First Time Femme

by D. L. Savage

  I watched as he dabbed his fat stubby finger into the last crumbs on his plate then lifted it to his mouth to suck it, before getting to his feet and pulling his jacket off the back of his chair, casting his cold grey eyes around the half-deserted coffee shop for a moment as if he was thinking about something.

  “I like you, kid,” he said eventually, “so I’m gonna give you a little heads up on something, alright? You wanna make some real money?”

  “Sure, Gerry,” I replied, part of me suspecting he was going to make one of his usual glib comments — suggesting that I retrain as a dentist or some shit. But to my surprise, he leant in and murmured, “Two words: Pete Anderson.”

  I’d heard the name before; Pete Anderson was the model-cum-backing dancer who’d briefly made all the gossip columns after his short lived but high profile relationship with Ari Latte, the current queen of pop. Even so, that was in the past and Anderson was C-list at best. So why the hell would anyone want paparazzi photos of him?

  “I don’t follow,” I said with a shrug. “What makes him so special?”

  “Word on the street is,” Gerry replied, leaning in close, his voice dropping to a gruff whisper, “that dude’s packing a monster …” As he spoke, just in case it wasn’t clear enough already, he gestured down to his crotch. “I’ll pay ten grand to the first pap to get a clear shot of it and cuz I like you, kid, I thought I’d give you a few days head start before I put the word out elsewhere ...”

  I stared back at him, open-mouthed, unable to tell if he was fucking with me or not. “Are you serious?” I asked eventually.

  “As a heart attack,” Gerry replied with a grave expression, before turning and strolling out of the coffee shop.

  I reached out and took a sip of my coffee, which by now was stone cold. Then I snatched up the iPad from the table and opened Google, letting out a deep sigh of frustration as I type in something I never thought I’d search for: Pete Anderson penis size.

  A half-second later, the screen flooded with celebrity gossip sites and articles, and I clicked the first one, which was titled Mr Big:

  Well girls, it’s official! In her latest interview for Sugar Magazine, pop princess Ari Latte confessed all about her ex- Pete Anderson, in particular an eye-watering detail about his physical endowments. “Oh my god, it’s HUGE,” the pint-sized starlet giggled when quizzed on the size of a certain part of Anderson’s anatomy, “maybe ten or eleven inches?”

  So for all you SIZE QUEENS out there, word on the street is that Pete’s single and back on the market. He was photographed just last week propping up the bar in his regular LA haunt, the hipster-riddled Carmel - so if you want to find out for yourself just how BIG Mr Big is, we suggest racing down there pronto, before some lucky girl beats you to it and takes him off the market!!!

  I closed the browser, shaking my head at the fucked up situation I found myself in.

  When I’d first trained to be a photographer, I’d pictured myself doing something serious like photojournalism or high-end fashion shoots; something that involved skill and artistic flair. But in my quest to make a quick buck I’d found myself in the murky world of the paparazzi — a world that I repeatedly swore to myself I needed to escape from, pronto.

  And strange as it sounds, I realized that in Pete Anderson I had my escape rout.

  Because if I really could get a candid shot of Mr Big’s monster, and Gerry was true to his word, then I’d finally have enough cash to escape this sleazy world once and for all …

  * * *

  On my way home that afternoon, I decided to swing by the hipster bar mentioned in the gossip column: Carmel. After all, it wasn’t actually situated too far from my apartment, and while I knew the likelihood that Pete Anderson was actually there right now was pretty slim, I still figured it might be worth scoping the place out, maybe checking in with the door staff too.

  Normally with paparazzi jobs, word spread pretty quick and you’d always see the same photographers everywhere you went, all of us hungry to catch a scoop. We’d even share info amongst ourselves, tipping each other off as to where the latest celeb sightings were taking place. But with this I really got the feeling that Gerry was giving me a head start, and I knew that if I was gonna be in with a chance of getting the exclusive I couldn’t get in touch with any of my usual contacts just yet – instead having to approach this old school.

