The New Girl A Documentary of the Butterfly Light part 2
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The New Girl - A Documentary Of The Butterfly Light, Part 1 free porn video
The New Girl - A Documentary of the Butterfly Light
Part 1
A seasoned journalist, Mike traveled the world in search of compelling
stories. It was his last one, however, deep in the hilly jungle of
Southeast Asia, which would change his life back in Manhattan forever.
With flagging self-awareness, Mike does his best to document his erotic
transformation from man to woman and his final emergence in the
'butterfly light.'
I started my video blog basically because I'm a journalist. There was a
story to be told and that's what I'm good at. My objective had been to
report on a strange tribe, deep in the jungle of Laos that was rumored
to engage in an ancient mystical rite of gender transformation. I
hadn't expected the story to be about me though.
I've written features for some of the top magazines. My article for
Esquire on the Alaskan crab fisherman had set off the subsequent TV
shows and attention. I covered the sex life of Parisian models for
Penthouse. I've covered coups d'?tats, catastrophes and celebs.
I'd heard about the Laotian tribe and their purported practice a few
years ago on a trip to Bangkok. It seemed interesting but I told my
source I'd need more evidence. I paid good fees to my contacts for good
stories but I wasn't easily duped. I had a number of projects to keep
me busy.
A year ago, I was back in Thailand for an interview with a high-ranking
Burmese defector. I spent six days afterwards holed up in Bangkok
hotel, hammering out that story. One afternoon my source rang my room.
He had more proof for me on that tribe in Laos and the story of their
strange gender rituals.
"Right now," he said. "Here. The lobby. You come."
We met in the bar. He introduced me to Lei Wa, an attractive Asian
woman, probably in her late 20s. She didn't speak English but spoke
softly to my Thai contact who was quite proficient in English and other
languages.
This woman, he told me, had once been a man. She was from the isolated
Mong tribe high in the mountains of Laos. It seems that the tribe had
some sort of cultural dictate over who would be male and would be
female. But the strange part was that it didn't seem to be some pagan
castration story. Whatever it was, if Lei Wa was telling the truth,
this custom seemed to operate right down to the chromosomal level.
We went back and forth as I asked my questions of Lei Wa. Each question
she answered thoughtfully with little hesitation. I asked about the
ritual. What their cultural reasoning was. I asked how it all
transpired. I asked her why she was telling me about this. There were
some things that she preferred not to tell me. But there were details
that made this story ring true to my skeptical ears - in spite of its
wild possibility.
She also explained how she had been chosen for the transformation. She
provided some very crazy details. Of course, there was no way I could
confirm for sure that she had been a man. But there was no disputing
the fact that she was a real woman. She was pregnant.
The story fascinated me. I could tell it wasn't a hoax, but I figured
there must be a plausible explanation. Still, I thought how interesting
it would be to peer into this secret society with its strange regard for
sexual roles.
. . . . .
My contact joined me. We took a helicopter as close as we could then
hiked nearly two days in thick jungle until we reached the village.
They were friendly, open people but I knew this story wouldn't just
present itself to me.
I worked hard to gain their trust. I hunted with them, ate with them,
slept with them. I met men who had been selected as women. I met women
who had been selected as men. I even met males and females who were
slated to undergo their honorable ritual. But what I really wanted was
to witness the ritual.
I never dreamed I would undergo the ritual.
It was their matriarch who they consulted as to whether I could observe.
She must've been 80. I hadn't met her but was instructed to come to her
hut, alone without my contact, who was also my translator.
Turned out language didn't matter. She was joined by two male leaders.
They knew my request. The language of eyes would do. But when she held
both my hands she became excited and spoke rapidly to the two men. They
seemed surprised and talked quickly amongst them. Then the two men
bowed and politely lead me out of the hut.
They didn't reveal anything to my contact but apparently I'd been
granted access to witness the ritual. I was to return to her hut the
next evening. I was given an orange cloth robe to wear.
I really had no idea what to expect or even how long it would take. I
have to say, I became pretty nervous as that day went on. There were
weird vibes in the air. I walked from my hut to hers that evening,
wearing that orange robe, there was an odd hush over the village that
gave me a chill.
Her hut was dark this time. Two candles flickered near a small altar.
There was a strange incense burning. I sat there, nervous, for an
hour. Then a young child came in with a cup of pungent broth that I was
to drink. I did as instructed.
That's my last lucid memory of that night. Actually, it's probably my
last clear recollection until three days later when we were lead by
twenty villagers to the trailhead. Everything else, well...it's hard
for me to discern what were dreams and what was reality.
My contact wasn't clear on what had happened. He wondered if I'd
witnessed the ritual. He sensed that I had. It wasn't until we met Lei
Wa back in Bangkok and she read the note I'd been given with its
elaborate script that I learned that I had been honored with selection.
She bowed to me and solemnly hugged me. Apparently, I too had had some
perceptible mystical quality that deemed that I would become a woman.
