled up. Blowing cigarette smoke toward my face, he began pestering me. "Where r’you from, what’s your name, what’s your sign, I’m Cancer."

"Right," I agreed. "You do remind me of a cancer: lung cancer," I replied haughtily.

He stupidly mumbled, "Fuck you, cunt," and walked back to his lonely table. I was thrilled at my bitchy brilliance, and delighted that he had thought I was a girl.

Jake arrived moments after I brushed off the pick up guy, and told the bartender we needed a table. We ordered but I was so cranked that I ate little. I noticed he ate heartily but had good manners. I asked him a lot of questions about himself and let him ramble on. I knew that guys liked that, since I had been one. And that kept the conversation off the delicate question of my background.

After dinner, we took a walk in the cool evening. He held my little hand tenderly in his, and when we paused to view a pretty vista, he put his muscular arm around my narrow shoulders. I turned my head, looked into his eyes and said, "I’m cold". With that he gathered me in his arms and gave me the first real romantic kiss of my life as a girl, as he gently stoked my upper arms and back. He was built like a marble statue, and I melted.

After an eternity, his lips broke contact with my trembling mouth, and he asked, "Did that warm you up?"

I replied, "I’m boiling now", and he laughed. We were near his hotel, so he suggested that we go back there and get an extra sweatshirt for me. I readily agreed.

It would be ridiculously big on me, but I wasn’t planning on going back outside that night anyhow.

We went to his room and I went to the bathroom to freshen up my cologne and tush. I hadn’t eaten for days, and my ass felt clean and fresh when I probed it with a finger full of KY. Tingling all over from my self inspection, I resolved to confront the issue that I had been ducking and dreading. Jake was sitting on the bed. I sat down beside him, and began my confession, my head hanging , and my eyes staring at my pretty little feet.

"Jake, I’m different from the other girls you have met."

"What do you mean?"

Tears streamed down my face, and emotion choked my throat. This was it, the moment of devastating rejection or acceptance as a special kind of girl.

In a hoarse and halting voice, I admitted "I have been a girl as long as I can remember, but I was born in a boy’s body." My voice was overcome with involuntary sobs as these words passed my lips, which spread and spasmed through my body. It was the first time I had ever dared admit this out loud. My eyes were blinded, and my ears deafened by the force of my emotional response to this devastating admission. I did not know if Jake would kick me out onto the street, beat me senseless, or accept me into his heart. I was so overwhelmed by the pain of articulating the secret that I had hidden inside me for so many years, and so overcome by my intense desire to be possessed by him, that I practically lost consciousness.

The first sensation I had was of his arms around my shoulders, pressing my teary face against his chest, and of the whispered words, "That’s OK, baby," in my ears. My eyes still blinded with tears, I lifted my face from his chest to meet a chaste kiss on my lips. I responded and was soon experiencing for the first time from the girl’s side a truly hot and passionate kiss. I let my lips yield and open and felt his warm tongue enter and stroke mine. My arms were pinned to my sides by his embrace, but when he relaxed his grip to allow his hands to explore the tingling territory from my waist to my tingling breasts, I left them there, as if I were now his willing prisoner. The increasing passion of his kisses tilted my head back and as I continued to melt under his embrace, he rolled me back on the bed and lay atop me. His kisses paused, and for the first time I opened my eyes.

"You sure don’t look, feel or kiss like a boy," he said, and resumed his exploration of my breasts, bottom and mouth.

My relief at these words released all my pent-up desire and horniness. I had been on hormones for over four months now and they had so totally overcome the boy hormones that I had not cum since Seth had brought me to climax at the end of my Prom nightmare.

The press of Jake’s well muscled, 6’1" frame on my petite and estrogen softened figure filled me with exquisite sensations to match the emotions that filled my heart, and these built on each other to a nearly unbearable passion. The next time his lips released mine, I gasped, "I’m boiling. Let’s undress!" I pulled my top over my head, tousling my long hair over my face like a gauzy veil, and wriggled out of my Capri’s. I left my bra and panties for him. He returned to me, naked and hard, unhooked my bra, and began alternating kisses of my breasts and lips as he gently stroked the front of my panties. I lay back passively and gave him free reign over my body. My one inch nipples grew hard and rose to the tingling touch of his tongue and lips. My little cockette did the same under his gentle massage, despite the speed and hormones.

After about two minutes of this, I could not stand receiving without giving back. I hoarsely whispered, "OK, my turn!" and he released my from the gentle prison of his embrace. I rose and knelt between his knees, then bowed to worship his circumcised, eight inch cock. As I took it in my mouth, I reveled in its fresh, meaty taste, which was immediately and pleasantly seasoned by his ocean-scented pre-cum. I began tentatively, not wanting to show immediately the full extent of my painfully gained oral experience.

He guided my head lightly, and I picked up the pace and introduced some tongue flicks and flutters, as I took him ever deeper into my mouth and throat. He certainly was well hung, long and thick, and his testicles, which I now cupped in my little palm, were huge and hard. He was breathing hard, but I did not want him to climax yet, so I paused, and as his eyes opened, I said, appreciatively, "Yum."

He lifted me up and onto bed and again sat over me, as I looked up at him adoringly. He kissed me, enjoying the first flavors of his manhood in my mouth. Then, he gripped the waistband of my panties and began to slide them down. As he did, I searched his eyes for his reaction. They did widen when my tiny cockette popped out, but only momentarily. I wriggled my hips to help him, and soon my panties were dangling from one ankle as he took my tiny but erect cock and firm compact scrotum as a single mouthful, while with one hand he fondled my breasts and with the other, explored the crevasse of my rounded ass. I moaned gratefully in response. As minutes passed, waves of blinding ecstasy swept over me, and when his fingers at last found the doorway to my tight hole, I was on the verge of my first climax in months.

I said, "Stop", and he looked at me, surprised and hurt.

"What’s the matter, baby" he asked.

"It’s OK, I said, I just don’t want to cum that way. Just a minute. Stay here", I said, as I made a last trip to the bathroom. I quickly checked the condition of my hairless bum. It was pristine, and I applied a generous dab of lubricant. I fluffed my hair, added a little gloss to my swollen lips. I grabbed a condom, then decided against it. He was lying on the bed, slightly softened, so I plopped down beside him and quickly brought him to full attention with a dozen deft stokes of my lube-covered hand. I looked lovingly into his eyes and said boldly, "I want you to fuck me now."

He looked happy and relieved. "I’m just dying to fuck you but I was afraid to ask. I don’t want to hurt you."

"That’s OK," I said, "just remember to start slow."

"I’ll try," he said. I lay on my back and lifted my ankles to his shoulders, raising my ass into perfect position for him. He pressed his dick-head gently against my hole, and we beheld each other silently for a moment.

"OK," I sighed, and he pressed forward, as I pressed my sphincters down. As his head slipped through the tight ring of my anus I gasped, and he thoughtfully stopped. As tears rose in my eyes, I concentrated on relaxing my ass muscles. "OK, go on" I said, gritting my teeth and pressing down as another massive inch slipped up me.

"God, you’re so tight", he said. "You feel so good!"

"Be careful, I’m a virgin." And I believed I really was, that the brutal and forced sex of Prom night and at the bus station had been nothing. This, at last, was the real thing. "Just keep going slowly until I can get used to you," I begged. As my body grew accustomed to his presence inside me, I signaled him wordlessly with my eyes, and he pressed forward another inch. I moaned again, this time with obvious pleasure. Three more perfectly timed strokes and he was inside me to the hilt. My ass and tummy felt warm and pleasantly full. I beckoned him with my lips, and he leaned forward to kiss me passionately again. As his full weight crashed down on me, it spread my legs akimbo, and wrenched the massive penis inside me to a delightful new angle. But still my rectum gripped him tightly.

Now he rose, and bracing himself with one hand cupped on my breast, and the other rubbing my little dickie like it was a clit, he began gently rocking his pelvis. With my legs up and my ankles balanced on his shoulders, I lay back and enjoyed him, immobilized by his weight to helpless vulnerability. Inside, my juices began to flow, and as they lubricated his dick inside me, his strokes became longer and more wanton. Soon, he was plunging his full length, in and out, with accelerating velocity and increasing force.

The rapid motion and slight friction of his large organ in my tight, wet hole sent waves of warm pleasure through me, occasionally mixed with moments of pain as his marauding penis reached new territory. The slap of his thighs against my bottom blended with the sound of his grunts and heavy breathing and my own sighs and moans to form an erotic symphony. Now, tears of joy and pleasure filled my eyes, and I felt that we were both nearing orgasm. But it was too soon. Again, I whispered, "Slow down", and his pace gradually diminished, allowing us to pull back from the brink.

I whispered, "I want you behind me," and he lifted one of my feet over his head and spun me onto his tummy. As my ass spun around his cock I was filled with pleasure from the corkscrew motion of his cock in my ass and with the expectation of being possessed by him from behind. When he mounted me from behind, his cock felt even bigger, and his weight took my breath away. He slipped one arm beneath my breasts, and spread his long fingers to tweak both of my nipples. In his other hand he cupped my tiny but excited cockette. In this position, his cock found new spaces to invade, and I groaned each time his cock conquered new territory. As each new place became slathered in ass juice, his pace again accelerated.

From this angle, my soft round ass muscles could better respond to him, and I undulated in concert with his thrusts. That made him even more wild and forceful in his fucking.

Now, the sounds of slapping flesh and our heaving breaths grew more intense, and the sensations his heat and strength pounding inside me grew overpowering. Uncontrollable forces conquered both of our bodies, and I heard my own voice rise involuntarily from within me in a wordless language that only he could answer, with deep throated grunts of his own. With a spasm that gripped me from head to toe, I climaxed in his hand, and a moment later, he came in a dozen massive spurts inside me. Every muscle from my anus to my throat spasmed gratefully in response, as if my ass had had an orgasm of its own.

He kept moving, more slowly now, his still hard dick sailing on the ocean it had made inside me. With that vision in my mind, I drifted into a deep sleep.

I awoke God-only-knows how much later to a tickling feeling between my thighs, a pleasant weight on my back and a slight sensation of fullness in my ass. His warm cum was oozing out of my cock-filled ass, and he was snoring on top of me. I enjoyed these pleasant sensations for a few minutes, but he was very heavy, and I was actually having a little trouble getting enough breath. I finally grazed my shoulder against his cheek, and he awoke with a yawn, followed by a smile.

"Wow, you are great" he said, gently pulling his softened cock out of me. I felt an inner ocean of sperm and ass juice start to pour out of my uncorked ass, and quickly squeezed my cheeks to keep it in.

"Excuse me", I said, and scampered to the toilet. I wondered if you were supposed to leave the door open or closed in these situations; my old mentor Marta had never covered that. I compromised and left it ajar as I cleaned up my well exercised bottom and peed sitting down.

When I came back, he was lying on his back. Wordlessly, I knelt between his legs and began to clean the residue of my tush from his penis. He quickly hardened and began heaving his hips as I licked and stroked his cock and balls. Soon, I was bobbing my tired head energetically under his guiding hand. After the long, hard fuck, I was pleasantly surprised at how quickly I brought him to a second climax, this one in my hungry mouth.

It was delicious: the first meal I had had since leaving LA two days earlier.

Jake slept as I did a little beautifying. I painted my nails, tweezed my eyebrows, douched, and took a Premarin. He woke up after a half-hour, and I said, "I was just about to take a shower, care to join me?" He practically jumped for joy at that suggestion and soon we were behind the curtain of the shower, and Jake was exploring every square inch of me with his soapy fingers. By the time our shower was over, I felt like I had never been cleaner in my life.

He went out for pizza and beer as I cleansed, moisturized, and put on fresh makeup and nail polish. I blow-dried and brushed my shoulder-length blond tresses, and pulled them into tight, school-girlish pigtails. By the time he got back I really looked quite lovely in my negligee and dainty slippers. I ate a piece of pizza and even had a sip of beer (yuck!).

The food and drink revived Jake as well; after the pizza was gone he fucked me long into the night, and we slept until late the next morning. By morning, he had recovered enough to make love to me again. We took another sexy shower and then emerged from our love nest to explore Denver by day. Jake took me on a lengthy shopping spree, and I happily augmented my stash of cosmetics, jewelry and girl’s clothing and accessories. I felt a little guilty about the money he was spending on me, but what the hell, I was worth it.

And besides, each time my shopping bags were full, we would return to our room for another session of lovemaking.

 
And so it went for two days, until our groins were sore and raw, and his leave was over.

He even went AWOL for eight hours so he could see me off on the early morning bus to Minneapolis. He had given me his name, unit and address, and told me to write when I had a home, so he could come see me. I promised I would. There were tears streaming down my cheeks as I kissed my first love goodbye from the steps of my Minneapolis-bound Greyhound.

Summer school and risky business as Alex explores life in college and on the streets.
The Greatest Lie
Chapter 3
Town and Gown

WARNING! This story meant solely for adult audiences! It contains scenes of graphic sex and forcible rape described in first person narration by its transgendered, teenage protagonist. If you are not an adult, or if you find this type of material offensive, please stop reading, hit the back key or dispose of this file. You have been warned of the content. If you proceed neither the author nor the site host will be held responsible! This story is purely fictional. All resemblance to actual persons is coincidental.

The Greatest Lie

By Alexandra Rios

Chapter 3

Town and Gown

My weekend escapade with my first real lover, Jake, convinced me that I was destined to live as a girl, despite having been born a boy. Unfortunately, it was my male persona to whom the University of Minnesota had extended admission and a scholarship, and I wasn’t quite sure how they would react if I showed up asking for a room in the women’s dormitory.

It was bad enough that I, a product of middle class privilege, had leveraged a Spanish surname into a lucrative scholarship, but to present them with an undisclosed gender reversal might put me sideways with the Admissions Committee and the scholarship people. I needed the dough from the scholarship, because during my senior year I had managed to alienate my parents through some complications arising from my crossdressing habit. With great regret, after I arrived in Minneapolis, I changed back into boys clothing to register as a freshman entering the summer session, and tried to reclaim my male persona.

One good thing about registering for summer school was there were hardly any other freshman around. I got assigned to a single dorm room, and got all of the classes that I wanted. As a freshman, I was quite a novelty among my classmates, who were split between remedial types that were making up failures from the prior year and nerds who were single-mindedly piling up credits as fast as possible.

I was so young that I had little in common with my older classmates and spent most of my time in my room or the library reading and doing homework, dressed en femme. Naturally, I loved studying. I had to, because, typical ambitious me, I had signed up for all upper level classes.

The teaching assistant for my "Gender Roles In Literature" class was Jon, a tall, dark intellectual grad student in the English Department. At the end of the first week of class, he invited me for coffee. By then, I was getting lonely, so I gratefully accepted.

As I usually do when I meet new people, I asked a lot of flattering questions and let him talk about himself. He was from a wealthy family from Chicago. He told me he was bisexual, but recently he had lost interest in sex completely. In a matter of fact manner, as if it were of no concern to him, or to me, he asked "Alex, are you gay?"

Whatever I was, I had grown accustomed to hiding it, and so I replied that I was still trying to figure some things out about myself. He liked that answer, and said he was still trying to figure himself out too.

He was on the Board of the Alliance of Gay, Lesbian and Transgendered Students, and was in charge of a task force monitoring and investigating and reporting to the administration on any harassment of gays on campus. In my situation I thought he might be helpful, so I made the Friday afternoon coffee a regular event, and waited to see if anything developed.

He certainly had the trappings of campus power. The Alliance had an office in the Student Union and Jon had a desk there. Of course, he also had TA’s office in the English Department. In academia, I knew from my dad’s experiences, office space was the talisman of power. It looked like Jon was doing well in that department.

The course work was demanding, and I really wanted to excel. If I had straight A’s, the Scholarship committee might be more forgiving when I tried to change my registration to a girl’s name. I just studied all the time, tried not to think about sex and stepped up my hormones to keep my libido suppressed. The only thing was, by this time, my breasts and ass were getting pretty noticeable. Even wearing baggy boys clothing and my hair piled up in a baseball cap, I still got wolf whistles when I walked by construction sites.

Finals were really hard, and the Gender Roles exam was particularly lengthy. I ran out of time and had to more or less sketch out my last answer. The day after the exam, Jon met me to talk about my answers. "Alex, I could tell you were on the right track on the question about Orlando, but you really never got to the point."

I’m so sorry, I had never had a final like that, with so much to cover. I just ran out of time"

"It’s really not fair, you’re so much younger than the other students. Your other answers were wonderful, but this one was for the most points, and it was not good."

"If only I could have had more time."

"Maybe you can. Come over to my place tonight."

I was pleased Jon was taking such a great interest in me. Was it my mind, or my body, I wondered? I re-read my notes Orlando, and freshened up. If he going prepared to give me another half hour on the exam, I would gladly give him a half hour he would never forget.

Jon had my exam book, partly marked up, but not graded. I sat at his kitchen table and he gave me the test and set a timer for a half hour. I sat down and wrote a brilliant essay, as he paced the room and watched me. When the half-hour was up, he took back the exam.

"I’ll read and grade that tomorrow," he said. "Now, let’s relax," he said as he put on a Tracy Chapman CD and produced a joint and a bottle of Chianti. I hadn’t had a drink or gotten high for months, and I soon had a pleasant buzz. My inhibitions had receded, but not my preoccupation with my performance on the exam.

I got up to pee, and checked myself in his bathroom mirror. Even slightly buzzed, I looked really good. I had on this totally subtle makeup. I added some shadow, mascara and gloss, looked at myself again, and decided I looked gorgeous. I mouthed "Good luck" to my reflection, returned to the couch where Jon relaxed, and boldly sat in his lap and threw an arm around his shoulder. He looked pleasantly surprised.

I made close eye contact and asked "Jon, remember the first day we met and you asked if I were gay?"

He nodded.

"Well, I’m not. But I’m not straight either, and I am so mixed up about myself." I batted moist eyes in his, looking confused and vulnerable.

I wasn’t really confused, but I liked the way it sounded: like I needed his advice. He rose to the bait. "Do you like sex with boys or girls?"

"Both, but when I have sex with girls, I feel gay, and when I have sex with boys, I feel straight."

Jon reflected a moment, looked at me with seemingly clinical interest, and then opined, "In my opinion, you must be a transsexual."

I gaped and asked "What do you mean?" It was feigned surprise. After all, I had spent hours in the medical library at UCLA researching my self-medication. But Jon expounded on the clinical and social aspects of transsexuals, and I responded like one of Dr. Freud’s admiring acolytes. I admitted that I had been cross dressing and taking hormones for months, on my own, and now Jon was surprised and intrigued: his curiosity manifested itself through his hands, as much as his words. They slipped beneath my baggy Golden Gophers sweatshirt and quickly found my satin spaghetti strap camisole.

From that discovery it was only a short interval until he discovered my pert, firm breasts.

Six months of heavy estrogen doses, and large breasted genetics in both my maternal and paternal lines, had produced small but perfectly formed, inverted ice cream cones that jiggled pleasantly but never sagged, topped with silver dollar sized maroon aereoles. I raised my arms, as if in surrender, and he pulled my sweatshirt off.

Jon, the silver tongued pedagogue, was tongue tied with surprise and lust: all he could manage was a husky, "O wow!" before he slid the straps down over my slender shoulders began devouring my breasts. But there, his tongue discovered a mute eloquence, as he licked and kissed me in a frenzy, as I cradled his head like a suckling baby’s.

I slipped my hand between his legs and began massaging his cock through his jeans. In a few minutes he broke his lips grip on my nipples and picked up my 5’7", 105 pound frame and carried me into his bedroom. "You are the most fantastic trans I have ever met," he said. "You can act like a perfectly normal boy, but you have the perfect body of a young girl."

"Thank you," I said "but I’m not quite perfect yet."

"We’ll see about that", he said, and pulled off my pants and began rubbing the front panel of my panties.

My tiny cockette responded with a mini erection that strained against the front of my panties. As he stroked my cockette, his other hand continued to explore my breasts, which now piled up in perfect, soft mounds on my chest as I reclined. I released my streaky blond hair from its pony tail so it would frame my face, and then asked "Jon, what are you going to do to me?" Eight weeks of sexual abstinence had me painfully horny, so I had some ideas of my own.

He responded wordlessly by disrobing, and I wriggled out of my panties and camisole. "Let’s try this for starters," he said as he assumed a "69" position above me.

His body was thin and not too hairy, and his circumcised penis was larger than I had expected. It filled my mouth and nostrils with a slightly mossy taste that was quickly spiced with the pleasant, sea foam of his pre-cum. His mouth took in fully my dainty cock and balls, which he began to suck with great expertise. One of his hands explored beneath my ass and quickly found my hole, and his fingers played and poked there with delightful persistence.

By now, I was taking the full length of his cock down my mouth and throat, my arms around his ass and adding even greater force to his rise and fall over my upturned face. In this position, there was nothing but my gag reflex to stop it from entering fully, and I had learned well how to suppress that. My natural talents soon brought Jon to the brink of climax, but I did not want it that way. I gently braked his thighs with my hands, and gasped "Wait."

He must have guessed what I was thinking, because he rose and lay down next to me. We kissed, mingling the delicate flavors of my little dickie with the meatier stronger flavors of his swollen cock. Then he began a most unequal sword fight with our mismatched penises.

My lubricant was in the other room, and I did not want to break this spell. "Do you have any KY?"

He rolled over and produced a bottle of "Astrolube" and a couple of condoms from his bedstead. "This is better," he said, handing me the lubricant. He deftly slipped on a condom as I lubricated my ass. "Put some on my cock," he advised, and I applied it liberally, with several slippery strokes that made his penis twitch in my hands. Holding the second condom and looking at my tiny cockette and shriveled balls, he said "I’m afraid this isn’t going to fit you."

"I don’t need it," I said, settling face downward on the bed and raising my ass provocatively in the air.

He bounded into position behind me and began testing my anus with his hard member.

"You sure are tight", he said, as his penis rebounded for the third time from his attempted entry.

I reached my hand back to guide him. "Please go slowly," I reminded him. This time, two of the seven inches of his cock entered me, and as the fiery electric charge of pain built in me, I said "Go on", exerting maximum counter-pressure to ease his entry.

Two more inches of pain filled with ecstasy, then two more, and he was in. Sharp pain shot through me from my ass to my head, and my tear-filled eyes were blinded as if by a flashbulb, but agony faded to a pleasant glow of pleasure, just as a flashbulb’s aura disappears.

He gasped "Wow, are you tight!"

I feigned worry for his encased prick. "Are you OK?"

He replied "Are you kidding, I’m great. Are you?"

My voice choked with pain, I replied "It’s getting better. You’re so big!" I knew guys liked to hear that, and he was about average, in my limited experience. The initial moments of anal intercourse are always excruciating for me, until my sphincters relax and my internal juices start flowing.

Jon was a very considerate lover, remaining almost still at first and letting me grow accustomed to his length and width. Gradually, the fires inside me subsided to a smolder of pleasure, and I said, "Go ahead and fuck me hard".

He began probing me carefully as he sought to arouse me with gentle tweaks of my nipples and massaging of my cockette. Gradually, I opened up and he began to thrust in and out with greater energy. He did not possess the superhuman strength of Jake or the animal barbarity of my motorhead rapists, but he was in good shape and was experienced and expert in the art of sodomy.

We were in my favorite position, a prone doggy style, and I responded to his lunges with my own contractions and hip gyrations. I could tell he was approaching orgasm, and I wasn’t ready, so I said "Please slow down," and he did. I wanted to be fucked more but I didn’t really have any great ideas, so I asked him "Do you have any favorite positions?"

He withdrew from me carefully, and said, "Sit on me", as he lay on his back. I straddled his prone body, ass poised above his upright dick, and I impaled myself.

Even in my well lubricated condition, this maneuver took my breath away, as he pierced me from a totally unexpected angle. It felt like a deeper penetration than ever, and he was able to send himself even deeper with up-thrusts of his hips. But now how hard I wanted to be fucked was up to me, and soon I was riding up and down as hard as my weak little thighs could lift me, and repeatedly banging his cock-head from my rectum to my diaphragm. It slipped out with a painful snap, but when it escaped, I aimed my ass and re-inserted him with reckless abandon, for now my rectum was wet and ready.

He stroked my bobbing breasts and cock as I screamed and rode him until I was totally exhausted and glistening with perspiration. As I rested atop his stomach, breath heaving, a little droplet of sweat dripped onto his stomach. My flushed face grew even redder with embarrassment. "I’m sorry, I usually don’t get this much exercise."

He sat up, still inside me, and pulled my legs around his back. "Try this," as he settled me back down onto his prick from a face to face embrace, and kissed my breathless lips.

I felt like my insides were melting; he gently bounced me up and down as I regained my breath. "I love both of these positions," I said. "Can we try any others?" He lifted me, and supporting my back as he went, dropped me into the legs up position for a few strokes. My spine twisted and ached as it recoiled from a few dozen powerful strokes.

Compared to the nurturing position that had preceded it, the legs up position seemed crude, barbaric and uncomfortable--OK for a cautious entry, but cruel for real fucking.

He must have sensed this, for soon he lifted one of my legs over his head to my side, and rode me from atop my other leg. I had never felt so trapped and vulnerable, and his penis found new angles and places to probe and excite me. Finally, he rolled me back over onto my tummy.

"Which one did you like best?"

"This one," I answered, twisting my tush as he thirsted anew. The rotation through the positions and the varied angles that I had been penetrated made me feel both more relaxed and more fully stimulated. He seemed more rested and his movements were even stronger and more confident. Soon, I felt like my insides were boiling again, and his movements grew ever faster and more intense. Finally, I felt him lose control and begin jerking wildly inside me. He had climaxed.

He kept on fucking and stimulating me, but it was no use. Realizing as he drifted into a post orgasmic sleep that I had not climaxed, he whispered "I’m sorry" in my ear.

I responded "That’s OK, you were great."

I had sort of missed the feeling of cum spurting inside me and tickling the walls of my intestines. But I did not miss the ooze of sticky seed dripping down my thighs and forming a cold wet spot beneath my groin, while pinned beneath a snoring body. I enjoyed Jon’s weight atop me. He weighed enough to make me feel subjugated without being suffocated. I closed my eyes and permitted myself a brief fantasy about being his faculty wife, and serving tea to his students. But before long the fantasy had shifted to my blowing one of the students in the closet while Jon pontificated to the others, and then he woke up and pulled out of me.

He rose and flushed his rubber, and then said "Wow, er-ah..."

"You can call me Ally" I interjected

"AH-Allie, I wish I had known you better earlier this summer."

"You could have tried harder", I teased, recognizing secretly that he had been trying, but never asked the right questions.

"My problem was that you are a master, er, a mistress of camouflage." "You mean at pretending to be a girl," I pouted.

"No, at pretending to be a boy," he replied.

"Flattery will get you everywhere," I said smiling. I shivered. Now that I wasn’t warmed up by body friction, it was a little cold. He got me one of his T- shirts. It fit me like a dress. He poured some more Chianti.

"Who is your doctor?"

"I dunno, Student health, I guess."

"No, I mean for the hormones. You must be on estrogen to have developed as you have." He playfully squeezed my breast to emphasize his point.

"I guess that’s me." He was astounded.

I gave him a sanitized version of my acquisition of my hormone stash and assured him, somewhat inaccurately, that I had researched and was strictly following appropriate protocols. He was amazed at my ingenuity, but concerned. "You could kill yourself with estrogen. You really need to be monitored. I’ll find you a doctor through the Alliance."

"Not somebody from the Medical School." I confided my fears about coming out to the Registrar and the Scholarship people before I had an academic track record. "That’s why I was so upset about screwing up the Gender in Literature final."

"You’ve got a point there. But it’s not just making them love you for your grades. We had better make this look like a slow transition, not like something you had decided on before you got here. You are going to have to keep that 'boy act' in practice for a semester or two, to make it look like a gradual thing."

He was going home on break the next evening. "Gotta check in with the ‘rents’", he joked. "Where are you going?"

Mom and dad were going to a conference in Egypt and had half-heartedly invited me, but I wasn’t to thrilled about touring a country were my gender status was capital offense. I wasn’t too thrilled about taking the bus back LA to dodge the motorheads in my neighborhood either. Unfortunately, the dorms were closed, so I couldn’t stay there either. I was temporarily homeless.

"Stay here," he offered, giving me a key.

He promised that when he got back he would try to set things in motion for my transition to a female identity when he got back for Fall Semester. I spent the night with him and made him come in my mouth the next morning. He was delicious. He kissed me goodbye, took off to drop off my exam at the English Department and then left for Chicago in his Miata.

I was delighted to have not only a new lover, but an advisor and protector. I was even more delighted when I swung by the English Department to check the grades in "Gender Roles." I had a 97.

There is nothing so sad and depressing as a college campus between terms. The place was empty except for a few foreign students and people like me, stranded by circumstances, in the unfamiliar situation of having nothing to do. After a couple of days of catching up on sleep and doing some research on hormone treatments of transsexuals at the medical library, I ran out of things to do, and started to feel bored and useless. So I decided to explore Minneapolis.

It was then I stumbled on Hennepin Avenue, a downtown street lined with flop houses, arcades, bars, and late at night, whores. They beckoned passing cars with gestures that ran from the seductive to the outrageous, and they drew traffic jams of onlookers and customers, and only sporadic attention from the indifferent police.

I was fascinated. I spent an evening studying them while nursing cups of cheap coffee at a greasy spoon cafe. The technique looked simple enough: stand by the curbside, baring a stiletto-heeled leg, until a car stopped. Poke a head in the window, negotiate, and if a deal was struck, enter and drive off, to the envious cluck-clucking of the competition. A quarter hour later, the car would return, and the lucky lady would resume her post.

I watched as one girl turned a dozen tricks that evening. Finally, she came in for a coke, and sat next to me at the bar. She asked "Wah wuz you lookin’ at, bitch? Uuah cop?"

"Me, a cop? No way, I ran away from home and I’m trying to figure out what to do."

She looked at my "University High" sweatshirt, jeans and Sketchers. I looked the part, and she relaxed. She was 20 years old: a pretty, busty bronze skinned African American from Memphis.

"What are you doin’ out there?" I asked innocently.

She smiled knowingly and said "Turnin’ tricks, a-course." "

Would you show me how? I’m broke. "

"Show nuff" she said. "But I’m dun t’nite. Made ova 500 dollas. Gonna buy me some ice now, get high t’mara. Meet me here t’mara et 8, and dress nice, know watah mean?"

I knew exactly what she meant.

I woke up the next morning early and began preparing my day of beauty, Hennepin style.

At a cheap Vietnamese beauty salon, I had my hair bleached platinum and corn-rowed. I got a facial, a manicure with nail extensions, painted Valentines Day red, a pedicure to match, and bought the trashiest red spaghetti strap dress and the tallest, strappiest red stiletto sandals I could find. I bought a pair of outrageously big gold hoops and the brightest collage of foundation, mascara and lipstick that my pale complexion could handle. With the latest Allure magazine as my guide, I made my makeup as provocative as I could.

As I dressed, I folded my shrunken scrotum forward over my tiny penis and taped it securely into a compact cocoon. I had bought a box of jumbo sized, winged Tampax panty liners, and I splashed some ancient ketchup from Jon’s fridge on one and put it into my panties. I didn’t want some horny trick to discover my secret while insisting on fucking me: I would tell them I was having a really heavy period, and as you know, I’m a really good liar.

With my veins coursing with an extra large dose of estrogen and speed, I took a cab to meet Daylene for final preparations. The cab was an extravagance after my spendthrift day, but the heels were already killing me, and I planned to be on my feet a long time that night.

Daylene’s eyes goggled when I wobbled into our greasy spoon on my unsteady and pinched feet. "Wo, bitch, ya look hot!" she complimented me.

I replied, "you too. So what’s your secret, Daylene? I want both of us to break your record from last night."

"Jus act happy, y’no" she responded.

"How do you avoid the weirdoes?"

Daylene responded, "there’s a kunvenchun, farm kwipent ‘r somthin. Weirdest thang ‘bout dem is dere axents. Jus look happy an tell’em 50 bucks fer head, hunnerd fer a fuck. Dey all take head."

We giggled. I liked her. We walked out into the muggy evening, found a dark corner and smoked a hit of ice together. It was 9:30 when we took our places on Hennepin, still giggling in the giddy excitement of a speed buzz. At about 9:31, the first car pulled up and rolled down its window.

I must have looked about 13 years old, with my slim legs and arms, wasp waist, my small breasts bouncing subtly as I staggered slightly in my ridiculously high heels. "Get in, little girl, let me take you for a ride" said the middle aged, slightly paunchy Viking sitting high in his Suburban.

I improvised from Daylene’s pitch, in view of my special circumstances. "Fifty for head, twenty-five for a hand job." "How much for a fuck?"

"Can’t, ‘m hav’n my period."

"OK, hop in."

"Where’s my donation?" He handed me a fifty, and I put it in my handbag. My heart was racing, but I concentrated on being happy.

I complimented him on his car, his driving, his sound system, his choice of music (country, yuck!) his leather seats, what good shape he was in. He ate up the flattery. He found a deserted location and pulled over. He reached over the massive center console and slid his hands between my thighs. His rough fingers probed inside my panties and pressed against the tampon that guarded the secret between my legs. He grunted "OK, then give me head."

Now, the console, which had been a barrier to his exploration of my ass, became an awkward obstacle to the task at hand. I kneeled on the seat and over his garage door opener and who knows what else to descend on him from an awkward angle, trying hard to keep from banging my breast on his stick shift, as I pistoned my lips on his prick. He tilted his seat back and began groaning with pleasure.

There was nothing particularly erotic about this front seat encounter. As Garth Brooks droned in the background, the Viking’s eager hands twisted my head and neck into position. I could barely see his penis in the gloom, but I plunged my head into his lap and found it with my glossy lips and wet mouth. He actually tasted pretty good and clean, and his small size presented no challenge for me.

But the awkwardness of his position and his indifference to my comfort placed me in constant danger of banging my head on the steering wheel, and when this happened it yanked my heavy hoops in my ears. My back and stomach ached from arching over the console, and the fifty bucks in my purse seemed inadequate to for all this discomfort. I made a mental note to increase my rates.

Fortunately, he was a horny guy in a hurry and lasted no more that a song and a half before coming in my mouth. I let the cum drip out of my mouth onto him, breathing heavily on his dick to keep it warm and rubbing it into his groin. I was amazed that, after his brief exploration between my thighs, except for the hands he grasped my cornrowed hair with, he had not touched me during the encounter.

We drove back in silence, his shame palpable. My back was killing me, and I was tired.

He didn’t even say thanks when he left me back on Hennepin, feeling used. I went back to the café, to the disapproving glare of the owner, and bought a diet coke and waited for Daylene.

She came back about five minutes later, still bouncy and giggly. "Wassa matter, Al?" she inquired. I replayed my encounter with Mr. Country Music. She laughed and said "Das why Ah recommend a back seat."

"Do you swallow it?" I asked.

She rolled her eyes and chided me. "Din’ch ya use a condom, honey?" she laughed, rolling her eyes at my ignorance. After I had gargled and fixed my lipstick, I went to one of the liquor stores and bought a twelve pack of Trojans out of the fifty. When I got back on Hennepin, Daylene was already gone. I resumed my post, batting my eyes provocatively at the passing traffic.

Trick number 2 was a four door Cadillac, an old guy. He wanted to talk before we went at it. "Are you on break from your school?"

I nodded.

"What grade are you in?"

Christ, this guy thought I was still in high school. I indulged his fantasy. "I’m going into tenth."

"You’re so young, so pretty," he said as he pulled my face toward his lap.

"Just a sec" I said, remembering the rubber. I rolled it on and slipped him into my mouth. An antiseptic taste of latex and talc filled my nose as his cock filled my mouth.

Old guys are nicer, but they take more work, I learned. He built to climax and failed three times, and I swear that when he finally came I thought he had had a heart attack. It had not been very erotic, but pleasantly sanitary. After I finished him, I slipped the condom off and tied the end like a water balloon. No muss, no fuss. Afterwards, he was extra polite, saying as I left him, "Thank you, young lady," and tipping me an extra twenty. Old guys! A little extra effort, but worth it.

I worked my way through the dozen Trojans by midnight, and decided to call it a night. I went to the café, ordered a Diet Coke and waited for Daylene. She showed up, still grinning, at 12:30 and we started to compare notes. She was a little irritated that I had made a hundred and twenty more than she had. "Beginners luck," she said.

I was still pretty buzzed, so I invited her over to Jon’s to finish off some of his booze. We drank and regaled each other with our escapades until 3:00. Eventually, we passed out together in his bed. I woke up with cotton mouth and a headache. Was it all the talcum and latex or the booze, I wondered? I smelled bacon and eggs. "Mornin’ girlfriend" Daylene’s cheerful voice sang out. "Surprise for you, breakfast is served." She brought me breakfast in bed. We shared from the giant plate she brought.

I gobbled the cholesterol-laden meal ravenously. She put the plate aside, and "Honey chile, I see uze got a surprise for me, too." She gently stroked my groin through the sheet. "Ida never known you wazza shemale if Ah hanta slep t’ere." I smiled nervously.

"You won’t tell anyone, will you?"

"Shit no, honey chile, cuz ahm won too!" She slipped down her panties to reveal her own shaved cock, three times larger than my own tiny thing, but stained a darker brown than the rest of her skin by exposure to estrogen.

"Daylene, I’d never have known." I was delighted that my friend shared my secret, and as intrigued by her body as she was by mine. "Let’s take a shower together", I suggested, and she nodded with girlish glee.

Soon, we were soaping one another's breasts and bottoms. She had size "D" implants which I both loved and coveted. I noticed that her 6 inch cock hardened readily when I handled it. "Aren’t you on hormones?" I asked, my fingers grazing her large dark aereoles.

"Yeah, three yee-ahs, but ma docta keeps me kinda balanced, y’know." I admitted that I had had no doctor, and she tut tutted me. "Yo funny, "she said, tracing my pretty chin with her finger.

She kissed me, and I kissed her, and I felt her firm breasts nuzzle my own dainty titties as we settled onto Jon’s unmade bed. As we kissed and cuddled, our cocks rubbed each other and got hard. Though our lips were joined, our eyes met and reached a silent accord, and we switched into 69 and began sucking on one another. Her freshly showered cock tasted divine, and her pre-cum was delicious. I sucked her and fingered her anal ring, and she did mine. Her cock filled my mouth perfectly, and her shaved groin was as smooth as a baby’s. I loved the feeling of a hairless she-cock in my mouth.

Her tongue was exploring beyond my little cockette and scrotum. She rolled my pelvis upward and then began darting her tongue onto my hole. She parted the flesh of my slender cheeks and kissed my stretched rectum like a pair of lower lips, and then tongue kissed inside my freshly scrubbed ass. It was the sexiest thing I had ever felt, and she lingered there long enough to make me writhe with ecstasy.

"Do you want to fuck me?" I soon pleaded.

"Happy to, ho" she replied. Seeing my hurt look she joked "Ah mean, sista ho".

I reached into Jon’s bed stand for a condom and the Astrolube. She ripped the wrapper with her teeth and rolled it on expertly, as I lubed and probed myself with a slender finger. She daubed her cock with more Astrolube and her face took on a harder, more determined look. She put her arms under my thighs and rolled my tush up, pinning my legs helplessly in the air. She fingered my ass and studied my reaction. Her eyes gazed deep into my own, and I could not take my eyes off her striking face, framed by her large nippled, brown breasts swaying above me. I looked at her pleadingly. "Please don’t hurt me."

She smiled and her momentarily tough look warmed with compassionate. "Don worry honey, Ah knows how."

Soon her cock head was pressing against, and was then inside my ring. She eased it in until she saw me wince with pain, and then withdrew her cock and let my rectum relax a few heartbeats before she entered me again. This time she slid in farther until she saw my face begin to contort, and then withdrew again.

I must have smiled as I relaxed, because she whispered "Yor beautiful."

"So are you," I replied, and she was.

She entered again, and this time I was completely relaxed. "Now, did dat hutcha?" she asked.

"Just a little", I replied, as bliss took me over. Soon, we were both uttering girlish cries of joy as the pace of our lovemaking increased. "Can you cum", I asked.

"Ujaly, if I’m doin de fucking," she said. "Can you?"

"Maybe on my tummy," I said, and she immediately rolled me over.

Her dick was less rigid than the guys who had fucked me before, but its greater flexibility made it even more stimulating. I was thrilled by the feeling of her dick in my ass and of the brushing of her boobs on my back. It felt like I was getting fucked by a woman, and this made me feel even more like a girl than ever before: a lesbian femme. This made me very hot, and Daylene’s expert fondling of my cockette made me even hotter.

Suddenly, without warning, I came, a tiny wet droplet in her hand. Daylene felt it and got really aroused herself, and soon her motion speeded up and went out of control, and with a chorus of joyous squeals and cries she came into my still pulsating behind. Then, her breasts slumped even more weightily on my back and I felt the tickle of her long, curly hair on my neck. It was not enough to keep me from drifting off to sleep.

When we awoke, we showered together again and got so horny that we might have made love again, except we had so much to do. We shopped for new clothes, shoes and make-up, and spent hours experimenting with make up and hairstyles. We walked hand in hand to Hennepin, two sistah ho’s on the town.

The next ten days passed quickly. "Tricks all night, kicks all day", Daylene called it.

But I was on a collision course with reality. School would resume in a few days, and my ho’in would have to become, at most, a weekend activity, as my studies would fill my days and nights. And then there was Jon. I really needed and liked him, but I doubt if he would approve of this life style or appreciate sharing me with about ten guys a night. I would miss the wild nights and days with Daylene, and I would certainly miss the cash flow and the thrill of sucking all those new dicks, but this was not the life for a college girl, or a college boy, as I would soon be. Each night of cheap thrills and day of cuddling with Daylene brought me closer to the end.

Finally my last night came. Jon had called to tell me he was leaving Chicago after the bars closed that night and would be up early the next morning. He couldn’t wait to see me, but if he saw his apartment, he would have killed me. Ten days of non stop partying and fucking had left every surface covered with empty bottles, roaches, condom wrappers, and every sheet stained and sweaty. I had to do maid service.

I was crushed that I couldn’t spend the last night out with Daylene. I helped her get ready for the street, I gave her a hug and said goodbye. She smiled broadly, said, "See ya" and sashayed out to Hennepin in her red party dress.

Cleaning the place and running the laundry made me feel a little less guilty, but as I slaved away I thought, "I bet he wasn’t a virgin while he was gone." On the other hand, he hadn’t given over $5,000 of blowjobs, either, I thought as I settled in his freshly-made bed.

I couldn’t sleep as visions of my prostitute’s life of the past ten nights clashed with my life as a college boy, or girl for the coming year. Platoons of the upright cocks of my tricks marched by in a procession of shame mixed with sluttish pride. I was a trannie whore, and those words reverberated in my head endlessly. I massaged my breasts and fingered my hole, trying to bring forth a vision of Jon, or Jake but all I could summon was the cocks of my anonymous johns, now penetrating my ass as well as my mouth.

That was all I was or ever could be: a trannie whore. And my visions of that pathetic life were now beginning to turn me on, as I felt my cockette stiffen. Oh god, what had become of me? I liked being a whore, a piece of shemale ass for my twisted dates to use and throw away like a used Kleenex on the side of Hennepin. I was totally hooked on street life. How would I make it through college?

These thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. Why would Jon knock, I wondered nervously. "Who is it?"

"Minneapolis police," came the abrupt answer."

I freaked, horrified at the thought of arrest and embarrassment. How did they find me here, and how did they connect me to my illicit trade of my flesh on the street? I opened, and two plainclothes cops came in. "Sit down, we need to ask you some questions."

I sat down on the bed, crossed my legs demurely and motioned them to the sofa. I had prettied myself for Jon, and I noticed the cops eyeing me appraisingly. "How can I help you?"

"We found this address and phone number on a deceased, and we want to know why." I was bewildered.

"A deceased, you mean a dead person?"

"Yea, a transvestite hooker we found dumped by the river, strangled. We found this address on her body."

I felt as if I were being strangled myself, and covered my eyes and began sobbing. They waited till my initial wave of hysteria passed, and then said "Can you come to the morgue for an ID?"

I nodded assent, dressed in androgynous jeans, T-shirt and sneakers, and went with them to the morgue, now silent in my grief. I reproached myself bitterly for my embrace of the street life and the terrible price it had exacted from my friend and lover Daylene.

She lay glassy-eyed and expressionless on the slab. I hugged her still slightly warm body, but the detectives pulled me away, worrying about disturbing the evidence. "You know what she was up to, right?" one of them said.

I admitted she was a streetwalker, the words sticking in my throat. Then I began sobbing again. "And you knew her how, exactly?"

Grief did not interfere with my mendacity. "I am a college student doing research on sex industry workers, you know, safe sex habits, attachments to boyfriends, that kind of thing. I am going to write a paper on it. She was one of my subjects." As I cooked up this wopper, it occurred to me that it was actually a really good idea, on several levels.

"So you got some notes on this one we could look at?"

"I haven’t typed them up, but I’ll do it right away if it would help you find out who did this."

"That would be helpful, because we don’t have much on this one. Know her name or where she was from?"

"Daylene, from Memphis. About twenty, that’s all I know. Can I go home now?"

They gave me a ride back to Jon’s: thank god he wasn’t there yet. "We’ll be by in a few days to pick up your notes." I promised them they would be ready by Monday. "If the body hasn’t been claimed in two weeks, we’ll release it to you. Otherwise, it gets a John Doe burial."

"You mean Jane," I said angrily."

"Yeah, right," he said as he left.

I was still banging away on Jon’s keyboard when he arrived three hours later. He was so exhausted that he went straight to bed until two in the afternoon. When he awoke I sucked him and let him fuck me, but without much passion or enjoyment.

He asked me if something was wrong, and I said "Yes, someone I know has been killed." Elaborating on the clever lie I had invented for the cops, I told him that I had started to research the behaviors of transgendered sex industry workers, that I had gotten one of them to really open up to me, and she had let me observe and interview her at length. Now, she had been killed, and I was crushed.

He was very sympathetic and comforted me. He promised that if her family didn’t claim her body he would pay for a proper funeral. He was really impressed and happy that I was doing such a socially and personally relevant research project. He promised me he would try to get me a grant through the Alliance to support my work, and he even thought he could hook me up with a professor in the sociology department to get independent study credit.

This was looking like my most brilliant lie yet. The best kind of lie is the one that you can spin into reality: then it can provide a screen for still more secrets. "Behaviors of Transgendered Sex Workers" would be my project: no one else would know that I was both the author and one of the subjects. My sex industry research project would be the perfect way to merge the street life of Hennepin Avenue that I craved with academic research on a politically correct topic. If I was lucky, I might even be able to investigate the murder of Daylene. It would be all the more fun pulling it off right under everyone’s noses. I smiled inwardly. Maybe college wasn’t going to be so dull after all.

---

Next: Those Happy College Nights

TG XXX MM-style-sex Cross-dressing hormones she-males drug-use teen-age sex prostitution
This is a sometimes violent story with very raw sex scenes. If that's not what you want to read, please do not read this story.

The Greatest Lie
Chapter 4
Those Happy College Nights

WARNING! This story meant solely for adult audiences! It contains scenes of graphic sex and forcible rape described in first person narration by its transgendered, teenage protagonist. If you are not an adult, or if you find this type of material offensive, please stop reading, hit the back key or dispose of this file. You have been warned of the content. If you proceed neither the author nor the site host will be held responsible! This story is purely fictional. All resemblance to actual persons is coincidental.

The Greatest Lie

By Alexandra Rios

Chapter 4

Those Happy College Nights

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate being around people. Actually, I hate being alone; it brings out the weird self-critic inside me. But god, do I hate crowds. Fall registration brought mobs to the campus. The half-empty dormitory that I had shared with a few Asian engineering students was now thronged with muscular, masculine and boisterous freshman: ruddy farm boys, small town bourgeoisie, suburban kids and a sprinkling of hip hop urbanites. Almost all were Minnesotans, and as a Californian I was ignored as if I was from a different species. Trapped, as I was, an impostor in this all-male world, I took comfort in solitude.

My summer school admission had secured me one of the few single rooms in the dorm. I stayed there behind closed doors during those first weeks amidst the rowdy rituals of male bonding that went on around the clock. I had been on estrogen nearly eight months; I had a well defined bust, soft slender arms, a slim waist and a rounded bottom.

My hairdresser on Hennepin took out my cornrows, cut my shoulder-length hair into a white blond, new wave mullet. I wore punk clothes and affected an indifferent swagger; I could pull off the role of an effete west coast intellectual, above the rituals of male camaraderie.

I was not only isolated, but vulnerable. Meals were served buffet style in enormous, noisy halls, and I stood out from my tall, beefy classmates. Bathrooms were shared and crowded, and I was terrified that a classmate would catch sight of my nubile breasts as I entered or left a shower. I was not sure whether I would stir lust or revulsion from these unsophisticated but horny freshman, but either had terrifying and potentially dangerous consequences. I lived like a fugitive, brushing my teeth and showering at 4 in the morning when my dorm mates were all passed out from alcoholic bingeing.

Jon was still freaking out about my self-administration of hormones, and admittedly, my intake had exceeded clinical parameters that I had researched. So after class on the first day of school, I found myself in the office of Dr. Peter Prince, an endocrinologist. His nurse summoned me from his drab waiting room to a tiny curtain draped alcove, and she handed me a paper gown. She motioned to a hanger hooked to the wall, saying, "You can hang your clothes there."

My heart started racing. Other than Jake and Jon, no one had seen my emerging femininity in anything near its current state of development. My breasts were firm, perfect cones capped with broad aereoles and tipped with nipples that hardened and rose in the chill of the examination room. My muscles had softened into the delicate curves of a maturing young woman, and my skin was clear and my hair, though short, was soft, lustrous and thick. My penis shrunk to an even tinier than usual inch-and-a-half as I shivered miserably under the rough paper shroud.

Dr. Prince strode in abruptly, sweeping the curtain aside without looking up from his clipboard. He was an angular, bearded and intense young doctor. "Hmm, Alex Rios, and you were referred from--ah, the Gay, Lesbian and Transgendered Center. What seems to be the problem?"

I had decided on a direct approach. "Um, the problem is, I was born a girl stuck in a boy’s body, but I’ve changed that, and now I have a girl’s body, but I’m stuck in a boy’s dorm." This admission got Dr. Prince’s attention. "What do you mean?" I hunched my slender shoulders forward and let the gown slip to the floor. As I looked up at Dr. Prince, I caught him in the second half of a double take, and he looked pleased.

"Ahem, ah, who prescribed the hormones?" he asked, recovering his professional composure.

"A doctor in Tijuana," I lied. "I’m from California," I added, as if that would explain everything.

"What are you on?" I told him, editing out my most extreme excesses. He scribbled on his pad.

"We’ll need bloods and urine. Can I see your prescription?"

"I just ran out," I lied. I was running low. The stash that should have lasted a two years was almost gone after six months.

"Stand up." He massaged my breasts, which felt lovely, and asked "Any family history of breast cancer?"

"I don’t think so."

He took my hand in his and guided me in my first breast exam. "You’re looking for any lumps or masses."

"Do I have any?"

"None at all, but you need to do this every month to make sure you stay healthy."

I thought silently, "You could do this every day."

He gently grasped my scrotum and squeezed it. I prayed silently that I wouldn’t get hard.

"How about a family history of prostate cancer?" I had no idea, so he told me to lie down on my side. He slipped on a rubber glove and before I knew it he entered my ass with his thumb. I groaned, but he smiled and said "Cough."

Now my cock was hard, and I blushed and covered up. But he was scribbling notes on his clipboard, and without looking up said "You’re a little bit enlarged, estrogen can do that, having paradoxical effects on male organs. We are going to have to keep an eye on that. See me in my office when you are through with your labs," he called as he breezed through the curtain.

A nurse poked her head in and said "You can get dressed now Alex."

I peed in a cup, gave a shocking amount of blood, and they swiped my student health card through the machine. I walked hesitantly to Dr. Prince’s office, disguised, once again, as a boy.

"Alex, I notice that you are not ‘out’".

"Yeah, well, unfortunately, the University took me in as a boy. I didn’t want to surprise them."

"Well, you certainly surprised me. I see a fair number of transsexuals in my practice, but I don’t think I have ever seen anyone as feminized as you at your age, and with so little medical history. Who is your psychologist?"

"Dr. Feinberg, of Beverly Hills," I extemporized.

"And didn’t Dr. Feinberg refer you to anyone here? Do you have a letter from Dr. Feinberg?" he asked, incredulously.

I silently cursed myself for being so ill prepared. I decided to resort to feminine helplessness. "I didn’t have anyone to talk to, I was afraid to tell anyone," I sobbed, tears streaming down my face. "I just couldn’t stand being a boy and turning into a man. I’m a girl, and I have to become a woman. If I can’t, I’ll just kill myself."

"Wait a minute," he said soothingly. "Nobody said you can’t. You just have to go about it the right way. Now I can’t write estrogen prescriptions for you without a letter of referral from a psychiatrist or a psychologist. It sounds like you skipped over that step somehow. Is that right?"

I nodded silently, my closed eyes stung with tears.

"I am going to send you to Dr. Erika Wright," he said, scribbling a name on the back of a prescription pad and thrusting it at me. "I think you will find her someone you can talk to. Call me back in a week for your labs. And back off on that estrogen."

"I’m sorry I lost control", I said, wiping my eyes. "I really want you to be my doctor."

"And I want to be your doctor, but I want you to learn to play by the rules, and to tell the truth to your doctors."

"I’m sorry, but it’s so hard to tell the truth about this. You get used to lying."

"But not to me," he replied. I nodded, and then involuntarily hugged him. He gave my hand a little squeeze as he reminded me "Don’t forget to call Dr. Wright. And maybe she can help you with your housing problem!"

O God, I thought, just what I need, another doctor. I dreaded speaking to a shrink. She would probably think I was nuts! I never had thought I was crazy; I was just stuck in a crazy situation. A shrink might think otherwise. Or maybe she might decide that I should remain a male, or even get me committed.

I was too stressed out to go back to the dorm, and Dr. Prince’s prodding and poking had left me aroused. I hadn’t been fucked since Jon’s return, and I was horny and lonely and scared, so I decided to stop by Jon’s apartment. I climbed the familiar steps, put my leftover key in the lock and pushed open his door, my mind racing ahead to the erotic conclusion of this journey.

The apartment was dark, but I could tell it was occupied. I groped through the dim interior, and pushed open his bedroom door. I was instantly overcome with regret and horror, for there lay Jon entangled in a mound of disheveled sheets, wrapped in the arms and legs of another guy, and obviously savoring the afterglow of sexual encounter.

"I’m sorry" I stammered as I retreated in bewilderment.

Jon bounded up and after me, calling out "Wait Allie, let me explain." But I understood, and this needed no explanation. I was just another gay lover, a variation on the guy in his bed. He caught up with me at the front door. "Allie, he’s just a friend."

"Yeah, and so am I", I sobbed, and broke free from his grasp and ran down the stairs into the darkening, cold afternoon.

I took a long route back to the dorm. I was nauseated by the thought of Jon enjoying sex with another man. True, I was still physically partly a male, but he had related to me only as an active, dominant male, and I to him as passive, submissive female. Keeping sexual activity within these categories reassured me and kept me sane and balanced, but obviously they made him feel confined or bored. He wanted it both ways, I only wanted him one way.

As I thought of him being possessed in the same ways he had possessed me, I felt revulsion. No wonder he was the master of so many positions, I thought; he had probably experienced them from the bottom.

As I entered my room and threw myself on my bed, I felt sick. God, maybe I do need to see a shrink. Then it occurred to me; despite my little "problem", I was really a heterosexual. The problem with Jon was that he was bi, or maybe even homosexual. We had too much in common to be lovers. Now, I had no one.

Except Jake, I thought, remembering my wild weekend affair in Denver. I recalled the letter that I had received from him last week and had callously left unopened. I rushed for it in a panic, thinking perhaps I had already missed a chance to see him. I tore it open, and read: Jake Jones Edwards AFB Box 47872 Rosamund, California

Dear Allie:

Thank you for writing and telling where you are. It was good to hear from you.

I’ll never forget the time we had last summer. You are a beautiful and wonderful person and I am sure you will grow up to be even more beautiful. But I have had time to think and I am not the right man for you. I want to have kids of my own and a normal life. I am getting married next week to my high school girlfriend, and then she is going to move onto the base. I re-upped for three more years in the Air Force.

I am sure you will be fine, because even though you are different, you know what you want. Thank you for helping me figure out what I want too.

Sincerely

Jake

I felt as if the walls of my tiny room had collapsed on me, burying me in a mound of grief. I lay sobbing on my bed as the world receded into nothingness, and I was left alone in a center of isolation and pain. I would never be accepted. I was a freak; I only attracted perverts, curiosity seekers and wayward homos. Was the solution to have a sex change operation, and fade into the world of ordinary women?

I grabbed my cock and balls and squeezed them with all my strength, that they might disappear. Gathering unconsciousness forced me to relax my grasp, and the black orbs of pain faded from my vision. As I regained control over my breathing and pulse, I remembered that I wasn’t even close to a sex change under the Benjamin protocols. Every step I had taken, I had taken alone, without any medical sanction. For the present, I was stuck in this inbetween life, alone, amidst the mad mob of my classmates. Skipping dinner, I took a double dose of Premarin, a couple of Valium and tried to jerk off. Failing, I finally drifted into a troubled sleep.

The next morning I had an appointment with Professor Roger Finch, the faculty advisor for my Behaviors of Transgendered Sex Workers project. "Hmmph" he grunted, "sounds like an ambitious project for a freshman. Ever done any field work?"

"Not exactly, but I have some relevant experience. I think it’s a fascinating project, and one that hasn’t been done in the U.S."

"True enough, though others have tried. Problem with transsexuals is they always have a secret agenda. Most of the studies have been done in a clinical setting, and there the subjects tend to tell their therapists what they want to hear, to get ’the Operation’".

"That’s why I think new work needs to be done in the U.S., like Kulick’s work on the Brazilian Travesti."

Finch looked surprised. "You’ve read Kulick?"

"Of course," I said, "when I was in Sao Paolo last year I did some careful observation of travesti myself. "A fascinating group, but seemingly distinguishable from the North American phenomenon."

Professor Finch was visibly astounded. My days in the library were paying off.

"Perhaps," I hypothesized, "the North and South American transsexual phenomenon have been differentiated by an adherence to the Benjamin protocols here, as contrasted with the anarchic dissemination of hormones and silicone injections in the south."

"A fascinating hypothesis, and relevant, too, since anecdotal evidence suggests that we are seeing a breakdown of the Benjamin protocols as the paradigm here in the U.S. How is it that you have such in depth knowledge of transsexualism?"

"I have always been fascinated by the development of gender, and transsexualism best exemplifies the bifurcation of genetic sex and gender. I think it is the perfect departure point for studying the development of gender," said I, paraphrasing one of Professor Finch’s recent journal articles.

"Exactly my point of view. But the methodology is just impossible. How can one get these people to tell anything but lies of convenience?"

You can’t, I thought to myself. "I think I can. Let me put together my proposal."

"When can you be prepared?"

"Later today," I said.

"Really, that’s amazing. Very well, meet me here at six. I’m leading a seminar; if it runs late, just let yourself in."

I stopped at a pay phone and called Jon, telling him I needed to use his apartment to prepare for a meeting with Finch. I hauled my secret backpack of girl clothes, makeup and accessories there, and commandeered his bathroom, locked the door, and commenced my boudoir. I indulged myself in the shower until the hot water was gone, then wiped the steamy mirror clear. I tweezed and shaped my eyebrows, applied mascara, eyeliner and shadow, foundation, color and lip gloss. I blew my punk hair into a sexy, spiky bob.

I moisturized and perfumed with my favorite Sephora fragrances, then squeezed into some ultra-tight low riders and a snug, cropped tube top that squeezed my little breasts into jiggling compressed cones and bared my flat midriff. I tottered on my favorite platform sandals. I looked like a very high-end street urchin, and I felt great as I admired myself in the mirror. Jon was stunned by the vision and embraced me from behind, nuzzling his cock against my behind and fondling my breasts.

I stared him down in the mirror. "In your dreams, Jon. Just like you, I’m gonna get me a new boyfriend."

"Allie, he wasn’t a new boyfriend."

"Oh great, going back to your old boyfriend after your summer romance. Look, I wouldn’t have minded if it was a girl, but I can’t handle this."

"I told you I was bi-sexual."

"I thought that meant you liked girls, not other men."

"That’s just the point, Allie, to me you are a girl."

"That’s flattering, but that’s not what you meant at the time." He knew I was right, and shifted his approach.

"Allie, I get so much out of being with you. In you, I find a part of me that I cannot find in myself. You bring me closer to my soul."

"O Christ," I said. "That’s great. For my whole life, every time I’m with a girl, I dream of being her, and now that I finally am becoming one, I find a guy who wishes he was me."

"That’s not what I said, it’s not what I meant."

"Jon, it’s hard enough to be me, without you wanting to be me too."

"I don’t want to be you, but you help me get in touch with a side of me I never really knew, and I want to know better."

"Jon, I really like you as a friend, and I’d love to help you understand yourself better, but I can’t have a lover who is taking mental notes for his own passive role while making love to me. Just like you, I need someone who helps me find myself. And I think I am straight, and I want to find someone hetero, and you’re not. So we just don’t fit."

Jon looked downcast. "I don’t want to lose you."

"So don’t. I don’t want to lose you either." And I didn’t. I had important plans for Jon.

"Listen, I’ve been thinking about my project, and I want to integrate it with an outreach program by the Alliance. You know, Minneapolis has a law forbidding discrimination based on gender identity."

"Yeah, so."

"Well, what do you think the cops are doing to the T-girls down on Hennepin every night."

"You mean other than busting them for prostitution and drugs? C’mon, I feel bad about your friend Daylene, but you’re picking a losing battle."

"Maybe so, maybe not, but it’s a battle worth fighting. Besides, it gives me an ‘in’ to the community to enable me to collect the data for Finch."

"You mean you want to get their survey data by offering legal and social services."

"Yeah, but I’m not talking condom giveaways or needle exchanges. I’m talking about processing anti-discrimination complaints. Get enough of them, and who knows, the cops may clean up their act."

"And you’ll get your data, and your ‘A’".

"So what’s wrong with doing well by doing good."

"Allie, you’re a genius," he said, taking a seat at his computer workstation. For the next two hours, we talked, and he typed my ideas into a neat summary for the Alliance Board and Finch, including budget and a list of resources needed for the project.

At the top of the list was a studio apartment with phone near Hennepin. I would need a safe place near their turf to conduct interviews. Safety, that is, for them and for me.

There was a board meeting of the Alliance in a week. Jon promised to put it on the agenda and push for it if I delivered Finch’s blessing. "No problem," I said, as a walked off to Finch’s office, appearing, at the moment, to be the best looking girl on campus.

I let myself in and waited. Finch arrived a few minutes later. He was startled. "What is the meaning of this, young lady?"

"I’m here for our meeting."

"I had no such meeting scheduled with you."

"But I had one scheduled with you."

"You must leave now, I have another appointment scheduled."

"But Professor Finch, it’s me, it’s Alex." Finch stumbled back, dumbfounded. "Alex Rios?" he said weakly.

"Yes, but you can call me Allie or Alexandra."

"Please sit down," he said, closing the door and taking a seat opposite me.

He sat down unsteadily. "Alex, er, Allie, you gave me such a fright. Some of my research and writing is controversial with the feminists and the born-again communities, and I don’t like surprise visits."

"Sorry, I thought this would be a pleasant surprise," I said, affecting hurt feelings.

"Oh, but now it is," he said brightening. "Allie, I see your interest in transsexualism is both academic and personal. I must compliment you. Your impressive academic knowledge is matched by your appearance. You’re quite lovely."

"I think that if I approach the interviews as another T, the girls will be more open."

"But your looks won’t necessarily open the minds of your interview subjects. Some of them might be quite envious."

I explained the plan that I had created and handed him the draft that Jon had typed. Finch skimmed it, and said "That’s really quite ingenious. I am OK with the ethics as long as there is no quid pro quo. Are you sure that the Alliance will participate?"

"I have a good friend on its board, and he’s confident that they will participate, if I get your support."

"You have my support. Look, let’s try this as independent study, say, for four units this semester. I’ve got some leftover grant money to support it with for now. If it goes well, we’ll write a grant proposal this semester for funding next. If we have some results by then, it should be a breeze."

I showed him my budget. A furnished studio apartment near Hennepin would be the costliest item. Other than that I needed a phone, a tape machine, transcribing services, printing for a few fliers. With luck, the first three months would be less than $2,500.

"But we need to expand the survey. I am not only interested in our subjects’ sexual behaviors, but in their history. We need to work on question on their background. May I make a suggestion?"

"Of course," I beamed, attentive to the master.

"As our model, we will take your own development."

"I’m not a good model. I’m not a sex worker." (Well, I had been, and would be, but remember, I’m the world’s greatest liar!) "I can’t, it’s too hard to talk about it."

"But that is why we must talk about it, to discover the questions that peel away the defenses most effectively. Otherwise, our project will either be insignificant, or a failure."

"OK, I said, but could we go somewhere a little more comfortable."

"My apartment is only a short drive." I readily agreed.

As we drove, he told me about himself. "Just as you must set the stage with your subjects by telling a little bit about yourself." He was an army brat from nowhere. He had excelled in all of the dozen elementary and secondary schools he had attended, and entered Harvard on scholarship. He was drafted for the end of the Viet Nam War and fled to Canada, forever alienating his father. He obtained his doctorate at McGill and taught at Simon Fraser for many years. He married a Canadian, had fraternal twin boys, who were about my age. One had been effeminate since early childhood, and was now openly gay, the other was straight. He had had some gay sex in college but had turned away from it. He had divorced last year in the midst of a fling with a grad student and had returned to the U.S. as a Canadian national on a visa, leaving grad student and wife behind. In short, he was the perfect mentor for me.

I won’t bore you with my account of my life story. Suffice it to say that a little of it was true. Naturally, I left out most of what I have told you. It took hours, proceeding jerkily, like a backward interview. We paused to examine what question would lead to the episode that I had just recounted. At the end of my story, Professor Finch had a pad full of questions. It was nearly midnight. "That was dreadful," I complained. "I’m completely stressed."

"I’m sure you’ll do much better with your interview subjects than I did with you. You’re so pleasant to talk to."

"Thank you, but if you want me to say another word, you’ll have to get me a drink."

"Allie, you’re underage, I wouldn’t want to contribute to the delinquency of a minor."

"Oh, c’mon, as you now know, I’m already a little bit delinquent. And as for age limits, tell that to all the crazy drunks at my dorm." Finch returned with an open bottle of wine and two glasses. After he had poured and we had toasted to the success of our project, I asked, peering into his eyes with an upward gaze "Tell me, Professor Finch, is your interest in transsexuals purely academic or is it partly personal?"

"Up until now, purely academic."

"And now?" I asked breathlessly, closing my eyes parting my lips for an expected kiss.

"Getting personal", he whispered hoarsely, and answered with his lips. I melted in his arms.

He kissed me gently and shyly, hesitating to give me his tongue. His caresses were soft and tentative, and his hands stayed above my waist, even as mine explored his crotch.

I longed for a rougher touch, a twist of my nipples or a rough squeeze of my butt, or to be thrown back on the couch and be squashed under a ton of hard male muscles. God, I thought, this is going to take forever! I was bored, but that made me feel guilty. Was I a trashy slut that wanted to be used roughly by my lovers. Why couldn’t I enjoy this civilized wooing? Was I so accustomed to being ridden hard, that I needed to be dominated and abused? The answer came from within me. I needed it.

I interrupted his genteel embrace. "Let’s get more comfortable", I said, grabbing my purse and leading him to the bedroom. He began taking off his clothes as I went into the bathroom. "Why don’t you put on some music," I called, as I freshened up. I peeked out, saw him lying naked on his bed, and emerged to do a sexy strip tease. When I had flung my panties away, I pirouetted to him and thrust my lips over his hardening member.

After my sexual summer session on Hennepin I had been chaste for a couple of weeks. It felt great to have a cock in my mouth, although Finch’s was nothing special. It was smaller than average and despite my expert attention it stubbornly remained slightly rubbery. My head bobbed up and down furiously, and my breathing grew labored. He wasn’t really helping. His pelvic thrusts were weak and un-rhythmic. I switched to tongue flicks and flutters, licking, and then back to full deep throat sucking, and though I did my best, his dick got softer and smaller, until it was even smaller than when I had begun. I finally stopped, asking "Are you OK with me?"

"Oh, Allie, I’m sorry. You were wonderful, and it felt so good. I’ve been having this problem for the last couple of years." Oh well, I thought in frustration, so much for getting fucked tonight! Now I’ll have to lie here with this limp dick and be sympathetic.

"Just rest for a while. We don’t need to hurry."

"You know, Allie, don’t ever change. You’re perfect."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean don’t rush into any surgery. Your body is really lovely, like the body of a beautiful pubescent girl."

"Well, not exactly," I reminded him. "Sometimes I feel like a freak, like I’ll never really fit into life."

"You are doing really well."

"But I get treated like a sissy when I live as a boy, and I can’t live as a girl. A transsexual really can’t live as a girl, unless she gets a sex change."

"Is that what you want?"

"I don’t really know yet. I’ve only been on hormones for about eight months. I love the way I look and feel. And I’m happiest when I can dress and act as a girl."

"How about your parents?"

"They have been traveling a lot the last few months, don’t know how far I have taken things." He looked stricken. I could see he was worried about his own child.

"We really shouldn’t be doing this. You’re my student, and young enough to by my own kid."

"Just remember, I seduced you. Even the best teachers can learn from their students."

"Especially a student like you." He seemed relaxed enough for me to renew my efforts.

"I really want to make you cum", I said.

"You’re so nice, but it’s probably no use." Hell, I thought, if I can get my own estrogen-shrunken self off, surely I can get this poor old guy to cum. "I know how," I said, grabbing some lube from my purse. I applied it liberally to his dick and gave him a gentle but rapid hand job. He never got completely hard, but after a couple hundred strokes his pelvis began undulating and as the pace picked up he began to groan with pleasure. "That’s it, let it go," I encouraged.

Suddenly he blurted "I’m gonna cum" and thick stringy white globs flew out of his dick and splattered down onto my hands and his stomach.

I beamed up at him. "I knew you could. You’re fine."

"But I didn’t do anything for you," he said guiltily.

"That’s OK. I enjoyed that." It’s true, I had. I would have enjoyed a good ass-fucking even more, but what the hell.

We relaxed in the afterglow for a few minutes. It was nearly two when I told Finch that I needed to leave. He offered a ride, but it was a warm night, and only few blocks. It was too late to pick up my boy clothes at Jon’s, but I had an early morning math class and so I needed to get dressed as a college boy. I figured all of my drunken classmates would be crashed. I could sneak in en femme, unnoticed.

I walked back to my dorm trying to stay in the shadows. I ran up the fire stairs. My room was four doors down from the fire door. I peeked out, and thought that the coast was clear. I tiptoed to my door, and quickly shut it behind me. As I did, I heard another door slam farther down the hall.

Shit, I thought, had someone seen me? I stood silent for a minute, listening to the faint buzz that the fluorescent bulbs made in the hall. Continued quiet outside reassured me.

I quickly stripped out of my girl’s clothes, put on some boy’s pajamas, went to the bathroom to shower and brush my teeth. The hot water and steam relaxed me and melted away the frustration and stress of teasing and pleasing Finch.

As I closed my eyes to rinse my hair, I felt a cool blast invade my steamy paradise, and my reverie was broken by cackling male voices. "I toldja heeza trannie queen."

"Holy fuck, lookat those titties."

"Waddyano, we got us a pussyboy living right on our floor."

I covered my breasts and cockette, like a bare Botticelli, as they pulled me from the shower. They wrapped me in my towel, pinning my arms to my sides, and carried me back to my room, giggling maniacally as I wriggled helplessly.

They were Rick and Randy, a couple of the less obnoxious and better looking of the hunks on the floor. Rick was a hunky farm boy from near Fargo, and Randy was a suburban skateboard thrasher. They were large, hard muscled hockey players, and my pitiful muscles were no match for either of them, even in their present state of drunkenness.

They dumped me on my bed as I hissed "Get out of here. Leave me alone!"

That only pissed them off and Randy grabbed my chin and got in my face. "Shut the fuck up or we’ll invite the whole floor in here to fuck you. You’re better off with just the two of us, right."

I nodded silently. "I’ve always wanted to try a trannie," Randy said.

"Now, you pretty yourself up for us. We’ll be back in fifteen minutes." I thought momentarily about making a dash for it, but it probably would have only invited even more savage treatment, or even a gang bang by the whole floor. No, my best strategy was to become their love toy, and enlist them in my secret life by offering continual sexual favors. Plus, they were actually two of the sexier guys on campus.

My short hair dried acceptably, so I concentrated on makeup. By the time the door opened, I looked pretty hot. When they returned, I decided to take the diplomatic offensive. "You know, guys, that if you had told me you were interested in me, you wouldn’t have had to carry me off over your shoulder like a couple of cavemen. Not that I really minded," I said, batting my sensually made up eyes. "I’m actually in the mood for a couple of guys like you." I rose and threw my arms around Randy and opened my lips. He lips met mine, his tongue plunged into my mouth and I was overwhelmed by his beery breath and grabbing, groping hands.

Rick complained, "Hey, what about me."

I broke off my embrace and said, "Oh, sorry," and faced him. His equally drunken lips soon smothered me with kisses. He fondled me from the front as Randy groped me from behind and kissed my neck. After a few minutes, they turned me and I again gave Randy my breasts and my mouth, while Rick groped and humped my behind.

"Oh my god, I’m getting so hot. I want both of you. Pull my bed back from the wall, OK?" They did so, as I went to my bag and got out two condoms and my lubricant.

Their dicks were both upright and stiff. I slipped condoms on them, and slathered lubricant on my hole and over Randy’s sheathed 8" inch dick, which was slightly narrower than Rick’s 9" tool. I looked up at him pleadingly and whispered "Start slowly, OK?"

He drunkenly ignored me, and I braced myself. I lay sideways across the bed, threw my legs up and my head back. Rick and Randy needed no further guidance. Rick slapped my face and lips gently with his dick as I snapped at it with my eager lips. His muscled torso filled my field of vision as his massive cock filled my mouth. He began pumping my mouth and throat vigorously, making my titties shake with each plunge and withdrawal. I wrapped my slender arms around his massive thighs and enjoyed the contractions of his muscles as they worked hard to fuck my face.

Randy had grabbed my ankles and put them on his chiseled shoulders. He swiveled my ass up by pressing down on the back of my thighs. I hadn’t been fucked for weeks, and my ass felt tight and virginal. Randy poked his cock into my coiled ring, unleashing a mix of pain and ecstasy. He impulsively lunged forward to suck my breasts, and his full length entered me in one surge. Fiery pain consumed me from within, as I desperately stifled a cry of agony that was trapped in my vocal cords by Rick’s penis. Rick gnawed at my breast, his dick jammed all the way in me, for an excruciating interlude. For a few seconds I drifted toward unconsciousness as the sensations became unbearably intense, but as I neared the abyss, the pain inside me began to lessen.

At that moment, he broke my reverie as he yanked his cock back. The abrupt withdrawal felt like he was ripping me apart. His next plunge was an even deeper wound, and again he pulled out savagely, only to plunge with even greater force. I struggled to contain both these plunging cocks, one tearing through my insides, the other pummeling my face and throat. As I gradually mastered the forces that were attacking me, the searing pain in my ravaged hole and the bruising assault on my mouth and throat turned to ever more intense pleasure. My insides were warmed by the friction of their fast moving dicks, and responded with effusions from my inner mucousa that self-lubricated me, allowing them to increase the velocity and force of the face- and ass-fucking.

Their rhythms gradually coordinated with one another, and we became a single symbiotic organism, evolved to convert pain and submission into ecstasy. I felt totally helpless, dominated, stuffed by their relentless male vigor and aggression. I felt as I imagined helpless victimized girls must have felt through the rapine ages of the anarchic past, as I replayed the fantasies that had for so long dominated my horny, insomniac nights. My consciousness drifted between fantasy and the unreal reality of this merciless double fucking. When I opened my eyes, I saw two massive, shadowy torsos heaving above me.

When I closed my eyes, I was Marie Antoinette, being gang-raped by her captors one last time before her beheading.

The pounding in my ass became more extreme as approaching orgasm put Randy onto deranged autopilot. I heard him grunt "Ahrg, ahrg ahhha, uugha" and his dick’s movements became random and jagged, for he had cum.

I regretted that the rubber had kept me from savoring the splatter of his jism inside me: oh, well, safety first. He kept going at a slower pace and finally pulled out, saying "Rick, you gotta try this, man. She’s tighter and wetter than any other pussy I’ve tried."

I was pleased with the compliment, and with Randy’s use of the female pronoun. Rick pulled his dick out of my mouth, and when I first tried to speak, my exhausted throat was mute. Finally, I whispered hoarsely "Please take me from behind."

"Works for me" Rick said, and I kneeled on the floor and rested my upper body on the warm, rumpled sheets.

Able to speak at last, I asked Randy "Could you hand me that bottle?" and he gave me my lubricant. I reached behind and rubbed it on Rick’s cock, which was already pawing at my used, puckered ass. "It feels better if you start slowly."

"Better for me if I ram it in," Rick replied, and he promptly did just that. My body shuddered from the blow, and I stifled my cry by burying my head in the mattress. Randy had gotten me ready, but not for the intense screwing that Rick now administered. The bulbous head of his thicker, longer cock felt like a jackhammer against my tender internal organs. I felt like I was suffocating, but death did not rescue me from the sweet torture his cock inflicted on me.

He plunged on relentlessly, like multiple stabs into my body. Neither perpetrator nor victim could endure such a fucking long. He was too hot from my blow job, and his wild thrusting portended a fast orgasm. My ass felt like it had been penetrated by the whole hockey team rather than only two of its "members". His thrashing cock became even more frenzied, and he groaned "uhmph umpgh ahrgh" as he flailed to an intense orgasm.

He pulled out too quickly, giving me one more spasm of pain. Rick staggered away from me, shook the slumbering form of Randy, who had collapsed on the floor, and said "Wake up, dude, I’m done. Let’s crash." He slapped my tender ass "See’ya later, bitch! Keep your slutty mouth shut about this, and then maybe so will we."

They left me with my tortured thoughts, contemplating my future in the clutches of these two virile studs.

I crawled onto my bed and put my head under the covers. Rick’s parting words reverberated into a haunting mantra of fear! Shit, I had been exposed. Unlike when it had happened in high school, here I had four more years to survive. And I was stuck living as a boy! Now these two brutes owned me, since they could expose my secret identity. I felt completely humiliated and vulnerable. Rick and Randy could fuck me whenever, and however they wanted, and I was powerless to protest. While I kind of liked the idea of being their sex slave, I was desperately afraid of being exposed to the whole dorm. One of the farm boys morons would probably strangle me.

My throat was sore and swollen from the relentless jabbing of Rick’s oversized cock. My rectum burned, and my gut churned from the overwhelming fucking I had taken. I looked at the clock. It was 2:45 a.m. The whole ordeal had lasted only a half hour, but it had felt like a day. Shit, I had to be up for class in less than four hours, and I was in no mood for sleeping. Anxiety and physical pain overcame the fatigue that the hard sex had brought on.

I sought escape, as I often had, in studying. I worked until 4:30, the peaceful rhythms of math solutions gradually steadying me. A Virginia Wolff short story, "To the Lighthouse" helped me put my troubles aside. The editor’s note said she had committed suicide shortly after that poignant story was written. There would be no such easy exit for me.

The dorm was now silent; I took a solitary shower. The rush of steam cleared my mind. Then my strategy for survival occurred to me. Rick and Randy were just as trapped in our relationship as I, since if they exposed me as a transsexual, they would expose themselves as trannie lovers, little better than faggots in their jock world. The more time they spent with me, the more closely associated they became with me, the greater their investment in preserving my secret. Randy and Rick, I decided, could fuck me whenever they wanted. The more, the better, I decided. I set my alarm for 6:45 and got a couple of hours of desperately needed, and dreamless, sleep.

After my long evening and night as Alexandra, dressing as Alex was disconcerting. I felt kind of faggy dressed as a boy, even though my dark clothes, Doc Martens and heavy framed glasses successfully captured a hip proto-grunge look. As I strode off through the gloomy morning, I heard the cackling of familiar but unfriendly voices behind me. "Hey, Rios, whassa matta, ya walkin’ a little bow-legged?"

I whirled around and faced Rick and Randy. "Look, you two, you can use me as you want in bed, but I won’t let you humiliate me in public. I won’t be your cocksucker at night unless you respect me during the day."

They blanched visibly at my candid and very public acknowledgment of their nocturnal visit, and looked around to see if anyone had heard. "Hey, chill out, Alex. Don’t tell the world."

"I might as well, if you are, and if you are going to treat me like shit."

"OK, we’ll be cool and you be cool. Where ya going?"

"Math 101, with Bloomberg."

"Us too, we’ll walk with ya."

They even sat next to me in class, a massive convention of confused freshman. I was stuck in this math for dummies because Uni High would only let you take two AP courses and I had no time for math. I had covered the whole curriculum for Math 101 in my SAT prep course. Natch, I had nailed the subject, and of course I got 800’s on both parts of the SAT. But I know you’re not surprised, because you already know that I’m brilliant.

So when the class let out a collective groan as Bloomberg announced a pop quiz, I only feigned disgust.

"Wadda fuckin’ asshole," Rick groaned. "I haven’t even opened the book."

"I haven’t fuckin’ bought it," Randy rejoined.

"What a slave driver," I agreed.

I finished the quiz using about two of the allotted ten minutes, and turned my test paper over. I looked over and noticed Rick holding his head in his hands, his paper blank.

Randy was doodling idly as he stared into the distance. I batted my eyes at each of them, and having gained their attention, flipped my paper back over. I leaned back as if to study my perfect answers again, and gave them a clear view of my neatly printed test paper. They stared back and started writing on their own papers.

On blank space, I wrote a quick note, which I quickly erased after they had read it. "Get one wrong. Randy #7, Rick #10." With their sharp hockey-trained peripheral vision, they quickly got the answers, finishing their furtive plagiarism just as the TA’s collected the papers.

We all had a break before our next class. English 101 for them, an upper class Chaucer seminar for me.

"I’m hung over. I needa coffee," said Rick.

"Yeah, let’s go to Starbucks. See ya later. Hey, thanks for the props on the quiz."

"You know, after what I’ve done for you, you could invite me. I didn’t get much sleep last night, thanks to you know who!"

"OK, c’mon along." They bought me a latte and proceeded to blather about their hockey stuff, largely ignoring me. I listened with interest, and quickly mastered the rules and language of hockey. They were defensemen on the same line, and I really wanted to see them play. The thought of them administering a crushing body check to an opponent against the boards turned me on.

Finally, we returned to the subject of "that asshole Bloomberg."

"So whydja want us to get one wrong."

"Don’t you realize how unusual it would be if three students seated next to each other all got a perfect score?"

"Yeah, I guess so, but how do you know you got a perfect score?"

I nodded and laughed, "I always know. Besides, it would be even more obvious if we all got the same problem wrong!"

"Whoa, you’re one smart bitch."

I shushed them laughingly and smiled. "Thanks for the latte, see you later."

"In your room, on your bed!" Rick cracked.

"How about the Research Library, eighth floor, any time between ten and closing. You can join my study group."

"Oh c’mon, it’s only the first week of classes."

"I know, but it’s almost the end of the first week."

I was in no frame of mind to see Dr. Erika Wright, but there she was, penciled into my calendar right after Chaucer. I mentally rehearsed the usual lines. Girl trapped inside a boy’s body, interested in girls’ toys and clothes for as long as I can remember. Never interested in girls romantically. I had read all of Benjamin plus Money and Greene, I knew it well enough to spin it into a convincing lie.

Dr. Wright was a tall and quite pretty. She offered me a seat, and then said nothing for a few minutes as she studied me. Finally, she said "I’ve read your chart from Dr. Prince, and there’s not much there. No referring doctor, no history. Tell me why you think you’re transsexual."

I began my spiel, and she nodded attentively. After I got to the part about playing with dolls, Dr. Wright interrupted me. "Just one thing, it says here on your chart you are an only child. So tell me, why were there any girl’s toys or clothes around your house?"

I improvised female cousins and the girls next door, but she had opened a crack in the façade. "I pulled your college application and it says that you wrote an award winning essay on Napoleon’s military career. That’s not a very feminine topic. Anything in the essay on Empress Josephine?" she inquired mockingly.

"Well, I was covering up."

"Do you mean then or now?"

"Why would I want to persuade you that I am a transsexual, if I’m not?"

"We see it all the time. Alex, I can see you’re extremely intelligent, and I can tell you are expert in the clinical aspects of transsexualism. But if you’re as smart as I think you are, you must realize that it is futile to keep trying to bullshit me."

I allowed tears to well up in my eyes. "Dr. Wright, I’ve been lying about this for so long. It’s so hard to distinguish between truth and lies. Every day, I have to deal in lies. Every minute."

"Not here, not if you want me to help you."

"Are you going to help me?"

"I’m going to try. Have you told your parents?"

I hadn’t seen them or talked with them about my "issues" since just before I had left for summer school, five months ago. They had sent me a plane ticket to meet them for Thanksgiving in New York: Dad was teaching in Lucerne, and my mother was writing another book. "They knew about experimenting with hormones, but I think I told them I was going to give them up. Then I couldn’t. I haven’t told them that I want to live as a girl, and I can’t tell them over the phone."

"They’re medical professionals, they would be supportive."

"Not necessarily. My dad is a hotshot AIDS researcher, and he’s not happy about the sexual part."

"How about you and the sexual part?"

"It’s not about sex, it’s about me.

"Let me tell you what I’m a little worried about. You didn’t have any demonstrable transsexual behavior until your own adolescent sexual awakening. I am wondering how much of your desire is trans, and how much sexual."

"OK, I get it. Do you think there is only one etiology for transsexuals?"

"Who knows? As a mass phenomenon, it’s too recent to tell."

"I’m going to prove that there’s not. I am doing an independent study with Professor Finch."

"How do you know what you’re going to prove?"

"Well, I don’t, but here’s my hypothesis. Benjamin, Money and Greene saw a handful of the earliest transsexual patients. They were studying subjects that were coming out as transsexuals at the very beginning of the gay rights movement. Stonewall was just another drag bar in the Village, and they did their work before the APA changed its diagnostic criteria on homosexuality. Back then, being gay was considered a kind of insanity, and they were naturally concerned that gays would use transsexualism to cover up their homosexuality.

"Now, society makes it easier to be gay, but it still makes it miserable to be transsexual. So the earliest pioneers inferred from a tiny sample a paradigm that’s still being applied thirty years later to a completely different world. I give them credit for being humane enough to treat transsexualism as something more than schizophrenia, but they had almost no clinical data or context, and their paradigms and treatment criteria are obsolete.

"In the meantime, you not only have a much larger population of transgendered people in the U.S., you have populations of travesti in Brazil, France, Italy, and Mexico and katoey in Thailand, Japan, and Hawaii that have just exploded. I was in Brazil last spring, and you have to see it to believe it. There are thousands of travesti, surviving on the edges of society, and though they are treated horribly, there are just thousands of them. Look at the underground papers in New York, or LA, or even here. Half the personals are she-males.

"I’m sorry I fed you that bullshit, but you shrinks are still stuck on Benjamin, and it’s antiquated dogma. I don’t believe it applies to me or anyone else today, and I’m going to prove it."

She had listened to all that without saying anything. "Look, that’s very impressive," she began. "You are incredibly knowledgeable about the subject, and I commend your dedication toward improving the science. I am really impressed with the design of your project with Finch, and someday I may even agree with your hypothesis about the multiple etiologies of transsexualism, but that still will not have answered my question. You haven’t addressed my little clinical problem here. What makes you transsexual? What’s your etiology?"

I was momentarily silenced. My research, my hypothesis, my reading, had not prepared me for that question.

I started talking again slowly. "OK. It began late for me. I was a late bloomer sexually. So at the point when boys were starting to sprout pubic hair and act like a bunch of horny monkeys, I was not part of it. When I started thinking about girls, I started identifying with them, instead of hitting on them. I used to fantasize about being a girl, and then about experiencing sex as a girl. I knew about transsexuals and how they used female hormones; my dad’s a doctor so he always had tons of samples around the house and his office. I know my way around a medical research library, and I got what I need from my dad and got started. I realize now it was a mistake to go it alone, but I was afraid to talk to anyone about it. All the doctors know my dad, and I was afraid they would tell him."

"So this phase of your life is tied into your sexual awakening."

"Transsexualism was my sexual awakening. I never have been any other kind of sex at all."

"You’ve never been with a girl?"

I described my painful and disastrous relationship with Marta. "I never wanted to dominate her as a lover. To me it was a heavy flirtation between two girls. I never wanted to make love to her as a male, and I’m sure she did not want me a male lover."

"Look, you are a very cute kid, and I am sure you make a very pretty girl. But these changes become irreversible over time, and eventually it’ll be too late to change your mind"

"Do you want to see?"

She looked at me appraisingly. "I’ll just use my imagination."

I blushed, and said, "I mean dressed as a girl, not undressed." We both giggled. I felt the ice break just a little.

I handed her a glamour shot that I had made one mad afternoon with Daylene. She said "I would like you to come dressed to our next session."

"You know, that’s not that easy. It’s not that easy to go back and forth between boy and girl clothes on a college campus with a bunch of nosy, horny, and potentially violently intolerant guys around all the time."

"You can change here."

"I could do that right now."

"OK, I have another appointment now, I’ll meet you afterwards and we’ll get lunch."

I had brought a black Gap turtleneck, a pair of Bebe jeans, Adidas: the sorority girl uniform of the year. My make up was subtle and innocent, like a Midwestern ingenue. I was ready before Dr. Wright returned and was taking notes from my Chaucer when she came back.

"Wow, the perfect freshman pledge. Which sorority?" she joked.

"Tau Sigma", I improvised.

She laughed, adding "Let’s go to lunch, girl. I’ll buy. What do you want?"

We got salads at the Faculty Club. I waved to Finch from across the room, and he brightened visibly. Dr. Wright noted my mentor’s acceptance of my female role. "I guess you’re ‘out’ to Finch."

"Of course, no lies to teacher. He’s comfortable with me as a girl, and I’m comfortable with him knowing me as one."

"I must say, I’m more comfortable with you as a girl."

"You know it’s just about feeling safe and comfortable in my own skin. When I dress as a boy, I’m neither comfortable nor safe. When I dress as a girl, I feel both. It’s the transitions that are killing me."

"You do seem completely comfortable now, and quite beautiful as well. But you still haven’t really convinced me that it’s not about being a desirable sex object rather than about becoming a woman."

"I’m not sure those are completely inconsistent. I like to be pretty, and obviously so do you. But I haven’t exactly gone out of my way to get guys." (OK, well I had a couple of times, but let’s not tell all to Dr. Wright.) "Trying to be a part time girl in a world of males has been a big problem for me." I told her about my prom night debacle.

"So your first sex experience was to be raped?"

I nodded, and added, "It won’t be the last. Last night, I tried to sneak into my dorm in girl's clothes and got caught."

"You were raped last night?"

Well, even though it wasn’t exactly rape, it was close, so I told her "Two guys caught me sneaking into the dorm late, and dressed. It’s just impossible living in this half-and-half world. I can’t live as a boy, I need to turn into a girl, and doing that while living in a men’s dorm is insane. I’ll get myself killed."

"Did you report what happened last night to campus police?"

