Chrysalis Part 2-Chapter 15
This story is about a young man's quest to fix a major birth defect--he was born without a penis. On his quest he meets his soul mate and many other soon to be friends.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any real person is coincidental.
The story depicts procedures and practices common for gender reassignment; however, this story does not claim to be a medical treatise, and information is primarily for the purpose of the story and not medical advice. This story is written for adults with adult themes. If you are underage or live in a location where references to gay relationships or transgender people is forbidden, please log out of the story or move.
This work is copyrighted by Boethiuscell@gmail.com © 2023
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Chapter 15--Reactions
Thursday at Silent Models was routine, which Chris appreciated. Cynthia mentioned the opera and that Chris caused a stir because he did not wear a black tie to the "Club". Photos were circulating on the blog-o-sphere and a small mention made on one of the New York only TV stations, complete with photos. Cynthia was happy because Silent Models' phone was busy with questions about the tuxedo, and of course Chris.
Conversation changed to the reactions to the colognes. Art washed his off after an hour when his nose started to congest. Boris and Boyd had neutral reactions. Katil was positive, but was not sure if it was the cologne or just him. Zack said his grandmother liked it, which got laughs. Chris said his experience was very positive, one older lady on the subway complemented him and asked where she could buy it. He related the swarming at the opera club and how one woman casually walked by and sniffed his neck. Art, Boris, and Boyd all agreed to wear it over the weekend to see if the response was similar or just enhanced by Chris's individual scent.
The afternoon was photoshoots in tuxedos. Whoever said clothes do not make a man never saw a man in a tuxedo, Chris thought. None of the tuxes were standard, except maybe Art's tuxedo, which was black. But even that had a subtle black pattern woven in. All the others were vibrant colors, bold patterns and yet were classy and felt classic. Chris liked the new trend forming, particularly for the more avant-garde. Women needed to start worrying; the man on her arm would no longer be a black backdrop to her gowns.
It was almost 7:00 PM when Chris pulled himself through the door of his apartment. There was some Chinese left from Tom's visit, so he heated it and practiced with chopsticks. It soon became a game of sticks to Chris. The sticks more often won by dropping to the floor, but slowly the tides turned and the advantage was now Chris's. He was pleased with his progress.
A knock on his door, caused a most cantankerous noodle to flee just inches from Chris's out stretch tongue. He answered the door; Tom smiled brightly. "Eating?"
"Yea, just got home. Fighting with the chopsticks." Chris pointed to glops of food by the sofa, "So watch where you step."
"How did you like the opera?" Tom plopped into a chair.
"It was amazing. I loved every second." Chris picked up the food on the floor and threw it into a container. From the garbage can, where he deposited the recalcitrant left-overs, he said, "Of course I cried my eyes out. It was almost embarrassing except I saw several other bawling too." Chris realized that was not what Tom was wanting an answer too. Chris sat on the sofa, curling his legs around him. "Chet was a perfect gentleman. Kiss me good night at the limo door and." Chris stopped. He shot Tom a glance wanting for a reaction.
"And what?" Tom humphed.
"Are you jealous?"
"No, you just never finished the sentence."
"What gives you the right to demand a completion of and. We are just friends, not lovers." Chris made his voice sound very reasonable.
Tom fidgeted in the chair. "Yea, right, but it is rude to start a comment and not finish it." Tom folded his arms across his chest.
"And he went home. I went upstairs to my place alone." Chris quietly laughed as Tom unfolded his arms and relaxed. "Happy?"
Tom stammered for a reply, "It is not about me being happy. It is you being safe. I feel responsible for you. You do not know how many texts I get a day from Helga about how you are doing. What do you really know about Chet?"
"First, he is a police detective so he can protect me from mean bad villains, Second, he is smart, charming and considerate. And third, he knows how to show a date a good time without asking for my ass."
Tom stood up and wandered around the apartment expending nervous energy. "You had a good time?"
