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Gyrations
by Rich D. (richdinmd45@yahoo.com)

***

Martin has a sexual-orientation issue but is straight 
in everyday life. His sudden attraction to James, a 
mop-headed Dennis the Menace look-alike, forces the 
issue. But there is more to James than Martin 
understands. Much more. A gender-bender story with a 
twist. (MF, couples)

***

"This really sucks." I lay next to my friend James, 
touching him at hip, knee and ankle. It was three a.m. 
and three hours away from him leaving.

"It's only a week," he said.

A week. Might as well be a year. Ten years, a 
millennium. "Six months I wait for this moment and now 
you're gone."

"Whose fault is that?" he asked.

"Oh, shut up."

The truth was--if there can be any truth in a situation 
like this--the fault was equally shared. I had liked 
him from the first and hadn't done much about it. He, 
on the other hand, had actively put me off.

It went like this: It was lunchtime on a warm day in 
June. I usually go to McDonald's, just to get off the 
property, but that day I didn't. Instead I ate at the 
food court. Tray in hand, I spotted him sitting alone a 
table, chin propped on his palm. I walked over for no 
particular reason and said, "Hey! Books-A-Million, 
right?"

He looked up from his hardback copy of Wolves of the 
Calla and squinted through his wire-frame spectacles. 
He was eating a salad. He smiled rather shyly. "The 
Coming Global Superstorm," he said in a soft, oddly 
husky voice. "How are you?"

I grinned, feeling comically pleased. "Great. I can't 
believe you remembered. It's been what, a month ago?" 

He was tall and lean and had a mop of blonde hair 
reminiscent of Dennis the Menace. His glasses and the 
spray of freckles across his nose and cheeks didn't 
help. He wore a crisp gray-striped cotton shirt and and 
khaki Dockers. "I never forget a purchase," he said. 
"But I'm terrible with names."

"Martin," I said.

"James."

I sat down uninvited and commented on his book. I had 
read the first three volumes of The Gunslinger series, 
but had soured on it reading volume four. I didn't like 
the back story on Susan Delgado. 

"I kept him in cocaine before the accident," he said. 
"Now I keep him in morphine."

I peeled the skin off my Subway sandwich and salted my 
French-fries. I was conscious of being attracted to 
James, and that felt very weird. My attraction to 
members of my fellow sex (no pun intended) was usually 
limited to the arc of their exposed erections--and then 
only in pictures. I had never felt attraction for a guy 
before.

"You like Martin Cruz Smith?" I asked.

"Arkady Renko. He's the coolest."

I thought so too. "Any idea when a new book's due? And 
if there is one?" After Havana Bay, I had serious 
doubts about my old friend Arkady.

He shook his head. "I'll try to find out," he said. 
"Working at Books-A-Million doesn't make me any smarter 
than the average bear about due dates; it just lets me 
hear the rumors first. And so far, no rumors."

"That's too bad," I said.

He stabbed a cherry tomato with a plastic fork clasped 
by long slender fingers, and nodded.

The next time we met was a week later, out in the 
parking lot. He stood in front of an old brown Toyota 
with the hood up. 

"Everything okay?" I asked. 

He pushed hair out of his face and grinned. I noticed, 
not for the first time, how straight, white and even 
his teeth were. Today he wore a stiff white shirt and 
baggy gray slacks with string-loafers. "It thinks it's 
female," he said. "It has periods of temperament." I 
was struck again by the softness of his voice. When he 
bent over to inspect the engine, I looked at his ass.

Stop that! Stop it right now, I berated myself. I had 
never looked at a male's hindquarters before.

"Battery?" I guessed.

"Battery's new," he said. Off to the west, lightning 
exploded in the clouds and thunder roared angrily. We 
both jumped and looked at the sky. "No," he said, 
looking at the sudden splatters of rain. He slammed the 
hood closed just as huge splats began peppering the 
asphalt. 

"Get in!" I flung open the car door.

He hesitated a moment, then hunched his shoulders 
against the rain and ducked around to the other side of 
my car. Slash-Boom went a lightning bolt not a second 
later. Rain lashed the parking lot ad car.

"Jesus! I don't believe it." He smeared his glasses on 
a wet shirt front. "Where did that come from, anyway?" 
he asked.

I directed him to my glove compartment and its cache of 
McDonald's napkins. He dried his glasses, then wiped 
his rain-soaked face and his hair. My windows were 
turning into impenetrable fog banks by then, so I 
turned on the defroster.