"Are you kidding? Cops don’t give a shit about transsexuals. I’m going to manipulate those two into a ring of silence. They can’t afford to be linked to me as a transsexual any more than I can afford to be exposed as one."

Dr. Wright and I walked back to her office. "Look, I’m on your side. I am going to tell Dr. Prince that he should treat you as a transsexual patient. And I’ll recommend that the University re-register you as a female, and change your housing to a gender neutral environment. But it’s going to take some time, and I can’t do either until you tell your parents."

I promised I would tell them. I gave her a hug as she left for her next appointment. "Dr. Wright, I was so apprehensive about meeting you. You’re great, and I really feel like both you and I know me better. I feel really comfortable talking to you about everything."

"More than anything you said, and that alone was very impressive, I was impressed by how much more naturally you acted when you changed into girl’s clothes. You’re still the same person, but your posture, facial expression and demeanor were transformed, and I would have to say it was for the better. It was more convincing than your best argument, and that’s saying a lot."

"Thank you so much. That’s just how I feel. And thank you for challenging me when I misled you. It’s a hard habit to break, but I promise I’ll try. I want to tell the truth to you, but I know it will be hard. I was so worried about meeting with you, and now I’m so glad that you’re my doctor."

"Well, Allie, I should tell you, that I have a special advantage with transsexual patients. "I’m one myself."

"Wow, I had no idea. You’re perfect."

"Thank you. So are you." We hugged again.

As her firm breasts brushed my much smaller titties, a familiar feeling overwhelmed me. I wanted to inhabit her body, just as I had wanted with Marta. I left her feeling happy but bewildered.

I got another Starbucks and went to the library. Alone with my books in the empty stacks, I felt safe in my sorority girl’s attire. I felt liberated and creative, and the words flowed from my pen as I analogized Chaucer to Joyce’s short stories collected in "the Dead". I looked up from my tautly reasoned conclusion and noticed that it was 11:45, fifteen minutes to closing.

I panicked, where the hell were Rick and Randy. I felt betrayed and vulnerable. I wouldn’t have stuck myself here across campus from my room without their escort. I heard footsteps and to my relief, saw Rick’s buzzed head bob past me. "S-s-s-t".

He doubled back, and then did a double take. "Is that you?"

I nodded. "Shit, I walked past you three times, although I would have hit on you if you hadn’t been so buried in your books. You look great."

"Thanks, you look wasted."

"Party hearty, my motto."

"Sound’s good to me. Let’s go." We found Rick who was staggering around, drunkenly lost, in a distant part of the stacks, and we all walked to our dorm hand in hand. We agreed that for Rick and Randy to sneak a tasty looking sorority chick into their room would be no problem.

As we neared the dorm I pulled them together. "I really want both of you, but let’s try it one on one tonight. You decide on turns, I can’t play favorites." I really preferred Rick, but it was close. They suggested flipping a coin, and I said "That’s disgusting. I don’t want to be wagered on a coin flip. OK, how far is the moon from earth. Closest guess is first." Rick guessed a thousand miles, and Randy guessed a million. "Oh my god, you should both lose, but Rick’s closer." Rick and I walked to their double room, and Randy staggered to my single.

OK, now I know that sodomy has a bad name, with its part in the spread of AIDS and all, but when it’s all you got, you try to perfect it to an art. Let’s be honest, for the bottom, and I am always the bottom, it always hurts at the beginning, but it’s fantastic at the climax. The difference between a bad experience and a great fuck is the degree of pain that precedes the pleasure.

But that’s only the sensual level. Beyond that there are exquisite yin/yangs of pain and pleasure, of subjugation and freedom, of vulnerability and invincibility, and of domination and submission, and sodomy exemplifies these unities and dichotomies perfectly. As the submissive bends and opens herself to her dominant, so does the dominant become beholden to the submissive. My task was to teach these truths to the half drunk, horny jocks that I found myself in bed with, using my own body as the blackboard. What made it especially challenging was that just last night, my two friends had half killed me in bed.

"Rick," I said as I slathered his stiff, condomed cock in lubricant, "When you penetrate me tonight, tell me how each millimeter feels. Talk to me, and tell me how it feels."

"OK, but I have to have you now."

"I want you now, but I want you to open me slowly." As I massaged him with lubricant, I got my first chance to take a good look at his equipment. "Good god", I gasped, "Your cock is so big, and has such a big fat head, it’s like a giant mushroom. It’s like, not natural." My ass tingled at the prospect of the great head popping through my ring and lodging in my ass canal. "Be careful with me, please."

He nodded and then rolled me into position, face down, ass up. I looked back up at him apprehensively and silently mouthed "Please go slowly." He pressed against my ring as I guided him inside me. As he penetrated me I emitted a cry, and twirled my head in an involuntary spasm. The fiery pain doubled and redoubled as I struggled to press down my diaphragm against the invading fire-breathing dragon inside me. I glanced back, and saw that Rick was oblivious to my plight, his soul completely overwhelmed by his lust.

"Tell me how it feels," I whispered hoarsely.

He opened his eyes and responded "Like my cock’s wrapped in velvet."

"Oh, that sounds lovely", I sighed, "But you’re really hurting me."

"Sorry, I’ll slow down," and he steadied himself, and gave my aching back and belly a respite.

"M-m-m, that’s better," I said, visualizing my ass as a tunnel of rich red velvet; a rolled up red carpet enveloping my VIP.

I began thrusting my slender hips and small rounded bottom against his rock-hard cock and sinewy thighs, and he responded with a bonecrushing intensity. But now I was warm and wet inside, and though his strokes probed me from my perineum to my peritoneum, now every neuron in my body was stoked with serotonin and primed for pleasure. I felt a storm gather inside me, and sensed the approach of another storm from behind me.

They collided in a perfect moment of bliss, as I reached a tiny but fierce orgasm just he came in a thunderclap and a torrent, contained, to my regret, in a bulging condom that was one drop short of bursting inside me. The storm subsided as our breaths slowed to normal and the echoes of our mutual explosions gradually faded. As he pulled out, he whispered hoarsely "That was fantastic."

I could only nod in agreement, my heaving chest rendered me temporarily speechless. He pulled on his sweatpants, kissed me on the ear and whispered goodnight. The moment the door closed, I was roused by the realization that in just a few seconds the door would open and Randy would take his turn with me. "Oh my god, I thought, my poor hole!" I dragged myself up, straightened the sheets, brushed my hair and began fixing my make up.

I had just finished my gloss when Randy opened the door a crack and asked politely "May I come in now?"

"Sure, just a sec," I said as I finished primping.

He sidled up behind me and began fondling my breasts.

"That feels nice," I said. I whirled round to face him, and looked up into his eyes, lips quivering. His bone strained against his boxers, the tip slipping through the flap at mouth level. Oh well, I thought, as I took it between my lips, my arms hugging his iron buttocks as I gazed admiringly upward past his buffed abs to his handsome face.

"That’s it, baby," he said.

Now as you know I do love to take it up the ass, but there is such a thing as too much of a good thing, and after a night and a half of unaccustomed action, mine was beyond sore.

Daylene’s sound advice had made me a confirmed condom user, but some of my dad’s scholarly journals had down-played the risk of AIDS transmission from oral sex, at least if there are no open sores on the genitalia and mouth. Randy’s tasty meat, freshly seasoned with pre-cum, made me thirsty for a full mouth and throat-full of his jism, and overcame my waning health concerns.

I slid my lips over his dick head a dozen times, and he forgot about anything else but entering my hot mouth and penetrating my throat. He pulled my head toward his groin, and I answered by cupping his rock-hard glutes and ramming his dick even farther down my throat. Soon I was dizzy from lack of breath and exertion, but as I began to swoon, I felt the mad rush of his pre-orgasmic frenzy, and then a hot bath of semen rushed down my esophagus. His cock yanked back clear of my lips and sprayed my face, neck and breasts with a stringy shower of cum, and I took the last droplets on my tongue as I squeezed his balls dry. "Yum," I said, smiling up at his handsome, satisfied face.

"Yum," he replied, slapping my tired cheek softly with his softening member.

I handed him a tissue and wiped his plentiful cream from my face and chest. "That was fantastic," he said.

I replied "Thank you, you’re wonderful too." I glanced at the clock. 1:30 a.m. "Oh my god, time for bed. Would you wake up Rick now, and bring me my robe and slippers?"

"At your service." Randy staggered back half carrying a slumbering Rick, whom he dumped unceremoniously in his rumpled bed. He slipped my slippers on my feet and helped me into my robe. "Meet us at Starbucks after math class tomorrow?"

"Order me a double shot non-fat two equal latte," I responded, knowing he would never get it right.

Then, to my shock, he embraced me and gave my still cummy mouth a most romantic kiss. "Sweet dreams," he said.

"You too," I replied.

The dorm was quiet, but it was not my bed time yet. I took a Valium and a boiling hot shower, flossed twice, brushed thrice, rubber-tipped, and gargled for 90 seconds with amber Listerine. I am a nut for hygiene, especially dental care.

Wrapped in my long thick robe, I went to my room and lay down in my bed. Aromas of Rick and our recent hot fuck surrounded me. It reminded me of what I had become: the love slave, and intellectual and spiritual guardian, of two big, strong, dumb jocks: hockey players, the craziest, most violent and most anglo of all jocks. Oh well, I thought, I always loved women’s Olympic skating.

On Friday mornings, Math 101 met in small groups. The TA’s returned Bloomberg’s pop quiz, to the groans and complaints of the class. Everyone had flunked, except me: I had gotten a perfect mark. The TA kept the class overtime for a grinding review session, drafting me as his involuntary tutor.

I was late to Starbucks, but my latte was still warm, and Rick and Randy were exultant. "Our whole fuckin’ classes flunked except us. We got 9 out of 10. Yur a fuckin’ genius. We’re sittin’ next to you for the rest of college."

"Wait a minute, it’s not going to work out like that. They’ll never let you copy the final, and besides, Math 101 is the only first year class I have. And if I let you cheat off me through Math 101, what happens in the next class?" They were stricken with fear.

"Look, studying’s not so bad. At least if you’re studying with me"

"Studying what?" asked Rick.

"What I tell you, from 9 till 11. After that, you’re in charge." I knew the prospect of a sexual reward would keep them from drinking and partying until midnight.

"It’s a deal for me," said Rick."

"Where do we meet?" asked Randy.

"See you at the research library at 9. Bring your math books." As I knocked back the creamy remains of my latte, and headed off to Chaucer, I complimented myself. God, I thought, I am a genius; I am perfect!

---

Next: Law and Order

This is a sometimes violent story with very raw sex scenes. If that's not what you want to read, please do not read this story.
The Greatest Lie
Chapter 5
Law and Order

WARNING! This story meant solely for adult audiences! It contains scenes of graphic sex and forcible rape described in first person narration by its transgendered, teenage protagonist. If you are not an adult, or if you find this type of material offensive, please stop reading, hit the back key or dispose of this file. You have been warned of the content. If you proceed neither the author nor the site host will be held responsible! This story is purely fictional. All resemblance to actual persons is coincidental.

The Greatest Lie

By Alexandra Rios

Chapter 5

Law and Order

Most of my classmates celebrated the first Saturday after the beginning of classes in hedonistic leisure, nursing hangovers and playing Frisbee on the Quad. But I spent the morning plotting my escape from this dangerous, macho dormitory, studying want ads and making appointments to look at studios on Hennepin to use for my independent study on "Behaviors of Transgendered Sex Workers". I made three appointments, identifying myself as Alexandra; after all, I would be occupying the apartment as a female tenant.

I showered and changed in Professor Finch's bathroom, gleefully anticipating the impressions we would make on my prospective landlord: Finch, the cheating middle aged man arranging a love nest for a girlfriend young enough to be his daughter. If only they knew: the truth was so much more scandalous. In keeping with the love nest scenario, I dressed and made myself up in the waif fashion. The months on heavy hormones, light diet and inadequate sleep made this look a natural for me.

Finch eyed me with astounded appreciation as I exited the bathroom. "Wow", he said, "You look like you walked right out of a fashion magazine."

"Thanks," I said. "May I make a phone call?" He handed me the phone eagerly and hovered, his eyes greedily taking me in.

I called the phone number the police detective had given me to inquire about the disposition of poor Daylene's remains. "What's the date of death and name of deceased?" droned the bored bureaucrat. I replied and there was a long pause, with a desultory shuffling of papers. Finally, the bureaucrat recited "Case Number 9063, African American Male, John Doe burial September 15."

Bitter tears of rage and regret filled my eyes. "You were supposed to notify me, and give me a chance to take possession of her remains. Detective Keyes promised me that."

More papers shuffled. "The investigating officers canceled secondary notification. After the next of kin declined, we were directed to make a John Doe disposition."

The vision of my lovely, lively Daylene buried alone, un-mourned, and as an anonymous male at first devastated me, and then energized me with rage.

"What’s the matter?" Finch inquired. In my trial interview for the Transgendered Sex Workers project, I had given him an edited version of my interlude with Daylene, emphasizing her role as the paradigm and inspiration of the project, rather than as a lost lover. Finch understood immediately, and was horrified. He suggested, with academic objectivity, that I add a new section of questions to our interviews: the degree to which the subjects had been subjected to discrimination or abuse by the police. God, if only you knew! I thought to myself.

I phoned Keyes, and he picked up his line. "Keyes here."

"This is Alex Rios. I'm the one who gave you the report on the Daylene Doe murder. I have a question about the case."

"In this business, we ask the questions. I've got nothing to tell you on a pending investigation."

"I'm not asking about your investigation. I'm calling about Daylene's remains. Did you tell the morgue not to call me after the family didn't claim her? You promised that you would notify at the number I gave you."

"Things changed. After investigating, I determined you were not an appropriate person to receive a secondary disposition of the remains."

"You mean you were investigating me, and not who murdered Daylene? That's disgusting."

"It didn't take much investigating to figure that you're one of her trannie streetwalker friends. That makes you part of the problem, not part of the solution, doesn't it. You'll be lucky we don't charge you. So don't call us, we'll call you. Get it?"

"Yeah, I got it," I said, hanging up.

I burned with rage and the desire for revenge against Keyes, and I desperately wanted to make it up to Daylene. A plan formed in my mind.

"Professor Finch, don't you think that this project would benefit from a little publicity on the street?"

"Depends on what kind."

"How about a memorial service and protest rally against police indifference to the safety of the transgendered population and incompetence in the investigation of Daylene's murder?"

"That sounds promising. Do you know how to organize it?"

"Not really, but I imagine the Gay, Lesbian and Transgendered Alliance does."

I phoned Jon and told him what had happened. "That’s unbelievable. I know you wanted her to have a real funeral. What happened?" He was incensed at Keyes’ inhumane treatment of Daylene and his insulting and discriminatory remarks to me.

As soon as we had rented a studio for the project, Finch drove me to meet Jon at the Alliance’s office. Jon also called in Brad Whitman, a third year law student who was to coordinate the legal outreach aspect of the program. We had been scheduled to talk about the package of legal services that the Alliance would be providing to the Transgendered community, but now Daylene dominated the conversation.

"The fucking cops, they just used me, and now Keyes is threatening me."

"Don’t worry about Keyes, he’s clueless, and got bigger problems than you on his hands. I’m more worried about you out on the street: it’s getting scary out there."

"I’m just going to be handing out information to the girls", I lied. Actually, I had much more interesting plans in mind.

Brad said "Did you know that Daylene was the second "T" murdered in the Twin Cities this year, and they found a third dead T dumped by the river two nights ago. A group called ‘Arm and Sword of the Lord’ claims responsibility. They proclaim they are ridding the community of spiritual pollutants, meaning, transsexuals."

My heart started pounding with fear. "Is this a serial killer or an organized massacre?"

Jon responded, "If the cops know, they’re not telling anyone."

"Does anyone know about this except us?" I asked.

"The cops do, but they’re not saying. They say it would hamper their investigation. So far, the press doesn’t care."

"We can use the memorial service to publicize the threat," Jon said. "That will get the streetwalkers aware of the problem, and maybe it will focus some press attention and put some pressure on the cops."

I began typing a handbill to distribute and post on Hennepin. Jon made some calls and rented an African American church near Hennepin for the following Saturday. Finch called a reporter he knew and arranged a meeting, and Jon left to pay the deposit on the church. As they set off, I sensed them looking warily at me, and Brad, alone at the Alliance office. Their feelings of jealousy and apprehension were palpable. And, as far as I was concerned, those feelings were entirely justified. Jon was a caring and sensitive lover, but he was gay. Finch was a brilliant and kind person, but he was a disaster in bed.

Brad had unexplored potential that I wanted desperately to investigate.

Brad hovered over my shoulder as I typed a handbill on the computer. We bickered jokingly over the wording. I felt the warmth of desire growing within me; did I sense warmth from within Brad? Was he peeking down my blouse as he squinted into the computer screen? Would he like to see more?

"God, my eyes and fingers are killing me. I have to take a break." I flopped suggestively on the nearby couch.

Brad took my place at the computer, and he pecked away energetically. "Don’t you think it would be better to say, ‘Join us as we celebrate Daylene’s life, mourn her death, and build a community in her memory.’"

"That’s great, but come sit with me. I need to talk about something else. I’m so stressed-out about this."

"OK," Brad said wearily, taking a chair opposite me. "Tell me about your ideas on the legal outreach. I like to write agitprop, but it’s the law that I’m really here for."

"Is law all you’re here for?"

"What else did you have in mind?"

"I’d like to know what’s on your mind. Like, how did you get interested in transsexuals?" I asked, batting my eyes suggestively.

"What makes you think I’m interested in transsexuals?" he replied warily.

"Isn’t that why you’re here?"

"No, I’m here to provide student legal services."

"And not to get to know me?"

"Sorry, but I’m just here to represent you as a client of me as a student legal counselor. Anything else is off limits, unethical."

I must have looked hurt, because he quickly added "Look, I’m not quite a lawyer, but the same rules apply. We’re not supposed to mess around with clients."

"Even if your client wants you to mess around?"

"Especially if the client wants to mess around!"

He reached across and clasped my hand chastely. "I really want to work with you, and I think you’re bright and beautiful and amazing, but we have to be strictly friends and colleagues, OK?"

"OK. And you’re not mad that I suggested, you know..."

"Allie, I’m flattered that you would think of it."

So that was that. We worked another couple of hours and Brad dropped me off at a Kinko’s to make copies of our handbill. He shook my hand and said good night, and left me alone to wait for the copies. Finch and Jon had nothing to worry about after all. And I had nothing to do on Saturday night.

Rick and Randy had dates with sorority girls. I knew that they had to go on dates with sorority girls or face social ostracism and suspicion, but I was jealous. Oh well, at least it demonstrated they were straight. Seeing Jon again was out of the question. He was probably planning a big night out with some new or old boyfriend. His gayness was really off-putting. Now from Brad, I faced for the first time as a girl what I had always feared as a boy: rejection.

I responded as I had always done before, by retreating into books. I went to the library and studied the rest of the day in solitude. Although I was still dressed in the girls’
clothes I had selected that morning, I attracted little attention: I looked like just another cute but studious coed. A big dose or Premarin, and the repeated challenge and success of solving problems from my physics book, gradually brought calm and confidence back to me.

I reflected with regret on my unrequited seduction of Brad. He had been so helpful and creative in drafting the handbill, and was so committed to providing legal help to the T-Girl community. I had responded to his enthusiasm by trying to get him to fuck me.

God, did I have to be a bedroom slut at every opportunity? How could I have been such an idiot? Now, despite what he had said, I felt I must have irreparably damaged my relationship with him.

Before I had transitioned to girlhood, I had never related to anyone sexually. Now, as a girl, I was relating to people exclusively sexually. I had adapted to the paradigm of ruthless male aggression toward attractive girls, by adopting the corresponding seductiveness of the stereotypic whore. I was objectifying all men as studs, even as I was being objectified as a sex object by the Ricks and Randys of the world. This was fine for guys like them, but for people like Brad, or even Finch, sexualizing the relationship had diminished, rather than enhanced it.

The problem was that I just loved to get fucked. As this overwhelming realization cascaded over me, my ass started tingling with a longing sensation. With no one available to satisfy me, I was drawn, as though magnetically, to the sidewalks of Hennepin Avenue.

The neighborhood that had seemed so dull and drab by daytime now glittered and throbbed with danger and excitement. I unlocked my new studio. To my delight, the drab and empty quarters had been thoroughly cleaned and made up; on the tiny kitchenette table, there was a bouquet of Sterling Silver lavender roses, with a card from Finch. "Allie, enjoy your new home/office. You are my favorite student." He had had his cleaning lady make up the bed, stock the refrigerator (OK, I know you can’t live on Pellegrino, but you can’t live without it either!) There were even some feminine soaps, shampoos, and towels in the bathroom. I freshened up, put a handful of handbills in my purse, and headed toward a corner where the T-Girls ruled the sidewalks.

Four sequined and gossamered figures arched their backs, pointed their silicone boobs and pirouetted to the passing traffic, in exaggerated, provocative poses. I approached a pouty-faced Asian girl, and asked, "Hi, do you remember me?"

"No bitch, who you?"

"Friend of Daylene’s."

"You mean the dead girl, you dead girl friend?"

"Yes. I hung out with her last summer."

"You work street with dead girl? Now you want work street with me?"

"Maybe later. Right now I want to help make the street safer for everyone." I handed her a handbill. She crumpled it up.

I looked hurt, and she looked at me angrily. "I no read your paper. I work now."

"I just wanted to invite you to a memorial service for Daylene. There will be some college kids there who want to help you with police, work and landlord hassles. And it will be a place to meet others like us in safety."

"Don’t want college kid help. Don’t want your help." Just then a car slowed down and a passenger window rolled down. I retreated to the shadows. I recognized the forest green Suburban. It was old Mr. Country Music, and Garth Brooks was still playing on his stereo. After a hurried conversation, the Asian girl got in and they drove off.

I handed out handbills to the other three girls who were working that block of Hennepin.

They were pleasantly surprised that college kids were taking an interest in their lives.

"I’m a college T girl, you know. Not all college kids are football players and cheerleaders."

"Why donch yu try out fir cheerleader," asked Tonya good-humoredly. Tonya was a long-limbed blond with fantastic silicone breasts. I liked her immediately.

"Actually, I’m more of a hockey fan, and there’s no place for cheerleaders on the ice."

Tonya, wisecracked, "Yeah, they have to suck cock in the penalty box."

I laughed "That sounds like a good idea to me!" Actually, as I applied this notion to Rick and Randy, it had possibilities, but I didn’t elaborate.

During breaks in the passing traffic, Tonya introduced me to her friends Karinna and Tran. Karinna was a Brazilian with a prominent silicone pumped bunda (Portuguese for ass), and Tran was a beautiful Amer-Vietnamese girl with a pretty face and oversized breast implants. They all had known Daylene and wanted to come to her memorial service.

They were excited to have someone to help them with their legal hassles. When I explained my project, they were eager to tell me their stories. "I wanta get my name changed," Karinna said excitedly.

"My name fine", said Tran. "I want change my sex," she giggled.

Traffic was starting to dwindle, and Tonya and Karinna suggested that we check out the scene at the Town House. "You meet lotta girls there", said Tran. "Lotta trannie chasers too."

I noticed that the first girl I had spoken to had not returned. "Do you know the girl in the high black boots? The one I was talking to before you?"

"That Gow," said Tran. "She Thai. She thinks she better than us. She real bitch."

"Do you think she’s OK?"

"She probably go home. She hate rest of us girls."

I scanned up and down Hennepin worriedly, but did not see her, or Mr. Country Music’s Suburban. Oh well, I thought, he had been OK with me: just not very polite.

The Town House was a drag bar near Hennepin. They didn’t card the T-girls, and so I got in with ease. Disco music thumped sensuously and strobes lit the sinuous bodies and glistening faces of the dancers exquisitely. I was both intimidated and entranced. There were scores of T-Girls in the bar, but they were vastly outnumbered by the men who were pursuing them. I hovered at a corner of the bar behind Tonya, Karinna and Tran, but they were all beckoned to the dance floor by suitors, and enthusiastically followed.

I was alone, and feeling very intimidated, when a large, muscular black guy approached me and said "Let’s dance." Without waiting for me to demur, he took my hand and led me to the overflowing floor. I noticed immediately that the other dancers gave my partner respectful distance as he bent my body through his well practiced moves. When I stumbled over his feet, and mumbled "Sorry", he said reassuringly "That’s OK baby, just follow my lead."

And I did. I twirled, spun and bent my body through the pulsating rhythms until my cheeks glowed with warmth and my breath was short. As he escorted me to a booth, Tran cupped her hand over my ear and whispered "That Bo, he best. And biggest!" She laughed excitedly for me.

Bo wasn’t exactly the world’s greatest conversationalist, but the few words he spoke were in a deep, dignified baritone. He was a huge, handsome, dark skinned African American. He had a massive, chiseled chin, high cheekbones, and soulful brown eyes.

His chest was broad, his arms thick with bulging muscles, and his legs massive. He bought me a glass of champagne. He gazed at me appreciatively, as he sipped his cognac.

The heat of the dance floor had made me thirsty, and I gulped the champagne too fast. In the midst or our next dance, my head was spinning, and I toppled helplessly into his arms. "I think I need to go home." He nodded and guided me to the exit. Through blurry eyes I saw Tran and Tonya giggling and waving goodnight.

The night had grown chilly and I shivered and sobered up quickly. Bo noticed me shivering in my spaghetti strap top and threw his leather jacket over my shoulders. I was simultaneously thrilled and chilled by my circumstances: alone at night with the hottest black stud on the trannie scene. My body wrestled briefly with my conscience, and my conscience succumbed. "Do you want to see my new place?" I asked innocently. "It’s just around the corner."

He nodded and took my hand. "I want you baby, I want to fuck your sweet little ass." I feigned surprise.

"I don’t usually do that with guys I don’t know."

"Do you know Mister Franklin?" he asked, showing me a fistful of hundreds.

"I know him, all right!" I replied. God, I loved getting paid for sex.

I let him into my new studio, and was pleased that he said "Nice place." It was tiny, but thanks to Finch’s cleaning lady, it looked fresh and neat.

Gesturing to the bed, I said "Make yourself comfortable." I grabbed lingerie and make-up from my still-packed bag and went to the toilet.

I was sweaty from the dance floor, and so I douched my tush and took a quick shower.

The douche worked quickly and I felt squeaky clean inside and out. I cleansed my face, applied a light coat of make-up to emphasize my youth and innocence, and put on a filmy nightie and panties. I was out of the toilet in ten minutes, and Bo lay naked on my bed, stroking his mighty cock. It was an ebony obelisk, rigid atop Bo’s imposing frame, which rippled with well toned muscles. "Baby, you’re beautiful. Come to poppa." I sleepwalked towards him, transfixed by the sight of his enormous penis.

Involuntarily, I bent down to suck it, but he pulled me up towards his face and crushed my lips in a breathtaking kiss, before guiding my head over his taught, washboard abs to his monstrous member. I gobbled it into my mouth and banged it against my tonsils, and realized to my amazement that a full handful was still outside my wide-stretched lips. He wasn’t big: he was huge. I enjoyed the feeling of giving him a hand and blow job at the same time even as I pondered the geometric implications on my slender hips and tight ass. It tingled with the expectation of pain followed by pleasure.

For it was my ass that he craved. My hot, wet mouth was only a warm up for him. He guided my head gently onto his cock, never pushing me to the gag point or pulling my hair. For all his size and power, Bo was a gentle and considerate lover. His long, strong arm circled around my back, and he stroked my hole with his thumb as his forefinger flicked my tiny cock like a clit. "Oh baby, I love your tight ass," he moaned, knowing his massive cock rendered me speechless. Gradually, he slipped his thumb through my ring, sending sensations of pain and ecstasy though me. He pulled his cock from my stretched and tired lips and said "I’m ready," and I obediently sat up and grabbed a condom and lubricant from my bag.

I slathered his steel-hard cock with lubricant and tried to slip the Trojan on. He was so large that the condom slipped off and wouldn’t unroll. Finally, I popped the unrolled condom between my lips, and steadying his cock in both hands, I pressed it on with my mouth, using my puckered lips to unroll the condom over the rim of his bulging cockhead. It slipped on, and his cock again banged alarmingly against my palate and the back of my throat. I felt an anticipatory flash of pain in my tummy.

I squirted a puddle of lubricant into his outstretched palm and he massaged it into my crack, slipping some into the outer ring of my ass as I let out an involuntary moan. I slathered on as much as would stay on the on his massive pole, which seemed to have grown even larger as a result of this gentle attention. I rolled onto Finch’s freshly laundered sheets, and Bo squished a pillow under my pelvis. "Be careful," I reminded him as he mounted my upturned buns.

His first stroke bounced off my rigid ring and slid down over my tiny, cowering cockette. "Oops", he said, abashed.

I reached back to steady and guide him into me. My fingers could barely circle his engorged cock. "Just a second, let me relax," I said, as I pressed my diaphragm down toward my rectum with all my strength. "Now," I said, and he pressed inward. His upward pressure met my downward thrust in a perfect moment, and he entered me.

For a few seconds, I was numb with shock, and then a wave of pain swept though me. I bit the pillow to suppress my cry, but I was shaking with fiery sensations. He pulled back a fraction of an inch, and then I could breath and speak again. "Slower please", I gasped, and he gave another gentle nudge forward, and again pulled back a fraction. Blinding pain again was succeeded by exquisite relief. Each new millimeter brought me to the brink of extinction, and back. Thirty careful strokes brought him inside me to the hilt.

Each gentle nudge and retraction had brought new heights of pain and vistas of relief and pleasure; but when his balls finally slapped against my ring, I felt as though my belly was about to burst. His cock was pressing against every organ inside me, and was penetrating me to my very heart. Tears welled in my eyes. With a cracking voice I said "God that feels great, but you’re huge, be gentle, don’t hurt me."

"Don’t worry, baby, I know what I’m doin." With that, he began a gradual gentle rocking motion. Every inch of my intestine rebelled against each entry and withdrawal, but as his rhythm steadied and strengthened, my body became an involuntary slave to his commanding motions. My juices began to flow inside me, and our bodies united in undulating waves that grew in intensity with each crash of his body against mine. As we rose and fell in unison, his movements became faster and more powerful, again overwhelming me.

With each thrust, the gentle, considerate lover gave way to a wild, barbaric animal. But by then, I had transformed from a frightened virgin to an insatiable nymphomaniac. Now, no gentle words passed his lips, and his mellifluous baritone gave way to a husky, breathy grunt. The unbridled power of his massive muscles was unleashed on my slender, soft body. He did not bother with a menagerie of different positions and rhythms. His was a straight and relentless doggy-style assault. His cock pounded relentlessly into my core, and I yielded enthusiastically to his extraordinary athleticism and endurance, crying out in wordless ecstasy. With each crushing downward thrust, I raised and opened myself, and with each rapid, wrenching extraction, I surrendered his precious tool, and readied myself for a new surrender.

I lapsed into replays of long forgotten fantasies. I was the mistress secluded southern plantation, whose slaves had rebelled after her confederate husband was killed in battle.

Now, it was the turn of the hulking, angry field hand from the cotton field to take revenge for the lashings of the slave master’s bull whip. "I’m sorry, I’m sorry", I moaned, escaping into an agonizing reverie that mirrored the animalistic fucking this black master was giving me in the here and now.

His fucking accelerated and became even more wild and violent, and I knew the end was near. Then came a wild animal cry and a prick-plunge that tore into me like a spear, bringing bright colors to my watering eyes, then a series of ten more like it, accompanied by wild grabbing at my breasts and cockette, and I knew he was cumming. Then, darkness descended over me.

I must have passed out from the ecstasy and the exertion, for I awoke under the crushing weight of Bo’s slumbering body. His softened cock was still stuck in the entrance to my bottom. Worried about a condom leak, I squeezed it out with a sharp pop of my rectum, and Bo groaned sleepily. "Wake up, I can’t breath" I whispered, and he rolled over and off of me. I slid out of bed to the bathroom. I peed and douched again. When I cleaned myself out, the liquid was pink with blood. I put neosporin on my sore hole, and then I washed Bo’s sweat off in the shower. When I emerged, he was half dressed and smiling.

"You’re the best yet," he said proudly. "You got the tightest, hottest ass in the Twin Cities."

I was a little hurt to be graded like a commodity, but that was Bo. "Thanks," I said. "You were great too."

"Gotta be getting home now," he said. It was 1:30. He gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Be see’in you later." He closed the door behind him, and suddenly, I felt very alone again.

I looked around the apartment and was relieved that Finch’s cleaning lady had left a spare set of sheets. I stripped the bed of the sweat stained sheets and put on fresh ones. I had no more pajamas, so I put back on the lingerie I had worn for Bo. As I was turning off the light to go to sleep, I noticed that Bo had left a pile of hundreds by the bed. I put it into my purse, and fell into an exhausted sleep. God, I thought, it was really great to get paid for sex. Especially, to get paid a lot.

The next morning I had arranged to join Rick and Randy for a Starbucks, and a study session. I arrived late, in girl’s clothes, and they welcomed me with jealous stares.

"Where were you last night?" Rick demanded inquisitorially.

"I knew you were fully occupied, so I stayed over at a friend’s place," I said vaguely.

"Who’s that?" asked Randy insistently.

"If you must know, my advisor on my independent study has a spare apartment. He’s letting me use it when I can’t stand the dorm anymore. I thought you had dates, anyhow. How did you have time to spy on me?"

It turned out that Rick had actually used my bedroom with his date, while Randy entertained his in their shared room. "Oh great," I said sardonically. "Not only do I have to share you with every girl in the Tri Delt house, I have be their hostess as well."

Rick beckoned me for a whispered confidence, and Randy crowded in. "You know we like you a million times better than regular girls."

"Yeah, we just have to keep up appearances. You’re a lot nicer, a lot smarter, and..."

"A lot tighter," they both agreed, giving my butt a gentle squeeze.

And I like you better than Bo, I said silently to myself. But I bit my tongue.

"It’s so nice to be appreciated. But how do I fit in? Am I just your weekday tutor, and your weeknight fuck?"

"We’ll start taking you out to do stuff," Rick said to placate me.

"You can come to a hockey practice, and watch us play if we make the team," Randy promised. That promise reminded all of us that our plan was to study.

"So where is this apartment? Can we go there for study hall?"

There were only two chairs in the tiny kitchenette. Someone would have to spread out on the bed. "OK, " I agreed, knowing that it would be me.

So we studied there for hours. Rick and Randy weren’t stupid; they were average: just coddled jocks whose path had been greased through high school by powerful coaches and subservient teachers. With my attentive guidance, and the promise of a pleasant reward at the end of their studies, they tried hard and learned quickly. When our agreed upon study hall was over, I submitted to a fantastic orgy at their increasingly expert hands.

They left me sore and exhausted in a rumpled bed as they went to a team workout.

With my help, I realized, they would make their grades and make the hockey squad.

They would become campus and media darlings, and graduate to become the country-clubbed, connected grand bourgeoisie. They would get the fast track jobs at the Fortune 100, and live in the big houses in Edina with beautiful, lazy wives and adorable, soccer playing children. In the meantime, I was rescuing them from alcoholic and academic oblivion, and making this possible for them. Where did I fit in this world?

Or did I belong in the world of Bo, Tran, Tonya and Karinna?

I translated 3 more Canterbury Tales, and it was dark. I returned to the Town House and ordered a fruit salad, hoping for a friendly face to relieve my depression. I was rewarded with welcome company: Tran hugged me and giggled excitedly. "Mr. Bo, I hear he like you. What he give you?" I hadn’t yet counted the pile of cash on my bedstead, so I opened my purse to look: it was $300. "Oh, Mr. Bo, he like you a lot. He like you more than me. Now I hate you."

"Please don’t desert me, Tran. I need you."

"I kidding. But jealous."

"Tell me where Bo gets his money."

"From drugs. He biggest crack dealer in Twin City. Lotta people work for him. Be careful of that Bo. He rich and sexy, but he danger. He no like you, he chill you out, like that." She snapped her fingers.

Great, I thought: my new boyfriend, the homicidal king-pin drug dealer. That could come in handy: or, not! "Tran, I’m worried no one will come to the service for Daylene. What can we do?"

"Give me more paper, I gave all other paper away. We can leave more at Town House."

"Do you know the bouncers and bartenders?"

"Of course. Knew Daylene, too. They sorry about Daylene."

"Will you introduce me?"

"Of course, they like you. They like pretty T-Girl at Town House. But no hooking at bar!" she jokingly commanded.

Tran introduced me, and not only did the bartender agree to have the bouncer distribute handbills, the owner replaced the marquee. Now, instead of "Moulin Rouge Review, Wed. and Sun. Nites 11 pm," it read "Mem. Serv. Daylene, Sat., 4 pm at 1st Afr, Bapt.Ch."

Tran insisted on picking up more handbills from my apartment, and she cooed appreciatively. "You a rich college girl. You lucky." I gave her a warm smile and a hug.

Her round silicone breasts brushed me and I kissed her cheek to cheek. "Just lucky to have friends like you." She said goodbye and flounced down Hennepin.

And, I reflected, maybe I was lucky. Just as Rick and Randy had come to cherish and protect me in the daylight world of campus, so would Bo in the dark and dangerous netherworld of Hennepin. Brad, Peter and Jon would become the guardians of my social agenda and my academic ambition. Tran had become my confidante and ally in the T- Girl community. Although I was stuck between two worlds, and two genders, I had found friendship and support in both. If only I could find a way to merge them!

I stopped at the Alliance’s office to leave notes for Jon and Brad about the progress on publicizing the Memorial Service. There was a note from Brad to me asking me to meet him, he had an assignment for me. Flattered, I went to the Law School and was directed to the Law Review Office, where he was an editor. "Professor Epstein is going to speak on Transgendered Rights at the memorial service. Finch got him. Now, he’s assigned me to write his speech for Daylene’s service. I haven’t got a clue, so I’m counting on you." He handed me a rough manuscript entitled "Is Prostitution Protected Speech?"

"He told me to work from this. Read it over and get back to me tomorrow with your ideas."

I was flabbergasted and flattered. "You know I’m only a freshman?"

"Allie, you’re already smarter than most of the second year law students I supervise here. I trust you. Meet me here at 4:00 tomorrow; we meet with Epstein at 5:30."

"Can I work here?"

"Sure. There are law students here most of the night."

"Can you do me a favor?"

"OK, what?"

"Can you get me a change of clothes and my toilet kit from my dorm? It’s room 503."

"Sure, what do you want to wear?"

"Boys’ clothes. In class, I’m still Alex."

What I really needed was the Premarin and speed in the toilet kit. Brad returned as I was in the midst of the first read through of "Protected Speech?" The draft was covered with scribbled comments, looping, wild inserts carrying around the margins, and emphatic deletions.

"Whose draft, and whose notes?"

"Mine, and Epstein’s"

"Wow, he’s a tough critic!"

"That’s putting it mildly. Welcome to the world of law professors. Good luck. Planning to stay late?"

"All night, if I need to."

"Too bad for your boyfriends over at the dorm. They were already pining after you."

I blushed. "They’ll be fine."

"Sure. Separation makes the heart grow fonder. Leave a copy of your draft on my desk. Good night."

As I read Epstein and Whitman’s wildly imaginative hypothesis, I made the connection that prostitution, as the free expression of transgendered identity, was a First Amendment right. I began typing furiously:

A person’s gender identity was at the core of being, and expression of that identity was a core component of that person’s basic right to communicate. Thus, abridgment of that right is not only cruel and inhumane, but in violation of the First Amendment.

Free speech may be restricted where it poses a clear and present danger, but in our society expressions of majority sexual identity are widely tolerated. Think of Elvis, or of Cassanova, of Madonna and Marilyn Monroe. If there is no Constitutional justification for curbing expression of typical male and female identities, there can be none for curbing expression of transsexual identity. Indeed, since there is widespread discomfort in the public with transsexual expressions, the imposition of restrictions on transsexual behavior evidences an abusive exercise of majority tastes at the expense of the freedom of expression of the minority transsexual population. The protection of minority expression from the censorship of the majority is the highest calling of the First Amendment! Discrimination against transsexuals is especially intolerable since both municipal and Minnesota state law protect gender minorities. These protections extend to people of one genetic gender who identify with or take on the other genetic gender. Minnesota Statutes chapter 363 Subd. 41a provides that "Sexual orientation means ... having or being perceived as having a self-image or identity not traditionally associated with one's biological maleness or femaleness." The defining characteristic of the transsexual is being perceived to have or having a self-image or identity not traditionally associated with biological gender. Thus, expression of transsexual identity is specifically protected in Minnesota.

Section 363.03 prohibits discrimination based on sexual orientation in employment, housing, education, and public services and accommodation and thus forbids discrimination in these areas against transsexuals. Yet discrimination against transsexuals in all of these areas is widespread and tolerated. Employers refuse to hire, landlords refuse to rent, the police harass and demean, and the public, gay and straight alike, marginalizes and demeans the transsexual minority. Denied mainstream jobs, they find work on our streets, where they are ridiculed, harassed and assaulted.

Transgendered populations suffer more crime victimization in virtually all categories of crime, ranging from assault, to rape and now serial murder: statistics indicate that they are murdered at 160 times the rate of the general population. As perpetrators, their crimes are nearly always status and vice crimes: soliciting prostitution, vagrancy, and drug possession. But the police adopt a confrontational and abusive stance to our transgendered population. The police rigorously enforce victimless crimes laws, while most crimes against transsexuals are not competently investigated, much less punished.

Now, the police investigation of a string of serial murders of transsexuals languishes, without serious investigation. How many of you have even been interviewed about the circumstances of Daylene’s abduction and murder, which was preceded by a another similar crime and now has been followed with another. Apathy and contempt have taken root, flourished and bred a domestic holocaust against our most vulnerable gender minority, which the police--which we all--have ignored and therefore tolerated.

It is time to redress a generation of neglect and hostility, to enforce our laws and Constitution, and to permit this minority to give voice to their expression of gender and identity. It is time for the gender community to unite and demand its rights under the Constitution, the Minnesota laws and its time for the rest of us to demand justice and freedom on their behalf.

I looked up from the computer screen at last, and beheld a gorgeous pink sunrise. I had worked through the night. There was a shower in the law review office, for workaholic law students to keep up appearances. I showered, dressed and trudged wearily to Starbucks for my morning latte: then off to Math 101. It seemed trivial beyond belief. I had glimpsed destiny through a computer screen.

Rick and Randy were furious and suspicious. "What’s your excuse this time?"

I pulled off my Raybans to reveal my red rimmed eyes. "I had to pull an all-nighter on my independent study."

They were satisfied, and even sympathetic. "You look like you need a Starbucks."

"Sure, let’s go", I said, silently thinking that I needed something stronger. I popped the last of my Black Beauties, secure in the knowledge that Bo offered an unlimited source of amphetamine re-supply.

I buzzed through the rest of the day to my 4:00 with Brad. We picked and quibbled over my manuscript for an hour or so, before Brad finally pronounced himself satisfied, gulped nervously, and grimly said "Oh well, time to see Epstein."

Professor Epstein let us into his cluttered office, and gestured us to sit. I gingerly removed a stack of files from a chair and sat. Epstein grimaced and pulled at his tangled curly hair, as he read, occasionally grunting, "Yes, yes, good," and then glaring at me and saying accusatorily, "That municipal code was not in my draft." I exchanged nervous glances with Whitman. Finally, Epstein cleared his throat and said "Rios, I gather this draft is primarily yours."

"Yes, well, I started with the 'Protected Speech' manuscript, and tried to draw analogies to gender rights..."

Epstein interrupted "And an excellent job you did. Why, if the dunces in my Constitutional Law class reached one tenth of the level of your analysis, I’d have to pass them all." He guffawed at his own joke. "You’re an undergraduate?"

"A freshman, actually."

"Well, you’re wasting your time on that. You will take my ‘Majority Rules, Minority Rights" seminar at the law school next semester. I’ll speak with the undergraduate dean about an appropriate credit arrangement." I gathered it was more than an invitation.

"Now, when Finch described you, he said you were actually transitioned. Why the male attire?"

"The Admissions and Scholarship Committees admitted me as a male. I’m worried that coming out might cost me my scholarship or even my admission. It’s terrible, switching back and forth. And the dormitory situation is a nightmare."

"Enough said. I will be writing the Dean of Students that he is to change your admission status and housing arrangements to gender-appropriate status immediately, and without prejudice to your scholarship and financial aid status. If he hesitates, Mr. Whitman and I will be pleased to file a mandamus action on your behalf, pro bono of course. But then again, you have already written our brief. Well done, Rios."

Of course, that praise did not mean that Epstein did not send Brad and me back to the computer for repeated rounds of revisions. As Brad explained it, all great lawyers were perfectionists. And so, as you know, am I.

I hate the beginning of a party. I am always nervous that no one will come, or that those who do will hate it and leave. Thus, I felt awkward and inadequate as I stood around with Jon, Finch, and Reverend Alpha Jones of the First African Baptist Church in front of a room full of empty folding chairs. As guests began to arrive, nervous idleness was replaced by frenetic activity, as I charged around handing out fliers, information, and called to remind Epstein where and when he was to arrive.

Naturally, he insisted on reading me a new conclusion that he had just written. I told him that I wasn’t sure how the Reverend would take to the prostitution as free expression argument from the pulpit of his church, although I though the audience would respond favorably. He told me that he would have to think about it: "Never forget, Rios, that compromise in the expression of an important idea is the first step on the road to tyranny! Take not one step back!" he thundered.

I made my way to the front of the church, and saw the place was packed to the rafters. Tran, Tonya and Karinna, looking elegant and pious, waved excitedly. Bo sat behind them with several of his tough looking crew. And in the back, keeping a bored, skeptical vigil over about two hundred transsexuals and drag queens, sat Detective Keyes and two plainclothes cops.

Reverend Jones gave a moving funeral address and called upon the community to remember Daylene through their actions as he had through his words. I introduced Brad Whitman as the law school liaison for the Transgendered Community, we made a few announcements concerning the joint Alliance, Sociology Department and Law School outreach project, and asked for the T-Girls to participate in a research study of the community. Then, Epstein rose and delivered the speech we had prepared in the blistering style of a trial lawyer’s closing statement. I watched appreciatively as Keyes squirmed in his seat.

But Epstein surprised me with his conclusion. The last nail he pounded in his indictment of the police was fresh from the police blotter. The police had just disclosed, almost a week after the fact, the gruesome discovery of another murdered transsexual, an Asian of unknown origin.

It had to be Gow! And I knew who had done it. I was the last person to see her alive! The question was, had he seen me in the shadows? Did he remember me? Was he looking for me now?

I couldn’t enjoy the reception that followed the service. I felt too nauseous for lemonade and cookies. I approached Keyes and told him that I would like to identify the body, that I might have information. "Look, I don’t need you mucking up another investigation."

"I think it might just be part of the same investigation."

"Leave police work to the police, you little busybody. I don’t appreciate public agitation against my Department. Fuck with me, and I’ll fuck with you. But, as you like it. Meet me at the morgue at six."

I arrived promptly, and Keyes kept me waiting an hour as I fidgeted nervously.

Gow’s face, like Daylene’s looked almost peaceful, as if she had welcomed the end.

"So do you know her or not?"

"I was talking to her when she picked up her last date on Saturday night. I hung around for another hour or so, and no one saw her again that night."

"What were you doing out on the street?"

"What difference does it make to you? I saw the last car she got into. It was a forest green Suburban with a Minnesota plate. He was a blond, mustachioed white guy playing country music."

"You just described half of the population."

"I’d know him if I saw him. I got a good look." I couldn’t tell Keyes how good a look I got last summer, so I left that out. "I can’t find him, but he could find me."

"How do you mean?"

"Put me out on the street, like one of your decoy operations."

"How do you know he’ll go for you?"

"Well, I am pretty cute, if you hadn’t noticed. And I think he may have spotted me."

"OK, I’ll put you out on the street. We’ll keep an eye on you."

"And you’re not going to bust me for solicitation."

"No, we don’t bust our CI’s."

"When are we going to start?"

"How about tonight. You’re so eager to save the world."

"I’ll be here at ten. Dressed for the part."

I called Tran and told her my plan. "You crazy girl. Why trust that scumbag cop?"

"I don’t, but who else is going to arrest the guy. For all I know he’ll come after me. He picked me up last summer."

"You fuck this guy already? Then why he kill Daylene and Gow for being trannies?"

I told her about my tampax trick. "Oh, you very smart girl. Maybe someday you outsmart yourself."

I was worried that she had a point. "Tran, help me get ready, and stay with me please."

Tran dolled me up expertly. Her mom had had a beauty salon, and her make-up and hair styling skills made me look fabulous, even for me. She shared some strappy shoes, a low cut dress, and a pink fake fur jacket "to keep me warm and make me hot."

I tottered out to Hennepin and took a spot where Gow had taken the ride to her doom. I spotted unmarked police cars facing both ways, waiting to pursue. I drew a lot of attention, but I demanded fees that were outrageous even for so tasty a treat as I. I had only one trick to turn, and, at around 11:00, it turned down Hennepin and stopped. The window rolled down, and I heard the wailing of a Garth Brooks CD. "Hi stranger, long time," I said seductively. "What’ll it be?" He looked surprised when he recognized me.

"What are you doing here?"

"Same as last time, just like you," I said, hopping in.

He pulled away from the curb, looking disconcerted.

"When I, when we, ah, I thought you were a real girl."

"Depends on what you mean. I am really a girl on the inside."

"But you..."

"If it helped you enjoy yourself, it was a good thing."

His face hardened, and he began driving faster. I noticed that he had driven past the lover’s lane that we had used last summer.

"Where are you taking me?"

"I am taking you to the place that you have chosen for yourself. When you change the body that God gave you, when you seduce other men into unnatural acts with trickery, guile, and trick them into performing the abominable act, you are the devil’s child. When you fill your body with poison, and you poison the world around you with your sexual displays, you are doing the devil’s work. I am a child of God’s, and you have besmirched me with your sinful body. You must now face God’s punishment." He pulled the Suburban off the road, switched into four wheel drive, and plunged toward the river.

He grabbed me by the hair and threw me on the ground. I felt a silken chord circle my throat, and tighten. "In the name of the Lord, I sacrifice this child of Satan. As the demon’s soul is cast to hellfire, uplift my soul to heaven." He pinned me down by sitting on my chest as he gradually tightened the chord around my throat. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breath, and all I could see was this moron’s ugly mouth reciting this sick mantra, and the twinkling stars above mocking me. I closed my eyes and let myself drift toward death. First sound, then sight, then feeling, and then the smell of the Mississippi receded, and I was left alone with the flickering light of my consciousness gradually dimming. I was dying, but at least I was dying as a girl who had tried to do the right thing.

But death was not what I expected. It announced itself with three loud bangs.

The slamming of the doors of hell? Then I felt wet lips on mine and warm, wet air fill my lungs. I felt a slap on my face and heard the insistent calling of my name. I looked up and saw the familiar face of Bo, breathing into my mouth and in between breaths, calling my name. I was alive. And beside me, with three bullets in his brain, lay Mr. Country Music.

I never did figure out if Keyes had planned to let Country Music kill me before making his bust. He said it was accidental, the result of insufficient planning. Of course, Bo, who had been tipped off by Tran, managed to track us to the killing ground and beat Country Music to the trigger. When the police finally searched his place in Fargo, they found Polaroids of seven dead T-Girls: the four from Minneapolis and one each from New York, Chicago and LA. I would have been number eight.

I was up all night with the cops, giving statements and answering questions. I barely staggered into Starbucks in time for my morning latte with Rick and Randy.

"OK," demanded Rick "Let’s hear your excuse this time." Oh god, please, I thought, don’t get me started.

---

Next: Law and Order

This is a sometimes violent story with very raw sex scenes. If that's not what you want to read, please do not read this story.

The Greatest Lie
Chapter 6

Alex flirts with death again but her life begins to turn around. It's just possible she can really have what she's always wanted. If she survives.
Babes in Gangland
by Alexandra Rios

WARNING! This story meant solely for adult audiences! It contains scenes of graphic sex and forcible rape described in first person narration by its transgendered, teenage protagonist. If you are not an adult, or if you find this type of material offensive, please stop reading, hit the back key or dispose of this file. You have been warned of the content. If you proceed neither the author nor the site host will be held responsible! This story is purely fictional. All resemblance to actual persons is coincidental.

The Greatest Lie

By Alexandra Rios

Chapter 6

Babes in Gangland

In my rare moments of leisure in the weeks following my close encounter with death, I had had little opportunity to talk about it. Of course, the police had asked perfunctory questions, and I had testified at the coroner's inquest, but until my next appointment with Dr. Erika Wright, I had not verbalized the anxiety that gripped me whenever my frenetic schedule gave me time to think. The slow spiral toward death, the flickering lights of my failing consciousness, the sensation of surrender, and the thunderclaps that roused me from my sleep replayed in an endless loop, which I noticed only when life's everyday distractions receded.

"Were you happy when you thought you were dying?" Dr. Wright asked.

"Not happy or sad. Just, somehow, fulfilled and accepting."

"Why were you prepared to accept death?"

"It wasn't like that. It was, like, death was accepting me. And then it cast me back."

"Weren't you happy when you realized you were saved?"

"I didn't want to die. But was I happy? Am I happy now? Not really happy, for I have faced and accepted death, and now realize I will someday have to face and accept it again."

"Try thinking of it this way. Although you have to face death twice, you have, in a way, lived two lives."

"My life isn't that much different. I'm still living in this schizo world, where half the time I'm a boy and half the time, a girl. Is that what you mean by two lives?"

"No, I mean that from now on, if you want, you can start living as a girl. Your dedication to the community and your heroics on its behalf have completely turned me around on that. I am going to make your transition as easy as possible for you."

"Really? Like getting me out of the dorm? Epstein says he'll sue if he has to."

"I've already written the letter. You'll be getting a housing voucher and a meal allowance in lieu of the dorm fees."

The prospect of unlimited, subsidized lattes cheered me instantly. "How about registering as a girl?"

"I'll support that, too, but, there are some mechanics to consider. I think your transition would be a lot smoother if you changed your registration status between semesters. If you do it now, it will be a very public event before a largely unknown audience. The reaction could be unpredictable, or even dangerous."

She was right. I already got bad vibes from the Christian Fundamentalist crowd.

But it could get worse.

"But won't people recognize me next semester?"

"You could make some changes in your appearance. A different haircut or color..."

"Or maybe a boob job?" I asked, glancing admiringly at her beautiful breasts.

"If that's what you want." I nodded enthusiastically.

"But you really have to talk this over with your parents. And it can't wait. It has to be right away, if we are going to start this process now."

"God, that's going to be so bad. My father is such a jerk about this."

"He's a highly educated scientist. Surely he'll understand."

"Underneath it all, he's a macho traditionalist. He's from one of the wealthiest families in Chile. He can trace his lineage back to the Conquistadors. He was in med school at USC when all hell broke loose in '71, you know, Pinochet and Allende. Half his family disappeared, while the other half were running the death squads. Naturally, he never went back. He met my Swedish mother at a foreign students' dance at SC, and after she got her Ph.D., they got married and had me. He's a fellow at UCLA's med school now, and was on the team that isolated HIV. My mom's an authority on child development. I'm the only child, and they have big ambitions for me. As a son."

"And your mom?"

"She found me cross-dressing at home early on. She didn't do anything about it, and now she's part of the problem, according to my dad. Of course, he thinks it's mostly my fault, and of course, not at all his. My Mom is on the 'nurture' vs. 'nature' side, so she feels really guilty. But I don't think it's anyone's fault: I'm just what I was meant to be."

"You're right. Tell them that. You didn't have any trouble coming out to me."

* * *

She was right, I knew. I had to face the wrath of Daddy, and the guilt of Mom.

Oh well, after all the shit that had passed between us, what was the difference? I studied late, calculated the time difference, and phoned my parents place in Lucerne in the Swiss morning, Minneapolis night. My mom answered. We exchanged pleasantries, and she enthused about my summer school "A's". I waited for the moment to break in with my difficult message. She beat me to the punch.

"Allie" (I love it when she calls me Allie), I have some bad news. Your father and I have separated."

I stifled a rush of enthusiasm, and asked "Did he leave you? When, why?" I heard sobbing over the phone.

"Soon after we got here. One of his graduate students from UCLA was already here. He started seeing her right away. It must have been going on last year in LA. I'm such an idiot."

"Mom, I'm so sorry. I know I was a handful last year."

"It's not your fault. She's the most recent of many. But this one he seems serious about. He sent me legal papers from a lawyer in California."

"Divorce papers?" I asked incredulously.

"I don't know. I haven't read them. How can I even find a divorce lawyer from here?"

"Fax a copy to me." I gave her the fax number at the Law Review. "I have a law student friend who can look at them. I'm sure he can find you a lawyer."

We commiserated about what an unfeeling rat my father was, and bonded our shared suffering at his often cutting remarks. After we became sufficiently intimate, I said "I need to tell you something. Do you remember last winter when you said you thought I would grow out of my feminine phase?"

"Yes, and that terrible incident at that Prom dance. I know we should have gotten you therapy, but I didn't push the issue. I was worried how your father would react. Why, darling?."

"Mom, I'm in therapy now, but I'm not really growing out of it. I'm growing into it."

"I noticed that you sounded more girlish than when we last talked. Are you taking those hormones again?"

"Mom, I'm sorry, I never could really stop. I don't want to turn into a man. I want to be a woman."

"Do you really? Why?"

"My therapist says she thinks I'm transsexual."

There was silence on the other end. After a moment, I said, "Mom, are you still there?"

She cleared her throat huskily. "That's okay, I'll always love you, no matter what."

"I'll always love you, too. Do you really mean it? Can you accept me as a girl?"

"You'll always be my baby. I'll love you the same no matter what."

I felt a wave of joy and relief wash over me. Dr. Wright had been right. "Have you told your father?"

"No. How could I? He's either going to kill me or cut me off? Could you...?"

"I can't tell you for him. He'll just blame me and attack me as a parent and a wife. I've taken enough of that. You have to call him, take responsibility yourself, and make him take his share as well."

She gave me his phone number. Oh well, I thought, that went pretty well. Now, it didn't really matter what dad said.

A female voice answered the phone at dad's apartment, "Bonjour."

"Bonjour. Puis-je parle avec mon pere?"

"Certainement." She called out to the distance. "Hector, c'est ta jeune fille."

"Impossible, je n'ai pas une jeune fille." He took the phone and continued in English. "Alex, is that you fucking around again?"

"That's not a very friendly greeting. Thanks for telling me you dumped mom. Aren't you going to introduce me to your little French whore?"

"Listen, you little jerk. I am sick of you and your effeminate ways, and your mother's babying of you. You are turning out to be a child I am really ashamed of. I left your mom to get shut of the both of you, and let me emphasize the you."

This verbal assault left me momentarily speechless, but I regained my voice.

"Well, then, I guess you won't care that I am transitioning to full time female gender. I'm a transsexual, and I'm proud of it. I'd much rather grow up to be a woman than a egotistic, Don Juan asshole like you."

"I always knew there was something wrong with you. I'm am going to get out of your life, and you and your mom can stay out of mine. I just got appointed head of a pharmaceutical research institute in Lucerne, and I'm staying here with Isabel. You and your mother can have each other, and everything in California. As far as I'm concerned, you can be whatever you want. I just don't want to hear about it anymore."

"Have a nice life, dad." He hung up.

I called my mother and reported. "You know, it's going to be hard. My book's not done, and I really don't have very much to live on. I need to finish the book, and then get back to California and find work."

"Don't worry, mom. I'll be fine with money. My therapist says if you'll write your consent, the University will give me a housing and meals stipend in lieu of my dormitory, re-register me as a girl and let me keep my scholarship as long as I keep my grades up."

"I know I don't need to worry about that. Of course, I'll write my consent. I want to support you in any way I can, Allie."

Except financially, I thought bitterly, but did not say. My mom has super expensive tastes, and now she wouldn't have my dad's income to support them. I wasn't worried. Before she hung up, she asked "By the way. What's your size? I can't wait to start shopping for you." At least I would have lots of feminine clothing and accessories coming now. Between that, the housing and meals stipend, and the money that Finch had put into the apartment and the housing money from the scholarship, I would be better off.

Besides, I had ways of supplementing my cash flow.

I called Dr. Wright and reported on my talks. "I'm really disappointed in your father," she said. "I'd like to write him a letter reminding him of his responsibility as the parent of a transsexual. You have taken responsibility for re-shaping your own life and are taking responsibility far beyond your years in your adopted gender. I think you're terrific. If you were my child, I would be proud of you."

"I don't really care what he thinks. Now, he's just another jerky guy to me."

* * *

I moved out of the dorm and into my studio full time. Rick and Randy were sad to see me leave. "Look, I'll miss you, too, but there are too many nosy prudes around here. Both you and I are safer here. And it's not that far!"

"Too far to walk over in the middle of the night," Randy complained.

"You are going to have to plan in advance. You could even ask me to do something other than study, drink coffee or have sex."

Actually, I was getting too busy to do much else. The memorial service and my role in killing off the Hennepin Avenue Strangler had made me an instant celebrity in the T-Girl community, and soon I was interviewing five T-Girls a week. I asked about their early gender orientation, gender awakening, peer and family reaction and relationships, sexual history, current sexual activity, history of hormone use, surgical interventions, commercial sex experience, housing, employment, educational and police harassment and discrimination. Most of the girls I talked to seemed pleased with the changes that they had made to their lives and bodies, even though almost everyone had suffered rejection, discrimination, humiliation and harassment from all quarters: families, employers, landlords, cops and clients. Their stories were varied blends of romance, comedy and tragedy, and hearing them made me feel lucky to be me. With each interview, I felt as though I had gotten to know myself better.

Now, the school semester was whirling by. I had all of these T-Girl interviews, I had to keep Rick and Randy afloat in their classes, and I had to do my own course work, most of which was in advanced courses. Finch was demanding, but ecstatic with the fast results of our research. Rick and Randy had the best grades on the hockey team, and they made the second varsity line. Whitman was overwhelmed with new cases of T-Girl, and Epstein was thrilled with the steady stream of transgendered clients on whose behalf his law school interns could demand and sue. I had more responsibilities than hours to fulfill them, and I ran out of my favorite study aid and morale booster, black beauties. So I decided to pay a call on Bo.

I hadn't seen Bo since the night that he had chilled my country music assailant.

Tran had told me that the word on the street was that cops were hassling his drug dealing operation more since his heroics had saved me, at the expense of embarrassing the cops.

I felt guilty and responsible, since my decisions had put me in the position where I had needed him. As his power had momentarily slipped, a gang of Mexican dealers had risen to compete. There had already been drive-by shootings on the streets near Hennepin.

"Bo a nice guy but he hard! And I don't mean just his cock. You be careful with him!" Tran advised.

I went both to cop some speed, and to pay homage and please him. So I took special care to look as appealing as I could. I wore a tight fitting camisole top which accentuated my slender arms and small and pointed but jiggly school girl breasts. My jeans were the tightest ones I could fit into. Now that I was off campus, I could wear more make up. I looked fantastic as I went to my rendezvous.

Bo's safe house was filled with gun toting bodyguards. "Baby, you look nice." Bo always called me baby. "Come here," he said, patting the couch next to him. He was dressed like a successful urban businessman, which was, in a sense, what he was. He wrapped his massive arm around my slender torso and gave my breast a gentle squeeze. I smiled submissively. His crew was scary and sleazy, but Bo was like a benevolent black god. "So you need some uppers? You know what they say, ‘speed kills!'"

"Right now, it's school that's killing me."

"Well, I got just what the doctor ordered." He gestured to one of his praetorians.

"Get that stuff from the pharmacy job." The capo returned with a large bottle labeled "Desoxyn". "These look like what you like? Straight off the pharmacy shelf."

There were easily 250 orange and brown capsules of Desoxyn. "I special ordered these for you". With a wave, he dispatched his attendants from the room, and unzipped his fly. "And here is something else special for you," he chortled, as he gently guided my head down to suck the big black cock that protruded through the fly of his boxers.

I know some girls dread the taste of cum in their mouths, but I love it. I like best the wispy taste of fresh precum on my tongue: its fresh salty flavor is like the first scent of the ocean on a coastal breeze: it delicately foreshadows the stormy seas that soon will follow. I bobbed my silken lips obediently over his stiff ebony shaft. Its girth fatigued my puckered lips and cheeks. Soon, he was thrusting his mighty thighs to ram his cock even harder against my palate. My mouth was so stretched and tired it ached, and I tried to break free to ask him to take my ass instead. But his fingers were entwined in my hair and his grip was as relentless as his thighs.

I could tell he was getting close, so I closed my watering eyes and let him bang my head up and down his swollen, throbbing member. Then, he speared my throat with a final paroxysm and exploded with aromatic seed that filled me from my tummy to my sinuses. I kept sucking, and squeezing his golf ball-sized testicles, to extract the last droplets, which I rubbed on my bruised and swollen lips, like a gloss. I looked up at him admiringly, and as he closed his eyes I thought of him as a slumbering barbarian god and me as his supplicant. I cleaned his still huge, but now flaccid penis thoroughly with my tired mouth, and then rose to brush my teeth and freshen my makeup.

When I emerged, Bo had revived and dressed. He said "Baby, I gotta ask you to do something for me. I need you to go see a one of my bros."

This sounded ominous. "To see him and what else?"

"Whatever the bro says. You're so sweet, I got to share."

"I don't want to be pimped by you, Bo. I thought I was your baby, not your whore."

"It's not like that. He won't be paying you. I had a misunderstanding with my bro Carlos, and I want to send him something special to make it right."

"And so you're sending him, me? That doesn't exactly make me feel very special. It makes me feel like a piece of merchandise."

"Come on, baby. It's important for me. And after all I done for you, you should be happy to help out."

I didn't really have much of a choice. He was laying on the guilt, and with Bo's henchman Croc standing behind me, there wasn't any real exit available. "Just to prove I'm not pimping, here's five hundred of mine. Now go and treat Carlos right. That's why I didn't fuck your ass now, keeping it nice and fresh and tight for him. So go give it to Carlos, baby."

* * *

I was bewildered and upset, but I let Croc steer me away into the night. We stopped by my place and I stashed the money and drugs, and primped myself, taking care to clean and lube my tush.

As we approached Carlos' place, the night was pierced with jungle whistles and cries of warning from lookouts hidden in the blasted, empty blocks. Music thumped and strange lights flickered from the darkened windows of the crackhouse. We tapped on an armored shutter, and as it rattled up, a hot, acrid blast of polluted air vented. Crock said he had the package from Bo. A door opened and a shadowy figure beckoned silently.

We entered.

The interior was even darker than the night outside, lit only by the flickering of lighters under crack pipes. Over the distorted, blasting hip hop, one could hear screams of pain, anger and pleasure. The tiny, ramshackle house was jammed with twenty people or more, huddled around hissing pipes, sprawled on the floors, or publicly fucking. It looked like a vision of hell straight out of Heronymous Bosch. From the darkness, a hand grabbed my bare shoulder roughly and shoved me in the direction of a hallway that lead to the rear of the house. The noise abated and the crowd thinned and at last a door opened and Croc and I were escorted into the exalted presence of Carlos.

But before I could meet the great Carlos, I was blindfolded, and guided into the room as helpless as a blind girl. "So this is Bro Bo's favorite bicha. C'mere!" Croc pushed me onto Carlos' lap, and he slid his hand under my camisole and grabbed my breast. "I thought Bo liked big tits. She's not even a handful." He pushed me aside, grabbing my butt roughly. "Strip and lie down on the bed." I panicked. Did he know I was a trans?

Addressing Croc, Carlos said "Now, let's see the package." Crock produced a valise and unlocked it, as I wriggled out of my jeans and undies. "Face down, and don't move," Carlos ordered me harshly. "Jose, test it." I heard an envelope crack open and heard the hiss of a flame. A sulfurous smell wafted on the dank air. Carlos cursed. "Fuck, this is bullshit. This shit's been cut to crap! Fuckin' scumbag Bo!" I heard a thud of a blunt object on bone, followed by the sounds of booted feet stomping flesh. I didn't need to look to know what was happening to Croc. "Get that piece of crap out of here," Carlos snarled menacingly, after a few minutes of savagery. I buried my face in the pillow, but I knew he was near. I felt rough hands pry my thighs apart, and pull my hiding cockette from beneath me. "Just like Bo sends me skanky dope, he sends me a skanky bitch, a fucking shemale."

"She look like a real bitch, but look at that tiny little cock."

"I hear Bo fucks shemale pussy and nothin' else."

"Guess we'll have to try some ourselves. Tie her to the bed." My hands and feet were immobilized and I was tied spread-eagled to the bed. A pillow was jammed under my pelvis, raising my ass and spreading my cheeks. For a few minutes, the room was quiet, and I could hear only the cacophony of the mad drug party rampaging outside. The stillness and anticipation of the inevitable assault on my body tortured me. With my eyes blinded, my ears strained for a sound and my nerves tingled with apprehension. I felt the bed bounce slightly from behind. He was coming.

His first touch was surprisingly gentle. Carlos slid his hand up my silken thigh, stroked my soft, velvet scrotum and cock, and circled the curve of my buttock to my crack. His finger traced the pink circle of my upturned rectum, which no doubt glistened prettily with a coating of fresh lubricant. He pressed in a finger insistently, and slipped it in.

"Ay-ya ya ya, it's tight." He pulled it out, and then poked at me with two fingers. I was immobilized, and decided the safest course was complete passivity. I tried to remain silent and unresponsive as he jabbed two fingers inside and tried to stretch them apart against my fiercely resisting sphincters. Then stubbed in a third, and a fourth, and his thumb, and they made a shallow bridgehead and strained to pull me apart. I was writhing in pain at this abuse, and my blindfold was damp with tears, but I bit the soiled sheets and remained silent.

Now he tired of this game, and I heard the sounds of slapping flesh and his increasingly heavy breathing. He was jerking himself to get hard. The bed bounced again as he took position, and then I felt the sting and heard the crack of his open hand slapping my ass with all his might. The bed trampolined with the fury of his blows, and my buttocks felt like they had been lit on fire. After a dozen savage blows had cracked on my silent and prostrate body, he stopped and I felt the familiar press of a hard cock against my rectal ring.

Carlos entered me with less savagery than his crude foreplay had forewarned. He was a curiosity seeker, savoring each new sensation. "Oh, you're tight, bitch, ya, that's good!"

Suddenly, he pulled out, and I heard two long, nasal whistles, followed by a yelp of pain and pleasure. God, he had actually snorted coke mid fuck. As he reentered me, I felt a chemical twinge in my ass and felt a weird menthol sensation. He'd rubbed the excess coke from his mirror on his dick, and was now plunging it inside me. Carlos wasn't as big as Rick, Randy or Bo, so he entered me with only a twinge of pain. He was so high he could barely keep himself hard and inside me. He slipped out and started slapping my back and buttocks in a rage, and I squirmed with pain but kept silent. He played with himself, cursing in Spanish, and rammed himself back inside me.

His coke-numbed dick tore into me for far too long, as he slapped my ass, pulled my hair; pinched, scratched and abused me until at last he came inside me in a sudden fiery, drug addled climax. Carlos was immediately restless, after he pulled out I heard two more nasal whirlwinds as he snorted more coke. I heard him dress and as he left he wisecracked "Party's not over for you, bitch." To my horror, I heard him announce to his henchman outside the door "Anyone that wants to buttfuck Bo's trannie girlfriend, take a number! She's all warmed up."

Then began a long, repetitive nightmare. One anonymous, invisible cock after another entered me and orgasmed into my tired and raw ass until I lost all sense of time and place. I was beaten, scratched, bitten, and burned by my assailants, who gabbed in mixed Spanish and English. I felt a cold, sharp object stab inside of me, and heard someone yell "Get that fuckin Glock outa there." I dimly registered that I had been penetrated by a gun barrel, and felt a mixture of regret and relief that it had not discharged inside me to end this ordeal. I retreated into my imagination, and replayed adolescent fantasies of me, a beautiful Spanish princess being forced by Moorish pirates in the hold of a captured galleon. Like me, the Spanish princess endured her violation silently and stoically, knowing that she would be rescued and redeemed. But there was no rescue or redemption from this torture. Bo's peace offering had backfired horribly. I was being gang raped by dangerous, drugged and probably diseased sicko's, and my only ally, Croc, had already been beaten senseless and was probably dead.

Just then, Carlos commanding voice interrupted what was either the ninth or tenth assault. "OK, time to send the bitch back to her boyfriend. Get the fuck outta here."

Carlos pulled the assailant of the moment off of me and threw him to the floor. The ropes that had tied me to the bed were loosened. "Take your blindfold off and get dressed, then put it back on. If you look at me, we'll have to kill you, just like we're gonna kill Bo and his crew."

I nodded silently, dressed facing a corner as the party went on behind me, and was thrown, blindfolded, into the back of a pickup. The groaning, unconscious Croc rolled around in the freezing flatbed beside me.

* * *

It was after 4:00 a.m. when they dumped us on Hennepin. Fortunately, it was only two blocks from my apartment, and I staggered there in the freezing darkness. I called Bo and told him where they could find Croc. He was angry and worried. "What happened, baby?"

"Croc and I are Carlos' message to you. They beat him almost to death, and Carlos let every scumbag in that crackhouse fuck me. They thought you ripped them off on the coke, they hate you, Bo, they're going to kill you and all your friends, and they took it out on me. How could you do this to me?"

"I'm sorry baby, I thought I had a plan. I'm going to make it right. Me and Lawan and the set are going to air out Carlos' crib, you'll see."

I paged Dr. Prince. He called immediately, I told him that I had been raped and he told me to meet him at the emergency room. I steeled myself and pulled down my pants and panties. They were stained with bloody cum. I threw them in the trash and put on a dress, fresh panties and a panty liner, as blood and cum continued to leak out of me.

God, I probably have AIDS and more. My stomach ached and cramped. I packed a bag with my books and notes for classes, extra clothes and makeup and taxied to the emergency room. Dr. Prince had already been to the pharmacy. He handed me a packet of pills and a cup of water and said "That's the AIDS cocktail. You're taking it prophylactily. It's experimental."

"I'm bleeding from inside. They gang raped me and stuck a gun barrel inside me. My insides feel all twisted and torn."

"I'm admitting you for a couple of days. Now, they're just taking blood tests and vitals. I'll have a proctologist check you out and patch you up."

I was still in the ER when the burn victims started arriving in droves. A car bomb had destroyed a building near Hennepin. A half charred, barely conscious victim was parked next to my bed as I lay on my gurney, waiting to be transported to a medical floor. I saw a look of recognition in the glassy eyes of the devastated man. Although I could barely look at his scorched, reddened face, I knew it was my guide from the crackhouse. He had been shunted aside in the chaos of ER triage, as a hopeless case. I tried to feel pity for this doomed soul, but I couldn't. I looked away as the orderlies wheeled me to the elevator and I took grim satisfaction in Bo's grim revenge.

* * *

For the next few days, I was poked, pricked, and fawned over by the nurses and doctors of the University's medical center. A proctologist invaded, cauterized, and pronounced my colon repaired, leaving me with an injunction to refrain from anal sex, at least for the next month: not that I was in the mood, at the moment. Rick and Randy came by to bring me homework assignments and promised to return to pick up my completed assignments.

They brought me flowers and latte from Starbucks. Then Tran visited, and as she made me up and gave me a manicure, she delivered shocking news.

"You hear about Bo?" she asked. I shook my head. "He dead, killed in drive by. Croc and Lawan too. Shot by Mexicans." The war, in which I had been the first casualty, had ended in catastrophe on both combatants, for all of the burn victims from the crackhouse died over the next few days. After Tran had left, I wondered what strange force within me caused me to court such dangers as I had with Bo, and what signals did I send out to attract such dangerous characters? Was it a dark side within me, some evil genetic bequest from my father? Or was it the consequence of the secret battle between male and female, estrogen and testosterone, yin and yang, that went on every moment in my bloodstream and soul?

My blood was drawn and studied for the tell-tale emergence of a high white count or the dreaded HIV antibodies. The AIDS cocktail made me feel so lousy I couldn't tell if I was getting sick, so I was worried about the test results. At the end of the day Prince walked in looking grim, and I feared the worst. He must have seen the look of dread in my eyes.

"Your antibody tests are negative, but your blood is showing elevated levels of Human Chorionic Gonadotropin (hCG) and Alpha-fetoprotein. It's not HIV, but it's serious. These are positive markers for testicular cancer."

"Me? How can it be? I barely have any testes." I was suddenly gripped with guilt and regret. "Could it be the hormones?"

"Who knows. The excessive doses of Premarin and the other hormones you took in the last year no doubt played havoc with your endocrine system. There's no point in speculating now: it is what it is, and both markers present there is an 80% correlation that at least one testis is malignant."

"What do you do now: a biopsy?"

"No way. That spreads the disease through the scrotum to your lymphatic system, making it untreatable. And chemo alone is ineffective, but if we operate early enough, it's completely treatable surgically. I am going to look for a cyst visually and by ultrasound. If we can't find it, then we perform an inguinal orchiectomy, right away."

"What is an inguinal orchiectomy?"

"Orchiectomy is the medical term for castration. Inguinal means through the tummy."

I gasped. "Are you sure? When?"

"I am going to have a look now, and send you straight to ultra sound. If I can figure out which one is malignant, it'll be unilateral. If not, it's bi-lateral."

"Are there any alternatives?"

"No, not unless you count dying. And we are going to great lengths to keep you alive. The world needs you, Allie." He was silent for a moment, then he went on "You won't be able to reproduce after this. Have you ever frozen any sperm?"

"I don't think I am going to need them."

"Don't foreclose your options. I think transsexuals will be carrying full term pregnancies with donor eggs in your time."

My ultrasound was inconclusive. It could be one or both, but he couldn't tell which testicle was affected. Prince scheduled me for surgery the next morning.

I went to the cryonics lab, and they escorted me to a private room with a couch and a television. I selected a shemale porno tape, starring a gorgeous and extremely feminine transsexual named Dana Douglas. She slathered herself with suntan oil and looked sexy and lay by a beautiful pool, but was interrupted from her sunbathing reverie by a jailhouse escapee, who forcefully raped, but ultimately satisfied her. Imagining myself in her place, I was able to reach a long awaited, and probably my final penile orgasm. After I had handed my tiny sperm sample to the technician, I studied the tape cover, and noted the name and address of the producer listed on the tape: Kim Christie Productions of Studio City, California. Dana was slender, exotic and had perfectly shaped breasts, just as I imagined mine would be when they were enhanced with implants. I envied her body and her star quality on screen, and fantasized about making the sequel.

Prince had instructed me to shave all of my tiny fringe of pubic hair, so I was as smooth as a little girl when he arrived in the surgical theater with the urologist and anesthesiologist the next morning. I felt a grease pencil draw a line on my tummy as the anesthetic kicked in, and I sank into a narcotic sleep where I felt nothing.

* * *

Gauzy clouds drifted in my eyes, and gradually cleared to reveal a black clad witch calling me to attention. "OK, you got to wake up now. Wake up, walk around, and make a pee for me now."

I wanted to drift back into the clouds, but the witch was insistent. "You won't get better unless you walk around. Get up and walk around now." I pulled myself up, and felt a sharp pain in my tummy. Then I remembered where I was. The witch was a Filipino nurse. It was Halloween, and I was in a hospital. I stepped to my wobbly feet, gripped with pain at the incision in my tummy, but as I walked, I felt a new sense of ease and openness between my thighs. Involuntarily, I reached down and touched my empty, deflated scrotum. It was now wrinkled and concave, as if it trying to draw itself inside me to form a pussy. I walked around the room unsteadily as the nurse cooed encouragement. I flopped exhausted in bed and gratefully accepted a cup of ice chips.

And my fingers explored with excitement the sore, but interesting new environment between my legs.

I dozed and drifted in a post-operative haze for a few hours before Dr. Prince and the urologist arrived, looking tense. "Allie, I'm sorry but sometimes diagnosis is an inexact science. The left teste appears to have been non-malignant. I'm sorry to have removed it unnecessarily. I just couldn't be sure."

"Do I have cancer?"

"Not any more. The tumor on the right side did not appear to have spread."

"Thank god, I'm so relieved. Don't worry about the operation. I'm so happy I could hug you!"

"Go ahead and hug me, but promise me: no extra hormones, and especially, no more Premarin. I don't know if that caused your cancer, but I do know you're lucky you didn't kill yourself with your self administration of hormones." I promised, and this time, for once, I wasn't lying at all.

The truth of the matter was, that I had always fantasized about being castrated: gory, horrible fantasies. At some level, I blamed my testes for the craziness of my life, and wanted them gone. True, I would miss orgasm, but with all the estrogen that I took, that had become a rarity for me now anyhow. Maybe without this maddening mix of male and female hormones I would become more stable, less reckless. For though I ached with the combined effects of assault, the toxic AIDS cocktail and the orchiectomy, I felt a peace and calm that I had never felt before.

* * *

Prince released me two days later. I had missed a week of classes, and Rick and Randy needed tutoring badly, as mid-terms were upon us, and I had catch up on my own studies.

I never told them about the sordid reason for my admission to the hospital, but I happily disclosed the details of my surgery, displayed the results and the consequences. They were disappointed that sodomy was, for the time being, off the menu, but they were excited by my new appearance below.

"You're even more like a real girl now," Rick said admiringly as he fondled me carefully, stroking my empty but still sensitive scrotum.

"Great, as long as you don't starting acting like a cunt," Randy observed. Although my ass still tingled with desire for them, my sex drive was diminished, and my insides were still fragile and crampy from he aftermath of my surgeries and from the side effects of the AIDS cocktail. Besides, I still wasn't sure whether I had been HIV-infected by the crackhouse episode, and I dreaded spreading any diseases. My antibody tests kept coming back negative, but I wanted to be sure. So for the next few weeks I serviced them with my mouth and hands. They were patient and careful toward me.

Without testosterone to overcome, I was able to reduce my estrogen intake by almost 90%, without any loss of feminization. Indeed, as the weeks after the orchiectomy, my muscle tone further softened, my skin became more luminous and my breasts and hips seemed to swell a little. From then on, I followed Prince's regimen to the last microgram, switched from Premarin to Estradiol, and got regular blood tests. (I really mean it, all you T's out there, do not follow my early practice of self administration of hormones. Get medical help, regular tests, and never take doses in excess of your doctor's recommendation!) [Ed.Note. You want a real good reason? If you show signs of liver toxicity or blood clots which can happen with overdoses, you could be killing yourself by taking too much hormones and less actually works just as well.]
Dr. Wright had been away at a conference during my hospitalization. She had seen Prince's medical report on my surgeries and phoned me to come in right away. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here for you," she said, giving me an affectionate hug.

"That's all right, I felt as if you were with me."

"You seem very calm, and at peace."

"Physically I feel pretty weak, but I feel wonderful emotionally. Maybe I'm fooling myself, but I feel somehow set free from the chains of my past, like the worst is behind me. I feel better about my future than ever. That is, assuming that I have one."

"Are you worried about the AIDS exposure?"

"Of course, but now we've done everything possible against it. And I'm half way through the course. You know, as horrible and dangerous as the crackhouse gang rape was, if it doesn't kill me from AIDS, it may have saved me an equally hideous death. If I hadn't have had all the blood tests to screen me for AIDS, Prince would not have found the testicular cancer. God, life is full of ironies, isn't it?"

"I love you, Allie. You can find the positive and the negative in anything. So tell me about the negative."

"It really shows how, along with being marginalized, pre-op transsexuals are objectified. Because we don't fall into a traditional gender category, we get treated as sex objects and as property. I think Bo really liked me, but in the same way that a boy likes his favorite marble: always willing to consider a trade. Bo had offended another drug dealer, so he sent me and a couple of pounds of coke along as a peace offering. He wanted to restore normal trade. It failed."

"Some boyfriend!"

"And some me, for falling in with a guy like Bo. When I was tied to that crackhouse bed, I was just an object for those barbarians to abuse, beat and ejaculate into. Even Rick and Randy started out viewing me as an interesting new toy, little different from one of those blow-up sex dolls. They didn't value me as a person until they realized I was pulling them through school. What's really disturbing is, that I liked to be treated that way. I liked the attention. I liked to be seen as a sex toy, a beautiful receptacle for fantasy and fucking. What I'm learning from my research in the community is that most T-Girls aspire to be, and are treated the same way. We want to be valued as objects, but objects get used, hurt, and thrown away. So in a way, we are doomed to be less than human."

"What about you? That's not good enough for you, is it?"

"I think I've been there, done that. I want to be an effective human, I want to act, and not be acted upon. I'm only eighteen, and I got the whole T-Girl community in this town organized. I write speeches for law professors. I'm getting Rick and Randy honors grades instead of flunking out. I need to be treated as a human being. I deserve it, just like you deserved it."

"Ready to go back to being a boy?"

"Too late for that. No, I want to be a woman like you."

"Are you sure this is what you want, that you aren't just reacting."

"Of course I am reacting. We all are a combination of genes and experience."

"You know, a sex change operation isn't going to change the world. The feminist argument holds that men treat all women as sex objects. You'll be condemning yourself to the very position in life that you object to."

"If I'm a woman, I can at least make the feminist argument. At this point, I don't even have standing! Erika, I just want what you've already gotten. Haven't I been through enough?"

"You don't know what I went through, and unfortunately, I'm not supposed to tell you, though I'm dying to. My point is, that you have been through a huge trauma, and it's partly because you took some risks, and some bad people took advantage of your mistakes. That's not the greatest position to make this drastic a choice from."

"I know I've made a million mistakes. I'll probably make a million more. But it was not a mistake to choose my female identity to live in. I feel better, I relate to people better, and I understand the world better from this perspective. Can you even imagine me living as a guy? Guys who normally deal with other guys in business, like Epstein and Whitman, accept me completely. And I haven't even tried to seduce them. (Well, OK, I tried with Brad, but it didn't count.) I'd like to have a sex change operation over the winter break. I need to start making some appointments. Can you make some recommendations?"

She studied me carefully. "OK, I've got a list of surgeons. I'll write you a letter recommending surgery. At your age, you are going to need parental consent for most surgeons."

"I'll talk my mom into it."

Dr. Wright wrote letters to Schrang in Neenah, Wisconsin, Alter in Los Angeles, and Meltzer in Portland, Oregon. I got the returns. The prices were astronomical. I had invested my savings from my "summer job" in a mutual fund that had done really well, and had been living off my scholarship and the grant money from Finch, but for a boob job, the penile inversion surgery and the rectosigmoid colon section surgery I needed to augment the skin of my tiny cock, I was several thousand dollars short. On a long shot, I wrote to a couple of doctors in Thailand, where sex change surgery had become a big business. But one way or another, I needed money fast if I was going to take care of this over my winter break.

* * *

My mother was returning through Minneapolis to Los Angeles. Naturally, she was staying at the most expensive, fanciest hotel, the Hyatt Regency. I decided to dress in girl's clothes, in keeping with my message. She was meeting a colleague from the University for dinner, and asked me to meet her for a drink in the bar. "Mom, I'm under age."

"Just dress old," she advised. I wore a black turtleneck and tight jeans, brushed my hair back into a tight pony tail and wore large hoops. I ordered a Perrier and put on an ice princess hauteur: I didn't want her to see any sleazeballs hitting on her new daughter.

Mom is an elegant, slim blond in her mid-forties who looks younger. She would look about thirty if her Swedish skin hadn't absorbed too much LA sunshine. She has a great figure and stays in shape, and she has great fashion sense: she spent way too much time on Rodeo Drive for the good of our family's economic health. For two academics, my parents lived high: they lived in Brentwood, drove new cars and wore Ferragamos. That was no doubt why they had to send me to a public school with a bunch of idiots and bussed-in gang-bangers.

She strolled into the bar and all the guys looked up, and she looked right past me, scanning the place spacily. As she walked by, I said "Mom, it's me."

She whirled around, did a double take, and then squealed with joy and exclaimed "Allie, I would never have known. You're so, so, beautiful. You're still my beautiful baby." She stepped back again, and said "I love you more than ever."

"I love you too, mom." I was relieved.

She ordered wine and appetizers and asked me to tell her all about my life. I told about my semester: that I was doing original sociological research on transgenders; that I had helped organize a legal outreach program to the transgendered community; that I had been invited to take a law school seminar next semester; that I had aced my midterms; and that I had a boyfriend (so, I really had two, but I didn't want to brag). "So school is going great. But I'm really having a hard time with my gender identity. I can't live this way any longer. I want to become a woman, and my analyst says I'm ready. I just need your consent."

"I don't know, honey. You look gorgeous as a girl, and I've always wanted a daughter, but your father ..."

"I thought that asshole was divorcing you. He told me he doesn't give a fuck what happens to either of us. He told me, just don't bother him, that we should keep everything and leave him alone with his new French mistress to make and keep his millions from his new sellout job. Mom, he's disowned me. It's your decision."

She waffled and worried, but finally agreed to the operation. Now, I thought, for the hard part.

"The surgery is really expensive. Can you help me pay for it?"

"I'm sorry dear, but your dad has completely cut me off. We had almost no cash assets in the States, my book advance is spent, and the royalties from the last book are barely enough to cover the mortgage. Until I get this book to the publisher I'm broke. As it is, I'm flying back to LA to interview for a job at SC."

Poor mom, I thought, having to get a job. A mind is a terrible thing to waste! "Can't I use one of your credit cards or something?"

"Your dad terminated all of them. I can't get new ones without a job."

Oh great, I thought, I guess I'll be the one to get a job: a blow job.

"I'm sorry honey. I'll help you any other way I can, but I just don't have any money to spare."

She put the drinks on her room, and I thought to myself, what a selfish mother I had. She was staying in the most expensive hotel in town, wearing about ten thousand bucks of jewelry, and she'd rather that I prostitute myself than part with any of her money. No wonder my dad had divorced her.

We had a tearful farewell and I went back to my apartment. The mail had arrived, and I had an exotic looking letter with strange stamps and lettering. It was from a Dr. Sanguan Kunaporn of Phueket, Thailand, and it described his technique for penile inversion coupled with primary colon segment vaginoplasty, for a price that was within a few of thousand of my savings. He had an opening in his schedule on December 28. If I wished to take the spot, I should send $2,000 as a non-refundable deposit. I sent a money order by return mail. I immediately called Brad Whitman, and asked him to find out about getting a passport as Alexandra. Then I called Singapore Air made a reservation for Alexandra Rios from Los Angeles to Bangkok. Finally, I wrote a letter to Kim Christy productions of Studio City, California.

November 10, 19XX Alexandra Rios 1622 Hennepin Avenue Minneapolis, Minnesota
(612) 435 XXXX

Dear Mr. Christy

I am an eighteen year old, pre-op transsexual college student. I enclose a picture of myself taken last week. I would like to star in one of your productions: video, stills or both. I even have some ideas for a script, if that interests you. I am into passive anal and oral sex, and I can handle multiple partners, but I can't take an active role. I could travel after my exams end in mid December, if you made the arrangements. If you are interested, please send me your contract for me to review. I enclose a copy of my student I.D. to show my age (but not my gender or appearance.) If you prefer, you can call me at the above number: the best time to reach me is after 4:00 p.m. your time. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,
Alexandra Rios.

Then I called Tran. "Tran, I need to make some money. Do you have any dates who would be interested in me? Or maybe a party with the two of us?"

"That sound like fun. You a pretty T-Girl. But I thought you were giving up the Life."

"I have a cash emergency. I need to make a few thousand bucks before Christmas."

"Someone getting very nice gift!"

"It's for me, a new pussy!"

"You get sex change for Christmas?"

"Yeah, it's my Christmas present. I only need another $2,500 plus the airfare. But I can't work the streets anymore. If Keyes doesn't get me, the Mexican Mafia will. I'm too scared after what happened to Bo."

