Date: Sat, 15 Mar 2003 14:44:28 -0800
From: virtual_xx <virtual_xx@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Greatest Lie, Chapter 14

The Greatest Lie, Chapter 14
From Prom Night to Homecoming
Alexandra Rios
virtual_xx@hotmail.com


For me, my hometown, L.A., is not the sexy, sweaty night clubs of West
Hollywood nor the porn scene of the North Valley. Though I feel more at
home there, that side of L.A. is not my home but rather the world into
which my transsexual destiny exiled me.

Home is the leafy, moneyed boulevards and side streets of Brentwood and Bel
Air, California. Beneath the swaying palms and in the sea-softened air of
that enclave of privilege, I became a refugee from my birth gender, and
like any other refugee, I escaped and changed my identity as thoroughly as
I could.

Reborn as a beautiful and ambitious, if incomplete woman, I needed and
desperately wanted to return home to confront and erase the last vestiges
of my male origins. But the past is a like jealous and selfish ex-lover
whose secrets can never become truly safe against future discovery: like
deleted e-mail on a remote server, old secrets remain ineradicable and
forever discoverable.

The loose ends of my male past were scattered all over Los Angeles and to
live my life as a post-operative transsexual I needed to tie them up. I had
done a legal name change through the courts, and possessed a purple-stamped
Superior Court order decreeing that Alex Rios had become Alexandra
Rivers. My driver's license now bore a smiling picture of me in a tank top,
showing an enticing inch and a half of decolletage, a fetching smile and
come-hither eyes. But the traffic ticket I had gotten one drug-addled night
during my junior year could link Alexandra back to Alexander: my male past
was a secret waiting to be disclosed if I ever had another accident or
infraction.

Los Angeles was an expedient detour on our way from Minnesota to
Thailand. My friend Tran and I were on our way to Thailand's Chiang Mai
University to continue my research into the sexual practices of
transgendered sex workers among the katoey of Thailand, but our real
purpose there was to have our surgeon rectify our problematic
vaginoplasties.

Our Thai surgeon, Dr. Sanguan, had cautioned us that the junctions between
our vaginal openings, which he had fashioned from inverted, and inserted
penile skin, and the colon segments he had used to lengthen our vaginas
would form a tight ring of scar tissue. These rings, he had warned us,
would make vaginal sex horribly painful or utterly impossible with larger
penises. We had scheduled surgery with him to break these rings. We hoped
our upcoming surgeries would enable us to enjoy satisfying vaginal sex.

The University of Minnesota had changed my status to female, and Tran had
gotten her GED as a girl.  However, Chiang Mai University required proof of
my high school matriculation to admit me, and Uni High in Los Angeles had
graduated me as a boy. Though the Thais are superficially more tolerant of
their katoey than we Americans, the katoey suffer from terrible status
discrimination in Thailand. Knowing this, and the controversial nature of
my research project, I wanted to expunge any evidence of transsexuality
from the records I was taking to Thailand.

But the Los Angeles Unified School District refused my first request to
change my transcript, despite the Court's command. The district demanded a
senseless application and personal appearance in the Principal's Office, as
though my sex-change operation had been a violation of some unspoken
academic rule. I was obliged to return to the familiar and much-dreaded
corridors of University High School: the scene of my turbulent and unhappy
adolescence , and the earliest, most awkward and painful stages of my
transition.

It seemed like yesterday, and a million years ago, that I had scurried
through these fetid halls, eyes averted from the hostile glares of my
classmates. Now I walked these same halls as a beautiful stranger,
attracting the astonished glances of a horny horde of high school boys, all
agog at the fresh new babe in their midst. It was as if the old Alex was
invisible, and the new Alexandra was walking a runway, or shimmying on a
stage.

God, I mused, if only I had transitioned during high school: I could have
been Homecoming Queen. But my prefrontal lobe reminded me this was fantasy:
these people were the same idiots that I had detested, and who in turn had
ridiculed and persecuted me. So I avoided their flirtatious looks and went
straight to the principal's office.

It was the same nightmarish scene that I had remembered from my school
days: the anteroom was filled by a gaggle of miscreants gathered on
battered folding chairs. They sat sprawled across their seats, sullenly
awaiting their punishments from a smaller tribe of indifferent,
somnambulant bureaucrats slouching behind a stained Formica barrier. I took
a number from a dispenser that looked straight out of a busy delicatessen
and watched and waited as the presumptively guilty ahead of me went off to
their fates of detention, suspension, or expulsion.

 The burgeoning number of young sinners overwhelmed the number of available
slothful bureaucrats, so I was treated to a dreadful hour as all the
wastrels and miscreants in the anteroom tried to hit on me. Worse yet, the
woman acting as gatekeeper that day was Fabiola, an obese and almost
cretinous sycophant of my high-school enemy and rapist, Miguel. By the time
Fabiola called my name the number of the newly condemned had grown
considerably, and I had become their cynosure and the butt of their ribald
remarks.

She checked my paperwork against a yellowed, tattered computer printout and
announced with a tone of annoyance, "I got no Alexandra Rivers from last
year's class. Are you sure you graduated from here?"

"Of course you don't have an Alexandra Rivers! I changed my name. Look for
Alex Rios."

"You mean I should be looking for a boy's name?" she replied in a tone of
hurt incomprehension.

"Look at the court order. That's the name you should be looking for, and
you should do what the order says.  I don't need to argue with you about
this. Just do what the judge said in the order," I said, as my face burned
with embarrassment.

"Don't know how I can do that," Fabiola protested loudly. Then, in a louder
tone, as if to enlist support from the miscreants gathered for punishment,
she whined "How can I change a boy's transcript to a girl's?  How do I know
there's not some cheating going on here?"

I felt the mood of the whole crowd turning against me. Up 'til then they
had given me their coarse adulation. Now I felt them turn hostile and
hateful: their stares burrowed like daggers in my flesh.

I backpedaled furiously from my pressure tactics and asked, "When does the
assistant principal come back?  Perhaps I can explain my situation to her."

Fabiola crowed triumphantly, "She comes back at three thirty, after
school's out, but we close at four."

I felt as if the whole school was staring at me as I beat a cautious
retreat. High school had defeated me again.

Now the halls took on an even more ominous aspect, as half-familiar faces
bobbed by on their way to class.  Did this psychopathic cretin recognize
me? Had that violent gangbanger heard the fantastic rumor spreading from my
unfortunate encounter at the principal's office? I was terrified as I
strode, high heels rat- tat-tatting a drum roll of retreat, up Westgate
Avenue from the fetid jungle of Uni High and towards the temperate and
civilized climate of Wilshire Boulevard.

I didn't really feel safe until I was in the haven of my favorite
Starbucks, in the company of Juicy Couture'ed, yoga-mat'ed and soy latte'd
Westside stay-at-home-moms. They regarded my youth and beauty with
apprising envy. Though I felt nothing in common with these rich, spoiled
symptoms of capitalist largesse and leisure, I felt safe at last: I no
longer felt like prey in the beady eyes of predators. God, I hate home:
fear or alienation, and nothing at all in between.

I waited my turn for my jolt of caffeine and hot froth, and tried to blend
in with the soccer moms. I tried to strike a nonchalant pose, but the
interminable wait in the highly caffeinated, privileged atmosphere of the
Wilshire and Westgate Starbucks was driving me crazy.

I acidly asked the barista, "What are you doing, harvesting and drying the
beans back there?"

I got back a mumbled apology and smile from a face that froze me in the
shock of horrified recognition: it was Seth. I had known him for years as a
boy, but he had crossed to the dark side. He had joined my high school
nemesis, Miguel, when Miguel and Jack raped me so cruelly after the prom
the previous spring. I tried to keep my composure as I waited at the
counter, watching Seth carefully.

I waited for the flash of recognition, guilt, and anger, but my appearance
was too different now, and Seth was too naive. He just served me with a
charming, roguish smile, as if I were just one more beautiful West
L.A. babe.

I started to relax again. I inhaled the licorice fumes of soy froth and
dark roasted beans, and started to reminisce to myself about the times I
had spent at this cafe sipping this same fragrant froth, in the body of a
very unhappy and dysfunctional boy.

As I flipped through 'In Style,' looking mostly at celebrity clothes and
hair, I heard a shuffling of feet and the clatter of a chair next to me. I
looked up to see my erstwhile barista asking, "Do you mind if I join you?"

"Actually, I do," I replied.

"I didn't you recognize when I served you or I would have said hello, but
one of my friends in the records office at Uni called and I realized it was
you, and I really have to talk to you."

"Oh great, the good old Uni spy network is onto me," I said miserably. "I
really don't want to relive senior year, Seth. As you can see, I've moved
on. I'm sorry if you're still stuck in the same pathetic rut, but I really
don't want to get into it."

He reached for my hand, but I withdrew it. He said "All I really wanted to
do was to tell you how sorry I am about what happened last year. If I could
relive that night I would never have gone along with Miguel's sick
plan. Ever since that night I have felt guilty over it, especially after
you and Miguel made that video and he bragged that it proved you wanted to
do us."

I started to protest but he continued, "I admit it was rape the first time
and it was just paid porno the other, which doesn't prove anything. I am
really sorry, and I guess that's all I have to say, except thank you for
not turning us in, because that gave me a chance to turn around my own
life. Oh, and that I tried to make it as OK for you as possible that night
and I thought you were pretty cute then and that you're really beautiful
now."

