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CisterWife © 2017 by Jessica Mandella


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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.


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Table of Contents


CisterWife

Limited Copying Grant.

Introduction.
Chapter 1. Choir Practice.

Chapter 2. Connections.

Chapter 3. Ironic Hypocrisy.

Chapter 4. Game Central.

Chapter 5. One Two Three One Two Three Blink.

Chapter 6. What an Offer.

Chapter 7. The Big Reveal.

Chapter 8. Waking Nightmare.

Chapter 9. White Lace.

Chapter 10. Period Music.

Chapter 11. Christmas Presents.

Chapter 12. Birthday Presence.

About Jessica Mandella.







CisterWife

A TransLesbian Romance


By Jessica Mandella




Introduction.


CisGender is the opposite of TransGender. The way some gay people talk about opposite gender body parts makes me blush, but not for terminology. As an ally, I’m mortified by bigotry within our ranks. One cister actually called me a ‘trag-hag’!


This story exposes CisGender bigotry. The issue is so important, I’ve made this novella essentially free, granting permission to copy and share its PDF from my site. I’ve also held back on my usual SciFi, to be more inclusive. There’s still a little high tech, but that’s normal for this present age...and I haven’t lost my taste for crazy hot, with happy endings.


Here’s a sweet lesbian romance about a girl who doesn’t happen to have a pussy.







Chapter 1. Choir Practice.


This huge church accepts everyone. I’m finally home. The rainbow sign makes me feel safe. My wife of twenty-two years is now my BFF. I came out to her as a TransGender lesbian two years ago. She won’t touch me. I fought it. I bargained. I tried to find a loophole. Now I’m finally accepting it. I’ve waited 42 years for the first woman in my life to love me as a woman. It won’t be my wife Christy.


As a child, the bullies tried to beat the little girl out of what they saw as my little boy body. It half worked. I tried to die inside, but only got buried alive. It was a form of multiple personality disorder, a kind of replacement. Life hurt too much, so I tried to cease to exist, to let some stupid male stereotype inherit my brain. It didn’t work. I’m still here, after all those years of trying to hide the real me. Cliché, right? But true.


What’s not cliché is that I look like I’m 22, not 42. Bless my nearly immortal mother for that. She still looks young and hot. She beats men away with a stick, attracting women with lipstick. Yeah, she came out after Daddy went to heaven. Many hadn’t added T to LGB at that time yet. She never recognized the warning signs of my trying to die inside and be replaced by a horrific gender stereotype. She called me a dick, never thinking to rescue me from it.


Christy and I have finally entered the social scene again…a Welcoming and Affirming church. She’s looking for a man. I’m looking for a lesbian. We’re not predators, but we can’t help it if we have ‘that hungry vibe’. We’re both so needy. Many twin sisters are closer to each other than to the two men they marry. That’s us. But unlike the twins, we need to live together. You see, we still have a transcendent love. How I wish it had fleshly elements!


Don’t get me wrong. She tried. Before we met she was raped by something that claimed to be a TransGender lesbian. When I came to terms with myself I came out to her. Ever since, we can’t get intimate without her throwing up, passing out or both. It’s not normal to bleed at other times of the lunar cycle. It’s the PTSD triggering it. I can’t do that to her anymore. She needs a man…a real man. I love her enough to let her have him, whoever he is.


I hope and pray she loves me enough to let me have my lesbian lover, whoever she is. Christy said she’s all for it. Is she? I don’t want to lose my BFF of twenty years. I don’t ask for much in life, just a happy marriage of four people who deeply love and respect each other, two of whom we’ve not yet met. Yeah. I’m screwed.


At least I never have to work a day in my life anymore. Christy and I are both living off of my portfolio. I won’t say what the biggest company is, but it’s got its talons deep in nearly every computer in the world. Now I can focus on my full time job of waking up as me.


* * * *


Here we are in choir practice. Everywhere we go, a choir leader lusts after our voices. Christy is an opera quality soprano with a soft pop edge. As a tenor I’m about the same. I used to have an awesome falsetto soprano range until a recent illness damaged my vocal cords. I still have good tenor range though. I hate it that I can’t sound like a woman anymore, since only a few months after I came out.


Life is full of cruel ironies. Now I admit to myself I’m a woman, I look and sound like a man. I cried about it to a well-meaning gay friend. He slapped me and told me to man up. He messed with the wrong dyke. A body builder with a black belt is no match for a woman scorned. After he apologized, I released him and popped his shoulder back into place. He asked me to teach him to fight like that. I told him he couldn’t afford the lifetime of dues. Yeah I’m a bitch.


I don’t have to count measures. I can see the music on the page and hear it. My entrance is on time and in tune, as always. Music doesn’t judge me. Music has no male or female. It has only four genders: Soprano, Alto, Tenor and Bass. And all four make sweet music together.


How I wish the world were like that. I can’t count the number of gay men who call me homophobic when I don’t swoon at their hitting on me. I tell them I’m a TransLesbian. They tell me I’m a straight phobic coward perving on lesbians. A sister feminist wouldn’t treat me like that. If I’m so straight, why did bullies beat me until I finally put one of them on heroic life support? I should have listened to that last one. He didn’t call me a fag. He called me a fem. They called him an ambulance.


That’s some weird crap to think about, while singing worship music. Well, they do call Him God of Armies. Focus, Ellie Z, focus! Yeah, that’s my real name. My parents named me after my dad Eli Zadok, and they messed up the birth certificate. I think the typist was a prophet.


* * * *


Choir is getting out. Our choir director, Ida Winthrop taps me on the shoulder. “Eli, do you not know where to put your folder?”