"I gotta good idea, I'll set up a date for us with my S&M client. He kinda crazy, but he rich. Beside, getting too cold outside. He want me to come and party with another girl, but Tonya doesn't do S&M. You know S&M?"

"I've heard of it, but I've never tried."

"Easy. Just call them master, do what they say, maybe we do some lesbo sex."

"Sounds OK so far."

"Then maybe tie you up, hurt you a little bit, you cry like it hurt a lot, then get fucked, then tell how great they are."

This was chillingly close to my crackhouse nightmare. I tingled with fear, but I was desperate. Kim Christie might not need any pre op starlets. Or he might not think I was sexy. I needed a plan B.

Tran continued. "We work all night, get maybe a thou, depends on how many masters there. Not bad, right?" I nodded, and she asked "How you find this sex change doctor?"

"He's in Thailand. Even with the airfare, it's half what it costs in Neenah or LA."

"I have almost $7,500. Is that enough?"

"That's how much I have. Counting airfare and expenses, we need about $3,000 more."

"I know we can make it. You call Thai doctor for me, and help me set up this trip? I want pussy for Christmas too."

Now I had a partner. When I told her about my porno movie idea, and she said "Me too. I wanna be a porno star, make more money for sex change." I wrote another letter from her to Kim Christy. One way or another, we'd cover our budget deficits.

---

Next: Discipline

This is a sometimes violent story with very raw sex scenes. If that's not what you want to read, please do not read this story.

The Greatest Lie
Chapter 7
Discipline

WARNING! This story meant solely for adult audiences! It contains scenes of graphic sex and forcible rape described in first person narration by its transgendered, teenage protagonist. If you are not an adult, or if you find this type of material offensive, please stop reading, hit the back key or dispose of this file. You have been warned of the content. If you proceed neither the author nor the site host will be held responsible! This story is purely fictional. All resemblance to actual persons is coincidental.

The Greatest Lie

By Alexandra Rios

Chapter 7

Discipline

The horrible memory of my crackhouse ordeal faded much as the lurid surgical site on my abdomen faded to a faint pink smile at my bikini line. I went off the AIDS cocktail after one awful month of constant nausea, and was declared antibody-free. My surgeons pronounced me healed and recovered. Naturally, I immediately started thinking about sex.

Tran had received our orders from our S&M Slavemaster. She told me we had been summoned to the dungeon for slave training and punishment: a driver would deliver a $1,500 payment to Tran’s apartment and would carry us into our enslavement over the Thanksgiving weekend. We would be freed and returned on Sunday night, and receive the balance of the slave payment. "I dunno, Tran, these guys sound pretty weird. Don’t they have families or anything?"

"They pick us up on Friday, after Thanksgiving. They’re a little kinky, but your porno movie guy doesn’t write. We need money."

"You’re right, I’m going do it. But I’m scared. You’ve been with this guy before, right?"

"I think so."

"I hope you know what you’re doing."

But we didn’t have any choice. Streetwalking in Minneapolis is a bad way to make a living in late November, and I was too busy anyhow.

I had been practically virginal since the crackhouse debacle, and I didn’t relish my first experience to be under a jackbooted slave master. Rick and Randy really deserved to have me first. They had been so nice to me after my surgery: carrying my books to class in the first weeks when I was too weak to carry them; bringing me lattes when the AIDS drugs left me too sick to eat. And they had been patient and gentle with me sexually, although they made their desires entirely evident. My lips had grown very experienced in pleasuring them, but I knew they wanted more. At last, I was able to give it. And I wanted it. For the last two weeks, every time I thought about it, my ass tingled with desire.

As I finished helping them edit papers on "The Sun Also Rises", I said, "Rick, Randy, we have a difficult decision to make."

They looked confused and concerned, and I let the moment linger in the air. Then I wrapped my arms around them and confided, "We have to decide who gets to fuck me first."

They let out a simultaneous whoop of joy and high-fived one another. I just smiled and said, "I leave the choice to you," and I retired to my bathroom to prepare.

From behind the door, I heard them discussing the issue heatedly but amicably, as they recounted and compared their respective acts of kindness and generosity toward me in the last month. Finally, I heard a tapping on the door, and Rick’s voice saying "We can’t decide. You have to."

I stepped out, looking ravishing in the Victoria’s Secret negligee that mom had sent. I produced a scarf, and said, "Blind fold me." They did, and I said, "Spin me around, and don’t say anything. I call this game ‘Blind Girl’s Bluff.’" Their large firm hands twirled me. I stopped, groped forward and put my arms around a muscled torso. "Randy, it’s your lucky day. Sorry, Rick."

"Fair’s fair," he said contentedly as he lay back on my bed, and I bent over and began fellating him, my bums high in the air, awaiting Randy. With his suffering and abstinence at an end, Randy needed no stimulation or instruction. He expertly tore open a condom, slipped it on, and began massaging my expectant, tight rectum with lubricant.

I murmured pleasure through my cock-filled lips as he first rimmed, and then gently entered my taut ring of pleasure with his probing fingers. My sphincters involuntarily snapped greedily at him, and he pressed onward and penetrated me, as my murmur rose to a cock-muffled moan of pleasure. I stuffed my throat with all of Rick’s cock in response. Randy kneeled between my parted thighs and pressed his cock against my expectant ass. I deep throated Rick furiously as Randy teased me with tentative thrusts that probed without penetrating. I was desperate when at last he rewarded me with a deliciously perfect penetration, and the momentary rush of pain erased my month of frustration and craving. My body shivered with pain and satisfaction from Randy’s athletic fucking, and in unison I crashed Rick’s cock past my tonsils and down my esophagus. For a few blissful moments I felt like the perfect slut, with two perfect lovers.

But my mind raced ahead of my body, and soon I fantasized about myself as a woman, taking on Rick and Randy in a true front and back threesome, sandwiched with Rick’s cock in my new pussy and Randy up my ass. And then, I had to make the fantasy real.

My ass felt so lubricated, springy and ready, that I knew I could take them both at once. I slowed my throat fucking of Rick’s nearly orgasmic and fully distended member, and though he at first kept pushing my head down, he let me speak. "I want you both inside me," I uttered through bruised lips. They let me take control. I extracted Randy from behind me. He lay face up on the bed, and I sat astride him and speared my ass back down on his bobbing, swollen cock. I leaned forward to point my filled ass into the air, and he gobbled my breasts as they wobbled over him. I beckoned Rick to kneel between me, and slipped my finger between my rectum and my cock filled ass. I stretched myself mercilessly, and Rick saw what I wanted he plunged his cock into the tiny, crescent shaped crevasse I had opened. His cock slid over my finger tip and nestled beside Randy’s cock inside me. I felt skyrockets of pain and ecstasy shoot through me, as though the rocket engine of an ill-fated space probe had malfunctioned and exploded within.

The double fucking launched me into a fantasyland of dreamy ecstasy. In my imagination, I was a beautiful human princess, abducted by aliens and raped by a two cocked mutant to create a new master race. My human lovers’ cocks slid past or with each other, burrowing deep and wide and excavating the last drops of semen from my shrunken, vestigial prostate: not a true penile orgasm, but sensual and exquisite release from the last remnants of my past. They plunged together, alone, and endlessly, and when they came at last, we all were completely exhausted.

I awoke feeling empty, but fulfilled. My two hunky studs were pulling up their manly boxers as my weary eyes fluttered and reawakened. Randy voiced their common sentiment: "Wow, Allie, you’re great."

Rick added, "I didn’t even think that was possible."

I responded, "With you two on board, I’m capable of anything. I’ve got a few more surprises for you yet."

"Whoa, I can’t wait, tell, tell," they babbled excitedly, interrupting each other and me.

"See what Santa brings," I said teasingly.

They went off to the dorm laughing and chatting. I was left alone to savor what a delight this unlikely menage a trois had become, and what fantastic delights it held for the future.

The next day they came by to kiss me goodbye for the long weekend. I thrilled at each of them crushed me in a long, romantic embrace and mashed my lips in deep, endless kisses. I love to be kissed even more than I love to get fucked, and Rick and Randy had become world class at both. I felt like their beloved, and felt what I knew was a futile longing to become part of their straight, conventional world. But as locals, they had families to visit, and turkey dinners to eat, and my family had dissolved and scattered. I asked, feigning disappointment, "Don’t either of you want to take me home to meet your mom?" and they shuffled abashedly.

"Next year," Rick promised.

You’ll probably want to, I thought silently as they departed.

Actually, it was OK. I hate the traditional Thanksgiving dinner: it’s way too heavy for a diet like mine. I enjoyed a light Asian dinner at Tran’s house, as we made plans and gossiped about our very kinky Thanksgiving celebration on the morrow. After dinner, we smoked a joint and watched an XXX rated bondage and S&M tape she had rented.

We held hands and hugged one another for comfort during the really heavy parts. When it was over, I had to admit that I was a little turned on, but also scared.

"Is that what they’ll do to us?"

"I guess so, I don’t really know."

"Tran, I thought you knew this guy."

"I meet him for straight sex a couple times. He always want to take me away for bondage and I say no."

"Oh, great. What have we gotten ourselves into?"

I stayed at Tran’s house and we got high until we finally got sleepy. We went to bed together. I woke up in the middle of the night, scared and shaking from a nightmare.

Carlos had me tied to the bed and was getting ready to slit my throat. I reminded myself that Carlos was dead, but I lay there trembling, wide awake with fear. I nudged Tran. She nodded sleepily. I needed some company, so I decided to wake her in a sexy way. I looped my toe over the waistband of her panties and slid them down her legs. She wriggled unconsciously and aided their descent. Then I slipped my lips around her tiny, uncut cock: it was barely bigger than mine, and tasted sweet and fresh, less meaty than a guy’s cock. She hardened and began moaning as I pressed my finger against her rectum.

"Allie, what you doing? I’m sleeping."

I kissed my way up her tummy and each of her beautiful, silicone enhanced breasts to her plump Asian lips and asked "Do you want me to stop?"

"No, but I want to suck you, too." I swiveled around to a "69" position and we began tenderly sucking one another. I could no longer orgasm, but I loved the expert sucking and rectal massage she gave me. Beneath me, Tran's body writhed and spasmed has I sucked her and fingered her ass. She moaned and cried out in Vietnamese as her hips vibrated with ecstasy, and her cum trickled into my mouth. It was smooth and clean tasting. I lay next to her and we kissed. "You’re yummy," she said.

I responded with words that surprised me as much as Tran, "I love you."

"I love you too," she said. And with that sweet thought running through my mind, I fell back asleep."

We overslept and had to shower together to save time. Then we helped each other blow out our hair and with make up; the driver was to bring our clothing for the trip, so we breakfasted in bathrobes. A limo arrived for us at 11:00 a.m. The driver knocked on the door and silently handed us our wardrobe and what was marked as "The Slaves’
Payment": a stack of Franklins in a wax-sealed envelope. We were given white lace panties and bras, a silky white nightie that barely covered our butts, and a long, closed cape of white linen, white pumps, and shiny wrist and ankle bracelets. We looked like the Vestal Virgins of Ancient Rome.

We got into the back of the limo, and the door auto-locked as it slammed shut.

The driver put the car in gear and I then noticed that a masked and hooded figure faced us. "Give me your hands," he ordered, and then slipped a lock over the two bracelets that adorned my hands. "You too, slut," he ordered Tran, who meekly complied.

"Now," he said, "for your first lesson." He slapped each of us in the face. "Answer me, or any other master, ‘Yes, master’ whenever we deign to command you."

"Yes, master," we both responded.

"That’s better. We don’t like to inflict pain, unnecessarily. We prefer to reserve it for ritual purposes. Now, our purpose here, is to restore you to your virginal states so that you can be deflowered properly. We know you have let your bodies be used for sinful pleasure and profit, and for this you must be punished and redeemed. Only then will you be worthy of being fucked by the members of our Order."

I decided that the best thing to do was play along. "We want to be made worthy of your rituals. We want to be purified in accordance with your rules and we bow to your methods."

Tran got the idea. "I want you to make me virgin again. I am sorry for all of my past bad behavior."

And so it went. Our master was satisfied with our sincerity and let us ponder our fates in silence as we rode through icy fields to a remote estate. We pulled into an underground garage and the limo stopped.

Our master helped us out and led us to a heavy oaken door and pounded a heavy iron knocker against an iron plate. The earsplitting noise roused the inhabitants, and the door opened to a gloomy, torch-lit interior. As our eyes adjusted, I saw a low dais occupied by seven shadowy figures, dressed much as our limo master, masked, and dressed in black leather garb adorned with sharp, decorative buckles and chains. "I have brought our novices, Ophelia (he gestured to me) and Desdemona." God, what an abuse of the Bard, I thought to myself, but at least we’re in the hands of literate sadists.

"Remove their clothes," ordered the Master seated at the center of the dais. We were stripped . "Illuminate them." Spotlights blinded us, and then dimmed as blindfolds covered our eyes. "Stay absolutely still," we were ordered.

"Yes, master," we answered.

Boot-clad feet shuffled around us, and then I felt the twitch of a riding crop on my breast, my ass, my cockette, and then felt anonymous fingers touching my cheek, my nipples, and my rectum. I was being inspected. An angry voice bellowed, "Don’t move, bitch!" followed by the cruel snap of a riding crop against flesh.

I heard Tran whimper, "I’m sorry master." I had winced at the crack of leather on Tran’s flesh, and cowered awaiting my own punishment, but I had evaded notice.

From the dais, a voice commanded "Cleanse their bodies, and then we shall cleanse their souls."

I was led off alone by one of the masters. I groped blindly, and vivid, horrific flashbacks of the crackhouse terrorized me. This was different, I reassured myself. These were just a bunch of middle-class kinks having some group therapy. I breathed deeply and tried to calm myself. I was in no real danger, I just had to play along with their game.

My naked body was shivering with cold and anxiety when the door opened to the pleasant aromas of a hot bath. Steam filled my nostrils and warmed my goose-bumped skin. My master helped me up over the high wall of the tub, and I plunged my foot in.

"Thank you, master," I said, as the water enveloped me. "Oh master, please, it’s too hot!" Saying nothing, he grasped my shoulders and forced me into the scalding water.

Involuntarily I rose up, and he scourged me with cruel blows from his riding crop, raising pink welts on my arms and back. "Water cleanses the body, obedience cleanses the soul, and pain cleanses the heart. So you must obey and suffer." My body had adjusted to the heat of the water, which was painful but not harmful. I grew drowsy as my master soaped and explored my body. My trussed hands made me helpless, and so I tried to enjoy my master’s little adventure, as he squeezed my breasts, stroked my cock and fingered my ass.

All the while I murmured mock encouragement, "Oh yes, my master, that feels wonderful, my master." It didn’t feel bad, and it was a lot better than a riding crop. At last he lifted my helpless, bound body from the tub, wrapped me in a robe, and ordered me to brace my arms against the sink and bend forward.

He lifted the back of my robe, parted my damp cheeks and applied some lubricant. Then he slipped the nozzle of a douche into my ass and pressed it as high as he could. I squirmed helplessly at this intrusion, but the warm rush of water into my abdomen overwhelmed and silenced me. Soon I felt pressure grow inside me, and I said "Please, master, that’s enough."

He growled "I’ll tell you when you’ve had enough," and poked viciously at my painfully distended stomach.

I’ve always liked the feeling of a colonic douching: the distinctly pregnant feeling made me feel vulnerable and feminine, and the squeaky-clean feeling afterward made me feel deliciously fuckable. But it was taken to an extreme at this bizarre chateau. He filled me to the point of aching urgency, then sealed me with a fat, painful butt plug. With my belly full to bursting and my hands tied, I felt as stuffed and helpless as Thanksgiving turkey.

This was not the ideal time for my master to begin lecturing me about the importance of being utterly submissive in the holy ritual of sex. He emphasized his points by poking my taut stomach, which roiled painfully. I just kept agreeing and hoping he would finish sooner, so that I could get on to the next torture, whatever that was. When his lecture was through, he untied me, and locked me in the bathroom. He told me that I was to be ready for slave training in twenty minutes.

I extracted the butt plug painfully and my insides emptied, leaving me purified. I hurried to blow dry my hair and freshen-up my make up. I applied lubricant liberally to my thoroughly scrubbed ass. He opened the door without knocking as I finished, wordlessly re-tied my hands behind my back and blindfolded me. He led me down a long corridor. I heard the sound of Tran’s voice sobbing, and shuddered in empathy of her suffering and in anticipation of my own.

My master halted me with a yank at my shoulder, then pushed me forward onto my knees. I tumbled forward onto a padded platform. He pushed cotton into my ears, and I was plunged into silence and blindness. My eyes strained to detect shadows, my ears for any sound. I heard muffled booms and cries, and felt phantoms passing though the room, but I was left alone. Sensory deprivation combined with apprehension to bring me to a near panic state. I breathed as steadily as I could, but was haunted by memories of the crackhouse, memories of Miguel and the others on Prom night. How had I gotten myself into this? I cursed my poverty, my selfish mother, and my own bad judgment. I caught myself as the brink of an abyss of self-loathing and despair. I remembered that I was brilliant, nearly perfect, and ever aspiring to even greater perfection. I had been in far worse situations than this and I always triumphed. I felt sorry for Tran. She lacked my confidence and vision. From her terror-stricken voice in the distance, I sensed her suffering was real. I reminded myself that my suffering would be fabricated, a lie with which to fool these masters.

Then my nerves exploded, as my ass and cock were tickled with a million feathery fingers. I was overcome with sensation, and convulsed with over-stimulation as the feather duster explored my tush, my armpits, breasts and cockette. I was cooing with pleasure, and moaned "Oh, that feels so good" for the gratification of my master.

He removed my earplugs, and spoke: "Now we begin your purification. This is pleasure; put it in your past, and learn to love pain."

Suddenly, I felt white hot, biting pain on my nipples as a cruel clamp attached to each, and then another to my slender cock head and finally an excutiating clamp attached to one of the tight folds of my rectum. "Oh please, no, master, that hurts so much."

"Shut up, slut," came the abrupt reply, accentuated by the smack of a thick paddle on my buttocks.

After the caressing feather duster, the paddle was a brutal blow that lit my buttocks afire.

I writhed in pain, and twisted the vicious clamps, which bit my tender flesh even more cruelly. Now each clamp was twisted, as if something was being attached, and I felt to my horror a slender wire drape over my thigh. I bit into the leather of the ottoman, but I could not suppress my cries as the first bolts of electricity surged between my erogenous zones, now each transformed into a torture site. When the current subsided, I was crying and I sobbed "Please, no more master, I can’t stand it."

"Shut up, slut, we must purify your polluted soul."

"Please, I beg you, master ...." I got no further before a harsh gag was placed over my mouth. Crying always makes me get stuffed up. Now I regretted my tears, which had congested my nose and blocked my breathing. I struggled to regain my breath, but I could not get enough air. Another surge of voltage fired through my bottom and my breasts, searing them with pain. Involuntary tears filled my eyes, and my breathing became even more labored.

"You will not complain about pain: You will accept it, and learn to love it. Do you love pain?"

I nodded my head furiously, and he removed my gag. I inhaled delicious oxygen, and whispered hoarsely "Yes, master, I accept all pain as my purification. Please, give me more!" He fired another jolt through me, and after I had cried out in reaction I remembered to say "Thank you, master." After a few more of these, I was apparently purified, because he pulled the electrode clip from my ass and slathered me with lubricant. He pressed against my anal ring, which had been constricted to a pinhead by the electrical shocks. He could not enter, and I felt his cock softening in frustration.

Fearing retribution for my continued impurity, I ventured "Master, if you will free me, I will help you." He released my bound hands, and I said "I want you in my mouth, master." He let me suck him back to rigidity, and I felt sure that I could squeeze his modest cock into my artificially narrowed hole. I said, "Please fuck me, master," and when he mounted me I expertly guided him inside me. He responded by plunging heedlessly into me. I swallowed my pain and responded by saying, "Oh yes, that feels good, fuck me harder, master."

He was regaining his confidence as his cock got comfortable in my lubricious ass, and he began babbling, "I’m gonna fuck you hard, slut, I’m gonna fuck you to death," and such.

I really hate this kind of chit chat during sex. True desire and pleasure can be communicated with a look, a smile, a grimace, a groan, or even a kiss, far more articulately than in words, especially crudities. But for this weirdo, I was willing to make an exception, so I responded, as though from a transcript of a porno flick, with the appropriate responses. "Oh yeah, fuck me harder, OOH, you’re so big, etc., etc." In fact, he didn’t have one-tenth the energy of Rick or Randy, and he was way below average size. That, no doubt, was why this guy had to abuse me to get ready to get his rocks off. He was half-impotent, and no doubt his wife wouldn’t submit to this kind of crazy shit. By the time he came, I felt practically as if I were a spectator at a gladiatorial contest: I was satisfied with the outcome, but was ready to give the thumbs down. But instead, I said, "Oh thank you master, for making me your fuck slave." He walked away wordlessly.

I won’t bore you with the rest of my weekend in hell. Suffice it to say I was purified and polluted repeatedly. The only part that really stood out was the moment where they tied me and Tran to side-by-side beds, and gave us the option of shocking each other instead of taking the voltage ourselves. Tran looked at me guiltily as she shunted the current to me and watched me suffer. But when they reversed our roles, I did not pull the toggle to route the electricity back to her. As my eyes blurred with agony, I tried to focus on her beautiful, oriental eyes, which I saw were filled with tears of sympathy. I blacked out with that vision in my mind. When I revived, I saw Tran’s lovely face contorted in agony, and I knew she was enduring the same anguish that I had just emerged from, refusing to shunt the current to me. Our tormentors soon bored of this game, and our weekend contract had expired.

We were taken back before the dais, where only two of our masters remained. "You have earned your freedom, but your purification is not complete. You are commanded to return on December 26. For now, you are free to go, and enjoined to maintain your condition of purity."

We were shown to the garage and carried back to Tran’s place in the limo. When we got there, the driver handed us an envelope stuffed with cash. A tip, I guess, but we still were thirty five hundred short our requirement for Thailand.

I stayed at Tran’s that night, and we clung to one another as we endured repeated nightmares. I was too stressed out to go to class, so I called Rick and got him to pick up our last homework assignment from Math 101; I stayed at Tran's place studying. She took her phone off the hook and meditated before a Buddhist shrine in her bedroom, and I solved integrals and translated Chaucer to calm my nerves.

At around noon, the mail came, including an envelope from California. Inside, Tran found an airline ticket to California, a check for a thousand bucks and a contract for another fifteen hundred from Kim Christie productions. I dressed and ran over to my apartment and found, to my relief, an identical letter to me. Fat fucking chance we would return to that dungeon on the 26th, or ever. I was going to be impure at the first opportunity, and I already had plane reservations to Phuket Island, Thailand on the 26th. We hugged and cried with relief and happiness: we would never go back to the dungeon again.

---

Next: Belles of the Ball

This is a sometimes violent story with very raw sex scenes. If that's not what you want to read, please do not read this story.

The Greatest Lie
Chapter 8
Belles of the Ball
by Alexandra Rios (Lilliana)

 

I love academia just as I love getting fucked; each validates me in a different way. I was born of academic parents, and was holding forth at their cocktail parties before I could pronounce all my consonants. To me research papers and exams are just opportunities to display my superior intellect and diligence. By semester's end, I had not only aced my own courses, but I had successfully tutored my dumb jock boyfriends Rick and Randy through theirs: they had so excelled that their hockey coach wanted me to tutor the rest of the hockey team next semester. I figured I could convert that into work-study credit, and endless nights of hot, varied sexual encounters with the squad.

I had so overawed my English professor with my contemporary translations of the Canterbury Tales that she insisted that I co-author a Middle English to Contemporary English dictionary with her: another no-brainer for me. I'm fluent in French, Latin and Swedish, so Middle English was like a walk in the woods. Professor Finch, my mentor for my Trangendered Sex Industry Workers project, had been so delighted with scope and detail of the sixty T-Girl interviews that I had completed first semester that he was submitting my independent study for publication in Annals of Contemporary Anthropology: he had assigned one of his grad students to write our grant proposal. Professor Epstein of the law school had cajoled the Undergraduate Dean to let me take an upper level law school course for undergraduate credit. Next semester, I simply would not have time to take any of the ordinary freshman curriculum. Thus, it would not matter if I returned to classes a few weeks late, as would be necessary to give me time to recover from my planned sex reassignment surgery.

My greatest fear, dealing with the University about my gender reassignment, turned out to be no problem. The Dean of Students was holding a thick sheaf of letters of support from the cream of his faculty when I proposed re-registering as a female student in the Spring Semester. I'm sure Epstein's support, and the implicit threat of litigation, moved the bureaucracy. The Dean and the Scholarship Review Committee both signed off on my gender reassignment without a whisper of dissent.

Brad Whitman had gotten passports and visas for Thailand in Tran's and my female names. When I met him to pick them up, I confided the purpose of our journey. "I thought you were broke. How are you going to afford the operation?" he demanded.

"Well, I am planning a real life test of yours and Epstein's First Amendment theories."

"Oh my god, I'm sorry I asked," he replied, flushing with embarrassment. "Just because Epstein writes that prostitution is protected speech, it doesn't mean you have to practice it! You're so terrific as a thinker and a writer. Why are you wasting yourself, and risking your life?"

"You know, what my research shows on a personal level is that it's hard for transsexuals to form lasting relationships. Yet for most of us, realization of our sexual identities is manifest primarily through sexual relationships. Like you, most guys aren't interested at all in transsexuals, and those who are usually are only interested in one-night stands, for kicks. Advertising in the personal pages, hanging out at pick up clubs, and streetwalking are the just ways to reach out and find new guys to fill the void, to continually validate oneself as desirable and acceptable. And in those sorts of relationships, the guy expects to pay, so he can assure for himself the dominant role, and the ability to leave when he's done. So, in a way, prostitution is at the basis of the sexual expression of transsexuality. To forbid it is to suppress that expression."

"So the money is secondary? Unbelievable! You just admitted you were doing it for purely meretricious reasons."

"That's the other side of the problem. Because of all the social disapproval and dissonance about transsexualism, career opportunities don't exactly abound. The sex industry is the only place where we can reliably make a living. And I'm not exactly streetwalking. I'm going to be in a movie."

"Well, that's completely different. Art for art's sake, no doubt," Mark said sarcastically.

"More like, life imitating art," I retorted.

"You're going to have to live with your "art" for the rest of your life."

"I'm going to forget it as soon as the check clears, and afterwards, I'll look different for the rest of my life."

"Oh well, you gotta do what you gotta do!" We looked in each other's eyes, saddened by this confrontation. I blinked first.

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to say good bye like this. Have a happy holiday, Mark."

"You too, and travel safely. Good luck."

"Thanks, see ya next semester."

Tran was delighted with her new passport. She had renamed herself as Terri New. I was now Alexandra Rivers. We celebrated by smoking a joint, my first since the beginning of the semester. (I never smoke dope during a semester; it wreaks havoc on short-term memory). Just after we finished, the doorbell rang. It was Rick and Randy, back from their last final. They had already downed a few beers, and were looking for me to help them celebrate.

They took an immediate interest in Tran. She is really exquisite. She has light skin for an Asian, glossy, smooth black hair that falls to her round, but tiny ass, small bones, a slender waist, a perfectly proportioned, high cheek boned face and soft, inviting lips surrounding a slightly toothy, but winsome smile. She smiles and laughs readily and infectiously, and she possesses a biting but self-deprecating wit. But the features which caught Rick and especially Randy's goggling eyes were her D-cup breasts, cantilevered, jiggling and seeming to defy gravity beneath her tight, low cut top. Too large for her petite frame, they were always an eye catching sight, and wonderful to play with.

"Very nice to meet you, Allie you a very bad and selfish girl that you never introduce your hockey stick friends to me," she chided jokingly. Her diction and pronunciation were imperfect, but she spoke in a charming song-like voice that made one forget her occasional lapses. I could tell Rick was interested, and Randy seemed smitten. When she went to the bathroom, he pulled me aside and asked "Ah, is she, you know, like you?"

"We have some things in common."

"Do you think she'd want to party with us?"

"I don't know, we'll see. What do you have in mind?"

"Let's go catch some parties and get some beers, and see what happens. My mom's not using her hotel room. We can party there all night."

I hate beer, but Tran was ecstatic to be included. "I like your friends, they're cute. Are they sexy?"

"I think they want us all to do a scene together."

"I like that. You're very sexy, and they are very sexy too. I want to be sexy with all of you."

My pride was a little hurt, and my security was a little threatened, but my menage a trois with Rick and Randy had become a little unstable. After our wild double fucking experiment, it was hard to chart a course that could top that, and bringing Tran into our scene offered new potential avenues. Then too, a foursome made a more socially presentable configuration to outsiders. And if I had to invite anyone into our little club, it would be Tran. I felt close to her as a friend, and she was the only T-Girl (except poor, dead Daylene) who turned me on as a lover. I was happy that she felt the same way about me.

"Girl friend, you're the sexiest girl I know. Bring it on." Inside, I had mixed emotions, but I was outwardly enthusiastic. When I confided her interest to Rick and Randy, they let out whoops of joy.

They went out to buy some beer and snacks. "Don't forget condoms," I reminded them, and gave them Tran's address. We went over there to get ready. She had been dressing for years, had been living on her own since she had dropped out of high school three years before, the victim of merciless small town teasing and a hostile father. She was a regular at the Town House, and was one of the most popular T Girls there. "I getting sick of all the same tricks at Town House, sick of all the guys from the personals. I like your hockey sticks. Maybe I should go college, meet more college boys."

I surveyed the array of skimpy, sexy, fuck me dresses and tops, color-coded neatly in her closet. "I don't know, Tran. You sure don't dress like a college girl."

"Sure, but I can suck cock lot better than a college girl."

"Don't be so sure, Tran. You can get Randy's opinion later tonight. He's an expert on getting blown by college girls." We both giggled at our naughtiness. When we T-girls talk to each other, we get raunchy: perhaps because we've sat on both sides of the aisle; or because we can abandon both our good girl pretenses and sex kitten act; or because we're most at ease with one another. That night, as we dressed and made up, our talk ranged from X to XXX. Tran and I had popped a couple of my Desoxyn and she had poured some Grand Marnier. The drugs and booze combined to put me into a horny, edgy haze.

Tran had found one of her old pre-boob job party dresses for me, and its post boob job replacement for herself. It was a short, tight, black, spaghetti strap shift. It plunged at the neckline, and displayed my small, firm breasts demurely and appealingly. On Tran, the plunging neckline and her push up bra exposed her quivering breasts nearly to the aereole. As she curtsied playfully for me, her boobs swayed and strained against the tight rayon of her dress. "Tran, you should use less foundation and eyeliner, and soften up your hair. Try to look more like a college girl in a party dress, and less like a whore on the make. Pulled back, your hair is so severe: try clipping it in a half ponytail."

Tran replied "What's the matter with looking sexy? Don't you like to be sexy? Don't you want Rick in your slutty little ass."

"Actually, I want both of them to fuck my slutty little ass. Don't you?"

She giggled excitedly and gave me a hug. Her warm breasts flattened against mine. She joked "I was all wrong about you. You're a nice, generous T-Girl." She smiled and I kissed her.

"We just have to try to fit in with the college girl bitches at the these bashes we're going to, not look like we're trolling for tricks at the Town House."

"OK, you show me how, Miss College Girl. I showed you how to hook at the Town House, now you show me how to be college girl."

"Deal. You're going to be the best looking coed on campus tonight. Well, maybe second."

I skipped the foundation , eyeliner and false eyelashes and used about a quarter of her usual mascara. I switched her shadow from metallic green to a light acqua. I'm no expert, but with a face as classically beautiful as Tran's it was hard to go wrong. She was very happy with the results. "You make me look like a virgin."

"That's the idea. Guys like it when you act like it's a big deal getting fucked. Especially at the beginning, act like it's killing you."

"They like moaning and crying?"

"Yeah, and don't forget to beg them to go slow and how big they are."

"How big are they?"

"Not bad. Randy's about 8", not too thick, and Rick's about 8  ½ and thicker. Big cockhead too. They fuck hard."

"I can't wait."

"Make them wait. You look irresistible now, and I want to go dancing and party, not straight to bed."

Tran's buzzer sounded. The intercom squawked "We're ba-ack," and I interrupted Tran, saying "We'll be right down." We bundled up and headed out into the chilly Minneapolis night.

Rick's mother had driven in from Fargo to pick him up for Christmas break, and had rented a room at the Hyatt Regency, but was staying with her sister. Rick triumphantly announced he had her car and hotel key. I hopped in the front of his mom's Cherokee, and snuggled up to Rick. "I'm freezing," I complained, and as we got under way Rick guided my hand to his open fly and I warmed my frozen fingers on his hot, hard cock.

From the back seat, all I could hear was heavy breathing and sucking noises on the short ride to our party.

The Tri Delts, the most snobbish and wealthiest sorority on campus, hosted the Freshman Winter Sendoff. Rick and Randy, as emerging sports stars and good looking studs, had rated an invitation, but from the jealous stares we drew from the sorority sisters, they had not been expected to bring dates: especially not a couple of hot babes like me and Tran.

After we had made our way to the bar and Rick and Randy had settled down with us at a corner table, two of the girls approached. One them sneered to Rick and Randy, "You two are so rude. Aren't you going to introduce your friends?"

Rick stammered drunkenly, and I stood and said "I'm Alexandra Rivers, and this is my friend Teri New."

"I haven't seen either of you before. Are you students? Only students are allowed at Tri Delt parties."

Yeah, and a lot more of a student than you, nosy bitch, I thought to myself. But instead I said "I'm a freshman, but I've been taking upper class English and Physics courses and an independent study. I only have one freshman class, and it's so easy I never had to show up to get my A. So, I guess that's a long way of explaining why you've never seen me around."

Rick nodded in enthusiastic agreement, but the sorority bitch said, "Oh, I'm sure! And who is this?" she demanded nastily, pointed to Tran.

"She's my high school friend. She's transferring here next semester."

She challenged Tran, "Is that so, where do you go now?"

"St. Olaf," Tran extemporized, giving the name of a small liberal arts college in her drab Minnesota home town.

"And to what do we owe the privilege of your coming here?" the bitchy sorority girl inquired.

"I transferring for the Greek scene here," Tran giggled.

Rick and Randy guffawed at this obscene double entendre, and Tran and I convulsed. Our hostess just glowered uncomprehendingly and stalked off.

Suddenly, a blues band cranked up and electrified sound split the air. Tran and I rose to our feet and Rick and Randy followed us to the dance floor. I'm a pretty good dancer: my mom made me go to Cotillion in LA, and naturally I learned both parts. Tran had spent most nights for the last three years boogying at the Town House or the Brass Rail. We dazzled the room with our well-practiced steps: our dresses billowing up, our pumps clacking staccato on the floor, our hair flying. Most of the sorority girls sat and stared enviously. The daring few who rose to challenge slouched off the floor after a few numbers, astounded at our repertoire and our amphetamine fueled stamina. Rick and Randy were panting and slathered with sweat when the band broke at the end of its first set. Tran and I both glistened with the evidence of our fanatical dancing.

As we walked out, I smiled pleasantly at our grumpy hostess and said "Thanks so much for having us. See you next year!" Like, as if she would even recognize me after my Christmas makeover.

Rick drove us to the Hyatt, and we went up separately to avoid attracting attention. Tran and I opened up the room. "Oh good, two beds," I said.

Tran looked nonplused. "I thought we having a foursome."

"Tran, if Rick and Randy fucked us on one bed, they'd probably break a hole in the floor."

"Oh, goody."

We went into the bathroom to rinse off, freshen up, and smoke another joint.

Outside, we heard Rick and Randy breaking into the mini bar and popping open more beer. "I hope they not too drunk for fucking," Tran said.

Remembering my first night, I said "Not to worry, it brings out the best in them."

"You mean the beast in them?"

"Yeah, that too."

We emerged in fluffy Hyatt bathrobes: not the sexiest attire, but easy to take off.

Rick had brought an XXX rated tape, which he popped into the machine. To my delight, it was a T-Girl tape, starring Stasha, a blond beauty who, like me and Tran, loved to get fucked. We watched only the beginning of her seduction by a muscular stud before Rick put my hand on his hardened cock and pulled open my robe and began to caress my breasts. "Do you wish my boobs were bigger, like Tran's or the actress's?" I whispered.

"That would be great, but you're already great the way you are." As he smothered me with kisses, I heard the squeaking of Randy and Tran's bed, and heard her begin to moan. Randy never favored much foreplay, and he was entering Tran.

I couldn't wait any longer. Before I could say anything, Rick either read my mind or his competitiveness was aroused, for he rolled over and grabbed a condom and lube from the nightstand. I ripped open the condom with my teeth, and smiled lovingly into his handsome, determined face, as his lubricant-covered finger gently tweaked and probed my eager, tingling ass. "Mmmm, that feels good," I said.

"So does that," said Rick, as I stroked his condom clad cock with my lube covered fingers. Next door, Randy and Tran moans had risen to a crescendo, and their bed was shaking with the pulsing of their bodies in motion.

"It sounds like they hit it off," I said wistfully.

"Let's show them how," Rick replied, as he mounted and expertly entered my horny, tight little ass.

I welcomed the initial burst of pain, for it quelled the tingling in my ass that had been nagging at me all night, and I let out a moan to answer the chorus coming from Tran. She was a loud and expressive submissive, crying out with each of Randy's masterful lunges into her behind. She had told me that Asian asses were tighter, and I suppose she should know. I thrilled at the momentary flash of incendiary pain that surged through me, conscious that this could be one of my last fucks as a pre-op. Rick, seemingly sensing this angst, began fondling my cockette like an overgrown clit. I had been off estrogen for a week in anticipation of my surgery, but my orchiectomy prevented me from reaching the true penile orgasm. Still, it felt great, and my insides melted in welcoming Rick's manhood. I loved to be possessed, and with Rick wrapped around and deep inside me, I was his. He fondled my breasts with one large hand, my soft, castrated cock in the other, and throbbed up my ass as he breath heavy, beery grunts into my ear. God, how I loved to get fucked. How could I be giving up any part of this?

I could hear Tran was reaching climax on the bed beside me. I glanced to my side and saw her lovely face contorted in a spasm of ecstasy, for a moment, her eyes met mine in a gaze of understanding and love that only two close friend and lovers, captured together in state of extremis, could share. Her eyes closed, as she descended into a state of bliss that only she could experience. Randy grimaced, jaw set, and went into overdrive as he pounded himself into her slender, lithesome body. She tossed her luxuriant black mane in a final spasm of pleasure, and I caught a final glimpse of her beautiful face as she reached orgasm.

In response, Rick re-doubled his assault on my own delicate frame, and as the fury built behind me, I responded with my own involuntary pulsing. Rick's relentless fucking awakened my sleeping prostate, for a felt a barely familiar tingling inside which built in concert with the storm growing in Rick's madly throbbing groin. As Rick's cock surged mightily within me, I felt a thunderclap within rumble and I let out a cry of pain, pleasure and relief: then darkness descended over my consciousness much as Rick's massive, muscular frame slumped on top of me.

I was unconscious for a few moments, before the lingering dose Desoxyn and the sensation of suffocation under Rick sleeping body roused me. I gently expelled his softened cock and slipped out from beneath Rick. "You awake?" Tran whispered.

"Yeah, I still need to breath, and I can't sleep yet."

"Me too. I'm trapped. Help me move him."

Feeling Lilliputian, I helped Tran remove the snoring Randy from atop her. We covered them with the disheveled blankets and retired to the bathroom to clean up and compare notes. They were both stunningly powerful, athletic lovers. Tran counted Randy amongst her very best, and she was working from a much larger data base than mine. I agreed that Randy was fantastic, and I confided that if anything, Rick was even better.

"I want to make up my mind for myself," Tran demanded.

"In good time," I concurred.

The Hyatt had a deep, luxurious tub, and was well stocked with toiletries. We drew a steaming bubble bath, scented it with lilac bath crystals, and slipped in beneath suds. Tran's lovely titties floated at the surface: I covered her with a demure film of bubbles, and then fondled them in the slippery suds. Tran's immaculately black lacquered toe slid under my ass, and poked at my tired, happy hole. "Mmm", we said simultaneously, and then burst out laughing. "Tran, we are so bad."

"I never get enough," Tran said agreeably. "Do me the same way."

I readily complied, and we lay together in the soapy waters, engaging in gentle, but kinky massage.

"I hope my new pussy is this sexy," Tran murmured sexily.

"If it's not, we can always do it this way."

"Both ways," said Tran.

"At the same time," Tran agreed.

"With another cock in my mouth," I countered.

"And one in each hand."

"Sounds like a plan. Speaking of which, are you packed?"

"I'll take care of it tomorrow."

"Tran, the limo is picking us up at 12:00 noon."

"Plenty of time for me to pack."

"Well, I suppose we'll be spending most of the time in bed, one way or another."

"What time is it now?"

"About 1:30."

"Time to wake up our boys?"

"Let's give them ten more minutes while we fix our make up."

"As if they'll notice now."

"But we'll know how good we look."

The door opened, and a bedraggled Rick staggered in, mumbling "I gotta take a leak." As his piss splashed vigorously into the toilet, I gestured Tran toward Rick's rumpled bed, and I crawled into Randy's. He roused, and groped toward the bathroom just as Rick returned to his bed. I heard Tran's coquettish giggle, and then the rustling of sheets and the sounds of heavy breathing and sucking. Randy saw what was going on as he emerged and hopped into bed next to me.

I whispered "Ready for a midnight snack?" and he nodded "Mm, hmm." I slid down his brawny torso, kissing him along the way across his smooth, muscular shoulders, his rippling abs, his granite-hard abdomen to his cock, around which I circled my glossy, wet lips. I took him into my mouth to his pubes, which were redolent with the musky, sweet aroma of Tran's ass-juices. I filled my nose with their rich pungence and hoped that Tran enjoyed inhaling my musk from Rick as much as I did hers. Randy swiftly hardened and filled my mouth and throat with his cock, and took control of my head and pistoned it on his thrusting shaft. I succumbed happily to his control. I easily deep throated his familiar cock, and as I did so I lifted my ass, offering myself to him. He began massaging my sore but still tingling hole, and stroking my empty scrotum and tiny, soft cockette. I took a breath and whispered "Use some lubricant, please." He grabbed it from the night stand and applied it to his finger, which slid easily inside me. I was sore, but still horny.

Wordlessly, I ripped open a condom and rolled it over his stiff cock. I sat astride him, and settled my ass onto its tip, and pressed down, so he entered me. I let out a moan, and heard it echoed from the bed beside me by Tran's gasps of pleasure as Rick entered her.

The mental picture of Rick's massive cock-head stretching and entering her tiny brown hole filled me with such envy and lust that I impaled myself on Randy's cock to the hilt, and thrilled at the jolt of pain that shot through me. I rose again until his cock nearly slipped out, and then dropped back down until his pubes banged against my buttocks and his long cock felt like it was poking my navel from within. He seized my waist and began repeating this motion: lifting me vertically and slamming me down on top of him, and his pelvis rose and fell in concert with me. I felt like I was riding a bucking bronco, with an oversized saddle horn penetrating my ass. My breasts swayed, my hair swirled and my body shook as Randy's massive, powerful body took command and battered my insides with his rampaging manhood.

The second sodomy of an evening is very different from the first. The external ring is puckered and taut, but it yields more readily to the pressure of a well lubricated cock. In the interval, the sphincters will have been restored to their fortress function, but so long as muscle remembers the previous penetration, they open more readily and less painfully for the second cock, especially if it is slightly smaller than the first, as Randy's was compared to Rick's. In the long channel of colon deeper within, the mucosa will have been activated by the first fuck to and have become swollen and wet. Thus, deep inside the colon actually is tighter for the second cock, and the experience is more sensual with the second cock than the first.

And so it was tonight, as it felt as if I was trying to resist Randy as he surged inward and retain him as he pulled out. I was soon sweating and sighing with the effort of receiving and containing his flailing member, and my voice joined with Tran's sensual, exotic warblings of pain, exertion and bliss, to make a sexy chorus, backed by the bass line of Rick's and Randy's grunts and the slapping of the flesh of our tender asses against their sinewy thighs. I looked over and saw Tran too was atop Rick, and her breasts billowed and fell as the storm within Rick bobbed her like a vessel in a gale at sea. Our eyes met and we exchanged a satisfied, conspiratorial smile before refocusing on the rough fucking we were getting.

Randy tossed me from the saddle, rolled me on my stomach and mounted me like from behind like a bitch in heat. I let out yelps as his cock exited and reentered me from behind in powerful, and well aimed lunges. He grabbed my breasts in one and with the other fondled my cockette and stroked the smooth, flat skin of my empty scrotum. The full length of his cock slashed in, out and though me as he struggled to reach his second orgasm. Success came in a dozen bone crushing thrusts of his pelvis against my body that left me breathless, weak and quivering in his embrace, and left him sprawled unconscious atop me. As his cock softened and slipped out, I felt a warm glow rise from inside me and spread sleep through me. As the noise and fury of Randy's assault subsided, I heard Rick's attack on Tran's willing ass reach its apogee, and hear his guttural cries and Tran's song-like responses herald the coming of his orgasm. I fell asleep with the fading notes of that lovely melody in my ears.

I awoke to the insistent, incessant ring of the room phone. After what seemed like a hundred rings, I heard Rick answer. "Hi Mom. ... What do you mean, we're late. ... You mean, you're already here. Oh shit, I mean, nothing. Yeah, we'll be right down."

He slammed the phone. "Fuck, Randy, wake up. My mom and yours are here for breakfast. We gotta get down to the restaurant."

I looked at the time with alarm. It was 9:30. "Tran, we really picked the wrong day to oversleep. We have to wake up and get packed." She rolled out of bed and brushed her tangled mane from her sleepy eyes.

"Says who? Where are you going?" Rick demanded. I didn't want to spoil our surprise, so I improvised that we were just going to visit my mom in LA.

Rick and Randy were half dressed. I was pleased that they were breakfasting with their families with the nocturnal residues of Tran and me as their cologne. I sprang to the door and demanded hugs from them as they left. Tran did likewise, and it seemed like they each gave her an extra embrace, the better to squeeze her breasts as they bade her farewell. "Oh well," I thought. "I'll soon be making up that deficiency."

Tran and I showered together and soothed each other's tired bodies with warm, soapy massages. We primped ourselves one last time in the luxury of Rick's mom's suite, and left the hotel arm in arm. As we left, tottering, wearing our high heels and sexy party dresses, we attracted condemnatory glares of the hotel staff, and looked back haughtily. If you only knew, my eyes proclaimed. I suppressed a desire to wave at Rick and Randy, as they animatedly talked with their moms, a couple of attractive but dull looking Mid-Western matrons.

As we left them, I felt mixed pang of loss and relief. Would I ever eat Christmas dinner with Rick's family, or proudly pick up a child at a college campus? Would the destiny which chosen me had ever put me in a mini-van taking kids to soccer? My life would be lived in an alternative world, where I would live according to rules of my own making. It was a liberating but scary world. I was frightened, but free. And I would make the most of that freedom.

---

Next: My Fifteen Seconds of Fame

This is a sometimes violent story with very raw sex scenes. If that's not what you want to read, please do not read this story.

The Greatest Lie
Chapter 9
My Fifteen Seconds of Fame
by Alexandra Rios

 

 

Two hours after saying goodbye to Rick and Randy, Tran and I left Minneapolis and boarded a plane to LA. I fell asleep at take off, and woke as the plane began its descent. Tran was staring out the window at the city's lights spread in an endless shimmering galaxy below. "Wow, I love LA already," she exclaimed. She was right: viewed from the air on a clear night, LA is a gorgeous vista of stars, like heaven mirrored on the earth. Up close, some of those stars are ugly and dangerous. And we were about to enter one of LA's dirtiest secret worlds: the San Fernando Valley porn industry: the sinister, sleazy cousin of Hollywood.

We were met at the gate by a silent driver holding a sign marked "Rios".

Wordlessly, he put our carry-on bags onto a luggage cart, picked up our checked baggage, and took us to a stretch limo parked in the red zone. He opened the door and motioned for us to get in. "Welcome to LA," a Russian-accented voice commented from within. "You must be our newest stars."

I feigned a shiver, jiggling my boobies provocatively. "Good to be here. It's freezing in Minneapolis," I replied.

The limo took off. "We're going to the studio for a read through. You hungry? Thirsty? Want some coke?" He produced a dusty mirror with four lines of coke, the smudged, dusty residue of several others, and a tightly rolled hundred.

Tran looked at me, uncertain. Wanting to go with the flow, and still slightly groggy with sleep, I said, "Sure, thanks," and snorted both lines. My eyes watered as the menthol crystals blasted my sinuses. I hadn't had cocaine for months, and rarely so strong and pure as these lines. Soon Tran and I were animated and vivacious.

"So what are you, the director or an actor?" I asked. He was a burly, bearded Russian émigré whose dancing eyes were framed by broad cheekbones and dark, thick eyebrows.

Before our host could answer, Tran said, "You good looking enough to be actor, but how big is your cock? Can we see it?"

"Slow down, girls. None of the above. I'm Pavel, and I am the producer. Have either of you been in adult films before?"

"No, this is our first time," I admitted.

Tran followed up "But don't worry, we suck and fuck like pro's."

He dialed a cell phone, motioning us to be silent. "Ricardo, can you meet me at the studio in about 45? I have a couple of newbie T-Girls to rehearse for a shoot tomorrow. Yeah, they're cute, and really lively. OK, and give Andre a call, too, same thing. OK, see you there."

"Who are we meeting, our co-stars?" I asked.

"No, some of our other talent. We're saving the big boys for the real thing. They need to save their energy, if you know what I mean."

We nodded enthusiastically. The limo struggled through rush hour traffic to a nondescript warehouse in Northridge. We pulled in behind a chain-link gate that rolled closed and locked behind us. It was a warm, brilliant day, and the mountains ringing the Valley had an unfamiliar clarity and brilliance. Pavel showed us to an office and bade us sit down. He handed us each a sheaf of papers and told us to read. The script was called "Transsexual Hookers," and it was a series of vignettes about Transsexual Sex Industry Workers plying their trade. I was to play a call girl from the personals section of a sex paper, and Tran's character was working a mythical bar modeled on Illusions at the 7969 Club in West Hollywood. There was some minimal dialog to set the stage, followed by a description of shots and angles for the sex scenes.

"How are we supposed to memorize all these moves?" I asked.

"That's for the camera crews. You'll just improvise, and I want to see how you do it."

"You mean right now?"

"That's right. OK, let's read your lines, and after Ricardo and Andre get here, we'll run through the action."

"You mean we are having sex with these guys right now, with you watching?"

"That's the idea, honey. And get used to a crowd. There are going to be a lot more people watching tomorrow."

We ran through our dialog. Tran playing a pin ball machine at a noisy bar, shaking her booty and half-exposed breasts. She is approached from behind by a date, and they chat suggestively about putting balls in the holes, points, scores, and how long she can keep a ball in play. The customer gets aroused and begins fondling her as she plays, but she plays on, lighting up the machine, which records points madly, until the distraction of his pawing arms makes her lose the point. The customer apologizes, Tran tells him now he has to pay. He asks how much, and she quotes a price. He nods and they leave the bar together, arrive at a nearby hotel, and you can guess the rest. "But I'm terrible at pin ball," Tran complained. "Better at bed ball."

"Very funny, you can throw that one in if you remember it tomorrow. Don't worry about the game, we'll rig the machine."

My script was even simpler: a guy studies the personal ads in the LA Xpress (a local sex paper), picks mine, calls me, we chat, I give him directions to a pay phone in from of my apartment, invite him up, and you know the rest. They were easy lines: I had been in a bunch of plays in high school, so it was easy for me. Tran's a natural actress, and soon a pleased Pavel pronounced himself satisfied.

The phone rang. Ricardo and Andre had arrived. "Get yourselves ready for the sex scene. I'm going to video tape it. We'll go over it later and I tell you what works and what doesn't. The basic rule is, be visually and vocally expressive. The audience likes to see and hear you suffer. The men are going to be rough, and you have to act like they're killing you. Talk dirty, like you want it, and then cry out in pain and act hurt and humiliated when you're getting it in the ass. Look up admiringly at your man while you're sucking, and smile and lick your lips when you get your facial. Remember, you're playing a couple of cocksucking whores who get paid to be used and abused, and love every minute of it. That's what the audience wants to see, and that's what I want. Now, go get ready. Tran, you're first. Alexandra, you read her dialogue, and Ricardo reads Andre's."

We went to a cluttered, bright-lit dressing room. I helped Tran get ready, as there was no make-up assistance for rehearsal. We emerged, and Pavel introduced us to Andre and Ricardo. Andre was a short, muscular black guy, and Ricardo was a lanky, mustached Latino, who could barely read Andre's lines. Andre just stood around as Tran did the bar/pinball scene, as Ricardo and I exchanged the dialogue and negotiated a price and agreed on the trick. Then the scene cut to a sleazy hotel bedroom, and we walked over to a bed with hotel style-side tables.

I read dialogue, telling Andre to get comfortable, and he stripped to his boxers and socks and sat down on the bed. Tran stripped to black, low-cut bra and panties. Pavel panned her body, lingering on the slight bulge in her panties at the crotch. Tran knelt on the floor by the bed, and I read dialogue, begging Andre to let Tran suck his cock. He dropped his boxers, stepped forward, grabbed her hair, and Tran began licking and sucking.

Ricardo read as Tran sucked Andre. "Mmm, that feels good, bitch. Suck it, you slut. Let me fuck your face, you fucking whore. That's it, suck it, suck it down your slutty throat." Andre repeated the lines Ricardo just read. Tran cooed wordless expressions of appreciation, and looked up adoringly at the silent Andre.

Pavel told her to break off and cued me to read "Oh, that tastes so good, and you're so big. Give me more." Andre slammed his big black dick back into her face, as Ricardo read humiliating, misogynist dialogue and Pavel filmed. Pavel signaled Ricardo, who read, "OK, bitch, I'm ready to fuck your butt."

"Be gentle to my tight Asian ass," I read for Tran. "You're too big for me." Tran slipped out of her panties and bra and got on hands and knees on the bed, ass up.

Pavel panned her expectant face, her swaying breasts, and slender backside, tiny cock and balls, and her tiny, puckered ass. "Stick your finger in it," he ordered, and he filmed as Tran licked her manicured index finger, and slipped it into her own hole. He quickly panned to the momentary flash of pain in her eyes.

"Oh, I'm ready for you now," I read. "Please be careful."

"Now put on some lubricant," Pavel ordered. "You--put on a condom." Pavel rolled film as Tran put lube on her ass, and Andre rubbered his now fully-loaded cock.

"OK, fuck her now. Grab her hair with one hand and her tits with the other, and ram it in. You read."

"Oh please, go slowly..." Andre slammed his entire nine inches into Tran at once. She didn't need any acting ability to communicate her response, which was to thrash involuntarily and beg him to stop in an anguished, pleading voice.

"Keep reading," said Pavel.

"Oh stop, you're hurting me. Too much, too big, much too big, ow, aaah." Tran repeated these lines, and I could not tell if she was acting or if it was for real.

Pavel filmed from every angle, capturing every aspect of the penetration, Andre's wild groping of Tran's breasts and cock, his pulling of her hair, and the anguished response on her face. After he had explored every angle of the doggy-style fuck, he told Andre to flip her over on her side, and he sat astride her thigh and rode her, grabbing her beautiful breasts and squeezing them like grapefruit.

"Oh, yeah, fuck me hard, squeeze my titties," I read, and Tran repeated. "Do it to me, fuck me baby, harder, harder."

"Fuck you, you little whore, fuck your little ass, I'm going to fuck a hole through you, slut, I wanna cum up your ass." Ricardo read.

"Play with your cock," Pavel ordered Tran, who complied. "OK, roll her onto her back, and pull her legs up." Pavel panned back, and waved for me to keep reading.

"Ooooh, that feels good. Deeper, harder."

"Big happy smile now, Tran," directed Pavel.

"Oh, yeah, I love to get fucked," I improvised. Tran repeated it with a satisfied grin. Andre gripped Tran's slender ankles and bore down on her from above, and I read "That's it big man, fuck me hard, you big black stud." Tran recited after me, and a warm, and deeply satisfied smile spread across her face. Her eyes danced with happiness as Andre pounded away.

Pavel said "Excellent, perfect, yes, harder Andre, play with yourself, Tran," and she stroked her breasts and cock. Although it was obvious that they both enjoyed this brutal variation on the missionary position, the audience, and Pavel, demanded variety. Pavel instructed Andre to exit, which he did so swiftly that his exit brought a grimace to Tran's eyes. Andre lay on his back, and propped his stiff cock to attention. Tran sat atop Andre, her legs astride him, and speared her bottom on his thick, upright member, and she rode him. She bounced up and down, her breasts flying, her hair swaying, and all the time with a beautiful smile of ecstasy gracing her lovely lips.

"Oh yeah, it feels so good, aaah, fuck me, oooh, fuck me, fuck me, oooo, harder, harder aaah."

"Fuck your ass, dirty little whore, fuck it, goddamn fucking slut whore, fucking ass slut whore," Ricardo growled, and Andre repeated.

"OK, now push her off and read the next page, Ricardo."

"Finish me in your mouth, slut, and don't spill a drop."

"Mmm, yum," I replied, and Tran peeled off Andre's rubber and took him deep down her throat.

"Suck it, bitch, all the way, that's it, Ooh, Oh yeah, Ahh." He spurted a load into Tran's mouth, then pulled back and jerked himself and made it spatter into her hair, eyes, cheeks, and breasts.

"Open your mouth and swallow some more," Pavel directed, and she took the last drops into her wet lips, and then let it run out to join the cum splattered on her breasts. "Smile, and lick it off your tits," Pavel demanded.

Tran did so, as I uttered gratefully "Mmm, tastes so good." Tran shot out her pink tongue to lick wayward drops of jism from her cheeks and chin.

"Excellent," Pavel praised. "That was excellent. Now go rinse off." Pavel followed her to the shower as she did a quick rinse down, taking close-ups of the jism as it slid off her breasts under the warm jets of the shower, and zooming in on her tired, puckered hole as she leaned over to dry her legs. She went out,; Andre was tying his shoes and getting ready to leave.

"See you next weekend, Andre, take care at the slaughterhouse," she ad libbed the last part.

"See you later, Baby," he said as he walked out the door. Tran dropped her towel, ran her hands up and down her glorious body, and reached down to pick up her clothes from the floor. As Pavel panned her, she got dressed, fixed her make up, and as he faded, she was back at the pinball machine, racking up improbably excellent scores, and looking over her shoulder for the next customer.

"Thanks everybody," Pavel boomed. "If everything plays like that tomorrow, we've got a hit. Tran, Alexandra, get dressed and come to my office."

Ricardo interjected, "Hey, watta bout me. Don't I get to fuck the other one?"

"It's late, and she knows what she's doing. Here, go get yourself laid." He handed Ricardo a couple of twenties.

Ricardo looked at me fiercely. "I'll see you some other time, bitch."

"I look forward to that, so sorry it didn't work out today," I replied mildly. I had no interest in getting fucked by a stringy little guy like Ricardo, but why piss him off?

I accompanied Tran to the dressing room, feeling a little guilty about my role in getting her into this predicament and in helping Pavel carry it out. I was also nervous about the real thing the next day. "Are you OK with this?" I asked her.

"Sure, it was fine. He wasn't any rougher than some of my real clients. And it was sexy hearing you read my lines. It helped me get through it."

"How weird is that, getting fucked in front of a bunch of spectators?"

Tran shrugged.

"You know, there'll be a lot more tomorrow."

"I didn't really think about it after I started. I just listened to you and Pavel. We'll be fine. You're a good actress."

After she was dressed, we went to Pavel's office. He and another guy, the director, Yuri, were watching Tran's tape. "Good performance, Tran. I'm not worried about you either, Alexandra. You're so good I wish it had been the final. You even got some emotion out of that loser, Andre. If only Ricardo knew how to read, much less act."

Tran's performance was convincing, and my line reading sounded natural and realistic. It appeared that she was really suffering pain and humiliation at the hands and cock of Andre. When she repeated my dialogue reading, it sounded fresh and real.

Pavlov made a few comments, suggesting occasional eye contact with the camera to help the audience identify with the character. "But just momentary eye contact, like a futile plea for help to an equally powerless bystander. The audio is weak, but it doesn't matter, we'll have the set sound-boomed tomorrow. And don't worry about the lighting. Tomorrow, you'll wish you'd put on sunscreen, indoors. Tran, that's outstanding work for a first timer." He handed us a couple hundred bucks each. "Expense money. Enjoy! I know the rehearsal was part of the contract, but your work was above and beyond. Get a nice dinner and hotel, have some fun, and I'll see you here at 10:00 a.m. for hair and make-up. You'll meet your partners at noon, and we start shooting with Alexandra a 1:00 p.m. If you have the energy, it wouldn't hurt to watch this again." He handed me the tape.

Ever budget conscious, we walked to a nearby hotel and got salads and a bottle of wine from a deli. The room was small and shabby, but the sheets felt clean and we were exhausted. The wine hit us hard and we collapsed on the bed fully clothed. I popped in Tran's tape and we listened and watched a few minutes. Soon she had put her arms around me and was pressing her big boobs and her tiny but hard cock against me.

"So what was it like, getting fucked with the rest of us watching," I murmured.

"It was OK. I mean I been fucked by maybe a thousand guys, so what's one more. I like it."

"Andre was so rough to you. I like it slower."

"So do I, but a lot of tricks like to stick it in fast, make it hurt. I'm used to it. Besides, your mean Dr. Sanguan made me stop taking hormones for almost two weeks and now I'm horny to get fucked. I'm even horny to fuck like a guy." She guided my hand to her cock, which was as hard as steel, and larger than I remembered it.

"Enjoy it while you got it, Tran," I said, ducking my head beneath the covers. I pressed my lips against her satin panties, stroked her with my nose, and breathed hot air against it.

She moaned and her hips undulated. I paused, and her muffled voice begged "Don't stop," so I slid her panties down and took her sweet, silky, doomed member in my mouth.

I was instantly rewarded with the lush, exotic flavor of her pre-cum. She flung back the covers and I looked up at her. Her lovely face was framed by the twin peaks of her fabulous breasts, and her eyes were locked shut in pleasure. I slipped my hand under her butt and found her tiny ass with my finger. It had contracted to a pinhole after the afternoon's abuse, and I had to lick my finger to ease its entry. As it slid inside her, her pelvis convulsed and her moans grew uncontrollable. A tiny, delicious fountain of cum erupted in my mouth, just as her moans reached a crescendo. I swallowed part of her load, and then finished her with my hand, letting the rest squirt into a puddle in her navel. To my surprise, Tran's cum was creamy and white, just like a real guy's. I fondled her breasts and kissed her trembling lips, allowing her to savor her pleasant flavors from my mouth and tongue. We held the kiss as I tickled her navel, with my finger dipped in the slippery pool it now contained.

"That was great," I told her.

"Great for me, too," she said sleepily, as we drifted off to sleep on one another's arms.

We overslept, showered together to save time and rushed to the studio barely ahead of our 10:00 a.m. deadline. Our wet heads and un-made faces didn't matter, because we were immediately placed in the hands of the hair and make-up department. We were waxed, tweezed, blown out, brushed, manicured, pedicured, and made up by Louise and Charles, a Vietnamese couple who had been brought in on contract from a nearby salon.

They went totally nuts over Tran, whose face and skin were beautiful even by the standards of Vietnamese women, and whose body had been fashioned to the proportions of a Barbie doll. I fretted over the shortness of my hair, which had not had time to grow out to my satisfaction. "Don't worry, hon," said Charles, as he blew back a wayward tuft of my blond mullet. "We do this every week for Pavel, and your raw material is better than anyone's. We'll make you delectable." And after two hours of non-stop primping, I had to admit that I looked spectacular.

Pavel had suggested that I wear colored contacts to deepen the blue of my eyes. I was blinking the second one in when I heard the door open and a strangely familiar voice intoned "Well, well, Rios, so we meet again." I was still half blinded when I felt his hands grab and squeeze my breasts. "My, my, haven't you grown since last year: tits, that is." As my eyes cleared, I recognized the face and the voice: Miguel, my high school tormentor and rapist.

"Miguel, what are you doing here?"

"Making movies and money, just like you, maricon. This is my third one. When Pavel showed me your picture, I knew it had to be you. So now we can have an early high school reunion. Just the two of us, this time. Too bad for Seth and Jack, they're missing out on the fun."

"I thought you hated transsexuals, Miguel. I thought you hated me."

"But now I like fucking little vestigos like you. After that Prom Night, I got used to it. I like to fuck a nice, tight bunda better than a fat, smelly cunt, especially if I'm getting paid for it. Marta's pregnant, fat as a pig, and too bitchy to fuck. So right now, you'll do. But it doesn't mean that I don't hate fags, especially a stuck up little bitch like you." He pinched my breasts cruelly, and grabbed between my legs and squeezed. "Such a little girl, they even cut your cajones. You little smartass, aren't you a freak now? You can't lord over the rest of us anymore. You're a subhuman too, now." He rubbed my empty scrotum and laughed mockingly. My cheeks burned.

"Miguel, I never looked down on you or the others at Uni. I was just a scared, confused kid, acting above it all because of my fear of being found out. I didn't set out to get between you and Marta. I just bungled my way into it as I was hiding from something else. But when you found me out, when you and the others fucked me that Prom night, I took the first step on the path on which I discovered myself. In a way, I guess I've got you to thank for helping find, and become, who I am." I turned and looked him straight in the eye. "Now just take me as who I am, and let me take you as you are. Forget high school. The past is what they make stories from. All action is in the present. That's all I want from you."

"You want me to fuck you?"

"That's why we're here, isn't it? Look, I'm putting aside the fact that you and your friends raped me. You can put aside the fact that I dissed you in a different lifetime."

Just then Pavel poked his head in, and asked in a smarmy tone, "Are high school sweethearts getting to know one another again?"

"Oh, yeah, we were about to break into the old school song. Actually, I was thinking, could we work this ad hoc reunion concept into the script? It's a pretty compelling subtext."

"Great idea. Miguel, take a shower and go to makeup. Alexandra, come with me. Let's doctor the script while the crew shoots Tran's script."

When we were alone, I confronted Pavel. "That's not very funny, surprising me with Miguel. We weren't exactly good buddies in high school. In fact, I was terrified of him, and he hated me: justifiably, in both cases. I was a privileged and conceited AP student, and he was an industrial arts kid. Plus, I nearly seduced his girlfriend, and he retaliated by leading a gang bang rape of me."

"Well, it must have been a formative experience for him, because he sought us out to be in Transsexual films. And he's terrific, one of the best studs we have. Too bad about your troubled past with him, but we gotta make a movie."

"I know, I just want to make a better movie."

"What's your idea?" I told him that we should alter the call girl script to incorporate my actual dynamic with Miguel. Pavel loved it. He booted up the script on his computer, and we frantically re-wrote it and Pavel passed it out to the director and crew. (Don't worry, dear Reader. you'll read a synopsis of it in a minute). "Miguel's studying his new lines right now. The director loves it, and so do I. Alexandra, you're a real pro. I should send you all of my scripts from now on. You have got a really kinky touch for such a baby."

"Thanks, it's my Chaucer and Transgender research studies, no doubt."

Pavel laughed and gave me a hug. "You could be a giant in this business, if you want."

"As if," I laughed. "Not! After this movie Tran and I disappear. We're getting the Operation in Thailand next week. This is our last job."

"What a waste. Well, how about a post-op sequel."

"We'll see how this goes, but I don't think so. After all, I'll be a virgin, again."

"I know," Pavel replied. "I know."

If you've never been on a set, even a porno set where they do things fast and loose, it is actually kind of boring and repetitive, as they re-shoot the flubbed lines and re-block for new scenes. The place is crammed with lights, cameras, and people, milling around and bumping into each other. The set starts out so cold your nipples are hard even before the action starts. The male stars get hard with the help of a "fluff girl", whose job it is to suck the star's cock before and between the sex scenes. During the shoot, they have to turn off the noisy air conditioners, so by the end, the lights have heated the place to Saharan temperatures. Not the most erotic atmosphere, but what the hell, we were all pros. Yuri told me he liked to shoot the action sequence with as few breaks as possible. You just keep going until you hear "Cut."

It begins with Miguel looking at the Transsexual ads in the Xpress. He sees my picture as 'Louisa Transsexual', does a double take, and mumbles to himself 'That looks like that stuck up bitch Luis from high school. I guess he's a she now: stuck up little bitch. I'd like to fuck her brains out."

He calls, I answer, ask him some perfunctory questions about himself and his preferences. I make sure he understands I'm a transsexual and that he has no ties to law enforcement. I ask his preferences, and he replies that he likes dominant Greek. Great, I like to be a bottom. How big a donation can you bring? He promises $200, and I say that's perfect. Call me from the corner or Hollywood and Vine.

As he rings off, I tell myself that his voice sounded familiar. Funny he didn't say he had seen me before.

He calls from the corner, I ask him to identify a landmark to make sure he's not a crank, he does, and then I give him my address and security code. I buzz him into my apartment. He looks at me hungrily, and he begins fondling my breasts and ass right away. Business before pleasure, I say pleasantly. I take his donation, spread a quilt on the floor, and tell him to get comfortable as I go into my bedroom stash the money. Then I come back and when I see him stripped to his socks, I recognize him. I say, "You look familiar to me. Have you seen me before?"

"Yeah, locker 101 next to you in gym class."

I look at his hard cock and say, "Maybe I don't remember you, but I'll always remember that." I smiled and fondled his hardening cock.

"You never noticed me because you were with your rich friends in your college track courses. You never even talked to me in high school, you were so busy pretending to be something you weren't and looking down on me and my friends. But I always thought you were a maricon, a faggot, when I saw you staring at me in the locker room. I guess I was right."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you or hurt your feelings."

"Forget it. Don't worry about it anymore. Now you're not a high school hotshot any more, just another trannie whore."

"You can just leave if you're going to talk to me that way."

"I'm not going anywhere. You took my money. I get what I came for." He seized me and forced me to my knees.

"OK, but don't hurt me," I said, cringing.

"I'll do what I want." He grabbed my hair and forced my face onto his cock.

I let his hands force my lips around his cock, and push it in and out of my mouth. The familiar mossy flavor of his uncut meat, and the savory appetizer of pre-cum was very real, but the fluttering of the still camera's shutter, the hot glare of the lights and the shuffling of the crews feet added a surreal aspect. Remembering the camera, I looked up worshipfully toward Miguel, who returned a cold glare, and then looked pleadingly into the winking red light of a rolling camera as Miguel speared his cock down my throat. I arched my back and stuck my ass in the air, to afford the cameras a view of my still unprobed ass and my cockette.

Months of experience had made me a blow job expert, and he grunted pleasure and approval, muttering, "Yeah, suck my cock, you trannie whore, suck me dry." He sat on the couch, pulling my head with him by my hair. Then, his hands began a rough exploration of my ass. He stroked and pulled my cock roughly and poked at my ass with his fingers.

I broke from my sucking and begged, "Oh, that feels good, but I need you to fuck me."

We took a quick break as Miguel was condomed and sucked by the fluff girl, and my hair and makeup were refreshed, and I went off stage and lubed my tush. I assumed an all fours, ass-up position and begged Miguel to fuck me hard, but please start slowly. I felt his hard, hairy thighs between and against mine, and his hard cock pressing against, and bouncing on my puckered and intensely expectant ass. Off hormones for a week and exposed to the bizarre rehearsal the night before, I had gotten so horny that I needed a jolt of pain.

I turned and murmured, half to the camera and half to Miguel, "Please, I need you. Please fuck me." With that, he grabbed and pulled up my thighs, and rammed himself inside me. He slammed himself in fully in two overwhelming lunges, as I cried out in half-real, half-feigned pain and suffering. Of course, he ignored my writhing and twisting, and cries and pleading, and proceeded with his brutal and public invasion of my upturned ass. I looked pleadingly back at him, then into the camera, gasped a prayer for pity and begged him to please go slow and don't hurt me.

The camera was powerless, and Miguel was deaf to my pleas, and I gyrated my ass back into his rampaging cock, writhed my head, and gripped the rumpled sheets to steel myself against the pain and humiliation. Searching for emotions to fuel my acting, I recalled and relived that agonizing prom night, when Miguel had instigated the savage gang rape that had sent me down this path to femininity and debasement.

I thought of the circles of hell that I had visited between that night and the present: the sleazeball in the bus station; Jake, who had first loved, and then rejected me; Jon, who had wooed me and then betrayed me; Country Music, who had tried to murder me; Bo, who had made me his personal whore, and then offered me in trade for a peace in a drug war; and Carlos, who had brutally fucked me and then turned loose a diseased multitude on me. Now I had come full circle, and Miguel had me in his sadistic clutches again, now for all the world to see my final descent into sluttish submission. As I let out a cry of pain and emotional anguish, Miguel forced my face to into the bed to smother my voice. I bit the sheets to suppress my torment, and noticed gratefully that a camera had zoomed in for a close-up as I shed my first tears. I mouthed "Help me" into the impassive lens.

Miguel had had enough doggy-style, and he pulled out as I winced and moaned. He growled "Roll over, bitch." As soon as I had complied he grabbed my ankles, and upturned my ass and stuffed himself back inside me to the hilt. He fucked me on my back with my ankles pulled up to my ears, and my slender body bent beneath his pulsing pelvis. I twisted, and writhed beneath him, alternating between pleading gazes at Miguel and imploring glances into the camera, as my cries changed from pure pain to epiphanies of ecstasy.

He rose higher above me, planted his right foot near my left ear, and bore down on me from above, his pelvis perpendicular to mine, so that my ass lacked even the minimal protection that the rounded curves of my buttocks provided. His pubis banged directly against my ass, giving him unrestricted access, and he ravaged my colon. My back soon ached from this hideous angle of attack. He pulled out, lay on his back, and forced me to sit on his cock, first facing him, and then pivoting me so that I faced away.

His relentless pelvis rose and fell beneath me, forcing ever deeper new passages inside me. But now, each new invasion brought smiles of satisfaction and pleasure to my lips.

By the time he rolled me back into doggy position, I was begging him for more, more, harder, deeper.

But the ass-fucking portion of the show was ending. We had reached that most sacred moment in any hard core porn video, especially she-male porn: the facial cum shot.

Indeed, so precious was this moment that the action paused, and Miguel went to his corner to be attended by his fluff girl, and I to mine to have my make up refreshed: the lovelier to look when his cum splashed all over me.

The crew re-set the lights and cameras, and checked the sound. Then I took my place on my knees and awaited Miguel. I again gazed up with moist, adoring eyes as he slipped his cock between my lips. I nearly gagged from the overwhelming taste of nicotine slathered over his cock: the fluff girl had obviously taken a recent cigarette break, and Miguel had come back with her tainted saliva covering him. I bravely sucked hard and swallowed, my eyes worshipping my master as his smelly cock traveled my mouth and throat.

At last his cock erupted a salty balm, but after a single spurt in my mouth, he skillfully sprayed the full load into my hair, eyes, cheeks, neck and breasts. He must have been celibate for a week, so voluminous was his load. The cameras whirred and clicked as I licked my lips, grabbed his cock and balls and squeezed the last drops onto my outstretched tongue. I smiled most angelically, and said "yum."

I held the pose for a few moments, and then heard Pavel exclaim "Perfect, Cut."

Miguel left wordlessly, and I cracked, "Did I say something wrong?" drawing an appreciative laugh from the crew that must have further irritated and angered him. I shrugged my shoulders, returned to my dressing room and got into the hottest shower I could stand.

I was brushing my teeth for the fourth time when Pavel knocked and walked in without asking. He sat down, obviously pleased and happy. "One never knows until one starts editing, but I think we had a great shoot. You were tremendous, such an intuitive actress. Those subtle asides to the camera: I love it."

"I felt a lot closer to the camera than to Miguel. Where did you get the great idea of pairing us? Did you have any idea?"

"No, he just said he thought he'd known you in high school."

"Known, in the biblical sense."

"He didn't mention that."

"I'd like a last word with him."

"Help yourself, but don't accept a date with him tonight."

"Don't worry, I don't think he's in the mood."

"I meant I have first dibs on you."

I smiled, and left, playing hard to get for the moment.

I met Miguel as he was about to leave. "Miguel, I think we did really well together."

"I'm just glad to be through with you. The best thing about it is, now you can never complain to the police about what happened on Prom Night. I'll just give them the tape and prove it was consented."

"I never complained to the police. They only came because my parents were worried, not because I complained." Not that there would have been any point in complaining: like the Minneapolis cops, the LAPD doesn't give a shit about transsexual crime victims. And I wasn't even angry anymore. As Tran had said of the loathsome Andre, Miguel was just another cock in the ass: one of many that had come before and many that would follow.

"Lying slut. I know you went to the police, but I don't give a fuck anymore. I'm shut of you forever. Have a nice life, bitch."

"Miguel, the difference between us is that I can live with what happened between us. You're still running away from it."

He walked away without answering.

So that was it. He was a paranoid, scared little shit. Well, in that case, I didn't care either. A great load of anxiety lifted from me. For the last nine months since Prom Night, Miguel had been living in fear of me. I had lived fearlessly.

I returned to Pavel's office feeling liberated. He peered up from his editing deck. "This is tremendous, you should see it."

"Thanks, I'll wait for the theatrical release. Now tell me, what did you mean by first dibs?"

"I want to invite you to my house for some intimate photography and dinner. I feel an obligation, as I understand a national treasure is being exported to Thailand."

"Oh I get it, you want some more 'before' pictures. I don't recall that being in my contract."

"That would be an extra. A thousand, plus a potential $500 performance bonus."

"What about Tran?"

"My colleague Yuri tells me that she accepted a similar offer."

"Are their going to be hordes and multitudes attending, like today?"

"No, just the four of us."

"Four?"

"Tran, Yuri, you and me."

"Works for me."

We rode in Yuri's Mercedes through rush hour on the 101 to his place high above Mulholland in the Hollywood Hills. Even though I grew up in LA, I am always thrilled when I visit one of these Hollywood aeries, with 270 degree views of the city's lights. On this night, the Santa Ana winds had scoured the smog from the basin, so LA twinkled with unusual, almost psychedelic intensity.

Tran was hypnotized. "I love LA. I never knew it was so much fun and so beautiful. And the people so nice."

"This is one night out of a thousand that's like this. And believe me, not all the people are nice, and none of them are nice all of the time. In show business, 'nice' is part of the job."

"I like Yuri, he says you and I are the best T-Girl actresses ever."

"I bet he's said that before."

Yuri and Pavel summoned us inside for lines of coke and a toast of Dom. They had lit the living room for still photography. I did a coy striptease, exposing first one pert breast, then the other, slipping my dress down to my ankles and coyly stepping out, giving a peek-a-boo of my crotch.

At first, I kept myself demurely tucked, then, surprise, and I smiled abashedly. I studied myself, as though puzzled by this unexpected appendage. I cuddled up with myself on the bed, fondling my breasts, and stroking my buttocks and cock. Then I lay on my back, pulled my legs high and swung my bums up, as Pavel's camera explored me, taking close ups of my ass. I spread myself wide with my fingers, I fondled my hole, poke din one finger, and another. My lips curled with into a bashful smile as my eyes glistened with unrequited lust. Then I rolled over onto my tummy, rose up to all fours and turned my ass up, as though preparing to be mounted from behind.

The flashes were strobing as Pavel's camera studied the mystery of my shrunken cock, and my flattened, empty scrotum, and finally took more close-ups of my ass. I played at being embarrassed, and said so. Yuri told me it was like a brilliant, pink star set in a pearl firmament of my exquisitely white flesh. Pavel told me I looked as tight as a child. "You're beautiful, take a final pose," and I smiled triumphantly, proudly, and nakedly into the lens. "Fabulous!" Pavel commented as he loaded yet another roll of film.

They ran Tran through the same routine as I watched amusedly: do all guys want the same thing, I wonder. I asked, "Do all your shoots end in tight close-ups of the model's ass?"

"Absolutely, it's to the solo shot what the facial is to an action video. The exclamation point at the end of a hot story."

"God, it's gross enough to get fucked there, but at least that feels great. But to stare at? I don't get it!"

"They want to see what their cocks would see, if they had eyes. Every guy who looks at your butt shots is going to think about fucking you in the ass. At least, that's my theory. The fact is, that's what the audience wants, so we give it."

"Fucked in the ass or creamed in the face by a million guys. Sounds like a dream come true," laughed Tran.

The doorbell rang, and a big tray of sushi arrived. We began eating the delicious, spicy morsels, drinking champagne and snorting coke. Soon, we were relaxed, buzzed, and laughing about the tormented Miguel.

Pavel and Yuri recounted their careers: film students and wunderkind film makers in the old Soviet Union; careers exploding to international acclaim in the glasnost era; emigration to Hollywood, with great expectations; but rejection as plodding, aging outsiders by the youth-obsessed Hollywood studios. To keep working, they turned to porn, stigmatized themselves, but found themselves enjoying the creative challenges of non-stop action, improvisation, and the need to produce constant variations on well established and sacrosanct forms. And they enjoyed the subculture of porn and its people, all outsiders and rejects: casualties of one type or another. And of these, T Girls and the male actors who worked with them were the most fascinating.

I told them my story, and Pavel and Yuri, feverish with another round of coke, and champagne, grew animated. Think of the possibilities: a pornographic documentary.

Tran and I too were giddy with drugs, booze and fatigue. Yuri asked if we ever got it on with one another. We giggled, and I said, "Occasionally, but not since last night."

"Will you do it for us now."

"You mean for pictures?"

"Of course. No video, just me and Pavel with still cameras."

"How much?" I asked.

"Another couple of thousand," Pavel replied.

"Twenty five hundred if we get a cumshot," I countered. I looked at Tran quizzically. "That's your department."

"No problem," she replied confidently.

"Deal," Pavel agreed.

Tran and I started out holding hands as we sipped more champagne. I began fondling her amazing breasts, first through her low-cut, satin bodice, then her bare breasts. I kissed and licked her erect, brown nipples: then our lips joined in a kiss as she slipped down my dress and nuzzled her swaying breasts against mine. We slipped out of our dresses and panty hose, and retired to a bed where we had a brief panty-clad embrace before stripping. We pressed our cocks against one another: hers hard, uncut and brown; mine pink, circumcised and still soft. She examined my empty sac and looked puzzled into the camera, then began sucking me. I slithered into a 69 position with her and we gave each other a mutual blow job, caressing and spreading the other's buttocks and playing with the other's rings. I inserted my finger into her, and she hers into me, as the flashes popped and the cameras clicked.

As they re-loaded film, I assumed the submissive position, and Tran put on a condom and kneeled behind me. She lubed my tush and her small, but hard cock, and slipped it inside me. I feigned a surprised look and pain: she was barely thicker than a finger, and made my rectum buzz with pleasure from the first moment. She fucked me with all her meager strength, her boobs tickling my arched back, and her hands playing with my own titties and cockette. I love getting fucked by Tran: to be the bottom for another beautiful T- Girl, is to be the ultimate bottom. As her hips began to flail uncontrollably, I forced her out, rolled over onto my back, took her astride me and rolled my titties into a narrow tunnel around her small but surging cock. Her face contorted into a paroxysm of ecstasy, and I broke into an expectant and happy smile as she came onto my breasts and neck.

She slid down atop me, and we ended in a kiss, smearing both our breasts with her creamy load.

Pavel was ecstatic, regretting only that he had not videoed our performance. He wrote out a check, and when he handed it to me I noticed he had overpaid us by about $500.

When I mentioned this to Tran, she smiled and said "How nice of them. I was planning on fucking the two of them for free."

"Me too," I agreed, "But we could certainly use the extra money."

We emerged to see Pavel open another bottle of champagne and Yuri splitting out another set of lines. Pavel offered me a glass and Yuri the mirror. Though I was still buzzing, I accepted, thinking what the hell, if anyone's got a few brain cells to waste, it's me. And after all, this was probably my last sex as a pre-op. Thought they were paunchy, balding and a little old for my tastes, I certainly preferred that Pavel, Yuri or both of them hold that distinction rather than the odious Miguel, or even Tran, who doesn't really count the same way.

We went to the master bedroom, which featured a sturdy looking king-size bed surrounded by mirrors. Pavel dimmed the lights and turned on Enya, whose soaring silken voice provided a lovely backdrop to the sounds of sex. Pavel and Yuri joined us on the bed, and Tran and I took turns sucking them. Both of them had been profoundly aroused by their day's work and the sucking of two sets of practiced, silken lips. Pavel had instantly emitted precum, and when I kissed Tran between cocks, I tasted Yuri's on her flicking tongue. "Yum," we agreed, before returning to their cocks.

Yuri was so hot that he almost came in my mouth, but he controlled himself and slipped on a condom. So did Pavel. I was pleased that he returned for me, rather than my friend. I guided him to my ass, and he entered my tight hole carefully and slowly. Studying myself in the mirror, I moaned, "Mmm, I love it," and my body rose to meet his thrusts from behind. I heard Tran's erotic moans, and watched her beautiful face first contort and then settle into a smile of sexual satisfaction as Yuri entered and began fucking her.

Pavel was an experienced lover of T-Girls. He began slowly and picked up velocity with perfect timing. After my body got in sync with his, he fondled my cockette as though it were a clit, and my breasts with expert care, as he breathed incoherent Russian endearments heavily into my ear. His thick beard tickled my neck, and his hairy body scoured my naked flesh. He murmured, "You're fabulous, so tight and responsive."

"Thank you," I cooed, "you're fantastic too, but don't you want to try Tran?"

"Good idea," he said, and I was relieved that he and Yuri changed condoms before changing places.

I sucked Yuri back to full erection and allowed him access to me, and he slid in painlessly and quickly. He was a little smaller than Pavel, but in better shape, and he fucked me more vigorously but mechanically than Pavel had, paying less attention to my breasts and cockette, and more to his own pleasure. I glanced to the mirror and saw that Tran seemed less pleased with Pavel's attentiveness than she had been with Yuri's athleticism, and after a few minutes they again changed condoms and places again. I now put my legs on Pavel's broad, soft shoulders and watched in the mirror above as he entered me, as though observing a real time movie with myself as the star.

"Enjoying the mirror?" Pavel asked.

"I'm loving everything," I replied. He redoubled his efforts, bearing down with greater force and speed. I glanced at Yuri atop Tran, and saw her face transported to ecstasy as Yuri's thrusting reached new heights of speed and force. Pavel too was banging his burly frame into me with increased energy, and Yuri and Pavel both orgasmed in a concert of Russian. Pavel rolled off me and fell into post-coital sleep, and Tran shrugged the snoring Yuri to her side. I cuddled up with Tran, pulled a rumpled cover over us, and we too fell asleep.

I awoke at first light, and remembered in a panic that we needed to time a call to my mother in two hours, to simulate our arrival on the first plane from Minneapolis. It was Christmas Eve, and my mom had planned to take us on an expedition through the pre-Christmas sales in Beverly Hills. We slid out of bed, collected our things, and left a note for Yuri and Pavel, leaving our Minneapolis phone numbers and addresses. We showered at our hotel, checked out, and got a cab to my mom's. I called from the hotel lobby, pretended to be announcing our arrival at the airport.

We pulled up to my family home in Brentwood, on a shady stretch of upper class privilege. Viewing the manicured lawns and large, lovely homes, Tran said "Alexandra, I never knew you a rich girl."

"I'm not. Rich, that is." We laughed.

My mom loved Tran at first sight, and announced "I think I'm going to like having a daughter. You've had a hard day already, and a long trip coming up." Tran and I smiled at each other knowingly. "Let's have some retail therapy," she said cheerfully.

My mom was quite generous when she was spending the money. She bought Christmas gifts for Tran and me, and several gifts for herself, at Neiman's and each of the other half dozen shops we stopped in along Rodeo. As we passed by an office building on Canon, she confided, "That's where I'm getting my eyes done next week. When you and Tran get back, we can all recuperate together. I can even have a manicurist and a masseur come to the house. It's going to be such fun." Yeah, I thought to myself bitterly, maybe we can pop "Transsexual Hookers" into the VCR and share a bowl of popcorn.

Still, it was nice to get a load of half-priced bras (in my soon to be C cup size), panties, nighties, tops, skirts and dresses on Mom's plastic. The back seat of her Honda was fully loaded by the time the stores started closing. It was a Merry Christmas after all.

The day after Christmas, my mom took Tran and me to LAX, and we began our long ride to Phuket, Thailand. I think that you'll agree that it had been a long strange trip to get there. It also was a long and winding road from there on.

But that's another story.

---

Next: Beyond Bangkok

Beginning the second book in the saga of Alex as she struggles to adjust to life as a new woman.
The Greatest Lie, Part 2
10 - Beyond Bangkok
11 - A Whole New Me, The Same Old World
by Alexandra Rios

This is a sometimes violent story with very raw sex scenes. If that's not what you want to read, please do not read this story.

The Greatest Lie, Part 2

by Alexandra Rios

Chapter 10

Beyond Bangkok

Don’t you hate commercial air travel? No matter how many drugs I take, when they wear off, I’m disoriented, my legs are twitchy, and there are still three hours (or whatever) to go. Not enough time to take the last of the Sonata I had borrowed from Mom’s medicine cabinet before touchdown (and customs), but a long time to deal with boredom and discomfort. I got up to pee and stretch, but stepping back to my seat over my comatose friend Tran, I kicked and roused her. Her eyes rolled open, and her lips curled into a lascivious smile. "Next stops, Bangkok and Phuket. My favorite phrases," she mused. She giggled, and I joined her in a conspiratorial joke. You see, Tran and I are transsexuals, traveling to Thailand for sex reassignment surgery. But we haven’t let anatomy delay or deter us. Our bodies are playing catch-up with our hearts and our lives, and for the last year or so, my life has been moving fast.

We cleared customs and stopped by Dr. Sanguan’s clinic. His surgical coordinator told us that we were the next two openings on the waiting list for surgery, and that Dr. Sanguan would examine us assess suitability for his procedures after we had filled out our paper work. I mentally calculated our extra cash for living expenses and the remaining days until I was due back at the University of Minnesota, and said "We’re in a hurry. I thought we had our surgical dates set."

"Dr. Sanguan’s waiting list is three months long, and you wrote us only one month ago.

You must wait your turns on his waiting list. But don’t worry, we get a lot of cancellations. We have two girls on Monday and I think they’re not coming. Call me tomorrow. In the meantime, have fun in Thailand."

I struggled to calculate the day of the week. We had left LA on Tuesday night, so it must be... Pim interrupted my jet-lagged reverie. "It’s Friday. So go shopping, get some party clothes, and some Thai noodles, and then...."

"Where do we go to party?" Tran inquired.

"Phuket is not so good for transsexuals, just a couple of so-so clubs, like Andaman Go- Go and Koh Joy. Some of our girls enjoy a side trip to Koh Samui, to the famous katoey cabarets, like Christies, or the Green Mango. Koh Samui is not too far. Just a one-hour plane flight, or twelve hours by bus. The cabarets are the District called Chaweng. By the 7-11 and the Burger King, near the beach. Closes at 3:00." I groaned at the prospect of more travel, but as long as we had to kill a weekend in Thailand, why not.

Dr. Sanguan approved our surgeries, delayed primary colon segment vaginaplasties, with the warning that this was the most invasive and difficult of his procedures. "Really, it’s two major operations, first stage to form the base of the vagina using penile inversion and perform sensate pedicle glans penis clitoroplasty. Then, a final stage to attach the colon segment to provide adequate vaginal length. In between I perform a minor procedure to graft scrotal skin n form exterior and labia. I will perform the first stage and the skin graft, and my colleague Dr. Toreanid the final stage. If all goes well, you will be discharged about a week after the final stage. The completed vagina will be made of two materials: penile skin at the base, attached to a colon segment. These are difficult operations, difficult healing, and very difficult after-care. You must dilate very diligently! And no vaginal sex until you have reached comfortable dilation with the large stent, at least eight weeks from discharge. It is very difficult to dilate this type of vagina adequately. In many cases, ring of scar tissue forms, requiring a further operation. And you want breast augmentation too? You will be very sore, all over."

