Round breasts that project almost horizontally

Round breasts that project almost horizontally (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

She trick fucked me, Trudi, I say.  She’d been after me for years.  She’d say asinine things like, ‘It wouldn’t kill you to put on some mascara before I come home at night.’  A man put on mascara?  I thought she was joking but she was dead serious.  If I had it to do all over again I’d have just done it.  She would’ve stopped going out on me for a while at least.  And she got her way at the end anyway.

Finally I humored her after she nagged me into seeing a surgeon who did tits.  We even sat down in front of the computer and picked out what kind of tits we wanted on me.  I had no intention of going through with it, even though I’d let her dress me in the morning and put makeup on me.  She’d already thrown out all my man clothes.  Dana was a part time model in college and she knew about clothes.  She picked out women’s clothes for me that she knew were really cute.  She wanted the whole thing to be positive, of course.  The clothes looked so good I couldn’t bring myself to hate them.

How did she trick fuck you?  Trudi says.

I was going to leave her.  The day before the surgery I was going to leave her and marry my old high school gf.  My old gf was killed that afternoon in a car accident and I was in shock.  That night Dana drugged me and I woke up after surgery with some very nice breasts.  They were so beautiful I couldn’t have them off, you know, not and face Dana’s wrath.  I guess at that point I gave up and decided to live permanently as a woman even though I had all my male equipment down below.  I became a chick with a dick.  Dana was so happy and we got along so well I didn’t care.

She didn’t force you to be transgendered?

No.  That came later and was my idea.  Dana didn’t even want me to do that.  Even though she was a les, she loved my dick, she said.  She’d get on me and impale herself and have a great time.  And since I had tits she could use them to give me more pleasure.  It was great.  Sex was even better.  And Dana is a master lover.


But finally Dana started going out on me again.

Was there a point when you just gave up and decided to be a woman for Dana?

That was the point after I got breasts.

But what was the point when you stopped humoring Dana and thought of yourself as a woman?

Dana dressed me every day for a while, like I said.  That day I was in a skirt and heels.  I got a look at myself in a mirror and that settled the matter for good.  I looked so feminine.  I asked myself ‘Is that me?’  The answer was yes, that is who I am and always have been inside and out.  There was no point in kidding myself any longer.  I’ve been a woman ever since.  I can remember I was a man once but that’s immaterial.  It was another life.

I cant believe it, Fanci.

That’s one reason I love you.  Estrogens have been kind to me after I started taking them two years ago before I got tits.  I was on the thin side as a man and early on as a woman but not anymore.  Now I have great looking curves.  And my clothes are chosen to emphasize and flatter every inch of them and my cleavage and my heart shaped ass.

What was the hardest part of the change?  Cross dressing?

Actually the worst part wasn’t wearing women’s clothes.  It was embarrassing myself by looking like a man in drag.  Dana promised me she’d never let me go outside looking like that.  She kept her promise.  From the start she always made me look like a woman until I was a woman in my head.

How did you come to be called Fanci?  I love it.  You’re a classy girl and it suits you.

When I was a man Fancyboy was one of Dana’s pet names for me.  I called her Cupcake and she called me Fancyboy.  When I became a woman it became Fancygirl and then just Fanci.  Dana hardly ever calls me Erin.  Neither does anyone else.  Dana bought me a red Camaro with a license plate that read “Fanci.’

Was this after Dana became a lesbian?

Dana became a lesbian early.  That’s what I’m going to talk about next.


When I Met Dana

Women on Top: How Real Life Has Changed Women'...

Women on Top: How Real Life Has Changed Women’s Sexual Fantasies (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

When I met Dana everything changed, I say to Trudi.  The world became warmer and brighter and I no longer felt so alone and aimless, I say to Trudi.

I’m lying with the back of my head on her very warm lap.  She is cupping my breast and fingering my nipple.  I move her hand away because I cant think to talk when she is doing that.

So how did you two meet?   She says.  It must be…

We were in undergraduate school, I say wistfully.  Dana had a roommate who was in my class.  We were supposed to work on a class project together.  I had to call her about what we were going to do and Dana answered.  And I answered in this voice, I say, dropping to my natural deep, resonant double bass.

Trudi looks startled.  That’s your original voice?  She says.