“It’s pronounced Ellie, just like a girl’s name, and I was hoping I could take the music home to practice. I’ve just joined, and I’ve got some catching up to do. Besides, I always like to practice at home anyway.”


Ida smiles. “Wow, Ellie. I’m impressed with your zeal. See you Sunday morning.”


“See you then, Dr. Winthrop.”


“It’s Ida to my friends. I hope that’s what you’ll call me.”


“Ida it is, Dr. Winthrop, I mean, Ida.” She laughs and swats me with a paper.


Now I go out to the fellowship hall to find my wife, who’s disappeared. There she is, talking to the ringer in the bass section. I’d been admiring his deep, booming resonant sound during rehearsal. He’s got such a lovely voice, but he came on a little strong in the mix, even in the soft sections, like he was showing off. At first I thought he was showing off for the alto in purple hair, obviously the most beautiful woman in the choir, but he never looked her way once, like she was invisible. Now I know who he was showing off to impress…my wife.


I walk toward her as he continues shaking her hand inappropriately too long. In one smooth motion, he turns Christy so she doesn’t see me, placing the jutting out wall between me and her. If this were a bar, that would mean he’s staking his claim over her, telling me to go take a hike. He seems to have experience at this sort of thing. The purple haired alto is walking too fast, looking back, not watching where she’s going. She collides full speed with the show-off bass singer, splashing a whole cup of hot scalding coffee all over his chest, dousing his fancy shirt.


“Sandra, you b…” George stops himself, but it’s clear what he was going to say. I guess she did see him after all. She must have some experience in these matters too…and with him.


Sandra gushes in a bright cheerful voice. “Oh, George, I didn’t see you. I had no idea Mrs. Zadok was back here. Have you met her husband, El? He’s the new tenor. I’m sure you musical men have a lot to talk about. Come with me Christy, you’ve got a few drops of coffee on your blouse. The ladies room is right back here, let’s rinse that before a stain sets in.”


My wife follows her purple haired savior into the ladies room to cold wash the few drops of coffee out before it sets.


Now I have to chat nice and friendly with a man I already hold in contempt, not because my wife is so fond of him, but because he’s so fond of himself. This isn’t going to end well for Christy. He’s going to hurt her, and there’s nothing I can do about it. If I get in his way, she’ll say I’m cock-blocking him cause I’m jealous. Why couldn’t a nice man find her first, instead of this vulture? After twenty years, I know her all too well. She’s chosen him. I have to stand by and watch him burn her.


“Hi. I’m George Bentley. Your wife gave me her card. I’ll be calling her a lot. So, El, what’s that short for, Elvira, mistress of the night?”


I strike with one knuckle, crushing his solar plexus. He collapses to the floor. I shout out. “Let’s get this gentleman a chair, he sang his heart out and now he’s dizzy! We can’t lose our star bass!”


Everyone crowds around him, giving him all sorts of attention. I walk away from Gorge Bentley. He looks up at me like I’m a vampire. There are respectful and disrespectful ways to ask for a date with someone’s wife. I taught him to consider more respectful ways in the future.


“Looks like I missed all the fun!” It’s Sandra. She shakes my hand, turning it over to see my knuckle still a little flushed red. “I thought so. Solar plexus works every time. Your wife won’t listen to me. She says his interests are purely musical. It’s going to get ugly. He usually takes a couple months to soften them up before he makes the kill. He could move faster, but he prides himself on his patience. He gets off on the process of the hunt, stretching it out as much as possible.”


My brain goes on strike, so I just stare at her.


She offers me her hand again. “Sandra Belle at your service. While your wife goes off chatting with bonehead after choir each time, sit with me. I’ll be your friend. Trust me. You’re gonna need one.”


I’m stunned. An offer of friendship comes from this vision of incredible beauty. I can’t believe how attracted I am to Sandra. I’m not being a hypocrite. I’d thrill watching a loving man give my wife what she can’t accept from me.


I still love Christy dearly, and seeing her fulfilled would fulfill me, even if I’m not the one doing it. Since she won’t have me, it’s up to someone else now. But George is not loving. He’ll hurt her. It’ll hurt me to see that.


Sandra is loving. She cares about other people like they were her own heart. Oh, how I wish she were gay! She’s so pretty, so feminine, so downright girly, the word dyke doesn’t even belong in the same language as her name.


There’s no way she could ever desire a woman like me. She’s going to make some man very happy someday. I still need a friend. I’ll take her up on it, and try not to fall completely in love with her. The one person I’m crazy attracted to is a straight girl. I’m so fucked.


I’m also questioning my own integrity. If I want to be taken seriously as a woman, why am I attracted to a CisGender woman? Why not a TransGirl like me? I don’t have any answers, but I do know this. I was aware of her extraordinary good looks, but she hadn’t turned my heart inside out until she did her best to protect Christy from the vulture. That kind of compassion for a total stranger did something to me. It turned her pretty into beautiful, her likable into lovable.






Chapter 2. Connections.


Choir is getting out again. After twelve weeks of her bolting out the door with George Bentley, my wife waits for me instead by the choir room door. Sandra Belle looks at me funny. She knows.


Sure enough, as I get to the door, Christy is glowing. She hands me the car keys. It feels like she just handed me her wedding ring. “I’m going to fetch a bite with George, then we’re going over his place to practice our duet in the cantata. We need to work on our timing. He has a habit of rushing the beat, you know.”


I can’t help myself. “His timing has been pretty slow if you ask me. It took him long enough. I’d say I’m happy for you, but I already know him too well.”


“What’s that supposed to mean? Ellie Zadok, are you getting jealous?”


“No Christy. I’m getting sad. I’m already weeping for you.”


