As estrogen softened and sensitized her skin, anything rough or hard was out of the question. She had always preferred women, but as her body feminized, the divide between how she felt and how her female lover felt shrunk and eventually disappeared. She had always preferred women, even when she was living as male, and it was all about the soft: soft skin, soft fabrics, soft smells.
I’d washed “his” hair for years and watched as it got longer and longer. I asked, and she joked that she was trying something new, but over time, she confessed that she was transitioning. She asked us to use her new female name, Sharon, and cease using the old one. It wasn’t hard to do. She was a long-legged brunette, beautiful from the get-go: fashionable, femme and fierce. I’d been confused by my crush on her delicate, androgynous masculinity, but once she started transitioning, it all made sense: I was in lust with the woman she was about to be.
I offered to go shopping with her, even though I hated shopping. I explained her to our nail tech and got my nails done with her. I’d never had a pedicure in my life and she’d had plenty, but still she wanted my “real girl” guidance, and I admit, I didn’t mind because I was also not-so-secretly hoping to guide her into my bed.
I’d asked a few friends—current lovers and past—if she could come to one of our parties. I told her she would be desired. I told her I would not touch her unless she wanted me to. I told her I could wash her in softness.
When the evening came, she dressed in a translucent nightgown with a half-slip underneath. She didn’t want to be seen as a transwoman—just one of many women but new to playing with queer women. She didn’t know what to do, how to flirt so that things happened, so I made a game of it. I stood her in a doorway and tied her wrists gently with velvet to the chin-up bar I’d found there. I blindfolded her with silk and lit the room she was standing in front of brighter than the one she was facing so that the outline of her svelte, curved body was clear. She insisted on thigh-high stockings and pumps, and I’d washed and perfumed her long hair for her—it was just approaching nipple length, blunt cut like a punk rock Bettie Page. The tattooed pinup on her arm just made her queer in a lovely, new way.
She bought me fancy lingerie, the likes of which I’d never worn, and it felt delicious on. Tanga panties rubbed their seam against my own slick parts in exciting ways. I felt like I could lean my chin on the rack her bra had given me. On top of those, I put on my suit, white button-down and cuff links. I opened the collar just enough to see my own cleavage. (She told me later she could see it too: a tall woman in tall heels has too many advantages.) I straddled a straight-backed wooden chair so I could make the most of that lace seam.
As I watched the rooms of the party fill up, and I watched people find others to play with, I looked over to see her leaning on one hip and then the other. As the noises of people kissing hotly nearby got to her, she rubbed one foot up against the other leg; she pulled on her soft restraints; she tried to rub against a door jam and couldn’t quite reach. I reached for the stack of cards I had prepared in advance, which said things like:
Kiss her mouth
Kiss the space behind her knee
Gently scratch her upper arm with your nails
Suck her belly button
Bite her upper thigh gently
Lick her nipple through her nightgown
I had another set, too, but it wasn’t time for those yet.
I watched women watching her. One kinky-haired blonde sat in an armchair across the room and stared for a while, licking her lips. I gave her the belly button card. Another card went to a genderqueer couple whose “to” and “from” genders I couldn’t name; ze cupped her breasts from behind while hir partner bit her thighs. She pulled away from hir hands only to land in the other’s mouth. She gyrated, twisted, pulled her long legs up to try to relieve the tension in those parts she’d hid under that half-slip.
The action around her—and in the room behind her—got hotter and more vocal as the night went on. One woman pushed her lover up against the door jamb behind her and fucked her slowly and passionately; once, the lover reached out for her girlfriend’s arm and got Sharon’s instead; I watched the gooseflesh break on all of her skin. When they were done, I gave them cards to suck her earlobes and to pull off her half-slip. She’d actually worn panties, so I scribbled up a few new cards, and eventually we got those off her too. She’d had the testosterone-producing bits removed long before but still had her ladystick—it was the term she used—but there was nothing phallic about it anymore.
