Copyright 2019
On Friday evening, Frank Martin served hot-from-the-oven crusty sourdough bread and his Cimarron Salad. The celebratory dinner deserved his hand-painted dishes, Talavera style purchased from Dolores Hidalgo, Guanajuato. The wine was his Copper Top, Syrah, 2015, a dark full-bodied wine with a hint of blueberry and a spicy peppery aftertaste. He made sugar-free, hand-squeezed lemonade for Savannah.
Savannah nibbled on a half plate of Cimarron salad while pawing through two days of photos, just back from processing in Tucson.
“The sunset photos are hot, Mom.”
Karen teased with a drawn-out sigh. “Only a scamp like you would say ‘hot’ at the dinner table.”
The photos featured a glorious desert sunset, brilliant gold and fiery red. Silhouetted, Candelerio Peak and Copper Mountain turned into distant beacons; they were phallic if one wanted to find sexual meaning.
“Me, scamp?” With an experienced headshake, Savannah flaunted a mane of long curly hair.
“For one thing, your pose is proactively provocative,” Karen added, her fork poised with a chunk of avocado fresh from the garden.
In all but three photos, Savannah’s expression leaned toward wicked, teasing, or simply mischievous; the genderless, yet sensual child without shame. There was no white T-shirt in the last dozen photos. With the jacket unbuttoned, one saw Savannah’s bare chest, two tiny nipples, a flat little tummy, and an innie bellybutton.
Everyone at the table knew Savannah was beguiling in front of a camera, not just fashion photographers’ cameras, any camera.
“I guess.” Precocious Savannah met Mom halfway with a disingenuous smile. “It doesn’t count as a crotch shot, Mom. You can’t see anything.”
There was history in that comment alone.
With the most revealing photo in hand, Savannah showed it around the table. She paused when she came to Bruce, a smirk lurking behind the photograph because he’d taken it less than 24 hours earlier.
Bruce Thorpe was 34, an expatriate Canadian and Eric Perlmann’s favorite photographer, his live-in boyfriend eight years earlier. Photo #242 was his favorite. If he had anything to do with it, that photo was destined for the cover of the TOMBOY Spring into Spring catalog.
Photo #242 exposed skin, flawless from ribs to bony little hips, to the tempting junction of thigh and lower belly. He’d posed Savannah leaning against the corral fence, slender fingers toying with a vaguely symbolic lariat draped from the second-from-the-top rail. On her other side, her pony saddle hung over the top rail. The pose was a side profile, as much to show style and fit as golden-brown coils reaching to the middle of Savannah’s back. The jeans were so low, he had Savannah push pastel-purple panties out of sight, revealing the start of a shadowy swelling where the jeans’ waist wasn’t tight enough.
“Eric will love the pose,” Bruce said with authority.
It was an excuse of a kind for what surely bordered on child porn, unbridled sexual desire in a nine-year-old fashion brat.
“Whose side are you on?” Karen quipped.
He glanced at the photo again before forking a slice of zesty chicken from his second serving of salad. He much preferred medium-rare hamburgers with blue cheese.
“There’s not an ounce of fat on his cute little nymph.”
‘Not an ounce’ was a slight exaggeration; everyone at the table was used to seeing thin ripples of skin when Savannah leaned over.
“For TOMBOY, skinny is market driven,” Karen said, dismissing anything Bruce or anyone else might have to say on the matter.
With a quarter of America’s straight kids failing the pinch test, Karen designed for the kids who weren’t straight, or overweight. At home, she walked the same walk. Savannah was seriously slender. She was also petite, several inches shorter than the average nine-and-half-year-old.
“I’m not taking sides. All that matters to a photographer are results,” Bruce chuckled, raising his wine glass. “The bonus is she’s a joy to behold, graceful and gorgeous.”
Savannah continued around the table, gleefully showing off the photo, her flimsy gold wrist bracelet loose on her wrist. However, only her grandfather took special note of the bracelet. It was a shackle forever binding them together.
‘Graceful and gorgeous’ was just fine in Frank Martin’s opinion, although he’d never admit it aloud. As Savannah’ photos went, #242 was one of the best, yet he had to say something.
“Provocative; now there’s a word you don’t hear around these parts. The saddle’s a nice touch, though.”
Savannah snickered without looking up. The saddle was her idea, inspired authenticity. Her grandfather had spent hours polishing it, as shiny as her hair in the photo.
“You’re not helping, Dad,” Karen rebuked, in a very good mood after two glasses of Syrah.
Having finished the final day of shooting TOMBOY Range outfits, her job was done. She was already working on Fall/Winter. There were pencil sketches for TOMBOY ROCK all over the living room.
