“Bradley,” she moans breathlessly, “come here.” She pulls me onto her, forcing my jeans down and off in one swift motion, then positioning my body so that I too am in her mouth while she remains in mine. The scent of her warm, wet cunt urges me to continue burying my face between her lips but now, suddenly, I feel uncomfortable, cold almost. Laura knows I don’t like to be naked—even half naked—in the light. Something about the sight of my own pussy, vulnerable and small, puts me on edge. Still sucking at Laura’s clit and labia, I try to move myself away from her mouth. The sensation of her lips massaging me feels incredible but I just can’t do it, especially after feeling rejected earlier, in my briefs. I slide my lower half away from her and push two fingers deep inside her pussy, now overflowing with wetness.
“Come back, Brad,” she calls, reaching for me. I push another finger inside her as I jerk my hand into her again and again. The radiator kicks on, its evasive thunder pouring into the room.
Thursday, I meet Laura for dinner, after carefully plucking my eyebrows and applying just enough makeup so as not to be mistaken for a man.
“And you, sir, would you like to try a new crispy-chicken-super-meal?” the teenage girl says from behind the counter, her face covered in grease and spotted with blackheads.
I pause to think, as her question has interrupted my own thoughts, and watch as she blinks her eyes nervously waiting for my response. “Number one, please,” I say, deciding that ignoring the “sir” in her question is the most efficient way to order, “with a Coke and fries.”
Laura pushes her tray next to mine as she orders, nudging me down the line. The counter looks as though it’s made of imitation wood—probably meant to look rustic, a sad incantation of woodlands. Grabbing a fistful of napkins, I slide into a tiny booth at the back of the dining area, below a plastic mold of Roy Rodgers as a suave-looking cowboy.
“You look beautiful tonight,” I mouth, smiling and leaning across the table, taking Laura’s palm in mine. She is wearing a pair of slimming black pants and a red V-neck top, just off from work at Smiling Faces Daycare Center. I can smell her lilac-scented perfume from where I sit, as I cross my ankle over my other leg under the table.
I watch as Laura lifts a crumpled napkin to wipe some ketchup from the corner of my mouth; the gleam of a silver bracelet slides to meet her palm.
“Hey, where’d you get the pride bracelet?”
Laura pauses, lifting a chicken nugget to her lips. “Got it from Courin,” she finally says.
“Oh,” I mutter almost under my breath.
I hate Courin. Okay, I don’t hate her, but my feelings toward her border on utter disgust and are close to hatred. Courin and I had the pleasure of attending high school together, where she was one of those soon-to-be-pregnant teenage mother types that everyone seemed to want to walk with in the halls, and I, on the other hand, was lucky if anyone even said hello to me by fifth period. Needless to say, Courin and I never got along. She’s hot, though, I’ll give her that—dark hair and eyes, with a sweet, puckered mouth that looks like a fresh-cut peach. Oh, and that ass! She has one of those perfect asses that sits real high and round, the kind you want to just dig your nails into.
“I know you don’t like her, Bradley,” Laura says, rubbing her fingers over my palm, “but, trust me. There is nothing going on between us.”
I let out an almost inaudible sigh. I find it hard to believe that the two of them are not at least mildly interested in one another.
“You’re too cute when you pout, Baby,” she says, leaning over to playfully scratch her fingers in my hair. “I’ll make it up to you.” The hairs on my arms stand straight up and tickle the pores they originate from, as my breath traps in my chest. Is she coming on to me? Laura and I still have sex, but usually I am the initiator, the beggar at best.
“Tonight?” I ask, my voice quivering as I rub fingers through my chaotic short hair. Tonight of all nights is the worst possible time Laura could have chosen to come on to me. Beneath my clothes, the dildo is strapped between my legs, tucked tight down the side of my jeans. Tonight is the strap-on’s first public appearance. I wear it around the apartment, but only when I’m alone, perhaps reading, lounging on the checkered bedspread in our room. It makes me feel real, authentic maybe, as if that was the way I should have been crafted as I plunged my way out of my mother’s womb, a tiny penis flopping between my legs. The pressure of the dildo beneath my jeans is sometimes enough to make me come all by itself. I’ve never told Laura. She continues her seduction, stroking my leg until she moves up my thigh and discovers it.
