Transition to Murder

by Renee James

I breathe deeply in the elevator, trying to get control of myself. I’m disgusted that I’m so sexually unfulfilled I can be turned on by a monster. I want to be livid that he would take such liberties with me. I clearly remember how girls responded to my groping passes as a teenage boy. Real anger. Real indignation. But my overwhelming feeling is arousal. Can a man that sexy be the monster Cecelia says he is? My middle-aged mind says yes, but my adolescent body says, who cares?

  By the time I reach the lobby I have recovered partial control of my senses. Still, images flash through my mind—his gray eyes, chillingly cold yet hotly seductive. His warm, wet tongue in my ear. I know he is trifling with me, so I am leery. But I cannot deny that my whole body is aroused. Nor can I ignore my fear.

  Do genetic women go through this?

  ***

  He opens the bathroom door and she’s standing there, like a wet dream. The hairdresser tranny. Tall, powerful looking but with big soft boobs and a girly-boy face with that chiseled bone structure and the soft mouth that swallowed him in his fantasies. He uses his mental will power to suppress his arousal.

  As he stands in the bathroom doorway, he looks her up and down. The combination of male and female features is tantalizing. Her short dress reveals shapely legs and her nice boy ass, curvy but tight. This one likes to show herself off. She wants it.

  He tries to start a conversation with her, but she needs to use the bathroom. He steps aside, catches her glancing at him as she enters the facility. He can feel the heat as she passes him. She wants him.

  “Need some help?” he asks. He’s teasing to see how she’ll react. One of his great courtroom talents is the ability to read people, to tell what they’re thinking, and to instantly respond. It’s like extra sensory perception, but better. The ESP fruitcakes bend forks, he bends wills. He’s hung dozens of juries by finding the fractured souls on the panel and connecting with them. The same thing works on winning clients, where the real money is, and he’s used it to build one of the city’s greatest law firms. The entire world is populated by weak-willed fools. The rich and powerful have no more resistance to him than drug-addicted hookers and transsexual girly boys.

  The tall tranny brushes aside his juvenile suggestion, but she glances at him when she does it and her face tells him everything. She is wary, aloof, but smitten. She is also big and strong. She is as tall as him. Dangerous. In a fight she would be a handful. He visualizes mounting her and humping, her squealing. Would she cry if he slapped her? He starts to get erect and stops the thought again.

  He rejoins the party, conversing lightly with other guests while unobtrusively tracking the tall tranny’s movements. The sight of her keeps him stimulated, makes a dull party fun.

  His former client laces her arm through his and says she wants to introduce him to some people. His public self smiles, his inner self shudders with disgust. She was an ugly man and now she’s an ugly woman. Disgusting. Who would ever have thought that such a big, overbearing, unpleasant man wanted to wear dresses and have his cock whacked off?

  He calls her Cecelia repeatedly so he can get adjusted to her gender. He is about to ask her why she invited him to this soiree when she introduces him to Phil someone. As they chat, it turns out Phil-someone is a cop and his beat is Boystown.

  He goes into litigator mode, like he’s just gotten an unexpected answer from a witness. His public face, the part of him people see, doesn’t change at all, but inside, a faint alarm bell starts ringing. Did this hulking fool know about him and that stupid bitch? Could they have run into Cecelia at a club and he didn’t recognize her? You’d never miss her as a tranny, giant that she is, but she doesn’t look like Robert Swenson, either. He didn’t recognize her as Swenson’s alter ego until she introduced herself.

  He controls his anxiety. If she could place him with the cow he would have been questioned by now. But even if she could link him to the dead tranny, there’s no evidence they’ve been together for months, no physical evidence he was at the crime scene. Years of litigation experience tell him to relax. If you don’t help the prosecution make a case, most of the time they won’t.

  The moment fades. He moves on to other clusters of people. He sees the tall tranny getting ready to leave and rushes to meet her. He escorts her to the elevators, out of sight of the partygoers. She has trouble looking at him. She feels unworthy. He knows it as surely as he knows how that turns him on. She will do anything when the time comes, anything to please him. He teases them both by speaking softly to her with his lips almost touching her face. When she finally looks him in the eye she can’t stop. Her eyes are round and blue and they plead for understanding and love. Oh yes, bitch, he thinks, you will get everything you want and more. Her strength seems massive standing so close, her worried, pouty face so helpless. His senses spark and flare.