That’s it.  When I got my tits Dana made me go to a speech therapist to learn to talk in this sweet, little girl voice that is now my natural speaking voice.  But back then I was a man and I talked like this, I say, emphasizing the richness of the deep, masculine voice.

Honey, that is a great voice, Trudi says, playing with my hair.  Women got wet and fantasized when they heard that voice.  You know that?

Sure, I know it.  I had part time and summer jobs doing telephone sales.  I was good at it.  Made a lot of money for school.  It didn’t take me long to realize that the women I was selling to were fantasizing about my voice.  If you just hear me on the phone I sound like a six and a half foot two hundred and fifty pound tight end that is huge.  Women just loved talking to me.

I’ll bet, she says drily.

I called the girl about the class project and Dana answered the phone.  She must’ve liked my voice because she wouldn’t call her roommate to the phone.  Dana wanted to talk to me so she kept talking to me.  She told me there’d be plenty of time for me to talk to the roommate and that I could damn well talk to her for a few minutes.

Dana’s always been brassy like that?

From the gitgo, I say.  Dana asked me, ‘Do you look as good as you sound?’  And I said, ‘What do you think?’  And she said, ‘You couldn’t possibly, ‘ and sighed.  At that point I knew she had her hand in her pants, I just knew it.

If I heard a voice like yours on the phone I think I would too, Trudi says.

Bite your tongue, I say to her.  You’re supposed to be les.

So what?

Anyway, Dana and I had phone sex right there.  We talked very dirty and masturbated and when we were both right there, we climaxed together.  Dana said, ‘I want to see you.’  I suggested we get something to eat and get better acquainted.  She said fuck that, that she was going to tell her roommate to get the fuck out and not come back till tomorrow, which I said was rude and horrible.  Finally we just got a room and fucked our brains out.

Did you like her that much?

Oh, I sure did.  I knew she was mate for life.

How?  Trudi says, tucking my hair behind my ears with a lover’s touch.

It was how her hair smelled when it was dirty, I say.  Can you grasp that?  I knew there’d never be anyone else for me.  I could understand why these good women throw themselves at these worthless men if they were affected by them that way.  When I got a whiff of Dana’s hair I would have done anything for her.  It’s funny.  This sounds like what a woman would say about a man, but I guess it could go either way.  I was in love and I was past logic or remorse.

What about Dana’s attraction for you?

That’s less obvious.  Once she told me it was my voice and my intellect.  That didn’t sound like much.  Anyway at the University I was supposed to sub for a psychiatrist who was giving a lecture on catecholamines.  So I did that.  After I started lecturing I saw that Dana was in the audience.  Dana, who thinks catecholamines are a new breed of Siamese.  Anyway, she said she was so hot for me she touched herself all through he lecture.

Dana is quite a character, Trudi says.

Soon we moved into a little apartment off campus.  That semester she had an early class and I would be upset when she had to get out of bed and leave.  I was such a baby, but she liked that.  Soon we were married. We were both very much in love.  As mean as Dana can be, I have to say she’s always tried her best to take care of me in her twisted way.  She also said, always has, that I’ve never had a problem that couldn’t be solved by taking me to bed.  She may have been right.  Every time I’d get upset she’d  take me to the bedroom and get on top of me and I forgot what I was upset about.

Did she always get on top?

That was Dana’s rule.  I asked her if she got better clitoral stimulation that way and she said no but it was easier to touch herself and speed things along.  That was good because I’d come faster in that position than any other.  Once in a while I’d get on top when we’d play sex games like chasing each other through the house.  But her on me was always my favorite position so we didn’t fight about it.

Why did you like it?

It was so comfortable.  Missionary is hard, really.  I had to get on my hands and knees and balance and try to stay hard and grind down and  up with my hips and fight for an orgasm.  On my back I could relax and enjoy.  And I sure did.  It’s sweet and warm and comfortable and intimate.  I loved her so much I…

Don’t cry, Fanci, Trudi says.

I sniffle and say, Dana and I were fine until she lost her $5 million inheritance in the ’08 bank crash.  All of it.  She had a good job and we had a 100 acre farm and three new cars free and clear so we would have been fine.  But she went nuts and became abusive.  And after that she decided she was a lesbian.  But that’s another story.

I’ve got all night, Trudi says.

Let me get a glass of water and I’ll go on.  There’s a lot to cover.

When did she shanghai you and give you breasts?