Almost three weeks in bed, followed by eight weeks of chastity, and maybe no sex until after a further operation. I groaned. Our hockey stick friends, Rick and Randy, would go nuts, if Tran and I didn’t first. "What about, you know, other sex?" I stammered shyly.

"Oral sex, whenever you feel well enough. If you must have anal sex, four weeks, but it is never advisable, especially after a colon segment removal."

"And now?"

"No restrictions until after surgery. But no alcohol, drugs, and no hormones until afterwards." Yeah, right, like I was going sober in Thailand. Like god during the creation, we’d rest on Sunday. Until then, we’d bang cock and fuck it. We rushed to the airport, and caught the last flight to Koh Samui.

I was impressed by Dr. Sanguan’s straightforwardness and candor, but the length of sexual abstinence was upsetting. I commiserated with Tran as we endured yet another plane flight, but she was upbeat, as usual. "Rick and Randy were patient for you after your last surgery, weren’t they? At least until Randy met me." Tran smiled coquettishly, and I gave her a friendly, girlish swat for stealing one of my two boyfriends.

"I think it’s going to be different this time. Just when we finally become complete women, we have to live like nuns. And they’re not exactly a couple of priests."

"You mean they are like a couple of priests: like Boston priests." Tran cracked up at her sacrilegious joke.

My friend Tran is smart, but current events is not her strong suit. I probed a little. "The Boston priests I read about prefer little boys, not girls like us".

"Remember, I used to be a little boy. So did you! You never seduced a priest from confession?"

"Tran, I haven’t been to confession since I was 13. But I have to admit, it’s not a bad idea."

"Me neither. Gone to confession since I was 13, I mean." I was surprised. Vietnamese Catholics are famously devout.

"You mean you actually seduced a priest from confession?"

"My priest was from Boston. After I told him I wanted to be a girl, he said that God would help me, then he helped himself to me every chance he got. I told my mom, and at first she didn’t believe me. But when Father Tom kept on doing it, she figured it out, and then we stopped going to his Church. But I still wanted to be a girl, and I prayed to God every day to make me a girl, but it didn’t work, of course, so I dressed up in my sister’s clothes, and cried all the time. She saw something on Oprah about transsexuals, and then she gave me her birth control pills, told me that god had made a mistake, and had made me boy on outside and girl on inside, that it was not my fault. She said that the pills could make me a girl and fix god’s mistake. But my dad said it was all my fault, that I was a homo and had made the priest turn homo. Then he left me and my mom. He was so ashamed of me. Now I am a girl, no more church, no more god, no more dad, and no more Father Tom.

"Tran, have you or your mom ever told anyone else about this?"

"No, I always try to forget, my mom and I can’t talk about it, it’s embarrassing."

"Tran, you are going to have to talk to my law school friend, Mark about this. I think you are going to be pretty rich some day thanks to Father Tom."

"What do you mean?"

"You’ll sue the Church and get a big settlement. My law school friends will help you."

"Now that I’m TS, people won’t think it’s my fault?"

"Not after my friend Mark and Professor Epstein get done with the case." Visions of another easy independent study class, with possible grant money, filled my head.

"Allie, you’re the best friend. First, you show me how to become woman, now how to become rich bitch."

"We’re not either one yet, but we will be. I know it."

In the meantime, we felt pretty rich. We were in Thailand’s rainy season, so hotel rooms in Koh Samui were cheap and available. Everything is pretty reasonable in Thailand, so we were soon well equipped with skimpy tropical dresses, high-heeled sandals, and had been manicured, pedicured and had our hair blown out. We even scored some crystal meth to chase away the jet lag, and soon we were buzzing with anticipation of our debut as katoeys at Christies. "Tran, it’s not fair. You at least look the part. I’m going to look like a tourist or a spy. The local girls will probably have me arrested or deported for poaching on their turf."

"Are you kidding? They’ll spot me as Vietnamese right away. The Thais think we Vietnamese are all a bunch of losers or Reds. They’ll like you better than me. Thais think white is good, Vietnamese is bad."

"Look, we’re just a couple of girls like them. Let’s make some friends and figure out the rules of the game before we start fishing their pond. We’re going to be fine. But let’s not mention our appointment with Dr. Sanguan."

Of course, the first girl we met at Christies figured what Tran and I were in about in a nanosecond. As soon as we had introduced ourselves as visitors from America, Nancee commented tartly "Oh, passing some time waiting for Dr. Sanguan. He made my breasts for me. She opened her halter and bared her lovely, conical C-cups. "You going to get some like these?" she asked. I nodded enthusiastically. "You want to feel?" She grabbed my wrists and pressed them against the firm but yielding flesh. "Nice and soft, silicone. More natural than hers", she said, pointing to Trans’ chest. "Saline’s not as good." Nancee was dazzling: her long smooth hair framed a beautiful, high-cheekboned, heart shaped face, which featured almond, liquid eyes and soft, pouty lips. Asians make the most beautiful transsexuals, I thought as I looked at Tran and Nancee. Nancee returned my gaze, and said "You very beautiful for white katoey. But you’re little like a Thai. You need bigger boobs." She gently fondled my natural, almost B-cups. "But they feel very nice. What are they?"

"Just me and my hormones." Nancee clucked appreciatively. "Bigger is even nicer."

Nancee prepped us on etiquette at Christies. No sex in the bar, nudity OK, no hands on flesh below the waist. Other than that, anything goes. It made the Town House look like Sunday school. If a girl left the premises with a guy, the guy paid a "bar fine", a fee for taking one of the attractions off-premises, of 125 baht. Off site fees were negotiable, but 500 to 1,500 baht (ridiculously cheap, since the official exchange rate is about 40 baht to the buck) was customary, depending on what was on the menu. Anything higher would be considered greedy. God, no wonder these girls are all hookers or do porno. At Third World prices, even Dr. Sanguan’s reasonable prices were a stretch. I started running Nancee through my Transsexual Sex Worker Survey. "Thai society tolerate katoey, but will let us be women. She pulled out her government ID, showing her in the male gender. "If I want female name in passport, I must go to Sweden."

"Or America. The guys in LA will love you."

"America is impossible. No visas for Thai Katoeys."

I pondered the paradox as Christies filled up. Thailand accommodates its transsexuals, but ghettoizes and channels them into the sex industry. Minnesota, like most of the US, oppresses its transsexuals, unless they can pass, and then it lets them assume most of the attributes of women. I scribbled my school address and handed it to Nancee. "Send me a note in a couple of weeks. Maybe I can help."

She thanked me with a wave as a drunken Aussie wheeled her onto the dance floor.

I sat at the bar for a few minutes, nursing a ginger ale, and soon noticed I was fixed in the laser-like gaze of a handsome, well-muscled Thai. I acknowledge him with a bat of my lashes, and he took a seat next to me. From the dance floor, Nancee gave me thumbs up.

Oh well, I decided, time to sample a little of the local cooking.

"I’m Eddie, and this is my bar stool. Who is sitting in it?"

"Goldilocks, and this seat is not too hard, not too soft. It’s just right."

Mother Goose had apparently not reached Thailand in time for Eddie’s childhood, so he looked at me quizzically. "It’s a children’s story. The little girl ends up in the bear’s bed. Everyone knows it in America."

"You American? What are you doing at Christies?"

"I heard it’s the right place for a girl like me."

"Whose bed are you going to tonight?"

"Don’t know, have you any ideas?"

"Yeah, mine is not too soft." He grabbed my hand and pressed it against his cock. I stroked it through his pants. "It feels just right," I whispered in his ear.

"Let’s go," he said.

"Wait a minute, I haven’t paid for this." I took a dainty sip of ginger ale. "What did you have in mind?"

"I want to fuck your pink little ass."

"Mmm, sound good. How does 1000 baht sound."

"You look like you’re worth it." He handed the bar tender the bar fine and walked out of Christies. I checked my watch and smiled. I had been at the bar for exactly 15 minutes.

He led me to a tiny Suzuki motor cycle, hopped on, and gestured for me to get on. I hiked my dress up to my waist and threw my high heeled leg over, and he steadied my just as I was about to topple over the other side. He kick started, yelled "Hold on tight" over the roar of the engine, and jolted off with reckless abandon through twisting, crowded streets. I held his trim, firm chest as we bounced over potholes and skidded through turns. It was frightening, but it was obvious that Eddie was thoroughly in control. He screeched to a halt in front of a small, vine covered villa on the road to Lamai. I heard surf murmuring in the background, but had no idea where I was.

He beckoned me through the door and flipped on the lights. I stood in the entryway of a lovely, middle class home, with carved furniture, elegant rugs and a big screen TV.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said, leaving me alone to study the paintings, sculptures and other objects that crammed the hall. It was like an art gallery. "Who is the collector?" I called out. Eddie replied nonchalantly "I run an export import business."

Some of this stuff is inventory, some of it is awaiting payment, and some of it I just like and kept."

"Where is it from?"

"Myanmar, mostly." I gave him a startled look. "Americans call it Burma. My family has interests there." Great, I thought bleakly, I am about to go to bed with a warlord’s son. "I thought you were a Thai."

"I am," he said, offering no further explanation. Instead, he ordered me to undress and recline on the luxurious, silk covered couch. He traced the curve of my calves and thighs with a light touch, like a blind man reading an unfamiliar Braille text. He stroked my round, firm buttocks, my slim waist, my dainty upturned breasts, and then back to my soft, nearly hairless cock, which he cradled in his hands. "Tiny, almost like a Thai katoey’s. He traced the smile-like scar on my tummy. "What’s this?"

"I had an operation. " He stroked my empty scotum, and looked at me questioningly.

"They had to remove them, through my tummy. I was sick, but I’m fine now."

"Are you here for another operation?"

"Maybe, I’m getting checked out for it."

"You’ll be perfect. Let me see you again afterwards."

"You’ll still want me?"

"Even more. I love post ops."

Eddie slipped off his silk boxers and sat astride me as I sprawled on the soft cushions and pillows. I squeezed my breasts around his cock, which hardened in their embrace. As he gently fucked my breasts, I took the tip of his uncut cock in my mouth. I prefer circumcised cocks, but his was lovely anyhow. It had a saffron aroma and a nice bulbous top.

He was bigger than I expected: not long, but thick and hard. Soon, he had risen to his knees, grabbed my hair in his hands and was thrusting violently into my mouth. But I wanted to take him deeper, so I slid my back to the seat of the couch and took him from above. I arched my head back and took him deep into my throat, which was soon coated with a tasty film of pre-cum. He didn’t want to suck me, but his fingers found and fondled my hole, which quivered and puckered beneath his expert touch. His massage and the gentle entry of his fingers brought moans of pleasure from my full mouth. I pushed his cock from my lips and gasped, "Eddie, please fuck me," then swallowed his cock again, a slave to insatiable passion.

He pulled his cock from my still suctioning face and turned me over. I stretched my ass into the air, and heard the crinkle: the tearing of a condom package. "Cup your hand," as he poured lubricant, which I slathered onto his sheathed cock, and smeared the remains onto my ass. Then, he entered me. "Not so fast," I gasped, as the first three inches seared into me, rekindling embers of recent passion. He retreated, and I pressed back against him, and he pried me open another inch, then another to the hilt. I bit my lips against the inner turmoil, which subsided as he retreated and then renewed with his next lunge. But with each cycle, the pain, the desire to expel the intruder, was displaced by the sensation of warmth, fullness and completeness that only a man inside me can bring.

He lunged and plunged with a controlled energy of a Zen master. He was never rough without a purpose, or out of control. He guided me through all of the classic positions: from behind on my knees, and then on my stomach; on my back, with my legs on his shoulders; in an embrace, with me in his lap; and with me on top, first facing him, and then away. Then, he rose up behind me, pressed my back down, and began thrusting with renewed vigor and mastery, a hundred powerful strokes that culminated in a rush of energy that pulverized my flesh, which seemed to melt into his as his paroxysm subsided.

I must have drifted off to sleep, because he woke me with a gentle nudge. "I’ve called a taxi for you. I am afraid you must leave soon. I looked at my watch. Two hours had passed since I had left Christies. I dressed hurriedly, and slunk off to the entry, humiliated to be dismissed so peremptorily after such exquisite sex. Eddie pressed two thousand baht into my palm and gave me a hug. "You are fabulous, and I must see you again. Until then, here is something to remember me by." He draped a necklace of Burmese emeralds around my neck, and as he fixed the clasp at the nape of my neck, he kissed my lips gently. The taxi honked outside the villa.

"Now go into the night, my angel. But return to me." I said I would, and left, hoping that I would.

The taxi driver gave me a disapproving look when I asked to be taken to Christies, and I made a note to ask for the 7-11 next time. I went straight to the ladies’ room, to repair my disheveled state. Nancee had spotted me and dropped her latest conquest, a balding Italian, to interrogate me. "Don’t worry, he’ll wait for me. I think he’s in love. Now show me what Eddie give you. No, not the money, the jewels." I opened my purse and took out the emeralds. Nancee eyes popped and her face flushed. Eeeeh, Eddie loves you more than me. Go back to America, whore. You ruining everything for Nancee."

Naturally, I took this as a compliment. "What’s Eddie’s story. He pushed me out of there like stale fish, and then he gives me this. Is it valuable?"

"A hundred thousand baht in Bangkok, but it’s a toy for Eddie."

"He’s so rich?"

"No, but his father in law is one of the Burmese generals. He owns half of Burma, and takes what he wants. Eddie is married to his daughter and is the junta’s fence in Thailand. My guess, he was expecting Mrs. Eddie."

"So that explains the fast exit?"

"He was doing you a favor. If you get caught in bed with Eddie, you’re dead. The general has many friends here."

"He was great, and said he wants to see me again."

"It’s your life, spend it wisely," Nancee said. "My advice, don’t let him fall in love with you. There are plenty of other guys in Koh Samui."

She was right. I didn’t need to be entangled with Burmese warlords and mobsters, and their angry wives. I was a tourist, and would take home a valuable bauble and a happy memory. Now, it was time to make more memories. I brushed my tousled hair and smoothed my disheveled clothes. As I applied a fresh coat of makeup, Tran rushed in and blurted out "Alexandra, where have you been, you bad girl? She noticed my necklace, and said "I see you have been mining for jewels, in low places no doubt."

"You’re just jealous. All you got is a purse stuffed with baht."

"I’ve got a house stuffed with horny Japanese business who are taking special sex pills, and want your body."

Nancee overheard and complained "I knew you farang Katoey were going to steal our good clients."

"Come along, there plenty for all of us. They are taking a new drug from America that makes them stay hard all night, and there are eight of them. Maybe nine. I’m not sure.

Hurry up, our driver is waiting for us outside."

"Driver?" Nancee asked, astonished. "What’s the story?"

"I met a guy in the bar, he is junior director of Japanese sex tour. He says he’s got clients that want to meet Katoey, but are too shy and embarrassed to be seen chasing us in Christies. So it’s his job to arrange Katoey to go to meet the tourists. That’s us. He gave me $1,000 up front for the night, more later if the tourists are happy."

Nancee had never made that much in a week. She was delighted to be included in our enterprise. "I am already missing you girls when you leave Christies," she joked as she stepped into the waiting Land Cruiser. "Come visit us in America, and you’ll be showing us new games in a week."

As he looked admiringly at his cargo, Mr. Watanabe, the sex-tour director, smiled at us approvingly. He had arranged a spectacular katoey smorgasbord for his reticent charges, and expected that he, and we, would be well rewarded. "My guests are very important businessmen. They are accustomed to be served by the finest geisha. You know about geisha?"

I’d read a book about it, and had the general idea. "Will we be serving tea?" I asked innocently.

"No. Tea ceremony is reserved for the most senior geisha. You are novices, and will be serving your bodies, silently and submissively. Do you understand?" His voice had taken on a harsh tone in reaction to my jibe. "You mean we are to be like the ‘comfort women’ that the Imperial Army employed in the War?"

"Oh, a student of lies and slanders against our late Emperor. Very well then, if you choose to believe these myths, yes, exactly. You serve as you are ordered." He explained the basic Japanese slang for various sex acts. He explained that his tour had supplied its guests with a new American wonder drug that made even the most broken down old man into a sexual athlete, "So you may wish to energize yourselves with this."

He passed around a mirror with neatly cut lines of white powder. "It’s a mixture of crystal meth and Burmese heroin." My eyes watered as the bitter, acrid crystals blasted my sinuses, but in a few moments I felt a buzz of warm energy permeating my tired body, and felt ready for anything.

We arrived at a pagoda-spired, golf course hideaway, done in the garish Japanese neo- Imperial style. In the darkened interior, we were greeted with the sounds of boisterous karaoke singing and the smells of sushi, tobacco, Sun Tory and sweat. A soft core porn video accompanied a melancholy Japanese ballad, and three of our clients swayed as they massacred the tune and lyrics, to the hilarity of their companions in the audience. We were unnoticed at first, spectators to this strange male bonding spectacle of these blue- suited salary man on stage. They emoted with inebriated, heartfelt conviction, and their eyes moistened as they sang of loved ones far away. Their audience clapped uproariously as they finished with a flourish of tuneless yelps of anguish and the screen images dissolved to soft focus cherry blossoms. Mr. Watanabe flickered the lights to announce our presence, and all eyes turned to us as Mr. Watanabe introduced us in short, staccato bursts of Japanese. At the end of his introduction, we were treated to a polite round of applause, and then Mr. Watanabe ushered us each to a bedroom. He instructed me to shower and put on a kimono, which lay on the bed Mr. Watanabe returned after a few minutes, and confided "Mr. Mori, the most senior of our members, has done you the honor of selecting you. He speaks very little English, so you must follow his gestures intently. He will want you to suck him, then he will want to mount you from behind. Do exactly as he demands, as he is accustomed to obedience."

As I sat in the luxurious room, I mused, these men, maybe all men, follow the same patterns. They travel in packs, select dominant leaders, and enact rituals of subjugation and humiliation of the beautiful and feminine, much like Seth and Jack followed Miguel’s lead on Prom Night, or like the trail of atrocities from Nanking to Manila. I was glad to be leaving the gender that conceives of such atrocities, and joining the community of the victims: of such crimes, it is better for the soul to be the victim than the perpetrator.

Mr. Mori interrupted my reverie as he abruptly opened, and slammed the door behind him.

"Iyae kimono." I froze, uncomprehendingly. "Iyae kimono," he repeated, then advanced menacingly and grabbing me by the shoulders. "Iyae kimono," he shouted as he ripped the kimono from my shoulders. I figured out that blue eyed Gai-jin transsexual in a kimono offended to his cultural senses. Thanks a lot for the fashion tip, Watanabe.

Mori got friendlier now that I was in a satin bra and panties, and he motioned me to sit on the bed. He stripped from his blue suit and folded them neatly on a chair. His boxers were stretched with the head of his modest, but rock hard erection. I beckoned him to come to me. I slid down his boxers and took his uncut cock in his mouth. It was small enough that I could mouth its length without reaching the gag reflex, and his pubic hair was so straight and thin that it never even tickled my nose. It was almost like sucking Tran, except for the roll of belly fat that flopped against my head with every plunge. He grunted and groaned and let me do all of the work, even holding him upright with my hands clasped around his skinny, yet flaccid butt.

I was getting tired when I heard a guttural, but incomprehensible command that took to mean that he was ready to fuck me. I grabbed a condom from the bed stand, and popped it between my lips, to show him a trick that I figured he hadn’t seen on this tour. I expertly rolled the condom onto his cock from between my lips, and he gave an appreciative and admiring grunt of praise. I lubed his cock and rolled onto my hands and knees.

After Eddie’s strong but sensitive touch, Mr. Mori’s small cock should have been a mere tickle, but he rammed me so abruptly and insensitively that I yelped in pain, and this stirred old Mori to even greater chemical charged exertions, as he dug his diminutive but stiff prick into my inner sanctum, which was swollen and tight from Eddie. I tried to put an imaginary Eddie in Mr. Mori’s place, but the slap of his corpulent, corrupt flesh against mine dispelled that fantasy. I was trapped, a white slave to an army of fat, pathetic, petite bourgeoisie Japanese deviants. Why did they even want me, if they were ashamed to be seen courting Katoey. Were they fascinated by transsexuals, like so many others, or were they just jaded with the other attractions of Thailand?

Mr. Mori announce his orgasm with a refrain of Japanese expletives and a paroxysm that seemed close to heart failure, and I responded with staged moans of ecstasy and fulfillment. He lay atop me, gasping for breath, and I tried to remember that CPR class I had had junior year, but he seemed to come out of it and pulled out of me. He scuttled to the bathroom, grabbing his neatly piled clothes on the way. I heard the rattle of pee and a flush, and he emerged, in full salary man finery. He bowed, handed me a pile of yen notes, and rejoined the Karaoke party. Moments later, I heard his hoarse voice join the chorus of "New Yok, New Yok," and Mr. Watanabe poked his head in to order me to shower and get ready for Mr. Kawabe, who, he assured me, liked kimonos.

Mr. Kawabe was followed by Mr. Nakase, Mr. Furimoto, Mr. Ogawa, and Mr. Nakamura, and between each, Mr. Watanabe haranguing me to shower and get ready for my next samurai. Each one slightly younger and less dissolute than the last, and with a slightly more modest stack of yen after he was finished with me. The salary men sorted themselves in hierarchical order to determine their order, much like Miguel and his set.

Mr. Watanabe refreshed my drug buzz with a couple of lines of coke at around two, the karaoke stopped at around four, and then the visits stopped. I took a final shower and lay naked in the wrinkled, sweaty sheets, my head pounding with meth, unable to sleep. I heard the door creak open, and felt a body squeeze against mine. Whiskey infused breath suffocated me: it was Mr. Mori. I resisted his embrace, and he scattered a pile of yen notes around me, and pressed my face to his groin. Science had triumphed over body, and he was hard again. My now exhausted lips circled his cock and sucked it with desperation. I needed this night to end. It was hopeless. He was hard, but even smaller than before, and completely dry. I slid on another condom, the last in my box, and lifted my sore and bruised ass to his pelvis, and he slammed himself in. He bucked and rode me as if he were possessed by demons, yanking at my hair and pinching my flesh as though he, and I, were mere objects. His voice was hoarse and his breathing wheezy, and increasingly labored. Suddenly, he spasmed, uttered a guttural cry, grabbed his head and toppled forward atop me. He was absolutely still, a dead weight on top of me. I tried to move out from beneath him, but his weight was unyielding, and unresponsive. Good god, had Mr. Mori passed out? His cock was still stiff inside me, but when I listened for his breath, I heard nothing. A growing sense of panic took hold of me. I tried to roll him over, but couldn’t move. I called out "Help, I think Mr. Mori is sick." I heard in response the mumbles of hung-over indifference. "Help, Mr. Mori needs your care immediately." Mr. Watanabe entered, grumbling hoarsely. "What’s the matter, whore?"

"Please check on Mr. Mori." Mr. Watanabe grabbed Mr. Mori’s wrist, and uttered an expletive. He tried to lift Mr. Mori, but the unyielding body was too heavy for him. He ran from the room and returned with Mr. Kawabe, and with a mighty heave, and an assist from me, rolled him with a thud off of me, and onto the floor next to the bed. Mr. Watanabe began massaging Mr. Mori’s chest and blowing air down his throat, but it was soon obvious: Mr. Mori was dead.

Tran, Nancee and the salary men all crowded around, drawn by the commotion. Mr. Watanabe gave up his ineffectual CPR and turned on me angrily. "You killed him, whore."

Tran pointed to his still erect penis, and said "It looks like that killed him." Now, panic took hold of Mr. Watanabe. "Get out of here you whores. Get out, go now." He pushed me from the room, as I grabbed my clothes, scattered yen notes and purse stuffed with cash. We threw on our clothes and ran out the door. In the quiet residential neighborhood, three young ladies emerging walking down the street with tousled hair, high-heel sandals and party dresses drew accusatory stares, even from the tolerant Thais.

But we didn’t give a damn, we were so freaked out by this disturbing turn of events.

Only after we began to compare notes did our theory and plan crystallize.

"He was really the most disgusting of all," I commented.

"Which one, they were all repulsive," Tran rejoined.

"Mr. Mori, the dead one, my first and last," I said.

"I agree," said Nancee.

"I thought Mr. Ito was even worse than Mori," Tran said.

In an instant, we all did the math. "You mean the dead guy was with all of us, in one night?" I exclaimed.

"No wonder he died. He was coming back for fourths. Fat fifty year old smokers should know better," Tran commented.

"So he OD-ed on the miracle sex pills. Serves him right," said Nancee.

"Wait a minute. Who was handing out the drugs last night? Watanabe, right?" I inquired.

"Yeah, he was practically forcing the nose candy up my nostrils," Tran recalled. Nancee nodded in agreement.

"Remember what Watanabe said about a bonus if they were happy? Well, Mori looked like he died happy. I think we should get our bonus, say, another thousand each. That way we don’t tell the police. That way, poor Mr. Mori gets to die in bed and rest in peace, no scandal for his family, no trouble for Watanabe’s tour business."

"That sounds like blackmail. Could be dangerous," I said.

"Let me handle it," Nancee said. You got his cell number still, Tran?"

"Here, but as long as you’re doing it, ask for two thousand each."

"Good idea."

We got a taxi and left Nancee at her home, a tawdry shack in an alley off Sui Green Mango. God, no wonder she’s so desperate for money, I thought. This Third World lifestyle was horrible, and yet Nancee seemed bright and ambitious, to the point of recklessness. Tran and I went to our hotel where jet lag and sexual fatigue caught up with a vengeance. I was still asleep when Nancee called from the lobby. "Tell them to let me come up, I have a surprise." She had dinner, Thai coffee, and three envelopes stuffed with cash, 20,000 yen each. "He bitched and threatened, but Mr. Watanabe agreed that everyone had to be happy. Beside, with Mori dead, his expenses will be less.

He probably made money on the deal."

"I hope you’re right, he looked like Yakusa to me," I said.

"In Thailand, all the guys are Yakusa, even your Eddie. Watanabe won’t mess with us, he’s not in Japan now."

We smoked some pot, ate Thai food and gossiped about our adventures, past and future.

Nancee envied our surgical date. Thanks to Watanabe’s generosity, she had almost enough money (Sanguan gives Thai girls discounted fees) and told us she would accompany us Monday to schedule a date, and pay her deposit. In the meantime, she regaled me with tales of Eddie. His wife and children live in Rangoon, where his father ran his "trading company", and Eddie represented the family’s interests. This consisted of selling smuggled goods, contraband, and laundering money from the general’s Burmese fiefdom. Burmese "freedom fighters" played a constant game of cat and mouse with Eddie, and their struggles contributed heavily to the body count in Koh Samui, Phuket, Pattaya and Bangkok. Eddie didn’t care if his katoey of the moment sold herself on the side; he liked his katoey to be the most popular, and expensive, in Christies or Green Mango: but no other boyfriends.

"God, he sounds like the perfect boyfriend. Too bad I don’t live here," I joked.

"You have to come back. I’ll miss you too much." Nancee hugged us and then said "Let’s go to Christies. Saturday night, should be hot there. The Sydney plane came this morning. Nice new Aussies for us. Much better than Japanese. In fact, they’re the best, but unfortunately, not the richest.

"Not me," said Tran. "I’ve got some numbers to call from last night." She waved us goodbye. Nancee and I felt like splurging, and it was still early, so we walked among the street vendors and shops of Green Mango Street. It was like street party, as merchants tugged at our arms and beckoned down ramshackle alleys. Even in December, the nights were long and the air warm and muggy, and the streets were mobbed.

Suddenly, Nancee stopped me. "That’s one of Eddie’s father in law’s shops. Look, Burmese emeralds, just like yours." We brushed aside the bamboo entry curtain and entered. The shopkeeper noticed my new necklace immediately, and fingered its familiar stones appreciatively. I asked if she had another, wanting to price it. She turned to open a cabinet, and I heard the roar of a motorcycle, followed by a popping noise and a blast of heat. The shopkeeper’s head exploded in a crimson cloud of blood as Nancee and I sprawled on the floor of the shop in a shower of shards of glass. We cowered, expecting another fusillade, and when none came we lifted our heads and peered at the now silent street outside. The gunman was gone. Suddenly, the street came back to life and surged into the shop, to loot it. We milled through the crowd to the exit. "What was that, one of Eddie’s freedom fighter friends."

"No," said Nancee. "I think that was a postcard from Mr. Watanabe. He must have decided that 20,000 yen wasn’t enough to keep us silent. For a tenth that, he can get you killed. But he shouldn’t have killed Mama Thong, Eddie’s favorite shopkeeper, and he shouldn’t have missed us, since we are Eddie’s two favorite katoey. Quick, let’s get to Christie’s and find him."

Eddie was on his cell phone at the bar and waved us over. "Did you hear what happened at my shop near the Regent Hotel?"

"Are you kidding, we were there, we were the targets. I am so sorry about Mama Thong and the shop," Nancee said.

"You OK?" Both of our faces were freckled with poor Mama Thongs blood and brains, but we were not hurt. Eddie hugged us and muttered "That bastard Jimmy Liang. One of his boys did the job. I am going to fuck him up bad."

"What about the Jap bastard that hired him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Watanabe, he runs a Japanese sex tour that’s here now. We had a problem with him last night."

"You bad girls," Eddie grinned. "Couldn’t get enough?" He spanked my bottom playfully.

"No, I’m serious," Nancee said. "I think he arranged this. Get rid of him."

I was astonished by Nancee’s ruthlessness. The Thais seemed so friendly and accommodating. Yet the arranged contract killings with the same lack of seriousness as their sexual assignations.

"Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him too." Eddie got back on his cell phone. I hoped he got the right Watanabe, at least.

"OK, gotta go," Eddie said. "Take care of yourselves."

"What did he mean by that," I asked, "I mean there are assassins looking for us and Tran...Oh my god, where is she, I mean, she doesn’t even know what’s happening, and who knows where she is."

"She said she was going to call some guys she met at Christies last night."

"Yeah, maybe more clients of Watanabe. " "That would be bad for her."

"We need to find her."

"A lot of hotel rooms in Koh Samui."

"Let’s start with ours."

"We walked through the thronged streets, ever expecting to encounter one of Jimmy Liang’s killers. Our suite was empty, but Tran’s loopy handwriting covered sheets of hotel stationery. I looked at the top sheet of the pad for the impression of her last note. It was useless, a trick that only works in Bogart films. Then the phone rang, and I answered it with mixed feelings of hope and dread. I could hear nothing over the cacophony of noise. "I can’t hear a thing. Call back." The phone rang again, and it was Tran. "Are you OK?" I screamed with joy.

"Hell no, I have got the Italian soccer team here, and they’re getting ready to take penalty shots on my goal. Help!"

"Stay where you are, we’ll come to you."

"And soon. Write down this address."

"OK, got it, but we need to change."

"Already?"

"It’s a long story, but here’s the short version." I told her about the ambush at the shop near the Regent, and she let out a low whistle. "And I thought I was having an exciting night!" she exclaimed.

"Never mind," I replied, just stay where you are!"

"OK, but hurry up."

I hung up and asked "Nancee, how many guys on a soccer team?"

"I dunno, how many?"

"Get changed, because we’re gonna find out. Tran’s taking on an Italian soccer team.

We have to help her defend goal."

"Oh, goody. Soccer players are the most handsome."

"Not in the U.S., hockey’s the best there."

"Never heard of it, but I’ll trust your opinion."

I had practically no clothes left, and we had to change, so we ended up wearing workout clothes. Short shorts, sneakers, and tight camisoles. It actually seemed appropriate, although it was a little late on a Saturday night for a couple of babes like Nancee and me to be going to a gym. But we were certainly going to have a workout.

The Italians were staying at the best hotel in Koh Samui, the manager actually directed us to the floor where the gym was, although he informed us we would have to pay for a membership. We told him we needed to meet some friends at their room, and we took the elevator to the floor. The Italians had the whole floor, and it was a non-stop party: it was thronged with G-girl hookers and soccer players and fans, and music pulsated from several rooms. "Where’s the soccer team?" I asked a harried looking waiter. He pointed all over.

Then, over the bedlam, I heard Tran’s comic voice, and I ducked into the room where she was holding court, standing on a table and telling an erotic story as she stood, high heeled but naked to her panties, on a table, surrounded by a guffawing clutch of soccer studs.

Tran declaim "and then my friend Alexandra said "Hey, this guy fucked me 'til he died, and he still wanted more. Look, he’s still hard!" They convulsed with hilarity, and then she saw us and announced "And here she is now, fresh from the gym, and ready to fuck the rest of you to death. Alexandra, the killer katoey!" I burst into laughter, and curtsied to my new fans. Tran could make anything funny.

I doubt if any of the Italians believed Trans story, if they even understood it, and I wasn’t even sure if I believed it anymore either. Koh Samui had been so unreal. We had gone from tourists, to principals in a murderous gang war, without having had a real night of sleep. Melodrama, to tragedy, to bedroom farce. Ronaldo, the team’s center, proclaimed his undying love for me. When I responded in my schoolgirl Italian, he nearly burst into tears of joy. He gathered me in his arms and carried me off, as I waved goodbye to Tran and Nancee, who smiled approving. I heard Tran complain to Nancee, "She’s sweet, but she always gets the best looking one." I had barely noticed, and looked up at Ronaldo.

He was a square jawed, rough-hewn jock, but with the sensitive soul of a soul who loved to love.

Ronaldo must have taken the workout clothes at face value, because he began by taking off my shoes and sock and massaging my feet. Fortunately, they looked great, and his powerful hands sent surges of ecstasy from my soles to my earlobes. God, those high- heeled sandals I had been wearing since I arrived are murder on the soles, especially when you are running through the streets in fear of your life. Then, he proceeded to my slender calves, still knotted from the long air flight, but which now melted into putty in his hands. Then, my thighs and buttocks, first through the rayon shorts, but then, as I wriggled out of them, through my panties. Then, my back, shoulders and arms. The knots of tension that fear had built in me were torn down and scattered in Ronaldo’s strong hands. Then, ever so gently, he massaged my scalp, forehead and cheeks, which had been so cruelly used the night before. The memories faded as my muscles melted.

God, I was so ready for this man.

I said, "My turn, and guided him onto his back. I glided my hands over his rippling, marble like flesh. His legs were like the pillars of a massive cathedral, his stomach was like a chiseled bed of granite, his arms were like the coils of taught springs. He was a rock. I made my head comfortable on his stomach, curled my ass toward his arms to give him whatever access to me he desired, and began sucking his cock. It was a lovely, manly, meaty mouthful, and I was rewarded instantly with a lubricating mist of precum.

Its minty flavor suffused my senses, and brought a grateful moan to my lips. He pumped my face carefully, his hand on my head was a caress rather than a push, and his thrusts brought pleasure to my yielding lips and throat. He was a balm for the rough treatment that I had received the night before, and each stroke brought healing and relief to my injuries.

I could barely wait to have his therapy in my tummy, but he was still building energy, so I sucked and licked and flicked until he could take no more, and said he wanted to fuck me. "I’m ready," I replied, sliding a condom onto his glorious, 7 inch cock, with my famous lip roll. "Just a minute," I said, grabbing a tube of lubricant from my bag, and he waited patiently as I oiled his cock and my ass. "Now fuck me, gently at first, then as hard as you want." He hoisted his athletic frame behind me, and my ass tingled with anticipation, but would it be pain or pleasure? He was an expert, entering me gently, for an inch until my body winced, and then withdrawing momentarily, and re-entering, deeper this time, at the perfect moment, and then again withdrawing, until he was in me completely, without ever crossing the threshold were pain becomes more than an antidote to desire. "You’re so tight," he said. "You’re so big, and wonderful," I responded. "Do whatever you want." And he did.

I had never really appreciated soccer. My dad had dragged me to a few games as a teen, as he was a "futball" aficionado from his boyhood in Chile, but I hated the game, almost as much as we had hated one another. To me, it’s like watching grass grow, but then I hate all sports, except basketball, and of course, hockey. I had always been impressed with the athleticism of soccer players, but how stupid it is that they can’t use their hands, the appendage that sets us apart from the lower primates. In Ronaldo, I became a fan.

His stamina, fueled by a hundred downfield charges in every game, was incredible, and his hands: well, unbound by the rules of his sport, they were extraordinary. When I watch a soccer match now, I am overcome with Proustian memories of endless energy suffusing me within, while adept and energetic hand gently squeezed me from without, until my body and his were united into a single, explosion of energy within me, as he came in a torrent of energy, praise, and endearment. The last words I heard were "Te amore", and I nodded in sleepy agreement. When I awoke, sharp spikes of dawn were piercing the half-opened curtains of his room, and I rose silently to shower and dress. I heard Tran and Nancee chattering outside in the hallway, and poked my head out. "Less talk and more sleep," I complained.

"Time to move on, Madame Butterfly," Nancee retorted. "Our work here is done."

"Just a minute," and I returned to Ronaldo to kiss him goodbye. He was awake, his sleep interrupted by my absence. "Don’t go yet," he said pulling me back into bead. I was tempted, but resisted girlishly. "I must go, and so must you." I remembered Nancee’s words about Eddie’s jealousy fearfully, and did not want to be so conspicuous while Watanabe’s killers might be on the loose. He scribbled an address on a piece of paper, and made me promise to write him at his home. "You must visit me in Roma," he begged. "I’ll try. Come see me in America," I replied. "I will," he promised. And with a lingering kiss, we exchanged "arrivedercis."

As Tran, Nancee and I squeezed into the back seat of a waiting taxi I remembered practicalities. "Not that I didn’t enjoy myself last night, but did anyone pay us?" "Of course, I handled everything with the team manager, not that you deserve anything for spending the whole night with the cutest guy."

"Yeah, you Anglos are such a bunch of romantics. No business sense." I blushed and said I was sorry. "That’s OK, you more than held up your end the night before," Tran consoled me jokingly. "If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t have had our Mori bonus."

"Yeah, and Mama Thong wouldn’t be dead," I replied glumly.

"Oh, who knows why she got shot. Maybe Eddie’s enemies were aiming for her, not us," Nancee chirped.

"You mean you’re not sure. Nancee, we’ve touched off a street war, and you’re not even sure?"

"You never know for sure in Thailand."

I fretted the rest of the day over the misfortunes that my rashness had spread over this town, until Nancee got the report. The tragedy had ended as a comic opera. True, Liang’s gunman had been blown away, but then Liang and Eddie talked and worked things out. Liang was outraged that Watanabe had contracted for our killings after he had agreed to "silence money" with us, and apologized to Eddie profusely. He offered to compensate Eddie for the damage to the shop and for the loss of the indispensable Mama Thong, and Eddie accepted. Of course, Liang in turn demanded compensation from Watanabe for his expenses, losses and embarrassment. Mr. Mori’s death was officially ruled from natural causes, and Watanabe escaped with intact face, although now he had had to pay much more to Liang and Eddie for the same promise of silence that Nancee had made the day before. But now it was an agreement between Yakuza: between men, and was more valuable to Watanabe than the word of a Katoey whore, even one as beautiful, clever and well connected as we were.

We showered and rested at our suite until the beach began to fill, and then we lolled on the hot, white sands in skimpy bikinis, drawing the appreciative stares of the local boys.

I was too tired to even think about any more sex. I let the tropical sun heal my tired flesh.

After our brains fried, we showered again, and Nancee took us shopping. The deals were irresistible, and Nancee was a ruthless, foul mouthed bargainer, who never left one baht extra on the table. Our arms were filled with sexy Thai sundresses, knock offs of Versace and Dolce and Gabbana tops, and even silk scarves for our moms and dragon shirts for Rick and Randy. We returned to the hotel, and could barely fit the loot into our bags. At the front desk was welcome news from Dr. Sanguan’s: both of the Doctor’s procedures for Monday had canceled, and we were to report to his clinic immediately for preoperative procedures. We squealed with delight and sped off to the airport, just in time for the last flight to Phuket. Nancee said goodbye and promised to visit as soon as she was allowed.

I will spare you the details of my procedure. If you are really curious about Dr. Sanguan’s unique approach to SRS, I suggest you visit his website (http://www.phuket- plasticsurgery.com), or Anne Lawrence’s (http://www.annelawrence.com/srsindex.html), who features both Dr. Sanguan and many other Thai and Western doctors. You can even view pictures of the operation itself, in progress and in its aftermath, although, I can assure none of the graphics depict Tran or me.

For me, the surprise was that, although everything hurt, my boob job hurt the worst. And in the immediate aftermath, you can’t see any results: just gauze, and a lot of tubes. At least they put Tran and me in a room together, so that we could bitch to each other instead of suffering in the company of a stranger. They didn’t let Nancee visit until the day before we left for home. I still hadn’t seen anything, and my morale was in the pits.

She brought me a jade ring from Eddie, and presented me and Tran with two wrapped boxes. We still had IV’s in our wrists and couldn’t open the boxes, so she tore off the tissue and held up cotton panties. Across the bottom was emblazoned the warning: "Sorry, Closed for Repairs." We laughed until we hurt, and laughed again every time we thought about them.

The boredom and suffering were worth it, though, after the pumps, the tubes, the catheters, and the dressings were removed. The surgical sites were bruised and lurid, and shiny orange with Betadine, but through the cantilevered arch of my shapely new breasts I beheld the most beautiful, strange and delightful sight I had ever seen: an empty, open space between my thighs. Disbelieving my eyes, I touched the gap between my legs. It was no mirage. I was a woman.

The day after Nancee’s arrival, with my semester looming in the immediate future, we got travel clearance from a reluctant Dr. Sanguan and his wonderful staff. Nancee took us to the airport, and we cried as we left. "I know I’m coming back soon, and I know I can get you a visa to visit the U.S." She smiled, her face a pained mixture of hope and doubt. She had her date for her operation, and needed only a little more cash to pay for it.

She was leaving Koh Samui to return to her home city of Chiang Mai, where living was cheaper, and living as a katoey was less hazardous. They even encouraged katoey to go to the University, and she planned to take some classes while she waited her turn for Dr.Sanguan. "English Thai translation," I recommended. "I have a job in mind, but I have to write a grant for it." She nodded agreement. But who knew what would happen to this poor girl in this strange land, where katoey live freely and without social hatred, but in isolation from the rest of Thai society, in a sexual netherworld they share with their admirers.

My mom met us at the airport, her eyes still blackened from her own procedure. After expressing delight that her two girls were back home at last, she drove us straight to her plastic surgeon to have him evaluate us. Dr. Leibovitz expressed admiration for Dr.Sanguan’s work. "Amazing what he does with that scrotal skin. My practice has been to discard it. I may need to reconsider. Perhaps I should pay his clinic a visit and observe."

We hit him up for a load of estrogen and painkillers, and though I was happy with his opinion, I was again reminded of my mother’s unbelievable selfishness. She had let me travel to the Third World, to get a surgery that I could have gotten two miles from her front door without going over her Visa limit. What a bitch! I’ll never be like her, I swore.

But in a way I was happy. You may not agree with all of our methods (I’m not sure I do), but Tran and I had achieved what we had set out to. We had truly remade ourselves, by ourselves. And we had done it without help from anyone but one another.

---

The Greatest Lie, Chapter 11

A Whole New Me, The Same Old World.

By Alexandra Rios

"En Francais", they say "plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose:" the more things change, the more they stay the same. When Tran and I got back to Minneapolis from our trip to Thailand for our sex change operations, it was every bit as dark, frigid and depressing as it had been when we left. I returned to the same tiny, dreary apartment in a drug infested, sleazy stretch of Hennepin where the rents, and life were both cheap.

It hadn’t changed, but only felt worse after our balmy, thrilling, and successful trip to my home town, "LaLa Land", and the "Land of Smiles."

The shock of returning from balmy Thailand to the dark and cold of Minneapolis so shocked weakened body that I considered blowing off school entirely. But that would have been stupid, since I have a full scholarship and I had greased the rails for a really easy semester. I had it so easy that even if I weren't an academic genius, it would have been difficult to screw up. But it was so cold, and I was so weak, I couldn't stand going outside. So I just skipped another week of classes instead.

Tran had given up her place and moved in with me. I love her like a sister (okay, even more than that), and after all we had been through couldn't think of living without her. But after three consecutive days of being house bound by below-zero weather, and eating only delivered food, I was going crazy. "Tran, I have keep at this homework.

Can't you please go out and get us some real food: broccoli and brown rice or something.

We can't live on kung pao and pizza indefinitely. That's hard enough on anyone's colon, not to mention ours," which had been sectioned to lengthen our neo-vaginas.

"You go, I don't want to freeze my boobs off."

"Tran, they're saline. Like the ocean. They won't freeze."

"I can't go. I'm Vietnamese. We don't like the cold."

"Tran, you grew up a hundred miles from here. You must be used to it by now."

"I got used to being warm. I think I'm going back to LA, make more pornos with Pavel."

That, I had to admit, did sound attractive. I had had good reasons for leaving LA, but they were less compelling than ever, as the frosty windows rattled with another blast of arctic wind.

Tran brightened. "Maybe we should call somebody. Tell them we are starving, and get them to bring us food."

"Who do you have in mind?"

Tran threw out a few suggestions: my law school friend, Mark, my advisor, Professor Finch, our hockey star boyfriend, Rick a Randy. Since Tran and I had left for Winter break, we had shared a fantasy about the delirious welcome they would have prepared for us on our return: flowers, gifts, lingerie, and passionate kisses and embraces.

Now, even though we had been back for three whole days, we hadn't even heard from them. We were wondering if they had forgotten us.

"Do you think we should call them?" Tran asked.

"We can't. They'll totally get the wrong idea, that we're, like desperate or something."

"You're right," she said unhappily. She was reclining on a triangle pillow, her thighs parted, preparing to dilate her neo-vagina with a one-inch stent. She covered it in KY Jelly, then grimaced as she penetrated herself. "You know you should be doing this too," she reminded me through clenched teeth. "It's- so o- o-o, hard, O-o-o." She groaned, as the nylon stent stopped less than half way in. "It's stuck again, ouch. God, what's going to happen if I get a cock stuck in there?"

"It'll be the happiest day of your life," I joked.

"No way, who would want the same old cock all of the time!" Tran replied mischievously.

I took a break from my translation of the Knights Tale to hip hop lyrics, and took my place on the floor next to Tran, a xeroxed law case in one hand, and my own stent in the other. We had started dilating a few days earlier, with the narrowest, one-inch stents.

It was gonna be a hard row to hoe. Our penile skin had been too skimpy to fashion an adequately deep vagina, and so our Thai surgeon, Dr. Sanguan, had lengthened it with a section of colon that he had sutured to the end of the inverted penile skin. He had used grafts of scrotal skin to form labia and the glans of the penis to form a clit.

Now that the sutures had dissolved, and the scars and bruises were fading, we could see he had performed miraculous work. We had lovely, though tiny, female genitalia, where our cockettes had been. But these delicious, tempting treats were forbidden for at least two months, and even longer, until we had successfully dilated with the massive 1 1/2 inch stents. These forbidding tools lay unused, until we had successfully mastered their one inch and 1 1/4 inch mates. And the one incher had me stymied. I could not force it past the juncture where the penile and colon tissues were joined. I removed it, re-lubricated it, and re-entered. "Just keep it moving, Tran," I advised. "Just like you know what."

Tran giggled. "Just think what Rick and Randy would do if they saw playing with ourselves like this."

"I think I know what they would do, and we're not ready for it."

"Sh-sh, I'm going to close my eyes and imagine it's Randy." I heard Tran begin to breath harder and moan sensually. "It's not working, it's not helping. I've had enough!"

She pulled out her stent and threw it across the room in disgust.

She got up and dialed a phone number impatiently. "You're not calling them," I implored.

"No, I'm not. Yeah, hello, beef and broccoli, extra broccoli, please, no beef, and brown rice. Yeah, for Tran again, on 1385 Hennepin, Unit 22. Yeah, call from security.

Make sure it's hot. And bring chopsticks. Bye. OK, Alexandra, I got your broccoli.

Call me when it arrives. I'm taking a bath." I continued with my dilation, and my reading for another half-hour, until the phone rang. "Tran, I'm running down to get dinner," I yelled. I had made little progress on the dilation or the case. A chill of cold and fear shook me as I entered the stairwell: had I gotten in over my head with this operation?

And what was I supposed to be getting out of these Court decisions? When I returned, greasy bags of Chinese in hand, I phoned my mentor, Mark Whitman. "Alex, it's good to hear your voice. You're back? I didn't see you first day. Not that it mattered" "My trip got kind of messy at the end. But everything is fine now."

"Don't worry, because Epstein didn't show either. He's on another honeymoon."

"I didn't know he was getting married."

"He didn't."

"M-m-m."

"Don't even think about it, Alex."

"All I'm thinking about are these law cases. I mean, what am I supposed to be getting out of them? I mean, am I supposed to be memorizing them or something?

They're so long and boring, and there are so many." I was panicking.

"I always forget that you're a baby. Here's what you do. You read the facts really fast, then get to the holding, which is what the court decides. Then you figure out what the facts and law they used to get to the holding: that's the rationale. Then you figure out what's wrong with rationale, like which important facts they left out or what law they ignored. Then compare the holding to the earlier cases and figure out how they fudged the outcome: that's what's wrong with the holding. Then go onto the next case, do the same thing, and figure out what this bunch did different than the last. That's it: law school in a nutshell. Epstein loves to hear what's wrong with judges. He thinks they're all idiots."

"So you're really not learning anything from the cases."

"Well, actually, you have to memorize all of the holdings for the final. But what you are really trying to learn is how to show all other lawyers and judges (except you, Epstein and me) are a bunch of idiots. You're learning how to criticize others."

"Oh, I can get into that."

"Wait'll you read the assignment for this week. You'll find something to hate in the Gardiner case. We're meeting at Epstein's house next Saturday. See ya then."

The siege of unspeakable weather gave me an excuse to ditch classes for another week, and regain my strength. When the below zero days finally ended in a glorious January thaw, the students had tee-shirted snowball fights in the quads, and I emerged to go to my first classes. As I strode, tight-sweatered an open-jacketed across campus to catch he bus to the suburbs, I realized that my new profile was attracting appreciative looks and smiles from nearly every guy who saw me. As I ran to catch the departing bus, boobs bouncing painfully, a stranger interceded, yelling to the driver to stop, and held the door for me gallantly as I boarded. I rewarded him with a "thank you" and a demure smile, and got a "Wish I were going your way" from the handsome stranger. Another guy offered me his seat, and then chatted me up the rest of the ride. God, this is great, I thought. Every guy who saw me, noticed me, feasted his eyes, and then wanted to please me. Life is going to be a party.

Avoiding the foul weather to which Tran and I had returned, Epstein had stayed late in Acapulco, and had assigned a thousand pages of legal cases: we would have a triple session at his house in Edina to make up the lost class time. His girlfriend Lynn, a third year student, participated as a student. What a class! It was an upper level seminar, so everyone wanted to be there and had an opinion. Let me tell you, Minnesota, hell, America, is a pretty weird place, if you grew up in West LA. I mean, it was a strange brew.

On one had, you'd find hipsters from Madison, Ann Arbor, even Berkeley; on the other hand, you found the bright but naíve hicks: strict Lutherans from Duluth or wherever that had been brought up to believe dancing to be sinful and that gays had been sent by the devil to pervert the innocent. I mean, in LA, you'd have to go to West Covina or someplace to find such rustics. And there we were, in Epstein's breakfast room, me and Lars from Fargo, head to head on the Kansas Supreme Court's decision In the Matter of The Estate of Marshall G. Gardiner.

I had been up half the night, reading, and then having nightmares about the case.

J'Noel, a forty year old post op had made good, become a professor, and then married Marshall, an eighty-something millionaire: like Anna Nicole Smith, but trans. Good 'ole Marsh had promptly left us for that great board of directors in the sky, leaving behind no will. His son wanted the money, and went after J'Noelle. Epstein turned to me. "Ms.

Rivers, please state the facts and holding of the Gardiner case."

I smiled, pleased that he had remembered to use my new name, and stated the case: "The case involves J'Noel Gardiner's claim to the estate of Marshall G. Gardiner. J'Noel was born male, had sex reassignment surgery and had an amended Wisconsin birth certificate showing her gender as "assigned female." Marshall, an elderly widower, was a donor to the college where J'Noel was a professor. He fell in love and married her with knowledge of her past. Gardiner died without leaving a will the following summer.

Gardiner's estranged son sought to claim the entire estate, arguing that the marriage was invalid. Kansas had passed a version of the Defense of Marriage Act, by which the state forbids recognition of same-sex marriages. Joe argued that as a matter of law J'Noel, as a genetic male, was incapable of legally marrying his late father.

The trial court agreed with Joe, ruling that under Kansas law, anyone born male remains male, and ignored the Wisconsin birth certificate.

The Kansas court of appeals reversed, finding that the district court had improperly determined as a matter of law that J'Noel remained a man. The lower court needed to conduct a trial about whether J’Noel was male or female, based on the scientific and medical factors relevant to determination of gender.

The Kansas Supreme Court reversed the appellate court. Even though the terms "sex," "male" and "female" were not defined in the Kansas "protection of marriage" statute, the held that J’Noel’s sex was male, based on definitions taken from an old edition of Webster's Dictionary, which looked to genetic and biological factors only.

I read the holding: "'A male-to-female post-operative transsexual does not fit the definition of a female. The male organs have been removed, but the ability to 'produce ova and bear offspring' does not and never did exist. There is no womb, cervix, or ovaries, nor is there any change in his chromosomes. As Texas supreme court had held in the earlier Littleton case, the transsexual still 'inhabits... a male body in all aspects other than what the physicians have supplied.' J'Noel does not fit the common meaning of female. If the legislature intended to include transsexuals, it could have been a simple matter to have done so."

I concluded "So the Court held the marriage was invalid and awarded the entire estate to Joe, and nothing to J'Noel."

Epstein asked " Ms. Rivers, do you see anything wrong in the reasoning of the Kansas Supreme Court?"

"It's a terrible decision by a weak and lazy judges, or maybe they are pretending to be ignorant and are really biased. Why should they assume that the Kansas legislature had in mind an outdated dictionary definition of sex, male and female? Given the attention paid to transsexuals in the media, why not assume that the Kansas Legislature was aware of transsexuals and intended that the courts categorize them based on gender identity rather than genes, particularly where Wisconsin had officially recognized the sex change? These judges were relying on their own limitations and preconceptions, where they admitted they had no evidence of legislative intent. I think it's a terrible decision."

Peter Swenson, a Young Republican type, replied hotly "Aren't you doing just what you are accusing the court of? Where there is no contrary intent, shouldn't we let the plain meaning of the statute speak for itself. Last time I looked, this was still a republic, where elected legislators make the laws, not the judges."

Epstein took my part, and responded "So what they are saying is that the Kansas legislature must have ignored all of the science and publicity about transsexuals in defining gender. Of course they knew about transsexuals. The statue is an abomination, but it was only aimed at prohibiting gay marriage. Why interpret such a statute broadly?

I think Rivers has a point. Should one infer a deprivation of rights based on silence?"

Alec Olsen, another Heritage Foundation type, interjected "Why should we assume Kansas legislators were ill informed. Why not assume the obvious, that they were relying on common understandings of these terms. After all, they were enacting the "Preservation of Marriage Act", not the "Protection of Transvestites Act. " Mark Whitman replied "Point taken, but no one anticipates that Legislatures are enacting laws to fit eternity. Isn't the role of Courts to interpret?"

I added "Science, medicine, and society change far faster than Legislatures can enact laws. When this 'Protection of Marriage Act' was enacted, eight, nine years ago, look what's happened in that time."

Alec rejoined "Yeah, I'm looking. What difference does that make? That there are more unwed mothers, gay couples having kids? Are courts supposed to reshape laws to fit fads, and facilitate social extremism? If Marshall had had a young child, are you going to give J'Noel custody? Are we seriously considering honoring transsexuals on Mothers Day?"

I exploded: "OK, you won't let J'Noel be a mother. You won't let her sue for her husband's death or inherit from him. You say she's still a male. Will you let her be a Scout Master?"

Alec sneered "No, but that's because society has an interest in protecting children from exposure to aberrant behavior."

Epstein replied "OK, she can't be a Girl Scout or a Boy Scout. Fine: if she can't marry a male and adopt his child, can she marry a female, and adopt a woman's child?"

Alec answered "Same issue. If the law gives the privilege of marriage to males and females, then no, she can't marry either a woman or a man, because she has the outward appearance of a woman in the chromosomes of a man. And she can't adopt as a matter of child protection."

I countered "I don't get it. A transsexual can't marry a male and can't marry a female. Who are they supposed to marry, another transsexual coming from the opposite direction? What if that person has a kid?"

Peter interrupted "Absolutely not. They can't marry at all, under Kansas law."

Mark said, "You've got to be kidding me, what about Equal Protection."

Peter responded "It doesn't apply to protect a transsexuals."

Epstein was apoplectic: "It protects everyone: even non-citizens. Are you saying J'Noel has no Equal Protection rights at all. That we can deprive her of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?"

Alec retorted "No, but we can restrict her from exercising privileges that are specific to gender. At this point, she doesn't have a gender in the eyes of the law."

Epstein said "Reminds of that story, 'Man Without a Country.' 'Woman without a Gender': pretty barbaric for Twenty-First Century jurisprudence. Is that where we're going? To paraphrase my favorite movie, ‘Toto, I think we must be in Kansas.’" Mark rejoined "It's ridiculous and cruel to deny J'Noel any legal rights dependent on gender. Gender is her precious possession. Even the Kansas Court acknowledged her sacrifices. Can they really mean that in claiming her gender, she relinquished it?"

Peter retorted, "But the Court said it was up to the Kansas Legislature, not the Courts applying the Equal Protection, to defend her. And it hasn't, and shouldn't."

I argued "But you're argument goes far beyond that. You think that she shouldn't have a protected right to claim her gender. Why not?"

Alec answered "Because Equal Protection prevents discrimination based on attributes that the individual can't change. J'Noel chose to change her body and sexual identity. Therefore, she doesn't deserve to be protected."

Epstein summarized "So you can deny J'Noel all Equal Protection right: the right to work, to vote, to petition the government?"

Peter polished his glasses. "I don't propose to suspend all rights, I suppose, but certainly the privilege to assert legal entitlement where gender is an issue."

I dissected this position. "You believe the state can deny her the rights to assert, as a male or as a female, any legal right that's dependent on gender?"

Peter responded "Yes, because J'Noel really possesses neither the gender of a male or a female."

Epstein posited. "So you are saying that transsexuals are neither legally male nor female, that they belong, if you will, to a third gender?"

"I'm not a social scientist, but I guess you could say that."

Epstein continued "And obviously, this minority is a tiny minority?"

Peter admitted, "Yes, I guess so."

Epstein pounced: "But we reserve the greatest degree of Equal Protection scrutiny for small, unpopular minorities. How can we tell transsexuals that their recourse is in the legislature, not the Courts? I doubt the transsexual lobby throws a lot of weight in the Kansas Legislature" Peter backpedaled "People like J'Noel are different from other minorities."

Mark pursued "Because they are sexual minorities, and we have special rules for sex? Sounds pretty Victorian to be a basis for Constitutional Law."

Alec attempted to lead an escape: "No, because they choose to be what they become. We protect only those who have immutable characteristics. J'Noel is different because she voluntarily undertook to become what she became."

I sprung the trap: "You assert that she volunteered to be transsexual?"

"No, but she chose to take the hormones, have the tracheal shave, and to have the other surgery."

I went on "So you are saying these procedures should be punished, even where they are medically recommended."

Alec asserted "No, but when J'Noel had them, she forfeited the rights to full citizenship, either as a male, or as a female."

Epstein questioned "And what compelling state interest compels such an extraordinary deprivation?"

Peter argued "Doing otherwise brings chaos to society, the family, to the expectation of normality. We must, I suppose, tolerate everyone, even the criminally insane, but we don't have to accord them full status as citizens. J'Noel, like a schizophrenic, is simply too destructive of the social order to be given free rein. The state must be empowered to limit her freedom to protect the rest of us."

Epstein pronounced "Gender apartheid, for a tiny and powerless minority?"

Alec begged off "Unless the legislature decides otherwise."

Epstein questioned "That does appear to be what Texas and Kansas have decided.

Is it right? Is there a role for the Federal Court here?" Epstein's eyes scanned the classroom, meeting mine only for the same moment as the others.

I had the last word. "Absolutely, you cannot deny equal protection based one's outward aspect, as long as it reflects and immutable internal trait." Half the group nodded in agreement, the others vehemently disagreed.

Epstein concluded "Fascinating. I think we mined all of the ore out of that vein.

Next case, Olsen."

We worked through a dozen cases that way, working until lunch. Then we broke, and Epstein invited us to stay for sandwiches. I grabbed Whitman. "I can't believe Epstein did that to me. Was he trying to 'out' me?"

"No, that's what Epstein does! He puts you under the microscope and lets the rest of the class dissect you. Welcome to law school, little sister. But you were sensational.

You made those two look like a couple of idiots. And they're third year. Don't say anything. Here they come."

Alec smiled and said "No hard feelings, OK?"

"None here," I responded with a smile and a flutter of my lashes. "Comes with the territory, doesn't it?"

"Wow, you were really great. How did you learn so much law?" Alec asked.

"I'm a quick study."

"But you're new, aren't you."

"Actually, I'm an undergrad. A Freshman."

"No wonder you're still a liberal. Get a little closer to real life, and things start looking different. Unless you become a weirdoes' rights type like Whitman here. How did you end up in this circus?" Peter nodded toward Epstein.

"I wrote something for one of what you called Mark's weirdoes' rights projects, and Epstein liked it. So he invited me."

"We won't hold that against you. Will we, Alec?"

"No way. Where do you live? Are you in a sorority?" Alec inquired.

As we talked, I noticed that each time I switched eye contact to one, the other transferred his gaze to my breasts. Should I be flattered, or worried? Was I too big, or not natural? "No, I'm way too busy for all the socializing. I'm all work and no play. In fact, I have to do some work-study tutoring in a few minutes."

"Underprivileged, undernourished urban youth?" Peter asked sarcastically.

"No, over-privileged, oversexed hockey players." I tossed my hair carelessly.

"Can you get tickets?" Alec demanded.

"I've never had the occasion to ask," I purred demurely.

"Cool, good to meet you. Ask for four tickets for Wisconsin," Alec replied with a breezy wave. "And bring a friend," he added arrogantly.

"Oh, shurr!" I replied, adding a Fargo-ese umlaut to my vowels.

"See you next week," Peter chirped.

When they were out of hearing, I whispered to Mark "Do you think they have any ideas, you know, about me?"

"I think they've got lots of ideas about you. But I don't think they related you to the Gardiner case, if that's what you mean."

"What do you mean?"

"Just the usual ideas guys have about fantastically beautiful girls."

I blushed. "Do you mean me? Do you like the new me better than the old?"

"It's the same you. And the same me. And though you're ever more beautiful, and I'm just as square. How's Tran, er, Teri?"

"She's great, you know, we're both, ah recovering still."

"Ahem, and how's that going?"

"Want to see for yourself?"

"No, ah, not really." He was blushing.

"Sorry, I know, I was only kidding." I looked at my watch. "Gotta go. So I did all right?"

"Better than that. You were born to be a lawyer."

I walked off smiling inwardly, musing "Born to be lawyer, or a hooker?" God, this life kind of sucked. For every real person like Mark, there would be a thousand powerful, bigoted poseurs like Alec and Peter. I would have to be on guard every moment in the company of such affable haters.

My work study advisor had assigned me to a tutoring group for "Special Needs" students. Of course, the special need of this group was their need to retain athletic eligibility without letting studying interfere with the rigors of training, traveling and playing for Minnesota's championship hockey squad. My assignments were Math and English. I met my first students, Mike and Karl, in an assistant coach's office. Karl eyed me hungrily and asked "Hey, Teach, how do we get detention?"

"Yeah, we want to stay after class," Mike quipped.

"Hmm, I usually give detention to bad boys. You're not nearly bad enough for that."

"We'll work on it," Karl promised.

I worked them through some "practice exams" in trigonometry. They were clueless, until I analogized the sine, chord and tangent concepts to the ricochets of hockey pucks off sticks, boards and helmets. Then it began to click, and they got the practice test on the third try. They were drunk with success and ready for relaxation, and demanded that I join them for a happy hour at the Sigma Chi house. I was struggling to extricate myself from their advances when I heard the welcome sound of a familiar voice. "Alex, is that you?" Rick bounded into the room, and lifted me in a joyful embrace."

My lips dodged his and I whispered in his ear "It's about time, I mean, the nick of time."

"Oh, sorry Rick dude, we didn't mean to skate on your ice, OK, dude," Karl apologized.

"Hey, that's cool man, how were you to know this babe was my good friend."

"She's a great teacher. You're a lucky dude," Mike added, shuffling away and saying "Next week, right here, right."

"Good luck on your exams, guys!"

As soon as they left, Rick closed the door and said "Wow, I like what Santa brought."

"If you had waited much longer, it could have been the Easter Bunny. What's the matter with you?"

"You know, we were like, busy, getting back into it and all."

"Too busy to call? Gimmee a break."

"You didn't call me. I dunno, I wasn't sure, you know, how I would feel. I mean, we're so, you know, different."

"You mean I'm so different?"

"You sure are different now. You look, like, awesome." He reached for me, and I did not object as he fondled my still tender breasts.

"Careful, I'm still very sensitive." He slipped his hands under my sweater and gently caressed the silky lace of my underwire bra, and tilted my head back in a passionate, breathy kiss. My anxiety and pique subsided, and I succumbed to Rick's firm but fond embraces. His hands eagerly explored my new contours, then impatiently fumbled at the clasp of my bra. I guided his clumsy fingers to help him free my breasts from their lacy confinement. He stroked my still scarred nipples impetuously, and I gasped "Be gentle!" He pulled my sweater up and over my head, and I twisted my neck from the turtle neck, hair tousled and face flushed with the effort and passion.

Rick stared, goggle eyed, and gently cupped my perfect, conical boobs in his large, strong hands. "Alexandra, they're, I mean you're, fabulous."

And this was the moment I had longed for, and dreamed of, since those sweaty, opiated, painful days on my bed-sore ass in Phuket. All that I had been through was requited in that one phrase, from a guy who'd ignored me until he practically tripped over me on his way to the shower. What was I thinking? What kind of passive, chick thing had I lapsed into? Fuck, what did I care? He wanted me. I wanted him. Then a shiver of paranoia ran through me. If he was so transfixed by my boobs, if he saw my pussy, he would fuck me until I hemorrhaged and bled out on the floor.

My passion quickly found common cause with self-preservation, and I tugged at his shorts. His manhood was nestled in the shell of a jockstrap and cup, unfamiliar and unhappy memories of my own pathetic athletic experience. His sweaty meat bounded from the confines of his gear.

He was tangy with the sweat of a hard practice, and I gagged with the first lunges into my throat: had it been so long I had forgotten this art? Soon, my muscle memory reasserted itself and I reacquainted my lips, tongue and tonsils to the rhythms of his groin. He grappled for my breasts and pussy, but the wet suction of my lips and cheeks on his cock distracted him and brought forth an instant anointment of precum to my glistening lips.

He seized my bobbing pony tail and soon was straining and spasming, as the sensations of my lips and tongue on his cock and my breasts pressing on his thighs brought him under my control. My breasts massaged his muscular thighs with each lunge of my lips down his shaft to his lap, and he murmured "I wanna fuck you," and began to roll me off his lap, but I shook my head and resisted, and he surrendered to my insistent blow job. He let out a guttural moan, and banged my head savagely onto his cock as he orgasmed wildly, down my parched throat into my hungry tummy. He popped out with his last thrust. I firmly squeezed his balls, sending a squirt sprayed into my eyes and hair, before the last droplets oozed onto my breasts.

As he relaxed on the coach's couch, I wiped his spilled seed from my neck and reapplied my gloss and mascara. He looked up and smiled and said "That was great, worth the wait. What a great surprise, ah, surprises."

Now that I had momentarily unmanned him, I felt safe to disclose the whole truth.

"I'm full of surprises. Are you ready for more."

"Oh, there's more. Like what, a tattoo?"

"Close your eyes, and no peeking." I wriggled out of my jeans and let them plop to the floor. I stepped to within reach. He squinted at my panty clad form, and I warned "I said no peeking," and he obediently closed his eyes. "Now, slide down my panties, and open your eyes."

His eyes practically popped out of his head, and I noticed the coiled snake between his legs sprang to life. "Whooo, Alex, you got a pussy." He rose and grabbed me from front and behind and reached his hands through my vacant crotch, and then fingered and pried open my tiny labia.

I winced and said "Careful, I'm not nearly ready," he was already pulling me onto his lap and pressing his re-hardened cock head against the narrow opening. "Really, I can't and you can't, it's too new." He had gone deaf and was trying, futilely, to enter me with his drained penis.

"I can't believe it, it's so perfect, you're like a real girl. Just like I'd always dreamed."

"This is how you wanted me in your dreams?" I felt a warm glow light me from within.

"Exactly," he replied, and rolled me onto my back and grabbed and pulled my ankles over his shoulders. He pressed against me again, but his cock lacked the energy to do any damage, and I covered my vulnerable vagina. I lectured him sternly. "None of that yet. You could ruin it or hurt me." He nodded but ignored me and I warned him sternly "I mean really injure me if you do it before I'm ready. It's not big enough or strong enough inside yet."

"How long do I have to wait?" he complained.

"At least another month."

"No way. Well, how about the old way?" He reached beneath me and began fingering my ass.

"Not there either, they had to operate there too. Please, don't, it could be really dangerous. You could rip my insides and I could bleed to death. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

He shook his head vigorously. "Wait for me until I'm ready, and I promise I'll save myself for you, even though you are too big. And in the meantime, we can do this."

I licked his balls playfully, and then took him back into my mouth. To my amazement, he was hard again, but my renewed blow job would not bring him back to climax. He shook his head in frustration, and said "It's not enough."

"Wait there, I have an idea." I grabbed a tube of lubricant from the bottom of my purse and spread it between my breasts. I lay down on the floor and beckoned, and said, "Sit on my tummy." I gasped as he crushed my rib cage, but wrapped my tender breasts, nipple to nipple, around his cock. "Now rub it there," and he began plunging into the tunnel of my tender breasts. It was a glorious sight to see his cock head bounding and receding through the circle that my boobs made around him. I was thankful that I had prevailed on Dr. Sanguan to use the 350 cc implants, which had given me the very generous C Cups which now sheltered and surrounded Rick's insatiable cock. Soon, he was pounding away, and though my breasts ached from the relentless pressure, they were sufficiently healed to endure the thrusts. After a few minutes he came, and my collarbones were adorned with another necklace of molten pearls. Rick collapsed to the floor next to me, breathing hard.

"I guess you must approve."

"God, I'm sorry I had trouble controlling myself, I was just so overwhelmed. It's so incredible. You're irresistible."

"Thank you. But you have to promise me, no trying to fuck me until I say.

Otherwise, you shouldn't see me. The doctor really warned us, nothing for another month at least, and maybe not until after another operation."

He thought for a minute. "What do you mean, us? Tran had an operation too?"

"Yeah, and don't you dare tell Randy. Let her surprise him."

"So she's not ready either?" I hit him playfully. "No she's not, and don't even think about it."

"Yeah, right," he muttered. Of course I knew I could never trust him, but with Tran, I could at least keep an eye on him. And I wasn't so trustworthy myself. "Really though, you have to let Tran surprise Randy. Don't spoil the surprise for them." Besides, I had to remind Tran to unman Randy with a blow job before she let the cat out of the bag, or pussy would get its tail pulled. Randy was even more uncontrollably libidinous than Rick.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of an opening door and footsteps. "Someone's coming," I said, and Rick replied "Holy Shit." We quickly pulled on our clothes straightened the disheveled cushions on the couch, and were seated books in hands at the desk when Assistant Coach Barnes entered his office.

"Getting in a little extra credit with the tutor, Rick?" he snarled sarcastically.

"Yeah coach, Alexandra here is really helpful."

"I'm sure she is," he said, sniffing the air ostentatiously. "What subject are you working on, French?"

"Math, actually. But I'm fluent in French, if anyone needs it."

"They all need it. They're just not studying it, huh Rick?"

"Right, coach," he said with a masculine guffaw.

"Listen here," he said wagging his stubby finger at me. "Do what you want, with whoever, but no French tutoring in my office, if you catch my drift. Now pack up and go. No, just you, Mademoiselle Tutor. Rick, I want another hour on the ice from you."

I packed up and left, my face burning with embarrassment. I called Tran, and warned her that Randy would soon know our secret. "So if you want it to be a surprise, call him now."

"Alexandra, did you already do him first?"

"No, but if you insist, I will. Rick will get over it, if you do." I was warming up to the concept.

"I have an idea. Let's both surprise him."

"Tran, you are such a bad influence."

I took a quick shower and was doing my make up when Randy called on the intercom. Tran let Randy in, and after a brief murmured conversation I heard the familiar sound of squeaking bedsprings. As I applied fresh make up, I eavesdropped on my best friend, and my former lover. They began with polite, slightly stiff greetings, and progressed to giggly, breathy kissing, and then to fierce, athletic passion. I listened to sounds of lips sucking, cheeks popping against a lunging penis, the slight chokes and gags that occur in a really determined blow jobs, and in brief interludes, a few lovers’ words, between their gasps and groans.

As I applied my gloss, I recalled vividly how Randy's wild cock had rammed down my throat and into my ass. His groans become grunts, the squeaking of the bed become deafening. I remembered the exquisite rush of energy that his orgasms brought, and I envied my friend. I heard their breathing gradually subside, and their murmurs rise, as I brushed my hair to smooth, silky perfection.

I chose the perfect moment, just before Randy took his post-orgasmic piss. I emerged from my hideout, wrapped at the bodice with a towel, and said "Randy, shame on you. Too busy to say hello to an old friend?" Randy looked over his shoulder and said "Whoa, Alex, I, I-ah" and then I plopped on the bed next to him, opposite Tran, and let my boobs escape from the unraveling towel and slid under the sheets by his side. He was immediately transfixed.

"Wow, they, ah, you look, like, great. What a great surprise!"

"Go ahead, you can touch me," and he began fondling me. I murmured gratefully in response, and Tran propped herself on Randy's shoulder to observe approvingly. She commented "I like hers better than mine, too. It's OK, admit it, they're softer."

"I love yours too," Randy said politically, rolling onto his back to observe, and fondle us, in stereo. He did look really happy, relaxing between two beautiful girls, each hand on a breast. "I really got a handful here," he joked.

"I gotta surprise for you too," Tran said.

"What's that," Randy asked. "I like these surprises so far." As her answer, Tran took his hand from her breast and pulled it down her tummy. Guessing her intent, I slid his other hand toward my new pussy. Tran won this erotic race, and Randy said "Whoa, what's that, I mean," and with that he reached my vagina and said "Wow, this is unbelievable, you're like, regular girls, lemmee see." He rose to his knees, threw back the sheets, and said "Wow, this is like a dream. You're incredible. I wish I had two cocks," and I noticed his cock was stiffening again. "Like, I don't know where to start."

"Start here," I said, and wrapped my lips around his member, which was still salty with his last orgasm, and Tran's saliva. "Or here," Tran said, gently nudging me away and taking her turn.

He reflexively and relentlessly tried to escape our lips and mount Tran. "No way, our Doctor says we must stay virgins for at least, ah, six more weeks. Maybe more."

He tried to mount me. "Really Randy, it's not safe for us to have sex yet. We're not healed inside."

"Oh, shit, it's just irresistible. I got to have you, now."

"No, not yet, let me give you another blow job."

"Both of us," I offered.

"OK, but let me at least touch you, let me see."

We squiggled our pussies down toward his astonished face, and began giving him a double blow job, occasionally warning him not to push his fingers into our still healing vaginas, and occasionally soothing our cock-sore lips with a kiss of the others swollen mouth. Nineteen year old guys are one of God's gifts: after about twenty minutes of this divine revelation, he came again in a fountain of cream that oozed gently from the purple hood of his cock.

He dozed as we showered together. I remarked admiringly to Tran "Too bad these pussies don't work as good as they look."

"I'd be a happy girl then," Tran replied.

"And he'd be a happy guy, too. Keeping him on the outside is going to be impossible, and Rick is no better."

"Well, what is it, another week and we can do it the old way."

"You think? But will they want to?" I asked.

"I think they won't know the difference."

"You're so bad! How will we know it's safe? I don't think Sanguan makes house calls to Minneapolis."

"We had the same operation at the same time. After your big operation last year, Student Health has to give you a free examination. That's how I'll know. If you're ready, I'm ready. And I'd better be ready soon, because I'm s-s-s-o horny. And s-s-s-s-o broke."

Mr. Watanabe's hush money was running out, and my scholarship and grant money barely covered the room. I was sick of being a starving student, and Tran and I were sexual entrepreneurs by nature. Not only did Rick and Randy need to be satisfied, but so did our own financial needs.

The next morning, I called Student Health and asked for an appointment with Dr. Peter Prince. His assistant had me come in for blood tests, and Dr. Prince made room on his schedule the morning that the lab work was done. I made a point of blowing my hair and dressing to the max. It was still freezing by my standards, but a tight ribbed turtleneck, under an open pea jacket, over my new body warmed me and the atmosphere all around me. Dr. Prince wandered absently into the waiting room, looking about absently and called out "Alexandra Rivers," and gazed around vacantly, his gaze passing over me and returning only after he had searched the room. With a startled nod of recognition, he exclaimed "O my god, that's you, Alex!"

"You didn't recognize me?"

"Well, now I do, but you look...fantastic" "Do you like my new look?"

"You look lovely. Come with me," he said, recovering his professionalism. "I gather your overseas trip was successful?"

"So far, so good. I'd like your opinion as to how successful."

"Perfect, I've arranged gynecological consult. And I think we better take a peek at your colon." He led me to a waiting room and I was both alarmed and pleased that the gurney was equipped with stirrups.

"Put on this robe, and lie down," he said, handing me a pink paper gown. I'll be back."

"No med students, OK?" He nodded.

I lay on my back, and slid my feet into the stirrups at the end of the gurney. They swung open, and I was naked and open. I loved the feeling of vulnerability this contraption gave me. But how would I look? I had peeked with a mirror, and Rick and Randy had stolen glimpses as they pried apart my squeezed thighs, but this was my public debut. I pulled the edge of the gown to cover myself, and rested my hands on my breasts, like a prone Botticelli Venus. Dr. Prince knocked and entered with two colleagues, and mumbled introductions.

"Tell us about your procedure." I described it and they nodded, mumbled, and conferred as they peered, palpated and prodded me. "This is going to feel a little cold," the GYN warned as he slid an icy object into my vagina. "Tell me if it hurts."

"No, it feels like a Popscicle, but it doesn't hurt. Uff, that hurt."

"You've got some blockage at 5 cm. How is the dilation going."

"Better than at first, but I can't get anything bigger than the 1" stent past that part."

"Scar tissue at the junction of the penile inversion and the colon tissue."

"Oh, no, Dr. Sanguan warned me. I didn't dilate hard enough."

"It was inevitable. It's like grafting a apple branch to a pear tree. You can do it, but the tree forms a knot."

"Can you fix it?"

"I don't think anyone but the original surgeon should operate. I wouldn't know where to begin."

"He's in Thailand. I can't go there for months."

"That's OK, it shouldn't be done for a couple of months, unless you want to do it more than once."

I was crestfallen as they completed their exam. With that exception, I was perfect. The colon re-section had healed perfectly, my hormones were perfect, my breasts were perfectly centered and positioned, as were my vulva and labia, which were small, but even and parallel. Even my vagina was perfect, except for a single cincture, which rendered it useless for sex. After the GYN and the proctologist left, Prince and I talked.

"You're disappointed?"

"Of course, I mean, I knew it could happen, but I tried so hard. And my boyfriend is going to be so bummed."

"Well, if he cares about you, he'll wait."

"I don't know, you know how boys are."

He wrapped his arm around my shoulder. "Alexandra, I'm confident that you'll figure out how to keep the boys coming." I smiled at this double entendre, and glanced up at Prince. Had he intended it? Was he coming on? He had a perfect, professional poker face.

"So other than that one little problem, all systems go?"

"You're perfect. My hat's off to you and your surgeon. He's an artist, and you're a masterpiece." I glowed with pleasure from his compliments all the way home.

Tran was, as usual, dilating and watching an Asian video when I got home.

"Shit, I can never get the larger stent in," she cried in frustration.

"Forget it, you probably got it too, the ring. We gotta get back to Phuket."

"Let's go now! I'm bored and sick of cold."

"Tran, we don't have the cash for the tickets, much less the surgery. And Dr. Prince recommends we wait two months anyhow."

"You got any good news?"

"Well, sort of, my colon is completely healed."

"Oh great, we can start getting fucked in the ass again? I was just getting used to not getting it there," she said bitterly. It had been about six weeks, our longest abstinence ever. "What was it like starting again?" she asked.

"I got back into it after the first few times. But we're different now, so I don't know. And Rick definitely wants my pussy?"

"He won't even know. If it's tight and wet, he'll fuck it without noticing or caring.

I fooled lots of guys before," Tran predicted confidently.

The weather had improved, so Tran went out canvassing for my T-Girl Sex Worker Study, and I had an interview with Lulu, an almost passable, homeless transsexual. Lulu was sullen and uncommunicative, and refused to take the intelligence evaluation test. She asked, "So why's a high class bitch like you axin about my life?"

"What makes you think we're so different?"

"Shit, look at you, look at me."

"We've got more in common than you think. I'm trans too."

"Well fuck me! Aren't you a peach? But you're all ladylike, and you can pass, and you're ejjakated. They kicked me out in eighth grade, been livin’ on the street since.

Whattaya know 'bout my life, and why do you care?"

"I'm trying to help the world understand us and see us as people, not freaks."

She reluctantly complied with my questionnaire. She took meth every day and she believed that she was Princess Diana, hiding from the killers who had tried and failed to kill her, then faked her death in Paris. Her chest, butt and face were distended with pumped silicone. She never used condoms, even for passive anal sex. She was troubled by the fact that almost half of her tricks wanted to be fucked by her, as she preferred the passive role and despised the fairies that wanted her to fuck them. She'd been dressing and streetwalking for three years, and didn't know her HIV status. She lived in an abandoned furniture store with three other Trannies. She worked alone and met her clients on a couch under a railroad underpass. She'd been busted for solicitation three times, but had never been convicted, though she had charges pending from a bust last week. That was why she had come to me. She'd gone down on a guy before she realized he was a cop, and couldn't afford a lawyer. I was patiently recording her tragic, bleak story, when the phone rang, and kept on ringing. I picked it up and before I could say anything Rick reminded me that he was coming over for a "study hall" in a half-hour.

"Make it an hour, I'm with a client."

"What do you mean?" he asked jealously.

"I mean I'm busy," and I hung up and continued with Lulu.

"Have you ever had a job?"

"Washing dishes at a pizza place, but they fired me. Said I was a faggot."

"Ever try to get a job as a woman?"

"Get lots of jobs as a woman. I mean, blow jobs," she said, dead-pan. I burst into laughter, and as she laughed at her own jest, we made eye contact for the first time. She searched my eyes, I knew, and realized that she saw she and I were sisters of the spirit and flesh. After that, an hour was hardly enough for me to record her secrets. But Lulu and I both had assignations, and as I gave her a hug goodbye, I wondered whether the fates of that doomed soul and my own would differ.

A minute after Lulu left, Rick buzzed and I let him up. He was visibly agitated and smelled like he'd had a few beers. "Let's get high," he said, producing a bong.

"I can't, I have some work to do later" I said, as he lit up and the bong gurgled ferociously. "Wanta hit?" he gasped, puffing acrid fumes.

"Not yet, it's too early. And we're supposed to be studying."

"It's only the fourth week of classes."

"Actually, the fifth, and only two weeks until mid terms."

"Oh, fuck it, I haven't even bought all of the books yet," he said, finishing the bong and throwing himself on my bed. "C'mere," he drawled through his emerging buzz, sliding down his jeans. I slipped my fingers over the waist band and worked them down his massive, bulging thighs, then pulled down his boxers. I slipped his thick, hardening cock between my lips and began sucking. The usual baptism of precum was skimpy, and he was unenthusiastic in his response. "I need to be inside you," he announced. "I really want to fuck you."

"I don't think I can, you're too big, and I'm not ready."

"Oh c'mon, can't we just try it. I really want to try it."

"No, just blow jobs for now," and I resumed sucking, but he was unresponsive.

"Please, if you can't handle it, I'll stop, I promise."

As if, I thought. "You won't be able to stop yourself. You're like an animal when you're aroused."

"Yeah, and an unsatisfied animal now. I just can't stand it. You're, like, turning into some kind of cock teaser. I might as well be with one of those sorority cunts. I thought you'd be different."

Well, I was, but that was the point, wasn't it. I had to succumb, or lose him. "Get comfortable, I'll be back." I went to my tiny bathroom, stripped to my bra and panties, freshened my hair and makeup, and then lubed my anus. My sphincters rebelled at the intrusion of my finger. God, I thought, what agony his penis would inflict on that disused passageway.

I snuggled into bed next to him, and he smothered me with wet and wild kisses to my lips, neck, hair, and then progressed to my breasts. He freed them from the enclosure of the lacy, lavender bra, then cupping them in his hands, licked, kissed and nibbled each nipple. The incisions around my aereoles had healed, and full sensation had returned, and ripples of pleasure flowed from them over my entire nervous system. I moaned "Don't stop," as his tongue left them and began tracing a path to my navel, then down my linea negra, across the fading but still visible smile-like incision at my bikini line, to my tiny, little girl-like labia.

I had kept shaving my rather flat mons, and Sanguan had warned me that a second operation was required to construct truly passable labia majora. The delicate lips that he had constructed were those of a pubescent girl, rather than a woman, but that only heightened Rick's interest, and he pressed his tongue through them as deep as he could into my tender, narrow vagina, then flicked my clitoris. My nervous system had only begun to reoccupy this region, so these sensations were faint and distant, but exquisitely subtle.

But his mouth tired of this effort, and of the massage my foot and ankle gave his cock. He rose above me, and gave me a wet, delicious kiss, and pressed my thighs open.

He pried open my labia and tried to enter me, and the sensations of pressure and strain were immediate and alarming. If he could get it inside me, that club would surely shred my still healing vagina. Visions of a painful, bloody death filled my imagination, but there was no stopping this rampaging libido now. I broke free from his lips and said, "No, not that way, let me get on top, it'll be easier for me." Easier to deceive him! I sat astride his flat, steely abdomen and grabbed my lube, as he fingered my quivering vulva. I applied lube to my rectum, rose up, and as I descended I pointed his erect cock away from my vagina, and into my ass. "Go slowly, so you don't hurt me," I reminded him, and he nodded, and then thrust upward as if his body was indifferent to his brain's promises.

He slid up my lubricious anus, and muttered, "Oh, that feels good, you're so tight," as my body convulsed at this sudden intrusion. A white-hot sheet of pain seared me, but I froze my scream into a silent grimace, and averted my eyes from his gaze, as he lunged his thighs upward and pressed down on my hips, to further his penetration.

"Is that too much?" he asked, and I nodded through pinched and tear filled eyes: I could not speak, without crying out in agony. He backed out a bit, and my contorted, rigid body collapsed with relief, and he fucked me from beneath as I lay in a swoon, my soft breasts massaging his washboard chest, and his heaving breath tickling the hair behind my ears.

Post op, anal sex was more painful, and less pleasurable than I had remembered it.

The removal of the masculine tissues during the sex reassignment surgery had removed the fulcrum that had previously made the levering of large cock in my ass enjoyable.

Instead of friction of the cock engorged colon against prostate and meatus, now felt it like he was banging away into a void, jostling and threatening the precious, fragile structures that Dr. Sanguan had painstakingly constructed. I recoiled from, rather than reveled in this invasion, and when Rick rose to a sweaty, grunting climax, I felt only relief. I extruded him swiftly and removed and disposed of his condom, and, before he could guess at his cock's recent destination, I had bounded to the bathroom quickly to cleanse myself of all evidence.

"That was fantastic," he exuded. "I can't believe how tight you are."

"It's not just how tight I am, it's how huge you are. You should register that thing as a dangerous weapon." I gave him a playful squeeze. "It's not natural: it's like, a big mushroom or something."

"No wonder it loves to hide in your little cave," he replied. "You know, you're much better than a regular girl. No fishy pussy smells, no PMS, no periods, no babies, no bitchiness," he recited.

"No commitment, no marriage plans, either, right?" Or no waiting around for female orgasms, I thought silently.

"Well, that's not what you want either, is it? I mean, I really like you and everything, but who needs all that structure and pressure? I think you're perfect."

I looked down at my arrogant, athletic god. He was perfect: handsome, rough hewn, and horny. He began to harden again as I lowered my lips to his groin, and tickled my nipples on the sinewy surface of his thighs. God, I hope the next time is easier. And it was a little easier: that night and each time that he came to me in the weeks that followed.

Tran had "lost her virginity" to Randy a couple of days later. We compared notes as we dilated on a dismal winter afternoon.

"Do you think that Randy knows that you're having anal sex?"

"I don't think so. When guys are horny they are so stupid. They don't notice anything but their cocks, and don't remember anything afterwards. I used to fool guys all the time, even before I had the operation."

"I'm not sure whether or not Rick knows he’s still sodomizing me, but I doubt if he would really care. I mean, he probably would like to be the one who broke in my pussy, but he just wants to bury his cock in and cum into a tight wet hole. I mean, I know he likes me as a friend, and needs me as his personal tutor, but he really values me most as his boy toy: the beautiful object he can touch, or fuck, whenever he wants."

And though I never regained my desire for anal penetration, I loved being the object of his attentions, and willingly endured this now self-sacrificial sex. His wandering hands and throbbing, insatiable cock reminded me of how beautiful and sexy I had become, and I liked being his sex object on that level. Dr. Prince’s hormonal wizardry, and the continued absence of testosterone from my system rounded and softened and softened me, and as my natural breast development continued, it made my new breasts an even more idyllic cynosure for men’s eyes, and Rick’s kisses and caresses. As the scars faded and the surgical sites, and my nipples and clitoris re- enervated, the pleasure of his ministrations increased, though on a subtle and almost spiritual plane. I didn’t even mind when he suggested a swap with Randy for Tran, for a beautiful as my friend, too, had become, I was confident that he would want me back.

And since they had emerged as two rising stars on Minnesota’s hot hockey team, other guys, even law students lick Alec and Peter, were constrained to keep at a respectful distance, though our association with these celebrities only enhanced our mystique.

I enjoyed being the brilliant and beautiful mystery woman at this hockey star’s side, and being part of the cult of envy and adulation that Rick attracted around campus, as he and Randy emerged as surprise stars on the defensive line of a championship team. And Rick delighted in being seen with a beautiful genius who was too busy with her independent studies and research to socialize with the run of the mill jock and frat crowd with whom he hung out. Thus, he had the best of both worlds: freedom to play the field at frat parties, and knowledge that he had a sure thing waiting for him at the end of the party.

And I even came to look forward to watching them play hockey, though the brutality and violence worried me for their safety.

