julian.obedient@ gmail.com
The Three of Us
I had been doing fifteen-hour shifts in the kitchen. Maximum had opened two months earlier on Ninth Avenue and Thirteenth Street in the newly-fashionable Meatpacking district. The devotion paid off. The reviews were impressive; the restaurant was full every night; you were lucky if you could reserve a table for a month from the date you called. I invented dishes, designed the menu, cooked, kept accounts, and supervised a team of sub-chefs and food preppers. Saturday night, after two months, the owner, Steve, approached me after we closed. He put his arm around me, handed me an envelope with a handsome bonus, and said, "I think the place can run for a few days without you. I wish it could be a full week, but... Anyhow, take a few days off – until Friday. You know what weekends are like."
I thanked him and said I appreciated it, but I asked if he was sure it was wise. We were still just getting started.
"We are started," he said. "And I don't want you to burn out because we're gonna keep on going. A few days of R and R will do you good, so you can come back fresh and ready to be further exploited," he said grinning.
It was after two a.m. when I stepped into the autumn night and walked along Gansevoort Street to an after hours place I liked.
Tim behind the bar waved when he saw me, and set a vodka and tonic on the bar for me without my asking. A nod of his head made me turn mine in the direction he indicated.
She was gorgeous, standing by the juke box, wrapped in a gold lamé gown, tight as a glove and stopping way above the knees; you could see the turn of her thighs. She commanded my fascinated gaze.
She raised her head over her chin and walked towards me.
"What you lookin at?" she said.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"What you sorry for?" she shot back.
"I've never seen anyone as beautiful as you," I stammered.
"That's more like it," she said and slid her hand round my arm. "You come with me," she said. "Okay?"
"Ok," I said.
I pressed my self against the firmness of her body as she puled me to her and we walked under a waxing crescent.
She stopped and pressed me against the wall of an apartment building we passed and tore into me with her kisses. When we continued to walk, I was staggering with desire.
I lay next to her when it was over, stroking her marvelous cock as she slid her fingers back and forth over me as my body came back to earth.
"You were looking at my legs."
"I was. I was worshiping your thighs with my eyes."
"And you were ashamed? Or was it frightened?"
"I was ashamed that you'd caught me and frightened at the intensity of my desire."
"You were afraid of the power I'd have over you," she said in a breathy voice and with a knowing smile. "But you could not help yourself, and now, it's too late. I can do anything I want with you." She traced a line across my chest with the slightest pressure of her fingernail, pouting.
I looked at her, confused, puzzled, unsure.
"Don't fret," she said. "You aren't pretty when you do. Clear your eyes now. Just make them blank, and relax."
I relaxed as she stroked my chest and the warm smolder of desire returned to my limbs and spread throughout my entire body. I breathed with need.
"No," she said, after rubbing her lips against mine, then drawing back.
I looked at her quizzically.
"We have things to do, first."
"Like what?" I said.
"For one thing, making you more like me," she said, looking at me with a steady, soft gaze. "I'd like that, and I know you would, too."
"I'm not so sure," I said.
Why?" she asked.
"I don't know. I'd be embarrassed."
"At what? Do I embarrass you?"
"I'm not you," I said.
"What does that mean?" she said.
"You can do it. I never could. I'd just be grotesque."
Before I could finish the sentence she pressed her mouth to mine and overwhelmed me with kisses.
"I couldn't be butch, either. I'm just..."
"You're just gonna be putty in my hands," she said.
I was. Her will became my own. We were in agreement. It was a wonderful feeling. You could surrender and still have yourself, be yourself.
It lasted for days at a time: I'd be under her spell – just needing to be inside her or have her inside me – to be stretched to the edge of breaking. When I was not with her, longing for her devoured me.
Inside my skull it glowed like the sun when she took me and held me inside her and stroked my cheeks and told me I was beautiful. I gazed at her as she fixed me with her eyes, and smiled and felt myself press more deeply into her, absorbed by her.
