With a sigh of misery-slash-relief, Rob put his face in his hands.
Through his fingers, Chichi Yamaguchi—looking cute and airbrushed with some gibberish neon kanji blocking out her pussy—seemed to taunt him. How come she got treated like some kind of goddess while Rob was just some coolie piece of shit?
Those two meatheads wouldn’t have treated Bobby that way.
Shit.
Rob wasn’t exactly sure why he’d rented the Chichi Yamaguchi video, but there it was, lying on his bed, half spilled out of his backpack with his textbooks and pencils. He thought maybe he would ignore it at first, bring it back to the store tomorrow, unwatched, and chalk it up to some kind of lapse in judgment, but it didn’t take long for him to give in to temptation.
Well, it wasn’t temptation, exactly; temptation implied that it was something he desired and craved, like chocolate or Long Island Iced Tea. More like compulsion, because even though he didn’t want to watch the video, would gain no pleasure from it, he just had to. Had to see her for himself and really know where the lines between her and him were drawn.
Just what the fuck was so special about her, huh?
God, between this and the multiple I-wish-I-was-really-Bobby moments today, Rob was headed straight off the deep end. Oh well, might as well jump in feet first.
He shucked out of his jeans, put on his headphones, dropped the disc into his computer’s CD-ROM drive, and sat back in his chair.
The video the meatheads had selected was called Kawaii Cuties, and Rob wasn’t actually sure what to expect. He didn’t know if it was some repackaged import with spliced-together scenes from various not-too-rapey Japanese pornos, the kind with no English dialogue and pixelated genitals, or if it was just your average domestic yellow-fever vid with Asian American actresses playing up their Asianness probably for the first and only time in a life spent insisting that despite their race, they belonged here.
Kawaii Cuties wound up being an American production, with Chichi Yamaguchi headlining a mixed, thoroughly American cast. Not that Rob could tell the specific ancestry of the women without some kind of context cues, but at the very least he was pretty sure a few were first-generation Filipina American, by their accents.
Before every actress’s scene, the director interviewed them sitting on a big red armchair in a featureless room, half naked. He asked them dumb and humiliating questions about whether their parents knew about their porn careers, how old they were, what their cutest feature was, did they like it up the ass . . . Rob stopped listening about three minutes in, waiting until the part when Chichi Yamaguchi took the screen. Eventually, equal parts bored and disgusted, he started skipping scenes: blowjob, blowjob, a new interview, money shot, gynaecological straight shot of dick in pussy, another interview, two women tongue-kissing, and then, at last, Rob hit play when he spotted Chichi Yamaguchi in her Elegant Gothic Lolita getup of ruffly, pink babydoll dress and white Mary Jane platform shoes. She spent her time in the red armchair giggling behind her hand, often shying away from giving direct answers to his questions, pleading bad English or blushing and clutching her cheeks and whimpering “Nooooo!” like she was playing backup for Gwen Fucking Stefani.
You’d have to be a serious sicko to get off on this kind of thing, especially when the director told her to take off her dress and Chichi yelped “I’m shy!” before jumping right to it anyway. Which was why it was seriously fucked-up that Rob had a boner right now.
He felt himself sinking into Chichi’s skin, her perfectly coiffed hair falling over his cheeks, her embellished, glittery nails tracing sharp shallow paths up his inner thighs as he touched himself. On screen in front of him, they’d moved past the ridiculous interview portion of proceedings. Two big, tanned white guys entered the picture, already naked and rock hard. One from each side of the frame, and Chichi greeted them both with titters, especially as their cocks nudged her cheeks. Just like with taking off her dress, though, that gauzy curtain of embarrassment and shyness and hesitation was quickly and easily pulled aside, revealing the enthusiastic professional underneath.
Why the act?
Rob didn’t get it, but then, he wasn’t terribly motivated to analyze beyond the surface, especially not now that Chichi had a cock in each long-nailed hand, jerking off one meathead while she sucked on the fat purple knob of the other. Rob pictured himself squatting like that—in all the position’s incongruously graceful glory—naked except for his heels, legs spread obscenely and erection pointing straight at the camera. And on either side of him, the two meatheads from Rear Entrance Video, their hands in his hair and their cocks fighting for space in his wet, desperate mouth. They may have overlooked the mousey boy behind the counter at the porn store, but here in his fantasy they were completely at his beck and call, helpless in the face of his sexual glamour.
