Island Run free porn video
[serious mood] Sharing a history can be harder than having one, but we
have to try. Is this a true projection? We won't know until we get
there.
Island Run
--Kiai 16Mar03/23nov03
The full moon is overhead, filling in anywhere that your headlight beam
cannot. Before you is an archipelagic coastline that, counting
interconnecting bridges as well as islands, just goes on and on and on
beyond your front wheel, and the bike beneath you howls at them all as
it lunges to meet them.
It is a pleasantly warm humid night. The coastal air is making your
gloves slightly sweaty from the outside in, dampening the loose cotton
clothing under your leathers, as if someone you like is breathing down
your collar and up your sleeves... a lover's close attentions delivered
out of the night by motorcycle. It insinuates its way beneath your
jacket and bells out your shirt a little, idly caressing your unbound
breasts. Focused as you are on the curves and turns of the road as it
winds its way down the island chain, you idly submit to this invisible
fondling, letting it arouse you a little, warm you up for what lies
ahead.
The suppressed howl of the semiturbine engine is like a joyous scream
that only you can hear, it seems so faint compared to the rush of wind
past your helmet. Everything seems to focus into full-moon intensity,
coming into an emotional clarity devoid of pretense or precedent, an
extended moment that has lasted since you set out on this trip over an
hour ago.
The mild waves glitter with moonlight, amusing themselves in solitude
on their beaches as you pass. The metal roadbed grid of each bridge
roars beneath your wheels, punctuating the smoother hiss of the
concrete roadbed across each island. The road teases you with its slow
count of alternations, each change in tone marking one step closer to
your lover.
You have been lovers for most of the past year, but this appointment is
special. It has been well over a year for the both of you, a full turn
of seasons since each of you accepted the change, and now at last the
both of you have mastered it.
For as long as you have known him, he has been a man who used to be a
woman and remembers it all jealously. Even that first time, as he drove
you into the wildest of passions, you could tell from his expert touch
at your most intimate sensitivities, the masterful way in which he
steered your ecstasies, that he knew with innate familiarity everything
that he touched. In time, he even passed along ways he knew that you
could best satisfy yourself when he could not be with you, trusting you
with his cherished secret memories.
Now, for the first time, with your newfound control of your change, you
can give him what he has been missing.
A year ago and more, weeks before the two of you ever met, you took the
change at the same time. In the months since that first encounter, you
have watched the signs of renewal, the visible indications of
immortality, as they have stealthily erased the craggy lines from his
face, rebuilt his musculature, replanted his hairline and stolen away
with his aging.
Only his eyes have never changed: old, with a stark wisdom of bitter
years, a charm that comes of long experience with weighing and sifting
the essential and dismissing the ephemeral without offense, and an
irony that comes from realizing that life is a battle fought in
inevitable retreat.
That, at least, has changed: advances in genetics and quantum shifts
have made possible advances in the battle of life, but the price is the
change that goes with that.
Over the past year, you have explored how you express yourself as a
woman who was once a man, learning this shape. Now there is the
opportunity to explore further. It is not a reversion, of course: for
all its habit and history, your mind has been made female by the year's
journey in a woman's brain.
It is your natural form, now, after all. No matter how early in the day
or late in the evening you assert your willed control over your form
and put on your rejuvenated old male face, you will inevitably revert
to this shape while you sleep; there can be no persistence. This
youthful reflection of the best that your genes can deliver to a woman
is too far removed from your ancient manhood.
You took on the change out of necessity, uncertain of anything other
than life and prepared to defend that alone. The sharing that you have
found with him, though, has made it all worthwhile. His patience with
your menopause-in-reverse, as your female hormones and rhythms flared
alight amid turbulence, eased your confusion and discomfort, as he
lightened your distress with anecdotes of his own transition to crone.
His lustiness for your elder form, even when all you saw of yourself
was faded hair and wrinkled skin and withered breasts, helped you to
embrace the changes as they restored your figure and face, sweeping
away even that final familiarity of age.
He was on the journey with you, after all. Even then, you could see the
youthening of his face, close up in the intimate disarray that followed
lovemaking, as he struggled not to doze off, and then see in that
slightly younger man's dark eyes the caring and the desire he held for
you. As the year-mark approached for both of you, you could see in his
eyes his delight at a promise fulfilled as he surveyed your youthful
figure, fascinated by your loins and your breasts and then your face.
He has returned to youth with you and held you close the while; and now
he waits for you.