  When the elevator door opens, he makes one last advance. Not enough to scare her, just enough to leave her hot and bothered. He walks away from her before she can object. When he hears the elevator doors close, he leans against the wall and takes a moment—just a moment—to collect himself, get his pulse and his penis under control. Yes, this bitch is food for the beast. Maybe super-bitch, the best ever.

  ***

  “BE CAREFUL, HONEY,” Cecelia warns me. It is the morning after, and I have the morning off. She calls as my coffee finishes dripping into the pot, dark and bitter.

  “When John Strand sets his sights on someone, he is relentless.”

  “Why on earth would he be interested in me?” I ask. “He can have his choice of beautiful women, trans or otherwise. Why me? I don’t even look like a woman.”

  “Bobbi!” Cecelia says my name like an exasperated teacher talking to a pupil. “You are so self-conscious you are blind. No, you don’t look like a genetic woman. But you are feminine and you have an exotic aura. . But understand something else with John Strand. He doesn’t want to love anyone. It’s dominance with him. And it gets mean. You be careful!”

  We talk awhile longer and make a date to go shopping together. As I dress I contemplate again why I find myself turned on by this man Cecelia fears so much. It's physical. I don't know if he's all the things Cecelia says he is, but I know he's not sincere. But when I see him up close, and god help me, when he touches me, my body is ready for sex. I should probably just go get myself a one-night-stand and get this out of my system. On the other hand, being turned on is exhilarating. It has been a long, long time.

  ***

  “SO, BOBBI, HOW’S YOUR LOVE LIFE?”

  John Strand is in my chair for a lunch hour haircut.

  “John, I never discuss sex, politics, or my love life with customers,” I answer.

  He smiles his good-natured smile. “Of course. Bad for business, right?”

  I conduct a brief consultation with him. He just wants a trim. His hair is freshly cut, not more than three weeks. It’s excellent work. There is no reason for him to be here.

  Naturally, the assistant is on break so I have to shampoo him myself. It is strangely quiet in the shampoo room as I seat him and warm the water. As I move to one side to rinse him, he runs one of his hands up my thigh to my crotch. I’m sure he thinks I'll flinch and draw back. I don’t. In my years as a gay man, I fielded overtures likes this many times.

  “Get your hand off me right now or I will shove this hose down your throat.” I keep my volume at a conversational level, but I say it through clenched teeth and thin lips. I feel his hand slide away.

  He smiles.

  I sit him up and towel his hair. “John, this isn’t going to work. I’m a hairdresser, not a hooker.”

  “I'm sorry,” he says. “I meant it as a compliment. Please, cut my hair.”

  He’s back to being a smooth, big-time lawyer. He’s a very good-looking man and he is elegantly dressed. He came in wearing what looks like an $800 suit, perfectly fit to show off his narrow waist and wide shoulders. Beneath the coat is a perfectly tapered cotton shirt with precise blue stripes, and a tie so colorfu
l and crisp it looks like it’s being worn for the first time, a swarm of blues, golds and reds.

  Having a man this hot saying you’re sexy is heady stuff for anyone and it’s off the charts for a masculine-looking T-girl like me. Even knowing he’s just toying with me, I feel my face glow.

  He is good to his word for the rest of the service. I concentrate on my work and don’t talk much. He’s glad to fill the dead air space with rambling narratives, maybe to impress me with how entertaining he is. He talks about a divorce case a friend of his is handling in which both marital partners have turned out to be gay and they’re fighting over whether a gay male couple or a gay female couple would be the better parents for the children. He talks about sports. He talks about his favorite bars and clubs. He talks about a charity he’s involved in, and the work he’s doing on their upcoming dinner-dance.

  I glance at him as little as possible during the cut, not wanting to encourage any more passes. I finally realize this is silly—he is not influenced one way or another by what I do. He does whatever he feels like doing, whenever he feels like doing it.

