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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Gyrations
by Rich D. (richdinmd45@yahoo.com)
***
Martin has a sexual-orientation issue but is straight
in everyday life. His sudden attraction to James, a
mop-headed Dennis the Menace look-alike, forces the
issue. But there is more to James than Martin
understands. Much more. A gender-bender story with a
twist. (MF, couples)
***
"This really sucks." I lay next to my friend James,
touching him at hip, knee and ankle. It was three a.m.
and three hours away from him leaving.
"It's only a week," he said.
A week. Might as well be a year. Ten years, a
millennium. "Six months I wait for this moment and now
you're gone."
"Whose fault is that?" he asked.
"Oh, shut up."
The truth was--if there can be any truth in a situation
like this--the fault was equally shared. I had liked
him from the first and hadn't done much about it. He,
on the other hand, had actively put me off.
It went like this: It was lunchtime on a warm day in
June. I usually go to McDonald's, just to get off the
property, but that day I didn't. Instead I ate at the
food court. Tray in hand, I spotted him sitting alone a
table, chin propped on his palm. I walked over for no
particular reason and said, "Hey! Books-A-Million,
right?"
He looked up from his hardback copy of Wolves of the
Calla and squinted through his wire-frame spectacles.
He was eating a salad. He smiled rather shyly. "The
Coming Global Superstorm," he said in a soft, oddly
husky voice. "How are you?"
I grinned, feeling comically pleased. "Great. I can't
believe you remembered. It's been what, a month ago?"
He was tall and lean and had a mop of blonde hair
reminiscent of Dennis the Menace. His glasses and the
spray of freckles across his nose and cheeks didn't
help. He wore a crisp gray-striped cotton shirt and and
khaki Dockers. "I never forget a purchase," he said.
"But I'm terrible with names."
"Martin," I said.
"James."
I sat down uninvited and commented on his book. I had
read the first three volumes of The Gunslinger series,
but had soured on it reading volume four. I didn't like
the back story on Susan Delgado.
"I kept him in cocaine before the accident," he said.
"Now I keep him in morphine."
I peeled the skin off my Subway sandwich and salted my
French-fries. I was conscious of being attracted to
James, and that felt very weird. My attraction to
members of my fellow sex (no pun intended) was usually
limited to the arc of their exposed erections--and then
only in pictures. I had never felt attraction for a guy
before.
"You like Martin Cruz Smith?" I asked.
"Arkady Renko. He's the coolest."
I thought so too. "Any idea when a new book's due? And
if there is one?" After Havana Bay, I had serious
doubts about my old friend Arkady.
He shook his head. "I'll try to find out," he said.
"Working at Books-A-Million doesn't make me any smarter
than the average bear about due dates; it just lets me
hear the rumors first. And so far, no rumors."
"That's too bad," I said.
He stabbed a cherry tomato with a plastic fork clasped
by long slender fingers, and nodded.
The next time we met was a week later, out in the
parking lot. He stood in front of an old brown Toyota
with the hood up.
"Everything okay?" I asked.
He pushed hair out of his face and grinned. I noticed,
not for the first time, how straight, white and even
his teeth were. Today he wore a stiff white shirt and
baggy gray slacks with string-loafers. "It thinks it's
female," he said. "It has periods of temperament." I
was struck again by the softness of his voice. When he
bent over to inspect the engine, I looked at his ass.
Stop that! Stop it right now, I berated myself. I had
never looked at a male's hindquarters before.
"Battery?" I guessed.
"Battery's new," he said. Off to the west, lightning
exploded in the clouds and thunder roared angrily. We
both jumped and looked at the sky. "No," he said,
looking at the sudden splatters of rain. He slammed the
hood closed just as huge splats began peppering the
asphalt.
"Get in!" I flung open the car door.
He hesitated a moment, then hunched his shoulders
against the rain and ducked around to the other side of
my car. Slash-Boom went a lightning bolt not a second
later. Rain lashed the parking lot ad car.
"Jesus! I don't believe it." He smeared his glasses on
a wet shirt front. "Where did that come from, anyway?"
he asked.
I directed him to my glove compartment and its cache of
McDonald's napkins. He dried his glasses, then wiped
his rain-soaked face and his hair. My windows were
turning into impenetrable fog banks by then, so I
turned on the defroster.
