A New Gurlfriend
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My Wife's Gurlfriend free porn video
=My Ex-Wife's Gurlfriend=
by kimmie holland and meeah menoux
{When I saw her email} address in my mailbox that Monday morning, I knew
immediately that she must have heard. We worked in the same industry,
after all, and we knew many of the same people. In the four years since
we'd broken up, we hadn't seen or spoken to each other, not even once. She
was angry and disappointed; and I was hurt and confused. Our short but
turbulent marriage produced nothing but bad feelings. I'd loved her
desperately; she was, in fact, the love of my life. Why did our marriage
fail? Why hadn't she loved me? Why couldn't I satisfy her? What went
wrong? These were questions that I felt I could better answer now. Maybe
she did, too.
There'd been a time when I would have given anything to see an email from
Wendy in my mailbox; now I wasn't so sure I even wanted to open it. I
tapped my painted forefinger on the "delete" key several times before
curiosity got the better of me and a flood of warm feelings came over me.
I took my finger away from the "delete" key and tapped it on the "open-
mail" button instead.
Her message was short and to the point, rather matter-of-fact, just as I
always remembered her emails to be, just slightly more friendly than
businesslike, but not by much. She said that she hoped I was well, that
she'd heard I'd gone through some personal changes, and that she was very
happy for me. Now that some time had passed, she thought it might be nice
to get together for lunch, if the idea appealed to me. In any event, she
wrote, she wished me nothing but happiness in the future.
I read through her message several times with tears in my eyes. When they
started running down my cheeks, I had to get up to close my office door
and then I sat back down in front of my computer to have a good cry.
For an hour afterwards I debated whether to answer her email at all, or to
answer in the same breezy tone as hers, thanking her for her note, wishing
her well too, and letting the issue of lunch go significantly unanswered.
Of course, the debate was a mere formality. The point was moot. All along
I knew very well what I would do.
I wrote her back to thank her for her thoughtful email, to tell her how
surprised and how glad I was to hear from her, how I returned her best
wishes...and to set a date for lunch the following week.
{When she stepped out of the cab} she might have been stepping directly
out of my most idealized memory of how she looked the last time I saw her
five years ago.
Even after all this time and all the changes I'd been through, I felt my
heart give the same familiar stutter and flutter it always did whenever I
set eyes on her. She was pretty, no one could deny that; but to me, Wendy
was more than just pretty, more than just beautiful. Even where she
departed from the conventional standards of beauty (which wasn't often),
especially when she departed from them, she was without question the most
desirable woman I'd ever known. She was, if one existed, the only woman
who could conceivably made a "man" of me.
Our relationship had never been equal; Wendy never had anything like the
same attraction towards me. I was always left with the distinct impression
that she considered me only "good enough," and only barely good enough, at
that. As a consequence, she always had the upper hand and she wielded it
mercilessly. Seeing her again, I was painfully reminded how I'd begged her
to stay, even after she made it clear she no longer loved me, even when
she told me point- blank that she loved someone else. I'd hoped that
hopeless attraction had changed with everything else that had changed
about me, but from the moment I spotted her stepping out of that taxi I
realized some things would never change. God, it wasn't only possible; it
was true: I was still smitten with her!
I admit that my feelings took me completely by surprised. Ambushed, I
panicked. As much as she looked the same, I knew that I looked nothing
like I did the last time she saw me. Standing outside the restaurant, I
watched as she started across the street. She hadn't spotted me yet and
the mad desperate desire to flee came over me. I could still dash off up
the street in the opposite direction before she recognized me. But I
didn't have forever. She would be expecting a woman to be waiting outside
the restaurant. I was the only "woman" standing there. Seeing me, she
would put two and two together quickly enough. I had to go?and I had to go
now. But my sandals might just as well have been cemented to the pavement.
I couldn't seem to budge.
{"Michael?"} she asked, still not quite certain, using the name she'd
known me by. A name I hadn't used in almost three years. I wonder if she
noticed me wincing uncomfortably. Maybe she did. For she quickly corrected
herself with that little Mona Lisa smile of hers. "I mean, Meeah..."
It was too late to run, to chicken out, to deny it. She clearly "read" me
by now. Her large, dark, limpid eyes fixed me, breathless, at her mercy.
"Holy smokes, it is you!"
"Hi Wendy," I said, sheepishly. "It's really nice to see you again."