“Which photo would you pick, Grampa?”
Savannah was somewhere between soprano and treble, with a mixed-up accent. Starting life in Savannah, Georgia, moving to Midtown Manhattan, and going to a Montessori school with three Italian teachers, competed with spending holidays with her grandfather in southern Arizona.
Frank Martin stopped watching a buzzing black fly. A new one intruded every time someone went outside. It landed on the salad bowl. Not a moment too soon, it left for the kitchen.
He swallowed phlegm, ahemed, and hedged. “Well, they’re all good, Sanny.”
Savannah held up a finger, a little flagpole to tease, or deliberating showing him her delicate gold wrist bracelet. With Savannah, one never knew for certain. This time, she wrinkled her brow, not frowning, obstinate, and shrewd like her mom.
“You have a favorite, Grampa, I know you do.”
Everyone watched anxiously as Grampa shuffled through the nearest stack of photos—Savannah valued his opinion, even if no one else did. Among 20 ‘throw-outs,’ he selected a cowboy pose, one hand on her hip, her other hand holding the lariat. With the Range casual ensemble, jacket, T-shirt, and jeans, the only exposed skin, besides hands, was a swathe around Savannah’s neck. The silver pendant on her leather-cord choker was aptly ambiguous, ankh or Venus symbol, life or female; who knew.
“Kinda boring,” Savannah giggled. “I’m sexy, Grampa; why hide it?”
“You’re sensuous, Sweetie. That’s different.” Karen looked smug.
Unlike most parents, she never denied her child was a sensual being. Even as a toddler, Savannah wasn’t innocent, always brazenly physical, both mother and grandfather bombarded with shameless snuggles, and very personal questions.
“Some of the poses are rather suggestive.” It was one of those times Frank Martin should’ve kept his mouth shut.
Bruce got involved. “Sensuous and suggestive? What does that make our little fashion brat?”
Sitting across from Savannah, Bruce’s assistant, Randal, emphatically fluttered his eyes. It would’ve been amusing if Savannah was older. He segued to rubbing his index finger thoughtfully across his lips as he studied photos on the table.
“You want my opinion, any kid this smooth is uber sexy,” he muttered.
It was loud enough for everyone at the table to hear. Anyone who cared to look at the photos could see what he was talking about. Some kids had bunny fluff; some kids had peach fuzz; some kids had a gossamer sheen; Savannah had nothing. Nothing but a sleek expanse of utterly smooth creamy skin, occasionally pimpled with goose flesh.
“Pollito is uber sexy,” Bruce snickered. “Savannah is sensuous with flair.”
‘Pollito’ was 13-year-old Raoul Ramírez, the effeminate post-puberty model for TOMBOY. He was Cuban-Hispanic, born to dance disco. From the way he acted around other males, he was also a born bottom.
“Some shots are a bit erotic,” Karen conceded.
She gave her father another threatening look. With awful timing, Photo #154 was right in front of him. It had been there ever since she consigned it to ‘private,’ what Randal charmingly referred to as the ‘pedo-pile.’
Photo #154 was the last photo Bruce recorded on the first day. Dusky and chilly with a faint penumbra in the west, mostly from cloud reflections; there was just enough light to see Savannah was apprehensive, shivery among carefully construed shadows. Her only clothing was a TOMBOY Range denim shirt. Its long tails hung to mid-thigh, with a gap large enough to see there was no underwear. Nine years and five months old, and the shirt was open to the last platinum-plated stud, little fingers toying, only a moment away from unfastening. With it unbuttoned, everything would be on show.
With shirtsleeves rolled past elbows, Savannah’s slim, lightly tanned arms were like aged ivory, burnished by loving hands. Not quite fully exposed, Savannah’s pale front was a Carrara white-marble statue with myriad minute pimples, innocent, vulnerable, and intense. Savannah’s ever-present silver pendant was particularly prescient.
Everyone at the table knew Photo #154 was destined for Perlmann’s private collection.
“I think you shave Savannah every morning, Karen,” Randal teased, swilling Syrah. “If you don’t now, sooner or later you’ll have to start.”
Like #154, his comment verged on vulgarity, enough that Karen and her father exchanged glances. She’d already told him that Randal regularly visited Perlmann’s Midtown Manhattan penthouse, often staying overnight. Even if he wasn’t the current boyfriend, her message was clear; say nothing in his presence that you didn’t want getting back to the boss.
She smiled slightly, intentionally vague like her child’s gender. “Have you shaved Raoul yet, Randal? Or is he still too tiny for you?”