By then her skin was hot to the touch and so was everyone else’s; there were no toys left on the table. Some people, exhausted from multiple partners and multiple orgasms, were napping in the back rooms reserved just for that purpose. But she was still on those heels in that doorway, her wrists still sliding against velvet. She had one person’s lubed finger in her, followed by someone else’s baby dildo. At one point she had three different trans guys rubbing their chin stubble on her legs.
She was having a very good time when I pulled my chair in front of her and took her into my mouth and licked her. I found her own natural seam and sucked it, fucked her with patient fingers and held her thighs in my hands until I felt them twitch and gestured to someone else to free her—except of course she was perfectly able to get out of the restraints herself and did. Pulling off the blindfold, smiling, she straddled me on the chair, hung her head over my shoulder so her long hair tickled my back, and sighed a thank-you softly in my ear.
THE THERAPIST AND THE WHORE
Giselle Renarde
Last week we left off talking about gender identity,” Liesl said, scanning the scribbled sheets of lined paper in her tattered manila folder. “Has that been preying on your mind at all?”
Manny took her usual seat. She preferred the ratty leather armchair to the pristine sofa. It was her chair now, a signifier of their relationship prior to Liesl’s move to the big office at the fancy address. Manny had been seeing her since Liesl was a wannabe-therapist heading up the LGBT support group in the basement of the University Health Center.
“On and off, I guess,” Manny replied. “But ultimately I have to ask myself, Would I rather have a cock than a pussy? No. Would I ever give up my big tits? No. But do I want my share of the power men hold in this world? Yes.”
Nodding, Liesl said, “Sounds like your masculine style of dress and appearance is derived more from a desire for social standing than an attempt to align gender identity with presentation.”
“Gawsh you talk awful purdy, Doctor Liesl,” Manny replied, slapping her knee in her best Aunt Jemima impression. “How long have you and I known each other? I’m not one of your snooty Yorkville clients. You don’t have to impress me.”
“Sorry,” Liesl chuckled, closing her manila envelope and setting it on her lap. “It’s like Tourette’s with me—sometimes big words just slip out at inappropriate moments.”
“But, you know, the way I walk and talk and dress and act isn’t only about achieving the social status a man is born into. No black girl’s ever going to have that; it’s useless trying. I think it’s who I am now.”
“Yup, you’ve mentioned that before,” Liesl replied with a nod.
“And I really don’t attach gender to it. I’m female—this I know—but I’m no girly girl. I’m butch and that’s just…me. I think there are different ways to live your gender, and this is how I live the experience of being a woman. I don’t see myself as any less of a woman just because I don’t wear dresses and perfume.”
“That’s a good point,” Liesl said, still nodding. “There are as many genders as there are individuals.”
“Exactly!” Manny smacked the armrest with her palm. “Exactly! See? You’re the only person in the world who can read my mind.”
“I don’t know about that,” Liesl demurred. “I think sometimes I’m just able to clarify your thoughts.”
“You must be so bored with me, talking about the same dumb issues since university.”
Sliding from her chair, Manny walked over to the window overlooking the greenery of Hazelton Lane.
“Not boring at all,” Liesl said encouragingly. “It’s obviously a matter you still think about from time to time.”
“Are you ready for something new?” Manny interrupted. She’d been trying to get this out for months, and she hated being messy about it.
“I’m ready for anything you’ve got on your mind.”
Was she ashamed of herself? Is that why she couldn’t look Liesl in the face to tell her? Christ, it would almost be easier to tell Danica first, except that Danica tended to throw things. “I’m seeing someone on the sly.”
“Another psychologist?” Liesl mocked. “I’m hurt.”
“Oh, so now you’re the joker?” Manny said with a smile, turning around to gauge Liesl’s reaction. But Liesl never reacted to anything. “Her name is Star. Well, I’m sure that’s not her name, but that’s what people call her.”
“And when you say you’re seeing Star…”
“Yeah,” Manny replied, leaning against the windowsill. “I mean, not seeing like we’re in a relationship or anything. Christ, I can’t believe how hard it is to say this word.”
“What word?”
