Film At Eleven

by Cal Y. Pygia

 

I'm a shemale. I'm also an exhibitionist. And a news hound. These interests, as I've learned, don't always go together—or maybe they do. Let me explain.

Since becoming a woman in every detail but my genitals (which remain, as they always shall, defiantly masculine), I've delighted in "accidentally" exposing myself to men and women alike. It's much easier for a shemale to expose herself than it is for a guy, because society tolerates a great deal more display of feminine charms than it does of their male counterparts. Sure, men can show all but their cocks, balls, and asses and while, technically, women (and shemales) are also prohibited from displaying their genitals and buttocks in public, most men and women respond to a glimpse of either with a wink and a nod, so to speak, if not a blind eye.

Like a lot of genetic girls, I started by going braless. I especially like to do so during the summer months, when I can get a little too close to the spray of a fountain or a sprinkler. I wear a flimsy, white cotton top, and the cold water makes my nipples stiffen and swell so that, as "pokies," they are quite noticeable to anyone who happens to be within twenty feet of them. The men always notice; the women frequently do. I love the lingering looks, the open stares, and the way that men sometimes unconsciously lick their lips. I even enjoy the disapproving scowls of old ladies with faces (and, no doubt, tits) like dried-up prunes. In the winter, of course, there's no need for a fountain, sprinkler, or other water-delivery system. The cold alone is enough to make my nipples erect. Of course, since I seldom wear a coat and have nothing to cover my bosom but a thin silk blouse, it's not just my breasts that are cold. Still, it's worth a little discomfort to see the widened eyes, the dropping jaws, and the sometimes-furrowed brows of my audience. Hopefully, I give men something to masturbate to and encourage young women to go braless like me. In the old days, going braless might have been about equality; now, it's just about sex—well, sex and power.

In San Diego, at least, showing one's ass is easy. When I go to the beach, I just wear a hot-pink thong bikini that's decorated with glittery sequins. It attracts a lot of attention to my full, firm, feminine fanny, and it's fun to watch the double-takes I get from men (and women) when I sashay past them. Believe me, heads do turn! When I see my tan ass cheeks in a mirror or storefront window along the boardwalk, I admire their sleek, round fullness as much as anyone else. Why shouldn't I? Hormones and implants and electrolysis have set me back a fortune (although these procedures were well worth every penny). When I wear my thong, I always hear whistles from admiring men (and, sometimes, from women, too.) Another way I manage to display my butt is to wear a mini-skirt without panties. Then, I ride one of the long escalators to the second story of one of the local malls. I let my wrist brush against the side of my skirt, making sure to lift the hemline enough in the process to offer anyone behind me a good view of my ass cheeks. I usually do this several times, pretending to rub a sore spot on my hip or to scratch a persistent itch, letting only the lower halves of my buttocks show the first time, then half of them the next time, and maybe all of them the third time. Sometimes, I get so turned on that my cock stiffens and swells, and the men and women in front of me may get to see more than they'd bargained for when they'd entered the shopping center—a buxom young woman with shapely legs and a bulge in her crotch! Sometimes, I ride the down escalator back to the first floor so I can ride the up escalator again, and repeat the show a second—or a third—time. Usually, I don't, though, because my doing so could give security personnel enough time to catch me in the act in the unlikely event that a witness to one of my earlier shows bothered to seek out a guard and make a complaint (although, I confess, the chance of getting caught is also quite exciting!)

Showing one's breasts is more difficult—in the United States, at least. In Europe, South America, and other places, going topless isn't scandalous. It's accepted. Only in certain places, like New York or San Francisco, or on a nude beach, can a girl, genetic or otherwise, show her breasts in public without the risk of creating a disturbance or getting arrested. In the Big Apple, women can now legally join men in baring their chests; in California, ladies can breast-feed their babies in public; at the few nude beaches, women, like men, can dispose of their clothes altogether. For an exhibitionist like me, the problem with such places is that the ability to strut my stuff legally lessens the excitement of exposing myself to someone. When the law allows me to flaunt myself in public, the thrill is minimal to non-existent. However, when I can flash my tits, ass, or genitals at an unsuspecting guy or gal, the excitement is tremendous. There has to be an element of the forbidden and an element of the shocking for an exhibitionist to get off by exposing herself. I mean, if enjoying the display of one's body were as easy as doffing my clothes, I could have orgasms just by being a topless dancer, right?

