This story is purely fictional and meant for adult audiences only! All resemblance to actual persons is coincidental. It contains graphic sex described in first person narration by its transgendered, teenage protagonist. If you are not an adult, or if you find this type of material offensive, please stop reading and dispose of this file. You have been warned of the content. If you proceed neither the author nor the site host will be held responsible!

 

The Greatest Lie

by Alexandra Rios©

 

Chapter 6

Babes in Gangland

 

In my rare moments of leisure in the weeks following my close encounter with death, I had had little opportunity to talk about it. Of course, the police had asked perfunctory questions, and I had testified at the coroner’s inquest, but until my next appointment with Dr. Erika Wright, I had not verbalized the anxiety that gripped me whenever my frenetic schedule gave me time to think. The slow spiral toward death, the flickering lights of my failing consciousness, the sensation of surrender, and the thunderclaps that roused me from my sleep replayed in an endless loop, which I noticed only when life’s everyday distractions receded.

"Were you happy when you thought you were dying?"

"Not happy or sad. Just, somehow, fulfilled and accepting."

"Why were you prepared to accept death?"

"It wasn’t like that. It was, like, death was accepting me. And then it cast me back."

"Weren’t you happy when you realized you were saved?"

"I didn’t want to die. But was I happy? Am I happy now? Not really happy, for I have faced and accepted death, and now realize I will someday have to face and accept it again."

"Try thinking of it this way. Although you have to face death twice, you have, in a way, lived two lives."

"My life isn’t that much different. I’m still living in this schizo world, where half the time I’m a boy and half the time a girl. Is that what you mean by two lives?"

"No, I mean that from now on, if you want, you can start living as a girl. Your dedication to the community and your heroics on its behalf have completely turned me around on that. I am going to make your transition as easy as possible for you."

"Really. Like getting me out of the dorm? Epstein says he’ll sue if he has to."

"I’ve already written the letter. You’ll be getting a housing voucher and a meal allowance in lieu of the dorm fees."

The prospect of unlimited, subsidized lattes cheered me instantly. "How about registering as a girl?"

"I’ll support that too, but, there are some mechanics to consider. I think your transition would be a lot smoother if you changed your registration status between semesters. If you do it now, it will be a very public event before a largely unknown audience. The reaction could be unpredictable, or even dangerous."

She was right. I already got bad vibes from the Christian Fundamentalist crowd. But it could get worse.

"But won’t people recognize me next semester?"

"You could make some changes in your appearance. A different haircut or color…"

"Or maybe a boob job?" I asked, glancing admiringly at her beautiful breasts.

"If that’s what you want." I nodded enthusiastically.

"But you really have to talk this over with your parents. And it can’t wait. It has to be right away, if we are going to start this process now."

"God, that’s going to be so bad. My father is such a jerk about this."

"He’s a highly educated scientist. Surely he’ll understand."

"Underneath it all, he’s a macho traditionalist. He’s from one of the wealthiest families in Chile. He can trace his lineage back to the Conquistadors. He was in med school at USC when all hell broke loose in ’71, you know, Pinochet and Allende. Half his family disappeared, while the other half was running the death squads. Naturally, he never went back. He met my Swedish mother at a foreign students’ dance at SC, and after she got her Ph.D., they got married and had me. He’s a fellow at UCLA’s med school now, and was on the team that isolated HIV. My mom’s an authority on child development. I’m the only child, and they have big ambitions for me. As a son."

"And your mom?"

"She found me cross dressing at home early on. She didn’t do anything about it, and now she’s part of the problem, according to my dad. Of course, he thinks it’s mostly my fault, and of course, not at all his. My Mom is on the "nurture" vs. "nature" side, so she feels really guilty. But I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault: I’m just what I was meant to be."

"You’re right. Tell them that. You didn’t have any trouble coming out to me."

She was right, I knew. I had to face the wrath of Daddy, and the guilt of Mom. Oh well, after all the shit that had passed between us, what was the difference? I studied late, calculated the time difference, and phoned my parents place in Lucerne in the Swiss morning, Minneapolis night. My mom answered. We exchanged pleasantries, and she enthused about my summer school "A’s". I waited for the moment to break in with my difficult message. She beat me to the punch.

"Allie" (I love it when she calls me Allie), I have some bad news. Your father and I have separated. I stifled a rush of enthusiasm, and asked "Did he leave you? When, why?" I heard sobbing over the phone.

"Soon after we got here. One of his graduate students from UCLA was already here. He started seeing her right away. It must have been going on last year in LA. I’m such an idiot."

"Mom, I’m so sorry. I know I was a handful last year."

"It’s not your fault. She’s the most recent of many. But this one he seems serious about. He sent me legal papers from a lawyer in California."

"Divorce papers?" I asked incredulously.

"I don’t know. I haven’t read them. How can I even find a divorce lawyer from here?"

"Fax a copy to me." I gave her the fax number at the Law Review. "I have a law student friend who can look at them. I’m sure he can find you a lawyer."

We commiserated about what an unfeeling rat my father was, and bonded our shared suffering at his often cutting remarks. After we became sufficiently intimate, I said "I need to tell you something. Do you remember last winter when you said you thought I would grow out of my feminine phase?"

"Yes, and that terrible incident at that Prom dance. I know we should have gotten you therapy, but I didn’t push the issue. I was worried how your father would react. Why, darling?."