"Wow, I don't think I'd ever have recognized you if you hadn't told me
about the red beret. It's suits you, by the way. Just adorable."
I blushed, as if to match it. "Thank you..."
Wendy leaned forward and gave me a quick, glancing buss on the cheek. Like
she would one of her girlfriends. Did I expect it to be any other way?
"Come on, let's go inside. I only have an hour for lunch and I'm famished.
I haven't had a thing all day."
{"So what can I get for you girls?"} The dark-haired, strikingly handsome
waiter struck a pose by our table, smiling at us each in turn, obviously
flirting. His French accent was playfully seductive. I sat there as if
struck dumb while Wendy asked for two glasses of sparkling water and a
little more time with the menus.
"That was cute," she said, when he left for the kitchen. "He thinks we're
both female. I guess you must get that all the time now, huh?"
"Yes," I managed. "Pretty much."
"Well I guess I can see why. If I hadn't known beforehand... No one would
ever mistake you for a man, that's for sure."
She didn't say it in a mean way, just as a matter of simple fact. I
figured I might as well consider it a compliment.
"Thanks," I said.
She smirked. I wondered if she noticed how much I'd modeled my feminine
persona on her? The way I dressed, how I'd styled my hair, even the thirty
or so pounds I'd lost to reach 115...well, the fact was that we always did
look sort of like the male and female versions of the same person. It was
something that a lot of our friends and family had commented upon back in
the old days. At the time it had seemed amusing. Now, our resemblance took
on a whole new significance?one that I now found embarrassingly obvious
sitting directly across from my pretty ex-wife.
I'd never simply desired Wendy like any normal man would; instead, all
along, what I really wanted was to be her! Now, instead of looking like
male and female versions of the same person, we looked more like sisters
than anything else.
The cute waiter came back with our sparkling water and took our order. We
asked for the French onion soup with the house salad. Rather, Wendy did.
"We'll never be able to finish it anyway," Wendy said. "The portions here
are enormous. You'll see."
I guess I shouldn't have been surprised that she didn't remember how we
used to come to this restaurant together all the time. I'd let myself hope
that it was the reason she picked it for our reunion in the first place.
Naturally, knowing Wendy, I should have known better. Still, I have to
admit it hurt nonetheless to realize how little trace I'd left on her
after our--albeit brief, but to me all-important--life together. Wendy was
never exactly the sentimental type. Of the two of us, I was always the
emotional one. And to think, I used to wonder why! Now with the mega-doses
of female hormones coursing through my system, erasing, day by day, even
the last faint traces of whatever masculinity I might have ever had, I was
even more emotional than ever. Somehow I managed not to cry.
{At first, our conversation} proceeded by fits and starts. I
guess that was to be expected. We were divorced, after all, and what's
more, we hadn't divorced on the best of terms. She blamed me, I knew, for
the disappointing failure of our marriage and she resented me for wasting
her time, for deceiving her, for not being the "man" that I had presented
(and pretended) myself to be before we wed. It was no use telling her that
I didn't consciously lie to her, that I didn't misrepresent myself with
any malicious, or even premeditated intent.
Yes, it's true that I may have kept certain facets of my personality
hidden; that I kept secret a good many of my sexual fantasies. But, I
figured, who doesn't? If Wendy had any suspicions about my true
proclivities, and I'm certain she must have, I doubt until now that she
could have had any idea of just how deep and how far they went. But, then
again, I could honestly say, neither did I.
Still, here I was, sitting across from her, the "man" she'd taken as a
husband, wearing a denim jumper, a capped sleeve women's blouse, and a
saucy little red beret. My thin wrists jangled with bracelets every time I
reached for my water glass. My ice blue nail polish glinted in the light
and, what's more, matched the polish on my toes, which were on display in
a pair of Japanese style wooden flip-flops.
I was wearing a bra. I had breasts.
My bum was filled with my boyfriend's cream; he'd fucked me just that
morning. I could feel it leaking out of me; it was squishy in my lace and
ribboned panties.
I remembered our wedding day. What a beautiful bride Wendy had made! She
looked like something out of a fairytale walking down the aisle. I thought
that was the point at which we would live happily ever after. How could
anyone blame her for feeling cheated? How could anyone blame her for
despising me? How could anyone blame her for blaming me for her
disillusionment and our divorce, when not even I could? I glanced above
Wendy's head to the mirrored wall behind her. Just look at what she
married!