I gave him a moment of stony silence. He wilted in my most withering
glare. "I suppose you think this half- assed apology one year later makes
everything OK? You, Miguel and Jack gang-raped me, and traumatized my
friend Marta, and then on those occasions when I saw you around, you didn't
even say anything afterwards. That's despicable. If the cops weren't such
assholes, your ass, and Miguel's and Jack's, would have been in jail. Then
you could have had your own gangbang experience on the receiving end, and
it would have served you right."

"You're absolutely right. We were complete shits who got away with it and
didn't deserve to, and I have been feeling horrible about that, horrible
about never communicating with you afterwards, and I'm really sorry for
that, but you, like, just sort of disappeared. Anyhow, I'll do whatever you
want me to make amends." He noticed my empty coffee. "How about another
latte, on the house?"

"That would be a good start," I replied. He leapt to his feet and quickly
returned with freshly made tall latte.  "Same as the last one, OK?"

"As the last latte, you mean?" I said with a humorously arched eyebrow.

"Right," he said. "I didn't mean like the last time we . . ." His voice
trailed off. He looked bemused.

"Thanks a lot," I said scornfully, reveling in his predicament. It was
obvious he was irresistibly attracted to me now, yet he faced a superhuman
task: seducing a former rape victim. I decided to encourage him.  Perhaps I
might enjoy his efforts. And besides, he had always been the cutest and
most considerate of my tormentors , and he had only gotten better looking
in the intervening year. Yes, I thought, Seth had turned even cuter and had
cleaned up quite nicely.

"So how do I know you're not the same old creep? Obviously, you're still
gossiping with the same old Uni losers," I said sardonically.

"Of course I am. I have to finish a couple a of units to graduate. I got
slightly screwed up hanging with Miguel's set last year, but I am out of
that scene. I am graduating next week, and then I am going to the Police
Academy. So I really am grateful to you for not ruining my record with that
terrible thing I participated in."

"That's very noble of you. Am I supposed to salute or something?"

"No, you don't have to do anything. I am just trying to tell you that like
you, I am living a different life now. No more gangbanging for me."

"I get it. You fix lattes for me now, and traffic tickets later"

Seth laughed with roguish charm. "You got that right. You can drive as fast
as you want in this town." Then he again clasped my hands in his and asked,
"Will you forgive me? I'd really do anything for you if you would."

"We'll see about that," I replied coyly. I looked at my watch and said
unhappily "God, it's time for me to go back to that hellhole and talk to
those idiots in the principal's office. I have to get my transcripts
straightened out."

"What do you mean, I thought you were the academic superstar," he
protested.

"I am. But I'm Alexandra Rivers now."

He nodded matter-of-factly. "Yeah, and the whole school knows it. You'd
better let me come with you. No one will fuck around with you if I'm
there. I just got my black belt, and believe me, I've kicked plenty of
asses around here, including Miguel's and Jack's."

We began walking arm in arm back down Westgate to University High School.

"I thought you weren't hanging with Miguel and Jack anymore."

"I'm not," he replied, "but they didn't let go so easily."

"What are those two losers up to?" I asked warily.

"Last I heard, they were dealing crank and crack for the 18th Street Gang,
working down near Venice.  Except Miguel's been in jail: something about
child abuse."

I cringed. "Is he still with Marta?"

"I think so. I heard she had a kid."

"Don't tell me Marta married that bastard."

No, but they're still together sometimes. She works nearby, and she comes
into my Starbucks sometimes, and complains about him, and talks about the
kid. The kid's real cute."

I was filled with pity and worry for Marta. Sure, she had abandoned me, but
she hadn't had a lot of luck, or choices, in her life, and in a sense, I
had abandoned her too. Now she had even fewer choices: she was stranded in
working class LA with little education and a child. I felt a need to
reconnect with that broken strand of my emotional life. Marta had done so
much to guide me towards realizing my own femininity.

"Do you have her number?" I inquired hopefully.

"I think she gave me a card." Seth thumbed through his bulging wallet as we
walked toward Uni. "Here, keep it," he said. She was working as a hygienist
for a nearby dentist. The card was marked with Marta's phone number in a
neat blue cursive hand. "But make sure Miguel is still in the slam before
you visit her: that hombre is completely wack. I don't think he would be
real friendly to you."

"Believe me, the feeling is mutual," I said acidly.

"I'm not really high on his hit parade myself," Seth reminded me.

The Uni mob parted like the Red Sea before Seth and me. The hard core at
the Principal's Office regarded Seth with wary respect. He whispered in my
ear, "I'm upper class now, and I already kicked most of their asses."

The Assistant Principal grumpily complied with the name change order, and
Alexander Rios was, as a technical matter, erased from the rolls of
University High School's graduating class and replaced with Alexandra
Rivers. There were a few stifled guffaws but no catcalls as we zigzagged
through the crowd of students toking, snorting and popping on the front
yard. But I felt more comfortable when I wrapped Seth's arm around my soft,
slim arm, and I was thrilled when he kissed my forehead when I smiled up at
his proud, protective countenance.

"Are you sure you don't mind holding hands with the now-notorious
sex-change kid?" I asked.

"Are you kidding? I'm proud to be walking with the prettiest-ever graduate
of Uni High."

Well, it wasn't quite true, but I did feel vindicated for all of my high
school tribulations by the presence of my new guardian. Seth carried
himself with an imposing physical presence. His embracing me in public
legitimized my transformation while serving to exonerate him from the
much-gossiped-about crime against me that he had participated in. It was a
win-win, and if he was willing to request forgiveness, I was prepared to
forgive.

When got back to the Starbucks, I asked "Would you mind waiting here with
me for my bus?"

"Absolutely not," he replied. "I'll give you a ride. Where are you going?
How are you getting around?"

"I got a ride here from a friend, and my mom is letting me use her car
because she's out of town for a few days, but I have to get to her place."

"I'm parked just down the block. Where's home?"

"It's way up Kenter north of Sunset, two buses away, but that's OK. You
have to work."

"S'OK, I already switched shifts with somebody. Let's go."

Seth's aged Caravan was parked up a side street. It smelled of fast food
and spilled coffee. "Hand-me-down from my sister," Seth explained
apologetically. "I'm saving up for a new one, but Starbucks doesn't exactly
make me rich."

"Don't worry, I'm used to poverty."

"Kenter Canyon isn't exactly the ghetto."

"Mom's money isn't my money. I'm on my own, and I've had a lot of
expenses."

"You mean school?"

"I mean surgery."

"Are you OK?"

"Seth, you silly baby, I've had sex-change surgery."

He almost hit the Escalade in front of him.

"Wow, I thought it was just, like, those hormones changed the way you
look. I mean, I've heard of sex changes but I never knew anybody who
actually did it."

"I'm sorry if it freaks you out."

"It doesn't freak me out. I'm just surprised."

We rode in silence for a few long blocks, and when traffic permitted he
shot me some quizzical looks.  Finally, I broke the silence and chided him,
"I'm sorry if you're disappointed that I'm not a she-male any more. I guess
that's what you must have been into it for last year."

"No, that's not it, I just don't know what to say. I mean, I'm really happy
for you: that you got what you wanted, to be a girl, and you came out
really beautiful. And I'm glad, because it makes you more, like, normal,
even though I was fine being with you before, but now I guess it's even
better. But I was just having trouble figuring out how to say all of that,
and now I'm worried I hurt your feelings."

"Well, you almost did. I can't stand being treated like a carnival freak,"
I said sadly.

"It's not that, it's just that you don't exactly make it easy to figure you
out. You're like, a beautiful mystery woman. So help me figure out the
mystery."

"OK, right after high school finished, I went straight to college. No one
knew me there, so I started living as a girl part time, and then I got
sick, and had to have an operation that ended up with me being, well,
castrated."

"Oh, my God," he interjected.

"Don't worry, they got all of the cancer, but after that I decided that I
should just go all of the way and have a full sex change. I mean, I was
pretty sure I was going that way anyhow. So that's why I made the movie
with Miguel: to get money for the operation. I had it in Thailand because
it's cheaper there. But it's not done, and I'm on my way back to Thailand
to get it finished. I had to stop here to get some paperwork done, and I'm
leaving in a couple of days, and then I'll probably just disappear
forever."

"Don't do that. I don't want to lose you again. Plus, you should check in
on a few people, let them see how great you look. You got it, you might as
well flaunt it," Seth said.

"You've got it too, Seth," I said with a warm smile and fluttering
eyelashes.

"You're not mad at me again?"

"Just a simple misunderstanding: all is forgiven," I replied, as he pulled
up in front of my mom's house.

"Wow, great place," Seth remarked admiringly.

"Do you want to look around?" I asked.

"Sure," he responded eagerly. "Are you sure it's OK?"

"Just my mom lives here, and she won't be back until late tonight."

I showed him around the house, ending in my mom's room. Now that dad had
moved out, she had turned it shrine of middle-aged beauty obsession. She
had neatly organized rows of cosmetics, perfumes, and creams: they were
arrayed like an army in the battle against the oncoming assault of age on
her still- youthful good looks.

