A Fly on the Wall

by Ganymede

A Fly on the Wall is the story of Savannah Martin, a ten-year-old fashion model, and the journey to change gender. With surgery in Mexico depending on meeting certain conditions, the responsibility falls on Grampa.

Vignette < < < You said you didn’t want a structured aesthetic. >>>>

According to Eric Perlmann, New Orleans in early January was the ideal time and place to shoot the Rage catalog, comfortably cool and no Mardi Gras mania. Frank drove from Arizona, 20 hours in two days, intending to spend another two days with Savannah after the photo shoot ended, and before school resumed.

He arrived, tired and hungry, at the hotel on St. Charles Avenue, in the garden district. It was gorgeous, resembling an antebellum mansion. Within, impeccable eclectic rooms and superior service awaited, and a cozy old-fashioned bar with happy hour. With a $5 mint julep in hand, Frank nibbled on curried shrimp until Mom and Savannah appeared.

He could tell there was a problem as soon as he saw Savannah. However, a moment later she launched herself into Grampa’s welcoming arms. He muttered something about it being only a week since she saw him at Christmas, yet he’d missed her more than ever; maybe it had something to do with happened in the barn on Christmas Eve.

As luck would have it, Karen turned away when Savannah smooched him on the cheek. In short order, a coquettish lick on his stubbly chin, a giggle, and she kissed him again. This time, her little wet tongue swiped his lips, no holding back.

Red-faced, Frank eased her down, planting her feet firmly on the floor before he hugged her. After hugs and hellos, they relocated along with Mom, to a table on the front verandah.

“Everything going okay?” he asked nervously, still hand in hand, now with her perched on his lap.

He could still feel her tongue, warm and wriggly like her fingers, like the rest of her body. Her firm little rump was right on top of his erection.

“New Orleans stinks, Grampa.” Savannah wrinkled her nose, fluttering eyes as she gazed up at him.

“I thought we talked about not being flirtatious,” Karen said, pointblank.

“I’m not flirtatious! Grampa knows I’m teasing.” She giggled, reaching down to grab his fingers again. “I’m just making sure he’s wearing the ring I gave him for Christmas, Mom.”

With an eye-roll, Karen explained. “It’s been a long day, Dad. We were in the French Quarter. It’s what you’d expect with all the horse-drawn carriages.”

“Ahh, the sweet scent of manure. Nothing quite like it.” He wrinkled his nose, winking right at his grandkid.

“The smell is awful, Dad. Fashion Brat kept making faces in front of the camera.”

“Your barn smells like lavender perfume compared to New Orleans, Grampa.” Savannah rolled her eyes and scrunched her nose, mostly to mimic him.

“Sav, you need to sit in your own seat, not on top of Grampa.”

“We’re just getting reacquainted, Mom.” She swooshed back her hair.

There was no doubt about her intention as she cuddled with Grampa. It was far too close for comfort with Karen sitting across the table.

“I could tell you a poop joke, Grampa, but it’s really crappy.”

He grinned. “Is that the best you can do?”

“What’s brown and sounds like a cow bell?... Dung! Get it, Grampa?”

“Enough is enough, Sav!” Karen said tiredly. “Sit in your seat, now!”

With the chortle of a Halloween goblin, Savannah proved again she was born mischievous. She put her hand directly over his groin and pushed down as she clambered off him.

As she slid into her seat, Frank said, “Sandy Girl misses you cleaning out her stable,”

It was out in the open, sort of, yet Karen still didn’t make the connection. They were in the barn for an hour on Christmas Eve, although only the last few minutes were unforgettable. Outrageous, intimate fun! Spontaneous, too, with both of them giggling as he rubbed up against her back, pressing her against her palomino pony. Supposedly, he was showing her how to use a currycomb. Long curls flung over her pony, a lean tawny kid not moving a muscle.

“Savannah shoveling horse dung, I’d like to see that,” Karen joked.

Right there, on the verandah, she smirked back at him, as much as acknowledging desire had been mutual. So close to the incestuous precipice, there had been no doubt she was submitting willingly, if not eagerly. He’d come within moments of ravishing her before he regained control, took her wrist and demonstrated what ponies liked

“Mostly, I supervise Grampa,” Savannah giggled.

Then, she gave him her ‘Fashion Brat’ look, both teasing and serious to conceal their secret.

After catching Mom’s eye for the third time, she exchanged tormenting him for fiddling with a crystal vase containing a single red rose.

Unable to deal with Savannah’s sullen face, Frank averted his gaze to watch a streetcar go by.

“Rage is two days behind schedule,” Karen went on.

“Because of horse shit?”

“It rained all day on Monday. Bruce thinks the sewers flooded, it’s that foul. We had to reschedule.”

“Meaning?” Frank was testy, and tired after driving all day.

