The Greatest Lie - Part 5 free porn video

This story is purely fictional and meant for adult audiences only! All resemblance to actual persons is coincidental. It contains graphic sex described in first person narration by its transgendered, teenage protagonist. If you are not an adult, or if you find this type of material offensive, please stop reading and dispose of this file. You have been warned of the content. If you proceed neither the author nor the site host will be held responsible! A previous version of Chapter 1 (entitled "The Biggest Lie") was originally posted to Fictionmania on January 6, 2002. Chapters 1 and 2 were re-posted (again, under "The Biggest Lie") on March 20, 2002. Chapter 3 was posted to FM on April 17, 2002. Chapter 4 was posted April 28, 2002. Chapter 5 carries on our heroine's adventures and transformation. Look for Chapters 6 through 9 in future FM postings. The Greatest Lie - Chapter 5 - Law and Order Most of my classmates celebrated the first Saturday after the beginning of classes in hedonistic leisure, nursing hangovers and playing Frisbee on the Quad. But I spent the morning plotting my escape from this dangerous, macho dormitory, studying want ads and making appointments to look at studios on Hennepin to use for my independent study on "Behaviors of Transgendered Sex Workers". I made three appointments, identifying myself as Alexandra; after all, I would be occupying the apartment as a female tenant. I showered and changed in Professor Finch's bathroom, gleefully anticipating the impressions we would make on my prospective landlord: Finch, the cheating middle aged man arranging a love nest for a girlfriend young enough to be his daughter. If only they knew: the truth was so much more scandalous. In keeping with the love nest scenario, I dressed and made myself up in the waif fashion. The months on heavy hormones, light diet and inadequate sleep made this look a natural for me. Finch eyed me with astounded appreciation as I exited the bathroom. "Wow", he said, "You look like you walked right out of a fashion magazine." "Thanks," I said. "May I make a phone call?" He handed me the phone eagerly and hovered, his eyes greedily taking me in. I called the phone number the police detective had given me to inquire about the disposition of poor Daylene's remains. "What's the date of death and name of deceased?" droned the bored bureaucrat. I replied and there was a long pause, with a desultory shuffling of papers. Finally, the bureaucrat recited, "Case Number 9063, African American Male, John Doe burial September 15." Bitter tears of rage and regret filled my eyes. "You were supposed to notify me, and give me a chance to take possession of her remains. Detective Keyes promised me that." More papers shuffled. "The investigating officers canceled secondary notification. After the next of kin declined, we were directed to make a John Doe disposition." The vision of my lovely, lively Daylene buried alone, un-mourned, and as an anonymous male at first devastated me, and then energized me with rage. "What's the matter?" Finch inquired. In my trial interview for the Transgendered Sex Workers project, I had given him an edited version of my interlude with Daylene, emphasizing her role as the paradigm and inspiration of the project, rather than as a lost lover. Finch understood immediately, and was horrified. He suggested, with academic objectivity, that I add a new section of questions to our interviews: the degree to which the subjects had been subjected to discrimination or abuse by the police. God, if only you knew! I thought to myself. I phoned Keyes, and he picked up his line. "Keyes here." "This is Alex Rios. I'm the one who gave you the report on the Daylene Doe murder. I have a question about the case." "In this business, we ask the questions. I've got nothing to tell you on a pending investigation." "I'm not asking about your investigation. I'm calling about Daylene's remains. Did you tell the morgue not to call me after the family didn't claim her? You promised that you would notify at the number I gave you." "Things changed. After investigating, I determined you were not an appropriate person to receive a secondary disposition of the remains." "You mean you were investigating me, and not who murdered Daylene? That's disgusting." "It didn't take much investigating to figure that you're one of her trannie streetwalker friends. That makes you part of the problem, not part of the solution, doesn't it. You'll be lucky we don't charge you. So don't call us, we'll call you. Get it?" "Yeah, I got it," I said, hanging up. I burned with rage and the desire for revenge against Keyes, and I desperately wanted to make it up to Daylene. A plan formed in my mind. "Professor Finch, don't you think that this project would benefit from a little publicity on the street?" "Depends on what kind." "How about a memorial service and protest rally against police indifference to the safety of the transgendered population and incompetence in the investigation of Daylene's murder?" "That sounds promising. Do you know how to organize it?" "Not really, but I imagine the Gay, Lesbian and Transgendered Alliance does." I phoned Jon and told him what had happened. "That's unbelievable. I know you wanted to her to have a real funeral. What happened?" He was incensed at Keyes' inhumane treatment of Daylene and his insulting and discriminatory remarks to me. As soon as we had rented a studio for the project, Finch drove me to meet Jon at the Alliance's office. Jon also called in Brad Whitman, a third year law student who was to coordinate the legal outreach aspect of the program. We had been scheduled to talk about the package of legal services that the Alliance would be providing to the Transgendered community, but now Daylene dominated the conversation. "The fucking cops, they just used me, and now Keyes is threatening me." "Don't worry about Keyes, he's clueless, and got bigger problems than you on his hands. I'm more worried about you out on the street: it's getting scary out there." "I'm just going to be handing out information to the girls", I lied. Actually, I had much more interesting plans in mind. Brad