"Need a ride home?"
He looked from the pouring sky to his car. "No," he
said slowly. "I'd only have to find a way back out
again. My roomie's a real asshole, so I don't want to
ask him. Besides, it always starts in the rain. It's
something electrical, I guess. Thanks for asking
though."
"Sure." I wanted to sit and chat, but the cloudburst
suddenly let up. Thanking me again, he jumped out and
ran back to his car. I prayed to whatever god placed
hexes on automobile engines but the damned thing
started right away. Somebody up there hates me, I
thought.
Our next encounter occurred three months later. By then
I was resigned to seeing him only on my weekly
excursions into the book store. He had become
impersonal now, answering my questions in one or two
word sentences, seldom meeting my eye. I never saw him
anywhere but the book store, so he was obviously
avoiding me. It's one thing to have a girl purposely
avoid you; have a guy do it to you sometime.
It was a rainy October evening when I unexpectedly ran
into him at a party . . . with another guy.
"Martin," he said, looking almost panicked.
"Well, fancy meeting you here."
The apartment was on the third floor of an off-campus
housing unit on Adelphi Road. The University of
Maryland, where I attended occasional classes, was just
across the road. The apartment belonged to a friend of
a friend of a friend, which meant I was barely invited.
I was in the company of, of all people, my sister
Kierney. I expected her to come bounding up to this
decidedly good looking fellow, taking a liking to him,
and steal his friendship. It had happened before,
though not under these particular circumstances. But
then Michael walked up.
"Introduce me to your friend, James." He spoke with a
blatantly bad British accent.
James's face darkened. "This is Marty. I work with him
at the mall."
Michael looked me up and down and I was suddenly
enlightened--and chagrined. He wore a black satin shirt
and black leather pants, had slicked back hair flaring
into a duck-tail above his collar, and looked just like
a cast member from Grease.
"You do books?" he asked.
"No," I said, casting a glance at James. "I do computer
games and software."
"You do, do you? That's very interesting. Ever play,
Singles: Flirt up you Life?"
"I've sold it," I said.
"Cool game. James and I have a sim running on our
computer with two guys. We named them Michael One and
Michael Two. Isn't that cute?"
"Cute," I agreed. I every bit expected him to pinch
James on the cheek.
"You here with anyone special," he asked.
"My sister," I said. Maybe he was thinking of a
foursome.
He laughed. Then Kierney walked up and had the last
laugh on him.
Two months later, I looked up from a game I was
discussing with some kid, and saw James. He stood ten
feet away, hands in his pockets, and looking very
embarrassed. He nodded and I suddenly remembered that
rainy day out in the parking lot.
"Need a ride home?" I had asked.
He had looked out the window at the pounding rain.
Sounding terribly unhappy, he had replied, "No. I'd
only have to find a way back out again. My roomie's a
real asshole, so I don't want to ask him."
I wanted to kick myself. I said, "Be with you in a
moment, James."
He nodded again.
I took lunch early and drifted down to the food court
with him. On the way he said, "I wanted to explain
about that night."
"No explanation necessary."
"My roommate's an asshole."
"Most roommates are," I agreed. Mine certainly was.
He shrugged and cleared his throat quietly. "I, uh, I'm
not like Michael, Martin. I wanted you to know that."
"I didn't think you were," I said. In fact, I didn't
know what to think about him. If he was gay, he did a
good job disguising it because he didn't act girly. On
the other hand, he had that soft voice and winsome
manner. Certainly, he had an effect on me.
"I liked it back in June when we struck up a
friendship. I've never had friends before and once I
had gotten to like you, I began to worry Michael'd step
in and ruin it. He has that effect on people."
"I noticed," I said. I also noticed that his face was a
fine pink color and he might as well have been wringing
his hands.
"I guess what I'm saying is that because I didn't want
it ruined, I stepped back before it could happen. I do
that a lot. Easier than dealing with the hurt I guess.
That's why I have no friends." He laughed, blushing
even deeper. "Listen to me. I sound like a Soap Opera
or something. Or exactly what I'm trying to tell you
I'm not." He looked around, making sure we couldn't be
overheard. "Would you--" He hesitated. "--maybe like to
go out to a movie, or something like that?"