I tell you, it all scared the shit of me. But I still felt detached
from the news. I had this huge sort of drugged hangover and felt
physically awful.
. . . . .
Three days later I was back in my apartment in NYC. I was trying to
piece together my scattered notes. I was trying to concentrate. I
still felt detached and groggy. My body ached to my bones. I slept
feverishly, sometimes for days at a time.
Reality eventually caught up with me. I'd wake up for brief periods
during that phase and abstractly note the gradual changes. At the
beginning, I had these grotesque, large brown areolas. Later, I was
absently aware that my breasts had grown fleshy and full. It was all
genetic, all the changes. My mother had large breasts. I didn't know
it yet, but I was a full C.
It might've been a month before I clearly, consciously realized that my
incredible recklessness had led me to this unbelievable situation. It
had been so dreamlike, so nightmarish, and something I could only
observe, helplessly. I'd seen that new crease but I didn't feel
castrated. I just felt so coolly objective about it all.
Until one day, the utter reality set in that I was a woman. No, not
even a woman! I was fucking man in a goddamn female body!
Look, there is no way you or anyone else would think I'm anything but a
woman now. The changes - they were deep, fundamental structural
changes. Like Lei Wa, it was down to the chromosome level.
You could see the resemblance to who I had been, except, I'd lost over
50 pounds and probably six inches in height. I didn't have whiskers, I
didn't even have a male face. Nothing was the same. Men don't have
breasts like this, hands like this, hips like this --- no man has a
vagina like this.
That's when I decided to document my transformation. If I were to retain
my sanity, I needed to step back, take stock. I'd depend on my passion
for my work to be my crutch, my distraction. I'd get to the heart of
this story...even if the story was me.
It started out as a private documentary. But, shit, I didn't know what
to do with my life now. I wasn't sure if I'd ever share this with
anyone. I wasn't sure where my life was going.
I was lost. I felt like an incredible fraud. I felt like a mystical
freak of nature. I had none of the support intrinsic in the Mong
culture.
. . . . .
I finally had to tell someone. It was Jim, one of my editors, a good
friend, who I'd shared several global and barroom adventures with. I'd
given him a sketchy outline of the Laotian story before I'd left. Now,
over the phone, my female voice confirmed what I was trying to telling
him, but it didn't convince him. I told Jim I was scared and felt very
fucked up. I told him there was proof and how he could see my private
v-blog. I gave him an email address to contact me.
He'd written at 3 a.m.: "Fuck, Mike! It happened, didn't it?"
I wasn't ready to meet him. I wasn't ready to see anyone. I stayed in
my apartment mostly, slipping out at nights for groceries and things in
an overcoat.
I continued my daily recordings and my editor friend Jim kept watching.
He continued to email me.
It was the night I drank the scotch that I just lost it. I was drunk
and irrational and all my frustrations came out. I showed my breasts in
a fit of broken acknowledgement. I ranted about how I had been able to
dress in my old clothes and how no one had known I was female. That was
a delusion of course, but that delusion was slipping away.
Earlier, that day had been unseasonably warm and humid. I'd rolled up
my slacks up and cinched the waist. I'd worn my large, male t-shirt and
no overcoat. Someone had referred to me as 'she' when I was out. It was
very irrational to assume that the person had used that specific pronoun
with me because I had breasts, so much gave me away. But I had been so
very conscious of their bounce with each step I'd taken to the store.
"How do I hide these?," I'd mused, almost entranced.
I had no conception of how strangely erotic that was to someone
listening to me, watching me hold up their fleshy weight, seeing my
thick nipples, and the large, darkened circles of my aerolas.
. . . . .
There was an email waiting for me from Jim when I woke up the next
afternoon.
He was worried that I was ok. But he also had the instincts of a
successful publisher. Let people see, he wrote. Let a select group of
people join you in this transformation. Don't even let them see your
early segments. Simply let people watch you as you struggle to find
yourself... as a woman. I'm telling you Mike, he wrote, its touching,
fascinating as shit....and I think you can find a way to get yourself
straightened out financially as you deal with this.
Money was important. I hadn't worked. I hadn't even turned in that
story on the tribe and the intimate ritual. I probably never would.
He said he would do everything and he'd keep me anonymous. Just be
yourself, he said. If nothing else, perhaps sharing it all with
strangers will help you adjust and move on with your life.
I agreed.
I didn't really know what to say those first few segments. I talked
about how I'd been in my apartment so long. I tried talking about
politics, news. It was so different thinking that I'd have an audience.
I was also still confused by my new perspective on life - my female
perspective, whatever the fuck that was.
One of the hooks that Jim saw was that I was attractive. There was that
odd innocence and a strange unassuming quality about me. He hadn't
mentioned how stunned he was when he saw my breasts. I needed a name.
I'd be: The New Girl. Some people would call me "TNG."
Gradually, an audience began to appear. There were always those out
there looking for a strange voyeuristic experience. And there were
people willing to pay.