"Mom, I’m in therapy now, but I’m not really growing out of it. I’m growing into it."

"I noticed that you sounded more girlish than when we last talked. Are you taking those hormones again?"

"Mom, I’m sorry, I never could really stop. I don’t want to turn into a man. I want to be a woman."

"Do you really? Why?"

"My therapist says she thinks I’m transsexual."

There was silence on the other end. After a moment, I said "Mom, are you still there?"

She cleared her throat huskily. "That’s OK, I’ll always love you, no matter what."

"I’ll always love you too. Do you really mean it. Can you accept me as a girl?"

"You’ll always be my baby. I’ll love you the same no matter what."

I felt a wave of joy and relief wash over me. Dr. Wright had been right. "Have you told your father?"

"No. How could I? He’s either going to kill me or cut me off? Could you…?"

"I can’t tell you for him. He’ll just blame me and attack me as a parent and a wife. I’ve taken enough of that. You have to call him, take responsibility yourself, and make him take his share as well."

She gave me his phone number. Oh well, I thought, that went pretty well. Now, it didn’t really matter what dad said.

A female voice answered the phone at dad’s apartment, "bonjour."

"Bonjour. Puis-je parle avec mon pere?"

"Certainement." She called out to the distance. "Hector, c’est ta jeune fille."

"Impossible, je n’ai pas une jeune fille."©

"Alex, is that you fucking around again?"

"That’s not a very friendly greeting. Thanks for telling me you dumped mom. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your little French whore?"

"Listen, you little jerk. I am sick of you and your effeminate ways, and your mother’s babying of you. You are turning out to be a child I am really ashamed of. I left your mom to get shut of the both of you, and let me emphasize the you."

This verbal assault left me momentarily speechless, but I regained my voice. "Well, then, I guess you won’t care that I am transitioning to full time female gender. I’m a transsexual, and I’m proud of it. I’d much rather grow up to be a woman than a egotistic, Don Juan asshole like you."

"I always knew there was something wrong with you. I’m am going to get out of your life, and you and your mom can stay out of mine. I just got appointed head of a pharmaceutical research institute in Lucerne, and I’m staying here with Isabel. You and your mother can have each other, and everything in California. As far as I’m concerned, you can be whatever you want. I just don’t want to hear about it anymore."

"Have a nice life, dad." He hung up.

I called my mother and reported. "You know, it’s going to be hard. My book’s not done, and I really don’t have very much to live on. I need to finish the book, and then get back to California and find work."

"Don’t worry, mom. I’ll be fine with money. My therapist says if you’ll write consenting, the University will give me a housing and meals stipend in lieu of my dormitory, re-register me as a girl and let me keep my scholarship as long as I keep my grades up."

"I know I don’t need to worry about that. Of course I’ll write my consent. I want to support you in any way I can, Allie."

Except financially, I thought bitterly, but did not say. My mom has super expensive tastes, and now she wouldn’t have my dad’s income to support them. I wasn’t worried. Before she hung up, she asked "By the way. What’s your size? I can’t wait to start shopping for you." At least I would have lots of feminine clothing and accessories coming now. Between that, the housing and meals stipend, and the money that Finch had put into the apartment and the housing money from the scholarship, I would be better off. Besides, I had ways of supplementing my cash flow.

I called Dr. Wright and reported on my talks. "I’m really disappointed in your father," she said. "I’d like to write him a letter reminding him of his responsibility as the parent of a transsexual. You have taken responsibility for re-shaping your own life and are taking responsibility far beyond your years in your adopted gender. I think you’re terrific. If you were my child, I would be proud of you.

"I don’t really care what he thinks. Now, he’s just another jerky guy to me."

I moved out of the dorm and into my studio full time. Rick and Randy were sad to see me leave. "Look, I’ll miss you too, but there are to many nosy prudes around here. Both you and I are safer here. And it’s not that far!"

"Too far to walk over in the middle of the night," Randy complained.

"You are going to have to plan in advance. You could even ask me to do something other than study, drink coffee or have sex."

Actually, I was getting too busy to do much else. The memorial service and my role in killing off the Hennepin Avenue Strangler had made me an instant celebrity in the T-Girl community, and soon I was interviewing five T-Girls a week. I asked about their early gender orientation, gender awakening, peer and family reaction and relationships, sexual history, current sexual activity, history of hormone use, surgical interventions, commercial sex experience, housing, employment, educational and police harassment and discrimination. Most of the girls I talked to seemed pleased with the changes that they had made to their lives and bodies© , even though almost everyone had suffered rejection, discrimination, humiliation and harassment from all quarters: families, employers, landlords, cops and clients. Their stories were varied blends of romance, comedy and tragedy, and hearing them made me feel lucky to be me. With each interview, I felt as though I had gotten to know myself better.

Now, the school semester was whirling by. I had all of these T-Girl interviews, I had to keep Rick and Randy afloat in their classes, and I had to do my own course work, most of which was in advanced courses. Finch was demanding, but ecstatic with the fast results of our research. Rick and Randy had the best grades on the hockey team, and the made the second varsity line. Whitman was overwhelmed with new cases of T-Girl , and Epstein was thrilled with the steady stream of transgendered clients on whose behalf his law school interns could demand and sue. I had more responsibilities than hours to fulfill them, and I run out of my favorite study aid and morale booster, black beauties. So I decided to pay a call on Bo.