“Too late to change our deal, Ellie. You didn’t find any dykes. I found a man. You lose. I win. Get over it.” Christy bounces away, her golden coils dancing behind her back.


* * * *


I spot Sandra at the coffee machine. I’m blown away by her. Long wavy purple hair, pink bubblegum lipstick, abundant breasts almost pouring out of a super tight lilac body suit for a top, partially covered in good taste by a white suit jacket that hugs her waist and flares at the hips. Her white jeans look painted on her. Lilac is the color of her fingernails, I bet her toenails too.


I’m staring at her. People will think I’m letching on her. That may be true, but more than that, I’m crushing on her. It’s her kind heart that conquered mine without a battle. For a few months now, we’ve had long conversations every Sunday. We talk about soul mates, true love, poetry, art, music, God and even erotic romance books. She’s so merciful! She never brings up the elephant in the room, the budding romance between my wife and the vulture.


As we get our coffee, I inhale her fragrance. My head spins. It’s not her perfume. It’s her. It must be her pheromones. My heart is pounding.


She looks in my eyes, sees my face flushed and finally speaks. “So you DO know.”


I’m afraid of how much she knows, so I try to dodge. “I do know what?”


Do I know that over the last few months I’ve been developing a huge schoolgirl crush on her? Yes. Do I know she’s straight? She must be. Next to the word ‘feminine’ in the dictionary is her picture. I may be a TransGender woman, but I don’t crave men. I’m a lesbian. I crave a woman. I crave her.


Sandra chuffs a single half chuckle. “You do know your wife will finally fuck him today. What’s your deal? Are you a cuckold? Do you get off on that sort of thing, or is she just used to getting whatever the hell she wants?”


Blinking back tears, I know I’m blushing something fierce. “I’m not comfortable talking about this here. Is there somewhere we can go?”


Sandra whispers to me. “Your wife won’t be home for hours. When he first makes a conquest, George is a very thorough, patient and imaginative lover. My last partner told me so. You need a friend right now, someone to talk to. We can go to my place. I promise I won’t try to seduce you. I’m gay.”


As we make our way to her car, my tears won’t stop. Just as I mistook this beautiful lipstick lesbian for a straight woman, Sandra has mistaken me for a straight man, imprisoning me in the ‘friend zone’. Now two women are out of my league and off limits to me. My 20-year BFF Christy, and my new gay friend Sandra.


Sandra gets it all wrong. “Oh, honey, how could you not know today was the day? You’re crying a river, and I’m the one who broke the news to you.”


I have to rescue her from the guilt. “I knew. You have no idea what I’m really going through right now.”


How can I tell her the one person she thought was safe has been perving on her, not just with lustful eyes, but much worse, with a needy, deeply admiring heart?


* * * *


Finally seated in her living room, Sandra does her best to make me comfortable. As she takes my hands, my chest is hammering. I’m feeling a rush of something I thought I’d never feel again. It’s the blossom of young love. I fought so hard against this. I can’t help it. She’s too wonderful. I wish I could be with her not only on Sundays, but always and forever. I’m a love-struck little girl way over her head in deep waters.


Sandra sees it. “Your eyes are dilated, Ellie. It’s natural to cling to any life raft in the storm. Don’t start falling in love with me. I’m gay. I only date women. You need a friend right now, and I can’t walk away. You’ll come over every Sunday afternoon while your wife is out fucking George. You’re enough of a gentleman to keep your hands to yourself. But I must ask something extraordinary of you. Please keep your heart to yourself. You can share from it, but don’t give it to me. You’re so wounded right now, your heart feels soft like a woman. But I can only receive a heart who actually IS a woman. Please understand. Now I’m going to hold you, and you’re going to cry until you have no more tears left in you. You need to let it all out.”


* * * *


The weeks go by. She has me over every Sunday afternoon. Am I being a dildo for sensing how amazing she is while she holds me? No. I refuse to be judged for being a lesbian. Am I being dishonest by crying in her arms while the only woman I had loved for twenty years gets her brains fucked out by the vulture of the bass section? Hell no. My pain is real. It’s just not what she might assume.


I’m not upset that my wife as a free woman is getting some. I’m upset that as any kind of woman I’ve never had any. I always did to her, always did for her. For two years she’s not even let me do that. So much of my sensuality is in my breasts. Even before I came out, Christy would never kiss them. Any touch of physical affection lit up my body like a woman. Her subconscious awareness of my feminine sensuality grossed her out worse than if she’d accidentally touched the slimy red dick of an aroused dog. The bullies tried to beat the girl to death. She tried to starve the girl to death. That’s why I’m crying. I’m so empty inside!


For forty-two years, I’ve never been loved as who I am. As soon as I came up for air to receive that love, Christy slammed steel doors in my face. I feel like I’m dying from lack of affection. I love Sandra more and more for caring about my pain, for putting up with my oceans of tears. I don’t know why I’m so afraid of coming out to her. Sandra’s sisterly consoling comfort is the only affection I’ve known since opening up my true woman’s heart.


I have my own fear to blame for this. As long as I don’t tell her, there’s a secret hope she might say yes someday. She’s so selfless and pure in her love. She warned me not to fall in love with her, far too late. I’m hopelessly lost in admiration. I’m locked in the closet, parked illegally in the friend zone with my beloved, beautiful Sandra, who could never want me.



Chapter 3. Ironic Hypocrisy.


The coffee strikes my face hard in a hot stream. I’m lucky Christy didn’t let go of the mug or I’d need stitches.


Christy is raging. “Who the fuck is she, El? Nobody tells his wife he’s happy about her affair, unless he has a little something on the side already. When the hell were you going to tell me?”