"But you are more beautiful," I said.
She touched my lips with hers and reached a bare arm to her bed table and took a tube of lipstick and brought it to our lips and rubbed it between them.
"Tell me you love me," she said.
"I adore you," I said, rubbing my lipsticked lips against hers. "I love you."
"I want to see what you look like in stockings and heels," she said, circling my nipples with her fingertips.
"I'm not sure I could..."
"You're not sure you could what?" she said, teasing.
"I'm not sure I could...I don't know... do that?"
"Oh, yes you can," she said, pulling me up from the bed and leading me to the closet. She threw open the door, and a full-length mirror hung on the other side. She took a box from the shelf and said, "These will be perfect for you. First, a shower, and a shave," she added with a soft wink of her eye.
The bathroom was a large room for a bathroom, the biggest I've ever seen. The floor was of pale green marble, and there was a large tub of the same material, elevated on a marble platform.
We stepped into the tub and she turned on the shower. She rubbed jell on her hand and on mine and then brought my hand over to her stiff cock, and wrapped hers around mine. She rubbed her chest against mine, and our nipples pressed upon each other, and she began kissing me. I lost my breath in surrender and she filled me with her spirit.
She called herself Miranda.
"My parents called me Michael," she said. "But it wasn't right. By the time I was seven I was thinking of myself as Miranda. I was becoming Miranda. That was the only transition I had to make, from what they thought I was to what I was – to who I am, from somebody I was trying to be to somebody I am. My parents saw it, especially my mother. She took it as her duty to break me of any attachment I had to myself."
"Did she succeed?" I asked.
"Does it look like it did?"
"Not really," I answered.
"Not at all," she said. "Come here."
She was sitting on the sofa in heels, black silk stockings with their lacy thigh bands fastened to a black silk garter belt. Her cock stood near erectness. I was wearing the same thing, naked chest clean shaven, hair curled, head held at a proud, almost arrogant angle, standing in an arrogant pose in front of her.
"Kiss me," she said.
I leaned forward and began to press my lips to hers.
"No," she said laughing as she drew away. "No, not there. Kiss me," and her long, graceful fingers with long polished jade green nails pressed my head to her cock. "Go on your knees," she said with sweet coaxing in her voice
I obeyed, knelt, and touched my lips to the crown of her cock and felt myself drawn. I kissed her cock as if I were kissing her mouth. My devotion grew and my saliva moistened her. I rode her shaft and kissed it as if I were sucking on her tongue. I took her to the back of my throat, swallowing her, and she filled me with her throbbing. My breathing was smoothly breathing itself. It rose and fell. My nose was clear. Her cum slid down inside me without my effort. I spasmed and kissed her cock, wildly; madly I stroked my own, like an oarsman fiercely rowing to avoid the storm approaching that the black roiling sky
foretells.
Late Thursday afternoon, we learned that one of Miranda's friends. Willow, had been attacked by three cops. They accused her of loitering with intent. She said that she was not loitering, had no intentions but was just idly enjoying looking at the cloud formations in the sky above Hudson Street. The voice they heard was not a woman's voice.
"What sex are you?" one of them demanded.
"That's a very personal question, you know," Willow said.
"Are you trying to be smart with me?" the cop said and smacked her across the face.
"I want your badge number," she said, black anger held in check by her eyes.
"You want my cock in your mouth," a second cop said and pushed his nightstick into her gut. She doubled over, and like that they dragged her to the cruiser and took her to the station house.
It was just beginning to get dark. There was frantic banging at the door. Miranda opened it. One of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen appeared. She threw herself into Miranda's arms.
"Oh, Randi," she sobbed. "I can't believe what just happened."
"Come inside, dear," Miranda said. "What happened?"
Willow made an effort to control her sobbing. Miranda looked at me. "Get the vodka," she said. "In the hall closet, and some glasses. There's a tray on top of the refrigerator."
