Doll Parts

by Amanda Lepore

  “Look at all these girls,” I said to Thomas.

  “I’m looking,” he said. “I can’t look away.” Every time one of the girls got up his head would tilt a little. Thomas was an ass man, apparently.

  The Puerto Rican beauty from the tranny bar walked in the door. I was so shocked I jumped up and said hi to her before I realized she didn’t know me. She was very sweet, and could tell I was nervous. “Don’t worry,” she said, “Dr. Reinhorn is the best.” I sighed with relief. If he was good enough for one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen in my life, he was good enough for me.

  A nurse called my name, and Thomas and I followed her back to a very clean exam room. Dr. Reinhorn came in and introduced himself; he reminded me of Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird: fatherly, in a warm and loving sort of way. Much more personable than I’d expected from a doctor.

  He told me there were three things I needed in order to have the surgery: a clinical diagnosis of gender dysphoria, two years of hormone treatments, and his determination that my life would be better if I had the surgery. The first two were already covered, and by the time I left, I had the third one down as well. He told me I’d be a beautiful woman and he’d be happy to perform my surgery. I did need a diagnosis from his recommended psychiatrist, though, just to cover his ass because I was so young.

  I had no problem with that. I knew no psychiatrist worth his salt would talk to me for five minutes and not recommend a pussy, stat. Everything went as planned with the new psychiatrist. I liked the way he described me in his report; he said I was very attractive with feminine features and that I’d make a pretty girl. That was the doctor’s opinion. It meant so much to me. He recommended that I have the procedure right away.

  When we made my surgery appointment, I felt very grown up and confident. I was finally going to be a complete person. I wasn’t nervous at all. All my dreams were finally coming true.

  I didn’t tell Mom what was happening; she was living in the thick of her mental illness. Too much was going on in my life to deal with her. For all intents and purposes, I moved into Michael’s house, with my new family.

  The night before the surgery, I lay in bed with Michael and he proposed to me.

  I said yes. Of course I would. All I ever wanted out of life, he was about to give me. I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

  Early the next morning, Thomas drove me to a hospital in Yonkers, where Dr. Reinhorn would be performing the procedure. Michael was too scared to go, but that was okay. I’d become close with Thomas through all this and it seemed right that he’d see it through to the end.

  As I lay on the operating table, ready to go under, I could hear the nurses talking about me.

  “This one’s really beautiful.”

  “Her skin’s like peaches and cream.”

  “This might be the prettiest girl we’ve ever had.”

  I was told to close my eyes and count down from ten. I closed them and prayed: Please let me have a Playboy pussy, please let me have a Playboy pussy, please let me have a Playboy pussy.

  They were feeling my tits as I passed out.

  I woke up with an intense pain between my legs, but it was completely overshadowed by an all-consuming euphoria I still feel to this day. I never once doubted my decision; I knew this was right for me.

  At first Michael was too scared to come see me in the hospital, but once the catheter was out he was there every day. Thomas came every day too. Audrey had no idea what was going on. She had always thought I was a woman and nobody ever told her otherwise. As far as she knew I was having cervical problems (she wasn’t especially bright).

  After the swelling went down a bit, Dr. Reinhorn’s big-titted nurse Kimmy removed all the gauze and showed me how to properly dilate. A hard, white rubber dildo had to be inserted for a long time every day. It felt like a knife when she first did it.

  I LOOKED LIKE I BELONGED IN PLAYBOY. MY PUSSY WAS PERFECT.

  “This one’s like a tunnel,” Nurse Kimmy said. I thanked her for the compliment and tried to pretend my pussy wasn’t in excruciating pain. It got easier. And I had good painkillers.

  I was in the hospital for two weeks, and afterward I moved right back into Michael’s room. Because of the pain, we waited much longer than we had to before having sex. He would play with it and kiss it, but I wouldn’t let him in; I was too afraid.

  We were both mesmerized. I stole my Mom’s mirrored perfume tray so I could kneel over it to stare at my pussy for hours. Once the swelling went away I looked like I belonged in Playboy. My pussy was perfect. Thank you, Dr. Reinhorn!