Randal spluttered into in his stemless wineglass.
“Well, he’s right about one thing, Karen; for TOMBOYpre, puberty is an issue,” Bruce interrupted. “Sooner or later, things start changing.”
Karen turned to him. “That from Eric, or you?”
“You don’t know Eric like I do, Karen. To say he’s a little perturbed about the next few years is putting it mildly.”
Randal snorted. “Worried sick is more accurate. Savannah’s his best model by far.”
Seeming indifferent, Savannah picked among baby greens, hunting down two pine nuts before looking up. “Who knows, I could start puberty late.”
<<>>
With Bruce and Randal on their way back to their motel in Tucson, Karen cornered her father in the kitchen.
“Dad, we need to talk.”
Frank stopped washing dishes in the sink. Hand-painted ceramic did not go in the dishwasher. She beckoned him over to the island counter, pulled out a stool for herself, and sat with her arms folded.
“You’ve always been very understanding, Dad. Ever since I got knocked up, you’ve been there for me, helping with money, taking care of the Sav when I had projects due.”
Frank nodded, fairly certain where this was heading. It wasn’t the first time they’d discussed transitioning. Karen was all for it. He was dead against it.
“Savannah knows what’s right for Savannah, Dad.”
Frank resisted nodding again. “Was there ever a choice?”
“I knew you’d say that.”
“The birth certificate says ‘boy.’” Usually, he spelled it out to annoy her.
“You’ve been around Savannah enough to know there was never a choice. It’s not what I want, or you want, Dad; it’s what she wants.”
“At nine?”
Karen rubbed her eyes tiredly. “You think I don’t worry about that?” She sighed. “What Bruce said tonight, about puberty…”
“Savannah’s already started?”
Panic inherent; there was a range for starting puberty; 95 percent fell within two standard deviations of the mean, yet it didn’t seem possible, not at nine going on ten.
“You’ve seen her in the bath tub often enough,” Karen snickered. After Frank looked at her blankly, she added, “Not from what I’ve seen.”
“What should I look for?” He gave a silly snicker, trying to make it sound unwitting.
“For what it’s worth, Dad, the nuts get a little bit bigger about a year before it starts.”
“So there’s still time.” Panicky, Martin grasped at straws. “The doctor in Boston said he’d prescribe drugs to delay it.”
“Savannah doesn’t want blockers, Dad. Her mind is made up about having the operation.”
Karen and Savannah were an invincible team when it came to ‘the operation.’ They shared a mantra, ‘sooner is better.’
“Maybe so, but there’s not a hospital in this country that will do anything about it. At 16, maybe. At nine and a half, no fucking way!”
“There are clinics in Thailand, Dad. No questions asked. It takes a week to ten days, and the problem goes away, for good.” Karen made it sound simple. Before Frank could ask, she added, “Two air tickets plus $10,000 to get started.”
“Thailand? There are flies everywhere. God only knows if the doctors actually attended med school. You’re crazy.”
“We wouldn’t go there, Dad. I’m just saying, that’s all. There are other clinics that don’t follow our rules. They’re safer, and much closer.”
“You have somewhere in mind?”
“Mickey’s mom took her to Mexico.”
Frank grumbled something about liberal Democrats. “Mickey’s different.”
Eleven-year-old Mickey was Savannah’s zany friend from Midtown Montessori.
“She’s changed a lot in two years, Dad. Once Savannah’s done, we’ll all be happier.”
Frank gaped at her, mouth gaping at ‘done.’ His point of view, happiness was a matter of degree. You lived with the hand you were dealt. For a five-card hand, even a pair of twos could be a winning hand. However, it wasn’t something a doting, very-biased mother should hear.
Finally, he muttered, “If Savannah wants to switch…”
He was going to say ‘so be it. However, he wouldn’t pay one cent to help out. One look at Karen’s face and he gave up.
“… starting puberty is the worst thing that can happen,” Karen finished before he got started.
By then, Frank was about to say, ‘he’d pay half if they used an American doctor.’ No one was more aware than he was that puberty separated boys from girls in countless ways.
As if seeing the chink in his armor, she went on. “The good news is at Savannah’s age, it’s not a matter of all or nothing.”
“What, exactly, does that mean?”
Frank didn’t hear Savannah enter the kitchen—with little bare feet padding across ceramic tile, there was almost no sound at all. When he pivoted on his stool, Savannah was within reach, ubiquitous iPhone in hand, wearing the extra-long T-shirt from the Range ensemble. It hung loosely, making everything apparent, if not visible.
“I like your night shirt,” he managed to get out.
