For your reading pleasure:
The Vagina Dialogues
This is an interview transcript of one Amanda R. who wakes up one morning as a woman. Pretty standard story for today, but I rather enjoyed the format.
Who is Amanda R?
Amanda R electrified the world when she burst upon the scene late last year, claiming to be a man who was transformed overnight, by occult means, into a GG—transgender jargon for "genetic girl."
No elaborate surgical "skin job" she—that the stunning Amanda R is a genuine woman is not in question. Miss R has voluntarily undergone several thorough medical examinations by at least a dozen board-certified gynecologists, who have testified under oath that she's the Genuine Article, a Real She, an Authentic Woman. Her DNA has likewise been subjected to official scrutiny on multiple occasions, and has been declared each time to be that of a woman.
Only one question remains—Is Amanda R really a transmuted man?
To find out, join us in the studio, where Peter Goodpasture, a leading talk show host and commentator on transsexual issues, is about to interview her. They are seated on the set waiting for airtime, each in a blue-upholstered armchair.
Amanda R is a stunning girl in her late 20's with long, gently waved honey blonde hair, pale skin and large doe-like brown eyes that convey lively bemusement. Her makeup is sparingly but expertly applied. She's dressed conservatively in a garnet-colored Merino wool suit with a flared skirt hemmed an inch above the knee. Beneath her jacket she wears a pleated blouse of ivory silk, whose low-cut front reveals an enticing décolletage. She has a simple pearl stud in each earlobe and three silver bracelets on her left wrist, which jingle when she gestures. When she crosses and uncrosses her legs, there's an audible whiz of nylon-on-nylon that arrests one's attention.
Observing Amanda R. at close range—to see her gestures, the way she moves and holds herself, her facial expressions, the clarity of her complexion—it is impossible to imagine that this lovely creature could possibly have been a man, or that she still has even a modicum of a masculine mind, heart and soul, as she so ardently claims.
Let us join the pair—the red on-the-air light is now illuminated.
PETER GOODPASTURE: Amanda, tell me, why would a beautiful woman like you—a self-proclaimed transmute—agree to be interviewed on a talk show?
AMANDA R: Well, aside from the check I've been promised, Peter, being turned into a woman has made a shameless exhibitionist of me. [Miss R. uncrosses and re-crosses her legs again with another delicious whiz. Laughter.]
But seriously, male-to-female transgenderism is becoming ever more popular. Men all over the world are paying enormous sums to have themselves surgically re-sexed. Then they pump their bloodstreams with estrogens, their breasts with silicone, they have their Adam's apples shaved. They dilate their neovaginas with stents lest they scar shut. They undergo prolonged and painful depilation. They spend endless hours training their voices to sound like a woman's. They practice attaining a woman's gait. And all in search of that priceless Holy Grail—femininity. They hope to attain it with scalpel and hormones and training and practice.
But even the best gender reassignment surgery is a facsimile, a skilled mutilation, an approximation at best—all their pain, suffering and expense does not admit them the real secrets of being a woman. For that, in addition to the internal goodies like ovaries, they need a Vagina—the Real McCoy, the Original Equipment Model, not an aftermarket knockoff. Once you have the Real McCoy, there's no particular trick to being a woman. The trick is getting a Real Vagina, with a capital "V".
And a Real Vagina is precisely what I got, without even trying to get one: I simply awoke one morning with the Real McCoy—and everything that goes with it. And I mean everything. So, Peter, to answer your question another way, I came here to bear witness to my transformation, to tell what it's really like suddenly to become a woman, and by definition that involves telling what it's like to have a Vagina. And I see the studio audience is mostly male—that's ideal. Women could care less hearing about it—they already know.
PG: There are two billion women on the planet, Amanda, who could tell us what it's like to have a—
AR: [interrupting] Yes, of course there are, Peter. But only I can tell them what it's like for a man to wake up one morning in a strange bed as a real woman—not some skin job coming out of a general anesthetic, perineum packed with gauze, drains and catheters. Only I can tell them what it's actually like for a man incarcerated in a woman's body to feel what a woman feels, to think like a woman, to fear what a woman fears, to want what a woman wants and to achieve a woman's sexual gratification. Just look at me! I have it all, and I never asked for it, never paid for it, never even wanted it!
I can tell them precisely how it feels to find yourself one fine morning with real breasts and broad hips, hairless skin as smooth as oiled satin, how it feels to walk about fully-clothed (yet essentially half-clad) in flowing garments and satiny underthings that cling to your curves and hollows. Or what it's like to feel the cool breath of air waft through your nylons as you walk, to feel the soft support of your bra constraining your breasts, or, braless, how it feels to run with your breasts bouncing free. Or, when you're wearing a dress or a skirt how it feels to be protected from the male world around you by nothing but your panties (or by no panties at all)—how it feels to be a perforate being at constant risk of being raped—that omnipresent frisson of thrill and danger tinged with perpetual arousal.
And, above all, I can tell them how it actually feels to be entered by a man for the first time…that dizzying blend of revulsion and ecstasy.
PG: All quite eloquent, Amanda, but surely there's more to being a woman than having a woman's genitals, a woman's secondary sexual characteristics and having sexual relations with men.
AR: Absolutely, Peter, absolutely. Of course there's more. Let me see what else…Um, [enumerating points on her fingers, one by one] I can tell them what it's like to have a woman's hormones bathing your brain and coursing through your body, hormones that make you the moon's abject slave, just like the oceans, with your own tides and currents pulling you one way today and another way tomorrow. Or I can tell them what runs through your mind when you get your period the first time. Or I can tell them about the satisfaction of painting your toenails, shopping for dresses or brushing your hair for twenty minutes. Or what it's like to—
PG: [interrupting] You're making this interview a snap, Amanda. I don't have to draw you out in the least. But since we've called this interview the Vagina Dialogues, why don't we stop beating around the bush, Amanda—no pun intended. On the one hand, you talk about being a real woman, but on the other hand, you say you're a man entrapped in a woman's body. Forgive me if I seem confused.
AR: You're confused? Not half as confused as I was that first morning when the phone woke me from a deep sleep and I found myself…looking like this. [Regards self ostentatiously and spreads her lithe arms wide in amazement.]
PG: OK. Tell us about it, then, Amanda. I can't possibly imagine how you felt. Why don't you just begin at the beginning?
AMANDA R: OK, Peter, OK, OK…OK. From the beginning, then. I used to be a LAN security expert named Garrett Hopkins, based in Quincy, Mass., outside of Boston. A 36 year old, single, normal heterosexual guy, ex-high school swim team captain, triathlon champ in college, MBA in computer sciences from U. Mass—
PETER GOODPASTURE: Beg your pardon. May I interrupt?
AR: Already? I was beginning at The Beginning—isn't that what you asked?
PG: Yes, but sorry—I just wanted you to clarify one point.
AR: And what's that?
PG: What you meant by "a normal heterosexual guy."
AR: What's to clarify? I had a strong sexual predilection for the human female, as opposed to the human male.
PG: What I want to know is, just what sort of heterosexual male? A decent, chivalrous one? A worshipper of women? Or a crass exploiter of women: a man who despises women in all things save their ability to render him instant sexual gratification?
AR: O, I see what you're getting at. Well, I won't deny it's relevant to my situation. I'd have to classify Garrett Hopkins as a sexual predator. Interested in women solely as sex objects, fixated on getting them into bed, as opposed to, say, having any interest in them as humans with a brain, worth conversing with, or with feelings deserving the least degree of respect.
But Garrett wasn't so different from lots of guys his age—lots of casual liaisons, none of them lasting and all of them broken off, at his initiative, at the first intimation of permanency. A shallow man! Precisely the sort we women despise the most!
PG: Thanks for clarifying that point.
AR: No problem, Peter, no problem. Anyway, as I was saying before you interrupted, I used to be this alpha-male type with an MBA in computer sciences, always on the go, constantly flying to jobs all over the country, with an obliging girlfriend in any city I'd been to more than twice, a girlfriend always available on five minutes' notice.
One December evening last year, I arrived late into Muncie, Indiana, for a one-week assignment. Didn't check in to the Rodeway Inn until after midnight. By the time I had reviewed all the stuff for the next day's job (securing a network for a large garden tool company), it was three AM, but my meeting was not until just after lunch. I snapped off the light and was into a deep sleep within less than a minute.