said, "Did you know that Daylene was the second 'T' murdered in the Twin Cities this year, and they found a third dead 'T' dumped by the river two nights ago. A group called `Arm and Sword of the Lord' claims responsibility. They proclaim they are ridding the community of spiritual pollutants, meaning, transsexuals." My heart started pounding with fear. "Is this a serial killer or an organized massacre?" Jon responded, "If the cops know, they're not telling anyone." "Does anyone know about this except us?" I asked. "The cops do, but they're not saying. They say it would hamper their investigation. So far, the press doesn't care." "We can use the memorial service to publicize the threat," Jon said, "That will get the streetwalkers aware of the problem, and maybe it will focus some press attention and put some pressure on the cops." I began typing a handbill to distribute and post on Hennepin. Jon made some calls and rented an African American church near Hennepin for the following Saturday. Finch called a reporter he knew and arranged a meeting, and Jon left to pay the deposit on the church. As they set off, I sensed them looking warily at me, and Brad, alone at the Alliance office. Their feelings of jealousy and apprehension were palpable. And, as far as I was concerned, those feelings were entirely justified. Jon was a caring and sensitive lover, but he was gay. Finch was a brilliant and kind person, but he was a disaster in bed. Brad had unexplored potential that I wanted desperately to investigate. Brad hovered over my shoulder as I typed a handbill on the computer. We bickered jokingly over the wording. I felt the warmth of desire growing within me; did I sense warmth from within Brad? Was he peeking down my blouse as he squinted into the computer screen? Would he like to see more? "God, my eyes and fingers are killing me. I have to take a break." I flopped suggestively on the nearby couch. Brad took my place at the computer, and he pecked away energetically. "Don't you think it would be better to say, `Join us as we celebrate Daylene's life, mourn her death, and build a community in her memory.'" "That's great, but come sit with me. I need to talk about something else. I'm so stressed-out about this." "OK," Brad said wearily, taking a chair opposite me. "Tell me about your ideas on the legal outreach. I like to write agitprop, but it's the law that I'm really here for." "Is law all you're here for?" "What else did you have in mind?" "I'd like to know what's on your mind. Like, how did you get interested in transsexuals?" I asked, batting my eyes suggestively. "What makes you think I'm interested in transsexuals?" he replied warily. "Isn't that why you're here?" "No, I'm here to provide student legal services." "And not to get to know me?" "Sorry, but I'm just here to represent you as a client of me as a student legal counselor. Anything else is off limits, unethical." I must have looked hurt, because he quickly added, "Look, I'm not quite a lawyer, but the same rules apply. We're not supposed to mess around with clients." "Even if your client wants you to mess around?" "Especially if the client wants to mess around!" He reached across and clasped my hand chastely. "I really want to work with you, and I think you're bright and beautiful and amazing, but we have to be strictly friends and colleagues, OK?" "OK. And you're not mad that I suggested, you know." "Allie, I'm flattered that you would think of it." So that was that. We worked another couple of hours and Brad dropped me off at a Kinko's to make copies of our handbill. He shook my hand and said good night, and left me alone to wait for the copies. Finch and Jon had nothing to worry about after all. And I had nothing to do on Saturday night. Rick and Randy had dates with sorority girls. I knew that they had to go on dates with sorority girls or face social ostracism and suspicion, but I was jealous. Oh well, at least it demonstrated they were straight. Seeing Jon again was out of the question. He was probably planning a big night out with some new or old boyfriend. His gayness was really off-putting. Now from Brad, I faced for the first time as a girl what I had always feared as a boy: rejection. I responded as I had always done before, by retreating into books. I went to the library and studied the rest of the day in solitude. Although I was still dressed in the girls' clothes I had selected that morning, I attracted little attention: I looked like just another cute but studious coed. A big dose or Premarin, and the repeated challenge and success of solving problems from my physics book, gradually brought calm and confidence back to me. I reflected with regret on my unrequited seduction of Brad. He had been so helpful and creative on in drafting the handbill, and was so committed to providing legal help to the T-Girl community. I had responded to his enthusiasm by trying to get him to fuck me. God, did I have to be a bedroom slut at every opportunity? How could I have been such an idiot? Now, despite what he had said, I felt I must have irreparably damaged my relationship with him. Before I had transitioned to girlhood, I had never related to anyone sexually. Now, as a girl, I was relating to people exclusively sexually. I had adapted to the paradigm of ruthless male aggression toward attractive girls, by adopting the corresponding seductiveness of the stereotypic whore. I was objectifying all men as studs, even as I was being objectified as a sex object by the Ricks and Randys of the world. This was fine for guys like them, but for people like Brad, or even Finch, sexualizing the relationship had diminished, rather than enhancing it. The problem was that I just loved to get fucked. As this overwhelming realization cascaded over me, my ass started tingling with a longing sensation. With no one available to satisfy me, I was drawn, as though magnetically, to the sidewalks of Hennepin Avenue. The neighborhood that had seemed so dull and drab by daytime now glittered and throbbed with danger and excitement. I unlocked my new studio. To my delight, the drab and empty quarters had been thoroughly cleaned and made up; on the tiny kitchenette table, there was a