CisterWife

My on-stage role really did love Christy in a romantic way, and I'd have loved her as the real woman behind that role, but Christy would have none of me. I need love. Am I so bad? So I gave myself again, this time as a woman, instead of as a convincing yet fictitious man. I gave myself to a lesbian, just like me. Only she came out, unlike me. Why can't Sandra see who I am inside? We talk about girly stuff all the time!

Why does Sandra put up with a silly woman like me with such a frighteningly powerful schoolgirl crush on her? Of course I'm a schoolgirl. As a woman I was in a coma since grade school!

Well, to be fair, I did keep coming up for air again and again...only to be beaten unconscious by the transphobic cruelty of haters, including my wife of twenty years. When she called the real me a demon, I didn't want to exist anymore. So I'd buried myself...again, and again, and again, and again.

I tried to die as a woman, leaving my body in my will to the fictitious male heroic romantic character I created and played on the stage of life. It didn't work. I'm still here. The bitch is back.

Despite what I may look like on the outside, emotionally I'm just a little girl. I'm jailbait. Could a strong, sexy, beautiful, wonderful woman like Sandra ever want a fragile little training bra brat like me?

I suddenly know the answer. "OK Christy, here's the deal. I'll still pay the bills. I have no idea where I'll live, but you need room here with George. I refuse to get in your way. I'm packing two airport rollers. I'll rent a truck for the rest when I have somewhere to put it all."

Christy changes in an instant from cocky to frightened. "What if George doesn't want to move in with me?"

I may regret it, but I can't resist. I swiftly swing around behind her, grab her breasts for a brief second and set her down on the chair. "Then he's a zombie. Any straight man or lesbian with a pulse would move in with you, even after hearing you snore!"

Christy is so shocked she doesn't get angry, throw up or pass out. She listens instead. "OK Ellie, you got a point. I pretty much have my pick of the choir, and he knows it. He'd be crapping on his own plate not to say yes to moving in with me. You get settled in first. I don't want you moving back while he's here. That would spoil my fun."

Chapter 4. Game Central.

Thank God they all wear headphones. It's usually quiet here except for the frantic flurry of computer keys tapping when the kids are in an on-line virtual battle. I don't see how they get any college work done. I'm not complaining. They agreed to rent the room to me before they found out my age. The conversation when I rented the place was insane. I remember it in vivid detail.

* * * *

Geoff is the homeowner and dungeon master. His face lights up seeing the wad of cash paying a year in advance. "I was happy to sign that agreement. It's standard, no bullshit. I just need to see your ID now, El."

I take out my driver's license and show it to him. His face goes white. "Dude, you're not 42. Are you a cop or something?"

I get pissed. "Tell those guys in there with the good smelling sticky to come give me a hit. I'll take a toke in front of you. No, I'm not a cop."

Geoff grins ear to hear, heaving a huge sigh of relief. "I get it. You hung onto your first fake ID for years. Why? Are you like an illegal alien, or something cool like that?"

After dealing with TransPhobia I have no patience for AgePhobia. It's a simple law of physics that a huge wall of bullshit can only be broken through by a fast moving, much larger steaming pile of bullshit.

I grin a devious smirk. "It's expensive to get new IDs. I only do it once every twelve years. I have to fake my death, change my name and have lawyers move all my assets to my new identity. I'm four thousand eighty nine years old. I don't age. I'm trusting you Geoff, you can't tell anyone."

Geoff has a look of awed delight. "Your secret's safe with me, sir."

Just to cover my tracks, I continue. "One more thing. I'm a shape shifter. I'm really a woman. Sometimes when I have nightmares, I change back into my female form. If you see that, don't get freaked out. If I sleepwalk naked as a woman, act like you never saw it."

No flies on Geoff. He rolls with it. "No problem, m'Lady. I won't out you."

I give him an appreciative smile. "You're a true gentleman, Sir knight."

* * * *

In the weeks since then, I've caught myself wondering several times if everything I told Geoff is true in another parallel universe. Wow. This house of virtual gaming is getting to me. How cool is that!

* * * *

I never got the BFF I'd hoped for with Christy. I did with Sandra. This is so twisted. Being a lesbian, she must know what it's like to ache for a BFF, being afraid to come out to her.