That’s on down the road, Trudi.  It was enough of a shock when she came out.

Dana and Trudi and Lovemaking Style

(163 x 80 cm)

(163 x 80 cm) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In the water

In the water (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Detail from Birth of Venus by William-Adolphe ...

Detail from Birth of Venus by William-Adolphe Bouguereau, 1879. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Dana’s lovemaking style is different from Trudy’s.  Dana’s like a tank and after Dana gets through with me I feel like I have been run over by a tank.  She’s very rough.  She makes it a point to hurt me a little because I told her I like it [pervert!].  I like it when she’s so rough I feel like she’s going to split me open.  Of course that’s just me.

Dana is absolutely dominant over me [and a consummate lover]. And calling herself my husband is no figure of speech.  When I tell her she’s more of a man than I ever was it’s mainly to make her hot but it’s also true.  Not that there’s anything mannish or unfeminine about Dana.  But Dana’s the man.

Trudy is all about subtlety.  She is tender and patient and seductive and deceptive and deferential.  Orgasm is out there somewhere but it’s like a little vine that slithers around me and tickles and flirts and next thing I know I’m caught and held down.  And there it is.  The Gorgon rears out of the lake at me and shows not the face that is so ugly it turns you to stone but the face of a woman so beautiful it produces instantaneous multiple orgasms in any that look upon it.

I throw my knees wide apart and gaping to welcome Trudi’s animal thrust.  I scream an angry scream that turns to a carnal howl of triumph and a wicked laugh as I glory in my triumphant submission.  Shrill, inhuman, ecstatic, berserk, my cry is more descriptive than words of the violation that I seek.  Animal cunning and greed and the power of a pussy.

Did I hurt you sweetie?  Trudi asks me tenderly.

No, Dear, I say, gasping for breath.  When I do that just keep going like you did.  If you’d slowed down I would’ve killed you.

That’s what I thought, she says, giggling sweetly.  You sure do enjoy sex.

I sure do, I say.  Now what’s your pleasure?


One good turn deserves another, my love, I say.

Weeeell..let me think about that.  Could we do it later?

You sure?

Yes, Fanci.  I want you to tell me about Dana and your marriage.  And how you er…came to be you.  I hope you don’t mind.  I just thought you’d feel like telling me now that you’re er…in a better mood.

Let’s take a shower then, I say.  And then we’ll talk about all that.  It’s a long story and it’s going to be a long evening.

From Rikki to Mount Irvin

Indiana State Route 9

Indiana State Route 9 (Photo credit: Dougtone)

Brunswick, Georgia

Brunswick, Georgia (Photo credit: Dougtone)

Historic downtown Marietta's town square

Historic downtown Marietta’s town square (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Indiana State Line, US 136

Indiana State Line, US 136 (Photo credit: mobilene)

What am I doing here?  I don’t belong in this place.  This is what I think as I view the street and square of Mount Irvin, a dinky little town in Indiana.  I’m not from here.  I’m from Atlanta.  But my loving ex-wife Rikki manipulated me into leaving.  But i’m getting ahead of myself.

When I knew I couldn’t hang on there in Atlanta I should’ve checked myself into a private psychiatric hospital and had my nervous breakdown in peace, instead of trying to work, which I have no business doing.  From living in a house in Marietta to a mold infested apartment over a store.  Mid summer.  Hot as hell.  Claustrophobic place.  My panic disorder would have me running down the streets screaming like a poisoned Duke if I didn’t have a headful of Amitryptiline.

You see, summer in a small town in the Midwest can be deadly.  Worse than the slum summer I spent in Baltimore or the deep wet summer in the port of Brunswick, Georgia.  It isn’t the deadliness of filth and despair.  But on summer weekends an evil message seems to be passing from sunlight to shadow at the edge of afternoon in the relentless curse of time.

Of course the reason this is worse is obvious: I am alone.  That’s why.  I was a fool to let Rikki root me out of my home.  It was just as much mine as hers.

Summer waddling by slowly.  Days begin to rhyme, heat bending the air, small breaks in the pavement, days when nothing moves but insects.  A scream is imminent at every door and window.  The threat is worst in summer in the wide rows of sunlight.  Sundays in a small Midwest town inflames and perverts emotion with the speed of insanity.  And I feel it most on Sunday when everything is closed.