It was a standing joke for the last two days, guaranteed to turn Savannah into 60-plus wriggling pounds of tickles and giggles whenever he pretended to yank up the T-shirt, supposedly to see what she had on underneath.
Savannah tried to smile, blinking too much to be happy, right on the edge of breaking down and bawling, which was normal when Mom and Grampa argued about her ’gender issues.’
“Mickey’s doctor in Mexico is American,” Karen continued. “He moved his clinic there eight years ago when he got tired of shooting kids full of progestin.”
“You said Mickey’s gorgeous, Grampa,” Savannah reminded him.
Frank felt his face get hotter. Something buzzed in his ear. He swatted impulsively.
Karen smiled at ‘gorgeous.’ Mickey was pretty; Savannah was gorgeous, and built just right.
“He’ll operate if the child is stable.”
‘Stable’ meant a consistent and strong gender identity, a child whose psyche had switched genders, and who was emotionally prepared to transition.
“How can you tell at nine?” Frank protested. “Mickey especially. The kid’s looney at the best of times.”
It was mostly to cheer up Savannah. Mickey wasn’t looney, just very overt. She was more ‘Barbie girl’ than Savannah. She dressed up, too; Fashion Brat in glitter, satin, and lace, not dresses, shimmering blouses and sexy pants to show off her androgynous body.
“Every doctor I’ve talked to says it’s better for them to be hormone neutral for a few years, get things settled down before the big decision.”
“So blockers?” Frank queried, his fingers crossed out of sight.
“It’s one option. The sooner she starts, the less risk of rescission,” Karen added.
Putting things back to the way they’d been before the operation was impossible. Even the desire to switch back could be devastating.
“It’s all very complicated,” Frank allowed, certain that Karen was already in communication with the doctor.
Savannah sniffled, coming a few inches closer. “He does kids like me in three or four stages, Grampa.”
“That many, huh?” He shook his head. Karen and Savannah were so calm about it that it boggled the mind. “How much, Karen?”
“Dad!” Karen was exasperated. “If you must know, the initial stage is between $2,000 and $5,000. Most kids combine the first two stages. It’s over $15,000. There’s plastic surgery involved.”
“Don’t be mad at me, Grampa. Please don’t.”
Frank pulled Savannah closer, silky moist cheek against his chest, his right hand tenderly, fondly, patting T-shirt-clad butt. He felt like a pervert, not even cute little bikini panties to get in the way.
“The important thing is we don’t have to do everything in one go,” Karen said.
Savannah’s feelings on the matter came out in a melodic melodramatic whisper. “I can’t go through puberty, Grampa. It ruins everything.”
Frank Martin nuzzled a little ear, trying to see what was on her iPhone. It was harmless enough, just lines of text too far away to actually read. With a single finger tap, her screen switched to a crowbar whacking at the screen. Another tap, a chainsaw started up. Savannah grinned up at him and squelched the sound.
Hidden among long golden curls, Savannah’s delicate gold earring brushed his nose even as the awful truth roared in his head. He loved Savannah, the boy. Giggly and girlish was part of the charm; he could deal with that if he put his mind to it. It was the playful, energetic part, always teasing, sometimes flirting part that he adored.
“The initial stage stops puberty in its tracks,” Karen said distantly.
Nine-year-old Savannah knew what ‘stop’ meant. So did Frank, all too well. Taking out testicles, it wasn’t only testosterone that got stopped. It was the end of the Martin line.
Frank joked when he felt inadequate. “So, clip and snip, and no injections, huh?”
Karen just nodded.
A very-determined Savannah gave her grandfather the stiff upper lip treatment. “I hate getting shots, Grampa.”
By then, her cellphone was in full destruct mode, with muffled gunshots, new holes appearing with every finger tap.
The ever-present cellphone didn’t seem to bother Karen. “It’s worth the money not to have the hassle, Dad.”
Not in Frank’s opinion. He’d be the first to agree that bravery was not Savannah’s strong suit. When it came to injections, she wailed at the first sign of a syringe. Worse still, was taking blood samples, of which there’d been many in recent years. However, monthly injections were minor compared to a risky surgery, recovery time, catching up on schoolwork, rescheduling photo shoots and fashion shows…
“The important thing is she won’t be making hormones. For an extra ten grand he does the second stage at the same time. It’s mostly aesthetic.” Before Frank could ask what that meant, Karen added, “A partial conversion with the available skin. It’s for a gender- conforming body image.”
Savannah stopped tapping cellphone destruction. “Mickey got both. Her vulva’s awesome. Mommy’s seen it. She’ll let you see it, too, if you want, Grampa.”