I was stuck. I liked him, of course, but I wasn't ready
for a boy-boy date. At least not yet. "Only if you
dress up like a girl," I joked unwisely.
Rather than take offense, he smiled pensively and said:
"If it would get you out with me, or in bed with me, I
would."
If food or drink were in my mouth, I would have spit it
out. As it was, I coughed explosively and looked around
in a panic. Then I stared at him.
"What?" he said. Then, "Stop it! You're embarrassing
me." His face was beet red and his freckles shown out
like beacons. "I wouldn't make a cute girl?"
Taking in the fullness of his mouth, the high cast of
his cheekbones and the finely dimpled point of his
chin, he might actually be a girl. A little blush, some
mascara and lipstick...
"You're staring at me," he complained, looking away.
His face was crimson and he stood stoop-shoulder and
fidgeting, hands in his pockets. I wanted to kiss him.
"Have you--" I said, and then stopped. "Never mind.
Let's eat."
We chose Sbarro's because that was closest. I got a
roast beef sandwich and James a salad. We sat at a
table as far from anybody as we could get at noon in
the food court; we ate in silence. Finally, leaning
close so as not to be overheard, I told him: "I have to
admit, I am attracted to you. It's just a little, you
know, unsettling."
"I know that." He brushed back his hair in a decidedly
feminine manner and I shivered. He had never done that
before.
I said, "This is gonna sound strange, but do you like
me as a guy likes another guy? Or as a girl likes a
guy?"
He piddled with a slice of tomato, then chased croutons
around his plate. "I don't know," he said finally. "Is
there a difference?"
"I'm not sure," I said honestly. "Maybe I'm more
attracted James the Pretend Girlfriend, than to James
the Imitation Boy. Does that make sense?"
He laughed softly. "As much as anything has this
morning." He looked up from beneath his bangs and I
almost kissed him again. Instead, I asked him out.
* * *
Our first "date" was Friday night. I spent the entire
next day suffering sweaty palms and itchy underarms. I
wanted to throttle every kid I saw. I wanted to
throttle half of their mothers and most of their dads.
I made five o'clock, somehow.
At six-thirty I went to pick him up. He shared an
apartment with Michael in Columbia, on a back street
you needed GPS guidance to find. I was driving a Honda
CR-V, having traded up from my previous wheels three
weeks before. I wasn't sure James even knew I had it.
One more thing stressing me out.
At seven o'clock he came down the apartment's front
steps and onto the curved sidewalk to the parking lot.
I had been instructed not to call, even though Michael
was out. I assumed there was Caller ID. When he
appeared, my jaw dropped.
He wore a cream-colored jacket over a powder-blue knit
top and tight jeans. There were brand new Reeboks' on
his feet, ankle socks underneath. A purse was slung
over his right shoulder which he clasped with both
hands. His walk had a distinct, well, gyration.
"James?" I whispered as he approached the car.
Either he saw my surprised whisper or was just
exploding with excitement because his face burst into a
sudden gorgeous grin and he laughed. He left the
shelter of the building and wind caught his hair and he
quickly ducked into it, holding it both sides. No
longer was it a "Dennis the Menace" mop. It was now
swept back on the right and held in place by several
silver clips. The rest looked both stiff and spiky--
perfectly fashionable. He hurried the rest of the way
to the car and got in.
"Hi!" he gushed.
"Hi," I replied. I had rocks in my mouth.
He suddenly giggled and it was as girlish a giggle as
I'd ever heard. "James?" I asked, making him giggle
more. He leaned over and kissed my cheek.
"Cut that out," I said. I looked everywhere, both
embarrassed and titillated. My heart skipped like a
seven-year old playing hopscotch. With eyeliner and
mascara, with blush on his cheeks, lipstick making his
mouth a luscious pink, he was less boy acting girl,
than girl-representative. "Wow," I said, feeling my
color rise.
"You like?"
"You've done this before, haven't you, James."
He bit his lower lip fetchingly. "Are you mad?" His
voice was an octave higher now, not as girl-
representative as my sister's perhaps, but higher. He
looked at me tentatively, as other prospective bed-
partners have looked at me in the past. Only he was a
guy.