The phone woke me up. I snatched the receiver on the second ring. "Amanda?" (a man's voice asked), "You still in bed, for Chrissakes? We started the meeting at eight, and it's already eight-thirty! Get your ass out of bed and—"
I cut him off with, "You have the wrong room," hung up and burrowed down under the covers to get back into my sleep. But then I twisted about and sat bolt upright in the dark—I had answered the phone in a woman's voice, a clear alto! I groped for the lamp, but I had trouble finding it, as if it had been moved. Fumbling about in the dark, I finally found it, on the wrong side of the bed, and switched it on. I was in a strange hotel room, not the Muncie Rodeway Inn! No, this was an elegant room in a Big City hotel, with expensive furnishings, not some thirty-dollar-a-night Hoosier motel.
Before I could absorb what was happening, the phone began ringing again. This time I ignored it—I had to ignore it, because I was staring at my hands, turning them over and back, gasping in disbelief. They were small, smooth, white and hairless, with elegantly tapered fingers and perfectly enameled lavender nails.
As I sat there in bed, gaping at these hands, I became aware of an unfamiliar weight tugging softly at my chest. I brought these alien, manicured hands up and felt them cup…felt them cup…It was impossible! But there was no mistake—I felt them cup firm, young breasts, as nice as any I had ever fondled. But these breasts registered the fondling of the tiny hands! That is, I felt the breasts with these strange hands, and the breasts tugging at my chest felt the hands fondling them, as if they were my hands and my breasts! It was like waking up from surgery and feeling a bulky dressing for the first time. Can that be mine? It wasn't there before! Where did it come from?
And all this time, the phone just kept ringing. My heart stood still. An icy sweat wreathed my brow. I sprang out of bed in a panic.
PETER GOODPASTURE: Yes, springing out of bed in a panic is the standard maneuver when you first discover you've been changed into a woman. No doubt you ran to the mirror—
AR: Of course, Peter, of course! There's always a mirror handy in such situations, isn't there? To tell the truth, one entire wall of this room, where the bathroom and closet doors were, was mirrored, including the doors themselves. The room was practically like the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles—you could hardly tell what was real and what was reflection. I felt oddly clumsy and stumbled—my center of gravity had shifted (I was bottom-heavy) and my gait was altered by a more ample camber to my hips. These strange breasts jounced about, unrestrained as they were.
PG: So, you were nude?
AR: I have no idea if I was…I didn't see myself in the mirror. But she wasn't nude.
PG: Who's "she"?
AR: The girl facing me in the mirror; who else do you think I'm talking about? A girl in her late 20's, staring back at me with glint of panic in her doe-like, brown eyes. She was wearing an oversized Pittsburgh Steelers' home jersey with the number "10" on it. Apparently, she favored football jerseys for nightshirts. Suddenly she yanked it off over her head as if it were on fire and flung it behind her, leaving her standing there in nothing but a pair of beige Lycra panties with a lacy panel in front, panties which she filled to perfection.
She was extremely pretty—fair-skinned and fine-featured, with honey blonde hair and a voluptuous figure. She had the same luscious breasts I had just been playing with a few moments earlier—ripe and succulent, with soft, puffy nipples set in pale pink areolas no larger than half-dollars—the kind of tense virgin-breasts that have never seen milk, the kind that beg to be fondled.
She looked like one of the girls you see in those '40's pinup pictures, with that "O, my!" surprised look on her face, lips pursed in an "O", [precisely mimics the expression she is describing] like when she finds herself on a crowded elevator, arms full of groceries, her panties down around her ankles, or when her skirt gets caught in her bicycle chain and is pulled off, revealing her fancy unmentionables to five leering guys playing softball in the park. You know—the gorgeous and innocent girl-next-door who suddenly grew up while you were off at college, now sexually mature but still ever-so-innocent. The kind of innocent girl who probably caught her skirt in that bicycle chain accidentally on purpose.
PG: Yes, I can visualize exactly the kind of girl you mean.
AR: Good, because that's who was staring back at me, all goggle-eyed and a-flutter. She was about five-six and stood there staring at me as if she had never been seen by a man before in her life, indignant (but not very) that I had caught her en deshabille. I turned around and she turned around, too, displaying her glistening, Lycra-clad derrière for my approving inspection, a derrière with those two delectable dimples on either side of the base of her spine, just above the delicate waistband of her panties. I couldn't take my eyes off her, nor could she take her eyes off me!
My first impulse was to screw this girl on the spot. And why not? After all, there she was in my hotel room, nude but for her panties! What did she expect? She was asking for it!
PG: Of course—the little tart!
AR: Just looking at her would make any guy hard! But oddly enough, though I had the old, irrepressible impulse, I didn't feel myself harden as I had hardened a thousand times before when the same impulse seized me. No, quite the contrary. I was mortified to feel myself soften, soften like melting wax. It was bizarre—I felt myself commence to melt and become…moist. And not merely moist but frankly wet, in a place I had never gotten moist in before, a place I never even knew I possessed. As unfamiliar as the feeling was, it was absurdly erotic, more so than anything I had ever felt before. So I—
PG: [interrupting] And the phone?
AR: The phone? The phone, you ask? Are you nuts? Here I am, getting all soft and wet for the first time in my life, and you're asking me about the phone! It was still ringing, I guess. Who cares about the phone? Anyway, to go on, the girl turned to face me frontally, and with a defiant flash of her great, pool-like eyes, she stepped out of her panties, dropping them to the floor. She tossed her head and displayed herself before me, knuckles on her hips—nude and proud, as if challenging me to do something about it.
And I would have done something about it if I could have, but I couldn't, so I didn't. I just gawked at her.
The girl was gorgeous. Her panties now on the floor, my gaze was instantly drawn to her scanty tuft of softly waved hair on her lovely mound, hair scanty enough so that it failed to conceal the blunt-edged cleft that descended straight downwards to vanish between her thighs. Mesmerized, I watched her manicured hand descend in slow motion to her mons.
I jumped at least a foot when I felt her fingers touch me! Her mons was trim and perfect, the hair on it smoother by far than the ripening cornsilk it so closely resembled. I let my hand rest upon it, savoring its feel, just itching to go further.
I watched the girl slowly extend her fingers until the middle one plunged into her cleft, making me squeal in delighted surprise (and jump again) as I felt it graze over what could only have been her clitoris. A galvanic wavelet of pleasure welled up through my belly, flooding me like a brilliant stain infusing a fabric of virginal white, dyeing it instantly scarlet. My finger disappeared all the way into her, disappeared frictionlessly, for she was astonishingly wet.
I felt my finger softly gripped and coaxed inwards as her Vagina rippled over it, like some species membranous sea life. I involuntarily spread my thighs to grant her easier access. My nostrils dilated. The scarlet stain of pleasure abruptly advanced deeper into my belly. Suddenly, she jerked her hand away, leaving me gasping in shocked dismay at her finger's removal. But she had removed her finger only to bring it to my nostrils. I was overcome by the scent of her musk—womanly and stimulating—which made me melt all the more. I'm embarrassed to say that I ached to have her to touch me down there again, for her delicate touch had made me dissolve into a nectar: I felt as if I were flowing. I closed my eyes and turned my face heavenward in keen anticipation of her finger's return.
PG: Whoa there, Amanda, hold on! You're making my head spin. Who's doing all this touching and feeling? And all this softening and melting? The girl in the mirror, or you?
AR: I told you—I was terribly confused, so confused I thought I'd gone insane and was hallucinating. We two—this knockout girl and I—stood opposite one another, our mouths agape, for several minutes. Then it finally dawned on me that the girl in the mirror and I were one and the same: I was…I was no longer a man. I was this girl, and she was me!
Me, a girl? Outrageous! Unthinkable! How unlikely! How cruel! But there we were, me and my reflection—both a thousand percent female. To be absolutely certain, I sat myself down on the carpet, facing the mirror, as close to it as I could get, and spread my legs. I inspected the now-vacant space between my thighs, vacant save for the vibrant pink gash which gaped as I spread my legs further apart. I brought my hands down until my manicured fingertips (with their pretty lavender nails) rested lightly on either side of her…I mean my…slit. It was shockingly long, cleaving me front to back like a ghastly wound.
By now I knew what must lie within. But knowing and actually seeing are quite different things. So, like a soldier about to inspect his own battlefield wound, fearing to discover its true extent, expecting the worst but hoping against hope for the best, I held my breath as I gingerly parted the twin pairs of lips with my fingers, dreading—yet perversely yearning—to see the secrets they concealed.