"Need a ride home?"

He looked from the pouring sky to his car. "No," he 
said slowly. "I'd only have to find a way back out 
again. My roomie's a real asshole, so I don't want to 
ask him. Besides, it always starts in the rain. It's 
something electrical, I guess. Thanks for asking 
though."

"Sure." I wanted to sit and chat, but the cloudburst 
suddenly let up. Thanking me again, he jumped out and 
ran back to his car. I prayed to whatever god placed 
hexes on automobile engines but the damned thing 
started right away. Somebody up there hates me, I 
thought. 

Our next encounter occurred three months later. By then 
I was resigned to seeing him only on my weekly 
excursions into the book store. He had become 
impersonal now, answering my questions in one or two 
word sentences, seldom meeting my eye. I never saw him 
anywhere but the book store, so he was obviously 
avoiding me. It's one thing to have a girl purposely 
avoid you; have a guy do it to you sometime. 

It was a rainy October evening when I unexpectedly ran 
into him at a party . . . with another guy.

"Martin," he said, looking almost panicked.

"Well, fancy meeting you here."

The apartment was on the third floor of an off-campus 
housing unit on Adelphi Road. The University of 
Maryland, where I attended occasional classes, was just 
across the road. The apartment belonged to a friend of 
a friend of a friend, which meant I was barely invited. 
I was in the company of, of all people, my sister 
Kierney. I expected her to come bounding up to this 
decidedly good looking fellow, taking a liking to him, 
and steal his friendship. It had happened before, 
though not under these particular circumstances. But 
then Michael walked up. 

"Introduce me to your friend, James." He spoke with a 
blatantly bad British accent. 

James's face darkened. "This is Marty. I work with him 
at the mall."

Michael looked me up and down and I was suddenly 
enlightened--and chagrined. He wore a black satin shirt 
and black leather pants, had slicked back hair flaring 
into a duck-tail above his collar, and looked just like 
a cast member from Grease. 

"You do books?" he asked.

"No," I said, casting a glance at James. "I do computer 
games and software."

"You do, do you? That's very interesting. Ever play, 
Singles: Flirt up you Life?"

"I've sold it," I said. 

"Cool game. James and I have a sim running on our 
computer with two guys. We named them Michael One and 
Michael Two. Isn't that cute?"

"Cute," I agreed. I every bit expected him to pinch 
James on the cheek. 

"You here with anyone special," he asked. 

"My sister," I said. Maybe he was thinking of a 
foursome. 

He laughed. Then Kierney walked up and had the last 
laugh on him. 

Two months later, I looked up from a game I was 
discussing with some kid, and saw James. He stood ten 
feet away, hands in his pockets, and looking very 
embarrassed. He nodded and I suddenly remembered that 
rainy day out in the parking lot.

"Need a ride home?" I had asked.

He had looked out the window at the pounding rain. 
Sounding terribly unhappy, he had replied, "No. I'd 
only have to find a way back out again. My roomie's a 
real asshole, so I don't want to ask him."

I wanted to kick myself. I said, "Be with you in a 
moment, James."

He nodded again.

I took lunch early and drifted down to the food court 
with him. On the way he said, "I wanted to explain 
about that night."

"No explanation necessary." 

"My roommate's an asshole."

"Most roommates are," I agreed. Mine certainly was. 

He shrugged and cleared his throat quietly. "I, uh, I'm 
not like Michael, Martin. I wanted you to know that."

"I didn't think you were," I said. In fact, I didn't 
know what to think about him. If he was gay, he did a 
good job disguising it because he didn't act girly. On 
the other hand, he had that soft voice and winsome 
manner. Certainly, he had an effect on me. 

"I liked it back in June when we struck up a 
friendship. I've never had friends before and once I 
had gotten to like you, I began to worry Michael'd step 
in and ruin it. He has that effect on people."

"I noticed," I said. I also noticed that his face was a 
fine pink color and he might as well have been wringing 
his hands.

"I guess what I'm saying is that because I didn't want 
it ruined, I stepped back before it could happen. I do 
that a lot. Easier than dealing with the hurt I guess. 
That's why I have no friends." He laughed, blushing 
even deeper. "Listen to me. I sound like a Soap Opera 
or something. Or exactly what I'm trying to tell you 
I'm not." He looked around, making sure we couldn't be 
overheard. "Would you--" He hesitated. "--maybe like to 
go out to a movie, or something like that?"

