This is sex fiction. If you aren’t old enough to read that sort of thing, come back when you are – it’s worth the wait.

 

Polyester Bride

by Pirategrrl
© 2002, Pirategrrl

 

1. IT’S LIKE LIVING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE OCEAN WITH NO FUTURE AND NO PAST.

At the start of the fight, Marina, the wife, had detailed her proof that Dale, her husband, was a transvestite. He squirmed in his seat as she detailed her review of his computer’s hard drive, with its reams of photos, stories and chat logs. But now, after exchanging fifteen minutes of hurtful accusations for unconvincing denials at a table at their favorite sushi restaurant, their conversation fell into a momentary quiet that the husband optimistically viewed as resolution.

"How could you have that filth all over your computer?" Marina asked to break the silence, as much curious as accusatory, genuinely wondering how the megabytes of pictures of "chicks with dicks", videos of hermaphrodite sex and stories of men turning into women had become her husband’s favorite hobby. The images were pure filth – alternating between pictures of paunchy, bored looking porn starlets to videos of transgendered creatures with breasts and penises soundlessly copulating. But she was amazed most at the stories on her husband’s computer. In the hundreds of stories he saved, there was so much "burning cum" "pumped deep into the spasming anus" that the characters must have had fire-retardant rectums. Every penis would "skewer" and every orifice would "milk" so that the descriptions of sex seemed more like weird recipes than actual copulation.

And why can’t they spell "come"? she thought.

Acting as though he hadn’t heard her, Dale finished selecting their lunch and slid their sushi order to the bored 17 year old kimono-ed Caucasian waitress. They were alone in a crowd of awkward first dates, couples outings and families of Japanese expatriates.

Dale and Marina were described as a reasonable pair when people talked about them. Dale was a finance officer in a well regarded local company, and was able to translate complex concepts of tax and accounting into a vision that drove the twenty-five lower middle class clerks of his department to meet budget quarter after quarter. Dale wasn’t a large man, in fact he was a bit below average at 5’7", with thin, but well cared for features. Marina was a public accountant in the sort of small firm that prided itself on living up to ethical standards in a profit minded sort of way. Each possessed the personal certainty that comes from assigning values to things as a matter of habit; once you put a number on something, you captured its essence. Once something was valued, you could compare it to other things; you had its place in the universe.

And they measured everything – their income, their employee’s performance and the number of times they had sex. There were fifteen tiles in the foyer of their house, six exits between the central city and their freeway exit, three turns on to their cul de sac, two houses on their street still under construction.

If you didn’t have a number for something, it was unknown, risky and a threat to the order of the world that was so comforting.

Sitting across from Dale during the conversation-less break from their squabble, Marina had that brow-furrowed look when something did n’t add up. Dale knew that she would tenaciously pursue her understanding until she had it. It was pointless to try to dissuade her, though that inevitability never stopped him from trying.

She leaned forward, signaling her resolve to continue. "I just want to understand why Dale, why?" Her tone not hurt or accusatory, but instead more, well, curious.

He wanted to fold his napkin carefully, sneer at her and leave. But of course he didn’t. He sat there, and spoke when the silence between them became more uncomfortable than the thought of talking.

"Well, you know," he said, groping for a way, any way, to change the topic of conversation. "There are lots of people who look at that sort of stuff. It doesn’t mean I love you less."

As Dale was painful aware, this psycho-sexual drama was out of character for the sushi bar in the middle of the futuretown they called home. What are futuretowns? They are on the outskirts of the city you live in, just far enough away to be out of reach of angry, torch-carrying mobs that might roam in from the decaying downtown core. You’re not supposed to notice a futuretown – they’re technically invisible: low flat buildings that look like they’ve popped out a laser printer; fetishistic landscaping; new-car-only parking lots; small, backlit plexiglass totems out front quietly brandishing the strangely any-language names of the companies or franchises inside: Unilever, Starbucks, Aventis, CVS, ABN AMRO.

We don’t set our TV shows in futuretowns and we don’t sing songs about futuretowns.