* * * *

It's infectious, the gaming attitude. It's easy to be fearless when you're an avatar. You simply reboot and start over again. For me, I keep having to remind myself I get one shot at this. As Ru Paul says: Good luck, and don't fuck it up!

Yeah, I'm going to make my play. I still can't talk to her about it. Every time I try, my voice quits. I can sing, but I can't talk. Oh, we can talk for hours on end. I go over to her place and cry. She holds me. Oh God, how I ache to kiss her. I'm not in lust with her. I'm in love with her. But the lust issue has to come up before the whole package of romance can happen. How can I tell her I'm really a woman? How can I let her know I think of her twenty four seven?

I have a coward's plan. It's not much of a plan. It's an opening, and if she wants to push the door open from there and walk through it, she can do so. If she doesn't want to deal with it, she can ignore it without ever having to talk about it. What is this subtle conversation starter for a strictly optional discussion? A button. A pin. A lipstick.

It took so long for them to ship it to me, it probably came from Pluto rather than China. It's a simple identity statement summed up in a cute little lapel pin...a pink lipstick. It identifies my demographic identity perfectly. I'm a fellow lipstick lesbian. If she ignores it, she doesn't want me. If she comments on it, she wants me. No pressure on her, just an opportunity. We can stay BFFs like always, or we can become more, her choice. I'm offering myself to her silently. No strings, no pressure, no games. Simple and sweet.

* * * *

She's scaring me. I can barely think straight enough to sing. For me, that's like a redneck being too drunk to fish. That expression on her face is too complex. I can't figure it out. She hides it behind her poker face. She never gives me that poker face...it's only for others. Now it's for me. I'm locked out. She's late on an entrance. Ida shoots her a surprised look, and makes her own poker face. Nobody's going to say anything here. The air is thick with drama.

* * * *

"Take off that fucking pin before I rip it off and shove it up your ass!" Sandra's growl startles me from behind. There's murder in her eyes. I ran out here to escape her. It figures we'd both choose the same hiding place. Nobody uses the back door of the church. There's no parking back here.

I never should have worn that stupid lapel pin. I was safe in the friend zone. Now I've lost my only lifeline, my only real friend in all the world. Why did I have to fall in love with her? It's like that old Dave Mason song. I shouldn't-a-took more than she gave. She gave me her friendship. I gave her my whole heart. I had no idea my love could be such an Eww factor. I must be a whole lot more worthless than I ever suspected. Maybe the bullies were right trying to kill me off, cause I can't 'man-up'. I'm not gay or straight. I'm just an abomination.

Sandra's voice is a low growl. "I trusted you. You were perving on me the whole time. If you loved me, you'd be honest with me about it. This TransGender bullshit tells me what you've really been up to. You just wanted to fuck me. I must say, you're even more patient than George. You're a fucking sleaze ball hunter like him. Do the two of you have a wager? How much does he have to pay you if you get me in bed? Maybe we should team up, lie to him and split the take. Then you won't have to play anymore. I bet it taxed your patience pretending to be human with me. We can have a coming out party for you as a straight, homophobic asshole."

Something moves in my peripheral vision. I turn my head. It's George. "There you are. My Christy is having second thoughts. You put her up to it. I don't care who you are. Nobody takes back what's mine. I'm your alpha! I stole her from you fair and square, bitch!"

I see George throwing the sucker punch, but I've lost all will to defend myself. He connects. I go down. My head hits the doorknob. My head feels wet. It's my own blood. The last thing I see is Sandra's purple high heel boot connecting with Gorge's chest.

* * * *

It smells like alcohol in here. Alcohol and bleach. It's gross.

"Mr. Zadok. May I have a few words with you? I'm Detective Madison. I'm investigating the incident an hour ago at church. Before you ask, your vitals are good. You got quite a shiner there, and you needed seven stitches, but there's no swelling. Sandra called 911, saying you tripped, hit your head on the doorknob and landed on your face. Is that what happened?"

My brain is alert now. "Yes. Why would you doubt her?"

"George Bentley was taken in with three broken ribs. He claims he defended you against violent black-hooded homophobes. Sandra said he was nowhere near there. With no witnesses, we figured we better get your statement to try and make some sense out of all this."

