A Rose Before It's Time (Remembering Our Dead) free porn video

A Rose Before It's Time (Remembering Our Dead) by Cabinessence Inspired by the Remembering Our Dead site Thanks to Connie for editing. IT BEGINS You see, I have this good friend who grows roses for a living, the long stem variety with soft red petals that you might send to a loved one as an enticement for them to swoon at your feet. He once told me that the real secret to his work is to know exactly when to cut the rose, so that the full potential of its beauty has had the opportunity to bloom. So, this in it's way this is the story of a rose cut down too soon, before the world was able to know the total potential of her own true beauty. I must admit that I may not be the best one to judge the true potential of this individual. Why? Because, the fact is I had never met him/her. I say him/her because she, and I will use the female pronoun mostly because that is what she would have wanted, was a male to female transsexual. I never met her because she was already dead and buried when I first heard about her. I had first discovered her when I found her picture buried beside an article on page 26 of this local newspaper of a town about fifty miles away. You see, I am freelance writer and looking through the local papers of the cities of Main Street USA is part of my job. I am always searching for that unique human-interest story to sell to a magazine or tabloid, to find a story so full of scandal and intrigue that it will grab the average housewife's short attention span at the checkout line while she is waiting for the detergent to be rung up. This story, I felt, had everything needed to grab the quick attention of Ms. Joan Q Public, kinky sex and murder. This girl, one Michelle nee Morris Roberts, in her early twenties, had been murdered about a year ago. The article was about how the man who had just been convicted of her murder had been sentenced to sixty years in jail. It was a very brutal murder. It seems that the man was drinking heavily one night and had wandered into this local transvestite bar, Caligua's Playpen, by mistake. It was a place where the young pseudo-women dancing on stage would be convincing in their presumed sex, even without a few brews under your belt. Attracted to Michelle, as she worked among the crowd hustling drinks, he offered her a fifty for a blowjob. Needing the money for her ultimate surgery, Michelle accepted. In the privacy of one the backrooms of the club, the man suddenly decided that he wanted more bang for his buck, so to speak. He pulled out a knife, cut the strings of her bikini bottom, pushed her down on the bed, and proceeded to try to rape Michelle. It didn't take very long before he found something there that was very familiar and that he didn't expect. Drunk and angry at this deception, he took a knife from his pants pocket and freed Michelle from her male past forever with one swift slice. Michelle tried to scream, but he muffled her cries with a small pillow. In this place, it was hard for someone to distinguish the screams of pain from the screams of ecstasy. Soon she started bleeding profusely and fainted onto the floor from the loss of blood. Panicking, the guy wrapped Michelle up in a blanket, and when the path out to the back door of the bar was clear, he scooped up Michelle and took her into the alley. He then hid her behind a dumpster where just a short while later, she bled to death. I looked at the black and white picture of her next to the article. You wouldn't have had to be drunk to have mistaken her for a woman. The picture looked like it was an old publicity still for the club. She was all made up, hair teased, smiling, and wearing a low cut white blouse that showed a hint of cleavage, before the picture was then discreetly edited to make room for an irrelevant ad directly below. She was very beautiful and obviously well on her way to full womanhood. Yet there was something there in the eyes that grabbed me, a hint of sadness that betrayed that smile. In the article they quoted her roommate, Chanelle, another transsexual who also worked as a dancer down at the club. I figured that she would be the best one to help me start to unravel the mystery behind who was Michelle Roberts. THE ROOMMATE The club was located in one of the seedier areas of downtown. It was sort of an urban purgatory, where those who lived and worked there, hoped for something better, but feared something worse. The club really wasn't all that much different than most of the "straight" strip clubs on the same block, except that all the so called "female" strippers and waitresses here were really male, well genetically anyway. As they strutted their chemically enhanced bodies up on the stage, I could see where someone could easily have mistaken any of them for naturally born women. Hell a few years ago I was covering a professional women's tennis tournament for Sport's Weekly, and the men dancing on stage made some of those women look like boys. It didn't