Now you wind down the motor, turning off the main highway into the
streets of the island town where he lives, and it is with a sense of
fulfillment that you find your space and park the bike. The engine
shuts down with a plaintive note, as if surprised that the road would
not last forever, but you are intent on what comes next. You pull your
helmet off and settle it on your arm, then turn to where the
overshadowing trees cloak the ground from the streetlights, where you
two have stood sheltered many a time, where you know that your young
man must be waiting.
He moves out of the shadows, smiling, and you move to embrace him and
kiss him. Then you step back to look him over anew, and your eyes meet
his as he does the same with you: nothing is to be taken for granted,
now, not since the rules have been amended once again.
Savoring each other's approving gaze is enough for awhile. It is he
that first breaks the silence, ready to move onward. Even so, it is in
a lover's whisper, at once intimate and urgent and vulnerable, that he
says, "Shall we try it?"
You give him back that throaty whisper. "Let's."
He nods. "Yes, let's."
"You first, then."
He concentrates, standing there with eyes closed for long moments, and
then he shrinks in upon himself a little in becoming female. You are
surprised to see the youthful face she shows, surprised to see her
shapely lithe figure unscarred by motherhood. You already knew his
female form was attractive to you, because you had offered old photos
to each other, but this sylph is like a new dawn, as if time has
forgiven her all her earlier experiences.
She leans over; looking down at herself, then back up at you as if
proud to show you what she has become. She smiles and gestures broadly,
and her directness shows in her bearing.
"Now you."
So you close your eyes and you focus within, finding the presence in
the emptiness of self, as you were taught, and you assert without
asserting, and then you feel the breasts slip away. The once-was-
permanent presence between your legs is back again, clinging to the
skin of your thighs once more, no longer unnoticed, now obtrusive. You
shrug the heavy jacket into place around your wider shoulders and
settle the waistband of your pants on your narrower hips, drowning out
the private sensations with overtly public ones.
"Oh, yes..."
"Well, thank you, ma'am." Even now, you can feel the female within you,
inescapable: it is what you are, after all, and it is permeating your
viewpoint and your attitude. This shape, the gender you were born into,
seemingly a double lifetime ago, is your alternate shape now and you
know it. "Perhaps we should..."
"Right now?"
"Well..."
Perhaps you're more assertive with it for it being forced; or perhaps
there are aspects of your old behavior, with the old viewpoint's
underpinnings, that are striking sparks on her year-old manliness by
their implicit presumptions.
"I don't know..."
Within moments, you both can feel it in the subtleties of the
interaction: she is a man submitting to being a woman for the sake of
love and habit and fond memory. You are a woman asserting a maleness no
longer yours by rote, and it shows: your approach is too overt, too
brusque for the sensitivity of the changed viewpoints. The old learned
finesse is gone, along with the easy familiarity on which it was based.
"Let's..."
The clash is communicated by flickers of expression in a glance: you
two need room to work this out.
By unspoken agreement, rather than go up to her place, you two walk
over to a late-night eatery where you are both well-known.
Friends look up, take in the exchanged genders, recognizing the two of
you by clothing and general features, and nod and look away again,
perhaps sensing the tension.
Eventually a late dinner is brought over, and then you two are alone in
the crowd again, unexpectedly struggling simply to share a meal as
lovers do.
"...So, fair lady, what--"
"Oh, but, sir... Hm. Weird..."
All the old conversational spins and turns don't work when the actors
have these new faces, these exchanged roles. Even swapping the scripts
can't help: both know who originated the lines. The conversation
stalls, limps along with wider pauses, then stalls again and is not
restarted.
The stillness is made denser, more potent, as it is compressed by the
normal sounds that surround it. You take it in with every breath, until
it silences every thought but one: this was a mistake.
The casual talk before the silence still reverberates in your mind, and
you pick at it, searching for meaning. The words were the same calm
lovers' conversation, but the undertone was getting subtly bitter and
strident. She was responding to your manhood as a challenge to her own,
because you are too artlessly asserting it; like armor where there
should be no battle, but one arises because the armor provokes it.
"Oh." You suddenly realize: this will not last. Startled, you glance
over at her and see it in her eyes too, that realization of loss.
The tension lifts, but it's because, still in love, you two are now
moving the relationship into endgame, arranging for this unforeseen
closure in order to preserve the affection and friendship.