"You look wonderful," I said honestly.
He smiled. "Thank you. So do you."
My ears rang and blood pounded in my temples. "I'm
having a hard time seeing you as a James, James. What
do I call you?"
"Jamie. Or Janelle. I've gone by both."
Now, insanely, that made me jealous. Unbearably
jealous. "No, no, no," I said, laughing and shaking my
head. "You tell me this is new, James. This is
something no one's ever experienced before."
He bit his lower lip again, only now in exasperation.
"You are mad at me."
I sighed. "I don't know what I am. I look at you
and..."
"And what?" when I trailed off.
I searched for words. "Lets go eat dinner."
We dined at Chilli's. At the table, I watched and
cataloged her. She had traded her wire-rimmed glasses
for tortoise shell. She clasped the fork delicately in
her left hand, cutting properly with her right. Her
fingernails were long and lavender, with painted
designs on the tips.
She wore a silver bracelet on her right wrist, a silver
wristwatch on her left, and a diamond pendant around
her neck. She had breasts. Not big breasts, not big
enough to call attention to herself, but enough to make
me wonder. She chewed as I imagined a girl might chew,
and swallowed with no bob of an Adam's apple. I thought
all guy's had Adam's apples; I must have been mistaken.
Without looking up, she said, "Concentrate on me any
harder, Martin, and I might become hypnotized."
I smiled. "I'm thinking of you as a girl right now, you
know that, don't you?"
"That was my general intention. You're more comfortable
with a girl. I have serious doubts about your
homosexuality, Martin."
"You might have to remove your own clothing," I said.
"Who said I'd let you?" She sipped her diet-Coke. She
smiled at me. "All joking aside, I'm not used to
dating. You'll have to take it slow with me tonight.
Otherwise I might turn tail on you and run like a doe."
I wondered what her tail looked like, running or
otherwise. "Can I ask you something personal?"
"Ask me anything you want," she said, sipping again.
"How much do you really like me?"
She laughed softly. "I think you know the answer to
that."
"Enough to have sex with me?"
She stopped sucking and looked around. "You know what
you're asking, Martin?"
"I do."
"No," she said. "You don't."
I tried another tack. "How about Michael? Are you
committed to him?"
She shrugged. "It's not that simple."
"Nothing's that simple," I said. "You're a cross-
dressing fag with a gorgeous figure and I'm a closet
homosexual asking you for sex. Simple doesn't exist for
us."
"You think my figure's gorgeous?" she asked.
"Come on."
She put the drink down and leaned toward me. Closeup, I
saw that she had facial hair, very fine and soft. She
hadn't shaved. I also noticed that her sideburns
tapered to delicate points and that her eyebrows were
plucked. I was noticing a lot of things about her
tonight. To stop her from saying anything, I leaned
forward and kissed her.
* * *
"I've been wanting to see this," she said.
We pushed through the crowd outside the Muvico
Theaters, hand-in-hand, me leading the way. It was
opening night for the new STAR TREK movie, and I had
the tickets.
"I am so glad you ordered online," she said, looking at
the crowd.
At the refreshments counter I ordered a big bag of
popcorn and two diet-Cokes. She wanted candy, as well,
but couldn't make up her mind. Watching her bent over
the selection gave me an erection. I wanted to grab her
butt and grind up against her. We walked hand-in-hand
into the theater.
"Do I pass a a girl?" she asked.
"I'm more convinced by the moment that you actually are
a girl. Or a girl playing at a guy playing a girl."
She laughed and squeezed my hand.
We sat in the back row and shared small-talk and
popcorn and then whispers and popcorn once the movie
started. The crew of Enterprise G looked absurdly aged
in this movie, but it didn't diminish the action. In
fact, it was the best STAR TREK movie I'd seen. I held
Jamie's hand and played touchy-feely along her inner
thigh. I had nothing close to the courage, however, to
approach her crotch. Halfway through the movie, I
realized she was staring at me intently. I kissed her.
"I want you," she breathed into my mouth.
"I want you too." My hand was on her ribs, just below
her bra strap and she felt all trembly and hot.
"Think anyone would care if we fucked?" she asked.
I managed not to laugh. "I could ask."