Seth looked a little overwhelmed and asked to be excused to use my mom's
bathroom. I took the opportunity to make myself comfortable on a loveseat
in the sun-dappled alcove my mom loved for her reading. I nestled
fetchingly among the satin pillows, kicked off my mules, and contemplated
the delicious irony of the situation.

I needed a guardian angel for this dreadful homecoming, and Seth's regrets,
and good intentions, seemed sincere. I made the fateful decision--I would
become the seductress of my own rapist.

When Seth emerged and beheld the inviting spectacle before him his eyes lit
up. He hastened to my side.

"Do you mind if I join you?" he asked carelessly.

"I don't mind what you do," I replied, throwing my arms and head back
against the piled pillows, exposing my upturned breasts and lips to Seth's
impulses. He settled next to me and gave my lips an exploratory kiss.  My
mouth yielded and my lips parted, and thus emboldened, Seth's lips crushed
mine hungrily, seeking and finding in my lips an affirmation of his growing
passion. After a long, breathtaking embrace, he said, "If this is
forgiveness, then I should sin more often."

I smiled and said "Don't blow it, Seth. This is your chance for
redemption," I replied, and tugged at his belt buckle. He slipped out of
his Levi's and boxers, and I slid them to his ankles, thinking "Now he's my
captive: all mine." I circled my thumb and forefinger around his gorgeous,
thick cock and said "I think you've grown an inch since last year," with a
big smile.

He fondled my breasts with admiration and responded, "That's nothing
compared to you."

I looked up and gave him a worshipful glance as I took his cockhead into my
mouth, and trilled my tongue against his meaty, thick organ. It was
delicious--a familiar, yet barely remembered taste and shape. I bent over
his lap, and bobbed my head on his quivering, stiff member. He responded
with groans of pleasures and a pulsating groin as he filled my mouth and
throat. With one hand entwined in my golden mane, and the other cupped my
on my bobbing breast, he both guided me and yielded to my oral wizardry.

Guys think they are in charge when a girl is sucking them, but that's an
illusion. And one's awareness of the masculine nature of that illusion and
of the thrall of pleasure that imprisons the recipient of a good blowjob is
one of the greatest joys of the sexual experience. I may have been rendered
speechless by his cock, but he was rendered inarticulate--totally dumb--by
the extremes of warm, wet pleasure I was giving him. At my pleasure, I
could disengage, and murmur a word of appreciation, and work his cock with
my hand; but he suffered during every moment that his rapture was
interrupted.

These alternating interludes of sensual deprivation while I took a breath
or licked my tired lips, followed by my renewed ministrations soon left him
begging for more. At last, he begged, "Let me fuck you, I gotta cum inside
you," but I shook my head: 'No,' and bore down on him with a renewed
intensity that soon had him twitching spasmodically as he careened toward
orgasm. I paused again, bringing him back once more from the brink.

"Oh, God, I can't stand it, ahhhh . . ." His words trailed off into an
animal cry as I renewed the pleasuring of his cock. I looked up to see his
eyes roll to white as his abdomen flailed against my face and his penis
erupted in a volcanic explosion of hot cum. It pelted my mouth, nose, eyes
and cheeks like hot rain, as I kept my face close to the spurting head,
actually, I must confess, to keep his jism from ruining my hair and
sweater.

Remembering the fresh upholstery of mom's loveseat, I squeezed his balls to
moisten my lips with the last, stubborn droplets; he groaned heavily and
passed out on my mom's pillows.

I swabbed my face and his tummy with a Kleenex, and then I got up and
looked in my mom's make-up mirror. My face was smeared with sweat and semen
and my cheeks were flushed, but I felt wonderful-- stimulated and
empowered. Reflected in the contoured mirror, poor Seth looked like he had
nearly died: a sex flush spread over his Nordic skin from his nipples
outwards, and his mouth was agape as he snored in post-orgasmic slumber.

I wiped my face with my mom's make-up cloths, and used her ample supply of
cosmetics to refresh my make-up. Her selections was perfect for me; Mom and
I have similar skin tones. I spritzed my hair with a costly product from
Georgette, flossed, brushed and gargled, put on fresh gloss, and looked
better than ever in ten minutes. That's another thing I love about oral
sex--the quick turnaround.

Seth came back to his senses, and said dreamily, "That was fantastic, you
are incredible, like better than I ever dreamed of."

"Better than your girlfriends?"

"Don't have one."

"Don't tell me you've been saving yourself for me," I said archly.

"I've been with a few of the latte ladies after work, but nothing serious,"
he replied earnestly.

"That's OK, I don't have time for serious."

"That's not what I meant. I mean not serious about them. You're different,"
he rambled.

"Don't remind me, please," I rejoined sharply.

"I mean we could be serious, if you want," he said, flustered.

"That's very sweet of you, Seth, but don't give up your latte ladies. I
don't live here, and . . ."

"Latte? Omigod," Seth interrupted me. "Is it already 5:00? I am so in
trouble," Seth panicked.

"Time flies when you're having sex," I laughed. Seth pulled on his clothes
and kissed me as he ran to his car, shouting "Can I see you later?"

"Come over after your shift. I'll be out but back later: I need to run some
errands." I wasn't looking forward to spending a night by myself. After the
crowded squalor of Henenpin Avenue, the upper reaches of Brentwood were
spookily quiet.

As soon as he was gone I dialed Marta. She answered with the plaintive
cries of an infant in the background."

"Hi Marta, this is, well, I used to be Alex Rios, from Uni. Do you remember
me?"

"Of course, and I've heard all about you from that little bitch
Fabiola. She just couldn't wait to tell everyone. So you've become the
beautiful lady we dreamed you'd become."

"Well, maybe not that beautiful. Would you like to see for yourself?"

"For sure, but I am a fat, ugly mama. You must promise not to laugh at me."

"I believe you're a mama, 'cuz I hear a baby, but I don't believe fat and
ugly," I replied.

"That's all I hear from Miguel," Marta groaned.

"When can I come see your baby?" I said.

"Hurry over now, I was just getting ready to feed her and put her down for
her nap. I want you to see her while she's still up."

"Great, where to?"

She gave me address near Palms and Sawtelle, only seven miles from my leafy
hillside, but a world apart. I hopped in my mom's Explorer and drove south
toward Marta's squalid tenement world.

The barrios and ghettos of L.A. don't stand out the same way the poor
neighborhoods do in Chicago or Minneapolis. In L.A., the barrio stretches
all over, and has the same pastel paints and palms as more prosperous
regions. L.A.'s barrios are states of mind, culture, and class, more than a
district. It was the self- defeating and self-destructive minds of Miguel
and his gang that set them apart from the rest of his culture and from
me. We both knew our respective destinies from the day we met in ninth
grade, and he had hated me ever since.

Girls like Marta and guys like Seth were drawn toward the bad-boy, macho
mystique surrounding charismatic losers like Miguel and were turned off by
the superior, standoffish attitudes that my clique had used to defend
itself against our rougher classmates. Thus, the forces of evil always
triumphed at Uni High.  And thus had the emotional connection I had forged
with Marta been smashed. Though we had shared the same terrible night the
year before, we still lived in worlds apart: I wondered if Marta would
accept the new me.

Perhaps, I mused, she would if only I could open up, and give Marta a
chance to get to know me as I really am.  My sex change had transformed me
from a supercilious upper class boy to an oppressed but determined girl: as
a transgender, I was disadvantaged much as she had been. Even though we had
always been different, I had once found and then lost a common ground with
Marta. Earlier that day, I had found myself relating easily with Seth. I
hoped I could find common ground again with Marta, and tie up that loose
end from my last year in high school.

She lived in a dirty walkup whose stairs were covered by graffiti that had
merged into an incoherent palimpsest of color. I knocked on the tattered
screen door and it rattled in its frame. She approached, barefoot, babe in
arms, but as beautiful as ever. She swung the child to her other hip and
met my embrace.

"My God, Alex, you are beautiful, like Paulina!" She related me to her
favorite pop star.

"And you still look like JLo," I said, returning the compliment. "And who
is this?"

"This is my Alyssa, and she is a hungry girl. Will you help me feed her?
OK, then you can hold her, while I get her some pears." Marta thrust Alyssa
into my unpracticed arms, and I held her awkwardly, expecting a howl, or a
spattering of throw-up at any moment. But Alyssa instead greeted me with a
smile, a gurgle and a quizzical look from her pale blue eyes. I'm usually
terrified of holding babies, and they usually greet me with howls of
anguish, but Alyssa was like a happy, blond angel.

"Who do you think she looks like?" I asked nonchalantly.

"Do you want me to tell you my secret?" Marta responded, spooning strained
pears into Alyssa's eager mouth.

"Um, sure. But tell me first what's going on with Miguel."  I didn't want
Miguel to walk in on us again, and suffer the brutal consequences.

"That pig," she spat. "I leave her with him for two hours, to go to a class
for my job, and she ends up in the ER. The asshole beat her when she cried,
and look at this." There were vivid, purple bruises on Alyssa's back and
legs.

"When was this?" I cried.

"Last week. The nurses reported him and the cops hauled him off to jail,
but now the stupid judge has already let him out. He has to take a
parenting class," she said mockingly. "That's all, even though he was
already on probation for selling drugs. I'm sure that's where he is now, on
the street, selling drugs."

"Was he on drugs when he did this?"

"Maybe, I don't know. But I think he hates Alyssa. He thinks she's not
his."