Let me correct myself.  Weekends are worst.  During the week there is work and I’m not at home enough to feel it.  The rage and panic hit on weekends.  Sometimes Saturday, sometimes Sunday.  Usually not both.  Yesterday was just such a Saturday and it was so bad I almost checked myself into the hospital.

Sundays it’s as though the vile miasma of all Christendom is spread over the land.  Metal hot to the touch and hell stench of mold inside this place.   Gideon bibles turning yellow all over the state.  Revivalists handling snakes.  Christian wives going to bible camp to learn how to be more judgmental.  WTF am I doing here?  I want to go home.



September (Photo credit: Helgi Halldórsson/Freddi)

                            September 1998

Chilly morning in late September.  People out cleaning up their yards.  Air full of the smell of chlorophyll and the drowsy iron song of the mowers.  I am sitting on a wall at a busy intersection this Saturday with a friend of mine from school.  Since we are trembling on the brink of puberty we are talking about little girls and the ways they have of letting little boys know they’re interested.

And speak of the devil.  Along comes this girl I’ve never seen before riding a bike slowly down the sidewalk.  Brown hair flowing beautifully down her shoulders, wearing a boy’s oversized flannel shirt over a low cut tank top.  When she looks at us she glances only briefly, then tosses her hair back out of her eyes and ends up in a pose with her lips ever so slightly parted.  The low tank top really shows us what she’s got, which is her intent.  She’s just begun to really get breasts and she wants to make sure no one in the whole world is deprived of knowing that, since no woman in the history of the whole world has ever grown a pair, just her.  Kids are like that.

As she rides by I like what I’m looking at so much I break off in mid sentence and gawk at her.  After she passes us she raises her rear end just up off the seat of the bike to show us her ass and wiggles it at us so we wont think what’s back there isn’t as good as what’s up front.

The boy sees me staring at her and snorts in disgust.

Oh, that’s Ginger, he says.  She’ll give you a piece any old time.

I look at him and raise my eyebrows.

It’s true!  He protests indignantly.  If you don’t believe me just ask…

I believe you, I believe you, I say.  And I bet that’s not all she’d give you.

He shrugs and says, So?  Wear something.

Better wear three somethins.

We laugh so hard we are in danger of falling off the low wall.  If Ginger hears us laughing at her she gives no indication as she turns the corner.

I never see Ginger again, and it’s a good thing.  That girl is trouble, and I would have been in a world of it as soon as she touched me with those cute little hands.

Watch the Skies

open source music

open source music (Photo credit: Royalty Free Music)

It’s hard to write coherently about something that happened long before you were born, when the source is questionable because that source may be pulling your appendage.  Still, as apocryphal as this supposedly true story is, it’s entertaining enough to write about even if it never happened except in somebody’s head.

Late 1940s.  We have won the war and everybody knows the next one will be with the Russians.  And they have the bomb.  And everybody’s scared shitless about nuclear destruction.  Why wouldn’t they be?  The world had never seen anything like the bomb, and no one had any faith that we would get through these years without the end of the world.

So people were scared.  When they couldn’t deal with fear of the bomb, they decided to be afraid of something else that was easier to grasp, like “communists.”  Or “aliens.”  It was in the late 1940s that the idea of extraterrestrial life became a part of pop culture.  The idea of hostile invading aliens became a common theme in movies.  Everybody was told to “watch the skies.”

But fear this intense, even of something like “aliens” is paralyzing and has to be dealt with somehow.  The healthiest way was to get a sense of humor like two college boys did.  Their practical joke embarrassed so many people they were dealt with very harshly, which is too bad.  No one was hurt, just humiliated.  And the idea of aliens was so popular even AP and UPI bought it uncritically.

This is what happened.  Two college boys somehow got hold of a little monkey and shaved it.  Then they painted its face to look like a man.  Then they made a little space suit for it.  Finally they attached wires to it so they could maneuver him like a marionette and make him appear to “levitate.”  The boys got up in the leaves of a tree on Highway 78 east of Atlanta and made the monkey levitate until somebody noticed it.

Pretty soon the locals were out gawking at the visitor from another planet, parking their cars all over the place and causing traffic jams.  The police cordoned off the area while they figured out what to do while everyone watched the alien levitate down from the branches of the tree and back up and back down.