  Having sex for the first time scared the hell out of me. You’re supposed to be able to fuck after about three months, but I waited much longer than that. Michael and I talked about it almost every day, but he was scared too. He didn’t want to hurt me. One night we went out to dinner and I decided we just had to do it and get the first time over with. I had a few drinks, which I usually never do, and he gave me a Quaalude.

  We got home, lay down on the bed, and started kissing. I was nervous but excited; this was the culmination of all my hopes and desires. I had always wanted to give myself to a man but never had the body to do so. Now here I was, with a man on top of me who loved me and was ready to make a woman out of me.

  Michael fucked me gently. It hurt at first but it was bearable. At the time it didn’t seem like that big a deal, but looking back, it was a defining moment in my life.

  After that first time we started doing it and doing it and it started to feel good. Since we had so much sex I didn’t need to dilate as often, which was a relief. Certain positions hurt, and I’d get rubbed raw if we fucked more than once a day. Nurse Kimmy said to use a heavy lube to help it along. I wasn’t orgasmic yet, but I was a woman, and that’s all that mattered.

  A year after the sex change Michael and I were legally married by a justice of the peace.

  I wore a white lace dress and carried a small bouquet of white carnations and roses. My hair was still short but had grown to a respectable Twiggy length. Michael’s parents were our witnesses. My mother checked herself into Greystone the day before the wedding, so she didn’t go. My father and brother were not invited.

  I was eighteen years old and I had everything I ever wanted: I was married, I had a loving family, and I had a pussy. My life was perfect. But perfection is all about perspective, and my perspective on life was still developing faster than my hormone-grown titties.

  Chapter 5

  RIVER OF NO RETURN

  Living with Michael and my in-laws, I caught happy. My look was really coming together. My hair was almost down to my shoulders again, and I figured out how I liked my makeup the best: thick eyeliner, lashes heaped with mascara, peach blush, and a cherry red lip. I’ll never get sick of a red lip.

  I was also totally anorexic. I guess that’s bad, but I looked great.

  Beauty school was over but I never took my final exams. Michael preferred it that way; he wanted me to be a housewife, which was fine by me. I primped and preened, cooked and cleaned, kept in shape with aerobics tapes . . . everything a housewife was supposed to do.

  We lived pretty close to my mother, but I was completely wrapped up in my new family and barely ever saw her. I’d check in with her once a week or so, but Michael didn’t really like that either. “She’s loony tunes; you don’t need that in your life,” he’d say. Every time he called Mom loony tunes, I imagined an anvil falling on his head. But I must admit it was a relief not to have to take care of her.

  Michael spent his days at the little bookstore he owned in Belleville. I went a couple of times but tried to avoid it. Most of the store was devoted to occult books. He was obsessed with Aleister Crowley, necromancy, and other devil sorts of things. There were some pretty drawings of evil fantasy women on the walls, but that was the only thing in the store I didn’t mind looking at.

  Once a week I would bring him a bag lunch in exchange for a romance novel, or sometimes he’d fi
nd me a book about transsexuals, like Christine Jorgensen’s or Tula’s autobiographies. When Michael gave me a tranny book, he’d hide it in a paper bag and hand it to me under a sweater, like it was a drug deal. My favorite book was called The Transsexual Phenomenon, by Dr. Harry Benjamin; he was a pioneer in trans surgery. It was a bit dated, but it was interesting to read about transgender history.

  Thomas was pushing seventy but still working nine to five as an accountant. That left me home for most the day with Audrey. She was a sweet old woman, with a pinch of verbal hysteria. Even when she slept she’d talk. We didn’t have much in common except she liked gabbing and I never minded listening.

  Once a month Audrey and I would visit the dentist. Audrey would fake a bad toothache in one room, while I would cross my legs and tell the dentist I was depressed. We’d both leave with prescriptions for Demerol, which we’d hand off to Michael, who needed them for back pain. His own doctor didn’t give him enough, so he needed us to help him.