bouquet of Sterling Silver lavender roses, with a card from Finch. "Allie, enjoy your new home/office. You are my favorite student." He had had his cleaning lady make up the bed, stock the refrigerator (OK, I know you can't live on Pellegrino, but you can't live without it either!) There were even some feminine soaps, shampoos, and towels in the bathroom. I freshened up, put a handful of handbills in my purse, and headed toward a corner where the T-Girls ruled the sidewalks. Four sequined and gossamered figures arched their backs, pointed their silicone boobs and pirouetted to the passing traffic, in exaggerated, provocative poses. I approached a pouty-faced Asian girl, and asked, "Hi, do you remember me?" "No bitch, who you?" "Friend of Daylene's." "You mean the dead girl, you dead girl friend?" "Yes. I hung out with her last summer." "You work street with dead girl? Now you want work street with me?" "Maybe later. Right now I want to help make the street safer for everyone." I handed her a handbill. She crumpled it up. I looked hurt, and she looked at me angrily. "I no read your paper. I work now." "I just wanted to invite you to a memorial service for Daylene. There will be some college kids there who want to help you with police, work and landlord hassles. And it will be a pace to meet others like us in safety." "Don't want college kid help. Don't want your help." Just then a car slowed down and a passenger window rolled down. I retreated to the shadows. I recognized the forest green Suburban. It was old Mr. Country Music, and Garth Brooks was still playing on his stereo. After a hurried conversation, the Asian girl got in and they drove off. I handed out handbills to the other three girls who were working that block of Hennepin. They were pleasantly surprised that college kids were taking an interest in their lives. "I'm a college T girl, you know. Not all college kids are football players and cheerleaders." "Why donch yu try out fir cheerleader," asked Tonya good-humoredly. Tonya was a long-limbed blond with fantastic silicone breasts. I liked her immediately. "Actually, I'm more of a hockey fan, and there's no place for cheerleaders on the ice," Tonya wisecracked, "yeah, they have to suck cock in the penalty box." I laughed. "That sounds like a good idea to me!" Actually, as I applied this notion to Rick and Randy, it had possibilities, but I didn't elaborate. During breaks in the passing traffic, Tonya introduced me to her friends Karinna and Tran. Karinna was a Brazilian with a prominent silicone pumped bunda?, and Tran was a beautiful Amer-Vietnamese girl with a pretty face and oversized breast implants. They all had known Daylene and wanted to come to her memorial service. They were excited to have someone to help them with their legal hassles. When I explained my project, they were eager to tell me their stories. "I wanta get my name changed," Karinna said excitedly. "My name fine," said Tran. "I want change my sex," she giggled. Traffic was starting to dwindle, and Tonya and Karinna suggested that we check out the scene at the Town House. "You meet lotta girls there," said Tran, "lotta trannie chasers too." I noticed that the first girl I had spoken to had not returned. "Do you know the girl in the high black boots? The one I was talking to before you?" "That Gow," said Tran. "She Thai. She thinks she better than us. She real bitch." "Do you think she's OK?" "She probably go home. She hate rest of us girls." I scanned up and down Hennepin worriedly, but did not see her, or Mr. Country Music's Suburban. Oh well, I thought, he had been OK with me: just not very polite. The Town House was a drag bar near Hennepin. They didn't card the T- girls, and so I got in with ease. Disco music thumped sensuously and strobes lit the sinuous bodies and glistening faces of the dancers exquisitely. I was both intimidated and entranced. There were scores of T-Girls in the bar, but they were vastly outnumbered by the men who were pursuing them. I hovered at a corner of the bar behind Tonya, Karinna and Tran, but they were all beckoned to the dance floor by suitors, and enthusiastically followed. I was alone, and feeling very intimidated, when a large, muscular black guy approached me and said, "Let's dance." Without waiting for me to demur, he took my hand and led me to the overflowing floor. I noticed immediately that the other dancers gave my partner respectful distance as he bent my body through his well practiced moves. When I stumbled over his feet, and mumbled "Sorry." He said reassuringly, "That's OK baby, just follow my lead." And I did. I twirled, spun and bent my body through the pulsating rhythms until my cheeks glowed with warmth and my breath was short. As he escorted me to a booth. Tran cupped her hand over my ear and whispered "That Bo, he best. And biggest!" She laughed excitedly for me. Bo wasn't exactly the world's greatest conversationalist, but the few words he spoke were in a deep, dignified baritone. He was a huge, handsome, dark skinned African American. He had a massive, chiseled chin, high cheekbones, and soulful brown eyes. His chest was broad, his arms thick with bulging muscles, and his legs massive. He bought me a glass of champagne. He gazed at me appreciatively, as he sipped his cognac. The heat of the dance floor had made me thirsty, and I gulped the champagne too fast. In the midst or our next dance, my head was spinning, and I toppled helplessly into his arms. "I think I need to go home." He nodded and guided me to the exit. Through blurry eyes I saw Tran and Tonya giggling and waving goodnight. The night had grown chilly and I shivered and sobered up quickly. Bo noticed me shivering in my spaghetti strap top and threw his leather jacket over my shoulders. I was simultaneously thrilled and chilled by my circumstances: alone at night with the hottest black stud on the trannie scene. My body wrestled briefly with my conscience, and my conscience succumbed. "Do you want to see my new place?" I asked innocently. "It's just around the corner." He nodded and took my hand. "I want you baby, I want to fuck your sweet little ass." I feigned surprise. "I don't usually do that with guys I don't