Nandita To Nandini
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Truth And Fiction free porn video
Strongly inspired by the Tim O'Brien essay
"How to Tell a True War Story," appearing
in the October 1987 issue of "Esquire"
This may be archived/posted anywhere.
Just give credit where credit is due, thanks!
Truth and Fiction
By Pretzelgirl
THIS IS TRUE
I had a friend back in college. His name was Jim Shuler,
but everyone called him Moose.
One Sunday afternoon in December while Moose is away,
his crossdressing roommate kills himself. It came as a
surprise and shock to all of us. And though it'd surprise
you, the little guy and Moose were actually close. Moose
took it hard. Anyway, a couple days later Moose decides
he's got a roadblock of mental and emotional issues
building up within and has to talk to someone. He goes
to his girlfriend and starts bawling about the little
crossdressing guy who killed himself: what a great pal
he'd been, more than just a roommate. He'd been a best
friend, helping Moose with homework, always willing to
pitch in when the floor ordered pizza, and always there
if someone felt blue and needed a stand-up guy to stay up
all night talking with you. Too damned bad no one was there
for him. They should've been. We should've been. Don't
listen to any trash you hear about him, Moose says. He
weren't no pervert, and if he was a little crazy, it was
only crazy in a good way.
Anyhow, Moose has this whole touching, personal, very
sentimental heart-to-heart with his girlfriend. It's the
kind of thing you'd never expect from a guy like Moose,
but I was there twenty minutes after it happened, and I saw
the burly hulk with bleary, tear-stained eyes that day.
Of course, he never did tell me everything he said; some
things are private, for Christ's sake. But for the next
few years, every once and awhile, on a quiet summer night
after a couple beers, he'd mention how he spoke of the time
they'd gone fishing together, or how he told her about that
Halloween when Moose let himself get talked into going drag
to a party.
Apparently, it was a long, one-sided conversation -- deep
and despondent, with Moose pouring out nineteen years of
pent-up emotion, crying on his girlfriend's shoulder about
how damned unfair life is, and how he'd do anything to bring
the little guy back.
So?
Moose, a guy we thought was made of stone, pours his heart
out. And the goddamned cunt breaks up with him.
A TRUE TG STORY IS NEVER MORAL. It will not teach you a
lesson, it will not encourage your behavior, it will not
suggest a new path for you. Likewise, it cannot alter society
and will not stop people from doing and saying the things
they've always said and done. If you read a story with a moral,
it's a fable. If the end of a story leaves you feeling uplifted,
it's fiction. There's nothing wrong with fables and fictions.
We need them and love them. But fiction's an art, and art
doesn't mirror life; it mirrors the spectator. Spectators are
real, and if you can tell truth from fiction, you start to
see the world a little more clearly.
Fiction is my staple diet, but Truth adds much-needed fiber.
The tell-tale sign of a true TG story lies in it's
depiction of the evil and profane. Say aloud to yourself
Moose Shuler's words: "Christ, women always bitch about
you not communicating. I finally fucking open up, most
beautiful goddamned shit I ever spout! And the stupid
cunt just says, 'Maybe we'd better see other people.'"
He doesn't call her a bitch, and he sure doesn't say girl
or woman. He calls her a cunt, then spits on the floor.
He's just a kid then -- his best friend is dead because
society didn't like how the guy dressed. Moose can't make
sense of anything, and he says "cunt" because it's
terrifically unfair, sad, and true. She really did break up
with him that day. Talk about shitting on a guy when he's down.
You know the story's true if you're embarrassed by reading
it. Life's dirty, hurtful, and obscene. True stories mirror
that fact.
Maybe that's why fiction remains my main preoccupation.
THE DEAD GUY'S NAME WAS Gabe Alpert. What happened was,
one weekend just before Christmas break, Gabe thought
everyone on the dorm floor was gone. Certainly Moose was
away for the weekend, partying at a local ski lodge with
his regular cronies (okay, I was one of 'em). Moose had
invited Gabe to come with us, but both of them knew Gabe
would've been a fifth wheel. Gabe must've felt as bad about
the un-vite as Moose had felt nice about extending it. The
little fella just didn't "click" with the rest of us. Gabe
was a short, slight guy, never fitting in quite right anywhere,
and I'd never have remembered him at all, if it hadn't been
for Moose. The big guy took a shine to his randomly-selected
roommate and really tried to help him fit in, even dressing
up like a cheerleader with him for Halloween that one time.