"Yes, a very good time. I loved the Met and the operas. We went to the Metropolitan Opera Club," Tom raised an eyebrow, and then sat next to Chris on the sofa. "He is a member as is his mother. Apparently, he has some money outside his job. Met Derick Gordon, he is a creep, and Derrek Lovejoy. Derrek, not the creepy one, wants to call me this coming week to talk about real estate. Do you know of anything that Stu has lined up?" Tom shook his head no. "Anyway. The Club is very snooty; I did not have a black bowtie on." Chris laughed until he realized that Tom also saw it as a social faux pas. "Tom how far down the road are you to stodgy old man. I was dress to kill, and who the fuck cares if my tie wasn't black." Chris sat back into the corner of the sofa. "If I was not willing to break with tradition, with what is expected, I would be dead." Tentative tears rimmed his eyes as he again realized how important the surgery is. A year or more his body would match his soul. A year or more of monthly curses; blood flowing from him as alien as a second head. Next week the red-eyed monster returns.
"Are you alright, Chris." Tom's concern was written in his eyes as he moved closer.
"No," Chris weakly replied, "but I will hang on; I must. Most of the time, I am able to convince myself that I am male. No that is not right, the order is wrong, most of the time I must convince myself that my body is female when everything else in me scream in terror at the female because it is a man. That dysphoria can drive one insane because I cannot escape my vagina and my cycle. It is like looking in a mirror and knowing that the face you see is not yours: if you wipe your face hard enough your true face will emerge." Tom moved to pull Chris into a hug. Chris melted into Tom's chest, breathing in his comfortable scents.
Chris slowly moved out of Tom's arms. Tom reluctant to let go. "Enough of self-pity," Chris straightened his shoulders back, giving Tom a weak smile. "Why did you stop by tonight." Chris grimaced slightly because it came out harsher than he intended.
Tom slide to the other end of the sofa so Chris has personal space. "I wanted to find out how you liked the opera." Tom shifted uncomfortably, "Helga told me you have doctor's appointments tomorrow. I was concerned. And the most important is I like being with you."
"I like being with you too Tom. When I am with you, I feel rooted. You feel like a massive oak where I can shelter from the storm or just listen to the birds."
"For you, I want to be that oak." Tom gave Chris a reassuring smile. "On my grandfather's estate, in the Greenwood Preserve, once it was a vast forest, is a very old oak tree. When I was seven, on my birthday, my Granddad took me to the tree, just the two of us. It was November, so only a few dull brown leaves whispered in the wind. He said to me, `Thomas, this is Derwa, the old man, the center of Greenwood Forest, the center of us, the Greenwoods and many others that have lost that name. Touch the tree gently and listen.' I did and the tree spoke to me: not in words, sounds, or pictures, but emotions. Words cannot describe the experience. It was unity between me and this old tree; its branches encompassing the sky; its roots expanding into the earth.
"'You feel the power and strength of Derwa.' This was not a question but a statement of fact from my grandfather. `Let's go home. I have one more present for you." He did; a finely carved cane made from a limb of the old tree that broke off the day I was born."
"Wow," Chris said softly. "Where is that cane?"
"At my parents' house, it is a treasure too valuable to travel with." Tom felt his breath gently stirring the air. "The point of my telling you this is that even now if I try I can feel the strength of Derwa. The air that moves about us moves about the Tree. The ground that this building sits upon is the same Earth that the Tree's roots take nourishment. I want to share my strength with you. I will share what Derwa gives me with you." Tom paused afraid that Chris would reject him as flakey or wanting something in return. "I offer my strength as a friend and no more. I offer this whether or not you accept my experience as valid. But I will not deny the impact."
"I see you are wearing the wooden ring again. I touch you, and I smell trees. That is why I would not wear the T-shirt of you to Zoe's party. I see that as you, a strong magnificent oak."
"God, Chris sometimes you just take my breath away. You are so magnificent. You are a willow, slender but strong, flexible but unbreakable. If you want, I can accompany you to the doctors."
"I would like that." Chris smiled as he grabbed Tom's hand. "I would also like to see your grandfather's estate and the old tree."
"You will," Tom murmured, but all Chris heard was the rustle of summer leaves.
They sat silent, enjoying the silence and the presence of each other until Tom notice Chris dozing off. "Time for me to leave and you to go to bed. See you at the deli at 8:30, Helga said your first appointment was 10:45." Tom, at the door, gave Chris a small kiss on the cheek. "Be sure to lock the doors."
Chris crawled into bed and dreamt of Tom fliting, all in gold like sunbeams, among the shadows of a forest.