Suddenly I knew what I'd come to say, what I wanted to tell her at long
last.
"I'm sorry Wendy," I blurted. "God I'm so so sorry. Please forgive me..."
Words failed me after that brief outburst. And now I could no longer hold
the tears back. Christ, I thought, now, on top of everything else, I was
going to spoil my make-up! I groped around in my pocketbook for my
compact. I surely didn't want to look a complete wreck when that cute
waiter came back with our lunches!
"It's okay Mich?I mean, Meeah. You'll have to forgive me?it's going to
take me some time to get used to that. Wendy smiled, warmly this time, and
put her hand on the back of my wrist. "Please don't cry. There's nothing
to feel bad about anymore. It's true I was very angry with you for a long
time, but that's all over, that's all in the past. Let's both put that
behind us, along with all the bad memories. Everything has worked out for
the best. We both have new lives now?the lives we were both meant to have
all along. It took us a while to get it right, but thank god, we did. So
let's not waste any more time regretting the past. It happened for a
reason?it helped us get to where we are today. So what do you say we let
bygones be bygones and start over. What do you say...can we be friends?"
I'd managed to stop crying but nearly found myself starting all over again
at Wendy's unexpected display of kindness.
"Gosh," I sniffed, "I really would like that. Do you mean it?"
"Of course I do you silly rabbit. Oh look, here's our lunch!"
{"You're engaged,"} I said, three spoonfuls into my savory bowl of French
onion soup. I tried to make it sound like a casual question; of course, it
was anything but. I'd noticed the ring on her finger when she placed her
hand on my wrist. How could I miss it? The stone was practically the size
of a ping-pong ball.
Wendy held her hand up so we could both admire it and wiggled her pale
slender fingers, more precious to me than any diamond. The stone seemed to
catch light I didn't even know existed.
"It's beautiful," I said, and it was?it must have cost a fortune. I could
never have afforded to buy Wendy anything half so beautiful, not even in
my wildest dreams.
Be honest, I told myself. You have no balls, your dick doesn't work
anymore, and it never will; you're totally impotent, emasculated,
feminized?and, yes, you're happier this way, happier than you've ever
been, and yet, you still feel your heart drop a little when you think of
your ex-wife getting re-married. Consciously, you know it's right that
things have worked out this way, that she, too, deserves to be happy.
After all, you've found a man, why shouldn't she? But still, there's that
ache deep inside, that awareness of an empty place that will never be
filled, the place only she could fill, and in that place nothing but a
sense of irretrievable loss.
"Congratulations..."
When she tells you the name of the lucky man she's marrying the mix of
emotions you feel grows even more impossibly complex. You always suspected
she was more than "just friends" with Tim, that their frequent lunches
were at least a titillating flirtation, at worst something you didn't want
to think about. How many arguments did the two of you have about those
lunches, how bitterly did you accuse her and how vehemently and
disdainfully did she deny what you suspected?
Now you find that the worst of your suspicions were true, that you were
right all along. If this were another lifetime, if you were a different
person, there could hardly be a better time to say "I knew it" and "I told
you so." This would be the time to demand an admission or an apology or,
at the very least, an acknowledgment, but you lack the will and the desire
for any of that now. Most of all, you lack the justification, too;
because, let's face it, looking at the bigger picture, she really was the
one who was right all along. On the whole, the bigger lie was yours; hers
was merely a contingent technicality.
So, instead of recriminations, and though you fear for a moment the words
themselves might strangle you, you manage to say them, "That's really
great. I'm happy for you, Wendy" and, strangely, even miraculously, in
some small way you don't even understand, you might actually mean what you
say.
"We'd like you to be there for the wedding; you and your boyfriend.
Andrew, is that his name?"
Be there, at her wedding, only this time to another man. Another man? Ha!
This time to a man! At first it seemed like a nutty idea to invite me, but
the more I thought about it, the more sense it seemed to make. Suddenly, I
began to see how attending Wendy's wedding to Tim might actually be a
positive, uplifting, and ultimately healing experience. Perhaps, I began
to think, it was just the sort of closure we both needed.
{She was looking into my lap}, I noticed, with a bemused expression on her
face. We we're finishing our coffee and the check was on the way. I knew
what she was going to ask.
"Are you functional? I mean, down there...?"
