Nailing My Son s Tutor
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The Tutor free porn video
The Tutor
By Amy Carlisle (c)2002
No thunder. And no lightning.
It was a good start.
Yes, I know, it rarely storms indoors, let alone in an
endocrinologist's waiting room, but after all these years,
the simple everydayness of this visit was something
entirely unexpected.
At first too nervous to notice my surroundings, one hour
and forty minutes of waiting made me intimately familiar
with every untidy nook and cranny of this house of healing.
I had already browsed the pages of the only magazine extant
(a well-thumbed three-year-old edition of 'Highlights for
Children'), counted the number of broken ceiling tiles
(six) and cursed myself repeatedly for failing to bring
along something to keep me entertained during the endless
waiting.
After having exhausted all my usual options, I was thus
reduced to something I usually go to great lengths to
avoid: making eye contact with my fellow inmates.
I first noticed a woman rummaging through her purse,
repeatedly removing and replacing a pack of Pall-Malls and
gazing longingly at the exit door. First guesstimates
placed her in her late thirties, although how somebody
could develop such an angry grimace in less than 90 years
was a mystery to me. She was wearing sensible shoes (good
for her!), unfortunately garish ultramarine slacks and a
fussy little blouse that had no business being on anybody
over the age of puberty.
Which leads me to her companion...
She looked to be all of six or seven years old and was as
petite as her companion was grande. Petite was, in fact, an
understatement. Perhaps pixie-like would be more
appropriate. Despite her diminutive stature (and in stark
contrast to her companion), she was dressed rather
stylishly, wearing what even I recognized as expensive,
designer jeans. However, there was enough similarity
between these two disparate females, especially around the
eyes and mouth, to warrant a guess of blood relationship.
As well, the sarcastic way in which the younger one replied
to some whispered comment by her elder associate confirmed
it - Mother and Daughter.
Mom (as I now thought of her), having reached her breaking
point, lunged to her feet and strode briskly across the
four-foot expanse that separated her from the
receptionist's window. With an emphatic rap on the frosted
glass, she demanded of the ageless crone in charge, "And
just how much longer are we going to have to wait in this
hell-hole?"
I couldn't make out the response, but whatever information
she shared didn't bode well for a timely consummation of
her appointment. With a gruff, "I'm going out for a
cigarette - I'll be back in a minute. Not that it matters!"
she charged out of the office.
The milk-glass window slammed shut, leaving only an uneasy
silence between the pixie and me. Fearful of being accused
of being a child molester or worse, I was certainly not
about to initiate conversation, yet it didn't seem polite
to pretend that she didn't exist. I was thus trying to
conjure up some non-threatening way to break the ice when
she spoke first:
"Please don't tell me how adorable I am. I'm not six years
old. I don't want to play with my dollies or sit in the
corner and color and I certainly don't want to hear about
what a brave little girl I am waiting here alone in the
doctor's office."
Although caught off guard, I managed a come back. "Oh,
don't worry," I said, "you don't look like the dollies-and-
tea-parties type, I don't think you're all that adorable
anyway and if there was anything to color in this God-
forsaken dump, I'd already be scribbling away."
"And it's nice to meet you, too. My name's Emily, I'm
fifteen and I have to come here all too often because of my
GHD. That's Growth Hormone Deficiency, in case you're
interested."
"I knew that," I immediately lied. "My name's Bob. I'm
forty-seven and this is my first visit to the good doctor."
I glanced at my watch. "Is it like this all the time?"
"Usually it's worse."
"Maybe there's an emergency or something?"
"An endocrine emergency? Every afternoon? Personally, I
think the doctor enjoys a mid-day nap between noon and
three. He just schedules patents for that time in case he's
hit with a sudden bout of insomnia." Emily climbed down
from her chair (I told you she was tiny) and walked over to
my side of the room. "Personally, I'd like to hit him with
a baseball bat."
"Or a bus," I agreed.
She grinned at me like we were old friends. Or co-
conspirators. "So what brings you in on a nice afternoon
like this?"
"Hormone imbalance." It was the truth, so far as it went. I
just didn't see the necessity of going into specifics. I
should have known better...
"I don't know - you look pretty well balanced to me. What's
your diagnosis?"
I hate being put on the spot, even by cute-as-a-button
teenagers. "Don't know yet. Like I said, this is my first
visit and I really don't know what to expect."
"Don't worry," she smirked. "Whatever you've imagined, the
truth is probably worse..."
And at that, she was right. Because just at that moment the
frosted glass window slithered back and crone-face boomed
out, "Amy, the doctor will see you now."