I was stuck. I liked him, of course, but I wasn't ready 
for a boy-boy date. At least not yet. "Only if you 
dress up like a girl," I joked unwisely. 

Rather than take offense, he smiled pensively and said: 
"If it would get you out with me, or in bed with me, I 
would."

If food or drink were in my mouth, I would have spit it 
out. As it was, I coughed explosively and looked around 
in a panic. Then I stared at him.

"What?" he said. Then, "Stop it! You're embarrassing 
me." His face was beet red and his freckles shown out 
like beacons. "I wouldn't make a cute girl?"

Taking in the fullness of his mouth, the high cast of 
his cheekbones and the finely dimpled point of his 
chin, he might actually be a girl. A little blush, some 
mascara and lipstick...

"You're staring at me," he complained, looking away. 
His face was crimson and he stood stoop-shoulder and 
fidgeting, hands in his pockets. I wanted to kiss him. 

"Have you--" I said, and then stopped. "Never mind. 
Let's eat."

We chose Sbarro's because that was closest. I got a 
roast beef sandwich and James a salad. We sat at a 
table as far from anybody as we could get at noon in 
the food court; we ate in silence. Finally, leaning 
close so as not to be overheard, I told him: "I have to 
admit, I am attracted to you. It's just a little, you 
know, unsettling."

"I know that." He brushed back his hair in a decidedly 
feminine manner and I shivered. He had never done that 
before.  

I said, "This is gonna sound strange, but do you like 
me as a guy likes another guy? Or as a girl likes a 
guy?"

He piddled with a slice of tomato, then chased croutons 
around his plate. "I don't know," he said finally. "Is 
there a difference?"

"I'm not sure," I said honestly. "Maybe I'm more 
attracted James the Pretend Girlfriend, than to James 
the Imitation Boy. Does that make sense?"

He laughed softly. "As much as anything has this 
morning." He looked up from beneath his bangs and I 
almost kissed him again. Instead, I asked him out.

*  *  *

Our first "date" was Friday night. I spent the entire 
next day suffering sweaty palms and itchy underarms. I 
wanted to throttle every kid I saw. I wanted to 
throttle half of their mothers and most of their dads. 
I made five o'clock, somehow. 

At six-thirty I went to pick him up. He shared an 
apartment with Michael in Columbia, on a back street 
you needed GPS guidance to find. I was driving a Honda 
CR-V, having traded up from my previous wheels three 
weeks before. I wasn't sure James even knew I had it. 
One more thing stressing me out. 

At seven o'clock he came down the apartment's front 
steps and onto the curved sidewalk to the parking lot. 
I had been instructed not to call, even though Michael 
was out. I assumed there was Caller ID. When he 
appeared, my jaw dropped. 

He wore a cream-colored jacket over a powder-blue knit 
top and tight jeans. There were brand new Reeboks' on 
his feet, ankle socks underneath. A purse was slung 
over his right shoulder which he clasped with both 
hands. His walk had a distinct, well, gyration. 

"James?" I whispered as he approached the car. 

Either he saw my surprised whisper or was just 
exploding with excitement because his face burst into a 
sudden gorgeous grin and he laughed. He left the 
shelter of the building and wind caught his hair and he 
quickly ducked into it, holding it both sides. No 
longer was it a "Dennis the Menace" mop. It was now 
swept back on the right and held in place by several 
silver clips. The rest looked both stiff and spiky--
perfectly fashionable. He hurried the rest of the way 
to the car and got in.

"Hi!" he gushed. 

"Hi," I replied. I had rocks in my mouth. 

He suddenly giggled and it was as girlish a giggle as 
I'd ever heard. "James?" I asked, making him giggle 
more. He leaned over and kissed my cheek.

"Cut that out," I said. I looked everywhere, both 
embarrassed and titillated. My heart skipped like a 
seven-year old playing hopscotch. With eyeliner and 
mascara, with blush on his cheeks, lipstick making his 
mouth a luscious pink, he was less boy acting girl, 
than girl-representative. "Wow," I said, feeling my 
color rise.

"You like?"

"You've done this before, haven't you, James."

He bit his lower lip fetchingly. "Are you mad?" His 
voice was an octave higher now, not as girl-
representative as my sister's perhaps, but higher. He 
looked at me tentatively, as other prospective bed-
partners have looked at me in the past. Only he was a 
guy.