"Well, you would know best, Marta."

"And that's my secret. Do you want to know?"

"Sure, tell me. I won't tell a soul."

"She's mine and yours," Marta confided.

My blood roared in my ears, and my eyes were blinded with red flashes. My
senses reeled, and recollections of my seemingly futile escapades with
Marta came and went like phantoms in a nightmare.  "How could I, I mean,
. . . we, I mean . . . did we, do you remember?"

"I just remember messing around and having fun, I don't think you really
fucked me, but who knows, I got kind of loaded back in those days." She
smiled at the recollection. "But Miguel is getting the ideas. He keeps
asking me, who else, who are the other guys, and that's the problem. It was
only you and him. Who do you think she look like?" She plopped the
well-fed, but gooey-faced Alyssa in my lap, and she nuzzled her
pear-smeared cheeks on my until-then pristine sweater.

I've always thought all babies looked alike, like little old bald men, but
at six months Alyssa's hair had grown to a wispy platinum crown. Her
wide-set eyes and prominent cheekbones framed pale, full lips, and a
slightly aquiline nose: she looked like me, but with a trace of Marta's
olive complexion. She was a stunningly beautiful baby. I estimated her age
and added nine months, counted backwards to Marta's and my second date, and
in a moment I knew she was mine.

"We'll do DNA tests, that will rule Miguel out. I'll hire some lawyers to
sue to determine paternity, prove that it's me, and then no more Miguel.

"It's not going to be that easy, if we admit that she's yours and
mine. Miguel hates you, and he's crazy violent. No fucking parenting class
is going to keep that loco from harming Alyssa if he figures out she's
yours for sure."

Now, a burning rage built within me. That sneering, pathetic gangster would
never hurt my baby. I would crush him: but how? Turn Seth loose on him? Set
the cops after him?

"Did you say Miguel's dealing drugs?"

"I think so. On Ocean, near Washington, down by the Marina."

"We'll set him up for a bust."

"Forget it, the idiot judges will just give him another free pass like the
parenting class. He's an at-risk youth," she said sardonically. "I'm so
worried about Alyssa, that he's going to hurt her, or me," Marta said with
a sob. "Come, sit with me while I nurse her."

Marta sat on a tattered, grimy couch and unbuttoned her blouse. Her
nut-brown breast was full, but still exquisitely shapely, and her luscious
aureole was distended with the pressure of her milk. Alyssa responded
eagerly to the proffered nipple and quickly suckled herself into an almost
drunken slumber. Marta carried her to her crib and returned her to me. She
sat next to me and said, "You look so nice and pretty, but I'm so sorry
about your sweater. Let me get something to clean it."

I gently grabbed her arm and pulled her back to me. "That's OK, I'll wear
it with pride. After all, I'm one of the moms."

We both giggled at my joke, but she insisted, "It's such a pretty top, let
me soak it."

"OK," I said, and pulled it over my head, exposing my dainty Victoria's
underwire bra.

She goggled at the sight of my half-exposed breasts. "Oh my, yours are
real," she exclaimed. "You're really lovely," she said as she ministered to
my stained top. "You are just like a real girl."

"I'm pretty much like you all over," I said coyly.

"That pig Miguel told me all about that movie you made with him, like it
made him such a big man," she spat. "But he called you a she-male."

"Not any more," I confided. Her jaw dropped in disbelief. "Do you want me
to show you?" She nodded excitedly.

"Let's dress up in some of my nighties. Like before."

"Let's hope it's not exactly like before. You're sure your not expecting
Miguel, aren't you?"

"No, he had to agree to a TRO to get out of jail. Besides, he and his punk
friend Jack will be out dealing until at least ten, and then they'll stay
out smoking or snorting their profits all night."

I slipped off my shoes, slid off my skirt, popped off my bra, and then
shimmied out of my panties. Marta's eyes grew wider, and her smile broader,
with each step of my disrobing.

"I feel like my eyes are tricking me. Can I touch you, to prove what I am
seeing?" she asked.

"Definitely, wherever you want."

She traced her hands over the rounded contours of my body, cooing with
astonishment when she reached the most notable landmarks: my conical,
upturned breasts, topped with silver-dollar-sized, pink areolae, the curve
of my waist into my pelvis, the tight, rounded tush, and my silky mons, and
my smooth, tight labia.

"Mmm, you are fabulous. Miguel is a lying pig."

"I made some changes since he saw me last."

"I like your changes. You got even better. Not me, I just got old and fat,"
she sighed.

"No, don't say that. That tiny bit of nursing weight just makes you more
beautiful. You look wonderful, even prettier than before. But let me see
you." I pulled at the buttons of her shirt and the drawstring of her sweat
pants. She slipped out of her panties, and popped off her nursing bra. Her
breasts were engorged with milk to a size double-D, which made her appear
zaftig in her baggy, unflattering clothes. Naked, it was obvious that from
the boobs down, she had regained her former, fabulous figure. With her
generous breasts increased a size, she looked spectacular, like a Latin
Barbie, with a single, hideous flaw: Miguel's name, tattooed inside a
rococo heart on her left breast.

When she saw my horrified stare, she covered it and cried, "He made me do
it, so that no one else could touch me without knowing they were on his
turf: like I'm a wall for his fucking gang tags. I hate him!"

She started to cry, but I kissed her and whispered "Don't worry, one tiny
flaw makes me only appreciate the rest of your beauty more."

"You were a funny, cute boy, but I like you even more now that you're a
girl. I think I must be bi or something," Marta said.

" You're still attracted to me?"

"More than ever," Marta said, offering me her lips. I started to kiss them,
and as we reclined on the couch, I marveled that my attraction to Marta had
intensified in our year apart. A year ago, I had discovered my feminine
persona while I explored her sexuality; now, I wanted nothing more than to
retrace that path from the vantage point of a girl.

As my breasts grazed her nipples, a smile of delight graced her lips, and
she whispered, "That feels perfect." She returned my kiss with joyful
passion. "God, this feels so naughty, but so good. You are even sexier as a
girl."

Each of our tongues danced a tango with the other's, and my hands cupped
her milk-engorged breasts as she stroked my smaller boobs.

She winced as I fondled her, and Marta explained "I'm making too much milk,
more than Alyssa wants. But I hate pumping. Do you want to try it?" I
nodded excitedly, and with a practiced hand, she guided my mouth to her
swollen nipple as if I were her babe in arms.

I'm not a big fan of dairy in my regular diet: it's full of calories and
fats, and it gives me a stuffy nose and a tummyache. But I'd make an
exception for breast milk. It's sweet, warm and fragrant, and the sensation
of these precious droplets squirting from the warm breast of a beloved into
your suctioning mouth creates a most erotic sensation of well-being and
arousal: as if you were a highly sexualized infant.

That I was doing this with a girl who, in a sense, had been present at my
own rebirth as a girl, and who had now given birth to my own child, created
dissonance between irresistible sexual desire and overwhelming feelings of
dependence and protectiveness. I couldn't articulate the tangled web of
feelings that I had for Marta, so I simplified it all for her by declaring,
"I really love you."

She responded without hesitation, "I have always loved you. I'll be so
happy if Alyssa is yours and not Miguel's."

"I'll be happy when neither of you are Miguel's."

"I wish I could just forget about him," Marta answered, as we embraced, and
my milky lips met hers again.

Her hands ventured to stomach, and traced the fading scar from one of my
surgeries. "Does that hurt?" she asked. I shook my head. "Can I touch you
down there?" I nodded, and her slid over my bare mons, her fingers gently
stroked my labia, and she carefully spread them and deftly explored my
pussy. She found my clitoris, and despite her care, I flinched from the
overwhelming sensation when she touched me. "So sensitive," she noted, as
she passed over my urethra and entered my vagina. "Mmm, you are nice and
wet.  Can you have orgasms?"

I nodded again, "Sometimes. My body is still learning."

"I could teach you. Miguel is away so much I get a lot of practice making
myself cum," Marta said ashamedly.

I got up and turned to lie the other way: mouth to her mons, and hers to
mine. The aroma of her fecund body filled my senses: they were richer and
sharper than Tran's: Marta was redolent of life itself, tangy and
complex. As I probed her out and inner labia, the taste and aroma became
more refined, as her inner juices flowed with her growing excitement.

I could tell Marta was inexperienced in lovemaking with girls, especially
one like me, but she was keenly attuned to her sense of my response. I did
not need to tell her where Sanguan had concentrated nerves he had dissected
from my penis: the undulations of my thighs when she licked the area around
my vaginal opening revealed to her my hot spot. Soon I was overcome with
repeating, involuntary spasms of pleasure, and I felt warm floods cascading
inside me. Once I started, I could not stop: as each orgasm plateau'ed, it
led to the next peak of pleasure.

Marta utterly possessed my body, much as I had possessed Seth with my lips
earlier that day. I let my own ecstasy flow from my body, through my lips,
into her body: I licked, breathed, and sucked at her clitoris and vagina,
trying to revive it from months of Miguel's brutality and negligence.

My body was exhausted, and my lips and tongue were sore when finally her
rhythms began to quicken, then grow stronger. Her hips thrust madly against
my lips, and her lips and tongue abandoned their efforts and let go a cry
of anguished release. A flood of hot liquid rewarded my exhausted mouth. I
rose again, and lay back down face-to-face. We kissed, and my special
flavor mingled with hers in our mouths.

