BE FOREWARNED. The following story contains sexually explicit material not suited for those who have not yet achieved the age of maturity. If you should fall into this category, do not read further. Consult the laws of your community to clarify if you are eligible to read adult sexual material. The theme is transsexual. If this type of reading matter offends you, read no further. Go do something else. Standard disclaimer applies. Any association with real people, places, events, or entities is purely coincidental.

 

Does It Matter?

by: Virginia Kane
© 2001. All rights reserved

 

Chapter One

Kicked off the team. I bumbled a crucial play in the ninth inning and my error cost us the game. I expected to be asked to step aside for Jim Keller. He was younger and on his way up, they said. We were in third place with five games left to play in the regular season and could cinch making the playoffs if we kicked it up a notch. Instead, our last chance for ending the season in first place was gone.

I had let the team down. I don't know what I was thinking of. My mind wandered for a single second, and I didn't anticipate a fly ball to deep right. I had to hustle. It should have been an easy 'out'. I bungled it and missed the catch by an inch in the sun. Then, in my haste, I juggled the ball before making my throw to third so two runs scored. A potentially easy double play ended up as two runs against us, costing us the game and our hopes to end the season in first place.

I expected to be benched and held in reserve for the remainder of the season for my error. According to what our manager had told me earlier, Jim Keller was still an unproven rookie in his book, but I knew better. Keller wasn't going to screw up a big chance to make the starting lineup for the playoffs, so I'd spend the close of the season sitting on the sidelines.

"Come to my office after your shower, Van." His lack of any further explanation was ominous. I had it coming, and was about to get it.

The manager wasted no time when I arrived. "What's wrong, Van?"

"I don't know, Ben. I was in top form until the last inning. Did you see the fantastic play I made in the fourth to retire the side?"

"I see them all. Anything I might have missed, I review on the game videotapes. I've been watching you like a hawk, Van. For the last few games you looked as if you would rather be someplace else. Interested in being traded?"

"What? Not at all! What makes you think that, Ben? I gave up everything to be here. You know my parents wanted me to finish college first, but I passed it up to play baseball. Baseball is my life. Every player has a bad day now and then."

"You had a 'bad day' now for over three weeks, and it happened twice before this season, alone. Sure, you usually handle your position as well as anyone, but one slip up, and a game goes down the drain, kid. We had the lead, and could have ended the season on top. If every other man on the team commits an error once in every game, we'd be in last place. This is a training camp for the Majors, not a public recreation center for your amusement. Money is at stake.

Attendance is down. Even with our rally going, the fans aren't coming out. There is more to baseball than playing. The park costs money. The Majors don't pick up the entire tab for their farm clubs. We have to generate revenue on our own."

"Cut it, Ben. What are you saying? I had the lecture about the forces that drive a minor league team when I arrived over five years ago. I'm I getting the boot?"

"No, you're too valuable to waste, but you aren't really good enough to advance to a single 'A' club, and you've lost your momentum here. We're in a spot. Keller has more charisma. He's younger and shows a lot of spirit, so fans come out to see him play. You had your chance. No single 'A' team has shown an interest in you. You perform like an all-star for ten games and then, fizzle out again.

Something must be bothering you. How's your sex life?"

"Are you kidding? Scandal sheet reporters spy on all players to catch one of us doing something to smear the club, it's a wonder we make it to first base with a girl. We're not supposed to mess around with the local skirts and if we ever try to see a pro, we can be dropped from the team for improper morality."

"The team has a public image to consider. Didn't you have a girl back home that you dated before you made it to the minors?"

"Yeah, but she wrote me off and got married to a local accountant more than two years ago, Ben. I was on the road all season for six years. She found someone to cling to for more than a few months a year and was tired of sitting alone by the fireplace the rest of the year. This life is too hard to ask a girl to tolerate. It may be exciting to us, because we're in the limelight. Women need careful cuddling and pampering on a regular basis, and the pay we get doesn't give a guy much chance to wine and dine them, or show them how much we care about them."

"So. Do you think you need to reevaluate your commitment to baseball?"

"No! I can handle the lack of a woman in my life to satisfy occasional urges. A girlfriend would only cause me to lose track of my primary goal. Having a steady girl to worry about would make my performance on the field worse too, Ben."

