Greatest Lie

Our heroine transforms from Alex, a conceited but socially outcast high school boy, to Alexandra, and ambitious and beautiful college T Girl. In undergoing these difficult changes in her life, she bravely faces the dangers of young and poor T Girl in transition, and always does everything well; but will she ever learn to be good?

WARNING! This story meant solely for adult audiences! It contains scenes of graphic sex and forcible rape described in first person narration by its transgendered, teenage protagonist. If you are not an adult, or if you find this type of material offensive, please stop reading and dispose of this file. You have been warned of the content. If you proceed neither the author nor the site host will be held responsible! This story is purely fictional. All resemblance to actual persons is coincidental.

The Greatest Lie (Chapters 1-11) By Alexandra Rios (virtual_xx@hotmail.com)

Chapter 1 Prom Night

The greatest lie that they tell you is that what happens in high school doesn't really matter: that life begins in college. I pretended to agree, though I never believed it. For as you will see, I am the world's greatest liar.

"Take, for example", I said to my buddy Quinn as we hung around outside the art room "Sadie Hawkins Day. What chickenshit. Just a chance for some cheerleader wannabee airheads to feed the egos of their dumb jock boyfriends." "And their libidos", Quinn remarked sourly. Barb and Anne, our all too-platonic art room friends, nodded their heads in agreement. They were far too hip to invite Quinn or me. "Let's go to the Bergman film festival instead, Alex", Barb suggested. I nodded in agreement, but did not commit.

For the girl who lived inside me knew it was a lie. She would have been thrilled to ask a boy to go to a Sadie Hawkins dance, to spin in endless blind circles across the dance floor with her love, tiara glinting in the strobe lights, before collapsing into passion and bliss.

But not with any of the slobs and idiots that ruled this school: the stupid pampered jocks who hassled me in the locker room and bumped me in the halls; the dopers who mocked me from their outpost in the quad; or the motorheads that eyed me with contempt mixed with pure aggression as they spat "pansy" or "faggot" at me whenever circumstances forced me into their path. These thugs were complete idiots when it came to anything but petty crime or cars, but they seemed to be able to look through me into my secret soul.

Inside hid a girl whose existence was a secret from my mom and dad and my art room friends. She never came out except at night, when I lay in my bed and stroked my modest and almost hairless dick while dreaming of being fondled, trussed, and raped by imaginary male lovers. Each night, my imaginary breasts swelled with fantasy implants, and my ass was penetrated by many phantom cocks before I finally came, my ass up and my face buried in shame in my pillows. Each morning, I showered away the residue of my cum and my fantasies and pretended to be a high school boy, a merit scholar, and a class intellectual. This had been my ritual since junior high: hiding my true self behind my intellect and wit, trying to keep the girl inside and the rough crowd at the school from finding me out and tormenting me.

The worst was gym class. My physical development lagged my peers. At 17, I was 5' 7", weighed 120, and had only 1" of thin blond peach fuzz above my undersized penis.

My chest and legs were completely naked. This led to incessant teasing in the locker room. This culminated in September of my senior year when Miguel, one of the motorheads, confronted me after gym class. I had leaned over to open my locker, and suddenly Miguel said, "Hey, chica, nice ass. I'm gonna fuck it. Let's go to the towel room." With that, he snapped me with his towel, raising a dark red welt on my pale ass.

I spun around, distraught, for one of my secret fantasies was to be gangbanged in the towel room. Miguel seized my head and pressed my lips against his sweaty, bulging jock strap. "Hey, suck me, chica." The other guys in this section of lockers were all motorheads, and they looked on with lustful interest. I thanked god (who officially, I did not believe in) when coach's whistle sounded and Miguel abandoned his assault. After that, I got excused from gym class.

In the weeks that followed, although I lived in dread of Miguel, my sexual fantasies became more explicit and violent. I was revolted by Miguel, but was entranced by fantasies of a cleaner, less profane Miguel sucking my breasts and making love to my virgin ass. One day, as I rifled my dad's medical sample box looking for amphetamine (my favorite study aid, and I loved the way it made me both horny and impotent), I realized that it was stuffed with birth control pills. I had read about the transformative power of these drugs, and so I copped samples of estrogen, progesterone or anything that sounded like a female hormone. I began taking them occasionally, but while they had a noticeable effect on my acne (it completely disappeared) and hair (it became smoother and more manageable), I took them intermittently, to preserve my supply and to preserve my precarious grip on maleness.

Sometimes I thought there was hope for me as a male if I could escape this macho hotbed of a high school. College applications were in, and the end of high school was in sight. I was actually gaining some status as a class genius, and a poem I had written for English class had been published in the school paper. The girls all loved it because it was romantic. Soon, I would be checking out of this shithole, moving out of my parents house and going to college, where I could start out with new friends and become a new me.

But for the moment, Sadie Hawkins day, and all that went with it, was the here and now.

Reality hit me right between the eyes when in my locker, I discovered an envelope addressed to me, Alex Rios, from Marta Gonzalez. Marta had been the girl I wanted to be, since I was a scrawny and scared eighth grader. Marta wanted me to go to Sadie Hawkins day with her. I was totally freaked. Quinn told me "forget it, man, she's way over your head", and Barb and Anne nodded in silent agreement. But I told them they were just jealous. I said, "hey, it's an experience, and it's our last chance to do this high school crap. I can write about it in my autobiography when I'm famous." They rolled their eyes.

I accepted, and my mind went into turmoil. Mom and dad were so delighted that I had my first date that they overlooked Marta's modest social background. They had reveled in my scholarly achievements but I could tell they were wondering about me socially, and this reassured them. Was this my chance to banish the horny slut that secretly shared my life, and to become a normal guy? If anyone could change me, it was Marta. She had an hourglass figure with well-formed breasts and pouty, full lips on a beautiful latina face.

She was a decent student and dressed nicely. Who cared if she had gone out with a few of the motorheads? She wanted me now.

I picked her up at her family's apartment, a modest walkup in West LA with sink full of dirty dishes, a harried mom, a screaming baby brother, and a hostile father who looked at me with the same contempt as the motorheads. Marta was bubbly and excited. She tongue kissed me as soon as she got in the front seat of my mom's Honda. I must of flinched, because she laughed "Seventeen and never been kissed?" I blushed, and lied that it wasn't.

We went to the auditorium and danced to blaring hip-hop. The motorheads glared, and the jocks and their girls gawked with amazement. As I escorted Marta out of the dance, I felt like I was on the way to becoming a high school legend, my male reputation redeemed by my date with Marta. As we drove away, I felt a stirring in my groin. I pulled my car to a shady spot near Stoner Park and turned to Marta. "I'm not ready to go home yet", I started to say. Before I could finish, Marta had lunged at me, and we grappled and kissed across the bucket seats and console for the next half-hour. Finally, we crawled into the back seat, and as I kissed her swaying breasts she unzipped my pants and began to slurp, such, claw, and pull at my cock. I wriggled my hands into her lacy panties, and found her fragrant, swollen pussy. With a few strokes, my fingers found their mark and lid into her warm, wet vagina. I stroked, she sucked, and we swayed in unison. But nothing happened to my skinny, shriveled and nearly hairless cock. It remained as flaccid as a deflated party balloon, impervious to Marta's efforts. Finally, admitting failure, we sat in the back seat and talked about ourselves. In the intimacy of a mutual failure, I let down my guard.

"Marta, when I look at you, when I touch you, I get so turned on. But I don't know if it's because I want you, or because I want to be you." She said "um-hum".

"It's like the existentialists say, you can never really tell whether you are who you make yourself, or whether you are merely the sum of your experiences," I mused idiotically.

"I know baby," she said, not knowing what the fuck I was talking about. She embraced me closer, like I was a little sister or even a doll. I went on and on, telling her of all my secrets and fears. She told me of a life of abuse at the hands of a bullying father and the sexually predatory motorheads. I finally took her home at 2:00 a.m., our minds racing with thoughts and our bodies unfulfilled.

In bed, I jerked off pretending to be Marta in the arms of Miguel, and drifted off to sleep.

I awoke at 4:00 am the next morning in the midst of a nightmare. I was at school, and all the motorheads, dopers, jocks and even the art room crowd were screaming "Kill the faggot" at me, as Marta pointed mockingly at me.

As the nightmare dissolved, I recounted the prior night's events. In the cold light of morning, the adventure that had begun so well, had ended in disaster. I had confided the secret of my inner girl-self to Marta, whom I barely knew. Fear welled up until I could barely breath. At least it was Saturday, so I didn't have to go to school. But anxiety kept rising in me. From beneath my bed, I slid the box where I kept my purloined medical samples and took out a black beauty and a Valium and popped them. On an impulse, I popped a 5 mg. Premarin too. Then I staggered to the shower on 4 hours sleep. It was going to be a long day.

I showered, fondling my hairless body and enduring alternating visions of Marta and Miguel fondling me. Finally, I slipped a soapy hand around my skinny, hairless ass and slid a finger into my anus. It slid in, and I was overwhelmed with a recollection of the same finger sliding into Marta slick pussy the night before. It felt the same, only tighter.

I was overwhelmed with the sensation that I too had a tight pussy. The girl inside me could at last get fucked.

I spent the weekend buried in the medical school library researching the hormonal treatment of transsexuals. I stopped by my dad's office, and since he was doing "rounds", I copped about half his supply of birth control pills. Counting the stash I already had, I had six months worth based on the "Benjamin Standards." That night, fear of what lay before me if I kept taking the hormones haunted my sleep even after I jerked off, and the reds I took just got me wasted. By Monday, I looked and felt like a like a wreck stayed home sick. Tuesday I was no better. My mom told me she would take me to the doctor if I wasn't better Wednesday. I was terrified that a blood test would show the large amounts of speed, downers and estrogen I had consumed since Friday, so I went to school, filled with dread.

But everything seemed the same. Except for Quinn, who made a snide comment about my needing three days to recover from my "Big Date", people must have gotten sick about post-morteming Sadie Hawkins, because now they were talking about Prom. I spied Marta talking with some of her latina friend across the cafeteria, and she shot me a warm smile. I found another note from her in my locker that afternoon. She wanted to get together after school to talk. We met in the parking lot. "About the other night", I began, "I was just talking about a lot of fantasies."

"That's all right, I think you are really interesting and I still want to see you." She blushed, and added "Your fantasies turn me on." I replied, feeling a surge emotion and relief, "that turns me on." We hugged, and I felt the pressure of her large breasts and her warm pussy against my body. Once again, I felt more like I was inside her, feeling my embrace, than on the outside feeling hers. I loved that feeling, and was ecstatic as we planned a weekend rendezvous of shopping and pizza. I relaxed and went to sleep that night with just my usual jerk-off fantasy of getting fucked in the ass by a handsome but anonymous stud.

By Saturday afternoon, I had been taking estrogen continuously for a week and my oily and acne-prone face was blemish free. My body was outwardly unchanged, still skinny and nearly hairless, but I felt constant tingling in my nipples. I picked up Marta at 4:00, and we went to the mall. We went first to Victoria's Secret, where she selected lingerie and nighties in my size. I paid. Then on to Bebe, where we picked tops, pants and skirts.

We bought shoes for my size 2 feet at Coles: high strappy pumps. We stopped at the Clinique counter for make up, polish, perfume, brushes and tweezers. None of the store clerks suspected anything: it just looked a guy taking his girlfriend on a shopping spree.

"Where are we going to go for you to change?" I had just the place. My grandma was in a nursing home and my parents were still working on clearing out the house. I had a key.

We slipped in through the garage and went to her old room.

Marta drew a bath and I relaxed in the aromatic oils. I slipped into a robe and she began her magic. She styled my shoulder length hair, applied subtle tones of make up and nail polish, poked a painful hole in my right ear and loaned me a feminine gold hoops to replace my single stud. I put on satin panties and thrilled as they touched my hardening cock. Then panty hose, a push-up bra, a spaghetti strap top, and tight, short pink skirt, and by mules. When I looked in the mirror, I was stunned. I looked like Marta's taller, thinner, blonder sister. "You're a doll, she said. "So are you", I replied. I gave her a hug and we kissed, careful not to spoil our make-up. "Let's go out", I said, eager to try my new look on the world. "No way," she responded. "First, we need some serious training." She taught me how to sit, and rise, the looks to make when you walk into a room, and we worked on my voice and language. We ate some pizza and drank some of grandma's old sherry.

At 10:00, we changed into our negligees and began making out on my grandma's bed. She fondled my dick through the lacy material and it hardened. She sucked me and I kissed her pussy, and I rubbed my cock on her warm, wet labia, bringing myself to the verge of orgasm. Her mons throbbed against my groin, but she would not yield to complete penetration as many times as I tried.

"I don't have any condoms, baby, do you?" she said. Of course I didn't, as I had never dreamed that fate would place me in the arms of this exquisite creature.

Marta seemed uninterested in fucking, and that was fine with me, and I climaxed by rubbing my cockette against her swollen mons. Then I went down on her, first licking my own semen from her labia, and then feasting on her tangy vaginal juices. She moaned with pleasure, and soon her moans turned to cries of ecstasy: "Mas, por favor, mas, mas!" As her hips undulated with pleasure, her thick pubic hair rasped my tired, tender lips and cheeks, and I fantasized that I was in her body, being fucked hard by a faceless motorhead in the boys' locker room at Uni. Her cries, and the frantic motions of her body, rose to a frenzy and her juices grew hotter, and more plentiful, until she orgasmed over my face. Then her cries receded to moans, sighs, and breath, and her hips grew still in post-orgasmic exhaustion.

God, I thought, how much deeper and more fulfilling must her orgasm have been than the momentary spasm I had experienced.

"Was that good for you, baby?" she asked.

"It was great. Did you, you know, have an orgasm?"

"Oh my God, yes," she replied. "You're are fantastic lover. Much better than . . ." She stopped, and I wondered who she meant.

We lay in bed for a few minutes, and then heard the grandfather clock toll midnight. I changed back into my guy clothes, took her home, and spirited my girly things into the b ack of my closet.

My parents were really pissed off the next morning. My dad finally relented from his rage and tried to tell me about sex. I laughed and told him he was a little late for that.

With that, they grounded me for a month.

Marta and I exchanged glances and passed notes to one another at school, but we had no time for play. I continued my improvised hormone regimen, and noticed that by scrotum was becoming more compact. Even though my nighttime fantasies or penetration and rape became more vivid and violent, I had an increasingly difficult time reaching climax.

One night, just before the end of my grounding, I improvised a dildo from an old electric toothbrush. I wrapped it in a cloth and covered it with a condom. Behind a locked bathroom door, I prettied myself with makeup and blew out my hair. I slipped into my negligee, wrapped myself in a robe and scampered to my room calling out a breezy good night to my parents. I slid beneath my covers and turned the dildo on.

It vibrated pleasantly against the crotch of my panties. I pressed through the thin fabric against my hole. The vibrations tingled over my whole body. With my other hand I fondled my breasts and noticed with pleasure that my nipples had hardened and risen against the silken fabric of my nightie. I slid down my panties and placed the dildo against my tush. The vibrations surged even more powerfully through my body, and my cockette began to harden for the first time in a week.

I reached to my bed stand for a tube of KY Jelly, which I slathered over the dildo and applied in a dainty dot on my hole. I clenched my teeth and began to press. The tapered head slid effortlessly into my rectum and I continued to press it up the channel. Two inches in, I gasped and tears welled in my eyes. A fiery electric bolt of pain shot through me and I could not make myself push it further. I squeezed it out and tried to catch my breath. I reapplied KY to my anus, slipping my finger in and out. With apprehension mixed with excitement I again pressed the dildo against my now puckered rectum. It slid in effortlessly, and as I pressed it in further, the explosive pain again shot through me.

My tortured body remembered that the dildo's recent exit had been almost pleasant, and so instinctively I pressed downward with my ass muscles while continuing to press up against the dildo. To my surprise, it slid all the way in and my sphincter tightened around it. Momentarily, I enjoyed the buzzing in my ass, before panic again built in me. Now that my ass had swallowed the whole thing, from tapered tip to the broad base, how would I get it out? Tears again welled in my eyes as I imagined a humiliating exposure in the emergency room of my dad's hospital. I pressed like I was trying to poop, and it popped out with a burst of pain as the base exited my now well lubricated rectum.

My panic subsided, and I again slid it in, more carefully, and this time with only slight pain, mixed with increasing pleasure. My god, I thought, what must a real fuck feel like? At the tip this thing lacks the bulbous head of a real cock, and is only half the width of some of the dicks you see in a high school locker room. A real stud isn't likely to pause as I had to let my ass acclimate to its violation before fully stuffing it in: he'll ram it in and enjoy increasing the agony by ramming me faster.

The thought of these brutal realities of real sex with a real male warmed me. The buzzing of the dildo against my prostate stimulated my nearly dried up juices and with a handful of KY I was able to bring myself to a climax, my first in two weeks. It shot out with great force, but I was surprised that the puddle of spunk was small and very thin, almost clear. The hormones had taken a lot out of me. I popped the dildo out of my ass and hid it under the bed. I was so exhausted that I didn't change and slept the night in my nightie.

I slept a dreamless sleep, and woke with my mother standing over me, with a look of shock on her face. "Allie, what are you wearing?" "Some clothes a friend gave me," I replied helplessly. "Well, that's not appropriate clothing for a boy of your age." "What's the big deal if I only wear it in bed?" I retorted, warming to an argumentative line.

"Well, if it's just in bed, I guess there's no harm. Just make sure your father never finds out," she advised me. "He's been worried about you for a while." "Don't worry about that," I said. "Let's keep it our secret, and I promise to keep it under control." "I certainly hope you outgrow this soon." "I am sure I will, mom."

As I showered I was filled with regret and guilt at my faux pas, and at involving my mom as a conspirator in my emerging fantasy life. But the thrill of the fantasy overwhelmed my feelings of guilt. To celebrate my success in penetrating my ass and co-opting my mother, I popped a black beauty along with my Premarin and headed of to school in a buzz. Spring break was coming, and every day brought news of college acceptances for the art room crowd. Quinn got into Columbia, Barb got Reed with a partial scholarship, Anne got Ann Arbor, and then I got the University of Minnesota with a full academic scholarship (Sure I'm brilliant, but let's face it, a Spanish surname helps, even if your are really white.) My happiness was tinged with a little sadness, as I thought of poor Marta stuck going part time to the community college and working nights at her dad's restaurant. But it would be a new beginning. Could I shake this transgender fantasy in a new environment? Had the macho culture of this awful school forced me to flee to femininity, or was it coming from within me? I barely had time to say goodbye to Marta before spring break. My dad had been invited to speak at an AIDS conference in Sao Paolo, Brazil, and with my recent transgressions as evidence of unreliability my parents decided they had better take me along. I was excited to go, as I had read that there were lots of "travesti" in Brazil.

And there were. The lined the streets and crowded the corners of some districts, offering glimpses of their silicon pumped boobs and asses to passers by. They varied from the comical to the exquisite, and just being in that environment infused me with resolve to proceed with my own transformation. I had brought an adequate supply of hormones, but I needn't have. There was a huge variety for sale without prescription in every pharmacia in or near the travesti districts. I went on a shopping spree and bought oral, patch, and injectable forms of estrogen.

In one store, I was offered a canister of liquid silicon and a syringe. This I passed on, and was instantly filled with regret. I never was offered that product again, and I could find that shop in the labyrinthine streets of Sao Paolo. But how would I smuggle this cornucopia through customs? My last purchase was a huge, hollow rubber dildo, which would serve as my drug stash. I slit a hole in the side, loaded in the contraband and taped it up to keep the merchandise clean and dry, and I slipped it into my carryon.

As the pilot announced our imminent arrival at LAX, I got up for a last bathroom stop.

Fully loaded with my estrogen supply, the dildo was distended into a lumpy plug of alarming proportions. I lubed the dildo and my ass with KY, bent over the sink, and practiced my anal insertion technique. I hit a solid wall of pain, and could not make any progress. At that moment, the pilot's voice commanded passengers to return to our seats for landing. "Oh fuck", I muttered to myself. "I waited too long." I tried again, but pain made my ass as tight as a baby's. I relubed, and closed my eyes and imagined myself in the clutches of a big black barbarian. It slipped past my rectum and stopped, and I nearly fainted with pain. The pilot announced that the stewardesses should prepare the cabin for landing. I was desperate, fearing the pain of the entry of this bulbous object equally to the pain of an airport bust of me in possession of my trannie drug stash.

There was a knock at the door. "I'm sorry, you have to take your seat." "Just another minute, please," I pleaded. As if to underscore the urgency, the plane began to buck and sway in the turbulence of an imminent landing. I put down the toilet seat and eased back on the giant package with all my weight. It impaled me and my eyes filled with white- hot tears. I ground my wounded bottom onto the package, which slipped in past my rectum, which closed over it with a painful elastic snap. I caught my breath, rose unsteadily to my feet, as the plane careened bumpily down its final descent. "You have to take your seat right now!" hissed the impatient stewardess. I stumbled out of the bathroom without having washed my hands and barely able to walk with the large lump now distending my lower colon.

O god, I thought to myself. I hope the fucking thing doesn't break: I'll die of an estrogen overdose. As I settled uncomfortably into my seat, the package practically brushing against my ribs, I got slightly horny at the thought of dying that way. The very plane felt like it was fucking me as it bumped toward its landing, set down, and braked on the runway. I staggered through customs without an inquiry, except from my mom, who noticed my halting gait as I struggled with the wad in my gut. "I don't feel so good, it must be something I ate." That lie provided good excuse for the hour I spent in the bathroom at home, as I painfully worked at expelling the now bloody package from ass.

But when I got it out, I had a year's supply of hormones at my disposal.

I had been taking hormones for almost two months, and my nipples were enlarged and the beginnings of little titties were blossoming on my chest, while my scrotum shriveled and atrophied and my dick shortened. My hair was smooth and silky, my skin was soft and had lost most of the little hair it had developed. My muscle tone had diminished, my hips were slightly flared, and my waist had narrowed. My boy clothes were too tight at the bottom and too loose at the waist. I took care, that first morning of my return from vacation, to wrap my chest in an ace bandage, to flatten my emerging breasts and protect the nipples from the too harsh fabric of my black Gap turtle neck.

I had settled on a gothic look as the best camouflage for my femininity, and it only partly worked. As I scuttled through the halls of my school, trying to affect invisibility, I noticed more than the usual angry stares from the motorheads and gaping from the jock crowd. Even the art room crowd seemed put off by my new look. Quinn remarked "You sure look femme today, Alex." "Thanks," I replied carelessly. "That's just what I wanted." I hoped my bravado would aid the disguise, and in Quinn's case, it did. The school was a target rich environment for his sarcastic venom, and I joined in enthusiastically. After all, I hated all these people as much as they hated me.

Except, of course, for Marta. We approached each other shyly, like long lost lovers. I had been away only two weeks, but to that was added the month's separation caused by my grounding. Spring Prom was upon us, and I left her a flowery note inviting her.

Bouquet of black In a vase of white.

You light the world With your indwelling light.

Flower of red On your face so bright.

You are my heart's delight.

Marta, will you go to the Prom with me? Alex.

She loved the poem and accepted instantly. We agreed that after the school dance, it would be an all girl event. I gave her my measurements to make my after Prom attire, and she cooed appreciatively at my 34 24 34 figure. The art room crowd reacted badly.

"Alex, that girl is getting to you. You are weirder every day," Barb remarked nastily.

The motorheads and their chicas increased their social isolation of Marta and the murmurs as I passed their surly knot in the quad grew more ominous. God, I thought to myself. Can I really survive another six weeks in this shit hole? We made our Prom plans. I would dress straight for the dance in the standard rented tux.

We would dance for a couple of hours, then we would slip out and drive to grandma's place. There would be weed and chardonnay to relax us as Marta coifed and dressed me in the match to her own Prom gown. Then, our private Prom would begin.

I fortified myself against the stress of the evening with a black beauty and an estrogen injection in my bottom. The speed and hormone cocktail was coursing warmly through my veins as picked her up at her hardscrabble apartment. Her father scowled as her mother fawned over me. Marta was exquisite in her pink chiffon gown, which showed an inch or two of her sculpted cleavage but left much to my vivid imagination, which flitted from visions of her to visions of me, in the same dress.

At dinner, we sat side by side and started with small talk. She told me that her dad was making her work ever-longer hours in his restaurant, without pay, and he even was taking part of her tips. She was trying to save for college, but he said it was wasted on a girl. I told her about the amazing things and people I had seen in Brazil, and she giggled as I recounted my airline adventure. "Did you save the dildo?" she asked slyly. "It was ruined, but I have another. A strap on," I announced. I could tell by the look in her eyes that she liked that idea.

The Prom past like a short dream, so buzzed was I on my special drug cocktail and the anticipation of a lustful night with Marta. Marta exchanged glances and a few hellos with her motorhead friends, but I spoke to no one. The art room crowd did not go to Proms, and I had no other friends in the whole school. I saw Miguel and two of his cronies, Seth and Jack, and they shot me evil, hate filled looks and mouthed "faggot" at me. I cringed as Miguel approached Marta and me and said "Hey, bitch, how about a dance for old times." I started to interject, and Miguel interrupted and growled "Shut the fuck up, bitch. I was talking to the other bitch." Marta told him to fuck himself in Spanish, and I said "let's get out of here." We hurried to the door looking back anxiously over our shoulders and got into my car.

I drove a few blocks and stopped. "That was so-o-o-o scary," I said. "They're just a bunch of stupid punks", she said bravely. She had never looked so beautiful as bathed in the light of a streetlight in the front seat of my mom's Honda, and I threw my arms around her neck and kissed her full lips and stroked her heaving breasts. She eagerly reciprocated and ran her hands up under my tux shirt and stroked my rosebud breasts.

When at last we released the kiss, I could barely breath. I cleared my throat and we drove in silence to grandma's, oblivious to the world around us, each of us reveling in our shared feelings of love and lust.

We opened the door to the slightly musty atmosphere of grandma's. She drew my bath as I stripped from the tux. She scrubbed my back, fondled my sudsy, girlish breasts, cleaned my hairless crack, and fondled my tiny balls and penis. She rubbed me all over with a deliciously scented moisturizer, as I did my own face make up. She coifed my hair as I painted my nails. Satin pink push up bra and a garter belt to match, garters and stockings followed. No panties, and my naked bottom and cockette felt obscenely exposed and vulnerable. The gown was a perfect match for hers, and a perfect fit for me.

We posed triumphantly before the bedroom mirror. "We're beautiful", I said, turning to gaze into Marta's eyes.

Instead of the expected look of love, I saw a visage of horror and fright as she looked over my shoulder. Before I could turn to see what was the matter, an all too familiar voice snarled "Yeah, a couple of real beauts, dontcha think, boys." I turned, and saw with shock and horror Miguel, Seth, and Jack, crowding the doorway to my grandma's bedroom. My knack for quick ripostes deserted me, and I asked stupidly "What are you doing here?" "We're here to fuck your brains out, you sissy faggot. Fuck you, for turning Marta into a queer-loving lesbo whore. Fuck you, for being a superior little shit and hiding behind all your bullshit that you are a pansy slut. We are going to fuck, and you are going to be our cum eating slut."

With that, Miguel yanked down the bodice of my gown, pulled pushed me backward onto grandma's bed. Holding my beautifully brushed hair in a knot on the top of my head, he loosened his belt, and unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, which slid to the floor with a clank and a thud that could only mean a knife or a gun. His hard prick was already poking through his boxers, and he levered my head toward it demanding "suck it now, bitch." I took the glistening head into my mouth and licked and stroked it with my tongue. A meaty, slightly sour taste filled my mouth and nose. "I mean suck it, you fucking whore" he barked, as he gripped a knot of my hair and slammed his dick to the back of my throat. My gag reflex expelled him, and I must have nicked him with a tooth as his prick slipped out. He slapped my cheek roughly, and screamed "suck it or I'll cut your dick off right now!" Tears welling in my eyes, I took his penis back in my mouth and concentrated mightily on this new skill. Soon, my head was bobbing in rhythm to his cruelly pressing hand and the thrusting of his pelvis. I hoped he would be done soon and this nightmare would be one step closer to ending. But he had other plans.

He pulled his dick out of my mouth and mounded some pillows in the center of the bed.

He ripped off my gown, picked me up and heaved me, tummy down, over the pile of pillows. My ass, framed in the pink satin garters, pointed upward, and my face hung over the edge of the bed. Miguel ordered "Jack, take her mouth, while I take her from behind." Jack stuck his musky dick into my face and ordered me to suck it. It was bigger and tasted even muskier than Miguel's had. Jack warned me "Don't you fucking bite me like you did Miguel." That was a difficult order to obey, as Miguel rained a dozen blows from his rough hands on my exposed ass. I concentrated on the controlling the progress of Jack's penis from my lips to my tonsils, and the suction of my tongue and cheeks as he pistoned out.

I heard Miguel clear his throat and spit, and felt his phlegm land in a gooey spot next to my uptilted anus. Quickly, his stubby fingers spread it around my ring, and then roughly entered. I gasped, almost breaking concentration on the perfect blow job I was trying to give Jack. Recalling the pain of the improvised dildo and my airplane experience, I knew this was going to be hard. I heard Miguel clear and spit again: he would be wiping that on his prick as a lubricant. I had the real thing in my purse, but my mouth was stuffed with Jack's rampaging cock, and then it was too late. Miguel impaled me doggy style.

I remembered to press down as he pushed in, and initially, I was surprised how easily he slid in my ass, taking three quick shoves to bury it to the hilt. Then, I felt as if a firebomb had erupted in my bowels, as my body reacted to this abrupt invasion. I had the usual reaction, a gasp, and tears welled in my eyes. My concentration broke, and Jack's dick slipped from my mouth. He cursed, and I braced for a brutal slap, but he was too preoccupied and jammed it back between my lips. I quickly regained my sucking rhythm, for I was being ridden hard from behind.

Miguel relentlessly rammed his cock into the tight confines of my anus, and my body fought hard against my attempts to ease his passageway by pressing my sphincters down through his upstrokes. Each plunge brought more stars, and tears to my eyes. My groans were stifled by the incessant plunge Jack's penis into my mouth. Then Miguel leaned forward and pressed down on my back, flattening the pillows and forcing my breasts to the bed, as he continued his assault. He wrapped one arm around my chest and began pinching my tiny breasts. With his other he clawed at my tiny dick, now even smaller under the influence of my drug cocktail and the pounding that his penis was giving my body.

I craned my neck upward to keep Jack's dick in my mouth and hoped they would both come as soon as possible so that I could get on to the next episode of this bad dream. But Miguel had other ideas. After five minutes of fucking me, he suddenly stopped. I winced as he yanked himself out of me as abruptly as he had entered, as my rectal ring suddenly went from stretched to contracted. He growling "I'm sick of this faggot pussy.

Your turn, Jack." He disappeared from the room, as Seth took his place at my face and Jack prepared to mount me from the rear. Jack rammed me as ruthlessly as Miguel had, and his longer thicker cock added a new dimension to the pain in my abdomen. Seth's penis was larger still, and tasted mossy, but fresher than Miguel or Jack's. This taste soon was replaced by the slightly fishy, salty taste of his pre cum. Perhaps, I could spare my ass a reaming from this rod, I thought as I slid Seth's dick from my lips to the back of my throat. "Feels so good, baby," Seth groaned.

Jack was an even more energetic fuck than Miguel had been, and was even more ruthless in his assaults on the rest of the body. He captured my balls and cockette between his thumb and forefingers and crushed and rolled them back and forth. He mauled my breasts and slapped my ass as he rode me. I swiveled my hips in unison to his lunges, hoping to bring him to climax. He yanked me up back to doggy style, causing me to lose suction on Seth's cock. I cringed and said, "I'm sorry", and to my surprise he said "Watch out Jack, don't bust her before it's my turn." Jack said `OK, take your turn," and ripped his dick out of my ass, which again contracted in a sudden spasm of pain.

Jack pushed Seth away from my mouth and shoved his dick in, slathered in my ass juices.

I remembered gratefully that I had used the hand held in the tub to fill my ass, which was well cleaned out. By comparison to his uncleaned prick, Jack tasted wonderful now that he was spiced with the effusions of my ass. My reverie was interrupted as the Seth's massive tool ripped into my puckered ass. It was the biggest yet, and probed places that neither Miguel nor Jack had reached. But he was a more considerate "lover" than they had been, thrusting more deliberately, and with greater imagination and precision. His fucking built more slowly and deliberately, like a train picking up speed as it left a station. Soon, he was fucking me with all the velocity, and even more strength and length, that either Miguel or Jack, and I found myself moaning with pleasure.

He fondled my privates and my breasts gently, to evoke pleasure, not pain or humiliation.

I was soon responding to him like a real lover, and that incited him to even greater exertions. I heard him breathing heavily and slowly behind me and knew he would soon climax. I wanted to turn my head and look at him, but Jack's dick kept me facing forward. He had resumed his brutal assault on my face, now pounding my lips against hi pubic bone and smashing his cock to the back of my throat. As his attack quickened, he began cursing me and calling me his sissy slut, his pansy whore, his cocksucking maricone, that he was going to beat and fuck my faggot ass and fuck my fairy mouth whenever he wanted, and then suddenly he heeled back, thrust forward violently and uncontrollably, and spewed load of foamy sperm down my throat with such force that I soon felt warm rivulets dripping into my stomach.

At the same instant, Seth grabbed my pelvis and rammed me his hardest yet, and as he cried out I felt a huge orgasm explode halfway up my intestines. Seth kept pumping inside me for a dozen more wet, deep, slippery stokes, and it felt like the two great floods met in center of my tummy. After three gigantic gulps Jack had pulled out of my mouth and yanked himself and sprayed his jism over my eyes, nose, lips, chin and hair. It looked like a creamy pink fountain spurting into my face. When it had slowed to a trickle, he put it back between my lips and squeezed his balls to drain the last cum into my mouth. Seth's fountain too had finished, and now he glided his prick gently between the cum lubed walls of my ass. Now I really did feel like a sissy slut whore.

Unfortunately, Miguel wasn't through with me yet. He came back in the room in a rage and yelled "get out of that little cunt-ass." Seth and Jack backed away and Miguel stuck his half-limp dick into my tired mouth. "Suck it, you slut", and I did, with new-found expertise. His dick tasted salty and spicy, and I realized with horror that this was the taste of my beloved Marta's pussy. He got hard as I sucked, and as he did, he pulled out and walked around to my rear.

Seth's jism was still oozing from my ass and dripping down my thighs, and my ass was still red and puckered from the half-hour of non-stop pounding it had taken. Miguel's member easily slid up my ass, as Seth's bountiful spunk provided a superb lubrication.

Miguel only lasted a few minutes before he started grunting and thrusting uncontrollably, and fired his load into my bowels. I felt the warmth of his sperm swimming up inside me, where it merged into the pool of seed that Seth had already deposited in me.

Miguel collapsed on top of me, as Seth and Jack relaxed and dozed in chairs across the room. He softened, and his penis slid out with a final pop and drooped down my thigh.

A steady stream of cum mixed with my ass juices dripped down my crack onto my scrotum and onto the pile of pillows that propped my butt into position.

Miguel grunted and lifted himself off of me, then staggered back to my face and whispered "Lick me clean, bitch." I swallowed his flaccid dick and sucked off my juices and the mixed sperm. I prayed he wouldn't get hard again, but he did, and soon both Miguel was again pounding his dick into my exhausted mouth and throat, screaming obscenities and threats. Jack stirred, and mounted me again from behind, and again began pounding his dick into my slick but tired ass. With a whoop of triumph, Miguel fired another load into my throat, and moments later Jack squirted another load of spunk into my ass. As Miguel slumped into his chair, Jack took position and my face and ordered me to clean his dick. I carefully licked his shrunken member, and was relieved it did not harden again.

As he wobbled unsteadily away, I felt Seth's large hands massaging my cheeks. He brushed my cum-streaked hair behind my ear and whispered "Ready for me again?" I nodded my head and smiled, and he kissed my cheek tenderly. Then, he gently entered my raw behind and slowly accelerated the speed and force with which his cock crashed into my body until I found myself rising and falling with his motion.

He cupped his hands around my cum soaked cockette, and to my astonishment, it began to harden. Our pace quickened, and I ground my tiny member into his strong hand in concert with his massive heaves into my inner spaces. I suddenly felt so full, and so warm, and so tingly, that as he gushed another warm torrent into my belly, I cried out and climaxed, three tiny drops into his palm.

He stayed inside a long time until he grew soft, and then he exited gently and painlessly from my body. "Did you cum?" he asked. I nodded my head, and added "Do you want me to lick you clean?" He offered me his softened penis, and I swallowed it hungrily, sucking and licking it clean of every streak of cum or ass juice. By the time he was clean, I had roused him to a slanty erection, and I asked if he going to fuck me again. He shook his head no, and the he dressed himself and roused Miguel and Jack.

Miguel was still in a rage. "I'll get Marta, you tie the pansy to the bed", Miguel ordered Jack. "I'll do it," Seth volunteered. He tied deliberately loose bonds to the bed posts with my stockings and garters, then covered me with a blanket. His eyes conveyed that he was sorry, and he said apologetically "Miguel runs this set, so I got to do what he says." I watched in horror as Miguel dragged a disheveled and crying Marta down the hall, and cried at the thought that she might have suffered the pain and indignity that I had this night. Jack smacked my ass and said "Good bye bitch. You were great." Seth gave me a pat on the head. Then the house was quiet, and I was left alone with only my thoughts and frightening memories. Eventually, I drifted off to sleep.

I awoke to the flicker of flashlights and the sound of unfamiliar voices. My parents had waited until midnight to call the police, and grandma's house was not exactly the first place they looked. They discovered me still tied to the bed and bums up. "What have we here", said the first officer. "Looks like a female impersonator who got in over his head,"

said the other. They wrapped me in the cum soaked bedspread and took me to the station, treating me as if I were the criminal. I called my parents and told them where I was and that I was OK, but that Marta and I had been attacked by three boys. My dad exploded in rage. "Just what were you and Marta doing at grandma's. I knew that girl was trouble, and I knew there's been something up with you." I told him I couldn't talk about it now. My mom got on the phone and said they were coming right down. I didn't want her to see me this way, and so I told her that I would call her after I was finished with the police report.

The police were unsympathetic and contemptuous. I asked to speak to a rape counselor.

They said it would have to wait until morning. I asked if I could clean up, and they said that they needed to take a rape kit and that too would have to wait until the medical technician arrived in the morning. So I waited in the interview room, cum crusted on my face, hair and bums, and leaking more cum from my ass onto grandma's already sodden bed spread. Finally, a bored looking detective came in. "So tell me what happened here, sonny,' he asked. I gave him an overview, and he said "it sounds pretty consensual to me. There wasn't any forced entry, at least not of the house." He guffawed. It was 10:00 a.m. before they took the rape kit, another deep probing of my wounded ass, and noon by the time I was done with the rape counselor. By then, I knew I would never press charges against Miguel and the others. Everyone, including my own dad, seemed to blame me for the attack. They gave me an AIDS test, and when it came out negative, even my mom told me to forget about it and move on.

I promised my dad I would stop cross-dressing and give up hormones, and I gave him back the remains of the birth control pill I had stolen from his office. Naturally, I still had my Sao Paolo stash, and I secretly kept up the daily estrogen routine. Other than that, we never really talked about the events at grandma's house. The rape counselor took care of the school angle and I never had to go back again. I finished the year on independent study and spent most of my time prepping for the AP exams, which I aced, naturally.

I never saw Marta again. I heard that she had been fucking Miguel before, during and after the time she had been seeing me, so no wonder he was so pissed at me. I saw Seth from afar one afternoon when I was driving back from a shopping trip, but he was with the other motorheads, so he ignored me and I avoided them. I pretty much lost track with the art room crowd, except Quinn who stopped over once or twice, "to see how I was doing." He had heard about my transformation, and it turned out he was mainly interested in seeing how big my boobs had grown. I showed off for him, and hoped my old friend would put the moves on, but it turned out his interest was purely academic. I grew bored and frustrated, and very horny, for a guy-girl who couldn't get himself off any more. Finally, I called the University of Minnesota and asked if I could start in summer school instead of waiting until autumn. They said sure, but my scholarship money wasn't available until Fall Semester. I emptied my bank account and got my mom to cosign for a student loan. I packed my bags, and left home the day after my eighteenth birthday. I think my mom and dad were relieved to get rid of me.

So if anyone tells you what happens in high school doesn't matter, tell them they're wrong or else they're lying. If they go on to tell you that life begins in college, well, I hope that they are right.

The Greatest Lie Chapter 2 Don't You Hate Buses?

Never take a long distance bus if other transportation is available. If I had just lobbied my parents a little harder, they probably would have sprung for the plane fare for my summer school session at Minnesota. They were still pissed at me about the problems I had at the end of senior year, but those same problems made it imperative that I get out of town. After all, when a teenage cross-dresser like me has been gang banged by a Latino gang once, it its only a matter of time before they (or their friends) come back for seconds, or even more.

Just spending a few minutes at the Greyhound Bus Station in downtown LA was enough to convince me that the creeps and losers that I was escaping from must have come from large families, because this place was full of them. The thought of spending three days on a bus with a cross section of this lumpen proletariat made me sick and fearful.

Although I hid behind my Raybans, they gravitated to me. A greasy bearded, tattooed middle aged loser beckoned to me from the bench opposite me. I pretended to ignore him, but he rose and took the empty seat next to me. He hissed in my ear, "I tol-jah ta come eeer, pretty boy." He clamped his callused hand on my skinny forearm. "Wassa matter, dincha get it?" A flash of genius struck, and I responded "Je ne parle pas l'Anglais." He looked at me with disgust and stalked off, not noticing the Los Angeles Times lying on my lap.

That narrow escape brought me back to my immediate dilemma, the painfully distended bladder full of pee, and my fear of going to the men's room at this dump. I hate public rest rooms, and have a difficult time peeing if I even think that somebody might be watching me. The alternative, waiting and trying pee in the swaying rear of a moving Greyhound while all of the passengers watched and waited, seemed even more daunting, so I took my carryon bag of estrogen, female dainties, and amphetamines and skulked as invisibly as I could to the john.

The public bathroom was even worse than I imagined. Instead of urinals, it had a long, canal-like trough, which was lined with pissing travelers. Even though I was wearing boy's undies for this voyage, just the thought of pointing my tiny, estrogen-shrunk penis over a fetid river of piss, while being watched by a long row of real men pissing loudly and freely from real penises, gave me a bashful bladder. So I opted for the most remote of the littered, wet-floored and graffiti-covered stalls. Even though I preferred to pee sitting down, I would rather have died than have sat on the damp, sticky seat. So I squatted and waited nervously for the pressure in my bladder to overcome the nervous sphincter of my little cock. After a long wait, the pee came.

I pulled up my now unfamiliar boy's briefs and struggled to hoist my tight Levi's over my rounded tush. Why was I so nervous, I wondered? When I opened the stall door, I had very good reason to be nervous: there lurked the guy with the greasy beard from the waiting room, pretending to be waiting his turn for my stall. He covered my mouth with one hand and shoved my chest up against the wall, banging me so hard that my Raybans went flying, exposing my fear-filled baby blues. He snapped shut the door latch and put a 5" buck knife to my throat, hissing "sh-sh-sh" menacingly. With his other hand, he fumbled with his belt, button and fly, and his greasy jeans slid down his legs, revealing a long, partly hardened cock. He pointed to it, and nodded commandingly. I nodded back and knelt on the slimy, piss-sprayed floor, remembering not to regain my command of English. I lifted his tumescent member into my mouth.

He was uncut, when his head slipped out from under his foreskin it released a stale and sour slough of dried sweat and dead skin, which his pulsing prick pushed to the back of my throat. The reddish mass of his pubic hair was rough and clumpy, like it hadn't been washed for a week, and it scraped rather than tickled the soft skin of my face and lips.

His filth was so overpowering that I could barely taste his pre-cum.

His shaft was long and ridged with veins. It was long and thin enough to pass my tonsils and slide down my esophagus, so I easily deep throated him. He placed both hands on the nape of my neck and forced my head up and down his long, slender shaft, my gag reflex rebelling at each forceful shove. I controlled it and steadied my motion by bracing on his hairy ass, keeping my fingers well away from his crack. Clearly, this character liked to be in control.

And controlled he was, ramming my face so hard and long that I began to pay attention to the public address announcements for fear of missing my bus. Too speed things up, I slipped one of my hands up between his legs and began massaging his blood-engorged balls. He moaned and began pulsing faster, and then the motion became jerky and more random and his load filled my mouth. And a huge load it was: I had to swallow three gulps to get it all down and keep my sweatshirt clean. When he was done, he tilted my face upward, as if to study it. Then, he spat in my face, slapped me and wordlessly opened the door and left.

I was alone, wet kneed on the filthy toilet floor, spit mixed with tears of humiliation dripping down my flushed and stinging cheeks. Then, I heard my bus announced. I grabbed my Raybans and bag, pulled myself to my feet, rinsed my hands and faced and hurriedly gargled with the cold water of the stained and paper towel-stuffed sink. I ran off to my bus and jumped aboard just as the doors were about to close. God, I thought, if this is the real world, it's even worse than high school! I noted with relief that greasy beard was not a passenger on my bus.

I found a window seat next to a Mexican woman and tried to compose myself. What rotten luck I had. When I dress as a boy, my effeminate good lucks attracted the worst weirdoes of this world. I didn't have the I.D., or the nerve, to pass full time as a girl. I felt trapped and helpless. Fortunately, this bus was filled with modest working folk returning to their families or heading off to factories or fields. I found their ordinariness comforting. None of them would take an interest in me, I hoped.

When we were on the Interstate, I went to the bathroom, bag in hand. I stuck my finger down my sore throat forced myself to vomit. I washed my face and brushed my teeth about five times, to get the foul taste of my assailant out of my mouth. To get him out of my memory, I bared my ass and injected a double dose of estrogen, and popped a couple of Valium.

Then, to further boost my morale, I changed out of my jockeys and put on some flowered cotton panties and a matching training bra. I looked in the spotted and swaying mirror, and realized I looked frazzled and ashen. I put on a little mascara and eye shadow, and some lip gloss, and felt much better. I covered up with my Raybans and a baseball cap, returned to my seat by my Mexican madre. The estrogen/Valium combo, together with the rumble of the bus through the desert, worked their magic, and my troubles slipped away into sleep.

I must have slept through a stop or two because when I woke up "Mother Mexico" was gone, and replaced by a uniformed, six foot tall soldier. I was startled and thrilled: he was gorgeous, but sound asleep. I climbed gingerly over his massive thighs, to take a pee and make some preparations for some serious conversation after he awoke. He would be the perfect antidote to old greasy beard. I asked the driver our next stop: six hours non- stop to Denver, where I had a layover. Plenty of time to get acquainted and to make plans for a very special "lay" over.

In the bathroom, I prepared myself for "whatever" by douching my ass. No matter how little I eat, traveling always constipates me. How gross! I held it as long as I could as it swirled like a wild tide with the sway of the bus over the mountainous highway. I squeezed it in, imagining I was pregnant and in labor with the soldier's baby. I brushed out my hair, applied foundation, spritzed with a subtle Eau de Toilet, interrupted, occasionally, by urgent feelings and expulsions from my gut. I changed from my bulky sweatshirt to a tight, rolled neck T, and draped a simple gold chain around my neck. For inspiration, I popped a black beauty and attached a couple of estrogen patches to the undersides of my nubile breasts. By the time I was done, I heard urgent knocking and angry Spanish through the door, but my tush was squeaky clean, empty, and lightly lubed, and I looked really cute. I stepped over the sleeping soldier again, this time gently brushing his thigh with my butt as I settled in my seat.

He stirred in the mid morning glare, squinted, turned to me, squinted again, and rumbled "Whoa, excuse you, Miss, errr, Good Morning!" He was befuddled by sleep and by the vision of me. I flipped back my baseball cap, raised my Raybans, and batted my eyes.

"Good Morning to you, soldier." Well, it emerged he was not really a soldier, Air Force Reserve, whatever that was, but what the hell. I wasn't really a Miss, either. But I would explain that later.

His name was Jake, he had gone straight into the service out of high school, gone to college on government grants, and now he had to re-up for another year of active duty and three more in the Reserves. The problem was, he didn't really like it any more.

After college (he had gone to Minnesota for two years!) the Air Force guys all seemed to rah-rah! He was sick of it and wad glad he had only six months left. I listened attentively, nodding, flirting, and agreeing with everything. Then I told him I was on my way to start college at Minnesota.

He was so excited, telling me all about the wonderful people and experiences. "You make it sound like Athens in the tundra," I said. He agreed completely, like a modern day Greece set down in the Mid West. I told him how glad I was to be escaping LA. He wondered why. It seemed so tolerant, hedonistic, and creative. Not my high school, I said. "Well, nobody's high school is! Anyhow, you're gonna love Minnesota." But first, I thought, I am going to love you. "But enough about me," I cooed. What's next for you."

"I have a couple of days leave in Denver, then I report to an air base in Colorado Springs, which sucks!" he said. I smiled inwardly. Soldier, you're gonna have a leave in Denver that both sucks and fucks. I mentally rearranged my travel plans to defer my arrival in Minnesota.

By the time we pulled into Denver, we had made plans to get together for dinner and a night out exploring the city. We split up to get our hotels, but I was so sure of myself that I changed in the ladies room at the bus station and saved my hotel money. I hadn't eaten since LA, but I still wasn't hungry, so I popped another black cad and couple of Premarin. My estrogen level felt high, and my nipples and breasts ached with sensation when I pulled off the patches, but they had never looked bigger. They quivered and jiggled as I sponge-bathed in one of the ladies room toilet stalls. I felt better after I had cleaned my ass and cockette with a damp towel, and spritzed more Eau de Cologne all over. It felt cool and shriveled my balls nicely. Then I moisturized and lubed myself lightly.

It felt good to get out of my dirty-kneed Levi's and into a pair of Capri's and my mules.

None of the ladies batted an eye as I preened in the mirror, adding lipstick to my gloss, and color to my cheeks. I popped some dainty gold hoops in my ears to match the necklace. The woman next to me noticed my self-inspection and commented "Don't worry honey, you look great!" I was so thrilled. I thanked her, wondering how I would tell Jake about my special problem.

We had agreed to meet at one of those beer and burger places, and I arrived first and ordered a diet coke. Like clockwork, one of the local losers sidled up. Blowing cigarette smoke toward my face, he began pestering me. "Where r'you from, what's your name, what's your sign, I'm Cancer." "Right," I agreed. "You do remind me of a cancer: lung cancer," I replied haughtily. He stupidly mumbled "fuck you, cunt" and walked back to his lonely table. I was thrilled at my bitchy brilliance, and delighted that he had thought I was a girl.

Jake arrived moments after I brushed off the pick up guy, and told the bartender we needed a table. We ordered but I was so cranked that I ate little. I noticed he ate heartily but had good manners. I asked him a lot of questions about himself and let him ramble on. I knew that guys liked that, since I had been one. And that kept the conversation off the delicate question of my background.

After dinner, we took a walk in the cool evening. He held my little hand tenderly in his, and when we paused to view a pretty vista, he put his muscular arm around my narrow shoulders. I turned my head, looked into his eyes and said "I'm cold". With that he gathered me in his arms and gave me the first real romantic kiss of my life as a girl, as he gently stoked my upper arms and back. He was built like a marble statue, and I melted.

After an eternity, his lips broke contact with my trembling mouth, and he asked "Did that warm you up?" I replied, "I'm boiling now", and he laughed. We were near his hotel, so he suggested that we go back there and get an extra sweatshirt for me. I readily agreed.

It would be ridiculously big on me, but I wasn't planning on going back outside that night anyhow.

We went to his room and I went to the bathroom to freshen up my cologne and tush. I hadn't eaten for days, and my ass felt clean and fresh when I probed it with a finger full of KY. Tingling all over from my self inspection, I resolved to confront the issue that I had been ducking and dreading. Jake was sitting on the bed. I sat down beside him, and began my confession, my head hanging , and my eyes staring at my pretty little feet.

"Jake, I'm different from the other girls you have met."

"What do you mean?" Tears streamed down my face, and emotion choked my throat.

This was it, the moment of devastating rejection or acceptance as a special kind of girl.

In a hoarse and halting voice, I admitted "I have been a girl as long as I can remember, but I was born in a boy's body." My voice was overcome with involuntary sobs as these words passed my lips, which spread and spasmed through my body. It was the first time I had ever dared admit this out loud. My eyes were blinded, and my ears deafened by the force of my emotional response to this devastating admission. I did not know if Jake would kick me out onto the street, beat me senseless, or accept me into his heart. I was so overwhelmed by the pain of articulating the secret that I had hidden inside me for so many years, and so overcome by my intense desire to be possessed by him, that I practically lost consciousness.

The first sensation I had was of his arms around my shoulders, pressing my teary face against his chest, and of the whispered words "that's OK, baby" in my ears. My eyes still blinded with tears, I lifted my face from his chest to meet a chaste kiss on my lips. I responded and was soon experiencing for the first time from the girl's side a truly hot and passionate kiss. I let my lips yield and open and felt his warm tongue enter and stroke mine. My arms were pinned to my sides by his embrace, but when he relaxed his grip to allow his hands to explore the tingling territory from my waist to my tingling breasts, I left them there, as if I were now his willing prisoner. The increasing passion of his kisses tilted my head back and as I continued to melt under his embrace, he rolled me back on the bed and lay atop me. His kisses paused, and for the first time I opened my eyes.

"You sure don't look, feel or kiss like a boy," he said, and resumed his exploration of my breasts, bottom and mouth.