"O, God! O, God! O, God! Please, PLEASE don't let it be real! Tell me I'm dreaming!" I screamed inwardly. It was far, far worse than I ever could have imagined! [Amanda grasps her temples with both hands, closes her eyes tightly and sways side to side, sobbing dramatically]
PG: Don't stop there, Amanda! Tell us what you saw!
AR: [She opens eyes widely, like a doll's, then she proceeds in an oddly mechanical voice] What I saw? What I saw was almost too shocking for words: between my splayed fingers lay a complete set of complicated girl-stuff, glistening with all the lurid clinical detail of a color illustration in a medical textbook, making me no different from the many women I had slept with in my lifetime, and consigning me, in the Great Scheme of Existence, to the status of a passive, penetrable being, created mainly for the sexual gratification of men.
My plump outer labia were as soft as down on the outside (though slightly wrinkled like the pads of your fingers when you've been in the bath too long), and smooth and shiny on the inside. My inner labia—limp, narrow pink flaps—arose from the base of my clitoris, itself a diminutive parody of what I no longer possessed, about half the size of a slightly worn pencil eraser. But still I had not seen the dread opening—that humiliating passage through which a man could now enter me—not until I gently retracted my inner labia.
Then, to my infinite mortification, I finally saw it, dead center in the moist bed of my exposed slit: a surprisingly small, irregular orifice burrowing into me in furrows and folds. When I gasped upon seeing the evidence of my demotion to girlhood, the wet little orifice momentarily opened and shut with a faint smacking sound, as if to say, "Tough luck, Garrett Hopkins! You're a girl now and there's not a thing you can do about it! From now on you'll be taking orders from me!"
Transfixed, I gazed in horrified fascination at my own penetralia and contemplated what I had become.
I was suddenly nauseated. I felt chilly, my skin became covered in goose-bumps. I stood, went over and picked up the girl's jersey. It said "Amanda" on the back, in white letters above the "10." I slipped it on. I stopped shivering, only to find that now I had to pee—the familiar vesical pressure, but how to deal with it now? Without dwelling on the details, I did what a girl has to do: I ignominiously sat on the toilet, sorted out the right muscles to relax, and relieved myself, dismayed by the girlish hiss of urine against the inside of the bowl.
Naturally, I felt demeaned, sitting there, peeing like some girl, not knowing exactly what to do with my hands. But I had no choice—had I tried to do it standing, I would have sprayed every which way but in the right place. It would have been anything but dainty. And I did want to start off on the right foot, by being dainty. I certainly didn't want people getting the wrong idea about what kind of girl I was. [Tosses head proudly, and with her right hand rakes her hair to replace it over her shoulder, then sits up a bit straighter]
PG: No, no. Of course not. A girl must protect her reputation.
AR: Anyway, I took care of that and some other little personal chores, like brushing my teeth. Amanda had this awful wintergreen-flavored gel, but that stopped bothering me as soon as my breasts began twirling, like some topless dancer's, as I brushed and set up a rhythm—quite a unique feeling, I assure you. I don't think I ever spent so much time brushing my teeth. Then I showered, shaved my legs, put on Amanda's robe, found her hair dryer and did a tolerably good job of making my hair look presentable. No knots or tangles, thank God! Amanda's hair, though thick, was soft and easy to comb out. I was a lucky girl to have such lovely hair!
By now it had occurred to me that it would be a good idea not to dilly-dally further, and to get out of that hotel fast—whoever Amanda was, I didn't want her people to come looking for her. They'd start asking questions I couldn't answer. For all I knew, her 8 A.M. meeting was right here in the hotel! I grabbed the "Do Not Disturb Sign" and hung it outside my door. The number plate on the door said "2206."
PG: And were you still in Muncie?
AR: That was my next surprise. I drew open the full-length draperies and was astonished to see downtown San Francisco spread out before me, sparkling in the December sunshine glinting over the Berkeley Hills. Amanda's electronic room key was on the dresser, next to her purse. I picked it up and read, "Hotel Nikko San Francisco, 222 Mason Street."
I dumped out Amanda's purse onto the faux-Directoire desk. Everything I needed was right there: a plum-colored leather wallet with New York driver's license in the name of Amanda R, 4 Sutton Place, New York, N.Y., 10006, date of birth 5/22/75 (with a photo to match the girl in the mirror). About seven hundred dollars in cash, give or take fifty. A change compartment with a few dollars in dimes and quarters and several NYC subway tokens, which I found encouraging—Amanda was obviously a practical sort if she lived on Sutton Place and still used the subway. A checkbook from CitiBank with the same name and address on the checks, no running balance indicated, last entry to "Chelsea Antiques" for a thousand and thirty-two dollars, dated a week ago. A compact with mascara and eye shadow, a lipstick, a small pack of Kleenex, a Delta Airlines ticket (which I did not open), a comb, a small yellow-handled plastic brush with stiff black bristles, a pocket mirror, a set of keys (one for an Audi), a JFK parking garage claim check dated two days earlier, a box of Tic-Tacs (unopened), five Playtex GentleGlide® Super Absorbency tampons stashed in a zippered pocket…
That did it: I had seen enough! That I might need those tampons in the near future—maybe even that very day—made me queasy. So I stuffed everything back into her purse and grabbed the phone.
"This is Amanda R. in 2206," I said, amazed at the pitch and smoothness of Amanda's voice issuing from me, "I'll be checking out in a few minutes. My company's already paid for the room, you say? O, that's right. Good. No—no charges this morning. Thanks, I can manage my luggage myself," I continued, quickly glancing about to make sure Amanda didn't travel with a couple of steamer trunks—but all I saw was a reasonable roll-on that would fit into a plane's overhead bin, and a laptop computer. Evidently, Amanda was not keen on checking luggage when she traveled. "Smart Girl," I reflected.
Then I began to move really fast. Right then I wanted to get the hell out of the Hotel Nikko before anyone who knew Amanda spotted me. I'd been to San Francisco a few times and knew that the Westin was practically next door, on Powell. So I grabbed the phone book, found the number and called over. They had a room. I told them I'd been on an overnight from Tokyo and had missed my connection to New York. Could they have it ready early? No problem…the room would be ready by 10.
PG: So you were a woman of decision and action, I see, right from the start.
AR: Wrong! I was still me, Garrett Hopkins, at least for the time being! Not this Amanda character. Finding myself inside a woman's body was a bit of a setback, I grant you. My transformation, even if real—and I still thought I might be dreaming—was surely temporary, and would no doubt wear off any moment. Yes, I was this stunning young creature to all external appearances, wearing only a filmy rayon robe in a huge floral print. But I was still me—Garrett Hopkins—inside, so I'm supposed to say that I desperately yearned for my own suitcase, way back in Muncie—there was not a stitch of male clothing anywhere in the room, except for the football jersey, which was too big on me anyway.
The crumpled Lycra panties on the floor next drew my attention—I could not keep my gaze from returning them. I could not help wondering how those panties would feel on me, now that I was—well, now that I was built for them.
Panties? Is that what I just said? Was I nuts? PANTIES? Lycra ones? With a lacy panel in front? No way could I put those on! But my fingers itched to pick them up, to feel their softness—a little voice told me it was OK to go ahead and try them on, but just for a second or two, and then take them off right away. It's not a good idea, as a rule, for guys to be putting on girls' panties, you know. It's just not done.
But surely I could be excused on this One Very Special Occasion, I reasoned—I wasn't even technically a guy any more, judging from what I could see of myself in the mirror. And anyway, there wasn't exactly a wide range of undergarments to choose from. It was panties or nothing, and maidenly modesty demanded I wear something.
I mean, when you're a girl you can't just go around without your panties on. What would people say? Besides, it wasn't as if putting on Amanda's panties could pose the least threat to my masculinity, as long as I didn't make a habit of it. So it was probably all right to wear them for more than a second or two. I was beginning to think it wouldn't kill me to wear them all day—for as long as I looked like Amanda, in fact.
But I'd need more than panties and a filmy rayon robe to get out of this hotel—and whatever girl-clothes Amanda might have packed, I hoped they'd would easy to put on and be easy to move about in: I prayed I wouldn't have deal with a dress with a zipper up the back or with high heels, buckles or straps, garter-tabs and such-like.