"Which arm do you use to handle it, Van? Do you use your throwing arm or your catching arm?"

"My sex life is none of your business. How I choose to deal with abstinence is for me to judge, not you. As long as I steer clear of loose women to prevent a public scandal, I'll do what I think is best, thank you. Is that all for now? I want to suit up for some batting practice. I think I've been swinging late all week."

"Don't bother, Van. Your locker is being emptied out, so you don't have to face the team. You're a free agent as of this minute."

"Because I said my personal life is none of your business?"

"Be serious. I could care less I have a list of new talent waiting for an opening on the team as long as your throwing arm. Some are damn good. Keller is taking your place. The coaches think he'll do a better job. I hate to admit it but this isn't a game. It's really a tough business. Stop by office tomorrow to pick up your check. Some guys are waiting outside to wish you luck and take you to dinner.

The game moves fast. People get injured. You never can tell. Another team may pick you up, Van. In the meantime, stay loose. Give me a call in a few weeks. If nothing breaks, I may be able to use you as a scout."

"A scout? I want to play ball, not watch other guys play."

"You're twenty-six, not nineteen. If you want to play baseball, I suggest that you check out the triple 'A' clubs. If you love the game itself, consider a new career in baseball that is the best use of your past experience. Scouting is a great job and a more reliable alternative to playing. It pays well and will give you a chance to travel the country more than playing. Take your time. Think it over. Let me know."

"Thanks, Ben. I'll think it over."

"I'll have your uniform cleaned and packed up ready for you when you stop in to get your check. The day after, we'll be on the road. You know the schedule for the rest of the season. If you want to talk, you'll know where to find me." Ben stood up, shook my hand, and escorted me to the door. The interview was over.

 

 

Chapter Two.

I didn't get to think it about it. Eight of my teammates were waiting for me. Eight out of thirty-two players were good enough to see me off. One fourth of the team had the guts to face me. If the others were pissed because of that botched play in the ninth, I didn't want to hear or see how they felt, anyway. In the end, they'd get a word or to two from me to remind them that their own skills weren't perfect. They missed as many plays, if not more. Trouble is, Ben had Keller in reserve to replace me. It was just as well I didn't see them and burn my bridges.

It was a sorry send-off after six years. I found later that two of the eight drew short straws, and the club picked up the whole tab, including drinks. The others must have been really sore to pass up a steak dinner and free booze.

Since I was no longer in training, I got sloshed. That was the basic plan from the start. The guys all figured they'd be out of town by the time I slept it off, and they were right. I hadn't had a drink in over eight months. Most people don't know that sportsmen who have to stay in training for long periods go off the deep end at the end of a season. Either it's food, or booze, or women; depending on which vice is the biggest sacrifice to a player. The temptation to binge is too great to pass up.

I stayed drunk for over two weeks. I can't be sure how long it was. I used my final paycheck to pay the next month's rent on my room, and bought cheap vodka with a good part of the rest. I drank up a bloody storm, night after night, and slept it off in between. I didn't give a hoot what anybody thought, either.

When the booze ran out, I started hitting bars. Many locals recognized me. I had plenty drinks offered to me, as long as I signed a few autographs. "Address it to my boy. He's your greatest fan, you know." I lied about the reason for not being with the team. I claimed I tore a ligament in my shoulder reaching for that deep hit to right, saying it was the reason I bobbled the ball and overthrew third base.

When one fan confronted me with a newspaper story that contradicted my lame version and threw it in my face, I slugged him for calling me a liar and got thrown in jail over it. The next day's paper had my picture on the back page. I was a sorry looking sight. Hope of my contract being picked up by another club died.

The police were polite but indignant. One said I shamed myself, my team and gave the game of baseball another black eye. Luckily, my accuser didn't show up in court, so the judge dismissed the assault charge. To avoid further bad publicity I was marshaled to the bus station in the closed back of a police squadrol.

I hocked my uniform and a wristwatch for a one-way ticket home.

Chapter Three.

It's hard to explain that you are a twenty-six year old retired baseball player with no other work experience or advanced career education. I got more funny looks at job interviews than a circus clown. They all shook their heads and told me that they were terribly sorry. Then they'd look at me with a frown. Could this be the drunken fool that slugged a diehard fan in a bar town where he was played ball? End of interview, exit nearest door to the street.