I’m stunned. “Christy, we talked about this. You told me you were going after George. With every cougar in church chasing him, you had a challenge ahead of you. I’m happy you won the competition. Congratulations on landing George. Most women regard him as a high value catch.”


Christy is red-faced pissed. “There it is again, that nonchalance! Nobody gets over me that easy unless I’m being replaced. You fucking prick! Who is she, and how long have you been fucking her behind my back?”


I’m sniffing. “I’m not fucking anybody. I’m just fucked. You wanna know what we do at her place, while you’re getting your ‘holier than thou’ stuffed by George? I cry and she holds me. That’s it. The only bodily fluids I’m sharing with her are snot and tears.”


Christy’s voice is low now, almost menacing. “Oh, so that’s how it is. This is worse than I feared. You’re not fucking her. You’re falling in love with her. I know you. I’m losing my BFF. How soon ‘til you move in with her and leave me with all the bills?”


I’m ashamed to admit it, but that thought has some appeal. Maybe starting over isn’t such a bad idea. I just need to figure out a way to come out to Sandra without pissing her off. I’ve been so safe for her, in the friend zone. How can I tell her I’m a woman who’s already given herself to her in love? Coming out to Christy was a total disaster. Coming out to Sandra terrifies me even more.


My on-stage role really did love Christy in a romantic way, and I’d have loved her as the real woman behind that role, but Christy would have none of me. I need love. Am I so bad? So I gave myself again, this time as a woman, instead of as a convincing yet fictitious man. I gave myself to a lesbian, just like me. Only she came out, unlike me. Why can’t Sandra see who I am inside? We talk about girly stuff all the time!


Why does Sandra put up with a silly woman like me with such a frighteningly powerful schoolgirl crush on her? Of course I’m a schoolgirl. As a woman I was in a coma since grade school!


Well, to be fair, I did keep coming up for air again and again…only to be beaten unconscious by the transphobic cruelty of haters, including my wife of twenty years. When she called the real me a demon, I didn’t want to exist anymore. So I’d buried myself…again, and again, and again, and again.


I tried to die as a woman, leaving my body in my will to the fictitious male heroic romantic character I created and played on the stage of life. It didn’t work. I’m still here. The bitch is back.


Despite what I may look like on the outside, emotionally I’m just a little girl. I’m jailbait. Could a strong, sexy, beautiful, wonderful woman like Sandra ever want a fragile little training bra brat like me?


I suddenly know the answer. “OK Christy, here’s the deal. I’ll still pay the bills. I have no idea where I’ll live, but you need room here with George. I refuse to get in your way. I’m packing two airport rollers. I’ll rent a truck for the rest when I have somewhere to put it all.”


Christy changes in an instant from cocky to frightened. “What if George doesn’t want to move in with me?”


I may regret it, but I can’t resist. I swiftly swing around behind her, grab her breasts for a brief second and set her down on the chair. “Then he’s a zombie. Any straight man or lesbian with a pulse would move in with you, even after hearing you snore!”


Christy is so shocked she doesn’t get angry, throw up or pass out. She listens instead. “OK Ellie, you got a point. I pretty much have my pick of the choir, and he knows it. He’d be crapping on his own plate not to say yes to moving in with me. You get settled in first. I don’t want you moving back while he’s here. That would spoil my fun.”


Chapter 4. Game Central.


Thank God they all wear headphones. It’s usually quiet here except for the frantic flurry of computer keys tapping when the kids are in an on-line virtual battle. I don’t see how they get any college work done. I’m not complaining. They agreed to rent the room to me before they found out my age. The conversation when I rented the place was insane. I remember it in vivid detail.


* * * *


Geoff is the homeowner and dungeon master. His face lights up seeing the wad of cash paying a year in advance. “I was happy to sign that agreement. It’s standard, no bullshit. I just need to see your ID now, El.”


I take out my driver’s license and show it to him. His face goes white. “Dude, you’re not 42. Are you a cop or something?”


I get pissed. “Tell those guys in there with the good smelling sticky to come give me a hit. I’ll take a toke in front of you. No, I’m not a cop.”


Geoff grins ear to hear, heaving a huge sigh of relief. “I get it. You hung onto your first fake ID for years. Why? Are you like an illegal alien, or something cool like that?”


After dealing with TransPhobia I have no patience for AgePhobia. It’s a simple law of physics that a huge wall of bullshit can only be broken through by a fast moving, much larger steaming pile of bullshit.


I grin a devious smirk. “It’s expensive to get new IDs. I only do it once every twelve years. I have to fake my death, change my name and have lawyers move all my assets to my new identity. I’m four thousand eighty nine years old. I don’t age. I’m trusting you Geoff, you can’t tell anyone.”


Geoff has a look of awed delight. “Your secret’s safe with me, sir.”


Just to cover my tracks, I continue. “One more thing. I’m a shape shifter. I’m really a woman. Sometimes when I have nightmares, I change back into my female form. If you see that, don’t get freaked out. If I sleepwalk naked as a woman, act like you never saw it.”


No flies on Geoff. He rolls with it. “No problem, m’Lady. I won’t out you.”


I give him an appreciative smile. “You’re a true gentleman, Sir knight.”


* * * *


In the weeks since then, I’ve caught myself wondering several times if everything I told Geoff is true in another parallel universe. Wow. This house of virtual gaming is getting to me. How cool is that!


* * * *


I never got the BFF I’d hoped for with Christy. I did with Sandra. This is so twisted. Being a lesbian, she must know what it’s like to ache for a BFF, being afraid to come out to her.


* * * *


It’s infectious, the gaming attitude. It’s easy to be fearless when you’re an avatar. You simply reboot and start over again. For me, I keep having to remind myself I get one shot at this. As Ru Paul says: Good luck, and don’t fuck it up!