Still in silence, the two of you efficiently finish dining, pay for the
meal, make your goodbyes to those still there, and then walk out, hand
in hand.
Once outside, you shift yourself back to your normal female form. She
keeps her female shape, and you feel her relax somewhat, but now both
are groping for the meaning of it.
It's not her fault: it's inherent.
Only then do you see that realizing her fond memories of making love to
a man would rudely violate her year of manhood, coming so soon upon it.
It would be a rape all the more intimate because she did it to herself.
It's not your fault either.
You did not come here to help her abuse herself; neither of you did. It
is an artifact of life and change, something both of you helped
construct with your presumptions without knowing, something which now
blocks all direct routes forward. You can never be the man you once
were. You have yet to learn how to be the man that you now can be. She
has the same lessons to learn about her past and present womanhood.
Perhaps in another decade, when both are more comfortable with equal
ownership of both shapes, there can be a more middle-of-the-genders
mindset from which both can embrace without competing. You have
centuries, now; there is time in which to attain this new level of
awareness.
For now, though, even abstaining would not solve this contention. The
knowing would persist, and taint everything.
You gently pull her hand towards you, and she slowly swings around as
if indecisive, then catches her free arm around your waist and draws
you close. There is a deep-drawn kiss, then, probably the last, a
regretful quitclaim on the other's intentions.
You two will inevitably seek lovers on your own sides of the divide
now, for the next stage of this journey, which you both now know you
must make in separate parallels.
You'll probably seek someone who can respond to your token maleness,
and reciprocate with the same just-kidding deftness with which you will
try to take the sting out of the presumptuousness of your old ingrained
male habits as they're brought out along with the form.
She'll probably seek someone who knows the old way of behaving like a
woman, so that her manhood isn't threatened when it's her turn.
Both of you are still too young to it all. This business of being three
people in one, a man and a woman and an awareness of what being both
means, is so new to both of you that that third awareness is still in
its infancy. It's just as well that you're not staying out too late.
You can't stay the night; that would destroy any distant possibilities.
Instead, so as not to stay becalmed by indecision, you make to pull
your helmet back on; and she immediately clutches you closer. Her
momentary blocking of the arm with the helmet hanging on it is her most
overt expression of regret. Then she straightens up and leans in close
again, eye to eye for the first time in the year, and earnestly
whispers her wish that it were otherwise. "Gods, I'm gonna miss you..."
"I'm gonna miss you too..."
"Let's--"
"No. If we promise anything we'll never get there. I love you; I would
rather keep that."
"I... I guess I feel the same."
Both hands freed at last, you lift the helmet and pull it down over
your head. As you fasten the D-strap, she slides a hand up under your
shirt and gently caresses, first one breast, then the other, back and
forth, as if she doesn't know which one will miss her most.
You reach down and pull out her hand, bring it up to the face shield
opening to kiss it, and then just stand there taking in her beauty,
grasping her hand ever so tightly as you look at what is mirrored in
her eyes.
You are two women whose longing for each other is overshadowed by your
phantom male presences; they glare at each other over your shoulders.
She won't shift back to her native male shape until you're gone; you
both know that it would be bitter teasing.
The emotions are becoming too poignant. You turn, walk over and start
the bike, hearing its lone-wolf moan ascending the octave as you flip
closed the clear shield, forbidding tears, saving face. You zip the
jacket closed, minimizing your exposure.
You capture one last look as you mount the saddle, seeing how she
stands, hands folded on each other instead of you, and then you gently
ease in the clutch, trying not to let the bike make you look like
you're running away, even though you both are.
Then it's her indistinct form in the mirrors for a moment, twin ghosts
of old hopes, before the geometry of the road takes even that from view
as you turn the front wheel.
It's the first of many steel-grate bridge beds coming up, and then it's
growling under your wheels, and then it's behind you, and you're no
longer on the same island. There is the setting moon behind you to one
side; you can sometimes spy it in the mirrors when the road twists.
Your headlong passage tears up a cooler wind, now, and a thicker one,
teasing your nipples up again, but with cold, now, not with desire,
bracing you for the colder other end of the ride.
You fumble with the jacket, finally pushing in that snap at the tip of
the double-breasted collar, closing yourself off from that chill
caress, and settle down in the saddle for the long ride back. You
glance at the two mirrors in turn a few times before regretfully
trusting that they're empty, as the past always must be as it recedes.
Don't let the tears obscure your view of the long road ahead: you might
miss your turn.
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