Still, it was a turn-on to watch them help the team to a victorious season, with thunderous, crushing body checks to their opponents and murderous slap shots on hapless goalies. After all, the same body that left opponents gasping or inert on the ice was slamming into my vulnerable flesh in bed. Minnesota hockey’s triumphal advance to the NCAA tournament was like my own life that semester: an unexpectedly easy and thrilling campaign. And though he took me completely for granted, Rick was sweet to me, calling me every day to be stroked and bolstered: despite his success, he was barely more than a boy and needed emotional comfort and praise, with which I was only too happy to provide him.

So it came as a complete surprise when he called me and said in a cold and angry voice "Alexandra, we’re through. It’s over."

"What do you mean, why?" I replied, though I immediately suspected the cause.

"Transsexual Hookers? How could you do such a thing? A gay porno flick? I’m so humiliated and disgusted. I can’t believe I’m sharing you with scum like that guy in the movie."

"I’m sorry. I needed the money, you know, for Thailand. I’ll never do it again. But I just had to then."

"That movie’s gonna be around for ever. You’ve been scanned, spammed and jpeg-ed all over the Internet."

"No one needs to know. I mean, I really don’t even look the same now, do I?"

"Randy and I recognized you right away."

"But you knew me then. No one else has to know."

"We know. And what about all your law school friend. He knows."

"He’s been trained to keep secrets. Please don’t do this to me."

"It’s done. Just forget it. We’re through, got it?"

He hung up as I held the receiver in stunned silence, and I remained there motionless, barely able to breath, until I began shaking uncontrollably and dissolved into sobs and hot bitter tears. Like the tentacles of some alien monster, the residues of my past had emerged to strangle and submerge me in misery.

Randy had given the same brutal brush off to Tran, so at least we could suffer this sorrow and humiliation together. She was more experienced and had lower expectations, so she was more resilient and less bitter than I. "They were OK, but too much work, too much sex, for not much in return: just some hockey tickets and pizza dinners. We need to meet some richer guys." I agreed, as our funds were dwindling alarmingly. We had scalped most of the remaining hockey tickets, and Tran was doing outcalls from her little black book to supplement our funds. "Only fetish and blowjobs," she informed the tricks over the phone. "No sex." Most of her old clients were not interested in her as a post op.

Guys are so weird.

I was busy wrapping up the Transsexual Sex Workers interviews, writing up the findings, completing "Hip-Hop to Canterbury" and tutoring the rest of the hockey team.

Mike and Karl started taking greater interest in me after word spread that Rick and I were history, but Coach Barnes warned me away with angry stares. I was so bored and horny I considered taking on part of Tran’s workload, but instead I concentrated on finishing my research, and on writing a new grant proposal: to elaborate the work in Minneapolis with a cross cultural study of Thai Katoey, to be conducted through Chiang Mai University. Finch loved the idea, and, in a stroke of genius, I included funding for an assistant and a translator: Tran and Nancee, of course.

But my favorite class was Epstein’s Minority and Majority Rights Seminar. I was the class pet, the brilliant ingenue from whom everyone wanted to hear. I especially enjoyed sparring with the right wing, who always seemed surprised a well dressed, pretty young thing like me wouldn’t support their conservative views. And sometimes the issues, or at least my feelings about the issues, got muddled. Both Epstein and the liberal wing of the class praised Reno v. ACLU, in which the Supreme Court struck down the Communications Decency Act, by which Congress had tried to regulate the publication of indecent materials over the Internet by forcing the content poster to identify the recipients of their downloads. As a recent victim of unauthorized posts to Internet newsgroups, I was personally ambivalent. But that expression of my sexuality, while hurtful when I was copied and broadcast to the world through alt.sex.trans., had been the means by which I had financed my sex change. For me, the First Amendment had been necessary for my survival. Peter and Alec squared off against me and Epstein again. "So you think we should let school kids visit porn sites from library computers. I’m sure even Thomas Jefferson and James Madison would have disapproved."

" I think the Internet is like the public squares of Ancient Greece. The standards that we set now will guide the freedom of human discourse for years to come."

"Great, our descendants will be reading about ‘Girls Who Dig Animals,’ and remembering us as champions of freedom of deviance."

"Hey, the first photographs were porn. No one remembers the 19th Century as the age of sexual liberty."

"And photography flourished, even as indecency was suppressed."

"The rules you make here will be copied in the Peoples’ Republic to ban the Dali Lama, or even the Bible. Can you live with that?"

"Can you really compare porno to the Bible?"

"No, but the Chinese will, and they’ll ban both. You won’t have a principled basis for opposition."

After class, Alec cornered me. "Still sticking to the left, sure way to get an "A" in here."

"Thanks, I need it. Remember, I’m not admitted to law school yet."

He wrung his hands in mock embarrassment. "It’s so humiliating to be intellectually crushed by a Freshman. Thank god, I’m almost done. In a few short months, I’ll be getting paid a buck twenty-five a year for this. Hey, did you ever get those Wisconsin hockey tickets."

"Thanks for reminding me. I’ve got four seats for tonight’s game." Wisconsin was playing Minnesota for the Big 10 Championship.

"How much?"

I hated to be greedy, but we were so broke. "I think they’re worth about a couple hundred bucks. I was going over there to sell them."

"Wow, the birth of a capitalist. Very good! OK, I’ll take them, on one condition."

"What’s that?"

"That you and a friend be Peter’s and my guests."

"Let me make a call." I borrowed Peter’s cell and slipped into the bathroom.

Tran was skeptical about going with a couple of law students, and I was especially nervous about these two sleek young right-wingers. "But it’ll be perfect. The seats are right behind the Visitor’s bench. You know who will see us and go nuts."

Tran had to agree, it was perfect revenge on Rick and Randy. Of course, our secrets were their secrets too, but they had rejected us, and deserved payback. If it had to be in the middle of a hockey game, so much the better.

"OK," I told Peter, "my friend Teri is willing to go, but we really weren’t aren’t into hockey anymore. I mean, after tutoring those guys them all year, I am tired of them.

And my friend Tran is Vietnamese. She’s more into soccer, but what she really likes is dancing."

"I know a great club," Alec said. I’ll call the doorman and get us on the list."

Karl was the only one who showed up for tutoring that day. He had gotten hurt in during the season and had been dropped from the starting lines. He was the only player studying because there was no way a backup was going get playing time in the game tonight.

"I hear you’re not seeing Rick anymore, izzat right?"

"We were just good friends. It’s no big deal."

"He acts like it’s a big deal. He told me he’d kick my ass if I asked you out. What gives?"

"I guess he’s just jealous. But Coach Barnes put the whole team off limits anyway.

Sorry. I need this job."

"Well I think Rick’s nuts. I think you’re the cutest girl around. And the smartest too."

I gave him a peck on the cheek, and a gentle brush of my breast against his forearm.

"You’re so sweet to say so. Good luck tonight." I filed Karl away for future reference.

Peter and Alex showed up with a bottle of Crystal. I answered the door while Tran kept primping. They had never seen me in full make up, high heels and a black strapless party dress, and they were momentarily, and for them, uncharacteristically speechless. "Ah- uh, a high fashion radical, huh?"

"I’m like, a fashionista. Like, y’know, I’m from LA," I mimicked in Valley Girl talk.

"All of the Hollywood Democrats dress like this for parties. You weren’t expecting Golden Gopher Sweatshirts, were you?"

"I should have known better. Where’s your friend?"

"Tran’s in there. Don’t rush her. It’ll be worth your wait."

They popped the champagne, and I produced our best coffee cups. "Sorry to do this, but this is all we have. I’m on scholarship, and Tran’s, well, unemployed at the moment."

At that moment, Tran emerged, looking stunning. Her body had become even more voluptuous since the surgery, and her face softer and more feminine. "Hi, she always calls me Tran, but I like my American name better. You can call me Teri."

"Uh, OK, they’re, I mean, you’re beautiful," Peter stuttered, visibly transfixed by her spectacular breasts. We clinked a clunky coffee cup toast to one another, and downed the heavenly bubbles of Roderer. Then Tran and I did what we did best: let guys talk about themselves. Peter and Alec had such highly developed egos this was easy. They had developed their easy, country club conservatism the old fashion way: they inherited it from prosperous merchant forebears, whose properties and assets promised them easy, comfortable lives. Of course, their Daddies demanded college and law degrees to validate their possession of their superior, Protestant genes, and that they put in a couple of years at big law firms before taking over a directorship at the family business. They were middle of the class, but the top firms had snapped them up in the hope of establishing a relationship that would produce income for some lucky lawyer for life.

They only had to survive third year, the bar exam, and a couple of hellish years as associates, and they were set for life. They had the smug self-confidence of boys who had never had to struggle for anything. We chatted past game time, and drove to the stadium in Alec’s late model BMW. I listened attentively for Tran’s opening moves in the back seat, but she bided her time.

The champagne hit me hard on an empty stomach, and I was swaying on my heels as we walked through the freezing, wind swept parking lost to the arena. Roars echoed from within, and as we entered they reached a deafening pitch even as we walked to our seats.

We squeezed past frenzied fans to our seats, the only vacant ones in the place. On the blindingly bright ice, players wheeled, charged, and crashed as they flailed at each other and the skittering puck. It was half way through the second period, and Minnesota led, 3- 2. As my eyes adjusted, I recognized first Rick, and then Randy and pointed them out to Tran. On the next icing the puck call, Tran, who was clueless about the sport, leapt to her feet and gave a high pitched but pointless hurrah, which caught Randy’s attention. He glared at us, and Tran reflexively put her arm around, and nuzzled her boobs against a very pleased Peter. A moment later, Rick looked up to see me whispering ostentatiously into Alec’s ear. "I think my old boyfriend saw us." Rick grimaced, then looked down at the ice and skated in a tense circle until the face off.

They never looked up at us again, but they thereafter played with unbridled viciousness.

Rick and Randy threw crushing body checks, slapped shots and slammed opponents into the glass in an extraordinary display of defensive aggression, and each drew several penalties in the see-saw match. Peter and Alec were rabid fans, and Alec hugged and kissed me each time Minnesota scored, and I hugged and comforted him when Wisconsin replied. The score was tied as the clock ran down, and then disaster struck. As Rick raced down the ice on a breakaway, a Wisconsin defender got slashed at and tripped him, and they toppled to the ice. The referee belatedly called a penalty on the Wisconsin player, but by then Rick already had his stick above his head and slashed the Badger in retaliation, who crumpled to the ice under the blow. Randy joined the affray, kicking at and pummeling the hapless victim. As Rick, Randy and the bleeding Badger were all ejected, I was consumed with guilt, as I felt this outburst of rage must have been partly meant for Tran and me. They glared at us angrily as they skated off the ice, as we stared in silent disbelief.

The Gophers were depleted and outnumbered as the match went into overtime, but I saw to my delight that Rick and Randy’s disgraceful exit had given poor Karl a chance at redemption. I let out a yell when the substitution was announced, and he saw me and waved. Alec frowned jealously: "You’ve got another hockey player in reserve?" I swatted him playfully and said "He’s just one of my students." Karl played with artistry and energy, and soon the sullen arena had revived. Then, in an instant, Karl took a pass at the blue line and fired a rocket that rose off the ice, threaded through a crisscrossing array of players, and bounced off the helmet of the blinded Wisconsin goalie for a score.

Trig problem solved, Karl’s smile seemed to convey, as he flashed a thumbs up in my direction.

We escaped the celebratory tumult to Alec’s now frosty Beamer. Despite the painfully frigid night air, Alec draped his camel hair coat over my freezing arms, he shivered visibly as we drove back into town. "Don’t worry, it’s always hot at the Quest."

Tran broke free of an extended embrace of Peter. "We’re going to Quest? That’s so cool. Will Prince be there?" Peter silenced her with another breathy kiss.

"That place is impossible to get into," I remarked.

Alec announced proudly, "My dad’s company owns the building. Of course we can get in."

O my god! A rich kid, I mused. No wonder he’s a Republican. Oh well, it was my duty to convert him.

The bouncers at Quest waved us past the knot of supplicants waiting at the door, and didn’t bother checking our ID, even though it was Saturday, 25 and over night at Quest.

Alec led us past the deafening dance floor and the mobbed bar, both milling with dazzling beautiful people, up a staircase to the relative tranquillity of the Galaxy Balcony.

We sat in a secluded booth in the corner that had been marked reserved.

A waitress appeared with four frosty, beautiful martini glasses brimming with Alec’s usual, a green apple martini. I had thought of martinis as a drink for my dad’s generation, but Alec’s clique had adopted it as their own, and Tran and I were enthusiastic converts.

The tart, cold drink hit me instantly, and charged me with manic, intoxicated energy. It was too loud to talk, so after we finished our second round, I dragged Alec to the dance floor, where I lost myself in the throb of deafening techno. The wallop of vodka had completely dashed my inhibitions, so I really let go with my dancing, and Alec was utterly smitten by my sinuous moves.

When the DJ put on a slow number, his hands impatiently traced the curves of bottom and breasts, and he ground his groin into my privates. I didn’t really care what people thought, but I whispered "Let’s get some privacy," and we retreated to our booth, where he explored my silky skin, and invited me to explore his. He pulled my hands inside his pants, and I only half resisted. I mean, I was kind of worried about doing this on a first date with a classmate I barely knew, but I was half drunk and really bummed out about Rick’s atrocious behavior toward me, and at the hockey game. What better revenge than to go down on some rich guy I didn’t really like. But it was weird: it was like, I couldn’t find his cock. When I did, I had to suppress a giggle. His cock was barely bigger than mine had been. No wonder he was so pompous and full of himself: he had a major shortcoming to compensate for. Then, a flash of brilliant insight emerged from my drunken state. He was perfect: no thicker, and not as long as, my one-inch stent. I gave him a passionate kiss, then broke off and said, "I need to go to the ladies room. Don’t go away!" I tapped Tran’s shoulder signaled her to come with, and she broke off from her grappling with Peter. "We’ll be right back," I promised.

I put on more gloss and mascara, and when we were alone, I confided to Tran "It’s so perfect. Alec must have the littlest cock in the western world."

"I don’t think so. Peter’s is well, like this." She circled her forefinger and thumb in a tight circle. "Lots of fun, but not enough for my taste."

"Are you kidding, they’re both Mr. Right for us."

Tran started to disagree, and I said "Think dilation," and then it hit her too.

"You’re a genius. He’s perfect. But you told me no sex on this date."

"Call it a change of circumstances. Let’s roll."

They had yet another round of martinis waiting for us when we returned, and I can’t remember if that was it or whether we had still another. I vaguely remember Alec half carrying me to his car, and helping me up the stairs to his condo. "Where’s Tran?" I asked groggily.

"I dropped her and Peter at his place. Are you OK?"

"I’m feeling better now," I lied. I actually felt like throwing up, but I was determined to test drive my new equipment. I went to the bathroom, and lubed my vagina thoroughly.

"May I just lie down for a minute?"

"Sure he said, fluffing a pillow for me. I took off my pumps and lay down, striking a vulnerable pose. He excused himself and hit the head, and when he returned he said "Don’t mind if I do so myself," and lay down beside me, naked to his boxers. "I guess you’re staying over," he said gleefully. He began fondling my breasts, saying "God, you are so beautiful," and smothering me with kisses.

"We can’t do this," I said coyly. "I mean, we’re in that class together, and I’m always arguing with you and Peter. Won’t it be awkward?"

"I’ll never disagree with another word you say," he promised.

"No, I want you to be the same in class."

"OK, I promise that. Whatever you want. I have to have you." He pulled my dress up over my head, and I limply acquiesced. He unclasped my bra, and marveled at my exposed breasts. "Wow, you are even more beautiful than I imagined." He kissed each of my nipples worshipfully, and I cradled his head as he suckled me. Full sensation had returned there, and pleasure rippled through me body. He rubbed my mons and clitoris through my panties, and the waves of sensation roiled together, and almost involuntarily my thighs parted invitingly. "OK," I sighed, and he slid off his boxers, as I wriggled out of my panties.

He studied me momentarily, and then pronounced "You are absolutely exquisite."

"Thank you," I whispered sweetly. He pressed his cock against me, and I guided the tip between my labia to the moist entrance of my vagina. I bit my lip as he entered me. I was expecting something like the smooth finish of my stent, but the warmth and textures of his penis made the feeling utterly different. Rather than smooth, frictionless pressure, Alec’s cock pushed and pulled roughly against the delicate walls that Sanguan had built inside me. Forgotten, unused neurons fired off alarms, which I did not know how to respond to. It was all so unfamiliar, to feel a cock exploring a totally new place. But when he reached the point where penile and colon skin were clashing and forming a ring of scar tissue, these distant and confusing signals were replaced with a clear message of sharp pain. I squeezed my thighs together to try to prevent him from probing beyond that barrier, but it was too late. He gasped, "Wow, you are so tight, it feels so good," and rammed through it. A fiery blast of pain wracked my body and ricocheted through my nervous system. The passage of the penis through the ring was even more painful than the initial penetration of the sphincters in anal sex. As pain thrashed through me, he began pumping faster and faster. Each time his cock passed through that gateway of scar tissue, I winced and moaned as a searing fire of agony engulfed me, but he interpreted these cries as evidence of my ecstasy, and he kissed my face and neck, and massaged my luxuriant breasts. Suddenly, he cried out "I’m gonna cum," and he throbbed spasmodically, and then collapsed on top of me.

"Did you cum too?" he asked hopefully. As my breath heaved from this ordeal, I murmured and nodded a false confirmation, and felt his handhold on my breasts gradually soften as he drifted off to sleep. This exertion and the martinis had left me drained and exhausted, but I felt too stressed to sleep, and I stifled sobs as my eyes stung with tears of frustration and disappointment. After all pain, danger, expense, and difficult recovery from my surgery, I was still sexually dysfunctional. I needed another operation, but Sanguan’s brilliant but esoteric techniques intimidated my US doctors, and I had no money for the operation or the travel. Besides, I needed to finish the semester, so I had no way to get to Thailand for at least two months. Alec was rich, and I thought he was crazy about me, and but now he would expect to make love to me, and through the agony I would have to learn to fake orgasms. If I confided my problem, he’d probably go totally postal and dump me just as heartlessly as Rick had. Despite all of my efforts to remake myself, nothing had changed. I was still the same old me: living lies, beautiful to behold, but impossible to possess.

Alexandra and Tran face the prejudice and the law in their new lives, but will they have to return to their old lives in order to live their dreams completely?

Chapter 12
My Own Worst Enemy

The Greatest Lie

Chapter 12

Copyright 2003 By Alexandra Rios

My Own Worst Enemy

Let's face facts. The so-called the "War On Drugs," "Just Say No," and all the other anti-drug campaigns are complete failures because they ignore reality: getting high is fun.

College students drink and take drugs to break a boring routine; the poor do it to escape from intolerable misery; esthetes to explore a new place in their minds or bodies. Whatever the immediate impetus, the impulse to get high is about as primordial as that of propagation or perpetuation.

And the dangers are overstated: unless you are shooting heroin or smoking lots of crack, you're really not in immediate danger of killing yourself. If recreational drugs were so dangerous, then half of my parents' generation would be dead, right?

But when you wake up in the condition that I was in after my night out at Quest, you might well wish that you were dead. If the Feds really want to curb drug or alcohol abuse, they shouldn't waste their time telling people how bad it is to get high. They should remind people about how shitty it feels to crash, to be strung out, or to wake up really, really hung over.

The drug warriors would have been preaching to the choir when I awoke the Sunday morning after my night out with Alec.

When the first shafts of glittering winter light drove through my eyelids I pulled an unfamiliar down duvet over my head and shut my eyes tight against the light. The sun's sparkling rays seemed only to increase the intensity of the throbbing behind my eye sockets. My tongue was swollen, dry, and seemingly glued to my parched and rough palate. My eyes squinted through a crust of dried tears and mascara. I was unwilling and a bit afraid to open my eyes and see where my binge had landed me.

But my mind whirred back through the fragmented images and impressions of the night before. Eyes still firmly shut, I collated them into a coherent memory and deduced where I was.

My suspicions were confirmed when I peeked and saw my classmate Alec snoring nearby, smiling contentedly in his dreams.

No wonder he was so happy, I thought. He had intoxicated and seduced his beautiful young classmate on their first date, and his buddy Peter had no doubt gotten lucky with my friend Tran. I was only too familiar with the feelings of power and achievement that he was feeling: after all, I used to be a guy.

But now I was a girl, and I reproached myself for having wasted my post-op virginity on a guy I never really liked, much less felt attracted to. Which, I wondered, was smaller relative to the rest of mankind: his cock or his mind? I felt like an idiot, a dumb freshman that had been snared and conquered by a smarmy, patronizing upperclassman.

I slipped quietly out of bed to pee and see how my new equipment had fared in its first skirmish. My pussy was tender, and the slight discharge that customarily followed dilation was now noticeably increased.

I felt used and more than a little hung over. I wrapped a towel around my hair and took a long, scalding shower in his spotless and luxuriously appointed bathroom. There were lots of costly toiletries, but none were obviously feminine. I rifled his bathroom drawers for a Tampax, but there was none: there was no sign of a resident girlfriend.

By the time I emerged from the bathroom I felt a little better.

Unfortunately, the bed was empty. That meant there would be no stealthy escape from this scene: Prince Charming was up and about. Then I noticed the aroma of sizzling bacon and eggs wafting through the room. My pompous debaucher was cooking breakfast: an awkward interlude was impending.

I decided to get into the scenario. I called out a cheery "Good morning," and stepped into the kitchen, modestly draped in a bed sheet.

"That smells fantastic," I lied. I really prefer fruit and yogurt to a traditional starch- and fat-laden breakfast. "Do you have anything else I can wear?"

"Wow, you look like something out of one of my dreams," Alec said. "Draped around you, that sheet looks like the gown of a fairytale princess."

"Until I trip on it and break my neck. How about some sweats or something?"

"Bottom drawer on the left, help yourself."

I found a Minnesota sweatshirt that was long enough to cover me to mid-thigh, and rolled up the sleeves. Alec said, "I thought you wouldn't wear Golden Gopher sweatshirts?"

"I can't wear a little black party dress on Sunday morning. Would you want me to look like a little slut?"

"I wouldn't want that," he said with a wink.

I blushed crimson at his comment, and my resentment poured out in a flood. "I wouldn't have come over if you hadn't given me so much to drink. I'm not used to those martinis, and I didn't know what I was doing. So I'm sorry if that makes me a little slut. I mean, an under-aged little slut. But what does that make you?" I asked accusingly.

Alec looked crushed. "I'm sorry, that's not what I meant."

"Well, that's what you implied, and it really hurts. First you got me so drunk you had to carry me up the stairs, and you had intercourse with me when I was half passed-out, and now you're insulting me." Tears filled my eyes. It was partly an act, to flush him out, but I really was insulted.

"I didn't mean it that way! I thought that you wanted to ... I mean, that you wanted me ... and I wouldn't have done anything, if you hadn't wanted me to. I guess I just fooled myself. I'm sorry," he said with apparent dejection.

I decided that I had deflated him enough and it was time to give him some slack. "No, I probably would have wanted to, if I had been in any condition to decide," I lied. "Just maybe not so soon. It feels like we just did it because we were drunk, and on our first night out. You know, that's really not the way I am."

"I'm sorry, I keep on forgetting how young you are, because you think and act like someone my age. It's O.K. We're not in high school anymore. Whenever two people feel that way about each other, I think that's the right time, whether it's the first date or whatever. I always liked you, even when we were arguing about that first case, and I really wanted to be with you, and I hope you feel the same way about me."

He embraced me, and I tilted my head back to invite a deep kiss. When I opened my eyes, still blurry with faux tears, I saw his eyes were locked on mine with a look that I had never seen before. I tried to catalogue the look that I saw in his eyes. I wondered: is this love that I'm seeing in his eyes?

"Anyhow, it was really sweet of you to make breakfast for us. I'm starving."

"Let's eat," Alec replied, setting the table and serving me.

I beamed with satisfaction. I had manufactured a lover's quarrel, and I had triumphed. I wondered how Tran was doing with Peter. Doing great, I speculated: she's much more experienced, and lower maintenance than I am.

After breakfast, I felt a lot better. No food and too much booze the day before had left me really frazzled. Alec's cholesterol feast had seemed to absorb some of the leftover ethanol byproducts.

I asked, "So, can I at least get a ride home."

Alec grabbed me playfully and asked, "Do you really have to leave, already?"

"I have homework. Don't you?"

"Tons, but all work and no play makes Alec a dull boy." He pulled me down onto his rumpled bed and began fondling me. I decided to give in as a reward for his earlier penance and pulled the drawstring of his sweats. I let him pull my top over my head.

In that blind, vulnerable moment when the neckline of the sweatshirt was stuck on my head, he let go, leaving my arms pinioned above my head. He said, "Gotcha!"

I panicked for fear he'd uncovered some clue to my pre-op past. But he only kissed my breasts playfully before helping me free myself, face flushed, from captivity. Then he kissed me and said, "You're beautiful."

I kissed him back and then pushed him onto his back. My lips searched out his cock and I took him into my mouth.

I love to suck cock. It's an easy and less messy alternative to intercourse, and hell, after Bill and Monica, I don't really even consider it sex. I mean, how could it be? You can do it fully dressed!

Sucking cock is really more like a compromise between making out and sex: it's neater and faster. Besides, I wasn't too crazy about repeating the painful initiation of the night before, much less giving my trannie-phobic friend a daylight close-up of my still somewhat unfinished labia.

The immediate and intoxicating hors d'oeuvre of precum indicated that this would be a brief and easy encounter - he was fully locked and loaded.

With a small cock like Alec's, a blowjob is not even really hard work. He was small enough so that I could take his cock and balls in a single mouthful and still breathe. Alec must have dated some really uptight girls. He was not accustomed to my street-honed expertise in the oral arts.

At first, he aimlessly twitched his hips and groaned with pleasure. He was so overwhelmed by the soft, wet sensations of my mouth and lips that his body knew no effective response.

I clamped his hands over my head, and got him into the rhythm of plunging my head down over his upthrusting hips. With my hand guiding his, he learned to control my head and synchronize the dipping of my head with the upward thrusts of his cock.

Despite his initial fumbling, he quickly got into it. Guys love the feeling of mastery of manipulating a beautiful face over their thrusting cocks, and I love the feeling of painless submission that I get for my side of the bargain.

Plus it's easy, especially when, like Alec, the guy's cock isn't so huge that you have to fight the gag reflex with every plunge of your head.

Between his groans and grunts I heard him cry, "I'm going to cum in your mouth! Oh, no!"

I guess that wasn't included in his previous lovers' repertoire, but duh, that's the point, isn't it?

He climaxed manfully, and his cock quivered and geysered into my mouth.

I sucked him and squeezed his balls, and he writhed in ecstasy. The cum felt great splashing onto my vodka-desiccated throat. I said "M-m-m-m" with feeling.

Alec gasped "Oh, my God! That was fantastic," and lay completely still.

I got up and gargled, flossed, and borrowed his toothbrush for thorough gum cleaning. I applied make up, borrowed some oversized sweatpants, and put my dress away. I turned to him and said jokingly, "I think I hear church bells. Time to wake up!"

He shook himself awake, looked at his watch, and said, "Oh, my God, I'm late!"

"You're kidding, right? I mean, your whole conservative thing is like, about wealth preservation, or is it, like, religious?"

"Well, I'm not really that religious, but the whole family goes, so I have to."

"Wow! Talk about the high price of being rich!"

"You know, it's just how I was raised. I don't really mind. I like the music."

"God, I hate it. So, what's your choice of 'opium?'"

He looked puzzled. I hinted, "You know, like, Marx and all that."

He was completely nonplused. "I mean, which religion?"

"Lutheran. Missouri Synod."

Now I was stumped.

He added, "That's the extra-strict kind. What are you?"

"My mom's Swedish, so she must have been Lutheran, but she's like, completely agnostic, so they sent me to Roman Catholic Sunday school. I did really great there. When they asked me the name of God, I responded 'Zeus, Athena,' and named the other ten of the Hellenic Pantheon. The nuns whisked me straight home. After that, we only went, like, once a year on Easter, and after I was confirmed, we really went hardly at all."

I thought about Tran's priest. "Never!"

"Well, I have to go to keep the family happy. So what's with your family?"

I replied "Dad was such a good Catholic that, last year, he just dumped my mom for one of his grad students. My parents got divorced, and I got in such a big fight with my Dad that he never wants to hear from me again. Now he's in Switzerland with a big-money biotech job, and my mom's back here with all the debts. She's broke, so it's just me and my scholarship that's keeping me here. That's why I have to go study now. Can you pick up Tran and give us a ride home now?"

"Ah, er, I'm running a little late. You know, I can't miss the offering plate. Both God and Mom would be displeased. Can I call you a taxi?"

"Forget it, I'll take the bus. Remember, I'm poor. I gotta get a grant just so I can eat this summer." And, also, maybe so I can get myself back to Phuket for some more surgery, and wild times in Thailand, I added to myself.

"O.K. I'll just have to hurry."

As he showered, I inspected his knickknacks: Alec in an extended family photo, lost in a sea of white faces in front of a secluded, tree lined lake cottage; Alec in golf clothes, clutching a gaudy trophy; Alec in a graduation gown, between his beaming mother and father; Alec on horseback, riding with a buck toothed, horsy-looking girl. Alec was the guy who had everything, born with a silver spoon stuck up his ass.

As I looked at the evidence of his privilege, and compared it to my desperate poverty, I began to hate him, and myself. I helped myself to the change he had left scattered on headboard, scrawled a curt note good-bye, and took off before he got out of the shower.

As I shivered through a freezing bus ride back to my shabby apartment, I wondered whatever possessed me to get into this awkward and dangerous liaison. Oh well, I consoled myself, at least his cock fit my unfinished pussy. It had worked, sort of.

Tran showed up a half-hour later, chauffeured by Peter. "How did you rate a ride? That prick Alec offered to call me a cab."

"I think he has 'yellow fever,'" she replied. "I like your new friends even better than the old ones." She giggled appreciatively.

"Poor Alec was worried about being late for church with Mommy. I think you got the better of the two."

"But you got the richer one. Peter told me that Alec's family is rich, like royalty. I think you found a sugar daddy, if you play it right."

"Oh, forget it. He'll date and marry the girl his Mommy approves of, and that won't be me. If they ever figure out we're post-ops, they'll freak out. We'll be lucky if we only get dumped. So just forget about it," I added.

"So how was the sex?" Tran inquired.

"Nice and tight, from what he said. Felt like a secondary vaginoplasty without anesthesia to me."

"Yeah, it hurt a lot, even with his little dick. It hurts less to do it the old way."

"I guess we had better check the damage," I said, slipping out of my borrowed sweats and reclining with my stent and lubricant.

"You mean fucking is not enough dilation? It's not fair!" Tran complained.

My interior was still lubricating from the unaccustomed activity of the night before, and it was swollen and tender. I winced with pain as I pressed past the threshold of the ring where scar tissue conjoined the former penile flap and the colon tissue. "Tran, you're not going to believe this. I think my ring is even tighter."

"I know just what you mean. It feels even narrower. Ow!"

"God, what are we going to do? We can't have sex with anyone."

"And now, they are going to expect it."

"If they ever call us again," I replied gloomily.

"We have got to get back to Thailand for that surgery! I am going to work all night if I have to, and get my research project done. I gotta get that next grant for the Thailand research!"

I spent the rest of the day writing up summaries of interviews for my Transsexual Sex Workers Research Project, while I helped Tran study for the GED high school equivalency exam. After her umpteenth math problem, she threw her papers on the floor and snarled, "I'm sick of this shit. Why are you ruining my life with these fucking equations? All I need to know is cock plus pussy equals fuck."

"So you can think great thoughts while you're getting fucked! It makes the sex so much more interesting."

"You're making fun of me."

I responded: "Education's good for that, too."

"Good for you, bad for me," Tran whined.

"Tran, you can't make your living on your back forever. Besides, we do need to get back to Thailand so Dr. Sanguan can finish our surgery, and the Thai's are not going to give us visas to be whores. They've got plenty of them already. We need a reason to stay, and money to travel and to live on. Our ticket to Thailand is this grant I'm applying for. And if I get it, the work's going to be great: we'll have to spend our full time in katoey bars all over Asia. If you want to be on the grant, you have to get into school here, and to do that, you have to pass the GED and the SAT. So, think of it as a means to an end. So try this equation on for size: studying plus school equals full-size pussy."

"I think I'll stay home and be Peter's wife."

"Oh please! We blew that completely by fucking them the first night. Guys like that will probably never call again."

The intercom buzzed.

"Did you order in dinner already?" I asked.

Tran shook her head.

You don't just take unexpected deliveries when you live on our part of Hennepin. In response to my brusque inquiry, the voice over the intercom announced, "Flowers for Miss Rivers."

The shivering delivery man had to lug the mass of blossoms up three flights of stairs to our squalid apartment. The bouquet filled our tiny rooms with a delicious, spicy aroma.

I found a card dangling beneath the canopy of fragrant blooms. It read:

"Thanks for joining me for breakfast. My apologies for not taking better care of you. Call me if I deserve another chance."

"Love, Alec."

I don't want to sound like a poster child for the cut flower industry, but the arrival of my first bouquet of roses completely turned me around on Alec. My feelings of estrangement and resentment bordering on contempt were swept away in a wave of involuntary emotion. Despite myself, I felt a warm glow of appreciation.

One feels one must be beautiful and desirable to have warranted being presented such delicate and costly blossoms. I was mightily tempted to immediately call Alec and forgive him his transgressions of the night and the morning.

Tran demanded "You're gonna call him, right?"

I replied, "Of course I will, but not yet. He has to have a night of uncertainty and tension: penance for his sins of last night and this morning. He'll be desperate by the time I call him tomorrow. I will reel him in like a yo-yo: but you have to throw the yo-yo down and let it spin before you bring it back up again."

"You are right, but you are so cruel."

"Life's cruel, Tran. Get back to work. I've got hours of work, and class first thing tomorrow. He can wait."

When I woke up the next morning, the heat in our apartment was off. Tran had stolen all of the covers and was splayed out over three-quarters of our lumpy, shared bed. I was freezing and miserable. I warmed myself against Tran's slumbering body, and she recoiled from the touch of my chilly bones against her warm flesh. God, it sucks to be poor.

But when I opened my eyes, the flowers were still in glorious bloom, reminding me of poor Alec's unrequited passion. Poor baby, I thought, as I drifted back to sleep, warmed by Tran's exquisite and toasty-warm flesh pressed against mine.

After experiencing the luxury of Alec's bathroom, I hated the shower in my Hennepin apartment. It rattled and spit in sporadic, rusty spasms, and alternated between icy and scalding with the flushes of my neighbors' toilets. The curtain was stiff with age, the tub gray with wear, and the tile lined with spider-web cracks and brown grout. I recalled enviously the hot, luxurious waterfall in Alec's condo. God, I thought, I've got to get out of this shithole.

It was still early, but I called. I got his machine. I purred a message. "I got the flowers. That was really sweet. But if you really want to apologize, you'll have to do it in person. Bye."

Tran is not a morning person. She began to grumble dreamily, and I jumped on top of her and roused her from her reverie.

"No, just another minute, please Alexandra."

"Up! Now!" I straddled her and shook her shoulders roughly.

She grimaced and whimpered, "Leave me alone."

"You can't sleep. We have to meet with Mark Whitman about your priest lawsuit. It's our 'Plan B' for getting enough money for our operations."

My friend Mark Whitman was, as usual, in his tiny law review editor's office at the law school. Under his strict supervision, a couple of second year students in Epstein's clinical law class had researched the Minnesota District Court system for cases of sexual abuse by clergy. Their search had tracked down Tran's old priest, Father Tom.

Mark said "His name is Thomas Roarke. He's a defendant in a case that's already pending in the Ramsey County District Court. We sent a demand letter to the Archdiocese of St. Paul and Minneapolis, but so far all they've done is hire the biggest law firm in the Twin Cities, and demand that Tran appear in Court at a hearing. I checked the Court calendar for more on the hearing. The hearing is to be on a motion to sever, or split up all the claims that have been filed against the Archdiocese for Roarke's misdeeds."

"Why do they want to do that?" I asked.

"Who knows? But based on who the Church's lawyers are, most likely it's hardball litigation tactics. It's more expensive to try each case separately, and the Church has more money than the victims. Also, each victim's story tends to corroborate that of the others. If you separate the victims' cases from one another, the story makes less sense, and Roarke's actions and the Church's lack of response don't make such an obvious pattern. Plus, they probably are hoping to intimidate Tran into dropping her claim."

"Do I have to go to the Court?" Tran asked nervously.

"If we don't agree to produce you voluntarily, they'll subpoena you. Then, you have to go."

"What did you get me into?" she asked accusingly. "I told you the priests are too powerful."

"Wait a minute. Why would the Court sever the claims?" I asked.

Mark replied, "They'll say it's lack of common issues of law or fact; prejudice to a party; or judicial efficiency. But I think it's just they think they can beat the plaintiffs down better if they take them on separately. The plaintiffs' lawyer told me she's got twenty-three cases against this creep, and the more publicity the case gets, the more victims come forward. She keeps trying to add the new victims to her case, and the Church keeps trying to split them up. Typical game of litigation chicken, to see who's got bigger 'cojones'."

Tran looked puzzled. "Balls," Mark clarified.

"So is the church going to pay me? I don't want to go to Court. I don't want anything to do with lawyers. I just want money."

"They have ten more days to respond to the letter you sent them."

"I want my money before I go to Court," Tran insisted.

"That might look bad," Mark cautioned.

"I don't care how it looks, as long as money is green. Twenty five thousand dollars; then I go to court."

"I'm sorry Tran, I can't make that call for you. It would be unethical."

"Gimme his number, I call the lawyer myself."

As we left, Tran fumed, "Your lawyer friend Mark is no good."

"He's only a law student, not a lawyer, and he's worried that if you demand money before you testify, it will look like you are a paid liar. Why are you so scared of going to court? If they won't pay, then you'll have to sue! You'll have to go to court then."

"I already went to court."

"What for?"

"I got caught hooking on Hennepin. I was eighteen. I got public indecency. My lawyer was no good, made me take plea."

"Was it in juvie or regular court?"

"Hennepin County. It was a real court. I was in county jail. It was horrible: the guards, the other prisoners." Tears streamed down her face.

"This is different. It's just to get money, not about jail."

"I don't want to go to court. Help me talk to the Church's lawyer."

I called and made for an appointment at the law firm of Maestre and Fenton.

Tran and I dressed in our most businesslike clothes and took a bus to an imposing marble tower on South Sixth. We glided up fifty floors in a mahogany paneled elevator to a mahogany paneled lobby, where the elegant hush was punctuated only by the ping of constantly arriving elevators and the constant murmur of the receptionist. The place reeked of intimidating wealth and power.

After a wait that was almost, but not quite, insulting, a smooth talking, handsome lawyer approached: Eric Olson. "I'm sorry for the delay, but we are just crazy this morning. Come right this way."

He led us down a brightly lit corridor, lined with secretarial stations on one side and bright, windowed offices on the other. Everyone was bustling about efficiently. People in cubicles were cradling phones as they clicked away on their computer keyboards. Others studied stacks of paper.

Eric looked back and noticed me goggling. "Never seen the inside of a law firm before? It's always like this: even nights and weekends. Here, step in this conference room."

We took seats in the richly appointed conference room. Eric courteously offered us coffee or sodas and then curtly placed our order to some unseen assistant. He opened a folder and casually shoved a sheaf of papers across the glossy table at Tran. He offhandedly remarked, "Before we get started, I'd like to hand you this. It's a subpoena to appear to testify and produce documents on April 10. Ramsey County District Court, Department 42, 9:00 A.M. Take a look at the papers and if you have any questions I'll be glad to answer them. Or if you'd like, you can go over them with your own counsel."

Tran said, "That's why I'm here. I don't want to go to Court. I just want to get a settlement about the things that priest Roarke did to me when I was young. I wrote a letter about it. I brought a copy."

"I know what's in your letter, it's right here in your file." He patted the manila folder. "There are some things that we want to ask you about. That's why I am so glad that you have come to visit us. Of course, it is always a pleasure to be visited by such lovely young ladies as you." He smiled like a predator.

Tran blurted, "It's what I said in the letter. My friend Alexandra helped me write it because my English writing is not too good, but it is what happened."

Olson's fawning smile hardened into a grimace at me.

Tran went on: "I don't like to talk about it, but Father Tom made me do things with him when I was nine or ten, until I was twelve. He touched me and made me touch him."

Olson nodded, and when Tran hesitated, he commanded: "Ms. New, I know this is difficult, but you're going to have to tell me the details. Your letter is very vague. "Who, what, why, where, and when."

Tran answered defiantly, "He put his penis in my mouth, and inside me." Olson arched his eyebrows skeptically.

Tran snarled, "I mean there." She pointed beneath her waist. "Twenty times, at least, I can't remember exactly: after services and confession, usually in the cloister. He told me never to tell, that God would punish me." She was choking up, on the verge of tears. "Just give me money and I won't go to court like the others. I don't need that much money and I don't have a lawyer to pay. I just want my money now. And no court." She buried her head in her hands, sobbing.

"I'm sorry Ms. New, but that's just not how things work. We have to investigate your charges. I'd like to believe you, but we can't just accept your word or anyone else's, even if you are such a beautiful young lady. These are very serious charges, that a priest forced a young girl to have sex: very serious." He thumped the table to emphasize 'young girl.' "We have to find the facts. And that's why we want you to go to court: to talk about the facts."

Tran looked up, her face streaked with tears. "I don't want to talk about such things in front of all of those people. It's bad enough that it happened. I don't want to relive it. Please, help me."

"Look Ms. New, I know twenty five thousand dollars doesn't seem like a lot of money." He waved his hand expressively, as if to suggest that twenty five thousand wouldn't have bought half of the contents of this one conference room. "But if you multiply that twenty five thousand by all of the other baseless claimants that have emerged to malign Father Tom and the Church, now that a single isolated incident of priestly misconduct has been established, it turns into 'real money.'" He pounded the table again to emphasize real money.

"And 'real damage' (thump, thump) to the reputation of Father Tom and the Church. So we can't just pay anyone who comes in off the street, or jumps on the coattails of some lawsuit, no matter how sad her story is. We need to scrutinize each story individually, because each story is so 'very different.'" His fists thumped the table again to emphasize 'very different', and his eyes narrowed as he glared at Tran with suspicion.

He turned toward me. "So while we will need Ms. New in court, and will pay her travel expense and a witness fee, at the present time, I can offer her nothing more than an opportunity to tell the truth. And perhaps you as well, Ms. Rivers, as the admitted author of this letter."

Just then, the door opened and a young kid pushed in with a beverage cart. In my imagination, I saw a clerk furiously typing a subpoena for me. It was obviously time to go. I said, "If that's all you've got to say, we won't need those beverages. We'll see you in court." I got up.

"No please, I'd just like to go over a few things with Ms. New, in regards to her, ah, testimony." Tran started to settle back into her seat, but I jerked her up and dragged her toward the door.

Olson demurred, but in a placating tone: "You don't need to leave now. I've put you down in my calendar for an hour."

I replied, "And I'm sure you'll bill your client for the whole hour. But we're done!"

I slammed the door and dragged Tran toward the elevator. She started protesting, but I hissed "Be quiet, I know what I'm doing."

She hung her head. "I can't go to court again."

I cuddled and comforted her in the freezing, filthy bus, but I knew my comfort was a lie. She was going to court. And it was going to be a bad day for her. But, I, imagined, it was going to be an even worse day for Eric Olson. I called Mark Whitmore to ask for the name of the lawyer for the other victims, and told him about our visit.

"You went where?" he asked, incredulously. "Into the lair of the lion? I imagine you came out with the subpoena, and nothing else."

"Well, partly true. I think I came out with some information. I think I know where Olson's going with the subpoena on Tran."

"You never can tell what happens in court. What did he say?"

"He was really focused on the fact that Tran was a female, and how that made her case so different. I don't think he figured out she's a trans. He thinks Tran's always been a girl, and is going to try to use her testimony to impugn the other victims' claims through the dissimilarity between her claims and theirs."

"Serves him right for not taking her deposition first. Oh, well, haste makes waste. Alexandra, remind me never to litigate against you. You're wicked."

"Poor Tran, she's going to be terrified in court."

"It's going to be rough, but after they hear her story I think Tran's testimony will be over fast. Let's call Nora Hofberg. I think she's going to have a new client at the end of the day."

Hofberg's office was a walk-up on a side street off Hennepin, above a furniture store. It was a far cry from Maestre and Fenton. The reception counter was unattended, so Mark called out "Nora, are you out to lunch?"

She lumbered into view, a stubby, bespectacled, forty-five year old, with stiff, unkempt gray hair, unstyled and cut short. She wore a baggy, pilled sweater and mismatched plaid pants.

"Whitman, good to see you. Have you sold out to the enemy yet?"

"Holding out, doing clerkship next year; Seventh Circuit."

"God help us all: you, working for a bunch of mercenary neofascist judges."

"'Revolution from the inside out,' is my motto."

"Revolution, my ass," she cracked jovially. "Who's this young woman you're bringing into our corrupt world?"

"My good friend and colleague, Alexandra Rivers, and has she got a story for you."

"In that case, welcome to my world." She cleared away stacks of paper from two chairs and beckoned us to sit down. She peered over the mounds of files and papers on her desk owlishly as I started into my tale. She laughed uproariously and clapped her chubby hands with glee as I recounted Olson's clumsy efforts to do a "back room deposition" on Tran.

"You mean, when Roarke raped her, she was a boy?"

I nodded.

"That's fabulous, incredible. He's going to step into shit up to his neck, right in court, and he won't even know it until he's picking it out of his nose!"

"I can't wait. Where is she? I have to talk to her."

"She's really terrified of going to court. She got arrested for soliciting prostitution a couple of years ago and got plea-bargained to public indecency. That's her only contact with the courts."

"Well, there's no way that's coming into evidence. Prejudice exceeds probative value." She slammed down her hand with crack like a gavel. "When can I meet Ms. New? I need to get retained, and prep her for testifying."

"We only live a few blocks away. But after this morning, I don't know if I can get her to another law office."

"Well, there's no law against lawyers making house calls."

"She doesn't want to do this, but she really needs the money. Our operations didn't go that well. I mean, they're not really done."

Nora interrupted, "You mean you're a trans too?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry, I mean, what does that matter?"

"Doesn't matter a bit to me. It's just that the lawyer should know all the relevant facts. And in this case, that fact is relevant," she said with a grimace.

I joked, "Well, I guess all of this means we're passable."

"Fooled Olson, but you can't fool everyone," she said with a snarl.

"Have you got a problem with transsexuals?"

"I don't have a problem representing transsexuals. Hell, I don't have a problem representing child molesters either. But that doesn't mean that I have to admire you."

"Pardon me, I was under the impression you were gay."

"Your being trans and my being gay doesn't exactly make us sisters: quite the opposite. Sexuality is a choice, but gender is destiny."

"I couldn't agree more. Tran and I were destined to be women."

"I don't buy it. To be gay is to be faithful to one's gender and ones sexuality, and to be trans is to betray one's gender in the pursuit of sexuality. Instead of coming out of the closet, you went back in and came out wearing your sister's clothes. You're a cop-out."

"You think being transgender is so easy? You have no idea what we go through!"

"So now you're through it, and instead of fighting the male/female hierarchy, you have morphed yourself into a Barbie doll: perfect face, body and hair. We're never going to change sexist stereotypes by impersonating them."

"I'm not impersonating anything. I have made my body conform to my brain." I looked at her squat, masculine body, and couldn't resist adding "Just as you have. But we're just different on the inside."

Nora snorted with contempt. "Well, it doesn't matter to me. And it's damn convenient for this case. Is Ms. New another boytoy like you?"

"I'll let you judge for yourself." I rang to warn Tran, "I'm coming up with our new legal team."

Nora introduced herself curtly and then announced, "O.K., if you want to work with me, sign here. I advance all the expenses and take them off the top. After that, we split one third of any judgment or settlement to me, two thirds to you: same deal as my other clients. I call all of the shots in the litigation."

Tran looked at me with bloodshot eyes. "Alexandra, you said I would not need a lawyer."

"Look, Ms. New, you're not going to get a penny out of the Church without me. So you can sign or you can forget it."

"I'd rather just forget it. Go away." She hung her head.

"So this priest raped you as a child and wrecked your life, and you are just going to walk away?"

"My life is not wrecked. I was happy until you lawyers came along. I'll just tell the other lawyer I was a boy and he'll forget about me."

"It's your choice, but we lawyers are not going to leave you alone. You are going to be in the case as a witness or as a plaintiff, but you are going to be there. If he doesn't subpoena you, I will."

Tran looked trapped and scared. She whispered, "O.K. I'll sign."

"Here is how we are going to play this." She outlined the ambush she planned for Olson. She was clever, confident and utterly ruthless. In her hands, the truth was a truly dangerous weapon.

When she left, I asked Tran "Now, don't you feel better? You have the meanest lawyer in town!"

"She doesn't care about me, only about winning. I'm worried she will ruin everything."

"Tran, it's not like things are that great. We're broke and trapped ten thousand miles and about ten thousand dollars away from being able to function sexually."

"I'm worried something bad will happen if we go against the priests."

"You're being superstitious. It's gonna be fine," I reassured Tran. But I wasn't so sure. Nora was a transphobe of a different sort, and Maestre and Fenton looked like a powerful and resourceful opponent. The battle wasn't over yet.

I returned to my endless mound of homework, and Tran to her GED studies. I had just finished my umpteenth follow-up call on Transsexual Sex Worker interviews when the phone rang.

"Let's screen it," I advised. It was Rick, who left a message ranting at us about messing up his and Randy's heads at the hockey game, and then finished up with a demand that I call.

"How to Win Friends and Influence People," I remarked sarcastically, and Tran snorted in agreement. As we rewound the tape, the phone rang again. Again, we screened the call.

It was Alec, who began tentatively, "Thanks for calling this morning. You didn't have to, but I was glad you did. I wanted to ask you ... well, I wanted to apologize in person, like you said in your message, and I was wondering when I could do that? Like, any time would be good for me, how about now?"

I grabbed the phone. "I just walked in," I lied. "Thanks for the flowers. They really made my day."

"How would you like to make my day?" he responded.

I put on an offended air. "What kind of question is that?"

"I'm sorry," Alec stammered. "I mean ... would you like to go out to dinner?"

"I don't know. When?"

"Right now, I'll be right over."

Tran nodded affirmatively, but I answered "Teri had a really hard day today. I think she needs my company."

"I know Peter's been trying to call her for the last half hour. If you say yes, I'll hang up so he can get through to her."

"Well, for a friend, OK. And don't offer to call me a cab!"

"Never again, I promise."

I dressed schoolgirl chic: tight black sweater, a long woolen black skirt, an open pea jacket, and high-heeled black boots. I accentuated my mid-winter pallor with ultra-faint mascara and pale lipstick, and brushed my hair back behind a headband. I looked like a Goth goddess. Alec stopped dead in his tracks when I opened the door for him. I loomed over him as he stood on the step below me. He had to stand on tiptoe to graze my cheek with a chaste kiss.

I knew I had him where I wanted him.

He squeezed my hand in his as he walked me to his car, and opened and closed the door behind me. God, this was new: he was treating me like a lady. We had reservations at a dark little Italian place, where Alec rated a quiet table in the back.

"Do they know you everywhere?" I asked enviously.

"Yeah especially at the places that my family owns. I always get good service here at Mona Lisa."

The sommelier uncorked a gilt-labeled bottle. He intoned, "Barolo, '88. A very fine vintage."

Alec swirled the claret, and inhaled the bouquet. "Perfect, thank you, Vittorio."

"To a new beginning for us," Alec toasted and clinked my glass.

"To new beginnings," I answered.

"You know, Alexandra, from the first moment I saw you, I have wanted to be with you."

"You certainly got my attention from the start," I answered politely.

"I have to tell you something, and I don't know how, but I just can't stop thinking about you. I mean, I haven't really stopped thinking about you since the first time we met, and since you left the other morning, I have just felt this emptiness."

"And now that I am with you, I mean, do you feel like, you know, not empty?"

"That's it: I'm un-empty. I want you to be with me always."

More like, full of it, I thought, but I said "I'm glad I make you feel that way, but Alec, I do have ambitions and desires of my own. And I'm not nineteen yet. I'm too young to really settle down."

"We can take it slowly, but I really want you to stay with me. You know, move in. I am worried about your living in that apartment."

"What about Teri? It's my apartment, but she's been staying with me? I couldn't do that to her. Besides, I need it for some interviews I'm doing for research. I don't think you want a bunch of weirdos like the ones in my study coming to your apartment."

"If I know Peter, he's making the same proposal to Teri. But I don't know if my condo association will allow visits by your weirdos."

"That's my project. It's going to be published in a journal."

"You'd better keep the apartment for that. But live with me." He looked at me quizzically. "There's so much about you I don't know."

Oh, yeah, I said inwardly. "I really care about my studies. I'm going to be published, you know."

"You're so precocious, and ambitious. But I guess that's one of the things I love about you."

Wow, I thought, is this it? Is this how girls fall in love, and end up married? I was in terra nova, totally untrained for this aspect of life as a woman. I was flattered, and a warm glow filled me from deep within, but in that part of my brain where I analyze my unfolding life, I spotted a trap. Don't go there, it seemed to be warning me.

I blushed and smiled shyly. "What else do you love about me?"

"Everything. I'm crazy about you."

I had to say something, so I said "I really like being with you too."

"Great, then you can move some stuff right in. Whatever you need doubles of, I'll buy. I mean, you can use my Visa."

"You're so sweet. Are you sure you want to put up with me?"

"No, but I'm sure I want to find out." He clinked my glass again. "To us! And to finding out about one another."

I clinked his glass and responded, "To us," but didn't join the second part of the toast.

We ate a lovely dinner and worked through the delicious Barolo, and by the end I felt warm and cuddly and he was happy and amorous. We staggered into a Rite Aid and he bought me toiletries and some pink velour sweats that fit. I was tipsy, but in control this night, as I went to bed with Alec. Now, instead of a martini-fueled mania, I was driven by a desire to imprint myself indelibly on his emotions.

He caressed my breasts, and stroked my tummy and mons gently, almost reverently. He suckled on my nipples like a hungry baby as I stroked his fine blonde hair and sighed appreciatively. Between breathless kisses, he whispered in my ear "I love you."

I responded with the obligatory "I love you, too."

With that, he clumsily tried to disrobe me and himself, alternating between fumbling attempts to undo my bra clasp, and his own belt buckle. I shifted and pulled at my clothes to subtly help him, without appearing to be too cooperative.

When I was bare to my lace panties, his fingers began a relentless exploration. I remembered the painful vaginal intercourse and the swollen condition of my insides, and I was thankful for the panty liner that I wore full-time because of the constant post-dilation discharge: it would give me the excuse I needed to avoid another painful vaginal penetration.

I whispered, "Sorry, I have my period."

"That's O.K.," he said as he slipped my panties down.

But I resisted, protesting "I don't want to do it when I am this way." In reality, the thought of him banging at the battered, swollen ring inside my vagina made my cringe with the expectation of pain.

"Let me suck you," I offered, and pushed him back on the bed. I slipped my lips over his small, but rock-hard penis. He gasped as my warm, velvety tongue and soft, wet lips encircled the silken skin of his boyish penis. When I swallowed his balls, he trembled with ecstasy. I flicked, licked, and spanked my lips, but still he could not come.

Finally, he gasped, "I need to be inside you."

"You mean you want do Greek?"

"What?"

"You know, sodomy?"

"That's not what I what I wanted, or meant," he said, as his penis deflated.

"It's OK, I'm not offended."

"You'll do that?" he asked incredulously.

"You know, some girls in high school, if they had their period, or wanted to save their virginity, you know, people just did it. It's O.K. We could do it if you want to."

Actually, I wanted it, too, for I wanted to corrupt his puritan soul. Just as I will never lose my taste for being fucked anally, so, I believe, most active participants will never forget, or willingly forbear from enjoying the delicious and forbidden intimacy of sodomy.

"I've never done it. But, I could try."

"OK, just relax while I get ready." I went to his bathroom and lubed myself, and then kneeled between his legs and sucked him hard, and slipped on a condom, and slathered it with lubricant.

"I haven't done this for a long time, and it hurts, so let me slide down on you, but remember, please go slowly."

He nodded in silent acquiescence. I pressed my slippery rectum against his slender, tapered cock head. It entered swiftly and easily, much faster than I expected. The abrupt entry overwhelmed the counter pressure that I applied onto his entering cock, and a familiar crackling of pain wracked me.

I cried out "Aaaagh, oh no," but he was so inexperienced, and his cock was so slippery and narrow that as I lost control, he slid all of the way in. My sphincter rebelled at this, and I thrashed my head involuntarily. My blond tresses fanned over him as I collapsed atop him, my breasts onto his heaving chest as my lips met his in an anguished kiss.

As I kissed him, my interior adjusted to his modest size. As my grimace of pain faded I smiled and gave him a softer kiss, and lied, "It's been so long that I guess I forgot how."

Now, I was comfortable and his throbbing cock gave me a familiar warm buzz inside me. "O.K., you can do it harder now."

Alec lacked the mass, strength or endurance that Rick got from his hockey conditioning. As he bounced me atop him I could not help but think of the delicious smack of Rick's thick, sinewy thighs against my soft, rounded flesh. Where Rick utterly dominated me from every position, Alec was struggling under the weight of my slender frame; so I said, "Now I want you on top."

I scissored my legs smoothly to the side and rolled him on top of me, doggy style.

"God, that feels great," he said. "It's so warm and smooth inside of you: so tight. Is it O.K. for you?"

I just murmured "M-m-m-m" and raised my ass higher so he could plunge deeper into me. My interior warmed and moistened with the rapid, short strokes of his cock in my colon. My interior became engorged and molten as his friction produced vernal glow within me.

As his momentum built, I felt my flesh molded like sculptor's clay in his grasp, and fantasized that he was an artist who had created me, a modern day Venus de Milo, in an ecstatic rapture of inspiration. I was his idealized vision of perfect beauty, and all the more exquisite since my beauty had been fashioned by the hands of men.

He began panting and moaning and crying out "Oh, oh, oh, I'm going to cum!" I squeezed my cheeks around his cock as it erupted, and he collapsed in exhaustion on my back, baptizing me with his sweat. His chest heaved a few breaths in silence, and then he intoned, "That was fantastic! Was it good for you?"

"It's different, but I kind of like it sometimes." God, it had only been about a week since I had Rick that way, and I had been positively craving it, but for Alec's benefit I said, "It's not something I would want to do regularly, but it's kind of exciting, in a naughty sort of way."

"It almost seemed like it was hurting you."

"It does, but then it starts to feel good. I just can't explain it. I mean, if I hadn't ever done it before, I probably wouldn't, but now that I have, it's O.K. sometimes, isn't it? I mean, you don't think I'm too weird about it, do you?"

"Well, I probably never would have tried it without you. Let's just say it's one more reason I'm so happy I found you. You are fantastic in every way. I would never have figured you for such an adventurer."

I blushed, and pouted, and protested, "Don't start putting me down again."

"Not a chance," he replied, and gave me a caress and a kiss, and said "I love you all over, inside and out." He gazed into my eyes, and I could see that he felt what he said.

I forced a look of innocence and acceptance onto my face, and whispered, "I love you, too."

We rested, and cuddled and chatted, and eventually started talking about the future. "I'm pretty well set," Alec said confidently. "I just have to pass my law classes, and that should be no trouble unless you mess up the curve in Epstein's class." He punched me playfully. "Then the bar exam, and then off to the slave mines of Maestre and Fenton."

I shuddered at the recollection of my unpleasant morning in that office. "What's that?" I inquired with feigned innocence.

"The big corporate firm where Peter and I have offers. We'll put in a couple of years at a buck twenty-five per, then I'll go in-house to the family store. After I've been general counsel for a couple of years, I'll hire Peter to replace me and move onto the board. Sounds good to you?"

"It sounds like, Master and Whatever is pretty hard work. Why don't you just go right to work for your family business?"

"You have to get the right experience, meet the right people. Maestre represents the power elite of the Twin Cities. It's a good connection for me. You'd like the people there. And they're always looking for bright kids like you, if that's what you're interested in. I could ask my mentor about a summer job for you."

"No thanks," I said emphatically. "I am still hopeful of getting this grant."

"What's that all about?"

"Well, I have been meaning to tell you. If I get it, I will be going to Thailand for the summer. And Tran is going with me."

Alec looked distraught. "Do you have to go?"

"Only if I want to eat this summer."

"But I'll get you a job: if not Maestre, then for my family."

"That's nice, but you have to understand. I'm going to be published in a peer-reviewed journal. I'll be one of the youngest people to do that, ever. It's really something special."

"Do you have to go?"

"I want to go. I mean, I have to if I want to get the grant and keep publishing."

"Oh yeah, I forgot. You're the girl Einstein. But what am I supposed to do? I'll be stuck here studying for the bar exam and working."

"I'll be back for the fall semester. I still have to graduate."

"Thailand's so far, and so dangerous. Why there?"

"That's the grant I wrote. It's that or nothing."

"Oh well, I guess I'll be busy anyhow. But I'll miss you. And now, I'll be counting every day until you leave."

"That's sweet."

"And every night." He kissed me again, and we drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, Alec made me feel as desirable as he had made me feel cheap after our first night. He took my breakfast order and made me just what I wanted: oatmeal, yogurt and fruit. I used the make up and cleansers he had bought for me, and dressed in the chic warm-up clothes that he had bought.

Of course, he insisted on giving me a ride home, and walked me to the door. Eyeing my tawdry neighborhood critically, he said, "I think we should try to find you a new apartment. My family owns hundreds of them. In fact, I think they own this one, but it's the worst!"

We kissed tenderly, and I bounded up the stairs. My heart felt as light as my feet.

But my mood sank as soon as I opened the door, for there was Rick, eating a piece of toast as he stood over my kitchen sink. "Security system here stinks," he mumbled though a mouthful of crumbs.

"What are you doing here?" I asked in an outraged tone.

"Waiting for you, of course." I marched to the door, but he bounded there a step ahead of me and pressed me against it. "Stop that, you're hurting me," I cried.

"You don't think you're hurting me?" he replied.

"You dumped me, you bastard," I hissed.

"You didn't have to jump right into that law school wimp's bed, did you?"

"As if you didn't jump into someone else's bed? Oh, please!"

"O.K., then." He threw himself to his knees at my feet. "Please. Give me another chance. I just can't stand to lose you."

"That's not the same as wanting me, much less loving me. Alec loves me."

He rose to his feet, clutching me tight in his thick, firm arms, and pressing my breasts against his bulging pectorals. "C'mon, I know you miss me. I could tell from that look you shot me at the game. I can tell from the look in your eyes now."

I closed my eyes to hide my feelings, but the mist that had formed on them squeezed into a tear that dripped to my cheek, which Rick kissed away.

"See, I'm right," he cooed. "Mr. Law School may love you, but you don't love him." I couldn't deny it.

"You hurt me so much," I admitted, bursting into sobs. "I just can't stand it anymore. I mean, what Tran and I did in that movie, we had to do. I couldn't stand staying as I was, and you weren't going to write a check for my surgery."

"But how am I supposed to feel, seeing you with that scumbucket on top of you."

"How do you think I felt? You know, that bastard had really raped me in real life, last year, and then I had to make the movie with him."

"I'll kill him!"

"Don't bother, he's not worth it. But you have to see how it was for me. And to have you dump me over it? It's just too much!"

"So I made a mistake. You've made mistakes too!"

Oh, was he right about that! And I was about to make another one.

"So what are we going to do about it? You were so public about dropping me. I'm sure the whole team knows you dumped me. Everyone knows."

"So we can't tell anyone," he said, as he carried me, unresisting, toward the bed. The secrecy and illicitness of our encounter intensified my desire: I had to let him have me. I melted into his embrace, and as his lips crushed mine, the feelings of loss and abandonment that I had endured in the past week were expelled like a breath of stale air. When I could at last breathe again I felt like a drowning victim seizing her first breath of air.

When he broke off from that first kiss, through swollen lips I murmured, "God, I missed you so much."

Rick buried his head in my already disheveled hair and whispered hoarsely "I need you, now."

"Then take me, now."

He swiftly disrobed me of the clothes that Alec had so recently given me. As they tumbled in a pile on the floor I felt a twinge of remorse. But not enough to hesitate.

Alec's tentative lovemaking had left me craving Rick's overpowering strength and boundless energy, and his tiny cock had merely stimulated my desire for Rick's daunting member. But it had to be in my ass, and so I was compelled to make a further confession.

"Rick, I never told you, and I realize it was wrong, but I have to tell you now: My vagina's still too small for you. We've been doing it the old way, and we have to keep doing it the old way." He looked puzzled.

"You mean all those times, I've been in your ass?"

"I'm sorry ... It's so hard ... so embarrassing ... I just hate myself." I was blinded by my own tears.

"No, it's O.K. I'm the one who should be sorry. I should have been more careful with you."

"You're great with me. And I want you now more than ever."

He kissed me again, more gently, as my sobbing subsided. When I had recovered, I slid my head down his taut chest and took his stiff cock in my mouth. His musky flavors awakened my passions. After a few gentle bobs to lubricate him, my mouth reveled in an appetizer of luscious precum.

Then I began blowing him with all of my pent-up energy and desire, banging his thick cock-head past my tonsils and into the warm wet reaches beyond. The soft mucosa writhed and spasmed as I suppressed my gag reflex.

These exertions returned tears to my eyes, but these were the tears of ecstasy and passion. My ass began to buzz with anticipation of his manly penetration, as though Alec's ineffectual efforts had been a mere hors d'oeuvre.

I quickly sheathed him with a condom and lube, and threw my legs over his bulging shoulders.

He pressed against me, and said "I remember, I'll start slowly."

I smiled and nodded, and gazed into his eyes as he pressed forward. I was still tingly and tender from Alec's penetration, so I buzzed with sensation from the first moments. Rick cupped my breasts tenderly as he inched forward, and the sensations merged somewhere near my heart to melt me from within. His steady penetration of my body's core lit a slow flame within me which he fanned from outside by caressing my skin. He built the heat within me; I felt myself boiling with passion and sensation. I wanted more.

"Please, fuck me harder, more." He nodded confidently, and began slashing in and out like a power tool on 'High'. The heat from within me went from red, to yellow, to white, to blue hot, like a star cycling from a cloud of hot dust, to a fireball twirling in a cosmic dance around an even hotter twin star. The familiar objects of my room spun around me like planets in this galaxy of heat, energy, and pleasure.

From within I heard my own voice trilling in ever rising arpeggios of ecstasy, accompanied by the timpani of his hard flesh crashing against mine in a slapping, jolting bass rhythm. As he reached a pinnacle, he slowed, and pulled back, and we both smiled, for we knew that delayed release only heightened the ultimate pleasure.

As he slowed, my internal organs struggled to find their natural order, and squeezed against my swollen colon. I groaned with pleasure at this pressure from within.

"Are you O.K.?"

"No, a lot better than O.K.." I smiled. "Put your finger in me. See how tiny I am?"

He slipped his thick finger in my vagina, and then slid in another. "I could probably fit if I was careful." He gently pressed his fingers onward, and as the poked my inner ring I winced.

"Careful. That's the problem. Aaahh," I cried as he tried to enter further. "No, no more."

"Oh, sorry. Is that like, your cherry?"

"I wish. It's a scar from the surgery. That's why I can't have regular sex."

"Oh, no! You mean never?"

"Not until I get it fixed. I have to go back to my doctor in Thailand."

"You poor thing. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't know. It's like, embarrassing to talk about."

"It's O.K. We still have this."

"Hm-hm. Do it hard, again."

"O.K., but roll over on your stomach."

I pointed my toe and swung my leg over his head, and felt his massive cock turn inside me like a giant key in its lock.

With one hand grappling my breasts and the other fingering my pussy, Rick increased the power and speed of his thrusting thighs, crushing the breath from my lungs in a gasp with each lunge. His heaving breath warmed and tickled my ear, and like white noise, dampened the cacophony of the slap of his flesh against mine, and the squeaking and rattling of my wobbly bed.

At last, he came, with ten jackhammer-like blows that knocked the breath from me, and sent my bed crashing from its legs with a jolt and a thud to the floor. From the apartment below, an angry voice called out "Knock it off up there!" Rick and I both began giggling hysterically, his still hard cock wiggling in my ass.

Finally, I composed myself enough to say, "I can't believe you broke my bed. How am I supposed to explain this to you-know-who. He's like, the landlord, you know."

We burst into laughter.

"Tell him that you and Tran were having a pillow fight."

That imagery started our laughter anew. As we convulsed in still more giggles his cock slipped out from within me.

"That was terrible," I joked.

"I'll try harder next time," Rick replied.

"I'd better have the landlord reinforce the building first."

"What the hell, let's just demolish it. The place is a dump, anyhow."

"I need to pee, and inspect the damage," I said, climbing over him.

As I passed above him, he grabbed my buttock and said "Looks just as good as new."

I showered myself squeaky clean, and freshened my makeup. I wanted to look perfect for a beautiful and romantic good-bye. But when I emerged from the bathroom, he was dressed and halfway to the door.

"Not even a kiss good-bye? That's really back to business-as-usual."

"Oh, sorry. I was going to wait. I just noticed the time. I'm late for a team meeting."

"I'm so glad you could squeeze me into your busy schedule," I said sarcastically. "That magic moment sure disappeared swiftly."

"I'm sorry, but you know, I'm not really into the relationship stuff. I really like you, and the sex is dynamite, but it's hard for me to do the romantic thing."

"Well, it's kind of hard for me to do the sex without the romance; at least a little," I replied.

He took me in his arms and kissed me. The smells and tastes of fresh sex were still on him, and my fresh scrubbed and brushed body only accentuated the contrast. As the kiss lingered, his hands began exploring me again, and I felt his penis hardening and pressing through his jeans and the fabric of my robe.

I broke off the kiss and said "Save it for later, you have a team meeting, remember?"

"Thanks for reminding me," he said. "Is that a better good-bye?"

"Perfect," I replied.

"I'll see you tomorrow at tutoring."

Of course, we would see one another, but he would have on his tough guy airs and would treat me like a past, and discarded conquest, at least until our next furtive tryst. He could not publicly reconcile with a girl he had rejected as damaged goods. And I did not want to place my faith in Rick's fickle passion, and endanger the predictability and safety of Alec.

On the other hand, I adored Rick's sexual athleticism, and feared the day that Alec would discover, confront and reject me over my past. So for a time I lead a double life, sleeping with both of them, enjoying the sexual fulfillment, but feeling guilty and duplicitous toward the faithful Alec. I had two lovers: one who didn't really know me, whom I did not love, but who loved me; and another, who knew me all too well, and whom I loved, but of whose love I was uncertain.

Tran had followed my example and had resumed a furtive liaison with Randy. One day she mused, "I feel so guilty, I think I am going to fuck somebody else."

"Why would you do that, and add even more complexity?"

"Because then I would be just sleeping around and not cheating on anybody."

"Tran, you're a genius. But when are you going to find the time, or the energy?"

"That's the problem. I can't."

Hopping between two beds, and living the rest of our lives, made us both ridiculously busy. I coached Tran through prep for the high school GED and the SAT, and sanitized her resume for her applications to the Universities of Minnesota and Chang Mai. I finalized the findings of my transgendered sex worker study, Finch signed off on it and we submitted it for publication. At the same time, we submitted my grant application for the Thai sex worker research.

Meanwhile, Doe vs. the Archdiocese of St. Paul and Minneapolis lurched through the court system, bringing ever nearer Tran's date with her subpoena from the Church's lawyers - and I hadn't had the heart to tell Tran that the Church's law firm was Alec and Peter's future employer.

When I told Nora that we were going out with future Maestre associates, she bristled with fury. "Typical delusional TS behavior. You adopt the appearance and sex roles required by a society that nevertheless rejects you. For God's sake, you are sleeping with the enemy. No wonder no one likes TS's! You defraud the straight world, at the same time as you betray gay society. I say, pick a side, and stick with it!"

I tried to excuse myself. "We didn't know they were going to work at Maestre. It's just bad luck."

"You didn't know you were going to bed with a rich, right wing bastard? Oh, C'mon!"

She was right, of course. I wanted nothing more than for Tran and me to pass stealthily into the straight world and live as full-fledged women. But to Nora, I replied, "Just because we don't want to fight every fight that you do, that doesn't mean that we can't fight together when we are on the same side."

"You know what? I am never going to trust anyone who sleeps with the enemy. You just want to hide what you are under that make up, and those implants, and that artificial vagina. I don't trust people who need to wear masks."

"It's not a mask, it's who we are."

"Then you are a couple of nut cases that belong in an asylum. But I don't really think so. I think you are just a couple of queers who couldn't face the facts, and have figured out how to fool yourselves into thinking that you can blend in. Well, I got news for you. You can't."

"Then why are you willing to help Tran?"

"She's going to help me put the screws to that idiot Olson. So bring Ms. New in, and we'll go over her testimony one last time."

Tran met for a last time with Nora, and nodded in agreement as Nora bullied the words she wanted out of Tran's hesitant mouth, and warned her against feeling comfortable or friendly toward Olson.

"He's going to try to trick you into saying what he wants you to say. Just keep it simple. Don't volunteer anything. Make him work for everything, especially that you were a boy when Father Tom started to abuse you. Give me a chance to object before you answer anything. If you don't know what to say, then say that you don't understand the question. If you want me to ask for a recess, then, I dunno, drum your fingers on the witness stand. Got it?"

"I think so. But I am nervous. There is so much to remember."

"Do you know any yoga?"

Tran shook her head. "OK, well just try this. Take a deep breath after every question, and before you answer."

"OK, I'll try."

"You're going to be fine. I'll take good care of you."

Tran emerged from her last session with Nora downcast and apprehensive. "I don't think Nora likes me. She thinks I'm stupid."

"It's not that," I said. "She's just naturally impatient, and she doesn't like transsexuals."

"She is so gross, she looks like a fat old man. I guess I just don't like lesbians." Then she smiled sexily, winked and said, "Except transsexual lesbians," and we kissed.

We spent the night seeking comfort in one another's arms. After we awoke from our nightmares we dressed in the chic silk blouses and blue suits, which we had just bought with Alec's Visa, and went to the Ramsey County Courthouse. Grimly, I mused at how proud Alec would be of our conservative attire, and how shocked he would be at the strange coincidence that had placed us at odds with his future bosses.

The Court was packed with lawyers, clergy, press and witnesses. Olson glared at me and smiled at Tran, as he rose to the podium. Maestre's legal arguments emphasized the differences between the case of Ms. New and those of the other plaintiffs in Doe v. Archdiocese, and argued that each plaintiff had been affected, if at all, at different times and in different ways.

Nora rubbed her stubby fingers in glee at Maestre's incompetent arrogance, as Olson ventured deeper into the unknown terrain of Tran's life. The central argument of Maestre's defense was that plaintiff Teri New, as a female alleged victim, undermined the allegedly common features of the case, as all of the other alleged victims had been male. That, according to Maestre, was only the most obvious difference. The alleged incidents had occurred over several decades, against alleged victims ranging in age from five to seventeen, and had involved everything from fondling, to seduction, to outright forcible rape. The alleged sexual crimes lacked enough facts in common to justify trying the cases jointly. If the Court lumped the complaints of all the plaintiffs together, it would confuse the jury and complicate the case. It would unfairly cast the Church in a prejudicial light as a perpetrator of a mass crime, rather than a victim in its own right of alleged, and certainly isolated incidents of bad behavior by one of its priests. Every plaintiff's case should be considered separately: each by its own jury. As Olson spoke, the battalion of Maestre lawyers nodded in unison, and Nora suppressed a grin.

After Olson concluded, Nora rose and said, "Since learned counsel for the Archdiocese has made so much of Ms. New's putative differences from the rest of my clients, I'd like to suggest we proceed directly to her testimony. I'll reserve my argument for closing. Counsel, I believe Ms. New is your witness."

Olson looked surprised and rose to the podium. He stood shuffling his papers.

Tran walked uncertainly towards the witness box. She looked lost and nervous. As the bailiff escorted her the last few steps, she looked back at me with the face of a condemned prisoner going to the gallows. She nodded silently after the oath, answering softly only when ordered to speak.

"Ms. New, you and I have spoken before, have we not?"

"Yes, once."

"And you have written to the Archdiocese?"

"Yes, my friend Alexandra helped me with a letter about Father Tom."

"What did you say about Father Tom in that letter?"

She turned to the judge. "Do I have to talk about this with all of these people?"

"Yes. You are obliged to tell the truth, as you were sworn," the judge said sternly.

She whispered, "He made me have sex. After confession!"

"How many times?"

"I don't remember all of the times. Many times."

"And how did he make you have sex?"

"In my mouth, and inside me."

"And this was when you were a young girl, nine to twelve years old?"

Tran looked frightened, but answered as Nora had drilled her. "No."

Olson looked irritated and contemptuous. "Well, how old were you when you say these things happened?"

Tran answered, "Nine years old, until I was twelve."

Olson addressed the Court, "Permission to treat the witness as hostile?"

"Very well, counsel, but let's move this questioning along."

"Well, how do you answer my question. Do you claim that Father Tom first had sexual intercourse with you when you were nine year old girl?"

"I was nine, but ...."

"But what?" Olson interrupted.

"I wasn't a girl then."

"What were you?"

"I still had a boy's body. I mean, I was always a girl, but I looked like I was a boy."

"Your honor, I'd like a recess. This is the worst sandbagging I have ever encountered."

"Ms. New is your witness, counsel. If you were prepared, you might have known this before now, and avoided this waste of time." Olson's face reddened with rage and embarrassment, as Nora stifled a chuckle. "OK, half-hour recess. But you are going to finish with this witness today. Return in one half-hour, Ms. New. Until then we are adjourned."

In the witness room, Nora clapped her hands with glee. "Perfect, I love it. Now, let's see how Olson blunders next. Ha-ha."

Tran was ashen-faced and silent. Her eyes were moist and frightened. "I can't go back there. It's so shameful, talking about those times in front of all of those people."

"Tran, we are what we are. Those people are going to either despise us or accept us on the basis of what's happening in their own heads, not on anything you do or say." I tried to finish on an upbeat note: "Nora says you're doing great."

When we returned from recess, Olson resumed his questioning in his ingratiating, unctuous mode. He asked Tran, "How did you come to see Father Tom?"

"In confession, I told him I wanted to live as a girl. Father Tom told me that he would help me do that. To help me learn to be a girl I should lie down with him."

"And then you had sex with him like a girl?"

"He told me what to do, and I did it."

"When you first spoke with him on this subject, did you consider yourself to be a boy or a girl?"

"Girl."

"And now?"

"Girl. Now, maybe a woman."

"So before, during, and after that time, you have considered yourself to be a female?"

"Yes."

"Just as you asked of Father Tom?"

"Yes."

"So you don't contend that anything that Father Tom did cause you to become the woman you are today?"

"No. I was always this way inside, and now the outside matches the inside." Tran had become confident, almost cheery in the interchange.

"Assuming that Father Tom ever did what you claim he did, in what way do you claim that it harmed you?"

"I don't know."

"So you can't pinpoint any way in which the alleged actions of Father Tom damaged you."

Nora rose angrily, hissing "Objection, calls for a legal conclusion," but it was too late.

Tran, in a near trance, had already answered, "No."

"I have no further questions at this time," Olson simpered obsequiously.

Tran rose, but Nora interjected, "I have just a few questions for you. Ms. New, who was the first person with whom you had sex?"

"Father Tom."

"Over what period of time did Father Tom and you have sex?"

"About two years."

And during this period you were living at home with your parents, as a boy?"

"Yes."

"What occurred that caused you to stop having sex with Father Tom?"

"He stopped asking me."

"At what age?"

"About twelve or thirteen."

"And at that point, were you beginning to have puberty?"

"Yes."

"And how did you feel about the sex stopping?"

"I felt bad."

"Why?"

"Because I hadn't become a girl. I was turning into a man. That's why Father Tom didn't like me any more. That's when I knew Father Tom had lied about helping me become a girl."

"Did you run away from your family home and live on the streets starting at age thirteen?"

"Yes."

"Why did you leave home?"

"My father made me leave, because of what had happened with Father Tom. He said I had shamed my family."

"And during the period of time that you were having sex with Father Tom, did you have sex with anyone else?"

"No."

"Since that time, have you had sex with other men?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

Tran looked like a deer in the headlights. "I don't know."

"Estimate for me."

Her head hung down and her speech was barely audible: "I can't."

"More than a hundred?"

Tran nodded.

"More than a thousand?"

Tran was silent.

"I didn't hear you." Tran nodded through closed, tearful eyes, as Nora continued

"Did you have sex with men for money?"

Tran was mute and her head hung, motionless.

"Isn't it true that you were charged with prostitution and pleaded guilty to public indecency?"

Tran nodded weakly; then she hung her head in shame.

"You have to answer out loud, Ms. New."

Tran answered with a barely audible "Yes."

The judge interjected, "I think Ms. New has testified enough today."

"That's O.K. Your Honor, I have no further questions," Nora replied gleefully.

"O.K. Ms. New, thank you for your testimony. You may step down."

Olson rose, saying "One minute, Your Honor!"

But the judge said to him harshly, "If you have any more questions of your witness, you may ask them tomorrow, but I would strongly advise against it."

The judge motioned to the bailiff, who guided the beleaguered Tran back to her seat. When she squeezed my hand, I noticed it was shaking and wet with her tears.

The judge declared, "We'll conclude these proceedings tomorrow, but I want to advise you counsel of my strong tentative inclination to try all these matters together, as Ms. Hofberg has suggested. These matters have more in common than the Church's counsel had suggested." Olson protested, but the Judge silenced him with an impatient wave of his hand.

"As for tomorrow, Mr. Olson: If you should wish to continue to oppose plaintiffs' motion to join matters for trial, I would suggest you enter into evidence facts that support the dissimilarity of the cases rather than such striking similarities." He banged his gavel to signal the end of the proceedings.

Nora gathered her papers, grinning victoriously. "That was great," she whispered, "What a great set up. I fucked that twit Olson twice in one afternoon." She chuckled with self-satisfaction.

I was horrified, and asked, "How could you humiliate Tran so? You promised that you would object to the evidence about the prostitution."

"I would have, if Olson had been smart enough to figure it out and ask her. But instead he gambled by arguing that Tran hadn't been damaged, and she fucked up and gave him what he wanted."

I protested, but Nora cut me off and snarled "I get to call all of the tactical shots in this case, and I didn't say I wouldn't introduce the details of her sordid life myself. She had stipulated away her damages. I had to rehabilitate her."

"Some rehabilitation! You damaged her even more. Look at her!"

"Look, in case you haven't figured it out, I don't really care about Tran's or your feelings. You and Tran are so proud of your feminine mystique; well then, learn to live with the whole truth about it. It's not my problem. I don't really give a rat's ass about her feelings. I only care about winning, and I just won this skirmish big time."

Tran sat alone, her head in her hands. Her chest heaved with labored breaths.

I sat next to her and said as gently as I could, "Tran, it's time to leave now. It's over."

"Just leave me here. They can take me away to jail. I want to die!"

Nora said confidently, "They're not going to take you away. Most likely, they'll take Father Tom away, after I'm through with him. Ha!"

I shot back, "Look what you've done to her! How can you live with yourself, doing that to your own client? No wonder everybody hates lawyers!"

"I know what's best, and I do it. And I do it very well. Now let's go."

I guided Tran through the echoing courthouse corridors. Our heels clattered on the terrazzo floors like the rattle of a tumbrel rolling to the guillotine. The ravening horde of the Fifth Estate awaited us outside the Courthouse. A knot of reporters and photographers had gathered at the top of the steps, shouting questions and flashing strobe lights.

Nora stopped to savor her moment of glory, but Tran shielded her face from them as we hurried by. We thought we had gotten away when we caught the bus home. But when we got there, the phone was ringing.

I picked up.

Alec's voice sounded angry and confused. "Why didn't she tell us?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Haven't you seen the seven o'clock news?"

"We just got home."

"Teri and you are all over the news. And it's really bad news. We already talked to Olson about what happened in court. Teri really blew it, saying all of that stuff about her sicko childhood."

"You know Olson?"

"He's our mentor at Maestre. God! How could she keep a secret like that? Peter is like, suicidal!"

"You never asked us."

"What do you mean, us? You, too?"

"Yup. Me, too."

"The sex change operation, the prostitution?"

"Yeah, and don't forget the porno movie."

"Oh, God. This is terrible! I can't talk about it now."

"That's O.K. We never have to talk about it, as far as I'm concerned." I hung up. I didn't expect to hear from Alec again, and didn't really care.

For the next few weeks, the phone was strangely silent. In a way, it was a relief for me. My tumultuous first year at the University of Minnesota was winding down, and I welcomed the relative quiet.

I aced my exams and finished my articles. Though Alec and Peter had totally disappeared from our lives, Rick and Randy hadn't. Our temporary celebrity only intensified their lust.

Tran gradually recovered, but her brush with the legal powers-that-be left her intimidated and embittered.

My exposure to the art of trial advocacy made me certain that I would never pursue a career in law - the career of a successful trial lawyer leaves too many run-over corpses in its trail. The Church and the Law are both harsh and unforgiving to their supplicants, and in both a prayer can be answered with a blow, as Tran's had.

Now that I felt a career in law was not for me, I awaited the approval of my grant with greater anticipation. Finch had assured me it was a sure thing. But when I called, I sensed disappointment in his voice.

"Well, you got it, but it's not exactly what we wrote up. The foundation thinks you should use local people as your research assistants. There's no grant money to support Tran."

"Well, there's no way I'm leaving her. She just got her admissions to Chang Mai and Minnesota. She's worked so hard, and she's really had a bad time."

"Well, that's fine, but there's really no more money. It's only $5,000." It was barely enough for one plane ticket, tuition and living expenses. "O.K. Thanks, I'll think of something."

Tran looked devastated. "There's no money for me to go to Thailand?"

"The grant is short of the money, but you're still coming. I'm not going to let you dump me at this late date, Ms. Teri New. We've been through far too much for that."

"No, it's O.K. It's your grant, you go. I'll be fine here. I'll start running my ad again, taking calls."

"You can take all the sex calls you want after we get our vaginas properly finished. Then we can do some proper whoring together! In the meantime, have you still got Pavel's phone number?"

"Yeah, why?"

"'Cuz we're making a sequel: Post-op Transsexual Hookers!"

Tran smiled at me, and I gave her a hug. "Don't worry about a thing. As long as we stick together, nothing can stop us."

---

to be continued...

The author gives thanks and appreciation to riottgrrl for her invaluable editorial contribution.

Taken from the archives of fictionmania.com and lightly edited by Erin Halfelven for display on BigCloset with the author's permission.

Alexandra and Tran discover a kindred spirit and friend, real world pornstar Allenina, and the answer to the question, can porn be art?

Chapter 13
Does Life Imitate Art?

The Greatest Lie

Chapter13

by Alexandra Rivers © [email protected]

Does Life Imitate Art?

I love technology, in spite of the stereotype about girls. Although I was a guy, at least outwardly, until a year ago, I think I was always inwardly a girl. According to the stereotype, we girls are supposed to be indifferent to anything more technical than the designer covers of our cell phones. Still, I just can't help myself: I enjoy mastering new technology.

Even though I look like a girl now, there are still bits of that geeky little boy I once was in my personality, bits that will never go away, like my love for gadgets.

This doesn't really bother me. I think many people, maybe most people, transgendered or not, have splashes of the other gender dribbled onto the canvas of the gender they present to the world. And, dear readers, whether trans, CD or not, this generalization includes most of you. Otherwise, why would you be reading my story?

I feel sure that if people could get comfortable with their gender duality, then they wouldn't react so violently when an encounter with a transgender reminds them uncomfortably of their own duality. Perhaps then we would not be mourning the murders of Brandon Teena or Gwen Araujo, and perhaps people like Alec and my father would not have rejected me with such cruelty.

I am so glad that I live in this age of the Internet and high technology, which has made it possible for me to learn about myself, and to realize my dreams for myself. The new communications technology has brought so many of our community out into the open and together.

I was certainly also glad for another bit of high technology when I tried to call my former porno director: Pavel's office phone forwarded my call to his cellular phone. After an annoying delay, he answered in a voice that sounded as distorted as it sounded faraway.

"You're where?" I shouted into the digital cacophony.

"Sao Paulo," came the choppy answer.

"I can guess what you are up to," I replied.

"How are you so knowledgeable? I thought you were a newbie when we made 'Transsexual Hookers.'"

"Don't worry, I was only a tourist. I visited Brazil with my parents. When are you coming back?"

"Dunno, maybe never. This is freaking transgender paradise. The 'travestis' look like angels, and the boy talent is great too. The filmmaking stinks, but it's a lot better now that I'm here."

"So what about Tran's and my sequel? We're ready."

"Christie's is dying to make another. Your video was their biggest hit ever, and I keep getting e-mail about you. Get in touch with my friend Allenina Wong. She's a T, porn actress and director: young, smart, talented and beautiful. I don't have her phone but you can e-mail her through her Website, http://www.allenina.com. I'll send her an e-mail telling her you'll be getting in touch."

"But Tran and I were, you know, comfortable with you and Yuri."

"You'll love Allenina, and her work is terrific. Rent her self-directed starring vehicle, 'The Asian She-Male Gang Bang.' It's an early work, and she looks a lot prettier now, but you'll see what I mean. Allenina's style is hot--it's you."

I never got to see the video, but I found a synopsis on the Internet. Obviously, Allenina was as imaginative as she was endowed with sexual stamina. I felt the stirring of a creative but competitive impulse.

I had e-mailed her some scripts I had written based on some of the kinkier stories I had heard in my transsexual sex worker interviews. I wasn't really excited by any of the stories I had written. They seemed mechanical and depressing. If you start writing from the perspective of social anthropology, even depraved sex gets boring pretty quickly.

Though I was a little bit hurt when Allenina didn't respond to the e-mail from my .edu address, I wasn't really surprised. She probably thought I was just another trannie chaser or wannabee trannie like the ones who populate her Yahoo! Group, http://groups.yahoo.com/group/allenina/. Besides, even I don't answer all my e-mail from unknown sources. I understood that porn stars get stalked by sickos and have to be extra cautious about disclosing personal information to people they only know from the Internet.

On the other hand, I felt pressed for time. Important dates were drawing near: a vital follow-up operation to my sex change, and the start of the summer session at Chiang Mai University, where I would continue my research on the behaviors of transsexual Thai sex workers.

I managed to finally get through to Allenina because my research mentor, Professor Finch, had given me an AOL account to use in Thailand, and Allenina's Website listed an AOL address. While I was getting familiar with my new account, I came across the 'Locate Member Online', button, clicked it, and found her instantly.

Before I had my AOL account, I had not been the type to waste my days on Instant Messaging. In hindsight, it really is an amazing and seductive technology: one can have the equivalent of a whispered conversation with a stranger sitting at a keyboard across the world. Although I didn't have much experience with the medium when I typed my first message to Allenina, I learned the lingo quickly as I went along.

Virtual_xx: you never answered my email

AlleninaW: who the f**k r u?

Virtual_xx: Pavel Rutkov's Tgirl friend.

AlleninaW: Porno Pavel? Does he o u money 2?

Virtual_xx: No. u o me email.

AlleninaW: o yeah, u r the Minnesota Tgirl. Pavel told me to look for u.

Virtual_xx: I want to make another movie. I sent u some ideas.

AlleninaW: Boring! documentary.

Virtual_xx: don't my stories have a verite feel?

AlleninaW: cinema verite, literati verite, blah blah.

Virtual_xx: What's the problem?

AlleninaW: it's got slew amount of dossier. Has to be simple, cheesy, 2 b porno

Virtual_xx: 2 much plot?

AlleninaW: 2 much explanation. u must keep doing what feels instinctive.

Virtual_xx: do I need to make it edgier?