My drinking resumed. I tried to hide it from my folks, but that didn't last long. The first time I was brought home in a stupor, they said nothing, but acted glum. The second time, they asked me to join AA. After the third binge, which lasted over two weeks, they shipped me off to an asylum for detoxification.

That was the good part. At least, I was sober. The bad part was: I needed proof of a waiting job to be released, after they felt I could stay sober on my own.

I wrote to Ben. My answer came by telegram three days later. I was to report to a Mr. William Cummins in Sarasota, Florida to attend a weeklong seminar on the rudiments of scouting for new sports talent, if I was willing to except the other stipulated terms of the job. A one-way bus ticket would then follow. Fax machines didn't exist at the time. The asylum director wired my acceptance for me.

The ride south was tiresome, but after years of playing minor league ball, I could sleep better on a bus than in a bed. I arrived refreshed, and discovered that the address I was given was his winter residence, a trailer in a mobile home park.

By now you have a flavor for the extravagant lifestyle (lack thereof) that sports legends endure before they are famous, prior to their careers blossoming. It's a challenging gruel, but has its good points. Scouts, on the other hand, know that their lives will never be filled with lush contracts, personal amenities and bulging bankbooks. They move from one fleabag hotel to the next, searching for young men with undiscovered playing skill. The reward they get for their effort? A nice bonus, if the fledgling turns out to be an instant winner.

Some scouts are legendary as players. They are top producers, for a while. If they don't find new talent regularly, their fame fades quickly.

Bill Cummins was a legend to minor league players. When a manager was short a crucial man in his lineup before the start of a season, he'd get a call. Normally, his home club would let him make scouting recommendations to other clubs, but not without approval of his home team's manager. That way, they could improve their own squads by making trades and knew opposing team weaknesses.

Bill was to take me under his wing, and send me out to evaluate players that he couldn't watch in action because he was watching another promising player on a field elsewhere. He played ball when he was younger, and knew how to spot the up and coming rookies with potential. I recall that he was the scout that recruited me for my triple 'A' debut, years before.

Although we spent most of our time together after I completed the workshop, he didn't invite me to stay with him. I was assigned a room in a hotel that hosted the seminar and stayed on there when it was over. After six years on the road I was used to living out of a suitcase. Since the season was drawing to a close, I was planning to return to live with my parents.

Instead, Bill suggested my renting a trailer of my own in the same park as his for convenience. His grooming of my scouting skill was to continue throughout the winter, so I'd be ready for independent scouting by the coming spring. The rent wasn't cheap, but the club would gladly pay for it, instead of costlier hotel rooms.

My trailer was very modest, compared to Bill's. My sole creature comfort was the small portable television set with a tape player built in, so I could watch tapes of his previous scouting missions. Videotapes were boxed in chronological order. Bill had close to ten years worth to show details of some players' capabilities and lack thereof. Experience was the best teacher according to Bill.

After a boring month, I was itching for diversion. Booze was out of the question. One drink would be as bad as ten. I knew Bill shared my drinking problem, but he changed the subject whenever I asked what he used to ease his doldrums. After he declined my inquiry the fourth time, I gave up and went venturing out on my own one evening to check out the area's nightlife.

I woke up three days later in Bill's trailer, with a severe Excedrin hangover.

Bill made strong caffeine-rich coffee and poured cup after cup of it for me all day long. My hands still shook too bad to hold a cup steady, so he used a travel cup, with a trigger on the lid to keep me from spilling more than I drank. I knew that my drinking booze would result in getting me fired. So did Bill.

"Are you going to report my drinking to the club?"

"That depends on you, Van. I can't hide your alcohol dependency for long. If I try, and they find out about it by another means, I'll have a tough time denying I knew anything it that I should have passed along in my reports. After all Van, I do have a responsibility to convey my impressions of your value to the club."

"You had a drinking problem too, Bill. How do you handle it? I've never seen you take a drink. You made it clear that don't want to tell me how, but I'm desperate."

"Okay, I'll tell you this much. I don't think my way is totally foolproof. Continued sobriety is not easy. I use a diversionary tactic. If I told you what's involved, you might cause me trouble. You need to develop a plan of your own."