"You look wonderful," I said honestly.

He smiled. "Thank you. So do you."

My ears rang and blood pounded in my temples. "I'm 
having a hard time seeing you as a James, James. What 
do I call you?"

"Jamie. Or Janelle. I've gone by both."

Now, insanely, that made me jealous. Unbearably 
jealous. "No, no, no," I said, laughing and shaking my 
head. "You tell me this is new, James. This is 
something no one's ever experienced before."

He bit his lower lip again, only now in exasperation. 
"You are mad at me."

I sighed. "I don't know what I am. I look at you 
and..."

"And what?" when I trailed off. 

I searched for words. "Lets go eat dinner."

We dined at Chilli's. At the table, I watched and 
cataloged her. She had traded her wire-rimmed glasses 
for tortoise shell. She clasped the fork delicately in 
her left hand, cutting properly with her right. Her 
fingernails were long and lavender, with painted 
designs on the tips. 

She wore a silver bracelet on her right wrist, a silver 
wristwatch on her left, and a diamond pendant around 
her neck. She had breasts. Not big breasts, not big 
enough to call attention to herself, but enough to make 
me wonder. She chewed as I imagined a girl might chew, 
and swallowed with no bob of an Adam's apple. I thought 
all guy's had Adam's apples; I must have been mistaken.

Without looking up, she said, "Concentrate on me any 
harder, Martin, and I might become hypnotized."

I smiled. "I'm thinking of you as a girl right now, you 
know that, don't you?"

"That was my general intention. You're more comfortable 
with a girl. I have serious doubts about your 
homosexuality, Martin."

"You might have to remove your own clothing," I said.

"Who said I'd let you?" She sipped her diet-Coke. She 
smiled at me. "All joking aside, I'm not used to 
dating. You'll have to take it slow with me tonight. 
Otherwise I might turn tail on you and run like a doe."

I wondered what her tail looked like, running or 
otherwise. "Can I ask you something personal?"

"Ask me anything you want," she said, sipping again.

"How much do you really like me?"

She laughed softly. "I think you know the answer to 
that."

"Enough to have sex with me?"

She stopped sucking and looked around. "You know what 
you're asking, Martin?"

"I do."

"No," she said. "You don't."

I tried another tack. "How about Michael? Are you 
committed to him?"

She shrugged. "It's not that simple."

"Nothing's that simple," I said. "You're a cross-
dressing fag with a gorgeous figure and I'm a closet 
homosexual asking you for sex. Simple doesn't exist for 
us."

"You think my figure's gorgeous?" she asked.

"Come on." 

She put the drink down and leaned toward me. Closeup, I 
saw that she had facial hair, very fine and soft. She 
hadn't shaved. I also noticed that her sideburns 
tapered to delicate points and that her eyebrows were 
plucked. I was noticing a lot of things about her 
tonight. To stop her from saying anything, I leaned 
forward and kissed her.

*  *  *

"I've been wanting to see this," she said.

We pushed through the crowd outside the Muvico 
Theaters, hand-in-hand, me leading the way. It was 
opening night for the new STAR TREK movie, and I had 
the tickets.

"I am so glad you ordered online," she said, looking at 
the crowd. 

At the refreshments counter I ordered a big bag of 
popcorn and two diet-Cokes. She wanted candy, as well, 
but couldn't make up her mind. Watching her bent over 
the selection gave me an erection. I wanted to grab her 
butt and grind up against her. We walked hand-in-hand 
into the theater.

"Do I pass a a girl?" she asked.

"I'm more convinced by the moment that you actually are 
a girl. Or a girl playing at a guy playing a girl."

She laughed and squeezed my hand. 

We sat in the back row and shared small-talk and 
popcorn and then whispers and popcorn once the movie 
started. The crew of Enterprise G looked absurdly aged 
in this movie, but it didn't diminish the action. In 
fact, it was the best STAR TREK movie I'd seen. I held 
Jamie's hand and played touchy-feely along her inner 
thigh. I had nothing close to the courage, however, to 
approach her crotch. Halfway through the movie, I 
realized she was staring at me intently. I kissed her. 

"I want you," she breathed into my mouth. 

"I want you too." My hand was on her ribs, just below 
her bra strap and she felt all trembly and hot.

"Think anyone would care if we fucked?" she asked.

I managed not to laugh. "I could ask."

"Would you please? Would you pretty please?"