AlleninaW: i love edgy thingy

Virtual_xx: like?

AlleninaW: put in a gang bang. I direct a great gang bang.

Virtual_xx: u 4get, I m the *

AlleninaW: that's the point, more gangbang, more talents, bigger budget, more money

Virtual_xx: o it's not for art?

AlleninaW: ha ha. Fucking for art's sake. But I'm not doing any more porns this year.

Virtual_xx: But I really need u 2.

AlleninaW: Allenina should be a new wave filmmaker, cover both porn and other interest, although she made her name first in porn.

Virtual_xx: please direct me.

AlleninaW: she will take bring porn out and meet the mainstream

Virtual_xx: OK I will make my scripts more mainstream.

AlleninaW: but cheesy 2.

Virtual_xx: OK, I will rewrite my scripts.

AlleninaW: Later.

Allenina had disappeared into the digital forest, leaving me alone and baffled.

Was I to put part of myself and Tran into the scripts that I was writing as vehicles for our sexual exhibition? That had been the model of my script in 'Transsexual Hookers,' where I had leveraged the unwelcome appearance of my high school ravager, Miguel, into the hook for an emotionally compelling story and performance. But writing about my family, my friends, or even my transsexual sex worker subjects would only turn out badly. Either the story could be realistic, but too banal to bear watching, or, if I exaggerated the action to the extremes of violence and cruelty needed to be pornographic, the story would be so inhumane that I could not bring myself to write, or act in it .

I stared into my computer screen, torn between the need to personalize my expression and to distance myself from it. I was almost relieved when the time I had allotted ran out and I returned to my studies: a comparison of Spenser's 'The Faerie Queen' to Chaucer's 'Canterbury Tales'.

I was mulling over the point that one had to be familiar with the concept of the seven deadly sins to really understand both 'The Parson's Tale' and 'The Faerie Queen', when a flash of inspiration hit me. My screenplay would frame a transsexual's achievement of perfect femininity in terms of a series of encounters with personifications of each of the seven deadly sins.

I typed up an outline quickly, inspired equally by Spenser's text and the Dudley Moore/Peter Cook classic, 'Bedazzled'. Then I shot it all over in an e-mail to Allenina.

Feeling flushed with that first success, I knocked out another script, based on a transsexual's fifth anniversary high school reunion, and sent that to Allenina, too. Later that night, I logged on to AOL and IM'ed Allenina

Virtual_xx: Hi.

AlleninaW: Hey.

Virtual_xx: Did u read my story?

AlleninaW: Your story works swimmingly.

Virtual_xx: Thx. u like it?

AlleninaW: It's straightly a fantasy of yours and not mine. However, I see the beauty of your brainiac craft. I like the little toss of dichotomy.

Virtual_xx: I like a little ying in my yang.

AlleninaW: Or a little Yang in your Ying. LOL

Virtual_xx: What do u mean?

AlleninaW: Laugh out loud.

Virtual_xx: I didn't. u hurt my feelings.

AlleninaW: U R 2 sensitive. Not ready 2 b in my pornos.

Virtual_xx: OK, I can take it. Anywhere, anytime. u like the bedazzled thing?

AlleninaW: written like a literary Pygmalion. It's a beautiful story. yes u r a literati Pygmalion

Virtual_xx: how do you like the class reunion porno scenario?

AlleninaW: it's very porn, so it's very cheesy. U have penned it deftly.

Virtual_xx: u mean keyboarded.

AlleninaW: of course. I will put in shots, rent location, hire talents and crew. U write more dialogs. I will email you with dates. About two weeks. I can get you and your friend fee of at least $4,000 4 this script. OK?

Virtual_xx: u had 2 remind me. I'll be my own whore on screen. can porn be art, or is it commerce?

AlleninaW: if done right, it can be anything u want it to be.

Virtual_xx: like Romeo and Juliet, porn in its time, also now kiddie porn.

AlleninaW: we've always lusted after kiddie porn babe, the erotic Eros, scantily clad, baby face and body, god, if it wasn't classical, people will have sued already

Virtual_xx: that's why they call it greek

AlleninaW: yup.

Virtual_xx: so u agree it's a 1st amendment thing, the right to sexual self expression.

AlleninaW: I don't believe in censorship. whatever can be imagined, should be depicted, my artistic opinion

Virtual_xx: if sex for pay is illegal, how can you legally pay people to have sex on camera

AlleninaW: performers get paid for performing not for sex intercourse, for modeling, not for sex intercourse

Virtual_xx: same for escorting?

AlleninaW: it's legal to escort, i get paid for my time not my service.

Virtual_xx: I have a law professor u should meet.

AlleninaW: law is dull Gotta go now. Later.

Of course she was right--Allenina agreed with the great Professor Epstein, my legal mentor, and he had never been wrong. And I accepted their reasoning:, too: I intended to make my body and soul into a work of pornographic performance art. I would sacrifice my body to the world of heartless male domination and emerge triumphant, a perfect woman, idolized by all as an embodiment of sexual perfection. It was my right and my duty to my transsexual sisters who came before me and who would follow in increasing multitudes after me. Tran and I would become role models by using the system to rise above its own oppression, I thought grandiloquently.

Turning my thoughts to earth, I asked my friend and partner in crime, "Tran, does your mom have any videos of you as a little kid?"

"Are you kidding? We were poor when I was little. Any extra we had went into the collection plate at church, and that never amounted to much."

"How about more pictures?"

"You got them all. Why do you want them?"

I flipped through the scanty stack of Sears portraits and school pictures, and the more numerous--and revealing--shots intended for the personal ads Tran had run in the local alternative papers . She had been a slender, beautiful boy who photographed well, but I had more pictures from any one birthday than Tran had for her whole life.

"I want them for our movies, to set the stage for our sex scenes. I want to begin the story with a few snapshots from our childhoods with a little voice-over for autobiography. It would make a quick little mise-en-scene."

"I thought this was porn, not documentary."

"When guys make porn, it's all action. Girl's porn has more emotional content, like the thing I did with Miguel in 'Transsexual Hookers.' I am trying to do something like that, to get viewers emotionally involved with our characters."

Pavel arranged to have the outtakes from 'Transsexual Hookers,' the prints from our solo photo shoots, and Tran's screen test FedEx'ed to me. I spent a long day and night at Finch's iBook scanning photos, editing video clips, and adding voice-over.

Tran complained bitterly as she read the faux biography I had written for her into the computer's microphone. "We're not even paid yet and you are making me lose my beauty sleep!"

"Tran, Van Gogh never sold one of his paintings for more than a hundred bucks, and now they sell for millions. Think of it as an investment in your future."

"If my dad ever sees this he will die of shame."

"Good, he deserves it. He can keep my father company in hell," I replied with acid in my voice.

"What about my mother? She doesn't deserve it!"

"She'll forgive you, and besides, if our moms really wanted to, they could pay for our surgeries so we wouldn't have to do commercial sex. And since we have to do that, I, at least, want the movie to be good!"

"This crazy Chinese T-girl Allenina convince you porn is art?" Tran snorted in ridicule.

"I don't think that's so crazy. I agree with her: porn can be art, and art porn."

"I always knew you were crazy. I am the only one that's not crazy, except when I listen to you!" Tran laughed, and I couldn't help getting caught up by her giggles. Eventually we collapsed into one another's arms onto our bed.

Even though I am a male-to-female transsexual, I have always been drawn to women and to other T's as much as I've been drawn to men. I am hopelessly polymorphous in my sexuality, and I have never been as attracted to anyone as much as I've been attracted to Tran. Her soft, pouting lips are a perfect cushion for mine, and the touch of her firm breasts against my nipples is one of my favorite sensations. As our giggling subsided, my eyes sank into hers, and my lips melted against hers.

Between kisses I said, "I really don't have time," but she quieted me with another delicious, soft kiss, and tugged at my jeans.

"I need some attention," she whispered. "Peter is gone, Randy was just 'Slam bam, thank you, Ma'am,' and now he's gone. I need you."

I nodded enthusiastically. I suckled at her broad, brown nipples and gave her a chain of kisses as I descended towards her clean-shaven pussy. At the same time, I swiveled my own nether regions toward her famished and eager lips. I felt her tongue enter me, just as I pressed aside her unfinished but lovely labia majora; my tongue entered her fragrant and moist vagina. My sinuses were suffused with the lovely perfume of her neo-vagina.

Our vaginas had been beautifully but not yet completely crafted by our Thai surgeon, Dr. Sanguan, from grafts of our undersized penile and scrotal skins. Overuse of hormones bought without medical supervision had left our genitalia too shrunken to allow adequate vaginal depth, so our surgeon extended our neo-vaginas with sections grafted from our colons that would offer us a measure of natural lubrication. He had even succeeded in fashioning us functional and sensitive clitorises from pieces of our penile glans.

The nerves in my vaginal region were gradually developing the ability to register nuances of sensation. Sanguan had painstakingly threaded the labia and neovagina with the leftover glans tissue, leaving us incredibly sensate and potentially highly orgasmic: an example of art improving on nature. I felt confident that with time, and the attentions of a sensitive and caring lover like Tran, my vaginal sensibility would become much more pleasurable. At the moment, though, a gentle touch could send me shivering with ripples of pleasure, but a rough touch could sweep me away in a tsunami of pain.

The sections harvested from our colons in our neo-vaginas still exuded small amounts of a now thin and clear mucous that lubricated our neo- vaginas with a sweet nectar from within.

Unfortunately, the junctions of the two dissimilar grafted tissues between our legs had thickened and contracted into solid rings of scar tissue that made our inner vaginas inaccessible to all but the smallest penises, and even those brought agonizing pains as they passed through. The sensation was so excruciating we both feared the moment when a lover's cockhead would pass through the dreaded ring.

Dr. Sanguan understood the structure of the neo-vaginas he had created inside us best, so only he should attempt to break the ring, preferably around the same time he completed our SRS's with the labiaplasties we still needed.

Thus, I had plotted and schemed to finance our return to his clinic in Phuket these past few months. First, I arranged an academic grant and semester abroad to study the 'katoey' sex workers of Thailand, and second, I wrote and agreed to star in a pair of porno blockbusters we about to appear in. I hoped thereby to be able to finance the completion of our SRS's and our transformations into sexually functional women.

From her sighs of pleasure it was evident that Tran enjoyed my attentions and body as much as I did hers. The pressure of her tongue and breath on my inner walls, and especially on my engorging clitoris filled me with a warm buzz of sensual pleasure. We undulated against one another, drinking deeply from one another's chalices.

How different was this girl's gentle and careful love from the mastery of a powerful and willful man, bucking and charging at my soft flesh, overpowering me into the release of my orgasm. Tran teased and coaxed my passion to life. She was trying to free it like a canary from a cage. My senses fluttered like the wings of that caged bird, yearning for flight in a cloudless blue sky. If only the cage could be unlocked: but where was the key?

From the rhythmic undulations of Tran's silken flesh, I could tell she was feeling the same sweet torture. It was I who held the key to her prison, and she the key to mine.

I knew how to open the door: I wetted my French manicured pinkie and gently slid it into her rectum, and carefully probing her knot-tight Asian ass. She quivered as I slid through her sphincter. I pressed on towards her pussy, searching for the shrunken remnant of her prostate, hoping to massage it with my fingertip. At the same time, she pressed her finger into me just as I was pressing into her. Suddenly my blissful sensations amplified themselves enough to overwhelm my senses--she had found and palpated my own tiny prostate. Her fingertip on this half-forgotten remnant of my male past released the dammed-up reservoir of tension within me into a surge of ecstasy. The sensation was so electrifying I had to cry out. As I did, I felt Tran's body go rigid, and then quiver against mine. I heard her cries of orgasmic release just as my overwhelmed senses could take no more and I fell into a swoon.

I awoke to a sensation of movement, I felt a moment of emptiness and sorrow because Tran wasn't there. I heard a flush and a swish of water, and then she was back, gently caressing my breasts as she bent over me to kiss me. The sweet taste of my vaginal juices lingered on her lips, and as we kissed our flavors mingled exquisitely.

"Yum," I said, "Who ever knew that Vietnamese, Chilean and Swedish went so well together."

"Let's tell Martha Stewart," she joked.

"But that would be insider trading," I laughed. "Tran, I think you made me cum," I said.

"I know you made me cum," she replied. "Who needs boys anymore? Too much trouble."

"You know you love that kind of trouble."

"You know me so well."

"And you, me," I said.

"I'm so glad you are my friend."

I kissed her, and said what I knew were both feeling: words I had never willingly spoken to anyone before: "I love you."

She brightened as I had never seen her, and said, "I am so happy, and I love you."

We kissed again and lay in one another's exhausted arms, nesting like spoons. Her breathing evened, and slowed, and she drifted off to sleep. When she was settled, I gently uncoupled from her and flipped open my laptop.

Inspired by our exquisite interlude, I stayed up until I had edited and e-mailed Allenina the final drafts of our screenplays.

When I woke up a few hours later, I had an e-mail from Allenina. She had arranged a location and was lining up the talent and crew for the coming weekend. I went on the Internet, checked the L.A. weather (early morning overcast clearing to hazy sunshine after noon; some fog at the beach). June weather in L.A. sucks, but we were going to be working inside most of the time. I bought a couple of cheap tickets from a website and finished packing. The lease that Finch had arranged was up, and Tran and I were leaving our home on Hennepin forever.

On the flight to L.A., I let Tran play Solitaire on my laptop after the movie ended while I read something Allenina had recommended: 'The Second Sex' by Simone de Beauvoir. I had absorbed Sartre and Camus in high school, but de Beauvoir's conception of women as the 'other', and 'that woman is not born, but made', made a startling counterpoint to the male perspective on life's meaning and purpose; especially for me, now. I was even more astonished that my prospective porn director had absorbed the seminal text of feminism and had encouraged me to read it.

I thought de Beauvoir's work offered a delightfully revealing window into her prodigious intellect. Her application of the concept of alienation to feminism was all the more impressive for having been written in 1949.

Allenina met us at the baggage claim elegantly dressed in white silk capris, Dolce and Gabbana top, and Prada shoes. Her hair was perfect, she glowed with a year round SoCal tan, and she greeted us with a friendly, conspiratorial smile. She gave Tran and me film industry hugs-and-double-kisses, and then called for a porter to help us with our bags.

Our Minnesota pallor made us look like immigrants. "Don't they know about tanning parlors in the boondocks?" she asked.

"That's just the start of what they don't have. You can't get a decent haircut or facial either," I replied.

"Welcome to our beauty paradise. Let's go straight to a salon. It's in the budget."

It feels really strange the first time you meet and speak with someone you already know, but only from e-mail. I mean, I had never seen or spoken a word to Allenina, but through our IM exchanges, I felt I knew her better than almost anyone else I knew.

Allenina was not your typical porn star. She was tall, thin, and elegant, but visibly buzzing with energy. If the world were filled with Alleninas, everything would be done correctly and be finished early. Her speech was graceful and clear: part Valley Girl, part British Empire. Her manners were graceful and charming, the legacy of a middle-class Hong Kong upbringing, and the polish of USC's art school. When she left Tran and me alone at last, in a dressing room of Trashy Lingerie on La Cienega, I asked Tran, "Can you believe she is real and not some character?"

"No. I think she is a character."

"I guess we're all in the same movie now."

"I hope it's a romantic comedy."

"And not action adventure."

"And definitely not family."

Allenina barged in, trailing a panting sales associate carrying an armload of sequined bustiers from Madonna's halcyon days; white cotton, eyelet bedclothes fit for Victorian maidens or turn-of-the-century New Orleans prostitutes; and silk and satin bra and panty sets ranging from supremely luxurious to lasciviously naughty. "We have $500 for wardrobe in each budget, so have fun. We'll split the goodies up after the shoot, so choose what you love."

"Wow, Pavel didn't do anything like this," I gushed.

"Pavel is a cheap bastard who grinds out volume crap for the masses. We are going to make a cult classic of porn."

Tran grinned enthusiastically. "I don't like the movies or the on-screen sex that much, but I love the money and the clothes."

Allenina replied, "I don't want to ruin your day, but there's one more wardrobe element that we need: remember, you start these stories as boys."

"I thought that's why Alexandra got the old pictures."

"It's a movie, Tran, my movie, and I need you to be boys. So you are getting some uniforms," Allenina commanded sharply. "I'm not going to rely on home movies to set the stage. And some strap-on cocks. I am going to have fun reversing your sex changes for a few hours."

We spent a miserable hour at Old Navy and then a sex toy shop, buying realistic-looking strap-on dildos. The colors of their silicone cocks and faux pubic hair were hideously wrong, and Tran and I were both miserable at the prospect of being filmed as regressed to before we were even pre-ops.

"I didn't sign up for this, much less write it into the script," I said.

"Alexandra, you are a great writer, but you are not a filmmaker. Trust me, I can't tell your story on screen without this. So get used to it: you're going to get to know my make-up guy really well, as boys and as girls. Ha, ha."

At the end of a hectic day of shopping, coifing, tanning and beautifying, Allenina announced "I need to get ready to strip at Peanuts tonight. I'd love for you to come see me, but you really need your sleep." I nodded in mute agreement.

Allenina's frenetic pace, combined with our jet lag, had left Tran and me at the point of collapse. We ordered from the room service menu, ate and set an early wake up call. Allenina had ordered a car to fetch us to a mansion on Mulholland at 6:00 a.m., and we wanted to look our very best for our return to the screen.

We had long days ahead of us. After all, there are seven deadly sins, and I would suffer all of them tomorrow: lust, pride, greed, envy, anger, sloth, and gluttony.

Film making, like writing, is a bore--the stories may be great, but the process is mundane. In porno, the ordinariness of the process, the waiting, the setting up, the tearing down, and the casual conversations between principals who will, in minutes, be locked together in feigned fierce passion can only distract from the story.

My director Allenina would not be pleased if I wrote this tale as a documentary about her filmmaking tradecraft, like the backstory on a DVD of her maitre d'oeuvre, 'Seven Deadly Sins of a She-Male', so I won't.

Everyone was nice, professional, and efficient. Plentiful Viagra for the talents kept anxiety at a minimum, and the fluff girl, a buxom, earthy Latino T-girl, had little to do but buff her nails and check her make-up. But I was a busy girl. Oh, yeah! So rather than bore you with the details, I'll just tell the story, as I experienced it, skipping all of the boring set-ups and concentrating on the sexual interludes. If you like transsexual porno flicks, rent it, and see how my perspective compares with what Allenina put on the screen.

I read a voice-over monologue as a montage of childhood pictures unfolded: "When I was a little boy, I always went through the motions of being one of the gang, but I was always apart, the other. On my soccer team, I spent more time on the bench than anyone else until my dad berated the coach for not letting me play, and then chewed me out even more when I screwed up and let the other team score. I was always more interested in art and dance and music than in sports, and in school I was always too advanced.

"My envious classmates kept a guarded distance from me, isolating me amongst a small circle of intellectual misfits. I was one of the last of my peers to hit puberty, and when I did, my interest in girls was more to see what was going on with their bodies, than anything sexual. I was a pretty boy, and the girls liked my attentions, and always seemed to expect more from me than I was ready to give. I just wanted to see their breasts and pussies, so that when I dreamed of being a girl, I would have better material to fuel my fantasies of femininity.

"Naturally, rumors circulated that I was gay, but nobody understood that I really wanted to be a girl. I was a girl with a boy's body. Being the smart boy that I was, I figured out how to change things, and began taking female hormones."

"We shifted to live action. I was costumed as I would have dressed in the last months before my transition. I went on-camera wearing a boy's tee shirt and jeans, my hair pulled back and hidden beneath a watch cap, my face half-hidden by a mustache and dark glasses. My boobs were squished uncomfortably flat beneath one of Allenina's Jogbras. I looked remarkably like a picture from my own high school yearbook. I said to myself dreamily, "I'd sell my soul to the Devil if he would make me into a girl."

Allenina had cast herself as the Devil. She appeared from behind a violet lit cloud of dry ice smoke, and said, "Hi Babe, can I help you? I am Satan's special envoy to the she-males."

"I hate that term. I'm transsexual."

"Whatever. I'll help you, but only if you give me your body and soul."

"Deal," I replied. "I despise my body, and my soul is trapped inside it. So what difference does it make if I sell them."

"Just make sure that you ask me for exactly what you want, as I will give you just that."

"Make me a beautiful woman."

"Are you sure that's exactly what you want?"

"Yes, my whole life."

"Then you're the perfect girl for me."

The picture faded to me as a pre-op, as Pavel had photographed me six months ago, and then to a sequence that Allenina had artfully edited from outtakes and footage from my scene in 'Transsexual Hookers'.

"We invented recycling in the porn industry," Allenina quipped as she cut and spliced. "I've seen movies with dead porn stars in the cast."

Miguel had been a jerk and a lousy fuck, but he was perfectly cast as a sin. And, for me, it was easy, since he (and I) had signed a contract authorizing Christie's to use the footage in any way, and at any time, it chose. So he got to be the sin of Anger, and the old me got raped and violated without my having to be touched again by the jerk.

There was plenty of footage in which Miguel's head didn't appear, so a new male voice could voice over the sound track a soliloquy of rage at having been fooled by a transsexual and spew forth a new angry justification for the cruel assault that Miguel had visited upon me for his own twisted reasons.

When the scene ended, I returned to my bedroom and summoned the Devil. Allenina responded, "Did you enjoy being a woman? Although you surprised him, my friend Anger seemed to be enjoying himself with you. Let's face it, it's trendy to be transsexual. Every guy will want to have fucked one or two, eventually."

"I didn't trick Anger. You tricked me. I thought you wanted to help me."

"Hello, girl, I'm the freaking Devil, Satan, get it? You must be more careful. Now you have six more wishes to get this right, as long as I'm in the mood to help you. Besides, I wasn't really sure if you were sure what you wanted."

"I feel like a freak: like anyone who wants me is perverse. I hate myself and despise anyone who is attracted to me as I am. I deserve to be perfect."

"Like me?" Allenina asked.

"I want a perfect, female, me."

"That sounds like you have an excess of Pride. Well, that's my own personal favorite sin, so I am just the demon for you."

Allenina fell to her knees in front of me and began sucking my strap-on . She fellated the limp, plastic penis with gusto and appreciation--a tour de force of porno acting. Finally, she bared her own beautiful derriere and pretty, uncut, cock, and we oralled one another in the 69 position as the cameras explored our passionately entwined bodies.

Of course, nothing was going to happen on my end, but I was pleased that Allenina began to develop the involuntary movements of a T-girl on the verge. Cameras focused on our faces--my curled lips and sucked-in cheeks bending over her thrusting thighs, her face going from beautiful to sublime as she approached orgasm. I felt a stirring of sexual pleasure within me as I sensed her drawing closer to her climax.

Good oral sex gives the giver a feeling of pleasurable control and power over the recipient, and this was heightened when the recipient was someone as lovely and in control of herself as Allenina. My own body quivered with pleasure when her body spasmed. Her beautiful bottom thrust upward and her penis fired a small but forceful load of cum into my mouth. I made sure that the camera caught it rolling off my tongue and smearing my lips and chin.

"Mmm, that was great," Allenina murmured to the camera. "I think you have met and overcome the sin of Pride." The fake fellatio she had performed on me had loosened my strap-on. Hiding my midsection behind a disheveled sheet, Allenina now slipped the hated prosthesis off me and dropped it behind the bed. It felt great to be without the stiff, hairy appendage. My groin felt clean and cool--it was ready for its screen debut. "I think you are ready to become a woman," the Devil purred.

"Oh, it's perfect. I can't wait to try it. I'm horny for the first time in my life."

"In that case, let me introduce you to Lust."

Lust was a handsome, tattooed regular from the T-girl porno scene, who has a prodigious cock and a legendary appetite for transsexual ass. He looked at me and said, "Do I get to break in this tasty pastry?"

"It was her idea," the Devil replied.

"I didn't mean right this minute," I said in fright.

"Like I told you, you have to be careful what you ask for around me. You ask, I give. I need to freshen myself up. I leave you two lovebirds to your own devices."

I covered myself modestly, and said, "I don't even know if I'm ready."

"That's OK, I am," Lust said, in a Viagra trance. He slid his tattooed arms under my thighs, grabbed my breasts, and swiveled my pussy to his face and began kissing, licking and blowing into it insatiably. It was an impetuous and overwhelming embrace, and it was a turn-on to have a handsome guy like Lust reveling in me like a cat on catnip. But I knew he had nowhere to go inside me.

At last he pulled himself up and mounted me, missionary style, his hands cupping my breasts. I averted my face from him and looked pleadingly into the camera, as he slid inside me. His cockhead was so thick that even the wider, outer portion of my vagina was stretched to the limit, and I writhed with pain. When he hit the ring of scar tissue inside me, he came to a dead stop as a nuclear blast of pain mushroomed through me.

"You're too big for me!" I protested.

"That's what they all say," Lust laughed, painfully thrusting into me again, again in vain.

"You'll rip me apart."

"That's your problem," Lust snorted, "I gotta fuck you."

"OK, then fuck me from behind."

He grinned happily, pulled my legs over his head and banged me again, trapeze style, and still got nowhere.

"I've seen tight pussy in my day, but this is ridiculous."

"Let me suck you."

"No, I want to fuck you. Lemmee fuck you in the ass, then."

"You're too big for that."

"We'll see about that," and he pinned me down and lubed me as I squirmed beneath him.

Of course, we were only acting, and I knew exactly what was coming. Lust had performed anal sex on a hundred T-girls in photo shoots and movies going back a decade, so he knew what was expected of him. He penetrated me with the care and deliberate pace of an experienced and considerate T-girl lover. Still, he had a porno-size cock, and it opened a big hole in me. I whimpered protests of pain and humiliation as my rectum felt filled to bursting with his hard flesh and my sphincter felt as if it had been ripped open. He was as long as he was thick, and my colon was stretched and uncoiled by his penetration.

As his cock explored the depths of my belly, it found the corner of colon from which Sanguan had taken the section. There, to my surprise, lurked another ring of scar tissue, and when Lust reached he unsheathed new daggers of pain from deep inside me. But Lust had only been exploring my depths. He found and got into a rhythm of fucking that stopped short of that threshold, and soon the pain of early penetration was supplanted with the pleasure of internal friction and warmth, the now familiar sensation to which I had become hopelessly addicted.

Now, I moaned and cooed with pleasure at Lust's ministrations, and thrust my ass willingly against his plunging sword. Occasionally, my reverie would lift, and I would remember the whirring cameras long enough to shoot a meaningful look, and even a triumphant smile at Allenina, who smiled at me from over the cameraman's shoulder.

Lust kept up a practiced sexual patter of, "Ooh, baby, that feels great, you're as tight as a glove, like a warm velvet tunnel of love, oh baby," as he humped away. It actually felt nice to have my performance praised so effusively on-camera.

I looked back and smiled at him once, and then smiled triumphantly into the camera. Allenina flashed a thumbs up, and I repeated the performance with a look of pained concern on my face, and then again with a look of happy relief.

By the time I had run the gamut of emotional expression, I could feel that Lust's train was about to leave the station, so as planned in the script, I pleaded with Lust, "Please cum on my pussy."

He pulled out obediently but not too quickly; I felt a pleasant emptying sensation as his cock emerged from my depths. He pulled off his condom and played with himself as he kneeled between my spread legs. He came with deafening series of grunts, and sprayed hot white semen all over my still virginal vagina.

"Hey, that was great, baby," Lust said as he swaggered off jauntily. "Call me again when that pussy of yours is fully grown. Or when that ass of yours has recovered."

I smiled wanly and said, "Leave me your number."

Lust replied breezily, "That's OK, I'll call you."

"What a jerk," Allenina said as she came back on-camera.

"You are so mean. You made me too small for anything but the tiniest cocks," I protested.

"You have to ask for exactly what you want. I just can't help myself. I'm the Devil. Remember what I did to poor Eve. They're still punishing her descendants. Ha, ha."

"I just wanted a vagina that would work. You know, that would accommodate a cock. Like other, regular girls, I want to be able to be fucked in my pussy, and my ass."

"No problem. Let me introduce you to my friend Envy."

Envy was a handsome but self-conscious young Asian guy. As soon as he came on-screen, he glared at the camera and barked, "What are you looking at. Just because my dick's not as big as some of the other louts here, doesn't mean anything. I mean, it's the motion, not the meat that matters. I mean, I wish I had a Lust's cock, he doesn't deserve to have all the chicks he gets."

Allenina commented acidly, "Envy, you can't fuck everyone. Look what a tasty dish I have here for you."

"Lust has already done her, hasn't he. You know, I can't stand Lust's sloppy seconds. Why does he always get to go first?"

"He didn't," Allenina replied sarcastically, as Envy made a face of puerile disgust. "If you didn't spend half the day studying yourself in the mirror, you wouldn't be late to every party. Now look at this lovely treat and be thankful to your Devil."

Envy sat on the bed next to me and began fondling me. "She really looks perfect. I guess she'll do." He turned to me and demanded, "Show me what a good little cocksucker you are. You look like you've had some practice." He gripped the back of my hair and forced my lips over his cock.

Though I love to suck cock, and I love the gentle pressure of a hand guiding my head over a hard cock, I really hate it when guys twist my head and shove it onto their dicks. It's about as sexy as whiplash. But I really couldn't complain about Envy's rough treatment or high-handed manner. He was acting out my script, and he seemed perfectly in character. Nor could I sincerely protest, though I acted one out, when he rolled me onto my back and mounted me.

Unlike my ex-boyfriend Alec, Envy had been well versed in the anal arts. He entered my vagina with the greatest of care. For the first two inches the progress of his slender, tapered cock was quite pleasant. But when Envy tried to insinuate his cock through my ring of scar tissue, a familiar hideous ripping pain saturated my senses . It was not the familiar initial discomfort of a suddenly stretched sphincter which one knows will melt away into warm, pleasant internal pressure. My vaginal pain signaled potential injury to my unfinished genital organs.

I cried out, "Stop, stop, you're too big!"

Envy snarled back, "Thanks, that's the first time I've ever heard a whore tell me that," and plunged onwards.

I grimaced and real tears filled my eyes as Envy plunged his slender prick into an even narrower region of my vagina. He exclaimed, "God, it's so tight, tighter than an ass, it feels so good, I'm gonna cum, I have to cum!" Then he pulled himself out with a fierce ripping motion, pulled off his condom and orgasmed over my heaving tummy and breasts.

"Thanks, I gotta go," Envy said, leaving my belly sperm-coated and me shivering all over.

The Devil returned with a towel and a glass of water and said, "Talk about 'Wham bam, thank you Ma'am. That was really pathetic. That's why Envy is my least favorite sin. Of course, that's easy for me to say, because I have everything I want. Did he give you what you wanted?"

"It was awful, I just give up. I'll never be a complete woman!"

"Never give up. You always have to keep trying. Though you may never reach your goal, it's the way that we try that defines us."

"I don't want to keep trying. Let me give up. I'm through with wishes, and I don't want to meet any more of your friends."

"That sounds like an invitation to Sloth." She picked up a bright red cell phone and punched in a number. "I love these things. But I get such a terrible connection in Hell. I just love it up here. Oh, hi love, yes, she's ready for you now." Turning to me, she said, "He'll be right in."

Sloth entered, a slightly overweight but well-hung African-American. He lay down on the bed beside me and we lay silently together. After an uncomfortably long pause, he asked, "Well aren't you going to do anything?"

"Aren't you? All of the other sins couldn't wait to invade me."

"I don't want to do anything. So you just do what you do to get me off, and I'll be on my way."

"I'm really not used to being the sexual aggressor."

"Get used to it, ho, and do your job on me."

I started to rise, saying, "Let me clean up the mess that Envy made of me, and I'll . . ." but Sloth interrupted me and said, "Don't bother, bitch, just get started on me."

I shrugged my shoulders for the camera, and wrapped my lips around his gigantic, but flaccid cock. I worked at him energetically, gradually bringing his cock to a half erect posture, but he wasn't cooperating. He lay limp and languid, and said, "You got to try harder than that, baby. Try getting on top and sitting on it."

I lubed my now puckered ass and stuffed his floppy member inside of me. Even soft, it was a large cock, and lacking firmness or purpose, and it kept popping out. "C'mon, ho, get me inna you," Sloth grumbled lazily. I stuffed his flesh inside my still lubricated ass, whose smooth, firm textures stirred his cock to life.

"Oh, yeah, that's it, that's the way I like it. Now, ride me, bitch! Ride me." My hair flew, my breasts bobbed, my temples pounded, and my thighs ached with the exertion of fucking this massive, inert man. His cock failed to completely harden, so each time I threw myself down on him, his cock folded inside me, and each time I rose, it flopped precariously, repeatedly slipping out, and requiring re-insertion. I expressed aggravation with mocking smiles to the camera, as I facetiously said, "Oh, yeah, fuck me baby, you feel so big inside me."

Sloth played along gamely, as he was a seasoned pro and this episode, like all the others, had been carefully staged. Sloth had foregone the Viagra that the other talents had taken to ensure their studly performance, and, to make the matter in hand even softer, he had come to the set straight from another porno shoot.

Allenina had cast him against type in the unenviable role of Sloth to counter the stereotype of the African-American as a sexual superman. So Sloth, the famed stud of dozens of XXX productions, struggled to maintain tumescence in the cause of plot advancement.

After he had slipped out of me for the last time, he said, "You gotta help me, baby, play with me."

I finished him with a hand job that ended in a tiny blob of cum that puddled on the end of his large but still flaccid penis. I stretched a strand of the clear, thin liquid from the tip of his cock to the tip of my tongue, and, "Mmm'ed," appreciatively as I winked at the camera.

Sloth ambled off-camera, mumbling, "Thank you, baby, for heppin' me. You da baddest ho of all."

When Allenina returned on-camera, I complained, "Thanks a lot for foisting those last two losers on me. I can't decide which of them was more pathetic. I thought you were going to help me."

"I did, your wishes have been my commands. I made you feminine, a woman-- what do you want? Will nothing please you?"

"I certainly want something more than losers like Envy and Sloth. They are like, both really high-maintenance for guys. I thought girls got all the maintenance. I want to be taken care of."

"I know what you mean. I think you'll like Greed and Gluttony much better, and you'll be surprised how well they go together."

Allenina had been one of the first porn stars ever to perform a DAP, or double anal penetration, in her legendary porno classic 'The Asian She-Male Gangbang'. I've heard the Brazilian 'travesti' Patricia Araujo filmed one too, and I had done it on my own with Rick and Randy before I'd ever heard of either of them, but still, it's an exotic feat.

When I confided my own double anal experience to Allenina, she wrote it into my script, arguing that she was the perfect director for the scene: after all, she had directed herself in a DAP scene. "Besides, you know you can do it, darling, because you've done it! Think of it, the first post-op ever to do it on film!"

I agreed it would be a spectacular ending for the "Seven Deadly Sins": one that would put me in the porn pantheon with Allenina and Araujo. Plus, we would get the shoot over with faster.

Gluttony and Greed arrived arm in arm, arguing convivially. "But what's the good of having something, if you can't enjoy it right then?"

"Just having it is the enjoyment, isn't it?"

"Having it, but not having it, is the worst part, I'd say."

"But at least we can agree that you have to have it."

"Oh, definitely. Speaking of which, what have we here?" Gluttony asked, noticing me.

"Something we both ought to have, I dare say," said Greed. They sat beside me and began fondling me and sucking my breasts.

"I don't suppose it matters what I want," I said.

"Not really, but it won't matter as long is it's the same as what I want," said Greed.

"What about what he wants," I asked, referring to Gluttony.

"Actually, I think we both want the same thing," said Gluttony amiably, and they both thrust their cocks toward my lips.

I took them between my lips, alternating Gluttony's fatter, shorter piece with Greed's longer, thinner model. Each cock has its own flavor, and soon I had two different vintages of precum on my tongue, one reminiscent of seafood and brine, the other of wild game and mountain heather. Both had rock-hard Viagra hard-ons, and their rough and enthusiastic use of my lips made clear that soon they would demand more of my tired body.

Gluttony demanded, "I want to fuck your hot little pussy."

"I can't, you won't fit."

"Oh, yeah, the Devil told us about that little issue. Well, that's your problem, I'll take your ass instead."

"What about me? What do I get to fuck?" Greed complained.

"Fuck her mouth, and then have some of my leftovers, if there are any," Gluttony laughed cruelly.

"Please go slowly," I implored.

"I'll do as I like," said Gluttony piggishly, and pushed his cock in as far as he could with one lunge. I gasped and cried out, causing Greed's cock to slip from my lips.

"Shut up and keeping sucking me," Greed grumbled, replacing his cock in my grimacing lips.

I was still well lubed from Envy and Sloth, but Gluttony's sudden entry, the fatigue of my internal muscles, and the knowledge of what was to come overwhelmed me with emotion and pain. My body was rebelling against the imperatives of my own scriptwriting, and besides, I wanted a little coercion and brutality to emerge in this scene.

Gluttony was bucking against my buttocks, as Greed continued to ram his cock into my face. I endured this two front invasion for as long as I could, and then pushed Greed from my lips.

I cried out, "No more, please, leave me alone!"

"Well, if you're going to be such a prissy little bitch, we'll leave you alone sooner, by fucking you both at once," Greed said nastily.

"What do you mean, I'm not done," Gluttony griped.

"We'll be done all the sooner, now sit her down atop you, and I'll come in from behind."

Gluttony spun me into position, and bent me forward, so his cock strained against me, pulling my rectum downward. He silenced my protests with a rough kiss, as Greed slipped his finger between my stretching anus and Gluttony's cock, and pulled at my taut flesh. He opened a slight gap into which he forced his own penis.

I felt a blunt force of his cock force its way into my battered flesh, and surrendered to a wave of anguish. My body was now rent asunder by two irresistible forces: Greed, and Gluttony, as they knifed through me like two Titanics on a collision course on the waves of my inner sea.

They seemed to have been transported to a new plane of selfish ecstasy by the pressure of their cocks against one another, enclosed in the tight confines of my belly. I felt exiled to the last circle of hell as they plowed twin furrows through me.

I looked back pleadingly to their empty, selfish eyes, and into the indifferent lenses of Alleninia's cameras, and wondered if, perhaps, I had gone too far in scripting my own degradation. Had I really consigned myself to the lower depths, to be forever the plaything of the bodies and imaginations of these cruel, childish men? Or was this merely an illusion of my own creation, that served only to titillate my audience? And what was the difference?

Then all thought vanished as the reality of heaving and suffering flesh crushed my consciousness. Now, all I could do was endure, as my twin tormentors tried to tear me in two. I became lost in the moment; my universe contracted to my sensations of Greed and Gluttony.

The two brought me back to earth abruptly--first Greed, then Gluttony, pulled out from inside me. I remembered where I was again: on the set, getting ready for the double money shot. I steadied myself, smiled, first at Greed, then at Gluttony, then into the light above the lens, and licked my lips in anticipation of the imminent treat.

Greed and Gluttony were pros who had, as they say, worked together before, so Allenina had high expectations. They met them well and fully as they both geysered cum into my face in a chorus of grunts and moans. I licked and cooed appreciatively as I shot an ecstatic look towards the camera.

When they finished, they gave one another high fives, and Gluttony said to Greed, "You see, when there's enough for both, it's not so terrible to share."

"Yeah, but how often does that happen?" Greed replied.

"True enough, but I rest my case," Gluttony concluded.

"Point taken. Well then, my little whore, you've satisfied Greed and Gluttony at once. I should say that makes you a very special little whore." As he pulled on his jeans, he pulled out a roll of bills and tossed them to me, saying, "Never let it be said that Greed is cheap."

"Or Gluttony," Gluttony added, as he tossed me a roll of bills.

Allenina's Devil character said, "Well, you've done well from your encounter with Greed and Gluttony. Gordon Gekko was right, 'Greed is good!' Ha, ha. Well then, now that you've met all of the Seven Deadly Sins, have you gotten what you wanted?

"No! You tricked and abused me just like they did. I should have known not to trust you."

"I do wish I could help you, but when nature errs, and puts a male body around a woman's soul, there is no solution from my realm. I can only help you learn to know yourself, not to change yourself. Life is made of your choices, not on anything we decide. At most, I shape the environment, not the woman. And a sinful, cruel environment it is," Allenina mused.

"So you really couldn't do anything to help me." She nodded. "Why didn't you say so at the beginning."

"You wouldn't have believed me. Humans think that God and the Devil rule over them. In fact, you created us, and now, you must re-create yourself."

"And these sins, to what purpose did I endure their humiliation?"

"They provided the laboratory where you discovered who you are, and what you will be. You overcame them well, experiencing them, but without letting any of them change you. Take your money to a surgeon. You will become a wonderful, strong woman."

"And what will become of you?"

"I will be here, waiting to educate the next human gullible enough to believe that help is available from heaven or hell." The scene fades out as we embrace, and I walk off to my destiny.

I took a long, hot shower, douched the lubricant from my tired interior, and spent a long time by myself doing my hair and make-up. I had expected to be exhausted from the ordeal of the long shoot, but I was almost magically energized, thoughts raced through my head. I realized I was raring to go onto the second shoot as I stepped out the dressing room door.

I helped with the lights and set-ups for the script I had written for Tran, 'She-Male High School Reunion'. Allenina even drafted me in for a couple of scenes as a jealous G-Girl ex-cheerleader.

We completely finished both shoots by evening. Allenina passed out the money that we had saved by finishing ahead of schedule as a bonus to the crew and cast. After the equipment had been loaded and the crew had gone away, Allenina asked us over to her place. As Tran took a nap in her spare bedroom, I joined Allenina at the computer, editing the digital footage that she had shot only hours before.

"I'm tired and wired," Allenina muttered as she squinted into the computer.

"I should be tired. Tran is completely crashed, but I'm just buzzing with energy. Can I watch what you're doing?"

"Sure. It's not brain surgery, though. You know, until a few years ago we would have been waiting for months to get this from the lab, and then we would have been manually splicing the film for months and months more. It was a real nightmare. Now, it's just point, select, and click. I love technology."

"Me too, though I must confess I have some reservations about the use we are putting it to," I replied ruefully.

"So do I. I really want to do mainstream work, and this is good, but let's face it: they won't be screening this next year at Sundance. But it's telling a story--our story. Look, I'm sure I don't have to tell you that even though there may be some laws technically protecting us from discrimination, most people don't really accept transsexuals. Is it any different for post-ops?"

"Not unless you go total stealth, and that's almost impossible. There are too many ways things from your past can emerge and out you. Then, it's almost worse, because people feel they have been misled."

"So I can justify my porno career. The first way men will come to accept us is as sex objects. If you become sexually desirable, eventually you become acceptable."

"But we need more than just being accepted sexually. People have to learn that we are not crazy, self-indulgent, or really homosexuals, and I can't seem to get that across to many people. They are so ignorant." Tears filled my eyes as I thought of the times Tran and I had been outed and then rejected.

"That's why you have to wrap your porn in a real story, like you did. The story of self-discovery is as old as Hamlet, or Oedipus, or even the cave paintings of Chauvet-Pont d'Arc or Lascaux. 'The Seven Deadly Sins of a She-Male' is just another chapter, and I think we told it well."

"I hope you are right, but I don't think we'll ever change this world."

"But we have to try," Allenina said, embracing me in a chaste, sisterly way.

"Yes we do," I agreed, "We have to change the world, one cock at a time."

Allenina shot me a look of feigned disbelief and deadpanned, "Or two."

We both burst into laughter. We worked and laughed together all that night.

---

to be continued

My thanks to my invaluable editor, riottgrrl, for her editorial acumen and creativity, to Allenina, for lending her persona and her ideas to my tale, and to her friend Debra, for insight into matters far beyond my imagination. As always, blame for any errors, omissions, or other faults are all mine.

Excerpted from FictionMania.com and edited lightly by Erin Halfelven for display on BigCloset by permission of the author.

You can go home again, but you may return to wonderful surprises, or horrible reunions.

From Prom Night to Homecoming
The Greatest Lie, Chapter 14
From Prom Night to Homecoming
by Alexandra Rios

[email protected]

For me, my hometown, L.A., is not the sexy, sweaty night clubs of West Hollywood nor the porn scene of the North Valley. Though I feel more at home there, that side of L.A. is not my home but rather the world into which my transsexual destiny exiled me.

Home is the leafy, moneyed boulevards and side streets of Brentwood and Bel Air, California. Beneath the swaying palms and in the sea-softened air of that enclave of privilege, I became a refugee from my birth gender, and like any other refugee, I escaped and changed my identity as thoroughly as I could.

Reborn as a beautiful and ambitious, if incomplete woman, I needed and desperately wanted to return home to confront and erase the last vestiges of my male origins. But the past is a like jealous and selfish ex-lover whose secrets can never become truly safe against future discovery: like deleted e-mail on a remote server, old secrets remain ineradicable and forever discoverable.

The loose ends of my male past were scattered all over Los Angeles and to live my life as a post-operative transsexual I needed to tie them up. I had done a legal name change through the courts, and possessed a purple-stamped Superior Court order decreeing that Alex Rios had become Alexandra Rivers. My driver's license now bore a smiling picture of me in a tank top, showing an enticing inch and a half of decolletage, a fetching smile and come-hither eyes. But the traffic ticket I had gotten one drug-addled night during my junior year could link Alexandra back to Alexander: my male past was a secret waiting to be disclosed if I ever had another accident or infraction.

Los Angeles was an expedient detour on our way from Minnesota to Thailand. My friend Tran and I were on our way to Thailand's Chiang Mai University to continue my research into the sexual practices of transgendered sex workers among the katoey of Thailand, but our real purpose there was to have our surgeon rectify our problematic vaginoplasties.

Our Thai surgeon, Dr. Sanguan, had cautioned us that the junctions between our vaginal openings, which he had fashioned from inverted, and inserted penile skin, and the colon segments he had used to lengthen our vaginas would form a tight ring of scar tissue. These rings, he had warned us, would make vaginal sex horribly painful or utterly impossible with larger penises. We had scheduled surgery with him to break these rings. We hoped our upcoming surgeries would enable us to enjoy satisfying vaginal sex.

The University of Minnesota had changed my status to female, and Tran had gotten her GED as a girl. However, Chiang Mai University required proof of my high school matriculation to admit me, and Uni High in Los Angeles had graduated me as a boy. Though the Thais are superficially more tolerant of their katoey than we Americans, the katoey suffer from terrible status discrimination in Thailand. Knowing this, and the controversial nature of my research project, I wanted to expunge any evidence of transsexuality from the records I was taking to Thailand.

But the Los Angeles Unified School District refused my first request to change my transcript, despite the Court's command. The district demanded a senseless application and personal appearance in the Principal's Office, as though my sex-change operation had been a violation of some unspoken academic rule. I was obliged to return to the familiar and much-dreaded corridors of University High School: the scene of my turbulent and unhappy adolescence , and the earliest, most awkward and painful stages of my transition.

It seemed like yesterday, and a million years ago, that I had scurried through these fetid halls, eyes averted from the hostile glares of my classmates. Now I walked these same halls as a beautiful stranger, attracting the astonished glances of a horny horde of high school boys, all agog at the fresh new babe in their midst. It was as if the old Alex was invisible, and the new Alexandra was walking a runway, or shimmying on a stage.

God, I mused, if only I had transitioned during high school: I could have been Homecoming Queen. But my prefrontal lobe reminded me this was fantasy: these people were the same idiots that I had detested, and who in turn had ridiculed and persecuted me. So I avoided their flirtatious looks and went straight to the principal's office.

It was the same nightmarish scene that I had remembered from my school days: the anteroom was filled by a gaggle of miscreants gathered on battered folding chairs. They sat sprawled across their seats, sullenly awaiting their punishments from a smaller tribe of indifferent, somnambulant bureaucrats slouching behind a stained Formica barrier. I took a number from a dispenser that looked straight out of a busy delicatessen and watched and waited as the presumptively guilty ahead of me went off to their fates of detention, suspension, or expulsion.

The burgeoning number of young sinners overwhelmed the number of available slothful bureaucrats, so I was treated to a dreadful hour as all the wastrels and miscreants in the anteroom tried to hit on me. Worse yet, the woman acting as gatekeeper that day was Fabiola, an obese and almost cretinous sycophant of my high-school enemy and rapist, Miguel. By the time Fabiola called my name the number of the newly condemned had grown considerably, and I had become their cynosure and the butt of their ribald remarks.

She checked my paperwork against a yellowed, tattered computer printout and announced with a tone of annoyance, "I got no Alexandra Rivers from last year's class. Are you sure you graduated from here?"

"Of course you don't have an Alexandra Rivers! I changed my name. Look for Alex Rios."

"You mean I should be looking for a boy's name?" she replied in a tone of hurt incomprehension.

"Look at the court order. That's the name you should be looking for, and you should do what the order says. I don't need to argue with you about this. Just do what the judge said in the order," I said, as my face burned with embarrassment.

"Don't know how I can do that," Fabiola protested loudly. Then, in a louder tone, as if to enlist support from the miscreants gathered for punishment, she whined "How can I change a boy's transcript to a girl's? How do I know there's not some cheating going on here?"

I felt the mood of the whole crowd turning against me. Up 'til then they had given me their coarse adulation. Now I felt them turn hostile and hateful: their stares burrowed like daggers in my flesh.

I backpedaled furiously from my pressure tactics and asked, "When does the assistant principal come back? Perhaps I can explain my situation to her."

Fabiola crowed triumphantly, "She comes back at three thirty, after school's out, but we close at four."

I felt as if the whole school was staring at me as I beat a cautious retreat. High school had defeated me again.

Now the halls took on an even more ominous aspect, as half-familiar faces bobbed by on their way to class. Did this psychopathic cretin recognize me? Had that violent gangbanger heard the fantastic rumor spreading from my unfortunate encounter at the principal's office? I was terrified as I strode, high heels rat-tat-tatting a drum roll of retreat, up Westgate Avenue from the fetid jungle of Uni High and towards the temperate and civilized climate of Wilshire Boulevard.

I didn't really feel safe until I was in the haven of my favorite Starbucks, in the company of Juicy Couture'ed, yoga-mat'ed and soy latte'd Westside stay-at-home-moms. They regarded my youth and beauty with apprising envy. Though I felt nothing in common with these rich, spoiled symptoms of capitalist largesse and leisure, I felt safe at last: I no longer felt like prey in the beady eyes of predators. God, I hate home: fear or alienation, and nothing at all in between.

I waited my turn for my jolt of caffeine and hot froth, and tried to blend in with the soccer moms. I tried to strike a nonchalant pose, but the interminable wait in the highly caffeinated, privileged atmosphere of the Wilshire and Westgate Starbucks was driving me crazy.

I acidly asked the barista, "What are you doing, harvesting and drying the beans back there?"

I got back a mumbled apology and smile from a face that froze me in the shock of horrified recognition: it was Seth. I had known him for years as a boy, but he had crossed to the dark side. He had joined my high school nemesis, Miguel, when Miguel and Jack raped me so cruelly after the prom the previous spring. I tried to keep my composure as I waited at the counter, watching Seth carefully.

I waited for the flash of recognition, guilt, and anger, but my appearance was too different now, and Seth was too naive. He just served me with a charming, roguish smile, as if I were just one more beautiful West L.A. babe.

I started to relax again. I inhaled the licorice fumes of soy froth and dark roasted beans, and started to reminisce to myself about the times I had spent at this cafe sipping this same fragrant froth, in the body of a very unhappy and dysfunctional boy.

As I flipped through 'In Style,' looking mostly at celebrity clothes and hair, I heard a shuffling of feet and the clatter of a chair next to me. I looked up to see my erstwhile barista asking, "Do you mind if I join you?"

"Actually, I do," I replied.

"I didn't recognize you when I served you or I would have said hello, but one of my friends in the records office at Uni called and I realized it was you, and I really have to talk to you."

"Oh great, the good old Uni spy network is onto me," I said miserably. "I really don't want to relive senior year, Seth. As you can see, I've moved on. I'm sorry if you're still stuck in the same pathetic rut, but I really don't want to get into it."

He reached for my hand, but I withdrew it. He said "All I really wanted to do was to tell you how sorry I am about what happened last year. If I could relive that night I would never have gone along with Miguel's sick plan. Ever since that night I have felt guilty over it, especially after you and Miguel made that video and he bragged that it proved you wanted to do us."

I started to protest but he continued, "I admit it was rape the first time and it was just paid porno the other, which doesn't prove anything. I am really sorry, and I guess that's all I have to say, except thank you for not turning us in, because that gave me a chance to turn around my own life. Oh, and that I tried to make it as OK for you as possible that night and I thought you were pretty cute then and that you're really beautiful now."

I gave him a moment of stony silence. He wilted in my most withering glare. "I suppose you think this half-assed apology one year later makes everything OK? You, Miguel and Jack gang-raped me, and traumatized my friend Marta, and then on those occasions when I saw you around, you didn't even say anything afterwards. That's despicable. If the cops weren't such assholes, your ass, and Miguel's and Jack's, would have been in jail. Then you could have had your own gangbang experience on the receiving end, and it would have served you right."

"You're absolutely right. We were complete shits who got away with it and didn't deserve to, and I have been feeling horrible about that, horrible about never communicating with you afterwards, and I'm really sorry for that, but you, like, just sort of disappeared. Anyhow, I'll do whatever you want me to make amends." He noticed my empty coffee. "How about another latte, on the house?"

"That would be a good start," I replied. He leapt to his feet and quickly returned with freshly made tall latte. "Same as the last one, OK?"

"As the last latte, you mean?" I said with a humorously arched eyebrow.

"Right," he said. "I didn't mean like the last time we . . ." His voice trailed off. He looked bemused.

"Thanks a lot," I said scornfully, reveling in his predicament. It was obvious he was irresistibly attracted to me now, yet he faced a superhuman task: seducing a former rape victim. I decided to encourage him. Perhaps I might enjoy his efforts. And besides, he had always been the cutest and most considerate of my tormentors , and he had only gotten better looking in the intervening year. Yes, I thought, Seth had turned even cuter and had cleaned up quite nicely.

"So how do I know you're not the same old creep? Obviously, you're still gossiping with the same old Uni losers," I said sardonically.

"Of course I am. I have to finish a couple a of units to graduate. I got slightly screwed up hanging with Miguel's set last year, but I am out of that scene. I am graduating next week, and then I am going to the Police Academy. So I really am grateful to you for not ruining my record with that terrible thing I participated in."

"That's very noble of you. Am I supposed to salute or something?"

"No, you don't have to do anything. I am just trying to tell you that like you, I am living a different life now. No more gangbanging for me."

"I get it. You fix lattes for me now, and traffic tickets later"

Seth laughed with roguish charm. "You got that right. You can drive as fast as you want in this town." Then he again clasped my hands in his and asked, "Will you forgive me? I'd really do anything for you if you would."

"We'll see about that," I replied coyly. I looked at my watch and said unhappily "God, it's time for me to go back to that hellhole and talk to those idiots in the principal's office. I have to get my transcripts straightened out."

"What do you mean, I thought you were the academic superstar," he protested.

"I am. But I'm Alexandra Rivers now."

He nodded matter-of-factly. "Yeah, and the whole school knows it. You'd better let me come with you. No one will fuck around with you if I'm there. I just got my black belt, and believe me, I've kicked plenty of asses around here, including Miguel's and Jack's."

We began walking arm in arm back down Westgate to University High School.

"I thought you weren't hanging with Miguel and Jack anymore."

"I'm not," he replied, "but they didn't let go so easily."

"What are those two losers up to?" I asked warily.

"Last I heard, they were dealing crank and crack for the 18th Street Gang, working down near Venice. Except Miguel's been in jail: something about child abuse."

I cringed. "Is he still with Marta?"

"I think so. I heard she had a kid."

"Don't tell me Marta married that bastard."

"No, but they're still together sometimes. She works nearby, and she comes into my Starbucks sometimes, and complains about him, and talks about the kid. The kid's real cute."

I was filled with pity and worry for Marta. Sure, she had abandoned me, but she hadn't had a lot of luck, or choices, in her life, and in a sense, I had abandoned her too. Now she had even fewer choices: she was stranded in working class LA with little education and a child. I felt a need to reconnect with that broken strand of my emotional life. Marta had done so much to guide me towards realizing my own femininity.

"Do you have her number?" I inquired hopefully.

"I think she gave me a card." Seth thumbed through his bulging wallet as we walked toward Uni. "Here, keep it," he said. She was working as a hygienist for a nearby dentist. The card was marked with Marta's phone number in a neat blue cursive hand. "But make sure Miguel is still in the slam before you visit her: that hombre is completely wack. I don't think he would be real friendly to you."

"Believe me, the feeling is mutual," I said acidly.

"I'm not really high on his hit parade myself," Seth reminded me.

The Uni mob parted like the Red Sea before Seth and me. The hard core at the Principal's Office regarded Seth with wary respect. He whispered in my ear, "I'm upper class now, and I already kicked most of their asses."

The Assistant Principal grumpily complied with the name change order, and Alexander Rios was, as a technical matter, erased from the rolls of University High School's graduating class and replaced with Alexandra Rivers. There were a few stifled guffaws but no catcalls as we zigzagged through the crowd of students toking, snorting and popping on the front yard. But I felt more comfortable when I wrapped Seth's arm around my soft, slim arm, and I was thrilled when he kissed my forehead when I smiled up at his proud, protective countenance.

"Are you sure you don't mind holding hands with the now-notorious sex-change kid?" I asked.

"Are you kidding? I'm proud to be walking with the prettiest-ever graduate of Uni High."

Well, it wasn't quite true, but I did feel vindicated for all of my high school tribulations by the presence of my new guardian. Seth carried himself with an imposing physical presence. His embracing me in public legitimized my transformation while serving to exonerate him from the much-gossiped-about crime against me that he had participated in. It was a win-win, and if he was willing to request forgiveness, I was prepared to forgive.

When we got back to the Starbucks, I asked "Would you mind waiting here with me for my bus?"

"Absolutely not," he replied. "I'll give you a ride. Where are you going? How are you getting around?"

"I got a ride here from a friend, and my mom is letting me use her car because she's out of town for a few days, but I have to get to her place."

"I'm parked just down the block. Where's home?"

"It's way up Kenter north of Sunset, two buses away, but that's OK. You have to work."

"S'OK, I already switched shifts with somebody. Let's go."

Seth's aged Caravan was parked up a side street. It smelled of fast food and spilled coffee. "Hand-me-down from my sister," Seth explained apologetically. "I'm saving up for a new one, but Starbucks doesn't exactly make me rich."

"Don't worry, I'm used to poverty."

"Kenter Canyon isn't exactly the ghetto."

"Mom's money isn't my money. I'm on my own, and I've had a lot of expenses."

"You mean school?"

"I mean surgery."

"Are you OK?"

"Seth, you silly baby, I've had sex-change surgery."

He almost hit the Escalade in front of him.

"Wow, I thought it was just, like, those hormones changed the way you look. I mean, I've heard of sex changes but I never knew anybody who actually did it."

"I'm sorry if it freaks you out."

"It doesn't freak me out. I'm just surprised."

We rode in silence for a few long blocks, and when traffic permitted he shot me some quizzical looks. Finally, I broke the silence and chided him, "I'm sorry if you're disappointed that I'm not a she-male any more. I guess that's what you must have been into it for last year."

"No, that's not it, I just don't know what to say. I mean, I'm really happy for you: that you got what you wanted, to be a girl, and you came out really beautiful. And I'm glad, because it makes you more, like, normal, even though I was fine being with you before, but now I guess it's even better. But I was just having trouble figuring out how to say all of that, and now I'm worried I hurt your feelings."

"Well, you almost did. I can't stand being treated like a carnival freak," I said sadly.

"It's not that, it's just that you don't exactly make it easy to figure you out. You're like, a beautiful mystery woman. So help me figure out the mystery."

"OK, right after high school finished, I went straight to college. No one knew me there, so I started living as a girl part time, and then I got sick, and had to have an operation that ended up with me being, well, castrated."

"Oh, my God," he interjected.

"Don't worry, they got all of the cancer, but after that I decided that I should just go all of the way and have a full sex change. I mean, I was pretty sure I was going that way anyhow. So that's why I made the movie with Miguel: to get money for the operation. I had it in Thailand because it's cheaper there. But it's not done, and I'm on my way back to Thailand to get it finished. I had to stop here to get some paperwork done, and I'm leaving in a couple of days, and then I'll probably just disappear forever."

"Don't do that. I don't want to lose you again. Plus, you should check in on a few people, let them see how great you look. You got it, you might as well flaunt it," Seth said.

"You've got it too, Seth," I said with a warm smile and fluttering eyelashes.

"You're not mad at me again?"

"Just a simple misunderstanding: all is forgiven," I replied, as he pulled up in front of my mom's house.

"Wow, great place," Seth remarked admiringly.

"Do you want to look around?" I asked.

"Sure," he responded eagerly. "Are you sure it's OK?"

"Just my mom lives here, and she won't be back until late tonight."

I showed him around the house, ending in my mom's room. Now that dad had moved out, she had turned it shrine of middle-aged beauty obsession. She had neatly organized rows of cosmetics, perfumes, and creams: they were arrayed like an army in the battle against the oncoming assault of age on her still-youthful good looks.

Seth looked a little overwhelmed and asked to be excused to use my mom's bathroom. I took the opportunity to make myself comfortable on a loveseat in the sun-dappled alcove my mom loved for her reading. I nestled fetchingly among the satin pillows, kicked off my mules, and contemplated the delicious irony of the situation.

I needed a guardian angel for this dreadful homecoming, and Seth's regrets, and good intentions, seemed sincere. I made the fateful decision--I would become the seductress of my own rapist.

When Seth emerged and beheld the inviting spectacle before him his eyes lit up. He hastened to my side.

"Do you mind if I join you?" he asked carelessly.

"I don't mind what you do," I replied, throwing my arms and head back against the piled pillows, exposing my upturned breasts and lips to Seth's impulses. He settled next to me and gave my lips an exploratory kiss. My mouth yielded and my lips parted, and thus emboldened, Seth's lips crushed mine hungrily, seeking and finding in my lips an affirmation of his growing passion. After a long, breathtaking embrace, he said, "If this is forgiveness, then I should sin more often."

I smiled and said "Don't blow it, Seth. This is your chance for redemption," I replied, and tugged at his belt buckle. He slipped out of his Levi's and boxers, and I slid them to his ankles, thinking "Now he's my captive: all mine." I circled my thumb and forefinger around his gorgeous, thick cock and said "I think you've grown an inch since last year," with a big smile.

He fondled my breasts with admiration and responded, "That's nothing compared to you."

I looked up and gave him a worshipful glance as I took his cockhead into my mouth, and trilled my tongue against his meaty, thick organ. It was delicious--a familiar, yet barely remembered taste and shape. I bent over his lap, and bobbed my head on his quivering, stiff member. He responded with groans of pleasures and a pulsating groin as he filled my mouth and throat. With one hand entwined in my golden mane, and the other cupped my on my bobbing breast, he both guided me and yielded to my oral wizardry.

Guys think they are in charge when a girl is sucking them, but that's an illusion. And one's awareness of the masculine nature of that illusion and of the thrall of pleasure that imprisons the recipient of a good blowjob is one of the greatest joys of the sexual experience. I may have been rendered speechless by his cock, but he was rendered inarticulate--totally dumb--by the extremes of warm, wet pleasure I was giving him. At my pleasure, I could disengage, and murmur a word of appreciation, and work his cock with my hand; but he suffered during every moment that his rapture was interrupted.

These alternating interludes of sensual deprivation while I took a breath or licked my tired lips, followed by my renewed ministrations soon left him begging for more. At last, he begged, "Let me fuck you, I gotta cum inside you," but I shook my head: 'No,' and bore down on him with a renewed intensity that soon had him twitching spasmodically as he careened toward orgasm. I paused again, bringing him back once more from the brink.

"Oh, God, I can't stand it, ahhhh . . ." His words trailed off into an animal cry as I renewed the pleasuring of his cock. I looked up to see his eyes roll to white as his abdomen flailed against my face and his penis erupted in a volcanic explosion of hot cum. It pelted my mouth, nose, eyes and cheeks like hot rain, as I kept my face close to the spurting head, actually, I must confess, to keep his jism from ruining my hair and sweater.

Remembering the fresh upholstery of mom's loveseat, I squeezed his balls to moisten my lips with the last, stubborn droplets; he groaned heavily and passed out on my mom's pillows.

I swabbed my face and his tummy with a Kleenex, and then I got up and looked in my mom's make-up mirror. My face was smeared with sweat and semen and my cheeks were flushed, but I felt wonderful--stimulated and empowered. Reflected in the contoured mirror, poor Seth looked like he had nearly died: a sex flush spread over his Nordic skin from his nipples outwards, and his mouth was agape as he snored in post-orgasmic slumber.

I wiped my face with my mom's make-up cloths, and used her ample supply of cosmetics to refresh my make-up. Her selections was perfect for me; Mom and I have similar skin tones. I spritzed my hair with a costly product from Georgette, flossed, brushed and gargled, put on fresh gloss, and looked better than ever in ten minutes. That's another thing I love about oral sex--the quick turnaround.

Seth came back to his senses, and said dreamily, "That was fantastic, you are incredible, like better than I ever dreamed of."

"Better than your girlfriends?"

"Don't have one."

"Don't tell me you've been saving yourself for me," I said archly.

"I've been with a few of the latte ladies after work, but nothing serious," he replied earnestly.

"That's OK, I don't have time for serious."

"That's not what I meant. I mean not serious about them. You're different," he rambled.

"Don't remind me, please," I rejoined sharply.

"I mean we could be serious, if you want," he said, flustered.

"That's very sweet of you, Seth, but don't give up your latte ladies. I don't live here, and . . ."

"Latte? Omigod," Seth interrupted me. "Is it already 5:00? I am so in trouble," Seth panicked.

"Time flies when you're having sex," I laughed. Seth pulled on his clothes and kissed me as he ran to his car, shouting "Can I see you later?"

"Come over after your shift. I'll be out but back later: I need to run some errands." I wasn't looking forward to spending a night by myself. After the crowded squalor of Henenpin Avenue, the upper reaches of Brentwood were spookily quiet.

As soon as he was gone I dialed Marta. She answered with the plaintive cries of an infant in the background."

"Hi Marta, this is, well, I used to be Alex Rios, from Uni. Do you remember me?"

"Of course, and I've heard all about you from that little bitch Fabiola. She just couldn't wait to tell everyone. So you've become the beautiful lady we dreamed you'd become."

"Well, maybe not that beautiful. Would you like to see for yourself?"

"For sure, but I am a fat, ugly mama. You must promise not to laugh at me."

"I believe you're a mama, 'cuz I hear a baby, but I don't believe fat and ugly," I replied.

"That's all I hear from Miguel," Marta groaned.

"When can I come see your baby?" I said.

"Hurry over now, I was just getting ready to feed her and put her down for her nap. I want you to see her while she's still up."

"Great, where to?"

She gave me address near Palms and Sawtelle, only seven miles from my leafy hillside, but a world apart. I hopped in my mom's Explorer and drove south toward Marta's squalid tenement world.

The barrios and ghettos of L.A. don't stand out the same way the poor neighborhoods do in Chicago or Minneapolis. In L.A., the barrio stretches all over, and has the same pastel paints and palms as more prosperous regions. L.A.'s barrios are states of mind, culture, and class, more than a district. It was the self-defeating and self-destructive minds of Miguel and his gang that set them apart from the rest of his culture and from me. We both knew our respective destinies from the day we met in ninth grade, and he had hated me ever since.

Girls like Marta and guys like Seth were drawn toward the bad-boy, macho mystique surrounding charismatic losers like Miguel and were turned off by the superior, standoffish attitudes that my clique had used to defend itself against our rougher classmates. Thus, the forces of evil always triumphed at Uni High. And thus had the emotional connection I had forged with Marta been smashed. Though we had shared the same terrible night the year before, we still lived in worlds apart: I wondered if Marta would accept the new me.

Perhaps, I mused, she would if only I could open up, and give Marta a chance to get to know me as I really am. My sex change had transformed me from a supercilious upper class boy to an oppressed but determined girl: as a transgender, I was disadvantaged much as she had been. Even though we had always been different, I had once found and then lost a common ground with Marta. Earlier that day, I had found myself relating easily with Seth. I hoped I could find common ground again with Marta, and tie up that loose end from my last year in high school.

She lived in a dirty walkup whose stairs were covered by graffiti that had merged into an incoherent palimpsest of color. I knocked on the tattered screen door and it rattled in its frame. She approached, barefoot, babe in arms, but as beautiful as ever. She swung the child to her other hip and met my embrace.

"My God, Alex, you are beautiful, like Paulina!" She related me to her favorite pop star.

"And you still look like JLo," I said, returning the compliment. "And who is this?"

"This is my Alyssa, and she is a hungry girl. Will you help me feed her? OK, then you can hold her, while I get her some pears." Marta thrust Alyssa into my unpracticed arms, and I held her awkwardly, expecting a howl, or a spattering of throw-up at any moment. But Alyssa instead greeted me with a smile, a gurgle and a quizzical look from her pale blue eyes. I'm usually terrified of holding babies, and they usually greet me with howls of anguish, but Alyssa was like a happy, blond angel.

"Who do you think she looks like?" I asked nonchalantly.

"Do you want me to tell you my secret?" Marta responded, spooning strained pears into Alyssa's eager mouth.

"Um, sure. But tell me first what's going on with Miguel." I didn't want Miguel to walk in on us again, and suffer the brutal consequences.

"That pig," she spat. "I leave her with him for two hours, to go to a class for my job, and she ends up in the ER. The asshole beat her when she cried, and look at this." There were vivid, purple bruises on Alyssa's back and legs.

"When was this?" I cried.

"Last week. The nurses reported him and the cops hauled him off to jail, but now the stupid judge has already let him out. He has to take a parenting class," she said mockingly. "That's all, even though he was already on probation for selling drugs. I'm sure that's where he is now, on the street, selling drugs."

"Was he on drugs when he did this?"

"Maybe, I don't know. But I think he hates Alyssa. He thinks she's not his."

"Well, you would know best, Marta."

"And that's my secret. Do you want to know?"

"Sure, tell me. I won't tell a soul."

"She's mine and yours," Marta confided.

My blood roared in my ears, and my eyes were blinded with red flashes. My senses reeled, and recollections of my seemingly futile escapades with Marta came and went like phantoms in a nightmare. "How could I, I mean, . . . we, I mean . . . did we, do you remember?"

"I just remember messing around and having fun, I don't think you really fucked me, but who knows, I got kind of loaded back in those days." She smiled at the recollection. "But Miguel is getting the ideas. He keeps asking me, who else, who are the other guys, and that's the problem. It was only you and him. Who do you think she look like?" She plopped the well-fed, but gooey-faced Alyssa in my lap, and she nuzzled her pear-smeared cheeks on my until-then pristine sweater.

I've always thought all babies looked alike, like little old bald men, but at six months Alyssa's hair had grown to a wispy platinum crown. Her wide-set eyes and prominent cheekbones framed pale, full lips, and a slightly aquiline nose: she looked like me, but with a trace of Marta's olive complexion. She was a stunningly beautiful baby. I estimated her age and added nine months, counted backwards to Marta's and my second date, and in a moment I knew she was mine.

"We'll do DNA tests, that will rule Miguel out. I'll hire some lawyers to sue to determine paternity, prove that it's me, and then no more Miguel.

"It's not going to be that easy, if we admit that she's yours and mine. Miguel hates you, and he's crazy violent. No fucking parenting class is going to keep that loco from harming Alyssa if he figures out she's yours for sure."

Now, a burning rage built within me. That sneering, pathetic gangster would never hurt my baby. I would crush him: but how? Turn Seth loose on him? Set the cops after him?

"Did you say Miguel's dealing drugs?"

"I think so. On Ocean, near Washington, down by the Marina."

"We'll set him up for a bust."

"Forget it, the idiot judges will just give him another free pass like the parenting class. He's an at-risk youth," she said sardonically. "I'm so worried about Alyssa, that he's going to hurt her, or me," Marta said with a sob. "Come, sit with me while I nurse her."

Marta sat on a tattered, grimy couch and unbuttoned her blouse. Her nut-brown breast was full, but still exquisitely shapely, and her luscious aureole was distended with the pressure of her milk. Alyssa responded eagerly to the proffered nipple and quickly suckled herself into an almost drunken slumber. Marta carried her to her crib and returned her to me. She sat next to me and said, "You look so nice and pretty, but I'm so sorry about your sweater. Let me get something to clean it."

I gently grabbed her arm and pulled her back to me. "That's OK, I'll wear it with pride. After all, I'm one of the moms."

We both giggled at my joke, but she insisted, "It's such a pretty top, let me soak it."

"OK," I said, and pulled it over my head, exposing my dainty Victoria's underwire bra.

She goggled at the sight of my half-exposed breasts. "Oh my, yours are real," she exclaimed. "You're really lovely," she said as she ministered to my stained top. "You are just like a real girl."

"I'm pretty much like you all over," I said coyly.

"That pig Miguel told me all about that movie you made with him, like it made him such a big man," she spat. "But he called you a she-male."

"Not any more," I confided. Her jaw dropped in disbelief. "Do you want me to show you?" She nodded excitedly.

"Let's dress up in some of my nighties. Like before."

"Let's hope it's not exactly like before. You're sure you're not expecting Miguel, aren't you?"

"No, he had to agree to a TRO to get out of jail. Besides, he and his punk friend Jack will be out dealing until at least ten, and then they'll stay out smoking or snorting their profits all night."

I slipped off my shoes, slid off my skirt, popped off my bra, and then shimmied out of my panties. Marta's eyes grew wider, and her smile broader, with each step of my disrobing.

"I feel like my eyes are tricking me. Can I touch you, to prove what I am seeing?" she asked.

"Definitely, wherever you want."

She traced her hands over the rounded contours of my body, cooing with astonishment when she reached the most notable landmarks: my conical, upturned breasts, topped with silver-dollar-sized, pink areolae, the curve of my waist into my pelvis, the tight, rounded tush, and my silky mons, and my smooth, tight labia.

"Mmm, you are fabulous. Miguel is a lying pig."

"I made some changes since he saw me last."

"I like your changes. You got even better. Not me, I just got old and fat," she sighed.

"No, don't say that. That tiny bit of nursing weight just makes you more beautiful. You look wonderful, even prettier than before. But let me see you." I pulled at the buttons of her shirt and the drawstring of her sweat pants. She slipped out of her panties, and popped off her nursing bra. Her breasts were engorged with milk to a size double-D, which made her appear zaftig in her baggy, unflattering clothes. Naked, it was obvious that from the boobs down, she had regained her former, fabulous figure. With her generous breasts increased a size, she looked spectacular, like a Latin Barbie, with a single, hideous flaw: Miguel's name, tattooed inside a rococo heart on her left breast.

When she saw my horrified stare, she covered it and cried, "He made me do it, so that no one else could touch me without knowing they were on his turf: like I'm a wall for his fucking gang tags. I hate him!"

She started to cry, but I kissed her and whispered "Don't worry, one tiny flaw makes me only appreciate the rest of your beauty more."

"You were a funny, cute boy, but I like you even more now that you're a girl. I think I must be bi or something," Marta said.

"You're still attracted to me?"

"More than ever," Marta said, offering me her lips. I started to kiss them, and as we reclined on the couch, I marveled that my attraction to Marta had intensified in our year apart. A year ago, I had discovered my feminine persona while I explored her sexuality; now, I wanted nothing more than to retrace that path from the vantage point of a girl.

As my breasts grazed her nipples, a smile of delight graced her lips, and she whispered, "That feels perfect." She returned my kiss with joyful passion. "God, this feels so naughty, but so good. You are even sexier as a girl."

Each of our tongues danced a tango with the other's, and my hands cupped her milk-engorged breasts as she stroked my smaller boobs.

She winced as I fondled her, and Marta explained "I'm making too much milk, more than Alyssa wants. But I hate pumping. Do you want to try it?" I nodded excitedly, and with a practiced hand, she guided my mouth to her swollen nipple as if I were her babe in arms.

I'm not a big fan of dairy in my regular diet: it's full of calories and fats, and it gives me a stuffy nose and a tummyache. But I'd make an exception for breast milk. It's sweet, warm and fragrant, and the sensation of these precious droplets squirting from the warm breast of a beloved into your suctioning mouth creates a most erotic sensation of well-being and arousal: as if you were a highly sexualized infant.

That I was doing this with a girl who, in a sense, had been present at my own rebirth as a girl, and who had now given birth to my own child, created dissonance between irresistible sexual desire and overwhelming feelings of dependence and protectiveness. I couldn't articulate the tangled web of feelings that I had for Marta, so I simplified it all for her by declaring, "I really love you."

She responded without hesitation, "I have always loved you. I'll be so happy if Alyssa is yours and not Miguel's."

"I'll be happy when neither of you are Miguel's."

"I wish I could just forget about him," Marta answered, as we embraced, and my milky lips met hers again.

Her hands ventured to stomach, and traced the fading scar from one of my surgeries. "Does that hurt?" she asked. I shook my head. "Can I touch you down there?" I nodded, and her slid over my bare mons, her fingers gently stroked my labia, and she carefully spread them and deftly explored my pussy. She found my clitoris, and despite her care, I flinched from the overwhelming sensation when she touched me. "So sensitive," she noted, as she passed over my urethra and entered my vagina. "Mmm, you are nice and wet. Can you have orgasms?"

I nodded again, "Sometimes. My body is still learning."

"I could teach you. Miguel is away so much I get a lot of practice making myself cum," Marta said ashamedly.

I got up and turned to lie the other way: mouth to her mons, and hers to mine. The aroma of her fecund body filled my senses: they were richer and sharper than Tran's: Marta was redolent of life itself, tangy and complex. As I probed her out and inner labia, the taste and aroma became more refined, as her inner juices flowed with her growing excitement.

I could tell Marta was inexperienced in lovemaking with girls, especially one like me, but she was keenly attuned to her sense of my response. I did not need to tell her where Sanguan had concentrated nerves he had dissected from my penis: the undulations of my thighs when she licked the area around my vaginal opening revealed to her my hot spot. Soon I was overcome with repeating, involuntary spasms of pleasure, and I felt warm floods cascading inside me. Once I started, I could not stop: as each orgasm plateau'ed, it led to the next peak of pleasure.

Marta utterly possessed my body, much as I had possessed Seth with my lips earlier that day. I let my own ecstasy flow from my body, through my lips, into her body: I licked, breathed, and sucked at her clitoris and vagina, trying to revive it from months of Miguel's brutality and negligence.

My body was exhausted, and my lips and tongue were sore when finally her rhythms began to quicken, then grow stronger. Her hips thrust madly against my lips, and her lips and tongue abandoned their efforts and let go a cry of anguished release. A flood of hot liquid rewarded my exhausted mouth. I rose again, and lay back down face-to-face. We kissed, and my special flavor mingled with hers in our mouths.

"Mmm, delicioso!" Marta said.

"That was yummy. I think you taught me how to cum," I giggled.

"You're an 'A' student, as usual. How many times?" she asked.

"I dunno, I lost count. It's the way the surgeon wired me in the surgery. Now that the nerves are all reconnecting, once I start, I can't stop."

"You are so lucky," she said. "Better than nature!"

"Not entirely. Put your finger inside me." Her index finger slid easily to the second knuckle, and then pressed up against my inner ring of scar tissue. "Careful," I gasped.

"Caramba! That's too tight! What's wrong?"

"My surgery needs a second stage, to break that ring and to build inner labia. Until then, vaginal sex is a no-no."

"Poor baby! And you are so very sexy. It must be hard for you."

I nodded. "God, what I have to do to get guys off."

"But you made me remember how to get off. Oh my God, it's been months," she sighed. "That pig had made it so I couldn't cum, I hated sex with him so."

"How are we going to keep him away from you and Alyssa?"

"I don't know, that TRO is just pissing him off. I'm really worried. And you being back will just remind him about us, his suspicions about Alyssa . . ."

"He thinks she's ours?" I asked in horror.

"Maybe. That night after he beat her, he called her a bastard. He always calls me a whore. He never has let me forget that awful night and he has never forgotten you. Now that you are back I am worried for you and worried for Alyssa."

"You think he knows?" I asked again.

"It was OK when she was born; her hair was dark and her eyes were black. Then the black hair fell out, and it's coming back blond. And her black eyes faded to and are turning blue. Now, he's suspicious, and acts like he hates her and me. He's crazy, not stupid. If he doesn't know now, he'll know soon."

A cunning, angry animal awoke inside me. A she-wolf was born within me: a ruthless but selfless enemy to all threats to my beautiful blond cub and her mother.

Miguel must be destroyed. I worked backwards from that conclusion. He was strong, but had a weakness: his rage towards me, which was tinged with a craving to debase me sexually. With that weakness, I could snare him and Jack. I focused all of my intellect, instinct and learning and formulated a plan.

"I have to go now, Marta. Whatever happens, remember I love you and Alyssa more than my own life." I scribbled Tran's number at her cousin's house in Long Beach. "If something happens to me, tell her who you and Alyssa are, and tell her what happened. She's a friend."

"What are you doing?" Marta asked.

"I have to finish it with Miguel. For keeps, this time."

"He'll hurt you," she warned me.

"But I'll stop him from hurting you. Where will I find him?"

"By now, on Lincoln, down near the park, just north of Venice. He's got Jack dealing crack and ice to the suits driving past in their SUV's."

I dressed, blew out my hair, freshened my makeup from Marta's meager supply, and put on my still-damp top. With love-swollen lips I kissed the slumbering Alyssa on her wayward blond curls, and kissed Marta good-bye. Then I prepared for the drive to confront my hateful nemesis, Miguel.

"Be careful, my love," she said as I left her tiny apartment.

"I will," I promised. But as I left her, I was already certain that to ensure the safety of my baby and her birth mother I must necessarily put myself in harm's way.

I stopped at the nearest Good Guy's and picked up an inconspicuous FireWire webcam, a wireless mike and a pack of blank DVD's for my iBook. The miniature color video camera would be perfect for recording interviews with my katoey subjects, which I would burn onto disk live with the iBook's internal read/write DVD drive. And incidentally, my purchases would also be perfect for my mission tonight.

As I drove up the hills toward my mom's house, I thought back on the heated discussion that I had had in Epstein's law seminar on police entrapment. Epstein had mused whether the proliferation miniature recording devices and surveillance cameras had made us into a de facto police state, and wondered whether it wasn't time to extend the law of entrapment to private behavior. I was the only one who had joined him in confronting the chorus of heated opposition to this proposition, and he had been forced to admit that this was a rule to be made in a future case. I would have objected then to the plan that I was laying now, but I was faced with the most extreme exigency: defending the life my own helpless infant--a precious, irreplaceable life.

I had dreamed that some day technology might make it possible for male-to-female transsexuals to bear children. Now fortune had given me a gift that I could never hope to recreate. I would not, I must not, I could not do otherwise but defend my own flesh and blood to the very last drop of my own blood; without any consideration for my own life or safety, and certainly without any regard for ethical cavils such as thoughts of entrapment.

I powered up the iBook after attaching the webcam with a long FireWire cable. I set the iBook on mom's loveseat, where I could watch the picture as I worked atop a stepladder I'd put by one of the drapes. I moved the webcam to and fro until I got a good, clear view of my mother's bed in the iBook's monitor, then I made the webcam fast atop a curtain rod with double-sided tape. Viewed from the floor, all of the webcam but its little black stalk and lens was out of sight. I hid the wireless mike in the jumble of my mother's night table and started recording.

Perhaps it was the sight of the loveseat under my iBook, perhaps just chance, but the memory of my tryst with Seth came unbidden into my mind. I walked around the around the bed repeating things Seth and I had said to each other earlier that day while shooting the camera flirty looks. Then I walked over to my iBook and watched myself in the monitor. I adjusted camera gain and focus and mixed the sound levels--the camera mike needed more gain than the wireless mike, I realized quickly.

I put my mom's stepladder and tools away. My camera and sound checks were complete. I folded the iBook and stashed it behind the the puddled drapes. I gave the room a last look for things out of place.] Then I descended to the wild streets of Mar Vista and my rendezvous with evil.

Lucille Street had only recently been adorned by the spray-painted 666's, XVIII's and 18's that mark the turf of the 18th Street Gang. It had the typical mix of fading, pastel bungalows and spindly two-story apartments. Perhaps only months ago, neighbors here would have gathered in conversational knots in the pink gloaming of a June sunset, but now they were banished or in hiding. The street was ruled by a shadowy collection of young men attired in baggy Oakland Raiders attire.

As I eased my mom's well-cared-for Explorer onto Lucille, I felt the instant attention of a score of suspicious eyes, all looking to make a sale or a score from me. I ignored the hostile faces as best I could as I scanned the street for Miguel and Jack. They had installed themselves on a shabby, discarded sofa on the litter-strewn, threadbare parkway between the sidewalk and street. Miguel rose from his sleazy place of business and approached my open window. He wore a drug-addled grin and laid down a patter like a carnie barker: "Nickel bag or dime, I'll make you feel fine."

"Miguel, you've certainly fallen in the world. What happened to your brilliant movie career?" I asked snidely.

"'Zat you, Rios? Fabiola tole me you were back, acking like the queen bitch of the principal's office, hanging with that asshole Seth. Did ja let him fuck ya? Fuck your ass, like old days? Come on, make a movie with me and Jack right now." He pulled at my door, but I had set the kiddie locks; he yanked at it fruitlessly. He grabbed the luggage rack and pulled himself up onto the running board to be able to confront me face-to-face.

"Forget it, Miguel. Like Pavel told me, you'll never make another porn unless they get you a body double to substitute for your puny, soft cock!"

He lunged for me, enraged, but I hit the gas and swerved toward a dead, stick-like tree that the city, ever optimistic, had sacrificed to beautify this forlorn block. It brushed him; he yelped and let go, tumbling ignominiously in the dust. I saw him stagger to his feet and shake his fist, screaming unheard expletives. I hung a U-turn and headed back in the other direction.

I knew that Miguel was well experienced in follow-home burglaries. I had given him a motive and I needed to give him an opportunity to pull another. As I drove north on Lincoln I noticed a pair of headlights persistently trailing me, gunning through red lights to keep pace. I jogged onto the 10 east for a mile to Bundy, and noticed the headlights replicated my eccentric shortcut: Miguel had me in his sights. My heart skipped a beat with excitement at my success, and in trepidation of the danger in my plan.

I rehearsed my scheme. Let them follow me to my mom's house. I would enter and lock the front door, then retire to my mom's bedroom and open the French doors to the back lawn. The side gate was unlocked. They would open it and circle around to the back of the house looking for the easy way in. They would find their entry through the French doors to my mom's bedroom, left all too conveniently ajar, and they would spring my trap.

I pulled up my driveway and parked. I saw the headlights swerve to the curb, stop, and shut off. I went to my mom's room, initialized the camcorder, checked a/v recording quality and speed, stashed the iBook, then stripped and jumped into the shower. The hot spray and steam cleared my head and calmed my racing heart: I rehearsed my lines of surprise, outrage and dismay at the sight of my supposedly unexpected, but definitely unwelcome visitors.

I pressed my ear to the door, listening for their rasping whispers, but all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart. I had entertained rather sexy rape fantasies as a kid, but after all that I had experienced in my own brief life as a girl and all that I had heard in my sex-worker studies, I knew that rape was mostly cruelty and humiliation, not sex. In my case Miguel would take special care to maximize both of the former.

My hand hesitated on the door handle: I had to sacrifice myself to protect Alyssa, my precious baby, from this beast. I opened the door.

Miguel was bent over a night table, a rolled bill jammed in his nose as he made a nasal whistling. He looked up and exclaimed "Yah, I like that!"

"Dealers aren't supposed to consume their own wares," I said sharply. "And you are not supposed to be here. Get out now, or I'll call the police."

"Shut the fuck up, bicha, drop your towel and lie down on the bed! Now!"

"Brilliant thinking, Miguel, anteing up on your child-beating rap with a sexual assault. Say, you could be the bicha then, in Folsom! Now get out and I'll forget about your breaking and entering."

He walked over, shoved his face into mine, and snarled "You forgot about our movie. Who's going to believe that the big pornstar didn't want to make a sequel with her co-star?"

He pulled my towel down and pushed me onto the bed as Jack finished snorting his lines loudly.

I looked up to observe Miguel's initial shock transmuting into a twisted smirk. "Look here, cuz, Rios has grown a pussy and tits, and he lost that tiny cock."

Jack joined Miguel in staring at my naked splendor. "Well fuck me!" Jack exclaimed.

"Fuck you? I'm gonna fuck her instead."

"You can't," I said, and they both doubled up in mock laughter. "I mean, I can't. It's not finished."

Miguel pulled my legs apart, and inspected me like he was checking the underside of a car. He sniffed at me ostentatiously, and then said, "Looks to me like you could use and oil change, and I got just the dipstick for you."

"No, please, I'm too narrow inside!"

Miguel snarled, jumped atop me and shoved his fetid, naked groin in my face. "You mean too narrow for this puny, soft cock. Suck it, you cunt!" he yelled, grabbing my head and forcing my lips over his penis. He yanked my head in the way I really hate, and I tried to avoid scraping his reedy cock with my teeth while denying him the pleasures of a consensual blow job. But it didn't matter: the sensation of degrading and punishing me was enough to make him get hard.

Miguel's body had deteriorated from the wiry specimen I had known. His muscles had atrophied, his skin looked pasty, and it was covered with elaborate tattoos: a devil's head, emblazoned with the slogan "Born to Be Bad" on his stomach; a counterpart to the tattoo that he had forced on Marta; and, of course, 666's, XVIII's, and ordinary 18's like the ones I had seen on Lucille Street. His once striking face had begun to whither, showing the swift erosion brought by constant coke use; his drugging had given him new acne scars atop his older field of pockmarks.

As he got ready to mount me, I heard Jack say, "Dincha tell me that we should use condoms when were rapin'?"

Miguel laughed and said, "Remember, it's not a rape, stupid. It's a repeat!" Then his cock found my vaginal opening and he rammed it in.

He was small enough so that my outer vagina, the part that had been fashioned from my own penile skin, was just able to accommodate him. But he banged against my inner ring, and I gasped and my body shuddered reflexively. "What the fuck is that, your cherry?" I was hurt speechless and averted my eyes; he slapped me and said, "I'm talking to you bitch. Whaddya got, a two-inch pussy?"

"I told you I'm not done inside," I moaned.

He withdrew his cock, saying, "Jack, find me something to lube her up with. I gotta check this out." He hissed in my ear, "I'm gonna show you how I'm gonna fuck up the whore and your bastard baby." I started to protest, but he silenced me with a stinging slap.

Jack returned with a tube of my mom's face cream, and Miguel stuffed the end in my vagina and squeezed a load of the product inside. The cool, silky moisturizer filled me and he began stabbing his finger in and out of my vagina. When he reached the ring of scar tissue, he pushed through and I twitched in agony. As he ran his finger back and forth through my inner wound he said, "That's some cherry you got for me to pop."

As he bent over me, my body involuntarily rebelled, as if it were recalling the torment that Alec's smaller tool had inflicted. I clamped my slender thighs and tried to sit up, but Miguel forced my legs apart. He ordered Jack, "Hold her arms down."

Jack knelt over my head, pinning my arms to the bed under his knees. "Great idea, Miguel. Now she can suck me while you're doing her pussy." He dangled his cock into my mouth. It reminded me alarmingly how much larger his cock was than Miguel's.

Miguel smeared his cock with excess face cream and plunged inside me. This time, he slid in easily to the taut well of pain within me, and then pushed through it into my deepest recesses, to the inner sanctum where, until then, only the tentative, careful probing of my smallest stent had reached. I felt as though a spear had impaled me from below.

"Whoo, hee," I heard Miguel shout with glee. "That's what I call a tight pussy." The ring snapped shut as his cock head retracted past it, but he instantly reversed course and rammed back through, unleashing a fresh jolt of agony.