Amanda had arrived the night before, that much was clear—almost nothing was unpacked: just her rayon robe, which I already had on, her vanity case, the Pittsburgh Steelers' jersey and those panties lying there on the floor where she had tossed them when we were ogling one another in the mirror. Oh, yes, her bra was draped over one chair, and her traveling outfit over another—my heart leapt to see designer jeans and a black, ribbed cotton sweater.
Girl pants I could handle at this stage, even if the button was on the wrong side. Her pantyhose was crumpled up like a tan prune, lying on the chair, and there was a pair of expensive-looking cordovan loafers on the floor next to the bed. The only garment hanging in the closet was Amanda's three-quarter length camel's hair winter coat. The pockets held a white silk scarf and a pair of tan wool gloves with leather palms.
But where was I? I'm getting distracted. Oh, yes…I was about to put on Amanda's panties. Full of resolve, I snatched the panties up off the floor where Amanda had dropped them and was about to step into them, when I noticed—
PG: [interrupting] We're getting to the part our audience loves best: slipping into feminine attire. Please go on, Amanda, and do take your time.
AR: You have a knack for always interrupting me at the most interesting part, Peter! But now that you have, I must caution you not to get your hopes up too high. I was in a Big Hurry—I told you I had to rush. I had no time for all that sensuous stuff. You know: sliding open your top drawer, happily surveying your resplendent undies lovingly arrayed in cottons, nylons, satins and silks; running your fingers through the more sensuous ones; selecting just which silky panties you feel like today (pink, powder blue, amethyst, champagne, naughty vermilion or black?); languidly selecting a pair and holding them up to the light (eyes half closed and a small little smile on your face); admiring how insubstantial they are; stroking the gusset to reassure yourself of its cottony softness (for nothing may chafe you!); sliding them ever so slowly up over your smooth legs and thighs; pulling them up until you feel the gusset snugly swaddle your softness; snapping the delicate waistband against your hairless white tummy—that delicate narrow waistband with the tiny, folded satin bow in front.
You shudder with elation at having been sentenced to don such insanely erotic undergarments every single day for the rest of your life. You pirouette a few times from sheer joy. Then you choose a matching bra and slip—and so on and so forth. Putting on your lingerie can take the better part of an hour, if you do it right.
No, sorry to disappoint, dear boy, but I was in a Big Hurry and had no time for all that. So, as I was saying before you distracted me, I snatched yesterday's panties up off the floor where Amanda had dropped them and was about to step into them when I noticed a faint, narrow streak of lightly caked discharge down the middle of the gusset, like the slime a snail leaves in its tracks when it dries.
I practically gagged…[lays a hand lightly on Goodpasture's forearm for emphasis] I mean, really! How disgusting! Surely I was not going to be so undainty as girl as ever to streak my undies like that! (Little did I know at that moment how much I'd come to rely on pantiliners, the greatest invention since the bra!) So I crammed Amanda's soiled panties into the outer pocket of her carry-on and unzipped the main compartment to find a fresh pair. They were not hard to find. Amanda had packed six more, all immaculately folded. She had expensive tastes: I selected a pair of beige silk briefs with eggshell Belgian lace at the waist and around the legs.
I stepped into them carelessly, without paying the slightest attention—besides running them through my fingers for several minutes beforehand, noting that they had lovely lace panels on the sides, that the babysoft gusset was embossed with the most adorable miniature daisies, and that they were sinfully smooth against my skin as I languidly pulled them up over my legs, making my nostrils dilate at their silky caress.
And I must confess, Peter, that even though I was in a Big Hurry, I could not resist taking a few moments to tug them up until they were perfectly snug, encasing me ever so agreeably! And I snapped the darling little waistband, too! With the tiny satin bow in the front. Several times. I simply couldn't resist—it made the cutest little snap! I ran my palms over my hips, my tummy, my derrière to eradicate the tiniest wrinkle, then spun about several times before the mirror to make sure I filled them just as lusciously as Amanda had. Which I did, for we were, of course, shaped precisely the same.
Next I grabbed her bra off the chair. I won't go through the usual litany of how hard a bra is to fasten the first few times. It wasn't hard at all—it fastened in front. It was awfully nice to have my breasts held in place by the cups, and not have them jouncing around—the cups were so silky and uplifting. I simply had to take a time-out to play with my breasts. Just a little, of course. Another ten minutes couldn't hurt anything. You understand, don't you?
PG: Yes, of course. I imagine a girl needs to take her time dressing, even when she's rushed.
AR: Exactly so, Peter, exactly so! Putting on one's lingerie is an essential daily ritual—a girl can't be rushed! Next, on went her sweater and jeans. I slipped into her loafers only to realize I was barefoot. Don't you hate putting on shoes when you're barefoot? I never could stand it—your heels stick to the instep, you know. I couldn't find any socks in the carry-on, so I peeled off her jeans and managed to get her pantyhose on without running them. Again, I must confess that the confining pressure of nylon stretched over my tummy and derrière, (encasing my legs in taut nylon sheathes), was not exactly unpleasant: her pantyhose defined my curves, packaging me perfectly, like shrink wrap on a piece of ripe fruit. This time her jeans went on far more easily, sliding over her pantyhose.
I went into the bathroom to stuff all Amanda's toiletries into her vanity case (after combing out my hair again). I didn't even think of putting on any make-up—I would have come out looking like a clown. I folded her coat and strapped it to the roll-on, slung the laptop and purse over one shoulder, and was out the door, down the elevator and hurrying along Mason Street in less than three minutes.
Once at the Westin, I checked in and was up in my room—on Amanda's credit card—by 10 AM, just as they'd promised. I ordered up a big breakfast and began to take careful inventory of the morning's events—and of my body, the contents of Amanda's suitcase. And the contents of her laptop computer.
PETER GOODPASTURE: For those of you joining us late, I am interviewing Amanda R, the famous (or infamous) "genetic transsexual," the undeniably genuine female who claims she was a man until less than a year ago—an ex-high school swim team captain, no less. Amanda here says that she—
AMANDA R: Hold on just a New York minute there, Peter. I thought we had gotten past that "who claims she was a man" business—I was a man.
PG: Sorry, Amanda, my contract requires me to bring all those folks just tuning in up to speed every half hour or so. Don't take it personally. It's just standard operating procedure.
AR: Okay. I forgive you. Go ahead. I just have to put in my two cents' worth about being a man—every half hour or so. It's in my contract.
PG: OK, then, we're even. Now, to get back to the interview, you've been literally incarcerated in this woman's body as this Amanda R for a couple of hours so far. To be specific, you find yourself to be a gorgeous 27-year old woman two-thirds your former size, feeling everything she feels, acutely aware that you're now a woman in body, but still a man in spirit. You've dressed yourself in this Amanda's clothes, vacated her room at the Nikko Hotel in San Francisco in favor of a new hotel, the Westin, where you hope you won't be recognized by any of her friends or associates.
AR: Just so.
PG: And now that you've settled in to the anonymous seclusion of your new hotel room, you're about to "take careful inventory," as you so succinctly put it. Right?
AR: Right. You've got a photographic memory, Peter. That's exactly what I said about thirty seconds ago.
PG: Spare me the sarcasm, Amanda. Your first order of business was to check out your "new" body, right?
AR: Wrong. My first order of business was to find out everything I could about Amanda R. I had her laptop computer. And I was a computer security expert, remember?
PG: Okay: enlighten us. What was on the laptop, then?
AR: Well, it certainly didn't require the abilities of a computer security expert to find out. Amanda used no encryption whatever. On the contrary: when I booted it up, right there, on the desktop, was a document named "GHOPKINS.DOC," flashing in 36-point lurid red letters like some sort of porno film marquee.
PG: How very convenient! Tell us, what did this document say?
AR: Well, Peter, I hesitate to tell you.
PG: Why, pray? You're remarkably uninhibited in all else—you seem not to blush at anything, Amanda. Why would you, of all people, get cold feet now?
AR: It was completely bizarre, that's why. More bizarre than my having been transformed, overnight, into the woman you see before you now.
PG: Well, are you going to tell us, or do we have to slide burning slivers of bamboo under your fingernails to pry it out of you?
AR: Very funny, Peter, but I'm sorry, I cannot possibly read it on the air. I've printed it out for you, though. You read it, Okay? [Hands printout to Mr. Goodpasture.]