Frank rubbed his forehead, beyond disbelief. There’d been a time when he was curious about Mickey, especially after Savannah announced that Mickey wasn’t circumcised. Two weeks later, he garnered a glimpse in the hallway. Mickey had noticeably bigger testicles, otherwise about the same as Savannah, except for foreskin.
After that, he made a point of not going into the bathroom when the kids were bathing, or even together in Savannah’s bedroom.
He caught Karen’s eye. “Not a good idea, Sanny.” Besides, he didn’t love Mickey.
“This one is really funny, Grampa.” She held up her iPhone.
He nodded, not really paying attention to fracturing digital glass.
“Mickey said the third stage is mostly boobs and stuff. They do it after they induce puberty, so you look right,” Savannah added almost buoyantly.
“So the fourth stage is the big one, huh?” Frank said.
There was wisdom in retaining options, putting off *that* decision in case things changed.
Savannah actually smiled, really smiled. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“You have to sit down to pee after it, huh?”
“I already do, Grampa. The doctor wants me to be 16 before everything goes away.”
“Dad, I’m planning on going there when we leave here on Sunday.”
Before Frank could ask where ‘there’ is, Savannah climbed onto his lap, hugging tightly, her iPhone between them. Out of sheer desperation, he hugged back, as tightly as he could, squeezing Savannah, nuzzling long golden hair, hoping the cellphone screen didn’t break because he’d have to replace it.
“You my teddy bear?” he whispered.
Savannah nodded and settled back, hot little hands grasping his arms. So warm and soft, hair smelling like fresh orange blossoms, and Karen’s lavender perfume elsewhere, her little gold bracelet a constant reminder.
Karen gave both of them a strange look. It wasn’t as if Savannah didn’t cuddle with him every night, immediately after bath time, and again at bedtime. However, this trip, overt cuddles happened even more frequently, almost as if planned.
“The doctor requires an overnight visit to make sure she’s stable. It’s an examination and checkup, too.”
“Makes sense,” Frank agreed, reckoning two more days of missed school wouldn’t matter too much at the end of fourth grade. “If everything checks out?”
“We either come back, or we stay two extra nights.”
Lost for words, Frank hugged Savannah. Without warning, she gave him a kiss on the lips, wet, warm, and much too long. When she lifted her iPhone for a selfie-kiss, he pulled her arm into his chest, slightly shaking his head, hoping Karen didn’t notice.
“Before you ask, Dad, I’ve paid a $2,000 non-refundable deposit. It doesn’t mean we’re committed,” she added awkwardly.
“Sounds to me like you should be committed.”
“Bad joke, Dad. Both parents have to be there for counseling. The nurse said you could substitute,” Karen added, her tone as much as saying, ‘don’t let us down.’
“You’re almost my dad, Grampa,” Savannah murmured, playfully nuzzling around her grandpa’s right ear; at the same time trying to recover her iPhone from his grasp. “We have the same last name, and you’re not *that* old.”
“I’m no spring chicken, Sanny.”
Suddenly in a playful mode, Savannah licked his cheek. He felt like a randy teenager, making out in the back seat of the family Buick all over again.
“Bad teddy bear,” he whispered, hoping his daughter didn’t notice.
Either it didn’t bother Karen, or she preferred to ignore Savannah’s carrying-on. She went over to finish washing the dishes.
Not even trying to whisper, Savannah snickered, “You want more puppy licks, Grampa, you need to shave.”
With shock on her side, she deftly plucked her iPhone from his grasp. She wasn’t done teasing, jamming it against her crotch and giving him a mischievous ‘I dare you’ look.
Karen glanced back at giggles. Again, she ignored their shenanigans, just a hint of a smile. As soon as her back was turned, Savannah twisted round on Grampa’s lap and smooched him again, her iPhone-camera back at arm’s length.
Frank was far from naïve. He smooched back, bear-growling with sloppy kisses on her neck and ears. Savannah switched from sitting in his lap to straddling his thighs, both arms around him. He bear-hugged her, aware she was setting him up, getting into position for yet another shameless selfie. She slurped his lips, little tongue fully extended. They parted, and for a few moments, they gazed at each other, scarcely aware that Karen was only a few yards away at the sink.
“I weally wub you, Grampa,” Savannah whispered, moist lips pressed to his ear.
It was a prelude to grinding malleable kid-butt against hard grandpa-cock. It had never been so deliberate. No longer innocent, no longer teasing him, squirming on the lump under her bottom because she knew how to get what she wanted. Already hot, his face turned crimson.
“Can you drive us, Grampa? It’s only 523 miles.”