  I liked getting the prescriptions for Michael. It made me feel like we were supporting each other, since I needed him to pay for my hormone treatments and vaginal checkups. I was in my surgeon’s office once a week and it wasn’t cheap. If I was running low on my hormones I’d become agitated, just like Michael would when his pain pills were running low. We had something in common: we were both medically maintained.

  The first crack in our happy family started to show one night when we were all out at a pizza restaurant. As has often been the case in my life, it was my looks that started the trouble. Two white trash loudmouths started catcalling me from the booth across from us.

  “Hey, blondie,” they called, and, “Sweetheart, come sit with us.” They were obviously drunk.

  My husband didn’t know what to do. Sweat beaded on his forehead. I’d seen him get mad at me, I’d seen him punch a hole in a wall, but in this situation, I didn’t know what would happen.

  Thomas and Audrey were pretending none of this was going on, just like I was. They kept chowing down pizza while I pushed a salad around my plate and Michael emptied another beer bottle. The waitress brought us our check and we left, Thomas driving us home while Michael and I sat silently in the back. I could tell my husband was not angry with the dim-witted Neanderthals who had somehow escaped extinction. He was angry with me for looking the way I did.

  When we got home Michael took a couple of pills and locked himself in our bedroom. I sat at the wooden kitchen table, trying to figure out what I had done wrong. Thomas came up behind me and started rubbing my shoulders.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I just feel bad. I hate when he’s unhappy.”

  Thomas sat next to me and took my chin in his hand. “You can’t make everyone happy. All you can do is what’s best for you.”

  Then he kissed me. On the lips.

  He pulled away and looked me dead in the face. I smiled nervously. “I better go check on Michael,” I said, and got up.

  That night I did not sleep at all. I looked over at Michael, asleep with a grimace on his face, and wondered, for the first time, if I had made a huge mistake.

  At the time I thought I was in love with Michael, but looking back on it now, it could have been Freddy Krueger offering me a pussy and I would have taken it. Actually, Freddy Krueger is a good comparison because Michael had early-onset rosacea and his skin was red and blotchy all the time (wear sunscreen, kids). I thought he was the perfect husband, and it was my goal to be the perfect housewife.

  Michael didn’t want me leaving the house for any reason. I tried to go back to beauty school to finish my tests but he faked an illness and I missed them. He didn’t even fake it well, but I couldn’t call him a liar; he was my husband.

  So I got a job as a shampoo girl at a local beauty salon, and they really liked me there. But every day I came home to find Michael waiting for me on the front porch, and he’d ask how many men’s heads I’d shampooed. It wasn’t worth it to fight; it was easier to just let him have his way. I quit after a week. Michael would go to work in the morning and I’d be stuck at home with his mother.

  Mom called to give me a message she’d received from Keni Valenti, the fashion designer I’d met the night Tina took me to a gay bar. He needed help with his fashion line. I begged Michael to let me do it and he agreed, as long as I would never be alone with Keni. “He’s gay,” I said. “I don’t think you have to worry about him.”

  That was the winning argument, and the next day Michael drove me into the city to pick up a box of materials from Keni’s Tribeca apartment. Michael stood in the doorway while Keni showed me what I needed to do. It was mostly hand sewing and embellishments, the same kinds of things I did for the stripper outfits, only this time there was more fabric to deal with. I thanked Keni for giving me the chance to do the work, packed everything into a box, and Michael and I were on our way.

  We walked through the gay West Village together, hand in hand, and had a pleasant day. Gay boys hollered to me as we walked by, yelling out, “Yes, mama!” and “That’s right, Miss Thing!” The attention was nice. Michael wasn’t amused. His back was starting to bother him and he needed to get home to take his pills.

  I don’t know when I started to realize Michael was addicted to painkillers, but I’m sure it was around the same time I realized his mood swings were out of control.