PG: If you insist, Amanda. [Taking printout] 'Scuse me, I'll need my readers for this [PG extracts a pair of half-glasses from his breast pocket and puts them on, studies the document briefly. His eyes widen.] Good God Amanda! You don't expect me to believe this, do you?
AR: I don't expect you to believe anything, Peter, besides that I am a man transmuted into a woman. What you are looking at is what I read when I opened the document. I can't be held accountable for it any more than I can be held accountable for what I have myself become. So what are you waiting for? Don't keep your audience in suspense: read it!
PG: [Adjusting glasses, reads]
"Dear Garrett Hopkins:
"By the time you read this document, you will no doubt have discovered that you are no longer the man you once were."
"You most likely desire to know why—why you, of all men, have been chosen to be incarnated as a woman.
"Perhaps you've heard of Tiresias of Thebes? Tiresias was a soothsayer, who one day happened upon two serpents mating. Without a moment's reflection, he killed the female. For that sin, the goddess Pallas Athena instantly changed Tiresias into a woman as punishment for having destroyed the superior sex—the female.
"As a woman, Tiresias perforce learned this Superiority firsthand: he loved being female, he forgot his life as a man. So, for his ultimate punishment, after having given Tiresias a solid dose of being a woman for seven years, Athena turned him back into a man.
"How Tiresias hated Pallas Athena for her treachery! He hated her for having deprived him of his softness; his hairless cheeks; his dulcet voice; his skin as smooth as oiled marble; his diaphanous raiment of pastel-colored silks; his delicate perfumes of musk and myrrh with which he scented his breasts and his more intimate parts; the kohl with which he so loved to paint his eyelids; the fragrant unguents he would apply to his lovers to excite them to that stiffness he so adored when they ravished him (which, Tiresias made certain, was often). To have been female and to have lost it all!
"But you, Garrett Hopkins, you are—make that were—a mere nothing—there are hundreds of millions of males like what you once were. For reasons known only to Herself, you were chosen by Athena (Yes, Amanda Dear, there really is an Athena!) to bear witness to Her power not only to turn you into a voluptuous woman, but into one who must play the slut, who must crave to be ravished by men.
"You shall lift your skirts and drop your panties on demand, spreading your legs wide for all who would sample your womanly wares. You shall know what it is to be a passive vessel for the gratification of male lust.
"As for such mundane practical aspects as 'identity,' 'money,' 'career,' and so forth—concern yourself not about them. Your intelligence has not been quashed—you may use it as you wish—it will help you overcome all obstacles save one: regaining your male state. That goal you must relinquish. You are a woman now and forever without remedy or reprieve."
"Always remember, Garrett Hopkins, that you are being punished for your misogynistic misdeeds as a man."
PG: [Wiping off his glasses with a handkerchief] I'm quite speechless, Amanda, a rarity for me. This sounds like some grade B movie script. But you say this is what you read, so we'll take it at face value. You've been chosen by Athena, the ancient Greek goddess, to become a woman—a nymphomaniac, no less—condemned to have sex with strangers. Is that right?
AR: I have no idea if that's right. I'm simply telling you what happened to me, and what I read on that laptop computer.
PG: And when, pray, were you first seized by the promised compulsion to copulate?
AR: Before I had finished reading the message on the screen, actually. I was still sipping the last of my breakfast coffee when I opened the file. Almost immediately, I felt constrained to slide my hand down inside the front of Amanda's jeans, to touch myself there—to assess the impossible reality of my own penetrability. Her jeans were too tight to give my hand free rein, so I stood and slipped out of them, after kicking off her loafers. What the heck, I thought, while I'm at it, I may as well take off her sweater and pantyhose, too. So I resumed reading the file in just bra and panties, one hand petting my silky mound, my fingers darting down now and again to feel Amanda's downysoft labia, which began to swell and part of themselves, making me—
PG: Her labia or yours?
AR: O, I am sorry, Peter. My downysoft labia, I meant to say. If I referred to them as Amanda's, it's only because, at that moment, I could not yet really believe them to be my own. But when my fingertip happened to graze over her clit—sorry again, I mean my clit—I knew otherwise. As crucial as the remainder of that letter was to my future, I could barely concentrate on it while touching that…that amazing little thing! It's packed with nerves running to every part of a girl's body, it seems—just brushing over it is like flipping a switch to a city after a blackout: a million little lights turn on at once.
PG: Details, Amanda, details!
AR: Details…OK, OK, OK. It's been said that the clitoris is the only human organ whose sole purpose is pleasure. And indeed, from the first moment I laid finger on mine, I must confess the saying to be absolutely true, for I have never been able to discover any other use for it, and it has not been for want of trying, I can assure you. The most feather-light touch sent wave after delicious wave rippling through my Vagina, filling my belly and sweeping up and up into my chest. Within moments, my nipples were rigid and tingling and demanded the attention of my other hand, which I could not withhold. So Amanda's bra became the next casualty.
Now I was getting into high gear: before I knew it, I was flowing like an estuary at flood tide. When I dipped my fingers into myself, they literally sloshed about, lost in my own lubricious wetness—I could actually stir myself like a warm pudding. Which I did for a while. For ten minutes, perhaps. Or twenty. I soon realized the inadequacy of my tiny hand to grant me the satisfaction I craved. I realized what a girl really needs—and was determined to get it without further delay.
PG: So I suppose you ran for the Yellow Pages to look up "male escorts "? Or popped down to Market Street for a vibrator or a dildo?
AR: That's quite unkind of you, Peter! No surrogate was necessary. Because at that very moment there was a knock on the door, followed by a masculine voice announcing, "Room service!" Someone—a man—had come for the serving cart and the dishes. And service was precisely what I needed just then—I prayed that the voice's owner, on the other side of the door, was under fifty and could get it up in a hurry.
AR: I arose from the desk and glided, trancelike, to the door, wearing nothing but Amanda's panties. I unlocked the door and admitted the waiter—or, rather, yanked, then propelled him into the room. I leaned up against the door, closing it, and regarded my prey, who appeared terrified to confront a lovely young woman, nude but for her panties—or, I should say, to be confronted by her.
PG: Describe him.
AR: A Mexican, or perhaps a Guatemalan, with a classic Indian face, really not much more than a teenager, shorter than I, a bit stocky, his white-gloved hands raised, palms towards me as he backed away, shaking his head, signaling he meant me no harm. I raised a finger to my lips to silence him, approached him, took my hand from my lips and covered his mouth gently, while with my other I tugged off one of his gloves and slid his bared hand down inside the front of my panties. His hand was at first unwilling, but I held it firmly. Almost at once his fingers relaxed, spreading out over my belly, then crept downwards—and entered me, making me gasp. He had been vanquished in all of ten seconds. As had I. I felt my fluids flood over his fingers, then my vaginal musculature gently squeezed him in a delicious reflex I could not have suppressed had I wanted to.
PG: You're a fast worker, Amanda—losing your virginity within hours of ever having had it in the first place.
AR: What else could I have done? I was desperate to have him inside me, you must understand. Nothing else mattered.
AR: Well—this is the embarrassing part—I removed my hand from his mouth and slid it down inside the front of his trousers until I grasped that which I myself had so recently lost, and which I now burned to repossess in the only way now possible for me in my altered condition. By the time I reached him, he was already stiffening. Withdrawing my hand, I scrabbled at his belt and trousers, unzipped his fly and depantsed him in seconds, after having snatched off his shoes. He was not exactly unwilling, merely bewildered by the ferocity of my assault. I disengaged briefly enough to lead him to the bed.
I was delirious with desire, but not so delirious as to have the least difficulty slipping out of my panties with a sinuous sweep of my hand and a quick two-step. Now completely nude, I tore off his boxers, bounced onto the bed and eagerly assumed the timeless posture of female surrender—on my back, legs spread wide, heels three feet in the air, exposing myself utterly. I instinctively grasped my toes and spread myself open to the limit my hips would allow as if it was as right as rain.
PG: One could say the tables had turned.
AR: Definitely, Peter, definitely—there I was, on my back, showing as much of myself as a woman can possibly show to a man, begging to be ravished. What cosmic irony that I, who had taken so many women lying spread open before me in just such a posture as this, that I, I should now be the woman, shamelessly displaying herself in mute supplication to be impaled by a man! Yes, indeed the tables had turned.