Yeah, I’m going to make my play. I still can’t talk to her about it. Every time I try, my voice quits. I can sing, but I can’t talk. Oh, we can talk for hours on end. I go over to her place and cry. She holds me. Oh God, how I ache to kiss her. I’m not in lust with her. I’m in love with her. But the lust issue has to come up before the whole package of romance can happen. How can I tell her I’m really a woman? How can I let her know I think of her twenty four seven?


I have a coward’s plan. It’s not much of a plan. It’s an opening, and if she wants to push the door open from there and walk through it, she can do so. If she doesn’t want to deal with it, she can ignore it without ever having to talk about it. What is this subtle conversation starter for a strictly optional discussion? A button. A pin. A lipstick.


It took so long for them to ship it to me, it probably came from Pluto rather than China. It’s a simple identity statement summed up in a cute little lapel pin…a pink lipstick. It identifies my demographic identity perfectly. I’m a fellow lipstick lesbian. If she ignores it, she doesn’t want me. If she comments on it, she wants me. No pressure on her, just an opportunity. We can stay BFFs like always, or we can become more, her choice. I’m offering myself to her silently. No strings, no pressure, no games. Simple and sweet.


* * * *


She’s scaring me. I can barely think straight enough to sing. For me, that’s like a redneck being too drunk to fish. That expression on her face is too complex. I can’t figure it out. She hides it behind her poker face. She never gives me that poker face…it’s only for others. Now it’s for me. I’m locked out. She’s late on an entrance. Ida shoots her a surprised look, and makes her own poker face. Nobody’s going to say anything here. The air is thick with drama.


* * * *


“Take off that fucking pin before I rip it off and shove it up your ass!” Sandra’s growl startles me from behind. There’s murder in her eyes. I ran out here to escape her. It figures we’d both choose the same hiding place. Nobody uses the back door of the church. There’s no parking back here.


I never should have worn that stupid lapel pin. I was safe in the friend zone. Now I’ve lost my only lifeline, my only real friend in all the world. Why did I have to fall in love with her? It’s like that old Dave Mason song. I shouldn’t-a-took more than she gave. She gave me her friendship. I gave her my whole heart. I had no idea my love could be such an Eww factor. I must be a whole lot more worthless than I ever suspected. Maybe the bullies were right trying to kill me off, cause I can’t ‘man-up’. I’m not gay or straight. I’m just an abomination.


Sandra’s voice is a low growl. “I trusted you. You were perving on me the whole time. If you loved me, you’d be honest with me about it. This TransGender bullshit tells me what you’ve really been up to. You just wanted to fuck me. I must say, you’re even more patient than George. You’re a fucking sleaze ball hunter like him. Do the two of you have a wager? How much does he have to pay you if you get me in bed? Maybe we should team up, lie to him and split the take. Then you won’t have to play anymore. I bet it taxed your patience pretending to be human with me. We can have a coming out party for you as a straight, homophobic asshole.”


Something moves in my peripheral vision. I turn my head. It’s George. “There you are. My Christy is having second thoughts. You put her up to it. I don’t care who you are. Nobody takes back what’s mine. I’m your alpha! I stole her from you fair and square, bitch!”


I see George throwing the sucker punch, but I’ve lost all will to defend myself. He connects. I go down. My head hits the doorknob. My head feels wet. It’s my own blood. The last thing I see is Sandra’s purple high heel boot connecting with Gorge’s chest.


* * * *


It smells like alcohol in here. Alcohol and bleach. It’s gross.


“Mr. Zadok. May I have a few words with you? I’m Detective Madison. I’m investigating the incident an hour ago at church. Before you ask, your vitals are good. You got quite a shiner there, and you needed seven stitches, but there’s no swelling. Sandra called 911, saying you tripped, hit your head on the doorknob and landed on your face. Is that what happened?”


My brain is alert now. “Yes. Why would you doubt her?”


“George Bentley was taken in with three broken ribs. He claims he defended you against violent black-hooded homophobes. Sandra said he was nowhere near there. With no witnesses, we figured we better get your statement to try and make some sense out of all this.”


“I don’t know why he’s lying, officer. I understand he has a long history of hunting other men’s wives. I can only guess what really happened to him. I only saw Sandra. I stumbled on the outdoor carpet by the door. She tried to catch me but wasn’t quick enough. My head hit the doorknob and seconds later her phone was out. Then I was out. She’s my hero.”












Chapter 5. One Two Three One Two Three Blink.


Captain’s log, star-date…half past never. What’s the point in dating it when nobody reads it anyway? Dating it, that’s a joke. The word ‘date’ should be banned from virtual reality. Nobody needs to be reminded that nobody will EVER date them.


Who needs VR glasses when there’s a 36-inch LED monitor and an endless supply of ecstasy? Tabs of E are cheap when you get them by the hundred. Of course you have to tell the dealer you’re sponsoring a rave or he won’t sell them to you. They take a dim view of people dying. I don’t worry about trivial shit like that.


Taking E is like doing the Blink spell in WoW. It teleports you twenty yards ahead, further into the virtual world. Nobody likes my corner of SecondLife. They say it’s more like Third World. It’s depressing, just like me. My life now consists of an unbroken chain of tabs of E. Each one is a Blink spell, each one teleporting me one step further away from real life.


One two three, one two three blink. One two three, one two three blink. It’s my own version of the Chandelier song, nowhere near as pretty as the original, not just cause Maddy doesn’t dance in it. My version has a dark reality lurking within the constant unreality.