Amy, in case you haven't caught on by now, is the name I
use when trying to pass as a woman - which, with my looks
and build, I never have and probably never will. This
unfortunately premature use of my preferred identifier
yielded just what you might expect.
My young companion scanned the waiting room to discover the
whereabouts of this interloper. Finding only the two of us,
it took only a moment for her to come to the obvious
conclusion. As I stood up to go into the adjacent
examination room, she waved at me and gave out a cheery,
"Nice to meet you, Amy!"
"I told you I was imbalanced!"
I hate doctor's offices...
---
The actual meeting with Dr. Kapner was distressingly anti-
climactic. Even the condescending attitude that I had
feared would have been better than the bland, bored
indifference with which he examined me. After the most
cursory of interviews, he sighed, wrote out orders for a
battery of lab tests and sent me on my merry way.
Total time elapsed in his august presence: ten minutes.
Total out-of-pocket expense: $200.00.
Thanks for nothing, Blue Cross.
---
My (still solitary) companion greeted me as I came back out
to the reception area. "Forget something?"
"Yeah - I forgot how much I hate doctors."
"Believe me, after six months of sitting around this dump,
you'll never forget again," she said, crossing her eyes for
effect.
As I opened the door to leave, Emily's mother returned from
her nicotine fix. I held the door for her (one of the few
stereotypical male indulgences I still enjoy) and bade
farewell to my temporary companion.
"'Bye, Emily. Good luck!"
I knew what was coming.
"'Bye, Amy!"
I could feel her mother staring as the door swung shut.
---
Two weeks (and two quarts of blood) later...
For a modest sum roughly equivalent to my mortgage payment,
I had my bodily functions certified by the local
McLaboratory (did I mention how much I hate Blue Cross?)
and had returned for what I hoped would be a prescription
for Estrogen.
Emily once again sat in the waiting room, accompanied by
three other patients who were obviously waiting their turn
in the funhouse. I was relieved to notice that she was
dressed differently this time; I'd hate to think she was
still waiting since my last appointment.
"Hi, Amy!"
"Hi, Emily." I sat in an empty chair to her right. "How are
you doing?"
"Still short. How 'bout you - still a guy?"
This had the unfortunate result of attracting everyone's
attention to yours truly. Magazines plopped on the floor;
newspapers crumpled like - well, newspaper. Five beady eyes
(one of the strangers was wearing an eye-patch) glared at
the two of us. When her glare proved insufficiently
intimidating, the elderly Cyclops let out with a theatrical
sigh and exited the office.
Now you have to understand that I had spent my entire life
afraid of what other people thought of me. This was a
particularly bad habit for the novice T* who hoped to
transition to womanhood and I was working hard to change my
attitude.
To my surprise, I discovered that it must have been
working: for the first time, I refused to fade invisibly
into the wallpaper.
"No, I'm not 'still a guy,'" I corrected her. "Mentally,
I'm a girl like you. Always have been. I just need to have
my plumbing adjusted so my outsides match my insides."
She broke into a genuine smile, "Cool! Are they going to
cut off your dick and balls?"
Another waiting patient headed for the door.
"No, they'll only cut off my balls. They'll save everything
else for when they build my new vagina," I explained.
"Way cool! Kinda like recycling."
And with that, out last remaining companion left the
office.
As if on cue, the milk-glass window slid open and the
Daughter of Satan inside warbled, "Mr. Eckert? It's time
for your appointment. Mr. Eckert?"
"I think he had to leave. I don't think he was feeling very
well."
Emily was trying her best not to snicker. "Yeah, he looked
a little green around the gills when he walked out."
The receptionist looked worried at this bit of news. "Well,
he had better not have the flu, that's all I have to say.
The last thing I need is to catch something from one of you
sick people."
"I don't think what I have is contagious," I offered.
"Me neither," added Emily.
"Smart asses," she muttered. She looked down at her
clipboard then continued, "Mrs. Smith? Are you there, Mrs.
Smith?"
Emily was quicker than I on that one, "If you mean one-eye,
I think she went home."
"Probably to bake some pies..." I added.
"...probably made out of little girls," continued Emily.
"...and big girls too, if she had her way."
The receptionist looked at us in despair, "What are you two
supposed to be - a comedy team?"
"A comedy team - what a great idea! Just like 'Kate and
Allie.'"
"Except that we'll be Emily and Amy, the endocrine freaks."
"Amy and Emily," I corrected.
"Age before beauty?"