take long for one of the waitresses to approach me about ordering a drink. Like all the others, she was beautiful, dressed in a low cut bar maid's outfit, and totally convincing as a woman. Yet in the back of my mind as I was watching her, I was cataloguing all of the lingering male traits I could find. Were her hands much too large? Was her face too angular? Was her voice a bit too husky? Were her thighs not shapely enough? Then I decided that it really didn't matter. Hell, I couldn't get my mind past her ample cleavage. "What is your pleasure Sir?" "I am looking for Chanelle." "Oh a man who knows what he wants. I like that. Well she is in between dance numbers now, so you picked a good time. I will send her right over. And who is the gentleman I should say is asking for the pleasure of her company?" she asked with a just a hint of sarcasm. "She has never met me before. Let us just say we have someone in common." "Oh my, the word does get around on Miss Chanelle. I will go and get her for you." She went into the back and emerged with a tall very buxom blonde. If Dolly Parton had been close to six feet tall, they could almost have been twins. "Loretta said that you wanted to talk to me. I don't recall ever seeing you around here before, and I would have remembered you. What is your name, cutie?" "My name is John, and is there somewhere we can talk in private?" I was feeling very uncomfortable as I started to find myself getting aroused and reacting to these men as I would to any other normal sexy women. If I were to let something happen here, would I still respect myself in the morning? I wanted to get all this over as quickly as I could. "A john named John, ain't that unique. Honey, I can see you are a man of action, but simmer down. Sure there are private places here, but first you have got to buy me a drink. There are rooms off behind the stage where we can go and get better ahem acquainted. But as they say around here, talk is cheap but if you want anything else, it can get pricey." "Money is not a problem. What will you have to drink?" "Loretta have them send a bottle of champagne back to room three. On second thought, maybe the talk won't be so cheap after all." She giggled as she had me follow her to a room backstage. The room was one that seemed to be designed for quickies. There was a bed, a table with a few newspapers, a box of tissues, and a few scattered wrapped condoms on top with a metal folding chair beside it. Loretta brought in the bottle of champagne and two glasses and placed it on the table. She poured the champagne into the glasses and handed us each one. Then she left. "So what do you want to talk about, sugar? Tell me what you want. Fantasies can come true." She said with a wicked smile. "I want to discuss your late roommate Michelle." As I said that, all the playfulness was suddenly removed from her face. "Oh you just want to talk about the murder, don't you? Well I have already said about all I that am going to say on that subject. It is just too painful now to even remember. So why are you here? I know you ain't a cop. Are you some sort of a reporter?" "No but close, I am a freelance writer. I want to write a story about Michelle. I'm here because I want to learn about what she was like." "Why, do you have a thing for kinky murders? Is that why you want to talk about her? What was she to you?" "She was just a person trying to be herself and that's how I want her to be remembered. I see her as a person who died trying to achieve her dream. To become the person that she always wanted to be. She didn't go through all of this just to be known as another statistic. I want to tell her story. Look, there were 285 people murdered in this city alone last year, besides Michelle. Maybe if we get the point across that these are people, sons, daughters, mothers, fathers that are dying out there on these streets, not just some numbers or words on a page. Maybe it will stop someone else from performing some violent act." "You are right, shit, I want her to be remembered too, and not as this kinky freak that the newspapers have made her out to be. She was such a kind loving person, I mean she was tough on the outside; hell you've got to be working here. And she wouldn't take any shit off of anyone unless, of course, you paid her to. But really, she was this very sweet person inside. All she ever wanted in life was to just be a woman. That's no reason to kill someone is it?" I shook my head no. Then she started to cry as she spoke. I also noticed that her speech had lost some of that whore bravado that she had exhibited earlier. I handed her the box of tissues and she dabbed at her eyes while she continued. "I miss her so much. Sometimes I expect her to open the door to the dressing room and tell me to get my lazy butt on stage. You see, she started at the club about six months before I did. When I first got on stage to dance, I didn't have the confidence inside me that the guys sitting out there would think that I was this sexy and desirable