I drew her to me and lifted her from her seat. She 
swung effortlessly over the armrest and into my lap, 
straddling me, arms locked around my neck, tongue deep 
in my mouth. People turned around to see this sudden 
competition to the movie; we didn't care. I encircled 
her waist with my arms and forced myself into her 
crotch. She moaned loudly and we had to stop.

When the movie ended, we were ogled with varying 
degrees of good humor, envy, and disapproval. I 
weathered the stares with a good-natured smile; Jamie 
stared at the floor. Outside, we laughed and headed for 
the mall entrance. Michael caught up with us at the 
door.

"Michael!" She looked everywhere around us, at once 
terrified and angry. "What are you doing here?" 

Her roommate said sarcastically: "A movie, you said? 
You didn't tell me who with, love." He was white with 
suppressed rage but evidently not surprised at her 
appearance. 

"Come on," I said, leading her away. Michael matched 
our stride. 

"You look great tonight," he said, echoing my earlier 
statement. "Too bad your lipstick's mussed." He held 
out a napkin.

"Michael--"

I stopped, halfway to the car. "Look, Michael," I said. 
"You're--"

He hit me so fast I didn't even see him. One moment I 
was speaking, the next I was on the ground, him 
kneeling on my back, my face ground into the asphalt. 

"Jesus!" I sputtered. "Get off of me, you clown!"

"Let me tell you something mate," he said, "I--"

"Michael! For God's sake! What are you doing!" Jamie 
wailed.

He ignored her histrionics. "I'm gonna tell you this 
once, mate. So listen carefully." His left hand ground 
my face harder into the pavement while his right one 
sought out my balls. I grimaced in agony as he 
continued in his fake British accent. "The lady--or 
laddy, if you like-- belongs to me. I don't like blokes 
jumpin' my turf just as I'm sure you don't like someone 
jumpin' your's. I don't go round and bangin' your 
little sister--"

"Michael!"

"--and I don't want you bangin' mine. Understood, my 
friend?"

My balls screamed! The pain in my face nor the 
humiliation mattered. I was one squeeze away from being 
crippled.

"Understand?" he asked me again.

I croaked out, "Yes! I understand. Now get offa me, you 
ape!"

He released me and stood up. Near to tears with rage, I 
couldn't move, much less get up to fight. I made it 
onto my side where I could ball up into a fetal ball. A 
crowd had formed, mostly gawk-eyed teenagers and some 
in their early twenties, nobody that would lend a hand. 
I watched from my vantage point at tire level as the 
bastard dragged her away. 

"Martin! Martin, I'm so sorry!"

He dragged her along by the elbow. "Come on, girly. We 
got us a little talking to do." He had on his black 
leather pants, studded boots and the same black leather 
jacket. He was greased back, in best Greaser fashion, a 
ducktail above the collar. I wanted to kill him.

I got onto my duff. My chest ached and my left cheek 
felt stripped of flesh and by balls felt like a 
punching bag. I tried getting to my feet but sat back 
down again. I leaned against the bumper of the car 
conveniently put there for my use and tried to catch my 
breath. Three-quarters of the way down the row I saw 
him drag her between two cars and I heard her yelp, 
then the sound of an open-palm smack. "The bastard," I 
muttered.

I could do two things. I could sit there until my 
testicles stopped throbbing and my chest felt capable 
of breathing again and I had some strength in my legs. 
I could sit there and let the smart thing come to pass, 
namely, going home. Michael obviously knew Karate or Ti 
Chi or some nonsense like that, and would cripple me 
for real next time. He obviously could. And what 
motivation did I have to get up? A cross-dressing queer 
with fake fingernails, lacquered hair and a set of 
silicone falsies?

I struggled to my feet. The crowd had thinned and those 
still present regarded me with pity. I gripped the 
fender of the car for support and tried to catch sight 
of them. They were two rows over and he was berating 
her beside a big silver, nineteen-eighties model Buick 
or Oldsmobile. That's not your father's Olds, I thought 
stupidly. 

He slapped her hard again, banged her against the side 
of the car, then opened the door and flung her inside. 
I pushed off the fender of whatever I was leaning 
against and shambled toward my car. I got there just as 
the Buick/Olds peeled rubber backward out of its space, 
then peeled rubber going forward again. I started the 
CR-V and followed.

