Adventures in Gender

by Dawn DeWinter

  

Set in Des Moines, hometown of "Anything for a Moped," the story focuses on Samantha, a happy, well-adjusted, bosomy, lesbian who learns that her mother has been trying to get them onto trash television. A letter from the Vera Smuttee talk show leads mother and daughter to a photo shop where Samantha encounters the girl of her dreams. There is, however, a major impediment to romantic bliss: The girt loathes lesbians. How much is Samantha willing to give up in order to win Alison's heart?

 

Chapter One – "Samantha Meets the Girl of Her Dreams"

"Mother! There's no way I'm going on the Oprah Show! I won't do it. You can't make me do it!" Samantha's body shook so violently that the printout in her hand rattled like an awning in an Iowa twister.

"Sam, what are you talking about? Who said anything about the Oprah Show?"

Samantha waved the printout menacingly. "Bob Parmentier. That's who. He told you to put me on Oprah. Well, I won't do it. I'm not going on any freak show."

"Bob Bombardier? I have no idea who you're talking about. I've never heard of him." And her eyes showed she hadn't.

In fact, she had – sort of. But who notices or remembers the name of an assistant producer of a television show, especially one as boorish and forgettable as the Vera Smuttee talk show?

"Mother! How can you fib to me when I've got the evidence right here in my hand? It's an e-mail. And Bob what's-his-name sent it to you. See – it's addressed to Dorothy Brown. That's you, isn't it?"

As Samantha thrust the e-mail towards her mother, Dorothy finally understood: "You little snoop! You've been reading my e-mails again! Sam, you're always talking about your right to privacy. Well, don't I have any rights?"

"I wasn't snooping! You didn't sign off. Anyone could have read your letter. So I did. Anyway, a girl has a right to read her mother's e-mail if her mother's determined to ruin her life. And you are, aren't you?" Samantha shouted.

"Hush down. The neighbors will hear you across the street. I can't imagine what's got you so upset."

"Did you or did you not write the Vera Smuttee show?" Samantha demanded inquisitorially.

"Young lady, I don't like your tone of voice. Don't you forget who's the boss here and who's precariously close to getting grounded for a month." Dorothy didn't appreciate the third degree. "Teenagers," she muttered under her breath; "they're so unstable. Is there anything crazier than a sixteen-year-old girl?"

Samantha caught a word or two: "Crazy? Me, crazy? How about you? You actually wrote the Vera Smuttee show saying the two of us should go on it? I know it's your favorite show, mom; but it's trash TV. Thank god, they said no to you."

"They did? Look Sam, I haven't even read that letter you're waving about. You can't hold me responsible for anything stupid in it."

Dorothy lunged for the e-mail, but missed as Samantha flipped it skyward, catching it deftly behind her back. Sam could have done a backward somersault if necessary to keep the upper hand in their argument, for she had just recently made the school's cheerleading team, and was, according to the boys at Henry Wallace High, in primo condition.

The previous day, at her first football game since making the squad, most of Wallace's boys and some of its girls had been admiring different parts of Samantha – some her shoulder-length blond hair and bangs, some her deep blue eyes and long lashes, some her toothsome smile, some her wasp-like waist, some her lanky legs, but most were staring at her perky breasts. They were generally regarded as the "best in the tenth grade." Understandably, Samantha had lots of admirers. She was hot. She was chill. If her hips were just a wee bit wider, she would have been the picture-perfect teenage girl – at least, for those who liked the Nordic, corn-fed, Iowa look.

Whenever Samantha smiled, she melted the hearts of sixteen-year-old boys, grandmothers, nuns, and teachers, but she wasn't smiling now. Her perfect teeth were forming a perfect scowl.

"I can too hold you responsible for what the letter says," Samantha told her mother. "After all, it refers to a letter of yours."

"But Sam …."

"Mom! I can't believe you wrote Vera Smuttee to say that you and I should go on her show as – and did you really write this? – 'as a well adjusted, teenaged transsexual and her proud mother'."

"Well, Sam, you are well adjusted, aren't you? And I'm definitely proud of you, so proud in fact that I thought we could do a lot of good, help other teenagers, by telling everyone about how well you're doing as a TS."

"But mother, I'm not a transsexual. I'm a girl! Don't raise your eyebrows like that! Yeah, there's still part of me that makes me look like a boy, but I would have cut off … them … ages ago if the law would've let me. As soon as I'm eighteen, snip, snip and no one will ever mistake me for a male."

