Becoming Suzanne A Woman s Journey Part 3
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Becoming Suzanne -- Part 2 free porn video
Part 2
Becoming Suzanne - A Woman's Journey
I'm not sure what people thought of me as a person or how they
perceived me. But I know they accepted me as a woman.
I have to tell you that it can be such a seductive feeling. Not that
it necessarily makes you feel or act seductive. It's just so
incredibly intoxicating to suddenly be in this world as a different
gender. Maybe men and women aren't so different in some ways, but
there are million subtle ways that they are. Not to mention, the big
obvious ways.
But in spite of all that was going on, I managed to keep my work on
track. It was probably good that I had that. It kept me tethered to
a necessary reality. And I still had my self, my whole life -- my
eventual return - to consider.
It wasn't as though I was continually caught up in the reality of my
new situation. I did masturbate a lot. I touched everywhere and I
was often drawn to my mirror. Only in my apartment though, alone.
Never at work or in public or somewhere, somehow in some obscene way.
Even then, alone, I was reading magazines, watching TV. I kept up on
the daily reports and stay focused on the things I needed to get
done. But, still, sometimes, little moments would hit me. Like,
watching TV, I'd realize what it meant, sitting there, doing my nails
before the next morning's meeting. Or frying a hamburger, I'd look
down and see the shape of my breasts, the poke of my nipple, bra-less
in my t-shirt.
I was gaining some semblance of control and understanding of this
body. But I was continually experiencing new things that were
shaping myself as a person.
It was exactly 5 weeks after the injection that I had my first
menstrual period. That's not an ordinary experience, for any 30
something year old woman.
We had been in production and I complained to one of the directors
how crummy I felt. He asked if I wanted some water.
Later, in a writers' meeting, I held my tummy and groaned to myself.
Or so I thought. The woman next to me asked if I needed something
and I just nodded. She fished in her purse and passed me a tiny red
pill. It said "Midol." The significance of this woman plainly
assuming that I was experiencing an ordinary female condition just
hit me. Then, a second later, the realization of what I was
experiencing hit me harder.
Try walking down the aisle of feminine products at the drugstore.
There are more than most men would imagine. It was after work. I
felt tired, aching. But I was exhilarated. I browsed over the
different packages, rubbing shoulders with other women, exchanging
glances. "Are we all menstruating?," I wanted to ask. It was
bizarre things like that that I wanted to say.
I chose a box of tampons like my girlfriend used. I bought my own
pain relievers too. I carried them, obvious, in my basket up to the
checkout. The girl swiped the bar codes and put them in my bag,
oblivious to the utter gravity this moment held for me.
I went to work with two tampons in my purse and one in my vagina. I
was changing.
I was socialable at work, but avoided social situations. Work
provided a structure. I still wasn't sure exactly how I should act
in more intimate settings. There were always little questions.
Someone asked if I'd ever been to Arizona. I had or rather "he" had.
But Suzanne hadn't and I had to consider my answer. I just said
'yes.' One woman asked when I started smoking. I lied and told her
I was a rebellious teen at parochial school. "I guess I was 15," I
said. Slowly, I was creating a past that was shaping who I was as a
woman.
If you were to look at me, you wouldn't think me anything but a
woman. Even knowing what you know now. I wasn't a model, but I was
attractive. I had a marvelous body. I had been relatively good
looking as a guy. My mom had been attractive too. I have C-cup
breasts too now, like she had. I don't remember her hair long like
mine is, but in her old pictures it was. Hair, long hair, is such an
advantage for a woman. So many styles. So many different looks.
I was adept now at quickly putting it back into a neat floppy
ponytail, tugging, fluffing the ends from my Scrunchie. I did that
once as I was finishing a quick solitary breakfast at a nearby diner.
I was just reaching to collect my hair back and I glanced up to
notice a man watching me. It was a moment before I realized that
reaching back behind my head that way made my breasts prominent,
pressed against the tight of my shirt. I know I blushed.
You would not question at all that fact that I was 100% female. And
if I opened my legs and showed you my whole vulva, you would only say
"Yup. That's a girl." I could show you how I carefully spread my
labia and let you peer into my pink fleshy vagina. I think its
beautiful. I mean, this glorious piece of anatomy defines me so much
now. It's this extraordinary flesh and hole, always different, ever-
changing, so needy. I'll walk up to someone and they will only
assume that I have this beautiful pussy.
The problem is, I started thinking about that. I started thinking
that I wanted something more. Some other way, another way, to prove
to someone that I was a woman. The validation seduced me.
But I didn't know what I wanted. I was still hormonally,
psychologically, mentally challenged. Something like that probably
becomes a big part of who you are. If you're very sexual, that means
one thing for a man and another for a woman. In lots of ways of
course. But some people are discrete. Some people flaunt that. And
there are a million gradiations in between. I didn't even know what
I wanted.