One night I explained that I'd never worn a bra. That's a pretty
strange revelation for a grown woman. But most of them believed me. I
got a dozen emails in response, Jim told me. I told him I wanted to be
able to see the responses too. He said he wouldn't permit me or the
audience to see all of them. Some were too rude, or explicit, or cruel.
The rest he would share.
Maybe it was out of boredom that I bought a pack of cigarettes one
night. I knew how to smoke I just rarely did it. But I liked how it
relaxed me. I talked about that into my camera. They watched me smoke.
They noticed that I began smoking more often.
I talked about my trips to the grocer. Some people thought I had
agoraphobia. I talked about how stupid TV was. I talked about
magazines I read. Some thought I was just a fucked up chick. Some
suggested some pretty bizarre things. Some suggested I just needed to
relax and masturbate.
The truth was that I was beginning to explore my body. At first there
was little sensitivity when I touched. I'd watch in the mirror almost
clinically as I spread my labia and poked and grazed. It was all just a
strange curiosity. But eventually it got so that my clitty would
stiffen when I rubbed around it. I started to discover a gentle
delicious tension that came with it. All that I still kept private,
though.
One night I answered some of my emails on camera. I admitted it was
time go outside. I said there was no one in my life. I said that I was
essentially a happy, inquisitive person. I admitted that I was dealing
with some "setbacks," but that I was hopeful I'd persevere.
To be honest, the encouragement I received helped a lot to get me moving
forward. I took an honest assessment of myself. I resolved to go out
and buy clothes and do something to improve my depressed appearance. My
dirty blonde hair was down to my shoulders now and unkempt. It was much
thicker, fuller than it had been but straggly. I wore ugly, baggy
things. I had dark circles under my eyes.
When you stop and really consider what you need to do as a woman, you
realize how different things are. Hairstyles seemed infinite. Women
wear makeup. There are a million different clothing styles and
fashions. I ripped ads and articles from magazines. I made a list. I
shared that with my audience.
I actually had a lot of fun doing that- sharing it with others. It
wasn't all men either. There were lots of responses from women after
that night, some good suggestions.
I debuted my things, my new look, a few days later.
I hadn't gone overboard. But I kind of did, too. I was fitted in a
clothing store for the very first time, as a woman, I mean. I recounted
how I'd stood there frozen as the sales lady had measured my breasts, my
hips, the rise of my crotch. She'd seemed so nonchalant I reflected to
myself. There were real numbers that signified the shape of my body
now. I told my audience my numbers. I didn't say that I used to have a
42 chest. But I did tell them it was 36. I had a 27 number for my waist
and a 38 for my hips. I'm 5'5 I announced.
I didn't talk about the transformation; I only expressed the here and
now. Some thought I was really weird. Some thought I was guy posing as
a woman. I seemed oddly enamored with such ordinary things. Maybe I'd
woken from a coma. Many were entranced. So many were fixated. I guess
none of it made any sense. They didn't know what I'd gone through in
Laos.
I wore my first new top. It was just a casual, sleeveless blouse, It
was white, a little plain, but with that special cut that was fit for a
woman. It had seemed so small when I saw it on the hanger at first.
The ends of my hair had been trimmed. I'd been shampooed and
conditioned. I told everyone that I was feeling happy that day.
Jim wrote to tell me he had my first check. He wanted to give it to me
personally. He was very excited. I'd prefer you mail it to a PO Box
for now, I told him. He said he understood. Then he revealed the
size. We hadn't expected it to be quite that big. He asked me if I'd
seen all the emails from the previous night.
"You're connecting out there... TNG. I'm sorry. What do I even call
you now?" he asked sincerely.
A strange feeling came over me when I replied: "I guess I can't be Mike
anymore, can I?" I'd meant it as a sort of joke. I didn't look like a
Mike, of course. I didn't look like myself either. I can't be... who I
was. It was a very powerful realization at that moment. And,
simultaneously, it occurred to me that I was free to be someone new --
how very exciting it might be to "re-discover" myself.
One night I talked about eyebrows. I was very high. I had smoked a
joint I found in my closet. A few hours earlier I'd bravely stopped at
the make-up counter at Bloomingdales. I shouldn't be nervous, I'd told
myself, as that beautiful, tall well made woman studied my face. I had
sat there on that high stool with eyes closed. I thought that a little
pot might calm me some after that.
"This is the 'evening' look," I told my audience that night. I peered
into the blank eye of the camera and explained the different shades of
eyeshadow I wore and how the eyeliner had created this effect across my
lids. I leaned closely studying my own image in the monitor. I pulled
on my cigarette and watched as the smoke curled up into my nostrils. I
felt the grateful kick of the nicotine. I felt high. I was wearing all
that make-up so perfectly. It made it easy to pretend I was someone
else as my audience watched. I remembered to tell them the cosmetic
lady had said I had wonderful brows. And lips.
Jim read all the emails and comments. Essentially, he feels, it's the
honesty that my audience connects to, among other things. There are
many facets to you TNG, he'd say.
Nadine
- 14.11.2022
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