know." "Do you know President Grant?" he asked, showing me a fistful of hundreds. "I know him, all right!" I replied. God, I loved getting paid for sex. I let him into my new studio, and was pleased that he said "Nice place." It was tiny, but thanks to Finch's cleaning lady, it looked fresh and neat. Gesturing to the bed, I said, "Make yourself comfortable." I grabbed lingerie and make-up from my still-packed bag and went to the toilet. I was sweaty from the dance floor, and so I douched my tush and took a quick shower. The douche worked quickly and I felt squeaky clean inside and out. I cleansed my face, applied a light coat of make-up to emphasize my youth and innocence, and put on a filmy nightie and panties. I was out of the toilet in ten minutes, and Bo lay naked on my bed, stroking his mighty cock. It was an ebony obelisk, rigid atop Bo's imposing frame, which rippled with well toned muscles. "Baby, you're beautiful. Come to poppa." I sleepwalked towards him, transfixed by the sight of his enormous penis. Involuntarily, I bent down to suck it, but he pulled me up towards his face and crushed my lips in a breathtaking kiss, before guiding my head over his taught, washboard abs to his monstrous member. I gobbled it into my mouth and banged it against my tonsils, and realized to my amazement that a full handful was still outside my wide-stretched lips. He wasn't big: he was huge. I enjoyed the feeling of giving him a hand and blow job at the same time even as I pondered the geometric implications on my slender hips and tight ass. It tingled with the expectation of pain followed by pleasure. For it was my ass that he craved. My hot, wet mouth was only a warm up for him. He guided my head gently onto his cock, never pushing me to the gag point or pulling my hair. For all his size and power, Bo was a gentle and considerate lover. His long, strong arm circled around my back, and he stroked my hole with his thumb as his for finger flicked my tiny cock like a clit. "Oh baby, I love your tight ass," he moaned, knowing his massive cock rendered me speechless. Gradually, he slipped his thumb through my ring, sending sensations of pain and ecstasy though me. He pulled his cock from my stretched and tired lips and said, "I'm ready," and I obediently sat up and grabbed a condom and lubricant from my bag. I slathered his steel-hard cock with lubricant and tried to slip the Trojan on. He was so large that the condom slipped off and wouldn't unroll. Finally, I popped the unrolled condom between my lips, and steadying his cock in both hands, I pressed it on with my mouth, using my puckered lips to unroll the condom over the rim of his bulging cockhead. It slipped on, and his cock again banged alarmingly against my palate and the back of my throat. I felt an anticipatory flash of pain in my tummy. I squirted a puddle of lubricant into his outstretched palm and he massaged it into my crack, slipping some into the outer ring of my ass as I let out an involuntary moan. I slathered on as much as would stay on the on his massive pole, which seemed to have grown even larger as a result of this gentle attention. I rolled onto Finch's freshly laundered sheets, and Bo squished a pillow under my pelvis. "Be careful," I reminded him as he mounted my upturned buns. His first stroke bounced off my rigid ring and slid down over my tiny, cowering cockette. "Oops," he said, abashed. I reached back to steady and guide him into me. My fingers could barely circle his engorged cock. "Just a second, let me relax," I said, as I pressed my diaphragm down toward my rectum with all my strength. "Now," I said, and he pressed inward. His upward pressure met my downward thrust in a perfect moment, and he entered me. For a few seconds, I was numb with shock, and then a wave of pain swept though me. I bit the pillow to suppress my cry, but I was shaking with fiery sensations. He pulled back a fraction of an inch, and then I could breath and speak again. "Slower please," I gasped, and he gave another gentle nudge forward, and again pulled back a fraction. Blinding pain again was succeeded by exquisite relief as each new millimeter brought me to the brink of extinction, and back. Thirty careful strokes brought him inside me to the hilt. Each gentle nudge and retraction had brought new heights of pain and vistas of relief and pleasure; but when his balls finally slapped against my ring, I felt as though my belly was about to burst. His cock was pressing against every organ inside me, and was penetrating me to my very heart. Tears welled in my eyes. With a cracking voice I said, "God that feels great, but you're huge, be gentle, don't hurt me." "Don't worry, baby, I know what I'm doin." With that, he began a gradual gentle rocking motion. Every inch of my intestine rebelled against each entry and withdrawal, but as his rhythm steadied and strengthened, my body became an involuntary slave to his commanding motions. My juices began to flow inside me, and our bodies united in undulating waves that grew in intensity with each crash of his body against mine. As we rose and fell in unison, his movements became faster and more powerful, again overwhelming me. With each thrust, the gentle, considerate lover gave way to a wild, barbaric animal. But by then, I had transformed from a frightened virgin to an insatiable nymphomaniac. Now, no gentle words passed his lips, and his mellifluous baritone gave way to a husky, breathy grunt. The unbridled power of his massive muscles was unleashed on my slender, soft body. He did not bother with a menagerie of different positions and rhythms. His was a straight and relentless doggy-style assault. His cock pounded relentlessly into my core, and I yielded enthusiastically to his extraordinary athleticism and endurance, crying out in wordless ecstasy. With each crushing downward thrust, I raised and opened myself, and with each rapid, wrenching extraction, I surrendered his precious tool, and readied myself for a new surrender. I lapsed into replays of long forgotten fantasies. I was the mistress secluded southern plantation, whose slaves had rebelled after her confederate husband was killed in battle. Now, it was the turn of the hulking, angry field hand from the cotton field to take revenge for the lashings of the slave master's bull whip. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I moaned, escaping into an agonizing reverie that mirrored the animalistic fucking this black master was giving me in the here and now. His fucking accelerated and became even more wild and violent, and I knew the end was near. Then came a wild animal cry and a prick-plunge that tore into me like a spear, bringing bright colors to my watering eyes, then a series of ten more like it, accompanied by wild grabbing at my breasts and cockette, and I knew he was cumming. Then, darkness descended over me. I must have passed out from the ecstasy and the exertion, for I awoke under the crushing weight of Bo's slumbering body. His softened cock was still stuck in the entrance to my bottom. Worried about a condom leak, I squeezed it out with a sharp pop of my rectum, and Bo groaned sleepily. "Wake up, I can't breath," I whispered, and he rolled over and off of me. I slid out of bed to the bathroom. I peed and douched again. When I cleaned myself out, the liquid was pink with blood. I put neosporin on my sore hole, and then I washed Bo's sweat off in the shower. When I emerged, he was half dressed and smiling. "You're the best yet," he said proudly. "You got the tightest, hottest ass in the Twin Cities." I was a little hurt to be graded like a commodity, but that was Bo. "Thanks," I said. "You were great too." "Gotta be getting home now," he said. It was 1:30. He gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Be see'in you later." He closed the door behind him, and suddenly, I felt very alone again. I looked around the apartment and was relieved that Finch's cleaning lady had left a spare set of sheets. I stripped the bed of the sweat stained sheets and put on fresh ones. I had no more pajamas, so I put back on the lingerie I had worn for Bo. As I was turning off the light to go to sleep, I noticed that Bo had left a pile of hundreds by the bed. I put it into my purse, and fell into an exhausted sleep. God, I thought, it was really great to get paid for sex. Especially, to get paid a lot. The next morning I had arranged to join Rick and Randy for a Starbucks, and a study session. I arrived late, in girl's clothes, and they welcomed me with jealous stares. "Where were you last night?" Rick demanded inquisitorially. "I knew you were fully occupied, so I stayed over at a friend's place," I said vaguely. "Who's that?" asked Randy insistently. "If you must know, my advisor on my independent study has a spare apartment. He's letting me use it when I can't stand the dorm anymore. I thought you had dates, anyhow. How did you have time to spy on me?" It turned out that Rick had actually used my bedroom with his date, while Randy entertained his in their shared room. "Oh great," I said sardonically. "Not only do I have to share you with every girl in the Tri Delt house, I have be their hostess as well." Rick beckoned me for a whispered confidence, and Randy crowded in. "You know we like you a million times better than regular girls." "Yeah, we just have to keep up appearances. You're a lot nicer, a lot smarter, and a lot tighter," they both agreed, giving my butt a gentle squeeze. And I like you better than Bo, I said silently to myself. But I bit my tongue. "It's so nice to be appreciated. But how do I fit in? Am I just your weekday tutor, and your weeknight fuck?" "We'll start taking you out to do stuff," Rick said to placate me. "You can come to a hockey practice, and watch us play if we make the team," Randy promised. That promise reminded all of us that our plan was to study. "So where is this apartment? Can we go there for study hall?" There were only two chairs in the tiny kitchenette. Someone would have to spread out on the bed. "OK," I agreed, knowing that it would be me. So we studied there for hours. Rick and Randy weren't stupid; they were average: just coddled jocks whose path had been greased through high school by powerful coaches and subservient teachers. With my attentive guidance, and the promise of a pleasant reward at the end of their studies, they tried hard and learned quickly. When our agreed upon study hall was over, I submitted to a fantastic orgy at their increasingly expert hands. They left me sore and exhausted in a rumpled bed as they went to a team workout. With my help, I realized, they would make their grades and make the hockey squad. They would become campus and media darlings, and graduate to become the country-clubbed, connected grand bourgeoisie. They would get the fast track jobs at the Fortune 100, and live in the big houses in Edina with beautiful, lazy wives and adorable, soccer playing children. In the meantime, I was rescuing them from alcoholic and academic oblivion, and making this possible for them. Where did I fit in this world? Or did I belong in the world of Bo, Tran, Tonya and Karinna? I translated 3 more Canterbury Tales, and it was dark. I returned to the Town House and ordered a fruit salad, hoping for a friendly face to relieve my depression. I was rewarded with welcome company: Tran hugged me and giggled excitedly. "Mr. Bo, I hear he like you. What he give you?" I hadn't yet counted the pile of cash on my bedstead, so I opened my purse to look: it was $300. "Oh, Mr. Bo, he like you a lot. He like you more than me. Now I hate you." "Please don't desert me, Tran. I need you." "I kidding. But jealous." "Tell me where Bo gets his money." "From drugs. He biggest crack dealer in Twin City. Lotta people work for him. Be careful of that Bo. He rich and sexy, but he danger. He no like you, he chill you outlike that." She snapped her fingers. Great, I thought: my new boyfriend, the homicidal king-pin drug dealer. That could come in handy: or, not! "Tran, I'm worried no one will come to the service for Daylene. What can we do?" "Give me more paper, I gave all other paper away. We can leave more at Town House." "Do you know the bouncers and bartenders?" "Of course. Knew Daylene too. They sorry about Daylene." "Will you introduce me?" "Of course, they like you. They like pretty T-Girl at Town House. But no hooking at bar!" she