  What I see in my glances is confirmation of my first up-close impression of him. There is a coldness about him that’s hard to define. There is no empathy in him. He tries to fake it, but he can’t. Even his sense of humor has a meanness to it. He laughs at the frailties and shortcomings of others and not at anything else, at least, not in my brief time with him. It shows in his eyes. Even when he smiles, even looking at him through the filter of a mirror, his eyes lack humanity. They are reptile eyes.

  Before he leaves he asks me if I’ll go clubbing with him on Saturday night. He says it like he knows I will decline. I do. Even though I lose control when he gets close to me, I know he’s a creepy, nasty man and he may very well be a psychopathic killer.

  ***

  CAMILLE IS SIPPING TEA and glancing at me contemplatively. We're in her office. Against my better judgment, I have been unloading about my transition tensions. The stares. The fears. The doubts. I don't like being this open with her. I keep thinking she'll use this crap to postpone my gender reassignment surgery someday.

  “Are you seeing anyone? Romantically?” The question comes out of nowhere. I want to dodge it but can't think of a way.

  “No,” I answer. She waits, wanting me to fill the silent space. I know better, but I do. “But I’m getting very turned on by some of the men I meet. Straight men.” I fidget as I say the words.

  “That seems to bother you, but why?”

  “Because I don’t think wanting to make love with men is a good reason to transition.” The words pour out even though I don't want to say them, don't want to get into this with her.

  Camille looks at me with real surprise. This is new ground for us, even though I've talked about it with Marilee in our girl chats. She waits for me to continue. Despite myself, I do.

  “I’m just afraid I’m going to get involved with some straight man and fall in love with him and transition just so he won’t throw me out. Then of course, he’ll throw me out anyway and then I’ll suddenly realize I'm not a woman, I'm just a miserable gay boy who got himself castrated.”

  Camille leans forward. “Do you think of yourself as a gay man? Do you miss it?”

  I shake my head in the negative. My throat is constricted, tears are forming. There is nothing about being male I miss. “But what if I'm living a lie?”

  She smiles. More like a big sister than a shrink.

  “It happens, Camille. You know it happens!”

  “Yes. It can,” she concedes. “But somehow, I just don’t see you as the type to lie to yourself or anyone else.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Well, let’s see. You told your wife when you thought you were gay. You told your friends when you thought you were trans. You told your co-workers, even though you risked rejection from people who accepted you. All in all, Bobbi, I can’t see you pretending to be someone you aren’t, not for anyone.”

  I consider this for a while and Camille lets the silence lay there.

  “It’s just that I’m obsessed with sex all of a sudden. I’m constantly looking at my breasts and feeling myself up. I put my hand on my crotch and pretend like I have a vagina. I fantasize about men mounting me…”

  “Men?” says Camille. “Many men or just one?”

  “Both,” I answer, blushing.

  “Well good!” she says. “Why wouldn't you? Did you think teenage girls don't explore their bodies as they change? Tell me about the men. We're getting to the good part.”

  “When it’s just one, it’s a man I met a few weeks ago. When it’s a group, there’s one man I know and the rest are just faceless forms.” Without saying it outright I've just told my transition shrink I have gang-bang fantasies. I don't think that's a normal girl thing.

  She asks me more questions about what the men are like and what we do.

  “The other thing that bothers me is the man in the gang bang dream . . . he’s not a nice man.”

  “In your dreams he’s not nice?” she asks.

  “No, in real life.” I squirm. “People say he treats his girlfriends badly. He hits them sometimes, and I guess there are other things, too.”

  “Like what, for example?”

  “S/M, group sex, porno movies.” I don’t want Camille to know who I’m talking about. It’s enough she knows I’m fantasizing about someone who treats women badly.

  “Okay, he's not a nice man, but why is this so troubling, Bobbi?”

  “It’s that he turns me on. It’s like a vampire movie. I know he’s bad. More than bad. Evil. But when he touches me I want to…to…” My voice trails off. I don’t want her to know the wild fantasies I’ve had about this man. It’s too embarrassing.