I imagine it must've meant the world to Gabe, having a popular
jock like Moose there for support... in a skirt.
Those had only been cheap, single-use costumes. But that
fateful day, Gabe had hauled out his whole stash of panties,
bras, and other pink frilly things when Moose's girlfriend
barged into the room. She never told anyone what she'd seen
Gabe wearing, only that he was dressed like a girl and had a
box of undergarments strewn across the floor when she came in.
By the time Moose and I got back from skiing, Gabe had hung
himself from a piece of his lofted bed.
Moose and his girlfriend broke up right after that.
IN ANY TG STORY, BUT ESPECIALLY A TRUE one, it's
damned near impossible to sift perspective from what
happened. What you see gets skewed and twisted. What
seemed to have happened, happens in a way you can't
control. When you intrude on a naked body wearing lipstick
and twisting lifelessly from the dull air flow of a dorm
heating vent, you shut your eyes tight, step back away
from yourself, and wish to hell you weren't there. Surreal
images get jumbled together, and when you try to tell
someone else what happened, it all seems untrue. With
fiction, it's easier to get your "facts" straight ahead
of time.
The truth always looks wrong.
IN MANY CASES A TRUE TG STORY simply can't be swallowed.
The crazy bits and pieces hold the truth, and a "normal"
shell of exaggeration and outright lies frame it. Never
believe the whole thing. Be an open minded skeptic.
For example, I heard this one from a girl named Michelle
Jepsen back in high school. Late one night, a bunch of us
snuck onto the high school's flat roof, just to watch the
stars in a rebelliously teenage manner. I still recall the
scent of chlorine wafting in from the warm swimming pool
vents below us. The sky was deep, dark purple-black. Dim grey
clouds floated by soundlessly. Naturally, we started telling
"ghost stories."
"I swear to god," Michelle Jepsen said. "The six of
us go into the mountains on that camping trip last
year. On the surface, we're there to hike. Secretly,
we're doing all this Wiccan, pagan, nature shit.
And even below that surface, we're just there to
make-out... three girls, three guys. Least that was
my motive, and least I'm fucking honest about it."
Michelle had snuck a pack of cigarettes up to the roof.
She took a drag off hers before continuing.
"Now for me, it was all just a phase. I only went along
with Tanya and Rachel, who were deeply into that druid
shit. But anyways, we get into the hills the six of us,
set up a tent the first night, do some lame ass Wiccan
prayers and incense burning, then start making-out."
"Middle of this make-out session, Tanya stops and
screams. Todd Brekk is on top of me, with one hand
shoved up my shirt at the time, so I don't stop and see
what's with Tanya. Maybe she's just a screamer, y'know?
A lotta girls that way."
"Maybe a minute later, both Rachel and Eddy
(it's Eddy Driscoll she's with at the time) shriek
real loud. Todd and I both pause and look over at her
and Eddy. They give us a funny look, but don't say
anything. So Todd starts kissing and stuff again."
"This next part, I know you're not gonna believe.
I know that none of you are gonna believe it, but
every fucking word is God's own truth."
"The next thing that happens is WHAM! It hits me...
for a moment, the whole world flips around in this
blinding, dazzling white flash of brilliant light,
and suddenly I'm staring out of Todd's eyes and looking
at a close up view of my own fucking face. I'm so
stunned and shit, I can't do anything for a moment.
I was IN his body. I WAS him. I had his arms, and chest,
and his dick. I know exactly what it feels like to have
a fucking big hard-on! I was a man, for one instant,
and believe me: it was as fucking terrifying as it was
exciting. But then, when I try to pull back from kissing
my own body, suddenly I'm back to myself again, just
that fast."
"None of us ever said anything about that shit,"
Michelle concluded. "But after that first night
in the hills, we stopped all the fucking around
with magic powers. Hell, we even stopped making-out
till the trip back home!"
YOU CAN TELL A TRUE TG STORY BY THE WAY it doesn't
really end. It didn't stop when Michelle Jepsen
finally finished her cigarette, and we all stumbled
off that roof in the pitch darkness to go home.
It was all real.
Even now, I remember that scene. I remember how the
rough roof top felt under us. I remember the way the
air smelt. I remember how desperately cool Michelle
had tried to be, and I remember her dark eyes, rimmed
with too much mascara, pleading silently at us -- the
way she wanted, needed us to believe her words were
really true.