"I don't know why he's lying, officer. I understand he has a long history of hunting other men's wives. I can only guess what really happened to him. I only saw Sandra. I stumbled on the outdoor carpet by the door. She tried to catch me but wasn't quick enough. My head hit the doorknob and seconds later her phone was out. Then I was out. She's my hero."

Chapter 5. One Two Three One Two Three Blink.

Captain's log, star-date...half past never. What's the point in dating it when nobody reads it anyway? Dating it, that's a joke. The word 'date' should be banned from virtual reality. Nobody needs to be reminded that nobody will EVER date them.

Who needs VR glasses when there's a 36-inch LED monitor and an endless supply of ecstasy? Tabs of E are cheap when you get them by the hundred. Of course you have to tell the dealer you're sponsoring a rave or he won't sell them to you. They take a dim view of people dying. I don't worry about trivial shit like that.

Taking E is like doing the Blink spell in WoW. It teleports you twenty yards ahead, further into the virtual world. Nobody likes my corner of SecondLife. They say it's more like Third World. It's depressing, just like me. My life now consists of an unbroken chain of tabs of E. Each one is a Blink spell, each one teleporting me one step further away from real life.

One two three, one two three blink. One two three, one two three blink. It's my own version of the Chandelier song, nowhere near as pretty as the original, not just cause Maddy doesn't dance in it. My version has a dark reality lurking within the constant unreality.

Every tab of E could be your last. I don't give a shit. Getting that fatal dose would be like winning the lottery. Maybe that's what I'm trying to do. Flat lining on E is one of the only ways I've ever heard of people dying with a smile on their face. I carry that grim wish with me into this perfect world. Isn't that what dystopians warn about? If you ever find a perfect world, don't join it cause you'll ruin it.

Welcome to my own virtual hell. I've ruined SecondLife. At least in my own little corner, in my own little chair, it sucks as bad as I do. I carry the stink with me.

The little ding indicator goes off. WTF? Somebody is commenting on my last post. The surprising event, more than the surprising sound, startles me, teleporting me backward miles and miles, yanking me out of this unreal hall of mirrors facing each other. Suddenly I'm not in the SecondLife universe anymore. I'm in my own disgustingly real, stinking, unbathed body, staring at a video monitor. I may as well get this over with. Geoff is the only one who interacts with me here. I never give him too many hits at once. I won't have his death on my conscience.

It's Sandra. She looks exactly like she does in real life. I bark at her. "What the hell are you doing here? You don't belong in Purgatory. You didn't do anything wrong." Yeah, that's the name of my SecondLife area. Purgatory.

Undaunted, Sandra stares at me from the big screen. "Isn't there something you'd like to say to me?"

I'm flummoxed, totally gob-smacked. "I haven't got a clue. There's nothing I could say you'd ever want to hear." I break the connection. I designed my on-line hell to never remind me that I never had a shot at heaven anyway. Here she is, rubbing my face in it. My custom control panel I wrote offers to hack her system and reformat her hard drive. I click no. Instead, I click the forgive icon. She'll receive a simple text message saying 'Forgive them, Father, they know not what they do'.

* * * *

I'm getting sick of this. For a year now she's been talking with me. It's not the intimate friendship we used to share as BFFs, but the cold-hearted impersonal formality of appropriate office banter. At the end of every lengthy and horrifically meaningless conversation, she logs off by asking me if I have anything I'd like to tell her. I always tell her no. She's trying to get me to apologize for falling in love with her. I refuse.

Even if the heartbreak kills me, I'll never regret it. After years of being wanted for my fictitious male character I wrote, buried alive in the ironic falsehood of the real world, I finally woke up and enjoyed a brief hope. That hope was the greatest pleasure I'd ever experienced as a woman. I got to enjoy that brief hope that Sandra could love me as a woman. To regret that would be like blasphemy. It made not just my body, but also my mind, heart, emotions and even spirit tingle with excitement.

That was enough of a life. If I die now, I'll be content with having gotten to experience that. The brief thrill of having hope, in love as a woman, was more fulfilling than being wanted as an artificial man.

* * * *

She asks, as she always does. "Before I sign off, isn't there something you'd like to say to me?"

I can finally take it no more. "Yes, I have something to say. You have to face me in person, on the red brick walkway in front of your house, and do your last gloating in the flesh. I have no idea what dicks have ever done to you, but you have to face the full humanity of taking it out on me as your revenge. Then I'll give up my body, just as I gave up my heart."