"Would you please? Would you pretty please?"
I drew her to me and lifted her from her seat. She
swung effortlessly over the armrest and into my lap,
straddling me, arms locked around my neck, tongue deep
in my mouth. People turned around to see this sudden
competition to the movie; we didn't care. I encircled
her waist with my arms and forced myself into her
crotch. She moaned loudly and we had to stop.
When the movie ended, we were ogled with varying
degrees of good humor, envy, and disapproval. I
weathered the stares with a good-natured smile; Jamie
stared at the floor. Outside, we laughed and headed for
the mall entrance. Michael caught up with us at the
door.
"Michael!" She looked everywhere around us, at once
terrified and angry. "What are you doing here?"
Her roommate said sarcastically: "A movie, you said?
You didn't tell me who with, love." He was white with
suppressed rage but evidently not surprised at her
appearance.
"Come on," I said, leading her away. Michael matched
our stride.
"You look great tonight," he said, echoing my earlier
statement. "Too bad your lipstick's mussed." He held
out a napkin.
"Michael--"
I stopped, halfway to the car. "Look, Michael," I said.
"You're--"
He hit me so fast I didn't even see him. One moment I
was speaking, the next I was on the ground, him
kneeling on my back, my face ground into the asphalt.
"Jesus!" I sputtered. "Get off of me, you clown!"
"Let me tell you something mate," he said, "I--"
"Michael! For God's sake! What are you doing!" Jamie
wailed.
He ignored her histrionics. "I'm gonna tell you this
once, mate. So listen carefully." His left hand ground
my face harder into the pavement while his right one
sought out my balls. I grimaced in agony as he
continued in his fake British accent. "The lady--or
laddy, if you like-- belongs to me. I don't like blokes
jumpin' my turf just as I'm sure you don't like someone
jumpin' your's. I don't go round and bangin' your
little sister--"
"Michael!"
"--and I don't want you bangin' mine. Understood, my
friend?"
My balls screamed! The pain in my face nor the
humiliation mattered. I was one squeeze away from being
crippled.
"Understand?" he asked me again.
I croaked out, "Yes! I understand. Now get offa me, you
ape!"
He released me and stood up. Near to tears with rage, I
couldn't move, much less get up to fight. I made it
onto my side where I could ball up into a fetal ball. A
crowd had formed, mostly gawk-eyed teenagers and some
in their early twenties, nobody that would lend a hand.
I watched from my vantage point at tire level as the
bastard dragged her away.
"Martin! Martin, I'm so sorry!"
He dragged her along by the elbow. "Come on, girly. We
got us a little talking to do." He had on his black
leather pants, studded boots and the same black leather
jacket. He was greased back, in best Greaser fashion, a
ducktail above the collar. I wanted to kill him.
I got onto my duff. My chest ached and my left cheek
felt stripped of flesh and by balls felt like a
punching bag. I tried getting to my feet but sat back
down again. I leaned against the bumper of the car
conveniently put there for my use and tried to catch my
breath. Three-quarters of the way down the row I saw
him drag her between two cars and I heard her yelp,
then the sound of an open-palm smack. "The bastard," I
muttered.
I could do two things. I could sit there until my
testicles stopped throbbing and my chest felt capable
of breathing again and I had some strength in my legs.
I could sit there and let the smart thing come to pass,
namely, going home. Michael obviously knew Karate or Ti
Chi or some nonsense like that, and would cripple me
for real next time. He obviously could. And what
motivation did I have to get up? A cross-dressing queer
with fake fingernails, lacquered hair and a set of
silicone falsies?
I struggled to my feet. The crowd had thinned and those
still present regarded me with pity. I gripped the
fender of the car for support and tried to catch sight
of them. They were two rows over and he was berating
her beside a big silver, nineteen-eighties model Buick
or Oldsmobile. That's not your father's Olds, I thought
stupidly.
He slapped her hard again, banged her against the side
of the car, then opened the door and flung her inside.
I pushed off the fender of whatever I was leaning
against and shambled toward my car. I got there just as
the Buick/Olds peeled rubber backward out of its space,
then peeled rubber going forward again. I started the
CR-V and followed.