"Drugs?"

"No way. Drug addiction is worse than alcohol. We don't make the kind of money that would support a drug addiction. In your opinion, what are the world's three worst vices?"

"Drinking, gambling and sex. Why?"

"See? Drugs don't even make it on your list. Besides, it's only an alternate form of the same kind of addition that alcohol causes. It is a physical and mental grip on you that can't be easily controlled. All it takes is one slip and your firm resolve takes a hike. We can't gamble in our profession, so that leaves ---"

"Sex? That's prohibited, as well, unless we're married or we're planning to get married. I recall Ben quizzing me about my current sex life. I don't see how my being reluctant to get canned for sexual promiscuity is an issue, Bill. You're a confirmed bachelor. Do you chase loose women to bolster your resistance to drinking? I thought the one bad habit went hand in hand with the other. If that isn't the case, loose women wouldn't hang out in bars and lounges."

"Smart hustlers never drink. They may push drinks on their prey to weaken their resolve to abstain from paying for sexual gratification, but they don't dare to drink while plying their trade for fear of losing control of their wits when they are alone with a man they don't know who has superior physical strength.

They hang out in the bars because they can find easy tricks there. Guys who are drinking are the easiest to convince they need to sow wild oats. Take it from me. You'd never touch a drop, if you were in their position. The loose women who get hooked on booze find themselves dependent on drugs and ply their trade for the benefit of a pimp that lives high on their misery. On drugs, they loose their beauty and desirable figures in no time. They don't last long on drugs, just like you won't last long as a scout if you don't stop drinking once and for all."

"I'll buy that. I'll need help, though. It didn't take long to fall off the wagon, Bill. Do you think I have a chance?"

"I have enough trouble laying off booze, myself. You might not like my cure."

"Let me be the judge of that, Bill. Tell me how you do it. That's all I ask."

"Okay, but first I need your solemn vow to never tell where you learned it."

"You have it. Give it to me straight and from the hip. Don't pussyfoot. If I don't get a drink soon to kill the butterflies in my stomach, I'm going to heave my cookies. "

"Not so fast. It takes concentration. I usually do this alone, when I'm sure I won't be interrupted. It involves creating a mental fantasy to deter my need for drinking.

I lean back, relax and close my eyes. I try to think about something I'd rather do."

"I tried that, Bill. It doesn't work for me. The clinic gave me relaxation exercises to break the strangle hold alcohol abuse has on my resolve. Nothing I think of works to detract me for long. In fact, all I dream about taking a drink."

"What about sex? Ever try to think of sleeping with a pretty young filly?"

"What for? What difference would it make? We can't be caught seeking out loose women. All thinking about having sex with one would do is make me more intent on going out looking for one and end up drinking like a fish. Substituting the one forbidden vice with another will be senseless. We can get fired for engaging in promiscuous sex as easily as for excess drinking."

"Then, use your imagination to envision their point of view. They can't drink when they ply their trade. Imagine you can't drink, either. Get turned on by thinking how a girl goes about getting a guy interested in having sex with her. Concentrate on what being a sexpot for hire does. Think about the way they dress up and use makeup to make their intentions obvious to their clientele. Use anything you can.

If keep your eyes closed, you can almost feel it, physically. Use our hands, if it helps to create a vivid image inside your head."

"You mean, whack off?"

"No. I mean you should try to imagine how it must feel to be a sex object. Don't think about being the pursuer. Think of what it's like to be the pursued. Drinking would bring forth a disaster to a working girl. As a purveyor of sexual delight, a girl can't take chances. Sex can be equally satisfying to the one who is the lure.

The girls get to pick out their johns from out of the crowded bars. More men are out searching for a hot one-night-stand action than there are girls available. Think of how much fun it would be if you got to pick and choose who you'd invite into bed with you as a hooker, and how you'd go about enticing a lover."

"I can't see the point. I'd have to think --- like a girl. Still, there were plenty of women that admired me as a prominent ball player. We knew what they had in mind, but were warned not to respond to advances from female fans."

"You aren't a near-famous ball player any more, Van. You're a scout now."