“Tomorrow is Bayou Sauvage National Wildlife Refuge. It’s important, Dad.” Karen hesitated. “Eric has a problem with Rage; it’s too focused thematically, quote, unquote.”

Savannah picked up. “Rage is all dance clothes, Grampa.”

“Do tomboys dance that much?”

Karen smiled insincerity. “Eric said the exact same thing.”

“The gay boys at my school rave nonstop,” Savannah butted in.

Rage was flamboyant, glossy pastel latex and vibrant linen; five distinctive mix-and-match ensembles for gender-confused kids to party in. Unisex fashion/in-your-face fetish came at an outrageous price—sleeveless blouse or T-shirt, $39.99, knee-high latex pants, $89.99, pole-dancer pink-latex jacket, $149.99.

“Eric loves the ‘tease’ style, however, he wants to see more than ‘dance,’ Karen continued. “Actually, what he wants is ‘art with inspiration,’ his exact words, starting with unusual settings.”

“So we’re shooting outside, Grampa.”

“It’s some kind of marketing gimmick he’s come up with,” Karen went on. “‘Indigenous multiplicity,’ he calls it.”

“In the morning, Randal’s taking Disco Kid to a cemetery; a multiplicity of tombs and headstones,” Savannah said, surprisingly neutral, yet still with a twinkle.

“She means Raoul. Bruce is shooting Fashion Brat with a multiplicity of birds,” Karen added.

“He gets to do ‘gay zombie.’ I get to do ‘bird brat in mud.’ It’s not fair!”

“It’s also a chance to show off the other you, like we talked about, Savy.”

Confused, Frank let out a long sigh, shook his head, swilled mint julep, and silently told himself he should’ve known better than to drive 1,400 miles to spend two days with his grandkid in the middle of an important photo shoot.

“I miss you so much, Grampa.”

He glanced up from his barely touched glass, wondering why he’d ordered a mint julep in the first place. “I miss you, too, Sweetheart.”

He sat back, watching Savannah play with the crystal vase. Its lonely red rose seemed weary, like her.

“I’m sorry, Dad. I know you want to spend time with Savannah. She already said she wants to sleep in your room while you’re here.”

Savannah looked up with a hopeful smile.

“If you don’t mind, I guess I could put up with her for one night,” Frank said slyly. “She’s like an electric blanket, except for her wriggling.”

“The only other thing I can suggest is you go with her tomorrow,” Karen went on, as much as saying it was his decision. “It’ll last through noon. Then, the two of you can hang out together.”

“For the rest of the day?”

“We’re shooting ‘Pole Dancers’ in the French Quarter at 3:00 pm. The Refuge shoot will just be you and the Sav, with Bruce; and Mark, of course; he’s makeup. The park rangers are afraid more people will disturb the balance of nature.”

<<>>

“Art posing is different to modeling clothes, Savy-baby,” Bruce said for the third time. “I want you to focus on emotion and the action line; remember everything is subtle.”

He stepped away from his camera and tripod. Whenever Savannah posed before his camera, he realized how lucky he was; an incredibly good-looking kid, agile, natural, and smart made his job so much easier.

He straightened, stretching out kinks—almost without fail, he shot at Savannah’s eye-height, or lower, for a kid’s perspective of the world.

“I want you to forget you’re showing off clothes,” he continued, dropping the jargon. “You’re not Fashion Brat. You’re a curious kid inspired by nature. Imagine you grew up in the bayou.”

“Raoul maybe! I grew up without swamps everywhere.”

“Act curious. Better. Tilt your head a little more. Look at the bird.”

“Which friggin’ bird?”

There were thousands of birds, great flocks of migratory waterfowl. Still, Savannah proceeded through positions and motions, making each pose seem spontaneous while concentrating on being Nature Brat. It was all about conveying a curious kid in the bayou.

“Eyes follow nose,” Bruce snapped.

“I’m not looking at the camera!”

“Your eyeballs are still rotating!”

“I can’t help it. The birds keep moving, Anyway, you said you didn’t want a structured aesthetic!” Savannah snapped back.

Pleased, Bruce switched to compliments. “Your pouty is way better than bored. Right shoulder up and give me a headshake, Savy. Good, but keep your chin down.”

“It doesn’t feel natural. I keep getting bitten,” Savannah warned.

Mosquitoes, gnats, no-see-ums, haunted the swamps of Pontchartrain.

“I want determined jawline. Serious, not smoochy face. Remember to keep the thighs slightly apart.”

“Not smoochy plus crotch, got it.”

“Now, romantic with your mouth slightly open, Sweetie, subtle and intimate. Yes, like that exactly. Brooding with a hint of passion. Don’t blink! Petulant works. Show some muscle, bend back, be a sensuous kid. That’s good. Suck the belly in slightly.”