“Whore,” Manny blurted. The hand of death took her throat in its skeletal grip, but Liesl’s expression remained unchanged. “Star’s a hooker…a prostitute. I don’t know what to call her. I mean, I guess that’s what she is. I pay her for what she does, but I don’t see her that way. Not anymore.”
Nodding her head slowly, Liesl opened the manila envelope and clicked her pen into gear. “How long have you been seeing Star?”
Manny wasn’t sure if she was in the doctor’s office or the principal’s office. She didn’t want to answer, and that made her feel like a sulky teenager. “I don’t know. Awhile.”
When Liesl looked up from her scribblings, she only nodded. She said nothing.
“Danica can’t stand to see me naked anymore,” Manny went on, partly in justification and partly to change the subject. “She darts from the bedroom the second I start taking my clothes off.” It occurred to her she sounded like she was blaming her girlfriend for her own indiscretions, and she didn’t want to leave Liesl with the impression she thought that way. “I know it’s not her fault. Shit, you must think I’m a total asshole.”
“Do you think you’re an asshole?” Classic therapist move.
“Kind of,” Manny said with a shrug. “I’m cheating on Danica. She wants to look at buying a house, and here I’m spending our hard-earned cash on sex with another…woman.”
Nodding, always nodding, Liesl asked, “If you don’t like what you’re doing, why are you doing it?”
“That’s what you’re supposed to tell me. I don’t know!” Manny cried, for the first time this session feeling exasperated. “Why am I paying a hooker to do everything Danica won’t? To kiss me and fuck me…you know, with a strap-on…and just fucking look at my naked body.”
“I think you just answered your own question,” Liesl replied with a nod.
All lies. Maybe next session she’d admit the truths.
Everybody recognized the Beach as the prettiest, most family-oriented area of the city. Who would ever have guessed the woman in the upstairs apartment of the mint-green semi was what they would term a lady of the evening? With flowerboxes along the balcony, it looked like a little old grandmother’s home.
“There’s my lover!” Star cried in a cheery lilt when Manny arrived at her door. “Amanda, honey, you look like you could use some love. Come in and tell me all about it.” Pulling Manny inside by the shirtsleeves, she drew her into the kitchen’s sunny breakfast nook. “I’ll put on the tea. Would you like some tea? I would. But we can get right down to business, if that’s what you want. It’s whatever you want, sugar.” Pressing the switch on the electric kettle, she turned to Manny and the feathers at the base of her pink vintage peignoir swished against her legs. “Do you want some sugar, sugar?”
Manny smiled. “You mean in my tea, or…?”
“Or…” Star repeated, shuffling her low bedroom heels across the kitchen tile. Setting her fingertips against Manny’s shoulders, she planted a luscious kiss on her lips. When Star tore herself away to gaze adoringly into Manny’s eyes, she tasted berries. Star’s shimmering, waxy lipstick always tasted sweet.
“Gosh, you’re handsome,” Star gushed. “Did you know that? You are very good-looking.”
“You’re the only one who’s ever thought so,” Manny replied, trying not to laugh. She recognized Star’s sincerity. “Even when I was a kid, it was my brother who was the handsome one. I was the dark one. Can’t be both.”
“Well, you’re both,” Star replied, kissing her nose.
Her gaze was so giving, Manny searched for something to give back. “Did I ever tell you you’re the only person in my life who’s allowed to call me Amanda?”
“Yup!” Star replied, hopping away to pull teacups from the cupboard. “You tell me that all the time.”
“Well, it makes you special.”
“You’re the special one, lover.” Star poured boiling water into the teapot. “We’ll just let that steep while you tell me about your week.”
As Star sank into her lap, Manny paid close attention to the sensation of Star’s ass on her thigh. She hated that she did it, but she was just so astounded never to feel anything. She wasn’t perfectly clear on how it all got packed away down there. “I had an appointment with Liesl,” Manny said. “I told her about you.”
“Aww,” Star cooed, kissing her cheek. “That’s sweet. What did she say?”
“Nothing. She just listens. She never makes judgments.”