woman. You know, especially when I was being compared to all the others girls who had gone on before me. I thought I would get booed right off the stage. I can see that you don't believe me, but let me tell you, these tits are new. It is sure a lot easier to be judged as a woman when you are a 38D than as a 34A, I can tell you. But back then I was very scared I would fail. Hey, you don't get to build up much confidence in yourself when you know that your whole life is a lie. But Michelle, she just looked me straight in the eye and said, "You know most of the guys who come to these strip joints normally want pussy, and usually that's enough. But guys that come in here already know you ain't got one, so all you have to do is win them over with your charming looks and personality. Let me tell you darling, that is a contest I know you can win." She was so secure in her own womanhood, and so encouraging with helping me with mine, that I really don't know if I could have made it this far without her." She stopped and sighed and said with a faint smile. "You know, I have my surgery date, six months from now." "So you will finally be able to fulfill your dream and become a complete woman, congratulations." "Thanks, but the sad part is that Michelle and I were planning to do it together six months ago. After she died, I postponed it until I felt I could handle going through it all emotionally. It will still be hard without her being there." "I'm sorry." "Don't be, I'll do alright. I still have the support of all the women here at the club. Hey, it's their dream too." "So what are you going to do after that? Are you going to take it all off in a straight strip club?" "No, that's not what I want. I am only doing all this stuff to raise the money for the operation. I don't enjoy it at all. But it is the quickest way to earn the money, especially when you've dropped out of high school. But after the operation is over I want to just fade away like this." She pointed to one of the newspapers lying on the table. It was opened to the page where they announce who has just been married and showed picture upon picture of happy couples smiling as they anticipate their new lives together. "So? I don't get it?" "One of the girls in these pictures used to work here before she had her surgery. Can you guess which one she is?" I looked at the smiling brides in their wedding gowns, looking for a hint of the man she once was. The fact that all brides are beautiful made it all the more difficult. "I can't tell. I really can't." "You see that's what I want, not to be any different than any other woman. The woman I should have been born as. I want to be able to blend into society as an average woman. I would be happy just to be a regular housewife, to adopt children, and above all to be accepted and loved for the person I am inside, and not for what is between my legs. No matter what people say, we all don't dream about being on Jerry Springer." "No offense, but you don't look like a average woman now." "Yeah, well I guess I fell into that same trap that a lot of us transsexuals do. I don't even use my real femme name here. My real femme name is Carrie, but I use Chanelle because it sounds so sexy. And sexy is really where it's at. You see we are all so insecure with our own femininity that in the beginning we try to become this sort of fantasy woman for men, you know like a Playboy centerfold, or some babe on Baywatch. The more you make yourself look like one of those big breasted bimbos, the more you feel you will be accepted as a real woman by men. Because the more men who see you as a sexy woman, the more confidence you gain in your own femininity. And of course it doesn't hurt that in this club tits are worth their weight in gold." "And this is what Michelle went through also?" "Yes, but it was easier for her. She was already so naturally beautiful, she hardly needed anything more than a boob job. Let me tell you, most of the time those hormones do not do a great job in growing tits. You don't know how frustrated I got waiting for them to grow. You can't keep yelling at them every day "Grow tits, grow damn it!" Eventually, you just have to save up your pennies and go to the doctor to get the pair of your dreams." "Did Michelle ever doubt why she was going through the change?" "No, but she I knew she was tired of everyone else asking her why she wanted to become a woman. The answer is that it just comes from inside your soul; you don't ever question it yourself because there is no real answer. You don't ask a real woman why she wants to be a woman, she just is. The same is true with transsexuals like us. We are just are the way we are. Michelle wanted get the surgery over with so that no one would ever need to ask her again why she wanted to be a woman, because she would be a woman. But you know what the really sad part is of all this?" "What?" "That I have a greater chance of ending up like Michelle, dead in some dirty alleyway, than that girl there in the newspaper. It is so unfair. You are only given one life, shouldn't you have the right to live it the way you want. Don't we each have the right to be happy? Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, isn't that is what this whole fucking country is all about? And if my pursuit of happiness involves cutting off my dick and growing tits, who should really give a shit. It's my body damn it, and it is not their problem." She seemed to be getting really incensed, so I felt that it was time I should leave. "You are right, you should be able to do whatever you want. You are a very brave and beautiful young lady. Thank you for your time. By the way, do you know anyone else that I could talk to about her? Does she have any family living nearby?" "Her parents died a couple of years ago. She has a brother living nearby. I know that. He is the one who came to pick up her stuff after all this happened." "Do you have an address, maybe a phone number where I might reach him?" "Sure, he left me his phone number just in case I should find anymore of her stuff." She opened a drawer and pulled out a card with a number scribbled on the back. I copied the number down and handed it back to her. "Thank you. Here's something to pay for the champagne and to help you with your dreams." I handed her a hundred-dollar bill. She smiled and got up and gave me a hug. I must admit, she smelt and felt just like a natural woman and a very sexy one at that. Even my body reacted to her as a female, as I started to get an erection. When we finally parted, I noticed her staring directly down at my erect member. "Hey, for another hundred, I could help you with that." "No thanks. You have done enough. If I let you take care of my problem now it might open a whole can of worms that my psyche just couldn't handle right now. Good bye." With that I left to get back to the office to call Michelle's brother and to masturbate. THE BROTHER I called the number for Michelle's brother. He was a little hesitant to talk to me at first. He felt that a lot of the press surrounding his brother's murder had pictured her as some sex freak or this fraudulent Jezebel, and had missed out on the truly wonderful person that she was. I assured him that I was very sensitive to this, and would not show his brother as anything other than she really was. He seemed impressed by my sincerity, and agreed to meet me next Saturday afternoon at his house. Michelle's brother lived in a townhouse development about ten miles out of town, a quiet suburban area where houses seemed to be built mainly to serve the needs of nearby shopping malls and office complexes. It was inside one of these innocuous two story frame dwellings that I felt I would find one more of the keys that would unlock the mystery of who Michelle really was. I pulled my car up to the house that matched the number I had written down on my pad, and went to knock on the door. A young man in his twenties answered the door; one who looked a bit like I had imagined Michelle would have looked, shorn of her female trappings. "Hi, Ted Roberts? I'm John, we talked on the phone." "Sure come in." We made our way to the living room. It was a sparsely furnished house with just enough furniture to be practical. On a small wooden table in the middle of the room, obviously laid out for my inspection, were pictures of Michelle, both before and after her change. There also was a scrapbook detailing Michelle's career as a female impersonator, with its frilly pink cover I imagined it was one that Michelle had put together herself. "This has been very hard for me," he began, "I feel as though I have lost both a brother and a sister." "I can understand that. Were you two close growing up?" "I wanted to be, but he was always so distant. I know why now, but at the time, it seemed like we occupied two different worlds. All the other kids had older brothers who would play ball with them or shoot bb guns, but Morris seemed to be interested in other things, things that would be- I guess considered back then girl's things. And then there was the taunting." "Kids can be cruel." "I remember when I was ten and they kept yelling at me that I was the brother of a faggot. The kids would pick on me, and say that I was going to grow up to be one too. Hey, I didn't really understand back then what a faggot was, but I knew enough that it wasn't something anyone wanted to be. Hell, it seemed to be way worse than having cooties. I knew my brother was different, but I knew he couldn't be this faggot type person." "Did that hurt you?" "Well I loved my brother. But you know, I became a better person because of it. Remember that old Johnny Cash song, "A Boy Named Sue?" Well I felt somehow like that, instead I had a brother who was Sue, or who at least wanted to be Sue. It has made me grow up more tolerant and understanding of others like him, and just like in the song it made me a better fighter defending myself against all the guys who would pick on me because of it. Hell I was a lightweight contender