The futuretown’s version of sushi was as close to traditional Japanese cuisine as Muzak was to real music. All of which bears note because the restaurant in fact piped in Muzak, with its wordless homages to familiar songs. The restaurant’s soundtrack was playing random tunes – first Sinatra, Cole Porter, and then more modern music. Dale’s habit of singing along with the wordless melodies of Muzak always made her angry – the songs don’t have words so they couldn’t be sung Marina would say, as though the "Muzak-ification" of a song made it into something new.

There was a Muzak version of a Michelle Shocked song playing and he half hummed the words as their food arrived.

Hey girl it’s about time you wrote.

It’s been over two years you know my old friend,

Take me back to the days before we were just friends.

We were wild then.

Marina mixed her customary batch of soy sauce with enormous amounts of wasabe, Japanese horseradish. It still amazed him that his wife – a five foot tall wisp of a woman – would brew such globby, potent wasabe to dip her sushi.

"I can’t put my finger on when it exactly seemed wrong," she said. "But at some point I started to think that something just wasn’t right. I guess there was never really a drop off in the sex; we seem to pretty much have the two week routine down. You still seem interested; I mean you come without any added kink. But something just seemed, well, wrong. I guess what I mean to say is that it’s like your eyes were always closed, or they were vacant, like you were thinking of something else while we were fucking."

Fucking. As she said it, the word was both harsh and clinical, in the same way "cancer" sounds the first time your doctor says it and you realize he is talking about you and the "interesting spot" that was on your MRI.

She dunked the sushi in the weapons-grade wasabe, and he watched with the boyish fascination that makes video of traffic accidents and police chases so popular - that falsely scientific curiosity about the survivability of extreme situations. He wondered whether fire would spurt from her nose, or whether the top of her head would flip back like the lid on a lighter and smoke would billow like a chimney at the Vatican.

She chewed and was fine.

"But then there was one day when I just got so curious that I decided to order that code cracking software, and see all those files that you had hidden on the computer at home. What did I expect? Porn I guess. That’s ok, men are so much more visual when it comes to sex. Pictures of naked women or sex seemed, well, predictable. But the the the . . . . stuff that was on there was beyond shocking."

He sat silently.

"So this leaves me two choices," she said. "I could tell you that it’s over, or I could indulge your dirty little secret. Neither is particularly appealing." Sigh. "What do you think?"

"Couldn’t we just forget this ever happened?" he said, finishing the last salmon hand-roll.

"Oh I don’t think so . . . that hardly seems possible now. What I mean to say is that every time I think about you, I have this mental image of you – with breasts and a penis. This sort of odd genderness mixed together – two strands that just don’t belong together but just seemed pulled together by your fascination. You are like the anti-reese’s peanut butter cup. Male and female sex mixed in one person at one time; those are two great things that just don’t go well together. No, this needs to get sorted out. If you want to have some sort of trans whatever fantasy, that’s fine, but where we are now needs to end."

"So what does that mean?" he said.

"Let’s find out," she said. Her smile convinced Dale she had been planning something. She held her smile, and nodded her head toward the door. She motioned for the check, and he paid it in cash when it arrived, tipping too well to comfort his embarrassment.

 

2. IT’S LIKE YOUR LIFE REBUILT AS A THEME PARK.

"This is amazing . . ." Dale said.

Marina’s finger went up in the air, cutting off Dale, at least it used to be him. The transformation was incredible; Dale had become a woman. Under the hair extensions, under the arched eyebrows, under the padded bra, under the clingy top with three quarter sleeves, under short skirt it was still Dale, but Dale had become a passable woman in about four hours of the private makeover that Marina had taken him to after the restaurant.

The hair extensions had taken hours and were quite painful, particularly in back where there was barely enough hair to serve as the base for the glued on, woven nearly real hair. But it was close to his natural color, and seemed real, even to the touch, though it was done in the sort of style that wasn’t appropriate even when it was more common. Long bangs, all one length, curled out and under with what must have been an enormously wide curling iron. Layers cut into the hair let it fall loosely, comfortably down onto the shoulders.

For a top, there was a dark, thin sweater in a clingy, synthetic material that owed more to science than agriculture. Underneath, the latest in bra-padding technology – the water bra – gave realistic looking b-cup jiggle to an otherwise flat chest. The skirt was a few inches above the knee, and white with horizontal rows of pink flowers. It had the effect of drawing attention, and making the hips look larger and wider than they really were.