Setting her head on Manny’s shoulder, Star went uncharacteristically quiet. Times like these, Manny tried to assure herself this was just a job for Star, but she knew that wasn’t the highest truth. In the silences, Manny worried. She was always afraid Star would make some comment about dumping Danica and moving in together. One day, Star would slip. Manny was sure of it.
“Tea should be ready,” Star said in her most shimmering tone of voice. When the tea ran clear, she grimaced and lifted the lid on the pot. Star laughed hysterically, slapping her thigh like a country music singer. “Would you look at that? I didn’t put any teabags in it! Boy, I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached.” Leaning against the counter’s edge, she asked, “Should I try again, or should we head to the next room?”
Rising from her chair, Manny placed her arm around Star’s waist. “I love your use of euphemism. The next room. Is that sequential? The kitchen is the first room, the bedroom is the next room…”
“And the bathroom is the last,” Star giggled, trotting across the kitchen floor in her heels. She slipped into the bedroom before Manny and hid behind her closet door to take off her panties. After all this time, Manny’d stopped wondering why Star was so mysterious about it. Manny used the opportunity to take off her trousers. She left on her buttoned-up shirt despite the heat.
Star emerged in her peignoir and lace bra, absently stroking her cock as she looked Manny up and down. “You’re binding every time I see you now,” she reflected.
Shrugging like it was just a big coincidence, Manny said, “I guess so.” She tried to sound casual about it. “Why, does it bother you?”
Strange question.
“Of course not,” Star chuckled, approaching at snail’s pace, and all the while encouraging her erection with her fingertips. “Does it bother Danica?”
Manny breathed in sharply. It just seemed wrong when Star said her girlfriend’s name. She had to be honest. “Yeah, I think it bothers her a lot. It really bugs her when we’re out at a restaurant and the server calls me sir and I don’t argue. She pouts through the whole meal.”
“Does that happen often?”
“When I’m binding especially, yeah,” Manny replied, pulling her shirttails between her legs to cover over her wide-open snatch. “It’s an easy mistake.”<
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Star gave her a generous smile. “Mistake?”
Manny couldn’t keep herself from staring at the cock surging from behind Star’s robe. She watched its shimmering head pop out from between Star’s fingers as she pumped it with her fist. She’d always thought its flesh looked much pinker than the rest of Star’s bronze body, especially when all the surrounding flesh was so neatly shaved. Star had the gentlest-looking penis she’d ever seen. Not that Manny had a lot of experience with penises.
“What do you feel like today?” Star asked. “Anal or…”
“I don’t know yet,” Manny interrupted. She didn’t want to hear the word that would come next. “Can I just suck it?” She slid to her knees at the foot of Star’s bed and waited for feeding time. “Let me suck it. Please.”
With a chuckle, Star said, “Of course.” She drew near, smelling of flowers and soaps. Taking the back of Manny’s head in her hand, she held her cock by the base and ran its drooling tip side to side across Manny’s lips. Manny opened her mouth to suck it in, and salty precum fell like white clouds against her taste buds. She couldn’t explain to herself why she loved the sensation of cock firming up between her lips. Would Liesl ask about the sex, if she made a full confession? No, she never dug that deep. But she might. The chance was there.
As Manny plowed her head back and forth, Star guided her motion with both hands. She sucked the shaft. She released, leaning back, back, back until just the tip of Star’s cock remained between her lips. As Star looked on like a fairy godmother from above, Manny held her cock steady with the tips of her teeth and tickled the slit with her tongue. Star giggled and ran her pink fingernails down Manny’s neck. “Ooh, that feels nice.”
For a butch dyke, she was pretty damn good at sucking cock. Star didn’t have to say it for Manny to know what she was thinking. She swallowed the shaft, right down to the base. Her throat wanted to gag, but she wouldn’t let it. She sucked and it settled. Cooing words of love, Star wrapped her peignoir around Manny’s head until the light of day was gauzy and pink. She grabbed Star’s ass and squeezed her firm cheeks. Manny let her thrust her hips a bit, even though she preferred being in control of the motion.
Take Me There Page 4