I hadn’t seen Bo since the night that he had chilled my country music assailant. Tran had told me that the word on the street was that cops were hassling his drug dealing operation more since his heroics had saved me, at the expense of embarrassing the cops. I felt guilty and responsible, since my decisions had put me in the position where I had needed him. As his power had momentarily slipped, a gang of Mexican dealers had risen to compete. There had already been drive-by shootings on the streets near Hennepin. "Bo a nice guy but he hard! And I don’t mean just his cock. You be careful with him!" Tran advised.

I went both to cop some speed, and to pay homage and please him. So I took special care to look as appealing as I could. I wore a tight fitting camisole top which accentuated my slender arms and small and pointed but jiggly school girl breasts. My jeans were the tightest ones I could fit into. Now that I was off campus, I could wear more make up. I looked fantastic as I went to my rendezvous.

Bo’s safe house was filled with gun toting bodyguards. "Baby, you look nice." Bo always called me baby. "Come here," he said, patting the couch next to him. He was dressed like a successful urban businessman, which was, in a sense, what he was. He wrapped his massive arm around my slender torso and gave my breast a gentle squeeze. I smiled submissively. His crew was scary and sleazy, but Bo was like a benevolent black god. "So you need some uppers? You know what they say, ‘speed kills!’"

"Right now, it’s school that’s killing me."

"Well, I got just what the doctor ordered." He gestured to one of his praetorians. "Get that stuff from the pharmacy job." The capo returned with a large bottle labeled "Desoxyn". "These look like what you like? Straight off the pharmacy shelf."

There were easily 250 orange and brown capsules of Desoxyn. "I special ordered these for you". With a wave, he dispatched his attendants from the room, and unzipped his fly. "And here is something else special for you," he chortled, as he gently guided my head down to suck the big black cock the protruded through the fly of his boxers.

I know some girls dread the taste of cum in their mouths, but I love it. I like best the wispy taste of fresh precum on my tongue: its fresh salty flavor is like the first scent of the ocean on a coastal breeze: it delicately foreshadows the stormy seas that soon will follow. I bobbed my silken lips obediently over his stiff ebony shaft. Its girth fatigued my puckered lips and cheeks. Soon, he was thrusting his mighty thighs to ram his cock even harder against my palate. My mouth was so stretched and tired it ached, and I tried to break free to ask him to take my ass instead. But his fingers were entwined in my hair and his grip was as relentless as his thighs. I could tell he was getting close, so I closed my watering eyes and let him bang my head up and down his swollen, throbbing member. Then, speared my throat with a final paroxysm, and he exploded in my throat with aromatic seed that filled me from my tummy to my sinuses. I kept sucking, and squeezing his golf ball sized testicles, to extract the last droplets, which I rubbed on my bruised and swollen lips, like a gloss. I looked up at him admiringly, and as he closed his eyes I thought of him as a slumbering barbarian god and me as his supplicant. I cleaned his still huge, but now flaccid penis thoroughly with my tired mouth, and then rose to brush my teeth and freshen my makeup.

When I emerged, Bo had revived and dressed. He said "Baby, I gotta ask you to do something for me. I need you to go see a one of my bros."

This sounded ominous. "To see him and what else."

"Whatever the bro says. You’re so sweet, I got to share."

"I don’t want to be pimped by you, Bo. I thought I was your baby, not your whore."

"It’s not like that. He won’t be paying you. I had a misunderstanding with my bro Carlos, and I want to send him something special to make it right."

"And so you’re sending him, me? That doesn’t exactly make me feel very special. It makes me feel like a piece of merchandise."

"Come on, baby. It’s important for me. And after all I done for you, you should be happy to help out."

I didn’t really have much of a choice. He was laying on the guilt, and with Bo’s henchman Croc standing behind me, there wasn’t any real exit available. "Just to prove I’m not pimping, here’s five hundred of mine. Now go and treat Carlos right. That’s why I didn’t fuck your ass now, keeping it nice and fresh and tight for him. So go give it to Carlos, baby."

I was bewildered and upset, but I let Croc steer me away into the night. We stopped by my place and I stashed the money and drugs, and primped myself, taking care to clean and lube my tush.

As we approached Carlos’ place, the night was pierced with jungle whistles and cries of warning from lookouts hidden in the blasted, empty blocks. Music thumped and strange lights flickered from the darkened windows of the crackhouse. We tapped on an armored shutter, and as it rattled up, a hot, acrid blast of polluted air vented. Crock said he had the package from Bo. A door opened and a shadowy figure beckoned silently. We entered.

The interior was even darker than the night outside, lit only by the flickering of lighters under crack pipes. Over the distorted blasting hip hop one could hear screams of pain, anger and pleasure. The tiny, ramshackle house was jammed with twenty people or more, huddled around hissing pipes, sprawled on the floors, or publicly fucking. It looked like a vision of hell straight out of Heronymous Bosch. From the darkness, a hand grabbed my bare shoulder roughly and shoved me in the direction of a hallway that lead to the rear of the house. The noise abated and the crowd thinned and at last a door opened and Croc and I were escorted into the exalted presence of Carlos.