"Let's not split … hairs, young lady. Genetically, you're a boy and always will be. So no matter how female you look or feel, you're a transsexual. A gorgeous one, a happy one, but a transsexual nonetheless. And I did think it would be nice to show you off to the world."

"Mother, are you out of your mind? I'd be murdered if the Hoover football team found out I've got a … penis, or that I had to take a lot of hormones to get this figure. There's no way I'm going to admit on television to ever having been a boy – even if it was only in the maternity hospital. Anyway, the Smuttee show turned us down. The letter says we're 'too conventional' for them. 'Try Oprah instead'."

"Conventional? How many transsexual teens do they think there are?"

"A lot. That's what the Smuttee people claim." Samantha finally thrust the letter at her mother, who then read it out loud:

Dear Mrs. Brown,

Thank you for writing us. We're always pleased to hear from fans of our show. We've considered your suggestion – that you and your daughter appear on the show "as a well adjusted, teenage transsexual and her proud mother" to prove to our viewers that gender dysphoria can be euphoric, but we think your situation is too conventional for our show. Try Oprah instead.

As you know, if you watch the Vera Smuttee Show, it focuses on the extremes in the human condition. In our opinion, your situation isn't all that unusual. For example, given the fact that you already had a son, the death of your only daughter within hours of her birth made it almost inevitable – conventional, as we've said – that you'd transform her twin brother into a girl. After all, what mother wouldn't make this choice in the circumstances? You didn't even have to alter the birth certificate thanks to friendly Doctor Harridan. Officially, the boy died, the girl lived. It was as simple as that.

Frankly, we're more interested in Samantha's older brother Sanjay. That's his Hindu name, right? We do think it unusual for an Iowa boy from a German Catholic family to convert to Hinduism and then to join the fight for Bali's independence from Muslim Indonesia. Sanjay definitely interests us, but we suppose he's hard to contact in the bush.

As for Samantha, her upbringing seems quite normal. Happy people make for bad television. She doesn't even have acne to complain about. Nothing is duller than a contented cross-dresser. However, the picture you sent us of Samantha reveals a girl of stunning beauty. If you will sign a consent form affirming that she is eighteen-years-old, we'd like to do a comprehensive photo shoot of her for our adults-only, she-male website. If she comes to New York, I will personally chaperone her. She can even stay with me in my studio apartment.

In sum, we in the Smuttee family believe that your daughter has marvelous potential as a model. If she has the talent, we'll even arrange for her to become a dancer at one of the clubs we own. We can promise your daughter an exotic career and an introduction to hundreds of prominent businessmen if she comes to New York, but we have no place for either of you on the Vera Smuttee show because, to date, your lives have been so straightforward and predictable. In the final analysis, what could be more clichιd than a boy raised as a girl to replace a dead relation?

Yours sincerely,

Bob Parmentier

Assistant Producer

The Vera Smuttee Show

p.s. Do you have any more photos of Samantha? Something with more leg and cleavage that I could show to modeling agencies and other potential employers?

 

Dorothy folded the letter after finishing it. "I don't know why you're upset by this letter, Sam. Come on, it's very flattering to you. Mr. Parmentier says you're star material. What sixteen-year-old girl doesn't want to read that?"

"Do you really think I could be a model?"

"Of course, you're a very attractive young girl. But why stop at being a model? Why not be a dancer? Gosh, you're already as good as one. After all, your cheerleading routines include a lot of dance steps. With the help of Mr. Parmentier and some experience dancing in the Smuttee clubs, I bet you could make it to Broadway in a year. My baby a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall! It would be like a dream come true!"

"I do have the legs to be a Rockette, don't I? But do you think I'd ever get the nerve to appear in public in a skimpy outfit?"

"You're bound to be shy at first, Sam, but I daresay that you'll become more outgoing after dancing for a few months at one of the Smuttee clubs."

"Mom, there is no way I'll let anyone photograph me in the nude – at least until I've had my final operation."

"Of course not, honey. You're much too young to be unclothed in front of a camera. But I can't imagine your saying no to Calvin Klein if he wants you to show off his panties."

Samantha nodded and her eyes glistened as she thought of herself towering over Times Square in a bra and panties. Ah, what teenager wouldn't want to be the ultimate female sex symbol? Her nipples hardened at the prospect. Then, suddenly, she remembered what this discussion was supposed to be about: "Mother, I'd love to model lingerie. Any girl would. But going on Oprah, no way! I don't want anyone to know that I'm not all-girl."