My relief at these words released all my pent-up desire and horniness. I had been on hormones for over four months now and they had so totally overcome the boy hormones that I had not cum since Seth had brought me to climax at the end of my Prom nightmare.

The press of Jake's well muscled, 6'1" frame on my petite and estrogen softened figure filled me with exquisite sensations to match the emotions that filled my heart, and these built on each other to a nearly unbearable passion. The next time his lips released mine, I gasped "I'm boiling. Let's undress!" I pulled my top over my head, tousling my long hair over my face like a gauzy veil, and wriggled out of my Capri's. I left my bra and panties for him. He returned to me, naked and hard, unhooked my bra, and began alternating kisses of my breasts and lips as he gently stroked the front of my panties. I lay back passively and gave him free reign over my body. My one inch nipples grew hard and rose to the tingling touch of his tongue and lips. My little cockette did the same under his gentle massage, despite the speed and hormones.

After about two minutes of this, I could not stand receiving without giving back. I hoarsely whispered "OK, my turn!" and he released my from the gentle prison of his embrace. I rose and knelt between his knees, then bowed to worship his circumcised, eight inch cock. As I took it in my mouth, I reveled in its fresh, meaty taste, which was immediately and pleasantly seasoned by his ocean-scented pre-cum. I began tentatively, not wanting to show immediately the full extent of my painfully gained oral experience.

He guided my head lightly, and I picked up the pace and introduced some tongue flicks and flutters, as I took him ever deeper into my mouth and throat. He certainly was well hung, long and thick, and his testicles, which I now cupped in my little palm, were huge and hard. He was breathing hard, but I did not want him to climax yet, so I paused, and as his eyes opened, I said, appreciatively, "Yum."

He lifted me up and onto bed and again sat over me, as I looked up at him adoringly. He kissed me, enjoying the first flavors of his manhood in my mouth. Then, he gripped the waistband of my panties and began to slide them down. As he did, I searched his eyes for his reaction. They did widen when my tiny cockette popped out, but only momentarily. I wriggled my hips to help him, and soon my panties were dangling from one ankle as he took my tiny but erect cock and firm compact scrotum as a single mouthful, while with one hand he fondled my breasts and the other explored the crevasse of my rounded ass. I moaned gratefully in response. As minutes passed, waves of blinding ecstasy swept over me, and when his fingers at last found the doorway to my tight hole, I was on the verge of my first climax in months.

I said "Stop", and he looked at me, surprised and hurt. "What's the matter, baby" he asked. "It's OK, I said, I just don't want to cum that way. Just a minute. Stay here", I said, as I made a last trip to the bathroom. I quickly checked the condition of my hairless bum. It was pristine, and I applied a generous dab of lubricant. I fluffed my hair, added a little gloss to my swollen lips. I grabbed a condom, then decided against it. He was lying on the bed, slightly softened, so I plopped down beside him and quickly brought him to full attention with a dozen deft stokes of my lube-covered hand. I looked lovingly into his eyes and said boldly, "I want you to fuck me now."

He looked happy and relieved. "I'm just dying to fuck you but I was afraid to ask. I don't want to hurt you."

"That's OK," I said, "just remember to start slow."

"I'll try," he said. I lay on my back and lifted my ankles to his shoulders, raising my ass into perfect position for him. He pressed his dick-head gently against my hole, and we beheld each other silently for a moment. "OK," I sighed, and he pressed forward, as I pressed my sphincters down. As his head slipped through the tight ring of my anus I gasped, and he thoughtfully stopped. As tears rose in my eyes, I concentrated on relaxing my ass muscles. "OK, go on" I said, gritting my teeth and pressing down as another massive inch slipped up me. "God, you're so tight", he said. "You feel so good!"

"Be careful, I'm a virgin." And I believed I really was, that the brutal and forced sex of Prom night and at the bus station had been nothing. This, at last, was the real thing. "Just keep going slowly until I can get used to you," I begged. As my body grew accustomed to his presence inside me, I signaled him wordlessly with my eyes, and he pressed forward another inch. I moaned again, this time with obvious pleasure. Three more perfectly timed strokes and he was inside me to the hilt. My ass and tummy felt warm and pleasantly full. I beckoned him with my lips, and he leaned forward to kissed me passionately again. As his full weight crashed down on me, it spread my legs akimbo, and wrenched the massive penis inside me to a delightful new angle. But still my rectum gripped him tightly.

Now he rose, and bracing himself with one hand cupped on my breast, and the other rubbing my little dickie like it was a clit, he began gently rocking his pelvis. With my legs up and my ankles balanced on his shoulders, I lay back and enjoyed him, immobilized by his weight to helpless vulnerability. Inside, my juices began to flow, and as they lubricated his dick inside me, his strokes became longer and more wanton. Soon, he was plunging his full length, in and out, with accelerating velocity and increasing force.

The rapid motion and slight friction of his large organ in my tight, wet hole sent waves of warm pleasure through me, occasionally mixed with moments of pain as his marauding penis reached new territory. The slap of his thighs against my bottom blended with the sound of his grunts and heavy breathing and my own sighs and moans to form an erotic symphony. Now, tears of joy and pleasure filled my eyes, and I felt that we were both nearing orgasm. But it was too soon. Again, I whispered "Slow down", and his pace gradually diminished, allowing us to pull back from the brink.

I whispered "I want you behind me," and he lifted one of my feet over his head and spun me onto his tummy. As my ass spun around his cock I was filled with pleasure from the corkscrew motion of his cock in my ass and with the expectation of being possessed by him from behind. When he mounted me from behind, his cock felt even bigger, and his weight took my breath away. He slipped one arm beneath my breasts, and spread his long fingers to tweak both of my nipples. In his other hand he cupped my tiny but excited cockette. In this position, his cock found new spaces to invade, and I groaned each time his cock conquered new territory. As each new place became slathered in ass juice, his pace again accelerated.

From this angle, my soft round ass muscles could better respond to him, and I undulated in concert with his thrusts. That made him even more wild and forceful in his fucking.

Now, the sounds of slapping flesh and our heaving breaths grew more intense, and the sensations his heat and strength pounding inside me grew overpowering. Uncontrollable forces conquered both of our bodies, and I heard my own voice rise involuntarily from within me in a wordless language that only he could answer, with deep throated grunts of his own. With a spasm that gripped me from head to toe, I climaxed in his hand, and a moment later, he came in a dozen massive spurts inside me. Every muscle from my anus to my throat spasmed gratefully in response, as if my ass had had an orgasm of its own.

He kept moving, more slowly now, his still hard dick sailing on the ocean it had made inside me. With that vision in my mind, I drifted into a deep sleep.

I awoke god only knows how much longer later to a tickling feeling between my thighs, a pleasant weight on my back and a slight sensation of fullness in my ass. His warm cum was oozing out my cock-filled ass, and he was snoring on top of me. I enjoyed these pleasant sensations for a few minutes, but he was very heavy, and I was actually having a little trouble getting enough breath. I finally grazed my shoulder against his cheek, and he awoke with a yawn, followed by a smile. "Wow, you are great" he said, gently pulling his softened cock out of me. I felt an inner ocean of sperm and ass juice start to pour out of my uncorked ass, and quickly squeezed my cheeks to keep it in. "Excuse me", I said, and scampered to the toilet. I wondered if you were supposed to leave the door open or closed in these situations: my old mentor Marta had never covered that. I compromised and left it ajar as I cleaned up my well exercised bottom and peed sitting down.

When I came back, he was lying on his back. Wordlessly, I knelt between his legs and began to clean the residue of my tush from his penis. He quickly hardened and began heaving his hips as I licked and stroked his cock and balls. Soon, I was bobbing my tired head energetically under his guiding hand. After the long, hard fuck, I was pleasantly surprised at how quickly I brought him to a second climax, this one in my hungry mouth.

It was delicious: the first meal I had had since leaving LA two days earlier.

Jake slept as I did a little beautifying. I painted my nails, tweezed my eyebrows, douched, a took a Premarin. He woke up after a half-hour, and I said "I was just about to take a shower, care to join me?" He practically jumped for joy at that suggestion and soon we were behind the curtain of the shower, and Jake was exploring every square inch of me with his soapy fingers. By the time our shower was over, I felt like I had never been cleaner in my life.

He went out for pizza and beer as I cleansed, moisturized, and put on fresh makeup and nail polish. I blew dry and brushed my shoulder length blond tresses, and pulled them into tight, school girlish pigtails. By the time he got back I really looked quite lovely in my negligee and dainty slippers. I ate a piece of pizza and even had a sip of beer (yuck!) The food and drink revived Jake as well: after the pizza was gone he fucked me long into the night, and we slept until late the next morning. By morning, he had recovered enough to make love to me again. We took another sexy shower and then emerged from our love nest explore Denver by day. Jake took me on a lengthy shopping spree, and I happily augmented my stash of cosmetics, jewelry and girl's clothing and accessories. I felt a little guilty about the money he was spending on me, but what the hell, I was worth it.

And besides, each time my shopping bags were full, we would return to our room for another session of lovemaking.

And so it went for two days, until our groins were sore and raw, and his leave was over.

He even went AWOL for eight hours so he could see me off on the early morning bus to Minneapolis. He had given me his name, unit and address, and told me to write when I had a home, so he could come see me. I promised I would. There were tears streaming down my cheeks as I kissed my first love goodbye from the steps of my Minneapolis- bound Greyhound.

The Greatest Lie Chapter 3 Town and Gown

My weekend escapade with my first real lover, Jake, convinced me that I was destined to live as a girl, despite having been born a boy. Unfortunately, it was my male persona to whom the University of Minnesota had extended admission and a scholarship, and I wasn't quite sure how they would react if I showed up asking for a room in the women's dormitory.

It was bad enough that I, a product of middle class privilege, had leveraged a Spanish surname into a lucrative scholarship, but to present them with an undisclosed gender reversal might put me sideways with the Admissions Committee and the scholarship people. I needed the dough from the scholarship, because during my senior year I had managed to alienate my parents through some complications arising from my crossdressing habit. With great regret, after I arrived in Minneapolis, I changed back into boys clothing to register as a freshman entering the summer session, and tried to reclaim my male persona.

One good thing about registering for summer school was there were hardly any other freshman around. I got assigned to a single dorm room, and got all of the classes that I wanted. As a freshman, I was quite a novelty among my classmates, who were split between remedial types that were making up failures from the prior year and nerds who were single-mindedly piling up credits as fast as possible. I was so young that I had little in common with my older classmates and spent most of my time in my room or the library reading and doing homework, dressed en femme. Naturally, I loved studying. I had to, because, typical ambitious me, I had signed up for all upper level classes.

The teaching assistant for my "Gender Roles In Literature" class was Jon, a tall, dark intellectual grad student in the English Department. At the end of the first week of class, he invited me for coffee. By then, I was getting lonely, so I gratefully accepted. As I usually do when I meet new people, I asked a lot of flattering questions and let him talk about himself. He was from a wealthy family from Chicago. He told me he was bisexual, but recently he had lost interest in sex completely. In a matter of fact manner, as if it were of no concern to him, or to me, he asked "Alex, are you gay?" Whatever I was, I had grown accustomed to hiding it, and so I replied that I was still trying to figure some things out about myself. He liked that answer, and said he was still trying to figure himself out too.

He was on the Board of the Alliance of Gay, Lesbian and Transgendered Students, and was in charge of a task force monitoring and investigating and reporting to the administration on any harassment of gays on campus. In my situation I thought he might be helpful, so I made the Friday afternoon coffee a regular event, and waited to see if anything developed. He certainly had the trappings of campus power. The Alliance had an office in the Student Union and Jon had a desk there. Of course, he also had TA's office in the English Department. In academia, I knew from my dad's experiences, office space was the talisman of power. It looked like Jon was doing well in that department.

The course work was demanding, and I really wanted to excel. If I had straight A's, the Scholarship committee might be more forgiving when I tried to change my registration to a girl's name. I just studied all the time, tried not to think about sex and stepped up my hormones to keep my libido suppressed. The only thing was, by this time, my breasts and ass were getting pretty noticeable. Even wearing baggy boys clothing and my hair piled up in a baseball cap, I still got wolf whistles when I walked by construction sites.

Finals were really hard, and the Gender Roles exam was particularly lengthy. I ran out of time and had to more or less sketch out my last answer. The day after the exam, Jon met me to talk about my answers. "Alex, I could tell you were on the right track on the question about Orlando, but you really never got to the point." "I'm so sorry, I had never had a final like that, with so much to cover. I just ran out of time" "It's really not fair, you're so much younger than the other students. Your other answers were wonderful, but this one was for the most points, and it was not good." "If only I could have had more time." "Maybe you can. Come over to my place tonight."

I was pleased Jon was taking such a great interest in me. Was it my mind, or my body, I wondered? I re-read my notes Orlando, and freshened up. If he going prepared to give me another half hour on the exam, I would gladly give him a half hour he would never forget.

Jon had my exam book, partly marked up, but not graded. I sat at his kitchen table and he gave me the test and set a timer for a half hour. I sat down and wrote a brilliant essay, as he paced the room and watched me. When the half-hour was up, he took back the exam.

"I'll read and grade that tomorrow," he said. "Now, let's relax," he said as he put on a Tracy Chapman CD and produced a joint and a bottle of Chianti. I hadn't had a drink or gotten high for months, and I soon had a pleasant buzz. My inhibitions had receded, but not my preoccupation with my performance on the exam.

I got up to pee, and checked myself in his bathroom mirror. Even slightly buzzed, I looked really good. I had on this totally subtle makeup. I added some shadow, mascara and gloss, looked at myself again, and decided I looked gorgeous. I mouthed "Good luck" to my reflection, returned to the couch where Jon relaxed, and boldly sat in his lap and threw an arm around his shoulder. He looked pleasantly surprised. I made close eye contact and asked "Jon, remember the first day we met and you asked if I were gay?" He nodded. "Well, I'm not. But I'm not straight either, and I am so mixed up about myself." I batted moist eyes in his, looking confused and vulnerable.

I wasn't really confused, but I liked the way it sounded: like I needed his advice. He rose to the bait. "Do you like sex with boys or girls?" "Both, but when I have sex with girls, I feel gay, and when I have sex with boys, I feel straight." Jon reflected a moment, looked at me with seemingly clinical interest, and then opined "in my opinion, you must be a transsexual." I gaped and asked "what do you mean?" It was feigned surprise. After all, I had spent hours in the medical library at UCLA researching my self-medication. But Jon expounded on the clinical and social aspects of transsexuals, and I responded like one of Dr. Freud's admiring acolytes. I admitted that I had been cross dressing and taking hormones for months, on my own, and now Jon was surprised and intrigued: his curiosity manifested itself through his hands, as much as his words. They slipped beneath my baggy Golden Gophers sweatshirt and quickly found my satin spaghetti strap camisole.

From that discovery it was only a short interval until he discovered my pert, firm breasts.

Six months of heavy estrogen doses, and large breasted genetics in both my maternal and paternal lines, had produced small but perfectly formed, inverted ice cream cones that jiggled pleasantly but never sagged, topped with silver dollar sized maroon aereoles. I raised my arms, as if in surrender, and he pulled my sweatshirt off.

Jon, the silver tongued pedagogue, was tongue tied with surprise and lust: all he could manage was a husky "O wow" before he slid the straps down over my slender shoulders began devouring my breasts. But there, his tongue discovered a mute eloquence, as he licked and kissed me in a frenzy, as I cradled his head like a suckling baby's. I slipped my hand between his legs and began massaging his cock through his jeans. In a few minutes he broke his lips grip on my nipples and picked up my 5'7", 105 pound frame and carried me into his bedroom. "You are the most fantastic trans I have ever met," he said. "You can act like a perfectly normal boy, but you have the perfect body of a young girl." "Thank you," I said "but I'm not quite perfect yet." "We'll see about that", he said, and pulled off my pants and began rubbing the front panel of my panties.

My tiny cockette responded with a mini erection that strained against the front of my panties. As he stroked my cockette, his other hand continued to explore my breasts, which now piled up in perfect, soft mounds on my chest as I reclined. I released my streaky blond hair from its pony tail so it would frame my face, and then asked "Jon, what are you going to do to me?" Eight weeks of sexual abstinence had me painfully horny, so I had some ideas of my own. He responded wordlessly by disrobing, and I wriggled out of my panties and camisole. "Let's try this for starters," he said as he assumed a "69" position above me.

His body was thin and not too hairy, and his circumcised penis was larger than I had expected. It filled my mouth and nostrils with a slightly mossy taste that was quickly spiced with the pleasant, sea foam of his pre-cum. His mouth took in fully my dainty cock and balls, which he began to suck with great expertise. One of his hands explored beneath my ass and quickly found my hole, and his fingers played and poked there with delightful persistence. By now, I was taking the full length of his cock down my mouth and throat, my arms around his ass and adding even greater force to his rise and fall over my upturned face. In this position, there was nothing but my gag reflex to stop it from entering fully, and I had learned well how to suppress that well. My natural talents soon brought Jon to the brink of climax, but I did not want it that way. I gently braked his thighs with my hands, and gasped "Wait." He must have guessed what I was thinking, because he rose and lay down next to me. We kissed, mingling the delicate flavors of my little dickie with the meatier stronger flavors of his swollen cock. Then he began a most unequal sword fight with our mismatched penises.

My lubricant was in the other room, and I did not want to break this spell. "Do you have any KY?" He rolled over and produced a bottle of "Astrolube" and a couple of condoms from his bedstead. "This is better," he said, handing me the lubricant. He deftly slipped on a condom as I lubricated my ass. "Put some on my cock," he advised, and I applied it liberally, with several slippery strokes that made his penis twitch in my hands. Holding the second condom and looking at my tiny cockette and shriveled balls, he said "I'm afraid this isn't going to fit you." "I don't need it," I said, settling face downward on the bed and raising my ass provocatively in the air.

He bounded into position behind me and began testing my anus with his hard member.

"You sure are tight", he said, as his penis rebounded for the third time from his attempted entry. I reached my hand back to guide him. "Please go slowly," I reminded him. This time, two of the seven inches of his cock entered me, and as the fiery electric charge of pain built in me, I said "Go on", exerting maximum counter-pressure to ease his entry.

Two more inches of pain filled with ecstasy, then two more, and he was in. Sharp pain shot through me from my ass to my head, and my tear-filled eyes were blinded as if by a flashbulb, but agony faded to a pleasant glow of pleasure, just as a flashbulb's aura disappears.

He gasped "Wow, are you tight!" I feigned worry for his encased prick. "Are you OK", and he replied "Are you kidding, I'm great. Are you?" My voice choked with pain, I replied "It's getting better. You're so big!" I knew guys liked to hear that, and he was about average, in my limited experience. The initial moments of anal intercourse are always excruciating for me, until my sphincters relax and my internal juices start flowing.

Jon was a very considerate lover, remaining almost still at first and letting me grow accustomed to his length and width. Gradually, the fires inside me subsided to a smolder of pleasure, and I said "Go ahead and fuck me hard".

He began probing me carefully as he sought to arouse me with gentle tweaks of my nipples and massaging of my cockette. Gradually, I opened up and he began to thrust in and out with greater energy. He did not possess the superhuman strength of Jake or the animal barbarity of my motorhead rapists, but he was in good shape and was experienced and expert in the art of sodomy.

We were in my favorite position, a prone doggy style, and I responded to his lunges with my own contractions and hip gyrations. I could tell he was approaching orgasm, and I wasn't ready, so I said "Please slow down," and he did. I wanted to be fucked more but I didn't really have any great ideas, so I asked him "Do you have any favorite positions?"

He withdrew from me carefully, and "Sit on me", as he lay on his back. I straddled his prone body, ass poised above his upright dick, and I impaled myself.

Even in my well lubricated condition, this maneuver took my breath away, as he pierced me from a totally unexpected angle. It felt like a deeper penetration than ever, and he was able to send himself even deeper with up-thrusts of his hips. But now how hard I wanted to be fucked was up to me, and soon I was riding up and down as hard as my weak little thighs could lift me, and repeatedly banging his cock-head from my rectum to my diaphragm. It slipped out with a painful snap, but when it escaped, I aimed my ass and re-inserted him with reckless abandon, for now my rectum was wet and ready.

He stroked my bobbing breasts and cock as I screamed and rode him until I was totally exhausted and glistening with perspiration. As I rested atop his stomach, breath heaving, a little droplet of sweat dripped onto his stomach. My flushed face grew even redder with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I usually don't get this much exercise."

He sat up, still inside me, and pulled my legs around his back. "Try this, as he settled me back down onto his prick from a face to face embrace, and kissed my breathless lips. I felt like my insides were melting, as he gently bounced me up and down as I regained my breath. "I love both of these positions," I said. "Can we try any others?" He lifted me, and supporting my back as he went, dropped me into the legs up position for a few strokes. My spine twisted and ached as it recoiled from a few dozen powerful strokes.

Compared to the nurturing position that had preceded it, the legs up position seemed crude, barbaric and uncomfortable—OK for a cautious entry, but cruel for real fucking.

He must have sensed this, for soon he lifted one of my legs over his head to my side, and rode me from atop my other leg. I had never felt so trapped and vulnerable, and his penis found new angles and places to probe and excite me. Finally, he rolled me back over onto my tummy.

"Which one did you like best?" "This one," I answered, twisting my tush as he thirsted anew. The rotation through the positions and the varied angles that I had been penetrated made me feel both more relaxed and more fully stimulated. He seemed more rested and his movements were even stronger and more confident. Soon, I felt like my insides were boiling again, and his movements grew ever faster and more intense. Finally, I felt him lose control and begin jerking wildly inside me. He had climaxed. He kept on fucking and stimulating me, but it was no use. Realizing as he drifted into a post orgasmic sleep that I had not climaxed, he whispered "I'm sorry" in my ear. I responded "That's OK, you were great."

I had sort of missed the feeling of cum spurting inside me and tickling the walls of my intestines. But I did not miss the drip of sticky seed dripping down my thighs and forming a cold wet spot beneath my groin, while pinned beneath a snoring body. I enjoyed Jon's weight atop me. He weighed enough to make me feel subjugated without being suffocated. I closed my eyes and permitted myself a brief fantasy about being his faculty wife, and serving tea to his students. But before long the fantasy had shifted to my blowing one of the students in the closet while Jon pontificated to the others, and then he woke up and pulled out of me.

He rose and flushed his rubber, and then said "Wow, er-ah..." "You can call me Ally" I interjected "AH-Allie, I wish I had known you better earlier this summer." "You could have tried harder", I teased, recognizing secretly that he had been trying, but never asked the right questions. "My problem was that you are a master, er, a mistress of camouflage." "You mean at pretending to be a girl," I pouted. "No, at pretending to be a boy," he replied. "Flattery will get you everywhere," I said smiling. I shivered. Now that I wasn't warmed up by body friction, it was a little cold. He got me one of his T- shirts. It fit me like a dress. He poured some more Chianti. "Who is your doctor?" "I dunno, Student health, I guess." "No, I mean for the hormones. You must be on estrogen to have developed as you have." He playfully squeezed my breast to emphasize his point.

"I guess that's me." He was astounded.

I gave him a sanitized version of my acquisition of my hormone stash and assured him, somewhat inaccurately, that I had researched and was strictly following appropriate protocols. He was amazed at my ingenuity, but concerned. "You could kill yourself with estrogen. You really need to be monitored. I'll find you a doctor through the Alliance."

"Not somebody from the Medical School." I confided my fears about coming out to the Registrar and the Scholarship people before I had an academic track record. "That's why I was so upset about screwing up the Gender in Literature final." "You've got a point there. But it's not just making them love you for your grades. We had better make this look like a slow transition, not like something you had decided on before you got here.

You are going to have to keep that "boy act" in practice for a semester or two, to make it look like a gradual thing."

He was going home on break the next evening. "Gotta check in with the `rents'", he joked. "Where are you going?" Mom and dad were going to a conference in Egypt and had half-heartedly invited me, but I wasn't to thrilled about touring a country were my gender status was capital offense. I wasn't too thrilled about taking the bus back LA to dodge the motorheads in my neighborhood either. Unfortunately, the dorms were closed, so I couldn't stay there either. I was temporarily homeless. "Stay here," he offered, giving me a key.

He promised that when he got back he would try to set things in motion for my transition to a female identity when he got back for Fall Semester. I spent the night with him and made him come in my mouth the next morning. He was delicious. He kissed me goodbye, took off to drop off my exam at the English Department and then left for Chicago in his Miata. I was delighted to have not only a new lover, but an advisor and protector. I was even more delighted when I swung by the English Department to check the grades in "Gender Roles." I had a 97.

There is nothing so sad and depressing as a college campus between terms. The place was empty except for a few foreign students and people like me, stranded by circumstances, in the unfamiliar situation of having nothing to do. After a couple of days of catching up on sleep and doing some research on hormone treatments of transsexuals at the medical library, I ran out of things to do, and started to feel bored and useless. So I decided to explore Minneapolis. It was then I stumbled on Hennepin Avenue, a downtown street lined with flop houses, arcades, bars, and late at night, whores. They beckoned passing cars with gestures that ran from the seductive to the outrageous, and they drew traffic jams of onlookers and customers, and only sporadic attention from the indifferent police.

I was fascinated. I spent an evening studying them while nursing cups of cheap coffee at a greasy spoon cafe. The technique looked simple enough: stand by the curbside, baring a stiletto-heeled leg, until a car stopped. Poke a head in the window, negotiate, and if a deal was struck, enter and drive off, to the envious cluck-clucking of the competition. A quarter hour later, the car would return, and the lucky lady would resume her post.

I watched as one girl turn a dozen tricks that evening. Finally, she came in for a coke, and sat next to me at the bar. She asked "Wah wuz you lookin' at, bitch? Uuah cop?"

"Me, a cop? No way, I ran away from home and I'm trying to figure out what to do."

She looked at my "University High" sweatshirt, jeans and Sketchers. I looked the part, and she relaxed. She was 20 years old: a pretty, busty bronze skinned African American from Memphis. "What are you doin' out there?" I asked innocently. She smiled knowingly and said "Turnin' tricks, a-course." "Would you show me how? I'm broke. "

"Show nuff" she said. "But I'm dun t'nite. Made ova 500 dollas. Gonna buy me some ice now, get high t'mara. Meet me here t'mara et 8, and dress nice, know watah mean?"

I knew exactly what she meant.

I woke up the next morning early and began preparing my day of beauty, Hennepin style.

At a cheap Vietnamese beauty salon, I had my hair bleached platinum and corn-rowed. I got a facial, a manicure with nail extensions, painted Valentines day red, a pedicure to match, and bought the trashiest red spaghetti strap dress and the tallest, strappiest red stiletto sandals I could find. I bought a pair of outrageously big gold hoops and the brightest collage of foundation, mascara and lipstick that my pale complexion could handle. With the latest Allure magazine as my guide, I made my makeup as provocative as I could.

As I dressed, I folded my shrunken scrotum forward over my tiny penis and taped it securely into a compact cocoon. I had bought a box of jumbo sized, winged Tampax panty liners, and I splashed some ancient ketchup from Jon's fridge on one and put it into my panties. I didn't want some horny trick to discover my secret while insisting on fucking me: I would tell them I was having a really heavy period, and as you know, I'm a really good liar. With my veins coursing with an extra large dose of estrogen and speed, I took a cab to meet Daylene for final preparations. The cab was an extravagance after my spendthrift day, but the heels were already killing me, and I planned to be on my feet a long time that night.

Daylene's eyes goggled when I wobbled into our greasy spoon on my unsteady and pinched feet. "Wo, bitch, ya look hot!" she complimented me. I replied, "you too. So what's your secret, Daylene? I want both of us to break your record from last night."

"Jus act happy, y'no" she responded. "How do you avoid the weirdoes?" Daylene responded, "there's a kunvenchun, farm kwipent r somthin. Weirdest thang bout dem is dere axents. Jus look happy an tell'em 50 bucks fer head, hunnerd fer a fuck. Dey all take head." We giggled. I liked her. We walked out into the muggy evening, found a dark corner and smoked a hit of ice together. It was 9:30 when we took our places on Hennepin, still giggling in the giddy excitement of a speed buzz. At about 9:31, the first car pulled up and rolled down its window.

I must have looked about 13 years old, with my slim legs and arms, wasp waist, my small breasts bouncing subtly as I staggered slightly in my ridiculously high heels. "Get in, little girl, let me take you for a ride" said the middle aged, slightly paunchy Viking sitting high in his Suburban. I improvised from Daylene's pitch, in view of my special circumstances. "Fifty for head, twenty-five for a hand job." "How much for a fuck?"

"Can't, `m hav'n my period." "OK, hop in." "Where's my donation?" He handed me a fifty, and I put it in my handbag. My heart was racing, but I concentrated on being happy.

I complimented him on his car, his driving, his sound system, his choice of music (country, yuck!) his leather seats, what good shape he was in. He ate up the flattery. He found a deserted location and pulled over. He reached over the massive center console and slid his hands between my thighs. His rough fingers probed inside my panties and pressed against the tampon that guarded the secret between my legs. He grunted "OK, then give me head." Now, the console, which had been a barrier to his exploration of my ass, became an awkward obstacle to the task at hand. I kneeled on the seat and over his garage door opener and who knows what else to descend on him from an awkward angle, trying hard to keep from banging my breast on his stick shift, as I pistoned my lips on his prick. He tilted his seat back and began groaning with pleasure.

There was nothing particularly erotic about this front seat encounter. As Garth Brooks droned in the background, the Viking's eager hands twisted my head and neck into position. I could barely see his penis in the gloom, but I plunged my head into his lap and found it with my glossy lips and wet mouth. He actually tasted pretty good and clean, and his small size presented no challenge for me. But the awkwardness of his position and his indifference to my comfort placed me in constant danger of banging my head on the steering wheel, and when this happened it yanked my heavy hoops in my ears. My back and stomach ached from arching over the console, and the fifty bucks in my purse seemed inadequate to for all this discomfort. I made a mental note to increase my rates. Fortunately, he was a horny guy in a hurry and lasted no more that a song and a half before coming in my mouth. I let the cum drip out of my mouth onto him, breathing heavily on his dick to keep it warm and rubbing it into his groin. I was amazed that, after his brief exploration between my thighs, except for the hands he grasped my cornrowed hair with, he had not touched me during the encounter.

We drove back in silence, his shame palpable. My back was killing me, and I was tired.

He didn't even say thanks when he left me back on Hennepin, feeling used. I went back to the café, to the disapproving glare of the owner, and bought a diet coke and waited for Daylene. She came back about five minutes later, still bouncy and giggly. "Wassa matter, Al?" she inquired. I replayed my encounter with Mr. Country Music. She laughed and said "Das why Ah recommend a back seat." "Do you swallow if?" I asked.

She rolled her eyes and chided me. "Din'ch ya use a condom, honey?" she laughed, rolling her eyes at my ignorance. After I had gargled and fixed my lipstick, I went to one of the liquor stores and bought a twelve pack of Trojans out of the fifty. When I got back on Hennepin, Daylene was already gone. I resumed my post, batting my eyes provocatively at the passing traffic.

Trick number 2 was a four door Cadillac, an old guy. He wanted to talk before we went at it. "Are you on break from your school?" I nodded. "What grade are you in?" Christ, this guy thought I was still in high school. I indulged his fantasy. "I'm going into tenth."

"You're so young, so pretty," he said as he pulled my face toward his lap. "Just a sec" I said, remembering the rubber. I rolled it on and slipped him into my mouth. An antiseptic taste of latex and talc filled my nose as his cock filled my mouth. Old guys are nicer, but they take more work, I learned. He built to climax and failed three times, and I swear that when he finally came I though he had had a heart attack. It had not been very erotic, but pleasantly sanitary. After I finished him, I slipped the condom off and tied the end like a water balloon. No muss, no fuss. Afterwards, he was extra polite, saying as I left him, "Thank you, young lady," and tipping me an extra twenty. Old guys! A little extra effort, but worth it.

I worked my way through the dozen Trojans by midnight, and decided to call it a night. I went to the café, ordered a Diet Coke and waited for Daylene. She showed up, still grinning, at 12:30 and we started to compare notes. She was a little irritated that I had made a hundred and twenty more than she had. "Beginners luck," she said. I was still pretty buzzed, so I invited her over to Jon's to finish off some of his booze. We drank and regaled each other with our escapades until 3:00. Eventually, we passed out together in his bed. I woke up with cotton mouth and a headache. Was it all the talcum and latex or the booze, I wondered? I smelled bacon and eggs. "Mornin' girlfriend" Daylene's cheerful voice sang out. "Surprise for you, breakfast is served." She brought me breakfast in bed. We shared from the giant plate she brought.

I gobbled the cholesterol-laden meal ravenously. She put the plate aside, and "Honey chile, I see uze got a surprise for me, too." She gently stroked my groin through the sheet. "Ida never known you wazza shemale if Ah hanta slep t'ere." I smiled nervously.

"You won't tell anyone, will you?" "Shit no, honey chile, cuz ahm won too!" She slipped down her panties to reveal her own shaved cock, three times larger than my own tiny thing, but stained a darker brown than the rest of her skin by exposure to estrogen.

"Daylene, I'd never have known." I was delighted that my friend shared my secret, and as intrigued by her body as she was by mine. "Let's take a shower together", I suggested, and she nodded with girlish glee.

Soon, we were soaping one another's breasts and bottoms. She had size "D" implants which I both loved and coveted. I noticed that her 6 inch cock hardened readily when I handled it. "Aren't you on hormones?" I asked, my fingers grazing her large dark aereoles. "Yeah, three yee-ahs, but ma docta keeps me kinda balanced, y'know." I admitted that I had had no doctor, and she tut tutted me. "Yo funny, "she said, tracing my pretty chin with her finger. She kissed me, and I kissed her, and I felt her firm breasts nuzzle my own dainty titties as we settled onto Jon's unmade bed. As we kissed and cuddled, our cocks rubbed each other and got hard. Though our lips were joined, our eyes met and reached a silent accord, and we switched into 69 and began sucking on another. Her freshly showered cock tasted divine, and her pre-cum was delicious. I sucked her and fingered her anal ring, and she did mine. Her cock filled my mouth perfectly, and her shaved groin was as smooth as a baby's. I loved the feeling of a hairless she-cock in my mouth.

Her tongue was exploring beyond little cockette and scrotum. She rolled my pelvis upward and then began darting her tongue onto my hole. She parted the flesh of my slender cheeks and kissed my stretched rectum like a pair of lower lips, and then tongue kissed inside my freshly scrubbed ass. It was the sexiest thing I had ever felt, and she lingered there long enough to make me writhe with ecstasy.

"Do you want to fuck me?" I soon pleaded. "Happy to, ho" she replied. Seeing my hurt look she joked "Ah mean, sista ho". I reached into Jon's bed stand for a condom and the Astrolube. She ripped the wrapper with her teeth and rolled it on expertly, as I lubed and probed myself with a slender finger. She daubed her cock with more Astrolube and her face took on a harder, more determined look. She put her arms under my thighs and rolled my tush up, pinning my legs helplessly in the air. She fingered my ass and studied my reaction. Her eyes gazed deep into my own, and I could not take my eyes off her striking face, framed by her large nippled, brown breasts swaying above me. I looked at her pleadingly. "Please don't hurt me." She smiled and her momentarily tough look warmed with compassionate. "Don worry honey, Ah knows how."

Soon her cock head was pressing against, and was then inside my ring. She eased it in until she saw me wince with pain, and then withdrew her cock and let my rectum relax a few heartbeats before she entered me again. This time she slid in farther until she saw my face begin to contort, and then withdrew again. I must have smiled as I relaxed, because she whispered "Yor beautiful." "So are you," I replied, and she was. She entered again, and this time I was completely relaxed. "Now, did dat hutcha?" she asked.

"Just a little", I replied, as bliss took me over. Soon, we were both uttering girlish cries of joy as the pace of our lovemaking increased. "Can you cum", I asked. "Ujaly, if I'm doin de fucking" she said. "Can you?" "Maybe on my tummy" I said, and she immediately rolled me over.

Her dick was less rigid than the guys who had fucked me before, but its greater flexibility made it even more stimulating. I was thrilled by the feeling of her dick in my ass and of brushing of her boobs on my back. It felt like I was getting fucked by a woman, and this made me feel even more like a girl than ever before: a lesbian femme. This made me very hot, and Daylene's expert fondling of my cockette made me even hotter. Suddenly, without warning, I came, a tiny wet droplet in her hand. Daylene felt it and got really aroused herself, and soon her motion speeded up and went out of control, and with a chorus of joyous squeals and cries she came into my still pulsating behind. Then, her breasts slumped even more weightily on my back and I felt the tickle of her long, curly hair on my neck. It was not enough to keep me from drifting off to sleep. When we awoke, we showered together again and got so horny that we might have made love again, except we had so much to do. We shopped for new clothes, shoes and make-up, and spent hours experimenting with make up and hairstyles. We walked hand in hand to Hennepin, two sistah ho's on the town.

The next ten days passed quickly. "Tricks all night, kicks all day", Daylene called it.

But I was on a collision course with reality. School would resume in a few days, and my ho'in would have to become, at most, a weekend activity, as my studies would fill my days and nights. And then there was Jon. I really needed and liked him, but I doubt if he would approve of this life style or appreciate sharing me with about ten guys a night. I would miss the wild nights and days with Daylene, and I would certainly miss the cash flow and the thrill of sucking all those new dicks, but this was not the life for a college girl, or a college boy, as I would soon be. Each night of cheap thrills and day of cuddling with Daylene brought me closer to the end.

Finally my last night came. Jon had called to tell me he was leaving Chicago after the bars closed that night and would be up early the next morning. He couldn't wait to see me, but if he saw his apartment, he would have killed me. Ten days of non stop partying and fucking had left every surface covered with empty bottles, roaches, condom wrappers, and every sheet stained and sweaty. I had to do maid service. I was crushed that couldn't spend the last night out with Daylene. I helped her get ready for the street, I gave her a hug and said goodbye. She smiled broadly, said, "See ya" and sashayed out to Hennepin in her red party dress. Cleaning the place and running the laundry made me feel a little less guilty, but as I slaved away I thought "I bet he wasn't a virgin while he was gone." On the other hand, he hadn't given over $5,000 of blowjobs, either, I thought as I settled in his freshly-made bed.

I couldn't sleep as visions of my prostitute's life of the past ten nights clashed with my life as a college boy, or girl for the coming year. Platoons of the upright cocks of my tricks marched by in a procession of shame mixed with sluttish pride. I was a trannie whore, and those words reverberated in my head endlessly. I massaged my breasts and fingered my hole, trying to bring forth a vision of Jon, or Jake but all I could summon was the cocks of my anonymous johns, now penetrating my ass as well as my mouth.

That was all I was or ever could be: a trannie whore. And my visions of that pathetic life was now beginning to turn me on, as I felt my cockette stiffen. Oh god, what had become of me? I liked being a whore, a piece of shemale ass for my twisted dates to use and throw away like a used Kleenex on the side of Hennepin. I was totally hooked on street life. How would I make it through college? These thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. Why would Jon knock, I wondered nervously. "Who is it?" "Minneapolis police," came the abrupt answer." I freaked, horrified at the thought of arrest and embarrassment. How did they find me here, and how did they connect me to my illicit trade of my flesh on the street? I opened, and two plainclothes cops came in. "Sit down, we need to ask you some questions." I sat down on the bed, crossed my legs demurely and motioned them to the sofa. I had prettied myself for Jon, and I noticed the cops eyeing me appraisingly. "How can I help you?" "We found this address and phone number on a deceased, and we want to know why." I was bewildered. "A deceased, you mean a dead person?" "Yea, a transvestite hooker we found dumped by the river, strangled. We found this address on her body." I felt as if I were being strangled myself, and covered my eyes and began sobbing. They waited till my initial wave of hysteria passed, and then said "Can you come to the morgue for an ID?" I nodded assent, dressed in androgynous jeans, T-shirt and sneakers, and went with them to the morgue, now silent in my grief. I reproached myself bitterly for my embrace of the street life and the terrible price it had exacted from my friend and lover Daylene.

She lay glassy eyed and expressionless on the slab. I hugged her still slightly warm body, but the detectives pulled me away, worrying about disturbing the evidence. "You know what she was up to, right?" one of them said. I admitted she was a streetwalker, the words sticking in my throat. Then I began sobbing again. "And you knew her how, exactly?" Grief did not interfere with my mendacity. "I am a college student doing research on sex industry workers, you know, safe sex habits, attachments to boyfriends, that kind of thing. I am going to write a paper on it. She was one of my subjects." As I cooked up this wopper, it occurred to me that it was actually a really good idea, on several levels." "So you got some notes on this one we could look at?" "I haven't typed them up, but I'll do it right away if it would help you find out who did this." "That would be helpful, because we don't have much on this one. Know her name or where she was from." "Daylene, from Memphis. About twenty, that's all I know. Can I go home now?"

They gave me a ride back to Jon's: thank god he wasn't there yet. "We'll be by in a few days to pick up your notes." I promised them they would be ready by Monday. "If the body hasn't been claimed in two weeks, we'll release it to you. Otherwise, it gets a John Doe burial." "You mean Jane," I said angrily." "Yeah, right," he said as he left.

I was still banging away on Jon's keyboard when he arrived three hours later. He was so exhausted that he went straight to bed until two in the afternoon. When he awoke I sucked him and let him fuck me, but without much passion or enjoyment. He asked me if something was wrong, and I said "yes, someone I know has been killed." Elaborating on the clever lie I had invented for the cops, I told him that I had started to research the behaviors of transgendered sex industry workers, that I had gotten one of them to really open up to me, and she had let me observe and interview her at length. Now, she had been killed, and I was crushed.

He very sympathetic and comforted me. He promised that if her family didn't claim her body he would pay for a proper funeral. He was really impressed and happy that I was doing such a socially and personally relevant research project. He promised me he would try to get me a grant through the Alliance to support my work, and he even thought he could hook me up with a professor in the sociology department to get independent study credit.

This was looking like my most brilliant lie yet. The best kind of lie is the one that you can spin into reality: then it can provide a screen for still more secrets. "Behaviors of Transgendered Sex Workers" would be my project: no one else would know that I was both the author and one of the subjects. My sex industry research project would be the perfect way to merge the street life of Hennepin Avenue that I craved with academic research on a politically correct topic. If I was lucky, I might even be able to investigate the murder of Daylene. It would be all the more fun pulling it off right under everyone's noses. I smiled inwardly. Maybe college wasn't going to be so dull after all.

The Greatest Lie, Part 3 Chapter 4 Those Happy College Nights

Don't get me wrong, I don't hate being around people. Actually, I hate being alone: it brings out the weird self-critic inside me. But god, do I hate crowds. Fall registration brought mobs to the campus. The half-empty dormitory that I had shared with a few Asian engineering students was now thronged with muscular, masculine and boisterous freshman: ruddy farm boys, small town bourgeoisie, suburban kids and a sprinkling of hip hop urbanites. Almost all were Minnesotans, and as a Californian I was ignored as if I was from a different specie. Trapped, as I was, an impostor in this all-male world, I took comfort in solitude.

My summer school admission had secured me one of the few single rooms in the dorm. I stayed there behind closed doors during those first weeks amidst the rowdy rituals of male bonding that went on around the clock. I had been on estrogen nearly eight months now, now I had a well defined bust, soft slender arms, a slim waist and a rounded bottom.

My hairdresser on Hennepin took out my cornrows cut my shoulder length hair into a white blond, new wave mullet. I wore punk clothes and affected an indifferent swagger; I could pull off the role of an effete west coast intellectual, above the rituals of male camaraderie.

I was not only isolated, but vulnerable. Meals were served buffet style in enormous, noisy halls, and I stood out from my tall, beefy classmates. Bathrooms were shared and crowded, and I was terrified that a classmate would catch sight of my nubile breasts as I entered or left a shower. I was not sure whether I would stir lust or revulsion from these unsophisticated but horny freshman, and either had terrifying and potentially dangerous consequences. I lived like a fugitive, brushing my teeth at the, and showering at 4 in the morning when my dorm mates were all passed out from alcoholic bingeing.

Jon was still freaking out about my self-administration of hormones, and admittedly, my intake had exceeded clinical parameters that I had researched. So after class on the first day of school I found myself in the office of Dr. Peter Prince, an endocrinologist. His nurse summoned me from his drab waiting room to a tiny curtain draped alcove, and she handed me a paper gown. She motioned to a hanger hooked to the wall, saying "You can hang your clothes there." My heart started racing. Other than Jake and Jon, no one had seen my emerging femininity in anything near its current state of development. My breasts were firm, perfect cones capped with broad aereoles and tipped with nipples that hardened and rose in the chill of the examination room. My muscles had softened into the delicate curves of a maturing young woman, and my skin was clear and my hair, though short, was soft, lustrous and thick. My penis shrunk to an even tinier than usual inch and a half as I shivered miserably under the rough paper shroud.

Dr. Prince strode in abruptly, sweeping the curtain aside without looking up from his clipboard. He was an angular, bearded and intense young doctor. "Hmm, Alex Rios, and you were referred from ... ah, the Gay, Lesbian and Transgendered Center. What seems to be the problem." I had decided on a direct approach.

"Um, the problem is, I was born a girl stuck in a boy's body, but I've changed that, and now I have girl's body, but I'm stuck in a boy's dorm." This admission got Dr. Prince's attention. "What do you mean?" I hunched my slender shoulders forward and let the gown slip to the floor. As I looked up at Dr. Prince, I caught him in the second half of a double take, and he looked pleased.

"Ahem, ah, who prescribed the hormones?" he asked, recovering his professional composure. "A doctor in Tijuana," I lied. "I'm from California," I added, as if that would explain everything. "What are you on?" I told him, editing out my most extreme excesses. He scribbled on his pad. "We'll need bloods and urine. Can I see your prescription?" "I just ran out," I lied. I was running low. The stash that should have lasted a two years was almost gone after six months. "Stand up." He massaged my breasts, which felt lovely, and asked "Any family history of breast cancer?" "I don't thinks so." He took my hand in his and guided me in my first breast exam.

"You're looking for any lumps or masses."

"Do I have any?"

"None at all, but you need to do this every month to make sure you stay healthy." I thought silently, "you could do this every day."

He gently grasped my scrotum and squeezed it. I prayed silently that I wouldn't get hard.

"How about a family history of prostate cancer?" I had no idea, so he told me to lie down on my side. He slipped on a rubber glove and before I knew it he entered my ass with his thumb. I groaned, but he smiled and said "Cough." Now my cock was hard, and I blushed and covered up. But he was scribbling notes on his clipboard, and without looking up said "You're a little bit enlarged, estrogen can do that, having paradoxical effects on male organs. We are going to have to keep an eye on that. See me in my office when you are through with your labs," he called as he breezed through the curtain.

A nurse poked her head in and said "You can get dressed now Alex." I peed in a cup, gave a shocking amount of blood, and they swiped my student health card through the machine. I walked hesitantly to Dr. Prince's office, disguised, once again, as a boy.

"Alex, I notice that you are not `out'".

"Yeah, well, unfortunately, the University took me in as a boy. I didn't want to surprise them."

"Well, you certainly surprised me. I see a fair number of transsexuals in my practice, but I don't think I have ever seen anyone as feminized as you at your age, and with so little medical history. Who is your psychologist?"

"Dr. Feinberg, of Beverly Hills," I extemporized.

"And didn't Dr. Feinberg refer you to anyone here? Do you have a letter from Dr.

Feinberg?" he asked, incredulously.

I silently cursed myself for being so ill prepared. I decided to resort to feminine helplessness. "I didn't have anyone to talk to, I was afraid to tell anyone," I sobbed, tears streaming down my face. "I just couldn't stand being a boy and turning a man. I'm a girl, and I have to become a woman. If I can't, I'll just kill myself."

"Wait a minute," he said soothingly. "Nobody said you can't. You just have to go about it the right way. Now I can't write estrogen prescriptions for you without a letter of referral from a psychiatrist of a psychologist. It sounds like you skipped over that step somehow. Is that right?"

I nodded silently, my closed eyes stung with tears. "I am going to send you to Dr. Erika Wright," he said, scribbling a name on the back of a prescription pad and thrusting it at me. "I think you will find her someone you can talk to. Call me back in a week for your labs. And back off on that estrogen."

"I'm sorry I lost control", I said, wiping my eyes. "I really want you to be my doctor."

"And I want to be your doctor, but I want you to learn to play by the rules, and to tell the truth to your doctors."

"I'm sorry, but it's so hard to tell the truth about this. You get used to lying."

"But not to me," he replied. I nodded, and then involuntarily hugged him. He gave my hand a little squeeze as he reminded me "Don't forget to call Dr. Wright. And maybe she can help you with your housing problem!"

O god, I thought, just what I need, another doctor. I dreaded speaking to a shrink. She would probably think I was nuts! I had never had thought I was crazy: I was just stuck in a crazy situation. A shrink might think otherwise. Or maybe she might decide that I should remain a male, or even get me committed.

I was too stressed out to go back to the dorm, and Dr. Prince's prodding and poking had left me aroused. I hadn't been fucked since Jon's return, and I was horny and lonely and scared, so I decided to stop by Jon's apartment. I climbed the familiar steps, put my leftover key in the lock and pushed open his door, my mind racing ahead to the erotic conclusion of this journey.

The apartment was dark, but I could tell it was occupied. I groped through the dim interior, and pushed open his bedroom door. I was instantly overcome with regret and horror, for there lay Jon entangled in a mound of disheveled sheets, wrapped in the arms and legs of another guy, and obviously savoring the afterglow of sexual encounter. "I'm sorry" I stammered as I retreated in bewilderment. Jon bounded up and after me, calling out "Wait Allie, let me explain." But I understood, and this needed no explanation. I was just another gay lover, a variation on the guy in his bed. He caught up with me at the front door. "Allie, he's just a friend."

"Yeah, and so am I", I sobbed, and broke free from his grasp and ran down the stairs into the darkening, cold afternoon.

I took a long route back to the dorm. I was nauseated by the thought of Jon enjoying sex with another man. True, I was still physically partly a male, but he had related to me only as an active, dominant male, and I to him as passive, submissive female. Keeping sexual activity within these categories reassured me and kept me sane and balanced, but obviously they made him feel confined or bored. He wanted it both ways: I only wanted him one way.

As I thought of him being possessed, in the same ways he had possessed me, I felt revulsion. No wonder, I thought, he was the master of so many positions: he had probably experienced them from the bottom. As I entered my room and threw myself on my bed, I felt sick. God, maybe I do need to see a shrink. Then it occurred to me: despite my little "problem", I was really a heterosexual. The problem with Jon was that he was bi, or maybe even homosexual. We had too much in common to be lovers. Now, I had no one.

Except Jake, I thought, remembering my wild weekend affair in Denver. I recalled the letter that I had received from him last week and had callously left unopened. I rushed for it in a panic, thinking perhaps I had already missed a chance to see him. I tore it open, and read: Jake Jones Edwards AFB Box 47872 Rosamund, California

Dear Allie:

Thank you for writing and telling where you are. It was good to hear from you.

I'll never forget the time we had last summer. You are a beautiful and wonderful person and I am sure you will grow up to be even more beautiful. But I have had time to think and I am not the right man for you. I want to have kids of my own and a normal life. I am getting married next week to my high school girlfriend, and then she is going to move onto the base. I re-upped for three more years in the Air Force.

I am sure you will be fine, because even though you are different, you know what you want. Thank you for helping me figure out what I want too.

Sincerely

Jake

I felt as if the walls of my tiny room had collapsed on me, burying me in a mound of grief. I lay sobbing on my bed as the world receded into nothingness, and I was left alone in a center of isolation and pain. I would never be accepted. I was a freak; I only attracted only perverts, curiosity seekers and wayward homos. Was the solution to have a sex change operation, and fade into the world of ordinary women? I grabbed my cock and balls and squeezed them with all my strength, that they might disappear. Gathering unconsciousness forced me to relax my grasp, and the black orbs of pain faded from my vision. As I regained control over my breathing and pulse, I remembered that I wasn't even close to a sex change under the Benjamin protocols. Every step I had taken, I had taken alone, without any medical sanction. For the present, I was stuck in this in between life, alone, amidst the mad mob of my classmates. Skipping dinner, I took a double dose of Premarin, a couple of Valium and tried to jerk off. Failing, I finally drifted into a troubled sleep.

The next morning I had an appointment with Professor Roger Finch, the faculty advisor for my Behaviors of Transgendered Sex Workers project. "Hmmph" he grunted, "sounds like an ambitious project for a freshman. Ever done any field work?"

"Not exactly, but I have some relevant experience. I think it's a fascinating project, and one that hasn't been done in the U.S."

"True enough, though others have tried. Problem with transsexuals is they always have a secret agenda. Most of the studies have been done in a clinical setting, and there the subjects tend to tell their therapists what they want to hear, to get 'the Operation'".

"That's why I think new work needs to be done in the U.S., like Kulick's work on the Brazilian Travesti."( Finch looked surprised. "You've read Kulick?" "Of course," I said, "when I was in Sao Paolo last year I did some careful observation of travesti myself.

A fascinating group, but seemingly distinguishable from the North American phenomenon."

Professor Finch was visibly astounded. My days in the library were paying off.

"Perhaps," I hypothesized, "the North and South American transsexual phenomenon have been differentiated by an adherence to the Benjamin protocols here, as contrasted with the anarchic dissemination of hormones and silicone injections in the south."

"A fascinating hypothesis, and relevant, too, since anecdotal evidence suggests that we are seeing a breakdown of the Benjamin protocols as the paradigm here in the U.S. How is it that you have such in depth knowledge of transsexualism?"