But before I could meet the great Carlos, I was blindfolded, and guided into the room as helpless as a blind girl. "So this is Bro Bo’s favorite bicha. C’mere!" Croc pushed me onto Carlos’ lap, and he slid his hand under my camisole and grabbed my breast. "I thought Bo liked big tits. She’s not even a handful." He pushed me aside, grabbing my butt roughly. "Strip and lie down on the bed." I panicked. Did he know I was a trans? Addressing Croc, Carlos said "Now let’s see the package." Crock produced a valise and unlocked it, as I wriggled out of my jeans and undies. "Face down, and don’t move," Carlos ordered me harshly. "Jose, test it." I heard an envelope crack open and heard the hiss of a flame. A sulfurous smell wafted on the dank air. Carlos cursed. "Fuck, this is bullshit. This shit’s been cut to crap! Fuckin’ scumbag Bo!" I heard a thud of a blunt object on bone, followed by the sounds of booted feet stomping flesh. I didn’t need to look to know what was happening to Croc. "Get that piece of crap out of here," Carlos snarled menacingly, after a few minutes of savagery. I buried my face in the pillow, but I knew he was near. I felt rough hands pry my thighs apart, and pull my hiding cockette from beneath me. "Just like Bo sends me skanky dope, he sends me a skanky bitch, a fucking shemale."

"She look like a real bitch, but look at that tiny little cock."

"I hear Bo fucks shemale pussy and nothin’ else."

"Guess we’ll have to try some ourselves. Tie her to the bed." My hands and feet were immobilized and I was tied spread-eagled to the bed. A pillow was jammed under my pelvis, raising my ass and spreading my cheeks. For a few minutes, the room was quiet, and I could hear only the cacophony of the mad drug party rampaging outside. The stillness and anticipation of the inevitable assault on my body tortured me. With my eyes blinded, my ears strained for a sound and my nerves tingled with apprehension. I felt the bed bounce slightly from behind. He was coming.

His first touch was surprisingly gentle. Carlos slid his hand up my silken thigh, stroked my soft, velvet scrotum and cock, and circled the curve of my buttock to my crack. His finger traced the pink circle of my upturned rectum, which no doubt glistened prettily with a coating of fresh lubricant. He pressed in a finger insistently, and slipped it in. "Ay-ya ya ya, it’s tight." He pulled it out, and then poked at me with two fingers. I was immobilized, and decided the safest course was complete passivity. I tried to remain silent and unresponsive as he jabbed two fingers inside and tried to stretch them apart against my fiercely resisting sphincters. Then stubbed in a third, and a fourth, and his thumb, and they made a shallow bridgehead and strained to pull me apart. I was writhing in pain at this abuse, and my blindfold was damp with tears, but I bit the soiled sheets and remained silent.

Now he tired of this game, and I heard the sounds of slapping flesh and his increasingly heavy breathing. He was jerking himself to get hard. The bed bounced again as he took position, and then I felt the sting and heard the crack of his open hand slapping my ass with all his might. The bed trampolined with the fury of his blows, and my buttocks felt like they had been lit on fire. After a dozen savage blows had cracked on my silent and prostrate body, he stopped and I felt the familiar press of a hard cock against my rectal ring.

Carlos entered me with less savagery than his crude foreplay had forewarned. He was a curiosity seeker, savoring each new sensation. "oh, you’re tight, bitch, ya, that’s good!" Suddenly, he pulled out, and I heard two long, nasal whistles, followed by a yelp of pain and pleasure. God, he had actually snorted coke mid fuck. As he reentered me, I felt a chemical twinge in my ass and felt a weird menthol sensation. He’d rubbed the excess coke from his mirror on his dick, and was now plunging it inside me.

Carlos wasn’t as big as Rick, Randy or Bo, so he entered me with only a twinge of pain. He was so high he could barely keep himself hard and inside me. He slipped out and started slapping my back and buttocks in a rage, and I squirmed with pain but kept silent. He played with himself, cursing in Spanish, and rammed himself back inside me.

His coke-numbed dick tore into me for far too long, as he slapped my ass, pulled my hair; pinched, scratched and abused me until at last he came inside me in a sudden fiery, drug addled climax. Carlos was immediately restless, after he pulled out I heard two more nasal whirlwinds as he snorted more coke. I heard him dress and as he left he wisecracked "Party’s not over for you, bitch." To my horror, I heard him announce to his henchman outside the door "Anyone that wants to buttfuck Bo’s trannie girlfriend, take a number! She’s all warmed up."

Then began a long, repetitive nightmare. One anonymous, invisible cock after another entered me and orgasmed into my tired and raw ass until I lost all sense of time and place. I was beaten, scratched, bitten, and burned by my assailants, who gabbed in mixed Spanish and English. I felt a cold, sharp object stab inside of me, and heard someone yell "Get that fuckin Glock outa there." I dimly registered that I had been penetrated by a gun barrel, and felt a mixture of regret and relief that it had not discharge inside me, to end this ordeal. I retreated into my imagination, and replayed adolescent fantasies of me, a beautiful Spanish princess being forced by Moorish pirates in the hold of a captured galleon. Like me, the Spanish princess endured her violation silently and stoically, knowing that she would be rescued and redeemed. But there was no rescue or redemption from this torture. Bo’s peace offering had backfired horribly. I was being gang raped by dangerous, drugged and probably diseased sicko’s, and my only ally, Croc, had already been beaten senseless and was probably dead.

Just then, Carlos commanding voice interrupted what was either the ninth or tenth assault. "Ok, time to send the bitch back to her boyfriend. Get the fuck outta here." Carlos pulled the assailant of the moment off of me and threw him to the floor. The ropes that had tied me to the bed were loosened. "Take your blindfold off and get dressed, then put it back on. If you look at me, we’ll have to kill you, just like we’re gonna kill Bo and his crew."