"I suppose a talk show was a bad idea …."

"You better believe it!" Samantha interrupted.

"But I did so want to show you off, honey. But modeling would do that, wouldn't it? And the Smuttee people want to help you to become one! This is an opportunity of a lifetime. We can't let it slip through our fingers. But what should we do first? Do you want me to write Mr. Parmentier and tell him you're interested in both modeling and dancing?"

Dorothy's eyes asked for a nod. Samantha deliberated for a moment, and then gave it. "But mom, I think we should send him some more photographs of me. I think he needs them to give to the modeling agencies. A girl has to build up a portfolio."

"Sam, you're talking about professional-quality photos. They'll be expensive."

"So? Aren't I worth the money? Don't you want me to have a career?"

"Of course, darling." Actually, modeling was about the best Samantha could hope for, given her grades. They'd been consistently in the C range ever since the girl had started taking female hormones soon after her tenth birthday. She'd been dosing herself with the help of some neighborhood punks who'd sell any drug for the price of a fix.

For about a year Dorothy hadn't suspected a thing. She wasn't intending even to discuss hormones with Samantha until the girl was seventeen or eighteen. So she didn't give much thought to her child's emerging "baby fat". The training bras she'd dismissed as a necessary conceit, but when Samantha proved she needed an "A" cup (shortly before her twelfth birthday), Dorothy had quietly overseen Samantha's subsequent development of a thirty-four inch bust and respectable, thirty-two inch hips. Dorothy had secretly reduced the dosage so that Samantha took fewer risks in her rush to womanhood.

Even so, with hormones coursing through her system from age ten onward, Samantha developed a precocious interest –- no, obsession – with sex. By the time she was twelve she was as obsessed with the female form as the average fifteen-year-old boy. Female? Yes, there was little doubt that Samantha lusted after girls. By twelve, she'd done enough reading to declare herself a lesbian and to plaster her room with posters of female tennis and soccer stars.

Dorothy, always open-minded, wasn't bothered in the slightest that she had a lesbian daughter. She did, however, warn Samantha that not everyone would be equally understanding. "Believe it or not," Dorothy said, "some people are prejudiced against lesbians. So you should be careful about who you tell. And don't make a pass at another girl unless she likes girls as much as you do."

Had Samantha followed this advice she might still be going to Our Lady of the Bleeding Heart Prep School. It was an all-girls' Catholic school, which had suited Samantha just fine. All those girls to look at! Unfortunately, she never got to see them naked because the school, uptight about nudity, wouldn't allow them to shower together. That meant, of course, that no one ever got to see the dirty little secret between her legs – not even Roxanne, the first girl that Samantha ever loved.

It was Roxanne who received Samantha's first romantic kiss. Thanks to the movies, Samantha even knew to make it as wet and as mushy as possible. Roxanne had been willing, so willing that she was just about to discover Samantha's little secret when an elderly teacher had found them rolling together on the floor attempting to swallow each other's tongue.

They had both been expelled from Our Lady, and Samantha had known at age fourteen what it's like to have a broken heart, for her sweet Roxanne's family had moved to Bergerac, a Florida trailer park, to escape the scandal. The two girls had written each other love letters for three months. In her last letter, Roxanne admitted she had fallen for Miss Reno, her "manly" Physical Education teacher; she never wrote again.

There hadn't been another girl since Roxanne. True, Samantha had surrounded herself with beautiful girlfriends. And she definitely wasn't sublimating her sexuality. She knew that she wanted to have sex with every one of them. And she found lots of excuses for touching them. She and Marilyn Marks had even felt (up) each other's breasts for lumps. Samantha would have suggested they check each other for cervical cancer next, had she a cervix.

Yet she hadn't dared profess her love to Marilyn, to Megan, or to Linda because the girls were constantly putting down lesbians. So Samantha kissed them on the cheek or temple, never on the lips. An upbeat kid, she never despaired about her fate as a lesbian. She just figured she'd have to get to college – and out of Des Moines, Iowa – before she'd find Miss Right.

She was far too pessimistic, because Miss Right was a fifteen-year-old girl who was at that very moment helping out her father at his photographic studio, which just happened to be at the very shopping mall to which Samantha dragged her mother later that morning to buy her clothes tight enough and revealing enough to wear to her first photo shoot.

