Real Butch, Real Woman

I pose in front of the mirror, sprawled in the chair in a spread-eagle slouch that lets me take in every inch of my body. All is visible: my face, breasts, stomach, pussy, and, if I lift up a little bit, the dark curvature of my ass and the cleft to its hole. All laid out on display, opened up to even more introspection by my prying fingers. Close enough for my toes to keep smudging the mirror.

This is my favorite position.

Though I've done it so many times before, I touch myself. Not erotically. I handle my body like a butcher touches meat, practically, professionally, measuring, appraising with a practiced eye. I jiggle one breast in my hand and tick off marks for size, weight, shape, give. Prod at my stomach, feeling for muscle. And use two fingers to trace the outside of my cunt and dip in shallowly, all the while grading the symmetry of my pussy lips, the resiliency of my vaginal tissue, the triangular trim of my pubic hair. I weigh the good of my body against the bad.

If only I could meet women naked and on my back, splayed for their inspection as I am right now. Then they would come flocking, for my hand-crafted tits and designer vagina. Then, finally, it would be somebody else's fingers doing the examining. No matter how I try to pretend otherwise, I'm tired of sitting in front of my mirror. "Get acquainted with your body.", my therapist tells me. Well, we're well acquainted by now. The novelty has worn off. Now I want to get acquainted with someone else's body.

"What did you expect, Jack?" My ex-wife asked me when I made a brief complaint. "I mean, Jackie." Every time she corrects herself, she negates it with an eye roll. "You're making no attempts to even look like a woman."

Little she knows. I don't know how my body can look more womanly than it does now, here, naked. On my chest, between my legs, in the fattening around my hips and thighs- little bits of woman sprinkled everywhere. Expensive little bits. And still, all she can do is whittle away at me.

"What a waste of money. Look at you. Are you proud of spending your children's college funds to become a guy with tits? I sure hope so, because it doesn't make sense to me."

Here is the evidence against me: I wear my hair in the same buzz-cut I always have. My wardrobe is precisely the same, though tailored a bit for the new curves. There's no lipstick or makeup on my dresser, no polish on my nails, no perfume dabbed between my breasts. My legs are as hairy as ever. Where my penis used to be, I now often strap on something similar but different, a dildo. For all this, my ex-wife refuses to call me a woman.

And here is the rest of the evidence against me: between my chin and my collarbone is a knot of flesh that repulses everyone I want and lures those I don't. Until the tracheal shave, my adam's apple seems to erase the initial confusion at a man, in men's clothes, oddly filled out at the chest. There are light scars on my cheeks and chin from electrolysis. And then there's the inherent betrayal of my skull, the only answer for which is the one thing I do not want more of: surgery. It would take too much money, too much time to heal from feminizing facial surgery. For all of these reasons, lesbians- butch and femme- skirt me warily.

Nobody knows what to do with me. When I decided to transition, every friend miraculously had a friend who was into 'trannies'- gay and straight men. Then, I when I clarified- gay as in lesbian- there were a few who had female contacts, too. But we were always wrong for each other; they were long-haired femmes looking for drag queen girlfriends. They turned me off, and I them. Now the only place I feel truly welcome is the rinky little bar off the highway where cross-dressing boys go to turn tricks, some of them to pay for surgery like mine, but not to look like me. None of the girls at the bar look like me, but because we're all on the outskirts of fitting in anyways, no one ever looks at me, either. It's the sort of place I can go to get away from self-hypnosis in the mirror. It's where I decide I'm going to go now, so I can drag my sorry, pathetic butch-man-woman ass out of the house.

When I get there, it's doused in the anonymous dark, the dim lights that make boys in wigs look even more like seductive femme fatales. There is the uncomfortable clientele, surprisingly full of well-to-do suits and ties, eyeing, buying drinks, and, very frequently, taking someone home. I cozy up to the bar and order a beer; the odd one out, since everyone else has something pretty, expensive, mixed.

"Hey there, cutie." One of the hookers has her eye on me. It happens; I have a gentlemanly air, I suppose, and the faint whiff of money that they can smell miles away. The kind of profile that sends alerts: he'll pay well and won't do anything kinky. Maybe I am attractive to them, although I doubt it's anything more than fishing for prospects.

She smiles and settles two red claw-tipped fingers on the knot of my tie. Far too close for comfort. "Care to buy me a drink?" She flips her hair coquettishly, and the light catches her face. She's very pretty, very passable, the right height and feminine face for a perfect woman, once she gets the snip-snip. The kind of woman everyone wants to go to bed with. And suddenly, I realize that I am considering it, that I am letting her finger my tie and make bedroom eyes at me. She doesn't turn me on- she doesn't even have real tits!- but God, I'm so lonely. I want to share intimacy with somebody.

She must read the longing in my eyes, because she bites her lip and trails those fingernails down the front of my suit. And stops. Her eyes widen, and I realize that she has just discovered what I always forget, my breasts. Vaguely hidden behind my bulky suit jacket, even less apparent in the dark and, let's face it, incomprehensible on my body. Unless I force them into the public eye, people choose not to see them. She feels out my fleshy appendages and then gets up and walks away. That's it. No remark, no laughter or condemnation, just a sort of weary departure that doesn't even want to take the time to find out just what the hell I am.