The pain was so intense I started to dissociate. I lapsed into fantasy. I was the Gallic wife of a Roman centurion, captured as a child in an old battle, and taken as his field wife. Now, my hero was fallen on the battlefield, and I was being turned out--raped-- with a spear by one of Attila's horde in a hideous victory ritual. I cried out in primal anguish, but all Miguel said was, "Shut the fuck up," and covered my face with a pillow.

Now the sounds of my ordeal were muffled, and I could not breathe. I shook my head furiously, trying to find air pockets in the folds of the pillow pressed over my face and lips. God, I thought, they are going to suffocate me. I would die and never experience the joy of holding Alyssa, the one for whom I had made this sacrifice.

Now, in my delirium, the agony of Miguel's repeated breaches of my ring became the pangs of her birth. Like a nineteenth century bride, I would die in this childbirth, and my baby would become an orphan.

Just as I felt my life begin to spiral away into oblivion, the pressure of the suffocating pillow relaxed. My arms were freed and then Miguel's hateful cock ripped past the ring and did not re-enter.

As the red spots before my eyes cleared, I saw one figure grabbing a pile of clothes and running while two others struggled in hand-to-hand combat. I heard the snap of bone and a howl of pain, and one of the fighters collapsed to the floor as the other ran out in pursuit of the first fugitive. Then, from the yard, I heard an angry shout, followed by the "pop, pop, pop" of a small-caliber weapon.

I staggered to my feet, and looked at the crumpled body of Jack on the floor, still howling with pain. The lower part of his left leg was hideously askew below the knee. He looked up at me and begged, "Help me," but I pulled a sheet around me to see what horrors awaited me in the yard.

Near the fence I saw another crumpled body. It was Seth. I ran to him, cradled his limp head in my arms, and asked, "Are you hurt?"

In a soft whisper, he answered, "Sorry, so sorry." Then life faded forever from his peaceful face. I set him down gently and ran to the fence. I heard the sound of footsteps crashing through the brush toward the street that wound down the hillside. It was Miguel, I felt sure, making his escape.

I ran to the phone, called 911, and after an infuriating wait I reported to the operator, "There's been a break-in and a shooting, send police and ambulances, one of the perps is still here, hurt."

The operator reacted with surreal calm: just another Saturday night incident in L.A. When I hung up with her, I noticed the light flashing on my mom's message machine. I rolled back the tape and played the message. It was Seth. "Hi, I guess you're not there yet. It's about 10:30, my shift finishes at 11:00, so I guess I just stop by and see you. I missed you all evening. I can't wait to see you again. Bye."

I let out a scream and broke into tears. I cried from a sense of loss at the innocence and yearning in his last words to me. I hated myself for having failed to check the message machine, and for having failed to warn him away from the scene of my dangerous staged confrontation with Miguel.

I went outside and covered his body with my mom's duvet. I bent down to kiss his lips, still pursed in the last smile that he gave me as he apologized and died. I kissed his lips with lips wet with tears. I felt that his lips were beginning to cool in the marine fog as it rolled over the hilltops of Brentwood, extinguishing the stars from above, one by one. It was a lousy night to have died, I thought grimly.

I returned to the bedroom to see Jack dragging his broken leg and whimpering as he attempted a pathetic exit. "Help me," he begged pathetically.

"Help you with what? Assisted suicide? Too good for you, Jack." I heard sirens echoing in the canyon below. "It's too late, anyhow. You're toast."

"Miguel told me you were into it; that you were hot for him, and you wanted us."

"Oh right, is that why you had to hold me down while he raped me?"

"I don't remember that," Jack said, feigning innocence. "You were getting off on it. You wanted us to do you from both ends."

"Yea, right. Then how do you explain Seth being dead in the back yard?" I said sarcastically.

"He's dead? Oh, shit. Who did that?"

"You know Miguel did it. You're lying," I said bitterly. "You'd better not lie to the cops. You'll just dig your grave even deeper."

"It must have been self-defense. Seth got pissed when he saw you were doing us, and did this kung fu job on my leg, and Miguel just ran, and when Miguel saw him coming, he must have gotten scared, and used his protection."

"You know you're lying, Jack."

"Well, we'll see who they believe, Ms. Trannie porno whore, or me, the striving at-risk youth."

"Then why bother trying to escape?" I asked. "Just wait here for the police to vindicate you. And why did Miguel run?"

I let that question hang a moment, and then a horrible answer struck me. Miguel was on his way to Marta and Alyssa. The second kills were always much easier than the first.

I dialed Marta, drumming my fingers as the phone rang. Marta answered in a hushed tone.

"Hi Marta, it's Alexandra. Listen to me carefully. You have to get Alyssa and leave your apartment right now. Do you understand?"

"Oh, no, I just got her to sleep. Later." She was half-asleep herself.

"Later is no good. Listen, Miguel was just here. He attacked me, and when Seth tried to stop him, Miguel killed him. Do you understand me?"

Marta seemed confused. "Where are you?"

"I am at my mom's house. You have to come here right now, the police will be here soon and you and Alyssa will be safe here. I am afraid Miguel will come for you and Alyssa. He said some things tonight. I am afraid for you, and now that he's killed once, he has nothing to lose."

"What do you mean, killed once."

"Marta, Miguel raped me and then he murdered Seth. You and Alyssa are in great danger."

The repetition of this news roused her from her reverie. "Are you sure he's coming after us?" she asked in a panic.

"I don't know, but after what's happened tonight, I don't want to take any more chances. Don't even pack, just come, OK?" I gave her directions to my mom's, and then I grabbed some clothes from my mom's closet. I resisted the temptation to shower off the grime that Miguel had pawed over me or to raid her medicine cabinet for drugs to calm my frazzled nerves.

When I took off the sheet in which I had wrapped myself, I noticed that it was spotted with blood. I felt between my legs, and discovered to my horror that blood was oozing from my battered vagina. I wondered whether, after all my preparations and sacrifices, Dr. Sanguan would be able to operate on my bloody vagina.

I started to feel sorry for myself, but then I recalled that this sacrifice had been offered to achieve a greater good than my sexual functionality: it was to preserve the blessing that fortune had given me in Alyssa, a child of my own flesh. I calmed myself, and heard the doorbell buzzing. I told Jack, "Wait right here so you can explain yourself to the police," and then answered the front door.

Detective Sandra Escobar introduced herself and asked to come in. "Did you call in the report?" she asked.

I nodded yes, and told her, "There's a boy with a broken leg in my mom's room downstairs who was one of the two who attacked me. There's a dead boy in the back yard who had tried to help me. The third boy, the killer, ran away, but he had a car parked about four houses down the hill."

She turned and squinted into the dark, and said "It's gone."

"He's probably headed towards an apartment at Palms and Sawtelle, at ____ Sawtelle, unit _, to kill his girlfriend and her baby. I warned her to leave and come here, but he followed me home and now I'm afraid he'll follow her."

"Well that would be just perfect," Escobar said, "Because we're here."

"I'm afraid he'll get there first, or shoot her while she's driving," I said.

"You just have to trust us to do our jobs. Are you OK?"

"The one who escaped and the one with the broken leg were raping me, when the dead boy came in. Then there was a fight. I'm not sure what happened exactly. Now I'm bleeding a little down there."

"I have to send you to an ER for a rape kit," she said.

"But I need to wait for my friend. And can you please send a patrol car to that apartment at Palms and Sawtelle."

"Show me around here," she said, and we walked downstairs as the first ambulance pulled up.

I showed her the gate and Jack's body lying near the fence. "I covered him with the quilt, I don't know why," I said with a sob. I pointed down the steep defile through which I had heard Miguel run. I pointed out the French doors, and admitted "I left them open. My mom had been out of town for a few days, and it was stuffy in here." The patrol officers had Jack handcuffed and were talking. "They're hearing a tale from him," I said bitterly.

"We always do," she replied. I showed her the bloody sheet and the pillow smudged with my makeup, which she tagged and put in evidence bags. I played the tape on the message machine, and she tagged and bagged that too. Then, after the patrol officers had taken Jack away, I confided, "There's one more thing," and pulled the iBook from its hiding place. "There's a recording of the whole thing on this."

Escobar stared at me with a look of incredulity and suspicion. I explained: "Seth--he's the dead boy who you hear on the message machine--was coming to see me and I'm leaving to study overseas in a couple of days. So I was going to put on my sexiest lingerie and make him a special good-bye present to remember me by, just in case his memory of me started to fade," I fibbed. Escobar and I watched an image of us talking in a Quicktime window on the iBook's screen.

She rolled her eyes. "You kids nowadays! Even if we'd had this technology, I would never have thought of doing that. So this was recording the whole time?" I nodded. "Then we'll have to take this too. And the camera and microphones."

"I need it back in a few days for my trip," I said.

"Our computer geeks just take an image of the hard drive and give it back. Now shut it off, please." I terminated the application and powered down the machine. Now there were more investigators descending on the scene. Escobar told me "I have to supervise here, but we'll take care of your friend when she shows up."

A patrol officer drove me down to Santa Monica UCLA hospital's ER and turned me over to their rape unit. Leah Rodriguez, a plump, brusque young nurse, took my vitals and a blood sample, and then said, "I'm sorry, but you have to disrobe for this and lie down in the stirrups."

"I know, unfortunately."

She gave me a sympathetic smile. "You'd be surprised how many repeat customers we get in here. Then you know the routine. First, I need to individually bag each article of your clothing."

"When it all happened, I had just gotten out of the shower, and I gave what I put on to the detective."

She nodded, and said, "First let's start with your fingernails." She probed under my neatly manicured nails with a wooden splint, scraping her findings onto white paper.

"Was there oral-genital contact?" she asked. I nodded, and she collected two swabs from my mouth and a sample of saliva.

"Was there anal penetration?" I shook my head. She went on, "I'm sorry, but I need to hair from your scalp." I yanked a platinum strand and gave it to her.

"Now I need you to pull a pubic hair, and I need to comb your pubic region to recover any foreign hair."

"Ah, that's going to be a problem," I said. She looked scandalized by my clean-shaven pubes, so I said, "I just shaved down there. I know it's kind of strange, but I like the way it feels."

She examined me for blood and semen stains, and moistened a gauze pad and wiped around my vagina, took some notes, and then set the pads aside.

"OK", she said, "Next we are going to do pretty much a normal vaginal exam. I need to take a few vaginal smears for these microscope slides."

"Go ahead," and then, noticing the surprised look on her face, I said "But it's not going to be a normal vaginal exam."

She was speechless, so I said, "I'm a post-operative transsexual. Do you want me to tell you what you are looking at?"

"I know what I am looking at: I've just never seen anything like yours before. Let me just take these swabs, and then I think I'd better call the doctor." She swabbed my vagina and then left, blushing brightly.

Dr. Vishnu Patel entered, tapping my chart with his pencil. "Nurse Rodriguez tells me we have a very interesting case in you, er, Miss Rios."

"Doctor Patel, I am really not happy with this freak-show approach to emergency medicine. Remember I'm here because I was raped. You're not supposed to rape me emotionally."

"My apologies for Nurse Rodriguez behavior and my own flippancy. I want to assure you we take your care most seriously. But your anatomy presents us with unique challenges. Tell me about your surgery."

"My vagina is a composite of scrotal skin on the exterior, penile skin at the near end and a colon segment at the distal end."

"May I?" he asked as he gently spread my labia. "My compliments to your surgeon. Your exterior is nearly perfectly proportioned. You lack labia minora, but other than that, you look perfect. And uninjured, except some typical bruising and abrasions."

"Thank you, but I'm more worried about my interior." I flinched as he inserted a speculum. [The doctor assured me he would be as gentle as possible; still, I shuddered every time the jaws widened with another sharp click.

The doctor apologized that the speculum was absolutely necessary if he was to examine me the way his protocols demanded.]"Let's see. The rape kit protocols prohibit lubrication, and yet you are quite lubricated. Did Miss Rodriguez use lubricant?"

"No, but my rapist did," I replied. "Is that a problem?"

"Not really. I see the junction between the two tissue types. Are you able to achieve penetration past that point?"

"Just with my narrowest stent. But my attacker did tonight. Is it OK?"

"Abraded and oozing a little capillary blood. But otherwise it's fine. Rather painful, I imagine." He looked up at me with gentle eyes. As my eyes met his they filled with tears of repressed anxiety and relief.

"I'm supposed to have surgery in a few days to fix it for good. Now it's ruined."

"I wouldn't jump to conclusions," Dr. Patel said calmly. "It's your surgeon's decision, but with a few days of topical antibacterial cream and a systemic antibiotic, I wouldn't think surgery would be out of the question. I'll get you some samples straight away."

"Dr. Patel, can I ask a favor?"

"Depends on what."

"Will you order a DNA test on me."

"I could. It's not customary in all rape cases, but it is not unheard of. Why?"

"It's a long story, but it might help resolve an issue between me and the person who attacked me."

"If that's the case, why not?"

"And I need a test on someone else too."

"I'm afraid not. We need consent or court order."

"Consent definitely won't be a problem."

"Well, then I might be able to work something out. Call me before you leave."

"Thanks, Doc. You're very nice. And please tell Nurse Rodriguez that I don't bite."

He laughed and said good-bye. Once alone, I began to fret about Marta and Alyssa. Miguel had escaped into the gang underground of Los Angeles, subculture of hundreds of thousands of evil souls. He could emerge in a moment to exact revenge against me through Marta or Alyssa. Seth's well-meaning intervention had saved me further degradation or even harm, but had given Miguel an even greater motive and opportunity to escape and exact retribution.

If only I had checked the message machine, I could have saved Seth's life. Then, Miguel and Jack would have finished with me, and then gone off smugly secure in the belief that my consent, evidenced by our roles in "Transsexual Hookers," was a defense for their crime.

Now that he had murdered Seth, Miguel was a hunted but dangerous animal. I, through my inattention, had made him a murderer and then set him free. I berated myself bitterly from causing Seth's death and allowing Miguel's flight from justice.

Miguel would remain a mortal danger to Marta and Alyssa. They could flee their apartment tonight, but they would have to return, and there Miguel would find them and kill them.

My mind spun with scenarios of doom and disaster. My plan to protect Alyssa and Marta had failed, but I could not remain with them in Los Angeles. I really needed to go to Thailand, for surgical, educational, and financial reasons.

My reverie was interrupted by the peremptory voice of Nurse Rodriguez, who was admonishing someone, "You are fifteen minutes late for visiting hours, and children under four are not allowed. You'll have to come back tomorrow, alone."

Marta's voice responded, "Let us through! We need to see my friend now."

I interrupted, "Nurse Rodriguez, please call Doctor Patel for me. I had one more thing to discuss, and I am ready for him now."

She peeked her head in the curtain, and said in a cowed voice, "I'll find him. In the meantime, I guess it's OK, as long as the baby is quiet."

Marta rushed in and gave me a hug, with Alyssa pressed between us, and I felt a little tug from her plump little arms as Marta pulled away. It was the loveliest sensation of my life. "God, I was so worried about you," I said.

"The detective told me what happened. I can't believe that pig raped you again, and killed poor Seth. He had tried so hard to get straightened out, and now he's gone."

"I'm just glad you're safe. When I called you, I was sure he was coming for you and Alyssa. He knows she's not his, and he thinks that she is ours."

"And the little dog ran away, leaving his friend to take the rap."

"But the dog can still bite. Marta, you can't go back to that apartment," I warned.

"But it's so hard to find one, they are so expensive."

Nurse Rodriguez voice rose again in the corridor. "You are too late, and she already has visitors."

"I am her mother, for goodness sakes," my mom said with irritation.

"Nurse Rodriguez, will you please get Dr. Patel," I said impatiently.

"Right away," she said apologetically. "OK, you can visit for a few minutes until the doctor arrives," she conceded.

"Oh, Alex dear, I just got back from the Oaks, and I stopped by the house to get some things, and there were police, and ambulances, and they told me you were here, and I was so worried and I am so happy you are OK," she said in one breath.

I smiled, and tried to catalog the surgical enhancements she'd had since I'd seen her in December. She looked fabulous: actually, a lot like me.

"I'm alive, but OK would be pushing it," I replied. It had been a long, tough day.

"Well, I am just thankful for that. The police told me that there was a dead boy in our yard. That's horrible. I don't know how I'll ever sleep there again." She looked up and smiled at her companion, a prototypic chisel-jawed West L.A. plutocrat. "Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot introductions. This is my, er, friend, Cole. And Cole, this is my, er, daughter, Alex. Alexandra."

I always wonder about guys who have last names for first names, but Cole looked like an improvement on my dad. I held out my hand and gave him a feminine handshake.

His skin was burnished by the sun to California gold; his hand was strong and tough with the calluses of thousands of perfect golf swings. "Pleased to meet you, young lady," Cole said with a deep, mellifluous voice, redolent of television voice-overs.

Mom had finally noticed Marta and Alyssa, and she said censoriously, "And now you should introduce us to you friend, Alex."

"I was waiting for a chance. This is my friend Marta, you know, from high school." My mom gave me a blank look, as if signaling me for further clue. "And this is Alyssa, your granddaughter."

My mom collapsed, staggered backward, and let Cole ease her into a chair. She began sobbing quietly, as Marta looked on with bemusement.

"Are you OK, Mom?" I asked.

"Yes, dear, I'm fine. It's just that, I'm too young to be a grandmother." With that, she burst into tears. Cole comforted her, and she gradually got control of herself, looked at me, and then burst into tears again.

"Oh darling, I have been such a terrible mother, practically abandoning you as you've struggled with your, er, issues. I've just been so busy dealing with my own. But now that Cole and I have settled down, I have time for you. I'll do anything I can to help you."

Marta and I made eye contact and communicated silently as if on an agreed-upon plan.

I was about to accept my mother's offer when Dr. Patel interrupted our touching scene by asking, "Did you want to see me?"

"Yes, it's about the test we discussed before. The subject, and the consenting adult for the other part of the DNA match test, are both here."

Patel's gentle brown eyes widened. "I see," he said. "You are the mother," he asked Marta, as his eyes darted between us.

"Yes," she said, as she searched my face for direction.

"It's just a finger prick, but I need you to read and sign this form for the test, and to release the results."

I signaled assent, and she said, "I think I'd like my friend to look it over. She's better with technicalities than I am."

"Fine," Dr. Patel said as she gave me the forms. "Just fill it out and sign it and give it to the nurse when you're done. Alexandra, I hate to interrupt your reunion, but if we can just go over a few things, I'm ready to discharge you." He gave a politely dismissive glance to my Mom and Marta, and told them, "It'll just be a few minutes. You can wait in the cafeteria."

When we were alone, Patel went over the aftercare. There had been no discernible release of semen in my vagina, so the AIDS risk was minuscule: too small to justify a prophylactic antiviral sequence. The trauma was consistent with what was typical in violent sexual assaults. I was cleared to fly.

"May I understand that you want the child's DNA matched against yours?'

"That's right. I told you I was an atypical case," I reminded him.

He let out a low whistle. "Really one for the books."

"My book, not yours, right?"

"Absolutely."

We shook hands and I met my mom and Marta in the cafeteria. Mom was chatting affably with a tolerant Marta as Alyssa dozed and Cole looked confused. I rode back to Brentwood in the back seat of Cole's S-Class Benz as Marta chugged behind in her old Camry.

"Mom," I said firmly, "there is something you could do to help me."

"Anything, darling, what is it?"

"Well, I still have to go to do that research in Thailand, and Marta and Alyssa aren't really safe at all at their apartment while Miguel and his gang are on the loose. So, I wonder if they couldn't stay with you."

"Of course, I'm hardly ever there, you probably noticed." Actually, to judge by her supply of clothes and makeup, she had never left, but the refrigerator had been almost empty.

"Well, that's very kind, but not really practical. Remember, Miguel was there tonight. He killed someone in your back yard!"

"You're right, and that's the final straw. I'll just sell it. Cole, you can make the arrangements for me, can't you darling?"

He harrumphed.

I went on "What I meant was, could they stay with you, like, where you and Cole are living?"

"Oh dear," mom equivocated, but Cole, manfully taking charge of the crisis, said, "I don't see why we couldn't move them into the guest house out back of the pool. Baby's not gonna be crawling for a bit, and we can fence the poool when she does. They'll be safe there. We're gated and guarded in Hidden Valley, y'know," he gallumphed in that cocksure, male style that I half remembered.

"That's so great of you, Cole," I said graciously.

"I'd do anything to help this lovely little lady," he affirmed.

Mom, Marta and I spent the next day screaming around the West Valley in Cole's Excursion, spending thousands on toys, clothes, furniture, and baby-proofing for Marta's new home. The next day, Marta unpacked while I assembled playpens, swings, cribs, and strollers. Cole came by to lend a hand but just whistled admiration at my command of the directions, diagrams, and light assembly work involved in equipping the modern baby.

You, dear readers, know how I came to possess this facility, and somehow I'll figure out a way to tell him, someday.

My mom came by to tell me the nanny interviewing schedule she had laid out for the next day.

"Hello," I reminded her. "I'm flying to Thailand tomorrow, remember?"

"Oh, darling, I'd forgotten you were leaving so soon. We really must choose a nanny. Marta needs to keep working, and I can't handle Alyssa all by myself. I need my time, you know: the trainer, yoga, my book group, and the course I'm teaching."

"I know. But look, I think I can just trust your judgment on the nannies. I mean, A, what do I know about nannies, and B, you always had great nannies for me. So, just do it! OK?"

She seemed pleased that she had my confidence.

Cole insisted on driving me down to LAX. Marta and Mom wanted to come, and bring Alyssa, who had just started eating baby food vegetables, so she pooped about five times on the way and we had to stop every time. By the time we had all kissed and hugged for the millionth time, I barely made it through the godawful security in time to catch the plane.

I plopped down next to Tran, flushed and panting, the last one to board and with no overhead storage space left available in which to stow my trusty iBook. She smiled and said, "You're not going to believe the crazy time I had with my cousins in Long Beach."

I touched her forearm and replied, "It's a good thing that it's a long flight to Bangkok, Tran."

---

to be continued...

Alexandra's and Tran's return to idyllic Phuket is spoiled by a violent Thai Drug war. When their Katoey Sex Worker Research uncovers a corporate scandal, both their work, and their lives, are jeapordized.

Chapter 15
East is East...

This is a work of erotic fiction, which is written for adult readers only. It contains explicit descriptions of illegal drug use, sexual intercourse, and violence, which some readers may find disturbing. Portions of the narrative are inspired by current events in Thai society and an ongoing scientific debate concerning the safety of an over-the-counter microbicide, nonoxynol-9 (N-9). However, with the exception of the identity of the Thai Prime Minister and the protagonist's SRS doctor, whose actual names are used, all characters, business and government entities, and situations depicted in this story, including the specific story lines concerning the Thai drug war and N-9, are fictional. Readers should draw no factual conclusions from this story about the safety and efficacy of N-9 or the conduct of any persons, business or government entities depicted herein.

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The Greatest Lie -- Chapter 15

East is East and West is West,
and Never the Twain Shall Meet (1)

by Alexandra Rios

I think that if you could get honest answers, a lot of heterosexual guys would probably admit to having had at least a passing desire to be a girl. If they were honest, they would probably admit they thought of it "when I first noticed a girl's breasts" or "when I first felt a girl orgasm with me," but of course, most men would lie and deny it for fear of impugning their masculinity.

I think that's the reason why most therapists who treat male-to-female transsexuals believe that their transsexual patients are really gay, and that their claimed transsexuality is really just a defense against powerful feelings of guilt about their homosexuality. Thus, therapists make transsexuals jump through flaming hoops such as the so-called "one-year real-life test," the requirement that a patient live as a woman and undergo intense psychotherapy for at least a year before for sexual reassignment surgery.

Therapists have incorporated this dogma into the so-called "Harry Benjamin Standards of Care." But they adopted the real-life test without any empirical evidence, based solely on their supposition that many self-described transsexuals must be liars or delusional, reasoning that: "If anyone ever asked me if I wanted to become a member of the opposite sex, I would lie. Therefore, when this purported transsexual claims to be a girl inside, and wants a sex change, he is probably lying, because that's something all men lie about."

This logic is ridiculous: who could endure the expense, pain, humiliation, discrimination, and victimization that transsexuals experience unless she really felt her outward gender was wrong? But just try telling your therapist you're transgendered, and see what he does.

The real-life test makes even more intolerable the cruel dilemma that confronts the MtF transsexual: should the transsexual attempt to pass through a life of misery masked in the outward appearance of her birth gender, or should she adapt her outward appearance to her soul's gender, and attempt to "pass" in the eyes of the outside world?

It would help an unsympathetic world understand this dilemma, and incidentally reduce the incidence of spousal abuse, divorce, and sexual assault if all guys had to dress and live as girls for a week as a rite of passage: let's call it "GenderWeek." After a "femme initiate" had lived under the sexually interested gazes and intimidating physical presence of males, and learned to live with the expectation that the appropriate response to these pressures are indulgent smiles and responsive flirting, he would learn to moderate the extremes of his subsequent masculine behavior.

On the other hand, if you made boys live as girls you would probably increase the incidence of transsexuality in the population, as some guys got addicted to the tug of a satin thong catching in the crack of their buttocks.

Perhaps a secret, latent tendency found in the male population explains the overwhelming numbers of transsexuals you meet in trans-tolerant climates like Thailand. By some estimates there are three hundred thousand male-to-female transgenders in a population of sixty million.

Perhaps more boys become MtF transsexuals in Thailand because it's more easily done in a country where nine-year-olds can buy female hormones over the counter and young adults of eighteen can get their surgeries without first having to justify themselves to two shrinks for at least a year.

Or maybe it's a product of the influence of the Thai creation story: a love triangle between Itthi, the first woman, Pullinga, the first man, and Napumsaka, a hermaphrodite. Itthi preferred Pullinga to Napumsaka, who becomes jealous and kills Pullinga, and thereby loses Ithhi's love and dies, leaving Itthi and her children alone, to repeat the love triangle of creation in the next generation. Perhaps these stories explain the Thais' tolerance for, and discrimination against, their transgendered minority.

This fascinates me because I am an American post-op MtF. I was on my way to Thailand to investigate Thai transsexuals as I continued my academic research on the behaviors of transsexual sex workers, in the steamy, tawdry cabarets and bars of Chiang Mai, Bangkok, Phuket and Koh Samui.

I roused myself from my jet-lagged reverie and turned to my friend Tran. She was just waking from her second nap of the long flight from L.A. to Bangkok, via Singapore. I tried to bounce my ideas off her, but she wasn't in the mood for an intellectual exchange. She tried to rouse herself to full alertness with a start, shook her head dramatically, and then said, "Tell me that it was all just a dream."

I replied, "You want to know whether it's a dream that I have a baby girl, you have a transsexual little sister, and that even though we're young, broke and transsexual ourselves, we have to support them?"

"Yeah, I dreamed that, right," Tran asked with a sleepy, hopeful smile.

"Dream on," I replied. Tran looked confused, so I said in a resolute voice, "No, that's reality, about eight thousand miles east of here."

"Oh, Alexandra, how are we going to do it? We could barely afford to get to Thailand to finish our sex-change operations, and now we have to support your baby and my little sister. I don't want to do escorting and make porno movies for the rest of my life! Let's just get our operations, move back to L.A. and find rich guys to support us like your mom did," Tran said sarcastically.

"Post-ops don't get paid that well in porn or escorting, and I doubt we'd be highly prized on the West L.A. singles scene. We just have to survive until the church pays off on your priest-abuse lawsuit, and I can get another grant for another transgendered sex-behavior study. Now, no more fantasizing: we need to listen to more of these." I pointed to the tape player in the seat pocket, which was loaded with a Thai language-study tape. Tran sighed wearily and put on her own earphones.

We needed to work on our Thai language skills because we were going to doing field research amongst the numerous Thai katoey, as the Thais rudely referred to their male-to-female transsexuals.

I had written a well-received research piece on the sexual behaviors of transgendered sex workers in the U.S., and had gotten a stingy five thousand dollar grant to further my research and study the sexual behaviors of Thai katoey sex workers. We would first return to Phuket in southern Thailand for surgery to complete the vaginas our Thai surgeon had fashioned the previous December. Then we would enroll in the summer session at Chiang Mai University, in Northern Thailand. There we would meet our newly post-op Thai friend Nancee, who would help us with the katoey research.

Our idyllic return to transgender paradise had been clouded over by unforeseen developments in L.A.: I found out that I had probably fathered a beautiful baby daughter by my one and only high-school girlfriend. When she visited her cousins in Long Beach, Tran found out that her little brother, Li, whom her father had taken in when her parents split up, had been cast off by her father into the toils of L.A.'s hideous foster-care system. Their father had thrown Li out like so much garbage as soon as her transgender tendencies made themselves known.

Li was now living very precariously, halfway between the cruel streets of L.A., where she survived as a runaway prostitute, and the abusive world of serial foster homes, where she was constantly clocked and targeted for taunts or sexual assault.

My own daughter lived with her mom in my mother's boyfriend's guest house, in constant danger from her old boyfriend and my own murderous nemesis, Miguel. Our own desperate circumstances had been further burdened by the even more dire circumstances of our families.

"Forget about your romantic fantasies, Tran. We just have to make this study we're doing in Thailand a real blockbuster, and then get some serious grant money for our next project. Professor Finch loves my stuff, and he'll back me once we turn in our results. We just have to get more money in the next grant. It's like Allenina said about making a porn movie: you propose a bigger project, you get a bigger budget." I had proposed a study of one hundred sex workers in Chiang Mai, Bangkok, Phuket, and Kho Samui.

It had seemed like a manageable project for three field workers: our Thai friend Nancee, Tran and me. Professor Finch had done his utmost, but the foundation that was funding it cut the budget for Tran out and had given me only five thousand dollars to complete the project. I had nothing for the subjects except vouchers they could use to buy hormones at Thai drugstores--a last-minute donation by an American drug company.

To fund Tran's trip and our surgeries I had to write two porno movies, which Tran and I had acted in. Until now, Tran and I had tried everything from streetwalking to sociological research to selling everything of value that we owned to finance our survival and transition.

Now that we were on the verge of completing our odysseys, we had to reckon with the care of unexpected dependents. Our fathers had washed their hands of us as unworthy successors to their lineages. My mother was a selfish narcissist, and Tran's mother was an impoverished and emotionally defeated immigrant.

"Tran, I'll just have to work my way up the ladder to bigger grants. We have to hold out until your priestly sex abuse suit settles, but who knows when that will be? Until then, we are just going to have to work our little tails off."

"Just when I was getting ready to fuck my little tail off."

"Shhh," I warned her, noticing that the businessman across the aisle had perked up for that comment. Then I whispered, "That too, Tran. Just make sure you get paid well every time. And no volume discounts for Italian soccer teams!"

We both giggled at the recollection of a hilarious escapade from our last trip to Thailand. She playfully poked me and complained, "You're no fun any more, Alexandra."

Tran and I turned on our tape machines and resumed our last-minute study of conversational Thai. We transferred from Singapore Airlines to Silk Air and bumped down in Phuket with only hours to spare before our appointments with Dr. Sanguan.

Our last trip to Thailand had been in December, when the tropical warmth and blue skies had been a pleasant relief from the unrelenting Arctic cold of St. Paul, where I was attending the University of Minnesota. June is the second month of summer monsoon season in southern Thailand: dense humidity mounts over the day, relieved by afternoon downpours that frequently turn to thunderstorms. Even the locals seemed listless beneath the slate-gray skies; the previously vibrant streets of Phuket were sullen and quiet in the early morning rush hour.

We dropped our luggage at our hotel and walked in a jet-lagged stupor toward a row of 'tuk-tuks,' the local three-wheel open-air motorbike taxis. We bargained with the drivers over the fare to Dr. Sanguan's Phuket Plastic Surgery Center, made a deal with one, and set off down the waterlogged streets.

A crowd of gray-green-uniformed police had gathered on the corner near the Center. As we approached, we saw to our horror that the cloth on the ground they were standing around barely covered a crumpled, bullet-riddled corpse, sprawled on the sidewalk by a dumpling stall in a bloody rain puddle.

I had seen plenty of violence during my last trip to Phuket, but I was shocked by the casual brutality of the scene: the cops snacking on the last batch of dumplings the fallen street vendor had just cooked.

My disgust escalated to rage when I recognized the dead vendor as Mama Meo, an aging ethnic Hmong who had been lowly foot soldier in a Thai drug-dealing empire. Her dumplings had been a staple of our diet during our last stay at the Center.

I was horrified at the brutal end that this gap-toothed, smiling elder and kinsman of Tran's had suffered. Impotent rage boiled within me, and I blurted out to the cops, "Just because she's dead doesn't give you the right to steal her dumplings."

One of the cops understood me and replied angrily, "Shut up, farang katoey somsee, or you'll be 'ying ting' yourself."

Tran pulled me away from the scene, and whispered, "Remember, they always call this 'the land of smiles,' but they'll cut your throat without a moment's hesitation." Then she turned to the angry cops, smiled and said "I'm so sorry, my friend has very bad jet-lag. I apologize for her."

She bowed to them deferentially, and then pushed me through the gate to Dr. Sanguan's office, snarling, "Do that again, and you'll be getting a posthumous sex-change operation. Mind your manners, Alexandra."

I nodded obediently.

Sanguan's assistant, Pim, greeted me with a smile and a hug as I reintroduced myself. She said "I remember you by your name, but I would never have recognized you. You are so much more beautiful now."

I guessed it was a canned line, but it was a nice one, so I reciprocated. "Thanks so much. I'll never forget the kind treatment that I got from you here." The Thais are unfailingly polite in their social discourse, and to fit in one should reply in the same polite language. And I admired the way that Sanguan's staff invariably supported the emotional well-being of his patients.

I said, "We saw the most horrifying thing on the way here: a murdered street vendor, shot in the street outside your gate, and the cops helping themselves to her food. What's happening to this wonderful country?"

She shook her head sadly, and replied, "It's the drugs. Prime Minister Thaksin has declared a war on the drug dealers, and many of them are killed and thrown away, 'ying ting.' When I heard the noise, I was afraid to go out. It was Mama Meo, wasn't it?"

I nodded my head. "It's horrible; she was just a kindly old lady."

"A kindly old drug dealer. Along with dumplings, she sold yaba. She had to be stopped: yaba, the amphetamine pills, are ruining the country, and killing the children. The drug dealers must be ying ting to save the children from the yaba."

"You mean these killings are happening regularly?"

She replied, "Every day for the last two months, about fifty drug dealers are ying ting. More than twenty five hundred of them are ying ting already, fifty thousand more in jails. It is a national cleansing. Those on the Government's blacklist must either turn themselves in, or else they will become ying ting."

"Ying ting: that's what the cop said. Are the police killing them?" I demanded.

"They are killing one another, and the police aren't stopping them: good riddance. Thaksin is strong, and the people support him. The yaba dealers must be dealt with." She smiled politely, but she spoke emphatically. She finished with our paper work, blood tests and vital signs, and then showed us to Sanguan's office.

Sanguan met me with his customary polite, somewhat stiff manner, but when he examined my neovagina, he frowned. "You are a most unusual case, Miss Rivers. Most patients I criticize for not dilating enough. You dilate too vigorously. You are overly inflamed inside."

"I'm sorry. Am I OK for surgery?" I asked in panic.

"Of course, but it is swollen. Do not dilate so roughly after this surgery," he cautioned.

I decided not to tell him about the cruel and violent sexual assault I had endured just a few days earlier for fear that he would defer the final step in my sex-change operation. I admitted instead, "I always tend to overdo things."

Sanguan advised, "It's OK to dilate, or make love vigorously, later, but not at first. It will be less tender than before, but the new labia will need time to attach, and the tissue where I dissect the ring must heal. No sex for four weeks!"

I had endured more than eight weeks of abstinence after my initial surgery, and only anal sex had been bearable thereafter, so four weeks seemed reasonable by comparison. "How long in the hospital?" I asked, remembering the weeks I had spent here in December.

"You go home as soon as anesthetic wears off. Operation hurts a little but it's no big deal, more like plastic surgery than last one, which was two difficult abdominal surgeries. Go to prep room now, you'll be done by dinner. Might not be too hungry, though. Tonight, you can stay here or at a nearby hotel."

I douched with an antiseptic and lay down on an operating table. Sanguan and his surgical nurse gave me an IV, and the room blurred and faded.

I awoke in the recovery room; nearby, Tran dozed under her anesthesia. My groin was bandaged and packed and sent firecracker blasts of pain through me as soon as I moved. I called the nurse and said, "Please help me, the incisions down there are killing me! Can you give me pain medicine?"

"Not until I take out your Foley and you pee." She expertly removed the catheter, which made me cry out so loudly that Tran stirred. "Now you go pee," she ordered me. "Then medicine."

"But I don't have to go," I protested.

"Yes, you do," she ordered. "And no pretending! I'll be listening."

I staggered painfully to a toilet behind a plastic curtain, and gingerly sat down. At first, nothing came but more pain, and I sobbed miserably in frustration. By the time I had finished this painful chore, Tran was awake and protesting much as I had.

"Look," the recovery room nurse said, "Your friend is finished and she gets her medicine. Tran looked on enviously as I popped a Percocet.

She said dopily, "This mean nurse won't give me pain meds. Alexandra, go buy me some on the street."

"Remember what you told me about minding our manners, Tran. You don't want me to end up ying ting."

"Oh, yeah," she remarked as she limped to the toilet.

Sanguan reappeared, dressed in scrubs, examined us and pronounced us fit to leave to convalesce in our hotel. "Sorry about the rough treatment, but it is necessary that we test your urinary function before you leave us."

"That's OK, but don't send us off without plenty more of these," I said, brandishing my empty sample pack of Percocet.

"Only Vicodin. New drug laws mean no Percocet outside of this facility."

"Good God, you would think we were in Singapore, or Alabama."

"It has gotten very strict here: very dangerous. Even your friends can turn into enemies."

"Thanks for the advice," I said. Tran and I hobbled to a tuk-tuk and rode to our cheap hotel room, where we downed Vicodin and recuperated, listening to Thai language study tapes. We didn't even go out the next night: we didn't feel well enough check out Tiffany or the Alcazar, and we had to wake up early the next day.

The next morning we departed on a Thai Air flight to Chiang Mai. As we took off, Tran commented, "Phuket was not like I remembered it. It's really dead: too hot, too few sexy tourists, and too many scary cops."

"Not just dead: ying ting," I commented.

A couple of bumpy hours later, we landed at Chiang Mai, a quaint provincial capital nestled in the foothills of towering, verdant tropical mountains. The sharp green peaks, seen through layers of cloud and mist, gave the landscape the appearance of a Japanese landcape painting. The mountain air is cool by Thai standards, and the population is more relaxed and rustic than the bustling populations of Bangkok or the frantic sybarites of Phuket and Kho Samui. Instead of the bulldozed, concrete-covered, and despoiled paradise of Phuket, Chiang Mai seemed a place of primitive charm and lush, hilly beauty.

Tran and I rode a cab through palmy suburbs, and then through terraced rice fields to the house that our friend Nancee had rented for us as our home base this summer. She had been proud of the bargain price. When we got there, we saw why it had been so inexpensive: it was a two-room wooden shack built on a hillside in the outskirts of town, near Chiang Mai University's science campus, Suansak Two. Chickens scratched nervously in the dirt yard as the taxi driver hauled our bags up the stairs.

"Alexandra, Tran, I missed you so much! I'm so happy now." She smiled brightly and hugged us warmly. She had had her sex-change surgery a few months before and her features had softened noticeably. Nancee looked curvier and more feminine; the absence of testosterone from her body had improved her looks as much as it had improved mine after my SRS. She had let her hair return to its natural black, instead of the brassy hue that she had worn when I met her.

"Let me show you around," she said. Even by Thai standards, the house was far from luxurious: room for three futons in the bedroom; a table and chairs beside a propane brazier for cooking, and a toilet, sink, and shower tap behind a plastic curtain. "There are no phone lines out here and no cell phone until we get into town. And it's close to the campus we'll be going to."

She pointed down to a collection of low buildings at the bottom of a long, steep hill, and three rusty bicycles. "That's Suansak Two, where your faculty advisor, Professor Pranatop, has her office, and there's a little computer center we can use. At least it will be easy getting there," she said.

I had been a little worried that I had not been getting enough exercise, but not any more. It would be a ride of at least five kilometers, and a climb of one hundred fifty meters to return to our hilltop home.

"It's much cheaper here than in town, and we'll be traveling a lot, won't we?" Nancee asked, looking insecure.

"You're right. It's perfect for us. We'll get a lot done here," I said, as Tran rolled her eyes.

We relaxed on our sleeping pads and dilated. Six months earlier, Tran and I had sex-change operations which used combinations of penile skin and grafted colon segments. When we healed, the junctions between our dissimilar tissues had formed an impassable ring of scar tissue, which had made vaginal sex horribly painful or outright impossible. Two days ago, Sanguan had surgically "broken" the ring. Now, with proper care, Tran and I looked forward joyfully to the prospect of enjoying pleasurable vaginal sex and orgasms, once this latest procedure healed adequately.

When I tested myself with the previously unusable 1.25-inch stent, it passed easily. I still felt a jarring note of pain where the stent glided over the dreaded ring, but at least the stent was getting through. The sensation was now like rubbing a sore spot, rather than like trying to puncture unyielding flesh.

"Tran," I said excitedly, "I think this operation really worked."

Tran nodded in agreement, as she admired herself with a hand mirror. "Do you like my new labia?" she asked Nancee proudly, displaying her still bruised flesh and angry red scars. [

"You are both going to look perfect," Nancee replied. "I can't wait to get my secondary labiaplasty done. Would you like to see me?" Tran and I nodded excitedly, and she shyly slid down her panties. Her own vagina was lovely, but lacked interior labia and had the same unfinished look that Tran's and my own had before our secondary operation.

"Have you been able to have sex?"

"Yeah, Eddie Liang broke me in, and then sent me an Australian who paid fifty thousand baht to be my first lover. I wasn't really ready, but it was OK."

"Can you orgasm?" I asked.

"No. I have some feelings, but I am so nervous, and my feelings are all mixed up," Nancee replied sadly.

Tran and I smiled conspiratorially, and I said, "Maybe we could help you. It took us a while, but we worked it out."

"I thought you couldn't have sex until this new operation heals," Nancee said, confused.

"Not with guys, you silly girl. With each other." Tran snuggled up behind her, and began fondling Nancee's breasts, as I approached, embraced her, and stifled her protest with a gentle kiss.

"Now I understand," Nancee said. "I'll learn from the experts."

"Mm hmm," I responded, gently guiding her down to our futons. Tran and I undressed her and ourselves, and lavished kisses on her beautiful face, breasts, and belly. Then I slipped my tongue between her labia and trilled it against her clitoris and the exterior of her vagina before slipping it inside.

Nancee's cock had been larger than mine or Tran's, so Sanguan had successfully fashioned Nancee's neovagina entirely from inverted penile skin and scrotal skin. It was lovely to the touch and taste: smooth, slightly salty flesh, without the internal juices that exude from the interior of a G-girl, or the natural lubricants that still flow from the disconnected colon tissue inside Tran and me.

Nancee's body stirred and her hips began to roll as I licked and puffed and sucked at her. She giggled, "Mm, that tingles," and began to moan a bit.

I concentrated on the exterior of her vagina, where I knew Sanguan concentrated the bundles of salvaged nerves, but her nerves had not fully healed and rejoined her nervous system, and seemed to be sending disorganized, confusing signals to Nancee's pleasure centers.

Then Tran gently tapped my shoulder and said, "Don't be a greedy girl, Alexandra! It's my turn." I protested mildly but yielded to my friend. As Tran nuzzled her pussy, I kissed Nancee's lips with a mouth drenched by her own mild, but delicious inner essences, and she kissed back with passionate interest.

"You're yummy," she said. I replied, "You're the yummy one," and she yielded her lips to another kiss. Then I said, "Nancee, kneel on top of Tran, and then lean forward over her." Tran and Nancee hastily rearranged themselves, and I reminded Nancee that our pussies were not ready for cunnilingus.

"Not fair," she protested, as I began fondling her cheeks: smooth, round, firm curves that flanked a tight, perfect, hole. Nancee had, she had admitted to me, been penetrated anally countless times in her years of katoey whoring, but her resilient little ass had remained a perfect jewel. I parted her buttocks, and tweaked the pinhole center with the tip of my tongue, and her body trembled in instantaneous response.

"Oh, no, that's too much at once," she cried, but I circled my arms around her thighs and press her ass to my lips, and thrust my tongue into the tiny space at the center of the hairless, tan ring of her anus. As I did so, Nancee's hips began flailing, and Tran and I held her torso tight and firm against our relentless mouths. Nancee's bottom skittered between my attentions to her sexually experienced ass and Tran's suckling of her nearly virginal vagina, and this rhythm resolved into a primal undulation of her flesh, as sensation surged from her new erogenous zones to her old, and back again.

Nancee, the unflappable lover who could handle anything with a stoic smile, gleefully discovered the sinful angel of passion which Tran and I had released. Nancee's hips began heaving, and she thrashed against Tran's and my insistent lips. Trapped between our Scylla and Charybdis, Nancee's nervous system valiantly struggled against the insurgency of her neurons, which were joining in a vast conspiracy of pleasure.

At last, her sensations connected into a great spasm of pleasure, and she throbbed her way to her first female orgasm. Tran and I continued relentlessly, and she spasmed again and again, squealing with ever mounting pleasure, until she was exhausted and begged us to stop. Her forehead and hair were damp with sweat and saliva, and my lips and tongue were tired and achy.

"That was incredible," she said. "The energy just kept building inside me. When you rimmed me while Tran was kissing my pussy, the feelings all just connected and exploded."

"That's how it was with me too, the first time Tran made me cum. Now, it just keeps getting better," I said, and Tran nodded enthusiastically.

"Alexandra made me cum the first time, but now I practically cum when I touch myself accidentally. I have to be careful," she whined in a mock complaint.

"Let me try you," Nancee implored, but I warned her that Sanguan had forbidden it.

"We're on the disabled list," I said, and when both Tran and Nancee looked puzzled, I added, "No baseball for four weeks."

"Can I at least see?" she begged, and we quickly agreed, as we needed to inspect the condition of our dressings.

I was wearing a Polysporin-soaked maxipad, and I had a Betadine-soaked tampon inside. When it emerged a vivid orange, Nancee shrieked, but quieted down once I assured her it was only an antibacterial. On closer inspection, my tampon had only a few dark blotches where blood had seeped from the individual sutures. The maxipad was only slightly spotted, too. After we wiped away the traces of blood, Nancee could see the foundations of genitals that would be indistinguishable from a G-girl's: an introitus with fully formed labia majora and minora and a properly-hooded clitoris.

"They're going to be perfect, like my little sister's," Nancee said admiringly.

Nancee and I joined in three-way kiss; we all tasted pure pleasure. "Thank you," Nancee whispered. "I'm so glad you came back."

"It's great to be back with you," I said, and Tran added, "It's great to see you again--and we really need you for threesomes!"

Nancee asked, "Does Eddie Liang know you're back?"

"Good God, no. I mean, I didn't tell him. Did you?"

Nancee smiled guiltily. "He asks about you and Tran every time he visits me."

"You're still seeing him? Isn't that dangerous, with the drug war on?" I replied.

"Eddie's not on the blacklist. He's much too important a bigshot," Nancee remarked. "You'd better call him, or you'll hurt his feelings. He likes to be first with us, when we are post-op."

I rolled my eyes. "How romantic," I said sarcastically. "How was he?"

Nancee nodded enthusiastically. "He's really good. And really generous."

As a new mom, I had resolved to get beyond my adolescent peccadilloes, but someone had to be first, and I had fond memories of a sexy interlude with Eddie on my first trip to Phuket. "How do I even get a hold of him?" I asked with mock reluctance.

Nancee handed me her cell. "He's programmed, but you'll have to wait to call until we're in town. No signal up here," she told me.

"When are you going to show us around Chiang Mai?" I asked.

Nancee looked at her watch and said, "If we shower and dress quickly, we can still make it to Rosepaper's cabaret show." I looked back at her inquiringly, and Nancee clarified, "It's Chiang Mai University's ladyboy sorority."

I remembered the haughty sorority bitches that our friends Rick and Randy complained about at the University of Minnesota, rolled my eyes and said, "I don't really want to get into any ladyboy competitions or catfights tonight."

She socked me playfully and said, "You two are just worried about not being the most beautiful T-girls. Come on, you have to see Chiang Mai's girls. Not only are the women here the most beautiful in Thailand and the rest of the world, so are our 'sao praphet song.'" Tran and I hadn't learned that word, so Nancee translated: "women of the third sex."

We showered, dressed and put on the university uniforms that Nancee had gotten for us: black skirts, and simple white shirts. We looked fresh and innocent as we coasted down into town on our bikes.

Chiang Mai looked like something out of a fairy tale in the misty, soft-focus light of the mountain sunset. The air was pleasantly cool after the torpor of Phuket, and the police presence seemed less intimidating than Phuket's paranoid streets. As we pedaled through the meaner streets of the city, I noticed that drug dealers still touted their wares, interspersed among the knots of streetwalkers, or somsee, but Tran and I weren't even tempted to use anymore. After all, now that we had Alyssa and Li to think of, we were learning to be responsible adults.

Nancee lead us to a bar near the campus named Fascination. It was festooned with signs announcing a cabaret given by the ladies of Rosepaper. Nancee was greeted warmly by one of the blue-and-white uniformed T-girls. Nancee, in turn, introduced us to the T-girl who had greeted her, Chris. Chris said a few incomprehensible words in rapid-fire Thai. Nancee translated into English, "This is Chris, and she would like to extend to you the privileges of membership in Rosepaper during your enrollment at Chiang Mai."

Boldly venturing with my newly learned Thai phrases, I said haltingly, "Thank you so much, we are happy to meet our katoey sisters." I could see that Chris looked hurt and offended. "What's wrong?" I asked Nancee, bewildered.

"That is a term that rude people use to describe us. The proper term is 'sao praphet song,'" she replied. I repeated the term, and pointed to myself and Tran, and Chris clasped her hands together and said "Sawat-dee ka."

"That is how we sao praphet song greet one another," Nancee added, and Tran and I quickly followed suit. Now Chris smiled at us warmly, and I smiled back. Nancee went on, "You would never know it from the behavior that we see in Pattapong, Phuket, and Koh Samui, but we Thais are very conservative and courteous. Let me do the talking in Thai until you pick up some more vocabulary."

"We have a lot to learn," I said, feeling daunted at the prospect of such rebuffs by offended interview subjects.

We sat in the audience at a table near the front to which Chris had guided us. Behind us sat a polite audience of Thais, some Asian tourists, and CMU students, including some Rosepaper sisters who sat in a cluster behind us.

They cheered their compatriots heartily when they took the stage to lip-synch, or, in some cases, actually sing their songs and do their dances. Mostly, they played the international hits of the variety that really bore me: "I Will Always Love You," "My Heart Will Go On," etc. This sort of music is not all interesting to me, even when performed by a gorgeous katoey: oops, I mean, sao praphet song. But the costumes looked fabulous and the delivery was well-polished. The crowd was courteous during each performance and enthusiastic at the end. And some of the girls got into racier material: the Rosepaper girls' versions of Madonna's "Vogue" and "Material Girl" were brilliant; at the end of each song, I joined the audience in leaping to our feet in praise of their perfect emulation of Madonna's sinuous dance moves.

As I took my seat I wondered, is this the prototype for a gender-equal society? Or would this society turn on its transsexuals with the same ruthlessness that it was employing towards the drug culture should the gender-political climate suddenly change?

After Chris sang a terrific version of "Nowadays," from "All That Jazz" in harmony with the actual soundtrack, she approached our table and stopped before us. Speaking through Nancee, she offered Rosepaper's honored guests from America a chance to perform on-stage right now.

Tran had been doing karaoke for years as PR for her bar-girling at the Townhouse in Minneapolis, so I wasn't surprised when she leapt up immediately and began pulling playfully at my arm. I don't have stage fright, but lip-synch is not my thing and my singing voice is only OK. I would have resisted, but Nancee shot me a look and warned me, "It would greatly honor your hostesses if you perform."

I said, "OK," as the applause mounted, and asked, "Do you have "Reflection" by Christina Aguilera?"

"I think so. She is still very popular," Nancee responded. She consulted with Fascination's MC, and then announced triumphantly "Yes, in English, but only with Thai script."

"You still remember the words to this one, don't you?" I asked Tran.

I knew she did: we had listened to many times. It had been one of the turning points in my life when I first heard transsexual aspirations voiced the context of, ironically enough, a G-rated, animated kids' movie.

Tran, too, had identified strongly with the gender-disguised Asian heroine, Mulan. Tran and I swayed side by side through the instrumental opening, and I got so caught up I could not resist harmonizing with Aguilera's soaring, perfectly-nuanced vocals:

Look at me
You may think you see
Who I really am
But you'll never know me
Every day
It's as if I play a part
Now I see
If I wear a mask
I can fool the world
But I cannot fool my heart

Who is that girl I see
Staring straight back at me?
When will my reflection show?
Who I am inside?

I am now
In a world where I
Have to hide my heart
And what I believe in
But somehow
I will show the world
What's inside my heart?
And be loved for who I am

Who is that girl I see
Staring straight back at me?
Why is my reflection
Someone I don't know?
Must I pretend that I'm?
Someone else for all time?
When will my reflection show?
Who I am inside?

There's a heart that must be
Free to fly
That burns with a need to know
The reason why

Why must we all conceal
What we think, how we feel?
Must there be a secret me
I'm forced to hide?
I won't pretend that I'm
Someone else for all time
When will my reflection show?
Who I am inside?
When will my reflection show?
Who I am inside?

As we finished, we each pressed our palms together in the gesture Nancee had shown us, the 'wai,' and whispered, "Sawat-dee ka," into the microphone. The crowd's reaction was stupendous, and many of the sao praphet song performers who had preceded us surged onto the stage and hugged us in loving solidarity.

Chris made an announcement, and the entire performance group of Rosepaper joined us in a reprise. We were joined in the chorus by most of the crowd, and tears started to stream down my face as the emotion of the crowd and the Rosepaper girls surged over me.

The mistress of ceremonies got the microphone, and said something in Thai, followed by, in heavily accented English, "Thank you and good night, and come back and sing for us again."

I hugged Tran and said, "Wow, that worked out awesomely."

"I always said you are a genius, even when you don't know what you are doing."

Chris and the other Rosepaper girls invited us to their dormitory for a post-concert party. We met about a hundred sao praphet song whose names I couldn't keep straight--and I was only learning their nicknames: it seemed full Thai names could run to twenty syllables. But we were instant celebrities, and everyone wanted to be part of us, so I just reveled in it. Being popular can be so handy.

Few of the Chiang Mai students spoke English well enough to really communicate with us. Many were studying the language, but they were all about my age and hailed primarily from local provinces, which are poor and secluded compared to Bangkok and Phuket.

Chris made a point of introducing us to a girl named Gift. She spoke only a few words of English: she was 'rap nong,' or a freshman still undergoing initiation into Rosepaper. Through Nancee, she told us that she had heard about our project, and that her older sister, who was also sao praphet song, had worked on a similar project. I was ecstatic: my protocols from Minneapolis were totally alien in this environment, and I was worried about finding any interview subjects except Nancee's friends from the bars of Koh Samui and Phuket.

"Is she here?" I inquired.

Gift gave me a sad frown, and replied "No, she is very sick with the skinny disease." I had not heard the term before, but didn't need Nancee's explanation to make the connection with AIDS.

"Can we visit her?" I asked.

"Yes, that would make her very happy. But you should do it soon. She hasn't long."

Tran, Nancee, Gift and I said our good-byes and went to visit Gift's sister, Lin, who was at the Baan Pewan Cheewit AIDS hospice. It was located behind a Buddhist monastery. It took in those who had been abandoned by their families in the terminal stages of the disease.

Care of AIDS in Thailand, while advanced by the standards of the Third World, is far removed from the advanced drug therapies of America, which keep the afflicted living independently for decades. Only eighteen months after diagnosis, Lin was dying in the company of strangers, lying on a narrow cot. It was one of a hundred in long, neat rows in this whitewashed ward: in lieu of plumbing, there was a bucket between each pair of beds.

Lin greeted us weakly, but in English. "It is strange that you have a grant to study our transgendered sex workers. I administered a huge study for some Americans and a Thai company."

"Who funded the study?" I asked, panicking.

"A huge condom maker called Spartan. Everyone uses Spartan's condoms. They are made in Chiang Rai Province," Lin added. "We Thais use many condoms, and we make much rubber. So we have both supply and demand." She laughed weakly.

"What were the results?" I inquired innocently. My review of the peer-reviewed literature indicated that there had been nothing done similar to my work, but this seemed too close.

Lin replied "Nothing, just a big waste of time. Part of the way through the study, they just stopped it: shut it down, and told us to forward all of the data to America. We got paid a final, double paycheck, and told to stop work. The sex worker subjects all got the same: they were very correct about it, but then again, the company is partly Thai."

That was a relief. I hadn't come all of the way here to replicate a larger study than I could afford. But perhaps she could help me. "How many subjects did you have?" I asked

Lin responded "About six hundred, split into four branches. It was a double-blind study of some kind."

"Good thing," I mused. "I'm not covering someone else's study, and I could hardly surpass this one. Tran, Nancee and I could never hope to have identified and interviewed six hundred subjects in the course of a summer." And then I had a flash. Now I could equal it, at least! I asked Lin, "Did you send the names and addresses of the subjects back to Spartan?"

"Of course, but I saved my address list, and some other materials. I thought maybe Spartan would come back to restart the study, and be angry with me if I didn't have it. But it's too late for me now; I won't be staying here much longer." Her gesture seemed to mean the world, not the hospice.

"It would really help us we could use your list."

She nodded weakly. "My computer was named with ID number PS408CMU, at the science faculty, and my username was 'Lin36' and my profile's password was 'ladyboy999.' If the data is still there you can use it. If they don't like it, it's too late for Spartan to punish me. But I don't think Spartan will care. After all, it gave up the study.

"I should warn you, Spartan paid the girls to participate in the study. Spartan also gave them free condoms and lubricant, which they had to promise to use and a 'Hello Kitty Diary' to keep track of their sex activity. These sex workers will not let you study them for nothing," she cautioned us.

"We have these," I said, producing vouchers usable for my corporate sponsor's pharmaceuticals, including their popular brand of Estrace transdermal estrogen patches. Professor Finch had arranged for a donation of two hundred thousand baht worth of vouchers that I would use as currency for recruitment to the Thai study. "The T-girls can use them to buy their hormones. Will that do?"

"Or AIDS drugs," Lin said miserably.

I gave her a thick wad of the precious vouchers, and said "Thanks so much, and good luck." I clasped my hands in a wai and exchanged sawat-dee ka's with her as I left.

Gift was in tears. "She did sex work to pay my school tuition, after my parents kicked us out," she said bitterly. Nancee's translation could not capture her frustration and anger, and didn't need to.

I touched Gift's arm. She was about my age, but seemed childlike in her unsophistication. "If she were well, I would want her to help me on my work, and to have her as my friend," I volunteered. Gift hugged me. When she finished, my cheeks were wet with her tears.

We went to a café for a bowl of "khao soi," a local curry noodle soup, before bedtime. I called Eddie from the café, which was still within the cellular network.

He answered brusquely, and I reintroduced myself shyly. "Hi, this is Nancee's friend Alexandra. Do you remember me?"

"Remember you? Of course! I have thought about you every day. Sorry I couldn't visit you in the hospital after your surgery," he apologized.

"Thanks for the beautiful ring. I wore it every day," I lied. Actually, Tran and I had sold it and the necklace he had given me long ago, during our days of direst poverty the previous winter.

"I'd love to see them on you. Where have you been?" he asked.

"We were in Phuket, and now we are with Nancee in Chiang Mai," I admitted.

"Damn, why didn't you call me?" Eddie demanded.

"We were just there for some follow-up surgery, and we were in a hurry to get to school up here. But we'll be back in a few weeks," I promised.

"I have business in Chiang Mai. I'll be up there later this month. I must see you. And Tran."

"We are still, like, recovering from some surgery. I can't do anything yet."

"Good," he said. "Save yourselves for me," he demanded.

I was offended by his presumptuousness, but he was an awesome lover, and very generous and powerful. But I wanted to play hard-to-get. "I'm not sure that I want to. You know, with this drug war going on, and I'm doing research here with the permission of the Thai authorities. I'm not sure it's OK to see a character like you." I didn't want to use the words "a drug lord like you" on the phone.

"It's OK. I am not on the blacklist. My family does not trade in yaba. I am friends with the police chief in Chiang Mai. I will tell him to look after you and Tran." I said nothing, baiting him.

"Alexandra, you want me as a friend, don't you?" he asked ominously.

"Oh yes. And as a lover," I affirmed ingratiatingly.

"I'll call you when I get to Chiang Mai," he promised.

"He certainly was insistent," I observed to Tran. "He wants to break you in, too."

"That's OK with me. I like Eddie. He's got an American face and cock, and Asian skin and hair. The perfect man," Tran giggled.

"You Asians are such bigots."

"You Anglos are such hairy apes," Tran teased, and Nancee joined her in gales of laughter. "Except you, of course. You're perfect, like one of us."

The next morning, Nancee gave us a tour of the facilities at the Population Sciences faculty of CMU, and introduced us to our faculty advisor, Dr. Pranatop.

Dr. Pranatop was very friendly but apologetic, as she was leaving for a guest lecturing post in Australia and would only be able to keep in touch via e-mail. That suited my interests. I didn't want close supervision over the project, which I was expanding and changing based on Lin's disclosure of the list of subjects from Spartan's study.

Dr. Pranatop showed us to the aging computers and wished us the best of luck.

As soon as Pranatop left, I began trolling through CMU's local network for Lin's old computer. I found it in minutes: it was being used as the server for the Population Science Faculty's own subnet. It was an old Pentium 1 with a thirteen-inch screen and a grimy keyboard that was stashed in a closet-sized service room down the hall from our own crowded workspace. I typed in Lin's profile and password, and immediately accessed her user files. I searched and found an Excel spreadsheet entitled "Spartanstudymstrlist," and opened it.

As clicked through the tabs, I let out a low whistle. The spreadsheet listed, in neatly arrayed and alphabetized columns, about six hundred names, together with nicknames, addresses, phone numbers, ethnic/language group, and study category. Study category was designated rather cryptically by a single letter; the column appeared to be a random assortment of A's, B's C's and D's. All I could see when I examined the column was that each letter seemed to appear no more often than any other--each letter category appeared beside about one hundred fifty names.

I clicked on a name: Apple, of Pattapong. When I clicked on a link, the screen showed Apple's own Excel spreadsheet, which stated the date of her enrollment in the study, her age, place of origin, dates of gender transformation and hormone therapy, surgical status, HIV status, self-reported sexual practices and preferences, such as frequency of oral and anal sex and penetration, and condom use or non-use, and then the same data for a follow-up visit three months later.

I noted with chagrin that Apple showed a positive HIV test at the follow-up. Nevertheless, it was obvious that we had both stumbled onto an incredible resource, although it was also a possible source of bias in our study.

"This is going to make our lives a lot easier," Tran exulted. "No more walk-ups and rejections at the cabarets. We can just use this data. It's like we have already done half of the work."

I cautioned "Not a good idea. The data was collected using unknown methods. We have to approach our work as a new study. But I don't see what would be wrong with using the subjects from this study. It would just save us a lot of busywork building our own sample, and let us go directly to interviews. I'm going to save all of this data to my iBook, but we are only going to use the contact information page in the study."

Thais tend to be conformist and respectful of authority. Nancee said, "I don't think we are exactly following the rules you set up with Pranatop for our study. Are you sure this is OK? I don't want to get in trouble about this."

"Look, these girls all agreed to participate in this study, and if they don't want to help us, fine, we'll leave them out. If we don't use the old data, it's not like we are plagiarizing: whoever did this study dropped it. After all, this file hasn't been accessed for almost two years.

"I'll send an e-mail to Pranatop asking her to confirm that it's OK with her to use the contact information. She'll be so preoccupied in Australia that she'll agree in a heartbeat." From my father's dismissive comments about his own students, I knew how little professors cared about undergraduate research and undergraduate researchers.

I printed three copies of the contact list. Then, we went to work on dividing up the list. Tran had done enough interviews in Minneapolis to work on her own. As we reviewed the list she said, "A lot of the names on this list look like they are Hmong. I learned Hmong from my mom and dad."

"I thought you were Vietnamese," Nancee said with surprise.

"I was, but I am Hmong. After the Vietnam War, all of the Hmong had to leave Vietnam because the Hmong had helped the Americans fight the Communists. That's why my family moved to Minnesota."

Nancee replied, "I, too, come from a hill tribe: the Karen. There are many Karen and Hmong in this part of Thailand, living in these hills." She pointed to the mountains of the Thanon Thongchai Range that stretched north from Chiang Mai.

"Many Hmong become sao praphet song, and move to Chiang Mai or even to the south of Thailand, Bangkok or Phuket. There are also many sao praphet song from the Karen. They say that the Karen and the Hmong make the most beautiful sao praphet song."

"What about Chilean/Swedish mongrels like me?" I complained.

Tran and Nancee laughed, and Tran said "We were only talking about Asians."

"I know," I replied with mock misery. "You're all prettier than us horse-faced honkies."

"Then why do all the Asian guys choose you first?" Nancee challenged.

"My wit and charm," I replied. "Or perhaps I'm just a novelty in Thailand."

We had planned to work together for the first few weeks of the study, until Tran and I had mastered enough Thai to work independently of Nancee. Faced with the opportunity to dramatically expand the study, and with the inadequacy of my hastily-acquired Thai phrases to meet the demands of interviewing, I rethought this strategy. "I'm going to need help with my language on these interviews, at least until I pick up enough Thai. Tran, how many Vietnamese and Hmong names do you see on the list?"

"At least seventy-five, mostly in and around Chiang Mai."

I mapped out and announced our new strategy: "OK, for the first three weeks, we'll all stay here in Chiang Mai. Nancee and I will work together to get her interviewing procedure down, and I hope I'll pick up enough Thai from her to function on my own. For the second three weeks, you two will work together and if Tran picks up enough Thai to work independently, then we'll split up for the last four weeks of our visas.

"If we average four interviews per day while we're working in teams we'll do about fifty interviews per week, or about three hundred interviews, total. When we split up, we potentially increase that to seventy-five per week, or another three hundred. So we can interview everyone on this whole list if we keep to that schedule, but it's going to be hard. We'll have to be really efficient on travel time.

"I'll sort these names by language group and location, pick up some throwaway cell phones so we can call ahead if our subjects have phones, and let's get started knocking on doors right away."

"We're not going to wait to hear back from Pranatop?"

"I'm not waiting all summer for her. My e-mail was just to cover my ass."

Nancee looked worried, but Tran shrugged her shoulders and laughed. "Alexandra never lets rules get in the way of ambition."

Although I joined Nancee's laughter at Tran's comments deprecating the urgency of my ambitions, I felt something quite different growing inside me: a surge of energy like nothing I had felt since I first conceived of the Transsexual Sex Worker project. The dramatic expansion of the Thai leg of the project would surely propel me to the first rank of sex researchers: to an academic nirvana of rich grants and fellowships.

I pictured myself seated, looking dazzling in a fresh lab coat and faux glasses, on the dais of an international science conference: with luck, I would be the youngest scientist ever to be invited to present to the National Institute of Sciences. From the audience, handsome, brilliant, sensitive young scientists would goggle at me adoringly, and then throng around me at the cocktail receptions like an academic femme fatale.

In my imagined glory, I saw my father eyeing me enviously from the corner of the room. I mentally practiced my gracious acceptance speech for the academic honors to be heaped upon me, and folded in an impassioned and utterly convincing plea for recognition of the sexual rights of the transgendered community.

Tran would land a scholarship and she and I would be able to rent a house for Marta, Alyssa, and Li. Nancee would get a student visa to study with us, and we would take turns baby-sitting and partying. A sweet new Miata, a great condo on the beach in Venice, and the respect of my peers all beckoned to me.

The prospect of recognition for my intelligence and achievement, goals that I had seemingly forsaken when I took the path toward my sex change, again beckoned and seduced me. I would complete and improve on the massive study that the largest condom maker in the world had botched and abandoned, and in the process I would also achieve renown and success for myself and my friends.

I sorted the names by language group and location and drew up the interviewee lists. Tran went to a Hmong community in the Mai Ai district and Nancee and I went to an Ahka community in the Prao.

Nancee and I were looking for Bootook and Phousi, both fifteen, both Akha from Sipsongpanna, in Southern China.

"Be careful," Nancee cautioned. "Mai Ai is very dangerous, and Prao is event worse.

"Children from all over South Asia arrive here every day, to get hormones, make money in the sex trade. At least most of the sao praphet song come to the city on their own, as I did, because my family objected to my taking hormones and living like a girl.

"Many girls and even young boys are tricked and made into debt slaves, working for years in brothels to earn their freedom from their debt cards. Some are even kidnapped and brought and kept here by force."

I shuddered at the horrifying image: child slave-whores in the Land of Smiles.

We walked down a muddy, congested tanon, or side street, under the continuous gaze of the grimy, working-class Thai men. Nancee snarled rejections at their frequent propositions, and they moved on to more vulnerable prey.

At the end of another dingy, fetid tanon, we came to the Rung Ruing Café. The café was a front for a brothel: about fifteen pale-faced young girls and katoey, wearing T-shirts, sat like so much human merchandise displayed under blue and red fluorescent lights, on a tiered platform covered in worn red carpet. The atmosphere of tawdry commercialism was accentuated pink theater curtain, worn to shininess by years of exposure to the moist mountain air. The look of tawdry faux gaiety was completed by the outdated sign overhead, wishing everybody a happy New Year in English, Japanese and Thai. The signs had not been taken down even though Songkran, Thai New Year, had been on the fifteenth of April.

We watched as a few Thai men paid 110 baht to a cashier. Periodically, one of the men selected one of the young girl or katoey, and they departed to one of twenty wooden rooms at the back of the house. We went to the cashier and asked for Bootook.

"She go home to her village, long time ago," the cashier said.

"Is Phousi here?" Nancee asked.

"She gone home, too. Why you ladies want katoey? You ladies wanna get fucked by ladyboy?" The cashier laughed coarsely.

"We have a gift for them," I replied.

"Bootook and Phousi don't need a gift. They a doctor, or a funeral." He laughed mirthlessly at his cruel joke, stopping short when he noticed our stony-faced response. Now, the cashier said ingratiatingly "We have another katoey somsee who was friendly with them. Come here, Aom."

Nancee pulled me aside and asked, "Do you know what he means when he says they went home?" I shook my head. "They got the skinny disease, what you call AIDS," Nancee whispered.

Nancee asked Aom to come with us, and I paid forty baht as a café fine to procure her temporary release. We took Aom to another café and we shared Thai coffees.

Aom was a nineteen-year old sao praphet song from a small village in Chiang Rai Province, in the so-called Golden Triangle, far north of Chiang Mai. She had begun taking hormones at fourteen, with her mother's but not her father's consent. She had had a relationship with one of the Buddhist monks in her village, and when they were caught in bed together, the monk rejected her and claimed she had corrupted him, and her father had expelled her from her family's opium farm.

She ran away with a soldier from the Shan Revolutionary Army and lived with him for a year at his unit's camp high in the Thanon Thongchai mountains, until he disappeared while on an opium smuggling operation. Then she went to Chiang Mai to try to make her living in the cabarets. All she had managed to get was a job at the Rung Ruing Café, where she served beer wearing a T-shirt that also advertised her and her price. To keep her job, she was obliged to have sex with the customers of the café for the price printed on her shirt.

If she lost her job, she would have to work from the street, where it was even more dangerous, and where the customers were even coarser than the riffraff that patronized Rung Ruing. Working at Rung Ruing, Aom at least had the protection offered by the thin walls of the wooden house; the walls were thick enough to keep out intruders, but thin enough to permit the management to overhear and intervene in an encounter that was turning violent.

She required that her customers use condoms when they penetrated her anally, "rok ayd," but would perform oral sex, "faen poo-chai" without condoms if the customer appeared healthy, and for an extra price, she would, let them orgasm "toong cum."

She worked every day, and usually had six to eight customers per day. She split her take with management. Her room was on the third floor of the rickety structure.

There was only a single, filthy bathroom for all fifteen girls, and it consisted of a hole in a tile floor over a slow-running flow of water. For washing, Aom had only a bucket in her room. She took hormones every day, and was enthusiastic about the vouchers that we gave her.

She remembered Bootook and Phousi: they were the top two ladyboys at the Rung Ruing when Aom arrived. They had lots of cash, and always had extra condoms and lubricant to give to the other girls: they were getting more than they needed free, from a very proper lady who came from the University. They also got regular medical treatment and tests.

Then their special status stopped, the proper lady from the University stopped coming, and then they got sick and went away. They had too much pride, and their pride had destroyed their karma, Aom thought.

We thanked her, gave her some vouchers, and parted ways with her with a sawat-dee ka.

We interviewed three other sao praphet song that made their livings at the Rung Ruing Café, paying café fines for the privilege of talking to each, and getting variations on Aom's story. Each of the young sao praphet song working girls remembered friends who had enjoyed the status and financial benefits of working with the scientists from Chiang Mai, but who had gotten sick and disappeared. Presumably, they went back to their home villages to die.

As we rode in our songtaew jitney back to the farm hut we called home, Nancee read me the names of the unfortunate sao praphet song somsee as I marked them off our master list. The results were frustrating: although the list was little more than eighteen months old, it seemed that nearly everyone on it had disappeared.

"God! I knew AIDS was rampant in Northern Thailand, but this is horrible, like totally depressing," I said.

"I know a few girls who have gotten sick, but never as bad as this. But I work in a higher-class scene. These girls we are meeting are low-class, not very pretty. They must do dangerous things with their customers."

"Aom said she always used condoms," I pointed out.

"Everybody says that," said Nancee knowingly, "But for an extra 500 baht, these café T-girls and streetwalker somsee make exceptions."

I swallowed hard and remembered my own early streetwalking and bar-girling. I had been lucky: but in Northern Thailand, where ten percent of the adult population was said to be HIV-positive, a careless girl's luck could run out in days.

Tran returned a few hours later, downcast and frustrated. Everyone on her list had gone home to their villages. She had written the names of their villages down and wanted to go to check on them, but I insisted that we keep working the vicinity of Chiang Mai.

Our luck turned on the second day of the second week of survey work, when we met Ae.

Ae was a twenty-one year-old Shan from South China. She had crossed into Thailand at fifteen and had lived on the streets until eighteen, when she was recruited for the survey. The scientists supplied her with a plentiful supply of Spartan condoms and lubricants and gave her 200 baht per week to keep track of her sex activities as a bar girl at Fascination. She got blood tests every two months at a lab at CMU, for which she was paid 500 baht, but she was never told the results.

Shortly after the study began, she had achieved enough feminization and accumulated enough cash to get a breast enhancement, and her earnings rose greatly as the tourists took notice of her pretty face, lovely, slender figure, and generous breasts. She hadn't really cared when the lady scientist from the University had given her a 400 baht good-bye present, and she hadn't really thought about the experience since. She was healthy, beautiful, and successful.

"I have plenty of my own money, so I don't really need vouchers for my hormones," Ae said haughtily. "But I will help you, because I enjoyed your show at Fascination. Your Hmong friend is pretty, sings well, and you are very polite."

She described her clientele and activities, and showed us her home in a tidy, new high-rise near the Mae Ping Hotel. It was a world apart from the tawdry brothels and cafés just outside her doorstep, and her relationship with the doorman at the Mae Ping assured her a constant source of lucrative tourist contacts. She shared her 500 baht fee for his referrals, and had made enough to get the nose job that would, she believed, propel her to the top of her profession.

She could easily have thrived in Phuket, or had her operation and married one of the clients who admired her, but she had no intention of losing the comfortable, easy life she had achieved as one of Chiang Mai's top hookers. "As long as you farangs don't stay here and compete with me."

I laughed, and politely said, "I am only here to study the Thai sao praphet song, not to become one myself."

"Then take this one back with you when you leave us. She is too beautiful for her own good," Ae said jokingly of Nancee.

"Don't worry, I'm post-op now," Nancee replied. Ae uttered grudging respect.

We scoured Chiang Mai in search of the former participants in the Spartan study for three weeks, enduring disappointment after disappointment as the phantoms from the old study list disappeared into the mists.

After one particularly frustrating day, I picked up some Thai beer to relax. I had hated beer while growing up in the United States, but Thai beer actually tastes of something, and I discovered a cold one was quite refreshing in the muggy monsoon weather.

Tran arrived with a bag of steamed pork and cabbage dumplings, and we sipped beer and ate.

I let Tran and Nancee enjoy themselves, but inside, I felt worried and disappointed. By this stage, I had expected that we would have interviewed nearly a hundred subjects. Instead, we had interviewed only fifty. We had wasted untold time chasing after phantoms from the old Spartan study list. Of the eighty Chiang Mai subjects on the old list, we had interviewed only twenty five, and had been told that forty others had gone back to their villages, gotten sick, or died. The rest had simply disappeared.

Putting things another way, we had interviewed almost as many new subjects as we had old. My plan of using Spartan's old list looked like a complete waste of time rather than a time-saver. We should consider stopping chasing after Spartan's ghosts, I concluded gloomily.

"What's strange is you go to four, five places in a row, and the person is gone, and then the next two are fine, and then no more for another day," Tran mused. "Always the same story: they went home to their village. I think I'm going to check out one of those villages, and find these ghost sao praphet song."

"That's the way an epidemic is," I said. "It's random. I just had no idea how bad it was here. Nancee, is it possible that two-thirds of the T-girl sex workers in Chiang Mai get AIDS every couple of years?"

"No, it's bad, but it's not that bad. But I'm glad that I can have vaginal sex now. Good reason to get a sex-change operation," Nancee mused.

Nancee's words loosened the grip that our intellectual preoccupation had over us. As I looked up a Tran, our eyes met in a flash of non-verbal communication.

"What day is it?" Tran asked.

I replied, "Wednesday: two days short of four weeks."

Tran said, "That's close enough for me. Let's go find ourselves some lucky guys."

Nancee interjected, "I forgot to tell you--there was a voice mail from Eddie on my cell. He's in Chiang Mai. Alexandra, you're supposed to call him at the Mae Ping Hotel."

Tran looked hurt, and now I could understand why. Here in Thailand, in the land of three hundred thousand sao praphet song, I was the exotic rarity: a beautiful Anglo post-op. Tran looked a lot like the Thai girls, even though she was culturally American through and through.

Naturally, I was flattered to be prized over the exquisite Tran, even by a drug-dealing gangster like Eddie, but I did not want to make my best friend jealous. And I found the idea of a táªte-á -táªte with a hoodlum who was implicitly coercing me into having sex with him rather less than romantic.

"Tran, Eddie's OK, and I don't mind being with him, but it would be a lot more memorable for everyone if we did, like, a threesome with him." I winked at Nancee. "Or even a foursome. I mean, it's not like it's true love, or that we're even truly virgins. I'm really not in the mood for a big, cherry-popping date with Eddie, of all people. I'd rather party with you two."

Tran agreed. "He's cute and a good fuck, but you're right, it's not exactly true love."

"And there's no one I'd rather lose my so-called virginity with than with my best friends," I affirmed, drawing them into my scheme. "That way, we can laugh about it together, forever."

"Good point. We'll be able to remember everything," Tran enthused.

Nancee, the fundamentally conservative Thai, demurred, protesting, "I've already been with Eddie a bunch of times."

"God, what does he do, collect cherries from post-op demi-vierges?" I cracked.

"He paid for my surgical fee, and that was the deal. Whenever he wants me, he can have me. But he's nice."

"Come on, we won't go if you won't come with us."

"Sorry, I can't. Remember, I live here. He gets me whenever he wants," Nancee said.

"So you're like, his love slave?" I asked incredulously.

"No, and that's why I'm taking the night off," Nancee joked.

"The thing is, even though I've been so celibate the last few weeks, I'm really not in the mood," Tran complained.

"Me neither," I agreed. "Nancee, can we get something to adjust our moods, without the frigging police ying-tinging us?"

"You're terrible," she said, adding, "I know a guy who works down in the Somphet Market who has good yaba. We can call up Eddie as soon as we get into cell phone range, pick up the yaba down in Somphet, and get a cab to the Mae Ping. If you smoke it in the cab, you'll be high by the time you get to the hotel."

"Sounds like a plan. It's about time we had some fun on this trip. All work and no play will make Alexandra and Tran dull girls."

There was no point in showering before commuting through the traffic-clogged, polluted streets of rush-hour Chiang Mai by songtaew; one inevitably got sweat-soaked and thoroughly filthy before getting very far.

We grabbed toiletries, make-up and a change of underwear for the morning, and set off on our mission of adventure and lust. We walked down our tanon to the main road and took the songtaew to Somphet Market, where Nancee discreetly scored two hits of yaba for 100 baht. Then we flagged down a private cab, selecting one whose driver had the manic energy of a chronic yaba user. He would not mind our using his back seat as a drug den.

Yaba is a wonder of Third World marketing. It has a pleasant vanilla fragrance, and is professionally stamped with the reassuring imprint "WY," as if it were a trademarked pharmaceutical. The cabby gave us a lighter and foil, and we inhaled the acrid fumes that swirled upward as we roasted our tablets over the cabby's cigarette lighter. The cabby gratefully accepted the used foil for himself; he managed to get a good hit off the residue.

Almost instantly, I felt my head swell and float upward like a soap bubble from a child's bubble-blowing wand. "No wonder everyone is so happy in the 'Land of Smiles,'" I cracked. "They're all flying high!"

"We would have been done with your silly survey if we had this powering us," Tran laughed.

Nancee, who had abstained, observed edgily, "You'd be addicted or dead if you'd taken this the last three weeks. Don't get too used to it!"

"Tran," I said, "This is so perfect. We're probably the first two girlfriends in the world to lose their virginity at an orgy they staged."

"Alexandra, it's what I love about you. You're always on the cutting edge," Tran laughed.

I called Eddie and got him on his cell. "Baby, I was worried we were going to miss one another. Where are you?" Eddie cooed.

A bubble of chemical enthusiasm swelled my cortex, as successive rushes of the drug hit me. "Oh, Eddie, I've been having a really crappy summer; Chiang Mai is such a shithole compared to Koh Samui and the people at Chiang Mai U are such idiots. My advisor won't even talk to me, she's, like, taking the summer off or something and Tran and Nancee and I are just spinning in circles on this research because this country is such a mess--you can't find anybody and everyone's paranoid because of this insane anti-drug war."

Eddie said "Don't worry, baby, I'll make everything better.

"Just check into my room for me at the Mae Ping: it's already reserved. I'll tell the desk to let you in. Just charge whatever you want to the room, at the shops and room service, but make sure there's plenty of champagne.

"I've got to do some business, so I'll be there in an hour or so."

We gave the cabby a big tip to take Nancee home, and strutted into the Mae Ping as if we owned it. The girls at the reception desk all gave us a censorious glare as Tran and I checked in for Mr. Eddie Liang's room. But the girls in the negligee shop were most solicitous as Tran and I tripped our way through selecting, and charging to Eddie's room, matching, virginal white satin and lace tie-up chemises and tie-side thongs for our encounter.

By the time we were through we were so high we had forgotten our room number. We had to ask the front desk girls to write it down for us. They shot appalled looks at each other as we giggled our way across the lobby and up the elevators of the gracious Mae Ping.

Eddie's penthouse suite was elegant and stocked with plentiful Thai knockoffs of the finest offerings of Chanel and L'Oreal. Better yet, the bathroom had both a shower and an enormous Jacuzzi. We helped ourselves to the hotel's beauty products as we showered and primped at the makeup mirror.

After I finished putting on allegedly day-long mascara and kiss-proof lipstick, I plopped down on the bed and dialed Eddie's cell. "I'm all ready," I whispered, "and I have a surprise for you."

Eddie answered, "I can't wait, but in my business, I don't like surprises. Tell me now, so I can think about it on my way over."

"OK, I'm not alone."

"I can't stand crowds, or strangers," Eddie said ominously.

"It's not a crowd or a stranger, silly. It's Tran," I said.

"Wow, you two girls and me. That's fantastic." I heard the blast of a car horn, and heard Eddie swearing in Thai.

"Eddie, it's OK, don't rush, we're fine here. We can keep ourselves amused," I assured him. "We've been saving ourselves for you this long; we can wait another half hour."

The thought of our prolonged and involuntary chastity brought to mind an omission in our preparations for this encounter. "Eddie, can you stop and pick up something for us."

"If I have to," he replied breathlessly.

"Condoms and lube. We haven't had any since we got here," I replied. "Oh, and some Neosporin and maxipads," I added, thinking of possibly messy aftermath.

"No problemo," he responded, and barked an order in Thai to his driver.

"Now, you have to let us finish getting ready for you," I added, hoping to leave him tantalized.

"I'll see you in a few, 'bye."

I hung up as Tran put on her finishing touches. She looked exquisite, and I gently modeled her soft curves with my fingertips. She sighed with pleasure and we lay down beside one another on the king-size bed.

By the time we finished our bath and make-up, the exquisite synaptic tingling in my prefrontal lobe was slowing down to enough for my intellect to recover control of my cognition and expression. But the chemical warmth of the yaba was still spreading like a golden glow through my nervous system. The energy was collecting like a thermal pool trapped in a mineral spring in my lower vertebrae, searching out vents in the pleasure centers of my thorax.

It was easy to see how this drug had seduced the Thai nation: the enervated, depressed emptiness that had afflicted me in the afternoon had been banished, and I was suffused with a warm, sensual energy. And a jolt of amphetamine to the serotonin system both delays and prolongs orgasm.

Tran was primping with concerted efficiency and style. I stood behind her and watched her in the dressing table mirror as she focused her efforts on putting the final touches to her eye makeup. As she finished, I fondled her breasts beneath the warm folds of her hotel bathrobe, and felt a golden flow of energy from my fingertips to the pleasure centers of my brain.

Her own eyes widened in an expression of pure pleasure, and she said "Mmm, you're ruining my concentration. Let me finish so we can relax with one another."

I like guys, especially tough guys like Eddie, or Rick and Randy, but I reserve my greatest affection for girls. Guys are necessary for affirming one's sexual desirability, and I suppose for sex, to a degree. A girl can't match the stomach-pounding satisfaction of a good, hard fuck, but for an understanding and complete exploration of the whole sexual network and its emotional and psychological outposts, girls just know one another better.

Physiologically a girl is capable of so much more than a guy, whose cock is inevitably destined for an explosion that will leave it in a prolactin-induced stupor, just when the girl needs more, more, more. Ever-mindful of this inevitable shortcoming, guys are rude, impatient, and sexually selfish.

Girls, especially the Sanguan-wired models like Tran and me, can catch their breath, and then keep going on forever. And I love the soft, smooth curves of the feminine form better than the hairy roughness of most guys.

I guess I'll always be at least bisexual, but if I had to choose, I'd choose girls, and if I had to choose any one girl, it would be Tran. But, thank God, I don't have to make that choice; because I know (without ever having asked her) that Tran feels exactly the same way about me.

We reveled in one another's arms: suffused as I was with the warm inner glow from the yaba, it felt as though Tran was painting feathery, brush strokes of warm gilt on my receptive flesh. Each time her lips kissed my breasts, cheeks, or mons, she left molten pools of pleasure that simmered pleasantly afterwards: tactile intimations of ecstasy. Her eyes fluttered with my touch, as she beautifully mirrored in her gorgeous face the pleasure that she was giving me.

The cumulative effect of a thousand strokes of her finger tips, tongue, lips, and body against my yearning neurons multiplied, squared, and logarithmically expanded until my nervous system, and hers, simultaneously overloaded and crashed in a chorus of ecstasy, and briefly blinded me with the colors of cosmic energy and light from within me. When my vision cleared, I saw Eddie standing transfixed at the foot of our bed.

"Enjoying the show, Eddie?" I asked, pretending to take offense at his unannounced entry.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude, but, that was the most beautiful and sexy encounters I have ever witnessed."

Tran roused, propped herself on her elbow, and said, "We do that every day. You're always welcome to watch."

Eddie plopped onto the bed between us. "I'd rather be part of the show, if you don't mind."

"We don't mind at all," I said, and started to unbutton his shirt. Tran helped me get Eddie out of his bespoke sharkskin suit. "We were just warming up for you, and got a little carried away with ourselves," I added, slipping down his silk boxers.

We began to massage his cock, until I suddenly took my hand away. "You're all sweaty and smelly. We like cock to be clean and fresh," I pronounced.

"We're going to give you a bath," Tran agreed, and began drawing a scented bath in the huge Jacuzzi in the bathroom. Eddie's flesh was soon trembling with pleasure under the soapy, silken motions of our hands.

"It's better to start out clean and finish sweaty," Tran said, as her hand joined mine in circling Eddie's rigid cock. Together we squeezed and rolled his cockhead through his foreskin. "But we'll never get this big, nasty tool clean," Tran remarked tartly, as Eddie's eyes rolled back in his head. "Don't cum here in the bath: we want it for later," Tran demanded, and Eddie nodded weakly in assent.

First Tran and then I climbed out of the gigantic, sunken spa tub, giving Eddie perfect views of our shaved and glistening pussies. Eddie whistled in appreciation and reached for us with playful grabs.

"I want to take a closer look at you," he said as he emerged and we toweled him off briskly.

We lay side by side in the bed, our flowing hair meeting in a black and gold collage. He kneeled between us and began gently stroking our mons with either hand. His cock rose and hardened as soon as his fingers reached soft, smooth flesh of our newly formed inner labia.

"You feel perfect," he said. As he praised us, I felt an electric buzz of pride and pleasure telegraphed from my groin to my brain. He parted my thighs and went down on me, fondling my left breast with one hand while with his mouth he explored the outer realm of my newly-hooded clitoris, my freshly-healed labia minora, and my super-sensate vaginal opening with flicks, darts, and swipes. Then he thrust his tongue through the vaginal opening into me, locked his lips over me, and puffed a breath of warm air into my pussy: it was as if a golden cloud swirled within me and stirred my sated passions back to life.

I moaned when his restless lips left me, but when his mouth left me for Tran, it was replaced by his inquisitive fingers, which skittered playfully from my breast to my vagina, and danced within my labia. I turned to face Tran. Her face was transformed by her pleasure into an incredible sensual beauty; her lips parted in a quiet moan. I silenced her with a kiss: they yielded beneath my firm lips, and then responded with a soft flutter.

Eddie nibbled his way to and fro, from Tran's mons up to join us in a three-way kiss, and then Tran and I nuzzled against Eddie and one another in an erotic body massage that rendered Eddie speechless.

After a lingering, delicious joining of our lips and tastes, Tran joined me in sliding down toward Eddie's groin, where his cock was already rock-hard and ready. We began flicking his cockhead with darting tongues, playfully bombarding it with rapid-fire touches, and occasionally pursing our lips against his shaft and merging our mouths into a tunnel of pleasure around him. We took turns bobbing our heads up and down over his cock, while the other kissed his nipples and strong, hairless chest.

I kissed him again as Tran sucked him, and Eddie said, "I can't believe how hot you are. What did that doctor do?"

"He wired us with broadband," I said, smiling. "Ready to upload?"

He nodded enthusiastically. I rejoined Tran for a final taste of his penis, and between sucks I asked her, "Is it OK if I go first?"

"Sure, as long as you save some for me."