I nodded silently, dressed facing a corner as the party went on behind me, and was thrown, blindfolded, into the back of a pickup. The groaning, unconscious Croc rolled around in the freezing flatbed beside me.

It was after 4:00 a.m. when they dumped us on Hennepin. Fortunately, it was only two blocks from my apartment, and I staggered there in the freezing darkness. I called Bo and told him where they could find Croc. He was angry and worried. "What happened, baby?"

"Croc and I are Carlos’ message to you. They beat him almost to death, and Carlos let every scumbag in that crackhouse fuck me. They thought you ripped them off on the coke, they hate you, Bo, they’re going to kill you and all your friends, and they took it out on me. How could you do this to me?"

"I’m sorry baby, I thought I had a plan. I’m going to make it right. Me and Lawan and the set are going to air out Carlos’ crib, you’ll see."

I paged Dr. Prince. He called immediately, I told him that I had been raped and he told me to meet him at the emergency room. I steeled myself and pulled down my pants and panties. They were stained with bloody cum. I threw them in the trash and put on a dress, fresh panties and a panty liner, as blood and cum continued to leak out of me. God, I probably have AIDS and more. My stomach ached and cramped. I packed a bag with my books and notes for classes, extra clothes and makeup and taxied to the emergency room. Dr. Prince had already been to the pharmacy. He handed me a packet of pills and a cup of water and said "That’s the AIDS cocktail. You’re taking it prophylactily. It’s experimental."

"I’m bleeding from inside. They gang raped me and stuck a gun barrel inside me. My insides feel all twisted and torn."

"I’m admitting you for a couple of days. Now, they’re just taking blood tests and vitals. I’ll have a proctologist check you out and patch you up."

I was still in the ER when the burn victims started arriving in droves. A car bomb had destroyed a building near Hennepin. A half charred, barely conscious victim was parked next to my bed as I lay on my gurney, waiting to be transported to a medical floor. I saw a look of recognition in the glassy eyes of the devastated man. Although I could barely look at his scorched, reddened face, I knew it was my guide from the crackhouse. He had been shunted aside in the chaos of ER triage, as a hopeless case. I tried to feel pity for this doomed soul, but I couldn’t. I looked away as the orderlies wheeled me to the elevator, as I took grim satisfaction in Bo’s grim revenge.

For the next few days, I was poked, pricked, and fawned over by the nurses and doctors of the University’s medical center. A proctologist invaded, cauterized, and pronounced my colon repaired, leaving me with an injunction to refrain from anal sex, at least for the next month: not that I was in the mood, at the moment. Rick and Randy came by to bring me homework assignments and promised to return to pick up my completed assignments. They brought me flowers and latte from Starbucks. Then Tran visited, and as she made me up and gave me a manicure, she delivered shocking news.

"You hear about Bo?" she asked. I shook my head. "He dead, killed in drive by. Croc and Lawan too. Shot by Mexicans." The war, in which I had been the first casualty, had ended in catastrophe on both combatants, for all of the burn victims from the crackhouse died over the next few days. After Tran had left, I wondered what strange force within me caused me to court such dangers as I had with Bo, and what signals did I send out to attract such dangerous characters? Was it a dark side within me, some evil genetic bequest from my father? Or was it the consequence of the secret battle between male and female, estrogen and testosterone, yin and yang, that went on every moment in my bloodstream and soul?

My blood was drawn and studied for the tell-tale emergence of a high white count or the dreaded HIV antibodies. The AIDS cocktail made me feel so lousy I couldn’t tell if I was getting sick, so I was worried about the test results. At the end of the day Prince walked in looking grim, and I feared the worst. He must have seen the look of dread in my eyes. "Your antibody tests are negative, but your blood is showing elevated levels of Human Chorionic Gonadotropin (hCG) and Alpha-fetoprotein. It’s not HIV, but it’s serious. These are positive markers for testicular cancer."

"Me? How can it be? I barely have any testes." I was suddenly gripped with guilt and regret. "Could it be the hormones?"

"Me? How can it be? I barely have any testes." I was suddenly gripped with guilt and regret. "Could it be the hormones?"

"Who knows. The excessive doses of Premarin and the other hormones you took in the last year no doubt played havoc with your endocrine system. There's no point in speculating now: it is what it is, and both markers present there is an 80% correlation that at least one teste is malignant."

"What do you do now: a biopsy?"

"No way. That spreads the disease through the scrotum to your lymphatic system, making it untreatable. And there is no effective chemo, but if we got it early enough, it’s completely treatable surgically. I am going to look for a cyst visually and by ultrasound. If we can’t find it, then we perform an inguinal orchiectomy, right away."

"What is an inguinal orchiectomy?"

"Orchiectomy is the medical term for castration. Inguinal means through the tummy."

I gasped. "Are you sure? When?"

"I am going to have a look now, and send you straight to ultra sound. If I can figure out which one is malignant, it’ll be unilateral. If not, it’s bi-lateral."

"Are there any alternatives?"

"No, no unless you count dying. And we are going to great lengths to keep you alive. The world needs you, Allie." He was silent for a moment, then he went on "You won’t be able to reproduce after this. Have you ever frozen any sperm?"