To "accidentally" expose my breasts, I don't wear a bra and I leave my blouse unbuttoned below the level of my nipples. The blouse is extra large and loose fitting, the better to reveal my bosom. I usually ride the bus when I want to show off my tits, because there are a lot of passengers on board, especially during rush hour. I always sit in the last, bench-style seat, which extends all the way across the back of the bus. It's easy to contrive a reason to bend way over in my seat. For example, I'll drop a coin, a handkerchief, or a lipstick. Or we'll hit a bump in the road, and I'll lunge forward, making sure I double over. Usually, I take the bus to the mall, because a shopping center offers many opportunities to show off one's breasts—or even to get naked.

I always go to the ladies' room—several times—when I visit the mall. Standing at one of the sinks, I unbutton my blouse completely and use a wet paper towel to wash my breasts. A lot of women have walked in on me as I perform these ablutions; seldom do any walk out before I'm finished. In fact, they will usually sidle up to the sink next to mine and busily wash their hands—for several minutes—while I bathe my breasts, darting quick, sidelong glances at my naked bosom as they do so. Some try to initiate a conversation. "Did you spill something?" they'll ask. I just look at them and smile. Others are even more direct. They will stare openly at me; after a few moments, they will offer a compliment, saying "You have lovely breasts." I'm honored by their praise, of course, but I don't encourage them except to smile or say "thanks." I don't have anything against genetic girls, but I prefer guys and, frankly, most women who come on to me in the ladies' room are likely to be lesbians. If they are, they're interested in women who have cunts, not cocks and balls, between their legs. I definitely enjoy their stares and their comments, though. If the bolder lesbians persist beyond their initial compliment, I usually just say, "I'm flattered by your interest, but I'm not into other women myself." They get the message.

Trying on clothes is a great way to get completely naked. Some stores' dressing rooms are equipped with curtains, rather than doors, and these changing booths provide an extra thrill, since another customer or a sales clerk could easily see me undressing or undressed—especially if I "mistakenly" leave a sizeable part in the curtain, as, naturally, I am careful always to do. (I face away from the curtain or stand sideways, so my ass, or both my tits and my ass, can be displayed without my also revealing my genitals.) On more than one occasion, a young woman has stared at me, her eyes wide and her mouth agape, before muttering an apology. I always smile understandingly and say, "No harm done." Most women never suspect that my show is deliberate.

Only the most naive man or woman would suppose that dressing rooms are not kept under constant surveillance by a security guard seated behind a bank of closed-circuit TV monitors in a back room. The rest of us know better, and this knowledge makes stripping for a hidden camera sexy and fun for an exhibitionist like me. I imagine some fat fucker in a cum-stained T-shirt, with his tongue out as he salivates like one of Pavlov's dogs, masturbating while he watches me show him my tits, my ass, and my cock and balls. In my mind's-eye, I see him pumping his fist up and down on his stiff, swollen cock, faster and faster and harder and harder, as he thinks about kissing me, squeezing my tits, flicking my nipples, and thrusting his prick into my girlish ass. When he ejaculates, spewing his thick, warm, white seed all over the monitor, he probably imagines he's deep inside my rectum. In removing my blouse and stepping out of my skirt, I can feel his eyes on me, even though he's watching me from afar, over a closed circuit. Sometimes, confident that he can't report me without revealing the store's surveillance, I cup a breast in my hands, caress and squeeze it, tweak and pinch its nipple, and circle its areola with one hand while I masturbate with my other hand, working the taut flesh back and forth and up and down upon the stiff, standing shaft of my trembling prick, pausing now and then to rub and squeeze my balls through the tight pouch of my risen scrotum. I'll continue, sometimes, until I shoot, spewing semen against the door or one of the walls of, best of all, the full-length mirror in which I watch myself being watched.