in the military." "I guess your brother was hassled quite a bit too." "Yeah, but he ignored it. He built up this wall around himself. He was always so good at making up excuses for his feminine ways. He wore heavy girlish makeup to school for a while, but he would give the excuse that he did it because he wanted to be more like his favorite band Poison. But most of the time, he just kept to himself and tried to avoid confrontation. He had a lot of girlfriends, but that's all they were to him, friends. All the time he tried to act like nothing was wrong, but I do remember often hearing him crying alone in his room." "How about your parents, how did they deal with it?" "My mom used to watch a lot of Donahue, so I feel she had an idea of what was going on. However, she figured that he was just gay, not transsexual. And she was always there for him as a shoulder to cry on. I know Morris was devastated when she died. He ran away from home a little while later after that, and I didn't hear from him 'til he started working down at the club." "How old was he when she died?" "Eighteen. He had just finished high school. There was nothing left to hold him here." "What about your dad?" "He sort of gave up on Morris. He tried when Morris was eleven or twelve to get him more involved in boy activities. He forced him to join Little League, but Morris sucked at sports. The closest interest he had to sports was mimicking the moves of the school cheerleaders in his room. Of course, when dad gave up on him, it put more pressure on me as his "normal" son. I guess that's why I enlisted in the Marines right after high school. I felt that I needed to prove to him that I wasn't going to be the disappointment to him that Morris was. After Morris ran away, dad never saw him again. Dad said he didn't miss Morris, but I could tell he was lying." "What about the relations with your sister?" "Well, he did seem to be more interested in our older sister Doris's things than in being around her. He got real defensive whenever he got caught playing with her stuff. He used to joke that if Barbie dolls were supposed to be played with by just girls, they shouldn't have given her such big tits. But he did piss her off royally sometimes. Hell after the prom incident she pretty much disowned him as a brother. " "The prom incident, tell me more about that." "My sister Doris was looking forward to going to her senior prom. She had our parents buy her this beautiful and expensive fancy white dress to wear to it. Trouble is that Morris also had this dream about going to the prom. Not as some boy in a tux, but as a girl dressed in this beautiful long white gown like the one Doris had. Two nights before the prom, he sneaks into Doris's room and tries on the dress. Although he was pretty thin at the time, there are certain areas where a teenage boy's body and teenage girl's body are just not quite the same, and he caused this big rip in the dress. My sister hears this noise in her room and finds him wearing her new and now somewhat ruined dress. She is livid, yelling words that I didn't realize that girls knew. I rushed in, as well as my parents, to keep them apart. My mother was able to repair the rip in time for the prom, but my sister couldn't help feeling she was going to the prom wearing damaged goods. She never really forgave him until the end." "Did she make it to the funeral?" "Yes, she came to the funeral. She said she wished she had understood what was going on. Maybe should could have helped or been more understanding. She only saw her own pain and anger and had no idea what he, or she had been going through. She had no idea how much Morris had been suffering inside." "Do you think of your brother as a man or a woman?' "Before I answer that, let me ask you a question, do you believe the soul has a gender?" "What?" "It's just something I have been wondering about since the murder. Our physical bodies have a gender determined at birth. That is pretty obvious, you either have a penis or a vagina. But the soul, what at birth determines the gender of the soul? How can we judge its gender other than by taking the word of the person who controls the soul in question. And then why would they lie? I believe now that my brother was a female soul born into a body that was male. While he was alive, he was a man and miserable. But now in death I believe she has finally been freed of her false male exterior and her soul is now free to be happy and to be the woman she truly was meant to be." "That's a beautiful sentiment." "It came about only after hours of hard soul searching." "Did you ever see Michelle perform?" "I was too young to go to clubs when she first started out, but I did manage to see her a few times." "How did you feel seeing your brother strutting her stuff in front of other lusting men?" "It was a bit strange, I will admit that. But I was amazed. She looked even better than Doris. I never realized that she was so beautiful and talented." "Did you miss your brother when you saw