A mile down the road, I pulled over and waited while
Michael ran into a Seven-Eleven. I was thinking, This
would be so simple, Jamie, if you just got out of the
car and ran. But that doesn't happen in the real world
and it didn't happen here.
When we stopped a block apart at a set of paired
traffic signals, I got out of the CR-V, went around to
the back and threw open the rear door. The guy behind
me grew somewhat alarmed at the tire iron in my hand,
but I grinned at him and got back in the car. A mile
further on we stopped again at a light, this time with
me right behind them. I almost got out, then noticed
Jamie's head was missing.
Oh, fuck, I thought. What did he do now? Did she get
out? I craned around but didn't see her back along the
road. Then I thought, What if he hit her hard enough to
knock her out, then I thought, Oh, Jesus, what if he
killed her? I was beginning to panic when all of a
sudden Jamie's head reappeared, only she was grinning
at him and wiping her mouth. Grinning at him and wiping
her mouth.
I sat there dumbfounded. Dumbfounded and stunned. The
tire-iron slipped from my fingers and thudded on the
floor. The point of my chin sagged to my breastbone.
What the fuck was this? In the car ahead, she leaned
across the open space and put her left arm around
Michael's neck and kissed his cheek. I saw her laugh. I
saw her right arm move in a way suggestive of stroking.
"Oh, no," I muttered. "No way."
When the light changed from red to green, I turned left
as they went straight, and drove myself home.
That's what I saw myself doing. What I knew I should be
doing. What everyone in the world would be screaming at
me to do. Instead, I pressed the gas pedal and followed
them down the busy street, following some instinct,
some almost forgotten memory, some pivotal moment in a
book or a movie or a dream, wanting-praying-hoping that
seeing is not always believing.
"Turn around and look at me, baby. Please."
Ahead in the Olds, Jamie sat snuggled up to Michael,
head on his shoulder, obviously not belted in. Little
by little, ounce by ounce, my resolve slipped away. I
watched as her head slowly dipped from sight, groaned
as Michael flexed achingly in his seat, wanted to ram
the front end of my car into them when her head
reappeared again. But this time, without seeming to do
it, Jamie glanced back at me through the rear window
and nodded. It was enough for me. Whether she could see
me or not, I nodded back. At the next red light it
happened.
Michael braked the Olds and stopped. Jamie's head was
down again and I could see him cajoling her. Then his
head tilted back and he went rigid all over, shoulders
bunching up and suddenly he was jerking in his seat. I
knew what was going on and slammed my fists on the
steering wheel and wanted to ram them again.
Mr. British Accent might just get his dick bit off. But
his actions were suddenly suggestive of something other
than ejaculation. Suddenly he was hunched forward and
rigid in a grimace; the passenger door banged opened
and Jamie flopped out onto the ground.
"Run!" I yelled at her. She stayed momentarily on her
butt, legs flung apart and hands back supporting her,
staring into the car. There was a look of dismay on her
face and her mouth hung open. Then she was scrambling
to her feet and I flung the passenger's side door open.
"Come on! Run, God damn it! Run!"
She stumbled backwards against the car door, thrust
herself forward just as Michael disappeared from sight.
His hand shot out and grabbed the back of her jacket.
She twisted in his grip, yanked the coat back over her
shoulders and flung it away from her. Then she was
running for the car.
"Go!" she screamed. "Get moving!"
Michael half-crawled, half-tumbled out the door and
landed on his hands and knees on the pavement. His
pants were undone and white from his underwear
protruded from his fly. I saw no blood but I also
didn't see any ding-a-ling flopping in the breeze. But
I could hope.
"Get going!" she screamed at me again.
I put the car in Reverse as Michael struggled to his
feet and took a faltering step forward. He was bent at
the waist, clutching his balls, mouthing words. She may
not have bit it off, but she surely had mangled him.
She bounded past my front end and grabbed the open
door.
"Get in! Get in!" I urged. Michael was halfway down his
car and gathering speed. His face was set in a rictus
of pain and hatred, the hatred directed at us. I had no
doubt, none whatsoever, that even in his weakened
condition he'd kick the shit out of me.
Jamie jumped inside and slammed the car door closed.
Her face was chalky but had flaming patches on both
cheeks; there was a bruise where he'd hit her. Her
chest heaved and her mouth was working. "Please!" she
pleaded. "Go!"