PG: And was your supplication granted?
AR: Yes—and no. The waiter mounted me with alacrity, but, being inexperienced, merely poked here and there without finding the mark until I manually guided him in the proper direction, upon which he entered me without undue friction—I was extremely wet)—but he satisfied only that portion of my compulsion to take a man into myself. I adored the nominal violation of my body by the hardness of a man, just as the message on the laptop predicted I would.
But I was beginning to wonder just what sort of punishment I was being subjected to. Punishment's supposed to feel bad, right? But lying there, on my back , with a man inside me—well, it did not seem exactly the worst punishment ever devised, to tell you the truth. In fact, it felt awfully good. If this was punishment, then I wanted much more of it!
PG: You said "Yes—and no." What was the "No" part?
AR: O, right—the "No" part. Unfortunately, I could not be sufficiently chastised by this diminutive waiter, who came gobs in me almost instantly, then withdrew in embarrassment, leaving me brimming with semen. I gasped with unsatisfied lust; tears of frustration burned my eyes. I turned over on my tummy, buried my face in the bedclothes and sobbed like a spoiled girl, beating my balled-up fists and kicking my legs against the bed in rage, while I heard him scurrying about, getting on his pants and shoes and clattering dishes onto the serving cart as he made his quick exit, pulling the door closed firmly behind him. It was, "Wham-Bam" without even the "Thank you, Ma'am," and I was the one it was done to! How humiliating!
PG: Well, it was your first time, after all. You could hardly have considered yourself an experienced woman. After all, how many virgins achieve orgasm the first time they have sex with a man?
AR: I did reflect on that very truth, but it brought me only cold comfort and did nothing to mitigate my burning frustration—an intense physical frustration, for I was still in a state of exquisite sexual tension, such as I had never felt before.
PG: So, what did you do, order up another breakfast and take your chances that the next waiter might be more, um, experienced? Or did you wait until lunch?
AR: No, I eventually stopped sobbing, rolled onto my back, and assiduously got myself off with my fingers. Not that it was hard to do or took very long—maybe a minute. It hit me like heavy surf. I thought I'd never stop coming, so pent-up was the desire.
It was everything you've heard about and a thousand times more—Tiresias was off by a few orders of magnitude. I lay on my back, first panting, then cooling off in my afterglow, marveling as the ripples and flutters of my new internal trappings softly subsided, then ceased entirely. A final wave of absolute relaxation washed through me like warm honey.
Only then did I begin to comprehend the enormity of my compulsion. I realized I could have no occupation in life from that moment forward other than chasing these magnificent orgasms. I mean, if this was a mere hint of my punishment, then throw me right smack into the middle of the briar patch where I could get the Real Thing! I would, of course, have to find better partners, which would require a more, um, subtle approach
As I planned my next step, the warm stain beneath my buttocks grew clammy and cold. With a jolt, I realized I was now destined to have frequent acquaintance with the infamous "wet spot"—and new, hygienic responsibilities I would have to deal with now that I was the woman—starting immediately. So I got up, dismayed at the sticky leakage trickling out of me, darted into the bathroom, cleansed myself thoroughly (if a bit clumsily), took a long bath and put on yet another fresh pair of panties and a fresh bra. I dried my hair. Then I put one of Amanda's skirts, for I no longer sought the secure restriction of jeans. No! I craved to be readily accessible below, protected from the hard, male world only by the flimsy insubstantiality of my panties.
Such provocative accessibility, springing, no doubt, from a subliminal wish to be raped, was highly erotic, amplified by the realization that no matter how sexually excited I might become, it would remain invisible to the casual observer, unlike the pole-in-the-pants problem you men have to deal with. A girl can be as hot as a mink, but it doesn't show.
Such lascivious thoughts were making me melt all over again, and I really didn't have the time for it right then. So, leaving myself unsatisfied, I grabbed Amanda's coat and purse, and went shopping in Union Square for three hours, buying everything a girl could need for attracting men—everything except makeup, which I knew I'd be unable to apply without a good bit of practice. And no high heels, either—not yet—but I did buy some lovely navy blue pumps with two-and-a-half inch heels and found I could manage just fine in them. Shoes are terribly important, Peter: no punishment is complete without the right shoes!
PG: By now it must have been late afternoon?
AR: Yes, getting into the cocktail hour, in fact. I took a cab back to the hotel; even though it was just a few blocks, I had too many purchases to carry. It took three bellman to unload the cab. I led a little procession into the lobby, the men so laden with packages that each had to peek past the stack of boxes and bags he carried to see where he was going. I went up to my room, called down to have my purchases delivered, and, staying well clear of the bellmen (I did not want to be tempted, for I now had higher aspirations), directed them where to deposit my new acquisitions.
The moment I was alone, I tore off Amanda's clothes and tossed them into a corner like the spent garments they were. Now I was me, myself, gloriously nude—a New-Minted Woman, as sharply etched as a coin just struck from the die—about to clothe herself for her first assignation with a man (or men) unknown. Now I admired myself in the mirror—not Amanda.
If anything, I was more beautiful than she could ever have been! I was brand-new, coinage yet uncirculated. (Well, almost uncirculated if you insist on counting the little waiter.) Why, any man with eyes in his head would sell his soul to take me! I looked so fresh, so virginal yet so voluptuous, so….well, so fuckable, as crass as I know that must sound. And perhaps more to the point, I suddenly realized that I was now not merely fuckable but most likely fertile as well.
Fertile as in capable of becoming pregnant! Me, pregnant? What a ludicrous proposition!
Eight hours earlier, perhaps, but no longer ludicrous now: such was the potency of The Feminine that it had already banished my masculinity to the dismal, cobwebbed recesses of consciousness, where it sulked as it awaited extinction, fitfully muttering imprecations of outrage and doom which I all but ignored as I savored my metamorphosis into a hyper-libidinous woman, a hyper-libidinous and determined woman, a hyper-libidinous and determined woman craving imminent penetration. I had passed the point of no return, having already attained the blessed state of perpetual female arousal, a state to be punctuated only by frequent and violent copulation with men.
And now the time had come! The time to array myself for Feminine Warfare—to catch a man and coax him into me as deeply as this Vagina of mine would allow, which I prayed would be very deeply indeed. For such warfare, in which our own surrender is the objective, we women array our soft bodies in our best lingerie, that flimsy armor of silk, satin and lace whose ultimate purpose is its removal, rendering its wearer more vulnerable than had she worn nothing at all.
So I stepped into a pair of perfectly splendid ice blue, lace-trimmed Italian silk panties from one of a half-dozen or so ensembles of costly imported lingerie I had bought. This ensemble had a matching slip, and bra—front-fastening of course—the last thing I wanted was to be fumbling with a bra clasp at a critical moment if the man didn't take the hint and unfasten it for me! I slithered into the slip, smoothing it down over my tummy, hips and derrière with the palms of my hands. All that sinful silk! How glorious to be so erotically clad! I trembled at the thrill of the moment, then indulged in a good bit of prancing, petting and posing before the mirror. Given how lovely I looked, I felt I could be allowed such self-absorbed vanity.
But, to get on with it, I stuck to the simplicity of pantyhose for the time being, to avoid the mysterious complexities of garter belts. I put on an elegant dress of blue Shantung silk (to match my new pumps). I had to struggle a bit to get the hem of my slip not to show—the secret is to adjust the straps of your slip before you put on your dress!—and managed to turn myself out quite nicely, thank you very much. What I mean is, had I still been a man, and had I bumped into myself as a woman, looking as I now did, I should have tried to pick me up.
I descended to the lobby and ensconced myself at the Westin's art deco bar, ordered a blonde Dubonnet with a twist, sipped it with the opaque expression of a sphinx, crossed my nyloned legs with a thrilling whiz, and languidly waited to be picked up by a man.
PETER GOODPASTURE: How long were you kept languidly waiting?
AMANDA R: I languidly waited one drink before I got "noticed." Soon after my entrance, men at outlying tables began nudging their male drinking companions to get their attention, then almost imperceptibly nodded their heads in my direction. Urgent, whispered masculine conferences were everywhere in progress, but abruptly ceased as two business types, pharmaceutical reps in for a convention, perhaps, or junior executives just off work, rose from their table and sauntered over to the bar, taking a stool on either side of mine. One of them ordered C & C's for both, and told the bartender to bring me another of "whatever she was having." I did not demur.