Every tab of E could be your last. I don’t give a shit. Getting that fatal dose would be like winning the lottery. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to do. Flat lining on E is one of the only ways I’ve ever heard of people dying with a smile on their face. I carry that grim wish with me into this perfect world. Isn’t that what dystopians warn about? If you ever find a perfect world, don’t join it cause you’ll ruin it.


Welcome to my own virtual hell. I’ve ruined SecondLife. At least in my own little corner, in my own little chair, it sucks as bad as I do. I carry the stink with me.


The little ding indicator goes off. WTF? Somebody is commenting on my last post. The surprising event, more than the surprising sound, startles me, teleporting me backward miles and miles, yanking me out of this unreal hall of mirrors facing each other. Suddenly I’m not in the SecondLife universe anymore. I’m in my own disgustingly real, stinking, unbathed body, staring at a video monitor. I may as well get this over with. Geoff is the only one who interacts with me here. I never give him too many hits at once. I won’t have his death on my conscience.


It’s Sandra. She looks exactly like she does in real life. I bark at her. “What the hell are you doing here? You don’t belong in Purgatory. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Yeah, that’s the name of my SecondLife area. Purgatory.


Undaunted, Sandra stares at me from the big screen. “Isn’t there something you’d like to say to me?”


I’m flummoxed, totally gob-smacked. “I haven’t got a clue. There’s nothing I could say you’d ever want to hear.” I break the connection. I designed my on-line hell to never remind me that I never had a shot at heaven anyway. Here she is, rubbing my face in it. My custom control panel I wrote offers to hack her system and reformat her hard drive. I click no. Instead, I click the forgive icon. She’ll receive a simple text message saying ‘Forgive them, Father, they know not what they do’.


* * * *


I’m getting sick of this. For a year now she’s been talking with me. It’s not the intimate friendship we used to share as BFFs, but the cold-hearted impersonal formality of appropriate office banter. At the end of every lengthy and horrifically meaningless conversation, she logs off by asking me if I have anything I’d like to tell her. I always tell her no. She’s trying to get me to apologize for falling in love with her. I refuse.


Even if the heartbreak kills me, I’ll never regret it. After years of being wanted for my fictitious male character I wrote, buried alive in the ironic falsehood of the real world, I finally woke up and enjoyed a brief hope. That hope was the greatest pleasure I’d ever experienced as a woman. I got to enjoy that brief hope that Sandra could love me as a woman. To regret that would be like blasphemy. It made not just my body, but also my mind, heart, emotions and even spirit tingle with excitement.


That was enough of a life. If I die now, I’ll be content with having gotten to experience that. The brief thrill of having hope, in love as a woman, was more fulfilling than being wanted as an artificial man.


* * * *


She asks, as she always does. “Before I sign off, isn’t there something you’d like to say to me?”


I can finally take it no more. “Yes, I have something to say. You have to face me in person, on the red brick walkway in front of your house, and do your last gloating in the flesh. I have no idea what dicks have ever done to you, but you have to face the full humanity of taking it out on me as your revenge. Then I’ll give up my body, just as I gave up my heart.”


Sandra sneers. “Well delivered. That line was exactly how a woman would write it. Someday I’d like to meet your ghostwriter. Unlike you, I’d probably like her. I hope you paid her well. She’s actually pretty good. It’s been a year since I’ve seen you in person. I’m strong enough now to handle it. You can come over. I’ll meet you outside. We’ll see how well you perform without a professional quality script in your hands.”




Chapter 6. What an Offer.


I’ve never seen Sandra so angry. Finally meeting in person again, unprotected by the safety of virtual space, we come bearing gifts for each other. I even showered. I’m bringing a bouquet of lilacs. She’s bringing a football, wearing a team jersey that says “Real Girls”. Sandra throws the football at my head with a perfect arm. I know her. She expects me to drop the flowers and protect my head with my arms.


I hold onto the flowers for dear life, allowing the football to strike me in the face. My nose is bleeding. I’m dizzy, knocked to my knees. I know I pass out a lot. My emotions are too powerful. There’s nothing turning it down. My female brain never got damaged and numb like men. I’m crawling to her, scraping my knees on the brick walkway. I finally get to her, reaching up to give her the flowers as high as I can with both hands. I can’t see anything through my tears.


Sandra takes the flowers and smells them. “Well, at least something about you is real. The flowers aren’t plastic. I can’t say the same about your heart. It’s as plastic as my ten-inch dildo. So here’s the deal.”


Having delivered the flowers, and honestly pretty dizzy, I lie down on the bricks. “The answer is yes. I don’t care what the deal is, if only you’ll let me see you again, I’ll take it.”


Sandra’s throat emits a deep, low rolling dark laugh. “So, the big bad jock fooled around and fell in love? Too fucking bad. You lied to me. I trusted you. You perved on me the whole time I was helping you. You know why I wasn’t afraid of you? I thought you were gay, and stuck in the closet. I figured that’s why Christy dumped you for dingle balls. You’re not gay. Your big secret is you’re a jock trying to scam on naïve lipstick lesbians. I bet she dumped you for watching girl-girl porn like all straight jocks do.”


I’m speechless. I’ve never seen such anger in anyone. “Sandra, before you tell me what your deal is, please tell me what’s going on. Why are you so angry? Why do you think I’m a jock? I didn’t even catch the football.”


The purple haired love of my life speaks softly, not to sooth me, but to keep her words strictly between the two of us. “Only a testosterone brain damaged Neanderthal could carry out such an elaborate, manipulative plot to fuck a lesbian. Were you hoping someday you’d get to watch me with your wife? Did you want your own private girl-girl porn show? It’s not gonna work, any more than what the jocks tried in high school.”


I’m in a daze, answering. “My wife would sooner eat rat poison than pussy. What happened in high school?”