When I got back, Willow was calm. She was holding Miranda's hand.
"Do you want to call the police?" I asked without thinking.
"What good would that do?" Miranda asked with a mixed smile-frown.
Willow, however, burst out laughing. "It's the police who did it," she roared.
It was an awful situation. She had been held, taunted, threatened, hit, humiliated, and then told to get her faggot butt outta there and to stay off their streets, buttcunt.
"Of course, I wanted to say that they were my streets, too. That they are everybody's street, and that the life of the streets is the life of the neighborhood. But I knew better than to say anything. I'm not into S&M. So I kept my mouth shut and walked slowly down the steps and got a cab. When I got here, I lost it."
"You're okay," Miranda said.
"Thanks to you," Willow answered.
Miranda brushed off the thanks graciously and said, "You ought to bathe."
"I think I'd prefer a shower right now."
Miranda gave her a significant look.
"I've got a lot to scrub off," Willow offered as an explanation.
"Some of your things are in the extra bedroom."
"Thanks," Willow said grinning.
When Willow came back into the living room an hour later, I was there alone. Miranda had set it up. "You two ought to know each other," she said, curtsied, and said good night.
Willow had shed her feminine clothing and mannerisms. She was a dazzlingly handsome young man. He smiled when he saw me, mouth agape. "Same person."
I was embarrassed. I was in stockings, heels, a garter belt and make-up. Now he was not. Now he was a male gazing at me. He was not a girl like me, anymore.
"You are blushing," he said. He sat down next to me, and put his arm around my shoulder. He touched my neck with his lips and whispered in my ear. "You are very beautiful." He held me with his eyes.
"So are you," I said.
"Look at me," he said. "I like to be looked at. And I want to look at you."
"It embarrasses me," I confessed.
"It should not. Feel how sexy it is to be looked at, to be the object of someone's gaze."
"Like you were with the cops," I said.
He shook his head. "No, no," he whispered. "They are voyeurs, peeping Toms. An open, admiring, honest gaze, alive with desire – that's something else. There's love in that."
He stroked my hair as he spoke and then brought his lips to mine and drew me to him. I surrendered. I was limp. He began to stroke my cock, but soon his fingers strayed to my perineum and then to my entrance. He brushed his fingers over my hole and brought them nearer and nearer until he twisted one gently inside me. I moaned with abandon I had never known. He silenced me with kisses. I pressed my palms to his chest and felt the firmness of his nipples. His cock was hard. Mine was too. He entered me. I resisted. I screamed. I turned inside out. I surrendered.
He kissed me with lust and broke inside me, and I broke, too. Roaring waves and then a lapping tide.
We spent the night, the three of us with Miranda in her bed.
"I've got to go back to work in the morning," I said. "That's going to be weird. Even if I dress in the same clothes I always did, I know I'm not the same person."
Well, I wasn't, and I was. That's what surprised me. Henry the maître d, generally imperious, showed me the same unusual deference he always did. Tom the head dishwasher, a brusque hail fellow well met type displayed the same familiarity as he always had, and I, I was exactly the person I had always been, and yet, I kept thinking, I am not what I seem, I am not what they see. I had another identity, a real one, whereas my daily identity was only a social necessity.
Willow had been traumatized by the police assault and kept to male drag. Miranda and I were moved by his pain and drawn to offer whatever comforts we could. We fawned over him and called him Billy. We brought him back to life. We aroused him. The bloom started to return to his spirit. We made ourselves ultra-feminine for him and made him dominant over us. But we stopped after a few times. The scene never congealed because we fundamentally liked each other, trusted each other, and felt loyal to each other. There just was not that icy sado-masochistic component that gives dominating or submitting their palpability. It was just as well. Our sexual identities were fluid but we were consistent. Billy bounced back. Willow emerged and moved through the house with grace and delight. She brought those qualities to the street. When she walked with us, people stared and once they'd passed, turned heads.
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