"Of course," I said, and Tran got up and cuddled next to Eddie, kissing him and stroking his chest, as she studied me. Enjoying my audience, I showed off my favorite condom technique. I popped it between my teeth and my lips, planning to steady it with my tongue and roll it down his cock. I gagged and stopped when I noticed a bitter taste in my mouth. There was a weird-tasting, astringent lubricant covering the condom, which I could not tolerate in my mouth a split second longer, and I hastily reached for some tissues beside the bed and spat and spat and spat until most of the foul taste was gone. Then I rinsed my mouth with a swig of champagne.

Eddie looked crestfallen. "It's the condom that tastes yucky, not your cock," I said with a reassuring smile, taking his uncut cock bareback between my lips for a few appreciative licks. Then I slathered his rigid penis with the lubricant Eddie had brought, and slipped on a fresh condom. As I spread it liberally over my labia, vagina, and by force of habit, on and around my ass, I noticed that the lubricant, too, was redolent of the antiseptic scent that I had just gagged on. Then, I crouched on top of his groin and guided his penis between my labia.

Experience had taught me to go slowly and to expect excruciating pain at the beginning. It simply had to be endured until, one hoped, the pain of entry subsided enough to enjoy the feelings of invasion and fullness, until finally I could surrender to the joy of a hard fuck by a big cock. Until now, vaginal sex for me had been the cruel ransacking of an unfinished surgical site.

Now my vagina had been completed and I was only forty-eight hours short of the full recovery period recommended by my surgeon.

I bit my lip with anxiety as Eddie jerked his penis upward and into me, but instead of pain, my yaba-fueled senses sent a message of pure pleasure as his cock squeezed through my lower vagina. With his second thrust, his cockhead breached the surgically broken, and at last, healed ring of pain. It traversed smoothly from the lower portion of my vagina, which had been fashioned of highly sensate penile skin, to the problematic colorectal segment of my upper vagina.

These dissimilar tissues had formed a rough, tight boundary, which had been the source of my miserable experience of vaginal sex. Now that Dr. Sanguan had broken the ring and I had healed once again, whenever Eddie's cockhead bumped over slight ridge between them, I felt a ping of pleasure from the nerve endings that had reconnected at the point of fusion. With repetition, the sensations grew more intense and clamored for release.

I bit my lip and tried to concentrate, but the sensations overwhelmed the voluntary control of my muscles, and I collapsed, just short of the orgasm I now desperately needed. I was slamming my pelvis down on his cock with all of my strength, trying, like Sisyphus, to push the stone to the summit, but again my voluntary system failed to synchronize with the primal forces from within.

I felt Tran's arms circle my torso beneath my breasts: now, as I lunged upward and plunged down on Eddie's throbbing penis, she added her strength to mine. Her boobs bobbed and massaged my tiring back and her hands guided and soothed my aching shoulders as she pressed me down and helped me upward.

Eddie took hold of my own breasts, and soon we were rising and falling in perfect coordination. My sensations organized themselves into waves in synchrony with the rhythms of our relentless lovemaking. Eddie trilled my interior like a violinist's bow through a Vivaldi arpeggio, and then suddenly, a ball of orgasmic energy exploded from the nerves in front of my internal ring. Molten flows of pleasure cascaded through my body and mind. I cried out and collapsed in gasps of ecstasy.

My climax was followed by an exquisite moment of complete quiet: my petite mort. I woke up with Tran massaging my back and Eddie, limp and sweaty, beneath me.

"God, that was incredible," I sighed. Eddie grunted in agreement.

"That looks like it was fun. But when am I going to get a turn?" Tran asked with a hint of jealousy.

"Just hand me one of those blue pills from my jacket pocket," Eddie said. "We can talk, have a little champagne, and in an hour, I'll be as good as new," he predicted confidently. I peed and put on a maxipad and undies, as I was worried about the flows that such a strenuous fucking might produce from my newly-functioning pussy. When I came back, Tran was describing our research.

"Alexandra is a slave driver: Nancee and I have to chase katoey ghost somsee all over Chiang Mai. Tomorrow I am going back to a village in Chiang Rai Province, looking for some dead katoey hooker," Tran complained facetiously. "Nancee and Alexandra at least get to interview Thais and Karen right near here."

"Be very careful. In Chiang Rai the Thai anti-narcotics police are fighting with the United Wa Army," Eddie cautioned.

"Don't worry; I speak a little Hmong myself. And by now, I've been to every slum and shanty in Chiang Mai, looking for the lost T-girls from the Spartan list. But most of the time we hear this one is sick, that one went home to her village, and the other one is dead. But it's all for science, right?"

"If you'd like, I'll send along one of my guys. He'll drive you," Eddie offered.

"That's really nice. I'd feel a lot better if she weren't alone," I answered for Tran. "But you said, the United What Army?"

Eddie laughed, "Wa, I said Wa."

"Say Wa?" Tran joked.

"Not 'what,' 'Wa,'" Eddie replied.

"Who?" I asked.

"'What,' he said 'what,' not 'who,'" Tran said, as Eddie doubled up in laughter.

"Who do you mean, 'Wa?’” I asked.

"'Wa,' not 'who,' you mean!" Tran asked.

"I meant 'Wa!'" I replied.

"'Wa' is what I said," Eddie responded.

"Just don't ask him why," Tran riposted. We all dissolved in manic giggles.

Eddie said, "Very funny. So let me ask you this: 'How, high are you?'"

"Fine," Tran replied, and when we realized she had fallen into Eddie's verbal trap, we again convulsed with laughter. "Got me," Tran said, "I confess, Constable Liang. We sampled some of your local crazy pills."

"Oh, supporting our United Wa competition, eh? Big punishment for naughty girls who take yaba." He playfully pulled her over his lap and spanked her.

"No, we want more," Tran demanded, and Eddie resumed his playful pummeling.

"No, more yaba," she said, and Eddie stopped and produced a slip of foil and two more of the vanilla-scented pills from the pocket of his silk suitjacket.

"I thought you said yaba was from the Wa?"

"Who?" he replied, and then added, "Market research. It's a tough job, but someone has to do it." We each sniffed another cloud of the acrid fumes.

Eddie said, when the laughter subsided, "These Wa are not so funny. And though I love this yaba product, it's what's produced this drug war.

"It's a three-sided conflict.

"The Shan State Army is ethnic Chinese: and my father-in-law is one of its commanders. It's a leftover from one of the Nationalist Chinese divisions that fought the Japanese and the Thai puppet government here during World War II. We were promised political autonomy for our efforts, but at the end of the war, the Shan State was given to Burma. We still fight for autonomy, and finance it by smuggling, mostly opium.

"United Wa Army is the military side of the old Burmese Communist Party. They did not support our nationalist aspirations, and at first we were allies in the struggle against the Burmese military government that we both abhorred."

Tran said, "Ugh, I hate fuckin' communists."

"So why are the Shan now fighting the Wa?" I ventured.

"The Shan had a live-and-let-live relationship with the Wa and the Thai police, but now all of the old relationships have been altered by the yaba trade. The Shan don't make it, and would like to see it gone, because it supplants opium and brings Western anti-drug agencies down everyone's throats.

"The Wa have forged a criminal alliance with their old enemies, the thugs who rule Burma and now call themselves the SPRC, to run yaba into Thailand. Now the Wa are getting more rich and powerful, and are becoming more influential than we Shan with the hill tribes. But their success has made them enemies with their former patrons in the Thai government, and caused this insane drug war. Those Wa pigs ruined everything by targeting yaba to kids," Eddie commented.

"It's the most slickly-marketed drug. It smells like candy," I remarked.

"Our friends in the Thai police would rather not fight with drug dealers. Without us, how would the addicts get their fixes? But the Wa were greedy, expanded their markets to the kids. While they have made themselves much richer than the Shan, and can buy more soldiers from the hill tribes than we can, their success has made them a target. Now, it's war, and we are all on the front lines."

"Maybe this drug war is the source of all of the trouble we are having," Tran said.

Eddie asked "Trouble? What kind of trouble?"

I explained "Tran and I are here to compare the development and sex lives of Thai katoey working girls to American transsexual sex workers. We found a list of girls on a computer at Chiang Mai University, but when we call on the girls, most of them are gone, or even dead. We think a lot of them have gotten AIDS, and without that list it's going to be hard to find and interview as many subjects."

"Who made the list? Maybe they could help you make a new one?" Eddie suggested.

"The project was run here by a sao praphet song named Lin, who was doing it for a company Spartan," I responded.

Eddie let out a low whistle. "I wouldn't mess with Spartan if I were you. It's the biggest company in this region, and its Thai owner is General Riap, the commander of the Third Army."

"Why would Spartan care? You would think it would be happy to have some independent researchers finish their research project."

"Why do you suppose they didn't finish it themselves?" Eddie asked.

"I don't know. But it's a waste of our time, and we are just going to finish with the few subjects on the list here, and then we're moving on to Pattapong. The commercial sex scene is more concentrated there: it should be easy to recruit new subjects."

"I'll arrange an apartment for you there," Eddie offered. "You American girls are so great: like an instant party." He pulled Tran and me together into a group hug.

Our second round of yaba and his Viagra were kicking in, and we resumed our long night of lovemaking. I rocked Tran against the rhythms of Eddie's Viagra-stoked lust, and I was almost as thrilled to experience the Tran's writhing, exquisite first vaginal orgasm as I had been to have had my own, wrapped in her arms.

Many hours later, Eddie dozed off into sexually-sated slumber, and Tran and I partied on, sipping champagne, eating room-service bamii noodles with much more inventive toppings than the noodles we'd been getting from street vendors, and obsessing over our futile research like a couple of nerdy schoolgirls in their exam period.

"When you think it through, the absurdity of our statistical anomaly is mind-boggling. Our data shows that two-thirds of the T-girl prostitutes from Spartan's study group have gotten sick with AIDS bad enough to get taken out of circulation," I calculated.

"In the Twin Cities, we had what, maybe six out of every hundred?" Tran estimated.

"I hate to sound callous, but if they are getting sick and dying that fast, how could there be so many left in Chiang Mai?" I asked rhetorically. Nothing made sense. The old study group, which appeared to have offered a God-given shortcut to a blockbuster study, was now a perplexing roadblock, and I simply couldn't figure out why.

"Let's take one more Jacuzzi and then try to get a few hours of sleep," Tran suggested.

"Maybe we'd better try dilating, too," I reminded her.

I pulled down my panties and slipped off my maxipad, and noticed a slurry of blood and tissue had collected inside it. "Oh my God, maybe Eddie was a little too energetic for a first-timer!" I worried.

"I've go the same problem. Not much blood, but kind of a mess of sloughed tissue."

I looked on with horrified fascination. It looked like my neovagina had molted a layer of skin. I tried dilating, and although the stent penetrated easily, I said, "Wow, that stings!" I felt raw, almost burned inside.

"God, I am going to be so disappointed if we have more problems down there," Tran moped.

We took a bath, and morosely went off to sleep. Post-orgasmic fatigue, champagne, and the crash from the yaba had left us exhausted. Despite the yaba still in our systems, with the help of a couple of Vicodin from Dr. Sanguan's office we managed to drift off into a short, light sleep.

I heard Eddie tiptoeing around the room and making a telephone call at first light. After conversing a few minutes in a furtive whisper, Eddie came over to our bed to speak quietly with us.

"Sorry, I gotta go look in on a merchant, but you wait here, order some room service breakfast. I am having one of my guys pick you up at nine, take you to your place, then he'll take Tran up to Chiang Rai, drive her up to the Hmong villages and take care of her."

"Thanks, that's OK," Tran said.

"Not OK," Eddie said. "You girls stay away from Spartan or you'll end up ying ting," Eddie warned. "Easy to get yourself killed in Chiang Rai, no matter what. And you are studying Spartan's business. Spartan's business is General Riap's business. Easy to get killed messing with Riap."

"We're giving up on all of that," I reassured him. "The Spartan list is a dead end."

"That's what I'm saying. You should stay away from Riap's business. He has all the leverage now that this drug war is on. We used to give him orders, but now we take orders from him."

"OK," I said, wondering why Eddie had become so adamant.

"Anyhow, you wait for driver, he'll take care of you two. You are my good friends now."

I called Sanguan's office and told Pim about the disturbing vaginal sloughing. She sounded confused and worried, replying, "I don't know. We don't have so many girls with your kind of operation. Sanguan is in prep, he can't talk now. Call him later."

We ate a Western breakfast of egg whites and wheat toast from room service, and in deference to Thai notions of decency, straightened up the most obvious evidence of our orgy. "Look at this," I laughed, holding up a condom package for Tran to see. "Spartan Spermicidal Extra," I read.

"Yeah, they're everywhere," Tran added, holding up a squeezed-out tube of Spartan Spermicidal Ultra Glide, before she lofted it into the trash can.

Eddie's driver arrived and brought us a package, then excused himself deferentially to wait for us downstairs. Inside, in a bag marked for Tran, was a Hmong woman's tsho, a knee-length pleated dark blue and white batik skirt, black leggings, and black tiab blouse. Both the skirt and blouse were decorated with red cross-stitch embroidery appliqués at the hem, cuffs and placket. A maroon phuam, a turban-like hat decorated with white appliqué stripes, and pair of modern rubber and plastic sandals--Teva knockoffs, good for long walks--completed Tran's outfit.

"How charming, he wants us to save ourselves for him," Tran said, holding up the unflattering, baggy garb. "Not much of a gift, but I got more than you, I'm afraid," Tran said with mock competitiveness.

"Wait!" I said, "There's more." I held up two tissue-wrapped packages. Handing one to Tran, I pulled at the string on the other, and remarked, "This looks promising."

Inside each there was a yellow gold chain tipped with a blue sapphire pendant. My eyes met Tran's, and we exchanged joyful glances.

As I put on the silky chain, and the smooth, square-cut blue stone slapped against my chest, I felt as though I had been reborn as a princess.

"That's more like it," I said admiring Tran's stone, which dangled enticingly in the furrow between her breasts.

"You look quite lovely," Tran told me, gently rubbing the stones against one another. "I guess we made a good team last night.

"Nancee's going to kill us if she sees these," I said. "Not to mention the local banditos as we make our rounds today. Let's wrap everything back up and put it all in the computer stash when we get back to the hut.

The driver was at our disposal, so I asked him to stop by Suansak Two on our way. I went to my computer workstation and logged on, planning to e-mail Professor Pranatop at her post abroad in Australia with our decision to suspend the use of the Spartan list as soon as we had finished with the interviews of the Chiang Mai subjects. I opened my CMU mailbox and saw, in the midst of the junk e-mail, the dreaded red exclamation point beside a new e-mail from Pranatop.

I opened and read: "After consultation with Spartan Scientific Products LLC, I direct that you stop using materials from its confidential study. Furthermore, at the order of the Thai Third Army Command, I revoke the official consent for your distribution of pharmacy vouchers."

My heart skipped a beat and I cursed my luck for putting me in the care of the lazy and stupid Pranatop.

I had wanted her consent for the use of the Spartan materials. Instead of addressing it simply as a matter between two scientists, she had shown she lacked the backbone to make a decision of her own by cravenly referring the request to Spartan. Not surprisingly, Spartan had refused consent, and had apparently lodged a protest with the Thai Third Army.

Now I was well and truly screwed: I would have to waste the twenty-five interviews that we derived from their materials, and I was deprived of the use of the drug vouchers, which were my currency for paying our interviewees during the rest of the study. With only seven weeks left on my visa, I would be lucky to interview as many as the hundred subjects I had originally proposed in the survey, much less get the blockbuster results that I had hoped to obtain.

Now there was no point in consulting that idiot Pranatop any more. Her meddling would only arouse Spartan further, and their response left me feeling uncomfortable enough already.

I was about to shut down my session when I saw another red exclamation mark. It was a e-mail from the dean of CMU to all foreign students, passing along an order from Lieutenant General Riap: all foreign students at Chiang Mai University were required to immediately notify the Third Army's Internal Security Office of their current address, the names of all people living in their residences, and their course of study.

As we drove back to the hut, the driver adeptly avoided a Third Army security checkpoint that had appeared on the main road. The drug war was getting closer, and I felt the checkpoint must have been intended for me.

I was gripped with anxiety as visions of a half dozen dead friends and acquaintances scrolled before my sleep-deprived eyes: the memory of Daylene, Bo, Croc, and Seth weighed especially on my mind. These dark memories were joined by the specters of the twenty-five hundred dead victims of Thailand's drug war, marching before my mind's eye like the columns of a defeated, retreating army.

What horrors did this affably malignant culture hold for me and my friends? I felt I had loosened the cap on a bottle of poison: but what was I feeling? Realistic anxiety, or amphetamine-fueled paranoia?

As soon as we were safely back in our hooch, I retrieved the iBook from its hiding place under the floor and opened up Spartan's main Excel spreadsheet. I re-sorted the list against the data from the last three weeks of our frustrating field work, by district, language group, age, and every other category on the spreadsheet, working methodically from left to right.

By the time I reached the mysterious A's, B's, C's and D's, I was so frazzled that I was ready to chuck the whole project. But when I sorted our interviewees by letter category, I was stunned. Of the twenty-five subjects from the initial list we had found and seen in Chiang Mai, seventeen were A's, five were B's, two were C's, and only one was a D. Yet the original list had divided the Chiang Mai subjects amongst the four categories evenly.

"There's something strange going on here," I said with alarm. The alarming infection rate in the study, Pranatop's e-mail, the sudden clampdown by Third Army security on CMU's farang students, and even our own weird reactions to sex while using Spartan's products formed an alarming pattern: but of what?

Tran studied a map of Chiang Rai Province against the spreadsheet on the iBook and observed, "Three of these disappeared C's and D's are from Hmong hamlets near Cheng Meng. I'll have Liang's guy take me there, and a couple of more places," she said, changing into her Hmong ethnic costume and sandals.

"OK, then Nancee and I will check out the few remaining names we have in town, then go to the Baan Pewan Cheewit AIDS hospice and see if anyone ended up there, and talk to Lin about what's going on with the A, B, C, and D categories. After that, we're done here. We'll pack your stuff, Tran, and you can meet us at the place Eddie got us in Pattapong." I was looking forward to getting out from under the thumb of the Third Army.

Nancee and I hugged Tran good-bye. I stashed the iBook and our necklaces in their hiding place, and Nancee and I set off carrying the rest of the vouchers, to use today or throw away as far as possible from the hooch.

As we sought out the few remaining names from Spartan’s study list, we had our worst day ever. The landlady of our first interviewee, Nung, told us tearfully that Nung had been hauled away by police only minutes before we arrived. "They never bother the streetwalkers that call out to my children, but they take away my most valued tenant, who never sees anyone outside her home. What is the matter with this country? It's madness," she cried.

We continued on the remaining names from the Spartan list. The next names we checked were Golf and Gigi, who lived together. When we got to their apartment, frightened neighbors told us that they had just been arrested by grey-green clad anti-narcotics police. The neighbors complained "Sure, they were somsee, but they never took drugs, or did drug deals. This drug war is getting worse than the drugs!"

We called the cell phone of our next subject, Joy, and got no answer. Fearing the worst, we crossed town to visit her, only to find yet another ransacked apartment. Her roommate would tell us only that Joy had been arrested the drug police early that morning. Then she threw us out. She was clearly scared to death to have us around.

My anxiety mounted as we approached the Baan Pewan Cheewit hospice. Madrana, the head nurse of the hospice, met us with angry tears. "The drug police took away my patients Gee, Nata and Ooh this afternoon. Those poor girls were too sick to take yaba. Everyone here is too sick for that drug, but they took them away to die." She regarded me angrily. "This is your fault, farang, for bringing us bad karma!"

"I'm sorry, but where is Lin, I need to see her." I feared the worst.

Mamasan Madrana brightened. "She bought medicine with the papers you left for her. She felt better and left with her sister."

I realized it was time to catch up with my sisters at Rosepaper.

I stuffed most of the remaining vouchers in Madrana's hand, and said "Take these as my offering to restore the good karma of Baan Pewan Cheewit. May your patients live long, and die at peace. Sawat-dee ka."

Madrana said, "Sawat-dee ka," back, and to my surprise and delight, gave me a wai for doing the most decent thing I could think of doing with our remaining vouchers.

Nancee and I slogged through Chiang Mai's tumultuous traffic toward the CMU dormitory that Rosepaper's sao praphet song had taken as their unofficial home. When we arrived, we found Chris, our hostess at Fascination, was on duty as dorm monitor, sitting at the front desk.

"Sawat-dee ka. Are we welcome here?" I asked, noting that she had greeted me with a standoffish glare.

"You never come to visit us, and your project has created turmoil for our community. The Third Army security forces have been here asking questions about you. Rosepaper forbids drugs."

"I am sorry we have been such inactive members, but our research program has been more demanding than we expected. As far as drugs go, we're not involved in that," I lied; Nancee nodded in support of my little prevarication.

"I think there has been a very serious misunderstanding about something related to our research. I'd like to talk with Gift's sister Lin, as I think she might be able to us clear things up."

"Shhhh," Chris hissed with alarm. "They came looking for her, too, and she's staying here with us. But don't tell anyone."

"We have to talk to her," I begged.

"OK, come with me," Chris agreed.

We walked to the back of the dorm, to a utility room. There, hiding beneath the meters and cables, we found Lin and Gift. But instead of the near-corpse we had seen four weeks ago, Lin was clear-eyed and healthy. She jumped up and hugged me.

"I can't thank you enough," Lin said as Gift repeated her embrace. Lin smiled through tears of happiness. "I thought I was about to die, and now I feel alive, and want to live again for the first time in years."

Gift had bartered the vouchers that I had left with Lin for protease inhibitors, antibiotics and antifungal drugs, and Lin's seemingly terminal AIDS had disappeared. The taut, deathlike mask of her face had been replaced with a warm, though still weak smile, and smooth, resilient skin.

Lin spoke clearly but softly. She reported, "My strep throat and thrush are both gone. I'm still weak, but I feel better every day now. Before you gave me the vouchers, every day was worse. Thank you for giving me the time to rectify my karma before I leave you."

"Thank God that at least one good thing has come from this misbegotten trip," I said. "Really, I am so happy for you. But everything else has gone wrong.

"The Spartan list turned out to be a complete disaster, and now the police are harassing everyone on it, including you and us. Lin, you have to tell us what's going on. What have we gotten ourselves into?"

"I couldn't tell you everything. It has been a source of great shame.

"The study was of the usefulness of Spartan's spermicidal product, nonoxynol-9, N-9 for short, as an inhibitor to the transmission of HIV.

"Another study had suggested that N9 increased rather than diminished HIV transmission, but Spartan had been selling their more expensive N9 condoms and lubricants as beneficial against sexually transmitted diseases.

"The idea of the study was to prove which concentrations of N9 worked best. They wanted to prove that N9 was beneficial in AIDS inhibition."

"And why did Spartan terminate the study?" I demanded.

"The first round of follow-up HIV tests showed the opposite of what they had expected: the subjects who used the more highly concentrated N9 products contracted HIV the fastest and their infections progressed to frank AIDS the quickest. The healthiest subjects were the ones who used the non-spermicidal products.

"They terminated the study before they got statistically significant responses, and so they kept advertising N9 as preventative because they had no statistically significant evidence that it was not--at least, no evidence that would withstand scientific review. They just stopped selling the highly concentrated products. There's corporate ethics for you."

"Oh my God, and the highly-concentrated N9 group was the D's?"

"I was in the D group. Look what happened to me!" Lin cried.

"The D's have been annihilated, and the C's and B's have been decimated. The only group that has anything close to a typical incidence of HIV are the A's," I exclaimed.

"I'm so sorry. I deserve to die," Lin said, hanging her head in shame.

"No, you have to live," I replied. "We all have to live so that we can expose the truth about those bastards from Spartan."

"You're forgetting, Alexandra, that the main bastard is the commander of the Third Army," Nancee reminded me.

"Shit," I said. "No wonder Third Army security forces are looking for us. What the fuck are we going to do?"

"Call Eddie," Nancee said, pulling out her cell phone and handing it to me.

Eddie answered, and said, "Thank God you're OK. What did you girls do after I left? General Riap ordered you, Tran, Nancee, and a couple hundred katoey added to the drug blacklist. Exactly what have you crazy Americans been doing?" he demanded.

"I think I discovered that Spartan's products are spreading AIDS. Spartan did a study and I got a hold of their subject list. They stopped the study because the early results looked not-so-good. By the time I followed up two years later, the results were like, totally horrible."

"How did they find out about you and the list?" Eddie wondered.

"That cunt Pranatop!" I shouted. "I e-mailed her for permission to use the Spartan list, and three weeks later, the lazy, stupid bitch forwarded my e-mail to Spartan.

"Then the shit hit the fan! The roadblock, the requirement that all farang students report their residences, the disappeared girls, and the visits to Rosepaper--they all came from Pranatop giving my e-mail to Spartan.

"Eddie, can you help us get out of here?"

"Smuggling is my specialty," he said cheerfully. "Get yourselves some hses and flip-flops and whatever you girls need for a long camping trip in the jungle."

"God, just what I needed, the hike from hell," I said.

I had hated the time I'd been forced to spend in the Boy Scouts, and I think that roughing it is staying in a Motel 6. For Nancee, it was a journey to her past, and she seemed almost excited.

Eddie continued, "The three of you meet me in Somphet Market at 18:00, by the fish stalls."

"O shit! What about Tran?" I exclaimed. "She's God-only-knows where in Chiang Rai Province!"

"She'll have to come out later. It's OK, she's with my guy. And unlike you, she more-or-less fits in.

"You, my little blonde friend, will make rather conspicuous contraband."

"But she doesn't even know what's going on, and her cell phone will never work until she gets back to Chiang Mai."

"So leave her a voicemail. She'll probably check it.

"Now just cover your hair, wai frequently, and stay away from your house, or anywhere else you see a police checkpoint.

I called Tran's number and chose my words carefully, not knowing who would be the one to listen to it first. "Tran, something has gone wrong on our project and we three and all of the subjects were mistakenly added to the drug blacklist. Until we can get this straightened out, Nancee and are leaving Chiang Mai with some of our mutual friend's guys.

"If you can, FedEx our stuff from its hiding place back to my Mom's house, and then go with our friend's guys.

"Stay safe and do as they say. Good luck, and sorry for all of the trouble. Good-bye." I struggled to hold back my tears as I spoke. To my relief, I managed to keep from breaking down on the spot--I did not want to make Nancee any more nervous.

We told Chris we needed to leave for the countryside. After she protested against our disloyalty to Rosepaper and CMU one more time, she organized some rap nong to shop and scrounge for Nancee and me. A rap nong with a motor scooter came back with some sunscreen and instant deep tan for me, and for both of us, Halazone water-purification tablets, mosquito netting, two plastic tarps to sleep on, and two complete Karen outfits including two big, colorfully-woven Karen handicraft tote bags of the sort we could loop over our shoulders--we would use them to hold everything that wouldn't fit in our shoulder bags.

By then, the Rosepaper girls had organized us toothbrushes and toothpaste, shampoo, Neosporin, a single, slightly-used vaginal stent, a box of condoms--non-spermicidal, of course--to make sharing the stent more sanitary, bottled water in reusable plastic bottles, and insect repellent. We exchanged our Western clothes for Karen garb: the Rosepaper girls were thrilled to get hand-me-downs from the beautiful American celebrity and her friend.

Nancee and I each got a young Karen woman's hse: a simple, loose, ankle-length V-necked shift. Each was mainly white, but decorated with Job's Tear seeds and red embroidery at the seams and with an embroidered red appliqué band around the midriff like a belt. My hse was rather more severe then Nancee's, and my outfit was completed by a white headscarf with red cross-stitch embroidery and a pair of "practical" sandals like Tran's--the low heels I had on were too "city."

I cherished hopes that I would blend in better with a dark tan, no visible blond hair, and sunglasses to hide my blue eyes. In truth, I was taller than most Karen and Thai women, tall enough to be read as sao praphet song if not read as farang. Still, I was determined to do my best. There was just enough time for me to put on dishgloves, slather myself with instant tan, wait for it to dry, tie my hair up into a bun and hide it all under my Karen headscarf.

Then we bade Lin a tearful good-bye.

Before I left, I asked Lin whether she needed more vouchers to buy diflucan or cephalaxin or azothymidine with lamivudine, but she insisted she still had plenty of drugs from her voucher swap and knew where to continue her antiretroviral treatment--some nice farang doctors from France had just set up a clinic on the edge of town. Still, I stuffed the remaining vouchers under her futon while Nancee was telling her good-bye. We parted after begging her to keep herself and Gift well, safe, and out of the sight of the Third Army.

"After I get back to America, I'll figure out a way to get you out of here," I said as optimistically as I could, despite my doubts that I or any of my friends could escape the death trap I had lead us all into.

I tried to keep my voice optimistic as I finished with: "Keep safe until we call for you. We need you to tell this story in America." Then Nancee and I went to the chaos of Somphet Market.

It was nearing closing time when we arrived. The local merchants had been starved of tourists by the triple curses of terrorism, recession and the panic over SARS. All around us, the remaining desperate merchants were aggressively hawking their unsold wares. The more resigned among them had already closed for the day. We spent most of our soon-to-be-useless baht on as much food as we could carry and then tried to look as inconspicuous as we could while we waited for Eddie to show up.

Eddie appeared dressed in a longyi and a Ralph Lauren polo shirt accompanied by a couple of dangerous-looking ethnic Shan. He addressed them sharply in front of us and then translated: "I told them to take you to the Shan State Army's base in Shan State of Myanmar. I told them if you didn't arrive safely, and untouched by their filthy bodies, they and their families would be ying ting.

"I'll meet up with you there after I've found Tran and figured out how to get her up there." As he finished speaking, Eddie pointed towards the Thanon Thongchai Range that loomed above Chiang Mai to the northwest. Then he helped us up onto the covered bed of an old Mitsubishi diesel truck. We spread one of our tarps on a dirty sleeping pad we found in the back, and tried to make ourselves comfortable as our Shan drivers tied the curtains at the rear of the canvas awning. As soon as we were hidden from view, they got into the cab and started off.

We discovered that the rear window of the cab had been removed to improve the ventilation in the cab; although our drivers only spoke a rather rough approximation of Thai, Nancee could understand them. We could peer through the cab at the road ahead, at least until the driver warned we were nearing a checkpoint.

Nancee and I cowered under the tarp as we passed through the first checkpoint that the Third Army had established around the outskirts of Chiang Mai. We peeked furtively through the window at the following checkpoints, and noticed the driver passed the Thai security men closed envelopes bearing the seal of the Shan State Army. We passed through the checkpoints unmolested and uninspected. It seemed Eddie had wired the lower ranks of the Third Army as thoroughly as he had wired the Thai civil police.

We drove all night and through the next day, climbing the mountains on roads whose quality declined as our altitude increased: tarmac gave way to untarred macadam, to loose gravel, to packed earth, and finally to a pair of ruts in the earth. The truck swayed and rocked through a moonlit night and an overcast day, as patches of terraced rice paddies appeared less frequently amidst the dense hardwood forest through which we drove.

We huddled under our tarp against the cold of high passes and sweltered under mosquito netting as we descended through steamy, insect-infested valleys, where the surrounding forest seethed with the sounds of predators and their prey. The drivers were indefatigable: more than once we noticed the vanilla fumes of yaba as they drove through the night and the following day.

By the end of the second day of our hejira, I was exhausted but couldn't find rest. I felt tormented by guilt and remorse. My ambition and drive had outrun my luck and ability. I had wanted to soar, but instead I had crashed and burned. As the truck lurched through the gathering twilight, I flayed myself mentally for my recklessness and vainglory.

My Thai Transsexual Sex Worker study was a hopelessly flawed, incomplete disaster. Its truncated remnants existed precariously on a lost iBook that would soon be found and confiscated by the goons of the corrupt commander of the Third Army. Then my findings, whatever little they were worth, would be lost forever to science.

I had misjudged my capacity to understand and operate in this complex land. The methods of science and analysis in which I had been trained, and in which I believed, were foolish ideals in a place where one's place in society, even those of the sao praphet song, had been established, understood, and accepted by all, long before America had even been founded.

It had been sheer madness for me to have taken on Spartan and General Riap with nothing more than a handful of katoey comrades and an iBook. If I had only known, if only I had studied the situation more carefully, then I, Nancee and my beloved Tran would not have been placed in mortal danger. My boundless desire for fame and glory had led me to gamble for stakes I had never understood, much less considered. Under the pretext of providing for Alyssa, Marta and Li, I had ruined all of us utterly.

My bitter musings were interrupted quite abruptly: the truck stopped short, jerking Nancee awake, and I heard commands barked in a strange tongue. Nancee looked at me in startled fear: "Shit, I can't tell whether that's Burmese or Wa!"

"So good, we're across the border," I said complacently.

"Borders don't mean anything here. It depends on whose territory you land in," Nancee replied. "If that's the United Wa Army out there, we're screwed."

We waited under the tarp as our anxiety mounted. After what seemed hours, a glaring flashlight was shined under our tarp, followed by an incomprehensible, but obvious command. "It's them. Get out slowly with your hands up," Nancee advised.

Covering my eyes from the blinding light, I struggled out over the tail gate of the truck and was pushed at gunpoint towards a group of soldiers on a hillock by the track. Our Shan guides were already hog-tied there, their faces averted from our captors.

Suddenly, the commander uttered an order, and two fighters sprang forward and hacked the Shan across the backs of their necks with machetes. With a horrible thud, the guides' heads flopped over as their bodies hit the ground. Blood started to spray from their partly decapitated bodies.

Our guides were decapitated with second or third blows; their headless bodies twitched uncontrollably against their bonds as more and more of their blood poured downhill, staining the jungle scrub scarlet. The fetid jungle air was filled with the stench of urine and blood.

Now the commander screamed and pointed at us.

"Tell him we are costly concubines on our way to the commander of the Shan State Army," I hissed to Nancee. She said something in halting Burmese. He snorted in disbelief.

"He thinks we're Karen village girls," Nancee said, terrified.

"Tell him that we'd be delighted to prove otherwise, if he would honor us with a private audience. Tell him he could bring great honor to himself if he presented the Shan State Army commander's new concubines to his commander."

Nancee translated, and the commander rewarded me with a predatory smile. He ordered us searched for weapons, and then directed us to the back of the truck. The commander and his lieutenant got in behind us.

I pulled off the tribal headscarf under which I had hidden my hair, tied up in a tight bun. My blond hair floated down over my shoulders as I started to pull up my hse. I slipped it off over my head while giving my underwire bra-clad breasts a provocative shake in his direction.

I gave him a lubricious smile and bade Nancee speak for me: "Tell him if he takes good care of us, we can offer the commander and his lieutenant greater pleasure than they have ever known."

Nancee got into the act, and translated with greater assurance and a lascivious tone of her own, as she bared her breasts, which thanks to silicone, were unusually bountiful for an Asian girl.

The commander reached for me hesitantly, as if he were afraid to touch a sacrosanct icon. I nodded encouragement, and then gently took his trembling fingers in my hand and pressed them against me. "Nice?" I inquired with a friendly smile.

"Nice," he answered with a shy grin. I looked over as Nancee made the lieutenant fondle her, and then we gestured to suggest that they change places.

"Ask him if he doesn't think we wouldn't make a fine gift for his general." Nancee translated, in a now almost haughty tone, and the commander and his subordinate nodded enthusiastic approval. "Tell him we are not common village girls, that we are fragile and delicate princesses, and need careful attention. From no more than one man each!" Nancee translated, but the commander shook his head and began arguing.

"He says we must each allow two men to have us." I tried to hide my disgust and exchanged a revolted glance with Nancee.

"OK, two and no more, and both must use condoms, to keep us safe and clean so we may be concubines for his general." He nodded assent, and left, to be replaced by a guard, who kept his eyes away from us, even after we had pulled on our hses once again.

We heard the commander give a loud order, and immediately heard a mutinous outcry. The commander barked another command, and when the angry complaints continued, I heard the crack of a pistol shot. The guard peeked out the rear of the truck, and responded to our quizzical looks by pointing an imaginary pistol at his head and saying, "Pow!"

Nancee gave me an admiring look and said, "Alexandra, you are truly brilliant."

"Thanks, necessity is the mother of invention. I just remembered that in Asia you bargain over everything."

"You learned the lessons of the Thai marketplace very well," Nancee said admiringly. "I think you saved us from a deadly gangbang."

"For now, at least. As to the future, let's hope."

The truck started moving again. We bumped up the track more slowly now, to let the soldiers of this detachment of the United Wa Army keep up with us.

As the three of us bounced around in the back of the truck, out of sight of the rest of our captors, Nancee whispered with our guard. After a while, he became more and more forthcoming with answers to her questions. Nancee finally turned to me and filled me in on what was happening.

Our captors were indeed part of the United Wa State Army. They were returning, I learned, from a massive smuggling voyage that had brought millions of yaba pills into Chiang Mai Province.

I thought ruefully of the small, but vital role that I had played in this murderous enterprise. Without hedonists like me, there would be no addicts, and without five million addicts to demand more and more drugs, there would be no raison d'áªtre for this ragtag army of scoundrels. Without hedonists like me, there would be no cause for this drug war; General Riap would neither be able to enjoy and abuse his position of privilege nor be able to hound and persecute those who might expose his corporate malfeasance.

I had made a critical contribution to the enterprise that now threatened to destroy me and my friends. I would pay the price soon enough, when I would play the role of whore for two smelly, filthy, and probably diseased cutthroats of the United Wa Army, the biggest drug gang on the planet.

I would have to play my role as if my life depended on it; considering in whose hands I was, though, I was most likely wasting my time: I was already probably as good as dead.

We continued on the long bumpy ride in the twilight. As night fell, the convoy stopped, and after a few minutes of waiting in the ominous silence, there was a furious consultation by the side of the truck.

"What are they saying?" I demanded of Nancee.

"Their scouts have spotted a Karen tribal village. They are going to attack and loot it, and take the women and girls to be sex slaves for the men. That way, the officers can keep us for themselves, and they can make a even bigger gift to their commander."

"That's horrible. These people are beasts. Nancee, how are we ever going to survive this?" I asked.

"Our problems are nothing compared to those of the people in that village," Nancee said sadly.

After a few minutes, we heard the booming of grenades and a rattling fusillade of gunfire, followed by screams of agony and pleas for mercy, followed by isolated snaps of rifle shots echoing from the hills surrounding the village near the valley floor.

The affray ended quickly--automatic weapons are like that.

Within the hour, the triumphant Wa battle party had returned with captives: seven women and girls that they captured from the village, several of them bleeding from recent wounds. The Wa gunmen looked cheerful and expectant: now they, like their commanders, would have fresh meat for their sexual appetites.

The Wa fighters tied the women up and loaded them into the truck with us: the Karen women cried miserably and looked at us piteously.

"What are they saying: do you understand them?" I asked Nancee.

"They speak a different dialect, but I understand that the Wa shot the few old men in the village and slaughtered their children, except for these few young girls. They want and expect to die themselves. I think I shouldn't talk to them. I don't want these Wa pigs to think I'm a Karen."

It was a brutal calculation, but she was right. We had bartered a better way to die than these poor creatures would suffer. But the cruelty that we had seen from the Wa made our fate all too clear.

We rolled to a stop in a foggy mountain pass. The Wa soldiers routed the terrified Karen girls out of the truck and herded them into the mouth of a cave or bunker in the side of the mountain. The officers came for us, and we stepped down from the truck bed. The officers helped us down with faux gallantry.

I had known the limestone mountains of this region featured many spectacular thum or caves, but I had never entertained the slightest desire to visit any of them. From the mouth of what was now clearly an extensive cavern, we heard renewed cries and savage shouts as the soldiers began their debauch of the Karen girls. I wondered how many of them would survive this night of rape and abuse, or how long we could survive amongst these butchers.

For now, we could only try to prolong our survival by offering these commanders sexual experiences worthy of the "Thousand and One Nights."

"Nancee, tell the commander that we wish to get ready to receive our conquering heroes." I handed her two condoms, and she handed me a tube of lubricant, which I hurriedly spread under my mons and ass. I whispered, "I'm going to try to do these pigs two at a time. Then they'll never forget us!"

Captain Rap, the commander, and Lieutenant Gurp guided me through the meandering cave to a vaulted chamber that, by its odor, had been used as a shelter by the Wa bandit army for many years. As my eyes became used to the flickering light from their hurricane lamps, I noticed a pair of dank sleeping pallets lying off to one side. I kicked the pallets together and spread my tarp and mosquito netting over them as best I could.

The two Wa leaders passed a plastic bottle of some foul-smelling alcoholic drink between them. When they offered me the cloudy dregs, I declined.

The air in the cavern was rank, damp, and cold, and I made an exaggerated shiver. Rap barked a command to Gurp, who assembled some wood, and sprayed it with some gasoline from a bottle carried at his belt. Gurp followed up by tossing a match onto the pile. It burst into flames with a pop and a petroleum smell that managed to overpower the musty, earthy smell of the cave. As the fire grew, the cavern was filled with dancing light from its flames, which flickered in heartrending syncopation with the cries of the Karen girls echoing from a distant chamber.

I pulled off my hse with an erotic shimmy, and beckoned Rap to me. He approached me warily, as if he were unacquainted with the notion of a willing sex partner. I pulled at the rope that held his trousers at his waist, and slipped off his stiff, filthy clothing.

Third World rustics like Rap don't bathe much in the best of circumstances, and Rap's occupation, smuggling drugs across one of the most dangerous and wild frontiers in the world, gave him little motive or opportunity to maintain even the most rudimentary standards of personal hygiene. He reeked of sweat of sweat, filth, and God-knows-what else.

I circled my fingers around his stiff, but small cock, and rubbed him with Neosporin, and inspected him in the firelight. Although his penis appeared to be free of any visible lesions, before swallowing him I used my well-practiced lip-slide technique to put on his condom.

He recoiled in protest against the condom initially, but after a few seconds of tongue-trilling and deep, quick head lunges of my hot, wet lips over his cock, Rap was unable to resist the pleasures of one of my well-practiced blowjobs. Within moments Rap was, like most of my lovers, more my captive than I was his.

Gurp watched intently, and I gestured to him to come near. Rap's eyes widened with offense when he saw his subordinate pull off his uniform and join us on the pallets, but I nodded my head vigorously in assent. Rap was too preoccupied with his own pleasure to protest the Neosporin-lubricated hand job I started giving Gurp, as I continued sucking Rap's cock.

I sheathed Gurp's cock with a condom, and then began alternated my lips between their modest, but intrusive cocks. Then I threw myself down on the pallets, tilted my head over the back and invited Gurp to my head, and threw my legs apart for Rap.

If Rap had ever had sex in a setting other than rape, he had forgotten how, for he entered me in a single, painful lunge. He was small even for an Asian guy, and I handled him easily: my vagina had fully recovered from the exfoliation caused by my encounter with the spermicidal lubricant and Eddie's much larger cock.

I moaned and ground my pelvis with mock pleasure, and wrapped my hands around Gurp's skinny ass to press his cock into my mouth. Now both my Wa barbarians were captivated: their initial inhibition had been overcome by their drinking, and the intensity of my mock passion for them. They accepted my moans and cries of feigned pleasure as the real thing, and smiled smugly at their virile performance.

My own nerves, which had exploded to orgasmic life with Eddie, were completely quiescent: I experienced motion and penetration, but no pleasure. Rap was energetic but artless in his fucking, and his cock was not big enough to batter through the emotional defense of loathing that I had established.

Gurp made a servile request to Rap, which Rap repudiated, and then pointed to my ass. With that, he rolled me on top of him, and pulled me forward onto his chest. I braced myself for the anal penetration that I knew would come.

Like his superior, Gurp had not mastered the subtle art of entering a woman, as soon as he had pressed his cock's tip against my rectum, I felt him wiggle it in a millimeter, and then bull forward as far as he could. I knew that the initial shock and pain would soon subside, so I bit my lip and forced myself to accept the burning blast through my nervous system.

They seemed to enjoy the sensation of one another's penises thumping at each other through the thin layers of tissue between my ass and vagina. I was surprised at how easily I accommodated them, and by the pleasant buzz that emerged from my vestigial prostate, now squeezed between their plunging penises.

My senses began to be flooded with warm, building sensations from that forgotten corner of my male past, and despite myself, my feigned vocalizations of pleasure were supplanted by the real thing.

I laughed to myself and cursed Sanguan for the efficacy of his work with my nerves: even when raped by two violent, filthy land pirates, I could not prevent myself from having an orgasm!

I abandoned my righteous obduracy, and let my fantasies go wild. I was a Spanish countess, traveling by a golden galleon to reunite with my true love, the prince, and my ship was taken by a crew of heartless pirates. After they slaughtered the crew, they took their turns with me, fucking me from stem to stern. Though I tried to be faithful even to point of attempting to take my own life, I could not and instead, after a protracted debauch, melted into a delicious orgasm.

And with that, I began cumming, my face contorting with pleasure, and my body growing taut and spasming as I begged, "More, more, more!"

Rap and Gurp, astounded by this passion, responded with more, reaching climaxes while my body was still throbbing from my own pleasure. Afterwards, Rap pulled the mosquito net over our slack bodies. I fell asleep guiltily to the hideous cacophony of pain echoing from the distant chamber where the Wa soldiers were tormenting the Karen girls.

Rap and Gurp were still asleep when I awoke. Alcohol, sexual satiation, or death had stilled the voices that had filled the cave with eerie echoes through the night. I inspected their kit: they had machetes and pistols, and I fantasized a bloody double assassination. But what would I do afterwards? There were two more leaders, and over a dozen more men.

God only knew where I was, and where I would go from this godforsaken spot. I put on my hse, threw some more wood on the embers of the fire, brewed a pot of tea, cooked a mess kit full of rice, and sat by the fire, waiting for my captors to awaken.

When Rap and Gurp awoke, they sipped the tea and ate my rice gratefully, and said something I took as thanks and a compliment. Then we went to make reveille to the rest of the troop. I feared the worst when we went to Nancee's companions, but she was already dressed, looked fresh and healthy, and gave me a furtive thumbs-up, to which I replied as discretely as I could.

The soldiers' vault exceeded my nightmarish expectations. One of the Karen girls, a skinny twelve year-old, lay crumpled and twisted, and the soldiers ordered the other Karen to carry her out.

Under the harsh commands of Gurp, the Karen girls dug a shallow grave for their dead fellow villager by the mouth of the cave, and Gurp kicked at the battered, forlorn corpse until she rolled in. Then he ordered the surviving Karen to cover the pathetic, broken body with jungle dirt and foliage.

Once the grave was hidden in foliage, Rap ordered his men to tie the Karen girls' hands and herd them into the truck; Gurp helped me and Nancee up with ostentatious gallantry. Then we resumed our laborious ride up and down the winding track.

Nancee and I sat in stunned silence. "I heard their screams, but I had no idea how bad it was for them."

"I feel like such a whore. I actually enjoyed myself with those two pigs," I said.

"I heard, and wondered how you could act so well. You drowned out the torture for a few minutes, and that was a welcome relief."

"My two used condoms, did yours?" I asked anxiously.

"It was a negotiation, but yes," Nancee responded. "I guess we'll change partners tonight."

"I hope you can do double penetration," I said grimly.

"Alexandra, you always set expectations so high," Nancee said.

I surveyed the bruised, weeping Karen girls, and felt rage boil within me. I wished I had gone on a killing binge in the night. We were all dead anyhow, I mused.

Then I heard ripping sounds from the canvas that covered the truck, followed in a fraction of a second by a loud crackling sound from the side of the road. I grabbed Nancee's arm and flung myself flat against the bed of the truck, dragging Nancee down beside me.

We were buried under a pile of Karen women imitating me. Amidst the booming clatter of automatic weapons, I heard the roars of several nearby explosions, and then after a moment of silence, the sounds of voices shouting in a new language.

I looked up anxiously at Nancee. She smiled and said, "They're Karen."

I wouldn't haven known them from Wa at first. They were dressed in sandals, shorts of various colors, and same sort of green military shirt the Wa wore. The most noticeable difference from our Wa captors was that a number of the men had black tattoos on their legs, some in quite elaborate swirling geometric patterns, and that the smokers seemed to favor short little wooden pipes over cheroots.

We watched in horror as the armed Karen shot the wounded Wa as they lay splayed on the ground, and rounded up and hog-tied a handful of prisoners.

Nancee surprised the Karen commander when she addressed him in his native tongue. After a brief exchange, she explained that a troop of vengeful soldiers from Karen National Liberation Army of the Karen National Union had tracked our Wa captors from atrocity to atrocity.

Now the KNU force exacted a terrible revenge for the slaughter at the Karen village and the murder of the Karen girl in the cave, and the savage rapes of the others.

The Karen girls had denounced us, believing that we were the privileged whores of the Wa commanders, and deserving of the same fate as their hated Wa captors.

"Tell him that we were kidnapped by these swine just hours before the Karen girls got snatched and that we are very thankful to him as our liberator. Tell him that the Karen girls are mistaken," I said.

Nancee translated my argument and listened to his, and then said "He suggests that we repay his service by executing the judgment of the KNU tribunal against the Wa commanders."

She pointed through the scrub to the circle of Wa prisoners, who awaited their fates with hung heads. "They have been sentenced to die, and we are asked to execute the sentence."

"You mean, shoot them?" I asked in disbelief.

"Yes, to prove that we are not their allies," Nancee replied.

"Both of us?"

She nodded.

"Do you even know how to shoot a gun?" I retorted. I hadn't shot a gun since I'd been shown how to shoot a .22 caliber rifle in target practice at a Boy Scout camp eight years ago.

The memory of my murderous fantasy the night before came back to haunt me. Could I do this? Surely, Rap deserved to die for his crimes, but not by my hand.

"They'll shoot us if we don't," Nancee said nervously. "They're going to shoot them anyhow, and it's not like they don't deserve it."

I had to live. Not just for my own sake, but for Alyssa, Marta, Tran, Nancee, and Lin: people whom my overreaching ambition had placed in jeopardy, and whom I was obligated to help.

To do that, and to salvage my own tarnished reputation, I had to unravel the Spartan/N9 scandal and expose the devastating truth about the lethal spermicide and Riap's cynical, brutal cover-up: trying to ying ting me, my friends, and our pathetic AIDS-infected interview subjects. I didn't want to die an undeserved death at the hands of angry hill tribesman as a pawn in a border, drug, and clan war.

I followed the Karen leader to the hillock. The Karen commander placed us each next to a Wa leader; I stood beside Rap, Nancee by Gurp.

Rap smiled obsequiously, and began uttering fawning words in Wa. His demeanor transformed to nervousness and then jabbering, pants-pissing fear when the Karen commander loosened a catch at the bottom of the pistol in his hand, pocketed the magazine, and then put the pistol in my hand. I noticed that it was the same sort of pistol as the Wa used, Makarov 9x18mm, as I learned later. I looked back at Nancee and asked, "Is this thing even loaded?" as another Karen did the same thing to his pistol and handed it to Nancee.

Nancee spoke briefly with the Karen leader, then told me there was a round of ammunition inside the top part of each weapon. The Karen leader took my left hand and wrapped it around my right hand to steady my wavering grip on the sweaty plastic handle. I saw Nancee copied my grip, and noticed that other Karen with rifles in their hands were giving us hard, apprising glances.

Then the Karen leader barked an order that Nancee didn't bother to translate. Nancee and I lowered our pistols and aimed at the begging, pleading men. I closed my left eye, got a sight picture the way I remembered from those awful days with the Boy Scouts, and started to pull the trigger.

Pulling the trigger seemed to take infinitely longer than I remembered from Boy Scout riflery. I couldn't bear it any longer, and closed my right eye as well. The blast and recoil took me by surprise. I felt a mild shock in my hand, but only thought I heard a door slamming nearby, not a pistol going off. Then I felt droplets of something wet landing on me, and recognized the smell of blood in the air, together with something else, perhaps a note of sawdust, and perhaps hot shortening, or maybe beeswax. I bit my tongue. I must not cry, or even cry out.

The Karen leaders did not give me so much as a look. They just collected their pistols, reloaded, and went among the others and killed them with quick, one-handed single shots to the back of the neck. I noticed they stood further back than Tran and I stood. They must have known about the backspatter. I wanted to wash my face, but I was afraid to move. I stood there, frozen to the spot until we were ordered back into the trucks again.

Once we were back in the trucks again, we retraced our journey of the previous days, heading back down the trails toward Thong Pha Phum, back towards the Myanmar-Thai border. The closer to the border we got the greater my anxiety grew.

"Nancee, you have to talk to them. I didn't commit homicide for them so that they could give us to the Third Army."

Nancee replied with a note of urgency in her voice: "The KNU hates the Third Army as much as we do, but we have to get out of Myanmar. If the Third Army intercepts us, they'll send us back into Myanmar to be slaughtered by the SPRC or the Wa. The Wa are united with the SPRC against the KNU, and this troop was probably already being hunted by the Tatmadaw, the SPRC's official forces, when they found us. We're even more screwed than before if we fall into the hands of the SPRC: that's the criminal gang that runs Burma, or Myanmar as they call it now."

We reached the Moei River, where the Karen camouflaged the Wa trucks and hid them off-road. We forded the muddy Moei, bags, packs and weapons held high, alert for predatory aquatic life and Thai or Tatmadaw patrols. On the Thai side, we crept through the jungle slowly but purposefully: our Karen guides knew where they were going and what to avoid.

We marched over ten kilometers through dense rain forest. The Karen soldiers hacked a trail with machetes for us, avoiding the winding tracks that we occasionally crossed. When Nancee asked why we kept off the beaten path, she was told something which she translated into two words: "Land mines."

"God, what horrors does this hideous place lack?" I wondered. Then, just when the forest seemed as if it could not become more dense and impenetrable, it ceased abruptly; we broke through a tree line to a broad expanse of rice paddies. We hiked down a dike toward a collection of neat, whitewashed buildings, next to which we saw a shiny red and white single-engine Cessna. Were we saved, or ruined?

That question was answered when a white-shirted, blond Caucasian bounded out of a building to greet us with a smile, and, noticing my European features said cheerfully, "Bonjour mesdemoiselles, comment allez-vous?

"Tres bien, et toi?"

"Oui, ça va. Tu est française?"

"Non, je suis américaine et ma amie et thailandaise."

"Well then, hello American girl, will you come in and have a Coke with Dr. Alain Richard?" His English was flawless but with that 'je ne sais quoi' that only a French accent can convey.

"That's the nicest thing I've heard in days," I said. "My name is Alexandra Rivers, and this is my Karen friend Nancee. She's Thai, but Karen too. These Karen rescued us from a group of Wa bandits. We weren't sure where they were taking us. Are we safe here?"

"'Bienvenues a Camp du Mer: so named after the ocean of rice paddies around us; we also call it 'Cap du Merde.'" I giggled, because I realized that meant 'Cape Shit.' Nancee looked bewildered, so he explained to his little play on words to her and continued: "You are most fortunate to be alive, and you are both welcome and safe here. This is a compound of 'Medicins Sans Frontieres.'"

"'Doctors Without Borders?' What does that mean?" I asked.

My French "Lord Jim" smiled and chuckled. With strong, suntanned arms around our fragile shoulders he guided us to a neat, tile-roofed residence. "You Americans are so provincial in your own way. If you didn't invent it, it doesn't exist in your world."

It was a putdown, but he said it with elegance, gentility, and such a dazzling smile I could hardly care. I rejoined, "But we are very quick studies."

"I'm sure you are, but first you must bathe. We must find you some clothes, and we should examine you. You were how long in the bush?"

"Four or five days. I lost track."

"The Karen brought their women here for examination and treatment after their ordeal with the Wa. Have you been violated, too?" he asked matter-of-factly, but with a sympathetic look.

"We convinced the Wa commander that we would make perfect concubine presents for his commanding officers, and that kept the rape within bearable limits, if that makes any kind of sense at all. I mean, we even got them to use condoms," I reported with a sense of unreality in my voice. I was not five minutes out of the jungle, and I was already trying to distance myself from my memories.

"You are fortunate; the likelihood of HIV transmission from those soldiers is, sadly for your Karen companions, quite high. And even more fortunate that you were not delivered to the United Wa Army commander, who is a notoriously sadistic killer."

"Tough neighborhood, this is," I said.

Alain nodded and said "This is an island of tranquility in a turbulent region. You'll be safe here. There's a shower, and I'll bring you some nurses' uniforms, while we wash those." He pointed to our filthy hses. "And will you join me and my colleague for dinner? We rarely see outsiders in this outpost, especially ones as lovely as you."

"Merci," I said with a smile, as he left to retrieve clothes for us.

When he was out of earshot, I turned and smiled smugly to Nancee, who said with mock disapproval, "I can't believe I associate with such a slut. First you seduce the Wa war criminal, and after you kill him, you move on to the French doctor saint!"

"I'm sorry, but he's adorable. And maybe he can help us get out of this godforsaken shithole. Think about it, Nancee. We're on the blacklist in the land of ying ting. We've still got to scheme our way out of here."

"What's your plan?" Nancee asked.

"None, yet, but he said 'without borders.'" That gives me hope.

We showered under the blue sky in a bamboo enclosure. We had no make-up, blow dryer, or perfume, so it seemed fitting to be dressed in simple white nurses' dresses that clearly had been cut for the traditional Asian physique, rather than Nancee's and my upgraded models. They fitted very snugly against our more adventurous curves. We made an attention-grabbing sight when we hailed Alain.

I said, "We're starving."

"Have some soup at the kitchen. I must still treat more of the Karen girls, and then I must insist on examining you and Nancee as well," he replied, as his eyes drank our figures in hungrily. "This was a particularly brutal encounter with the Wa."

"OK, if it's the doctor's orders," I joked, but internally, I froze with apprehension. When he was out of earshot, I whispered to Nancee, "I think he liked me, but if he's going to examine me, then I have to tell him, you know, that we're post-ops. He's going to figure it out when he examines us."

"I can barely tell now, with you," Nancee said with a touch of envy.

"It's very obvious inside," I said grimly. "I hope he's open-minded."

We had a few spoonfuls of the loathsome soup and waited with dread for my least favorite moment in a new relationship.

As we left the kitchen, we noticed the airplane climbing high into the sky. I idly wondered where it was headed, but didn't think more about it. We strolled about the compound a bit, then returned to the medical building and Alain.

Alain summoned me to his examining room, asked me to undress, and left for a moment. I cowered beneath a sheet awaiting his return. He asked briskly "Tell me how you ended up on Thailand's frontier with hell?"

"It's a long story, but the first part is that, I was in Thailand for a follow-up to sex-reassignment surgery."

Alain looked dumbfounded. "I had no idea. You look and sound perfect, right down to your use of the masculine and feminine 'en français!' Well, let us inspect your surgeon's expertise." He peeked under the sheet, and examined me with a speculum, my very least favorite medical instrument. Still, I felt a twinge of pleasure as this handsome doctor examined me, murmuring "incroyable," and "c'est merveilleuse" beneath his breath.

"Quite indistinguishable from a genetic girl, until we inspect deep within you. What was the most recent surgery?" I explained Dr. Sanguan's technique, and the treatment of the resulting ring. "You, and your lovers-to-be, are quite lucky that you had such a skilled doctor." I had the impression that he put himself onto that list.

"So you chose to take your convalescence amongst the Wa?" he asked with ironic humor.

"That's a long story: one that demands dinner and a bottle of Meursault," I replied.

"Very impressive, you know your Burgundies. Let's have your friend and my colleague Jacques join us and dine on the cuisine of Tak Province."

Thai food is one of my favorites, as it is served in L.A. or one of the big cities. The cuisine of Tak was simple: boiled chicken and fish with rice noodles. And the Meursault of my fantasies was Maekong, a mediocre whiskey that Alain cautioned me to go slowly with.

Alain and Jacques sat in rapt, and astounded attention as we unfolded our tale: our lucky encounter with Lin; our discovery of the Spartan list; my e-mail to Pranatop asking permission to use the list; the devastating AIDS epidemic among the Spartan subjects; the strange correlation of disease with alphabetic coding; Pranatop's belated but urgent demand that we abandon using the list; the sudden emergence of security checkpoints and demands on farang students; the disappearances and arrests of the last subjects, and then our being added to the drug blacklist, along with many of the Spartan subjects; our escape, and the disappearance of Tran in Chiang Rai; the lost computer and data; and our kidnapping by the Wa.

When I had finished, Alain said, "Mon dieu, c'est incroyable, fantastique. I drink a toast to Alexandra and her brave friends." He and Jacques raised their glasses and solemnly drank a sip of Maekong. "It's so obvious that you have uncovered a sordid corporate scandal and cover-up. And did you say your advisor was Pranatop?"

I nodded.

"I remember her from a conference in Tahiti. She's the charlatan girlfriend of a Thai Army bigshot who is probably in on the Spartan venture. But it is such an irony that an American should explode this cesspool of corruption when it was America that built the structure for these corrupt tinpot gangsters."

"What do you mean?" I asked innocently.

"Only the muscle half of Spartan is Thai. The money half is red, white and blue. That's why we Europeans are reluctant in your imposition of your "freedoms" in places like Iraq. Your corporations, under the protection of your government, propped these gangsters in power in the first instance: Saddam in the eighties, the swine of the SPRC in the present Myanmar; and of course, both were petroleum or rubber providers to your SUV culture."

"Sorry to be me," I said, feigning insult.

Like most people from West L.A., I really have more in common with Chirac than Bush. But I pretended, "I don't really know about all that political stuff. I was only trying to do comparative research on Thai and U.S. transsexuals, and now it's ruined. My grant is wasted, and my research work is unfinished."

"Alexandra, you have done something far greater than a cross-cultural study. This is the public health scandal of the decade. You, Nancee, your friends Tran and Lin, and your computer are the sparks that will burn Spartan and its charlatan science of AIDS inhibition to the ground."

"But we're outlaws in Thailand, and I never want to set foot in Burma again. What shall we do?"

"We've got an airplane at our disposal, and I can make you employees of MSF. That will get you entry into Switzerland. I will make it my duty to bring you safely out of Thailand. But the question is how to get past the checkpoints and through immigration at Bangkok International? Let me think it through overnight."

I smiled conspiratorially at Nancee and she nodded assent. I would make it my duty to give Alain a lot more than immigration to work out overnight.

After dinner, we walked hand-in-hand around the compound. I asked Alain, "What makes a handsome, brilliant young doctor like you travel to an impoverished and dangerous corner of the world?"

Accepting my characterization as accurate, he answered, "My parents and my old girlfriend asked me as much. We Europeans live in a cocoon, even more than you Americans. Our grandfathers made empires of blood and loot in these jungles, and left a legacy of chaos, which you have experienced for yourself. My generation seeks to experience the same adventures as our grandfathers while healing rather than destroying the world we inhabit."

I hugged him and said, "That's a really beautiful thought. I'm glad that I came here, if only to hear you say that."

"And the big pharmaceutical company in Lucerne that I work for pays us to take sabbaticals with MSF. But anyhow, you're a brave, brilliant and beautiful girl, and I am happy that you are here with me."

"Are you comfortable with my being who I am?"

"I wouldn't want you to be anyone else. You are a fantastically brave and beautiful girl, and I am privileged to know you."

He gathered me in his arms, and caressed me with his skillful, sensitive surgeon's hands. My lips melted under his, and I instantly felt a warm energy growing within me.

Eddie had been a drug-buzzed social obligation. My intercourse with the Wa had been an act in which I had gotten caught up, to the point of accidentally being brought to orgasm. With Alain I felt the real thing, an overpowering desire to be loved and to love in return.

"J'ai envie de faire l'amour avec toi," I whispered.

"Moi aussi," he managed between desperate kisses.

We strolled, arm in arm, to his hut, and the stars of the moonlit mountain night seemed to be twinkling messages of approval. Alain was handsome, passionate, intelligent, and seemed smitten not only with my looks, but with me as a whole person.

Not only was I needful of a lover to purge me of my filthy Wa captors, but I needed one who regarded me a something more than a pretty face with a tight ass. Eddie, Rick and even Alec enjoyed me as arm candy and as a sex object; my intellect was unnerving and off-putting. My mind raced ahead of my body, imagining possibilities.

He came to me by his simple bed, and said, "I want to drink in this vision of you, so that I may never forget anything about you." He rubbed the arches of my feet, which ached from the jungle march, my calves, thighs, and buttocks, working the sore muscles as he studied my sinuous curves.

"Mmm, that feels good. More there," I said, as he rubbed circles on my buttocks. "Three days in a truck will do terrible things to a butt," I said jokingly.

"Nothing that some loving, gentle care can't cure." The circles of relaxation spread from my bottom to my lower back, up my spine, across my shoulders and down my slender arms, and out the tips of my fingers. Then again, the waves of relaxation surged straight up the ladder of my vertebrae, up my neck, across my cheeks and forehead, and then, with a pop of fingers, out the top of my head.

"Mmm, do they teach that in French medical school?" I asked dreamily.

"Ah, no, an old, er, friend," he said with embarrassment.

"That's OK," I said with an indulgent laugh, "As long as she's a really old friend. Because I want you to myself!" I kissed him passionately, and he got on top of me, and I felt his cock pressing against my pussy. I touched him: he was circumcised, which I prefer, and of medium length and width, which is perfect for my new anatomy. He gently opened my outer lips with his fingers and entered me, patiently and slowly.

I said, to encourage him, "I'm OK."

He whispered, "I want to experience every millimeter of you as if it were new."

"That's OK, too," I said with a cry of pleasure. Putting overblown descriptions of unbridled passion aside, a gentle, careful beginning is best with a new lover, for it is the fire that is kindled most carefully that burns the hottest.

His careful, gentle entry first relaxed me, and then had my body craving each further entry expectantly. When after fifteen careful strokes, Alain was fully inside me, my body was already throbbing with an electric charge of sexual energy. His hands, well trained and experienced in the healing arts, were well versed in the architecture of sexual pleasure. His movements, sensual and languid to begin, enticed rather than demanded my response. And as I responded, he responded in kind, his caresses and thrusts growing more firm and potent as my pleasure was manifest in murmurs, moans, and writhing motions of ecstasy.

Alain was an existentialist's lover: one whose only demand was for both lovers to maximize their exercise of free will. Freed from all earthly connections to my past, my present self, or to my wishes for the future, I felt my body go thermonuclear and explode in an orgasm that made me cry, "More, more, more!"

Now Alain responded with thrusts that were superhuman in their speed and power, and I orgasmed over and over again, finally slowing only when Alain came and his frenzied pace gradually slowed. The last words I heard and spoke before drifting off into a dazed sleep were, "Je t'aime."

When I awoke in the gathering tropical heat, Alain was gone. I ran into Nancee in the bathroom. She said, "I was happy with Sanguan's work, until I started sleeping in the room next to you. I want to get myself rewired like you," she complained wryly.

"Sorry, I hope I didn't keep you up," I said laughingly.

"No, Jacques and I thought it was charming," Nancee replied ironically.

"Where are our French lovers?" I asked.

"I woke up when the airplane landed about an hour ago, and they took a stretcher in there," Nancee said, pointing to the medical building.

We showered and primped as best we could under these austere conditions, and then we investigated the medical building. Jacques was outside, lighting a Gauloise. "I never smoke anymore, but we have a very difficult case: one of our backpack nurses, Lizette, has come down with SARS, Sudden Acute Respiratory Syndrome. We have to stabilize her and repatriate her to Switzerland: her father's the boss, and he thinks Thailand's SARS treatment facilities are inadequate.

"He's right. Thailand had only a few cases; Prime Minister Thaksin declared SARS defeated on April 28.

"Because the Thais were so successful in preventing the spread of SARS by imposing strict quarantines immediately, they are way behind on treatment. Worse still, there are no negative-pressure isolation rooms in any hospitals in Thailand, which makes treating the sickest patients risker not only for their caregivers but for the other hospitalized patients as well."

"I've heard about this disease, but I haven't seen anyone with it," Nancee said.

"The government only admitted to eight cases, and they were mostly infected abroad," Jacques commented.

"I guess Thaksin's drug war was the perfect training ground for a repressive quarantine regime." I added. "How did Lizette get it?"

"Lizette's contracting SARS upcountry is really quite alarming. She probably from someone she treated, but we can only guess the source: probably a smuggler from South China. SARS emerged in South China a few months ago and has leapfrogged from region to region, primarily through carriers with airline tickets.

"Wherever it has landed, it has found fertile breeding grounds in hospitals and clinics, including ours. It is the perfect virus for a massively destructive epidemic: its onset is rapid enough to spread quickly, but it sickens and kills slowly enough so that one victim can easily infect a hundred others before succumbing.

"We risk Lizette's life, and infecting the entire, extremely vulnerable population of this region, if we treat her here; it would be better for everyone to get her proper care and isolation, in Switzerland."

"Can you take a contagious patient on a commercial flight?" I asked.

"Of course not. But she is the daughter of the CEO of our employer: not MSF, but ICF, the pharmaceutical maker that is sponsoring us here. If she dies?" Jacques made a throat-slitting motion.

Alain emerged, looking fatigued and stressed, and said, "I got Lucerne on the satellite phone again. They have just sent the company plane--it was laying over in Singapore; the company bigshots aboard will fly home later or some other way. We must move Lizette to Bangkok International immediately."

Then he said, "Ah, bon, that's it! We will disguise Alexandra and Nancee as her attendants. We can't afford to send anyone else: with Lizette sick, and a potential epidemic of SARS in this province we will need every nurse we have and more. And it is a perfect cloak for your escape," he said, turning to me. "The immigration police at Bangkok International don't want to get close to SARS cases or their health workers."

"How do we avoid getting it ourselves?" I asked.

"Surgical masks to cover your beautiful faces. Tant mieux, for now you will have a perfect excuse to travel in disguise. Medical staff must wear masks at all times while attending to SARS patients."

I was half-tempted to reject this plan and spend a few more nights with Alain, but the escape plan did sound promising. And I had many reasons to want to leave Thailand.

We gathered the scant remains of our personal belongings--all that we had left that we needed to take with us was the stent, a few days worth of hormones, our toiletries, and the now washed, but rather worn hses. Everything fit into a single tote with room to spare.

Inside the medical building, Alain watched us swallow our first doses of a prophylactic cocktail of ribavirin and oseltamivir.

"Your CDC thinks these drugs are ineffective against SARS, but then again, you are going to Switzerland, and most specifically to ICF's research facility. These drugs may not shorten the course of the disease, but they could shorten the length of your quarantine," Alain commented.

"What quarantine?" I asked innocently.

"Alas, you are trading one kind of prison for another. Switzerland will require that you be isolated for at least ten days after your exposure to SARS. With this treatment, you may be able to shorten that quarantine."

"Do you have to tell them?" I asked.

"I am afraid that with this poor girl in your care, it will be all too obvious. When you get to Bangkok International, the representative of the Swiss embassy will provide visas for you and Nancee and transit documentation for Lizette's transport via a quarantined flight back to Lucerne. You won't be allowed off the plane at any of your stops.

"I must tell you that this diseaposes a terrible dilemma for us, the caregivers. On one hand, we must be very attentive and responsive, and on the other hand, we must be very cautious in our contacts with the patient. It will be your duty to balance your safety against Lizette's survival. But you two are experienced in the art of survival."

He gave us each something that looked like a contractor's dust mask and a wad of throwaway surgical masks.

"This is the best preventative we have, a particulate mask called the N-95, for the size of the particle it removes. You should cover it with a surgical mask to avoid surface contamination, and handle the N-95 only after removing contaminated gloves. Equally important: you must practice rigorous 'hand hygiene.'"

I looked at him quizzically, and he clarified "That means 'Lave tes mains!'--even though you will double-glove. You must dispose of your outer glove after every contact with Lizette, you must also wash your hands and reglove completely after every contact with her bodily fluids. As there is no sink on the plane, to wash your hands, use this." He handed us bottles of alcohol-based disinfectant gel.

"She has a fever of 38.9, that's over102 degrees Fahrenheit, but her lungs are still about 80% capacity. We must hurry and move her before her disease advances and her lungs fill with mucous. This plane is not pressurized, so breathing will be difficult for Lizette. She will wear an aviation oxygen mask during the flight, which will provide you with some protection as long as the mask covers her nose and mouth. But if her cough becomes productive, she will need to remove the mask to spit, and you may need to assist her in replacing the mask. It is then you will be in greatest danger."

"What are those medicines you gave us?" I asked, as I recalled unhappy memories of the side effects of antivirals from my HIV prophylaxis.

Alain replied "Ribavirin is a neucleoside analogue with broad antiviral activity, clearly useful against respiratory syncytical virus and the hepatitis C virus, and oseltamivir is a flu drug also known as Tamiflu. Ribavarin is hemolytic--it destroys red blood cells--we are not sure yet whether it is efficacious in curing SARS, but it is useful against other respiratory viruses; it may help protect you, and it will certainly appease the Swiss Health Ministry.

Alain brought out the oxygen tank and mask, showed us how to connect the system, and explained the valves and gauges. "This is the most important thing," Alain said. "All contaminated gloves, masks, and wipes go into these red medical waste bags, and you must keep them sealed at all times. Now, let me show you how to wear these surgical gowns, gloves and sleeve guards."

Before we all gowned and gloved to take Lizette to the airplane, Alain embraced and kissed me, and said, "I'm sorry you must rush off like this, but there will be no better opportunity for you to escape this hellhole.

I replied, "I felt so safe and happy here. I'd rather stay here with you."

"Hélas," Alain said, "It is better that you should take your chances with disease, rather than death by the blacklist. From the disease, I can protect you. From the drug blacklist, I can do nothing. And you must be free to live your life and to tell your story."

We gathered up our equipment and our pathetically light baggage and walked out to the airplane. Nancee and Jacques stood off to one side, and spoke quietly together.

Alain belted Lizette to her stretcher, and looked at me and said "You must loosen these as soon as you have begun level flight. Her breathing is weak, and these belts may interfere with her breathing." Lizette's eyes looked glassy, but they followed what we were doing.

"Thank you for helping us; I love you and I will never forget you," I said as I fought back my tears.

"I won't let you forget me," Alain said with a confident smile. Alain lifted me from the ground with a final hug. His firm, strong chest pressed against my breasts until they ached with longing for him, but there was no more time to linger--we bade one another farewell under the wing of the STOL air ambulance. Three feet away, Nancee and Jacques were hugging as awkwardly as we were, bundled up in all our protective clothing.

Nancee and I climbed through the big double door on the right, sat ourselves in the two seats behind the pilot's seat, then steadied Lizette's stretcher as it was pushed in and locked down where the three seats on the right side of the cabin used to be. The pilot, masked and gowned as we were, locked our doors, climbed up through his door, and started the engine. We taxied down the gravel almost to the grass runway, turned our tail away from the compound and did a noisy, dusty engine run-up check. The pilot partially extended the flaps, advanced the throttle to full power and noisily rolled us onto the grass.

Takeoff was absolutely petrifying. Rather than the lumbering but steady takeoff and climb out of a commercial jetliner, our pilot held the controls back all the way as the plane bounced down the rough grass field. After a very short roll, the airplane lurched into the air with a dreadful shriek; when I yelled, "What's happening?" our pilot replied calmly that it was just the stall warning horn. As he spoke, he abruptly relaxed the back pressure on the yoke. We hadn't climbed more than ten feet, and now we seemed to be heading back to the ground. Instead of slamming back into the grass, we leveled smoothly about a yard above ground and accelerated toward the line of trees at the end of the runway. I couldn't bring myself to speak again; I was sure we would smash into the trees in an instant. After gaining speed flying just above the grass, the pilot suddenly but smoothly pulled the nose up and up and up until we were climbing away from the jungle strip at a frighteningly steep angle.

Nancee's appearance mirrored my own feelings; she was speechless and what little I could see of her face looked deathly pale.

Noticing our apprehension, the pilot, completely calm and irritatingly cheerful, explained that he'd performed a standard soft-field takeoff followed by a best-angle-of-climb departure to clear the trees. "Enjoy the ride," he said as he lowered the nose and banked the plane at a scary angle. The pilot turned the plane again and again to follow a gradual climbing path over a series of low ridgelines. We seemed to barely clear the trees atop each successive line of hills.

Nancee whispered, "He's going to kill us all!" as we bounced around in the bumpy air.

Lizette was uncomfortable lying down. We loosened our seat belts and then loosened Lizette's belts and raised her back. She seemed more comfortable with her shoulders up, but her speech was almost inaudible and not very coherent.

We were climbing much less steeply than before. We were almost out of the hills at the western border of Thailand. Just as we cleared what I hoped would be the very last ridgeline, the plane was caught by a very strong slopewind and got bounced around in the updraft so vigorously that first Nancee and then Lizette vomited in very quick succession. I handed Nancee a wad of paper towels and a surgical mask. Then I replaced Lizette's mask with a nasal cannula, cleared Lizette's mouth and wiped her face clean, feeling acutely all the while that her fluids and my hands were now one big deadly culture of SARS virus.

Nancee managed to get her masks off with one hand, wipe herself with the same hand, and then hold a surgical mask over her nose and mouth with her clean hand until I was finished with Lizette.

When I was done, I covered Lizette's mouth with a surgical mask while Nancee masked herself again. Nancee's N-95 was ruined, but luckily we had a spare, which she put on as soon as she had changed gloves. But she couldn't avoid breathing in unfiltered cabin air as she changed masks. We traded apprehensive glances as she red-bagged her old masks.

I cleaned Lizettes's oxygen mask thoroughly with alcohol gel, then threw away her surgical mask and cleaned her face. I replaced her cannula with her breathing mask, pulled off my gloves, red-bagged them and then smeared my hands with anti-bacterial gel. I rubbed my hands together as I sang two choruses of "Happy Birthday" to myself to calm my frazzled nerves and time my hand hygiene. But even after I wiped with a paper towel, I could just feel my hands buzzing with viral infection, no matter how often I told myself it was only my nerves.

Suddenly I noticed another smell in the cockpit: the pilot had lit a rather rich-smelling blunt and was starting to smoke it through his mask. Didn't he know he was risking a fire by lighting up around oxygen? And how could he even think of smoking weed here? I was about to lose it. I tapped him on my shoulder and shook my head vigorously, but he just grinned and offered the blunt to me.

I declined, saying, "It just makes me tired and hungry, and it’s too noisy to sleep and there’s nothing to eat." Nancee also declined with a dismissive wave of her hand and an angry glare. I pulled at her gown and whispered, "Don’t worry. He's such an idiot, he probably flies just as well stoned as not."

After he had smoked the joint down so far that it burned his thumb and index finger, the pilot shouted, "I can't stand the stink of this plane another second. Secure all the loose items in the cabin." I hurried to do so, but before I had half finished, he abruptly opened his window to pitch the blunt out. The red bag upended in the gusting wind that engulfed us, and vomit- and phlegm- stained paper towels flew out of the bag and swirled about the cabin: a cyclone of disease, leaving smears of virus wherever a bit of waste paper touched anything in the cabin. I imagined myself in a midst of a cloud of SARS virus, and imagined the virus coating my skin and lungs. "Oh, joy," I thought. "If this idiot doesn't kill us now, we can die of SARS later."

"Close the fucking window," I screamed; and the pilot nodded and complied. The cabin was cooler and less rank with the smells of vomit and the pilot's rather resinous weed, but I felt certain that we must have been exposed to massive quantities of wind-whipped, aerosolized SARS virus.

We were now flying over less hilly country. The air became much smoother when we got about four thousand feet above ground level; the alarming way we changed direction at low altitude was replaced by mostly straight and level flight.

Lizette's and Nancee's nausea seemed to both improve as we headed over the lowlands to the south by southwest. Lizette became thirsty, and I removed her oxygen mask and fed her a few spoonfuls of that awful Tak soup from one of our thermos bottles. She seemed to doze off shortly afterwards.

After another hour and a half, she woke and needed to use the bedpan; she produced a mess of nasty-looking diarrhea. As we cleaned her and one another up, Nancee and I exchanged frightened glances. "God, by now we must have been thoroughly contaminated," Nancee groaned.

"Better this than death by Wa," I reminded her. I screamed to the pilot over the roar of the prop, "Don't open that window again." He nodded in agreement.

I had programmed my cell phone to beep when it was time for Lizette's medication. When I next awoke her to give her the Tamiflu and ribavarin, she spoke coherently for the first time.

"Nurse, I'm so sorry for having made such an awful mess for you. I just couldn't help it. I felt as helpless as a baby."

"It's OK, you'll probably be doing the same for us in a few days," I said grimly.

"I have never seen you before, and you look so young to be nurses. Where did Alain conjure you up from?" Lizette asked.

"Alain recruited us straight from the KNU," I replied mysteriously. "Alain is helping us get out of Thailand. We got wrongly accused of drug crimes, and put on the blacklist. We need to play your nurses to get out of Thailand: you are our visa," I said secretively.

"You're not really nurses, but fugitives?" Lizette exclaimed. "God, how I do love an adventure! Were you and Alain lovers?"

I shook my head in denial, but Lizette exclaimed,"Of course you were. And then, as with me, he sent you off to save the world for him! And to make way for the next girl!"

I wondered whether this was just jealous gossip, or a sisterly warning. But for now, we needed Lizette as much as she needed us.

"When we get to BKK, Bangkok International Airport, can you play really sick again?" I requested.

"It's the least I could do for you," she said conspiratorially. "I feel a little better now," but when she struggled to rise, she collapsed. "I really am still sick."

For the rest of the bumpy voyage, we entertained Lizette with an account of our disastrous Spartan study, our flight, abduction, and rescue. She told us of her own adventures in the bush, living amongst the harried Karen, and dodging SPRC patrols and Wa marauders.

Lizette told us of her work as a backpack nurse. She explained that malaria was still endemic in Tak and Chaing Mai Provinces, and especially prevalent among the most downtrodden of all--the refugee populations moving this way and that across the border. Lizette had mainly followed groups of displaced Karen, but she had attended members of other ethnic groups 'en passant.' She had been resigned to the risk of contracting malaria from constant exposure to her patients, but was surprised to have developed 'la malade du jour,' SARS, instead.

"It will be boring for us to go back to our classmates, and those silly boys who think they are brave when they play their silly games!" Lizette said.

"I don't know--maybe I could get used to a little boredom!" I argued.

When we touched down at BKK, I was struck by how the runways seemed to dwarf our little airplane: we could have landed across the runway more easily than we had taken off from Cap du Merdre. A jeep with a sign saying "Follow Me" over its tailgate was waiting for us at the first runway turnoff, what seemed an absurdly long distance from the runway numbers we had touched down on. We followed it to a group of buildings far from the passenger terminal. The lineboy in the "follow-me" jeep stopped, got out, and used hand signals to wave us to the general aviation tiedown area. The lineboy made a throat-slitting gesture and the pilot stopped the engine, cut the master switch, set the brakes, locked the controls, and climbed down to the apron.

As the pilot finished securing the airplane, a customs and immigration officer approached us accompanied by another lineboy pushing a wheeled stretcher. Both wore masks and gloves; the lineboy brought the stretcher up to the plane, then turned about and walked back to the general aviation building stepping very quickly. Nancee and I struggled to get out of the airplane while the pilot argued heatedly with the customs and immigration officer beside the engine cowling. With the help of a big push on the backside from Nancee, I finally managed to get around the pilot's seat without stepping on Lizette. I had just sat down in the pilot's seat and was about to open the left side door and step down to the apron when the customs and immigration officer noticed me and barked an incomprehensible command in Thai. I paused and looked at him quizzically as he walked forward to the cabin windows.

The customs and immigration officer peered cautiously into the filthy cabin. After he took a closer look at our supine patient and our vomit-stained gowns, his eyes opened wide with fright. He waved at us dismissively and stalked back to our pilot, who handed the immigration officer Alain's letter and spread our passports open and held them down on the flat top of the engine cowling. The officer glanced at the letter from Alain and stamped our passports without paying any attention to our names, much less asking us to get out and peering under our masks. He turned and strode away without having set foot inside the airplane.

The pilot helped me out, opened the right hand doors, and helped us lift Lizette down to the apron and transfer her and her oxygen tank to the the wheeled stretcher. Then he put his stretcher back in the Cessna, turned to us and said "Good flying with you ladies. Come back and fly with me soon."

"Oh, we can't wait," I assured him. "It was an exciting flight that I will never forget."

"Thank you, I will never forget traveling with such beautiful passengers," he said, bowing idiotically. He beamed when I blew him a dramatic kiss from the general direction of my masks. At least SARS had excused me from the real thing, I reflected gratefully.

Less than a hundred yards away, a blue and white twin-engine jet the size of a small airliner waited next to a low-slung piece of airport equipment.

We rolled Lizette's stretcher across the apron to the waiting scissors lift, lowered her stretcher to the ground, and pushed her up the ramp onto the bed of the lift. We piled our baggage beside her, and the operator raised us level with the cabin door of the waiting Gulfstream IV. The polite but nervous steward ushered us aboard and advised us, "The nurse that has been engaged should be here shortly." He was masked and gloved as we were; as soon as Lizette's stretcher was in the cabin, he removed his outer gloves and regloved. Then he closed the pressure door behind us and helped us settle in.

Before letting us roll Lizette past the vestibule into the cabin, he showed us to the wardrobe where fresh masks and gowns were stored, then made himself scarce as we changed Lizette and then ourselves out of our vomit-stained gowns. After the soiled clothing and disposables were safely stowed away, he showed us to a locker full of medical supplies, half of which I couldn't even recognize and asked us whether we thought we needed anything more. I said I couldn't imagine what more I could want, and turned to move Lizette forward.

We transferred Lizette to a convertible sofa that took up less than a third of one side of the main cabin; it was now a bunk bed, made up with crisply-ironed linen decorated with the company logo. At the steward's direction, I plugged Lizette's oxygen mask into the airplane's oxygen system while Nancee folded the stretcher up and pushed it aft, past the galley, through the posh aft lav and into the baggage locker.

There were two big swiveling recliners facing each other across the aisle from Lizette; Nancee and I sat down and waited nervously for the nurse to arrive.

We waited for half an hour, as the fidgety steward repeatedly came in and out of the galley. He would bang numbers into an air-to-ground telephone on the table next to Lizette's bunk, then keep himself as far away from the three of us as he could while he talked. He seemed to be trying to deal with an agency for English-speaking private-duty nurses.

Each time he called, he would grow more and more impatient. After each call, he would disappear aft for a few more minutes, then call again. At last, he realized he was getting the runaround, said a few harsh words into the handset and slammed the phone down.

He turned to us and said, "The nurse I arranged is refusing to take this flight. She doesn't want to be exposed to SARS, and quite frankly, neither do I. Since your exposure has already occurred, you have nothing further to risk, so I am leaving Lizette in your competent hands.

Nancee and I looked at each other with horror. "You can't do this," I exclaimed to the steward.

The steward said, "I must also advise you that the flight plan for this voyage is only valid for another half hour, and the pilot has intercommed me that he sees that the Thai police are conducting searches of planes for some reason. We don't want to get involved in whatever police activity is taking place at this airport and we cannot file a new flight plan now that you are on board. We have to leave now. Remember, in the aft baggage locker you will find plenty of medical supplies. You said they were sufficient for Lizette's needs yourself."

Nancee and I shot each other glances of pure horror. "But we have no idea what most of these medical supplies on board are for, or how to use them," I wailed. I was starting to feel panicky.

"If you have any medical problems you can ask for a phone patch to MedAire. A doctor will talk you through whatever you need to do. Au revoir," he said with a shrug and a nervous wave good-bye. He walked forward through the door at the front of the main cabin and shut it behind him.

"I guess this is not a very popular flight," Nancee said.

"No one wants to fly on Air SARS," I replied.

Lizette looked up from her bunk and said in a weak voice, "What a bunch of cowards. They all have yellow fever!"

Nancee gave Lizette a blank look. I'd grown up around doctors and knew what they thought about health workers who got cold feet when they suddenly discovered that it's actually possible to catch something from a patient; I explained Lizette's rather sarcastic diagnosis to her.

Looking at the eight plush swiveling and reclining armchairs in the main cabin, I asked Nancee ironically, "What would you prefer, Ma'am, a window or an aisle seat?"

"Both," Nancee replied. As we sat down, the pilot intercommed that we should buckle up--we were cleared to taxi.

Although I was nervous that there was no real medical help on board, I consoled myself with the thought that Nancee and I had managed to keep poor Lizette alive up to now, and that the antiviral drugs seemed to be working. I only hoped Lizette would not worsen, and that Nancee or I would not contract SARS on our long flight to Lucerne.

After we reached altitude, I went to the galley and discovered an expresso machine and refrigerator full of food and wine. Lizette requested her favorite Chevre, and I poured her a glass of Meursault.

I perused the DVD library, selected Chocolat, and played it on the plasma screen television mounted opposite Lizette's bunk.

Recalling how long it had been since my last Starbucks latte, I made a pot of the delicious smelling French Roast coffee, added a little cognac from the bar cabinet, then walked forward to the group of four facing armchairs in the front of the cabin. I pulled out a table, sat down, and and tore open the envelope Alain had given me before we left Cap Merde. I sipped my coffee and read the note that Alain had asked me to read once we were safely under way.

Alain had scribbled his note half in English, half in French, proclaiming his love for me in two languages, and telling me that he would arrange an air ticket home to L.A. through ICF's travel office in Lucerne as soon as the Swiss health authorities allowed me to travel. He gave me the number of the MSF satellite phone, and begged me to call soon and tell him how I was getting on.

Nancee sat down in the seat facing mine, looking apologetic. She couldn't read her note from Jacques, and asked me to read it to her. Jacques promised to call her by satellite phone and to make arrangements for her to get a temporary visa, work permit, and a job at ICF. His posting was ending in six weeks, and he would then return to Lucerne and be with her. She could stay in his parents' guest room in the meantime. To work out the arrangements at ICF, Nancee was to talk to his boss at ICF: Dr. Eduardo Rios. Jacque's note explained Nancee, Lizette and I would all get to know Dr. Rios in any case--ICF had arranged to have our quarantine and Lizette's treatment all take place at Dr. Rios’s research institute at ICF’s laboratory in Lucerne.

I burst into tears, unable to read on.

"What's the matter, Alexandra?"

But I could not answer. I was convulsed with tears of disappointment and frustration. The vengeful specter of my father had re-entered my life to thwart my hopes and dreams once again.

---

Postscript:

On January 16, 2003, the United States Food and Drug Administration issued a propose rule that would require vaginal contraceptive products containing nonoxynol 9 as the active ingredient that are sold over-the-counter in the United States to be labeled conspicuously with the following warning labels:

"For vaginal use only"

"Sexually transmitted diseases (STDs) alert: This
product does not protect against the AIDS virus
(HIV) or other STDs."

"Ask a doctor before use if you have a new sex partner,
multiple sex partners, or unprotected sex. Frequent use
(more than once a day) of this product can increase
vaginal irritation, which may increase the risk of getting
the AIDS virus (HIV) or other STDs from infected
partners. Ask a doctor or other health professional for
your best birth-control method."

"Stop use and ask a doctor if you or your partner get
burning, itching, a rash, or other irritation of the vagina
or penis."

Studies have raised safety concerns that frequent use
(more than once a day) of products containing
nonoxynol 9 can increase vaginal irritation, which may
increase the risk of getting the AIDS virus (HIV) or
other STDs from infected partners. Vaginal irritation
may include symptoms such as burning, itching, or a
rash, or you may not notice any symptoms at all. If you
use these products frequently and/or have a new sex
partner, multiple sex partners, or unprotected sex, see a
doctor or other health professional for your best birth
control and methods to prevent STDs."

Public comments to the proposed FDA Rule were due by April 16, 2003. As of this writing no final FDA rules have been promulgated.

(1) - Rudyard Kipling, The Ballad of East and West

(2) - The author acknowledges and thanks the editor of this and prior chapters, riottgrrl, for countless, invaluable contributions of research, ideas, and creativity. A truly great editor, like riottgrrl, is truly a collaborator. Thanks as well to our rédactrice française, Debra.
End of Chapter 15 -- To Be Continued