Rage fills Sandra’s face again. “Three football stars forged letters from their dads, saying they were coming out as TransGender. The school was forced to let them use the girl’s locker room. Our volleyball team was finishing up showering in there. Three guys tried to rape one girl. I got sent to Juvenile Hall for a month after putting all three jock bastards in the hospital. One guy had to get a kidney transplant. Fuckers deserved it. I got a new nickname. Death. Yeah, they all called me Death after that. Great high school nickname huh? Death.”


Now rage is filling me. “Give me a list of their names. I’ll make hackey sacks out of their balls.”


Now she’s sobbing. “If you care so much, why did you pull the same trick?”


My sigh is so deep it startles her. She’s quiet as I explain. “Before I knew her, Christy had an experience with something that claimed to be a TransGender lesbian. It raped her. All my life, bullies tried to beat the little girl out of me. They knocked my real self into a coma, trying to become someone I’m not, someone I never was, someone I never should have had to try to convince myself to be. I was literally insane, spawning a false male multiple personality out of all that trauma.”


Sandra’s voice is quiet and trembling. “What happened with Christy?”


My answer is equally quiet. “I woke up. I came to terms with who I am. I came out to her. She freaked out on me. She can’t touch me now without throwing up, passing out or both. You stopped a rape. She survived one. Her brain knows I had nothing to do with it. Her body blames me, cause I’m a TransGender lesbian. I’d waited 42 years to be loved as a woman. We went to church looking for real love. She looked for a man. I looked for a lesbian. So tell me, Sandra, what was the offer you wanted to make?”


“Oh, you poor sick little fuck.” Sandra’s not yelling. She’s weeping. “I figured you’re not gay, cause you’re trying to score with me. I figured you for a straight, deceitful jock.”


I take a deep breath. “So what kind of deal were you willing to offer a straight, deceitful jock?”


Sandra looks up in my eyes, fighting shame. “Straight jocks would never take it up the ass. If you’re really a woman like you say, prove it. You let me take you up the ass for ten minutes with my ten inch strap-on, and then I’d let you fuck me.”


I know my eyes are wide as I respond. “I have a counter-offer. You take me with your strap-on as long and as hard as you want. Make me bleed. I don’t care. For your part of the bargain, all you have to do is kiss me. I need to feel your heart in that kiss. I’ll give you my heart too. If you think I kiss like a man, I’ll never bother you again. If you find I kiss like a woman, I don’t need to give you my dick. I’ll give you my mouth as a woman, giving myself to you with that mouth. You won’t ever have to touch my dick, but please consider kissing my breasts.”


Sandra starts weeping. “All my life, I just wanted a woman to love me as a woman, not as a placeholder for a man.”


I’m sniffing. “What a coincidence. Me too. You’ve got that now. This woman bleeding before you loves you with all her heart. Do you want her or not?”


Sandra helps me up off the ground. “What about Christy? Twenty years is a long time.”


I shrug. “I don’t know if she’ll ever want either of us, cause we’re women. That doesn’t mean we can’t want each other.”


Sandra gasps. “But I’ve never had a relationship with a man before!”


I crumple back to the ground in uncontrollable sobbing. She knows what she said.


* * * *


I’m waking up in her arms. I’d passed out crying in her arms twice before, both times when she was still comforting me every week. I don’t remember how we got here in her living room. “Sandra, how did we get here?”


“I carried you, Ellie. I’m stronger than you thought. You’re softer than I thought. I’m ready, El. I’m ready to love you.”


“Are you sure, Sandra? I’m not CisGender. I don’t have a pussy. Isn’t that what lesbians look for in a woman?”


“Don’t stereotype me Ellie. What I look for in a woman is a woman’s heart.”


“I’m unworthy of you. There should be a separate club for fellow TransGender lesbians to find each other, just so beautiful women like you don’t have to wade through all the dicks.”


“Why stop there, Ellie? How about separate nightclubs just for white people and just for black people? We could have separate churches, restaurants and bathrooms for each color, religion and nationality too! Think of the possibilities! Face it, Ellie. You didn’t fall in love with someone like me. You fell in love with me.”


“You were so anti Trans. You used to spit at the mention, like we were all some cruel deception invented to break the back of women’s rights. ”


“You can’t tell anyone this, El. Many Cis-Dykes think of TransGender Lesbians like those lying football player locker room rapists trying to get their hands on lesbian pussy. We may talk about LGBT, but for us the T stands for token. You’re the frozen microwave lobster a rat hole restaurant serves, so seeing lobster on the menu gives the illusion of a classy place.”


“Sandra please…”


She charges on. “We used to tell a joke. What’s another name for a TransGender Lesbian? A phobic straight watching girl-girl porn. Yeah, the joke makes the rounds. It’s not even funny. It’s just cruel. I was such a disgusting TransPhobic jock I told it too. I’ve got a new joke for you. What’s another name for a lesbian who hates TransGender women? A male pattern brain damaged man with a pussy, who thinks he’s a dyke.”


“Please don’t say stuff like that, Sandra, you’re better than that. Those sisters don’t know any better. They still don’t sneak into showers and try to rape people.”


“No, Ellie. We just hurt girls like you and make you give up on living. Your roommates told me about your abusing E. They said you weren’t even trying to get high. You were hoping to win the lottery by dying. That’s not right, bitch! I’d eventually have come around and you wouldn’t be here anymore. You gave your heart to me. It’s mine, not yours. You had no right to kill it.”

“I can’t believe anyone wants it. This heart has been unwanted for 42 years, Sandra. Why now?”


“Because I finally found out whose heart it really is, and it was offered to me, Ellie.”


“If you knew all that, why didn’t you believe in my being a woman?”