  So I parked my car across the street from the bar, then headed inside, leaving my camera and telephoto lens back in the trunk of my car, planning to case the joint — and even if Pete Anderson was here, it wasn’t exactly like I could just whip out my huge camera and expect to take a pic of his junk or anything anyway.

  No, this called for much more stealthy measures and as I stepped inside the bar, I felt more like a private dick than a paparazzi.

  “Welcome to Carmel, sir,” a smartly dressed dude at the coat check desk said, his tone reminding me that this was a pretty swanky joint, despite its bare-brick-and-copper style furnishings and hipster pretentions.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” I replied, striding up and resting my arm on the polished mahogany of the desk as I leant in close and lowered my voice to a whisper before adding, “I’m just trying to find out if a friend of mine has been in lately?”

  “And who might that be, sir?” the coat check dude enquired with the raise of an eyebrow, obviously trying to suss out my intentions.

  Fuck it, I thought, deciding to go full PI on him as I reached into my jeans and pulled out the crumpled hundred dollar bill I’d brought along for that exact purpose, placing it on the desk in front of him. To my relief he seemed willing to play the game, his eyes lighting up when he saw it.

  “Pete Anderson,” I said.

  “I’m afraid he’s not been in for a few days,” the dude replied, eyeing the note hungrily now.

  “Think if I gave you my number, you might be able to let me know the next time he came in?” I murmured, sliding the bill a little closer across the desk towards him.

  “I’m sure that could be arranged,” he grinned back hopefully.

  “Good,” I said, finally letting go of the crumpled note, watching as he snatched it up in a split second, shoving it into his pant pocket – obviously as badly paid in his shitty job as I was in mine …

  2

  “Hey buddy,” I said as my cat Rosco scooted up to greet me at the door to my apartment. “Did ya miss me?” I asked, reaching down to pet him, trying my hardest to ignore the huge stack of unopened mail that was collecting by the front door in the process.

  Apart from the occasional visits from my older sister Sophia, my cat was pretty much my only friend in this whole goddamn city, which I knew wasn’t exactly great for my mental health.

  I’d sworn to myself so many times that I needed to take more time out for myself, to try and keep to a regular schedule and build up some kind of a social life (with actual humans no less), but in reality I’d done the exact opposite, always telling myself that soon I’d quit this paparazzi lifestyle and find a job with regular hours.

  But just as I was walking through to the kitchen, wincing at the smell from Rosco’s litter tray in the process, I felt my iPhone start buzzing in my pocket.

  Your friend has just checked in, the message read on the screen.

  Holy shit, I thought. That must mean that Pete Anderson was back at Carmel.

  “Sorry dude, gotta run,” I said, grabbing Rosco’s box of kibble and quickly pouring some out into his empty bowl. “But I’ll catch you later okay?”

  With that, I raced back out of the apartment again, slamming the door behind me and dashing down the staircase and out across the path to my car, leaping inside and starting the engine as quickly as I could, tires screeching as I pulled away from the curb. And as I drove back over to the bar again, I began to concoct a plan …

  * * *

  Once again I headed into the cool darkness of the bar, this time catching a knowing nod from the desk clerk, suggesting that my ‘friend�
�� was somewhere inside. I felt a flash of apprehension as made my way into the main room, hoping I didn’t look too out of place and underdressed in such a swanky establishment.

  But luckily the whole ‘hipster chic’ thing seemed to be working to my advantage; I caught sight of Pete Anderson over by the far end of the long bar, dressed in artfully distressed torn jeans and a grungy vest that showed off his many tattoos, flanked on either side by slim brown haired chicks in skimpy black party dresses.

  I felt a subtle stab of jealously as I caught sight of him. After all, this was the man who’d actually banged Ari Latte, one of the most smoking hot women on the planet. Meanwhile I could count the amount of girls I’d slept with on one finger. On top of that, he was supposedly packing a monster in his pants, too, whereas my pathetic dick was definitely on the small side.