I walked halfway home with Michelle that night. Just
her and me (I'd had an unrequited crush on her, but
that's a true story for another time).
"I've got a confession to make," she said.
I noded silently.
"It never happened to Tanya and Rachel," she said
in a low voice. "I mean, they didn't shriek or scream
or nothing."
"Right," I replied.
"And there wasn't ever a flash of light," she
continued. "And when I told Todd about it later,
he laughed and said it was a dream. It was real
quick, but it honestly happened. I left my own body
for a split second and saw through his eyes, felt
through his skin. A real out-of-body experience."
"I understand," I said.
"Yeah, but listen," she answered. "It's still true.
And it wasn't exciting or nothing. It was the most
fucking terrifying thing that ever hit me. It just
scared the shit out of me, and I wanted someone to
hear it and believe me."
"I believe you," I said.
But to this day, I'm honestly not sure that I do.
SOMETIMES WE DON'T LIKE THE TRUTH when our noses
are finally forced into it. My senior year of high
school, a friend-of-a-friend had a cousin in the city
who dressed like a girl full-time in school. We all
thought it was a pretty funny gag, and even mentioned
the guy in a couple of humor columns for the school
newspaper. Just a stupid urban legend.
Then one day, the guy's cousin came to town visiting.
I got to meet him, and suddenly it wasn't funny anymore.
He was too tall. His Adam's apple bulged out like a
giant insect he'd swallowed. His arms were thick and
hairy. His face was pocked with acne scars. His
eyebrows were bushy caterpillars. His chin was a boulder.
And here he stood, in a pink-and-gray dress, nylons,
and a pair of heels. He wasn't a drag-queen; he was a
goddamned faggot. Everyone laughed at him.
I felt like shit.
It wasn't convincing. It wasn't pretty. I'm ashamed
of my judgmental nature at the time, but it turned
me off from my own secret, hidden pleasures for at
least a year.
IN A TRUE TG STORY, IF THERE'S A MORAL AT all, it's
buried so far beneath the fabric of the story, you can't
unravel it without destroying what's been written. After
any true story (TG or not), there's little anyone can say
but, "Hmmm" or "Oh."
True stories don't dwell in abstract generalizations, or
wallow in analytical explanations.
Example: "Nobody knows my hidden, secret pain."
It's true, certainly. I can't do a thing to argue
with it, but it's neither objective nor specific.
If you say it, I'll believe you in my head... but not
in my gut. A true story doesn't need to come out and
preach the moral. It wrenches your stomach, and you
find yourself believing it without question.
THIS ONE DOES IT FOR ME. I've replayed it so many
sleepless nights, sifting the details for a moral
or message but still come away with nothing.
A few days after Gabe died, Moose and I are driving
back from the grocery store when the car skids out
on the ice and winds up stuck in a snow bank. We're
stranded, but not far from home. We each grab a sack
of groceries and started trudging back the last couple
blocks to the dorms and a telephone to call for a tow.
"Y'know, I been thinking," Moose said. "If I'd only
helped Gabe get a girlfriend, none of this woulda ever
happened to him."
"How do you figure?" I asked.
"Well, I'd never say it around no one," Moose replied
in a low voice. "But obviously Gabe was starting to
turn queer. I shoulda helped him. Found a girl for him.
I coulda saved him."
"It's not your fault," I answered. "And I don't think
he was gay."
"I mean no disrespect to his memory," said Moose. "And
I'd never call him names in front of people -- never.
But the make-up and the panties... what do you call that?"
"Transvestite," I answered.
"Same thing," Moose said.
"Not really," I replied. "Transvestites still like girls,
they just also... like wearing girl's clothes."
"Whatever," said Moose shaking his head with irritation.
I should've just shut up.
"Gabe was a crossdresser," I continued. "He was probably
just as straight as you or I, and was in no danger of
'turning queer'. That's all just a myth anyhow. People
are born with their sexual orientations. No one learns it."
"And how the fuck do you know so much about it?" said
Moose with a dangerous edge in his voice.
I remember stopping in the snow, watching the fog of
warm breath from Moose's face as he turned and glared
at me. The winter wind was my only other witness.
"I'm a crossdresser too," I said quietly.
Moose dropped the bag of groceries and swung his fist
at me. It was the only time in my life I've ever been
punched.