"Yeah, I won't be signing any autographs since I slugged that belligerent fan in a bar one night. Maybe I should have kissed him for throwing a newspaper into my face. He infuriated me. "

"Would you have considered a kiss, if a girl had thrown the paper at you."

I opened my eyes and thought about it. "Not particularly. It wouldn't be smart. An angry woman isn't much different from an angry man. You won't get anywhere by being nice to someone that is calling you a liar to your face."

"So forget about irate people. Close your eyes and think about what you'd do if a person approached you with obvious admiration. Think of how you'd react if the person admired you for your magnetic charm instead of your playing skill."

"I suppose women were more interested in my body than my skill if they had their mind set on joining me for a romp in bed. I know I would. Some kept their gaze riveted to my groin. Some were so cute; I felt twitches of response. I tried to ignore it, but no one was harmed, so I enjoyed being thought of in that way."

"Now we're getting somewhere. Think of what went through their minds as your firm reaction became more evident to their eyes. Did they get off by seeing the effect they had thought they had on you? I'll bet it did. You didn't have to seduce them for them to enjoy your body. Thinking about it was enough. That's the kind of sexual delight you should use.

Did you notice? Your hands have stopped shaking and you're not sweating any more. Still think you need a drink to keep from blowing chunks?"

"No. I don't. Is that all there is to it? Just think about having casual sex with the willing women that used to approach me after a particularly exciting game?"

"Thinking about having sex, as the person who picks and chooses partners that are appealing to you because of their looks, their skills, their stature, their power, whatever turns you on. The best part of imagination is that you can be whoever you want to be. You can imagine being a prominent business owner. What is the most attractive thing to one of them? Is it ravishing beauty, sumptuous lips than can suck a hard ball through a rain gutter, or an ass like a bag full of angry cats, trying to get out. What turns a high roller on?

You can even imagine being the woman. What would it be like to need a bra to hold up a pair of jugs that men love to suck on. What is having a smooth groin, instead of a bulging one like? What would it feel like to not need a solid cup to keep things from flopping around when you run after a ground ball? How great it must feel to be a woman under a man in control of their sex, filling that gap with a raging hard-on that a woman can't get enough of."

"Wow! Yeah, I get the idea. No holds barred."

"The best thing about my technique is that you can do it whenever you are alone, when things are quiet. That's when an urge to have a drink is most likely to come to you, when you aren't busy. When the need starts to creep up on you, you can close your eyes, lean back and have a pleasant dream to forget all about booze. It works for me, Van. I developed a sling of favorite visions I use.

Try it on your own. Keep me posted. Sometimes another person's inspiration can help to visualize new alternatives. Remember, these are merely harmless wild dreams, so you can feel free to improvise. There is no need to restrict them to your present age, sex, occupation or physical attributes. You can imagine being whatever you'd like to be. I like to think of how life would be on the opposite side of the gender street. In my visions, I'm a fiery redhead with a body to die for."

"Get out! For the life of me, I couldn't visualize you being a girl."

"That's what I thought until I watched steamy videotapes to inspire me, instead of the boring replays of games I attended. I got the idea from seeing a knockout in the first row of seats off first base at a game. Every time she jumped to her feet, her boobs did a fantastic show of their own. Since the camera lens was trained on the first baseman, zoomed in for a close up, she was in clear focus most of the time. Those hot lips are making me hard right now, just thinking about her.

You have the tape. It was taken during a playoff game three years ago in Cadiz. Look for it. Let me know what you think of her.

Look. I'm dead on my feet. Think you can manage your way back to your trailer on your own? I'm going to hit the sack, Van. Stay as long as you'd like and let yourself out. Don't bother to wake me."

"I'm alright. I'll go right now. You can lock up behind me."

I searched for the tape he mentioned as soon as I got to my trailer.

She arrived during the fourth inning. She might have been sitting someplace else for the first three innings. Ben was right, though. She was an absolutely stunning woman. She held her crimson lips in a wide "O" whenever she cheered. I couldn't help getting excited when I watched her jumping up and down. What a gorgeous face. Big, lined eyes, deep mysterious pools that promised she would be eager to please her lover in bed.

What a body! It looked sculpted. Her tight jeans bulged as if she was poured into them, or they were sewn on. The metallic, strapless bustier appeared to be made of rigid plastic, even though it couldn't be.