her?" "I had a brother who was moody and depressed, and he was replaced by a happy, warm, talented, and loving sister. I would say it was a more than an even trade." We spent the rest of the afternoon going through the pictures and scrapbook that Ted had picked up down at the club. It was a well-assembled document about her journey towards womanhood. There was even a picture of her snuggled up on the shoulder of a well-known pro football player. I thought about asking for a copy of that one for my story, but I felt it would ultimately detract from the point I was trying to make. Instead, I just asked for copies of ones that showed off her womanhood in a very convincing manner. I asked about calling the sister, but he said that she was on vacation in Hawaii and wouldn't be back for two weeks. I felt I could make do with what I had. TAKING A WALK ON THE WILD SIDE I had been trying to write the article for about two weeks, but to no avail. I felt that I really needed understand how she felt inside. And since she wasn't around anymore to verbalize the torment she had been going through, I felt I had to do it myself. What was it like to be a man who wanted to be a woman? To be someone who wasn't content with what fate had dictated for him or her? To know that what you feel inside and how society judges you on the outside can only be rectified by extraordinary means. I had never questioned my own sexual identity. Maybe it was about time that I should. I found a classified ad in the back of the Gay City Paper for a "Transformation Salon - Find The Pretty Woman That Lurks Inside Every Man." The shop was located in what would be called a "working class " neighborhood or would be "working class" when the economy was doing well. Like I had expected, the storefront was discreetly hidden, tucked neatly away beneath a second hand store. It was part of a group of shops nestled together that seemed left over from the days when shopping was less complex. I walked down the steps and approached the woman, well I assumed she was, at the front desk. "Hello, I called earlier for an appointment." "Yes, welcome you're John?" I nodded and she continued, "I understand that you want the whole feminine experience." "Yes, I want to be made to look like a woman." "Yes, and we do a very convincing job here. We use only the finest wigs and other feminizing products from the Hidden Woman, the premier supplier of feminizing accessories in the world. I take it that this is your first time." "Yes, why? Does it show?" "Most of my clients are nervous their first time, it is to be expected. However, it is only natural for one to want to explore his feminine side. There is a little woman hidden in all of us from the day we are conceived." "How so?" "The female is the default, so to speak, of humanity. Forget all that hogwash that says Adam came first. In reality, is it only when the fetus is awash with male hormones that you end up as the male you are today. Of course, sometimes those pesky hormones don't make it all the way to the brain, and that's why you find those men who feel they are mentally women. But I shouldn't complain, if it wasn't for the damage those pesky male hormones do, I would be out of business." "So you can make me look like a woman, I mean convincingly." "Sure, I've transformed more manly men than you." "I find that hard to believe." "I didn't say that I would make you an attractive woman. I am not a magician. For that wigs, dresses, and makeup won't be enough. For that I am afraid you will need a good plastic surgeon and a small miracle. But if you just want the experience of going out in public as a woman, I can give you a quite convincing feminine appearance." "Yes, I would like to see what it is like to be a woman out in public." "That is understandable. A lot of my clients are not content just to play dress up and stand before a mirror in pretty gowns and boas. No, they want to share their new female experience with the world. Usually we take them to a caf? about a block away for lunch and some girl talk. The owner and the staff there are very sensitive to what my clients are going through. Are you interested?" "Well if they can deal with that, than I can too. Sure." "Well then let's get started. Do you want to be a blonde, brunette. or a redhead? We do offer a wide assortment of wigs." "I'd like to try a redhead, but not with too long hair." "Certainly, I have just the thing. Let us get you fitted for some clothes and breast forms first. Would you like to be busty or small?" "I had a girlfriend once who was a 34C, and felt that they were perfect. Is that alright?" "No problem, I have just the right thing here with realistic nipples that stick up and can be seen right under your bra." "My bra?" "Of course, something has to hold these forms in place. And besides how can you have a true female experience without a bra and of course high heels." "High heels?" "Why not?" "Yeah, why not?" So I tried on the heels. After trying to walk down the aisle in a pair, I