jokingly commanded. Tran introduced me, and not only did the bartender agree to have the bouncer distribute handbills, the owner replaced the marquee. Now, instead of 'Moulin Rouge Review, Wed. and Sun. Nites 11 pm', it read 'Mem. Serv. Daylene, Sat., 4 pm at 1st Afr, Bapt. Ch.' Tran insisted she get more handbills from my apartment, and she cooed appreciatively. "You a rich college girl. You lucky." I gave her a warm smile and a hug. Her round silicone breasts brushed me and I kissed her cheek to cheek. "Just lucky to have friends like you." She said goodbye and flounced down Hennepin. And, I reflected, maybe I was lucky. Just as Rick and Randy had come to cherish and protect me in the daylight world of campus, so would Bo in the dark and dangerous netherworld of Hennepin. Brad, Peter and Jon would become the guardians of my social agenda and my academic ambition. Tran had become my confidante and ally in the T-Girl community. Although I was stuck between two worlds, and two genders, I had found friendship and support in both. If only I could find a way to merge them! I stopped at the Alliance's office to leave notes for Jon and Brad about the progress on publicizing the Memorial Service. There was a note from Brad to me asking me to meet him, he had an assignment for me. Flattered, I went to the Law School and was directed to the Law Review Office, where he was an editor. "Professor Epstein is going to speak on Transgendered Rights at the memorial service. Finch got him. Now, he's assigned me to write his speech for Daylene's service. I haven't got a clue, so I'm counting on you." He handed me a rough manuscript entitled 'Is Prostitution Protected Speech?' "He told me to work from this. Read it over and get back to me tomorrow with your ideas." I was flabbergasted and flattered. "You know I'm only a freshman?" "Allie, you're already smarter than most of the second year law students I supervise here. I trust you. Meet me here at 4:00 tomorrow; we meet with Epstein at 5:30." "Can I work here?" "Sure. There are law students here most of the night." "Can you do me a favor?" "OK, what?" "Can you get me a change of clothes and my toilet kit from my dorm? It's room 503." "Sure, what do you want to wear?" "Boys' clothes. In class, I'm still Alex." What I really needed was the Premarin and speed in the toilet kit. Brad returned as I was in the midst of the first read through of 'Protected Speech?' The draft was covered with scribbled comments, looping, wild inserts carrying around the margins, and emphatic deletions. "Whose draft, and whose notes?" "Mine, and Epstein's" "Wow, he's a tough critic!" "That's putting it mildly. Welcome to the world of law professors. Good luck. Planning to stay late?" "All night, if I need to." "Too bad for your boyfriends over at the dorm. They were already pining after you." I blushed. "They'll be fine." "Sure. Separation makes the heart grow fonder. Leave a copy of your draft on my desk. Good night." As I read Epstein and Whitman's wildly imaginative hypothesis, I made the connection that prostitution, as the free expression of transgendered identity, was a First Amendment right. I began typing furiously: 'A person's gender identity was at the core of the being, and expression of that identity was a core component of that person's basic right to communicate. Thus, abridgment of that right is not only cruel and inhumane, but in violation of the First Amendment. Free speech may be restricted where it poses a clear and present danger, but in our society expressions of majority sexual identity are widely tolerated. Think of Elvis, or of Cassanova, of Madonna and Marilyn Monroe. If there is no Constitutional justification for curbing expression of typical male and female identities, there can be none for curbing expression of transsexual identity. Indeed, since there is widespread discomfort in the public with transsexual expressions, the imposition of restrictions on transsexual behavior evidences an abusive exercise of majority tastes at the expense of the freedom of expression of the minority transsexual population. The protection of minority expression from the censorship of the majority is the highest calling of the First Amendment!' 'Discrimination against transsexuals is especially intolerable since both municipal and Minnesota state law protect gender minorities. These protections extend to people of one genetic gender who identify with or take on the other genetic gender. Minnesota Statutes, Chapter 363 Subd. 41a, provides that 'Sexual orientation' means ... having or being perceived as having a self-image or identity not traditionally associated with one's biological maleness or femaleness.' The defining characteristic of the transsexual is being perceived to have or having a self-image or identity not traditionally associated with biological gender. Thus, expression of transsexual identity is specifically protected in Minnesota. Section 363.03 prohibits discrimination based on sexual orientation in employment, housing, education, and public services and accommodation and thus forbids discrimination in these areas against transsexuals. Yet discrimination against transsexuals in all of these areas is widespread and tolerated. Employers refuse to hire, landlords refuse to rent, the police harass and demean, and the public, gay and straight alike, marginalizes and demeans the transsexual minority. Denied mainstream jobs, they find work on our streets, where they are ridiculed, harassed and assaulted. Transgendered populations suffer more crime victimization in virtually all categories of crime, ranging from assault, to rape and now serial murder: statistics indicate that they are murdered at 160 times the rate of the general population. As perpetrators, their crimes are nearly always status and vice crimes: soliciting prostitution, vagrancy, and drug possession. But the police adopt a confrontational and abusive stance to our transgendered population. The police rigorously enforce victimless crimes laws, while most crimes against transsexuals are not competently investigated, much less punished. Now, the police investigation of a string of serial murders of transsexuals languishes, without