  “And why does this worry you?” she asks.

  “Well, it just seems like I’m so over-sexed I can’t think straight. And that makes me wonder if I’m really a woman or just a very neurotic man.”

  Camille allows another long silence. “Honey,” she says finally, “women have been attracted to dangerous men since the dawn of time. Especially adolescent girls. And on the female evolutionary scale, you are very much in your adolescence.”

  I spontaneously begin crying. I’m overwhelmed with emotions, so many I can’t sort them out. I feel like a whore and a baby girl and a simpering, hulking gay man all rolled into one.

  Camille moves to my side on the couch and puts her arms around me. I bury my face on her shoulder. My body is racked by sobs.

  After a while, I stop crying and sit up. She looks at me, a small smile on her face, warmth in her eyes.

  “It’s going to be fine,” she says. “You’re doing fine. These are things you go through. You’re facing them the way I wish everyone did. You’re a sweet, sensitive woman and you question everything. Good! You’re a stronger person for it.”

  Her voice trails off.

  “You could go a little easier on yourself on the fantasies, though. Everyone has fantasies and some of them are weird.”

  “What kind of fantasies do you have?” I ask, trying to make my voice work.

  “Well, that’s a topic for another time,” she says.

  ***

  WHAT I DIDN’T SHARE with Camille—and can’t share with her, or Marilee or anyone, for that matter—is that my dreams are also plagued with nightmares about John Strand.

  It seems when I’m not servicing lovers in my dreams, I am watching Strand beat Mandy to death, or rough up a T-girl, or rape a hooker. These are horrifying visions. Violent. Bloody. Strand is coldly unaffected by the carnage, while I scream, then cry, then feel my horror turn to anger. Cold-blooded anger. Lately, as I watch, my own misshapen female persona invades the scene. At first, I just ripped Strand away from his victim and the dream ended. Then one night after I ripped him off the girl and he sprawled on the ground, I heel-stomped his face. I was wearing spiked heels and I could feel the spike crunch through his eye socket, see the blood spurt, hear his othe
rworldly screams.

  I awoke at that point, shaking. I felt fear, horror, disgust.

  I’ve had that dream several times since, and others like it. I still feel the horror, fear, and disgust, but I feel something else, too. As I hold my heel solidly on his face and the life drains gradually out of his body, I feel a sort of relief. Like the world is a better place for what I’ve done. Like, lives that would otherwise be lost to the predator or shattered by him will now have a chance to be lived and enjoyed. A rational person would be overwhelmed by horror at what they had done, even in a dream, but I am not. Am I a psychopath?

  Good lord, how I wish I could talk about this with someone.

  August

  IT HAS BEEN STEAMING hot for several weeks and that has created a general lethargy in the city and certainly in my life. Work is slow. This month’s TransGender Alliance meeting was poorly attended because lots of girls just stayed home, out of the heat. And nothing seems to be happening in the investigation of Mandy Marvin’s murder, even though people from the community keep pressuring Officer Phil about it, especially Cecelia who latches on to him like a pit bull whenever she sees him.

  We’ve had lots of daytime highs in the mid-nineties, and several days hit a scorching hundred degrees. When I walk to work, I go early and don’t put on makeup until I get there. When I walk home, it’s later, after six or seven when the sun is lower on the horizon and cooling breezes start rolling in from Lake Michigan. Otherwise, I take the El and try to ignore the stares from other passengers and the sticky heat from too many bodies and a boiling sun overwhelming the air conditioning.

  My little apartment is barely habitable. I have one window air conditioning unit, a working antique that's just one step up from a window fan. It’s in the living room/kitchen area and I’ve slept out there several nights.

  My days off have been the hardest. I don’t know how to explain it, but I am morbidly self-conscious about going out in the skimpy girl clothes that are comfortable in this heat. I have halter tops and short shorts and tennis skirts. I love how they feel and I even think they look cute on me. But I also feel like people passing me on the street would think I look ridiculous. So I huddle in my hot-house apartment or go out in jeans and long sleeve tees or throw a button-front blouse over a tank top. And boil.