The Erotic Comedies (Vassi Collection Volume XI) (5 page)

She began tentatively, making enquiries, writing letters of application to doctors who had performed the process of transformation. Before long, the fantasy began to precipitate a reality, and she found herself having interviews with psychologists, talking to other transsexuals who had come out the other side, several in each of the two directions, and finally entered the actual mechanics of transition, beginning with hormone shots, hair-removal, special counseling, and on one unforgettable day, the first operation. And with all this, lessons on how to dress, how to move, how to speak, how, in short, to behave like a woman.

It had taken three years to reach this point, watching the final result in a mirror. A miracle had been performed, and it seemed to throw open a sparkling new world. She could enjoy men at last, as she always had, but now freely and openly, without the homosexual guilt she had never been able to shake off. She understood that from a certain viewpoint, her present condition might be considered even more pathological than the former one. But she didn't
feel
ashamed, and it is one's feeling about oneself that, in the last analysis, is the basic criterion for all judgement.

Now, when she flirted with a man, it would be as a woman. And when she gave head, it would be a woman's lips around the cock she sucked. Her face would be smooth, powdered, her mouth slightly rouged. Her chest would hold a woman's breasts for a man to fondle, and while the nipples would never yield milk, that would make no difference to her or to the man who was taking his pleasure with her. And when a man fucked her, it would be as a woman that she received him, and not as a "pervert," the word she had always used to describe herself. And after all this, she had, instead of the embarrassing penis, a cunt opening into her body, not as pretty as a real cunt, nor with a real cunt's smells and juices, but for all that, something that would serve. Its very artificiality, in fact, might give it a power of attraction and appeal that no real cunt could have.

"After all," she reasoned, "there can't be more than a couple of hundred artificial cunts in the whole world." She consoled herself that rarity overshadowed any intimations of the grotesque.

She opened the closet door on which the mirror hung, and began to choose her attire for the day. While recuperating from the final operation, she had not gone out or seen anyone, wanting to make her entrance into society all at once, whole and resplendent. She dressed beyond her usual simple taste, knowing that she was overdoing it, but unable to resist the temptation to go out in full drag.

"But it's not drag any more," she exclaimed. She was no longer a man, and the nylon stockings and panties and garter belt and brassiere and slip and dress and earrings and nail polish and lipstick and pumps and eyeshadow were now her legitimate clothing. A rush of excitement surged through her as she thought of bathing suits and the beach, of tight slacks and swinging her hips as she walked.

And for an instant, she even thought of Ralph, her friend for so many years, the man she loved more than anyone in the world, but to whom she could never venture a physical overture. Ralph had known that she was homosexual, and it had not affected their friendship, which was based on an intellectual affinity. Still, he had made it clear that he could not consider her sexually. During the time she was undergoing her transformation she had asked him, "Do you think you might desire me when I am a woman?" And he had not replied for a long time, then answered, "It might be possible. I don't know. It's extraordinary just to think about, but I won't know until I see you in your new body."

Now, glorious in full regalia, she looked at herself once more, and a well-dressed, very attractive woman of about thirty-five looked back, and winked. She was feeling just the tiniest bit randy already.

"Would you like to go for a drink?" Alexandra said to her image.

"And perhaps meet a man?" the image asked.

"Or should I call Ralph?" Alexandra replied.

"Not yet," her image told her, "you need some experience first."

Alexandra felt a shiver go down her spine as the impact of the reality she had become grazed her deepest sense of self. She checked herself out one last time, picked up her handbag, and walked out the door to see what the world had to offer.

As she stepped into the street, apprehension gripped her. At the back of her mind was the thought that someone would notice, would point to her and say, "Look, there's a transsexual." She glanced down to see if her slip was showing, and the already conditioned gesture of a woman brought her new courage.

She attracted no attention at all, except the routine stares of men who looked at her breasts as she approached and at her ass as she went by. She had to suppress her exuberance which threatened to propel her into long striding steps, and remember to walk as her coach had taught her, keeping her awareness on the sensation of her thighs rubbing against one another.