“Oh, I don’t know, El, maybe it’s cause I just don’t understand four thousand year old shape shifters very well. I’m only a youngster.”


I’m smiling, embarrassed. “Oh, that. I was getting AgePhobic crap. It was bullshit, so I gave him a big steaming pile in return. What harm could it do?”


“What harm? It almost killed you, El. Geoff told me E can’t hurt you cause you’re an immortal. I finally got the others to let your E dealer know it was all for you. Even he didn’t want to see you die. You scared me.”


“So you did care. Why didn’t you believe me if you knew so much?”


“I believed you El, and at the same time I didn’t. Like when I held you, thinking you were a gay man crying in my arms after coming out to your wife. I was secretly wishing you were straight so I could at least be tempted to have my way with you. You had me questioning my orientation, young lady!”


“You needed to question it, Sandra. You only wanted CisWomen with real pussies. At first I had hope, then I got used to thinking all any lesbians want is pussies, not hearts. I’m so sorry I wanted to die. That was wrong of me. Do you forgive me?”


“You’re unreal, Ellie. My TransPhobia almost takes you out, using heartbreak as the murder weapon, and you’re asking me to forgive you. You might as well be handing me a beer singing ‘Stand By Your Man’, while I leave a half disassembled bike engine in the tub, watch the game on TV and ignore you. You’re so lipstick, my eyes are stained pink looking at you!”


“You make a girl blush, Sandra.”



Chapter 7. The Big Reveal.


“I’m sorry Ellie. I thought I could do this, but I can’t.”


“Do what? Sandra, we haven’t done anything yet. We’re fully clothed, sitting on the bed. I’m in your arms, a woman in love with you. If I was willing to die for you, don’t you think I’d be willing to wait for you? Talk to me honey. What’s going on? Are you afraid to let me see you naked?”


My purple haired almost-lover takes a deep breath. “I’m so eager to let you see me naked. You’re a woman. Why shouldn’t you see me naked?”


I already know, but I have to ask, just to make sure. “Then what’s the problem?”


My sweet, dear Sandra bursts into crying. Even her crying, as sad as it is, sounds like music. “I’m afraid to see you naked. I can’t get that image of bright red, angry cocks in the shower room out of my head. They were positioning to get closer to the girl I secretly crushed on. One of those horrible red bulbous hate-stuffed sausages got within an inch of her before I could react. I kicked him so hard, he flew seven feet in a straight line out of the shower and struck the nearest locker set.”


My smile shocks her. “I have a surprise for you, my dear.”


She’s wary, actually downright terrified. “You’re scaring me. You have no idea how grateful I’ve been this last month you never asked for sex. You never even let me see you naked. Your hair, all grown out long, looks like the head of a woman. I don’t know how you did it, but your face looks soft and feminine. You even stuff tissue on your chest. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. It’s all much appreciated.”


“That’s what you say now. After your reaction to my coming out, I hope you won’t be pissed off at me again.”


“You haven’t done anything wrong, Ellie. You’ve let me fall in love with you as a woman, without making me face your genitals. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’re wearing a bra. You dress in billowy tents so I never have to see one misleadingly masculine outline of your body.”


“Sandra, this is my surprise for you. My body isn’t as masculine as you imagine. You knew this whole last year I was popping E like candy.”


“Yeah, don’t remind me. I never would have forgiven myself if you’d died.”


“That’s not the only medicine I’ve hammered on for a year. I’ve been on massive therapeutic doses of DMSO driven female and growth hormones, apoptosis and healing factors. With all the weird stuff he’s given me, I’ve transformed so much faster than other girls going through puberty. That’s why I never died. It wasn’t the medicine. It was the hope embodied by my taking all that medicine. Of course the side effects were pretty bizarre.”


Sandra’s eyes widen. “What kind of side effects?”


I give her a soft, feminine smile. “My bones ached. At times they actually popped, like they’d been dislocated. My breasts ached and hurt. My body was changing so fast, I almost felt sunburned. My lower range is the same, but the healing factors repaired my vocal cords. I’m comfortable speaking in a soprano voice again. I took ten times the inert form of estrogen that prevents cancer. Geoff’s science lab fed me massive amounts of elastin and healing factors. He claims he’s a technical prophet of God. Whatever he is, he’s a total sweetheart. He forgave my bullshit, saying it was more prophetic than I realized.”


“What healing factors?”


“I signed an agreement, but it has to do with making tons of new stem cells. All my old scars are gone. Are you ready for the big reveal?”


“I’m scared, Ellie. What am I going to see?”


“I’ve kept myself strapped down and hidden away. My measurements are 34B-24-35. In a year my hips will reach 38 inches. I’ll be in a C or D cup. My living strap-on is tucked safely away in my special designed lacy lingerie. With nothing but my custom panties on, I look like a CisWoman. I’ll never approach you with a dick. I DO want you to suckle my big boobs until they make milk for you. I want to nurse you.”


“I don’t deserve you, Ellie. You never should have had to do all that, just so I’d make love to you as a woman. I’m so ashamed.”


“Don’t be. You know full well I’ve never blamed Christy for her TransTrauma. Neither do I blame you. It is what it is. I need your physical affection as a woman. Only one part of this futa girl’s body is off limits to you. We protected it for the sake of children someday, but I can do without being touched there. I have so many other sensitive places all over me now. I yearn to be touched every place but one.”


“Take it off, El. I want to see the woman I’m dreaming about.”


I’m so nervous. I’m not sexy at all as I remove my clothing. I’d gone for the Victorian look, hiding everything under way too much cloth. It was a woman’s fashion, but an almost comically modest one. Now I’m unraveling it all, so slowly. My lady grants me mercy by breathing hard as I remove each successive layer.


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