I have this body that thrills me. That doesn't even capture the
essence of what I mean. I'll decide to go for a walk, let's say, to
get exercise, some air - but when I stop and consider what I should
wear, make-up or no make-up, shoes, hair, I just get overwhelmed
sometimes. So many infinite possibilities it seems. And still, I
have no set fashion, or style. It's how people communicate who they
are. Do I wear Talbots, black leather pants or Banana Republic? I
want a tattoo, I think. I want to pierce my ears again. At least my
ears. I want to look slutty. But I don't. I experiment with all
the million gradiations in between. But still, even just walking in
slacks or a skirt, I can't escape the reality that I have eggs, a
clit, fallopian tubes, a cervix. I want to prove it. I want someone
to see me.
I kept thinking about that. I started watching myself in the mirror
and imagining how others must see me. For the first time, I started
taking some pictures of myself. I think I was afraid to before. Or
something. I started role-playing more. I'd think of different
people and different situations.
Alone, in my apartment I can be naked with them. I can show them my
body. They can see how graceful and lithe I am. They can see me toss
back my hair, how my boobs flop when I bend over, they see that slit
between my ass, how I can touch my toes now.
There was that photographer. She was very good at her job. She was
5'3 or so, shorter than me, with jet black hair, and beautiful pale,
clear skin. She had tattoos, two that I could see at least. She had
bright blue eyes. We'd chatted a few times around the coffee
station. During a gathering of the crew, I saw her at the other side
of the room, looking at me.
When I thought how it would be with her, if she were here, now, in my
apartment, I thought how much I wanted her to see me masturbate. I
lied down on the bed sideways, looking at myself in the big wall
mirror, and I watched how she'd watch me hold my breasts. She'd see
how one had flopped onto the other. She'd see how thick my nipples
became as I traced my soft aerola. I want her to see me rub my big
jelly dildo along my slit. I want her to start masturbating as she
sees how much I love that dildo. I fuck myself until I let out a
short scream in my own apartment, alone.
I kept thinking about her.
She was a little older --- 36 or 37 and that intimidated me. It was
also why we came together.
I didn't know what to say, what to ask her. Thursday there was a
gathering of the whole team. It was nearly always casual. I wear
jeans and a $120 baby blue t-shirt with a neckline that scooped just
enough to show an inch of my cleavage. But she didn't show up that
day.
It was a few days later when I didn't expect it that she was there
next me, putting cream and sugar into her coffee. "Hi,' I said,
hoping that didn't give away the surprise it was for me to see her
there so suddenly. But that's where it was good that she was older.
She sensed what I was sensing.
"Would you like to have dinner,?" she asked.
Sure, I said. I could tell I blushed.
"Tomorrow nite. My place. Ok?", she said gently. She looked into
my eyes for an answer.
I didn't say anything.
"Good," she said. "56th and 3rd" 7 or so. Then she reached up to
push my hair back and gave me a soft kiss on my cheek.
That feeling, when I was in her hallway, hearing the door unlock was
scarey. Suddenly, I couldn't believe that I was there. How in hell
can I possibly do this? All the excitement and anticipation just
flew from me then. I panicked. I wanted to run.
Then her door swing open and she was there. A wave of cooking smells
and the sound of jazz hit my senses, and the sight of her standing
there, expecting me.
Could I act calm and cool, sipping wine as she cooked?
The wine helped. And Julie's easy conversation. I sat at her
counter as she chopped, took things from the fridge and sprinkled and
tossed. We talked about food. I knew something about that. We
joked about work. We talked about the basketball playoffs and I told
her all that I knew.
"Wow, you're not a girly girl are you?" she said turning around from
the stove. "I like that." And she didn't say that suggestively, but
brightly, like it made her happy. She turned back to her saucepan,
stirring for a moment.
I was going to tell her I used to play basketball, but she had put
down the spoon and was walking right up to me.
You know, you're a very sexy woman Suzanne. You give off such a
vibe. Such a very different vibe.
At the point I did only what I knew how. I put my hands on the soft
skin of her face and kissed her. I felt the warmth of her soft full
lips, not even thinking then that she was feeling the same in mine.
If, in the past, she'd reached down, she would've felt the erection
of my cock. But, instead, she did the most extraordinary thing. She
grazed my neck with her mouth and put her hand around my left breast.
My breast.
We did eat dinner. We even talked some more. I was hardly hungry
but I put food into my mouth. She made it all so exquisitely slow.
I just wanted to go masturbate.
But she didn't let me. We kissed again clearing the dishes. We
kissed and caressed and rubbed with such delicious friction.
Her's was the first mouth to lick either of our pussies. I was
frozen, lying there, as she licked up and down, slowly, deliberately.
She told me how dilated how I was. How I tasted. How incredibly wet
I was. We rubbed breasts, our nipples pushing at that other's. I
put my long-nailed finger in her. I covered her with my hair as our
tongues licked and we breathed in the other. For hours, we writhed
on her bed, exploring, testing, seeking.
That night changed me too. And all the other nights after that. For
three straight weeks, we'd meet and we'd do things, mostly sex. I
felt voracious and that made her feel that way too. And we'd talk.
And I'd reveal myself further to her...and to myself. I'd make up
little lies to fill in the blanks of my past and my future. She knew
I wanted more.
Arisha
- 19.03.2022
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Becoming Suzanne Part 4
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