I shook my head. "No. Not for quite a while now, actually."
The hormones I was taking had long ago shut down the functioning of my
testicles so that when Andrew decided to have me castrated, it was little
more than a formality. What I still had hanging between my legs was now
completely useless... a fleshy--and, to me, unsightly--blemish not much
different than a wart.
I'd been glad to see my testicles go and I would be equally glad to see
the silly flap of flesh that remained go as well, but Andrew enjoyed
playing with it, at least for the time being; so, for the time being, it
stayed. The surgery that would turn me fully into a woman and provide
Andrew with an additional opening in which to fuck me was still somewhere
in my future. But it was there, clearly, on my horizon, and it was getting
closer every day. In fact, after today, I suspected that I'd taken several
giant steps toward my ultimate fate.
Even sitting as close as I now sat to my beautiful ex-wife, I felt nothing
below my pierced bellybutton. If the desire were there, it survived only
in my mind, only in theory. There was no chance, even if, by some miracle,
she'd wanted it, that I could ever again make love to Wendy.
She smiled. "I didn't think so. I told Tim as much, but I'm glad to hear
you confirm it. He'll be okay with us being friends then, I think. He may
want to see for himself...I know that's a lot to ask of you and may be a
little embarrassing, but it might not even be necessary. I think one look
at what you're like now and he'll laugh at the very notion that I could
ever have anything to do with you sexually ever again."
It was a bitter thing to hear, of course, even if it were true, even if
I'd come to the same conclusion, but I knew Wendy wasn't being unkind. She
was just stating the fact of the matter. The more painful irony was that
while Wendy fully understood and was eager to placate Tim's suspicion
regarding her relationship to me, she'd had no regard for my feelings
about her relationship with Tim while we were married.
"It's different, Meeah," Wendy said, as if reading my mind. "Tim is a man,
a real man. You're probably just finding out how men can be about things
like that." She grinned. "Come to think of it, I guess you're just finding
out how they can be about a lot of things!"
{Something so potentially humiliating}, how could I ever have agreed to
such terms? That is probably what you're asking. I guess partly I hoped it
would never actually come to having Wendy's new husband check for himself
to see that I was no longer a man, to confirm with his own eyes the
pitiful remains of my "manhood," the mark of my emasculation...I was
wrong, of course, it did come to that, but that's a story for another
time.
What really drove me to accept her terms, however, wasn't just the hope
that I could avoid the more unpleasant of their ramifications, but the
rewards of her friendship.
Yes, I wanted more than anything to be Wendy's friend, her special
gurlfriend, if you will. If I'd failed as her husband, I was certain I
could at least succeed as her gurlfriend. I'd found a place in her life,
after all!
Why, you may be asking now, was it so important to me to have a place in
her life at all, not to mention such a marginal place at that? I suppose
it makes no sense unless you can understand that I still loved
her...unless you can understand that if you've ever loved anyone at all,
really loved them, there's no such thing as "still" loving that person:
you will always love them, no matter what, no matter how, until the last
breath escapes your body.
No, it's true. We would never have sex again, certainly not as man and
woman, but not as "lesbians" either. A kiss on the cheek, a warm hug--
there would be never be anything much more than that, nothing erotic, in
any x-rated sense of that term. Still, if it is a man who is now reading
these words, and I assume that it probably is, I can assure you that there
is so much more to "love" than what goes on between one's legs. I love
Wendy, that wasn't the mistake I made in convincing her to marry me. The
mistake I made was in confusing my love with the mistake I made in
assuming that I was a man. It was a mistake compounded by an error and
multiplied to infinity. I had to lose what was between my legs before I
could understand that, before I could correct and undo all that I had done
wrong.
I imagined Wendy and I being really good friends, maybe even best friends,
someday. I imagined us chatting on the phone for hours, going shopping,
getting our manicure/pedicure done together. I imagined us having lunch
just as we were doing now. I pictured the men in our lives eventually
becoming friends and us all going out together, double-dating, if you
will, visiting each other's houses, perhaps one day even taking a vacation
together.
It was a beautiful dream; surely, I figured, one that was worth risking
whatever potential embarrassment it might cost to make it come true. I'd
endured much worse, for far less.
And it did come true! That was the best part of all. I did become my ex-
wife's best gurlfriend. But, that too, is a story for another time...
Arisha
- 09.03.2020
- 39
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