"I don’t think I am going to need them."

"Don’t foreclose your options. I think transsexuals will be carrying full term pregnancies with donor eggs in your time."

My ultrasound was inconclusive. It could be one or both, but he couldn’t tell which teste was affected. Prince scheduled me for surgery the next morning.

I went to the cryonics lab, and they escorted me to a private room with a couch and a television. I selected a shemale porno tape, starring a gorgeous and extremely feminine transsexual named Dana Douglas. She slathered herself with suntan oil and looked sexy and lay by a beautiful pool, but was interrupted from her sunbathing reverie by a jailhouse escapee, who forcefully raped, but ultimately satisfied her. Imagining myself in her place, I was able to reach a long awaited, and probably my final penile orgasm. After I had handed my tiny sperm sample to the technician, I studied the tape cover, and noted the name and address of the producer listed on the tape: Kim Christie Productions of Studio City, California. Dana was slender, exotic and had perfectly shaped breasts, just as I imagined mine would be when they were enhanced with implants. I envied her body and her star quality on screen, and fantasized about making the sequel.

Prince had instructed me to shave all of my tiny fringe of pubic hair, so I was a smooth as a little girl when he arrived in the surgical theater with the urologist and anesthesiologist the next morning. I felt a grease pencil draw an line on my tummy as the anesthetic kicked in, and sank into a narcotic sleep, where I felt nothing.

Gauzy clouds drifted in my eyes, and gradually cleared to reveal a black clad witch calling me to attention. "OK, you got to wake up now. Wake up, walk around, and make a pee for me now."

I wanted to drift back into the clouds, but the witch was insistent. "You won’t get better unless you walk around. Get up and walk around now." I pulled myself up, and felt a sharp pain in my tummy. Then I remembered where I was. The witch was a Filipino nurse. It was Halloween,© and I was in a hospital. I stepped to my wobbly feet, gripped with pain at the incision in my tummy, but as I walked, I felt a new sense of ease and openness between my thighs. Involuntarily, I reached down and touched my empty, deflated scrotum. It was now wrinkled and concave, as if it trying to draw itself inside me to form a pussy. I walked around the room unsteadily as the nurse cooed encouragement. I flopped exhausted in bed and gratefully accepted a cup of ice chips. And my fingers explored with excitement the sore, but interesting new environment between my legs.

I dozed and drifted in a post-operative haze for a few hours before Dr. Prince and the urologist arrived, looking tense. "Allie, I’m sorry but sometimes diagnosis is an inexact science. The left teste appears to have been non-malignant. I’m sorry to have removed it unnecessarily. I just couldn’t be sure."

"Do I have cancer?"

"Not any more. The tumor on the right side did not appear to have spread."

"Thank god, I’m so relieved. Don’t worry about the operation. I’m so happy I could hug you!"

"Go ahead and hug me, but promise me: no extra hormones, and especially, no more Premarin. I don't know if that caused your cancer, but I do know your lucky you didn't kill yourself with your self administration of hormones." I promised, and this time, for once, I wasn't lying at all.

The truth of the matter was, that I had always fantasized about being castrated: gory, horrible fantasies. At some level, I blamed my testes for the craziness of my life, and wanted them gone. True, I would miss orgasm, but with all the estrogen that I took, that had become a rarity for me now anyhow. Maybe without this maddening mix of male and female hormones I would become more stable, less reckless. For though I ached with the combined effects of assault, the toxic AIDS cocktail and the orchiectomy, I felt a peace and calm that I had never felt before.

Prince released me two days later. I had missed a week of classes, and Rick and Randy needed tutoring badly, as mid terms were upon us, and I had catch up on my own studies. I never told them about the sordid reason for my admission to the hospital, but I happily disclosed the details of my surgery, displayed the results and the consequences. They were disappointed that sodomy was, for the time being, off the menu, but they were excited by my new appearance below. "You’re even more like a real girl now," Rick said admiringly as he fondled me carefully, stroking my empty but still sensitive scrotum. "Great, as long as you don’t starting acting like a cunt," Randy observed. Although my ass still tingled with desire for them, my sex drive was diminished, and my insides were still fragile and crampy from in the aftermath of my surgeries and from the side effects of the AIDS cocktail. Besides, I still wasn’t sure whether I had been HIV-infected by the crackhouse episode, and I dreaded spreading any diseases. My antibody tests kept coming back negative, but I wanted to be sure. So for the next few weeks I serviced them with my mouth and hands. They were patient and careful toward me.

Without testosterone to overcome, I was able to reduce my estrogen intake by almost 90%, without any loss of feminization. Indeed, as the weeks after the orchiectomy, my muscle tone further softened, my skin became more luminous and my breasts and hips seemed to swell a little. From then on, I followed Prince's regimen to the last microgram, switched from Premarin to Estradiol, and got regular blood tests. (I really mean it, all you T's out there, do not follow my early practice of self administration of hormones. Get medical help, regular tests, and never take doses in excess of your doctor's recommendation!)

Dr. Wright had been away at a conference during my hospitalization. She had seen Prince’s medical report on my surgeries and phoned me to come in right away. "I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you," she said, giving me an affectionate hug. "That’s all right, I felt as if you were with me."

"You seem very calm, and at peace."

"Physically I feel pretty weak, but I feel wonderful emotionally. Maybe I’m fooling myself, but I feel somehow set free from the chains of my past, like the worst is behind me. I feel better about my future than ever. That is, assuming that I have one."