That's when it hits me. Why am I here? A lesbian among men, only men, albeit some men in dresses and men on hormones and maybe even some men on the way to being women. But these are not my peers. They are on the same path to womanhood that I tread, but we might as well be different species when they finish their filthily-financed transitions. We share nothing.

I quickly get out my money to pay my tab. I want to be anywhere but here, even if it means back in front of the mirror or once again searching the Internet for the rare depictions of my sexuality. I toss back my drink, turn around, and am stopped.

The person in my way is not the same hooker hounding me before, decided that I am doable, for a price. No, to see this person's face, I have to look down. She -he- it- is short. I simply cannot decide on gender, for a variety of reasons. Most obvious are the two tiny breasts that the tank top hugs, replete with tiny protruding nipples. But its clothes, its short, spiked hair, the few, sparse scraggly hairs on its chin- those seem like a man. I wonder if it's doing the same sort of tallying up of me.

"I noticed you turned down Veronica over there." It says. The voice doesn't give anything away, either: it's simply not low enough for a man. More like a pubescent teenager. "Maybe she's not your type? Or maybe you're getting tired of chicks with dicks. Well, how'd you like to get a load of a guy with a pie? I'm one of a kind in this sort of place." And then it pirouettes a full circle on display and puts hands on hips.

Suddenly, I know how the hooker- Veronica, I suppose- felt. I have no desire to find out if this is a girl or a hermaphrodite or a particularly inept half-transitioned drag queen who lost his wig, forgot to shave, and has absolutely horrendous fashion sense. I'm too tired. I don't want to be propositioned by people who only want my money. So I grab its wrists and jerk its hands to my chest and lay them against my bosom. There. Be done with me.

"Oh." It says. But the hands stay on my breasts. And then- I can't believe it- the hands give my boobs a little squeeze, a grope that feels as welcome as it shouldn't. "Nice tits." It says. And then, with a friendly, goofy smile: "I bet people have a heck of a time with you, girl."

That does me in. "Who are you?" I ask. I have to know. Maybe I'm merely craving the personal attention this creature has given me, but my curiosity is overwhelming.

"Buy me a beer?" It sort of flutters its eyelashes, and I remember- here, time is money. But maybe, just this one time, maybe it's only about thirst. We swing back against the bar and I order two more bottles. I watch my new companion take a swig. It has a simultaneous confidence and elegance I find disarming.

"Like I said, I'm the guy with the pie. At least, that's how I bill myself down here at Trannycentral, USA."

"What do you mean?"

It eyes me inquisitively, then sets its jaw as if a decision has been made. "I suppose you're all gender-fried, love. Let me refresh you. These-" It gestures to its breasts. "aren't usually found on guys. Which makes my job all the more harder."

"Wait." I'm doing intense calculation in my head. 'Guy with pie.' Pie. Tits. "You're a girl!" I exclaim.

"Huh. Let's just say that I'm as much of a girl as Veronica over there is a boy. That is to say, temporarily. Only for a little while, hopefully." She- for now I have a handle on its gender- looks at the beer bottle reflexively. "I've been on T for four months now."

T- I have no idea what that might be, but I nod. "And here I am, trying to get particular men- or women-" She adds that, glancing up at me. "-to pay for my top surgery."

"What sort of men, uh, people?" I ask.

"Oh, bisexuals, gay guys who sort of want to try pussy, straight guys who kind of want to try something masculine but not gay." She ticks each one off her fingers as she named them, looking off into the air while thinking. But then her gaze returns to mine, and she sees what I'm doing, my eyes raking her over and over. Instantly, the mood changes. The air thickens, and she hunkers down close to me. "Or the eternally curious." She purrs. "Do you want to contribute to my little fund?"

And I do. God, I really do. Suddenly she's heaven to me. The only detraction are those hairs on her chin, but they're nothing, certainly no worse than what my wife would grow before she went into the salon for her waxing. Everything else- her spiky hair, her petite body but with bicep muscles, butchness on the female form, the tough punk sort of vibe she gives off- are making my mouth water.

I can only nod.

The check is brought, the tab paid, and I am driving us to my house without a care as to the safety of such an action, if I will have enough money, or what she'll think of my house. Of course, she is only helping to make my mind lose track of everything: she's opened up two buttons on my shirt and has her hand slid inside. She cups and squeezes and rubs my breasts as I drive, and then, out of the corner of my eye, I see her suck her fingers and thumb wet and then they're back inside, tweaking the nipples that- thank God- lost no sensation when they were relocated. It's a wonder we don't get into a car wreck.

Outside the house, once we're parked, she kisses me. Hard, fierce, exactly as I imagine butch kisses to be, full of tongue and heat. Kissing me, running her fingers through my buzz cut with one hand, the other still buried in my shirt. My new vagina doesn't lubricate on its own, but if it did, I'd be sopping wet.

She feels me up two-handedly and licks the back of my neck as I struggle, laughing at my own suddenly shaky hands, to unlock the door. "You know," She says between tonguing the nape of my neck where the hair is razored, "I used to run with lesbians. And none of them ever got me as hot as you have me right now."