"Mmm, delicioso!" Marta said.

"That was yummy. I think you taught me how to cum," I giggled.

"You're an 'A' student, as usual. How many times?" she asked.

"I dunno, I lost count. It's the way the surgeon wired me in the
surgery. Now that the nerves are all reconnecting, once I start, I can't
stop."

"You are so lucky," she said. "Better than nature!"

"Not entirely. Put your finger inside me." Her index finger slid easily to
the second knuckle, and then pressed up against my inner ring of scar
tissue. "Careful," I gasped.

"Caramba! That's too tight! What's wrong?"

"My surgery needs a second stage, to break that ring and to build inner
labia. Until then, vaginal sex is a no-no."

"Poor baby! And you are so very sexy. It must be hard for you."

I nodded. "God, what I have to do to get guys off."

"But you made me remember how to get off. Oh my God, it's been months," she
sighed. "That pig had made it so I couldn't cum, I hated sex with him so."

"How are we going to keep him away from you and Alyssa?"

"I don't know, that TRO is just pissing him off. I'm really worried. And
you being back will just remind him about us, his suspicions about Alyssa
. . ."

"He thinks she's ours?" I asked in horror.

"Maybe.  That night after he beat her, he called her a bastard. He always
calls me a whore. He never has let me forget that awful night and he has
never forgotten you. Now that you are back I am worried for you and worried
for Alyssa."

"You think he knows?" I asked again.

"It was OK when she was born; her hair was dark and her eyes were
black. Then the black hair fell out, and it's coming back blond. And her
black eyes faded to and are turning blue. Now, he's suspicious, and acts
like he hates her and me. He's crazy, not stupid. If he doesn't know now,
he'll know soon."

A cunning, angry animal awoke inside me. A she-wolf was born within me: a
ruthless but selfless enemy to all threats to my beautiful blond cub and
her mother.

Miguel must be destroyed. I worked backwards from that conclusion. He was
strong, but had a weakness: his rage towards me, which was tinged with a
craving to debase me sexually. With that weakness, I could snare him and
Jack. I focused all of my intellect, instinct and learning and formulated a
plan.

"I have to go now, Marta. Whatever happens, remember I love you and Alyssa
more than my own life." I scribbled Tran's number at her cousin's house in
Long Beach. "If something happens to me, tell her who you and Alyssa are,
and tell her what happened. She's a friend."

"What are you doing?" Marta asked.

"I have to finish it with Miguel. For keeps, this time."

"He'll hurt you," she warned me.

"But I'll stop him from hurting you. Where will I find him?"

"By now, on Lincoln, down near the park, just north of Venice. He's got
Jack dealing crack and ice to the suits driving past in their SUV's."

I dressed, blew out my hair, freshened my makeup from Marta's meager
supply, and put on my still-damp top. With love-swollen lips I kissed the
slumbering Alyssa on her wayward blond curls, and kissed Marta
good-bye. Then I prepared for the drive to confront my hateful nemesis,
Miguel.

"Be careful, my love," she said as I left her tiny apartment.

"I will," I promised. But as I left her, I was already certain that to
ensure the safety of my baby and her birth mother I must necessarily put
myself in harm's way.

I stopped at the nearest Good Guy's and picked up an inconspicuous FireWire
webcam, a wireless mike and a pack of blank DVD's for my iBook. The
miniature color video camera would be perfect for recording interviews with
my katoey subjects, which I would burn onto disk live with the iBook's
internal read/write DVD drive. And incidentally, my purchases would also be
perfect for my mission tonight.

As I drove up the hills toward my mom's house, I thought back on the heated
discussion that I had had in Epstein's law seminar on police
entrapment. Epstein had mused whether the proliferation miniature recording
devices and surveillance cameras had made us into a de facto police state,
and wondered whether it wasn't time to extend the law of entrapment to
private behavior. I was the only one who had joined him in confronting the
chorus of heated opposition to this proposition, and he had been forced to
admit that this was a rule to be made in a future case. I would have
objected then to the plan that I was laying now, but I was faced with the
most extreme exigency: defending the life my own helpless infant--a
precious, irreplaceable life.

I had dreamed that some day technology might make it possible for
male-to-female transsexuals to bear children. Now fortune had given me a
gift that I could never hope to recreate. I would not, I must not, I could
not do otherwise but defend my own flesh and blood to the very last drop of
my own blood; without any consideration for my own life or safety, and
certainly without any regard for ethical cavils such as thoughts of
entrapment.

[I powered up the iBook after attaching the webcam with a long FireWire
cable. I set the iBook on mom's loveseat, where I could watch the picture
as I worked atop a stepladder I'd put by one of the drapes. I moved the
webcam to and fro until I got a good, clear view of my mother's bed in the
iBook's monitor, then I made the webcam fast atop a curtain rod with
double-sided tape. Viewed from the floor, all of the webcam but its little
black stalk and lens was out of sight. I hid the wireless mike in the
jumble of my mother's night table and started recording.

Perhaps it was the sight of the loveseat under my iBook, perhaps just
chance, but the memory of my tryst with Seth came unbidden into my mind. I
walked around the around the bed repeating things Seth and I had said to
each other earlier that day while shooting the camera flirty looks. Then I
walked over to my iBook and watched myself in the monitor. I adjusted
camera gain and focus and mixed the sound levels--the camera mike needed
more gain than the wireless mike, I realized quickly.

I put my mom's stepladder and tools away. My camera and sound checks were
complete. I folded the iBook and stashed it behind the the puddled
drapes. I gave the room a last look for things out of place.] Then I
descended to the wild streets of Mar Vista and my rendezvous with evil.

Lucille Street had only recently been adorned by the spray-painted 666's,
XVIII's and 18's that mark the turf of the 18th Street Gang. It had the
typical mix of fading, pastel bungalows and spindly two-story
apartments. Perhaps only months ago, neighbors here would have gathered in
conversational knots in the pink gloaming of a June sunset, but now they
were banished or in hiding. The street was ruled by a shadowy collection of
young men attired in baggy Oakland Raiders attire.

As I eased my mom's well-cared-for Explorer onto Lucille, I felt the
instant attention of a score of suspicious eyes, all looking to make a sale
or a score from me. I ignored the hostile faces as best I could as I
scanned the street for Miguel and Jack. They had installed themselves on a
shabby, discarded sofa on the litter-strewn, threadbare parkway between the
sidewalk and street. Miguel rose from his sleazy place of business and
approached my open window. He wore a drug-addled grin and laid down a
patter like a carnie barker: "Nickel bag or dime, I'll make you feel fine."

"Miguel, you've certainly fallen in the world. What happened to your
brilliant movie career?" I asked snidely.

"'Zat you, Rios? Fabiola tole me you were back, acking like the queen bitch
of the principal's office, hanging with that asshole Seth. Did ja let him
fuck ya? Fuck your ass, like old days? Come on, make a movie with me and
Jack right now." He pulled at my door, but I had set the kiddie locks; he
yanked at it fruitlessly. He grabbed the luggage rack and pulled himself up
onto the running board to be able to confront me face-to-face.

"Forget it, Miguel. Like Pavel told me, you'll never make another porn
unless they get you a body double to substitute for your puny, soft cock!"

He lunged for me, enraged, but I hit the gas and swerved toward a dead,
stick-like tree that the city, ever optimistic, had sacrificed to beautify
this forlorn block. It brushed him; he yelped and let go, tumbling
ignominiously in the dust. I saw him stagger to his feet and shake his
fist, screaming unheard expletives. I hung a U-turn and headed back in the
other direction.

I knew that Miguel was well experienced in follow-home burglaries. I had
given him a motive and I needed to give him an opportunity to pull
another. As I drove north on Lincoln I noticed a pair of headlights
persistently trailing me, gunning through red lights to keep pace. I jogged
onto the 10 east for a mile to Bundy, and noticed the headlights replicated
my eccentric shortcut: Miguel had me in his sights. My heart skipped a beat
with excitement at my success, and in trepidation of the danger in my plan.

I rehearsed my scheme. Let them follow me to my mom's house. I would enter
and lock the front door, then retire to my mom's bedroom and open the
French doors to the back lawn. The side gate was unlocked. They would open
it and circle around to the back of the house looking for the easy way
in. They would find their entry through the French doors to my mom's
bedroom, left all too conveniently ajar, and they would spring my trap.

I pulled up my driveway and parked. I saw the headlights swerve to the
curb, stop, and shut off. I went to my mom's room, initialized the
camcorder, checked a/v recording quality and speed, stashed the iBook, then
stripped and jumped into the shower. The hot spray and steam cleared my
head and calmed my racing heart: I rehearsed my lines of surprise, outrage
and dismay at the sight of my supposedly unexpected, but definitely
unwelcome visitors.

I pressed my ear to the door, listening for their rasping whispers, but all
I could hear was the pounding of my own heart. I had entertained rather
sexy rape fantasies as a kid, but after all that I had experienced in my
own brief life as a girl and all that I had heard in my sex-worker studies,
I knew that rape was mostly cruelty and humiliation, not sex. In my case
Miguel would take special care to maximize both of the former.

My hand hesitated on the door handle: I had to sacrifice myself to protect
Alyssa, my precious baby, from this beast. I opened the door.