They were in their mid-thirties, nicely dressed in two-piece business suits—button-down shirts, solid-color silk ties, tasseled loafers, expensive-looking wristwatches. One, a six-footer, was balding; the other, five-eight, perhaps, had thick, wavy black hair. Both had perfect teeth and health-spa tans. Oddly, they seemed to have the same slightly cherubic expressions on their faces—they could almost have been cousins.
They introduced themselves as Mike (the taller one), and Gabe (with the thick, wavy hair). I told them my name was Amanda and I was delighted to meet them. Gabe, who did most of the talking, said they were "in mortgage banking," that they worked in the financial district. What did I do? I laughed a silvery laugh (my first!), and told them I had just flown in from Muncie, Indiana, to shop and see the sights of the city. What did I do in Muncie? I had just gotten divorced—my ex owned a Pizza Hut franchise—and I was celebrating the settlement. Not an obscenely large one, but enough to splurge on for this trip to the West Coast, which I had never seen. Lying came so easily. Was lying a female trait, I wondered?
PG: And then?
AR: We engaged in small talk, mainly. The two were extremely polite, almost timid. Suddenly Mike suggested I let them take me out to dinner at the Farallon—did I like seafood? Well, I said, a girl doesn't see too much fresh seafood in Muncie, Indiana. So I reached into my purse, extracted my coat check tab and gave it to Gabe by way of answer (how lovely to demand—and get—little favors when you're a woman!) We cleared out of the Westin and walked the few blocks to the Farallon—an hour's wait for a table (on a Tuesday), so we settled in at the bar. More Dubonnet, more C & C's.
So far, no touching, no fondling or groping, all very gentlemanly, though I did catch them exchanging significant glances a couple of times. I made a point of leaning well towards them when listening, so that they did not have to exert themselves in the least to look down the front of my dress—which they did at every opportunity. The idea of teasing these two men was extremely titillating; by the time our table was ready, my splendid ice-blue, lace-trimmed Italian silk panties were more than moist. I ordered Oysters Farallon as an appetizer, then excused myself, took my purse, and glided off to the ladies' room.
PG: Your first time in a ladies' room.
AR: All quite mundane, I assure you. I needed to powder my nose, and the ladies' room was where I must go now to do it. It was as simple as that. I did not have to wait for a stall. The two or three other women, who were in and out while I was there, did not give me a second glance. Why should they have? I was every bit a woman as they were. I took care of my business, brushed out my hair and dabbed a bit of perfume on my wrists and behind my ears. When I got back to the table, it was clear that Mike and Gabe had reached some sort of agreement—they were both beaming expectantly. But they made no allusion to whatever they had discussed—not over the dinner.
PG: An agreement?
AR: Well, after dessert, over coffee, Gabe reached for my hand under the table, and put into it what felt like—several crisp banknotes. "It's five hundred dollars," he whispered, inclining his face towards my ear, "for your company so far. And we have another five hundred for you—in advance—if you'll come back to our hotel with us for the night. Mike and I think we could have a wonderful party together. We're staying at the Fairmont. You can have a really nice shopping spree tomorrow without eating into your settlement."
By way of reply, I folded the banknotes tightly in my hand, palming them, and transferred them to my purse, which was in full view on the table, trying to betray not the slightest emotion on my face, but I could not suppress a little un-sphinx-like smirk.
PG: At suddenly being a marketable commodity?
AR: Exactly, Peter, exactly. You cannot imagine how, well…how refreshing it is for a girl to contemplate getting what she craves most—and being paid $1000 for it! I could hardly wait to start earning my fee. On the way out of the restaurant, I began to reflect on—
PG: [interrupting] Don't go off on another one of your tangents, Amanda! Just tell us what happened!
AR: OK, OK, OK! No more tangents, I promise! I'll cut to the chase. We grabbed a taxi outside the Farallon and took the short drive up Nob Hill. I was seated between the two, and, as soon as the door closed, I extended my hand, palm upwards, towards Gabe, who dutifully placed five more crisply new C-notes into it. "Thanks, boys," I said, stuffing the bills into my purse with a gratifying crinkle, "I do hope you both get your money's worth." "Don't worry," replied Mike, "We intend to."
I was all a-tingle with danger and desire, dreading what I had gotten myself into (dreading was part of my Terrible Punishment, you see), yet compelled to seek it out at all risks. By now, the gusset of my panties was soaked through; it was absolute ecstasy to shift my legs.
AR: And…They took me up to their suite, on an upper floor, which had a magnificent view of the bay. They cleared the center of the sitting room, dragging the table to one side. Then they drew up two armchairs, facing the windows, and settled in. "Would you care to strip now?" Mike asked, in the mildest of tones.
Of course, stripping was precisely what I had in mind, so I pulled off my shoes and presented my back to Gabe, who unzipped my dress, which I slowly pulled off and dropped into his lap. Then, high above the city of San Francisco, I alternately twirled about the suite in my slip, or minced over to one or the other to pinch his cheek or tousle his hair. You know, the standard strip-joint routine. I had seen it often enough, of course, but now I was doing it! And enjoying it, too! Those bumps and grinds are quite natural, when you have the proper anatomy for them. Since then, I've even learned how to roll my belly like a pro. But that was much later.
Anyway, I prolonged this for as along as I could, until I could plainly see they wanted the slip to come off, too. So I pulled the straps down over my shoulders and wriggled out of it. I snatched it up off the floor and tossed it to Mike. Some more twirls and pirouettes, then off came the pantyhose, which Mike was also happy to appropriate. Now I was down my absolutely splendid ice-blue, lace-trimmed Italian silk bra and panties; the latter showed a dark stain of moisture between my thighs, and I dearly wanted to peel them off right then and there! But all in the good time!
Soon off came my bra, which I flung so high it caught on the chandelier. Breasts unrestrained, I jiggled and displayed them, spun across the floor and offered them up to the men, cupped in my hands like ripe melons. I allowed them to grope my derrière, which I naughtily twitched and flaunted in their faces, but for not more than a second or two at a time, although Gabe managed to score a direct grab of my you-know-what. From behind. Which made me jump, of course.
PG: How long did this go on?
AR: Not very long. After about ten minutes, both men stood at once. "Do you mind who goes first?" Gabe asked. "Mike won the toss, so if it's all right with you, he gets first crack," he continued, making no apologies for the pun, "I'll watch, then it'll be my turn." I instantly stepped out of my panties (which I negligently flung in Mike's face), and asked, "Where do you want me?" "In my room," Mike replied, balling up my panties and stuffing them into his pocket, "On the bed. On your hands and knees, with your butt in the air." As he shepherded me towards the bedroom, he removed his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt.
By the time I had knelt on the edge of the bed and glanced back over my shoulder, he was nude. Nude and stiff. And as large as a horse, like, say, a Clydesdale or a Percheron. I felt a tight constriction in my chest to contemplate that gigantic, vein-studded…thing of his, as thick as my wrist and at least a foot long! How could I possibly take it into my soft womanbody with getting maimed? This man was enormous! But there was nothing for it but to succumb. My Rubicon had been crossed when I got in that taxi.
PG: Little did you anticipate—
AR: Little did I anticipate just how elastic a Vagina can be! After all, it's elastic enough for a full-term baby to pass (which thought crossed my mind at that very moment, providing a snippet of reassurance). Mike, however, did not plunge into me right off. No, he was an accomplished cocksman. He began by playing with my dangling breasts, then provided some counterpoint by circumnavigating my inner labia with the tip of his remarkable tool and entering me no farther than my vestibule. I could hardly refrain from moaning. I widened my stance on the bed and thrust my rump as high as I could to grant him readier access.
I knew how I must have appeared, for I had taken many women in this very fashion. My penetralia must have been glowing like a little furnace—I felt as if I was actually emitting small wisps of steam into the room. My inner lips and my clit were tensely engorged and more sensitive than ever, so that when Mike began to stroke my clit with the tip of his tool, (so much smoother than my finger), I had to squeal in absolute rapture. God, how I wanted him to plunge it into me right then, all the way to the hilt, to impale me, ream me, skewer me, fill me utterly! But no—he continued to tease and tease until I was frantic! I was covered in girlsweat, my intimate fluids streaming down the inside of my thighs. No female creature could have been more eager than I to be penetrated!