Samantha wasn't wearing a bra underneath her purple halter-top, which possibly explained why Albert Ames, the photographer, had been so accommodating. He'd halved his price when he learned that Samantha required several shots, including close-ups in a teeny-weeny bikini; and he rescheduled the official portrait of the Des Moines Police Department so that he could free up time that very afternoon to record Samantha's adolescent beauty for posterity.

Albert's daughter would normally have admired the way that Samantha use her feminine wiles, for Alison had recently learned that a flirtatious teenage girl usually got what she wanted from males. No – not sex. Not yet. Alison was still very much a virgin. But she no longer waited in line for anything, and there was always a vacant seat for her on the bus. Well, actually there were always empty seats on Des Moines' buses, even at rush hour, but Alison found it amusing to watch the men onboard scramble to "make room" for her anyway. Alison was so beautiful that teenage boys even sat up straight in their seats to get a better look of her.

Was Alison upset to see Samantha flirt with her father? Definitely not, for it amused her to see her father play the fool with a young girl. It was evidence of his human frailty. Whenever Alison saw her father, a divorcι, pursue the "impossible dream" she was convinced of her own maturity as well as the profound childishness of "adults." Besides, her father always felt guilty about noticing any female under the age of thirty, never mind a teenager, and Alison could use that guilt to negotiate some extra clothes or freedom for herself.

Had Samantha done nothing more than flirt with Albert Ames, Alison might even have liked her. What was there not to like? Everyone loved her smile. It revealed that she was a happy girl who brought joy and laughter to her friends. But Alison wasn't looking at Samantha's smile. It was Samantha's eyes that caught her attention – not because of their azure beauty, which she barely noticed from across the room – but because they were staring at her. Samantha was always looking at her. Well, almost always. Occasionally, Samantha's eyes lingered on Albert Ames for a second or two – just long enough to make him wobble at the knees; but otherwise they were following Alison around the room.

Alison was extremely uncomfortable: "Why is she staring at me? I bet she's a lesbian," she thought. "That's it! She's an effin' dyke. God, how I hate them! They should all rot in Hell!"

Alison glared at Samantha, only to be rewarded with a smile. Alison then stuck out her tongue.

Samantha sighed: "If I had that tongue in my mouth," Samantha thought, "I'd never let it go. That's got to be the sexiest tongue I've ever seen!"

Her penis didn't arouse easily after six years of female hormones, but it started to harden now as Samantha started fantasizing about having that tongue licking her nipples. Samantha turned away in embarrassment. When she looked once again in Alison's direction, the girl was gone.

"My daughter? You're asking after my daughter?" Albert Ames answered absent-mindedly. "I didn't see her go. She shouldn't do that. I need her at the cash register. She'd better have a good reason for rushing out. What's this? Oh, she left a note."

"Really? What does it say?" Samantha eagerly asked.

Albert's face turned a deep shade of scarlet. "It's personal. It's only meant for me."

Samantha was hopeful yet: "Maybe she's run out to find something sexy to wear," she thought. "After all, the way she's been looking at me, the way she let me see her cute little tongue, I just know she's gay too. She wants to be my girlfriend. I just know it."

"Well, that's everything for now," said Albert. "I will see you in three hours time. In the meantime, if you'll excuse me, I have developing to do."

"Do you mind if I wait here until your daughter returns?" Samantha asked.

"Why would you want to do that?" asked Albert.

"I'd like to get to know her. She's about my age; we could be friends." Samantha blushed and examined her platform sneakers.

Albert slowly shook his head. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

"Why not?" asked Dorothy.

"Your daughter should be buying a swimsuit and whatever she needs for the photo shoot," Albert replied. "Besides, I have no idea when my daughter will return."

"I'm willing to wait for as long as it takes," said Samantha. "I just gotta see her again today."

Albert, frowning, beckoned Dorothy with a crooked finger. "Er, could I speak to you for a moment, Mrs. Brown? Over here, where we can speak confidentially" – that is, well away from Samantha.

Once Dorothy had followed him out of Samantha's earshot, Albert whispered, "Mrs. Brown, it wouldn't be a good idea for Samantha to wait for Alison's return because …"

"Because? What's the problem? What's going on?"

"Because Alison won't come back as long as Samantha's here. So there's no point in your daughter's hanging around the store. In fact, I'd prefer you two went shopping so I can get some work out of Alison today."

"What does Alison have against Samantha? So far as I know they've never exchanged words."

"But they have exchanged looks. Frankly, girls like Samantha make Alison very uncomfortable."