UPI doesn’t exist anymore but they did then.  They and AP were reporting that an “alien” had landed outside Atlanta.  Everybody was in an uproar.  When the monkey squeaked or squawked everybody thought it was trying to communicate in an advanced language beyond our comprehension.  But they tried.  They had people trying to speak to it in every language they could.

Finally some guy from the Yerkes Primate Center at Emory went out to see what the fuss was about.

He took one look at the alien and said:  Oh, hell, this is a Goddamn monkey.

IDK how they covered up a news story that hot that fast but I guess things were different back then.  Everything was hushed up.  The students were punished to the fullest.   And all this never happened.

The truth is out there.

It’s All in Your head 4: Conclusion

Living Room - Big Couch

Living Room – Big Couch (Photo credit: TomBorowski)

As I walk in the door Frank brushes past me and walks to his wife in the kitchen.  I can see Sherry on the sofa in the living room.

I go in and stop and she says, Hi, Michael, in a weak voice.

Hello, I say, my voice cold as the grave.

Frank and Annie piddle around for a minute, then discretely withdraw.  I sit on the sofa far enough away that she cant touch me.

Now I wish I hadn’t let myself be bulldogged into coming back here.  I don’t really want to see her.  I had cursed, grieved for her, and given her up.  Yet here I am, ready for more punishment.  I almost get up and leave.  This is unbearable.

I don’t like you very much right now, I hiss at her between clenched teeth.  My voice sounds strange and metallic and horrible.  Your father came to see me, I say.  He says you want me back.   Well, here I am.

She looks at me and says, Did we just have our first fight?

Okay, I think.  This is how she wants to play it.

Yeah, right, I say and start laughing bitterly and hysterically.  That’s right.  That’s right.  I owe you a big apology.  I let my imagination run wild, couldn’t stop it, said things I shouldn’t have that are best forgotten.   Let’s blow it off.  Forget it.  It never happened.

I collapse against the back of the sofa and lie still.  IDK how long it is until she decides I wont bite her and comes over and touches me.  I put my arm around her and pull her to me.

She says, Does this mean I’m forgiven?

I laugh quietly.  And say, Not my place to forgive.  There’s nothing for me to forgive, since you didn’t do anything.  I should be asking you to forgive me.  But if you need forgiveness I forgive you.  IDC anymore.  I told you that.

And when I remember what I said right here a few days ago I am ready to cry.  I am tired and I am broken.

This is the second time you walked out on me but I’m not mad, I don’t care, I just want you with me.

I sigh.  Alright, I say.  We’re friends again.  Take me upstairs and fuck me.

Let’s do that right now, she says seriously.


Friday, February 15, 2002

In the morning it is chilly but not cold and the chickenshit snow has sublimed into patches of white on the dead winter grass beneath the foul sky.  Frank is under a corner of the house, hammering and nailing something.

I say, Hey, Frank!

Yeah?  He says.  He doesn’t look up.

Thank you.

For what?

For making me go back to her.

He stops and looks up at me.  There is a nail in his mouth.  He takes the nail out and says, Don’t thank me yet.  In a few years she’ll be your headache, not mine.  I just got tired of her cryin and bitchin and I knew you were over there sulkin and miserable.  Wadnt no sense in none of it.


He goes back to hammering.  Says, You’re a good guy, Michael.  You’re just so hard headed cant nobody tell you nothing.

I guess I’ll see you directly then, I say.

He doesn’t answer.

She is in the driveway with her new car, a BMW.  I go over and she kisses me on the mouth.

I stammer, I…I’m…, I stutter, trying to get the words out.

She gently puts her hand over my mouth and says,  Forget it.  Nothing ever comes out even.  Let’s start over.  I know you’re not right in the head after all they did to you.  It’s not your fault.  We’ll be alright.

We’re both fucked, I say.

No, we’re not.  We’re alright.  Get in.  I’ll drive you to your car.

She drives me home and stops in front of the Trans Am.  She doesn’t stop the engine.

Go to school, she says.  I’ll see you tonight.

I will see her tonight and the next and the next and on and on.

She drives off toward Bush Mountain and I drive out Destiny Road, a sorry penitent seeking absolution in a muscle car.  An emotionally mangled orphan grown into a scarecrow of a man heading into a dark and horrible millennium until, like all mortals, I am drowned in the ocean of night.

Consummatum Est.