Sandra sneers. "Well delivered. That line was exactly how a woman would write it. Someday I'd like to meet your ghostwriter. Unlike you, I'd probably like her. I hope you paid her well. She's actually pretty good. It's been a year since I've seen you in person. I'm strong enough now to handle it. You can come over. I'll meet you outside. We'll see how well you perform without a professional quality script in your hands."

Chapter 6. What an Offer.

I've never seen Sandra so angry. Finally meeting in person again, unprotected by the safety of virtual space, we come bearing gifts for each other. I even showered. I'm bringing a bouquet of lilacs. She's bringing a football, wearing a team jersey that says "Real Girls". Sandra throws the football at my head with a perfect arm. I know her. She expects me to drop the flowers and protect my head with my arms.

I hold onto the flowers for dear life, allowing the football to strike me in the face. My nose is bleeding. I'm dizzy, knocked to my knees. I know I pass out a lot. My emotions are too powerful. There's nothing turning it down. My female brain never got damaged and numb like men. I'm crawling to her, scraping my knees on the brick walkway. I finally get to her, reaching up to give her the flowers as high as I can with both hands. I can't see anything through my tears.

Sandra takes the flowers and smells them. "Well, at least something about you is real. The flowers aren't plastic. I can't say the same about your heart. It's as plastic as my ten-inch dildo. So here's the deal."

Having delivered the flowers, and honestly pretty dizzy, I lie down on the bricks. "The answer is yes. I don't care what the deal is, if only you'll let me see you again, I'll take it."

Sandra's throat emits a deep, low rolling dark laugh. "So, the big bad jock fooled around and fell in love? Too fucking bad. You lied to me. I trusted you. You perved on me the whole time I was helping you. You know why I wasn't afraid of you? I thought you were gay, and stuck in the closet. I figured that's why Christy dumped you for dingle balls. You're not gay. Your big secret is you're a jock trying to scam on naïve lipstick lesbians. I bet she dumped you for watching girl-girl porn like all straight jocks do."

I'm speechless. I've never seen such anger in anyone. "Sandra, before you tell me what your deal is, please tell me what's going on. Why are you so angry? Why do you think I'm a jock? I didn't even catch the football."

The purple haired love of my life speaks softly, not to sooth me, but to keep her words strictly between the two of us. "Only a testosterone brain damaged Neanderthal could carry out such an elaborate, manipulative plot to fuck a lesbian. Were you hoping someday you'd get to watch me with your wife? Did you want your own private girl-girl porn show? It's not gonna work, any more than what the jocks tried in high school."

I'm in a daze, answering. "My wife would sooner eat rat poison than pussy. What happened in high school?"

Rage fills Sandra's face again. "Three football stars forged letters from their dads, saying they were coming out as TransGender. The school was forced to let them use the girl's locker room. Our volleyball team was finishing up showering in there. Three guys tried to rape one girl. I got sent to Juvenile Hall for a month after putting all three jock bastards in the hospital. One guy had to get a kidney transplant. Fuckers deserved it. I got a new nickname. Death. Yeah, they all called me Death after that. Great high school nickname huh? Death."

Now rage is filling me. "Give me a list of their names. I'll make hackey sacks out of their balls."

Now she's sobbing. "If you care so much, why did you pull the same trick?"

My sigh is so deep it startles her. She's quiet as I explain. "Before I knew her, Christy had an experience with something that claimed to be a TransGender lesbian. It raped her. All my life, bullies tried to beat the little girl out of me. They knocked my real self into a coma, trying to become someone I'm not, someone I never was, someone I never should have had to try to convince myself to be. I was literally insane, spawning a false male multiple personality out of all that trauma."

Sandra's voice is quiet and trembling. "What happened with Christy?"

My answer is equally quiet. "I woke up. I came to terms with who I am. I came out to her. She freaked out on me. She can't touch me now without throwing up, passing out or both. You stopped a rape. She survived one. Her brain knows I had nothing to do with it. Her body blames me, cause I'm a TransGender lesbian. I'd waited 42 years to be loved as a woman. We went to church looking for real love. She looked for a man. I looked for a lesbian. So tell me, Sandra, what was the offer you wanted to make?"