The Cardigan sweater stayed on the bench. She never put it on once. If she did, it would only accent her massive, pendulous breasts. I could swear she waved her cannons at the camera more than once. I was in lust. Who needs booze with someone like her to keep your mind in the gutter? I watched the tape three times. By then, I knew where the best parts were, so I fast-forwarded the tape to watch her lips form that big "O" and move, as if she was --- well --- you know.

I leaned back and closed my eyes. How would it feel to look that sexy? Does a pair of knockers like hers stand up on their own when she lays down to accept a lover into her quim, or do they flatten out to the sides? How does she want a man to get her ready for the main event? Does she prefer his lips, fingertips or teeth? Placed where?

I wanted a life-size poster of her on my bedroom wall; the wall shared with the miniscule bathroom. It can't be seen from the front half of the trailer because it faces the to the back of the trailer at the foot of the bed. When I pull the bi-fold door separating the rear half of the trailer from the front half, the small bedroom is quite private.

I wanted her to smile down at me in bed at night. I searched the videotape frame by frame for the perfect single frame and stopped the tape when I found one that showed her face clearly with her open mouth amid a cheer.

The next day I went to a photography shop that prints out any freeze-frames of videos from a television monitor and electronically enhances them to eliminate the fuzziness and resolution lines. It cost me a pretty penny, but the following day, I got the call to pick up my new poster of my dream girl and the original videotape it was taken from. I was eager to get home and kiss her "O" shaped open lips, so I took the rolled up poster inside of a mailing tube from the female store clerk without examining it first.

I locked the trailer door behind me from inside and slid the rolled-up poster from its protective mailing tube. I unrolled the poster carefully, so as not to wrinkle or crease it. The body pose was perfect, as she was about to leap into the air with a maximum amount of cleavage on display. Her puffy hips protruded to the rear in a sexy way. Her arms were out to her sides as if she were about to hug someone in an embrace.

As her neck, and then her mouth came into view, I gulped hard. Those open lips looked fabulous, just begging to be filled and thrilled. Her outlined eyes were far clearer than they seemed on the video, shyly inviting me to make passionate love to her. I had to hang the poster up on the inside of the bathroom door, over the mirror and look at it from every possible perspective before permanently putting it on the wall facing my bed. The thought occurred to me that a vinyl roll-up pose for the inside my tiny shower stall would allow me to bathe with her naked.

As I unrolled the poster completely, I noticed the hairline. Something wasn't right.

I gazed at it for a long time before I realized it was a wig, and was cocked slightly to one side; not a lot, but just enough to expose the darker hair along one temple.

So what! So, she wore a wig. Big deal. She was still one hot tomato. I kissed her image on her ample, exposed cleavage. Even through the gauzy transparent part of her sleeveless top, above the solid heart shaped bustier that looked like an ice blue, hard plastic pair of cones, her firm breasts looked like ripe melons.

I stood back to admire her from a distance and saw the faint shadow of a thin line under the gauze. Standing further back and looking carefully, because of the quality of the enlarged, enhanced, photo image, I could see her breasts weren't hers at all. They were a prosthetic that ended at the choker around her neck. The only telltale sign was the faint line along each shoulder where the gauze ended.

Her beauty was enhanced! How dare she tease me with imitation carnal delights! I put the tape into the vcr/tv that was perched on top of the short refrigerator. The refrigerator was situated in front of the trailer's bathroom closer to the front of the trailer.

I grabbed a coke and the remote control and sat down on the fold-a-way couch across the front of my trailer. I took turns watching the girl on video and gazing at her life-size image. The more I watched, the more convinced I was. She wasn't a girl, at all. Her mannerisms looked sexy, because they weren't naturally female.

They were the mannerisms of a man trying to act like a woman! What Nerve!

I was pissed. I spent a lot of good money for a dream girl that wasn't a girl at all. I was about to get up to tear down the poster from the inside of the open bathroom door and tear it to shreds when it struck me. I had seen that face before. Where? I took a good long look and broke out laughing. This was the joke of the century!

If I hadn't had the still made and blown up to life size, I would have never known.

IT WAS BEN!!!

 

The end.

 

 

 

*********************************************
© 2001 by Virginia Kane. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.