"Are you worried about the AIDS exposure?"

"Of course, but now we’ve done everything possible against it. And I’m half way through the course. You know, as horrible and dangerous as the crackhouse gang rape was, if it doesn’t kill me from AIDS, it may have saved me an equally hideous death. If I hadn’t have had all the blood tests to screen me AIDS, Prince would not have found the testicular cancer. God, life is full of ironies, isn’t it?"

"I love you, Allie. You can find the positive and the negative in anything. So tell me about the negative."

"It really shows how, along with being marginalized, pre-op transsexuals are objectified. Because we don’t fall into a traditional gender category, we get treated as sex objects and as property. I think Bo really liked me, but in the same way that a boy likes his favorite marble: always willing to consider a trade. Bo had offended another drug dealer, so he sent me and a couple of pounds of coke along as a peace offering. He wanted to restore normal trade. It failed."

"Some boyfriend!"

"And some me, for falling in with a guy like Bo. When I was tied to that crackhouse bed, I was just an object for those barbarians to abuse, beat and ejaculate into. Even Rick and Randy started out viewing me as an interesting new toy, little different from one of those blow-up sex dolls. They didn’t value me as a person until they realized I was pulling them through school. What’s really disturbing is, that I liked to be treated that way. I liked the attention. I liked to be seen as a sex toy, a beautiful receptacle for fantasy and fucking. What I’m learning from my research in the community is that most T-Girls aspire to be, and are treated the same way. We want to be valued as objects, but objects get used, hurt, and thrown away. So in a way, we are doomed to be less than human."

"What about you? That’s not good enough for you, is it?"

"I think I’ve been there, done that. I want to be an effective human, I want to act, and not be acted upon. I’m only eighteen, and I got the whole T-Girl community in this town organized. I write speeches for law professors. I’m getting Rick and Randy honors grades instead of flunking out. I need to be treated as a human being. I deserve it, just like you deserved it."

"Ready to go back to being a boy?"

"Too late for that. No, I want to be a woman like you."

"Are you sure this is what you want, that you aren’t just reacting."

"Of course I am reacting. We all are a combination of genes and experience."

"You know, a sex change operation isn’t going to change the world. The feminist argument holds that men treat all women as sex objects. You’ll be condemning yourself to the very position in life that you object to."

"If I’m a woman, I can at least make the feminist argument. At this point, I don’t even have standing! Erika, I just want what you’ve already gotten. Haven’t I been through enough?"

"You don’t know what I went through, and unfortunately, I’m not supposed to tell you, though I’m dying to. My point is, that you have been through a huge trauma, and it’s partly because you took some risks, and some bad people took advantage of your mistakes. That’s not the greatest position to make this drastic a choice from."

"I know I’ve made a million mistakes. I’ll probably make a million more. But it was not a mistake to choose my female identity to live in. I feel better, I relate to people better, and I understand the world better from this perspective. Can you even imagine me living as a guy? Guys who normally deal with other guys in business, like Epstein and Whitman, accept me completely. And I haven’t even tried to seduce them. (Well, OK, I tried with Brad, but it didn’t count.) I’d like to have a sex change operation over the winter break. I need to start making some appointments. Can you make some recommendations?"

She studied me carefully. "OK, I’ve got a list of surgeons. I’ll write you a letter recommending surgery. At your age, you are going to need parental consent for most surgeons."

"I’ll talk my mom into it."

Dr. Wright wrote letters to Schrang in Neenah, Wisconsin, Alter in Los Angeles, and Meltzer in Portland, Oregon. I got the returns. The prices were astronomical. I had invested my savings from my "summer job" in a mutual fund that had done really well, and had been living off my scholarship and the grant money from Finch, but

for a boob job, the penile inversion surgery and the rectosigmoid colon section surgery I needed to augment the skin of my tiny cock, I was several thousand dollars short. On a long shot, I wrote to a couple of doctors in Thailand, where sex change surgery had become a big business. But one way or another, I needed money fast if I was going to take care of this over my winter break.

My mother was returning through Minneapolis to Los Angeles. Naturally, she was staying at the most expensive, fanciest hotel, the Hyatt Regency. I decided to dress in girl’s clothes, in keeping with my message. She was meeting a colleague from the University for dinner, and asked me to meet her for a drink in the bar. "Mom, I’m under age." "Just dress old," she advised. I wore a black turtleneck and tight jeans, brushed my hair back into a tight pony tail and wore large hoops. I ordered a Perrier and put on an ice princess hauteur: I didn’t want her to see any sleazeballs hitting on her new daughter.

Mom is an elegant, slim blond in her mid forties who looks younger. She would look about thirty if her Swedish skin hadn’t absorbed too much LA sunshine. She has a great figure and stays in shape, and she has great fashion sense: she spent way too much time on Rodeo Drive for the good of our family’s economic health. For two academics, my parents lived high: they lived in Brentwood, drove new cars and wore Ferragamos. That was no doubt why they had to send me to a public school with a bunch of idiots and bussed-in gang-bangers.

She strolled into the bar and all the guys looked up, and she looked right past me, scanning the place spacily. As she walked by, I said "Mom, it’s me."

She whirled around, did a double take, and then squealed with joy and exclaimed "Allie, I would never have known. You’re so, so, beautiful. You’re still my beautiful baby." She stepped back again, and said "I love you more than ever."