“Bradley, what’s this?” She draws her hand back to her side of the table, fast.
“What?” I look away and smooth the fronts of my Levis, concentrating on the navy-and-white striped pattern of my polo shirt—anything to avert her gaze.
“Brad?” she persists, her eyes fixing onto mine as she leans back against the baby-blue cushioning of the booth. Biting at her lip, she raises an eyebrow and leans forward again. “You’re wearing the dick, aren’t you?”
I look up at her, but don’t want to confirm her statement. I feel like I’m three years old again, aware that I should hide the fact that I have been touching myself, but not sure why.
“This is sick,” Laura mouths, hard on the consonants. “What the hell is wrong with you? Do you want to be a man?”
“Of course not, i-it’s just fantasy….” I stutter, trying to convince myself.
She gives me a look.
“So is this an everyday thing for you? When were you going to tell me?” Laura crosses her arms and bites at her lip some more.
“No, no,” I say, my hand cupped over my mouth muffling my words. “This is the first time.” I take the top bun off the chicken sandwich I had ordered and place it on the tray. The large hunk of meat lying there seems less and less appealing.
“Well, why the fuck are you doing it?” She shifts from side to side, ruffling her clothes.
I dig my hands deep into my pockets, not moving as a blond boy nearby sweeps the floor littered with paper straw wrappers and packets of salt. I didn’t think wearing the dildo would have been this big a deal. Apparently I was wrong. I look across the table at Laura; even though she is pissed off she seems small, tender almost.
“I-I don’t really know how to say this, so you’ll understand. I-I, um, I don’t want you to take this wrong but, I like girls, Bradley, girls.”
“I’m a girl, Laur.”
“Well, yeah, but you’re not.”
She takes my hand and squeezes it. The restaurant is growing cooler as the sun disappears behind balding elms outside the window, and I pull my sleeves down over my hands as Laura pushes the subject further.
“Don’t be mad at me.” Her hand reaches for mine as her voice snaps me away from the window. She places her other hand in front of my mouth, offering some french fries.
“It’s okay,” I say, taking the yellow strips of potato from her. Placing the fries on my tongue, I gnaw at their cold, rubbery outside before swallowing. Roy Rogers still grins down at us from the wall. I close my eyes and think of myself as a cowboy, as Roy Rogers even. My tan squared face smiling beneath a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, accompanied by the confident swing of calloused hands. I think of myself as a man, in worn-out leather chaps, riding a stallion, bareback. Something about this isn’t right. So I picture myself as a boy.
The next morning, I dress for work, not exactly looking forward to venturing outside the apartment. Beyond the window the sky is a muddle of grays, a Monet in black and white. I slide into a pair of loose-fitting, gray old-man-pants, soft from overuse and years of love, and begin buttoning up a beige collared shirt that looks straight out of the Old West. Peering down at my belly I see my black boxer-briefs riding just above the rim of my pants. “Laura doesn’t have to know,” I joke aloud to myself while parading in front of the mirror, then head for the door, but as I’m leaving I think. “Why not?” I say aloud. “It’s my body and if she ha
s a problem with it…well, whatever.” My voice trails off as I pull a black-and-blue beach bag from the bottom drawer of an oak dresser, and then stand up, dumping the contents—two dildos, a harness, and a bottle of lube—onto the bed. I unbutton my slacks again, allowing them to fall around my ankles, and take the black nylon harness from the bed, strapping it over my thighs and ass. I lean over and slip a pale, flaccid cock into the ring of the harness and pull my boxer-briefs and pants over it. The briefs hold the little guy nicely in place, but with enough room to breathe. I grab the other dildo, a hard seven-inch cock, from the bed and put it in my shoulder bag. Walking out the door, I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror, brush my black hair over my forehead with my fingers, and then swing my arms quickly, strutting into the hall. I feel good, I feel right.