Lurking underneath, his penis was pulled tightly back, wrapped into some sort of binding, the ball and chain tucked out of sight and sort of out of mind. It didn’t hurt at first, and now it was sort of numb.

All of this of course wasn’t perfect a gender change. There was a tan line where Dale wore his ring; there was a bit too muscle definition in his recently waxed calves, and the angle of his arms wasn’t right. But even viewed from up close, it was very very good.

In fact, if you hadn’t watched the painstaking process of transformation, you would think it was a natural born woman.

Almost as amazing as the fact that Dale had effectively changed genders was the fact that the new creation was clearly not from the same economic strata as Dale and Marina. The new person was strictly working class Walmart chic. Not sloppy, but certainly not anything remotely appropriate for Dale and Marina’s Dual Income, No Kid neighborhood of couples with adjusted gross incomes in the mid three hundreds to the low fours.

If there were a booth outside a NASCAR event doing makeovers, this could have been one of the models.

Bethany was the "transformation artist," a transsexual herself who sold gender bending makeovers to well-heeled clients, and she had spent the better part of four hours working on Dale, getting him to look like a woman, along with a crash course in how to make the audio match the video.

"There’s no way that a weekend warrior can really get it right," Bethany said to Marina, pointing in the direction of her newest creation. "It took me years of hard work before I was comfortable in my ability to pass. Hell, to this day, I can’t even walk into a gay bar because both gay men and lesbians pick me out in an instant. But for a first time, ole Dale is a damn good effort."

"But he needs a new name don’t you think?" Marina said. "I mean ‘Dale’ just won’t do it." She held her hand to her mouth and squinted as she thought. Inspiration. "Your name is Charlayne. And remember, it’s Charlayne with a ‘y’. Try it, say your name, thinking about what Bethany taught you."

Dale, or perhaps Charlayne would be more accurate, tried several times, sounding like the dying words of your great aunt Prudence who smoked four packs a day before the emphysema felled her.

"Charlayne," Bethany said, "just try to swallow your words, and exhale lightly as you breathe. Say each word like Marilyn Monroe singing happy birthday Mr. President to John F. Kennedy."

Charlayne nodded, unconvinced of her own ability to do it. "Okay," she said sounding more asthmatic than phlegmatic as she spoke.

"It’s ok, we have a bit of time to practice. Just keep talking dear," said Marina as she twirled her hands in a wordless request to get Charlayne to spin around.

"Okay," Charlayne said, a bit more convincingly as she started to turn.

"This is incredi . . ." Charlayne said, catching her first sight of herself in the mirror.

Marina’s finger again went in the air, cutting off her comment. "Breath-y Charlayne, breath-y."

"Sure," she wheezed.

 

3. IT’S LIKE CATCHING SNOW ON YOUR TONGUE

"Isn’t this great?" Marina said loudly, shouting to be heard over the loud country music playing the rough bar where they went after Bethany’s. There was a Garth Brooks song blaring about a beer run or something like that.

When they had been newlyweds, they used to go for "slumming bar night" every so often. The Wagon Wheel, were they went after Bethany’s, was the sort of overly desperate bar that they would have driven by when they were younger, even on slumming bar nights. It would have been too dangerous, even when they were looking for the sort of class-line crossing thrill that comes from seeing how people with less money recreate. Judging by the paint-splattered, dented pickups and rusted cars in the lot, it was populated with crash-prone construction workers and professional drinkers. But now, all rules seemed to be suspended anyway, so Charlayne was not entirely surprised when Marina pulled their Land Rover Discovery into the parking lot. .

But by now, after several quick shots of whiskey and a few mixed drinks, Charlayne was smiling, her initial fears of being outed, being recognized, being killed, had passed.

"Isn’t this great?" Marina said again, slurping loudly at what was left of a whiskey, already looking away from Charlayne, making flirtacious, girly eye contact for an instant with a stranger or two across the bar, before looking back at Charlayne. "Well?"