"Pearls before swine!"
I seriously think the receptionist would have thrown the
two of us out of the office, if it hadn't required her to
get up off her chair.
"Now you two stop it and behave. You're both old enough to
know better." She scanned her list and tried again, "Mr.
Mifflin?"
This roll call of the dead was starting to piss me off.
"What are you - blind? You can see every square inch of
this armpit of a waiting room.
There's obviously only the two of us and you know exactly
who we are."
"The rules say I have to call each of you in order and
around here, we go by the rules."
"C'mon lady! We're the only ones left. Call us in so we can
get out of here before the traffic gets bad."
She looked shocked by the very idea! "B-but what if Mrs.
Smith or Mr. Eckert come back and one of you are in there
instead? It would be - it would be..."
"Against the rules?"
This got me a sharp poke in the ribs from my companion. But
'irony' was apparently not a concept they teach in
Receptionist School.
"Exactly! It would be against the rules. You'll just have
to wait."
"For how long?" I asked. Whatever humor there might have
been in our situation was fast disappearing.
"At least an hour. We have to be fair to the other
patients."
Emily looked at me and I looked at Emily. We both got up to
leave.
"Wait! If you leave now, I can't guarantee the doctor will
have time to see you later this afternoon," the
receptionist called out.
"We'll chance it. What d'ya say, kid? You up for a beer?"
"How 'bout a Slurpee instead?"
"Deal!"
---
Actually, Emily got the Slurpee; I bought a Diet Dr. Pepper
instead. (A girl has to watch her figure, you know!)
We sat on the concrete steps in front of the Medical Arts
building making random small talk. It was amazing how much
we had in common besides our unfortunate choice of health
care professionals. Both of us liked Roald Dahl, hated rap
music and thought that the people responsible for daytime
television should be taken out and flogged.
"You know, you don't talk like a fifteen-year-old girl," I
ventured at one point.
"And you don't talk like a forty-seven-year-old woman,"
Emily answered - slurping the last of her Slurpee.
"Hey - cut me some slack." Surprisingly, a tear started
down the left side of my face; I turned away before she
could see. "This woman thing is new to me, I'm doing the
best I can."
"I've read about people like you. Your whole life is going
to turn upside down." For the first time, Emily was
serious, "Won't that be really hard to deal with?"
"I don't care. It can't be any worse than being stuck in
the wrong body. You have no idea what it's like for people
to look at you and not see who you really are."
"Well, yeah," she said quietly, "I know a little something
about that, too."
I looked at her and immediately felt ashamed. Self-pity
could be as corrosive as guilt and neither had a place in
my new life. "I'm sorry. Of course you do. It's just that
there's so much to do, so much to learn. Sometimes, I feel
pretty hopeless."
"I'd be terrified." She reached out and held my hand,
silently giving me a few minutes to regain control.
"I am terrified. And overwhelmed," I admitted to her.
"So, do you have to go to girly school, or what?" Emily
obviously was trying to tease me out of my despair - and
was doing a pretty good job of it.
"If I could find one, I'd go there in a minute, but I'm
afraid it's going to have to be self-study for me."
She looked down at her sneaks and said, "Maybe I could
help."
"Help - how?"
"Well, look. I know all about being a girl. The secret
handshakes, the private code words, the works. I could
teach you."
I knew she was kidding but at least she was sincere. To
tell the truth, I wanted to take her up on her offer. Right
then, I wanted it more than anything in the world.
But I wasn't crazy. Well - at least not that crazy.
"What about your parents? I don't think they're going to
like you teaching a 47-year-old man how to act like a
woman."
"D'uh! Not a 47-year-old man - a 47-year-old woman. That's
completely different."
"True - but hard to explain, especially to the parents of
an underage girl." I said forlornly. "They'd have me
arrested as a child molester."
"Are you going to molest me?" she asked.
"Of course not!" I hoped the look on my face reflected my
revulsion.
"Then, they'll have nothing to worry about." She leaned
over and whispered, "Especially since we're not going to
tell them."
"What's it going to cost?"
"Your immortal soul - and sixty bucks in cash." She was
joking about the payment, but I knew she was serious about
the lessons.
It was idiotic. It was probably illegal. Heck, it was
probably suicidal.
But it was the chance of a lifetime.
I couldn't possibly put into words what this meant to me.
The best I could do was to stick out my hand and say,
"Deal?"
"Deal!" she answered with a nod of her head and a warm
handshake.
And, just like that, my formal education began.
(More to come)
Vicky
- 22.11.2020
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