"Stay with your feeling of sensuality," he had told her, "that will keep you from reverting to masculine mannerisms."

Feeling more and more secure, strolling down the sidewalk as though she were a queen dressed as a commoner, her royalty apparent to no one but herself, she turned into one of those small dark restaurants which dot midtown. She stood uncertainly in the doorway for a moment, and was taken with a small edge of panic when the floor manager came up to her and said, "Will there be just yourself, madame?"

Madame!

She smiled graciously. "Just a drink, please, I won't be having lunch," she said, using the voice the same teacher had coached her in, making her sound a little like Marlene Dietrich with a bad cold.

He led her to a tiny round table, and she lit a cigarette to steady her nerves as the waiter brought her a Brandy Alexander, a drink she had always felt diffident about ordering when she went about in a man's body. She sipped slowly, relishing the fact that she left lipstick marks on the glass. Her joy was total, and she was torn between wanting to weep and wanting to throw up her arms and shout with pleasure.

Instead, she looked around discretely, and several tables away a man of about forty, dark and rugged, wearing a very expensive suit, was looking at her with an unmistakeable glint of desire. He was exactly her type, the kind of man who, when she had been a man, she would have done anything to have, and then have felt guilty about wanting. But now she could accept his overture, talk to him, and swim in his hunger for her. She would have to go slowly, waiting for the proper mood to tell him that she was a transsexual. And if he still wanted her, then she would have him, have a man at last, freely, openly.

She began to return his stare, but felt herself floundering in her response. She could not smile, nor lower her lids, nor shift her body, nor give any of the clues women use when they want to tell a man they're interested. She looked away in confusion.

"What's wrong?" she wondered. "Why don't I respond?"

She was about to ascribe it to nervousness in her new role when she realized that she was not really reciprocating his desire, and could find no feeling upon which to mount even a seductive glance. Intellectually, she could tell herself why she should desire him, could remember that there was a time when she would have been attracted to him, but now, he had no more sexual appeal to him as a woman than women used to have for him as a man.

She bent her head over her drink, pondering the strangeness of the situation, and was lost deep in thought when she sensed someone sitting across from her, at her table. Her heart skipped as she guessed it might be the man, and she didn't know how to deal with him.

But when she looked up, she found a woman looking back at her. A slim, well-groomed, utterly composed woman, who wore no makeup, and was dressed in a tightly cut suit. Her hair was short and her eyes were very very knowing.

The woman smiled, an expression that flushed through Alexandra like the embrace of a hot bath after a long stiff walk on a winter day. Her limbs grew weak, and the rest of the restaurant faded into distant obscurity, behind the irresistible magnetism of the woman who sat before her.

"I've been watching you," the woman said. "It was clear that you had no interest in that man who's been trying to catch your eye."

Alexandra knew at once that the woman was a lesbian, knew at once that she was making an overture, and knew at once, with stomach-shrinking certainty, that her new body was responding.

The homosexuality had pursued her through the entire change of gender, and in her transformed loins there flickered the familiar flame of an old, forbidden desire.

The Organic Coprophiliac

Wendy delicately shaded the corner of her mouth with her lipstick brush, took a long deep look at herself in the professional make-up mirror with the tiny frosted bulbs all around the edge, and smiled radiantly. From her sequined shoes to her beehive hairdo, she was perfectly rendered, ready to win all glances at the Senior Prom. The other men would neglect their dates just to have a dance with her, and she would flirt outrageously with them, knowing all the while that no matter who held her in his arms, only Jeff could hold her in his heart.

"Jeff," she whispered, and her fingers trembled at his name. Tall, rugged Jeff, with his lopsided grin and his playful blue eyes, his electrifying figure on the football field and his deep love of humanity which would one day earn him the initials M.D. after his name. She rubbed the pin he had given her just six months earlier, on that night when the moon had lit up the waters of the reservoir as they sat in his Maserati and he spoke those fateful words in her ear.

"Be mine," he had said. And hot scalding tears of joy had spilled from her eyes.