I backed within an inch of the car behind me, waved
apologetically when the driver laid on the horn, then
cut the wheel to the left. Michael was already moving
to his right, cutting me off. "Fuck that shit!" I
yelled and flung the wheel to the right. I floored the
gas and the four-wheel drive cut it, squealing tires
both front and back. The CR-V jiggered and shook and
jounced up and down on its suspension and then we were
into the next lane and then onto the shoulder and
cutting across state-owned property to the parking lot
of an apartment complex.
We jolted across the high curb and I thanked God again
for the four-wheel drive and its clearance. Somehow I
missed the vehicles either side of the parking space I
drove into and the last I saw of Michael as we barreled
through the parking lot in search of an exit, was him
hunched over with his hands on his knees.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
She had lost her tortoise-shell glasses and all but one
of her silver hair clips. Her lipstick was smudged
hideously around her mouth and she sported a developing
shiner. Her right cheek was swollen. She didn't look
okay, but then she grinned at me. "I'm with you and
that's more than okay," she said.
I grinned back at her. "Michael seemed a little
pissed."
She laughed throatily. "I take no prisoners, Martin.
None at all." She belted herself in, and I put my hand
on her thigh and squeezed tightly.
"You're not going home tonight."
"Obviously."
"My roommate's a pain in the ass," I said, "but he
respects a closed door. Unless Michael has my street
address or my telephone number, we should be safe
there."
"Well, I didn't leave it tacked to the refrigerator
door," she said. She put her hand on mine and then took
it into hers. "Thank you for rescuing me, Martin. Thank
you for coming after me in the first place. That took a
lot of courage. I can't believe Michael. He is such a
bastard."
I wanted to say, It was nothing, I always take a
beating on my first dates. Instead, I asked, "Is he
really your brother?"
"Yes!" she spat in exasperation. "The bastard!"
The next question I couldn't ask and it simply hung
there between us, gobbling up time. Precious time.
Finally she said, "I grew up in California. My mom and
dad died in a car wreck when I was thirteen. Michael
was eighteen then, but not old enough to be my
guardian. He was already kinky by them, spiked hair and
leather clothes and studs and everything. The courts
took one look at him and said no. They awarded me to my
aunt Sheila and I lived with her for two years, then
for a year with my grandmother. I was really mixed up.
I got into some trouble, nothing really bad, but enough
to make my aunt and uncle very nervous. Besides..." She
looked out the window. I squeezed her hand and tapped
it gently against her thigh.
"Tell me," I said. "You want me to know, don't you?"
She continued looking out the window. "Do you really?"
she asked.
"Yes."
"I'm a hermaphrodite," she said calmly. "Half-boy,
half-girl. You wanted to know."
* * *
We stopped at McDonald's. We both had cheeseburgers,
French-fries and diet-Cokes. She went to the Ladies
Room before eating, to clean up. I waited for her.
I had begun to suspect the truth at dinner. Her hair
and her Adam's apple--or lack of one--were two big
clues. Her hair grew in the classic female pattern,
extending inward on her forehead farther than a man's.
In the restaurant I had noticed her lack of facial
hair, but mistook the fine blonde growth as boyish
peach fuzz. Her figure was that of a girl, as were her
delicate features, and I had the feeling the small
breasts she wore so well beneath her knit top were real
girl's breasts.
She returned and we ate our cheeseburgers and French-
fries in silence. It was a comfortable silence, a
silence I could enjoy. I extended my diet-coke and she
smiled as she sucked the straw. "I could get to like
you," she said.
"You already like me, remember?"
"I could like you even more."
"Enough to live with me?" I asked.
The smile faltered, then returned. "Be careful what you
wish for. I lived with my brother and look what
happened to him."
She explained that Michael had sued for custody when he
turned twenty-one. She was only sixteen ten, but
desperate to get away from both her aunt and her
grandmother; the courts had listened. I had the feeling
no one fought too hard against the suit anyway.
"Things were okay for awhile, then he started getting
weird. I had been living as a girl until then--I lived
as a girl all my life--but he started making me wear
guy's clothes and act like a guy. He wasn't queer--he
still isn't queer--he just liked the mind-bend. He'd
take me out and introduce me as his brother, and slowly
but surely, that's what I became.