"Girls like Samantha? Oh, now I understand. Alison is hostile to lesbians. What other phobias does she have? I imagine her prejudices cost you quite a bit of money. A lot of models are gay. Does she run for cover every time one of them offers you work?"

"Mrs. Brown, I definitely want this business." And he definitely did, for he was eying Samantha's profile from across the store. "I cancelled two appointments for her photo shoot. She's a very beautiful girl. I just know I could do right by her."

Dorothy understood: "Naturally, my daughter is nervous about this photo shoot. She has to be able to trust the photographer not to take advantage of her youth and innocence. I think she'd trust you more if your daughter were present during the shoot. You're not going to leer at my daughter's underwear if your own daughter is watching."

"Madam, I'll have you know that I am a professional. She could pose … nude (his voice lingered quietly over the n-word, then started rising to a crescendo) and I wouldn't leer. How could you even suggest I would? How dare you impugn my professional integrity?"

"There's no need to shout. No one is challenging your integrity. I would have no problem with your photographing Samantha in the nude, if that's what she what she wants." She waited for a few seconds, and then fixed Albert in the eye: "However, there is no possibility of her taking off her clothes if your daughter isn't around to keep an eye on you."

"Mother, what are you two talking about? Can I come over now?" Samantha called over.

"Not yet darling!" Slowly and softly she addressed Albert: "Well, it's your choice to make. We'll go off now to do some shopping. We'll be looking for a skimpy swimsuit and some lacy lingerie. If you want to see Samantha model them, you'd better make sure that Alison is assisting the shoot. My daughter wants to see Alison again today. You'll make that happen. Agreed?"

"Alison will be at the photo shoot, I promise. But I want you to tell Samantha the truth about Alison: She's not a lesbian; and she can't help disliking them. Take it from me – she's got good reasons for loathing lesbians. It's sad when anyone hates a whole class of people, but sometimes it's understandable in terms of their own personal history."

"Don't worry, Mr. Ames. Samantha will be under no illusions when we return for the shoot. She'll know there's no chance of Alison ever becoming her girlfriend. But if I know my daughter, she'll want to make a friend of Alison, so I do hope that Alison won't be rude."

"I hope so too. But you've got a teenaged daughter. You must know that teens have a mind of their own." Albert sighed.

Even so, Alison did agree to help with the photo shoot. She was at the cash when Samantha and her mother returned. Alison had planned to ignore them, but it was difficult not to notice Samantha's shorts. "Gosh, they've got to be two sizes too small," Alison thought. "And they're cut so high that she can't be wearing anything bigger than a thong underneath. I bet she's showing a lot of cheek behind."

The gaggle of teenaged boys trailing behind Samantha did suggest she was leaving little to the imagination from the rear. Not only were her shorts obscenely short, but her top had so little cloth that it covered only ten percent of her back. Despite herself, Alison found herself staring at Samantha's breasts. "I wish mine were as perky as hers. And her face! She's really cute. I just wish she wasn't a dyke. Why couldn't she be a boy!"

Samantha flashed her most seductive smile. "She likes my new outfit! I know she does. I caught her checking out my thighs. There! I caught her eyes. No surprise, she's looking away. She's really nervous around me. Is it because I'm gay? Or because she is, and doesn't want to face the truth?"

If Alison were the least bit gay, she would be bowled over by the photo shoot. To Albert's delight and Dorothy's dismay, Samantha posed as provocatively as possible. First she posed in the impossibly tight shorts, then with them unzipped, then with them off entirely, showing off her lace-trimmed pink gaff. Samantha next posed in red satin panties and a push-up bra, which Albert excitedly photographed while standing above the sprawling girl. Finally, she struck several come-hither poses in a "leopard" skin bikini swimsuit before whipping off the top. She let Albert take a couple of shots of her topless before he took several photos of her coyly covering most of her breasts.

Throughout the photo shoot, Albert had to constantly remind Samantha to look at the camera because she was playing the entire scene for Alison's benefit. Alison tried to look away, but curiosity – it must have been curiosity – repeatedly returned her gaze to Samantha's body. Eventually, she'd sneak a look at Samantha's face and discover each time that Samantha was staring longingly at her. Their eyes would lock just long enough for Samantha to smile or to wink.

Alison then looked away in disgust: "She's a real sicko, she is. A frigging lesbian. She's really beautiful. All the boys must want her. It's a tragedy that she's so twisted."