They begged for his body. He deigned to let them have it.
Broken, masculine moans filled his ears and saliva filled his mouth as he closed his eyes and pictured the bittersalt taste of those cocks, imagined sucking one off while the other rubbed up the crack of his ass, up and down, a thick bruiser of a prick parting his cleft, threatening to claim his tight, tempting pussy.
In his fantasy, he didn’t need to lubricate himself. He was wet and ready, like the girl he was. That big dick slipped into him easy-as-you-please, nudging right past his clenching muscles and filling every inch of him.
In the real world, he wrapped his hand around his cock, jerking himself dry with a rough, artless hand, picturing it was that meathead’s hand, the hand of a man desperate to touch him but too hungry to be as gentle and worshipful as Bobby deserved. That was all right. Bobby liked it rough, just so long as the guy’s heart was in the right place.
“Yes,” he moaned softly to himself as Chichi cried out in his ears. She’d probably faked her orgasm.
Bobby didn’t.
Rob was still gasping and shivering, Chichi Yamaguchi’s O-face paused on his monitor and one hand still drenched in sticky cum, when a chat window popped up on screen.
He blinked a couple times, trying to focus the blur of his post-orgasm vision. The text swam in front of his eyes a couple seconds more, and then something in his brain kicked into gear and the words sharpened into legibility.
LetsDoScience: Hey cutie, missed you today!
LetsDoScience: You in for the raid Friday night?
LetsDoScience: Hello?
LetsDoScience: You there?
Mike! Shit! The guy had some kind of uncanny Bobby-sex radar.
Rob fell half off his chair, scrabbling for a piece of laundry dirty enough that he wouldn’t feel bad about getting cum all over it. At last, he caught a balled-up sock between his fingers, managed to grab hold of it, and righted himself again.
By the time he’d gotten his hand cleaned off, several more messages had appeared.
LetsDoScience: Are you mad at me?
LetsDoScience: Is it about the other night??
LetsDoScience: Look if you’re embarrassed about the other night forget it, I won’t bring it up if you don’t want.
LetsDoScience: Please?
Jeez, being a girl was a full-time job, wasn’t it?
Even if Rob was only one part-time.
He took a deep breath, realizing the delay was less about “channeling Bobby” and more about making sure he didn’t say the wrong thing to Mike. Bobby just came naturally, it seemed.
FakeGeekGirl93: OMG sorry Mike!
FakeGeekGirl93: I was AFK, forgot to put up away message
FakeGeekGirl93: sorry sorry
FakeGeekGirl93: I’m not embarrassed about the other night at all, why would I be embarrassed?
LetsDoScience: Oh LOL. Sorry for freaking out, I was just worried I scared you off or something.
FakeGeekGirl93: No! Never, LOL. ;)
LetsDoScience: Well in that case, webcam?
FakeGeekGirl93: ???
LetsDoScience: No funny stuff! Just want to see your pretty face, if that’s okay?
FakeGeekGirl93: Yeah right no funny stuff u horndog.
LetsDoScience: Cross my heart. I’m not a “tits or gtfo” kinda guy.
FakeGeekGirl93: Thank god for that.
FakeGeekGirl93: I don’t put out for /b/tards.
LetsDoScience: Sound policy.
LetsDoScience: So... cam? Please?
FakeGeekGirl93: OMG I just got out of the shower. No makeup. Raincheque?
LetsDoScience: Friday after the raid?
Okay, Rob had just been intending to put it off again and again until Mike eventually got the hint and gave up asking, maybe even gave up talking to him all together. So actually setting a date was a whole other level.
He opened his webcam without connecting to Mike and stared at his face reflected in the monitor, the shadowy moving image overlapping the still, brightly lit one of Chichi Yamaguchi on pause.
LetsDoScience: Hello?
LetsDoScience: AFK again?
LetsDoScience: You can say no if you want.