"I have always been fascinated by the development of gender, and transsexualism best exemplifies the bifurcation of genetic sex and gender. I think it is the perfect departure point for studying the development of gender," said I, paraphrasing one of Professor Finch's recent journal articles.

"Exactly my point of view. But the methodology is just impossible. How can one get these people to tell anything but lies of convenience?"

You can't, I thought to myself. "I think I can. Let me put together my proposal."

"When can you be prepared?"

"Later today," I said.

"Really, that's amazing. Very well, meet me here at six. I'm leading a seminar; if it runs late, just let yourself in."

I stopped at a pay phone and called Jon, telling him I needed to use his apartment to prepare for a meeting with Finch. I hauled my secret backpack of girl clothes, makeup and accessories there, and commandeered his bathroom, locked the door, and commenced my boudoir. I indulged myself in the shower until the hot water was gone, then wiped the steamy mirror clear. I tweezed and shaped my eyebrows, applied mascara, eyeliner and shadow, foundation, color and lip gloss. I blew my punk hair into a sexy, spiky bob.

I put moisturized and perfumed with my favorite Sephora fragrances, then squeezed into some ultra tight low riders and a snug, cropped tube top that squeezed my little breasts into jiggling compressed cones and bared my flat midriff. I tottered on my favorite platform sandals. I looked like a very high-end street urchin, and I felt great as I admired myself in the mirror. Jon was stunned by the vision and embraced me from behind, nuzzling his cock against my behind and fondling my breasts.

I stared him down in the mirror. "In your dreams, Jon. Just like you, I'm gonna get me a new boyfriend."

"Allie, he wasn't a new boyfriend."

"Oh great, going back to your old boyfriend after your summer romance. Look, I wouldn't have minded if it was a girl, but I can't handle this."

"I told you I was bi-sexual."

"I thought that meant you liked girls, not other men."

"That's just the point, Allie, to me you are a girl."

"That's flattering, but that's not what you meant at the time." He knew I was right, and shifted his approach.

"Allie, I get so much out of being with you. In you I find a part of me that I cannot find in myself. You bring me closer to my soul."

"O Christ," I said. "That's great. For my whole life, every time I'm with a girl, I dream of being her, and now that I finally am becoming one, I find a guy who wishes he was me."

"That's not what I said, it's not what I meant."

"Jon, it's hard enough to be me, without you wanting to be me too."

"I don't want to be you, but you help me get in touch with a side of me I never really knew, and I want to know better."

"Jon, I really like you as a friend, and I'd love to help you understand yourself better, but I can't have a lover who is taking mental notes on for his passive roles while making love to me. Just like you, I need someone who helps me find myself. And I think I am straight, and I want to find someone hetero, and you're not. So we just don't fit."

Jon looked downcast. "I don't want to lose you."

"So don't. I don't want to lose you either." And I didn't. I had important plans for Jon.

"Listen, I've been thinking about my project, and I want to integrate it with an outreach program by the Alliance. You know, Minneapolis has a law forbidding discrimination based on gender identity."

"Yeah, so."

"Well, what do you think the cops are doing to the T-girls down on Hennepin every night."

"You mean other than busting them for prostitution and drugs? C'mon, I feel bad about your friend Daylene, but you're picking a losing battle."

"Maybe so, maybe not, but it's a battle worth fighting. Besides, it gives me an `in' to the community to enable me to collect the data for Finch."

"You mean you want to get their survey data by offering legal and social services."

"Yeah, but I'm not talking condom giveaways or needle exchanges. I'm talking about processing anti discrimination complaints. Get enough of them, and who knows, the cops may clean up their act."

"And you'll get your data, and your `A'".

"So what's wrong with doing well by doing good."

"Allie, you're a genius," he said, taking a seat at his computer workstation. For the next two hours, we talked, and he typed my ideas into a neat summary for the Alliance Board and Finch, including budget and a list of resources needed for the project.

At the top of the list was a studio apartment with phone near Hennepin. I would need a safe place near their turf to conduct interviews. Safety, that is, for them and for me.

There was a board meeting of the Alliance in a week. Jon promised to put it on the agenda and push for it if I delivered Finch's blessing. "No problem," I said, as a walked off to Finch's office, appearing, at the moment, to be the best looking girl on campus.

I let myself in and waited. Finch arrived a few minutes later. He was startled. "What is the meaning of this, young lady?"

"I'm here for our meeting."

"I had no such meeting scheduled with you."

"But I had one scheduled with you."

"You must leave now, I have another appointment scheduled."

"But Professor Finch, it's me, it's Alex." Finch stumbled back, dumbfounded. "Alex Rios?" he said weakly.

"Yes, but you can call me Allie or Alexandra."

"Please sit down," he said, closing the door and taking a seat opposite me.

He sat down unsteadily. "Alex, er, Allie, you gave me such a fright. Some of my research and writing is controversial with the feminists and the born-again communities, and I don't like surprise visits."

"Sorry, I thought this would be a pleasant surprise," I said, affecting hurt feelings.

"Oh, but now it is," he said brightening. "Allie, I see your interest in transsexualism is both academic and personal. I must compliment you. Your impressive academic knowledge is matched with your appearance. You're quite lovely."

"I think that if I approach the interviews as another T, the girls will be more open."

"But your looks won't necessarily open the minds of your interview subjects. Some of them might be quite envious."

I explained the plan that I had created and handed him the draft that Jon had typed. Finch skimmed it, and said "That's really quite ingenious. I am OK with the ethics as long as there is no quid pro quo. Are you sure that the Alliance will participate?"

"I have a good friend on it's board, and he's confident that if they will participate, if I get your support."

"You have my support. Look, let's try this as independent study, say, for four units this semester. I've got some leftover grant money to support it with for now. If it goes well, we'll write a grant proposal this semester for funding next. If we have some results by then, it should be a breeze."

I showed him my budget. A furnished studio apartment near Hennepin would be the costliest item. Other than that I needed a phone, a tape machine, transcribing services, printing for a few fliers. With luck, the first three months would be less than $2,500.

"But we need to expand the survey. I am not only interested in our subjects' sexual behaviors, but in their history. We need to work on question on their background. May I make a suggestion?"

"Of course," I beamed, attentive to the master.

"As our model, we will take your own development."

"I'm not a good model. I'm not a sex worker." (Well, I had been, and would be, but remember, I'm the world's greatest liar!) "I can't, it's too hard to talk about it."

"But that is why we must talk about it, to discover the questions that peel away the defenses most effectively. Otherwise, our project will either be insignificant, or a failure."

"OK, I said, but could we go somewhere a little more comfortable."

"My apartment is only a short drive." I readily agreed.

As we drove, he told me about himself. "Just as you must set the stage with your subjects by telling a little bit about yourself." He was an army brat from nowhere. He had excelled in all of the dozen elementary and secondary schools he had attended, and entered Harvard on scholarship. He was drafted for the end of the Viet Nam war and fled to Canada, forever alienating his father. He obtained his doctorate at McGill and taught at Simon Fraser for many years. He married a Canadian, had fraternal twin boys, who were about my age. One had been effeminate since early childhood, and was now openly gay, the other was straight. He had had some gay sex in college but had turned away from it. He had divorced last year in the midst of fling with a grad student and had returned to the U.S. as a Canadian national on a visa, leaving grad student and wife behind. In short, he was the perfect mentor for me.

I won't bore you with my account of my life story. Suffice it to say that a little of it was true. Naturally, I left out most of what I have told you. It took hours, proceeding jerkily, like a backward interview. We paused to examine what question would lead to the episode that I had just recounted. At the end of my story, Professor Finch had a pad full of questions. It was nearly midnight. "That was dreadful," I complained. "I'm completely stressed."

"I'm sure you'll do much better with your interview subjects than I did with you. You're so pleasant to talk to."

"Thank you, but if you want me to say another word, you'll have to get me a drink."

"Allie, you're under age, I wouldn't want to contribute to the delinquency of a minor."

"Oh, c'mon, as you now know, I'm already a little bit delinquent. And as for age limits, tell that to all the crazy drunks at my dorm." Finch returned with an open bottle of wine and two glasses. After he had poured and we had toasted to the success of our project, I asked, peering into his eyes with an upward gaze "Tell me, Professor Finch, is your interest in transsexuals purely academic or is it partly personal?"

"Up until now, purely academic."

"And now?" I asked breathlessly, closing my eyes parting my lips for an expected kiss.

"Getting personal", he whispered hoarsely, and answered with his lips. I melted in his arms.

He kissed me gently and shyly, hesitating to give me his tongue. His caresses were soft and tentative, and his hands stayed above my waist, even as mine explored his crotch. I longed for a rougher touch, a twist of my nipples or a rough squeeze of my butt, or to be thrown back on the couch and be squashed under a ton of hard male muscles. God, I thought, this is going to take forever! I was bored, but that made me feel guilty. Was I a trashy slut that wanted to be used roughly by my lovers. Why couldn't I enjoy this civilized wooing? Was I so accustomed to being ridden hard, that I needed to be dominated and abused? The answer came from within me. I needed it.

I interrupted his genteel embrace. "Let's get more comfortable", I said, grabbing my purse and leading him to the bedroom. He began taking off his clothes as I went into the bathroom. "Why don't you put on some music," I called, as I freshened up. I peeked out, saw him lying naked on his bed, and emerged to do a sexy strip tease. When I had flung my panties away, I pirouetted to him and thrust my lips over his hardening member.

After my sexual summer session on Hennepin I had been chaste for a couple of weeks. It felt great to have a cock in my mouth, although Finch's was nothing special. It was smaller than average and despite my expert attention it stubbornly remained slightly rubbery. My head bobbed up and down furiously, and my breathing grew labored. He wasn't really helping. His pelvic thrusts were weak and un-rhythmic. I switched to tongue flicks and flutters, licking, and then back to full deep throat sucking, and though I did my best, his dick got softer and smaller, until it was even smaller than when I had begun. I finally stopped, asking "Are you OK with me?"

"Oh, Allie, I'm sorry. You were wonderful, and it felt so good. I've been having this problem for the last couple of years." Oh well, I thought in frustration, so much for getting fucked tonight! Now I'll have to lie here with this limp dick and be sympathetic.

"Just rest for a while. We don't need to hurry."

"You know, Allie, don't ever change. You're perfect."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean don't rush into any surgery. Your body is really lovely, like the body of a beautiful pubescent girl."

"Well, not exactly," I reminded him. "Sometimes I feel like a freak, like I'll never really fit into life."

"You are doing really well."

"But I get treated like a sissy when I live as a boy, and I can't live as a girl. A transsexual really can't live as a girl, unless she gets a sex change."

"Is that what you want?"

"I don't really know yet. I've only been on hormones for about eight months. I love the way I look and feel. And I'm happiest when I can dress and act as a girl."

"How about your parents?"

"They have been traveling a lot the last few months, don't know how far I have taken things." He looked stricken. I could see he was worried about his own child.

"We really shouldn't be doing this. You're my student, and young enough to by my own kid."

"Just remember, I seduced you. Even the best teachers can learn from their students."

"Especially a student like you." He seemed relaxed enough for me to renew my efforts.

"I really want to make you cum", I said.

"You're so nice, but it's probably no use." Hell, I thought, if I can get my own estrogen shrunken self off, surely I can get this poor old guy to cum. "I know how," I said, grabbing some lube from my purse. I applied it liberally to his dick and gave him a gently but rapid hand job. He never got completely hard, but after a couple hundred strokes his pelvis began undulating and as the pace picked up he began to groan with pleasure. "That's it, let it go," I encouraged. Suddenly he blurted "I'm gonna cum" and thick stringy white globs flew out of his dick and splattered down onto my hands and his stomach. I beamed up at him. "I knew you could. You're fine."

"But I didn't do anything for you," he said guiltily.

"That's OK. I enjoyed that." It's true, I had. I would have enjoyed a good ass fucking even more, but what the hell.

We relaxed in the afterglow for a few minutes. It was nearly two when I told Finch that I needed to leave. He offered a ride, but it was a warm night, and only few blocks. It was too late to pick up my boy clothes at Jon's, but I had an early morning math class and so I needed to get dressed as a college boy. I figured all of my drunken classmates would be crashed. I could sneak in en femme, unnoticed.

I walked back to my dorm trying to stay in the shadows. I ran up the fire stairs. My room was four doors down from the fire door. I peeked out, and thought that the coast was clear. I tiptoed to my door, and quickly shut it behind me. As I did, I heard another door slam farther down the hall.

Shit, I thought, had someone seen me? I stood silent for a minute, listening to the faint buzz that the fluorescent bulbs made in the hall. Continued quiet outside reassured me.

I quickly stripped out of my girl's clothes, put on some boy's pajamas, went to the bathroom to shower and brush my teeth. The hot water and steam relaxed me and melted away the frustration and stress of teasing and pleasing Finch. As I closed my eyes to rinse my hair, I felt a cool blast invade my steamy paradise, and my reverie was broken by cackling male voices. "I toldja heeza trannie queen."

"Holy fuck, lookat those titties."

"Waddyano, we got us a pussyboy living right on our floor." I covered my breasts and cockette, like a bare Botticelli, as they pulled me from the shower. They wrapped me in my towel, pinning my arms to my sides, and carried me back to my room, giggling maniacally as I wriggled helplessly.

They were Rick and Randy, a couple of the less obnoxious and better looking of the hunks on the floor. Rick was a hunky farm boy from near Fargo, and Randy was a suburban skateboard thrasher. They were large, hard muscled hockey players, and my pitiful muscles were no match for either of them, even in their present state of drunkenness.

They dumped me on my bed as I hissed "Get out of here. Leave me alone!" That only pissed them off and Randy grabbed my chin and got in my face. "Shut the fuck up or we'll invite the whole floor in here to fuck you. You're better off with just the two of us, right."

I nodded silently. "I've always wanted to try a trannie," Randy said.

"Now you pretty yourself up for us. We'll be back in fifteen minutes." I thought momentarily about making a dash for it, but it probably would have only invited even more savage treatment, or even a gang bang by the whole floor. No, my best strategy was to become their love toy, and enlist them in my secret life by offering continual sexual favors. Plus, they were actually two of the sexier guys on campus.

My short hair dried acceptably, so I concentrated on makeup. By the time the door opened, I looked pretty hot. When they returned, I decided to take the diplomatic offensive. "You know, guys, that if you had told me you were interested in me, you wouldn't have had to carried me off over your shoulder like a couple of cavemen. Not that I really minded," I said, batting my sensually made up eyes. "I'm actually in the mood for a couple of guys like you." I rose and threw my arms around Randy and opened my lips. He lips met mine, his tongue plunged into my mouth and I was overwhelmed by his beery breath and grabbing, groping hands.

Rick complained, "Hey, what about me." I broke off my embrace and said, "Oh, sorry,"

and faced him. His equally drunken lips soon smothered me with kisses. He fondled me from the front as Randy groped me from behind and kissed my neck. After a few minutes, they turned me and I again gave Randy my breasts and my mouth, while Rick groped and humped my behind.

"Oh my god, I'm getting so hot. I want both of you. Pull my bed back from the wall, OK?" They did so, as I went to my bag and got out two condoms and my lubricant.

Their dicks were both upright and stiff. I slipped condoms on them, and slathered lubricant on my hole and over Randy's sheathed 8" inch dick, which was slightly narrower than Rick's 9" tool. I looked up at him pleadingly and whispered "Start slowly, OK?" He drunkenly ignored me, and I braced myself. I lay sideways across the bed, threw my legs up and my head back. Rick and Randy needed no further guidance. Rick slapped my face and lips gently with his dick as I snapped at it with my eager lips. His muscled torso filled my field of vision as his massive cock filled my mouth. He began pumping my mouth and throat vigorously, making my titties shake with each plunge and withdrawal. I wrapped my slender arms around his massive thighs and enjoyed the contractions of his muscles as they worked hard to fuck my face.

Randy had grabbed my ankles and put them on his chiseled shoulders. He swiveled my ass up by pressing down on the back of my thighs. I hadn't been fucked for weeks, and my ass felt tight and virginal. Randy poked his cock into my coiled ring, unleashing a mix of pain and ecstasy. He impulsively lunged forward to suck my breasts, and his full length entered me in one surge. Fiery pain consumed me from within, as I desperately stifled a cry of agony that was trapped in my vocal cords by Rick's penis. Rick gnawed at my breast, his dick jammed all the way in me, for an excruciating interlude. For a few seconds I drifted toward unconsciousness as the sensations became unbearably intense, but as I neared the abyss, the pain inside me began to lessen.

At that moment, he broke my reverie as he yanked his cock back. The abrupt withdrawal felt like he was ripping me apart. His next plunge was an even deeper wound, and again he pulled out savagely, only to plunge with even greater force. I struggled to contain both these plunging cocks, one tearing through my insides, the other pummeling my face and throat. As I gradually mastered the forces that were attacking me, the searing pain in my ravaged hole and the bruising assault on my mouth and throat turned to ever more intense pleasure. My insides were warmed by the friction of their fast moving dicks, and responded with effusions from my inner mucousa that self lubricated me, allowing them to increase the velocity and force of the face and ass fucking.

Their rhythms gradually coordinated with one another, and we became a single symbiotic organism, evolved to convert pain and submission into ecstasy. I felt totally helpless, dominated, stuffed by their relentless male vigor and aggression. I felt as I imagined helpless victimized girls must have felt through the rapine ages of the anarchic past, as I replayed the fantasies that had for so long dominated my horny, insomniac nights. My consciousness drifted between fantasy, and the unreal reality of this merciless double fucking. When I opened my eyes, I saw two massive, shadowy torsos heaving above me.

When I closed my eyes, I was Marie Antoinette, being gang-raped by her captors one last time before her beheading.

The pounding in my ass became more extreme as approaching orgasm put Randy into a deranged autopilot. I heard him grunt "Ahrg, ahrg ahhha, uugha" and his dick's movements became random and jagged, for he had cum. I regretted that the rubber had kept me from savoring the splatter of his jism inside me: oh, well, safety first. He kept going at a slower pace and finally pulled out, saying "Rick, you gotta try this, man. She's tighter and wetter than any other pussy I've tried."

I was pleased with the compliment, and with Randy's use of the female pronoun. Rick pulled his dick out of my mouth, and when I first tried to speak I my exhausted throat was mute. Finally, I whispered hoarsely "Please take me from behind." "Works for me"

Rick said, and I kneeled on the floor and rested my upper body on the warm, rumpled sheets. Able to speak at last, I asked Randy "Could you hand me that bottle?" and he gave me my lubricant. I reached behind and rubbed it on Rick's cock, which was already pawing at my used, puckered ass. "It feels better if you start slowly." "Better for me if I ram it in," Rick replied, and he promptly did just that. My body shuddered from the blow, and I stifled my cry by burying my head in the mattress. Randy had gotten me ready, but not for the intense screwing that Rick now administered. The bulbous head of his thicker, longer cock felt like a jackhammer against my tender internal organs. I felt like I was suffocating, but death did not rescue me from the sweet torture his cock inflicted on me.

He plunged on relentlessly, like multiple stabs into my body. Neither perpetrator nor victim could endure such a fucking long. He was too hot from my blow job, and his wild thrusting portended a fast orgasm. My ass felt like it had been penetrated the whole hockey team rather than only two of its "members". His thrashing cock became even more frenzied, and he groaned "uhmph umpgh ahrgh" as he flailed to an intense orgasm.

He pulled out too quickly, giving me one more spasm of pain. Rick staggered away from me, shook the slumbering form of Randy, who had collapsed on the floor, and said "Wake up, dude, I'm done. Let's crash." He slapped my tender ass "See'ya later, bitch!

Keep your slutty mouth shut about this, and then maybe so will we." They left me with my tortured thoughts, contemplating my future in the clutches of these two virile studs.

I crawled onto my bed and put my head under the covers. Rick's parting words reverberated into a haunting mantra of fear! Shit, I had been exposed. Unlike when it had happened in high school, here I had four more years to survive. And I was stuck living as a boy! Now these two brutes owned me, since they could expose my secret identity. I felt completely humiliated and vulnerable. Rick and Randy could fuck me whenever, and however they wanted, and I was powerless to protest. While I kind of liked the idea of being their sex slave, I was desperately afraid of being exposed to the whole dorm. One of the farm boys morons would probably strangle me.

My throat was sore and swollen from the relentless jabbing of Rick's oversized cock. My rectum burned, and my gut churned from the overwhelming fucking I had taken. I looked at the clock. It was 2:45 a.m. The whole ordeal had lasted only a half hour, but it had felt like a day. Shit, I had to be up for class in less than four hours, and I was in no mood for sleeping. Anxiety and physical pain overcame the fatigue that the hard sex had brought on.

I sought escape, as I often had, in studying. I worked until 4:30, the peaceful rhythms of math solutions gradually steadying me. A Virginia Wolff short story, "To the Lighthouse" helped me put my troubles aside. The editor's note said she had committed suicide shortly after that poignant story was written. There would be no such easy exit for me. The dorm was now silent; I took a solitary shower. The rush of steam cleared my mind. Then my strategy for survival occurred to me. Rick and Randy were just as trapped in our relationship as I, since if they exposed me as a transsexual, they would expose themselves as trannie lovers, little better than faggots in their jock world. The more time they spent with me, the more closely associated they became with me, the greater their investment in preserving my secret. Randy and Rick, I decided, could fuck me whenever they wanted. The more, the better, I decided. I set my alarm for 6:45 and got a couple of hours of desperately needed, and dreamless sleep.

After my long evening and night as Alexandra, dressing as Alex was disconcerting. I felt kind of faggy dressed as a boy, even though my dark clothes, Doc Martens and heavy framed glasses successfully captured a hip proto-grunge look. As I strode off through the gloomy morning, I heard the cackling of familiar but unfriendly voices behind me. "Hey, Rios, whassa matta, ya walkin' a little bow-legged?"

I whirled around and faced Rick and Randy. "Look, you two, you can use me as you want in bed, but I won't let you humiliate me in public. I won't be your cocksucker at night unless you respect me during the day." They blanched visibly at my candid and very public acknowledgment of their nocturnal visit, and looked around to see if anyone had heard. "Hey, chill out, Alex. Don't tell the world."

"I might as well, if you are, and if you are going to treat me like shit."

"OK, we'll be cool and you be cool. Where ya going?"

"Math 101, with Bloomberg."

"Us too, we'll walk with ya."

They even sat next to me in class, a massive convention of confused freshman. I was stuck in this math for dummies because Uni High would only let you take two AP courses and I had no time for math. I had covered the whole curriculum for Math 101 in my SAT prep course. Natch, I had nailed the subject, and of course I got 800's on both parts of the SAT. But I know you're not surprised, because you already know that I'm brilliant.

So when the class let out a collective groan as Bloomberg announced a pop quiz, I only feigned disgust. "Wadda fuckin' asshole," Rick groaned. "I haven't even opened the book." "I haven't fuckin' bought it," Randy rejoined. "What a slave driver," I agreed.

I finished the quiz using about two of the allotted ten minutes, and turned my test paper over. I looked over and noticed Rick holding his head in his hands, his paper blank.

Randy was doodling idly as he stared into the distance. I batted my eyes at each of them, and having gained their attention, flipped my paper back over. I leaned back as if to study my perfect answers again, and gave them a clear view of my neatly printed test paper. They stared back and started writing on their own papers.

On blank space, I wrote a quick note, which I quickly erased after they had read it. "Get one wrong. Randy #7, Rick #10." With their sharp hockey-trained peripheral vision, they quickly got the answers, finishing their furtive plagiarism just as the TA's collected the papers.

We all had a break before our next class. English 101 for them, an upper class Chaucer seminar for me. "I'm hung over. I needa coffee," said Rick. "Yeah, let's go to Starbucks. See ya later. Hey, thanks for the props on the quiz." "You know, after what I've done for you, you could invite me. I didn't get much sleep last night, thanks to you know who!"

"OK, c'mon along." They bought me a latte and proceeded to blather about their hockey stuff, largely ignoring me. I listened with interest, and quickly mastered the rules and language of hockey. They were defensemen on the same line, and I really wanted to see them play. The thought of them administering a crushing body check to an opponent against the boards turned me on.

Finally, we returned to the subject of "that asshole Bloomberg." "So whydja want us to get one wrong." "Don't you realize how unusual it would be if three students seated next to each other all got a perfect score?" "Yeah, I guess so, but how do you know you got a perfect score?" I nodded and laughed, "I always know. Besides, it would be even more obvious if we all got the same problem wrong!"

"Whoa, you're one smart bitch." I shushed them laughingly and smiled. "Thanks for the latte, see you later."

"In your room, on your bed!" Rick cracked.

"How about the Research Library, eighth floor, any time between ten and closing. You can join my study group."

"Oh c'mon, it's only the first week of classes."

"I know, but it's almost the end of the first week."

I was in no frame of mind to see Dr. Erika Wright, but there she was, penciled into my calendar right after Chaucer. I mentally rehearsed the usual lines. Girl trapped inside a boy's body, interested in girls' toys and clothes for as long as I can remember. Never interested in girls romantically. I had read all of Benjamin plus Money and Greene, I knew it well enough to spin it into a convincing lie.

Dr. Wright was a tall and quite pretty. She offered me a seat, and then said nothing for a few minutes as she studied me. Finally, she said "I've read your chart from Dr. Prince, and there's not much there. No referring doctor, no history. Tell me why you think you're transsexual." I began my spiel, and she nodded attentively. After I got to the part about playing with dolls, Dr. Wright interrupted me. "Just one thing, it says here on your chart you are an only child. So tell me, why were there any girl's toys or clothes around your house?" I improvised female cousins and the girls next door, but she had opened a crack in the façade. "I pulled your college application and it says that you wrote an award winning essay on Napoleon's military career. That's not a very feminine topic.

Anything in the essay on Empress Josephine?" she inquired mockingly.

"Well, I was covering up."

"Do you mean then or now?"

"Why would I want to persuade you that I am a transsexual, if I'm not."

"We see it all the time. Alex, I can see you're extremely intelligent, and I can tell you are expert in the clinical aspects of transsexualism. But if you're as smart as I think you are, you must realize that it is futile to keep trying to bullshit me." I allowed tears to well up in my eyes. "Dr. Wright, I've been lying about this for so long. It's so hard to distinguish between truth and lies. Every day, I have to deal in lies. Every minute."

"Not here, not if you want me to help you."

"Are you going to help me?"

"I'm going to try. Have you told your parents?" I hadn't seen them or talked with them about my "issues" since just before I had left for summer school, five months ago. They had sent me a plane ticket to meet them for Thanksgiving in New York: Dad was teaching in Lucerne, and my mother was writing another book. "They knew about experimenting with hormones, but I think I told them I was going to give them up. Then I couldn't. I haven't told them that I want to live as a girl, and I can't tell them over the phone."

"They're medical professionals, they would be supportive."

"Not necessarily. My dad is a hotshot AIDS researcher, and he's not happy about the sexual part."

"How about you and the sexual part?"

"It's not about sex, it's about me.

"Let me tell you what I'm a little worried about. You didn't have any demonstrable transsexual behavior until your own adolescent sexual awakening. I am wondering how much of your desire its trans, and how much sexual."

"OK, I get it. Do you think there is only one etiology for transsexuals?"

"Who knows? As a mass phenomenon, it's too recent to tell."

"I'm going to prove that there's not. I am doing an independent study with Professor Finch."

"How do you know what you're going to prove?"

"Well, I don't, but here's my hypothesis. Benjamin, Money and Greene saw a handful of the earliest transsexual patients. They were studying subjects that were coming out as transsexuals at the very beginning of the gay rights movement. Stonewall was just another drag bar in the Village, and they did their work before the APA changed its diagnostic criteria on homosexuality. Back then, being gay was considered a kind of insanity, and they were naturally concerned that gays would use transsexualism to cover up their homosexuality. Now, society makes it easier to be gay, but it still makes its miserable to be transsexual. So the earliest pioneers inferred from a tiny sample a paradigm that's still being applied thirty years later to a completely different world. I give them credit for being humane enough to treat transsexualism as something more than schizophrenia, but they had almost no clinical data or context, and there paradigms and treatment criteria are obsolete. In the meantime, you not only have a much larger population of transgendered people in the U.S., you have populations of travesti in Brazil, France, Italy, and Mexico and katoey in Thailand, Japan, and Hawaii that have just exploded. I was in Brazil last spring, and you have to see it to believe it. There are thousands of travesti, surviving on the edges of society, and though they are treated horribly, there are just thousands of them. Look at the underground papers in New York, or LA, or even here. Half the personals are shemales. I'm sorry I fed you that bullshit, but you shrinks are still stuck on Benjamin, and it's antiquated dogma. I don't believe it applies to me or anyone else today, and I'm going to prove it."

"Look, that's very impressive. You are incredibly knowledgeable about the subject, and I commend your dedication toward improving the science. I am really impressed with the design of your project with Finch, and someday I may even agree with your hypothesis about the multiple etiologies of transsexualism, but that still will not have answered my question. But you haven't addressed my little clinical problem here. What makes you transsexual? What's your etiology?" I was momentarily silenced. My research, my hypothesis, my reading, had not prepared me for that question.

"OK. It started late for me. I was a late bloomer sexually. So at the point when boys were starting to sprout pubic hair and act like a bunch of horny monkeys, I was not part of it. When I started thinking about girls, I started identifying with them, instead of hitting on them. I used to fantasize about being a girl, and then about experiencing sex as a girl. I knew about transsexuals and how they used female hormones; my dad's a doctor so he always had tons of samples around the house and his office. I know my way around a medical research library, and I got what I need from my dad and got started. I realize now it was a mistake to go it alone, but I was afraid to talk to anyone about it. All the doctors know my dad, and I was afraid they would tell him."

"So this phase of your life is tied into your sexual awakening."

"Transsexualism was my sexual awakening. I never have been any other kind of sex at all."

"You've never been with a girl?"

I described my painful and disastrous relationship with Marta. "I never wanted to dominate her as a lover. To me it was a heavy flirtation between two girls. I never wanted to make love to her as a male, and I'm sure she did not want me a male lover."

"Look, you are a very cute kid, and I am sure you make a very pretty girl. But these changes become irreversible over time, and eventually it'll be too late to change your mind"

"Do you want to see?"

She looked at me appraisingly. "I'll just use my imagination." I blushed, and said "I mean dressed as a girl, not undressed." We both giggled. I felt the ice break just a little.

I handed her a glamour shot that I had made one mad afternoon with Daylene. She said "I would like you to come dressed to our next session."

"You know, that's not that easy. It's not that easy to go back and forth between boy and girl clothes on a college campus with a bunch of nosy, horny, and potentially violently intolerant guys around all the time."

"You can change here."

"I could do that right now."

"OK, I have another appointment now, I'll meet you afterwards and we'll get lunch."

I had brought a black Gap turtleneck, a pair of Bebe jeans, Adidas: the sorority girl uniform of the year. My make up was subtle and innocent, like a Midwestern ingenue. I was ready before Dr. Wright returned and was taking notes from my Chaucer when she came back.

"Wow, the perfect freshman pledge. Which sorority?" she joked.

"Tau Sigma", I improvised.

She laughed, adding "Let's go to lunch, girl. I'll buy. What do you want?"

We got salads at the Faculty Club. I waved to Finch from across the room, and he brightened visibly. Dr. Wright noted my mentor's acceptance of my female role. "I guess you're `out' to Finch."

"Of course, no lies to teacher. He's comfortable with me as a girl, and I'm comfortable with him knowing me as one."

"I must say, I'm more comfortable with you as a girl."

"You know it's just about feeling safe and comfortable in my own skin. When I dress as a boy, I'm neither comfortable nor safe. When I dress as a girl, I feel both. It's the transitions that are killing me."

"You do seem completely comfortable now, and quite beautiful as well. But you still haven't really convince me that it's not about being a desirable sex object rather than about becoming a woman."

"I'm not sure those are completely inconsistent. I like to be pretty, and obviously so do you. But I haven't exactly gone out of my way to get guys." (OK, well I had a couple of times, but let's not tell all to Dr. Wright.) "Trying to be a part time girl in a world of males has been a big problem for me." I told her about my prom night debacle.

"So your first sex experience was to be raped?" I nodded, and added "It won't be the last. Last night, I tried to sneak into my dorm in girls clothes and got caught." "You were raped last night?" Well, even though it wasn't exactly rape, it was close, so I told her "Two guys caught me sneaking into the dorm late, and dressed. It's just impossible living in this half and half world. I can't live as a boy, I need to turn into a girl, and doing that while living in a men's dorm is insane. I'll get myself killed."

"Did you report what happened last night to campus police?"

"Are you kidding? Cops don't give a shit about transsexuals. I'm going to manipulate those two into a ring of silence. They can't afford to be linked to me as a transsexual any more than I can afford to be exposed as one."

Dr. Wright and I walked back to her office. "Look, I'm on your side. I am going to tell Dr. Prince that he should treat you as a transsexual patient. And I'll recommend that the University re-register you as a female, and change your housing to a gender neutral environment. But it's going to take some time, and I can't do either until you tell your parents."

I promised I would tell them. I gave her a hug as she left for her next appointment. "Dr.

Wright, I was so apprehensive about meeting you. You're great, and I really feel like both you and I know me better. I feel really comfortable talking to you about everything."

"More than anything you said, and that alone was very impressive, I was impressed by how much more naturally you acted when you changed into girl's clothes. You're still the same person, but your posture, facial expression and demeanor were transformed, and I would have to say it was for the better. It was more convincing than your best argument, and that's saying a lot."

"Thank you so much. That's just how I feel. And thank you for challenging me when I misled you. It's a hard habit to break, but I promise I'll try. I want to tell the truth to you, but I know it will be hard. I was so worried about meeting with you, and now I'm so glad that you're my doctor."

"Well, Allie, I should tell you, that I have a special advantage with transsexual patients.

"I'm one myself."

"Wow, I had no idea. You're perfect."

"Thank you. So are you." We hugged again. As her firm breasts brushed my much smaller titties, a familiar feeling overwhelmed me. I wanted to inhabit her body, just as I had wanted with Marta. I left her feeling happy but bewildered. I got another Starbucks and went to the library. Alone with my books in the empty stacks, I felt safe in my sorority girl's attire. I felt liberated and creative, and the words flowed from my pen as I analogized Chaucer to Joyce's short stories collected in "the Dead". I looked up from my tautly reasoned conclusion and notice that it was 11:45, fifteen minutes to closing. I panicked, where the hell were Rick and Randy. I felt betrayed and vulnerable. I wouldn't have stuck myself here across campus from my room without their escort. I heard footsteps and to my relief, saw Rick's buzzed head bob past me. "S-s-s-t". He doubled back, and then did a double take. "Is that you?" I nodded. "Shit, I walked past you three times, although I would have hit on you if you hadn't been so buried in your books. You look great."

"Thanks, you look wasted."

"Party hearty, my motto."

"Sound's good to me. Let's go." We found Rick who was staggering around, drunkenly lost, in a distant part of the stacks and walked to our dorm hand in hand.

We agreed that for Rick and Randy to sneak a tasty looking sorority chick into his room would be no problem. As we neared the dorm I pulled them together. "I really want both of you, but let's try it one on one tonight. You decide on turns, I can't play favorites." I really preferred Rick, but it was close. They suggested flipping a coin, and I said "That's disgusting. I don't want to be wagered on a coin flip. OK, how far is the moon from earth. Closest guess is first." Rick guessed a thousand miles, and Randy guessed a million. "Oh my god, you should both lose, but Rick's closer." Rick and I walked to their double room, and Randy staggered to my single.

OK, now I know that sodomy has a bad name, with its part in the spread of AIDS and all, but when it's all you got, you try to perfect it to an art. Let's be honest, for the bottom, and I am always the bottom, it always hurts at the beginning, but it's fantastic at the climax. The difference between a bad experience and a great fuck is the degree of pain that precedes the pleasure.

But that's only the sensual level. Beyond that there are exquisite ying/yangs of pain and pleasure, of subjugation and freedom, of vulnerability and invincibility, and of domination and submission, and sodomy exemplifies these unities and dichotomies perfectly. As the submissive bends and opens herself to her dominant, so does the dominant become beholden to the submissive. My task was to teach these truths to the half drunk, horny jocks that I found myself in bed with, using my own body as the blackboard. What made it especially challenging was that just last night, my two friends had half killed me in bed.

"Rick," I said as I slathered his stiff, condomed cock in lubricant, "When you penetrate me tonight, tell me how each millimeter feels. Talk to me, and tell me how it feels."

"OK, but I have to have you now."

"I want you now, but I want you to open me slowly. As I massaged him with lubricant, I got my first chance to take a good look at his equipment. "Good god", I gasped, "Your cock is so big, and has such a big fat head, it's like a giant mushroom. It's like, not natural." My ass tingled at the prospect of the great head popping through my ring and lodging in my ass canal. "Be careful with me, please."

He nodded and then rolled me into position, face down, ass up. I looked back up at him apprehensively and silently mouthed "Please go slowly." He pressed against my ring as I guided him inside me. As he penetrated me I emitted a cry, and twirled my head in an involuntary spasm. The fiery pain doubled and redoubled as I struggled to press down my diaphragm against the invading fire-breathing dragon inside me. I glanced back, and saw that Rick was oblivious to my plight, his soul completely overwhelmed by his lust.

"Tell me how it feels," I whispered hoarsely, and he opened his eyes and responded "Like my cock's wrapped in velvet." "Oh, that sounds lovely", I sighed, "But you're really hurting me." "Sorry, I'll slow down," and he steadied himself, and gave my aching back and belly a respite. "M-m-m, that's better," I said, visualizing my ass as a tunnel of rich red velvet: a rolled up red carpet enveloping my VIP.

I began thrusting my slender hips and small rounded bottom against his rock hard cock and sinewy thighs, and he responded with a bone crushing intensity. But now I was warm and wet inside, and though his strokes probed me from my perineum to my peritoneum, now every neuron in my body was stoked with serotonin and primed for pleasure. I felt a storm gather inside me, and sensed the approach of another storm from behind me.

They collided in a perfect moment of bliss, as I reached a tiny but fierce orgasm just he came in a thunderclap and a torrent, contained, to my regret, in a bulging condom that was one drop short of bursting inside me. The storm subsided as our breaths slowed to normal and the echoes of our mutual explosions gradually faded. As he pulled out, he whispered hoarsely "That was fantastic." I could only nod in agreement, my heaving chest rendered me temporarily speechless. He pulled on his sweatpants, kissed me on the ear and whispered goodnight. The moment the door closed, I was roused by the realization that in just a few seconds the door would open and Randy would take his turn with me. "Oh my god, I thought, my poor hole!" I dragged myself up, straightened the sheets, brushed my hair and began fixing my make up. I had just finished my gloss when Randy opened the door a crack and asked politely "May I come in now?"

"Sure, just a sec," I said as I finished primping. He sidled up behind me and began fondling my breasts. "That feels nice," I said. I whirled round to face him, and looked up into his eyes, lips quivering. His bone strained against his boxers, the tip slipping through the flap at mouth level. Oh well, I thought, as I took it between my lips, my arms hugging his iron buttocks as I gazed admiringly upward past his buffed abs to his handsome face. "That's it, baby," he said.

Now as you know I do love to take it up the ass, but there is such a thing as too much of a good thing, and after a night and a half of unaccustomed action mine was beyond sore.

Daylene's sound advice had made me a confirmed condom user, but some of my dad's scholarly journals had down-played the risk of AIDS transmission from oral sex, at least if there are no open sores on the genitalia and mouth. Randy's tasty meat, freshly seasoned with pre-cum, made me thirsty for a full mouth and throat-full of his jism, and overcame my waning health concerns.

I slid my lips over his dick head a dozen times, and he forgot about anything else but entering my mouth hot mouth and penetrating my throat. He pulled my head toward his groin, and I answered by cupping his rock hard glutes and ramming his dick even farther down my throat. Soon I was dizzy from lack of breath and exertion, but as I began to swoon, I felt the mad rush of his pre orgasmic frenzy, and then a hot bath of semen rushed down my esophagus. His cock yanked back clear of my lips and sprayed my face, neck and breasts with a stringy shower of cum, and I took the last droplets on my tongue as I squeezed his balls dry. "Yum," I said, smiling up at his handsome, satisfied face.

"Yum," he replied, slapping my tired cheek softly with his softening member.

I handed him a tissue and wiped his plentiful cream from my face and chest. "That was fantastic," he said, and I replied "Thank you, you're wonderful too." I glanced at the clock. 1:30 a.m. "Oh my god, time for bed. Would you wake up Rick now, and bring me my robe and slippers?"

"At your service." Randy staggered back half carrying a slumbering Rick, whom he dumped unceremoniously in his rumpled bed. He slipped my slippers on my feet and helped me into my robe. "Meet us at Starbucks after math class tomorrow?" "Order me a double shot non-fat two equal latte," I responded, knowing he would never get it right.

Then, to my shock, he embraced me and gave my still cummy mouth a most romantic kiss. "Sweet dreams," he said. "You too," I replied.

The dorm was quiet, but it was not my bed time yet. I took a Valium and a boiling hot shower, flossed twice, brushed thrice, rubber tipped, and gargled for 90 seconds with amber Listerine. I am a nut for hygiene, especially dental care. Wrapped in my long thick robe, I went to my room and lay down in my bed. Aromas of Rick and our recent hot fuck surrounded me. It reminded me of what I had become: the love slave, and intellectual and spiritual guardian, of two big, strong, and dumb jocks: hockey players, the craziest, most violent and most anglo of all jocks. Oh well, I thought, I always loved women's Olympic skating.

On Friday mornings, Math 101 met in small groups. The TA's returned Bloomberg's pop quiz, to the groans and complaints of the class. Everyone had flunked, except me: I had gotten a perfect mark. The TA kept the class overtime for a grinding review session, drafting me as his involuntary tutor. I was late to Starbucks, but my latte was still warm, and Rick and Randy were exultant. "Our whole fuckin' classes flunked except us. We got 9 out of 10. Yur a fuckin' genius. We're sittin' next to you for the rest of college."

"Wait a minute, it's not going to work out like that. They'll never let you copy the final, and besides, Math 101 is the only first year class I have. And if I let you cheat off me through Math 101, what happens in the next class?" They were stricken with fear.

"Look, studying's not so bad. At least if you're studying with me" "Studying what?"

asked Rick. "What I tell you, from 9 till 11. After that, you're in charge." I knew the prospect of a sexual reward would keep them from drinking and partying until midnight.

"It's a deal for me," said Rick." "Where do we meet?" asked Randy. "See you at the research library at 9. Bring your math books." As I knocked back the creamy remains of my latte, and headed off to Chaucer, I complimented myself. God, I thought, I am a genius; I am perfect!

The Greatest Lie Chapter 5 Law and Order

Most of my classmates celebrated the first Saturday after the beginning of classes in hedonistic leisure, nursing hangovers and playing Frisbee on the Quad. But I spent the morning plotting my escape from this dangerous, macho dormitory, studying want ads and making appointments to look at studios on Hennepin to use for my independent study on "Behaviors of Transgendered Sex Workers". I made three appointments, identifying myself as Alexandra; after all, I would be occupying the apartment as a female tenant. I showered and changed in Professor Finch's bathroom, gleefully anticipating the impressions we would make on my prospective landlord: Finch, the cheating middle aged man arranging a love nest for a girlfriend young enough to be his daughter. If only they knew: the truth was so much more scandalous. In keeping with the love nest scenario, I dressed and made myself up in the waif fashion. The months on heavy hormones, light diet and inadequate sleep made this look a natural for me.

Finch eyed me with astounded appreciation as I exited the bathroom. "Wow", he said, "You look like you walked right out of a fashion magazine." "Thanks," I said. "May I make a phone call?" He handed me the phone eagerly and hovered, his eyes greedily taking me in.

I called the phone number the police detective had given me to inquire about the disposition of poor Daylene's remains. "What's the date of death and name of deceased?"

droned the bored bureaucrat. I replied and there was a long pause, with a desultory shuffling of papers. Finally, the bureaucrat recited "Case Number 9063, African American Male, John Doe burial September 15." Bitter tears of rage and regret filled my eyes. "You were supposed to notify me, and give me a chance to take possession of her remains. Detective Keyes promised me that." More papers shuffled. "The investigating officers canceled secondary notification. After the next of kin declined, we were directed to make a John Doe disposition."

The vision of my lovely, lively Daylene buried alone, un-mourned, and as an anonymous male at first devastated me, and then energized me with rage. "What's the matter?" Finch inquired. In my trial interview for the Transgendered Sex Workers project, I had given him an edited version of my interlude with Daylene, emphasizing her role as the paradigm and inspiration of the project, rather than as a lost lover. Finch understood immediately, and was horrified. He suggested, with academic objectivity, that I add a new section of questions to our interviews: the degree to which the subjects had been subjected to discrimination or abuse by the police. God, if only you knew! I thought to myself.

I phoned Keyes, and he picked up his line. "Keyes here."

"This is Alex Rios. I'm the one who gave you the report on the Daylene Doe murder. I have a question about the case."

"In this business, we ask the questions. I've got nothing to tell you on a pending investigation."

"I'm not asking about your investigation. I'm calling about Daylene's remains. Did you tell the morgue not to call me after the family didn't claim her? You promised that you would notify at the number I gave you."

"Things changed. After investigating, I determined you were not an appropriate person to receive a secondary disposition of the remains."

"You mean you were investigating me, and not who murdered Daylene? That's disgusting."

"It didn't take much investigating to figure that you're one of her trannie streetwalker friends. That makes you part of the problem, not part of the solution, doesn't it. You'll be lucky we don't charge you. So don't call us, we'll call you. Get it?"

"Yeah, I got it," I said, hanging up.

I burned with rage and the desire for revenge against Keyes, and I desperately wanted to make it up to Daylene. A plan formed in my mind.

"Professor Finch, don't you think that this project would benefit from a little publicity on the street?"

"Depends on what kind."

"How about a memorial service and protest rally against police indifference to the safety of the transgendered population and incompetence in the investigation of Daylene's murder?"

"That sounds promising. Do you know how to organize it?"

"Not really, but I imagine the Gay, Lesbian and Transgendered Alliance does."

I phoned Jon and told him what had happened. "That's unbelievable. I know you wanted to her to have a real funeral. What happened?" He was incensed at Keyes' inhumane treatment of Daylene and his insulting and discriminatory remarks to me.

As soon as we had rented a studio for the project, Finch drove me to meet Jon at the Alliance's office. Jon also called in Brad Whitman, a third year law student who was to coordinate the legal outreach aspect of the program. We had been scheduled to talk about the package of legal services that the Alliance would be providing to the Transgendered community, but now Daylene dominated the conversation.

"The fucking cops, they just used me, and now Keyes is threatening me."

"Don't worry about Keyes, he's clueless, and got bigger problems than you on his hands.

I'm more worried about you out on the street: it's getting scary out there."

"I'm just going to be handing out information to the girls", I lied. Actually, I had much more interesting plans in mind.

Brad said "Did you know that Daylene was the second "T" murdered in the Twin Cities this year, and they found a third dead T dumped by the river two nights ago. A group called `Arm and Sword of the Lord' claims responsibility. They proclaim they are ridding the community of spiritual pollutants, meaning, transsexuals."

My heart started pounding with fear. "Is this a serial killer or an organized massacre?"

Jon responded, "If the cops know, they're not telling anyone."

"Does anyone know about this except us?" I asked.

"The cops do, but they're not saying. They say it would hamper their investigation. So far, the press doesn't care."

"We can use the memorial service to publicize the threat," Jon said. That will get the streetwalkers aware of the problem, and maybe it will focus some press attention and put some pressure on the cops."

I began typing a handbill to distribute and post on Hennepin. Jon made some calls and rented an African American church near Hennepin for the following Saturday. Finch called a reporter he knew and arranged a meeting, and Jon left to pay the deposit on the church. As they set off, I sensed them looking warily at me, and Brad, alone at the Alliance office. Their feelings of jealousy and apprehension were palpable. And, as far as I was concerned, those feelings were entirely justified. Jon was a caring and sensitive lover, but he was gay. Finch was a brilliant and kind person, but he was a disaster in bed.

Brad had unexplored potential that I wanted desperately to investigate.

Brad hovered over my shoulder as I typed a handbill on the computer. We bickered jokingly over the wording. I felt the warmth of desire growing within me; did I sense warmth from within Brad? Was he peeking down my blouse as he squinted into the computer screen? Would he like to see more? "God, my eyes and fingers are killing me. I have to take a break." I flopped suggestively on the nearby couch. Brad took my place at the computer, and he pecked away energetically. "Don't you think it would be better to say, `Join us as we celebrate Daylene's life, mourn her death, and build a community in her memory.'"

"That's great, but come sit with me. I need to talk about something else. I'm so stressed- out about this."

"OK," Brad said wearily, taking a chair opposite me. "Tell me about your ideas on the legal outreach. I like to write agitprop, but it's the law that I'm really here for."

"Is law all you're here for?"

"What else did you have in mind?"

"I'd like to know what's on your mind. Like, how did you get interested in transsexuals?" I asked, batting my eyes suggestively.

"What makes you think I'm interested in transsexuals?" he replied warily.

"Isn't that why you're here?"

"No, I'm here to provide student legal services."

"And not to get to know me?"

"Sorry, but I'm just here to represent you as a client of me as a student legal counselor.

Anything else is off limits, unethical."

I must have looked hurt, because he quickly added "Look, I'm not quite a lawyer, but the same rules apply. We're not supposed to mess around with clients."

"Even if your client wants you to mess around?"

"Especially if the client wants to mess around!"

He reached across and clasped my hand chastely. "I really want to work with you, and I think you're bright and beautiful and amazing, but we have to be strictly friends and colleagues, OK?"

"OK. And you're not mad that I suggested, you know ... "

"Allie, I'm flattered that you would think of it."

So that was that. We worked another couple of hours and Brad dropped me off at a Kinko's to make copies of our handbill. He shook my hand and said good night, and left me alone to wait for the copies. Finch and Jon had nothing to worry about after all. And I had nothing to do on Saturday night.

Rick and Randy had dates with sorority girls. I knew that they had to go on dates with sorority girls or face social ostracism and suspicion, but I was jealous. Oh well, at least it demonstrated they were straight. Seeing Jon again was out of the question. He was probably planning a big night out with some new or old boyfriend. His gayness was really off-putting. Now from Brad, I faced for the first time as a girl what I had always feared as a boy: rejection.

I responded as I had always done before, by retreating into books. I went to the library and studied the rest of the day in solitude. Although I was still dressed in the girls' clothes I had selected that morning, I attracted little attention: I looked like just another cute but studious coed. A big dose or Premarin, and the repeated challenge and success of solving problems from my physics book, gradually brought calm and confidence back to me.

I reflected with regret on my unrequited seduction of Brad. He had been so helpful and creative on in drafting the handbill, and was so committed to providing legal help to the T-Girl community. I had responded to his enthusiasm by trying to get him to fuck me.

God, did I have to be a bedroom slut at every opportunity? How could I have been such an idiot? Now, despite what he had said, I felt I must have irreparably damaged my relationship with him.

Before I had transitioned to girlhood, I had never related to anyone sexually. Now, as a girl, I was relating to people exclusively sexually. I had adapted to the paradigm of ruthless male aggression toward attractive girls, by adopting the corresponding seductiveness of the stereotypic whore. I was objectifying all men as studs, even as I was being objectified as a sex object by the Ricks and Randys of the world. This was fine for guys like them, but for people like Brad, or even Finch, sexualizing the relationship had diminished, rather than enhancing it. The problem was that I just loved to get fucked. As this overwhelming realization cascaded over me, my ass started tingling with a longing sensation. With no one available to satisfy me, I was drawn, as though magnetically, to the sidewalks of Hennepin Avenue.

The neighborhood that had seemed so dull and drab by daytime now glittered and throbbed with danger and excitement. I unlocked my new studio. To my delight, the drab and empty quarters had been thoroughly cleaned and made up; on the tiny kitchenette table, there was a bouquet of Sterling Silver lavender roses, with a card from Finch. "Allie, enjoy your new home/office. You are my favorite student." He had had his cleaning lady make up the bed, stock the refrigerator (OK, I know you can't live on Pellegrino, but you can't live without it either!) There were even some feminine soaps, shampoos, and towels in the bathroom. I freshened up, put a handful of handbills in my purse, and headed toward a corner where the T-Girls ruled the sidewalks.

Four sequined and gossamered figures arched their backs, pointed their silicone boobs and pirouetted to the passing traffic, in exaggerated, provocative poses. I approached a pouty-faced Asian girl, and asked, "Hi, do you remember me?"

"No bitch, who you?"

"Friend of Daylene's."

"You mean the dead girl, you dead girl friend?"

"Yes. I hung out with her last summer."

"You work street with dead girl? Now you want work street with me?"

"Maybe later. Right now I want to help make the street safer for everyone." I handed her a handbill. She crumpled it up.

I looked hurt, and she looked at me angrily. "I no read your paper. I work now."

"I just wanted to invite you to a memorial service for Daylene. There will be some college kids there who want to help you with police, work and landlord hassles. And it will be a pace to meet others like us in safety."

"Don't want college kid help. Don't want your help." Just then a car slowed down and a passenger window rolled down. I retreated to the shadows. I recognized the forest green Suburban. It was old Mr. Country Music, and Garth Brooks was still playing on his stereo. After a hurried conversation, the Asian girl got in and they drove off.

I handed out handbills to the other three girls who were working that block of Hennepin.

They were pleasantly surprised that college kids were taking an interest in their lives.

"I'm a college T girl, you know. Not all college kids are football players and cheerleaders."

"Why donch yu try out fir cheerleader," asked Tonya good-humoredly. Tonya was a long-limbed blond with fantastic silicone breasts. I liked her immediately.