Alison wondered why she couldn't take her eyes off Samantha. Was it a ghoulish desire to look at human road kill? She marveled at the perfection of Samantha's breasts and surprised herself by wondering what Samantha looked like naked. She was disgusted with her father – "the old goat" – for pressing Samantha to pose bottomless, yet unhappy that he didn't get his way with the girl. Alison wondered what Samantha looked like in the nude: "Maybe she's got some defect, a scar or something on that's made her afraid of boys."

Alison was so lost in thought, puzzling over her own reactions to the photo shoot, that she didn't see Samantha coming towards her – not until it was too late, not until the lesbian had put her hand on Alison's arm. Alison's heart started pounding. Brusquely she brushed the hand away. "What do you want from me?" Alison hissed.

"To be your friend," Samantha purred. "I saw you watching me. I know you like me …"

"No way!"

"Yes, way. I know you like me. Couldn't we be friends? How about you joining me … and my mother … for a bite to eat? Do you like Italian? I know where we can get a great Caesar Salad."

"I'm not like you, Samantha. I'm not gay."

"That doesn't matter. We could still hang together. I think you're super. I'd just like to be around you. Besides, I could date the girls who come after you. I'm sure there will be lots of them. You're so foxy."

"That's the problem with the world. There are too many goddamn dykes in it! The last thing I need is a friend who's a lesbian. They'll think I'm one too and perverts'll hound me. No, we can't be friends. And stop looking at my breasts that way."

Alison crossed her arms across her chest, whereupon Samantha subconsciously dropped her eyes to check out Alison's navel, left exposed by the shifting cloth: "It's perfect. She's got a perfect belly button and not an ounce of fat on her," Samantha exulted.

"Stop looking at me that way! Father, I'm going home. Please tell Samantha to leave me alone. I never want to see her again. And she knows why." Alison then ran from the shop. Soon her sobs could be heard in the distance.

Albert shrugged. "You see how it is. Don't say I didn't warn you, Samantha. Good luck with your modeling career, but I want your mother to be the one who picks up the photos when they're ready. I don't think you should come back here, Samantha. It's just too upsetting to my daughter."

"But …"

"It's tragic that Alison is so hostile to gay girls because she could use a friend. She's been a loner since her mother left us. Alison could use some friends, but they'll have to be straight. What she really needs, I feel, is a boyfriend. She could use some tenderness."

"You don't seem to be prejudiced against gays, Mr. Ames," Dorothy said. "So why is Alison?"

A tear came to Albert's right eye. "It's not something I want to talk about. Let's just say that two lesbians hurt Alison so much that she'll never feel safe or happy around gay people again. She's not too keen on gay males either. So, Samantha, it's not fated for you and Alison to be friends. I'm doing you both a favor by insisting that you not come around here again. Understood?"

"You took Samantha's money. And your camera got awfully intimate with her," Dorothy objected.

"True, but that was business. My daughter is more important to me than my business. I asked her to show up for Samantha's photo shoot because I somehow hoped that she'd become less uptight about lesbians if she spent some time with one. But I was wrong."

He turned away.

"I guess it's time for us to go, Samantha. When will the photos be ready for me to pick them up?"

"Next Tuesday afternoon. Come before school lets out so there's no risk of the two girls accidentally seeing each other."

He turned away again.

"Come dear. You're evidently not wanted here. You'll find that men often act like Mr. Ames after they've got or seen what they wanted." Dorothy then shepherded her daughter from the "Ames to Please" photo shop.

"Mom, what Mr. Ames said is bogus. I am too fated to become Alison's girlfriend. I saw the way she was looking at me. She's as gay as I am, even if she doesn't know it yet. I'm going to make her fall in love with me."

"But honey, how are you going to win Alison's heart if she won't let a 'lesbian' get near her?"

"I know there's a way. I'll find it. I just know I will. Do you like Alison, mom? Don't you just love those eyes? Have you ever seen a deeper shade of jade? And that hair! It's so shiny, straight, long and black. And mom, she's got hips to die for. Isn't she beautiful? You know why I love her, right mom?"

"Yes, Sam, she's quite a catch. But only for a fisherman. I don't see how you'll ever be able to reel her in, given her horror of lesbianism."

"It's a question of bait, mom. If I use the right bait, Alison will be mine."

"Sure, honey. Now let's get you home and out of those shorts. I never want to see them on you again. A girl shouldn't be giving boys a chance to guess her religion."

 

Continued in Chapter 2 – "Samantha Meets a Boy's Schemes"

  

  

  

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