"I love you too, mom." I was relieved.

She ordered wine and appetizers and asked me to tell her all about my life. I told about my semester: that I was doing original sociological research on transgenders; that I had helped organize a legal outreach program to the transgendered community; that I had been invited to take a law school seminar next semester; that I had aced my midterms; and that I had a boyfriend (so, I really had two, but I didn’t want to brag). "So school is going great. But I’m really having a hard time with my gender identity. I can’t live this way any longer. I want to become a woman, and my analyst says I’m ready. I just need your consent."

"I don’t know, honey. You look gorgeous as a girl, and I’ve always wanted a daughter, but your father …"

"I thought that asshole was divorcing you. He told me he doesn’t give a fuck what happens to either of us. He told me, just don’t bother him, that we should keep everything and leave him alone with his new French mistress to make and keep his millions from his new sellout job. Mom, he’s disowned me. It’s your decision."

She waffled and worried, but finally agreed to the operation. Now, I thought, for the hard part.

"The surgery is really expensive. Can you help me pay for it?"

"I’m sorry dear, but your dad has completely cut me off. We had almost no cash assets in the States, my book advance is spent, and the royalties from the last book are barely enough to cover the mortgage. Until I get this book to the publisher I’m broke. As it is, I’m flying back to LA to interview for a job at SC." Poor mom, I thought, having to get a job. A mind is a terrible thing to waste!

"Can’t I use one of your credit cards or something?"

"Your dad terminated all of them. I can’t get new ones without a job."

Oh great, I thought, I guess I’ll be the one to get a job: a blow job.

"I’m sorry honey. I’ll help you any other way I can, but I just don’t have any money to spare."

She put the drinks on her room, and I thought to myself, what a selfish mother I had. She was staying in the most expensive hotel in town, wearing about ten thousand bucks of jewelry, and she’d rather that I prostitute myself than part with any of her money. No wonder my dad had divorced her.

We had a tearful farewell and I went back to my apartment. The mail had arrived, and I had an exotic looking letter with strange stamps and lettering. It was from a Dr. Sanguan Kunaporn of Phueket, Thailand, and it described his technique for penile inversion coupled with primary colon segment vaginoplasty, for a price that was within a few of thousand of my savings. He had an opening in his schedule on December 28. If I wished to take the spot, I should send $2,000 as a non-refundable deposit. I sent a money order by return mail. I immediately called Brad Whitman, and asked him to find out about getting a passport as Alexandra. Then I called Singapore Air made a reservation for Alexandra Rios from Los Angeles to Bangkok. Finally, I wrote a letter to Kim Christy productions of Studio City, California.

 

November 10, 19XX

Alexandra Rios

1622 Hennepin Avenue

Minneapolis, Minnesota

(612) 435 XXXX

 

Dear Mr. Christy

I am an eighteen year old, pre op transsexual college student. I enclose a picture of myself taken last week. I would like to star in one of your productions: video, stills or both. I even have some ideas for a script, if that interests you. I am into passive anal and oral sex, and I can handle multiple partners, but I can’t take an active role. I could travel after my exams end in mid December, if you made the arrangements. If you are interested, please send me your contract for me to review. I enclose a copy of my student I.D. to show my age (but not my gender or appearance.) If you prefer, you can call me at the above number: the best time to reach me is after 4:00 p.m. your time. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely 

Alexandra Rios.

 

Then I called Tran. "Tran, I need to make some money. Do you have any dates who would be interested in me? Or maybe a party with the two of us?"

"That sound like fun. You a pretty T-Girl. But I thought you were giving up the Life."

"I have a cash emergency. I need to make a few thousand bucks before Christmas."

"Someone getting very nice gift!"

"It’s for me, a new pussy!"

"You get sex change for Christmas?"

"Yeah, it’s my Christmas present. I only need another $2,500 plus the airfare. But I can’t work the streets anymore. If Keyes doesn’t get me, the Mexican Mafia will. I’m too scared after what happened to Bo."

"I gotta good idea, I’ll set up a date for us with my S&M client. He kinda crazy, but he rich. Beside, getting too cold outside. He want me to come and party with another girl, but Tonya doesn’t do S&M. You know S&M?"

"I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never tried."

"Easy. Just call them master, do what they say, maybe we do some lesbo sex."

"Sounds OK so far."

"Then maybe tie you up, hurt you a little bit, you cry like it hurt a lot, then get fucked, then tell how great they are."

This was chillingly close to my crackhouse nightmare. I tingled with fear, but I was desperate. Kim Christie might not need any pre op starlets. Or he might not think I was sexy. I needed a plan B

Tran continued. "We work all night, get maybe a thou, depends on how many masters there. Not bad, right?" I nodded, and she asked "How you find this sex change doctor?"

"He’s in Thailand. Even with the airfare, it’s half what it costs in Neenah or LA."

"I have almost $7,500. Is that enough?"

"That’s how much I have. Counting airfare and expenses, we need about $3,000 more."

"I know we can make it. You call Thai doctor for me, and help me set up this trip? I want pussy for Christmas too."

Now I had a partner. When I told her about my porno movie idea, and she said "Me too. I wanna be a porno star, make more money for sex change." I wrote another letter from her to Kim Christy. One way or another, we’d cover our budget deficits.

(continued)

 

 

 

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© 2002 by Alexandra Rios. 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.