"Actually, I'm more of a hockey fan, and there's no place for cheerleaders on the ice."

Tonya, wisecracked "yeah, they have to suck cock in the penalty box." I laughed "That sounds like a good idea to me!" Actually, as I applied this notion to Rick and Randy, it had possibilities, but I didn't elaborate.

During breaks in the passing traffic, Tonya introduced me to her friends Karinna and Tran. Karinna was a Brazilian with a prominent silicone pumped bunda (Portuguese for ass), and Tran was a beautiful Amer-Vietnamese girl with a pretty face and oversized breast implants. They all had known Daylene and wanted to come to her memorial service. They were excited to have someone to help them with their legal hassles. When I explained my project, they were eager to tell me their stories. "I wanta get my name changed," Karinna said excitedly. "My name fine", said Tran. "I want change my sex,"

she giggled.

Traffic was starting to dwindle, and Tonya and Karinna suggested that we check out the scene at the Town House. "You meet lotta girls there", said Tran. "Lotta trannie chasers too." I noticed that the first girl I had spoken to had not returned. "Do you know the girl in the high black boots? The one I was talking to before you?"

"That Gow," said Tran. "She Thai. She thinks she better than us. She real bitch."

"Do you think she's OK?"

"She probably go home. She hate rest of us girls."

I scanned up and down Hennepin worriedly, but did not see her, or Mr. Country Music's Suburban. Oh well, I thought, he had been OK with me: just not very polite.

The Town House was a drag bar near Hennepin. They didn't card the T-girls, and so I got in with ease. Disco music thumped sensuously and strobes lit the sinuous bodies and glistening faces of the dancers exquisitely. I was both intimidated and entranced. There were scores of T-Girls in the bar, but they were vastly outnumbered by the men who were pursuing them. I hovered at a corner of the bar behind Tonya, Karinna and Tran, but they were all beckoned to the dance floor by suitors, and enthusiastically followed.

I was alone, and feeling very intimidated, when a large, muscular black guy approached me and said "Let's dance." Without waiting for me to demur, he took my hand and led me to the overflowing floor. I noticed immediately that the other dancers gave my partner respectful distance as he bent my body through his well practiced moves. When I stumbled over his feet, and mumbled "Sorry", he said reassuringly "That's OK baby, just follow my lead." And I did. I twirled, spun and bent my body through the pulsating rhythms until my cheeks glowed with warmth and my breath was short. As he escorted me to a booth, Tran cupped her hand over my ear and whispered "That Bo, he best. And biggest!" She laughed excitedly for me.

Bo wasn't exactly the world's greatest conversationalist, but the few words he spoke were in a deep, dignified baritone. He was a huge, handsome, dark skinned African American. He had a massive, chiseled chin, high cheekbones, and soulful brown eyes.

His chest was broad, his arms thick with bulging muscles, and his legs massive. He bought me a glass of champagne. He gazed at me appreciatively, as he sipped his cognac.

The heat of the dance floor had made me thirsty, and I gulped the champagne too fast. In the midst or our next dance, my head was spinning, and I toppled helplessly into his arms. "I think I need to go home." He nodded and guided me to the exit. Through blurry eyes I saw Tran and Tonya giggling and waving goodnight.

The night had grown chilly and I shivered and sobered up quickly. Bo noticed me shivering in my spaghetti strap top and threw his leather jacket over my shoulders. I was simultaneously thrilled and chilled by my circumstances: alone at night with the hottest black stud on the trannie scene. My body wrestled briefly with my conscience, and my conscience succumbed. "Do you want to see my new place?" I asked innocently. "It's just around the corner." He nodded and took my hand. "I want you baby, I want to fuck your sweet little ass." I feigned surprise. "I don't usually do that with guys I don't know."

"Do you know President Grant?" he asked, showing me a fistful of hundreds.

"I know him, all right!" I replied. God, I loved getting paid for sex.

I let him into my new studio, and was pleased that he said "Nice place." It was tiny, but thanks to Finch's cleaning lady, it looked fresh and neat. Gesturing to the bed, I said "Make yourself comfortable." I grabbed lingerie and make-up from my still-packed bag and went to the toilet.

I was sweaty from the dance floor, and so I douched my tush and took a quick shower.

The douche worked quickly and I felt squeaky clean inside and out. I cleansed my face, applied a light coat of make-up to emphasize my youth and innocence, and put on a filmy nightie and panties. I was out of the toilet in ten minutes, and Bo lay naked on my bed, stroking his mighty cock. It was an ebony obelisk, rigid atop Bo's imposing frame, which rippled with well toned muscles. "Baby, you're beautiful. Come to poppa." I sleepwalked towards him, transfixed by the sight of his enormous penis.

Involuntarily, I bent down to suck it, but he pulled me up towards his face and crushed my lips in a breathtaking kiss, before guiding my head over his taught, washboard abs to his monstrous member. I gobbled it into my mouth and banged it against my tonsils, and realized to my amazement that a full handful was still outside my wide-stretched lips. He wasn't big: he was huge. I enjoyed the feeling of giving him a hand and blow job at the same time even as I pondered the geometric implications on my slender hips and tight ass. It tingled with the expectation of pain followed by pleasure.

For it was my ass that he craved. My hot, wet mouth was only a warm up for him. He guided my head gently onto his cock, never pushing me to the gag point or pulling my hair. For all his size and power, Bo was a gentle and considerate lover. His long, strong arm circled around my back, and he stroked my hole with his thumb as his for finger flicked my tiny cock like a clit. "Oh baby, I love your tight ass," he moaned, knowing his massive cock rendered me speechless. Gradually, he slipped his thumb through my ring, sending sensations of pain and ecstasy though me. He pulled his cock from my stretched and tired lips and said "I'm ready," and I obediently sat up and grabbed a condom and lubricant from my bag.

I slathered his steel-hard cock with lubricant and tried to slip the Trojan on. He was so large that the condom slipped off and wouldn't unroll. Finally, I popped the unrolled condom between my lips, and steadying his cock in both hands, I pressed it on with my mouth, using my puckered lips to unroll the condom over the rim of his bulging cockhead. It slipped on, and his cock again banged alarmingly against my palate and the back of my throat. I felt an anticipatory flash of pain in my tummy. I squirted a puddle of lubricant into his outstretched palm and he massaged it into my crack, slipping some into the outer ring of my ass as I let out an involuntary moan. I slathered on as much as would stay on the on his massive pole, which seemed to have grown even larger as a result of this gentle attention. I rolled onto Finch's freshly laundered sheets, and Bo squished a pillow under my pelvis. "Be careful," I reminded him as he mounted my upturned buns.

His first stroke bounced off my rigid ring and slid down over my tiny, cowering cockette.

"Oops", he said, abashed. I reached back to steady and guide him into me. My fingers could barely circle his engorged cock. "Just a second, let me relax," I said, as I pressed my diaphragm down toward my rectum with all my strength. "Now," I said, and he pressed inward. His upward pressure met my downward thrust in a perfect moment, and he entered me.

For a few seconds, I was numb with shock, and then a wave of pain swept though me. I bit the pillow to suppress my cry, but I was shaking with fiery sensations. He pulled back a fraction of an inch, and then I could breath and speak again. "Slower please", I gasped, and he gave another gentle nudge forward, and again pulled back a fraction. Blinding pain again was succeeded by exquisite relief. Each new millimeter brought me to the brink of extinction, and back. Thirty careful strokes brought him inside me to the hilt.

Each gentle nudge and retraction had brought new heights of pain and vistas of relief and pleasure; but when his balls finally slapped against my ring, I felt as though my belly was about to burst. His cock was pressing against every organ inside me, and was penetrating me to my very heart. Tears welled in my eyes. With a cracking voice I said "God that feels great, but you're huge, be gentle, don't hurt me."

"Don't worry, baby, I know what I'm doin." With that, he began a gradual gentle rocking motion. Every inch of my intestine rebelled against each entry and withdrawal, but as his rhythm steadied and strengthened, my body became an involuntary slave to his commanding motions. My juices began to flow inside me, and our bodies united in undulating waves that grew in intensity with each crash of his body against mine. As we rose and fell in unison, his movements became faster and more powerful, again overwhelming me. With each thrust, the gentle, considerate lover gave way to a wild, barbaric animal. But by then, I had transformed from a frightened virgin to an insatiable nymphomaniac. Now, no gentle words passed his lips, and his mellifluous baritone gave way to a husky, breathy grunt. The unbridled power of his massive muscles was unleashed on my slender, soft body. He did not bother with a menagerie of different positions and rhythms. His was a straight and relentless doggy-style assault. His cock pounded relentlessly into my core, and I yielded enthusiastically to his extraordinary athleticism and endurance, crying out in wordless ecstasy. With each crushing downward thrust, I raised and opened myself, and with each rapid, wrenching extraction, I surrendered his precious tool, and readied myself for a new surrender.

I lapsed into replays of long forgotten fantasies. I was the mistress secluded southern plantation, whose slaves had rebelled after her confederate husband was killed in battle.

Now, it was the turn of the hulking, angry field hand from the cotton field to take revenge for the lashings of the slave master's bull whip. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry", I moaned, escaping into an agonizing reverie that mirrored the animalistic fucking this black master was giving me in the here and now.

His fucking accelerated and became even more wild and violent, and I knew the end was near. Then came a wild animal cry and a prick-plunge that tore into me like a spear, bringing bright colors to my watering eyes, then a series of ten more like it, accompanied by wild grabbing at my breasts and cockette, and I knew he was cumming. Then, darkness descended over me.

I must have passed out from the ecstasy and the exertion, for I awoke under the crushing weight of Bo's slumbering body. His softened cock was still stuck in the entrance to my bottom. Worried about a condom leak, I squeezed it out with a sharp pop of my rectum, and Bo groaned sleepily. "Wake up, I can't breath" I whispered, and he rolled over and off of me. I slid out of bed to the bathroom. I peed and douched again. When I cleaned myself out, the liquid was pink with blood. I put neosporin on my sore hole, and then I washed Bo's sweat off in the shower. When I emerged, he was half dressed and smiling.

"You're the best yet," he said proudly. "You got the tightest, hottest ass in the Twin Cities."

I was a little hurt to be graded like a commodity, but that was Bo. "Thanks," I said.

"You were great too."

"Gotta be getting home now," he said. It was 1:30. He gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Be see'in you later." He closed the door behind him, and suddenly, I felt very alone again.

I looked around the apartment and was relieved that Finch's cleaning lady had left a spare set of sheets. I stripped the bed of the sweat stained sheets and put on fresh ones. I had no more pajamas, so I put back on the lingerie I had worn for Bo. As I was turning off the light to go to sleep, I noticed that Bo had left a pile of hundreds by the bed. I put it into my purse, and fell into an exhausted sleep. God, I thought, it was really great to get paid for sex. Especially, to get paid a lot.

The next morning I had arranged to join Rick and Randy for a Starbucks, and a study session. I arrived late, in girl's clothes, and they welcomed me with jealous stares.

"Where were you last night?" Rick demanded inquisitorially. "I knew you were fully occupied, so I stayed over at a friend's place," I said vaguely. "Who's that?" asked Randy insistently. "If you must know, my advisor on my independent study has a spare apartment. He's letting me use it when I can't stand the dorm anymore. I thought you had dates, anyhow. How did you have time to spy on me?"

It turned out that Rick had actually used my bedroom with his date, while Randy entertained his in their shared room. "Oh great," I said sardonically. "Not only do I have to share you with every girl in the Tri Delt house, I have be their hostess as well."

Rick beckoned me for a whispered confidence, and Randy crowded in. "You know we like you a million times better than regular girls."

"Yeah, we just have to keep up appearances. You're a lot nicer, a lot smarter, and ..."

"A lot tighter," they both agreed, giving my butt a gentle squeeze.

And I like you better than Bo, I said silently to myself. But I bit my tongue.

"It's so nice to be appreciated. But how do I fit in? Am I just your weekday tutor, and your weeknight fuck?"

"We'll start taking you out to do stuff," Rick said to placate me. "You can come to a hockey practice, and watch us play if we make the team," Randy promised. That promise reminded all of us that our plan was to study.

"So where is this apartment? Can we go there for study hall?" There were only two chairs in the tiny kitchenette. Someone would have to spread out on the bed. "OK, " I agreed, knowing that it would be me.

So we studied there for hours. Rick and Randy weren't stupid; they were average: just coddled jocks whose path had been greased through high school by powerful coaches and subservient teachers. With my attentive guidance, and the promise of a pleasant reward at the end of their studies, they tried hard and learned quickly. When our agreed upon study hall was over, I submitted to a fantastic orgy at their increasingly expert hands.

They left me sore and exhausted in a rumpled bed as they went to a team workout.

With my help, I realized, they would make their grades and make the hockey squad.

They would become campus and media darlings, and graduate to become the country- clubbed, connected grand bourgeoisie. They would get the fast track jobs at the Fortune 100, and live in the big houses in Edina with beautiful, lazy wives and adorable, soccer playing children. In the meantime, I was rescuing them from alcoholic and academic oblivion, and making this possible for them. Where did I fit in this world? Or did I belong in the world of Bo, Tran, Tonya and Karinna? I translated 3 more Canterbury Tales, and it was dark. I returned to the Town House and ordered a fruit salad, hoping for a friendly face to relieve my depression. I was rewarded with welcome company: Tran hugged me and giggled excitedly. "Mr. Bo, I hear he like you. What he give you?" I hadn't yet counted the pile of cash on my bedstead, so I opened my purse to look: it was $300. "Oh, Mr. Bo, he like you a lot. He like you more than me. Now I hate you."

"Please don't desert me, Tran. I need you."

"I kidding. But jealous."

"Tell me where Bo gets his money."

"From drugs. He biggest crack dealer in Twin City. Lotta people work for him. Be careful of that Bo. He rich and sexy, but he danger. He no like you, he chill you out, like that." She snapped her fingers.

Great, I thought: my new boyfriend, the homicidal king-pin drug dealer. That could come in handy: or, not!

"Tran, I'm worried no one will come to the service for Daylene. What can we do?"

"Give me more paper, I gave all other paper away. We can leave more at Town House."

"Do you know the bouncers and bartenders?"

"Of course. Knew Daylene too. They sorry about Daylene."

"Will you introduce me?"

"Of course, they like you. They like pretty T-Girl at Town House. But no hooking at bar!" she jokingly commanded.

Tran introduced me, and not only did the bartender agree to have the bouncer distribute handbills, the owner replaced the marquee. Now, instead of "Moulin Rouge Review, Wed. and Sun. Nites 11 pm," it read "Mem. Serv. Daylene, Sat., 4 pm at 1st Afr, Bapt.

Ch." Tran insisted on picking up more handbills from my apartment, and she cooed appreciatively. "You a rich college girl. You lucky." I gave her a warm smile and a hug.

Her round silicone breasts brushed me and I kissed her cheek to cheek. "Just lucky to have friends like you." She said goodbye and flounced down Hennepin.

And, I reflected, maybe I was lucky. Just as Rick and Randy had come to cherish and protect me in the daylight world of campus, so would Bo in the dark and dangerous netherworld of Hennepin. Brad, Peter and Jon would become the guardians of my social agenda and my academic ambition. Tran had become my confidante and ally in the T- Girl community. Although I was stuck between two worlds, and two genders, I had found friendship and support in both. If only I could find a way to merge them!

I stopped at the Alliance's office to leave notes for Jon and Brad about the progress on publicizing the Memorial Service. There was a note from Brad to me asking me to meet him, he had an assignment for me. Flattered, I went to the Law School and was directed to the Law Review Office, where he was an editor. "Professor Epstein is going to speak on Transgendered Rights at the memorial service. Finch got him. Now, he's assigned me to write his speech for Daylene's service. I haven't got a clue, so I'm counting on you." He handed me a rough manuscript entitled "Is Prostitution Protected Speech?"

"He told me to work from this. Read it over and get back to me tomorrow with your ideas." I was flabbergasted and flattered. "You know I'm only a freshman?"

"Allie, you're already smarter than most of the second year law students I supervise here.

I trust you. Meet me here at 4:00 tomorrow; we meet with Epstein at 5:30."

"Can I work here?"

"Sure. There are law students here most of the night."

"Can you do me a favor?"

"OK, what?"

"Can you get me a change of clothes and my toilet kit from my dorm? It's room 503."

"Sure, what do you want to wear?"

"Boys' clothes. In class, I'm still Alex."

What I really needed was the Premarin and speed in the toilet kit. Brad returned as I was in the midst of the first read through of "Protected Speech?" The draft was covered with scribbled comments, looping, wild inserts carrying around the margins, and emphatic deletions.

"Whose draft, and whose notes?"

"Mine, and Epstein's"

"Wow, he's a tough critic!"

"That's putting it mildly. Welcome to the world of law professors. Good luck. Planning to stay late?"

"All night, if I need to."

"Too bad for your boyfriends over at the dorm. They were already pining after you."

I blushed. "They'll be fine."

"Sure. Separation makes the heart grow fonder. Leave a copy of your draft on my desk.

Good night."

As I read Epstein and Whitman's wildly imaginative hypothesis, I made the connection that prostitution, as the free expression of transgendered identity, was a First Amendment right. I began typing furiously: A person's gender identity was at the core of the being, and expression of that identity was a core component of that person's basic right to communicate. Thus, abridgment of that right is not only cruel and inhumane, but in violation of the First Amendment.

Free speech may be restricted where it poses a clear and present danger, but in our society expressions of majority sexual identity are widely tolerated. Think of Elvis, or of Cassanova, of Madonna and Marilyn Monroe. If there is no Constitutional justification for curbing expression of typical male and female identities, there can be none for curbing expression of transsexual identity. Indeed, since there is widespread discomfort in the public with transsexual expressions, the imposition of restrictions on transsexual behavior evidences an abusive exercise of majority tastes at the expense of the freedom of expression of the minority transsexual population. The protection of minority expression from the censorship of the majority is the highest calling of the First Amendment!

Discrimination against transsexuals is especially intolerable since both municipal and Minnesota state law protect gender minorities. These protections extend to people of one genetic gender who identify with or take on the other genetic gender. Minnesota Statutes chapter 363 Subd. 41a provides that "Sexual orientation" means ... having or being perceived as having a self-image or identity not traditionally associated with one's biological maleness or femaleness." The defining characteristic of the transsexual is being perceived to have or having a self-image or identity not traditionally associated with biological gender. Thus, expression of transsexual identity is specifically protected in Minnesota.

Section 363.03 prohibits discrimination based on sexual orientation in employment, housing, education, and public services and accommodation and thus forbids discrimination in these areas against transsexuals. Yet discrimination against transsexuals in all of these areas is widespread and tolerated. Employers refuse to hire, landlords refuse to rent, the police harass and demean, and the public, gay and straight alike, marginalizes and demeans the transsexual minority. Denied mainstream jobs, they find work on our streets, where they are ridiculed, harassed and assaulted.

Transgendered populations suffer more crime victimization in virtually all categories of crime, ranging from assault, to rape and now serial murder: statistics indicate that they are murdered at 160 times the rate of the general population. As perpetrators, their crimes are nearly always status and vice crimes: soliciting prostitution, vagrancy, and drug possession. But the police adopt a confrontational and abusive stance to our transgendered population. The police rigorously enforce victimless crimes laws, while most crimes against transsexuals are not competently investigated, much less punished.

Now, the police investigation of a string of serial murders of transsexuals languishes, without serious investigation. How many of you have even been interviewed about the circumstances of Daylene's abduction and murder, which was preceded by a another similar crime and now has been followed with another. Apathy and contempt have taken root, flourished and bred a domestic holocaust against our most vulnerable gender minority, which the police, which we all, have ignored and therefore tolerated.

It is time to redress a generation of neglect and hostility, to enforce our laws and Constitution, and to permit this minority to give voice to their expression of gender and identity. It is time for the gender community to unite and demand its rights under the Constitution, the Minnesota laws and its time for the rest of us to demand justice and freedom on their behalf.

I looked up from the computer screen at last, and beheld a gorgeous pink sunrise. I had worked through the night. There was a shower in the law review office, for workaholic law students to keep up appearances. I showered, dressed and trudged wearily to Starbucks for my morning latte: then off to Math 101. It seemed trivial beyond belief. I had glimpsed destiny through a compute screen.

Rick and Randy were furious and suspicious. "What's your excuse this time?" I pulled off my Raybans to reveal my red rimmed eyes. "I had to pull an all-nighter on my independent study." They were satisfied, and even sympathetic. "You look like you need a Starbucks."

"Sure, let's go", I said, silently thinking that I needed something stronger. I popped the last of my Black Beauties, secure in the knowledge that Bo offered an unlimited source of amphetamine re-supply.

I buzzed through the rest of the day to my 4:00 with Brad. We picked and quibbled over my manuscript for an hour or so, before Brad finally pronounced himself satisfied, gulped nervously, and grimly said "Oh well, time to see Epstein."

Professor Epstein let us into his cluttered office, and gestured us to sit. I gingerly removed a stack of files from a chair and sat. Epstein grimaced and pulled at his tangled curly hair, as he read, occasionally grunting, "Yes, yes, good," and then glaring at me and saying accusatorily, "That municipal code was not in my draft." I exchanged nervous glances with Whitman. Finally, Epstein cleared his throat and said "Rios, I gather this draft is primarily yours."

"Yes, well, I started with the "Protected Speech" manuscript, and tried to draw analogies to gender rights,"

Epstein interrupted "And an excellent job you did. Why, if the dunces in my Constitutional Law class reached one tenth of the level of your analysis, I'd have to pass them all." He guffawed at his own joke. "You're an undergraduate?"

"A freshman, actually."

"Well, you're wasting your time on that. You will be take my `Majority Rules, Minority Rights" seminar at the law school next semester. I'll speak with the undergraduate dean about an appropriate credit arrangement." I gathered it was more than an invitation.

"Now when Finch described you, he said you were actually transitioned. Why the male attire?"

"The Admissions and Scholarship Committees admitted me as a male. I'm worried that coming out might cost me my scholarship or even my admission. It's terrible, switching back and forth. And the dormitory situation is a nightmare."

"Enough said. I will be writing the Dean of Students that he is to change your admission status and housing arrangements to gender-appropriate status immediately, and without prejudice to your scholarship and financial aid status. If he hesitates, Mr. Whitman and I will be pleased to file a mandamus action on your behalf, pro bono of course. But then again, you have already written our brief. Well done, Rios."

Of course, that praise did not mean that Epstein did not send Brad and me back to the computer for repeated rounds of revisions. As Brad explained it, all great lawyers were perfectionists. And so, as you know, am I.

I hate the beginning of a party. I am always nervous that no one will come, or that those who do hate it and leave. Thus, I felt awkward and inadequate as I stood around with Jon, Finch, and Reverend Alpha Jones of the First African Baptist Church in front of a room full of empty folding chairs. As guests began to arrive, nervous idleness was replaced by frenetic activity, as I charged around handing out fliers, information, and called to remind Epstein where and when he was to arrive. Naturally, he insisted on reading me a new conclusion that he had just written. I told him that I wasn't sure how the Reverend would take to the prostitution as free expression argument from the pulpit of his church, although I though the audience would respond favorably. He told me that he would have to think about it: "Never forget, Rios, that compromise in the expression of an important idea is the first step on the road to tyranny! Take not one step back!" he thundered.

I made my way to the front of the church, and saw the place was packed to the rafters. Tran, Tonya and Karinna, looking elegant and pious, waved excitedly. Bo sat behind them with several of his tough looking crew. And in the back, keeping a bored, skeptical vigil over about two hundred transsexuals and drag queens, sat Detective Keyes and two plainclothes cops.

Reverend Jones gave a moving funeral address and called upon the community to remember Daylene through their actions as he had through his words. I introduced Brad Whitman as the law school liaison for the Transgendered Community, we made a few announcements concerning the joint Alliance, Sociology Department and Law School outreach project, and asked for the T-Girls to participate in a research study of the community. Then, Epstein rose and delivered the speech we had prepared, in the blistering style of a trial lawyer's closing statement. I watched appreciatively as Keyes squirmed in his seat.

But Epstein surprised me with his conclusion. The last nail he pounded in his indictment of the police was fresh from the police blotter. The police had just disclosed, almost a week after the fact, the gruesome discovery of another murdered transsexual, an Asian of unknown origin.

It had to be Gow! And I knew who had done it. I was the last person to see her alive! The question was, had he seen me in the shadows? Did he remember me? Was he looking for me now?

I couldn't enjoy the reception that followed the service. I felt too nauseous for lemonade and cookies. I approached Keyes and told him that I would like to identify the body, that I might have information. "Look, I don't need you mucking up another investigation."

"I think it might just be part of the same investigation."

"Leave police work to the police, you little busybody. I don't appreciate public agitation against my Department. Fuck with me, and I'll fuck with you. But, as you like it. Meet me at the morgue at six."

I arrived promptly, and Keyes kept me waiting an hour as I fidgeted nervously.

Gow's face, like Daylene's looked almost peaceful, as if she had welcomed the end.

"So do you know her or not?"

"I was talking to her when she picked up her last date on Saturday night. I hung around for another hour or so, and no one saw her again that night."

"What were you doing out on the street?"

"What difference does it make to you? I saw the last car she got into. It was a forest green Suburban with a Minnesota plate. He was a blond, mustachioed white guy playing country music."

"You just described half of the population."

"I'd know him if I saw him. I got a good look." I couldn't tell Keyes how good a look I got last summer, so I left that out. "I can't find him, but he could find me."

"How do you mean?"

"Put me out on the street, like one of your decoy operations."

"How do you know he'll go for you?"

"Well, I am pretty cute, if you hadn't noticed. And I think he may have spotted me."

"OK, I'll put you out on the street. We'll keep an eye on you."

"And you're not going to bust me for solicitation."

"No, we don't bust our CI's."

"When are we going to start?"

"How about tonight. You're so eager to save the world."

"I'll be here at ten. Dressed for the part."

I called Tran and told her my plan. "You crazy girl. Why trust that scumbag cop?"

"I don't, but who else is going to arrest the guy. For all I know he'll come after me. He picked me up last summer."

"You fuck this guy already? Then why he kill Daylene and Gow for being trannies?"

I told her about my tampax trick. "Oh, you very smart girl. Maybe someday you outsmart yourself."

I was worried that she had a point. "Tran, help me get ready, and stay with me please."

Tran dolled me up expertly. Her mom had had a beauty salon, and her make-up and hair styling skills made me look fabulous, even for me. She shared some strappy shoes, a low cut dress, and a pink fake fur jacket "to keep me warm and make me hot."

I tottered out to Hennepin and took a spot where Gow had taken the ride to her doom. I spotted unmarked police cars facing both ways, waiting to pursue. I drew a lot of attention, but I demanded fees that were outrageous even for so tasty a treat as I. I had only one trick to turn, and, at around 11:00, it turned down Hennepin and stopped. The window rolled down, and I heard the wailing of a Garth Brooks CD. "Hi stranger, long time," I said seductively. "What'll it be?" He looked surprised when he recognized me.

"What are you doing here?"

"Same as last time, just like you," I said, hopping in.

He pulled away from the curb, looking disconcerted.

"When I, when we, ah, I thought you were a real girl."

"Depends on what you mean. I am really a girl on the inside."

"But you ..."

"If it helped you enjoy yourself, it was a good thing."

His face hardened, and he began driving faster. I noticed that he had driven past the lover's lane that we had used last summer.

"Where are you taking me?"

"I am taking you to the place that you have chosen for yourself. When you change the body that God gave you, when you seduce other men into unnatural acts with trickery, guile, and trick them into performing the abominable act, you are the devil's child. When you fill your body with poison, and you poison the world around you with your sexual displays, you are doing the devil's work. I am a child of God's, and you have besmirched me with your sinful body. You must now face God's punishment." He pulled the Suburban off the road, switched into four wheel drive, and plunged toward the river.

He grabbed me by the hair and threw me on the ground. I felt a silken chord circle my throat, and tighten. "In the name of the Lord, I sacrifice this child of Satan. As the demon's soul is cast to hellfire, uplift my soul to heaven." He pinned me down by sitting on my chest as he gradually tightened the chord around my throat. I couldn't move, I couldn't breath, and all I could see was this moron's ugly mouth reciting this sick mantra, and the twinkling stars above mocking me. I closed my eyes and let myself drift toward death. First sound, then sight, then feeling, and then the smell of the Mississippi receded, and I was left alone with the flickering light of my consciousness gradually dimming. I was dying, but at least I was dying as a girl who had tried to do the right thing.

But death was not what I expected. It announced itself with three loud bangs.

The slamming of the doors of hell? Then I felt wet lips on mine and warm, wet air fill my lungs. I felt a slap on my face and heard the insistent calling of my name. I looked up and saw the familiar face of Bo, breathing into my mouth and in between breaths, calling my name. I was alive. And beside me, with three bullets in his brain, lay Mr.

Country Music.

I never did figure out if Keyes had planned to let Country Music kill me before making his bust. He said it was accidental, the result of insufficient planning. Of course, Bo, who had been tipped off by Tran, managed to track us to the killing ground and beat Country Music to the trigger. When the police finally searched his place in Fargo, they found Polaroids of seven dead T-Girls: the four from Minneapolis and one each from New York, Chicago and LA. I would have been number eight.

I was up all night with the cops, giving statements and answering questions. I barely staggered into to Starbucks in time for my morning latte with Rick and Randy.

"OK," demanded Rick "Let's hear your excuse this time." Oh god, please, I thought, don't get me started.

The Greatest Lie Chapter 6 Babes in Gangland

In my rare moments of leisure in the weeks following my close encounter with death, I had had little opportunity to talk about it. Of course, the police had asked perfunctory questions, and I had testified at the coroner's inquest, but until my next appointment with Dr. Erika Wright, I had not verbalized the anxiety that gripped me whenever my frenetic schedule gave me time to think. The slow spiral toward death, the flickering lights of my failing consciousness, the sensation of surrender, and the thunderclaps that roused me from my sleep replayed in an endless loop, which I noticed only when life's everyday distractions receded.

"Were you happy when you thought you were dying?"

"Not happy or sad. Just, somehow, fulfilled and accepting."

"Why were you prepared to accept death?"

"It wasn't like that. It was, like, death was accepting me. And then it cast me back."

"Weren't you happy when you realized you were saved?"

"I didn't want to die. But was I happy? Am I happy now? Not really happy, for I have faced and accepted death, and now realize I will someday have to face and accept it again."

"Try thinking of it this way. Although you have to face death twice, you have, in a way, lived two lives."

"My life isn't that much different. I'm still living in this schizo world, where half the time I'm a boy and half the time a girl. Is that what you mean by two lives?"

"No, I mean that from now on, if you want, you can start living as a girl. Your dedication to the community and your heroics on its behalf have completely turned me around on that. I am going to make your transition as easy as possible for you."

"Really. Like getting me out of the dorm? Epstein says he'll sue if he has to."

"I've already written the letter. You'll be getting a housing voucher and a meal allowance in lieu of the dorm fees."

The prospect of unlimited, subsidized lattes cheered me instantly. "How about registering as a girl?"

"I'll support that too, but, there are some mechanics to consider. I think your transition would be a lot smoother if you changed your registration status between semesters. If you do it now, it will be a very public event before a largely unknown audience. The reaction could be unpredictable, or even dangerous."

She was right. I already got bad vibes from the Christian Fundamentalist crowd.

But it could get worse.

"But won't people recognize me next semester?"

"You could make some changes in your appearance. A different haircut or color..."

"Or maybe a boob job?" I asked, glancing admiringly at her beautiful breasts.

"If that's what you want." I nodded enthusiastically.

"But you really have to talk this over with your parents. And it can't wait. It has to be right away, if we are going to start this process now."

"God, that's going to be so bad. My father is such a jerk about this."

"He's a highly educated scientist. Surely he'll understand."

"Underneath it all, he's a macho traditionalist. He's from one of the wealthiest families in Chile. He can trace his lineage back to the Conquistadors. He was in med school at USC when all hell broke loose in '71, you know, Pinochet and Allende. Half his family disappeared, while the other half was running the death squads. Naturally, he never went back. He met my Swedish mother at a foreign students' dance at SC, and after she got her Ph.D., they got married and had me. He's a fellow at UCLA's med school now, and was on the team that isolated HIV. My mom's an authority on child development. I'm the only child, and they have big ambitions for me. As a son."

"And your mom?"

"She found me cross dressing at home early on. She didn't do anything about it, and now she's part of the problem, according to my dad. Of course, he thinks it's mostly my fault, and of course, not at all his. My Mom is on the "nurture" vs. "nature" side, so she feels really guilty. But I don't think it's anyone's fault: I'm just what I was meant to be."

"You're right. Tell them that. You didn't have any trouble coming out to me."

She was right, I knew. I had to face the wrath of Daddy, and the guilt of Mom.

Oh well, after all the shit that had passed between us, what was the difference? I studied late, calculated the time difference, and phoned my parents place in Lucerne in the Swiss morning, Minneapolis night. My mom answered. We exchanged pleasantries, and she enthused about my summer school "A's". I waited for the moment to break in with my difficult message. She beat me to the punch.

"Allie" (I love it when she calls me Allie), I have some bad news. Your father and I have separated. I stifled a rush of enthusiasm, and asked "Did he leave you? When, why?" I heard sobbing over the phone.

"Soon after we got here. One of his graduate students from UCLA was already here. He started seeing her right away. It must have been going on last year in LA. I'm such an idiot."

"Mom, I'm so sorry. I know I was a handful last year."

"It's not your fault. She's the most recent of many. But this one he seems serious about. He sent me legal papers from a lawyer in California."

"Divorce papers?" I asked incredulously.

"I don't know. I haven't read them. How can I even find a divorce lawyer from here?"

"Fax a copy to me." I gave her the fax number at the Law Review. "I have a law student friend who can look at them. I'm sure he can find you a lawyer."

We commiserated about what an unfeeling rat my father was, and bonded our shared suffering at his often cutting remarks. After we became sufficiently intimate, I said "I need to tell you something. Do you remember last winter when you said you thought I would grow out of my feminine phase?"

"Yes, and that terrible incident at that Prom dance. I know we should have gotten you therapy, but I didn't push the issue. I was worried how your father would react.

Why, darling?."

"Mom, I'm in therapy now, but I'm not really growing out of it. I'm growing into it."

"I noticed that you sounded more girlish than when we last talked. Are you taking those hormones again?"

"Mom, I'm sorry, I never could really stop. I don't want to turn into a man. I want to be a woman."

"Do you really? Why?"

"My therapist says she thinks I'm transsexual."

There was silence on the other end. After a moment, I said "Mom, are you still there?"

She cleared her throat huskily. "That's OK, I'll always love you, no matter what."

"I'll always love you too. Do you really mean it. Can you accept me as a girl?"

"You'll always be my baby. I'll love you the same no matter what."

I felt a wave of joy and relief wash over me. Dr. Wright had been right. "Have you told your father?"

"No. How could I? He's either going to kill me or cut me off? Could you...?"

"I can't tell you for him. He'll just blame me and attack me as a parent and a wife. I've taken enough of that. You have to call him, take responsibility yourself, and make him take his share as well."

She gave me his phone number. Oh well, I thought, that went pretty well. Now, it didn't really matter what dad said.

A female voice answered the phone at dad's apartment, "bonjour."

"Bonjour. Puis-je parle avec mon pere?"

"Certainement." She called out to the distance. "Hector, c'est ta jeune fille."

"Impossible, je n'ai pas une jeune fille."(

"Alex, is that you fucking around again?"

"That's not a very friendly greeting. Thanks for telling me you dumped mom.

Aren't you going to introduce me to your little French whore?"

"Listen, you little jerk. I am sick of you and your effeminate ways, and your mother's babying of you. You are turning out to be a child I am really ashamed of. I left your mom to get shut of the both of you, and let me emphasize the you."

This verbal assault left me momentarily speechless, but I regained my voice.

"Well, then, I guess you won't care that I am transitioning to full time female gender.

I'm a transsexual, and I'm proud of it. I'd much rather grow up to be a woman than a egotistic, Don Juan asshole like you."

"I always knew there was something wrong with you. I'm am going to get out of your life, and you and your mom can stay out of mine. I just got appointed head of a pharmaceutical research institute in Lucerne, and I'm staying here with Isabel. You and your mother can have each other, and everything in California. As far as I'm concerned, you can be whatever you want. I just don't want to hear about it anymore."

"Have a nice life, dad." He hung up.

I called my mother and reported. "You know, it's going to be hard. My book's not done, and I really don't have very much to live on. I need to finish the book, and then get back to California and find work."

"Don't worry, mom. I'll be fine with money. My therapist says if you'll write consenting, the University will give me a housing and meals stipend in lieu of my dormitory, re-register me as a girl and let me keep my scholarship as long as I keep my grades up."

"I know I don't need to worry about that. Of course I'll write my consent. I want to support you in any way I can, Allie."

Except financially, I thought bitterly, but did not say. My mom has super expensive tastes, and now she wouldn't have my dad's income to support them. I wasn't worried. Before she hung up, she asked "By the way. What's your size? I can't wait to start shopping for you." At least I would have lots of feminine clothing and accessories coming now. Between that, the housing and meals stipend, and the money that Finch had put into the apartment and the housing money from the scholarship, I would be better off.

Besides, I had ways of supplementing my cash flow.

I called Dr. Wright and reported on my talks. "I'm really disappointed in your father," she said. "I'd like to write him a letter reminding him of his responsibility as the parent of a transsexual. You have taken responsibility for re-shaping your own life and are taking responsibility far beyond your years in your adopted gender. I think you're terrific. If you were my child, I would be proud of you.

"I don't really care what he thinks. Now, he's just another jerky guy to me."

I moved out of the dorm and into my studio full time. Rick and Randy were sad to see me leave. "Look, I'll miss you too, but there are to many nosy prudes around here.

Both you and I are safer here. And it's not that far!"

"Too far to walk over in the middle of the night," Randy complained.

"You are going to have to plan in advance. You could even ask me to do something other than study, drink coffee or have sex."

Actually, I was getting too busy to do much else. The memorial service and my role in killing off the Hennepin Avenue Strangler had made me an instant celebrity in the T-Girl community, and soon I was interviewing five T-Girls a week. I asked about their early gender orientation, gender awakening, peer and family reaction and relationships, sexual history, current sexual activity, history of hormone use, surgical interventions, commercial sex experience, housing, employment, educational and police harassment and discrimination. Most of the girls I talked to seemed pleased with the changes that they had made to their lives and bodies(, even though almost everyone had suffered rejection, discrimination, humiliation and harassment from all quarters: families, employers, landlords, cops and clients. Their stories were varied blends of romance, comedy and tragedy, and hearing them made me feel lucky to be me. With each interview, I felt as though I had gotten to know myself better.

Now, the school semester was whirling by. I had all of these T-Girl interviews, I had to keep Rick and Randy afloat in their classes, and I had to do my own course work, most of which was in advanced courses. Finch was demanding, but ecstatic with the fast results of our research. Rick and Randy had the best grades on the hockey team, and the made the second varsity line. Whitman was overwhelmed with new cases of T-Girl , and Epstein was thrilled with the steady stream of transgendered clients on whose behalf his law school interns could demand and sue. I had more responsibilities than hours to fulfill them, and I run out of my favorite study aid and morale booster, black beauties. So I decided to pay a call on Bo.

I hadn't seen Bo since the night that he had chilled my country music assailant.

Tran had told me that the word on the street was that cops were hassling his drug dealing operation more since his heroics had saved me, at the expense of embarrassing the cops.

I felt guilty and responsible, since my decisions had put me in the position where I had needed him. As his power had momentarily slipped, a gang of Mexican dealers had risen to compete. There had already been drive-by shootings on the streets near Hennepin.

"Bo a nice guy but he hard! And I don't mean just his cock. You be careful with him!"

Tran advised.

I went both to cop some speed, and to pay homage and please him. So I took special care to look as appealing as I could. I wore a tight fitting camisole top which accentuated my slender arms and small and pointed but jiggly school girl breasts. My jeans were the tightest ones I could fit into. Now that I was off campus, I could wear more make up. I looked fantastic as I went to my rendezvous.

Bo's safe house was filled with gun toting bodyguards. "Baby, you look nice."

Bo always called me baby. "Come here," he said, patting the couch next to him. He was dressed like a successful urban businessman, which was, in a sense, what he was. He wrapped his massive arm around my slender torso and gave my breast a gentle squeeze. I smiled submissively. His crew was scary and sleazy, but Bo was like a benevolent black god. "So you need some uppers? You know what they say, `speed kills!'"

"Right now, it's school that's killing me."

"Well, I got just what the doctor ordered." He gestured to one of his praetorians.

"Get that stuff from the pharmacy job." The capo returned with a large bottle labeled "Desoxyn". "These look like what you like? Straight off the pharmacy shelf."

There were easily 250 orange and brown capsules of Desoxyn. "I special ordered these for you". With a wave, he dispatched his attendants from the room, and unzipped his fly. "And here is something else special for you," he chortled, as he gently guided my head down to suck the big black cock the protruded through the fly of his boxers.

I know some girls dread the taste of cum in their mouths, but I love it. I like best the wispy taste of fresh precum on my tongue: its fresh salty flavor is like the first scent of the ocean on a coastal breeze: it delicately foreshadows the stormy seas that soon will follow. I bobbed my silken lips obediently over his stiff ebony shaft. Its girth fatigued my puckered lips and cheeks. Soon, he was thrusting his mighty thighs to ram his cock even harder against my palate. My mouth was so stretched and tired it ached, and I tried to break free to ask him to take my ass instead. But his fingers were entwined in my hair and his grip was as relentless as his thighs. I could tell he was getting close, so I closed my watering eyes and let him bang my head up and down his swollen, throbbing member. Then, speared my throat with a final paroxysm, and he exploded in my throat with aromatic seed that filled me from my tummy to my sinuses. I kept sucking, and squeezing his golf ball sized testicles, to extract the last droplets, which I rubbed on my bruised and swollen lips, like a gloss. I looked up at him admiringly, and as he closed his eyes I thought of him as a slumbering barbarian god and me as his supplicant. I cleaned his still huge, but now flaccid penis thoroughly with my tired mouth, and then rose to brush my teeth and freshen my makeup.

When I emerged, Bo had revived and dressed. He said "Baby, I gotta ask you to do something for me. I need you to go see a one of my bros."

This sounded ominous. "To see him and what else."

"Whatever the bro says. You're so sweet, I got to share."

"I don't want to be pimped by you, Bo. I thought I was your baby, not your whore."

"It's not like that. He won't be paying you. I had a misunderstanding with my bro Carlos, and I want to send him something special to make it right."

"And so you're sending him, me? That doesn't exactly make me feel very special. It makes me feel like a piece of merchandise."

"Come on, baby. It's important for me. And after all I done for you, you should be happy to help out."

I didn't really have much of a choice. He was laying on the guilt, and with Bo's henchman Croc standing behind me, there wasn't any real exit available. "Just to prove I'm not pimping, here's five hundred of mine. Now go and treat Carlos right. That's why I didn't fuck your ass now, keeping it nice and fresh and tight for him. So go give it to Carlos, baby."

I was bewildered and upset, but I let Croc steer me away into the night. We stopped by my place and I stashed the money and drugs, and primped myself, taking care to clean and lube my tush.

As we approached Carlos' place, the night was pierced with jungle whistles and cries of warning from lookouts hidden in the blasted, empty blocks. Music thumped and strange lights flickered from the darkened windows of the crackhouse. We tapped on an armored shutter, and as it rattled up, a hot, acrid blast of polluted air vented. Crock said he had the package from Bo. A door opened and a shadowy figure beckoned silently.

We entered.

The interior was even darker than the night outside, lit only by the flickering of lighters under crack pipes. Over the distorted blasting hip hop one could hear screams of pain, anger and pleasure. The tiny, ramshackle house was jammed with twenty people or more, huddled around hissing pipes, sprawled on the floors, or publicly fucking. It looked like a vision of hell straight out of Heronymous Bosch. From the darkness, a hand grabbed my bare shoulder roughly and shoved me in the direction of a hallway that lead to the rear of the house. The noise abated and the crowd thinned and at last a door opened and Croc and I were escorted into the exalted presence of Carlos.

But before I could meet the great Carlos, I was blindfolded, and guided into the room as helpless as a blind girl. "So this is Bro Bo's favorite bicha. C'mere!" Croc pushed me onto Carlos' lap, and he slid his hand under my camisole and grabbed my breast. "I thought Bo liked big tits. She's not even a handful." He pushed me aside, grabbing my butt roughly. "Strip and lie down on the bed." I panicked. Did he know I was a trans? Addressing Croc, Carlos said "Now let's see the package." Crock produced a valise and unlocked it, as I wriggled out of my jeans and undies. "Face down, and don't move,"

Carlos ordered me harshly. "Jose, test it." I heard an envelope crack open and heard the hiss of a flame. A sulfurous smell wafted on the dank air. Carlos cursed. "Fuck, this is bullshit. This shit's been cut to crap! Fuckin' scumbag Bo!" I heard a thud of a blunt object on bone, followed by the sounds of booted feet stomping flesh. I didn't need to look to know what was happening to Croc. "Get that piece of crap out of here," Carlos snarled menacingly, after a few minutes of savagery. I buried my face in the pillow, but I knew he was near. I felt rough hands pry my thighs apart, and pull my hiding cockette from beneath me. "Just like Bo sends me skanky dope, he sends me a skanky bitch, a fucking shemale."

"She look like a real bitch, but look at that tiny little cock."

"I hear Bo fucks shemale pussy and nothin' else."

"Guess we'll have to try some ourselves. Tie her to the bed." My hands and feet were immobilized and I was tied spread-eagled to the bed. A pillow was jammed under my pelvis, raising my ass and spreading my cheeks. For a few minutes, the room was quiet, and I could hear only the cacophony of the mad drug party rampaging outside. The stillness and anticipation of the inevitable assault on my body tortured me. With my eyes blinded, my ears strained for a sound and my nerves tingled with apprehension. I felt the bed bounce slightly from behind. He was coming.

His first touch was surprisingly gentle. Carlos slid his hand up my silken thigh, stroked my soft, velvet scrotum and cock, and circled the curve of my buttock to my crack. His finger traced the pink circle of my upturned rectum, which no doubt glistened prettily with a coating of fresh lubricant. He pressed in a finger insistently, and slipped it in.

"Ay-ya ya ya, it's tight." He pulled it out, and then poked at me with two fingers. I was immobilized, and decided the safest course was complete passivity. I tried to remain silent and unresponsive as he jabbed two fingers inside and tried to stretch them apart against my fiercely resisting sphincters. Then stubbed in a third, and a fourth, and his thumb, and they made a shallow bridgehead and strained to pull me apart. I was writhing in pain at this abuse, and my blindfold was damp with tears, but I bit the soiled sheets and remained silent.

Now he tired of this game, and I heard the sounds of slapping flesh and his increasingly heavy breathing. He was jerking himself to get hard. The bed bounced again as he took position, and then I felt the sting and heard the crack of his open hand slapping my ass with all his might. The bed trampolined with the fury of his blows, and my buttocks felt like they had been lit on fire. After a dozen savage blows had cracked on my silent and prostrate body, he stopped and I felt the familiar press of a hard cock against my rectal ring.

Carlos entered me with less savagery than his crude foreplay had forewarned. He was a curiosity seeker, savoring each new sensation. "oh, you're tight, bitch, ya, that's good!"

Suddenly, he pulled out, and I heard two long, nasal whistles, followed by a yelp of pain and pleasure. God, he had actually snorted coke mid fuck. As he reentered me, I felt a chemical twinge in my ass and felt a weird menthol sensation. He'd rubbed the excess coke from his mirror on his dick, and was now plunging it inside me.

Carlos wasn't as big as Rick, Randy or Bo, so he entered me with only a twinge of pain.

He was so high he could barely keep himself hard and inside me. He slipped out and started slapping my back and buttocks in a rage, and I squirmed with pain but kept silent.

He played with himself, cursing in Spanish, and rammed himself back inside me.

His coke-numbed dick tore into me for far too long, as he slapped my ass, pulled my hair; pinched, scratched and abused me until at last he came inside me in a sudden fiery, drug addled climax. Carlos was immediately restless, after he pulled out I heard two more nasal whirlwinds as he snorted more coke. I heard him dress and as he left he wisecracked "Party's not over for you, bitch." To my horror, I heard him announce to his henchman outside the door "Anyone that wants to buttfuck Bo's trannie girlfriend, take a number! She's all warmed up."

Then began a long, repetitive nightmare. One anonymous, invisible cock after another entered me and orgasmed into my tired and raw ass until I lost all sense of time and place. I was beaten, scratched, bitten, and burned by my assailants, who gabbed in mixed Spanish and English. I felt a cold, sharp object stab inside of me, and heard someone yell "Get that fuckin Glock outa there." I dimly registered that I had been penetrated by a gun barrel, and felt a mixture of regret and relief that it had not discharge inside me, to end this ordeal. I retreated into my imagination, and replayed adolescent fantasies of me, a beautiful Spanish princess being forced by Moorish pirates in the hold of a captured galleon. Like me, the Spanish princess endured her violation silently and stoically, knowing that she would be rescued and redeemed. But there was no rescue or redemption from this torture. Bo's peace offering had backfired horribly. I was being gang raped by dangerous, drugged and probably diseased sicko's, and my only ally, Croc, had already been beaten senseless and was probably dead.

Just then, Carlos commanding voice interrupted what was either the ninth or tenth assault. "OK, time to send the bitch back to her boyfriend. Get the fuck outta here."

Carlos pulled the assailant of the moment off of me and threw him to the floor. The ropes that had tied me to the bed were loosened. "Take your blindfold off and get dressed, then put it back on. If you look at me, we'll h he to kill you, just like we're gonna kill Bo and his crew."

I nodded silently, dressed facing a corner as the party went on behind me, and was thrown, blindfolded, into the back of a pickup. The groaning, unconscious Croc rolled around in the freezing flatbed beside me.

It was after 4:00 a.m. when they dumped us on Hennepin. Fortunately, it was only two blocks from my apartment, and I staggered there in the freezing darkness. I called Bo and told him where they could find Croc. He was angry and worried. "What happened, baby?"

"Croc and I are Carlos' message to you. They beat him almost to death, and Carlos let every scumbag in that crackhouse fuck me. They thought you ripped them off on the coke, they hate you, Bo, they're going to kill you and all your friends, and they took it out on me. How could you do this to me?"

"I'm sorry baby, I thought I had a plan. I'm going to make it right. Me and Lawan and the set are going to air out Carlos' crib, you'll see."

I paged Dr. Prince. He called immediately, I told him that I had been raped and he told me to meet him at the emergency room. I steeled myself and pulled down my pants and panties. They were stained with bloody cum. I threw them in the trash and put on a dress, fresh panties and a panty liner, as blood and cum continued to leak out of me.

God, I probably have AIDS and more. My stomach ached and cramped. I packed a bag with my books and notes for classes, extra clothes and makeup and taxied to the emergency room. Dr. Prince had already been to the pharmacy. He handed me a packet of pills and a cup of water and said "That's the AIDS cocktail. You're taking it prophylactily. It's experimental."

"I'm bleeding from inside. They gang raped me and stuck a gun barrel inside me. My insides feel all twisted and torn."

"I'm admitting you for a couple of days. Now, they're just taking blood tests and vitals.

I'll have a proctologist check you out and patch you up."

I was still in the ER when the burn victims started arriving in droves. A car bomb had destroyed a building near Hennepin. A half charred, barely conscious victim was parked next to my bed as I lay on my gurney, waiting to be transported to a medical floor. I saw a look of recognition in the glassy eyes of the devastated man. Although I could barely look at his scorched, reddened face, I knew it was my guide from the crackhouse. He had been shunted aside in the chaos of ER triage, as a hopeless case. I tried to feel pity for this doomed soul, but I couldn't. I looked away as the orderlies wheeled me to the elevator, as I took grim satisfaction in Bo's grim revenge.

For the next few days, I was poked, pricked, and fawned over by the nurses and doctors of the University's medical center. A proctologist invaded, cauterized, and pronounced my colon repaired, leaving me with an injunction to refrain from anal sex, at least for the next month: not that I was in the mood, at the moment. Rick and Randy came by to bring me homework assignments and promised to return to pick up my completed assignments.

They brought me flowers and latte from Starbucks. Then Tran visited, and as she made me up and gave me a manicure, she delivered shocking news.

"You hear about Bo?" she asked. I shook my head. "He dead, killed in drive by. Croc and Lawan too. Shot by Mexicans." The war, in which I had been the first casualty, had ended in catastrophe on both combatants, for all of the burn victims from the crackhouse died over the next few days. After Tran had left, I wondered what strange force within me caused me to court such dangers as I had with Bo, and what signals did I send out to attract such dangerous characters? Was it a dark side within me, some evil genetic bequest from my father? Or was it the consequence of the secret battle between male and female, estrogen and testosterone, yin and yang, that went on every moment in my bloodstream and soul? My blood was drawn and studied for the tell-tale emergence of a high white count or the dreaded HIV antibodies. The AIDS cocktail made me feel so lousy I couldn't tell if I was getting sick, so I was worried about the test results. At the end of the day Prince walked in looking grim, and I feared the worst. He must have seen the look of dread in my eyes.

"Your antibody tests are negative, but your blood is showing elevated levels of Human Chorionic Gonadotropin (hCG) and Alpha-fetoprotein. It's not HIV, but it's serious.

These are positive markers for testicular cancer."

"Me? How can it be? I barely have any testes." I was suddenly gripped with guilt and regret. "Could it be the hormones?"