A mile down the road, I pulled over and waited while 
Michael ran into a Seven-Eleven. I was thinking, This 
would be so simple, Jamie, if you just got out of the 
car and ran. But that doesn't happen in the real world 
and it didn't happen here. 

When we stopped a block apart at a set of paired 
traffic signals, I got out of the CR-V, went around to 
the back and threw open the rear door. The guy behind 
me grew somewhat alarmed at the tire iron in my hand, 
but I grinned at him and got back in the car. A mile 
further on we stopped again at a light, this time with 
me right behind them. I almost got out, then noticed 
Jamie's head was missing. 

Oh, fuck, I thought. What did he do now? Did she get 
out? I craned around but didn't see her back along the 
road. Then I thought, What if he hit her hard enough to 
knock her out, then I thought, Oh, Jesus, what if he 
killed her? I was beginning to panic when all of a 
sudden Jamie's head reappeared, only she was grinning 
at him and wiping her mouth. Grinning at him and wiping 
her mouth. 

I sat there dumbfounded. Dumbfounded and stunned. The 
tire-iron slipped from my fingers and thudded on the 
floor. The point of my chin sagged to my breastbone. 
What the fuck was this? In the car ahead, she leaned 
across the open space and put her left arm around 
Michael's neck and kissed his cheek. I saw her laugh. I 
saw her right arm move in a way suggestive of stroking. 
"Oh, no," I muttered. "No way."

When the light changed from red to green, I turned left 
as they went straight, and drove myself home. 

That's what I saw myself doing. What I knew I should be 
doing. What everyone in the world would be screaming at 
me to do. Instead, I pressed the gas pedal and followed 
them down the busy street, following some instinct, 
some almost forgotten memory, some pivotal moment in a 
book or a movie or a dream, wanting-praying-hoping that 
seeing is not always believing. 

"Turn around and look at me, baby. Please."

Ahead in the Olds, Jamie sat snuggled up to Michael, 
head on his shoulder, obviously not belted in. Little 
by little, ounce by ounce, my resolve slipped away. I 
watched as her head slowly dipped from sight, groaned 
as Michael flexed achingly in his seat, wanted to ram 
the front end of my car into them when her head 
reappeared again. But this time, without seeming to do 
it, Jamie glanced back at me through the rear window 
and nodded. It was enough for me. Whether she could see 
me or not, I nodded back. At the next red light it 
happened.

Michael braked the Olds and stopped. Jamie's head was 
down again and I could see him cajoling her. Then his 
head tilted back and he went rigid all over, shoulders 
bunching up and suddenly he was jerking in his seat. I 
knew what was going on and slammed my fists on the 
steering wheel and wanted to ram them again. 

Mr. British Accent might just get his dick bit off. But 
his actions were suddenly suggestive of something other 
than ejaculation. Suddenly he was hunched forward and 
rigid in a grimace; the passenger door banged opened 
and Jamie flopped out onto the ground.

"Run!" I yelled at her. She stayed momentarily on her 
butt, legs flung apart and hands back supporting her, 
staring into the car. There was a look of dismay on her 
face and her mouth hung open. Then she was scrambling 
to her feet and I flung the passenger's side door open. 
"Come on! Run, God damn it! Run!"

She stumbled backwards against the car door, thrust 
herself forward just as Michael disappeared from sight. 
His hand shot out and grabbed the back of her jacket. 
She twisted in his grip, yanked the coat back over her 
shoulders and flung it away from her. Then she was 
running for the car.

"Go!" she screamed. "Get moving!" 

Michael half-crawled, half-tumbled out the door and 
landed on his hands and knees on the pavement. His 
pants were undone and white from his underwear 
protruded from his fly. I saw no blood but I also 
didn't see any ding-a-ling flopping in the breeze. But 
I could hope. 

"Get going!" she screamed at me again.

I put the car in Reverse as Michael struggled to his 
feet and took a faltering step forward. He was bent at 
the waist, clutching his balls, mouthing words. She may 
not have bit it off, but she surely had mangled him. 
She bounded past my front end and grabbed the open 
door.

"Get in! Get in!" I urged. Michael was halfway down his 
car and gathering speed. His face was set in a rictus 
of pain and hatred, the hatred directed at us. I had no 
doubt, none whatsoever, that even in his weakened 
condition he'd kick the shit out of me. 

Jamie jumped inside and slammed the car door closed. 
Her face was chalky but had flaming patches on both 
cheeks; there was a bruise where he'd hit her. Her 
chest heaved and her mouth was working. "Please!" she 
pleaded. "Go!"