Miguel was bent over a night table, a rolled bill jammed in his nose as he
made a nasal whistling. He looked up and exclaimed "Yah, I like that!"

"Dealers aren't supposed to consume their own wares," I said sharply. "And
you are not supposed to be here. Get out now, or I'll call the police."

"Shut the fuck up, bicha, drop your towel and lie down on the bed! Now!"

"Brilliant thinking, Miguel, anteing up on your child-beating rap with a
sexual assault. Say, you could be the bicha then, in Folsom! Now get out
and I'll forget about your breaking and entering."

He walked over, shoved his face into mine, and snarled "You forgot about
our movie. Who's going to believe that the big pornstar didn't want to make
a sequel with her co-star?"

He pulled my towel down and pushed me onto the bed as Jack finished
snorting his lines loudly.

I looked up to observe Miguel's initial shock transmuting into a twisted
smirk. "Look here, cuz, Rios has grown a pussy and tits, and he lost that
tiny cock."

Jack joined Miguel in staring at my naked splendor. "Well fuck me!" Jack
exclaimed.

"Fuck you? I'm gonna fuck her instead."

"You can't," I said, and they both doubled up in mock laughter. "I mean, I
can't. It's not finished."

Miguel pulled my legs apart, and inspected me like he was checking the
underside of a car. He sniffed at me ostentatiously, and then said, "Looks
to me like you could use and oil change, and I got just the dipstick for
you."

"No, please, I'm too narrow inside!"

Miguel snarled, jumped atop me and shoved his fetid, naked groin in my
face. "You mean too narrow for this puny, soft cock. Suck it, you cunt!" he
yelled, grabbing my head and forcing my lips over his penis. He yanked my
head in the way I really hate, and I tried to avoid scraping his reedy cock
with my teeth while denying him the pleasures of a consensual blow job. But
it didn't matter: the sensation of degrading and punishing me was enough to
make him get hard.

Miguel's body had deteriorated from the wiry specimen I had known. His
muscles had atrophied, his skin looked pasty, and it was covered with
elaborate tattoos: a devil's head, emblazoned with the slogan "Born to Be
Bad" on his stomach; a counterpart to the tattoo that he had forced on
Marta; and, of course, 666's, XVIII's, and ordinary 18's like the ones I
had seen on Lucille Street. His once striking face had begun to whither,
showing the swift erosion brought by constant coke use; his drugging had
given him new acne scars atop his older field of pockmarks.

As he got ready to mount me, I heard Jack say, "Dincha tell me that we
should use condoms when were rapin'?"

Miguel laughed and said, "Remember, it's not a rape, stupid. It's a
repeat!" Then his cock found my vaginal opening and he rammed it in.

He was small enough so that my outer vagina, the part that had been
fashioned from my own penile skin, was just able to accommodate him. But he
banged against my inner ring, and I gasped and my body shuddered
reflexively. "What the fuck is that, your cherry?" I was hurt speechless
and averted my eyes; he slapped me and said, "I'm talking to you
bitch. Whaddya got, a two-inch pussy?"

"I told you I'm not done inside," I moaned.

He withdrew his cock, saying, "Jack, find me something to lube her up
with. I gotta check this out." He hissed in my ear, "I'm gonna show you how
I'm gonna fuck up the whore and your bastard baby."  I started to protest,
but he silenced me with a stinging slap.

Jack returned with a tube of my mom's face cream, and Miguel stuffed the
end in my vagina and squeezed a load of the product inside. The cool, silky
moisturizer filled me and he began stabbing his finger in and out of my
vagina. When he reached the ring of scar tissue, he pushed through and I
twitched in agony. As he ran his finger back and forth through my inner
wound he said, "That's some cherry you got for me to pop."

As he bent over me, my body involuntarily rebelled, as if it were recalling
the torment that Alec's smaller tool had inflicted. I clamped my slender
thighs and tried to sit up, but Miguel forced my legs apart. He ordered
Jack, "Hold her arms down."

Jack knelt over my head, pinning my arms to the bed under his knees. "Great
idea, Miguel. Now she can suck me while you're doing her pussy." He dangled
his cock into my mouth. It reminded me alarmingly how much larger his cock
was than Miguel's.

Miguel smeared his cock with excess face cream and plunged inside me. This
time, he slid in easily to the taut well of pain within me, and then pushed
through it into my deepest recesses, to the inner sanctum where, until
then, only the tentative, careful probing of my smallest stent had
reached. I felt as though a spear had impaled me from below.

"Whoo, hee," I heard Miguel shout with glee. "That's what I call a tight
pussy." The ring snapped shut as his cock head retracted past it, but he
instantly reversed course and rammed back through, unleashing a fresh jolt
of agony.

The pain was so intense I started to dissociate. I lapsed into fantasy. I
was the Gallic wife of a Roman centurion, captured as a child in an old
battle, and taken as his field wife. Now, my hero was fallen on the
battlefield, and I was being turned out--raped-- with a spear by one of
Attila's horde in a hideous victory ritual. I cried out in primal anguish,
but all Miguel said was, "Shut the fuck up," and covered my face with a
pillow.

Now the sounds of my ordeal were muffled, and I could not breathe. I shook
my head furiously, trying to find air pockets in the folds of the pillow
pressed over my face and lips. God, I thought, they are going to suffocate
me. I would die and never experience the joy of holding Alyssa, the one for
whom I had made this sacrifice.

Now, in my delirium, the agony of Miguel's repeated breaches of my ring
became the pangs of her birth.  Like a nineteenth century bride, I would
die in this childbirth, and my baby would become an orphan.

Just as I felt my life begin to spiral away into oblivion, the pressure of
the suffocating pillow relaxed. My arms were freed and then Miguel's
hateful cock ripped past the ring and did not re-enter.

As the red spots before my eyes cleared, I saw one figure grabbing a pile
of clothes and running while two others struggled in hand-to-hand combat. I
heard the snap of bone and a howl of pain, and one of the fighters
collapsed to the floor as the other ran out in pursuit of the first
fugitive. Then, from the yard, I heard an angry shout, followed by the
"pop, pop, pop" of a small-caliber weapon.

I staggered to my feet, and looked at the crumpled body of Jack on the
floor, still howling with pain. The lower part of his left leg was
hideously askew below the knee. He looked up at me and begged, "Help me,"
but I pulled a sheet around me to see what horrors awaited me in the yard.

Near the fence I saw another crumpled body. It was Seth. I ran to him,
cradled his limp head in my arms, and asked, "Are you hurt?"

In a soft whisper, he answered, "Sorry, so sorry." Then life faded forever
from his peaceful face. I set him down gently and ran to the fence. I heard
the sound of footsteps crashing through the brush toward the street that
wound down the hillside. It was Miguel, I felt sure, making his escape.

I ran to the phone, called 911, and after an infuriating wait I reported to
the operator, "There's been a break- in and a shooting, send police and
ambulances, one of the perps is still here, hurt."

The operator reacted with surreal calm: just another Saturday night
incident in L.A. When I hung up with her, I noticed the light flashing on
my mom's message machine. I rolled back the tape and played the message. It
was Seth. "Hi, I guess you're not there yet. It's about 10:30, my shift
finishes at 11:00, so I guess I just stop by and see you. I missed you all
evening. I can't wait to see you again. Bye."

I let out a scream and broke into tears. I cried from a sense of loss at
the innocence and yearning in his last words to me. I hated myself for
having failed to check the message machine, and for having failed to warn
him away from the scene of my dangerous staged confrontation with Miguel.

I went outside and covered his body with my mom's duvet. I bent down to
kiss his lips, still pursed in the last smile that he gave me as he
apologized and died. I kissed his lips with lips wet with tears. I felt
that his lips were beginning to cool in the marine fog as it rolled over
the hilltops of Brentwood, extinguishing the stars from above, one by
one. It was a lousy night to have died, I thought grimly.

I returned to the bedroom to see Jack dragging his broken leg and
whimpering as he attempted a pathetic exit. "Help me," he begged
pathetically.

"Help you with what? Assisted suicide? Too good for you, Jack." I heard
sirens echoing in the canyon below. "It's too late, anyhow. You're toast."

"Miguel told me you were into it; that you were hot for him, and you wanted
us."

"Oh right, is that why you had to hold me down while he raped me?"

"I don't remember that," Jack said, feigning innocence. "You were getting
off on it. You wanted us to do you from both ends."

"Yea, right. Then how do you explain Seth being dead in the back yard?" I
said sarcastically.

"He's dead? Oh, shit. Who did that?"

"You know Miguel did it. You're lying," I said bitterly. "You'd better not
lie to the cops. You'll just dig your grave even deeper."

"It must have been self-defense. Seth got pissed when he saw you were doing
us, and did this kung fu job on my leg, and Miguel just ran, and when
Miguel saw him coming, he must have gotten scared, and used his
protection."

"You know you're lying, Jack."

"Well, we'll see who they believe, Ms. Trannie porno whore, or me, the
striving at-risk youth."

"Then why bother trying to escape?" I asked. "Just wait here for the police
to vindicate you. And why did Miguel run?"

I let that question hang a moment, and then a horrible answer struck
me. Miguel was on his way to Marta and Alyssa. The second kills were always
much easier than the first.