"Yeah, yeah it’s good," Charlayne said, exhaling as she swallowed the sweet, slightly salty taste of her third Margarita, a drink that Dale had always thought too girlish to actually have himself.

"Wanna dance?" said a large man wearing a cowboy plaid shirt with those faux mother of pearl snap buttons and skin tight wranglers of the sort that certainly had a Skoal ring in the right rear pocket.

Charlayne froze, looked away and trusted that Marina would deal with this.

"Wanna dance," he said again, technically framing his demand in the form of a question. He smoothed down the edge of his moustache with the back of his left hand has held his beer with his right, watching as Marina coyly looked at him, half smiled slowly, and put her drink down in front of Charlayne, who kept her back to the man, trying to avoid the slightest eye contact with the man.

"She’d love to dance," said Marina, giving Charlayne a quick push away from the relative security of their hiding place in a dark corner of the bar.

In a few steps, Charlayne stumbled out, falling forward to be caught by the man, her hands in front of her, landing on his chest. His hands wrapped around her, and held her steady, close. He was five or six inches taller than she was, and she put her cheek against his chest and was overwhelmed by the sexuality of the plunge away from the bar into his arms, the fact that every part of her transformed body oozed sex to her, and, judging by the warm throbbing south of his large belt buckle, it apparently interested him too.

She swayed back in forth in his arms and was overwhelmed by the sensations in her changed body. The black, one inch heeled sandals weren’t difficult to walk in, but they were impossible to walk normally in, which is to say that every step, even the stumbly, half drunk steps in her dance partner’s arms were an exercise in hip swaying ass swagger. Just put one foot down after the other, Charlayne thought, as the material of the skirt moved breezily across her ass with each foot fall, accentuating the movement of her hips, which felt like they were being thrown from side to side by the unfamiliar walk of a woman in heels.

Her legs were waxed, hairless and lotioned for the first time ever. The smooth frictionless half pressure of one inner thigh against the other was purely sexual. The intimacy of inner thigh skin rubbing together sent electric jolts of sensation along the inside of her legs, making her carefully tucked genitals tingle. And with each electric tingle that pulsed through Charlayne’s caged genitals, her ass made an involuntary half circling squirm that brushed her against the growing warmth in his jeans.

She felt his hands on her back, one on her shoulders, and the other in the small of her back. She felt her feet steady underneath her, and she reached her arms around him, barely reaching his back, that was powerfully muscled from years of physical labor.

During the first song, he talked, and she heard perhaps every third word and none of the context. She smiled when she heard him paused, and said word of affirmation – "that’s right," "sounds interesting," "really" – whenever she heard him pause, with her cheek still pressed against his chest.

There was a small lull, as the first song crescendoed to an end, and the next began with a wail of fiddles and girl-singing. Probably the Dixie Chicks, Charlayne thought as she noticed Marina laughing, giggling and flirting with two men in the corner, Marina’s arm around the waist of one, her other hand pushing the second man away playfully in a way that signaled interest.

Charlayne lost sight of Marina when her dance partner put a hand on her cheek – god it felt nice there she thought – and gently moved her face off his chest. He smiled down at her and had both hands on the outside of her waist, swinging with her hips in the side to side rhythm they maintained. One hand moved lower, ostensibly brushing down her skirt along the length of Charlayne’s ass. Shock. The cool swish of his large calloused hand down her ass was unexpected, and she caught her breath.

She reached up and ran her hands ticklishly along his rib cage – it goes on for miles she thought with a smile that surprised herself – affecting her best wicked grin. His hands went to the small of her back again, and she stepped in close. They swayed together for what felt like hours, her dance partner holding her gently, as she became accustomed to the feel of his body against hers.

There was another song lull and they were at the far side of the bar, or maybe it was the close side, the distinction blurring as the warmth in her stomach from the margaritas, the whisky and whatever else she couldn’t even remember were spreading across her consciousness.

"These are my new boots. Alligator," he said, lifting his right foot, and pointing with his left hand, his right arm still around her shoulders.

"Did you get them on sale?" Charlayne said.

The man looked at her, smiling as though he had no idea what she said.