I backed within an inch of the car behind me, waved 
apologetically when the driver laid on the horn, then 
cut the wheel to the left. Michael was already moving 
to his right, cutting me off. "Fuck that shit!" I 
yelled and flung the wheel to the right. I floored the 
gas and the four-wheel drive cut it, squealing tires 
both front and back. The CR-V jiggered and shook and 
jounced up and down on its suspension and then we were 
into the next lane and then onto the shoulder and 
cutting across state-owned property to the parking lot 
of an apartment complex.

We jolted across the high curb and I thanked God again 
for the four-wheel drive and its clearance. Somehow I 
missed the vehicles either side of the parking space I 
drove into and the last I saw of Michael as we barreled 
through the parking lot in search of an exit, was him 
hunched over with his hands on his knees.

"Are you okay?" I asked. 

She had lost her tortoise-shell glasses and all but one 
of her silver hair clips. Her lipstick was smudged 
hideously around her mouth and she sported a developing 
shiner. Her right cheek was swollen. She didn't look 
okay, but then she grinned at me. "I'm with you and 
that's more than okay," she said.

I grinned back at her. "Michael seemed a little 
pissed."

She laughed throatily. "I take no prisoners, Martin. 
None at all." She belted herself in, and I put my hand 
on her thigh and squeezed tightly. 

"You're not going home tonight."

"Obviously."

"My roommate's a pain in the ass," I said, "but he 
respects a closed door. Unless Michael has my street 
address or my telephone number, we should be safe 
there."

"Well, I didn't leave it tacked to the refrigerator 
door," she said. She put her hand on mine and then took 
it into hers. "Thank you for rescuing me, Martin. Thank 
you for coming after me in the first place. That took a 
lot of courage. I can't believe Michael. He is such a 
bastard."

I wanted to say, It was nothing, I always take a 
beating on my first dates. Instead, I asked, "Is he 
really your brother?"

"Yes!" she spat in exasperation. "The bastard!"

The next question I couldn't ask and it simply hung 
there between us, gobbling up time. Precious time. 
Finally she said, "I grew up in California. My mom and 
dad died in a car wreck when I was thirteen. Michael 
was eighteen then, but not old enough to be my 
guardian. He was already kinky by them, spiked hair and 
leather clothes and studs and everything. The courts 
took one look at him and said no. They awarded me to my 
aunt Sheila and I lived with her for two years, then 
for a year with my grandmother. I was really mixed up. 
I got into some trouble, nothing really bad, but enough 
to make my aunt and uncle very nervous. Besides..." She 
looked out the window. I squeezed her hand and tapped 
it gently against her thigh. 

"Tell me," I said. "You want me to know, don't you?"

She continued looking out the window. "Do you really?" 
she asked.

"Yes."

"I'm a hermaphrodite," she said calmly. "Half-boy, 
half-girl. You wanted to know."

*  *  *

We stopped at McDonald's. We both had cheeseburgers, 
French-fries and diet-Cokes. She went to the Ladies 
Room before eating, to clean up. I waited for her.

I had begun to suspect the truth at dinner. Her hair 
and her Adam's apple--or lack of one--were two big 
clues. Her hair grew in the classic female pattern, 
extending inward on her forehead farther than a man's. 
In the restaurant I had noticed her lack of facial 
hair, but mistook the fine blonde growth as boyish 
peach fuzz. Her figure was that of a girl, as were her 
delicate features, and I had the feeling the small 
breasts she wore so well beneath her knit top were real 
girl's breasts. 

She returned and we ate our cheeseburgers and French-
fries in silence. It was a comfortable silence, a 
silence I could enjoy. I extended my diet-coke and she 
smiled as she sucked the straw. "I could get to like 
you," she said.

"You already like me, remember?"

"I could like you even more."

"Enough to live with me?" I asked.

The smile faltered, then returned. "Be careful what you 
wish for. I lived with my brother and look what 
happened to him."

She explained that Michael had sued for custody when he 
turned twenty-one. She was only sixteen ten, but 
desperate to get away from both her aunt and her 
grandmother; the courts had listened. I had the feeling 
no one fought too hard against the suit anyway.

"Things were okay for awhile, then he started getting 
weird. I had been living as a girl until then--I lived 
as a girl all my life--but he started making me wear 
guy's clothes and act like a guy. He wasn't queer--he 
still isn't queer--he just liked the mind-bend. He'd 
take me out and introduce me as his brother, and slowly 
but surely, that's what I became. 