serious investigation. How many of you have even been interviewed about the circumstances of Daylene's abduction and murder, which was preceded by a another similar crime and now has been followed with another. Apathy and contempt have taken root, flourished and bred a domestic holocaust against our most vulnerable gender minority, which the police, which we all, have ignored and therefore tolerated. It is time to redress a generation of neglect and hostility, to enforce our laws and Constitution, and to permit this minority to give voice to their expression of gender and identity. It is time for the gender community to unite and demand its rights under the Constitution, the Minnesota laws and its time for the rest of us to demand justice and freedom on their behalf.' I looked up from the computer screen at last, and beheld a gorgeous pink sunrise. I had worked through the night. There was a shower in the law review office, for workaholic law students to keep up appearances. I showered, dressed and trudged wearily to Starbucks for my morning latte: then off to Math 101. It seemed trivial beyond belief. I had glimpsed destiny through a compute screen. Rick and Randy were furious and suspicious. "What's your excuse this time?" I pulled off my Raybans to reveal my red rimmed eyes. "I had to pull an all-nighter on my independent study." They were satisfied, and even sympathetic. "You look like you need a Starbucks." "Sure, let's go", I said, silently thinking that I needed something stronger. I popped the last of my Black Beauties, secure in the knowledge that Bo offered an unlimited source of amphetamine re-supply. I buzzed through the rest of the day to my 4:00 with Brad. We picked and quibbled over my manuscript for an hour or so, before Brad finally pronounced himself satisfied, gulped nervously, and grimly said, "Oh well, time to see Epstein." Professor Epstein let us into his cluttered office, and gestured us to sit. I gingerly removed a stack of files from a chair and sat. Epstein grimaced and pulled at his tangled curly hair, as he read, occasionally grunting, "Yes, yes, good," and then glaring at me and saying accusatorily, "That municipal code was not in my draft." I exchanged nervous glances with Whitman. Finally, Epstein cleared his throat and said, "Rios, I gather this draft is primarily yours." "Yes, well, I started with the 'Protected Speech' manuscript, and tried to draw analogies to gender rights," Epstein interrupted, "And an excellent job you did. Why, if the dunces in my Constitutional Law class reached one tenth of the level of your analysis, I'd have to pass them all." He guffawed at his own joke. "You're an undergraduate?" "A freshman, actually." "Well, you're wasting your time on that. You will be take my `Majority Rules, Minority Rights" seminar at the law school next semester. I'll speak with the undergraduate dean about an appropriate credit arrangement." I gathered it was more than an invitation. "Now when Finch described you, he said you were actually transitioned. Why the male attire?" "The Admissions and Scholarship Committees admitted me as a male. I'm worried that coming out might cost me my scholarship or even my admission. It's terrible, switching back and forth. And the dormitory situation is a nightmare." "Enough said. I will be writing the Dean of Students that he is to change your admission status and housing arrangements to gender- appropriate status immediately, and without prejudice to your scholarship and financial aid status. If he hesitates, Mr. Whitman and I will be pleased to file a mandamus action on your behalf, pro bono of course. But then again, you have already written our brief. Well done, Rios." Of course, that praise did not mean that Epstein did not send Brad and me back to the computer for repeated rounds of revisions. As Brad explained it, all great lawyers were perfectionists. And so, as you know, am I. I hate the beginning of a party. I am always nervous that no one will come, or that those who do hate it and leave. Thus, I felt awkward and inadequate as I stood around with Jon, Finch, and Reverend Alpha Jones of the First African Baptist Church in front of a room full of empty folding chairs. As guests began to arrive, nervous idleness was replaced by frenetic activity, as I charged around handing out fliers, information, and called to remind Epstein where and when he was to arrive. Naturally, he insisted on reading me a new conclusion that he had just written. I told him that I wasn't sure how the Reverend would take to the prostitution as free expression argument from the pulpit of his church, although I though the audience would respond favorably. He told me that he would have to think about it: "Never forget, Rios, that compromise in the expression of an important idea is the first step on the road to tyranny! Take not one step back!" he thundered. I made my way to the front of the church, and saw the place was packed to the rafters. Tran, Tonya and Karinna, looking elegant and pious, waved excitedly. Bo sat behind them with several of his tough looking crew. And in the back, keeping a bored, skeptical vigil over about two hundred transsexuals and drag queens, sat Detective Keyes and two plainclothes cops. Reverend Jones gave a moving funeral address and called upon the community to remember Daylene through their actions as he had through his words. I introduced Brad Whitman as the law school liaison for the Transgendered Community, we made a few announcements concerning the joint Alliance, Sociology Department and Law School outreach project, and asked for the T-Girls to participate in a research study of the community. Then, Epstein rose and delivered the speech we had prepared, in the blistering style of a trial lawyer's closing statement. I watched appreciatively as Keyes squirmed in his seat. But Epstein surprised me with his conclusion. The last nail he pounded in his indictment of the police was fresh from the police blotter. The police had just disclosed, almost a week after the fact, the gruesome discovery of another murdered transsexual, an Asian of unknown origin. It had to be Gow! And I knew who had done it. I was the last person to