"I don’t know," Charlayne shouted. "It kind of reminds me of a song, about alligator boots and a polyester bride."

He smiled, again obviously not able to hear most of what she said. "you would make a beautiful bride."

Charlayne felt two or three beats behind everything, numb and slow from the drinking, as her dance partner ran the back of his hand along her chin. It seemed like such a long time ago that the epilady electric torture implement had pulled out each of her facial hairs one by one, leaving the chin smooth. Charlayne sighed and leaned into the hand. With her eyes closed, it felt good on her face. Intimate.

Charlayne opened her eyes. Marina was across the bar, her arms around some guy, with one hand draped down the stranger’s back she raised the other hand and gave a thumb’s up gesture in the direction of Charlayne. A split second later, Marina jumped, startled as though her ass had been pinched. She laughed, play slapped the face of the man she was wrapped around and laughed.

The lull ended, and some new song started. It was that one about raining hell down on people and putting a boot in people’s asses ‘cause it’s the ‘Merican way that had become so popular as an anthemic expression of collective anger at people on the other side of the world. The bar perked up, and everyone was hooting, hollering and buzzing with that collective energy that pulsed through saloons in 1950’s era Western movies just before one punch leads instantaneously to a brawl in which everyone in the bar smashes a bottle, chair or pool cue over someone else’s head.

He took Charlayne’s hand and led her outside.

The pleasant hug of humidity engulfed them both, as they were stunned into silence by change in environment from walking outside into warm, moist air, with the sound of her heels on the pavement dampened by a rain that fell while they were inside. It was strange; ten years ago this would have been September weather, but now it just a globally warmed December night.

They were around the back of bar before Charlayne was really aware of the fact that she was holding his hand. They turned a corner, and she looked up. His mouth was moving, talking?

Something.

His head cocked at an unusual angle, not the sort of angle that you might hold yourself if you were going to discuss movies, novels or politics.

That’s odd, charlayne thought, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, feeling an almost

Then his mouth was there, on hers, lips moving. His large hands massaged her ass. Before it was an appraisal, checking to see how far he could go, pushing his luck. This was different, hormonal, not calculated and driven by need not calculation. She felt his hardness through his jeans, growing harder, warmer and more urgent.

She had no idea how long she was there, kissing and being kissed, his hands massaging her ass through her skirt, as her legs spread far enough to allow her feet to be on the outside of his, her hips driving and being driven rhythmically into his crotch, feeling the heat pulsing and growing under his oversized belt buckle. His tongue entered her mouth as Charlayne, unaccustomed to being explored, parried his tongue, stroking its underside as its urgency and passion throbbed through as it slid past her lips, still slightly sweet from Bethany’s lip gloss.

Somehow she ended up on her knees, his hands on her shoulders, pressing with affection, concern and need. His belt buckle was open, lying off to one side, as he unzipped his jeans. With a quick jerk, he lowered his underwear and his penis was free, bobbing purple headed inches from her face.

She took his penis into her moist mouth and engulfed it, first an inch, then two, then three, and after a minute or so of practiced head-bobbing, she felt like was taking the entire length of his manhood halfway down her throat. Of course it was only about four of his most sensitive inches, but she still felt filled in a way that she had not experienced in any of the blowjobs she had given, in her life as Dale, those few furtive encounters as a counselor at camp, as an undergraduate.

The cock became impossibly rigid, sweat formed on his brow, and shudders of animal release and pleasure shot through his body as he jerked his hips further and further forward. Charlayne used her hands to stop the man from her choking her, as she settled into each savored moment, breathing the aroma and falling into a comfortable rhythm of inward rush of his dick across her lips, then wetly out with her tongue on the tip, followed by another cycle of inward rush across her lips then wetly out with her tongue on the tip that was perfectly timed with his shorter, sharper breaths. Unexpectedly, the cock pulsed and warm semen shot into her mouth, and Charlayne swallowed what she could.

It was over, and the man was gone. What was his name again? Lyle, Guy, Clyde? Charlayne felt alone and aroused at the same time. She brushed off her bare knees, smoothed her skirt, and saw Marina standing there.

Marina had that smile again.

 

 

 

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© 2002 by Pirategrrl. 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.