  God damn it, I thought. Why did some guys get all the luck?

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  The voice of the bartender broke me out of my gloomy thoughts, in the process making me realize that I’d just been flat out staring at Pete Anderson for the last thirty seconds or so, which wasn’t exactly the most subtle move considering the reason I was here.

  “Uh, yeah, sorry - just a glass of the IPA,” I replied, hopping onto a stool and resting my elbows on the bar, all the while monitoring Anderson from the corner of my eye, who was still chatting and laughing with those two pretty brunettes.

  It seemed, at least from where I was sitting, that he definitely had a ‘type’ - because both these girls, with their honey-colored skin and long, lustrous blonde hair, their big eyes and huge fake lashes, looked eerily like sisters and also both reminded me of Anderson’s famous ex- Ari, too.

  “Here you go, buddy,” the bartender said, placing the glass of beer down in front of me.

  “Thanks,” I said, slapping a twenty on the bar.

  But before he could even fetch me my change, I felt the blood charge in my veins as I realized that it was time to make my move. Because Pete Anderson had just strode off across the room towards the door to the washrooms.

  Casual as I could, I slipped back off my stool and made to follow, my heart starting to hammer in my chest as I slipped my hand into my pocket to take hold of my cellphone.

  Because that was my big plan.

  After all my years of training, after all my dreams about being taken seriously as a real photographer, I was about to attempt a life-changing photograph with my goddamn iPhone.

  I quickly made sure it was set to camera, then placed it gingerly against my ear, pretending to take a call as I strolled into the washrooms, where I caught sight of Anderson standing over at the urinals with his back to me.

  “Uh huh,” I murmured into the silent cellphone, cradling it between my ear and my shoulder as I took my place at the next urinal to Anderson, reaching down to unbuckle my belt and ease down my zipper. “Hey listen, Soph,” I continued, my fucked-up brain some reason deciding to pretend that I was on a call to my sister, “I’m gonna have to call you back in a moment, the reception isn’t great and you’re cutting out …”

  From a few feet to the right of me, I could hear the almighty rumble of Anderson’s piss hitting the porcelain - so much more powerful sounding than my own pathetic trickle.

  I felt my heart begin to thud even harder, knowing it was time to put my crazy plan into action. As I brought my phone away from my ear, I tried to angle the lens so that it was pointing in what I hoped was the direction of Anderson’s crotch, then quickly tapped my thumb against the screen, before fumbling, my cell back into my pocket, hoping I’d managed to get a good shot.

  Then for some fucked up reason, my curiosity got the better of me and I turned my head a fraction and snuck a quick glance too …

  Holy shit, I thought as I set eyes on his cock.

  Ari wasn’t lying — thing was really was huge; way longer and thicker flaccid than my own dick was at full hardness. And even though I wasn’t even slightly bisexual, I had to admit, there was something pretty damn impressive about seeing such a perfect specimen, that I found myself gazing at it in pure admiration, the way you might if you saw some totally ripped dude on the beach come strolling past ...

  But a low angry voice broke me out of my trance. “You quite finished staring at my dick?”

  I felt my stomach lurch in pure horror as I pulled my gaze away from Anderson’s junk and up into his angry face before I quickly span back back to face the tiled wall in front of me, muttering, “sorry,” beneath my breath.

  “You will be,” he growled back, zipping up his jeans then taking a couple steps towards me, close enough that my nostrils filled with the scent of his no-doubt expensive cologne. “You some kinda fag or something?” he added through gritted teeth.

  “No, I just …” I began, then stopped, knowing there was no way in hell I could even begin to explain my way out of this situation.

  “You just what?” Anderson persisted, right behind me now.

  “Nothing,” I muttered, keeping my eyes fixed firmly on the square white tile directly in front of me as a cold sweat prickled out across my skin, knowing in that moment that he could easily kick my ass if he wanted. After all, I was just a skinny scrawny dude and in comparison Anderson seemed huge – towering over me from behind, brimming with angry energy.