Bruce composed until curls got in the way.

“My gorgeous girl needs a spruce, Bruce,” Mark tittered, a stretch for a languorous tenor from Biloxi.

Frank Martin covered his smile. The mercurial makeup artist was O-U-T, even more than the L.A. newlyweds who’d moved into the toy-ranch a mile down the road from his vineyard. The good news was they drank local vintage, mostly his 2010 Copper Top, Syrah.

“Fuck it!” Bruce took the photo anyway, Savannah jumping, slapping at another mosquito. “Take a breather, Bouncy-feet,” he declared.

Mark beckoned to Savannah. “Better bouncy than a fatty with concrete footsies, Brucie-dear.”

Bruce grumbled something about overweight models.

“Go ahead; not just a spruce. I want her to look super-coy in the next set of photos.”

Bruce wandered over to Frank while Savannah headed to Mark and the makeup stool. Frank had lugged it from the parking lot, along with Bruce’s reflectors and tripods.

“Absolutely gorgeous,” Bruce confided, wiping his eyes and blinking from the glare. “The setting, I mean; it’s spectacular.”

“Stunning,” Frank agreed, eyes glued to his pretend tomboy.

It bothered him, Mark expertly applying eye shadow, so close he was in Savannah’s personal space.

“Stunning,” Bruce confirmed.

Savannah was stunning! TOMBOY^pre Rage in white, form-fitting latex pants and a radiant yellow sleeveless T-shirt. It hung halfway down her thighs, suggestive while concealing.

“Latent won’t last much longer,” Bruce said quietly.

“Latent?” Yet, Frank saw it, too, every time he glanced at his grandkid.

“With the androgynous look; Savannah turns hot into sizzling without overdoing it! Unfortunately, fashion kids grow up fast, New York especially.” Bruce hesitated. “Only last week, Eric told Karen she needs to live on the ranch with you.”

“Perlman said that to Karen?”

Bruce nodded. “Despite what you think, he’s a good guy. He cares about the brat.”

Barely nine years old, high fashion stole Savannah’s childhood, from hours with hair stylists to get her long curly hair just right, to body awareness and constant dieting.

“You onboard with the vagina thing?” Bruce said quietly.

Frank nodded reluctantly, increasingly of the mind that Savannah’s suppressed sexuality was already burgeoning. It wouldn’t take much...

“Between you and me, I’m holding out for the penis thing,” he whispered.

“Raoul’s almost too old for Tomboy. He’s got to go all out gay if he wants to keep modeling. Savannah’s got options. Once she meets the right guy she’ll settle down.”

With cutthroat competition driving every decision, everything came down to sexuality, even for kids.

Frank swallowed. “At nine?”

“I lost my cherry before I turned ten.”

“Jesus!”

“If a boy’s into it, it’s not what most people think. The sensation blew my mind, truly life-changing,” Bruce chuckled.

“SO there’s hope yet?”

“Either gay or trans, our Fashion Brat’s got what it takes, not only career-wise, if you catch my drift. In the fashion game, being gay’s the easy way.”

“When Karen was nine, the last thing she was interested in was fashion.”

“She told Eric she was always a tomboy. Apparently, her mom told her you wanted a boy.”

Not about to go there, Frank shrugged it off. “My ex-wife said a lot of dumb things.”

“Karen really wanted a girl,” Bruce confided, nodding in Savannah’s direction. “Fashion Brat comes real close.”

Frank looked the other way. It was safer.

“Kids are a lot wiser than we give them credit for. Gay kids especially.” Bruce hesitated. “If I wanted to push the limit a little with Savannah, would you mind?”

“Push it how?” Frank held his breath; there had to be a reason why Karen brought it up over breakfast.

More explicit modeling was on the cards; not nude, just taking advantage of Savannah’s lithe little body. It was nothing for him to get upset about.

“I want to shoot the final segment more overt.”

“Exactly what does ‘overt’ mean to a professional photographer?”

Bruce waved his hand at abundant nature, thick marsh grass and waterfowl only a few steps away.

“I’m thinking a kid in the Louisiana wilderness wearing only a T-shirt. I think Sav’s up for it, don’t you?”

Frank didn’t like the ‘don’t you?’ Not at all! He ran his hand through bristly grey hair, scratched behind his ear, anything but answer directly.

“She might be. Overt’s not up to me.”

“Knowing Sav, posing without pants won’t be a problem,” Bruce said confidently.

“It’s not Savannah’s decision. You need to clear it through Karen.”

“We talked about making her sexuality more obvious after you and Sav went to bed.”

Frank took a breath—that explained Karen’s awkwardness over breakfast.

“When Eric says he wants ‘art,’ he really means ‘risqué, Frank.” Bruce glanced at Mark, busy restyling Savannah’s hair. “Nothing showing, yet still showing off.”