And yet still he teased me mercilessly, now advancing beyond my vestibule just a millimeter deeper, but each time backing off just when I thought he was finally going to deep-shaft me. I began to whine, to beg; I brought my hands around to my buttocks and spread them, opening myself like a cavern. Which made him stiffer yet, to my delight and to my delectable torture. Only when I started to babble and whimper did he grasp both my shoulders to steady me, then thrust home in an excruciatingly slow glissade, but one powerful enough to lift me off the bed and into the air.
The profundity of his thrust, as he lifted me off my hands and knees, expelled all breath from my lungs with an involuntary "Unnnhhhhhhhh!" Hoisted high on this man's magnificent shaft, I flailed and flopped helplessly like a speared fish out of water, my eyes popping out of my head in shocked disbelief at my consummate impalement.
"Ooooo!," I thought, "So this is what it's like to be a woman!"
As soon as he deposited me back on the bed and I could breathe freely again, I squirmed rearwards to ensheathe him at least as high as my navel, if not beyond—and succeeded, too—gaining at least a precious half-an-inch. I wanted it all, you see. We remained tightly coupled like this for several minutes, motionless, the intense pressure within me madly divine. At last he began to pump me—slowly, forcefully, making me grunt at each thrust. I counted as many as fifty, then I lost track in my delirium. When we finally came, it was at the same instant, his semen streaming into me in long, ropy jets as my Vagina pulsed tightly around him and my womb thirstily swept in his seed.
PG: Poor Gabe…what could possibly be left for him after such a virtuoso performance?
AR: Plenty! I was still hot, as wet as an ocean and almost as vast—at least I felt that way. I rolled over onto my back and drew up my legs until my heels were touching my bottom. I spread my thighs as widely as possible. "More…" I entreated in a hoarse whisper, urgently beckoning him towards me with both hands, "More!" Before I knew it, Gabe was on me—on me and in me. He was not quite as long as Mike, but Gabe was satisfyingly thick, thick and quick, providing a zesty, upbeat allegro in contrast to Mike's soulful and contemplative adagio.
I am certain the guests in the room below us thought the Big One had finally hit San Francisco and made straight for the stairs. The bed was practically jumping around on the floor—my legs were flailing about in the air as he pounded me. I was screaming, "Give it to me! Give it to me! Faster! Faster! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck meeeeee!" and Gabe was grunting at a trip-hammer rate. I felt like a galaxy about to explode—and then both of us did, in a blinding shower of brilliant white stars as the hot Essence spurted into me for a second time in less than twenty minutes. And so I spent the night being "punished," until the three of us were rubbed raw.
When I awoke the next morning, sunlight was streaming into the suite. I was alone. On a gigantic wet spot. When I staggered into the bathroom to perform my intimate ablutions, bleary-eyed and sore, I found yet another $500 on the counter and this note taped to the mirror:
[Reads from a paper.]
"thanks 4 the evening! u were wonderful! u can only improve as u acquire more experience in womanly ways. but 4 a neophyte, u were good, damned good! we know ur really garrett hopkins, of course: ur one of our finest jobs. we're both quite proud of u! we both hope u enjoyed ur punishment as much as we did! lol.
"dont bother look 4 us, because we dont really exist—at least not in the usual sense. think of us as angels of a sort, if u like, sent 2 initiate u properly, 2 put u on the right track from the start. well, almost from the start—u were a bit 2 quick 4 us with that waiter, which just goes 2 show, never underestimate the power of a Vagina!
remember, amanda, stay tight & wet!
"michael & gabriel
"ps: the money is real. have fun spending it. and dont worry: the suite is paid 4. just leave the key on the dresser when u go out.
So I bathed, got dressed and left, minus my bra, which was still caught on the chandelier, out of reach, and minus my absolutely splendid ice blue, lace-trimmed Italian silk panties, which were still, presumably, in Mike's pocket. It was not to be the last time I was to leave a hotel room minus one intimate garment or another. Or minus all of them.
PG: So, may one infer, that having discovered your true vocation, shall we say, in the form of fifteen one hundred-dollar bills for a single evening's "punishment," you have since had no trouble making your way in the world as a woman?
AR: No trouble at all, Peter. Being punished is what I like best, I discovered. I just couldn't seem to get enough of it! To start off my career, I'd set myself up in one posh hotel or another for a week or so at a time—I'd work their bars, pay off the bartenders to steer juicy prospects in my direction, and managed to see the interiors of San Francisco's best hotel rooms (mostly their ceilings).
I got to be in hot demand. I needed an answering service after a month. I've been wined and dined in the world's best establishments, whisked about in private jets, been taken to La Scala in Milan on opening night. I've cruised the Aegean on luxury yachts, been given charge accounts at Neiman Marcus, Harry Winston and Bulgari, been fed Beluga caviar with a tiny platinum spoon (by a Saudi prince with the sexual appetite of a goat).
And all I have to do is let rich men service me. It's so very simple, Peter. A lovely system, really, this being punished. You never really have to think about anything besides how best to pleasure a man, and that takes remarkably little brain-power. You just let yourself get wet, spread your thighs, lie back and enjoy the ride.
PG: Why, are all your men such wonderful lovers? None of them ever get cold feet?
AR: No, generally not, Peter. Why, just look at me! Even the most timid fellow gets quite rigid before I'm down to my panties. But I wouldn't want to mislead. Yes, sometimes I do have to work a bit, but it's the exception, not the rule.
PG: Well, it appears you are paid pretty well for your "work."
AR: That's an understatement! By now I have a solid portfolio (tax-free municipals are the ticket these days). And the gifts. Ah, yes, the gifts a girl gets! I have a cold-storage vault full of furs, three safe-deposit boxes of jewelry. All of it real. As real as I am. Two bank accounts in the Bahamas and another in Zurich. Just as that computer told me, money was not to be a problem. You have no idea how lovely it feels to go shopping for diamonds with nothing but your full-length sable on over your sheer undies. Or just your full-length sable. Sans undies. That way, a girl can really concentrate on what's important.
So, Peter I have to admit that during my infrequent free moments, I can't help but reflect how life could have turned out a great deal worse. Being changed into a girl certainly has had its good points, Peter, there's no denying it. Why, just last week....
Caught here sans furs and pearls, during a rare lull in her hectic nocturnal schedule, Amanda R reflects that life could be worse.
PG: [interrupting] Speaking of what's important, Amanda, do you give professional courtesy? There's a couch in the Green Room.
AR: You rascal, you! You're looking for a freebie! Sorry, Peter. Can't do it. If I start giving it away, I'll devalue my product line in no time flat.
PG: Well, it wouldn't be a freebie, really—consider the publicity you've gotten.
AR: [sighing] Very well But please be careful—I just found out I'm six weeks pregnant.
PG: Really! That'll make it all the more interesting. Just one last question, Amanda. You're not really still a man in there are you?
AR: No, of course not! My agent just tells me to say that to get these interviews. Being in a woman's body is totally feminizing—your masculine element doesn't stand the ghost of a chance when it goes head to head with your feminine: there's simply no contest. It didn't take but a week before I forgot all about that slimeball Garrett Hopkins. Now I wouldn't trade being a woman for anything in the world!
PG: I suspected as much.
AR: I may be a woman, Peter, but I'm not that stupid. I know a good thing when I see it as well as the next girl, and being changed into a woman is the best thing that ever happened to me. But look, Peter, surely you can pay me $1000, can't you? That's really a substantial discount off my usual fee. And I had to take two days off to come out to the Coast for this interview. My overhead keeps ticking—it's about $2500 a day now, including health insurance with maternity benefits.
PG: OK, I get the point. Do you take Diners' Club?
AR: I take all major credit cards, Peter. I'll get an authorization code right now on my cell phone, if you don't mind. [Reaches into purse.] Do you happen to know your card number by any chance?
PG: You've got a deal, Amanda. But I'll give you the number off-camera, [staying her hand] if you don't mind.
AR: Of course not, Peter! [Restoring cell phone to purse.] I'm a trusting girl. And I'm sure it'll go through. It'll show up on your Diners' Club statement as "Amanda R. Executive Seminars." No refunds and no guarantees, I'm afraid, but I'm sure you'll be satisfied. I know I will be. Always am, even for only $1000.
PG: And that, ladies and gentlemen, ends our interview with the fabulous Amanda R.
[PETER GOODPASTURE and AMANDA R exit the studio. Amanda removes her earrings on the way out.]