I dialed Marta, drumming my fingers as the phone rang. Marta answered in a
hushed tone.

"Hi Marta, it's Alexandra. Listen to me carefully. You have to get Alyssa
and leave you apartment right now. Do you understand?"

"Oh, no, I just got her to sleep. Later." She was half-asleep herself.

"Later is no good. Listen, Miguel was just here. He attacked me, and when
Seth tried to stop him, Miguel killed him. Do you understand me?"

Marta seemed confused. "Where are you?"

"I am at my mom's house. You have to come here right now, the police will
be here soon and you and Alyssa will be safe here. I am afraid Miguel will
come for you and Alyssa. He said some things tonight. I am afraid for you,
and now that he's killed once, he has nothing to lose."

"What do you mean, killed once."

"Marta, Miguel raped me and then he murdered Seth. You and Alyssa are in
great danger."

The repetition of this news roused her from her reverie. "Are you sure he's
coming after us?" she asked in a panic.

"I don't know, but after what's happened tonight, I don't want to take any
more chances. Don't even pack, just come, OK?" I gave her directions to my
mom's, and then I grabbed some clothes from my mom's closet. I resisted the
temptation to shower off the grime that Miguel had pawed over me or to raid
her medicine cabinet for drugs to calm my frazzled nerves.

When I took off the sheet in which I had wrapped myself, I noticed that it
was spotted with blood. I felt between my legs, and discovered to my horror
that blood was oozing from my battered vagina. I wondered whether, after
all my preparations and sacrifices, Dr. Sanguan would be able to operate on
my bloody vagina.

I started to feel sorry for myself, but then I recalled that this sacrifice
had been offered to achieve a greater good than my sexual functionality: it
was to preserve the blessing that fortune had given me in Alyssa, a child
of my own flesh. I calmed myself, and heard the doorbell buzzing. I told
Jack, "Wait right here so you can explain yourself to the police," and then
answered the front door.

Detective Sandra Escobar introduced herself and asked to come in. "Did you
call in the report?" she asked.

I nodded yes, and told her, "There's a boy with a broken leg in my mom's
room downstairs who was one of the two who attacked me. There's a dead boy
in the back yard who had tried to help me. The third boy, the killer, ran
away, but he had a car parked about four houses down the hill."

She turned and squinted into the dark, and said "It's gone."

"He's probably headed towards an apartment at Palms and Sawtelle, at ____
Sawtelle, unit _, to kill his girlfriend and her baby. I warned her to
leave and come here, but he followed me home and now I'm afraid he'll
follow her."

"Well that would be just perfect," Escobar said, "Because we're here."

 "I'm afraid he'll get there first, or shoot her while she's driving," I
said.

"You just have to trust us to do our jobs. Are you OK?"

"The one who escaped and the one with the broken leg were raping me, when
the dead boy came in. Then there was a fight. I'm not sure what happened
exactly. Now I'm bleeding a little down there."

"I have to send you to an ER for a rape kit," she said.

"But I need to wait for my friend. And can you please send a patrol car to
that apartment at Palms and Sawtelle."

"Show me around here," she said, and we walked downstairs as the first
ambulance pulled up.

I showed her the gate and Jack's body lying near the fence. "I covered him
with the quilt, I don't know why," I said with a sob. I pointed down the
steep defile through which I had heard Miguel run. I pointed out the French
doors, and admitted "I left them open. My mom had been out of town for a
few days, and it was stuffy in here." The patrol officers had Jack
handcuffed and were talking. "They're hearing a tale from him," I said
bitterly.

"We always do," she replied. I showed her the bloody sheet and the pillow
smudged with my makeup, which she tagged and put in evidence bags. I played
the tape on the message machine, and she tagged and bagged that too. Then,
after the patrol officers had taken Jack away, I confided, "There's one
more thing," and pulled the iBook from its hiding place. "There's a
recording of the whole thing on this."

Escobar stared at me with a look of incredulity and suspicion. I explained:
"Seth--he's the dead boy who you hear on the message machine--was coming to
see me and I'm leaving to study overseas in a couple of days. So I was
going to put on my sexiest lingerie and make him a special good-bye present
to remember me by, just in case his memory of me started to fade," I
fibbed. Escobar and I watched an image of us talking in a Quicktime window
on the iBook's screen.

She rolled her eyes. "You kids nowadays! Even if we'd had this technology,
I would never have thought of doing that. So this was recording the whole
time?" I nodded. "Then we'll have to take this too. And the camera and
microphones."

"I need it back in a few days for my trip," I said.

"Our computer geeks just take an image of the hard drive and give it
back. Now shut it off, please." I terminated the application and powered
down the machine. Now there were more investigators descending on the
scene. Escobar told me "I have to supervise here, but we'll take care of
your friend when she shows up."

A patrol officer drove me down to Santa Monica UCLA hospital's ER and
turned me over to their rape unit.  Leah Rodriguez, a plump, brusque young
nurse, took my vitals and a blood sample, and then said, "I'm sorry, but
you have to disrobe for this and lie down in the stirrups."

"I know, unfortunately."

She gave me a sympathetic smile. "You'd be surprised how many repeat
customers we get in here. Then you know the routine. First, I need to
individually bag each article of your clothing."

"When it all happened, I had just gotten out of the shower, and I gave what
I put on to the detective."

She nodded, and said, "First let's start with your fingernails." She probed
under my neatly manicured nails with a wooden splint, scraping her findings
onto white paper.

"Was there oral-genital contact?" she asked. I nodded, and she collected
two swabs from my mouth and a sample of saliva.

"Was there anal penetration?" I shook my head. She went on, "I'm sorry, but
I need to hair from your scalp." I yanked a platinum strand and gave it to
her.

"Now I need you to pull a pubic hair, and I need to comb your pubic region
to recover any foreign hair."

"Ah, that's going to be a problem," I said. She looked scandalized by my
clean-shaven pubes, so I said, "I just shaved down there. I know it's kind
of strange, but I like the way it feels."

She examined me for blood and semen stains, and moistened a gauze pad and
wiped around my vagina, took some notes, and then set the pads aside.

"OK", she said, "Next we are going to do pretty much a normal vaginal
exam. I need to take a few vaginal smears for these microscope slides."

"Go ahead," and then, noticing the surprised look on her face, I said "But
it's not going to be a normal vaginal exam."

She was speechless, so I said, "I'm a post-operative transsexual. Do you
want me to tell you what you are looking at?"

"I know what I am looking at: I've just never seen anything like yours
before. Let me just take these swabs, and then I think I'd better call the
doctor." She swabbed my vagina and then left, blushing brightly.

Dr. Vishnu Patel entered, tapping my chart with his pencil. "Nurse
Rodriguez tells me we have a very interesting case in you, er, Miss Rios."

"Doctor Patel, I am really not happy with this freak-show approach to
emergency medicine. Remember I'm here because I was raped. You're not
supposed to rape me emotionally."

"My apologies for Nurse Rodriguez behavior and my own flippancy. I want to
assure you we take your care most seriously. But your anatomy presents us
with unique challenges. Tell me about your surgery."

"My vagina is a composite of scrotal skin on the exterior, penile skin at
the near end and a colon segment at the distal end."

"May I?" he asked as he gently spread my labia. "My compliments to your
surgeon. Your exterior is nearly perfectly proportioned. You lack labia
minora, but other than that, you look perfect. And uninjured, except some
typical bruising and abrasions."

"Thank you, but I'm more worried about my interior." I flinched as he
inserted a speculum. [The doctor assured me he would be as gentle as
possible; still, I shuddered every time the jaws widened with another sharp
click.

The doctor apologized that the speculum was absolutely necessary if he was
to examine me the way his protocols demanded.]"Let's see. The rape kit
protocols prohibit lubrication, and yet you are quite lubricated. Did Miss
Rodriguez use lubricant?"

"No, but my rapist did," I replied. "Is that a problem?"

"Not really. I see the junction between the two tissue types. Are you able
to achieve penetration past that point?"

"Just with my narrowest stent. But my attacker did tonight. Is it OK?"

"Abraded and oozing a little capillary blood. But otherwise it's
fine. Rather painful, I imagine." He looked up at me with gentle eyes. As
my eyes met his they filled with tears of repressed anxiety and relief.

"I'm supposed to have surgery in a few days to fix it for good. Now it's
ruined."

"I wouldn't jump to conclusions," Dr. Patel said calmly. "It's your
surgeon's decision, but with a few days of topical antibacterial cream and
a systemic antibiotic, I wouldn't think surgery would be out of the
question. I'll get you some samples straight away."

"Dr. Patel, can I ask a favor?"

"Depends on what."

"Will you order a DNA test on me."

"I could. It's not customary in all rape cases, but it is not unheard
of. Why?"

"It's a long story, but it might help resolve an issue between me and the
person who attacked me."

"If that's the case, why not?"

"And I need a test on someone else too."

"I'm afraid not. We need consent or court order."

"Consent definitely won't be a problem."

"Well, then I might be able to work something out. Call me before you
leave."

"Thanks, Doc. You're very nice. And please tell Nurse Rodriguez that I
don't bite."

He laughed and said good-bye. Once alone, I began to fret about Marta and
Alyssa. Miguel had escaped into the gang underground of Los Angeles,
subculture of hundreds of thousands of evil souls. He could emerge in a
moment to exact revenge against me through Marta or Alyssa. Seth's
well-meaning intervention had saved me further degradation or even harm,
but had given Miguel an even greater motive and opportunity to escape and
exact retribution.