Rob tilted his chin down. Turned his face to the left a little. Changed the angle of the webcam’s camera. Ruffled his hair with his fingers so that his bangs hung in his eyes a little. Bit his lip and smiled at himself. Leaned forward, squeezed his chest with his upper arms until a light shadow cut down between his pecs.
FakeGeekGirl93: This Friday?
FakeGeekGirl93: What the hell, why not?
FakeGeekGirl93: Ok let’s do it.
LetsDoScience: Yay!!!
FakeGeekGirl93: Friday after the raid. It’s a date ;)
The rest of Rob’s week passed in a frantic blur of What the hell was I thinking?
In classes he mostly kept to himself, occasionally sneaking glances at Dylan as they passed one another in the halls, but never letting his gaping transform into anything . . . less creepy. Or sad. Creepy and sad? Whatever.
Whenever Rob saw him, Dylan seemed to be alone. Alone at the lunch counter. Alone waiting for the bus. Alone in studio with big headphones over his ears. On Wednesday, when they had more Introduction to Art Principles, he shot the shit with Doctor Chastity, but otherwise? Yeah, alone. The other students in their cliques seemed to give him a wide berth.
Rob, they just flat-out ignored, and Rob found himself spending more time than was healthy trying to decide which was worse. All the well-intentioned resolutions in the world (make friends, stop being such a loser, make eye contact with people, learn to live IRL) couldn’t breed the neurosis out of him, apparently, so he just stopped trying. Latched onto his hopes for Bobby, instead.
Although God knew why he thought of that as a viable alternative. What was he going to do, make a midsemester transition and hope nobody remembered he’d spent the first few weeks—not to mention his entire first semester—as a guy? Or that he’d existed at all?
Now that was a nice thought. Clean slate. Walk into the class, introduce himself as Bobby Ng, and he’d just be the new girl, and that status would inspire friendliness in his classmates. They’d introduce themselves, ask him to sit with their friends, invite him to lunch.
They’d invite him to lunch, but he’d say no, and ask Dylan instead.
For like a pizza or something, okay? Not out out. Not on a date, just lunch with a classmate where they could complain about their assignments and Dylan’s taste in porn. No, scratch that. He couldn’t get close to Dylan, because the closer he got, the more likely it would be that Dylan would make the connection.
Not that Rob cared if Dylan knew he worked in a porn store, right? No way. He just didn’t want to have any awkward conversations in public places.
Yeah, wouldn’t want his classmates thinking he was weird, now would he?
He didn’t even know anymore what he was afraid of, what he wanted.
Because really, say he could show up as the new girl Bobby Ng, would that make him happy? Once he made the switch, he’d have to stick to it, and he wasn’t sure he was actually all that interested in committing to a new gender identity. After all, if he was really dedicated to the whole girl thing, he’d have picked a girl name that wasn’t still mostly a boy’s name and—oh, by the way, just a nickname for the one-hundred-percent boy name that his parents had given him.
And that was assuming that if he walked in dressed up as Bobby, he’d even pass for a real girl. He did online, as far as he knew, but IRL his only cross-dressing experience had been last Halloween when he’d gone in drag to Rocky Horror, and he hadn’t been trying to pass then.
Although other than his guy voice, he was pretty sure he had.
Passed, that was. On first glance, at least.
Which was amazing.
Rob was a pretty slightly built guy, but he still had facial hair and an Adam’s apple and no boobs and a naturally deeper voice and, and, and. And sure, those things could be corrected if you took hormones and went to speech therapy or had surgery, but Rob didn’t want to do any of those things. And even if those measures were completely painless (which they weren’t) and nonpermanent (were they?), he didn’t want to change his body. It was inconvenient, sure, but it was his.
So even if they did forget Rob existed, would they even buy the premise of Bobby? Somebody would be able to tell, especially since Rob wasn’t all that keen on drastic changes. One slipup and it would be nothing but silent judgment and intrusive questions about his genitals . . . Not to mention, y’know, bigotry. Rob was sheltered, but he wasn’t a fucking idiot. He knew what happened when people found out girls weren’t born girls. With girl parts. Whatever.
And besides, Rob wasn’t a girl. Wasn’t born one, not physically and not even on the inside. He just liked . . . playing one. Dressing up as one.