Another way to show off is to rip one's clothes. Whenever I decide to do this, I wear an old, inexpensive dress—something expendable. Instead of taking the bus, I drive, making sure I close the car door on my dress as I exit the vehicle. The fabric tears, and I act surprised and embarrassed to have shown the world my breasts, cock, balls, and ass. Usually, I hesitate, as if I don't know what to do, before trying to dash back inside my car. Of course, I make sure I've locked the doors, so I can't get back inside immediately. Then, I must find my purse, which I've not only dropped but flung away from me when my dress ripped from my body, struggle to open it, frantically look for my keys (taking a long time to find them), and, after another long delay, finally succeed in unlocking the door and getting into the car. I drive off, still naked, leaving my ripped dress behind me, on the parking lot pavement, a souvenir for anyone who may be interested in acquiring one by which to remember me.

Last night, I decided to employ the stratagem that I just described. I needed a consolation for having to forego the watching of a report on the damage that a series of hurricanes did as they cut a swath of terrifying death and destruction through Florida, Alabama, Tennessee, Kentucky, and Virginia. I had to work late, but, afterward, I visited a highway rest stop on my way home and changed into a special outfit.

Then, I visited a mall near my house. I pulled up and parked. I had on a faded, old sundress. To ensure that it ripped away easily, I had pulled out many of the threads along the seams. Swiveling in my seat, I placed my high-heeled shoes onto the pavement, and, as I stood, I closed the door firmly upon my dress. As I stepped away from my parked car, I heard a loud, satisfying ripping sound, and my dress fell away from me, exposing my pert breasts, my shapely legs, my compact buttocks, and my dainty cock and balls. Then, I went through the usual pantomime of locating my purse, retrieving my car keys, and unlocking the door. By the time I had gotten back inside my car, a crowd of men and women were staring, shocked, at me.

It was only as I drove off, leaving my tattered dress on the pavement as another potential souvenir, that I saw the TV camera and Mike Walling, a local reporter, who was interviewing members of the crowd.

Oh God! I thought, panicking. Had I been caught on TV?

At first, the thought that my whole, sordid little routine might have been caught on film was horrifying. If so, everyone in town—hell, everyone within the viewing distance of the local TV station (which is to say, everyone in Southern California) would see me get out of my car, apparently catch my dress in the door, and be stripped bare, showing my tits, ass, and male genitals! My secret would be known! Everyone who knew me would know the truth about me—that I wasn't the woman I appeared to be—that I was, in reality, a man with breasts—a chick with a dick—a shemale! Wherever I went, whether to work, to a party, out to dinner, or shopping, friends and strangers alike would know that, despite my beautiful, made-up face, my long tresses, my petite frame, my bouncing breasts, my sleek, tapering legs, and my womanly ass, I had a penis and testicles!

As I drove home, the idea became less horrifying—and more exciting. It was a relief, actually, to no longer have to hide the truth about myself to family members, friends, and acquaintances. At last, I could be who I am, I thought. I could be myself—my true self. I could be me.

Of course, there was a good chance that I hadn't been caught on tape, after all, I reminded myself. Mike had been interviewing the people at the mall about something—a local event, most likely. It was true that my little show had gone down in front of the men and women who'd gathered around the reporter, but that didn't mean that the camera had been pointed my way. It was unlikely, I thought, that the cameraman had had me in his viewfinder. Rather, his attention, like Mike's, would have been focused on the men and women that Mike was interviewing. Still, that didn't necessarily mean that I hadn't been filmed as part of the scene's background, I told myself, surprised to find a note of hope, rather than despair, in the thought. I'd gone from dreading to be seen in the film clip to hoping that I was part of the show. I shook my head as I drove my car into my drive way. Once an exhibitionist, always an exhibitionist, I thought.