  “You’re just lucky I’ve got friends waiting for me out there,” he hissed, his mouth up close to my ear, “otherwise I’d kick your faggot ass, right here and now.”

  With those final words, he turned and left, leaving me to gasp for breath the adrenaline rushing through my veins as I realized just how close I’d come to a beating. I just hoped I I’d managed to take that covert dick pic, at least.

  I slipped my hand into my jeans, pulling out my cellphone then quickly opening up my photos app. But I felt my heart sink as I stared at the blurry picture of the tiled wall and urinal and a barely distinguishable black sliver of Anderson’s pant leg; in other words, definitely not the photo I needed if I was going to make ten grand from Gerry and change my life forever.

  Back to the drawing board, I thought with a frustrated sigh …

  3

  “What the hell am I gonna do, Rosco?” I groaned, slamming the lid of my laptop closed in pure exasperation the following afternoon.

  I’d spent the whole morning going over and over every possible option I could think of to get that candid photo and none of them were feasible.

  My first thought was that I could hire an escort and fit her with a spy cam ring or whatever, but after a little digging into prices online I discovered that James Bond shit was way out of my budget. Hell, I barely had enough money to make rent – let alone the thousand or so that I’d need for a high-class hooker plus spy equipment.

  Next I’d looked into fitting some kind of hidden camera directly to the Carmel urinals in the hope that Anderson came back for another visit, but that just seemed way too sketchy and risky (plus I knew that the odds of him actually returning to the same bar again so soon were slim at best).

  The only positive breakthrough I’d made was that after hitting up some of my contacts, I’d tracked down Anderson’s cellphone number.

  If only I knew some small, dark haired chick like the ones Anderson was hanging out with at the bar, I thought in exasperation, realizing that he obviously had a type, and imagining my sexy accomplice sending him a few raunchy photos and hopefully getting a dick pic in return ...

  Which is about when it hit me: my most fucked up idea yet ...

  * * *

  “So what do I owe the honor of this unexpected visit?” Sophia said in surprise as she opened the door to her apartment that same evening. “No wait, let me guess. You’re here to pay me back the three hundred dollars you borrowed last month, right?”

  “Hey, can’t I simply pay my big sis a friendly visit once in a while?” I joked back.

  “I suppose you can,” she relented, stepping aside to let me into her apartment. “You want some coffee or tea?
” she added, as I made my way down the hall to her immaculately furnished living room.

  “Nah, I’m good thanks,” I replied, taking a seat on her couch and looking around in envy at her amazingly stylish place; crammed full of stylish vintage furniture, and in other words the polar opposite of my own crummy pad.

  “So why are you here, Cody?” Sophia asked, shooting me a knowing look, as blunt and to the point as always.

  “Well,” I said, shifting a little in my seat as I wondered how to even put it into words, “you remember when you used to give me ‘makeovers’ back when we were kids?”

  “Oh my god, yes!” she laughed, her face lighting up as she remembered the many stupid afternoons we used to spend in her room, where she’d practice her burgeoning makeup skills on her ten-year-old brother in exchange for candy bars.

  “Well if you want me to pay you back that three hundred bucks anytime soon, I might need to borrow your talents,” I replied through gritted, wondering all over again if my plan was simply too fucking whacked out even for me.

  “I don’t follow,” Sophia said, her big brown eyes narrowing into a frown.

  “Actually, maybe I will have that drink after all,” I grinned. “And then I’ll explain everything …”

  * * *

  “That fucking insane, even for you,” Sophia announced, shaking her head once I’d finished outlining my plan.

  The thing was, I hadn’t even told her the real version, instead simply saying that I’d been offered crazy money to sneak into some VIP party and take a few photos of Pete Anderson, and that that was why I wanted Sophia to disguise me as a hot chick.

  “I know, I know,” I replied. “But seriously Sophia, with the right clothes and makeup d’you think you’d be able to transform me?”