see her alive! The question was, had he seen me in the shadows? Did he remember me? Was he looking for me now? I couldn't enjoy the reception that followed the service. I felt too nauseous for lemonade and cookies. I approached Keyes and told him that I would like to identify the body, that I might have information. "Look, I don't need you mucking up another investigation." "I think it might just be part of the same investigation." "Leave police work to the police, you little busybody. I don't appreciate public agitation against my Department. Fuck with me, and I'll fuck with you, but, as you like it. Meet me at the morgue at six." I arrived promptly, and Keyes kept me waiting an hour as I fidgeted nervously. Gow's face, like Daylene's looked almost peaceful, as if she had welcomed the end. "So do you know her or not?" "I was talking to her when she picked up her last date on Saturday night. I hung around for another hour or so, and no one saw her again that night." "What were you doing out on the street?" "What difference does it make to you? I saw the last car she got into. It was a forest green Suburban with a Minnesota plate. He was a blond, mustachioed white guy playing country music." "You just described half of the population." "I'd know him if I saw him. I got a good look." I couldn't tell Keyes how good a look I got last summer, so I left that out. "I can't find him, but he could find me." "How do you mean?" "Put me out on the street, like one of your decoy operations." "How do you know he'll go for you?" "Well, I am pretty cute, if you hadn't noticed. And I think he may have spotted me." "OK, I'll put you out on the street. We'll keep an eye on you." "And you're not going to bust me for solicitation." "No, we don't bust our CI's." "When are we going to start?" "How about tonight. You're so eager to save the world." "I'll be here at ten. Dressed for the part." I called Tran and told her my plan. "You crazy girl. Why trust that scumbag cop?" "I don't, but who else is going to arrest the guy. For all I know he'll come after me. He picked me up last summer." "You fuck this guy already? Then why he kill Daylene and Gow for being trannies?" I told her about my tampax trick. "Oh, you very smart girl. Maybe someday you outsmart yourself." I was worried that she had a point. "Tran, help me get ready, and stay with me please." Tran dolled me up expertly. Her mom had had a beauty salon, and her make-up and hair styling skills made me look fabulous, even for me. She shared some strappy shoes, a low cut dress, and a pink fake fur jacket, "To keep me warm and make me hot." I tottered out to Hennepin and took a spot where Gow had taken the ride to her doom. I spotted unmarked police cars facing both ways, waiting to pursue. I drew a lot of attention, but I demanded fees that were outrageous even for so tasty a treat as I. I had only one trick to turn, and, at around 11:00, it turned down Hennepin and stopped. The window rolled down, and I heard the wailing of a Garth Brooks CD. "Hi stranger, long time," I said seductively. "What'll it be?" He looked surprised when he recognized me. "What are you doing here?" "Same as last time, just like you," I said, hopping in. He pulled away from the curb, looking disconcerted. "When I, when we, ah, I thought you were a real girl." "Depends on what you mean. I am really a girl on the inside." "But you ." "If it helped you enjoy yourself, it was a good thing." His face hardened, and he began driving faster. I noticed that he had driven past the lover's lane that we had used last summer. "Where are you taking me?" "I am taking you to the place that you have chosen for yourself. When you change the body that God gave you, when you seduce other men into unnatural acts with trickery, guile, and trick them into performing the abominable act, you are the devil's child. When you fill your body with poison, and you poison the world around you with your sexual displays, you are doing the devil's work. I am a child of God's, and you have besmirched me with your sinful body. You must now face God's punishment." He pulled the Suburban off the road, switched into four wheel drive, and plunged toward the river. He grabbed me by the hair and threw me on the ground. I felt a silken chord circle my throat, and tighten. "In the name of the Lord, I sacrifice this child of Satan. As the demon's soul is cast to hellfire, uplift my soul to heaven." He pinned me down by sitting on my chest as he gradually tightened the chord around my throat. I couldn't move, I couldn't breath, and all I could see was this moron's ugly mouth reciting this sick mantra, and the twinkling stars above mocking me. I closed my eyes and let myself drift toward death. First sound, then sight, then feeling, and then the smell of the Mississippi receded, and I was left alone with the flickering light of my consciousness gradually dimming. I was dying, but at least I was dying as a girl who had tried to do the right thing. But death was not what I expected. It announced itself with three loud bangs. The slamming of the doors of hell? Then I felt wet lips on mine and warm, wet air fill my lungs. I felt a slap on my face and heard the insistent calling of my name. I looked up and saw the familiar face of Bo, breathing into my mouth and in between breaths, calling my name. I was alive. And beside me, with three bullets in his brain, lay Mr. Country Music. I never did figure out if Keyes had planned to let Country Music kill me before making his bust. He said it was accidental, the result of insufficient planning. Of course, Bo, who had been tipped off by Tran, managed to track us to the killing ground and beat Country Music to the trigger. When the police finally searched his place in Fargo, they found Polaroids of seven dead T-Girls: the four from Minneapolis and one each from New York, Chicago and LA. I would have been number eight. I was up all night with the cops, giving statements and answering questions. I barely staggered into to Starbucks in time for my morning latte with Rick and Randy. "OK," demanded Rick "Let's hear your excuse this time." Oh god, please, I thought, don't get me started. Next: ? Brazilian Portuguese for ass.