"In 2000 we moved out here to get away from the family.
I had begun to like the masquerade a bit too much--see
how fucked up I am?--and the family was making trouble.
I was twenty years old, but my aunt and uncle went to
the court and the court decided I had an unstable
personality and sent me to a physchiatric hospital.
Believe me," she said, laughing bitterly. "You don't
ever want to go there."
I worked to digest this. "Which sex do you want to be?"
I asked.
"I think that's obvious."
I grinned mischievously. "You convinced me as a guy,
James."
"I could be a guy," she came right back.
I laughed and shook my head. "I'd like to know about
you. Your condition. Are you comfortable talking about
that?"
She shifted uncomfortably. She breathed deeply. "I'm
what's called an XX/XY hermaphrodite. I have mixed
genitalia." She paused to see if I wanted to comment on
that, then went on. "I have a very small penis, a
vagina, one testicle and an ovary. I ovulate, but not
every month. Maybe four or five times a year. I've gone
a year without a single one, and sometimes I do it
every month. It's always very painful. I have a uterus,
but only one fallopian tube. My ovary develops terrible
cysts that sometimes have to be surgically removed. My
testicle is still inside me and causes no end of
problems." She looked sadly out the window. "It gets
worse, Martin."
I took her hand and held it. "Go on."
"My vagina is severely underdeveloped. It's too small
to take a tampon, which means I can't have intercourse
with you, not without surgery. I've never had
intercourse. Only anal sex with my brother." The pain
in her voice was awful. "You saw what I did in the
car?"
"It's fine," I said. "You were forced to."
"I was forced to tonight, but there's been plenty of
times I wasn't forced. I've had sex with him since I
was eighteen. When I kissed you tonight it was my first
time with another guy. I've been a one-person harem as
long as I can remember. As both a man and a woman. Try
experiencing that sometime!" she cried, bursting into
tears.
I said nothing, just took her in my arms and held her.
She wept deep racking sobs. When the sobbing lessened I
kissed her gently and wiped away her tears.
"You have a lot of courage," I said. "I can't even
imagine what you went through growing up."
She sniffed and wiped her nose on a napkin. "Did I tell
you I have breasts?"
"No," I said laughing. "But I'm glad you do." She took
my left hand and placed it on her right breast. It was
small, soft and very natural feeling. I held it a
moment, then went under her top, released the center-
snap on her bra, and took her breast in my hand. We
French-kissed.
"I have to tell you something," she said softly.
Her wonderful smell, the way she felt beneath my hands,
her every movement was driving me nuts. I wanted her--
then, there, right in the middle of McDonald's if she'd
let me... I just wanted her.
"I'm going away tomorrow."
I sat straight up.
"It's okay," she said hurriedly. "I'm coming back."
My heart pounded like King Kong on the island gateway.
I wondered if my chest wall could take it. "When?" I
demanded, then more gently, "Why? Or shouldn't I ask."
"To a clinic in New York. They specialize in sexual
disorders."
"What will you have done?" I asked.
"Have my testicle removed and my vagina measured for
reconstructive surgery. I've been there twice before
and there's more visits in my future." She breathed
deeply, her eyes rimmed with tears. "Many more, if I
ever hope to have a baby."
* * *
It was three a.m. and dead quiet. I could hear the
breath going in and out of her nostrils and the
occasional gurgle of her stomach. Or maybe it was mine.
"I'm going to miss you," I said.
"Me too."
"You'll let me take you to the airport?"
"I was hoping you'd ask that."
"What about Michael?"
"I'm not going back to the apartment."
"How about your things? For the trip, I mean."
"They're in my car," she said. She had planned for
this, or something like it.
"We'll stop by and get them," I said. "When you get
back, we'll borrow the Maryland starting lineup and get
your things out of the apartment."
She laughed and rolled over for a hug. I wrapped her in
my arms and we made love again in the only way she
could. I did something to her that Michael never had
and she really enjoyed that. I guess being a girl and a
boy sometimes has its advantages.
And yes, I intentionally mislead you at the beginning
of the story, but aren't you grateful I did?
THE END
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 31