"In 2000 we moved out here to get away from the family. 
I had begun to like the masquerade a bit too much--see 
how fucked up I am?--and the family was making trouble. 
I was twenty years old, but my aunt and uncle went to 
the court and the court decided I had an unstable 
personality and sent me to a physchiatric hospital. 
Believe me," she said, laughing bitterly. "You don't 
ever want to go there."

I worked to digest this. "Which sex do you want to be?" 
I asked.

"I think that's obvious."

I grinned mischievously. "You convinced me as a guy, 
James."

"I could be a guy," she came right back.

I laughed and shook my head. "I'd like to know about 
you. Your condition. Are you comfortable talking about 
that?"

She shifted uncomfortably. She breathed deeply. "I'm 
what's called an XX/XY hermaphrodite. I have mixed 
genitalia." She paused to see if I wanted to comment on 
that, then went on. "I have a very small penis, a 
vagina, one testicle and an ovary. I ovulate, but not 
every month. Maybe four or five times a year. I've gone 
a year without a single one, and sometimes I do it 
every month. It's always very painful. I have a uterus, 
but only one fallopian tube. My ovary develops terrible 
cysts that sometimes have to be surgically removed. My 
testicle is still inside me and causes no end of 
problems." She looked sadly out the window. "It gets 
worse, Martin."

I took her hand and held it. "Go on."

"My vagina is severely underdeveloped. It's too small 
to take a tampon, which means I can't have intercourse 
with you, not without surgery. I've never had 
intercourse. Only anal sex with my brother." The pain 
in her voice was awful. "You saw what I did in the 
car?"

"It's fine," I said. "You were forced to."

"I was forced to tonight, but there's been plenty of 
times I wasn't forced. I've had sex with him since I 
was eighteen. When I kissed you tonight it was my first 
time with another guy. I've been a one-person harem as 
long as I can remember. As both a man and a woman. Try 
experiencing that sometime!" she cried, bursting into 
tears.

I said nothing, just took her in my arms and held her. 
She wept deep racking sobs. When the sobbing lessened I 
kissed her gently and wiped away her tears. 

"You have a lot of courage," I said. "I can't even 
imagine what you went through growing up."

She sniffed and wiped her nose on a napkin. "Did I tell 
you I have breasts?"

"No," I said laughing. "But I'm glad you do." She took 
my left hand and placed it on her right breast. It was 
small, soft and very natural feeling. I held it a 
moment, then went under her top, released the center-
snap on her bra, and took her breast in my hand. We 
French-kissed.

"I have to tell you something," she said softly. 

Her wonderful smell, the way she felt beneath my hands, 
her every movement was driving me nuts. I wanted her--
then, there, right in the middle of McDonald's if she'd 
let me... I just wanted her.

"I'm going away tomorrow."

I sat straight up. 

"It's okay," she said hurriedly. "I'm coming back."

My heart pounded like King Kong on the island gateway. 
I wondered if my chest wall could take it. "When?" I 
demanded, then more gently, "Why? Or shouldn't I ask."

"To a clinic in New York. They specialize in sexual 
disorders."
"What will you have done?" I asked.

"Have my testicle removed and my vagina measured for 
reconstructive surgery. I've been there twice before 
and there's more visits in my future." She breathed 
deeply, her eyes rimmed with tears. "Many more, if I 
ever hope to have a baby." 

*  *  *

It was three a.m. and dead quiet. I could hear the 
breath going in and out of her nostrils and the 
occasional gurgle of her stomach. Or maybe it was mine. 
"I'm going to miss you," I said. 

"Me too."

"You'll let me take you to the airport?"

"I was hoping you'd ask that."

"What about Michael?"

"I'm not going back to the apartment."

"How about your things? For the trip, I mean."

"They're in my car," she said. She had planned for 
this, or something like it.

"We'll stop by and get them," I said. "When you get 
back, we'll borrow the Maryland starting lineup and get 
your things out of the apartment."

She laughed and rolled over for a hug. I wrapped her in 
my arms and we made love again in the only way she 
could. I did something to her that Michael never had 
and she really enjoyed that. I guess being a girl and a 
boy sometimes has its advantages.

And yes, I intentionally mislead you at the beginning 
of the story, but aren't you grateful I did?

THE END

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 31