  Keni wanted to take some pictures of me wearing his designs and Michael accused him of “trying to make a sideshow out of my wife.” He was somehow sure everyone would know I was transsexual if they saw me. I didn’t think so, but he refused to let me see Keni ever again.

  I was so confused about how to feel. I looked great, I had the body I always wanted, and nothing else ever mattered to me. But shit was falling apart.

  As Michael got more and more into his pills, we would fight more often, and Thomas and I would end up alone in the kitchen, talking every night. He tried to kiss me a few more times but I’d always stop him. Other times he’d just want to hold my hand, and that didn’t seem so bad, so I’d let him.

  One night, Thomas was holding my hand and I was feeling especially blue and vulnerable.

  “Would you pay for my breast implants?” I asked him.

  “Of course,” he said. “I’d be happy too.” He opened his arms to hug me, and when I obliged he held me close and kissed my neck.

  I knew what I was doing. I was sexually manipulating my father-in-law in order to get what I wanted, but I thought it was innocent enough as long as I kept everything under control and never let him actually fuck me.

  I KNEW IF I GOT CAUGHT MICHAEL WOULD BE FURIOUS, AND MIGHT EVEN KILL ME, BUT I COULDN’T HELP IT.

  “I’ll pay you back you know, but I just think it’d look so great if my tits were bigger. What do you think?”

  “Well, let me see them so I can judge better,” he said.

  I lifted up my shirt and asked him to help me take off my bra. I stood before him, topless, while my husband slept upstairs. He grabbed one in each hand, and lightly squeezed.

  “I guess you could go bigger. But you don’t have to pay me back. I want to get them for you.”

  He held on a few more minutes while I inspected the ceiling. Even though I knew it was wrong, I didn’t feel that bad. Michael was being such a jerk, and he barely ever said anything nice to me anymore. We hadn’t fucked in months, and I was starting to go boy crazy.

  Thomas and I went to Dr. Reinhorn’s office the following week and made an appointment for my breast enlargement. I went from a B cup to a C. The recovery time kept me in bed for a week or so, but the results were fantastic. I loved my new titties. The whole family did.

  Everything I thought I was getting with my new family (except my pussy) was a lie.

  Michael stopped going to work because of his “chronic pain,” which meant he was at home with me all the time. When I had to run errands for the house, he would insist on going with me. I blamed his behavior on myself. Maybe if I was just a girl with no prob
lems, he wouldn’t have been that way. He was so scared of people finding out I was a tranny.

  One time we were at the supermarket and a couple of guys working there started flirting with me. I flirted back, innocently. It felt good; I was flattered. I wasn’t trying to sleep with them. Michael smashed a ketchup bottle on the floor “by accident.”

  That night we had a huge fight and afterward I couldn’t deal with Thomas, so I ran out of the house, just to clear my head, not heading anywhere in particular. A construction truck pulled up next to me and the really hot guy driving it asked if I needed a ride. He looked like James Gandolfini.

  He said, “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

  I don’t know why I got into that truck. Part of me was curious to see if he’d be able to tell my secret. Part of me just didn’t know what else to do. He told me his name was Chuck and that I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He asked if I’d like to kiss him and I said yes.

  He drove to a secluded wooded area and parked the truck. I was wearing a little floral sundress, which he reached under to grab hold of my panties and slide them off. He smelled like a man who worked hard all day; it got me really horny.

  I was scared; this was the first man besides my husband to see me naked since the surgery. What if he could tell something was different? What if he became angry? We were in the woods, in the middle of nowhere, parked next to a pond. He could kill me and nobody would care. I’d just be another dead tranny.

  He started fingering me and I got less scared. “Your pussy feels perfect,” he said. I figured that was a good sign. We got out of the car and this big, beefy, blue-collar Italian man picked me up and carried me down toward the pond. He laid me down on the grass and started licking my pussy and playing with my clit. All seemed good. I felt like a total slut and I loved it.

  “You’re a bad girl,” he said. He spit on his dick and penetrated me. “Fuck, you’re tight. What are you, a virgin?” He spit some more.