"Me? How can it be? I barely have any testes." I was suddenly gripped with guilt and regret. "Could it be the hormones?"

"Who knows. The excessive doses of Premarin and the other hormones you took in the last year no doubt played havoc with your endocrine system. There's no point in speculating now: it is what it is, and both markers present there is an 80% correlation that at least one teste is malignant."

"What do you do now: a biopsy?"

"No way. That spreads the disease through the scrotum to your lymphatic system, making it untreatable. And chemo alone is ineffective, but if we operate early enough, it's completely treatable surgically. I am going to look for a cyst visually and by ultrasound. If we can't find it, then we perform an inguinal orchiectomy, right away."

"What is an inguinal orchiectomy?"

"Orchiectomy is the medical term for castration. Inguinal means through the tummy."

I gasped. "Are you sure? When?"

"I am going to have a look now, and send you straight to ultra sound. If I can figure out which one is malignant, it'll be unilateral. If not, it's bi-lateral."

"Are there any alternatives?"

"No, no unless you count dying. And we are going to great lengths to keep you alive.

The world needs you, Allie." He was silent for a moment, then he went on "You won't be able to reproduce after this. Have you ever frozen any sperm?"

"I don't think I am going to need them."

"Don't foreclose your options. I think transsexuals will be carrying full term pregnancies with donor eggs in your time."

My ultrasound was inconclusive. It could be one or both, but he couldn't tell which teste was affected. Prince scheduled me for surgery the next morning.

I went to the cryonics lab, and they escorted me to a private room with a couch and a television. I selected a shemale porno tape, starring a gorgeous and extremely feminine transsexual named Dana Douglas. She slathered herself with suntan oil and looked sexy and lay by a beautiful pool, but was interrupted from her sunbathing reverie by a jailhouse escapee, who forcefully raped, but ultimately satisfied her. Imagining myself in her place, I was able to reach a long awaited, and probably my final penile orgasm. After I had handed my tiny sperm sample to the technician, I studied the tape cover, and noted the name and address of the producer listed on the tape: Kim Christie Productions of Studio City, California. Dana was slender, exotic and had perfectly shaped breasts, just as I imagined mine would be when they were enhanced with implants. I envied her body and her star quality on screen, and fantasized about making the sequel.

Prince had instructed me to shave all of my tiny fringe of pubic hair, so I was a smooth as a little girl when he arrived in the surgical theater with the urologist and anesthesiologist the next morning. I felt a grease pencil draw an line on my tummy as the anesthetic kicked in, and sank into a narcotic sleep, where I felt nothing.

Gauzy clouds drifted in my eyes, and gradually cleared to reveal a black clad witch calling me to attention. "OK, you got to wake up now. Wake up, walk around, and make a pee for me now."

I wanted to drift back into the clouds, but the witch was insistent. "You won't get better unless you walk around. Get up and walk around now." I pulled myself up, and felt a sharp pain in my tummy. Then I remembered where I was. The witch was a Filipino nurse. It was Halloween,( and I was in a hospital. I stepped to my wobbly feet, gripped with pain at the incision in my tummy, but as I walked, I felt a new sense of ease and openness between my thighs. Involuntarily, I reached down and touched my empty, deflated scrotum. It was now wrinkled and concave, as if it trying to draw itself inside me to form a pussy. I walked around the room unsteadily as the nurse cooed encouragement. I flopped exhausted in bed and gratefully accepted a cup of ice chips.

And my fingers explored with excitement the sore, but interesting new environment between my legs.

I dozed and drifted in a post-operative haze for a few hours before Dr. Prince and the urologist arrived, looking tense. "Allie, I'm sorry but sometimes diagnosis is an inexact science. The left teste appears to have been non-malignant. I'm sorry to have removed it unnecessarily. I just couldn't be sure."

"Do I have cancer?"

"Not any more. The tumor on the right side did not appear to have spread."

"Thank god, I'm so relieved. Don't worry about the operation. I'm so happy I could hug you!"

"Go ahead and hug me, but promise me: no extra hormones, and especially, no more Premarin. I don't know if that caused your cancer, but I do know your lucky you didn't kill yourself with your self administration of hormones." I promised, and this time, for once, I wasn't lying at all.

The truth of the matter was, that I had always fantasized about being castrated: gory, horrible fantasies. At some level, I blamed my testes for the craziness of my life, and wanted them gone. True, I would miss orgasm, but with all the estrogen that I took, that had become a rarity for me now anyhow. Maybe without this maddening mix of male and female hormones I would become more stable, less reckless. For though I ached with the combined effects of assault, the toxic AIDS cocktail and the orchiectomy, I felt a peace and calm that I had never felt before.

Prince released me two days later. I had missed a week of classes, and Rick and Randy needed tutoring badly, as mid terms were upon us, and I had catch up on my own studies.

I never told them about the sordid reason for my admission to the hospital, but I happily disclosed the details of my surgery, displayed the results and the consequences. They were disappointed that sodomy was, for the time being, off the menu, but they were excited by my new appearance below. "You're even more like a real girl now," Rick said admiringly as he fondled me carefully, stroking my empty but still sensitive scrotum.

"Great, as long as you don't starting acting like a cunt," Randy observed. Although my ass still tingled with desire for them, my sex drive was diminished, and my insides were still fragile and crampy from in the aftermath of my surgeries and from the side effects of the AIDS cocktail. Besides, I still wasn't sure whether I had been HIV-infected by the crackhouse episode, and I dreaded spreading any diseases. My antibody tests kept coming back negative, but I wanted to be sure. So for the next few weeks I serviced them with my mouth and hands. They were patient and careful toward me.

Without testosterone to overcome, I was able to reduce my estrogen intake by almost 90%, without any loss of feminization. Indeed, as the weeks after the orchiectomy, my muscle tone further softened, my skin became more luminous and my breasts and hips seemed to swell a little. From then on, I followed Prince's regimen to the last microgram, switched from Premarin to Estradiol, and got regular blood tests. (I really mean it, all you T's out there, do not follow my early practice of self administration of hormones. Get medical help, regular tests, and never take doses in excess of your doctor's recommendation!) Dr. Wright had been away at a conference during my hospitalization. She had seen Prince's medical report on my surgeries and phoned me to come in right away. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here for you," she said, giving me an affectionate hug. "That's all right, I felt as if you were with me."

"You seem very calm, and at peace."

"Physically I feel pretty weak, but I feel wonderful emotionally. Maybe I'm fooling myself, but I feel somehow set free from the chains of my past, like the worst is behind me. I feel better about my future than ever. That is, assuming that I have one."

"Are you worried about the AIDS exposure?"

"Of course, but now we've done everything possible against it. And I'm half way through the course. You know, as horrible and dangerous as the crackhouse gang rape was, if it doesn't kill me from AIDS, it may have saved me an equally hideous death. If I hadn't have had all the blood tests to screen me AIDS, Prince would not have found the testicular cancer. God, life is full of ironies, isn't it?"

"I love you, Allie. You can find the positive and the negative in anything. So tell me about the negative."

"It really shows how, along with being marginalized, pre-op transsexuals are objectified.

Because we don't fall into a traditional gender category, we get treated as sex objects and as property. I think Bo really liked me, but in the same way that a boy likes his favorite marble: always willing to consider a trade. Bo had offended another drug dealer, so he sent me and a couple of pounds of coke along as a peace offering. He wanted to restore normal trade. It failed."

"Some boyfriend!"

"And some me, for falling in with a guy like Bo. When I was tied to that crackhouse bed, I was just an object for those barbarians to abuse, beat and ejaculate into. Even Rick and Randy started out viewing me as an interesting new toy, little different from one of those blow-up sex dolls. They didn't value me as a person until they realized I was pulling them through school. What's really disturbing is, that I liked to be treated that way. I liked the attention. I liked to be seen as a sex toy, a beautiful receptacle for fantasy and fucking. What I'm learning from my research in the community is that most T-Girls aspire to be, and are treated the same way. We want to be valued as objects, but objects get used, hurt, and thrown away. So in a way, we are doomed to be less than human."

"What about you? That's not good enough for you, is it?"

"I think I've been there, done that. I want to be an effective human, I want to act, and not be acted upon. I'm only eighteen, and I got the whole T-Girl community in this town organized. I write speeches for law professors. I'm getting Rick and Randy honors grades instead of flunking out. I need to be treated as a human being. I deserve it, just like you deserved it."

"Ready to go back to being a boy?"

"Too late for that. No, I want to be a woman like you."

"Are you sure this is what you want, that you aren't just reacting."

"Of course I am reacting. We all are a combination of genes and experience."

"You know, a sex change operation isn't going to change the world. The feminist argument holds that men treat all women as sex objects. You'll be condemning yourself to the very position in life that you object to."

"If I'm a woman, I can at least make the feminist argument. At this point, I don't even have standing! Erika, I just want what you've already gotten. Haven't I been through enough?"

"You don't know what I went through, and unfortunately, I'm not supposed to tell you, though I'm dying to. My point is, that you have been through a huge trauma, and it's partly because you took some risks, and some bad people took advantage of your mistakes. That's not the greatest position to make this drastic a choice from."

"I know I've made a million mistakes. I'll probably make a million more. But it was not a mistake to choose my female identity to live in. I feel better, I relate to people better, and I understand the world better from this perspective. Can you even imagine me living as a guy? Guys who normally deal with other guys in business, like Epstein and Whitman, accept me completely. And I haven't even tried to seduce them. (Well, OK, I tried with Brad, but it didn't count.) I'd like to have a sex change operation over the winter break. I need to start making some appointments. Can you make some recommendations?"

She studied me carefully. "OK, I've got a list of surgeons. I'll write you a letter recommending surgery. At your age, you are going to need parental consent for most surgeons."

"I'll talk my mom into it."

Dr. Wright wrote letters to Schrang in Neenah, Wisconsin, Alter in Los Angeles, and Meltzer in Portland, Oregon. I got the returns. The prices were astronomical. I had invested my savings from my "summer job" in a mutual fund that had done really well, and had been living off my scholarship and the grant money from Finch, but for a boob job, the penile inversion surgery and the rectosigmoid colon section surgery I needed to augment the skin of my tiny cock, I was several thousand dollars short. On a long shot, I wrote to a couple of doctors in Thailand, where sex change surgery had become a big business. But one way or another, I needed money fast if I was going to take care of this over my winter break.

My mother was returning through Minneapolis to Los Angeles. Naturally, she was staying at the most expensive, fanciest hotel, the Hyatt Regency. I decided to dress in girl's clothes, in keeping with my message. She was meeting a colleague from the University for dinner, and asked me to meet her for a drink in the bar. "Mom, I'm under age." "Just dress old," she advised. I wore a black turtleneck and tight jeans, brushed my hair back into a tight pony tail and wore large hoops. I ordered a Perrier and put on an ice princess hauteur: I didn't want her to see any sleazeballs hitting on her new daughter.

Mom is an elegant, slim blond in her mid forties who looks younger. She would look about thirty if her Swedish skin hadn't absorbed too much LA sunshine. She has a great figure and stays in shape, and she has great fashion sense: she spent way too much time on Rodeo Drive for the good of our family's economic health. For two academics, my parents lived high: they lived in Brentwood, drove new cars and wore Ferragamos. That was no doubt why they had to send me to a public school with a bunch of idiots and bussed-in gang-bangers.

She strolled into the bar and all the guys looked up, and she looked right past me, scanning the place spacily. As she walked by, I said "Mom, it's me."

She whirled around, did a double take, and then squealed with joy and exclaimed "Allie, I would never have known. You're so, so, beautiful. You're still my beautiful baby." She stepped back again, and said "I love you more than ever."

"I love you too, mom." I was relieved.

She ordered wine and appetizers and asked me to tell her all about my life. I told about my semester: that I was doing original sociological research on transgenders; that I had helped organize a legal outreach program to the transgendered community; that I had been invited to take a law school seminar next semester; that I had aced my midterms; and that I had a boyfriend (so, I really had two, but I didn't want to brag). "So school is going great. But I'm really having a hard time with my gender identity. I can't live this way any longer. I want to become a woman, and my analyst says I'm ready. I just need your consent."

"I don't know, honey. You look gorgeous as a girl, and I've always wanted a daughter, but your father ..."

"I thought that asshole was divorcing you. He told me he doesn't give a fuck what happens to either of us. He told me, just don't bother him, that we should keep everything and leave him alone with his new French mistress to make and keep his millions from his new sellout job. Mom, he's disowned me. It's your decision."

She waffled and worried, but finally agreed to the operation. Now, I thought, for the hard part.

"The surgery is really expensive. Can you help me pay for it?"

"I'm sorry dear, but your dad has completely cut me off. We had almost no cash assets in the States, my book advance is spent, and the royalties from the last book are barely enough to cover the mortgage. Until I get this book to the publisher I'm broke. As it is, I'm flying back to LA to interview for a job at SC." Poor mom, I thought, having to get a job. A mind is a terrible thing to waste!

"Can't I use one of your credit cards or something?"

"Your dad terminated all of them. I can't get new ones without a job."

Oh great, I thought, I guess I'll be the one to get a job: a blow job.

"I'm sorry honey. I'll help you any other way I can, but I just don't have any money to spare."

She put the drinks on her room, and I thought to myself, what a selfish mother I had. She was staying in the most expensive hotel in town, wearing about ten thousand bucks of jewelry, and she'd rather that I prostitute myself than part with any of her money. No wonder my dad had divorced her.

We had a tearful farewell and I went back to my apartment. The mail had arrived, and I had an exotic looking letter with strange stamps and lettering. It was from a Dr. Sanguan Kunaporn of Phueket, Thailand, and it described his technique for penile inversion coupled with primary colon segment vaginoplasty, for a price that was within a few of thousand of my savings. He had an opening in his schedule on December 28. If I wished to take the spot, I should send $2,000 as a non-refundable deposit. I sent a money order by return mail. I immediately called Brad Whitman, and asked him to find out about getting a passport as Alexandra. Then I called Singapore Air made a reservation for Alexandra Rios from Los Angeles to Bangkok. Finally, I wrote a letter to Kim Christy productions of Studio City, California.

November 10, 19XX Alexandra Rios 1622 Hennepin Avenue Minneapolis, Minnesota (612) 435 XXXX

Dear Mr. Christy

I am an eighteen year old, pre op transsexual college student. I enclose a picture of myself taken last week. I would like to star in one of your productions: video, stills or both. I even have some ideas for a script, if that interests you. I am into passive anal and oral sex, and I can handle multiple partners, but I can't take an active role. I could travel after my exams end in mid December, if you made the arrangements. If you are interested, please send me your contract for me to review. I enclose a copy of my student I.D. to show my age (but not my gender or appearance.) If you prefer, you can call me at the above number: the best time to reach me is after 4:00 p.m. your time. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely

Alexandra Rios.

Then I called Tran. "Tran, I need to make some money. Do you have any dates who would be interested in me? Or maybe a party with the two of us?"

"That sound like fun. You a pretty T-Girl. But I thought you were giving up the Life."

"I have a cash emergency. I need to make a few thousand bucks before Christmas."

"Someone getting very nice gift!"

"It's for me, a new pussy!"

"You get sex change for Christmas?"

"Yeah, it's my Christmas present. I only need another $2,500 plus the airfare. But I can't work the streets anymore. If Keyes doesn't get me, the Mexican Mafia will. I'm too scared after what happened to Bo."

"I gotta good idea, I'll set up a date for us with my S&M client. He kinda crazy, but he rich. Beside, getting too cold outside. He want me to come and party with another girl, but Tonya doesn't do S&M. You know S&M?"

"I've heard of it, but I've never tried."

"Easy. Just call them master, do what they say, maybe we do some lesbo sex."

"Sounds OK so far."

"Then maybe tie you up, hurt you a little bit, you cry like it hurt a lot, then get fucked, then tell how great they are."

This was chillingly close to my crackhouse nightmare. I tingled with fear, but I was desperate. Kim Christie might not need any pre op starlets. Or he might not think I was sexy. I needed a plan B Tran continued. "We work all night, get maybe a thou, depends on how many masters there. Not bad, right?" I nodded, and she asked "How you find this sex change doctor?"

"He's in Thailand. Even with the airfare, it's half what it costs in Neenah or LA."

"I have almost $7,500. Is that enough?"

"That's how much I have. Counting airfare and expenses, we need about $3,000 more."

"I know we can make it. You call Thai doctor for me, and help me set up this trip? I want pussy for Christmas too."

Now I had a partner. When I told her about my porno movie idea, and she said "Me too.

I wanna be a porno star, make more money for sex change." I wrote another letter from her to Kim Christy. One way or another, we'd cover our budget deficits.

The Greatest Lie Chapter 7 Discipline

The horrible memory of my crackhouse ordeal faded much as the lurid surgical site on my abdomen faded to a faint pink smile at my bikini line. I went off the AIDS cocktail after one awful month of constant nausea, and was pronounced antibody-free. My surgeons pronounced me healed and recovered. Naturally, I immediately started thinking about sex.

Tran had received our orders from our S&M Slavemaster. She told me we had been summoned to the dungeon for slave training and punishment: a driver would deliver a $1,500 payment to Tran's apartment and would carry us into our enslavement over the Thanksgiving weekend. We would be freed and returned on Sunday night, and receive the balance of the slave payment. "I dunno, Tran, these guys sound pretty weird. Don't they have families or anything? "

"They pick us up on Friday, after Thanksgiving. They're a little kinky, but your porno movie guy doesn't write. We need money."

"You're right, I'm going do it. But I'm scared. You've been with this guy before, right?"

"I think so."

"I hope you know what you're doing."

But we didn't have any choice. Streetwalking in Minneapolis is a bad way to make a living in late November, and I was too busy anyhow.

I had been practically virginal since the crackhouse debacle, and I didn't relish my first experience to be under a jackbooted slave master. Rick and Randy really deserved to have me first. They had been so nice to me after my surgery: carrying my books to class in the first weeks when I was too weak to carry them; bringing me lattes when the AIDS drugs left me too sick to eat. And they had been patient and gentle with me sexually, although the made their desires very evident. My lips had grown very experienced in pleasuring them, but I knew they wanted more. At last, I was able to give it. And I wanted it. For the last two weeks, every time I thought about it, my ass tingled with desire.

As I finished helping them edit papers on "The Sun Also Rises", I said, "Rick, Randy, we have a difficult decision to make."

They looked confused and concerned, and I let the moment linger in the air. Then I wrapped my arms around them and confided "We have to decide who gets to fuck me first."

They let out a simultaneous whoop of joy and high-fived one another. I just smiled and said "I leave the choice to you," and I retired to my bathroom to prepare.

From behind the door, I heard them discussing the issue heatedly but amicably, as they recounted and compared their respective acts of kindness and generosity toward me in the last month. Finally, I heard a tapping on the door, and Rick's voice saying "We can't decide. You have to." I stepped out, looking ravishing in the Victoria's Secret negligee that mom had sent. I produced a scarf, and said "blind fold me." They did, and I said "Spin me around, and don't say anything. I call this game `Blind Girl's Bluff.'" Their large firm hands twirled me. I stopped, groped forward and put my arms around a muscled torso. "Randy, it's your lucky day. Sorry, Rick."

"Fair's fair," he said contentedly as he lay back on my bed, and I bent over and began fellating him, my bums high in the air, awaiting Randy. With his suffering and abstinence at an end, Randy needed no stimulation or instruction. He expertly tore open a condom, slipped it on, and began massaging my expectant, tight rectum with lubricant.

I murmured pleasure through my cock-filled lips as he first rimmed, and then gently entered my taut ring of pleasure with his probing fingers. My sphincters involuntarily snapped greedily at him, and he pressed onward and penetrated me, as my murmur rose to a cock-muffled moan of pleasure. I stuffed my throat with all of Rick's cock in response. Randy kneeled between my parted thighs and pressed his cock against my expectant ass. I deep throated Rick furiously as Randy's teased me with tentative thrusts that probed without penetrating. I was desperate when at last he rewarded me with a deliciously perfect penetration, and the momentary rush of pain erased my month of frustration and craving. My body shivered with pain and satisfaction with Randy's athletic fucking, and in unison I crashed Rick's cock past my tonsils and down my esophagus. For a few blissful moments I felt like the perfect slut, with two perfect lovers.

But my mind raced ahead of my body, and soon I fantasizing about myself as a woman, taking on Rick and Randy in a true front and back threesome, sandwiched with Rick's cock in my new pussy and Randy up my ass. And then, I had to make the fantasy real.

My ass felt so lubricated, springy and ready, that I knew I could take them both at once. I slowed my throat fucking of Rick's nearly orgasmic and fully distended member, and though he at first kept pushing my head down, he let me speak. "I want you both inside me," I uttered through bruised lips. They let me take control. I extracted Randy from behind me. He lay face up on the bed, and I sat astride him and speared my ass back down on his bobbing, swollen cock. I leaned forward to point my filled ass into the air, and he gobbled my breasts as they wobbled over him. I beckoned Rick to kneel between me, and slipped my finger between my rectum and my cock filled ass. I stretched myself mercilessly, and Rick saw what I wanted he plunged his cock into the tiny, crescent shaped crevasse I had opened. His cock slid over my finger tip and nestled beside Randy's cock inside me. I felt skyrockets of pain and ecstasy shoot through me, as though the rocket engine of an ill-fated space probe had malfunctioned and exploded within. The double fucking launched me into a fantasyland of dreamy ecstasy. In my imagination, I was a beautiful human princess, abducted by aliens and raped by a two cocked mutant to create a new master race. My human lovers' cocks slid past or with each other, burrowing deep and wide and excavating the last drops of semen from my shrunken, vestigial prostate: not a true penile orgasm, but sensual and exquisite release from the last remnants of my past. They plunged together, alone, and endlessly, and when they came at last, we all were completely exhausted.

I awoke feeling empty, but fulfilled. My two hunky studs were pulling up their manly boxers as my weary eyes fluttered and reawakened. Randy voiced their common sentiment: "Wow, Allie, you're great." Rick added, "I didn't even think that was possible." I responded, "With you two on board, I'm capable of anything. I've got a few more surprises for you yet."

"Whoa, I can't wait, tell, tell," they babbled excitedly, interrupting each other and me.

"See what Santa brings," I said teasingly.

They went off to the dorm laughing and chatting. I was left alone to savor what a delight this unlikely menage a trois had become, and what fantastic delights it held for the future.

The next day they came by to kiss me goodbye for the long weekend. I thrilled at each of them crushed me in a long, romantic embrace and mashed my lips in deep, endless kisses. I love to be kissed even more than I love to get fucked, and Rick and Randy had become world class at both. I felt like their beloved, and felt what I knew was a futile longing to become part of their straight, conventional world. But as locals, they had families to visit, and turkey dinners to eat, and my family had dissolved and scattered. I asked, feigning disappointment, "Don't either of you want to take me home to meet your mom?" and they shuffled with abashedly. "Next year", Rick promised.

You'll probably want to, I thought silently as they departed.

Actually, it was OK. I hate the traditional Thanksgiving dinner: it's way too heavy for a diet like mine. I enjoyed a light Asian dinner at Tran's house, as we made plans and gossiped about our very kinky Thanksgiving celebration on the morrow. After dinner, we smoked a joint and watched an XXX rated bondage and S&M tape she had rented.

We held hands and hugged one another for comfort during the really heavy parts. When it was over, I had to admit that I was a little turned on, but also scared.

"Is that what they'll do to us?"

"I guess so, I don't really know."

"Tran, I thought you knew this guy."

"I meet him for straight sex a couple times. He always want to take me away for bondage and I say no."

"Oh, great. What have we gotten ourselves into?"

I stayed at Tran's house and we got high until we finally got sleepy. We went to bed together. I woke up on the middle of the night, scared and shaking from a nightmare.

Carlos had me tied to the bed and was getting ready to slit my throat. I reminded myself that Carlos was dead, but I was wide awake with fear. I nudged Tran. She nodded sleepily. I needed some company, so I decided to wake her in a sexy way. I looped my toe over the waistband of her panties and slid them down her legs. She wriggled unconsciously and aided their descent. Then I slipped my lips around her tiny, uncut cock: it was barely bigger than mine, and tasted sweet and fresh, less meaty than a guy's cock. She hardened and began moaning as I pressed my finger against her rectum.

"Allie, what you doing? I'm sleeping." I kissed my way up her tummy and each of her beautiful, silicone enhanced breasts to her plump Asian lips and asked "Do you want me to stop?"

"No, but I want to suck you too." I swiveled around to a "69" position and we began tenderly sucking one another. I could no longer orgasm, but I loved the expert sucking and rectal massage she gave me. Beneath me, Tran's body writhed and spasmed has I sucked her and fingered her ass. She moaned and cried out in Vietnamese as her hips vibrated with ecstasy, and her cum trickled into my mouth. It was smooth and clean tasting. I lay next to her and we kissed. "You're yummy," she said. I responded with words that surprised me as much as Tran: "I love you." "I love you too," she said. And with that sweet thought running through my mind, I fell back asleep."

We overslept and had to shower together to save time. Then we helped each other blow out our hair and with make up; the driver was to bring our clothing for the trip, so we breakfasted in bathrobes. A limo arrived for us at 11:00 a.m. The driver knocked on the door and silently handed us our wardrobe and what was marked as "The Slaves' Payment: a stack of Franklins in a wax sealed envelope. We were given white lace panties and bras, a silky white nightie that barely covered our butts, and a long, closed cape of white linen, white pumps, and shiny wrist and ankle bracelets. We looked like the Vestal Virgins of Ancient Rome.

We got into the back of the limo, and the door auto locked as it slammed shut.

The driver put the car in gear and I then notice that facing us was a masked and hooded figure. "Give me your hands," he ordered, and then slipped a lock over the two bracelets that adorned my hands. "You too, slut," he ordered Tran, who meekly complied.

"Now," he said, "for your first lesson." He slapped each of us in the face. "Answer me, or any other master, `Yes, master' whenever we deign to command you." "Yes master,"

we both responded. "That's better. We don't like to inflict pain, unnecessarily. We prefer to reserve it for ritual purposes. Now, our purpose here, is to restore you to your virginal states so that you can be deflowered properly. We know you have let your bodies be used for sinful pleasure and profit, and for this you must be punished and redeemed. Only then will you be worthy of being fucked by the members of our Order."

I decided that the best thing to do was play along. "We want to be made worthy of your rituals. We want to be purified in accordance with your rules and we bow to your methods."

Tran got the idea. "I want you to make me virgin again. I am sorry for all of my past bad behavior."

And so it went. Our master was satisfied with our sincerity and let us ponder our fates in silence as we road through icy fields to a remote estate. We pulled into an underground garage and the limo stopped. Our master helped us out and led us to a heavy oaken door and pounded a heavy iron knocker against an iron plate. The earsplitting noise roused the inhabitants, and the door opened to a gloomy, torch-lit interior. As our eyes adjusted, I saw a low dais occupied by seven shadowy figures, dressed much as our limo master, masked, and dressed in black leather garb adorned with sharp, decorative buckles and chains. "I have brought our novices, Ophelia (he gestured to me) and Desdemona." God, what an abuse of the Bard, I thought to myself, but at least we're in the hands of literate sadists.

"Remove their clothes," ordered the Master seated at the center of the dais. We were stripped . "Illuminate them." Spotlights blinded us, and then dimmed as blindfolds covered our eyes. "Stay absolutely still," we were ordered. "Yes master," we answered.

Boot-clad feet shuffled around us, and then I felt the twitch of a riding crop on my breast, my ass, my cockette, and then felt anonymous fingers touching my cheek, my nipples, and my rectum. I was being inspected. An angry voice bellowed, "Don't move, bitch!"

followed by the cruel snap of a riding crop against flesh, and I heard Tran whimper "I'm sorry master." I had winced at the crack of leather on Tran's flesh, and cowered awaiting my own punishment, but I had evaded notice. From the dais, a voice commanded "Cleanse their bodies, and then we shall cleanse their souls."

I was led off alone by one of the masters. I groped blindly, and vivid, horrific flashbacks of the crackhouse terrorized me. This was different, I reassured myself.

These were just a bunch of middle class kinks having some group therapy. I breathed deeply and tried to calm myself. I was in no real danger, I just had to play along with their game.

My naked body was shivering with cold and anxiety when the door opened to the pleasant aromas of a hot bath. Steam filled my nostrils and warmed my goose-bumped skin. My master helped me up over the high wall of the tub, and I plunged my foot in.

"Thank you, master," I said, as the water enveloped me. "Oh master, please, it's too hot!" Saying nothing, he grasped my shoulders and forced me into the scalding water.

Involuntarily I rose up, and he scourged me with cruel blows from his riding crop, raising pink welts on my arms and back. "Water cleanses the body, obedience cleanses the soul, and pain cleanses the heart. So you must obey and suffer." My body had adjusted to the heat of the water, which was painful but not harmful. I grew drowsy as my master soaped and explored my body. My trussed hands made me helpless, and so I tried to enjoy my master's little adventure, as he squeezed my breasts, stroked my cock and fingered my ass. All the while I murmured mock encouragement, "Oh yes my master, that feels wonderful, my master." It didn't feel bad, and it was a lot better than a riding crop. At last he lifted my helpless, bound body from the tub, wrapped me in a robe, and ordered me to brace my arms against the sink and bend forward.

He lifted the back of my robe, parted my damp cheeks and applied some lubricant. Then he slipped the nozzle of a douche into my ass and pressed it as high as he could. I squirmed helplessly at this intrusion, but the warm rush of water into my abdomen overwhelmed and silenced me. Soon I felt pressure grow inside me, and I said "Please master, that's enough." He growled "I'll tell you when you've had enough" and poked viciously at my painfully distended stomach.

I've always liked the feeling of a colonic douching: the distinctly pregnant feeling made me feel vulnerable and feminine, and the squeaking clean feeling afterward made me feel deliciously fuckable. But it was taken to an extreme at this bizarre chateau. He filled me to the point of aching urgency, then sealed me with fat, painful butt plug. With my belly full to bursting and my hands tied, I felt as stuffed and helpless as Thanksgiving turkey. This was not the ideal time for my master to begin lecturing me about the importance of being utterly submissive in the holy ritual of sex. He emphasized his points by poking my taut stomach, which roiled painfully. I just kept agreeing and hoping he would finish sooner, so that I could get on to the next torture, whatever that was. When his lecture was through, he untied me, and locked me in the bathroom. He told me that I was to be ready for slave training in twenty minutes. I extracted the butt plug painfully and my insides emptied, leaving me purified. I hurried to blow dry my hair and freshen-up my make up. I applied lubricant liberally to my thoroughly scrubbed ass. He opened the door without knocking as I finished, wordlessly re-tied my hands behind my back and blindfolded me. He led me down a long corridor. I heard the sound of Tran's voice sobbing, and shuddered in empathy of her suffering and in anticipation of my own.

My master halted me with a yank at my shoulder, then pushed me forward onto my knees. My torso tumbled forward onto a padded platform. He pushed cotton into my ears, and I was plunged into silence and blindness. My eyes strained to detect shadows, my ears for any sound. I heard muffled booms and cries, and felt phantoms passing though the room, but I was left alone. Sensory deprivation combined with apprehension to bring me to a near panic state. I breathed as steadily as I could, but was haunted by memories of the crackhouse, memories of Miguel and the others on Prom night. How had I gotten myself into this? I cursed my poverty, my selfish mother, and my own bad judgment. I caught myself as the brink of an abyss of self loathing and despair. I remembered that I was brilliant, nearly perfect, and ever aspiring to even greater perfection. I had been in far worse situations than this and I always triumphed. I felt sorry for Tran. She lacked my confidence and vision. From her terror-stricken voice in the distance, I sensed her suffering was real. I reminded myself that my suffering would be fabricated, a lie with which to fool these masters.

Then my nerves exploded, as my ass and cock were tickled with a million feathery fingers. I was overcome with sensation, and convulsed with over-stimulation as the feather duster explored my tush, my armpits, breasts and cockette. I was cooing with pleasure, and moaned "Oh, that feels so good" for the gratification of my master. He removed my earplugs, and spoke: "Now we begin your purification. This is pleasure; put it in your past, and learn to love pain." Suddenly, I felt white hot, biting pain on my nipples as a cruel clamp attached to each, and then another to my slender cock head and finally an excutiating clamp attached to one of the tight folds of my rectum. "Oh please, no, master, that hurts so much." "Shut up, slut," came the abrupt reply, accentuated by the smack of a thick paddle on my buttocks.

After the caressing feather duster, the paddle was a brutal blow that lit my buttocks afire.

I writhed in pain, and twisted the vicious clamps, which then bit my tender flesh even more cruelly. Now each clamp was twisted, as if something was being attached, and I felt to my horror a slender wire drape over my thigh. I bit into the leather of the ottoman, but I could not suppress my cries as the first bolts of electricity surged between my erogenous zones, now each transformed into a torture site. When the current subsided, I was crying and I sobbed "Please, no more master, I can't stand it." "Shut up, slut, we must purify your polluted soul."

"Please, I beg you, master ..." I got no further before a harsh gag was placed over my mouth. Crying always makes me get stuffed up. Now I regretted my tears, which had congested my nose and blocked my breathing. I struggled to regain my breath, but I could not get enough air. Another surge of voltage fired through my bottom and my breasts, searing them with pain. Involuntary tears filled my eyes, and my breathing became even more labored. "You will not complain about pain: You will accept it, and learn to love it. Do you love pain?" I nodded my head furiously, and he removed my gag. I inhaled delicious oxygen, and whispered hoarsely "Yes master, I accept all pain as my purification. Please, give me more!" He fired another jolt through me, and after I had cried out in reaction I remembered to say "Thank you, master." After a few more of these, I was apparently purified, because he pulled the electrode clip from my ass and slathered me with lubricant. He pressed against my anal ring, which had been constricted to a pinhead by the electrical shocks. He could not enter, and I felt his cock softening in frustration. Fearing retribution for my continued impurity, I ventured "Master, if you will free me, I will help you." He released my bound hands, and I said "I want you in my mouth, master." He let me suck him back to rigidity, and I felt sure that I could squeeze his modest cock into my artificially narrowed hole. I said "Please fuck me, master," and when he mounted me I expertly guided him inside me. He responded by plunging heedlessly into me. I swallowed my pain and responded by saying "Oh yes, that feels good, fuck me harder, master."

He was regaining his confidence as his cock got comfortable in my lubricious ass, and he began babbling "I'm gonna fuck you hard, slut, I'm gonna fuck you to death," and such.

I really hate this kind of chit chat during sex. True desire and pleasure can be communicated with a look, a smile, a grimace, a groan, or even a kiss, far more articulately than in words, especially crudities. But for this weirdo, I was willing to make an exception, so I responded, as though from a transcript of a porno flick, with the appropriate responses. "Oh yeah, fuck me harder, OOH, you're so big, etc., etc." In fact, he didn't have one-tenth the energy of Rick or Randy, and he was size was way below average. That, no doubt, was why this guy had to abuse me to get ready to get his rocks off. He was half-impotent, and no doubt his wife wouldn't submit to this kind of crazy shit. By the time he came, I felt practically as if I were a spectator at a gladiatorial contest: I was satisfied with the outcome, but was ready to give the thumbs down. But instead, I said "Oh thank you master, for making me your fuck slave." He walked away wordlessly.

I won't bore you with the rest of my weekend in hell. Suffice it to say I was purified and polluted repeatedly. The only part that really stood out was the moment where they tied me and Tran to side by side beds, and gave us the option of shocking each other instead of taking the voltage ourselves. Tran looked at me guiltily as she shunted the current to me and watched me suffer. But when they reversed our roles, I did not pull the toggle to route the electricity back to her. As my eyes blurred with agony, I tried to focus on her beautiful, oriental eyes, which I saw were filled with tears of sympathy. I blacked out with that vision in my mind. When I revived, I saw Tran's lovely face contorted in agony, and I knew she was enduring the same anguish that I had just emerged from, refusing to shunt the current to me. Our tormentors soon bored of this game, and our weekend contract had expired.

We were taken back before the dais, where only two of our masters remained. "You have earned your freedom, but your purification is not complete. You are commanded to return on December 26. For now, you are free to go, and enjoined to maintain your condition of purity."

We were shown to the garage and carried back to Tran's place in the limo. When we got there, the driver handed us an envelope stuffed with cash. A tip, I guess, but we still were thirty five hundred short our requirement for Thailand.

I stayed at Tran's that night, and we clung to one another as we endured repeated nightmares. I was too stressed out to go to class, so I called Rick and got him to pick up our last homework assignment from Math 101; I stayed at her place studying. She took her phone off the hook and meditated before a Buddhist shrine in her bedroom, and I solved integrals and translated Chaucer to calm my nerves. At around noon, the mail came, including an envelope from California. Inside, Tran found an airline ticket to California, a check for a thousand bucks and a contract for another fifteen hundred from Kim Christie productions. I dressed and ran over to my apartment and found, to my relief, an identical letter to me. Fat fucking chance we would return to that dungeon on the 26th, or ever. I was going to be impure at the first opportunity, and I already had plane reservations to Phuket Island, Thailand on the 26th. We hugged and cried with relief and happiness: we would never go back to the dungeon again.

The Greatest Lie Chapter 8 Belles of the Ball

I love academia just as I love getting fucked; each validates me in a different way. I was born of academic parents, and was holding forth at their cocktail parties before I could pronounce all my consonants. To me research papers and exams are just opportunities to display my superior intellect and diligence. By semester's end, I had not only aced my own courses, but I had successfully tutored my dumb jock boyfriends Rick and Randy through theirs: they had so excelled that their hockey coach wanted me to tutor the rest of the hockey team next semester. I figured I could convert that into work-study credit, and endless nights of hot, varied sexual encounters with the squad. I had so overawed my English professor with my contemporary translations of the Canterbury Tales that she insisted that I co-author a Middle English to Contemporary English dictionary with her: another no-brainer for me. I'm fluent in French, Latin and Swedish, so Middle English was like a walk in the woods. Professor Finch, my mentor for my Trangendered Sex Industry Workers project, had been so delighted with scope and detail of the sixty T-Girl interviews that I had completed first semester that he was submitting my independent study for publication in Annals of Contemporary Anthropology: he had assigned one of his grad students to write our grant proposal. Professor Epstein of the law school had cajoled the Undergraduate Dean to let me take an upper level law school course for undergraduate credit. Next semester, I simply would not have time to take any of the ordinary freshman curriculum. Thus, it would not matter if I returned to classes a few weeks late, as would be necessary to give me time to recover from my planned sex reassignment surgery.

My greatest fear, dealing with the University about my gender reassignment, turned out to be no problem. The Dean of Students was holding a thick sheaf of letters of support from the cream of his faculty when I proposed re-registering as a female student in the Spring Semester. I'm sure Epstein's support, and the implicit threat of litigation, moved the bureaucracy. The Dean and the Scholarship Review Committee both signed off on my gender reassignment without a whisper of dissent.

Brad Whitman had gotten passports and visas for Thailand in Tran's and my female names. When I met him to pick them up, I confided the purpose of our journey. "I thought you were broke. How are you going to afford the operation?" he demanded.

"Well, I am planning a real life test of yours and Epstein's First Amendment theories."

"Oh my god, I'm sorry I asked," he replied, flushing with embarrassment. "Just because Epstein writes that prostitution is protected speech, it doesn't mean you have to practice it! You're so terrific as a thinker and a writer. Why are you wasting yourself, and risking your life?"

"You know, what my research shows on a personal level is that it's hard for transsexuals to form lasting relationships. Yet for most of us, realization of our sexual identities is manifest primarily through sexual relationships. Like you, most guys aren't interested at all in transsexuals, and those who are usually are only interested in one-night stands, for kicks. Advertising in the personal pages, hanging out at pick up clubs, and streetwalking are the just ways to reach out and find new guys to fill the void, to continually validate oneself as desirable and acceptable. And in those sorts of relationships, the guy expects to pay, so he can assure for himself the dominant role, and the ability to leave when he's done. So, in a way, prostitution is at the basis of the sexual expression of transsexuality.

To forbid it is to suppress that expression."

"So the money is secondary? Unbelievable! You just admitted you were doing it for purely meretricious reasons."

"That's the other side of the problem. Because of all the social disapproval and dissonance about transsexualism, career opportunities don't exactly abound. The sex industry is the only place where we can reliably make a living. And I'm not exactly streetwalking. I'm going to be in a movie."

"Well, that's completely different. Art for art's sake, no doubt," Mark said sarcastically.

"More like, life imitating art," I retorted.

"You're going to have to live with your "art" for the rest of your life."

"I'm going to forget it as soon as the check clears, and afterwards, I'll look different for the rest of my life."

"Oh well, you gotta do what you gotta do!" We looked in each other's eyes, saddened by this confrontation. I blinked first.

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to say good bye like this. Have a happy holiday, Mark."

"You too, and travel safely. Good luck."

"Thanks, see ya next semester."

Tran was delighted with her new passport. She had renamed herself as Terri New. I was now Alexandra Rivers. We celebrated by smoking a joint, my first since the beginning of the semester. (I never smoke dope during a semester; it wreaks havoc on short-term memory). Just after we finished, the doorbell rang. It was Rick and Randy, back from their last final. They had already downed a few beers, and were looking for me to help them celebrate.

They took an immediate interest in Tran. She is really exquisite. She has light skin for an Asian, glossy, smooth black hair that falls to her round, but tiny ass, small bones, a slender waist, a perfectly proportioned, high cheek boned face and soft, inviting lips surrounding a slightly toothy, but winsome smile. She smiles and laughs readily and infectiously, and she possesses a biting but self-deprecating wit. But the features which caught Rick and especially Randy's goggling eyes were her D-cup breasts, cantilevered, jiggling and seeming to defy gravity beneath her tight, low cut top. Too large for her petite frame, they were always an eye catching sight, and wonderful to play with.

"Very nice to meet you, Allie you a very bad and selfish girl that you never introduce your hockey stick friends to me," she chided jokingly. Her diction and pronunciation were imperfect, but she spoke in a charming song-like voice that made one forget her occasional lapses. I could tell Rick was interested, and Randy seemed smitten. When she went to the bathroom, he pulled me aside and asked "Ah, is she, you know, like you?"

"We have some things in common."

"Do you think she'd want to party with us?"

"I don't know, we'll see. What do you have in mind?"

"Let's go catch some parties and get some beers, and see what happens. My mom's not using her hotel room. We can party there all night."

I hate beer, but Tran was ecstatic to be included. "I like your friends, they're cute. Are they sexy?"

"I think they want us all to do a scene together."

"I like that. You're very sexy, and they are very sexy too. I want to be sexy with all of you."

My pride was a little hurt, and my security was a little threatened, but my menage a trois with Rick and Randy had become a little unstable. After our wild double fucking experiment, it was hard to chart a course that could top that, and bringing Tran into our scene offered new potential avenues. Then too, a foursome made a more socially presentable configuration to outsiders. And if I had to invite anyone into our little club, it would be Tran. I felt close to her as a friend, and she was the only T-Girl (except poor, dead Daylene) who turned me on as a lover. I was happy that she felt the same way about me.

"Girl friend, you're the sexiest girl I know. Bring it on." Inside, I had mixed emotions, but I was outwardly enthusiastic. When I confided her interest to Rick and Randy, they let out whoops of joy.

They went out to buy some beer and snacks. "Don't forget condoms," I reminded them, and gave them Tran's address. We went over there to get ready. She had been dressing for years, had been living on her own since she had dropped out of high school three years before, the victim of merciless small town teasing and a hostile father. She was a regular at the Town House, and was one of the most popular T Girls there. "I getting sick of all the same tricks at Town House, sick of all the guys from the personals. I like your hockey sticks. Maybe I should go college, meet more college boys."

I surveyed the array of skimpy, sexy, fuck me dresses and tops, color-coded neatly in her closet. "I don't know, Tran. You sure don't dress like a college girl."

"Sure, but I can suck cock lot better than a college girl."

"Don't be so sure, Tran. You can get Randy's opinion later tonight. He's an expert on getting blown by college girls." We both giggled at our naughtiness. When we T-girls talk to each other, we get raunchy: perhaps because we've sat on both sides of the aisle; or because we can abandon both our good girl pretenses and sex kitten act; or because we're most at ease with one another. That night, as we dressed and made up, our talk ranged from X to XXX. Tran and I had popped a couple of my Desoxyn and she had poured some Grand Marnier. The drugs and booze combined to put me into a horny, edgy haze.

Tran had found one of her old pre-boob job party dresses for me, and its post boob job replacement for herself. It was a short, tight, black, spaghetti strap shift. It plunged at the neckline, and displayed my small, firm breasts demurely and appealingly. On Tran, the plunging neckline and her push up bra exposed her quivering breasts nearly to the aereole. As she curtsied playfully for me, her boobs swayed and strained against the tight rayon of her dress. "Tran, you should use less foundation and eyeliner, and soften up your hair. Try to look more like a college girl in a party dress, and less like a whore on the make. Pulled back, your hair is so severe: try clipping it in a half ponytail." Tran replied "What's the matter with looking sexy? Don't you like to be sexy? Don't you want Rick in your slutty little ass."

"Actually, I want both of them to fuck my slutty little ass. Don't you?"

She giggled excitedly and gave me a hug. Her warm breasts flattened against mine. She joked "I was all wrong about you. You're a nice, generous T-Girl." She smiled and I kissed her.

"We just have to try to fit in with the college girl bitches at the these bashes we're going to, not look like we're trolling for tricks at the Town House."

"OK, you show me how, Miss College Girl. I showed you how to hook at the Town House, now you show me how to be college girl."

"Deal. You're going to be the best looking coed on campus tonight. Well, maybe second."

I skipped the foundation , eyeliner and false eyelashes and used about a quarter of her usual mascara. I switched her shadow from metallic green to a light acqua. I'm no expert, but with a face as classically beautiful as Tran's it was hard to go wrong. She was very happy with the results. "You make me look like a virgin."

"That's the idea. Guys like it when you act like it's a big deal getting fucked. Especially at the beginning, act like it's killing you."

"They like moaning and crying?"

"Yeah, and don't forget to beg them to go slow and how big they are."

"How big are they"

"Not bad. Randy's about 8", not too thick, and Rick's about 8 ½ and thicker. Big cockhead too. They fuck hard."

"I can't wait."

"Make them wait. You look irresistible now, and I want to go dancing and party, not straight to bed."

Tran's buzzer sounded. The intercom squawked "We're ba-ack," and I interrupted Tran, saying "We'll be right down." We bundled up and headed out into the chilly Minneapolis night.

Rick's mother had driven in from Fargo to pick him up for Christmas break, and had rented a room at the Hyatt Regency, but was staying with her sister. Rick triumphantly announced he had her car and hotel key. I hopped in the front of his mom's Cherokee, and snuggled up to Rick. "I'm freezing," I complained, and as we got under way Rick guided my hand to his open fly and I warmed my frozen fingers on his hot, hard cock.

From the back seat, all I could hear was heavy breathing and sucking noises on the short ride to our party.

The Tri Delts, the most snobbish and wealthiest sorority on campus, hosted the Freshman Winter Sendoff. Rick and Randy, as emerging sports stars and good looking studs, had rated an invitation, but from the jealous stares we drew from the sorority sisters, they had not been expected to bring dates: especially not a couple of hot babes like me and Tran.

After we had made our way to the bar and Rick and Randy had settled down with us at a corner table, two of the girls approached. One them sneered to Rick and Randy, "You two are so rude. Aren't you going to introduce your friends?"

Rick stammered drunkenly, and I stood and said "I'm Alexandra Rivers, and this is my friend Teri New."

"I haven't seen either of you before. Are you students? Only students are allowed at Tri Delt parties."

Yeah, and a lot more of a student than you, nosy bitch, I thought to myself. But instead I said "I'm a freshman, but I've been taking upper class English and Physics courses and an independent study. I only have one freshman class, and it's so easy I never had to show up to get my A. So, I guess that's a long way of explaining why you've never seen me around."

Rick nodded in enthusiastic agreement, but the sorority bitch said, "Oh, I'm sure!

And who is this?" she demanded nastily, pointed to Tran.

"She's my high school friend. She's transferring here next semester."

She challenged Tran, "Is that so, where do you go now?"

"St. Olaf," Tran extemporized, giving the name of a small liberal arts college in her drab Minnesota home town.

"And to what do we owe the privilege of your coming here?" the bitchy sorority girl inquired.

"I transferring for the Greek scene here," Tran giggled.

Rick and Randy guffawed at this obscene double entendre, and Tran and I convulsed. Our hostess just glowered uncomprehendingly and stalked off.

Suddenly, a blues band cranked up and electrified sound split the air. Tran and I rose to our feet and Rick and Randy followed us to the dance floor. I'm a pretty good dancer: my mom made me go to Cotillion in LA, and naturally I learned both parts. Tran had spent most nights for the last three years boogying at the Town House or the Brass Rail. We dazzled the room with our well-practiced steps: our dresses billowing up, our pumps clacking staccato on the floor, our hair flying. Most of the sorority girls sat and stared enviously. The daring few who rose to challenge slouched off the floor after a few numbers, astounded at our repertoire and our amphetamine fueled stamina. Rick and Randy were panting and slathered with sweat when the band broke at the end of its first set. Tran and I both glistened with the evidence of our fanatical dancing.

As we walked out, I smiled pleasantly at our grumpy hostess and said "Thanks so much for having us. See you next year!" Like, as if she would even recognize me after my Christmas makeover.

Rick drove us to the Hyatt, and we went up separately to avoid attracting attention. Tran and I opened up the room. "Oh good, two beds," I said. Tran looked nonplused. "I thought we having a foursome."

"Tran, if Rick and Randy fucked us on one bed, they'd probably break a hole in the floor."

"Oh, goody."

We went into the bathroom to rinse off, freshen up, and smoke another joint.

Outside, we heard Rick and Randy breaking into the mini bar and popping open more beer. "I hope they not too drunk for fucking," Tran said. Remembering my first night, I said "Not to worry, it brings out the best in them."

"You mean the beast in them?"

"Yeah, that too."

We emerged in fluffy Hyatt bathrobes: not the sexiest attire, but easy to take off.

Rick had brought an XXX rated tape, which he popped into the machine. To my delight, it was a T-Girl tape, starring Stasha, a blond beauty who, like me and Tran, loved to get fucked. We watched only the beginning of her seduction by a muscular stud before Rick put my hand on his hardened cock and pulled open my robe and began to caress my breasts. "Do you wish my boobs were bigger, like Tran's or the actress's?" I whispered.

"That would be great, but you're already great the way you are." As he smothered me with kisses, I heard the squeaking of Randy and Tran's bed, and heard her begin to moan. Randy never favored much foreplay, and he was entering Tran. I couldn't wait any longer. Before I could say anything, Rick either read my mind or his competitiveness was aroused, for he rolled over and grabbed a condom and lube from the nightstand. I ripped open the condom with my teeth, and smiled lovingly into his handsome, determined face, as his lubricant-covered finger gently tweaked and probed my eager, tingling ass. "Mmmm, that feels good," I said. "So does that," said Rick, as I stroked his condom clad cock with my lube covered fingers. Next door, Randy and Tran moans had risen to a crescendo, and their bed was shaking with the pulsing of their bodies in motion. "It sounds like they hit it off," I said wistfully. "Let's show them how," Rick replied, as he mounted and expertly entered my horny, tight little ass.

I welcomed the initial burst of pain, for it quelled the tingling in my ass that had been nagging at me all night, and I let out a moan to answer the chorus coming from Tran. She was a loud and expressive submissive, crying out with each of Randy's masterful lunges into her behind. She had told me that Asian asses were tighter, and I suppose she should know. I thrilled at the momentary flash of incendiary pain that surged through me, conscious that this could be one of my last fucks as a pre-op. Rick, seemingly sensing this angst, began fondling my cockette like an overgrown clit. I had been off estrogen for a week in anticipation of my surgery, but my orchiectomy prevented me from reaching the true penile orgasm. Still, it felt great, and my insides melted in welcoming Rick's manhood. I loved to be possessed, and with Rick wrapped around and deep inside me, I was his. He fondled my breasts with one large hand, my soft, castrated cock in the other, and throbbed up my ass as he breath heavy, beery grunts into my ear. God, how I loved to get fucked. How could I be giving up any part of this?

I could hear Tran was reaching climax on the bed beside me. I glanced to my side and saw her lovely face contorted in a spasm of ecstasy, for a moment, her eyes met mine in a gaze of understanding and love that only two close friend and lovers, captured together in state of extremis, could share. Her eyes closed, as she descended into a state of bliss that only she could experience. Randy grimaced, jaw set, and went into overdrive as he pounded himself into her slender, lithesome body. She tossed her luxuriant black mane in a final spasm of pleasure, and I caught a final glimpse of her beautiful face as she reached orgasm.

In response, Rick re-doubled his assault on my own delicate frame, and as the fury built behind me, I responded with my own involuntary pulsing. Rick's relentless fucking awakened my sleeping prostate, for a felt a barely familiar tingling inside which built in concert with the storm growing in Rick's madly throbbing groin. As Rick's cock surged mightily within me, I felt a thunderclap within rumble and I let out a cry of pain, pleasure and relief: then darkness descended over my consciousness much as Rick's massive, muscular frame slumped on top of me.

I was unconscious for a few moments, before the lingering dose Desoxyn and the sensation of suffocation under Rick sleeping body roused me. I gently expelled his softened cock and slipped out from beneath Rick. "You awake?" Tran whispered.

"Yeah, I still need to breath, and I can't sleep yet."

"Me too. I'm trapped. Help me move him."