I fell hard to the ice and sat in cold snow, rubbing my
sore, numb jaw. A smear of blood came away on my gloved
hand. Moose had split my lip open. He still towered over
me, hands clenched defensively, an angry quiver in his voice.
"I'm sorry," he told me. "But don't give me any of that
shit. I don't want to hit you again, but I will. Gabe was
fucked up, but still my friend. You're not like him.
Don't fucking lie to me. Don't fucking mess with me.
He was what he was, and you're not. Leave it alone."
"Okay," I answered, still rubbing my lip. "I'm sorry."
Moose extended a hand and helped me up. Together,
we wordlessly picked the spilled groceries out of the
snow and re-bagged them. We walked back to the dorms
in silence and never spoke of that conversation again.
WHAT DO YOU MAKE OF IT? I still don't get Moose's reaction.
Maybe he thought Gabe's sin was so original, I somehow
diminished it by confessing to the same thing. To Moose,
crossdressing was weirdly exotic behavior,
indistinguishable from homosexuality. Seeing it up
close and personal in Gabe must've filled him with a
blend of revulsion, mystery, and terror. For him,
crossdressing was a nasty, exciting discovery. Perhaps
it's unique unusualness made it seem holy. And the moment
any wondrous, miraculous, sacred event repeats itself,
it becomes second-rate and commonplace. Maybe comparison
brings understanding, but it stole something special
from Moose's perspective of Gabe.
At least that's how I analyze it. At least that's how
I generalize it. But generalizing seems to cheapen a
true story in the same fashion I cheapened the memory
of Gabe Alpert.
Analyzing and generalizing about my urges never helped
me. What I do isn't pretty. It's powerful. It fills my
veins with a red-hot urgency. It commands me. It corrupts
me. It's astonishing. It's dirty. It's brilliant. I can't
control it. I'm not sure I'd honestly want it taken from me.
I hate it, yet I love it. Like a devastating hurricane
or a burning building, it's raw power has an aesthetic,
amoral beauty and implacable purity. The truth is ugly:
I love who I am and would never take my own life the way
Gabe did. But it still eats away at me, and I'll never
understand why I'm a crossdresser. It's just who I am.
Accept it.
I love to slip on a pair of tight, small pink or purple
panties and feel my dick turn hard in the soft fabric.
Nothing makes me feel more like a man than wearing a
short gray, wool skirt riding tight against my thigh.
I hear my heartbeat and know I'm alive when I stuff
socks into a maroon 36C vassarette bra and strap it
onto my flat, masculine chest.
Proximity to anything sexual is proximity to the
vibrancy of life. You get lost in a misty fog of
indefinite chaos. Rules no longer apply. Your clarity
gets checked at the door, and truth becomes ambiguous.
Who am I? A crossdresser. A writer. A pretentious
man-girl calling herself "Pretzelgirl."
What the hell kind of "Truth" is that?
It's all I've got.
YOU CAN TELL A TRUE TG STORY BY THE QUESTIONS left
in your mind afterwards. You read something and
wonder, "Did it really happen?"
Example: "My wife came home unexpectedly the other
day and found me in her bra and panties. She yelled
and screamed, called me a fag, and made me promise
never to do it again. We've made up now, but I still
want her to be a part of my fantasies. I want her to
dress me up, put make-up on me, and fuck me that way.
But I'm afraid to ask her now."
Did it really happen? If it's pure fiction, you feel
cheated somehow. Naturally, it must've happened to
someone, somewhere, sometime. But if it's created out
of pure puffery, ungrounded in reality, it seems lessened
and lacking. The nagging questions in the back of your
mind really matter.
Some deceptions are true; some truths are total lies.
That man and his wife -- a true TG story that never
specifically happened. Even Moose and Gabe's story has
changed a bit each time I've told it to someone: always
a close friend. Always someone I trust ... and love.
Memories are fallible, facts are malleable, and Truth
shows a meandering sense of wanderlust with time.
You know a true TG story by the way you keep on re-telling
it, re-living it. By the way it tugs at your heartstrings
and makes your eyes tear-up in spite of all your machismo.
True TG stories aren't about the transgendered. They're all
about love and lust, sorrow and remembrance. They're all
about mistakes we make, decisions we regret, secrets we harbor,
and dreams we hope and pray to someday realize. They're all
about wives who don't understand, friends who love us yet hurt
us, and girls who dump us when we're most vulnerable.
-The End-
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