“And I’m freeeeeeee, free falling,” I sing along to the classic rock station behind the counter at Caffeinated, the shop where I work. The cappuccino machine squeals in the background like a dying squirrel being sucked into a vacuum, whipping the froth that will be heaped on steaming cups of black coffee, well, not black anymore—the latte.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” I say as the noise from the cappuccino machine cuts out. The woman peers at me from behind thick-framed glasses. She has a wiry frame with a long eggplant-colored coat draped over it and a soft burnt-orange scarf wrapped about her neck.
“Can I have, um, tsa how do you say tsa, just a regular coffee,” the woman sucks her tongue between words as two little girls tug at her sleeves.
“Do you want cream?” I ask her, trying not to roll my eyes. I hate it when people are incapable of ordering coffee. Sure, the menu board reads “Café Americano,” but if you feel like an ass saying that then just call it coffee. Don’t pretend that you don’t know what it’s called. You wouldn’t be here in that case.
“Milk, two percent, and two hot chocolates with whipped cream,” the woman orders in a forced but fading British accent.
“Five eighty-five,” I tell her, handing over the drinks.
No tip.
Work is actually pretty empty for three in the afternoon. Usually the couches and La-Z-Boy have been claimed by high school kids on their way home, and the tables are frequented by individuals such as the woman who did not tip me. I grab a rag and begin wiping down the counter and the coffee makers. Pink Floyd plays on the radio. I really wish we could listen to another station.
Heading toward the back of the café, I drop the rag on an empty table, planning to continue cleaning on my way back from the bathroom. I push through the beaded curtains and knock on the ladies room door.
“Someone’s in here,” a voice shouts from within.
I lean my back against the mural-painted wall, waiting. It’s a fairly decent rendition of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. The bathroom door clicks open, and, at the same time I feel someone come up behind me.
“You can’t go in there,” a shrill voice sounds from behind. I ignore it, stepping forward. “You have to be a girl,” the voice continues, and I spin around to meet the lady I had just waited on. “You can’t go in there,” she instructs, hands on her large hips. “This is the ladies room.”
I feel my shoulders slump, a cold twinge shudder from the base of my spine draining the confident mood that had trailed me since this morning. I look down at the small bulge in my pants. It isn’t noticeable unless you know it’s there, but at that moment I feel like everyone can see me standing, briefs down around my ankles, my flaccid penis hanging there, defeated.
At fourteen, I used to press the tiny lumps of developing breasts back, back into my chest, hoping that if I pushed deep enough they wouldn’t resurface. Alone, in my bedroom, I would run my thumbs over my chest, applying pressure, then using my whole palms as a barrier from development the way a sea wall holds the ocean back from destroying land.
“Oh yeah,” I nod my head up and down. “Guess what, bitch?” The sound of the words spit out of my mouth as I grab at the rough fabric around my breasts, showing her my chest. Even in the dim light, I see the woman’s jaw drop wide open—I could easily fit my entire fist between her teeth.
“So what, Bradley? I thought you wanted to be a boy.” Laura retorts later that evening as she leans across the sticker-covered counter. I mop up coffee spills and dropped grounds that have collected in piles over the course of the day. Even when mixed with the dirt and mud from my boots and even after lying on the cold orange tile of the café for eight hours, the assuring aroma of the grounds still permeates the room. They are the silent witnesses to the shit I have endured throughout the day.
“I don’t really look like a boy…do I?” I brush some dirt into a pile and bend down to scoop it into a dust pan. Laura looks at me, her big blue eyes searching mine. She runs a hand through her hair and smiles a half smile.
“You are wearing men’s pants, aren’t you?” She giggles just a little as I try to erase the left-over lines of dirt into the dust pan, finally giving up and scattering the remaining grounds underneath a shelf that holds flavored syrups.