Feeling Lilliputian, I helped Tran remove the snoring Randy from atop her. We covered them with the disheveled blankets and retired to the bathroom to clean up and compare notes. They were both stunningly powerful, athletic lovers. Tran counted Randy amongst her very best, and she was working from a much larger data base than mine. I agreed that Randy was fantastic, and I confided that if anything, Rick was even better. "I want to make up my mind for myself," Tran demanded. "In good time," I concurred.

The Hyatt had a deep, luxurious tub, and was well stocked with toiletries. We drew a steaming bubble bath, scented it with lilac bath crystals, and slipped in beneath suds. Tran's lovely titties floated at the surface: I covered her with a demure film of bubbles, and then fondled them in the slippery suds. Tran's immaculately black lacquered toe slid under my ass, and poked at my tired, happy hole. "Mmm", we said simultaneously, and then burst out laughing. "Tran, we are so bad."

"I never get enough," Tran said agreeably. "Do me the same way." I readily complied, and we lay together in the soapy waters, engaging in gentle, but kinky massage.

"I hope my new pussy is this sexy," Tran murmured sexily.

"If it's not, we can always do it this way."

"Both ways," said Tran.

"At the same time," Tran agreed.

"With another cock in my mouth," I countered.

"And one in each hand."

"Sounds like a plan. Speaking of which, are you packed?"

"I'll take care of it tomorrow."

"Tran, the limo is picking us up at 12:00 noon."

"Plenty of time for me to pack."

"Well, I suppose we'll be spending most of the time in bed, one way or another."

"What time is it now?"

"About 1:30."

"Time to wake up our boys?"

"Let's give them ten more minutes while we fix our make up."

"As if they'll notice now."

"But we'll know how good we look."

The door opened, and a bedraggled Rick staggered in, mumbling "I gotta take a leak." As his pissed splashed vigorously into the toilet, I gestured Tran toward Rick's rumpled bed, and I crawled into Randy's. He roused, and groped toward the bathroom just as Rick returned to his bed. I heard Tran's coquettish giggle, and then the rustling of sheets and the sounds of heavy breathing and sucking. Randy saw what was going on as he emerged and hopped into bed next to me. I whispered "Ready for a midnight snack?"

and he nodded "Mm, hmm." I slid down his brawny torso, kissing him along the way across his smooth, muscular shoulders, his rippling abs, his granite-hard abdomen to his cock, around which I circled my glossy, wet lips. I took him into my mouth to his pubes, which were redolent with the musky, sweet aroma of Tran's ass-juices. I filled my nose with their rich pungence and hoped that Tran enjoyed inhaling my musk from Rick as much as I did hers. Randy swiftly hardened and filled my mouth and throat with his cock, and took control of my head and pistoned it on his thrusting shaft. I succumbed happily to his control. I easily deep throated his familiar cock, and as I did so I lifted my ass, offering myself to him. He began massaging my sore but still tingling hole, and stroking my empty scrotum and tiny, soft cockette. I took a breath and whispered "Use some lubricant, please." He grabbed it from the night stand and applied it to his finger, which slid easily inside me. I was sore, but still horny.

Wordlessly, I ripped open a condom and rolled it over his stiff cock. I sat astride him, and settled my ass onto its tip, and pressed down, so he entered me. I let out a moan, and heard it echoed from the bed beside me by Tran's gasps of pleasure as Rick entered her.

The mental picture of Rick's massive cock-head stretching and entering her tiny brown hole filled me with such envy and lust that I impaled myself on Randy's cock to the hilt, and thrilled at the jolt of pain that shot through me. I rose again until his cock nearly slipped out, and then dropped back down until his pubes banged against my buttocks and his long cock felt like it was poking my navel from within. He seized my waist and began repeating this motion: lifting me vertically and slamming me down on top of him, and his pelvis rose and fell in concert with me. I felt like I was riding a bucking bronco, with an oversized saddle horn penetrating my ass. My breasts swayed, my hair swirled and my body shook as Randy's massive, powerful body took command and battered my insides with his rampaging manhood.

The second sodomy of an evening is very different from the first. The external ring is puckered and taut, but it yields more readily to the pressure of a well lubricated cock. In the interval, the sphincters will have been restored to their fortress function, but so long as muscle remembers the previous penetration, they open more readily and less painfully for the second cock, especially if it is slightly smaller than the first, as Randy's was compared to Rick's. In the long channel of colon deeper within, the mucosa will have been activated by the first fuck to and have become swollen and wet. Thus, deep inside the colon is actually is tighter for the second cock, and the experience is more sensual with the second cock than the first.

And so it was tonight, as it felt as if I was trying to resist Randy as he surged inward and retain him as he pulled out. I was soon sweating and sighing with the effort of receiving and containing his flailing member, and my voice joined with Tran's sensual, exotic warblings of pain, exertion and bliss, to make a sexy chorus, backed by the bass line of Rick's and Randy's grunts and the slapping of the flesh of our tender asses against their sinewy thighs. I looked over and saw Tran too was atop Rick, and her breasts billowed and fell as the storm within Rick bobbed her like a vessel in a gale at sea. Our eyes met and we exchanged a satisfied, conspiratorial smile before refocusing on the rough fucking we were getting.

Randy tossed me from the saddle, rolled me on my stomach and mounted me like from behind like a bitch in heat. I let out yelps as his cock exited and reentered me from behind in powerful, and well aimed lunges. He grabbed my breasts in one and with the other fondled my cockette and stroked the smooth, flat skin of my empty scrotum. The full length of his cock slashed in, out and though me as he struggled to reach his second orgasm. Success came in a dozen bone crushing thrusts of his pelvis against my body that left me breathless, weak and quivering in his embrace, and left him sprawled unconscious atop me. As his cock softened and slipped out, I felt a warm glow rise from inside me and spread sleep through me. As the noise and fury of Randy's assault subsided, I heard Rick's attack on Tran's willing ass reach its apogee, and hear his guttural cries and Tran's song-like responses herald the coming of his orgasm. I fell asleep with the fading notes of that lovely melody in my ears.

I awoke to the insistent, incessant ring of the room phone. After what seemed like a hundred rings, I heard Rick answer. "Hi Mom. ... What do you mean, we're late. ...

You mean, you're already here. Oh shit, I mean, nothing. Yeah, we'll be right down."

He slammed the phone. "Fuck, Randy, wake up. My mom and yours are here for breakfast. We gotta get down to the restaurant." I looked at the time with alarm. It was 9:30. "Tran, we really picked the wrong day to oversleep. We have to wake up and get packed." She rolled out of bed and brushed her tangled mane from her sleepy eyes.

"Says who? Where are you going?" Rick demanded. I didn't want to spoil our surprise, so I improvised that we were just going to visit my mom in LA.

Rick and Randy were half dressed. I was pleased that they were breakfasting with their families with the nocturnal residues of Tran and me as their cologne. I sprang to the door and demanded hugs from them as they left. Tran did likewise, and it seemed like they each gave her an extra embrace, the better to squeeze her breasts as they bade her farewell. "Oh well," I thought. "I'll soon be making up that deficiency."

Tran and I showered together and soothed each other's tired bodies with warm, soapy massages. We primped ourselves one last time in the luxury of Rick's mom's suite, and left the hotel arm in arm. As we left, tottering wearing our high heels and sexy party dresses, we attracted condemnatory glares of the hotel staff, and looked back haughtily. If you only knew, my eyes proclaimed. I suppressed a desire to wave at Rick and Randy, as they animatedly talked with their moms, a couple of attractive but dull looking Mid-Western matrons.

As we left them, I felt mixed pang of loss and relief. Would I ever eat Christmas dinner with Rick's family, or proudly pick up a child at a college campus? Would the destiny which chosen me had ever put me in a mini-van taking kids to soccer? My life would be lived in an alternative world, where I would live according to rules of my own making. It was a liberating but scary world. I was frightened, but free. And I would make the most of that freedom.

The Greatest Lie Chapter 9 My Fifteen Seconds of Fame

Two hours after saying goodbye to Rick and Randy, Tran and I left Minneapolis and boarded a plane to LA. I fell asleep at take off, and woke as the plane began its descent. Tran was staring out the window at the city's lights spread in an endless shimmering galaxy below. "Wow, I love LA already," she exclaimed. She was right: viewed from the air on a clear night, LA is a gorgeous vista of stars, like heaven mirrored on the earth. Up close, some of those stars are ugly and dangerous. And we were about to enter one of LA's dirtiest secret worlds: the San Fernando Valley porn industry: the sinister, sleazy cousin of Hollywood.

We were met at the gate by a silent driver holding a sign marked "Rios".

Wordlessly, he put our carry-on bags onto a luggage cart, picked up our checked baggage, and took us too a stretch limo parked in the red zone. He opened the door and motioned for us to get in. "Welcome to LA," a Russian-accented voice commented from within. "You must be our newest stars." I feigned a shiver, jiggling my boobies provocatively. "Good to be here. It's freezing in Minneapolis," I replied. The limo took off. "We're going to the studio for a read through. You hungry? Thirsty? Want some coke?" He produced a dusty mirror with four lines of coke, the smudged, dusty residue of several others, and a tightly rolled hundred. Tran looked at me, uncertain. Wanting to go with the flow, and still slightly groggy with sleep, I said "Sure, thanks," and snorted both lines. My eyes watered as the menthol crystals blasted my sinuses. I hadn't had cocaine for months, and rarely so strong and pure as these lines. Soon Tran and I were animated and vivacious.

"So what are you, the director or an actor?" I asked. He was a burly, bearded Russian émigré whose dancing eyes were framed by broad cheekbones and dark, thick eyebrows.

Before our host could answer, Tran said "You good looking enough to be actor, but how big is your cock? Can we see it?"

"Slow down, girls. None of the above. I'm Pavel, and I am the producer. Have either of you been in adult films before?"

"No, this is our first time," I admitted. Tran followed up "But don't worry, we suck and fuck like pro's."

He dialed a cell phone, motioning us to be silent. "Ricardo, can you meet me at the studio in about 45? I have a couple of newbie T-Girls to rehearse for a shoot tomorrow. Yeah, they're cute, and really lively. OK, and give Andre a call to, same thing. OK, see you there."

"Who are we meeting, our co-stars?" I asked.

"No, some of our other talent. We're saving the big boys for the real thing. They need to save their energy, if you know what I mean."

We nodded enthusiastically. The limo struggled through rush hour traffic to a nondescript warehouse in Northridge. We pulled in behind a chain-link gate that rolled closed and locked behind us. It was a warm, brilliant day, and the mountains ringing the Valley had an unfamiliar clarity and brilliance. Pavel showed us to an office and bade us to sit down. He handed us each a sheaf of papers and told us to read. The script was called "Transsexual Hookers," and it was a series of vignettes about Transsexual Sex Industry Workers plying their trade. I was to play a call girl from the personals section of a sex paper, and Tran's character was working a mythical bar modeled on Illusions at the 7969 Club in West Hollywood. There was some minimal dialog to set the stage, and followed by a description of shots and angles for the sex scenes.

"How are we supposed to memorize all these moves?" I asked.

"That's for the camera crews. You'll just improvise, and I want to see how you do it."

"You mean right now?"

"That's right. OK, let's read your lines, and after Ricardo and Andre get here, we'll run through the action."

"You mean we are having sex with these guys right now, with you watching?"

"That's the idea, honey. And get used to a crowd. There are going to be a lot more people watching tomorrow."

We ran through our dialog. Tran playing a pin ball machine at a noisy bar, shaking her booty and half exposed breasts. She is approached from behind by a date, and they chat suggestively about putting balls in the holes, points, scores, and how long she can keep a ball in play. The customer gets aroused and begins fondling her as she plays, but she plays on, lighting up the machine, which records points madly, until the distraction of his pawing arms makes her lose the point. The customer apologizes Tran tells him now he has to pay. He asks how much, and she quotes a price. He nods and they leave the bar together, arrive at a nearby hotel, and you can guess the rest. "But I'm terrible at pin ball," Tran complained. "Better at bed ball."

"Very funny, you can throw that one in if you remember it tomorrow. Don't worry about the game, we'll rig the machine."

My script was even simpler: a guy studies the personal ads in a the LA Xpress (a local sex paper), picks mine, calls me, we chat, I give him directions to a pay phone in from of my apartment, invite him up, and you know the rest. They were easy lines: I had been in a bunch of plays in high school, so it was easy for me. Tran's a natural actress, and soon a pleased Pavel pronounced himself satisfied.

The phone rang. Ricardo and Andre had arrived. "Get yourselves ready for the sex scene. I'm going to video tape it. We'll go over it later and I tell you what works and what doesn't. The basic rule is, be visually and vocally expressive. The audience likes to see and hear you suffer. The men are going to be rough, and you have to act like they're killing you. Talk dirty, like you want it, and then cry out in pain and act hurt and humiliated when you're getting it in the ass. Look up admiringly at your man while you're sucking, and smile and lick your lips when you get your facial. Remember, you're playing a couple of cocksucking whores who get paid to be used and abused, and love every minute of it. That's what the audience wants to see, and that's what I want. Now go get ready. Tran, you're first. Alexandra, you read her dialogue, and Ricardo reads Andre's."

We went to a cluttered, bright-lit dressing room. I helped Tran get ready, as there was no make-up assistance for rehearsal. We emerged, and Pavel introduced us to Andre and Ricardo. Andre was a short, muscular black guy, and Ricardo was a lanky, mustached latino, who could barely read Andre's lines. Andre just stood around as Tran did the bar/pinball scene, as Ricardo and I exchanged the dialogue and negotiated a price and agreed on the trick. Then the scene cuts to a sleazy hotel bedroom, and we walked over to a bed with hotel style side tables. I read dialogue, telling Andre to get comfortable, and he strips to his boxers and socks and sits down on the bed. Tran strips to black low cut bra and panties. Pavel panned her body, lingering on the slight bulge in her panties at the crotch. Tran kneels on the floor by the bed, and I read dialogue, begging Andre let Tran suck his cock. He drops his boxers, steps forward, grabs her hair, and Tran begins licking and sucking. Ricardo read as Tran sucked Andre. "Mmm, that feels good, bitch. Suck it, you slut. Let me fuck your face, you fucking whore. That's it, suck it, suck it down your slutty throat." Andre repeated the lines Ricardo just read. Tran cooed wordless expressions of appreciation, and looked up adoringly at the silent Andre.

Pavel tells her to break off and cues me to read "Oh, that tastes so good, and you're so big. Give me more." Andre slammed his big black dick back into her face, as Ricardo read humiliating, misogynist dialogue and Pavel filmed. Pavel signaled Ricardo, who reads "OK, bitch, I'm ready to fuck your butt."

"Be gentle to my tight Asian ass," I read for Tran. "You're too big for me." Tran slips out of her panties and bra and gets on hands and knees on the bed, ass up. Pavel pans her expectant face, her swaying breasts, and slender backside, tiny cock and balls, and her tiny, puckered ass. "Stick your finger in it," he ordered, and he filmed as Tran licked her manicured index finger, and slipped it into her own hole. He quickly panned to the momentary flash of pain in her eyes." "Oh, I'm ready for you now," I read.

"Please be careful."

"Now put on some lubricant," Pavel ordered. "You put on a condom." Pavel rolled film as Tran put lube on her ass, and Andre rubbered his now fully loaded cock.

"OK, fuck her now. Grab her hair with one hand and her tits with the other, and ram it in.

You read."

"Oh please, go slowly, ..."

Andre slammed his entire nine inches into Tran at once. She didn't need any acting ability to communicate her response, which was to thrash involuntarily and beg him to stop in an anguished, pleading voice. "Keep reading," said Pavel.

"Oh stop, you're hurting me. Too much, too big, much too big, ow, aaah."

Tran repeated these lines, and I could not tell if she was acting or if it was for real.

Pavel filmed from every angle, capturing every aspect of the penetration, Andre's wild groping of Trans breasts and cock, his pulling of her hair, and the anguished response on her face. After he had explored every angle of the doggy style fuck, he told Andre to flip her over on her side, and he sat astride her thigh and rode her, grabbing her beautiful breasts and squeezing them like grapefruit. "Oh, yeah, fuck me hard, squeeze my titties," I read, and Tran repeated. "Do it to me, fuck me baby, harder, harder."

"Fuck you, you little whore, fuck your little ass, I'm going to fuck a hole through you, slut, I wanna cum up your ass." Ricardo read.

"Play with your cock," Pavel ordered Tran, who complied. "OK, roll her onto her back, and pull her legs up." Pavel panned back, and waved for me to keep reading.

"Ooooh, that feels good. Deeper, harder."

"Big happy smile now, Tran."

"Oh, yeah, I love to get fucked," I improvised. Tran repeated it with a satisfied grin. Andre gripped Tran's slender ankles and bore down on her from above, and I read "That's it big man, fuck me hard, you big black stud. Tran recited after me, and a warm, and deeply satisfied smile spread across her face. Her eyes danced with happiness as Andre pounded away. Pavel said "Excellent, perfect, yes, harder Andre, play with yourself, Tran," and she stroked her breasts and cock. Although it was obvious that they both enjoyed this brutal variation on this missionary position, the audience, and Pavel, demanded variety. Pavel instructed Andre to exit, which he did so swiftly that his exit brought a grimace to Tran's eyes. Andre lay on his back, and propped his stiff cock to attention. Tran sat atop Andre, her legs astride him, and speared her bottom on his thick, upright member, and she rode him. She bounced up and down, her breasts flying, her hair swaying, and all the time with a beautiful smile of ecstasy gracing her lovely lips.

"Oh yeah, it feels so good, aaah, fuck me, oooh, fuck me, fuck me, oooo, harder, harder aaah."

"Fuck your ass, dirty little whore, fuck it, goddamn fucking slut whore, fucking ass slut whore," Ricardo growled, and Andre repeated.

"OK, now push her off and read the next page, Ricardo."

"Finish me in your mouth, slut, and don't spill a drop."

"Mmm, yum," I replied, and Tran peeled of Andre's rubber and took him deep down her throat. "Suck it, bitch, all the way, that's it, Ooh, Oh yeah, Ahh." He spurted a load into Tran's mouth, then pulled back and jerked himself and made is spatter into her hair, eyes, cheeks, and breasts. "Open your mouth and swallow some more," Pavel directed, and she took the last drops into her wet lips, and then let it run out to join the cum splattered on her breasts. "Smile, and lick it off your tits," Pavel demanded, and Tran did so, as I uttered gratefully "Mmm, tastes so good." Tran shot out her pink tongue to lick wayward drops of jism from her cheeks and chin. "Excellent," Pavel praised.

"That was excellent. Now go rinse off." Pavel followed her to the shower as she did a quick rinse down, taking close ups of the jism as is slid off her breasts under the warm jets of the shower, and zooming in on her tired, puckered hole as she leaned over to dry her legs. She went out, and Andre was tying his shoes and getting ready to leave.

"See you next weekend, Andre," extemporized. "Take care at the slaughterhouse," she extemporized. "See you later, Baby," he said as he walked out the door. Tran dropped her towel, ran her hands up and down her glorious body, and reached down to pick up her clothes from the floor. As Pavel panned her, she got dressed, fixed her make up, and as he faded, she was back at the pinball machine, racking up improbably excellent scores, and looking over her shoulder for the next customer.

"Thanks everybody," Pavel boomed. If everything plays like that tomorrow, we've got a hit. Tran, Alexandra, get dressed and come to my office."

Ricardo interjected, "Hey, watta bout me. Don't I get to fuck the other one?"

"It's late, and she knows what she's doing. Here, go get yourself laid." He handed Ricardo a couple of twenties.

Ricardo looked at me fiercely. "I'll see you some other time, bitch."

"I look forward to that, so sorry it didn't work out today," I replied mildly. I had no interest in getting fucked by a stringy little guy like Ricardo, but why piss him off? I accompanied Tran to the dressing room, feeling a little guilty about my role in getting her into this predicament and in helping Pavel carry it out. I was also nervous about the real thing the next day. "Are you OK with that?"

"Sure, it was fine. He wasn't any rougher than some of my real clients. And it was sexy hearing you read my lines. It helped me get through it."

"How weird is that, getting fucked in front of a bunch of spectators?" Tran shrugged. "You know, there'll be a lot more tomorrow."

"I didn't really think about it after I started. I just listened to you and Pavel.

We'll be fine. You're a good actress."

After she was dressed, we went to Pavel's office. He and another guy, the director, Yuri, were watching Tran's tape. "Good performance, Tran. I'm not worried about you either, Alexandra. You're so good I wish it had been the final. You even got some emotion out of that loser Andre. If only Ricardo knew how to read, much less act."

Tran's performance was convincing, and my line reading sounded natural and realistic. It appeared that she was really suffering pain and humiliation at the hands and cock of Andre. When she repeated my dialogue reading, it sounded fresh and real.

Pavlov made a few comments, suggesting occasional eye contact with the camera to help the audience identify with the character. "But just momentary eye contact, like a futile plea for help to an equally powerless bystander. The audio is weak, but it doesn't matter, we'll have the set sound-boomed tomorrow. And don't worry about the lighting.

Tomorrow, you'll wish you'd put on sunscreen, indoors. Tran, that's outstanding work for a first timer." He handed us a couple hundred bucks each. "Expense money. Enjoy!

I know the rehearsal was part of the contract, but your work was above and beyond. Get a nice dinner and hotel, have some fun, and I'll see you here at 10:00 a.m. for hair and make up. You'll meet your partners at noon, and we start shooting with Alexandra a 1:00 p.m. If you have the energy, it wouldn't hurt to watch this again." He handed me the tape.

Ever budget conscious, we walked to a nearby hotel and got salads and a bottle of wine from a deli. The room was small and shabby, but the sheets felt clean and we were exhausted. The wine hit us hard and we collapsed on the bed fully clothed. I popped in Tran's tape and we listened and watched a few minutes. Soon she had put her arms around me and was pressing her big boobs and her tiny but hard cock against me.

"So what was it like, getting fucked with the rest of us watching."

"It was OK. I mean I been fucked by maybe a thousand guys, so what's one more. I like it."

"Andre was so rough to you. I like it slower."

"So do I, but a lot of tricks like to stick it in fast, make it hurt. I'm used to it. Besides, your mean Dr. Sanguan made me stop taking hormones for almost two weeks and now I'm horny to get fucked. I'm even horny to fuck like a guy." She guided my hand to her cock, which was as hard as steel, and larger than I remembered it.

"Enjoy it while you got it, Tran," I said, ducking my head beneath the covers. I pressed my lips against her satin panties, stroked her with my nose, and breathed hot air against it. She moaned and her hips undulated. I paused, and her muffled voice begged "Don't stop," so I slid her panties down and took her sweet, silky, doomed member in my mouth.

I was instantly rewarded with the lush, exotic flavor of her pre cum. She flung back the covers and I looked up at her. Her lovely face was framed by the twin peaks of her fabulous breasts, and her eyes were locked shut in pleasure. I slipped my hand under her but and found her tiny ass with my finger. It had contracted to a tiny pin hole after the afternoon's abuse, and I had to lick my finger to ease its entry. As it slid inside her, her pelvis convulsed and her moans grew uncontrollable. At tiny, delicious fountain of cum erupted in my mouth, as her moans reached a crescendo. I swallowed part of her load, and then finished her with my hand, letting the rest squirt into a puddle in her navel. To my surprise, Tran's cum was creamy and white, just like a real guy's. I fondled her breasts and kissed her trembling lips, allowing her to savor her pleasant flavors from my mouth and tongue. We held the kiss as I tickled her navel, with my finger dipped in the slippery pool it now contained.

"That was great," I told her.

"Great for me too," she said sleepily, as we drifted off to sleep on one another's arms.

We overslept, showered together to save time and rushed to the studio barely ahead of our 10:00 a.m. deadline. Our wet heads and un-made faces didn't matter, because we were immediately placed into the hands of the hair and make up department. We were waxed, tweezed, blown out, brushed, manicured, pedicured, and made up by Louise and Charles, a Vietnamese couple who had been brought in on contract from a nearby salon.

They went totally nuts over Tran, whose face and skin were beautiful even by the standards of Vietnamese women, and whose body had been fashioned to the proportions of a Barbie doll. I fretted over the shortness of my hair, which had not had time to grow out to my satisfaction. "Don't worry, hon," said Charles, as he blew back a wayward tuft of my blond mullet. "We do this every week for Pavel, and your raw material is better than anyone's. We'll make you delectable." And after two hours of non-stop primping, I had to admit that I looked spectacular.

Pavel had suggested that I wear colored contacts to deepen the blue of my eyes. I was blinking the second one in when I heard the door open and a strangely familiar voice intoned "Well, well, Rios, so we meet again." I was still half blinded when I felt his hands grab and squeeze my breasts. "My, my, haven't you grown since last year: tits, that is." As my eyes cleared, I recognized the face and the voice: Miguel, my high school tormentor and rapist.

"Miguel, what are you doing here?"

"Making movies and money, just like you, maricon. This is my third one. When Pavel showed me your picture, I knew it had to be you. So now we can have an early high school reunion. Just the two of us, this time. Too bad for Seth and Jack, they're missing out on the fun."

"I thought you hated transsexuals, Miguel. I thought you hated me."

"But now I like fucking little vestigos like you. After that Prom Night, I got used to it. I like to fuck a nice, tight bunda better than a fat, smelly cunt, especially if I'm getting paid for it. Marta's pregnant, fat as a pig, and too bitchy to fuck. So right now, you'll do. But it doesn't mean that I don't hate fags, especially a stuck up little bitch like you." He pinched my breasts cruelly, and grabbed between my legs and squeezed. "Such a little girl, they even cut your cajones. You little smartass, aren't you a freak now? You can't lord over the rest of us anymore. You're a subhuman too, now." He rubbed my empty scrotum and laughed mockingly. My cheeks burned.

"Miguel, I never looked down on you or the others at Uni. I was just a scared, confused kid, acting above it all because of my fear of being found out. I didn't set out to get between you and Marta. I just bungled my way into it as I was hiding from something else. But when you found me out, but when you and the others fucked me that Prom night, I took the first step on the path on which I discovered myself. In a way, I guess I've got you to thank for helping find, and become, who I am." I turned and looked him straight in the eye. "Now just take me as who I am, and let me take you as you are.

Forget high school. The past is what they make stories from. All action is in the present.

That's all I want from you."

"You want me to fuck you?"

"That's why we're here, isn't it? Look, I'm putting aside the fact that you and your friends raped me. You can put aside the fact that I dissed you in a different lifetime.

Just then Pavel poked his head in, and asked in a smarmy tone "Are high school sweet hearts getting to know one another again?"

"Oh, yeah, we were about to break into the old school song. Actually, I was thinking, could we work this ad hoc reunion concept into the script? It's a pretty compelling subtext."

"Great idea. Miguel, take a shower and go to makeup. Alexandra, come with me. Let's doctor the script while the crew shoots Tran's script."

When we were alone, I confronted Pavel. "That's not very funny, surprising me with Miguel. We weren't exactly good buddies in high school. In fact, I was terrified of him, and he hated me: justifiably, in both cases. I was a privileged and conceited AP student, and he was an industrial arts kid. Plus, I nearly seduced his girlfriend, and he retaliated by leading a gang bang rape of me."

"Well, it must have been a formative experience for him, because he sought us out to be in Transsexual films. And he's terrific, one of the best studs we have. Too bad about your troubled past with him, but we gotta make a movie."

"I know, I just want to make a better movie."

"What's your idea?" I told him that we should alter the call girl script to incorporate my actual dynamic with Miguel. Pavel loved it. He booted up the script on his computer, and we frantically re-wrote it and Pavel passed it out to the director and crew. (Don't worry, dear Reader. you'll read synopsis of it in a minute). "Miguel's studying his new lines right now. The director loves it, and so do I. Alexandra, you're a real pro. I should send you all of my scripts from now on. You have got a really kinky touch for such a baby."

"Thanks, it's my Chaucer and Transgender research studies, no doubt."

Pavel laughed and gave me a hug. "You could be a giant in this business, if you want."

"As if," I laughed. "Not! After this movie Tran and I disappear. We're getting the Operation in Thailand next week. This is our last job."

"What a waste. Well, how about a post op sequel."

"We'll see how this goes, but I don't think so. After all, I'll be a virgin, again."

"I know," Pavel replied. "I know."

If you've never been on a set, even a porno set where they do things fast and loose, it is actually kind of boring and repetitive, as they re-shoot the flubbed lines and re-block for new scenes. The place is crammed with lights, cameras, and people, milling around and bumping into each other. The set starts out so cold your nipples are hard even before the action starts. The male stars get hard with the help of a "fluff girl", whose job it is to suck the star's cock before and between the sex scenes. During the shoot, they have to turn off the noisy air conditioners, so by the end, the lights have heated the place to Saharan temperatures. Not the most erotic atmosphere, but what the hell, we were all pros. Yuri told me he liked to shoot the action sequence with as few breaks as possible. You just keep going until you hear "Cut."

It begins with Miguel looking at the Transsexual ads in the Xpress. He sees my picture as Louisa Transsexual', does a double take, and mumbles to himself That looks like that stuck up bitch Luis from high school. I guess he's a she now: stuck up little bitch. I'd like to fuck her brains out." He calls, I answer, ask him some perfunctory questions about himself and his preferences. I make sure he understands I'm a transsexual and that he has no ties to law enforcement. I ask his preferences, and he replies that he likes dominant Greek. Great, I like to be a bottom. How big a donation can you bring? He promises $200, and I say that's perfect. Call me from the corner or Hollywood and Vine.

As he rings off, I tell myself that his voice sounded familiar. Funny he didn't say he had seen me before.

He calls from the corner, I ask him to identify a landmark to make sure he's not a crank, he does, and then I give him my address and security code. I buzz him into my apartment. He looks at me hungrily, and he begins fondling my breasts and ass right away. Business before pleasure, I say pleasantly. I take his donation, spread a quilt on the floor, and tell him to get comfortable as I go into my bedroom stash the money. Then I come back and when I see him stripped to his socks, I recognize him. I say, "You look familiar to me. Have you seen me before?"

"Yeah, locker 101 next to you in gym class."

I look at his hard cock and say "Maybe I don't remember you, but I'll always remember that." I smiled and fondled his hardening cock.

"You never noticed me because you were with your rich friends in your college track courses. You never even talked to me in high school, you were so busy pretending to be something you weren't and looking down on me and my friends. But I always thought you were a maricon, a faggot, when I saw you staring at me in the locker room. I guess I was right."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you or hurt your feelings."

"Forget it. Don't worry about it anymore. Now you're not a high school hotshot any more, just another trannie whore."

"You can just leave if you're going to talk to me that way."

"I'm not going anywhere. You took my money. I get what I came for." He seizes me and forces me to my knees.

"OK, but don't hurt me," I said, cringing.

"I'll do what I want." He grabs my hair and forces my face onto his cock.

I let his hands force my lips around his cock, and push it in and out of my mouth. The familiar mossy flavor of his uncut meat, and the savory appetizer of precum was very real, but the fluttering of the still camera's shutter, the hot glare of the lights and the shuffling of the crews feet added a surreal aspect. Remembering the camera, I looked up worshipfully toward Miguel, who returned a cold glare, and then looked pleadingly into the winking red light of a rolling camera as Miguel speared his cock down my throat. I arched my back and stuck my ass in the air, to afford the cameras a view of my still unprobed ass and my cockette. Months of experience had made me a blow job expert, and he grunted pleasure and approval, muttering "Yeah, suck my cock, you trannie whore, suck me dry.

He sat on the couch, pulling my head with him by my hair. Then, his hands began a rough exploration of my ass. He stroked and pulled my cock roughly and poked at my ass with his fingers. I broke from my sucking and begged "Oh, that feels good, but I need you to fuck me." We took a quick break as Miguel was condomed and sucked by the fluff girl, and my hair and makeup were refreshed, and I went off stage and lubed my tush. I assumed an all fours, ass up position and begged Miguel to fuck me hard, but please start slowly. I felt his hard, hairy thighs between and against mine, and his hard cock pressing against, and bouncing on my puckered and intensely expectant ass. Off hormones for a week and exposed to the bizarre rehearsal the night before, I had gotten so horny that I needed a jolt of pain.

I turned and murmured, half to the camera and half to Miguel, "Please, I need you.

Please fuck me." With that, he grabbed and pulled up my thighs, and rammed himself inside me. He slammed himself in fully in two overwhelming lunges, as I cried out in half real, half feigned pain and suffering. Of course, he ignored my writhing and twisting, and cries and pleading, and proceeded with his brutal and public invasion of my upturned ass. I looked pleadingly back at him, then into the camera, gasped a prayer for pity and begged him to please go slow and don't hurt me.

The camera was powerless, and Miguel was deaf to my pleas, and I gyrated my ass back into his rampaging cock, writhed my head, and gripped the rumpled sheets to steel myself against the pain and humiliation. Searching for emotions to fuel my acting, I recalled and relived that agonizing prom night, when Miguel had instigated the savage gang rape that had sent me down this path to femininity and debasement. I thought of the circles of hell that I had visited between that night and the present: the sleazeball in the bus station; Jake, who had first loved, and then rejected me; Jon, who had wooed me and then betrayed me; Country Music, who had tried to murder me; Bo, who had made me his personal whore, and then offered me in trade for a peace in a drug war; and Carlos, who had brutally fucked me and then turned loose a diseased multitude on me. Now I had come full circle, and Miguel had me in his sadistic clutches again, now for all the world to see my final descent into sluttish submission. As let out a cry of pain and emotional anguish, Miguel forced my face to into the bed to smother my voice. I bit the sheets to suppress my torment, and noticed gratefully that a camera had zoomed in for a close-up as I shed my first tears. I mouthed "Help me" into the impassive lens.

Miguel had had enough doggy style, and he pulled out as a winced and moaned, and growled "Roll over, bitch." As soon as I had complied he grabbed my ankles, and upturned my ass and stuffed himself back inside me to the hilt. He fucked me on my back with my ankles pulled up to my ears, and my slender body bent beneath his pulsing pelvis. I twisted, and writhed beneath him, alternating between pleading gazes at Miguel and imploring glances into the camera, as my cries changed from pure pain to epiphanies of ecstasy. He rose higher above me, planted his right foot near my left ear, and bore down on me from above, his pelvis perpendicular to mine, so that my ass lacked even the minimal protection that the rounded curves of my buttocks provided. His pubis banged directly against my ass, giving him unrestricted access, and he ravaged my colon. My back soon ached from this hideous angle of attack. He pulled out, lay on his back, and forced me to sit on his cock, first facing him, and then pivoting me so that I faced away.

His relentless pelvis rose and fell beneath me, forcing ever deeper new passages inside me. But now, each new invasion brought smiles of satisfaction and pleasure to my lips.

By the time he rolled me back into doggy position, I was begging him for more, more, harder, deeper.

But the ass fucking portion of the show was ending. We had reached that most sacred moment in any hard core porn video, especially shemale porn: the facial cum shot.

Indeed, so precious was this moment that the action paused, and Miguel went to his corner to be attended by his fluff girl, and I to mine to have my make up refreshed: the lovelier to look when his cum splashed all over me.

The crew re-set the lights and cameras, and checked the sound. Then I took my place on my knees and awaited Miguel. I again gazed up with moist, adoring eyes as he slipped his cock between my lips. I nearly gagged from the overwhelming taste of nicotine slathered over his cock: the fluff girl had obviously taken a recent cigarette break, and Miguel had come back with her tainted saliva covering him. I bravely sucked hard and swallowed, my eyes worshipping my master as his smelly cock traveled my mouth and throat. At last his cock erupted a salty balm, but after a single spurt in my mouth, he skillfully sprayed the full load into my hair, eyes, cheeks, neck and breasts. He must have been celibate for a week, so voluminous was his load. The cameras whirred and clicked as I licked my lips, grabbed his cock and balls and squeezed the last drops onto my outstretched tongue. I smiled most angelically, and said "yum." I held the pose for a few moments, and then heard Pavel exclaim "Perfect, Cut."

Miguel left wordlessly, and I cracked "Did I say something wrong?" drawing an appreciative laugh from the crew that must have further irritated and angered him. I shrugged my shoulders, returned to my dressing room and got into the hottest shower I could stand. I was brushing my teeth for the fourth time when Pavel knocked and walked in without asking. He sat down, obviously pleased and happy. "One never knows until one starts editing, but I think we had a great shoot. You were tremendous, such an intuitive actress. Those subtle asides to the camera: I love it."

"I felt a lot closer to the camera than to Miguel. Where did you get the great idea of pairing us? Did you have any idea?"

"No, he just said he thought he'd known you in high school."

"Known, in the biblical sense."

"He didn't mention that."

"I'd like a last word with him."

"Help yourself, but don't accept a date with him tonight."

"Don't worry, I don't think he's in the mood."

"I meant I have first dibs on you."

I smiled, and left, playing hard to get for the moment.

I met Miguel as he was about to leave. "Miguel, I think we did really well together."

"I'm just glad to be through with you. The best thing about it is, now you can never complain to the police about what happened on Prom Night. I'll just give them the tape and prove it was consented."

"I never complained to the police. They only came because my parents were worried, not because I complained." Not that there would have been any point in complaining: like the Minneapolis cops, the LAPD doesn't give a shit about transsexual crime victims. And I wasn't even angry anymore. As Tran had said of the loathsome Andre, Miguel was just another cock in the ass: one of many that had come before and many that would follow.

"Lying slut. I know you went to the police, but I don't give a fuck anymore. I'm shut of you forever. Have a nice life, bitch."

"Miguel, the difference between us is that I can live with what happened between us.

You're still running away from it."

He walked away without answering.

So that was it. He was a paranoid, scared little shit. Well, in that case, I didn't care either. A great load of anxiety lifted from me. For the last nine months since Prom Night, Miguel had been living in fear of me. I had lived fearlessly.

I returned to Pavel's office feeling liberated. He peered up from his editing deck. "This is tremendous, you should see it."

"Thanks, I'll wait for the theatrical release. Now tell me, what did you mean by first dibs?"

"I want to invite you to my house for some intimate photography and dinner. I feel an obligation, as I understand a national treasure is being exported to Thailand."

Oh I get it, you want some more `before' pictures. I don't recall that being in my contract."

"That would be an extra. A thousand, plus a potential $500 performance bonus."

"What about Tran?"

"My colleague Yuri tells me that she accepted a similar offer."

"Are their going to be hordes and multitudes attending, like today?"

"No, just the four of us."

"Four?"

"Tran, Yuri, you and me."

"Works for me."

We rode in Yuri's Mercedes through rush hour on the 101 to his place high above Mulholland in the Hollywood Hills. Even though I grew up in LA, I am always thrilled when I visit one these Hollywood aeries, with 270 degree views of the city's lights. On this night, the Santa Ana winds had scoured the smog from the basin, so LA twinkled with unusual, almost psychedelic intensity. Tran was hypnotized. "I love LA. I never knew it was so much fun and so beautiful. And the people so nice."

"This is one night out of a thousand that's like this. And believe me, not all the people are nice, and none of them are nice all of the time. In show business, `nice' is part of the job."

"I like Yuri, he says you and I are the best T-Girl actresses ever."

"I bet he's said that before."

Yuri and Pavel summoned us inside for lines of coke and a toast of Dom. They had lit the living room for still photography. I did a coy strip tease, exposing first one pert breast, then the other, slipping my dress down to my ankles and coyly stepping out, giving a peek a boo of my crotch. At first, I kept myself demurely tucked, then, surprise, and I smile abashedly. I study myself, as though puzzled by this unexpected appendage. I cuddle up with myself on the bed, fondling my breasts, and stroking my buttocks and cock. Then I lie on my back, pull my legs high and swing my bums up, as Pavel's camera explores me, taking close ups of my ass. I spread myself wide with my fingers, I fondle my hole, poke in one finger, and another. My lips curl with into a bashful smile as my eyes glisten with unrequited lust. Then I roll over onto my tummy, rise up to all fours and turn my ass up, as though preparing to be mounted from behind. The flashes are strobing as Pavel's camera studies the mystery of my shrunken cock, and my flattened, empty scrotum, and finally takes more close-ups of my ass. I am embarrassed, and say so. Yuri tells me it is like a brilliant, pink star set in a pearl firmament of my exquisitely white flesh. Pavel tells me I look as tight as a child. You're beautiful, take a final pose, and I smile triumphantly, proudly, and nakedly into the lens. "Fabulous!" Pavel comments as he loaded yet another roll of film." They ran Tran through the same routine as I watch amusedly: do all guys want the same thing, I wonder.

I asked, "Do all your shoots end in tight close-ups of the model's ass?"

"Absolutely, it's to the solo shot what the facial is to an action video. The exclamation point at the end of a hot story."

"God, it's gross enough to get fucked there, but at least that feels great. But to stare at? I don't get it!"

"They want to see what their cocks would see, if they had eyes. Every guy who looks at your butt shots is going to think about fucking you in the ass. At least, that's my theory.

The fact is, that's what the audience wants, so we give it."

"Fucked in the ass or creamed in the face by a million guys. Sounds like a dream come true," laughed Tran.

The doorbell rang, and a big tray of sushi arrived. We began eating the delicious, spicy morsels, drinking champagne and snorting coke. Soon, we were relaxed, buzzed, and laughing about the tormented Miguel. Pavel and Yuri recounted their careers: film students and wunderkind film makers in the old Soviet Union; careers exploding to international acclaim in the glasnost era; emigration to Hollywood, with great expectations; but rejection as plodding, aging outsiders by the youth-obsessed Hollywood studios. To keep working, they turned to porn, stigmatized themselves, but found themselves enjoying the creative challenges of non-stop action, improvisation, and the need to produce constant variations on well established and sacrosanct forms. And they enjoyed the subculture of porn and its people, all outsiders and rejects: casualties of one type or another. And of these, T Girls and the male actors who worked with them were the most fascinating.

I told them my story, and Pavel and Yuri, feverish with another round of coke, and champagne, grew animated. Think of the possibilities: a pornographic documentary.

Tran and I to were giddy with drugs, booze and fatigue. Yuri asked if we ever got it on with one another. We giggled, and I said "Occasionally, but not since last night."

"Will you do it for us now."

"You mean for pictures?"

"Of course. No video, just me and Pavel with still cameras."

"How much?" I asked.

"Another couple of thousand," Pavel replied.

"Twenty five hundred if we get a cumshot," I countered. I looked at Tran quizzically.

"That's your department."

"No problem," she replied confidently.

"Deal," Pavel agreed.

Tran and I started out holding hands as we sipped more champagne. I began fondling her amazing breasts, first through her low-cut, satin bodice, then her bare breasts. I kissed and licked her erect, brown nipples: then our lips joined in a kiss as she slipped down my dress and nuzzled her swaying breasts against mine. We slipped out of our dresses and panty hose, and retired to a bed where we had a brief panty clad embrace before stripping. We pressed our cocks against one another: hers hard, uncut and brown; mine pink, circumcised and still soft. She examined my empty sac and looked puzzled into the camera, then began sucking me. I slithered into a 69 position with her and we gave each other a mutual blow job, caressing and spreading the other's buttocks and playing with the other's rings. I inserted my finger into her, a she hers into me, as the flashes popped and the cameras clicked.

As they re-loaded film, I assumed the submissive position, and Tran put on a condom and kneeled behind me. She lubed my tush and her small, but hard cock, and slipped it inside me. I feigned a surprised look and pain: she was barely thicker than a finger, and made my rectum buzz with pleasure from the first moment. She fucked me with all her meager strength, her boobs tickling my arched back, and her hands playing with my own titties and cockette. I love getting fucked by Tran: to be the bottom for another beautiful T- Girl, is to be the ultimate bottom. As her hips began to flail uncontrollably, I forced her out, rolled over onto my back, took her astride me and rolled my titties into a narrow tunnel around her small but surging cock. Her face contorted into a paroxysm of ecstasy, and I broke into an expectant and happy smile as she came onto my breasts and neck.

She slid down atop me, and we ended in a kiss, smearing both our breasts with her creamy load.

Pavel was ecstatic, regretting only that he had not videoed our performance. He wrote out a check, and when he handed it to me I noticed he had overpaid us by about $500.

When I mentioned this to Tran, she smiled and said "How nice of them. I was planning on fucking the two of them for free."

"Me too," I agreed, "But we could certainly use the extra money."

We emerged to see Pavel open another bottle of champagne and Yuri splitting out another set of lines. Pavel offered me a glass and Yuri the mirror. Though I was still buzzing, I accepted, thinking what the hell, if anyone's got a few brain cells to waste, it's me. And after all, this was probably my last sex as a pre-op. Thought they were paunchy, balding and a little old for my tastes, I certainly preferred that Pavel, Yuri or both of them hold that distinction rather than the odious Miguel, or even Tran, who doesn't really count the same way.

We went to the master bedroom, which featured a sturdy looking king size bed surrounded by mirrors. Pavel dimmed the lights and turned on Enya, whose soaring silken voice provided a lovely backdrop to the sounds of sex. Pavel and Yuri joined us on the bed, and Tran and I took turns sucking them. Both of them had been profoundly aroused by their day's work and the sucking of two sets of practiced, silken lips. Pavel had instantly emitted precum, and when I kissed Tran between cocks, I tasted Yuri's on her flicking tongue. "Yum," we agreed, before returning to their cocks. Yuri was so hot that he almost came in my mouth, but he controlled himself and slipped on a condom. So did Pavel. I was pleased that he returned for me, rather than my friend. I guided him to my ass, and he entered my tight hole carefully and slowly. Studying myself in the mirror, I moaned "Mmm, I love it," and my body rose to meet his thrusts from behind. I heard Tran's erotic moans, and watched her beautiful face first contort and then settle into a smile of sexual satisfaction as Yuri entered and began fucking her.

Pavel was an experienced lover of T-Girls. He began slowly and picked up velocity with perfect timing. After my body got in sync with his, he fondled my cockette as though it were a clit, and my breasts with expert care, as he breathed incoherent Russian endearments heavily into my ear. His thick beard tickled my neck, and his hairy body scoured my naked flesh. He murmured "you're fabulous, so tight and responsive."

"Thank you," I cooed, you're fantastic too, but don't you want to try Tran?"

"Good idea," he said, and I was relieved that he and Yuri changed condoms before changing places. I sucked Yuri back to full erection and allowed him access to me, and he slid in painlessly and quickly. He was a little smaller than Pavel, but in better shape, and he fucked me more vigorously but mechanically than Pavel had, paying less attention to my breasts and cockette, and more to his own pleasure. I glanced to the mirror and saw that Tran seemed less pleased with Pavel's attentiveness than she had been with Yuri's athleticism, and after a few minutes they again changed condoms and places again. I now put my legs on Pavel's broad, soft shoulders and watched in the mirror above as he entered me, as though observing a real time movie with myself as the star.

"Enjoying the mirror?" Pavel asked. "I'm loving everything," I replied. He redoubled his efforts, bearing down with greater force and speed. I glanced at Yuri atop Tran, and saw her face transported to ecstasy as Yuri's thrusting reached new heights of speed and force. Pavel too was banging his burly frame into me with increased energy, and Yuri and Pavel both orgasmed in a concert of Russian. Pavel rolled off me and fell into post coital sleep, and Tran shrugged the snoring Yuri to her side. I cuddled up with Tran, pulled a rumpled cover over us, and we too fell asleep.

I awoke at first light, and remembered in a panic that we needed to time a call to my mother in two hours, to simulate our arrival on the first plane from Minneapolis. It was Christmas eve, and my mom had planned to take us on an expedition through the pre Christmas sales in Beverly Hills. We slid out of bed, collected our things, and left a note for Yuri and Pavel, leaving our Minneapolis phone numbers and addresses. We showered at our hotel, checked out, and got a cab to my moms. I called from the hotel lobby, pretended to be announcing our arrival at the airport.

We pulled up to my family home in Brentwood, on a shady stretch of upper class privilege. Viewing the manicured lawns and large, lovely homes, Tran said "Alexandra, I never knew you a rich girl."

"I'm not. Rich, that is." We laughed.

My mom loved Tran at first sight, and announced "I think I'm going to like having a daughter. You've had a hard day already, and a long trip coming up." Tran and I smiled at each other knowingly. "Let's have some retail therapy," she said cheerfully.

My mom was quite generous when she was spending the money. She bought Christmas gifts for Tran and me, and several gifts for herself, at Neiman's and each of the other half dozen shops we stopped in along Rodeo. As we passed by an office building on Canon, she confided "That's where I'm getting my eyes done next week. When you and Tran get back, we can all recuperate together. I can even have a manicurist and a masseur come to the house. It's going to be such fun." Yeah, I thought to myself bitterly, maybe we can pop "Transsexual Hookers" into the VCR and share a bowl of popcorn.

Still, it was nice to get a load of half priced bras (in my soon to be C cup size), panties, nighties, tops, skirts and dresses on Mom's plastic. The back seat of her Honda was fully loaded by the time the stores started closing. It was a Merry Christmas after all.

The day after Christmas, my mom took Tran and me to LAX, and we began our long ride to Phuket, Thailand. I think that you'll agree that it had been a long strange trip to get there. It also was a long and winding road from there on. But that's another story.

Alexandra Rivers

The Greatest Lie, Volume 2 The Greatest Lie Chapter 10 Beyond Bangkok Alexandra Rios

Don't you hate commercial air travel? No matter how many drugs I take, when they wear off, I'm disoriented, my legs are twitchy, and there are still three hours (or whatever) to go. Not enough time to take the last of the Sonata I had borrowed from Mom's medicine cabinet before touchdown (and customs), but a long time to deal with boredom and discomfort. I got up to pee and stretch, but stepping back to my seat over my comatose friend Tran, I kicked and roused her. Her eyes rolled open, and her lips curled into a lascivious smile. "Next stops, Bangkok and Phuket. My favorite phrases,"

she mused. She giggled, and I joined her in a conspiratorial joke. You see, Tran and I are transsexuals, traveling to Thailand for sex reassignment surgery. But we haven't let anatomy delay or deter us. Our bodies are playing catch-up with our hearts and our lives, and for the last year or so, my life has been moving fast.

We cleared customs and stopped by Dr. Sanguan's clinic. His surgical coordinator told us that we were the next two openings on the waiting list for surgery, and that Dr.

Sanguan would examine us assess suitability for his procedures after we had filled out our paper work. I mentally calculated our extra cash for living expenses and the remaining days until I was due back at the University of Minnesota, and said "We're in a hurry. I thought we had our surgical dates set."

"Dr. Sanguan's waiting list is three months long, and you wrote us only one month ago.

You must wait your turns on his waiting list. But don't worry, we get a lot of cancellations. We have two girls on Monday and I think they're not coming. Call me tomorrow. In the meantime, have fun in Thailand."

I struggled to calculate the day of the week. We had left LA on Tuesday night, so it must be...

Pim interrupted my jet-lagged reverie. "It's Friday. So go shopping, get some party clothes, and some Thai noodles, and then..."

"Where do we go to party?" Tran inquired.

"Phuket is not so good for transsexuals, just a couple of so-so clubs, like Andaman Go- Go and Koh Joy. Some of our girls enjoy a side trip to Koh Samui, to the famous katoey cabarets, like Christies, or the Green Mango. Koh Samui is not too far. Just a one-hour plane flight, or twelve hours by bus. The cabarets are the District called Chaweng. By the 7-11 and the Burger King, near the beach. Closes at 3:00." I groaned at the prospect of more travel, but as long as we had to kill a weekend in Thailand, why not.

Dr. Sanguan approved our surgeries, delayed primary colon segment vaginaplasties, with the warning that this was the most invasive and difficult of his procedures. "Really, it's two major operations, first stage to form the base of the vagina using penile inversion and perform sensate pedicle glans penis clitoroplasty. Then, a final stage to attach the colon segment to provide adequate vaginal length. In between I perform a minor procedure to graft scrotal skin n form exterior and labia. I will perform the first stage and the skin graft, and my colleague Dr. Toreanid the final stage. If all goes well, you will be discharged about a week after the final stage. The completed vagina will be made of two materials: penile skin at the base, attached to a colon segment. These are difficult operations, difficult healing, and very difficult after-care. You must dilate very diligently!

And no vaginal sex until you have reached comfortable dilation with the large stent, at least eight weeks from discharge. It is very difficult to dilate this type of vagina adequately. In many cases, ring of scar tissue forms, requiring a further operation. And you want breast augmentation too? You will be very sore, all over."

Almost three weeks in bed, followed by eight weeks of chastity, and maybe no sex until after a further operation. I groaned. Our hockey stick friends, Rick and Randy, would go nuts, if Tran and I didn't first. "What about, you know, other sex?" I stammered shyly.

"Oral sex, whenever you feel well enough. If you must have anal sex, four weeks, but it is never advisable, especially after a colon segment removal."

"And now?"

"No restrictions until after surgery. But no alcohol, drugs, and no hormones until afterwards." Yeah, right, like I was going sober in Thailand. Like god during the creation, we'd rest on Sunday. Until then, we'd bang cock and fuck it. We rushed to the airport, and caught the last flight to Koh Samui.

I was impressed by Dr. Sanguan's straightforwardness and candor, but the length of sexual abstinence was upsetting. I commiserated with Tran as we endured yet another plane flight, but she was upbeat, as usual. "Rick and Randy were patient for you after your last surgery, weren't they? At least until Randy met me." Tran smiled coquettishly, and I gave her a friendly, girlish swat for stealing one of my two boyfriends.

"I think it's going to be different this time. Just when we finally become complete women, we have to live like nuns. And they're not exactly a couple of priests."

"You mean they are like a couple of priests: like Boston priests." Tran cracked up at her sacrilegious joke.

My friend Tran is smart, but current events is not her strong suit. I probed a little. "The Boston priests I read about prefer little boys, not girls like us".

"Remember, I used to be a little boy. So did you! You never seduced a priest from confession?"

"Tran, I haven't been to confession since I was 13. But I have to admit, it's not a bad idea."