If only I had checked the message machine, I could have saved Seth's
life. Then, Miguel and Jack would have finished with me, and then gone off
smugly secure in the belief that my consent, evidenced by our roles in
"Transsexual Hookers," was a defense for their crime.

Now that he had murdered Seth, Miguel was a hunted but dangerous animal. I,
through my inattention, had made him a murderer and then set him free. I
berated myself bitterly from causing Seth's death and allowing Miguel's
flight from justice.

Miguel would remain a mortal danger to Marta and Alyssa. They could flee
their apartment tonight, but they would have to return, and there Miguel
would find them and kill them.

My mind spun with scenarios of doom and disaster. My plan to protect Alyssa
and Marta had failed, but I could not remain with them in Los Angeles. I
really needed to go to Thailand, for surgical, educational, and financial
reasons.

My reverie was interrupted by the peremptory voice of Nurse Rodriguez, who
was admonishing someone, "You are fifteen minutes late for visiting hours,
and children under four are not allowed. You'll have to come back tomorrow,
alone."

Marta's voice responded, "Let us through! We need to see my friend now."

I interrupted, "Nurse Rodriguez, please call Doctor Patel for me. I had one
more thing to discuss, and I am ready for him now."

She peeked her head in the curtain, and said in a cowed voice, "I'll find
him. In the meantime, I guess it's OK, as long as the baby is quiet."

Marta rushed in and gave me a hug, with Alyssa pressed between us, and I
felt a little tug from her plump little arms as Marta pulled away. It was
the loveliest sensation of my life. "God, I was so worried about you," I
said.

"The detective told me what happened. I can't believe that pig raped you
again, and killed poor Seth. He had tried so hard to get straightened out,
and now he's gone."

"I'm just glad you're safe. When I called you, I was sure he was coming for
you and Alyssa. He knows she's not his, and he thinks that she is ours."

"And the little dog ran away, leaving his friend to take the rap."

"But the dog can still bite. Marta, you can't go back to that apartment," I
warned.

"But it's so hard to find one, they are so expensive."

Nurse Rodriguez voice rose again in the corridor. "You are too late, and
she already has visitors."

"I am her mother, for goodness sakes," my mom said with irritation.

"Nurse Rodriguez, will you please get Dr. Patel," I said impatiently.

"Right away," she said apologetically. "OK, you can visit for a few minutes
until the doctor arrives," she conceded.

"Oh, Alex dear, I just got back from the Oaks, and I stopped by the house
to get some things, and there were police, and ambulances, and they told me
you were here, and I was so worried and I am so happy you are OK," she said
in one breath.

I smiled, and tried to catalog the surgical enhancements she'd had since
I'd seen her in December. She looked fabulous: actually, a lot like me.

"I'm alive, but OK would be pushing it," I replied. It had been a long,
tough day.

"Well, I am just thankful for that. The police told me that there was a
dead boy in our yard. That's horrible.  I don't know how I'll ever sleep
there again." She looked up and smiled at her companion, a prototypic
chisel-jawed West L.A. plutocrat. "Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot
introductions. This is my, er, friend, Cole. And Cole, this is my, er,
daughter, Alex. Alexandra."

I always wonder about guys who have last names for first names, but Cole
looked like an improvement on my dad. I held out my hand and gave him a
feminine handshake.

His skin was burnished by the sun to California gold; his hand was strong
and tough with the calluses of thousands of perfect golf swings. "Pleased
to meet you, young lady," Cole said with a deep, mellifluous voice,
redolent of television voice-overs.

Mom had finally noticed Marta and Alyssa, and she said censoriously, "And
now you should introduce us to you friend, Alex."

"I was waiting for a chance. This is my friend Marta, you know, from high
school." My mom gave me a blank look, as if signaling me for further
clue. "And this is Alyssa, your granddaughter."

My mom collapsed, staggered backward, and let Cole ease her into a
chair. She began sobbing quietly, as Marta looked on with bemusement.

"Are you OK, Mom?" I asked.

"Yes, dear, I'm fine. It's just that, I'm too young to be a grandmother."
With that, she burst into tears. Cole comforted her, and she gradually got
control of herself, looked at me, and then burst into tears again.

"Oh darling, I have been such a terrible mother, practically abandoning you
as you've struggled with your, er, issues. I've just been so busy dealing
with my own. But now that Cole and I have settled down, I have time for
you. I'll do anything I can to help you."

Marta and I made eye contact and communicated silently as if on an
agreed-upon plan.

I was about to accept my mother's offer when Dr. Patel interrupted our
touching scene by asking, "Did you want to see me?"

"Yes, it's about the test we discussed before. The subject, and the
consenting adult for the other part of the DNA match test, are both here."

Patel's gentle brown eyes widened. "I see," he said. "You are the mother,"
he asked Marta, as his eyes darted between us.

"Yes," she said, as she searched my face for direction.

"It's just a finger prick, but I need you to read and sign this form for
the test, and to release the results."

I signaled assent, and she said, "I think I'd like my friend to look it
over. She's better with technicalities than I am."

"Fine," Dr. Patel said as she gave me the forms. "Just fill it out and sign
it and give it to the nurse when you're done. Alexandra, I hate to
interrupt your reunion, but if we can just go over a few things, I'm ready
to discharge you." He gave a politely dismissive glance to my Mom and
Marta, and told them, "It'll just be a few minutes. You can wait in the
cafeteria."

When we were alone, Patel went over the aftercare. There had been no
discernible release of semen in my vagina, so the AIDS risk was minuscule:
too small to justify a prophylactic antiviral sequence. The trauma was
consistent with what was typical in violent sexual assaults. I was cleared
to fly.

"May I understand that you want the child's DNA matched against yours?'

"That's right. I told you I was an atypical case," I reminded him.

He let out a low whistle. "Really one for the books."

"My book, not yours, right?"

"Absolutely."

We shook hands and I met my mom and Marta in the cafeteria. Mom was
chatting affably with a tolerant Marta as Alyssa dozed and Cole looked
confused. I rode back to Brentwood in the back seat of Cole's S- Class Benz
as Marta chugged behind in her old Camry.

"Mom," I said firmly, "there is something you could do to help me."

"Anything, darling, what is it?"

"Well, I still have to go to do that research in Thailand, and Marta and
Alyssa aren't really safe at all at their apartment while Miguel and his
gang are on the loose. So, I wonder if they couldn't stay with you."

"Of course, I'm hardly ever there, you probably noticed." Actually, to
judge by her supply of clothes and makeup, she had never left, but the
refrigerator had been almost empty.

"Well, that's very kind, but not really practical. Remember, Miguel was
there tonight. He killed someone in your back yard!"

"You're right, and that's the final straw. I'll just sell it. Cole, you can
make the arrangements for me, can't you darling?"

He harrumphed.

I went on "What I meant was, could they stay with you, like, where you and
Cole are living?"

"Oh dear," mom equivocated, but Cole, manfully taking charge of the crisis,
said, "I don't see why we couldn't move them into the guest house out back
of the pool. Baby's not gonna be crawling for a bit, and we can fence the
poool when she does. They'll be safe there. We're gated and guarded in
Hidden Valley, y'know," he gallumphed in that cocksure, male style that I
half remembered.

"That's so great of you, Cole," I said graciously.

"I'd do anything to help this lovely little lady," he affirmed.

Mom, Marta and I spent the next day screaming around the West Valley in
Cole's Excursion, spending thousands on toys, clothes, furniture, and
baby-proofing for Marta's new home. The next day, Marta unpacked while I
assembled playpens, swings, cribs, and strollers. Cole came by to lend a
hand but just whistled admiration at my command of the directions,
diagrams, and light assembly work involved in equipping the modern baby.

You, dear readers, know how I came to possess this facility, and somehow
I'll figure out a way to tell him, someday.

My mom came by to tell me the nanny interviewing schedule she had laid out
for the next day.

"Hello," I reminded her. "I'm flying to Thailand tomorrow, remember?"

"Oh, darling, I'd forgotten you were leaving so soon. We really must choose
a nanny. Marta needs to keep working, and I can't handle Alyssa all by
myself. I need my time, you know: the trainer, yoga, my book group, and the
course I'm teaching."

"I know. But look, I think I can just trust your judgment on the nannies. I
mean, A, what do I know about nannies, and B, you always had great nannies
for me. So, just do it! OK?"

She seemed pleased that she had my confidence.

Cole insisted on driving me down to LAX.  Marta and Mom wanted to come, and
bring Alyssa, who had just started eating baby food vegetables, so she
pooped about five times on the way and we had to stop every time. By the
time we had all kissed and hugged for the millionth time, I barely made it
through the godawful security in time to catch the plane.

I plopped down next to Tran, flushed and panting, the last one to board and
with no overhead storage space left available in which to stow my trusty
iBook. She smiled and said, "You're not going to believe the crazy time I
had with my cousins in Long Beach."

I touched her forearm and replied, "It's a good thing that it's a long
flight to Bangkok, Tran."

TBC

  My thanks to the indispensable riottgrrl whose invaluable edits and
insights helped me immeasurably.  Thanks also to my friend Debra.