She looks cute tonight, more comfortable even, like the way I remember her when we first met. Laura presses her hands against a sand-blasted pair of baggy jeans, bespattered in black and white paint droplets and covered in tiny holes—probably the places where developer had landed when she used to wear the jeans into the darkroom. I can see her breasts through the top of her black zip-up sweater. The rounded contour of each one pressed together makes my legs tingle.
“Come here.” She reaches her arms out and I let myself fall into them, resting my head on her shoulder and smelling her neck—saturated with perfume. I smile, closing my eyes halfway and pushing my body against hers as her hands reach for my shoulders and then push me away just enough that our eyes meet. She reaches her hand down and cups it over the bulge in my pants.
“I thought so,” she says, swinging her hand away, “God, Brad, we talked about this, and we are supposed to be lesbians, lesbians! If I wanted a man I would date a man.” She sighs, “You don’t go through all the shit that we go through, the name calling, the lack of civil rights, the degeneration of dignity, just so you can go back to dick.”
“But Laura, this is not about conforming. It’s about me finding myself.” I scratch at my head while stepping back from her, trying not to invade her space. Laura closes her eyes, giving herself a moment to let her anger subside. She climbs onto one of the maroon stools in front of the counter as I slide onto the other one.
Laura lets her head slump into her hands. Her hair fans out around her. “I had this girlfriend, Sarah, when I was in high school. She was my first.” Laura’s voice is low and I strain to hear her.
“You told me about her,” I interrupt.
Laura looks up, distracted by my words. “I didn’t tell you everything, asshole.” She closes her eyes and then opens them. “Sorry.” The shop has grown cold, and I want to wrap my arms around Laura, want to keep us both warm.
“Sarah was like you. She looked like a guy and, because of it, everywhere that we went people gave her shit. I would hear ‘dykes,’ or ‘lesbos,’ gruffly whispered under the breath of middle-aged women, if we walked by them in the isles at Kmart. If we were using a public restroom, no fail, some teenage prissy would mumble, ‘Is that a boy?’ And the boys—the boys were the worst. No matter where we went they would stare and sometimes even blatantly challenge her sexuality, ‘Hey stud, how about letting your woman come home with a real man?’”
“It won’t be like that, Laur,” I try to reassure her.
“It is like that. I mean, think about what happened to you today. The woman at the bathroom mistook your gender. It’s only going to happen more and more, it’s only going to get worse.”
Or better.
Laura’s face is pale, and her forearms are covered in goose bumps.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“I love you,” she says, “I love you more than anything. It’s just…I can’t go through that again. I
don’t like butch girls.” Laura pauses. “I’m sorry.”
My bottom lip quivers slightly. I bite down to keep it still. “I’m butch, I-I’m more than butch,” I say, and I like it that way, I think, slipping into silence. I remember being nine, hiding my long hair beneath a baseball hat and staring into a mirror for hours. I thought, even then, that I would have made a much better-looking boy than a girl. I think about the summer that I cried and refused to go swimming in the lake’s silky blue-green water, because my father had told me I was too old to go topless like my brothers had always done, too old to allow the cool water to contact my bare chest.
“I know.”
“Yeah, you know, and what of it, Laura? I’m not going to change just for you, just because I don’t fit your definition of beautiful. I’m not changing for anyone. I like butches, butches are sexy, tranny boys are sexy, and I am sexy.” I adjust my shirt and stare at her head-on. Laura lifts her head from her hands again. She glares at me from out of the corner of her eye.
“You think you’re sooo righteous, Brad.”
I hate it when people call me Brad. It sounds so pretty-boy. I’m more of a Rich or a Derek, a name that says this boy’s not afraid to get his hands dirty.
Laura continues, “But you don’t even give a fuck about us. You are so wrapped up in your little gender reassignment fantasy… I’ve been sleeping with Courin.” She smiles at this one, proud of the jab she has taken at me.
Silence. I don’t know what to say. I just stand there with my mouth open, fishing for air. I had thought maybe she and Courin…but Laura had denied it.
“And she is hot, like a real woman should be.”
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