"Me neither. Gone to confession since I was 13, I mean." I was surprised. Vietnamese Catholics are famously devout.

"You mean you actually seduced a priest from confession?"

"My priest was from Boston. After I told him I wanted to be a girl, he said that God would help me, then he helped himself to me every chance he got. I told my mom, and at first she didn't believe me. But when Father Tom kept on doing it, she figured it out, and then we stopped going to his Church. But I still wanted to be a girl, and I prayed to God every day to make me a girl, but it didn't work, of course, so I dressed up in my sister's clothes, and cried all the time. She saw something on Oprah about transsexuals, and then she gave me her birth control pills, told me that god had made a mistake, and had made me boy on outside and girl on inside, that it was not my fault. She said that the pills could make me a girl and fix god's mistake. But my dad said it was all my fault, that I was a homo and had made the priest turn homo. Then he left me and my mom. He was so ashamed of me. Now I am a girl, no more church, no more god, no more dad, and no more Father Tom.

"Tran, have you or your mom ever told anyone else about this?"

"No, I always try to forget, my mom and I can't talk about it, it's embarrassing."

"Tran, you are going to have to talk to my law school friend, Mark about this. I think you are going to be pretty rich some day thanks to Father Tom."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll sue the Church and get a big settlement. My law school friends will help you."

"Now that I'm TS, people won't think it's my fault?"

"Not after my friend Mark and Professor Epstein get done with the case." Visions of another easy independent study class, with possible grant money, filled my head.

"Allie, you're the best friend. First, you show me how to become woman, now how to become rich bitch."

"We're not either one yet, but we will be. I know it."

In the meantime, we felt pretty rich. We were in Thailand's rainy season, so hotel rooms in Koh Samui were cheap and available. Everything is pretty reasonable in Thailand, so we were soon well equipped with skimpy tropical dresses, high-heeled sandals, and had been manicured, pedicured and had our hair blown out. We even scored some crystal meth to chase away the jet lag, and soon we were buzzing with anticipation of our debut as katoeys at Christies. "Tran, it's not fair. You at least look the part. I'm going to look like a tourist or a spy. The local girls will probably have me arrested or deported for poaching on their turf."

"Are you kidding? They'll spot me as Vietnamese right away. The Thais think we Vietnamese are all a bunch of losers or Reds. They'll like you better than me. Thais think white is good, Vietnamese is bad."

"Look, we're just a couple of girls like them. Let's make some friends and figure out the rules of the game before we start fishing their pond. We're going to be fine. But let's not mention our appointment with Dr. Sanguan."

Of course, the first girl we met at Christies figured what Tran and I were in about in a nanosecond. As soon as we had introduced ourselves as visitors from America, Nancee commented tartly "Oh, passing some time waiting for Dr. Sanguan. He made my breasts for me. She opened her halter and bared her lovely, conical C-cups. "You going to get some like these?" she asked. I nodded enthusiastically. "You want to feel?" She grabbed my wrists and pressed them against the firm but yielding flesh. "Nice and soft, silicone. More natural than hers", she said, pointing to Trans' chest. "Saline's not as good." Nancee was dazzling: her long smooth hair framed a beautiful, high-cheekboned, heart shaped face, which featured almond, liquid eyes and soft, pouty lips. Asians make the most beautiful transsexuals, I thought as I looked at Tran and Nancee. Nancee returned my gaze, and said "You very beautiful for white katoey. But you're little like a Thai. You need bigger boobs." She gently fondled my natural, almost B-cups. "But they feel very nice. What are they?"

"Just me and my hormones." Nancee clucked appreciatively. "Bigger is even nicer."

Nancee prepped us on etiquette at Christies. No sex in the bar, nudity OK, no hands on flesh below the waist. Other than that, anything goes. It made the Town House look like Sunday school. If a girl left the premises with a guy, the guy paid a "bar fine", a fee for taking one of the attractions off-premises, of 125 baht. Off site fees were negotiable, but 500 to 1,500 baht (ridiculously cheap, since the official exchange rate is about 40 baht to the buck) was customary, depending on what was on the menu. Anything higher would be considered greedy. God, no wonder these girls are all hookers or do porno. At Third World prices, even Dr. Sanguan's reasonable prices were a stretch. I started running Nancee through my Transsexual Sex Worker Survey. "Thai society tolerate katoey, but will let us be women. She pulled out her government ID, showing her in the male gender. "If I want female name in passport, I must go to Sweden."

"Or America. The guys in LA will love you."

"America is impossible. No visas for Thai Katoeys."

I pondered the paradox as Christies filled up. Thailand accommodates its transsexuals, but ghettoizes and channels them into the sex industry. Minnesota, like most of the US, oppresses its transsexuals, unless they can pass, and then it lets them assume most of the attributes of women. I scribbled my school address and handed it to Nancee. "Send me a note in a couple of weeks. Maybe I can help."

She thanked me with a wave as a drunken Aussie wheeled her onto the dance floor.

I sat at the bar for a few minutes, nursing a ginger ale, and soon noticed I was fixed in the laser-like gaze of a handsome, well-muscled Thai. I acknowledge him with a bat of my lashes, and he took a seat next to me. From the dance floor, Nancee gave me thumbs up.

Oh well, I decided, time to sample a little of the local cooking.

"I'm Eddie, and this is my bar stool. Who is sitting in it?"

"Goldilocks, and this seat is not too hard, not too soft. It's just right."

Mother Goose had apparently not reached Thailand in time for Eddie's childhood, so he looked at me quizzically. "It's a children's story. The little girl ends up in the bear's bed. Everyone knows it in America."

"You American? What are you doing at Christies?"

"I heard it's the right place for a girl like me."

"Whose bed are you going to tonight?"

"Don't know, have you any ideas?"

"Yeah, mine is not too soft." He grabbed my hand and pressed it against his cock. I stroked it through his pants. "It feels just right," I whispered in his ear.

"Let's go," he said.

"Wait a minute, I haven't paid for this." I took a dainty sip of ginger ale. "What did you have in mind?"

"I want to fuck your pink little ass."

"Mmm, sound good. How does 1000 baht sound."

"You look like you're worth it." He handed the bar tender the bar fine and walked out of Christies. I checked my watch and smiled. I had been at the bar for exactly 15 minutes.

He led me to a tiny Suzuki motor cycle, hopped on, and gestured for me to get on. I hiked my dress up to my waist and threw my high heeled leg over, and he steadied my just as I was about to topple over the other side. He kick started, yelled "Hold on tight"

over the roar of the engine, and jolted off with reckless abandon through twisting, crowded streets. I held his trim, firm chest as we bounced over potholes and skidded through turns. It was frightening, but it was obvious that Eddie was thoroughly in control. He screeched to a halt in front of a small, vine covered villa on the road to Lamai. I heard surf murmuring in the background, but had no idea where I was.

He beckoned me through the door and flipped on the lights. I stood in the entryway of a lovely, middle class home, with carved furniture, elegant rugs and a big screen TV.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said, leaving me alone to study the paintings, sculptures and other objects that crammed the hall. It was like an art gallery. "Who is the collector?" I called out. Eddie replied nonchalantly "I run an export import business."

Some of this stuff is inventory, some of it is awaiting payment, and some of it I just like and kept."

"Where is it from?"

"Myanmar, mostly." I gave him a startled look. "Americans call it Burma. My family has interests there." Great, I thought bleakly, I am about to go to bed with a warlord's son. "I thought you were a Thai."

"I am," he said, offering no further explanation. Instead, he ordered me to undress and recline on the luxurious, silk covered couch. He traced the curve of my calves and thighs with a light touch, like a blind man reading an unfamiliar Braille text. He stroked my round, firm buttocks, my slim waist, my dainty upturned breasts, and then back to my soft, nearly hairless cock, which he cradled in his hands. "Tiny, almost like a Thai katoey's. He traced the smile-like scar on my tummy. "What's this?"

"I had an operation. " He stroked my empty scotum, and looked at me questioningly.

"They had to remove them, through my tummy. I was sick, but I'm fine now."

"Are you here for another operation?"

"Maybe, I'm getting checked out for it."

"You'll be perfect. Let me see you again afterwards."

"You'll still want me?"

"Even more. I love post ops."

Eddie slipped off his silk boxers and sat astride me as I sprawled on the soft cushions and pillows. I squeezed my breasts around his cock, which hardened in their embrace. As he gently fucked my breasts, I took the tip of his uncut cock in my mouth. I prefer circumcised cocks, but his was lovely anyhow. It had a saffron aroma and a nice bulbous top.

He was bigger than I expected: not long, but thick and hard. Soon, he had risen to his knees, grabbed my hair in his hands and was thrusting violently into my mouth. But I wanted to take him deeper, so I slid my back to the seat of the couch and took him from above. I arched my head back and took him deep into my throat, which was soon coated with a tasty film of pre-cum. He didn't want to suck me, but his fingers found and fondled my hole, which quivered and puckered beneath his expert touch. His massage and the gentle entry of his fingers brought moans of pleasure from my full mouth. I pushed his cock from my lips and gasped, "Eddie, please fuck me," then swallowed his cock again, a slave to insatiable passion.

He pulled his cock from my still suctioning face and turned me over. I stretched my ass into the air, and heard the crinkle: the tearing of a condom package. "Cup your hand," as he poured lubricant, which I slathered onto his sheathed cock, and smeared the remains onto my ass. Then, he entered me. "Not so fast," I gasped, as the first three inches seared into me, rekindling embers of recent passion. He retreated, and I pressed back against him, and he pried me open another inch, then another to the hilt. I bit my lips against the inner turmoil, which subsided as he retreated and then renewed with his next lunge. But with each cycle, the pain, the desire to expel the intruder, was displaced by the sensation of warmth, fullness and completeness that only a man inside me can bring.

He lunged and plunged with a controlled energy of a Zen master. He was never rough without a purpose, or out of control. He guided me through all of the classic positions: from behind on my knees, and then on my stomach; on my back, with my legs on his shoulders; in an embrace, with me in his lap; and with me on top, first facing him, and then away. Then, he rose up behind me, pressed my back down, and began thrusting with renewed vigor and mastery, a hundred powerful strokes that culminated in a rush of energy that pulverized my flesh, which seemed to melt into his as his paroxysm subsided.

I must have drifted off to sleep, because he woke me with a gentle nudge. "I've called a taxi for you. I am afraid you must leave soon. I looked at my watch. Two hours had passed since I had left Christies. I dressed hurriedly, and slunk off to the entry, humiliated to be dismissed so peremptorily after such exquisite sex. Eddie pressed two thousand baht into my palm and gave me a hug. "You are fabulous, and I must see you again. Until then, here is something to remember me by." He draped a necklace of Burmese emeralds around my neck, and as he fixed the clasp at the nape of my neck, he kissed my lips gently. The taxi honked outside the villa.

"Now go into the night, my angel. But return to me." I said I would, and left, hoping that I would.

The taxi driver gave me a disapproving look when I asked to be taken to Christies, and I made a note to ask for the 7-11 next time. I went straight to the ladies' room, to repair my disheveled state. Nancee had spotted me and dropped her latest conquest, a balding Italian, to interrogate me. "Don't worry, he'll wait for me. I think he's in love. Now show me what Eddie give you. No, not the money, the jewels." I opened my purse and took out the emeralds. Nancee eyes popped and her face flushed. Eeeeh, Eddie loves you more than me. Go back to America, whore. You ruining everything for Nancee."

Naturally, I took this as a compliment. "What's Eddie's story. He pushed me out of there like stale fish, and then he gives me this. Is it valuable?"

"A hundred thousand baht in Bangkok, but it's a toy for Eddie."

"He's so rich?"

"No, but his father in law is one of the Burmese generals. He owns half of Burma, and takes what he wants. Eddie is married to his daughter and is the junta's fence in Thailand. My guess, he was expecting Mrs. Eddie."

"So that explains the fast exit?"

"He was doing you a favor. If you get caught in bed with Eddie, you're dead. The general has many friends here."

"He was great, and said he wants to see me again."

"It's your life, spend it wisely," Nancee said. "My advice, don't let him fall in love with you. There are plenty of other guys in Koh Samui."

She was right. I didn't need to be entangled with Burmese warlords and mobsters, and their angry wives. I was a tourist, and would take home a valuable bauble and a happy memory. Now, it was time to make more memories. I brushed my tousled hair and smoothed my disheveled clothes. As I applied a fresh coat of makeup, Tran rushed in and blurted out "Alexandra, where have you been, you bad girl? She noticed my necklace, and said "I see you have been mining for jewels, in low places no doubt."

"You're just jealous. All you got is a purse stuffed with baht."

"I've got a house stuffed with horny Japanese business who are taking special sex pills, and want your body."

Nancee overheard and complained "I knew you farang Katoey were going to steal our good clients."

"Come along, there plenty for all of us. They are taking a new drug from America that makes them stay hard all night, and there are eight of them. Maybe nine. I'm not sure.

Hurry up, our driver is waiting for us outside."

"Driver?" Nancee asked, astonished. "What's the story?"

"I met a guy in the bar, he is junior director of Japanese sex tour. He says he's got clients that want to meet Katoey, but are too shy and embarrassed to be seen chasing us in Christies. So it's his job to arrange Katoey to go to meet the tourists. That's us. He gave me $1,000 up front for the night, more later if the tourists are happy."

Nancee had never made that much in a week. She was delighted to be included in our enterprise. "I am already missing you girls when you leave Christies," she joked as she stepped into the waiting Land Cruiser. "Come visit us in America, and you'll be showing us new games in a week."

As he looked admiringly at his cargo, Mr. Watanabe, the sex-tour director, smiled at us approvingly. He had arranged a spectacular katoey smorgasbord for his reticent charges, and expected that he, and we, would be well rewarded. "My guests are very important businessmen. They are accustomed to be served by the finest geisha. You know about geisha?"

I'd read a book about it, and had the general idea. "Will we be serving tea?" I asked innocently.

"No. Tea ceremony is reserved for the most senior geisha. You are novices, and will be serving your bodies, silently and submissively. Do you understand?" His voice had taken on a harsh tone in reaction to my jibe. "You mean we are to be like the `comfort women' that the Imperial Army employed in the War?"

"Oh, a student of lies and slanders against our late Emperor. Very well then, if you choose to believe these myths, yes, exactly. You serve as you are ordered." He explained the basic Japanese slang for various sex acts. He explained that his tour had supplied its guests with a new American wonder drug that made even the most broken down old man into a sexual athlete, "So you may wish to energize yourselves with this."

He passed around a mirror with neatly cut lines of white powder. "It's a mixture of crystal meth and Burmese heroin." My eyes watered as the bitter, acrid crystals blasted my sinuses, but in a few moments I felt a buzz of warm energy permeating my tired body, and felt ready for anything.

We arrived at a pagoda-spired, golf course hideaway, done in the garish Japanese neo- Imperial style. In the darkened interior, we were greeted with the sounds of boisterous karaoke singing and the smells of sushi, tobacco, Sun Tory and sweat. A soft core porn video accompanied a melancholy Japanese ballad, and three of our clients swayed as they massacred the tune and lyrics, to the hilarity of their companions in the audience. We were unnoticed at first, spectators to this strange male bonding spectacle of these blue- suited salary man on stage. They emoted with inebriated, heartfelt conviction, and their eyes moistened as they sang of loved ones far away. Their audience clapped uproariously as they finished with a flourish of tuneless yelps of anguish and the screen images dissolved to soft focus cherry blossoms. Mr. Watanabe flickered the lights to announce our presence, and all eyes turned to us as Mr. Watanabe introduced us in short, staccato bursts of Japanese. At the end of his introduction, we were treated to a polite round of applause, and then Mr. Watanabe ushered us each to a bedroom. He instructed me to shower and put on a kimono, which lay on the bed Mr. Watanabe returned after a few minutes, and confided "Mr. Mori, the most senior of our members, has done you the honor of selecting you. He speaks very little English, so you must follow his gestures intently. He will want you to suck him, then he will want to mount you from behind. Do exactly as he demands, as he is accustomed to obedience."

As I sat in the luxurious room, I mused, these men, maybe all men, follow the same patterns. They travel in packs, select dominant leaders, and enact rituals of subjugation and humiliation of the beautiful and feminine, much like Seth and Jack followed Miguel's lead on Prom Night, or like the trail of atrocities from Nanking to Manila. I was glad to be leaving the gender that conceives of such atrocities, and joining the community of the victims: of such crimes, it is better for the soul to be the victim than the perpetrator.

Mr. Mori interrupted my reverie as he abruptly opened, and slammed the door behind him.

"Iyae kimono." I froze, uncomprehendingly. "Iyae kimono," he repeated, then advanced menacingly and grabbing me by the shoulders. "Iyae kimono," he shouted as he ripped the kimono from my shoulders. I figured out that blue eyed Gai-jin transsexual in a kimono offended to his cultural senses. Thanks a lot for the fashion tip, Watanabe.

Mori got friendlier now that I was in a satin bra and panties, and he motioned me to sit on the bed. He stripped from his blue suit and folded them neatly on a chair. His boxers were stretched with the head of his modest, but rock hard erection. I beckoned him to come to me. I slid down his boxers and took his uncut cock in his mouth. It was small enough that I could mouth its length without reaching the gag reflex, and his pubic hair was so straight and thin that it never even tickled my nose. It was almost like sucking Tran, except for the roll of belly fat that flopped against my head with every plunge. He grunted and groaned and let me do all of the work, even holding him upright with my hands clasped around his skinny, yet flaccid butt.

I was getting tired when I heard a guttural, but incomprehensible command that took to mean that he was ready to fuck me. I grabbed a condom from the bed stand, and popped it between my lips, to show him a trick that I figured he hadn't seen on this tour. I expertly rolled the condom onto his cock from between my lips, and he gave an appreciative and admiring grunt of praise. I lubed his cock and rolled onto my hands and knees.

After Eddie's strong but sensitive touch, Mr. Mori's small cock should have been a mere tickle, but he rammed me so abruptly and insensitively that I yelped in pain, and this stirred old Mori to even greater chemical charged exertions, as he dug his diminutive but stiff prick into my inner sanctum, which was swollen and tight from Eddie. I tried to put an imaginary Eddie in Mr. Mori's place, but the slap of his corpulent, corrupt flesh against mine dispelled that fantasy. I was trapped, a white slave to an army of fat, pathetic, petite bourgeoisie Japanese deviants. Why did they even want me, if they were ashamed to be seen courting Katoey. Were they fascinated by transsexuals, like so many others, or were they just jaded with the other attractions of Thailand? Mr. Mori announce his orgasm with a refrain of Japanese expletives and a paroxysm that seemed close to heart failure, and I responded with staged moans of ecstasy and fulfillment. He lay atop me, gasping for breath, and I tried to remember that CPR class I had had junior year, but he seemed to come out of it and pulled out of me. He scuttled to the bathroom, grabbing his neatly piled clothes on the way. I heard the rattle of pee and a flush, and he emerged, in full salary man finery. He bowed, handed me a pile of yen notes, and rejoined the Karaoke party. Moments later, I heard his hoarse voice join the chorus of "New Yok, New Yok," and Mr. Watanabe poked his head in to order me to shower and get ready for Mr. Kawabe, who, he assured me, liked kimonos.

Mr. Kawabe was followed by Mr. Nakase, Mr. Furimoto, Mr. Ogawa, and Mr.

Nakamura, and between each, Mr. Watanabe haranguing me to shower and get ready for my next samurai. Each one slightly younger and less dissolute than the last, and with a slightly more modest stack of yen after he was finished with me. The salary men sorted themselves in hierarchical order to determine their order, much like Miguel and his set.

Mr. Watanabe refreshed my drug buzz with a couple of lines of coke at around two, the karaoke stopped at around four, and then the visits stopped. I took a final shower and lay naked in the wrinkled, sweaty sheets, my head pounding with meth, unable to sleep. I heard the door creak open, and felt a body squeeze against mine. Whiskey infused breath suffocated me: it was Mr. Mori. I resisted his embrace, and he scattered a pile of yen notes around me, and pressed my face to his groin. Science had triumphed over body, and he was hard again. My now exhausted lips circled his cock and sucked it with desperation. I needed this night to end. It was hopeless. He was hard, but even smaller than before, and completely dry. I slid on another condom, the last in my box, and lifted my sore and bruised ass to his pelvis, and he slammed himself in. He bucked and rode me as if he were possessed by demons, yanking at my hair and pinching my flesh as though he, and I, were mere objects. His voice was hoarse and his breathing wheezy, and increasingly labored. Suddenly, he spasmed, uttered a guttural cry, grabbed his head and toppled forward atop me. He was absolutely still, a dead weight on top of me. I tried to move out from beneath him, but his weight was unyielding, and unresponsive. Good god, had Mr. Mori passed out? His cock was still stiff inside me, but when I listened for his breath, I heard nothing. A growing sense of panic took hold of me. I tried to roll him over, but couldn't move. I called out "Help, I think Mr. Mori is sick." I heard in response the mumbles of hung-over indifference. "Help, Mr. Mori needs your care immediately." Mr. Watanabe entered, grumbling hoarsely. "What's the matter, whore?"

"Please check on Mr. Mori." Mr. Watanabe grabbed Mr. Mori's wrist, and uttered an expletive. He tried to lift Mr. Mori, but the unyielding body was too heavy for him. He ran from the room and returned with Mr. Kawabe, and with a mighty heave, and an assist from me, rolled him with a thud off of me, and onto the floor next to the bed. Mr.

Watanabe began massaging Mr. Mori's chest and blowing air down his throat, but it was soon obvious: Mr. Mori was dead.

Tran, Nancee and the salary men all crowded around, drawn by the commotion. Mr.

Watanabe gave up his ineffectual CPR and turned on me angrily. "You killed him, whore."

Tran pointed to his still erect penis, and said "It looks like that killed him." Now, panic took hold of Mr. Watanabe. "Get out of here you whores. Get out, go now." He pushed me from the room, as I grabbed my clothes, scattered yen notes and purse stuffed with cash. We threw on our clothes and ran out the door. In the quiet residential neighborhood, three young ladies emerging walking down the street with tousled hair, high-heel sandals and party dresses drew accusatory stares, even from the tolerant Thais.

But we didn't give a damn, we were so freaked out by this disturbing turn of events.

Only after we began to compare notes did our theory and plan crystallize.

"He was really the most disgusting of all," I commented.

"Which one, they were all repulsive," Tran rejoined.

"Mr. Mori, the dead one, my first and last," I said.

"I agree," said Nancee.

"I thought Mr. Ito was even worse than Mori," Tran said.

In an instant, we all did the math. "You mean the dead guy was with all of us, in one night?" I exclaimed.

"No wonder he died. He was coming back for fourths. Fat fifty year old smokers should know better," Tran commented.

"So he OD-ed on the miracle sex pills. Serves him right," said Nancee.

"Wait a minute. Who was handing out the drugs last night? Watanabe, right?" I inquired.

"Yeah, he was practically forcing the nose candy up my nostrils," Tran recalled. Nancee nodded in agreement.

"Remember what Watanabe said about a bonus if they were happy? Well, Mori looked like he died happy. I think we should get our bonus, say, another thousand each. That way we don't tell the police. That way, poor Mr. Mori gets to die in bed and rest in peace, no scandal for his family, no trouble for Watanabe's tour business."

"That sounds like blackmail. Could be dangerous," I said.

"Let me handle it," Nancee said. You got his cell number still, Tran?"

"Here, but as long as you're doing it, ask for two thousand each."

"Good idea."

We got a taxi and left Nancee at her home, a tawdry shack in an alley off Sui Green Mango. God, no wonder she's so desperate for money, I thought. This Third World lifestyle was horrible, and yet Nancee seemed bright and ambitious, to the point of recklessness. Tran and I went to our hotel where jet lag and sexual fatigue caught up with a vengeance. I was still asleep when Nancee called from the lobby. "Tell them to let me come up, I have a surprise." She had dinner, Thai coffee, and three envelopes stuffed with cash, 20,000 yen each. "He bitched and threatened, but Mr. Watanabe agreed that everyone had to be happy. Beside, with Mori dead, his expenses will be less.

He probably made money on the deal."

"I hope you're right, he looked like Yakusa to me," I said.

"In Thailand, all the guys are Yakusa, even your Eddie. Watanabe won't mess with us, he's not in Japan now."

We smoked some pot, ate Thai food and gossiped about our adventures, past and future.

Nancee envied our surgical date. Thanks to Watanabe's generosity, she had almost enough money (Sanguan gives Thai girls discounted fees) and told us she would accompany us Monday to schedule a date, and pay her deposit. In the meantime, she regaled me with tales of Eddie. His wife and children live in Rangoon, where his father ran his "trading company", and Eddie represented the family's interests. This consisted of selling smuggled goods, contraband, and laundering money from the general's Burmese fiefdom. Burmese "freedom fighters" played a constant game of cat and mouse with Eddie, and their struggles contributed heavily to the body count in Koh Samui, Phuket, Pattaya and Bangkok. Eddie didn't care if his katoey of the moment sold herself on the side; he liked his katoey to be the most popular, and expensive, in Christies or Green Mango: but no other boyfriends.

"God, he sounds like the perfect boyfriend. Too bad I don't live here," I joked.

"You have to come back. I'll miss you too much." Nancee hugged us and then said "Let's go to Christies. Saturday night, should be hot there. The Sydney plane came this morning. Nice new Aussies for us. Much better than Japanese. In fact, they're the best, but unfortunately, not the richest.

"Not me," said Tran. "I've got some numbers to call from last night." She waved us goodbye. Nancee and I felt like splurging, and it was still early, so we walked among the street vendors and shops of Green Mango Street. It was like street party, as merchants tugged at our arms and beckoned down ramshackle alleys. Even in December, the nights were long and the air warm and muggy, and the streets were mobbed.

Suddenly, Nancee stopped me. "That's one of Eddie's father in law's shops. Look, Burmese emeralds, just like yours." We brushed aside the bamboo entry curtain and entered. The shopkeeper noticed my new necklace immediately, and fingered its familiar stones appreciatively. I asked if she had another, wanting to price it. She turned to open a cabinet, and I heard the roar of a motorcycle, followed by a popping noise and a blast of heat. The shopkeeper's head exploded in a crimson cloud of blood as Nancee and I sprawled on the floor of the shop in a shower of shards of glass. We cowered, expecting another fusillade, and when none came we lifted our heads and peered at the now silent street outside. The gunman was gone. Suddenly, the street came back to life and surged into the shop, to loot it. We milled through the crowd to the exit. "What was that, one of Eddie's freedom fighter friends."

"No," said Nancee. "I think that was a postcard from Mr. Watanabe. He must have decided that 20,000 yen wasn't enough to keep us silent. For a tenth that, he can get you killed. But he shouldn't have killed Mama Thong, Eddie's favorite shopkeeper, and he shouldn't have missed us, since we are Eddie's two favorite katoey. Quick, let's get to Christie's and find him."

Eddie was on his cell phone at the bar and waved us over. "Did you hear what happened at my shop near the Regent Hotel?"

"Are you kidding, we were there, we were the targets. I am so sorry about Mama Thong and the shop," Nancee said.

"You OK?" Both of our faces were freckled with poor Mama Thongs blood and brains, but we were not hurt. Eddie hugged us and muttered "That bastard Jimmy Liang. One of his boys did the job. I am going to fuck him up bad."

"What about the Jap bastard that hired him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Watanabe, he runs a Japanese sex tour that's here now. We had a problem with him last night."

"You bad girls," Eddie grinned. "Couldn't get enough?" He spanked my bottom playfully.

"No, I'm serious," Nancee said. "I think he arranged this. Get rid of him."

I was astonished by Nancee's ruthlessness. The Thais seemed so friendly and accommodating. Yet the arranged contract killings with the same lack of seriousness as their sexual assignations.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of him too." Eddie got back on his cell phone. I hoped he got the right Watanabe, at least.

"OK, gotta go," Eddie said. "Take care of yourselves."

"What did he mean by that," I asked, "I mean there are assassins looking for us and Tran...Oh my god, where is she, I mean, she doesn't even know what's happening, and who knows where she is."

"She said she was going to call some guys she met at Christies last night."

"Yeah, maybe more clients of Watanabe. "

"That would be bad for her."

"We need to find her."

"A lot of hotel rooms in Koh Samui."

"Let's start with ours."

"We walked through the thronged streets, ever expecting to encounter one of Jimmy Liang's killers. Our suite was empty, but Tran's loopy handwriting covered sheets of hotel stationery. I looked at the top sheet of the pad for the impression of her last note. It was useless, a trick that only works in Bogart films. Then the phone rang, and I answered it with mixed feelings of hope and dread. I could hear nothing over the cacophony of noise. "I can't hear a thing. Call back." The phone rang again, and it was Tran. "Are you OK?" I screamed with joy.

"Hell no, I have got the Italian soccer team here, and they're getting ready to take penalty shots on my goal. Help!"

"Stay where you are, we'll come to you."

"And soon. Write down this address."

"OK, got it, but we need to change."

"Already?"

"It's a long story, but here's the short version." I told her about the ambush at the shop near the Regent, and she let out a low whistle. "And I thought I was having an exciting night!" she exclaimed.

"Never mind," I replied, just stay where you are!"

"OK, but hurry up."

I hung up and asked "Nancee, how many guys on a soccer team?"

"I dunno, how many?"

"Get changed, because we're gonna find out. Tran's taking on an Italian soccer team.

We have to help her defend goal."

"Oh, goody. Soccer players are the most handsome."

"Not in the U.S., hockey's the best there."

"Never heard of it, but I'll trust your opinion."

I had practically no clothes left, and we had to change, so we ended up wearing workout clothes. Short shorts, sneakers, and tight camisoles. It actually seemed appropriate, although it was a little late on a Saturday night for a couple of babes like Nancee and me to be going to a gym. But we were certainly going to have a workout.

The Italians were staying at the best hotel in Koh Samui, the manager actually directed us to the floor where the gym was, although he informed us we would have to pay for a membership. We told him we needed to meet some friends at their room, and we took the elevator to the floor. The Italians had the whole floor, and it was a non-stop party: it was thronged with G-girl hookers and soccer players and fans, and music pulsated from several rooms. "Where's the soccer team?" I asked a harried looking waiter. He pointed all over.

Then, over the bedlam, I heard Tran's comic voice, and I ducked into the room where she was holding court, standing on a table and telling an erotic story as she stood, high heeled but naked to her panties, on a table, surrounded by a guffawing clutch of soccer studs.

Tran declaim "and then my friend Alexandra said "Hey, this guy fucked me 'til he died, and he still wanted more. Look, he's still hard!" They convulsed with hilarity, and then she saw us and announced "And here she is now, fresh from the gym, and ready to fuck the rest of you to death. Alexandra, the killer katoey!" I burst into laughter, and curtsied to my new fans. Tran could make anything funny.

I doubt if any of the Italians believed Trans story, if they even understood it, and I wasn't even sure if I believed it anymore either. Koh Samui had been so unreal. We had gone from tourists, to principals in a murderous gang war, without having had a real night of sleep. Melodrama, to tragedy, to bedroom farce. Ronaldo, the team's center, proclaimed his undying love for me. When I responded in my schoolgirl Italian, he nearly burst into tears of joy. He gathered me in his arms and carried me off, as I waved goodbye to Tran and Nancee, who smiled approving. I heard Tran complain to Nancee, "She's sweet, but she always gets the best looking one." I had barely noticed, and looked up at Ronaldo.

He was a square jawed, rough-hewn jock, but with the sensitive soul of a soul who loved to love.

Ronaldo must have taken the workout clothes at face value, because he began by taking off my shoes and sock and massaging my feet. Fortunately, they looked great, and his powerful hands sent surges of ecstasy from my soles to my earlobes. God, those high- heeled sandals I had been wearing since I arrived are murder on the soles, especially when you are running through the streets in fear of your life. Then, he proceeded to my slender calves, still knotted from the long air flight, but which now melted into putty in his hands. Then, my thighs and buttocks, first through the rayon shorts, but then, as I wriggled out of them, through my panties. Then, my back, shoulders and arms. The knots of tension that fear had built in me were torn down and scattered in Ronaldo's strong hands. Then, ever so gently, he massaged my scalp, forehead and cheeks, which had been so cruelly used the night before. The memories faded as my muscles melted.

God, I was so ready for this man.

I said, "My turn, and guided him onto his back. I glided my hands over his rippling, marble like flesh. His legs were like the pillars of a massive cathedral, his stomach was like a chiseled bed of granite, his arms were like the coils of taught springs. He was a rock. I made my head comfortable on his stomach, curled my ass toward his arms to give him whatever access to me he desired, and began sucking his cock. It was a lovely, manly, meaty mouthful, and I was rewarded instantly with a lubricating mist of precum.

Its minty flavor suffused my senses, and brought a grateful moan to my lips. He pumped my face carefully, his hand on my head was a caress rather than a push, and his thrusts brought pleasure to my yielding lips and throat. He was a balm for the rough treatment that I had received the night before, and each stroke brought healing and relief to my injuries.

I could barely wait to have his therapy in my tummy, but he was still building energy, so I sucked and licked and flicked until he could take no more, and said he wanted to fuck me. "I'm ready," I replied, sliding a condom onto his glorious, 7 inch cock, with my famous lip roll. "Just a minute," I said, grabbing a tube of lubricant from my bag, and he waited patiently as I oiled his cock and my ass. "Now fuck me, gently at first, then as hard as you want." He hoisted his athletic frame behind me, and my ass tingled with anticipation, but would it be pain or pleasure? He was an expert, entering me gently, for an inch until my body winced, and then withdrawing momentarily, and re-entering, deeper this time, at the perfect moment, and then again withdrawing, until he was in me completely, without ever crossing the threshold were pain becomes more than an antidote to desire. "You're so tight," he said. "You're so big, and wonderful," I responded. "Do whatever you want." And he did.

I had never really appreciated soccer. My dad had dragged me to a few games as a teen, as he was a "futball" aficionado from his boyhood in Chile, but I hated the game, almost as much as we had hated one another. To me, it's like watching grass grow, but then I hate all sports, except basketball, and of course, hockey. I had always been impressed with the athleticism of soccer players, but how stupid it is that they can't use their hands, the appendage that sets us apart from the lower primates. In Ronaldo, I became a fan.

His stamina, fueled by a hundred downfield charges in every game, was incredible, and his hands: well, unbound by the rules of his sport, they were extraordinary. When I watch a soccer match now, I am overcome with Proustian memories of endless energy suffusing me within, while adept and energetic hand gently squeezed me from without, until my body and his were united into a single, explosion of energy within me, as he came in a torrent of energy, praise, and endearment. The last words I heard were "Te amore", and I nodded in sleepy agreement. When I awoke, sharp spikes of dawn were piercing the half-opened curtains of his room, and I rose silently to shower and dress. I heard Tran and Nancee chattering outside in the hallway, and poked my head out. "Less talk and more sleep," I complained.

"Time to move on, Madame Butterfly," Nancee retorted. "Our work here is done."

"Just a minute," and I returned to Ronaldo to kiss him goodbye. He was awake, his sleep interrupted by my absence. "Don't go yet," he said pulling me back into bead. I was tempted, but resisted girlishly. "I must go, and so must you." I remembered Nancee's words about Eddie's jealousy fearfully, and did not want to be so conspicuous while Watanabe's killers might be on the loose. He scribbled an address on a piece of paper, and made me promise to write him at his home. "You must visit me in Roma," he begged. "I'll try. Come see me in America," I replied. "I will," he promised. And with a lingering kiss, we exchanged "arrivedercis."

As Tran, Nancee and I squeezed into the back seat of a waiting taxi I remembered practicalities. "Not that I didn't enjoy myself last night, but did anyone pay us?" "Of course, I handled everything with the team manager, not that you deserve anything for spending the whole night with the cutest guy."

"Yeah, you Anglos are such a bunch of romantics. No business sense." I blushed and said I was sorry. "That's OK, you more than held up your end the night before," Tran consoled me jokingly. "If it wasn't for you, we wouldn't have had our Mori bonus."

"Yeah, and Mama Thong wouldn't be dead," I replied glumly.

"Oh, who knows why she got shot. Maybe Eddie's enemies were aiming for her, not us,"

Nancee chirped.

"You mean you're not sure. Nancee, we've touched of a street war, and you're not even sure?"

"You never know for sure in Thailand."

I fretted the rest of the day over the misfortunes that my rashness had spread over this town, until Nancee got the report. The tragedy had ended as a comic opera. True, Liang's gunman had been blown away, but then Liang and Eddie talked and worked things out. Liang was outraged that Watanabe had contracted for our killings after he had agreed to "silence money" with us, and apologized to Eddie profusely. He offered to compensate Eddie for the damage to the shop and for the loss of the indispensable Mama Thong, and Eddie accepted. Of course, Liang in turn demanded compensation from Watanabe for his expenses, losses and embarrassment. Mr. Mori's death was official ruled from natural causes, and Watanabe escaped with intact face, although now he had had to pay much more to Liang and Eddie for the same promise of silence that Nancee had made the day before. But now it was an agreement between Yakusa: between men, and was more valuable to Watanabe than the word of a Katoey whore, even one as beautiful, clever and well connected as we were.

We showered and rested at our suite until the beach began to fill, and then we lolled on the hot, white sands in skimpy bikinis, drawing the appreciative stares of the local boys.

I was too tired to even think about any more sex. I let the tropical sun heal my tired flesh.

After our brains fried, we showered again, and Nancee took us shopping. The deals were irresistible, and Nancee was a ruthless, foul mouthed bargainer, who never left one baht extra on the table. Our arms were filled with sexy Thai sundresses, knock offs of Versace and Dolce and Gabbana tops, and even silk scarves for our moms and dragon shirts for Rick and Randy. We returned to the hotel, and could barely fit the loot into our bags. At the front desk was welcome news from Dr. Sanguan's: both of the Doctor's procedures for Monday had canceled, and we were to report to his clinic immediately for preoperative procedures. We squealed with delight and sped off to the airport, just in time for the last flight to Phuket. Nancee said goodbye and promised to visit as soon as she was allowed.

I will spare you the details of my procedure. If you are really curious about Dr.

Sanguan's unique approach to SRS, I suggest you visit his website (http://www.phuket- plasticsurgery.com), or Anne Lawrence's (http://www.annelawrence.com/srsindex.html), who features both Dr. Sanguan and many other Thai and Western doctors. You can even view pictures of the operation itself, in progress and in its aftermath, although, I can assure none of the graphics depict Tran or me.

For me, the surprise was that, although everything hurt, my boob job hurt the worst. And in the immediate aftermath, you can't see any results: just gauze, and a lot of tubes. At least they put Tran and me in a room together, so that we could bitch to each other instead of suffering in the company of a stranger. They didn't let Nancee visit until the day before we left for home. I still hadn't seen anything, and my morale was in the pits.

She brought me a jade ring from Eddie, and presented me and Tran with two wrapped boxes. We still had IV's in our wrists and couldn't open the boxes, so she tore off the tissue and held up cotton panties. Across the bottom was emblazoned the warning: "Sorry, Closed for Repairs." We laughed until we hurt, and laughed again every time we thought about them.

The boredom and suffering were worth it, though, after the pumps, the tubes, the catheters, and the dressings were removed. The surgical sites were bruised and lurid, and shiny orange with Betadine, but through the cantilevered arch of my shapely new breasts I beheld the most beautiful, strange and delightful sight I had ever seen: an empty, open space between my thighs. Disbelieving my eyes, I touched the gap between my legs. It was no mirage. I was a woman.

The day after Nancee's arrival, with my semester looming in the immediate future, we got travel clearance from a reluctant Dr. Sanguan and his wonderful staff. Nancee took us to the airport, and we cried as we left. "I know I'm coming back soon, and I know I can get you a visa to visit the U.S." She smiled, her face a pained mixture of hope and doubt. She had her date for her operation, and needed only a little more cash to pay for it.

She was leaving Koh Samui to return to her home city of Chiang Mai, where living was cheaper, and living as a katoey was less hazardous. They even encouraged katoey to go to the University, and she planned to take some classes while she waited her turn for Dr.

Sanguan. "English Thai translation," I recommended. "I have a job in mind, but I have to write a grant for it." She nodded agreement. But who knew what would happen to this poor girl in this strange land, where katoey live freely and without social hatred, but in isolation from the rest of Thai society, in a sexual netherworld they share with their admirers.

My mom met us at the airport, her eyes still blackened from her own procedure. After expressing delight that her two girls were back home at last, she drove us straight to her plastic surgeon to have him evaluate us. Dr. Leibovitz expressed admiration for Dr.

Sanguan's work. "Amazing what he does with that scrotal skin. My practice has been to discard it. I may need to reconsider. Perhaps I should pay his clinic a visit and observe."

We hit him up for a load of estrogen and painkillers, and though I was happy with his opinion, I was again reminded of my mother's unbelievable selfishness. She had let me travel to the Third World, to get a surgery that I could have gotten two miles from her front door without going over her Visa limit. What a bitch! I'll never be like her, I swore.

But in a way I was happy. You may not agree with all of our methods (I'm not sure I do), but Tran and I had achieved what we had set out to. We had truly remade ourselves, by ourselves. And we had done it without help from anyone but one another.

The Greatest Lie, Chapter 11 A Whole New Me, The Same Old World.

By Alexandra Rios

"En Francais", they say "plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose:" the more things change, the more they stay the same. When Tran and I got back to Minneapolis from our trip to Thailand for our sex change operations, it was every bit as dark, frigid and depressing as it had been when we left. I returned to the same tiny, dreary apartment in a drug infested, sleazy stretch of Hennepin where the rents, and life were both cheap.

It hadn't changed, but only felt worse after our balmy, thrilling, and successful trip to my home town, "LaLa Land", and the "Land of Smiles."

The shock of returning from balmy Thailand to the dark and cold of Minneapolis so shocked weakened body that I considered blowing off school entirely. But that would have been stupid, since I have a full scholarship and I had greased the rails for a really easy semester. I had it so easy that even if I weren't an academic genius, it would have been difficult to screw up. But it was so cold, and I was so weak, I couldn't stand going outside. So I just skipped another week of classes instead.

Tran had given up her place and moved in with me. I love her like a sister (okay, even more than that), and after all we had been through couldn't think of living without her. But after three consecutive days of being house bound by below-zero weather, and eating only delivered food, I was going crazy. "Tran, I have keep at this homework.

Can't you please go out and get us some real food: broccoli and brown rice or something.

We can't live on kung pao and pizza indefinitely. That's hard enough on anyone's colon, not to mention ours," which had been sectioned to lengthen our neo-vaginas.

"You go, I don't want to freeze my boobs off."

"Tran, they're saline. Like the ocean. They won't freeze."

"I can't go. I'm Vietnamese. We don't like the cold."

"Tran, you grew up a hundred miles from here. You must be used to it by now."

"I got used to being warm. I think I'm going back to LA, make more pornos with Pavel."

That, I had to admit, did sound attractive. I had had good reasons for leaving LA, but they were less compelling than ever, as the frosty windows rattled with another blast of arctic wind.

Tran brightened. "Maybe we should call somebody. Tell them we are starving, and get them to bring us food."

"Who do you have in mind?"

Tran threw out a few suggestions: my law school friend, Mark, my advisor, Professor Finch, our hockey star boyfriend, Rick a Randy. Since Tran and I had left for Winter break, we had shared a fantasy about the delirious welcome they would have prepared for us on our return: flowers, gifts, lingerie, and passionate kisses and embraces.

Now, even though we had been back for three whole days, we hadn't even heard from them. We were wondering if they had forgotten us.

"Do you think we should call them?" Tran asked.

"We can't. They'll totally get the wrong idea, that we're, like desperate or something."

"You're right," she said unhappily. She was reclining on a triangle pillow, her thighs parted, preparing to dilate her neo-vagina with a one-inch stent. She covered it in KY Jelly, then grimaced as she penetrated herself. "You know you should be doing this too," she reminded me through clenched teeth. "It's- so o- o-o, hard, O-o-o." She groaned, as the nylon stent stopped less than half way in. "It's stuck again, ouch. God, what's going to happen if I get a cock stuck in there?"

"It'll be the happiest day of your life," I joked.

"No way, who would want the same old cock all of the time!" Tran replied mischievously.

I took a break from my translation of the Knights Tale to hip hop lyrics, and took my place on the floor next to Tran, a xeroxed law case in one hand, and my own stent in the other. We had started dilating a few days earlier, with the narrowest, one-inch stents.

It was gonna be a hard row to hoe. Our penile skin had been too skimpy to fashion an adequately deep vagina, and so our Thai surgeon, Dr. Sanguan, had lengthened it with a section of colon that he had sutured to the end of the inverted penile skin. He had used grafts of scrotal skin to form labia and the glans of the penis to form a clit.

Now that the sutures had dissolved, and the scars and bruises were fading, we could see he had performed miraculous work. We had lovely, though tiny, female genitalia, where our cockettes had been. But these delicious, tempting treats were forbidden for at least two months, and even longer, until we had successfully dilated with the massive 1 1/2 inch stents. These forbidding tools lay unused, until we had successfully mastered their one inch and 1 1/4 inch mates. And the one incher had me stymied. I could not force it past the juncture where the penile and colon tissues were joined. I removed it, re-lubricated it, and re-entered. "Just keep it moving, Tran," I advised. "Just like you know what."

Tran giggled. "Just think what Rick and Randy would do if they saw playing with ourselves like this."

"I think I know what they would do, and we're not ready for it."

"Sh-sh, I'm going to close my eyes and imagine it's Randy." I heard Tran begin to breath harder and moan sensually. "It's not working, it's not helping. I've had enough!"

She pulled out her stent and threw it across the room in disgust.

She got up and dialed a phone number impatiently. "You're not calling them," I implored.

"No, I'm not. Yeah, hello, beef and broccoli, extra broccoli, please, no beef, and brown rice. Yeah, for Tran again, on 1385 Hennepin, Unit 22. Yeah, call from security.

Make sure it's hot. And bring chopsticks. Bye. OK, Alexandra, I got your broccoli.

Call me when it arrives. I'm taking a bath." I continued with my dilation, and my reading for another half-hour, until the phone rang. "Tran, I'm running down to get dinner," I yelled. I had made little progress on the dilation or the case. A chill of cold and fear shook me as I entered the stairwell: had I gotten in over my head with this operation? And what was I supposed to be getting out of these Court decisions? When I returned, greasy bags of Chinese in hand, I phoned my mentor, Mark Whitman. "Alex, it's good to hear your voice. You're back? I didn't see you first day. Not that it mattered"

"My trip got kind of messy at the end. But everything is fine now."

"Don't worry, because Epstein didn't show either. He's on another honeymoon."

"I didn't know he was getting married."

"He didn't."

"M-m-m."

"Don't even think about it, Alex."

"All I'm thinking about are these law cases. I mean, what am I supposed to be getting out of them? I mean, am I supposed to be memorizing them or something? They're so long and boring, and there are so many." I was panicking.

"I always forget that you're a baby. Here's what you do. You read the facts really fast, then get to the holding, which is what the court decides. Then you figure out what the facts and law they used to get to the holding: that's the rationale. Then you figure out what's wrong with rationale, like which important facts they left out or what law they ignored. Then compare the holding to the earlier cases and figure out how they fudged the outcome: that's what's wrong with the holding. Then go onto the next case, do the same thing, and figure out what this bunch did different than the last. That's it: law school in a nutshell. Epstein loves to hear what's wrong with judges. He thinks they're all idiots."

"So you're really not learning anything from the cases."

"Well, actually, you have to memorize all of the holdings for the final. But what you are really trying to learn is how to show all other lawyers and judges (except you, Epstein and me) are a bunch of idiots. You're learning how to criticize others."

"Oh, I can get into that."

"Wait'll you read the assignment for this week. You'll find something to hate in the Gardiner case. We're meeting at Epstein's house next Saturday. See ya then."

The siege of unspeakable weather gave me an excuse to ditch classes for another week, and regain my strength. When the below zero days finally ended in a glorious January thaw, the students had tee-shirted snowball fights in the quads, and I emerged to go to my first classes. As I strode, tight-sweatered an open-jacketed across campus to catch he bus to the suburbs, I realized that my new profile was attracting appreciative looks and smiles from nearly every guy who saw me. As I ran to catch the departing bus, boobs bouncing painfully, a stranger interceded, yelling to the driver to stop, and held the door for me gallantly as I boarded. I rewarded him with a "thank you" and a demure smile, and got a "Wish I were going your way" from the handsome stranger. Another guy offered me his seat, and then chatted me up the rest of the ride. God, this is great, I thought. Every guy who saw me, noticed me, feasted his eyes, and then wanted to please me. Life is going to be a party.

Avoiding the foul weather to which Tran and I had returned, Epstein had stayed late in Acapulco, and had assigned a thousand pages of legal cases: we would have a triple session at his house in Edina to make up the lost class time. His girlfriend Lynn, a third year student, participated as a student. What a class! It was an upper level seminar, so everyone wanted to be there and had an opinion. Let me tell you, Minnesota, hell, America, is a pretty weird place, if you grew up in West LA. I mean, it was a strange brew.

On one had, you'd find hipsters from Madison, Ann Arbor, even Berkeley; on the other hand, you found the bright but naïve hicks: strict Lutherans from Duluth or wherever that had been brought up to believe dancing to be sinful and that gays had been sent by the devil to pervert the innocent. I mean, in LA, you'd have to go to West Covina or someplace to find such rustics. And there we were, in Epstein's breakfast room, me and Lars from Fargo, head to head on the Kansas Supreme Court's decision In the Matter of The Estate of Marshall G. Gardiner.

I had been up half the night, reading, and then having nightmares about the case.

J'Noel, a forty year old post op had made good, become a professor, and then married Marshall, an eighty-something millionaire: like Anna Nicole Smith, but trans. Good 'ole Marsh had promptly left us for that great board of directors in the sky, leaving behind no will. His son wanted the money, and went after J'Noelle. Epstein turned to me. "Ms.

Rivers, please state the facts and holding of the Gardiner case."

I smiled, pleased that he had remembered to use my new name, and stated the case: "The case involves J'Noel Gardiner's claim to the estate of Marshall G. Gardiner. J'Noel was born male, had sex reassignment surgery and had an amended Wisconsin birth certificate showing her gender as "assigned female." Marshall, an elderly widower, was a donor to the college where J'Noel was a professor. He fell in love and married her with knowledge of her past. Gardiner died without leaving a will the following summer.

Gardiner's estranged son sought to claim the entire estate, arguing that the marriage was invalid. Kansas had passed a version of the Defense of Marriage Act, by which the state forbids recognition of same-sex marriages. Joe argued that as a matter of law J'Noel, as a genetic male, was incapable of legally marrying his late father.

The trial court agreed with Joe, ruling that under Kansas law, anyone born male remains male, and ignored the Wisconsin birth certificate.

The Kansas court of appeals reversed, finding that the district court had improperly determined as a matter of law that J'Noel remained a man. The lower court needed to conduct a trial about whether J'Noel was male or female, based on the scientific and medical factors relevant to determination of gender.

The Kansas Supreme Court reversed the appellate court. Even though the terms "sex,"

"male" and "female" were not defined in the Kansas "protection of marriage" statute, the held that J'Noel's sex was male, based on definitions taken from an old edition of Webster's Dictionary, which looked to genetic and biological factors only.

I read the holding: "'A male-to-female post-operative transsexual does not fit the definition of a female. The male organs have been removed, but the ability to 'produce ova and bear offspring' does not and never did exist. There is no womb, cervix, or ovaries, nor is there any change in his chromosomes. As Texas supreme court had held in the earlier Littleton case, the transsexual still 'inhabits... a male body in all aspects other than what the physicians have supplied.' J'Noel does not fit the common meaning of female. If the legislature intended to include transsexuals, it could have been a simple matter to have done so."

I concluded "So the Court held the marriage was invalid and awarded the entire estate to Joe, and nothing to J'Noel."

Epstein asked " Ms. Rivers, do you see anything wrong in the reasoning of the Kansas Supreme Court?"

"It's a terrible decision by a weak and lazy judges, or maybe they are pretending to be ignorant and are really biased. Why should they assume that the Kansas legislature had in mind an outdated dictionary definition of sex, male and female? Given the attention paid to transsexuals in the media, why not assume that the Kansas Legislature was aware of transsexuals and intended that the courts categorize them based on gender identity rather than genes, particularly where Wisconsin had officially recognized the sex change? These judges were relying on their own limitations and preconceptions, where they admitted they had no evidence of legislative intent. I think it's a terrible decision."

Peter Swenson, a Young Republican type, replied hotly "Aren't you doing just what you are accusing the court of? Where there is no contrary intent, shouldn't we let the plain meaning of the statute speak for itself. Last time I looked, this was still a republic, where elected legislators make the laws, not the judges."

Epstein took my part, and responded "So what they are saying is that the Kansas legislature must have ignored all of the science and publicity about transsexuals in defining gender. Of course they knew about transsexuals. The statue is an abomination, but it was only aimed at prohibiting gay marriage. Why interpret such a statute broadly? I think Rivers has a point. Should one infer a deprivation of rights based on silence?"

Alec Olsen, another Heritage Foundation type, interjected "Why should we assume Kansas legislators were ill informed. Why not assume the obvious, that they were relying on common understandings of these terms. After all, they were enacting the "Preservation of Marriage Act", not the "Protection of Transvestites Act. "

Mark Whitman replied "Point taken, but no one anticipates that Legislatures are enacting laws to fit eternity. Isn't the role of Courts to interpret?"

I added "Science, medicine, and society change far faster than Legislatures can enact laws. When this 'Protection of Marriage Act' was enacted, eight, nine years ago, look what's happened in that time."