Well, one way or another, I would know, soon enough, whether I'd been caught on film. As I said, I'm a news buff, and although I hadn't been able to watch the eleven o'clock news, I'd taped it so that I'd be able to view the program later. I was tired, and, before my little mishap at the mall, I'd planned to retire early tonight and watch the news tomorrow, but, now, things being what they were, I decided that sooner was better than later.

I took off my clothes, made myself a drink, sat on the couch, turned on the TV set, and started the VCR. A few commercials played. Then, there was a long report on the devastating destruction that the hurricane had wrought. In moving through Virginia, the damned thing had spawned thirty tornadoes, each of these smaller, but even more intense, whirlwinds contributing to the millions upon millions of dollars in storm damage. Everywhere, there were ruined houses and stores. Traffic signs fluttered in heavy winds, and telephone poles and power lines lay atop smashed cars and mounds of debris. At marinas, ships were thrown together, piers were smashed into splinters, and streets were flooded with three, four, and five feet of water. Cars, trucks, boats, and even rooftops floated through the downtown streets as torrential rains continued to fall, driven before continuous gusts of heavy winds.

More commercials followed these scenes of destruction, and then I sat up, expectant, as, on my TV screen, I saw the mall I'd visited earlier tonight. There was Mike Walling, interviewing an elderly man and his wife, asking them what they thought about "the hurricane and tornadoes that had visited such unprecedented destruction on the Southern and Atlantic coast states."

The old man smiled. "I'm glad it wasn't us they hit."

His wife nodded her agreement. "Suddenly, an occasional earthquake doesn't seem so bad, does it?"

Mike moved his microphone elsewhere, asking a young man "What about you? What are your thoughts concerning this terrible calamity?"

But I didn't hear his reply. I saw myself arrive; I parked my car, got out, took a step, and my dress ripped completely off me. True, I was in the background, behind the assembled crowd that Mike was interviewing, but the camera showed me clearly enough. Anyone who knew me would recognize me. Anyone I knew would now know that I am a woman with a man's genitals, a chick with a dick or, depending upon how they chose to think of me, a man with tits and a womanly ass. Again, I was horrified at the thought that my secret had been revealed to the world. I had outed myself!

Then, calmness returned as I realized that maybe this is what I'd wanted all along. Maybe I had wanted the world to know my secret. I hit the "Pause" button, freezing my transsexual image on my TV screen as I considered a startling idea. Maybe that was what had motivated me to exhibit myself, piecemeal, as it were, showing now my nipples, now my breasts, now my womanly buttocks, and, finally, my cock and balls along with everything else. Maybe, all this time, in exhibiting my charms, I had wanted the world to know that I was neither male nor female, but shemale—a sexy, hot creature that transcended sex and gender. Instead of being horrified, I became excited. My cock swelled, rising as it stiffened, and my balls bunched up inside my tightening scrotum. I took my rigid penis in my fist and began to masturbate as, with my free hand, I played with first one, and then my other, tit.

My secret was out—and I was glad.

As my hips bucked and thrashed, my penis convulsing in my fist, and my semen spurted fast and thick from my balls, I moaned, watching my frozen image on the TV screen—this was me, my true self, revealed for all the world to see. My seed continued to spurt from my trembling, lurching penis, and my nipples ached.

Soon, my telephone would begin to ring. Mom and Dad would call, offering their support. Friends would call, asking for an explanation. Others would call with words of praise of condemnation. But, for the moment, at least, I was alone with myself, alone with my thoughts, alone with the truth of who and what I was.

Shuddering from the most intense orgasm of my life, I thought of the millions of viewers who had seen me. I grinned, no longer horrified at the knowledge that others knew the truth about me, but delighted. Knowing that others knew my secret was wonderful and sexy.

Best of all, I had it on tape.

When I'd shot the last of my seed, I pressed the "Rewind" button. An exhibitionist-become-a-voyeur, I watched my outing of myself again and again, ejaculating every time.

  

  

  

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