realized right then that women must have a better sense of balance then men. Whoever came up with the idea of having anyone try to walk in something like this? Did some woman accidentally step on a spike somehow and some guy behind her liked the way it made her ass wiggle? After almost falling into a rack of dresses, I decided on one with a smaller heel than the patent leather pumps I was originally given. Next up came the makeup foundation to hide any lingering stubble that my razor had forgotten that morning, expertly applied by a board certified transgender makeup specialist. Then there was lipstick, rouge, and eyeliner. With all this obscuring my face, I wondered if for real women, femininity is just another mask they wear. When she was though with decorating my face with cosmetics, I did look passable as a woman. I wouldn't win any beauty contests - unless I was up against Dustin Hoffman's character in Tootsie. I chose to wear a very conservative light blue dress that I hoped would not attract any more attention to myself. Hell I had no real stuff to strut, so why should I even try? After this, it was time for the real life test. The single block to the caf? seemed to be the longest block I had traveled in my life. Thankfully I wasn't alone in my discomfort, there was another client who had done this before, and a woman assistant from the shop who went with us. But all the while I felt as if there was this huge spotlight beaming down just on me. There were other people walking down the street, but I just ignored them and hoped that they would do the same with me. I just wanted to be invisible. I didn't say much the whole time there except to order lunch. My voice definitely did not go along with the new me. So I just sat there in the caf? staring at my salad that was lying on its plate waiting to be devoured. There was too much on my mind to be hungry. I didn't allow myself to look up and catch the stare of some stranger making mental judgments, as he wondered what I was. I felt it was as though I was this contestant on some bizarre game show called "Guess my sex". Is this what Michelle had to go through on a daily basis, at least in the beginning? That fear of being discovered. The fear that the reality you want to attain, and the reality they perceive you as, can never be reconciled. The feeling that there will always be an aura of falsehood hanging over your head. Then there is the loneliness you must feel while you the members of each sexual fraternity in turn, reject you. The men hating you for abandoning their group with all of the benefits of having a penis, the women hating you for usurping their territory and for at one time being the enemy. I couldn't wait to get out of this outfit, wash the layers of makeup off my face, and return to the safety of my own reality. THE MEETING That trip to the transformation salon had given me that last bit of inspiration I needed to finish the article. It was finally ready to be proofed, but something still seemed to be missing. I looked at the picture of Michelle that had inspired me to start on this journey just a few weeks ago. It was at that moment that I realized I still had some unfinished business left to attend to. There was someone I still needed to talk to even though I wasn't sure she could even hear what I was saying. I had to meet my inspiration and say a few words that had been lingering in my mind for the past few weeks. I had the name of the cemetery where she was buried from the obituary clipping, so I went off again for the one final journey in this saga. The cemetery was very spacious with finely manicured lawns. It seemed a bit ironic that the grass could grow in so many peaceful layers of green surrounded by death. It didn't take me long to find the grave. Michelle was laid to rest beside her parents. Clinging to one corner of her headstone were the remnants of a boa, long battered by the elements. The headstone might raise the eyebrows of the unfamiliar, but in a few words, I felt it said it all. "Morris "Michelle" Roberts 1973-1998 Son-Daughter Brother-Sister In Your Eternal Sleep, May You Finally Find Your Dream" I stood there and stared in silence for a moment. For someone who makes his living using words, I found myself struggling to try to find the right thing to say. "Michelle, I have learned from you that you can't judge people by their surface, you need to search out the soul lying beneath. I hope that I have done justice in capturing yours and finally revealing your lost beauty to the world. It seems, now you are finally free of whatever role this world has tried to impose on you by the nature of your birth. I only hope that you are happy now, dancing around like an angel in that beautiful white prom dress that you always wanted. My one wish is that when we finally do get to meet, that you will save the last dance for me." I knelt down and brushed away some dirt from the base of the headstone. It was there that I laid one beautiful freshly cut bright red rose. The end