Alec rejoined "Yeah, I'm looking. What difference does that make? That there are more unwed mothers, gay couples having kids? Are courts supposed to reshape laws to fit fads, and facilitate social extremism? If Marshall had had a young child, are you going to give J'Noel custody? Are we seriously considering honoring transsexuals on Mothers Day?"

I exploded: "OK, you won't let J'Noel be a mother. You won't let her sue for her husband's death or inherit from him. You say she's still a male. Will you let her be a Scout Master?"

Alec sneered "No, but that's because society has an interest in protecting children from exposure to aberrant behavior."

Epstein replied "OK, she can't be a Girl Scout or a Boy Scout. Fine: if she can't marry a male and adopt his child, can she marry a female, and adopt a woman's child?"

Alec answered "Same issue. If the law gives the privilege of marriage to males and females, then no, she can't marry either a woman or a man, because she has the outward appearance of a woman in the chromosomes of a man. And she can't adopt as a matter of child protection."

I countered "I don't get it. A transsexual can't marry a male and can't marry a female. Who are they supposed to marry, another transsexual coming from the opposite direction? What if that person has a kid?"

Peter interrupted "Absolutely not. They can't marry at all, under Kansas law."

Mark said, "You've got to be kidding me, what about Equal Protection."

Peter responded "It doesn't apply to protect a transsexuals."

Epstein was apoplectic: "It protects everyone: even non-citizens. Are you saying J'Noel has no Equal Protection rights at all. That we can deprive her of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?"

Alec retorted "No, but we can restrict her from exercising privileges that are specific to gender. At this point, she doesn't have a gender in the eyes of the law."

Epstein said "Reminds of that story, 'Man Without a Country.' 'Woman without a Gender': pretty barbaric for Twenty-First Century jurisprudence. Is that where we're going? To paraphrase my favorite movie, `Toto, I think we must be in Kansas.'"

Mark rejoined "It's ridiculous and cruel to deny J'Noel any legal rights dependent on gender. Gender is her precious possession. Even the Kansas Court acknowledged her sacrifices. Can they really mean that in claiming her gender, she relinquished it?"

Peter retorted, "But the Court said it was up to the Kansas Legislature, not the Courts applying the Equal Protection, to defend her. And it hasn't, and shouldn't."

I argued "But you're argument goes far beyond that. You think that she shouldn't have a protected right to claim her gender. Why not?"

Alec answered "Because Equal Protection prevents discrimination based on attributes that the individual can't change. J'Noel chose to change her body and sexual identity. Therefore, she doesn't deserve to be protected."

Epstein summarized "So you can deny J'Noel all Equal Protection right: the right to work, to vote, to petition the government?"

Peter polished his glasses. "I don't propose to suspend all rights, I suppose, but certainly the privilege to assert legal entitlement where gender is an issue."

I dissected this position. "You believe the state can deny her the rights to assert, as a male or as a female, any legal right that's dependent on gender?"

Peter responded "Yes, because J'Noel really possesses neither the gender of a male or a female."

Epstein posited. "So you are saying that transsexuals are neither legally male nor female, that they belong, if you will, to a third gender?"

"I'm not a social scientist, but I guess you could say that."

Epstein continued "And obviously, this minority is a tiny minority?"

Peter admitted, "Yes, I guess so."

Epstein pounced: "But we reserve the greatest degree of Equal Protection scrutiny for small, unpopular minorities. How can we tell transsexuals that their recourse is in the legislature, not the Courts? I doubt the transsexual lobby throws a lot of weight in the Kansas Legislature"

Peter backpedaled "People like J'Noel are different from other minorities."

Mark pursued "Because they are sexual minorities, and we have special rules for sex? Sounds pretty Victorian to be a basis for Constitutional Law."

Alec attempted to lead an escape: "No, because they choose to be what they become. We protect only those who have immutable characteristics. J'Noel is different because she voluntarily undertook to become what she became."

I sprung the trap: "You assert that she volunteered to be transsexual?"

"No, but she chose to take the hormones, have the tracheal shave, and to have the other surgery."

I went on "So you are saying these procedures should be punished, even where they are medically recommended."

Alec asserted "No, but when J'Noel had them, she forfeited the rights to full citizenship, either as a male, or as a female."

Epstein questioned "And what compelling state interest compels such an extraordinary deprivation?"

Peter argued "Doing otherwise brings chaos to society, the family, to the expectation of normality. We must, I suppose, tolerate everyone, even the criminally insane, but we don't have to accord them full status as citizens. J'Noel, like a schizophrenic, is simply too destructive of the social order to be given free rein. The state must be empowered to limit her freedom to protect the rest of us."

Epstein pronounced "Gender apartheid, for a tiny and powerless minority?"

Alec begged off "Unless the legislature decides otherwise."

Epstein questioned "That does appear to be what Texas and Kansas have decided.

Is it right? Is there a role for the Federal Court here?" Epstein's eyes scanned the classroom, meeting mine only for the same moment as the others.

I had the last word. "Absolutely, you cannot deny equal protection based one's outward aspect, as long as it reflects and immutable internal trait." Half the group nodded in agreement, the others vehemently disagreed.

Epstein concluded "Fascinating. I think we mined all of the ore out of that vein.

Next case, Olsen."

We worked through a dozen cases that way, working until lunch. Then we broke, and Epstein invited us to stay for sandwiches. I grabbed Whitman. "I can't believe Epstein did that to me. Was he trying to 'out' me?"

"No, that's what Epstein does! He puts you under the microscope and lets the rest of the class dissect you. Welcome to law school, little sister. But you were sensational.

You made those two look like a couple of idiots. And they're third year. Don't say anything. Here they come."

Alec smiled and said "No hard feelings, OK?"

"None here," I responded with a smile and a flutter of my lashes. "Comes with the territory, doesn't it?"

"Wow, you were really great. How did you learn so much law?" Alec asked.

"I'm a quick study."

"But you're new, aren't you."

"Actually, I'm an undergrad. A Freshman."

"No wonder you're still a liberal. Get a little closer to real life, and things start looking different. Unless you become a weirdoes' rights type like Whitman here. How did you end up in this circus?" Peter nodded toward Epstein.

"I wrote something for one of what you called Mark's weirdoes' rights projects, and Epstein liked it. So he invited me."

"We won't hold that against you. Will we, Alec?"

"No way. Where do you live? Are you in a sorority?" Alec inquired.

As we talked, I noticed that each time I switched eye contact to one, the other transferred his gaze to my breasts. Should I be flattered, or worried? Was I too big, or not natural? "No, I'm way too busy for all the socializing. I'm all work and no play. In fact, I have to do some work-study tutoring in a few minutes."

"Underprivileged, undernourished urban youth?" Peter asked sarcastically.

"No, over-privileged, oversexed hockey players." I tossed my hair carelessly.

"Can you get tickets?" Alec demanded.

"I've never had the occasion to ask," I purred demurely.

"Cool, good to meet you. Ask for four tickets for Wisconsin," Alec replied with a breezy wave. "And bring a friend," he added arrogantly.

"Oh, shurr!" I replied, adding a Fargo-ese umlaut to my vowels.

"See you next week," Peter chirped.

When they were out of hearing, I whispered to Mark "Do you think they have any ideas, you know, about me?"

"I think they've got lots of ideas about you. But I don't think they related you to the Gardiner case, if that's what you mean."

"What do you mean?"

"Just the usual ideas guys have about fantastically beautiful girls."

I blushed. "Do you mean me? Do you like the new me better than the old?"

"It's the same you. And the same me. And though you're ever more beautiful, and I'm just as square. How's Tran, er, Teri?"

"She's great, you know, we're both, ah recovering still."

"Ahem, and how's that going?"

"Want to see for yourself?"

"No, ah, not really." He was blushing.

"Sorry, I know, I was only kidding." I looked at my watch. "Gotta go. So I did all right?"

"Better than that. You were born to be a lawyer."

I walked off smiling inwardly, musing "Born to be lawyer, or a hooker?" God, this life kind of sucked. For every real person like Mark, there would be a thousand powerful, bigoted poseurs like Alec and Peter. I would have to be on guard every moment in the company of such affable haters.

My work study advisor had assigned me to a tutoring group for "Special Needs"

students. Of course, the special need of this group was their need to retain athletic eligibility without letting studying interfere with the rigors of training, traveling and playing for Minnesota's championship hockey squad. My assignments were Math and English. I met my first students, Mike and Karl, in an assistant coach's office. Karl eyed me hungrily and asked "Hey, Teach, how do we get detention?"

"Yeah, we want to stay after class," Mike quipped.

"Hmm, I usually give detention to bad boys. You're not nearly bad enough for that."

"We'll work on it," Karl promised.

I worked them through some "practice exams" in trigonometry. They were clueless, until I analogized the sine, chord and tangent concepts to the ricochets of hockey pucks off sticks, boards and helmets. Then it began to click, and they got the practice test on the third try. They were drunk with success and ready for relaxation, and demanded that I join them for a happy hour at the Sigma Chi house. I was struggling to extricate myself from their advances when I heard the welcome sound of a familiar voice. "Alex, is that you?" Rick bounded into the room, and lifted me in a joyful embrace."

My lips dodged his and I whispered in his ear "It's about time, I mean, the nick of time."

"Oh, sorry Rick dude, we didn't mean to skate on your ice, OK, dude," Karl apologized.

"Hey, that's cool man, how were you to know this babe was my good friend."

"She's a great teacher. You're a lucky dude," Mike added, shuffling away and saying "Next week, right here, right."

"Good luck on your exams, guys!"

As soon as they left, Rick closed the door and said "Wow, I like what Santa brought."

"If you had waited much longer, it could have been the Easter Bunny. What's the matter with you?"

"You know, we were like, busy, getting back into it and all."

"Too busy to call? Gimmee a break."

"You didn't call me. I dunno, I wasn't sure, you know, how I would feel. I mean, we're so, you know, different."

"You mean I'm so different?"

"You sure are different now. You look, like, awesome." He reached for me, and I did not object as he fondled my still tender breasts.

"Careful, I'm still very sensitive." He slipped his hands under my sweater and gently caressed the silky lace of my underwire bra, and tilted my head back in a passionate, breathy kiss. My anxiety and pique subsided, and I succumbed to Rick's firm but fond embraces. His hands eagerly explored my new contours, then impatiently fumbled at the clasp of my bra. I guided his clumsy fingers to help him free my breasts from their lacy confinement. He stroked my still scarred nipples impetuously, and I gasped "Be gentle!" He pulled my sweater up and over my head, and I twisted my neck from the turtle neck, hair tousled and face flushed with the effort and passion.

Rick stared, goggle eyed, and gently cupped my perfect, conical boobs in his large, strong hands. "Alexandra, they're, I mean you're, fabulous."

And this was the moment I had longed for, and dreamed of, since those sweaty, opiated, painful days on my bed-sore ass in Phuket. All that I had been through was requited in that one phrase, from a guy who'd ignored me until he practically tripped over me on his way to the shower. What was I thinking? What kind of passive, chick thing had I lapsed into? Fuck, what did I care? He wanted me. I wanted him. Then a shiver of paranoia ran through me. If he was so transfixed by my boobs, if he saw my pussy, he would fuck me until I hemorrhaged and bled out on the floor.

My passion quickly found common cause with self-preservation, and I tugged at his shorts. His manhood was nestled in the shell of a jockstrap and cup, unfamiliar and unhappy memories of my own pathetic athletic experience. His sweaty meat bounded from the confines of his gear.

He was tangy with the sweat of a hard practice, and I gagged with the first lunges into my throat: had it been so long I had forgotten this art? Soon, my muscle memory reasserted itself and I reacquainted my lips, tongue and tonsils to the rhythms of his groin. He grappled for my breasts and pussy, but the wet suction of my lips and cheeks on his cock distracted him and brought forth an instant anointment of precum to my glistening lips.

He seized my bobbing pony tail and soon was straining and spasming, as the sensations of my lips and tongue on his cock and my breasts pressing on his thighs brought him under my control. My breasts massaged his muscular thighs with each lunge of my lips down his shaft to his lap, and he murmured "I wanna fuck you," and began to roll me off his lap, but I shook my head and resisted, and he surrendered to my insistent blow job. He let out a guttural moan, and banged my head savagely onto his cock as he orgasmed wildly, down my parched throat into my hungry tummy. He popped out with his last thrust. I firmly squeezed his balls, sending a squirt sprayed into my eyes and hair, before the last droplets oozed onto my breasts.

As he relaxed on the coach's couch, I wiped his spilled seed from my neck and reapplied my gloss and mascara. He looked up and smiled and said "That was great, worth the wait. What a great surprise, ah, surprises."

Now that I had momentarily unmanned him, I felt safe to disclose the whole truth.

"I'm full of surprises. Are you ready for more."

"Oh, there's more. Like what, a tattoo?"

"Close your eyes, and no peeking." I wriggled out of my jeans and let them plop to the floor. I stepped to within reach. He squinted at my panty clad form, and I warned "I said no peeking," and he obediently closed his eyes. "Now, slide down my panties, and open your eyes."

His eyes practically popped out of his head, and I noticed the coiled snake between his legs sprang to life. "Whooo, Alex, you got a pussy." He rose and grabbed me from front and behind and reached his hands through my vacant crotch, and then fingered and pried open my tiny labia.

I winced and said "Careful, I'm not nearly ready," he was already pulling me onto his lap and pressing his re-hardened cock head against the narrow opening. "Really, I can't and you can't, it's too new." He had gone deaf and was trying, futilely, to enter me with his drained penis.

"I can't believe it, it's so perfect, you're like a real girl. Just like I'd always dreamed."

"This is how you wanted me in your dreams?" I felt a warm glow light me from within.

"Exactly," he replied, and rolled me onto my back and grabbed and pulled my ankles over his shoulders. He pressed against me again, but his cock lacked the energy to do any damage, and I covered my vulnerable vagina. I lectured him sternly. "None of that yet. You could ruin it or hurt me." He nodded but ignored me and I warned him sternly "I mean really injure me if you do it before I'm ready. It's not big enough or strong enough inside yet."

"How long do I have to wait?" he complained.

"At least another month."

"No way. Well, how about the old way?" He reached beneath me and began fingering my ass.

"Not there either, they had to operate there too. Please, don't, it could be really dangerous. You could rip my insides and I could bleed to death. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

He shook his head vigorously. "Wait for me until I'm ready, and I promise I'll save myself for you, even though you are too big. And in the meantime, we can do this."

I licked his balls playfully, and then took him back into my mouth. To my amazement, he was hard again, but my renewed blow job would not bring him back to climax. He shook his head in frustration, and said "It's not enough."

"Wait there, I have an idea." I grabbed a tube of lubricant from the bottom of my purse and spread it between my breasts. I lay down on the floor and beckoned, and said, "Sit on my tummy." I gasped as he crushed my rib cage, but wrapped my tender breasts, nipple to nipple, around his cock. "Now rub it there," and he began plunging into the tunnel of my tender breasts. It was a glorious sight to see his cock head bounding and receding through the circle that my boobs made around him. I was thankful that I had prevailed on Dr. Sanguan to use the 350 cc implants, which had given me the very generous C Cups which now sheltered and surrounded Rick's insatiable cock. Soon, he was pounding away, and though my breasts ached from the relentless pressure, they were sufficiently healed to endure the thrusts. After a few minutes he came, and my collarbones were adorned with another necklace of molten pearls. Rick collapsed to the floor next to me, breathing hard.

"I guess you must approve."

"God, I'm sorry I had trouble controlling myself, I was just so overwhelmed. It's so incredible. You're irresistible."

"Thank you. But you have to promise me, no trying to fuck me until I say.

Otherwise, you shouldn't see me. The doctor really warned us, nothing for another month at least, and maybe not until after another operation."

He thought for a minute. "What do you mean, us? Tran had an operation too?"

"Yeah, and don't you dare tell Randy. Let her surprise him."

"So she's not ready either?" I hit him playfully. "No she's not, and don't even think about it."

"Yeah, right," he muttered. Of course I knew I could never trust him, but with Tran, I could at least keep an eye on him. And I wasn't so trustworthy myself. "Really though, you have to let Tran surprise Randy. Don't spoil the surprise for them." Besides, I had to remind Tran to unman Randy with a blow job before she let the cat out of the bag, or pussy would get its tail pulled. Randy was even more uncontrollably libidinous than Rick.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of an opening door and footsteps. "Someone's coming," I said, and Rick replied "Holy Shit." We quickly pulled on our clothes straightened the disheveled cushions on the couch, and were seated books in hands at the desk when Assistant Coach Barnes entered his office.

"Getting in a little extra credit with the tutor, Rick?" he snarled sarcastically.

"Yeah coach, Alexandra here is really helpful."

"I'm sure she is," he said, sniffing the air ostentatiously. "What subject are you working on, French?"

"Math, actually. But I'm fluent in French, if anyone needs it."

"They all need it. They're just not studying it, huh Rick?"

"Right, coach," he said with a masculine guffaw.

"Listen here," he said wagging his stubby finger at me. "Do what you want, with whoever, but no French tutoring in my office, if you catch my drift. Now pack up and go. No, just you, Mademoiselle Tutor. Rick, I want another hour on the ice from you."

I packed up and left, my face burning with embarrassment. I called Tran, and warned her that Randy would soon know our secret. "So if you want it to be a surprise, call him now."

"Alexandra, did you already do him first?"

"No, but if you insist, I will. Rick will get over it, if you do." I was warming up to the concept.

"I have an idea. Let's both surprise him."

"Tran, you are such a bad influence."

I took a quick shower and was doing my make up when Randy called on the intercom. Tran let Randy in, and after a brief murmured conversation I heard the familiar sound of squeaking bedsprings. As I applied fresh make up, I eavesdropped on my best friend, and my former lover. They began with polite, slightly stiff greetings, and progressed to giggly, breathy kissing, and then to fierce, athletic passion. I listened to sounds of lips sucking, cheeks popping against a lunging penis, the slight chokes and gags that occur in a really determined blow jobs, and in brief interludes, a few lovers' words, between their gasps and groans.

As I applied my gloss, I recalled vividly how Randy's wild cock had rammed down my throat and into my ass. His groans become grunts, the squeaking of the bed become deafening. I remembered the exquisite rush of energy that his orgasms brought, and I envied my friend. I heard their breathing gradually subside, and their murmurs rise, as I brushed my hair to smooth, silky perfection.

I chose the perfect moment, just before Randy took his post-orgasmic piss. I emerged from my hideout, wrapped at the bodice with a towel, and said "Randy, shame on you. Too busy to say hello to an old friend?" Randy looked over his shoulder and said "Whoa, Alex, I, I-ah" and then I plopped on the bed next to him, opposite Tran, and let my boobs escape from the unraveling towel and slid under the sheets by his side. He was immediately transfixed.

"Wow, they, ah, you look, like, great. What a great surprise!"

"Go ahead, you can touch me," and he began fondling me. I murmured gratefully in response, and Tran propped herself on Randy's shoulder to observe approvingly. She commented "I like hers better than mine, too. It's OK, admit it, they're softer."

"I love yours too," Randy said politically, rolling onto his back to observe, and fondle us, in stereo. He did look really happy, relaxing between two beautiful girls, each hand on a breast. "I really got a handful here," he joked.

"I gotta surprise for you too," Tran said.

"What's that," Randy asked. "I like these surprises so far." As her answer, Tran took his hand from her breast and pulled it down her tummy. Guessing her intent, I slid his other hand toward my new pussy. Tran won this erotic race, and Randy said "Whoa, what's that, I mean," and with that he reached my vagina and said "Wow, this is unbelievable, you're like, regular girls, lemmee see." He rose to his knees, threw back the sheets, and said "Wow, this is like a dream. You're incredible. I wish I had two cocks,"

and I noticed his cock was stiffening again. "Like, I don't know where to start."

"Start here," I said, and wrapped my lips around his member, which was still salty with his last orgasm, and Tran's saliva. "Or here," Tran said, gently nudging me away and taking her turn.

He reflexively and relentlessly tried to escape our lips and mount Tran. "No way, our Doctor says we must stay virgins for at least, ah, six more weeks. Maybe more."

He tried to mount me. "Really Randy, it's not safe for us to have sex yet. We're not healed inside."

"Oh, shit, it's just irresistible. I got to have you, now."

"No, not yet, let me give you another blow job."

"Both of us," I offered.

"OK, but let me at least touch you, let me see."

We squiggled our pussies down toward his astonished face, and began giving him a double blow job, occasionally warning him not to push his fingers into our still healing vaginas, and occasionally soothing our cock-sore lips with a kiss of the others swollen mouth. Nineteen year old guys are one of God's gifts: after about twenty minutes of this divine revelation, he came again in a fountain of cream that oozed gently from the purple hood of his cock.

He dozed as we showered together. I remarked admiringly to Tran "Too bad these pussies don't work as good as they look."

"I'd be a happy girl then," Tran replied.

"And he'd be a happy guy, too. Keeping him on the outside is going to be impossible, and Rick is no better."

"Well, what is it, another week and we can do it the old way."

"You think? But will they want to?" I asked.

"I think they won't know the difference."

"You're so bad! How will we know it's safe? I don't think Sanguan makes house calls to Minneapolis."

"We had the same operation at the same time. After your big operation last year, Student Health has to give you a free examination. That's how I'll know. If you're ready, I'm ready. And I'd better be ready soon, because I'm s-s-s-o horny. And s-s-s-s-o broke."

Mr. Watanabe's hush money was running out, and my scholarship and grant money barely covered the room. I was sick of being a starving student, and Tran and I were sexual entrepreneurs by nature. Not only did Rick and Randy need to be satisfied, but so did our own financial needs.

The next morning, I called Student Health and asked for an appointment with Dr.

Peter Prince. His assistant had me come in for blood tests, and Dr. Prince made room on his schedule the morning that the lab work was done. I made a point of blowing my hair and dressing to the max. It was still freezing by my standards, but a tight ribbed turtleneck, under an open pea jacket, over my new body warmed me and the atmosphere all around me. Dr. Prince wandered absently into the waiting room, looking about absently and called out "Alexandra Rivers," and gazed around vacantly, his gaze passing over me and returning only after he had searched the room. With a startled nod of recognition, he exclaimed "O my god, that's you, Alex!"

"You didn't recognize me?"

"Well, now I do, but you look...fantastic"

"Do you like my new look?"

"You look lovely. Come with me," he said, recovering his professionalism. "I gather your overseas trip was successful?"

"So far, so good. I'd like your opinion as to how successful."

"Perfect, I've arranged gynecological consult. And I think we better take a peek at your colon." He led me to a waiting room and I was both alarmed and pleased that the gurney was equipped with stirrups.

"Put on this robe, and lie down," he said, handing me a pink paper gown. I'll be back."

"No med students, OK?" He nodded.

I lay on my back, and slid my feet into the stirrups at the end of the gurney. They swung open, and I was naked and open. I loved the feeling of vulnerability this contraption gave me. But how would I look? I had peeked with a mirror, and Rick and Randy had stolen glimpses as they pried apart my squeezed thighs, but this was my public debut. I pulled the edge of the gown to cover myself, and rested my hands on my breasts, like a prone Botticelli Venus. Dr. Prince knocked and entered with two colleagues, and mumbled introductions.

"Tell us about your procedure." I described it and they nodded, mumbled, and conferred as they peered, palpated and prodded me. "This is going to feel a little cold,"

the GYN warned as he slid an icy object into my vagina. "Tell me if it hurts."

"No, it feels like a Popscicle, but it doesn't hurt. Uff, that hurt."

"You've got some blockage at 5 cm. How is the dilation going."

"Better than at first, but I can't get anything bigger than the 1" stent past that part."

"Scar tissue at the junction of the penile inversion and the colon tissue."

"Oh, no, Dr. Sanguan warned me. I didn't dilate hard enough."

"It was inevitable. It's like grafting a apple branch to a pear tree. You can do it, but the tree forms a knot."

"Can you fix it?"

"I don't think anyone but the original surgeon should operate. I wouldn't know where to begin."

"He's in Thailand. I can't go there for months."

"That's OK, it shouldn't be done for a couple of months, unless you want to do it more than once."

I was crestfallen as they completed their exam. With that exception, I was perfect. The colon re-section had healed perfectly, my hormones were perfect, my breasts were perfectly centered and positioned, as were my vulva and labia, which were small, but even and parallel. Even my vagina was perfect, except for a single cincture, which rendered it useless for sex. After the GYN and the proctologist left, Prince and I talked.

"You're disappointed?"

"Of course, I mean, I knew it could happen, but I tried so hard. And my boyfriend is going to be so bummed."

"Well, if he cares about you, he'll wait."

"I don't know, you know how boys are."

He wrapped his arm around my shoulder. "Alexandra, I'm confident that you'll figure out how to keep the boys coming." I smiled at this double entendre, and glanced up at Prince. Had he intended it? Was he coming on? He had a perfect, professional poker face.

"So other than that one little problem, all systems go?"

"You're perfect. My hat's off to you and your surgeon. He's an artist, and you're a masterpiece." I glowed with pleasure from his compliments all the way home.

Tran was, as usual, dilating and watching an Asian video when I got home.

"Shit, I can never get the larger stent in," she cried in frustration.

"Forget it, you probably got it too, the ring. We gotta get back to Phuket."

"Let's go now! I'm bored and sick of cold."

"Tran, we don't have the cash for the tickets, much less the surgery. And Dr.

Prince recommends we wait two months anyhow."

"You got any good news?"

"Well, sort of, my colon is completely healed."

"Oh great, we can start getting fucked in the ass again? I was just getting used to not getting it there," she said bitterly. It had been about six weeks, our longest abstinence ever. "What was it like starting again?" she asked.

"I got back into it after the first few times. But we're different now, so I don't know. And Rick definitely wants my pussy?"

"He won't even know. If it's tight and wet, he'll fuck it without noticing or caring.

I fooled lots of guys before," Tran predicted confidently.

The weather had improved, so Tran went out canvassing for my T-Girl Sex Worker Study, and I had an interview with Lulu, an almost passable, homeless transsexual. Lulu was sullen and uncommunicative, and refused to take the intelligence evaluation test. She asked, "So why's a high class bitch like you axin about my life?"

"What makes you think we're so different?"

"Shit, look at you, look at me."

"We've got more in common than you think. I'm trans too."

"Well fuck me! Aren't you a peach? But you're all ladylike, and you can pass, and you're ejjakated. They kicked me out in eighth grade, been livin' on the street since.

Whattaya know 'bout my life, and why do you care?"

"I'm trying to help the world understand us and see us as people, not freaks."

She reluctantly complied with my questionnaire. She took meth every day and she believed that she was Princess Diana, hiding from the killers who had tried and failed to kill her, then faked her death in Paris. Her chest, butt and face were distended with pumped silicone. She never used condoms, even for passive anal sex. She was troubled by the fact that almost half of her tricks wanted to be fucked by her, as she preferred the passive role and despised the fairies that wanted her to fuck them. She'd been dressing and streetwalking for three years, and didn't know her HIV status. She lived in an abandoned furniture store with three other Trannies. She worked alone and met her clients on a couch under a railroad underpass. She'd been busted for solicitation three times, but had never been convicted, though she had charges pending from a bust last week. That was why she had come to me. She'd gone down on a guy before she realized he was a cop, and couldn't afford a lawyer. I was patiently recording her tragic, bleak story, when the phone rang, and kept on ringing. I picked it up and before I could say anything Rick reminded me that he was coming over for a "study hall" in a half-hour.

"Make it an hour, I'm with a client."

"What do you mean?" he asked jealously.

"I mean I'm busy," and I hung up and continued with Lulu.

"Have you ever had a job?"

"Washing dishes at a pizza place, but they fired me. Said I was a faggot."

"Ever try to get a job as a woman?"

"Get lots of jobs as a woman. I mean, blow jobs," she said, dead-pan. I burst into laughter, and as she laughed at her own jest, we made eye contact for the first time. She searched my eyes, I knew, and realized that she saw she and I were sisters of the spirit and flesh. After that, an hour was hardly enough for me to record her secrets. But Lulu and I both had assignations, and as I gave her a hug goodbye, I wondered whether the fates of that doomed soul and my own would differ.

A minute after Lulu left, Rick buzzed and I let him up. He was visibly agitated and smelled like he'd had a few beers. "Let's get high," he said, producing a bong.

"I can't, I have some work to do later" I said, as he lit up and the bong gurgled ferociously. "Wanta hit?" he gasped, puffing acrid fumes.

"Not yet, it's too early. And we're supposed to be studying."

"It's only the fourth week of classes."

"Actually, the fifth, and only two weeks until mid terms."

"Oh, fuck it, I haven't even bought all of the books yet," he said, finishing the bong and throwing himself on my bed. "C'mere," he drawled through his emerging buzz, sliding down his jeans. I slipped my fingers over the waist band and worked them down his massive, bulging thighs, then pulled down his boxers. I slipped his thick, hardening cock between my lips and began sucking. The usual baptism of precum was skimpy, and he was unenthusiastic in his response. "I need to be inside you," he announced. "I really want to fuck you."

"I don't think I can, you're too big, and I'm not ready."

"Oh c'mon, can't we just try it. I really want to try it."

"No, just blow jobs for now," and I resumed sucking, but he was unresponsive.

"Please, if you can't handle it, I'll stop, I promise."

As if, I thought. "You won't be able to stop yourself. You're like an animal when you're aroused."

"Yeah, and an unsatisfied animal now. I just can't stand it. You're, like, turning into some kind of cock teaser. I might as well be with one of those sorority cunts. I thought you'd be different."

Well, I was, but that was the point, wasn't it. I had to succumb, or lose him. "Get comfortable, I'll be back." I went to my tiny bathroom, stripped to my bra and panties, freshened my hair and makeup, and then lubed my anus. My sphincters rebelled at the intrusion of my finger. God, I thought, what agony his penis would inflict on that disused passageway.

I snuggled into bed next to him, and he smothered me with wet and wild kisses to my lips, neck, hair, and then progressed to my breasts. He freed them from the enclosure of the lacy, lavender bra, then cupping them in his hands, licked, kissed and nibbled each nipple. The incisions around my aereoles had healed, and full sensation had returned, and ripples of pleasure flowed from them over my entire nervous system. I moaned "Don't stop," as his tongue left them and began tracing a path to my navel, then down my linea negra, across the fading but still visible smile-like incision at my bikini line, to my tiny, little girl-like labia.

I had kept shaving my rather flat mons, and Sanguan had warned me that a second operation was required to construct truly passable labia majora. The delicate lips that he had constructed were those of a pubescent girl, rather than a woman, but that only heightened Rick's interest, and he pressed his tongue through them as deep as he could into my tender, narrow vagina, then flicked my clitoris. My nervous system had only begun to reoccupy this region, so these sensations were faint and distant, but exquisitely subtle.

But his mouth tired of this effort, and of the massage my foot and ankle gave his cock. He rose above me, and gave me a wet, delicious kiss, and pressed my thighs open.

He pried open my labia and tried to enter me, and the sensations of pressure and strain were immediate and alarming. If he could get it inside me, that club would surely shred my still healing vagina. Visions of a painful, bloody death filled my imagination, but there was no stopping this rampaging libido now. I broke free from his lips and said, "No, not that way, let me get on top, it'll be easier for me." Easier to deceive him!

I sat astride his flat, steely abdomen and grabbed my lube, as he fingered my quivering vulva. I applied lube to my rectum, rose up, and as I descended I pointed his erect cock away from my vagina, and into my ass. "Go slowly, so you don't hurt me," I reminded him, and he nodded, and then thrust upward as if his body was indifferent to his brain's promises.

He slid up my lubricious anus, and muttered, "Oh, that feels good, you're so tight," as my body convulsed at this sudden intrusion. A white-hot sheet of pain seared me, but I froze my scream into a silent grimace, and averted my eyes from his gaze, as he lunged his thighs upward and pressed down on my hips, to further his penetration.

"Is that too much?" he asked, and I nodded through pinched and tear filled eyes: I could not speak, without crying out in agony. He backed out a bit, and my contorted, rigid body collapsed with relief, and he fucked me from beneath as I lay in a swoon, my soft breasts massaging his washboard chest, and his heaving breath tickling the hair behind my ears.

Post op, anal sex was more painful, and less pleasurable than I had remembered it.

The removal of the masculine tissues during the sex reassignment surgery had removed the fulcrum that had previously made the levering of large cock in my ass enjoyable.

Instead of friction of the cock engorged colon against prostate and meatus, now felt it like he was banging away into a void, jostling and threatening the precious, fragile structures that Dr. Sanguan had painstakingly constructed. I recoiled from, rather than reveled in this invasion, and when Rick rose to a sweaty, grunting climax, I felt only relief. I extruded him swiftly and removed and disposed of his condom, and, before he could guess at his cock's recent destination, I had bounded to the bathroom quickly to cleanse myself of all evidence.

"That was fantastic," he exuded. "I can't believe how tight you are."

"It's not just how tight I am, it's how huge you are. You should register that thing as a dangerous weapon." I gave him a playful squeeze. "It's not natural: it's like, a big mushroom or something."

"No wonder it loves to hide in your little cave," he replied. "You know, you're much better than a regular girl. No fishy pussy smells, no PMS, no periods, no babies, no bitchiness," he recited.

"No commitment, no marriage plans, either, right?" Or no waiting around for female orgasms, I thought silently.

"Well, that's not what you want either, is it? I mean, I really like you and everything, but who needs all that structure and pressure? I think you're perfect."

I looked down at my arrogant, athletic god. He was perfect: handsome, rough hewn, and horny. He began to harden again as I lowered my lips to his groin, and tickled my nipples on the sinewy surface of his thighs. God, I hope the next time is easier. And it was a little easier: that night and each time that he came to me in the weeks that followed.

Tran had "lost her virginity" to Randy a couple of days later. We compared notes as we dilated on a dismal winter afternoon.

"Do you think that Randy knows that you're having anal sex?"

"I don't think so. When guys are horny they are so stupid. They don't notice anything but their cocks, and don't remember anything afterwards. I used to fool guys all the time, even before I had the operation."

"I'm not sure whether or not Rick knows he's still sodomizing me, but I doubt if he would really care. I mean, he probably would like to be the one who broke in my pussy, but he just wants to bury his cock in and cum into a tight wet hole. I mean, I know he likes me as a friend, and needs me as his personal tutor, but he really values me most as his boy toy: the beautiful object he can touch, or fuck, whenever he wants."

And though I never regained my desire for anal penetration, I loved being the object of his attentions, and willingly endured this now self-sacrificial sex. His wandering hands and throbbing, insatiable cock reminded me of how beautiful and sexy I had become, and I liked being his sex object on that level. Dr. Prince's hormonal wizardry, and the continued absence of testosterone from my system rounded and softened and softened me, and as my natural breast development continued, it made my new breasts an even more idyllic cynosure for men's eyes, and Rick's kisses and caresses. As the scars faded and the surgical sites, and my nipples and clitoris re- enervated, the pleasure of his ministrations increased, though on a subtle and almost spiritual plane. I didn't even mind when he suggested a swap with Randy for Tran, for a beautiful as my friend, too, had become, I was confident that he would want me back.

And since they had emerged as two rising stars on Minnesota's hot hockey team, other guys, even law students lick Alec and Peter, were constrained to keep at a respectful distance, though our association with these celebrities only enhanced our mystique.

I enjoyed being the brilliant and beautiful mystery woman at this hockey star's side, and being part of the cult of envy and adulation that Rick attracted around campus, as he and Randy emerged as surprise stars on the defensive line of a championship team. And Rick delighted in being seen with a beautiful genius who was too busy with her independent studies and research to socialize with the run of the mill jock and frat crowd with whom he hung out. Thus, he had the best of both worlds: freedom to play the field at frat parties, and knowledge that he had a sure thing waiting for him at the end of the party.

And I even came to look forward to watching them play hockey, though the brutality and violence worried me for their safety.

Still, it was a turn-on to watch them help the team to a victorious season, with thunderous, crushing body checks to their opponents and murderous slap shots on hapless goalies. After all, the same body that left opponents gasping or inert on the ice was slamming into my vulnerable flesh in bed. Minnesota hockey's triumphal advance to the NCAA tournament was like my own life that semester: an unexpectedly easy and thrilling campaign. And though he took me completely for granted, Rick was sweet to me, calling me every day to be stroked and bolstered: despite his success, he was barely more than a boy and needed emotional comfort and praise, with which I was only too happy to provide him.

So it came as a complete surprise when he called me and said in a cold and angry voice "Alexandra, we're through. It's over."

"What do you mean, why?" I replied, though I immediately suspected the cause.

"Transsexual Hookers? How could you do such a thing? A gay porno flick? I'm so humiliated and disgusted. I can't believe I'm sharing you with scum like that guy in the movie."

"I'm sorry. I needed the money, you know, for Thailand. I'll never do it again. But I just had to then."

"That movie's gonna be around for ever. You've been scanned, spammed and jpeg-ed all over the Internet."

"No one needs to know. I mean, I really don't even look the same now, do I?"

"Randy and I recognized you right away."

"But you knew me then. No one else has to know."

"We know. And what about all your law school friend. He knows."

"He's been trained to keep secrets. Please don't do this to me."

"It's done. Just forget it. We're through, got it?"

He hung up as I held the receiver in stunned silence, and I remained there motionless, barely able to breath, until I began shaking uncontrollably and dissolved into sobs and hot bitter tears. Like the tentacles of some alien monster, the residues of my past had emerged to strangle and submerge me in misery.

Randy had given the same brutal brush off to Tran, so at least we could suffer this sorrow and humiliation together. She was more experienced and had lower expectations, so she was more resilient and less bitter than I. "They were OK, but too much work, too much sex, for not much in return: just some hockey tickets and pizza dinners. We need to meet some richer guys." I agreed, as our funds were dwindling alarmingly. We had scalped most of the remaining hockey tickets, and Tran was doing outcalls from her little black book to supplement our funds. "Only fetish and blowjobs," she informed the tricks over the phone. "No sex." Most of her old clients were not interested in her as a post op.

Guys are so weird.

I was busy wrapping up the Transsexual Sex Workers interviews, writing up the findings, completing "Hip-Hop to Canterbury" and tutoring the rest of the hockey team.

Mike and Karl started taking greater interest in me after word spread that Rick and I were history, but Coach Barnes warned me away with angry stares. I was so bored and horny I considered taking on part of Tran's workload, but instead I concentrated on finishing my research, and on writing a new grant proposal: to elaborate the work in Minneapolis with a cross cultural study of Thai Katoey, to be conducted through Chiang Mai University. Finch loved the idea, and, in a stroke of genius, I included funding for an assistant and a translator: Tran and Nancee, of course.

But my favorite class was Epstein's Minority and Majority Rights Seminar. I was the class pet, the brilliant ingenue from whom everyone wanted to hear. I especially enjoyed sparring with the right wing, who always seemed surprised a well dressed, pretty young thing like me wouldn't support their conservative views. And sometimes the issues, or at least my feelings about the issues, got muddled. Both Epstein and the liberal wing of the class praised Reno v. ACLU, in which the Supreme Court struck down the Communications Decency Act, by which Congress had tried to regulate the publication of indecent materials over the Internet by forcing the content poster to identify the recipients of their downloads. As a recent victim of unauthorized posts to Internet newsgroups, I was personally ambivalent. But that expression of my sexuality, while hurtful when I was copied and broadcast to the world through alt.sex.trans., had been the means by which I had financed my sex change. For me, the First Amendment had been necessary for my survival. Peter and Alec squared off against me and Epstein again. "So you think we should let school kids visit porn sites from library computers. I'm sure even Thomas Jefferson and James Madison would have disapproved."

" I think the Internet is like the public squares of Ancient Greece. The standards that we set now will guide the freedom of human discourse for years to come."

"Great, our descendants will be reading about `Girls Who Dig Animals,' and remembering us as champions of freedom of deviance."

"Hey, the first photographs were porn. No one remembers the 19th Century as the age of sexual liberty."

"And photography flourished, even as indecency was suppressed."

"The rules you make here will be copied in the Peoples' Republic to ban the Dali Lama, or even the Bible. Can you live with that?"

"Can you really compare porno to the Bible?"

"No, but the Chinese will, and they'll ban both. You won't have a principled basis for opposition."

After class, Alec cornered me. "Still sticking to the left, sure way to get an "A" in here."

"Thanks, I need it. Remember, I'm not admitted to law school yet."

He wrung his hands in mock embarrassment. "It's so humiliating to be intellectually crushed by a Freshman. Thank god, I'm almost done. In a few short months, I'll be getting paid a buck twenty-five a year for this. Hey, did you ever get those Wisconsin hockey tickets."

"Thanks for reminding me. I've got four seats for tonight's game." Wisconsin was playing Minnesota for the Big 10 Championship.

"How much?"

I hated to be greedy, but we were so broke. "I think they're worth about a couple hundred bucks. I was going over there to sell them."

"Wow, the birth of a capitalist. Very good! OK, I'll take them, on one condition."

"What's that?"

"That you and a friend be Peter's and my guests."

"Let me make a call." I borrowed Peter's cell and slipped into the bathroom.

Tran was skeptical about going with a couple of law students, and I was especially nervous about these two sleek young right-wingers. "But it'll be perfect. The seats are right behind the Visitor's bench. You know who will see us and go nuts."

Tran had to agree, it was perfect revenge on Rick and Randy. Of course, our secrets were their secrets too, but they had rejected us, and deserved payback. If it had to be in the middle of a hockey game, so much the better.

"OK," I told Peter, "my friend Teri is willing to go, but we really weren't aren't into hockey anymore. I mean, after tutoring those guys them all year, I am tired of them.

And my friend Tran is Vietnamese. She's more into soccer, but what she really likes is dancing."

"I know a great club," Alec said. I'll call the doorman and get us on the list."

Karl was the only one who showed up for tutoring that day. He had gotten hurt in during the season and had been dropped from the starting lines. He was the only player studying because there was no way a backup was going get playing time in the game tonight.

"I hear you're not seeing Rick anymore, izzat right?"

"We were just good friends. It's no big deal."

"He acts like it's a big deal. He told me he'd kick my ass if I asked you out. What gives?"

"I guess he's just jealous. But Coach Barnes put the whole team off limits anyway.

Sorry. I need this job."

"Well I think Rick's nuts. I think you're the cutest girl around. And the smartest too."

I gave him a peck on the cheek, and a gentle brush of my breast against his forearm.

"You're so sweet to say so. Good luck tonight." I filed Karl away for future reference.

Peter and Alex showed up with a bottle of Crystal. I answered the door while Tran kept primping. They had never seen me in full make up, high heels and a black strapless party dress, and they were momentarily, and for them, uncharacteristically speechless. "Ah- uh, a high fashion radical, huh?"

"I'm like, a fashionista. Like, y'know, I'm from LA," I mimicked in Valley Girl talk.

"All of the Hollywood Democrats dress like this for parties. You weren't expecting Golden Gopher Sweatshirts, were you?"

"I should have known better. Where's your friend?"

"Tran's in there. Don't rush her. It'll be worth your wait."

They popped the champagne, and I produced our best coffee cups. "Sorry to do this, but this is all we have. I'm on scholarship, and Tran's, well, unemployed at the moment."

At that moment, Tran emerged, looking stunning. Her body had become even more voluptuous since the surgery, and her face softer and more feminine. "Hi, she always calls me Tran, but I like my American name better. You can call me Teri."

"Uh, OK, they're, I mean, you're beautiful," Peter stuttered, visibly transfixed by her spectacular breasts. We clinked a clunky coffee cup toast to one another, and downed the heavenly bubbles of Roderer. Then Tran and I did what we did best: let guys talk about themselves. Peter and Alec had such highly developed egos this was easy. They had developed their easy, country club conservatism the old fashion way: they inherited it from prosperous merchant forebears, whose properties and assets promised them easy, comfortable lives. Of course, their Daddies demanded college and law degrees to validate their possession of their superior, Protestant genes, and that they put in a couple of years at big law firms before taking over a directorship at the family business. They were middle of the class, but the top firms had snapped them up in the hope of establishing a relationship that would produce income for some lucky lawyer for life.

They only had to survive third year, the bar exam, and a couple of hellish years as associates, and they were set for life. They had the smug self-confidence of boys who had never had to struggle for anything. We chatted past game time, and drove to the stadium in Alec's late model BMW. I listened attentively for Tran's opening moves in the back seat, but she bided her time.

The champagne hit me hard on an empty stomach, and I was swaying on my heels as we walked through the freezing, wind swept parking lost to the arena. Roars echoed from within, and as we entered they reached a deafening pitch even as we walked to our seats.

We squeezed past frenzied fans to our seats, the only vacant ones in the place. On the blindingly bright ice, players wheeled, charged, and crashed as they flailed at each other and the skittering puck. It was half way through the second period, and Minnesota led, 3- 2. As my eyes adjusted, I recognized first Rick, and then Randy and pointed them out to Tran. On the next icing the puck call, Tran, who was clueless about the sport, leapt to her feet and gave a high pitched but pointless hurrah, which caught Randy's attention. He glared at us, and Tran reflexively put her arm around, and nuzzled her boobs against a very pleased Peter. A moment later, Rick looked up to see me whispering ostentatiously into Alec's ear. "I think my old boyfriend saw us." Rick grimaced, then looked down at the ice and skated in a tense circle until the face off.

They never looked up at us again, but they thereafter played with unbridled viciousness.

Rick and Randy threw crushing body checks, slapped shots and slammed opponents into the glass in an extraordinary display of defensive aggression, and each drew several penalties in the see-saw match. Peter and Alec were rabid fans, and Alec hugged and kissed me each time Minnesota scored, and I hugged and comforted him when Wisconsin replied. The score was tied as the clock ran down, and then disaster struck. As Rick raced down the ice on a breakaway, a Wisconsin defender got slashed at and tripped him, and they toppled to the ice. The referee belatedly called a penalty on the Wisconsin player, but by then Rick already had his stick above his head and slashed the Badger in retaliation, who crumpled to the ice under the blow. Randy joined the affray, kicking at and pummeling the hapless victim. As Rick, Randy and the bleeding Badger were all ejected, I was consumed with guilt, as I felt this outburst of rage must have been partly meant for Tran and me. They glared at us angrily as they skated off the ice, as we stared in silent disbelief.

The Gophers were depleted and outnumbered as the match went into overtime, but I saw to my delight that Rick and Randy's disgraceful exit had given poor Karl a chance at redemption. I let out a yell when the substitution was announced, and he saw me and waved. Alec frowned jealously: "You've got another hockey player in reserve?" I swatted him playfully and said "He's just one of my students." Karl played with artistry and energy, and soon the sullen arena had revived. Then, in an instant, Karl took a pass at the blue line and fired a rocket that rose off the ice, threaded through a crisscrossing array of players, and bounced off the helmet of the blinded Wisconsin goalie for a score.

Trig problem solved, Karl's smile seemed to convey, as he flashed a thumbs up in my direction.

We escaped the celebratory tumult to Alec's now frosty Beamer. Despite the painfully frigid night air, Alec draped his camel hair coat over my freezing arms, he shivered visibly as we drove back into town. "Don't worry, it's always hot at the Quest."

Tran broke free of an extended embrace of Peter. "We're going to Quest? That's so cool. Will Prince be there?" Peter silenced her with another breathy kiss.

"That place is impossible to get into," I remarked.

Alec announced proudly, "My dad's company owns the building. Of course we can get in."

O my god! A rich kid, I mused. No wonder he's a Republican. Oh well, it was my duty to convert him.

The bouncers at Quest waved us past the knot of supplicants waiting at the door, and didn't bother checking our ID, even though it was Saturday, 25 and over night at Quest.

Alec led us past the deafening dance floor and the mobbed bar, both milling with dazzling beautiful people, up a staircase to the relative tranquillity of the Galaxy Balcony.

We sat in a secluded booth in the corner that had been marked reserved.

A waitress appeared with four frosty, beautiful martini glasses brimming with Alec's usual, a green apple martini. I had thought of martinis as a drink for my dad's generation, but Alec's clique had adopted it as their own, and Tran and I were enthusiastic converts.

The tart, cold drink hit me instantly, and charged me with manic, intoxicated energy. It was too loud to talk, so after we finished our second round, I dragged Alec to the dance floor, where I lost myself in the throb of deafening techno. The wallop of vodka had completely dashed my inhibitions, so I really let go with my dancing, and Alec was utterly smitten by my sinuous moves.

When the DJ put on a slow number, his hands impatiently traced the curves of bottom and breasts, and he ground his groin into my privates. I didn't really care what people thought, but I whispered "Let's get some privacy," and we retreated to our booth, where he explored my silky skin, and invited me to explore his. He pulled my hands inside his pants, and I only half resisted. I mean, I was kind of worried about doing this on a first date with a classmate I barely knew, but I was half drunk and really bummed out about Rick's atrocious behavior toward me, and at the hockey game. What better revenge than to go down on some rich guy I didn't really like. But it was weird: it was like, I couldn't find his cock. When I did, I had to suppress a giggle. His cock was barely bigger than mine had been. No wonder he was so pompous and full of himself: he had a major shortcoming to compensate for. Then, a flash of brilliant insight emerged from my drunken state. He was perfect: no thicker, and not as long as, my one-inch stent. I gave him a passionate kiss, then broke off and said, "I need to go to the ladies room. Don't go away!" I tapped Tran's shoulder signaled her to come with, and she broke off from her grappling with Peter. "We'll be right back," I promised.

I put on more gloss and mascara, and when we were alone, I confided to Tran "It's so perfect. Alec must have the littlest cock in the western world."

"I don't think so. Peter's is well, like this." She circled her forefinger and thumb in a tight circle. "Lots of fun, but not enough for my taste."

"Are you kidding, they're both Mr. Right for us."

Tran started to disagree, and I said "Think dilation," and then it hit her too.

"You're a genius. He's perfect. But you told me no sex on this date."

"Call it a change of circumstances. Let's roll."

They had yet another round of martinis waiting for us when we returned, and I can't remember if that was it or whether we had still another. I vaguely remember Alec half carrying me to his car, and helping me up the stairs to his condo. "Where's Tran?" I asked groggily.

"I dropped her and Peter at his place. Are you OK?"

"I'm feeling better now," I lied. I actually felt like throwing up, but I was determined to test drive my new equipment. I went to the bathroom, and lubed my vagina thoroughly.

"May I just lie down for a minute?"

"Sure he said, fluffing a pillow for me. I took off my pumps and lay down, striking a vulnerable pose. He excused himself and hit the head, and when he returned he said "Don't mind if I do so myself," and lay down beside me, naked to his boxers. "I guess you're staying over," he said gleefully. He began fondling my breasts, saying "God, you are so beautiful," and smothering me with kisses.

"We can't do this," I said coyly. "I mean, we're in that class together, and I'm always arguing with you and Peter. Won't it be awkward?"

"I'll never disagree with another word you say," he promised.

"No, I want you to be the same in class."

"OK, I promise that. Whatever you want. I have to have you." He pulled my dress up over my head, and I limply acquiesced. He unclasped my bra, and marveled at my exposed breasts. "Wow, you are even more beautiful than I imagined." He kissed each of my nipples worshipfully, and I cradled his head as he suckled me. Full sensation had returned there, and pleasure rippled through me body. He rubbed my mons and clitoris through my panties, and the waves of sensation roiled together, and almost involuntarily my thighs parted invitingly. "OK," I sighed, and he slid off his boxers, as I wriggled out of my panties.

He studied me momentarily, and then pronounced "You are absolutely exquisite."

"Thank you," I whispered sweetly. He pressed his cock against me, and I guided the tip between my labia to the moist entrance of my vagina. I bit my lip as he entered me. I was expecting something like the smooth finish of my stent, but the warmth and textures of his penis made the feeling utterly different. Rather than smooth, frictionless pressure, Alec's cock pushed and pulled roughly against the delicate walls that Sanguan had built inside me. Forgotten, unused neurons fired off alarms, which I did not know how to respond to. It was all so unfamiliar, to feel a cock exploring a totally new place. But when he reached the point where penile and colon skin were clashing and forming a ring of scar tissue, these distant and confusing signals were replaced with a clear message of sharp pain. I squeezed my thighs together to try to prevent him from probing beyond that barrier, but it was too late. He gasped, "Wow, you are so tight, it feels so good," and rammed through it. A fiery blast of pain wracked my body and ricocheted through my nervous system. The passage of the penis through the ring was even more painful than the initial penetration of the sphincters in anal sex. As pain thrashed through me, he began pumping faster and faster. Each time his cock passed through that gateway of scar tissue, I winced and moaned as a searing fire of agony engulfed me, but he interpreted these cries as evidence of my ecstasy, and he kissed my face and neck, and massaged my luxuriant breasts. Suddenly, he cried out "I'm gonna cum," and he throbbed spasmodically, and then collapsed on top of me.

"Did you cum too?" he asked hopefully. As my breath heaved from this ordeal, I murmured and nodded a false confirmation, and felt his handhold on my breasts gradually soften as he drifted off to sleep. This exertion and the martinis had left me drained and exhausted, but I felt too stressed to sleep, and I stifled sobs as my eyes stung with tears of frustration and disappointment. After all pain, danger, expense, and difficult recovery from my surgery, I was still sexually dysfunctional. I needed another operation, but Sanguan's brilliant but esoteric techniques intimidated my US doctors, and I had no money for the operation or the travel. Besides, I needed to finish the semester, so I had no way to get to Thailand for at least two months. Alec was rich, and I thought he was crazy about me, and but now he would expect to make love to me, and through the agony I would have to learn to fake orgasms. If I confided my problem, he'd probably go totally postal and dump me just as heartlessly as Rick had. Despite all of my efforts to remake myself, nothing had changed. I was still the same old me: living lies, beautiful to behold, but impossible to possess.