Now she stood up, regarding her young figure in the glass. The wide gown hid her long shapely legs, shaved and oiled for the night's special date. Her waist was narrow and flared quickly to pearl-white breasts that swelled over the tops of her bra cups. No man had ever seen her nipples, or put his hands on the sweet mound between her thighs. She was more than a virgin; she was a consciously constructed landscape of hesitant delights, nurtured and guarded, prepared for the appearance of the single gardener who would enter some day to gather up the fragile buds of her tender flowers. She had been kissed so few times that her lips still tingled when another mouth brushed hers. And no fingers had ever traced the luscious curve between her firm full buttocks.

"But tonight," she breathed, and trembled over the expanse of her entire body at the thought of what the night would bring.

There was a light tap at the door and her mother came timidly into the room. The two women looked into one another's eyes through the mirror, and then Wendy turned.

"Mother," she gushed, "I'm so happy."

"And I'm happy for you," her mother replied. "It seems just like yesterday that I was standing where you're standing now, thinking about the man who was to become your father.

"We've lived in this town a long time, haven't we?" Wendy asked in that solemn voice which always overtook her when she thought of her American heritage.

The older woman swept forward and held the young girl by the arm. Her face was troubled. She had the look of a person who was about to enter into a necessary but difficult conversation.

"There isn't much time before Jeff gets here to pick you up," she began, "and there's something I need to talk to you about."

"I think I know what it is," Wendy said, spinning out of her grasp.

"You're thinking of letting him do it tonight, aren't you? You're planning to go
all the way
!"

"Please, mother," Wendy pleaded, "I'm a grown woman. It's time I decided these things for myself. And I do love him. Don't spoil it by trying to argue me out of it."

"No, no, it's not that. I would be the last to try to dissuade you. After all, I did . . . the same thing, the night of my Senior Prom."

"You?" Wendy asked, aghast.

"I was young once too," her mother said. She eased Wendy into the rocking chair that had been in their family for a hundred and twenty-seven years. "I just want to be sure you're careful. And perhaps if I tell you a little story, it will help you understand." The woman sat down opposite her daughter, and began a tale which her mother had told her, and had been told by her mother before her, insuring that each generation was aware that its children did not lose the historical continuity which kept the blood line strong.

"It was your great grandmother who was first seized by the seemingly irrational desire to eat shit," the older woman said. "In those days, people didn't have the enlightened attitudes we have today, and what with killing Indians and chopping down trees, there just wasn't time for bedroom finesse. Lil was seventeen when she got married, as cheery a cherry as you are right now. Her husband was a good man, dependable, but boorish. She didn't even know how to broach the subject of her secret desire to him.

"One day, while he was off on a four-day hunting trip, a knife-grinder came by their house. She describes him in her diary as gaunt and salacious, and adds, 'just what I was looking for'. She invited him in for lunch, and when they were finished eating, she blurted out what she wanted from him."

Wendy paled. Like many young people, it was almost inconceivable to her that what she had looked upon as an intensely private urge might be commonplace to the rest of humanity. Her mother's voice went on, describing what their ancestor had done, but she heard little of the narrative, her own mind being filled with the image she had cherished for so long.

She saw herself lying on a couch, her skirt hiked up over her thighs, her cunt redolent with pungent slime, toes curled in anticipation. Above her, his piercing eyes boring into her tender flesh, Jeff bears down, his great buttocks crushing her cheeks, his terse anus pressing against her sweet innocent lips. And then, with a subtle shift, the passage begins. She gasps, she moans, she faints, and in succumbing, her mouth falls open. He pushes down, and with a fanfaronade of aggressive thoughts, voids his bowels on her immaculate face. She tries to escape, knowing all the while that she does not want to escape. She chokes as the hot suffocating mass slides onto her tongue, into her throat, and down her chest, scorching her lungs and filling her body with the vile and glorious fulfillment she had always understood would be hers. She cries out and rises to actively cover the pulsing hole, stretching her lips until they crack, sucking the final product of the body she loves until she almost bursts from lack of breath, as she combines the lowest servility with the highest daring, the profoundest love with the most scarifying sensuality.