God, was he just some twee version of dudes who wore their wives’ pantyhose and lace panties for a thrill? A shy drag queen who couldn’t dance?
OMG, not even, Rob. You know exactly what you are: you’re an internet pervert. You’re that person after-school specials in the nineties warned people about. The creepy dude who plays a sexy girl to—
What, murder them? Rape them? Get them to send money and gifts?
No way. Rob didn’t want to trick anyone, and he especially didn’t want to hurt anyone.
He just wanted to be a girl sometimes. Because it made him feel good. Not even sexually—okay, not just sexually. It just felt right. Being Bobby—part-time, at least—felt right.
And how could something that felt so right be wrong?
Which was all to say that over the last week, he’d spent more of his class time thinking about the Bobby conundrum than about his actual classwork. Oops.
Outside of class, he continued with his usual lack of a social life: he worked his shifts at Rear Entrance Video (and no, didn’t see Dylan there again, although the jury was out as to whether he was relieved or disappointed about that), avoided Noah and his new girlfriend, refused invitations from his sister, did reams of homework, and lost sleep playing Kingdom of Elves.
In between all that, he worked on cobbling together a suitable girl disguise—no, outfit—to cam in. He didn’t want to overdo it, so he stuck with basics: a pink Gap hoodie (oversized enough to make the question of breasts a moot point), some makeup from Sephora (for his sister, he said, which also gave him the perfect excuse to seek extra guidance from the salesgirl), a pair of cute nerdy-feminine reading glasses, and finally, a headband to try and girly up his shaggy hair.
By the time Friday had rolled around, he was so anxious he thought he was going to die. He also had the workings of what he hoped was a pretty convincing girl in his backpack.
The whole thing had cost him a couple hundred bucks, and for the first time he was pretty glad of the Rear Entrance Video job, because it meant that he was spending his own money and not his parents’. He may have talked himself out of thinking he was doing wrong by playing Bobby, but that didn’t mean he was willing to spend someone else’s hard-earned cash on the whole charade.
Not a charade. Not a charade. He gave himself a recriminating glare in the mi
rror and plucked at the chest of his pink sweatshirt, mimicking breasts a moment before rolling his eyes and letting the fabric fall. The sweatshirt was just the beginning, he reminded himself.
He was wearing his own jeans and boxers, partially because the webcam’s camera was aimed above the waist, but maybe also a little bit because he was so determined to convince himself that this wasn’t for kinks, never mind the fact that buying panties seemed counterproductive for someone determined not to let an innocent webcam chat with Mike turn into sex.
Nodding to himself one last time, Rob double-checked that his bedroom door was locked and got to work on the more intensive parts of his transformation.
The headband had a white satin bow, and he used it to carefully frame his hair around his face. Makeup came next: tinted moisturizer in his shade, a shimmery but very natural—the salesgirl had assured him—eye shadow, then blush.
Okay, too much blush. He scrubbed at his face with a makeup removing wipe, applied another layer of the moisturizer, and tried again. Sucked in his cheeks this time, and limited himself to one swipe of the brush.
The mascara looked a lot more daunting than it actually was, although he had to laugh at himself for gaping into the mirror bug-eyed and with his mouth hanging open in the exact same way he’d made fun of his sister for doing all these years. Once he’d gotten over his own hypocrisy, though, it was just a matter of holding the brush vaguely horizontal and then blinking on it a bunch of times.
It looked just this side of terrible on him, clumpy and spiky and not really enhancing his (admittedly sparse) lashes at all, but his webcam was shitty quality, and anyway, who said “real” girls had to be good at this? Was Bobby the kind of girl to wear false lashes? She was not, Rob decided, and put on her glasses.
The peachy-pink lip gloss was last, and it was a sticky mess . . . that also happened to look cute as hell, so he counted it as a win.
Damn! He looked fucking great, bad mascara and all. He ran his fingers through his hair, fluffing it, then raised his chin, practicing the half-swallow technique he’d read about on an MTF forum which supposedly made your Adam’s apple disappear.
Wallflower (Rear Entrance Video, #2) Page 5