"You like girls?" I ask as the key finally slides in. It feels like a ridiculous question, given that she's vigorously massaging two handfuls of woman, but I don't know what was for love and what was for money with her. She'd tried to pick me up as a man, after all.

We fall into the house, and I almost drag her to the bedroom, halfway picking her up in my arms, but not feeling at all like I thought I might. No mockery of a man carrying a woman across the threshold. Just me racing to fuck another handsome butch. "Oh yeah. I like everything." She says between kisses. "I've had lots of femmes and a couple of butches."

I haul her to the bed and go to fall atop her- but something stops me, a pressure in my gut. When I look down, her leg is crooked up between us, her foot holding me off. And she's looking off to the side. She's looking at the chair. Looking at my peekaboo chair, very obviously dragged so close to the mirror. My creepy, embarrassing chair. I feel my face flush with even more blood than is already there from passion.

But she just looks back at me, gives me an extra hard push with her foot, and says "Get in it." I follow her instructions, trying not to watch my face in the mirror as I do. But I don't have to wait long. She's up after me as soon as I settle into the chair's soft cushions, standing in the way of my reflection. Eyes trained on me, she lifts her shirt over her head, hooks her thumbs in the belt loops of her jeans, and sways a little, without music but not needing it. Feeling like a patron in a strip bar, my head sways too, watching her pert breasts, tipped with pebble-hard pink nipples.

She wiggles her way out of the jeans and approaches me in just the boy boxer shorts. Working a finger into the knot of my tie, she pulls it loose. I help her unbutton the rest of my shirt so it hangs wide open, exposing my hot, pulsing breasts. Leaning over me so that her breasts hang deliciously near my lips, she undoes the latch on my pants and, with a loud metallic hiss, pulls the zipper.

Her hand dives in, through the slit of my men's briefs, and grabs what's there. Then she pulls it out. She stares at what's protruding from my pants: a long lavender dildo, held securely in place underneath my underwear with a harness. And then she laughs.

"Yes!" She shouts. "It's bigger, it's longer, and it never goes soft! And so much prettier!" She chortles, and relief and giddiness flood through me. If only my ex could hear that! Finally someone who understood the tradeoff between getting rid of my penis but still owning a dildo.

Rocking her pelvis, the boxers are slid off her hips to reveal her smooth, muscled thighs and even prettier black bush. She combs a few fingers through the hair when she sees me watch, then takes a step back and leans against the mirror.

"Oooh, cold." She sighs, and then crooks her legs to the side, slides her hand between her legs, and begins to rub herself. Two fingers spread her lips and the third rubs her magic spot. I watch the friction like my world begins and ends in her pussy, and while I do, I grab hold of the dildo and mash it into myself. It must look like I'm jacking off my silicone cock, but every downward pull grinds against the tissue that functions as my clitoris, that is already swollen and aching. I watch the moisture well up in her slit, and then I can't hold off any longer. I open up my arms for her.

She kneels above me, legs to either side, holds for just a moment, and then lowers herself slowly onto the strap-on. I wrap my arms around her waist once she's gotten comfortable with its size, and easily, we begin to fuck. We build up a quick rhythm, and my hips start to move rather than sit by idly. Every time I thrust up and she slams down, jolts of electric sex shake my cunt. She dips both of our hands between the tight crush of our crotches, brings them up covered with her juices, and slips them into my mouth. She tastes salty and musky, the way the whole room smells. Like pure sex.

We kiss and then just tilt our heads together, foreheads touching, eyes locked, her sweat-slicked body rocking wildly. I know she's coming up on her orgasm. Her spine curves and she hunches, buries her face in my neck. Above her bent head, I can see our reflection in the mirror. I am aware of the fact that I am sitting in my chair, in the same position I always do. But only now there is a gorgeous, almost-coming butch bouncing up and down on top of me. I try to hold onto the magic of that thought, but I can't. I thrust in double-time speed and start to shake with my own orgasm, as she cries out hers and then collapses into my arms. Sweating, panting, cursing, we lay limply together.

After a moment, she kisses me softly, down my neck, and her lips brush my adam's apple. I don't tense up, exactly- I'm too liquid and jelly inside to do so- but I wince. "You're a real butch, you know that." She says. "And more woman than most. Don't let anyone else tell you different."

When she leaves, with my happily donated wad of cash in her wallet and a silly plea to not do anything so horribly cruel as to rid the world of her pretty tits, I sit back in my chair. I'm naked again- after our first energetic fuck, she took more time to explore my body, to take off the dildo and harness and please me with just hands and mouth. I assume the same position I had three hours ago, in front of the mirror, but I simply can't imitate it perfectly. I can't stop grinning. My spine's straighter. My face and limbs are flushed. And somewhere deep inside me, there's a new knowledge.

I won't have to inspect my body anymore. The chair can go back to its old place in the corner. I've always known what I was, but I've never believed it. Now I do. I am not a man. I am not a man with a woman's body. I am not a guy with a pie. I am a sexy, butch woman. Ladies, watch out.