“I thought that’s a no-no in the kid-fashion.”

“Karen’s of the mind that revealing what’s there works for Rage.”

Frank exhaled. “Revealing what, exactly?”

“Nothing but shape and shadow under the T-shirt. Only if you and Savannah are okay with it.”

Less dumbfounded than bewildered, Frank gave what he hoped was a noncommittal shrug.

<<>>

Bruce beckoned Savannah over as soon as Mark finished ‘sprucing.’

“What your mom said about showing off your body; you want to try it?”

“I’m good at showing off, aren’t I Grampa?” She looked him in the eye, silently daring him to disagree.

The memory was recent, so strong that Frank gulped saliva. The night before, Savannah started stripping as soon as he closed the door, flinging clothes at him as she pranced around the bedroom. Then, she posed for him. Spinning pirouettes, graceful arches, obscene leg splits; it went on and on until Frank wrestled her into submission. After prolonged tickles and kisses, he’d bathed, dried, and cuddled a very naked Savannah until sleep took over. At least, that was his intention. Sound asleep, he couldn’t keep his hands off her.

“How you pose is up to your mom and you, Sanny.”

After a few stressful moments, worrying she’d say something about doing ‘leg splits’ and wrestling on the bed, he gestured toward Mark, his meaning clear.

“Hey Mark, might as well start packing up. We’re nearly done here.”

Bruce glanced around. “If you’re up for showing off, Sav, lose your pants and undies,” he said quietly.

“I’ll give Mark a hand,” Frank offered.

He started toward Mark even as blood rushed to his face.

“I need you to hold stuff, Grampa.”

Savannah was so adamant that Frank stopped in his tracks. He stared, very aware that Bruce was behind his camera and tripod. With a practiced sashay, she lifted her yellow T-shirt, deft fingers undoing chrome-plated buttons, no zippers on Rage.

“Hey, Grampa.”

Frank peeked.

She was shameless in front of the camera. However, he saw no more than a swathe of bare belly. The T-shirt dropped down as she wriggled and tugged, dragging latex pants and undies from her narrow pelvis, down slender thighs.

“I need help over here.”

He hurried over, an obedient acolyte kneeling before his mistress, assisting as much as he dared. With trembling hands, he unfastened sandals, scooped up latex pants and titty-pink bikini briefs, and quickly stood up again.

“Raoul would definitely have a boner by now,” Bruce teased from behind the viewfinder.

Savannah scowled, already in posing mode as the camera clicked rapidly. After a few shots, Bruce gestured to Frank. He started toward the reflectors.

Setting up took three tries before Bruce was happy. Posing resumed. Frank tried to remain calm. He took one deep breath after another, disputing morality. Not that he could see anything conclusive, just a small agile body hidden under a long yellow T-shirt. Still, it wasn’t his imagination; those tiny pimples on her chest were really kid-nipples, and the symmetrical groove that centered her bellybutton, it went all the way down to a little bump doing its best to define gender. Worse, he trembled every time her gaze rested on him.

“Stretch and flex, Baby,” Bruce muttered. “I want to see tendons, not puppy fat.”

“No fat on this puppy,” Savannah retorted.

“Now, side on and look up. Bottom lip hangover! That’s perfect. Now, tongue it, Sweetie. Just the tip. Sexy brat! Do dreamy and flirt with your lover.”

Savannah snapped, “I’m showing off a T-shirt, Bruce.”

Bruce guffawed. “You want to show off, kid? Start taking it off.”

Frank came close to blurting, ‘That’s too much!’ But he didn’t. There was too much at stake.

With a nervous glance at her grandfather, Savannah hiked up the T-shirt. She made it last until Mark had carried his makeup boxes all the way to the rental Dodge Caravan. Finally, with her patented teasing giggle, she pirouetted, exposing a slender glabrous thigh, her crotch craftily concealed by a fold of bright-lemon-yellow. Frank was certain he could see Savannah’s erection stretching the cream-colored thong.

Bruce clucked approval, his left hand leaving his camera, indicating a slow turn-around.

“Oh yeah! Give me the Fashion Brat look. How about it wild child? You ready to lose the thong?”

Frank gaped, unable to formulate coherent thoughts. Without any hesitation, Savannah reached under the t-shirt. She peeled it from her middle, dragged it down and off, and tossed it to him, warm and silky, and tiny. Frank resolved not to look even as he clutched it in a very nervous, hand.

“Side on and look over your shoulder. Keep the sly smile, and lift the T-shirt,” Bruce went on as if nothing had changed. “Talk about sexy. Now, slowly turn and look innocent. She’s one sexy kid, huh Grampa?”

“You sure this is okay with Karen?” Frank muttered.

It wasn’t hot, yet he was sweaty all over. Not nude, yet she might as well be.