The Birthday Wish free porn video

The Birthday Wish. The rope swings back and forth like the pendulum of a clock. My mouth is dry as I move the chair in front of the noose, and step aboard. In the end it wasn't the despair, or the anxiety, or the sense of disappointment, or betrayal, or failure that did me in. It was the boredom. The simple knowledge that tomorrow would share the same bland awfulness that yesterday did. As a teenager, my mum would always say that tidying my room wouldn't kill me. Shows how much she knew. I was back at her house, the house I grew up in, making another futile attempt to put things in order, when I found an old school jotter of songs I had written back then. Fourteen, fifteen years old, and convinced I would be the next Kurt Cobain. I read through them all, and they were awful. Wonderfully, wonderfully awful, in their naive beauty, their clich?s and misspellings and cynical posturing, there was an energy, a hope, and a lust for life that I found horrifying to realise I had lost. No- not lost- that I had ever had. I place the noose over my neck and smile. I hear the clocks chime midnight: it's my thirtieth birthday. I step forward into the unknown, and extinguish my life as easily as a candle. Suddenly I'm sitting bolt upright, gasping for air. Everything looks oddly unfamiliar. I feel the oxygen rush into my lungs, and notice with disdain the tears on my face. There's weird absence of pain around my neck. It makes me panic, want to hyperventilate. It feels normal. Healthy. I feel uncertain why I expect it to hurt so much. Gradually I realise that everything else is wrong too. The walls are pastel pink, and covered with neat posters of boys in their late teens. River Phoenix. Johnny Depp, all posters given away free with teenage magazines. There is a desk on one side of the room, and several chests of drawers, and a large dressing table with an oval mirror. There is a wardrobe in one corner, and the floor is scattered with schoolbooks, magazines, and tights, dresses, jeans, and a couple of bottles of nail polish. My breathing feels funny. As if there's an extra weight on my chest. Warmer. I look down and notice I have breasts. My heart starts pounding and my throat is dry. My mind is racing: a million possibilities flash past my mind. Some kind of practical joke? Have I been kidnapped and operated on by some sick bastards? I try to think what the last thing I remember is: there's a gap in my memory. All detail of my previous life is hazy: something that takes a lot of thought to remember. I suspect there's a reason for this, but I can't (don't) want to think what it is. I notice the t-shirt I'm wearing: it's long and has cute cartoon monsters on it. It's a teenage girl's sleep shirt. Daring myself I touch the left breast, hoping for an absence of sensation, to prove that it wasn't part of me, merely a thing attached to me. I feel the soft touch of my hand against its' fluid warmth, and I gasp in panic. It feels real. I can't breathe. My throat has clenched up tight and I start to suck the air in as hard as I can: I'm starting to hyperventilate. I feel as if I might faint, and a tiny part of me thinks that that might be for the best. It can't be real but it all seems so real: is this a dream? Have I gone mad? Been kidnapped? Drugged? "You don't need to be afraid." It wasn't so much a voice as a thought that appeared in my head, in somebody else's voice, a woman's voice. I looked around, hoping to see its' source, but there was nothing. I noticed, however, my terror fade slightly, replaced by a curiosity. I feel a little faint as I wonder whether I still have my penis. Looking down at the black and white polka-dotted duvet, I dare myself to lift it up and look. There is a comfort to the sense of doubt, and seeing that I had a va... that I wasn't... would only make this more real. I wanted to take a moment to gather my thoughts, to let the panic subside. First of all: who the hell am I? I tried hard to remember, squinting hard into my memory. I knew it, but it was largely forgotten, like the formula for solving quadratic equations or the name of the bass player from the La's. But after a moment, it comes to me: James Richmond. I was... I worked in an Insurance company call-centre. I was thirty years old. I was born in 1978. None of these things held any sense of self to me, however. They were mere facts; trivia. However, eventually I realised I must look between my legs, to confirm what I suspected already. I lifted off the duvet to reveal two slim, shaven legs, culminating in painted purple toenails. I lifted up the shirt to reveal a pair of pale blue panties; they had a small Betty Boop motif printed on them, and lace around the edge. The crotch was flat. I started to pull them down in a panic, leaning on my back and arching my crotch in the air. One fluid movement later and I was back down, the panties around my ankles and I was staring at my vagina. I had never really seen one from this angle before, and I found the experience oddly humbling. All the panic faded; time seemed to slow down. I ran my fingers over the soft black fuzz first, and then started to touch my labia. I had expected the experience to feel completely alien- if I had grown a tail, after all, my brain would be receiving entirely new signals- but in this case it felt normal. I reached back into that old memory of when I was James, and my labia felt almost like my ball-sac. I remembered a science program I had watched once: male and female foetuses have identical genitalia until nine weeks. At this stage, the structures which eventually become the labia or scrotum are identical. Similarly, the clitoris and penis both develop from the same structure. I peered down and started to ease my labia apart, and looked at my clitoris. It was a small bud of flesh, peering out of its' hood. I stared at it, and fancied that it stared back at me. Very slowly I reached down and touched it. It felt slightly uncomfortable, as touching the head of my penis did when I was a man. There was something reassuring about this: I still had my penis, in a sense- or the head of it at least. It was a just a lot smaller and in a different place. I felt an odd sense of relief at this, and lay back in my bed, overwhelmed. I started to sob; the combination of a tiny relief and the incomprehensible horror of my situation finally causing me to break down. And suddenly I started to remember. I remember how it felt as I died, and more importantly, I remembered how much I regretted it as I felt the last shreds of life leaving me. I had never wanted anything as much as I had wanted simply to live, my desire to stay alive for just a few seconds more and experience all the wonder and beauty of life was greater than anything I had ever experienced before. And in that final moment, my soul screamed out for a second chance, for someone, anyone to save me. And then I was elsewhere. It all seemed too indistinct: I can't remember where I was but I met a woman there. She looked young, but seemed ancient, older than the earth or even the universe. She spoke in a kindly voice, and offered to grant me my wish. A second chance. However, unless my circumstances changed, I would simply make all the same mistakes again. I would live again, but this time, things would be different. "Bwah! Bwah! Bwah! Bwah!" I nearly jumped, I was half-lost in thought, and I twisted round to see where the noise was coming from. There was a digital alarm clock beside my bed, half concealed in magazines, bits of paper, and other debris. I picked it up and turned it off. I stared at it for a moment- I recognised it: my dad had bought me one of these when I was thirteen. That was when I recognised the room. The furniture and decor was all different, but the dimensions and the position of the door, window, and radiator were all the same. This was my bedroom: this was the house where I had moved when I was eight, and stayed until I went to University. Did that mean.... I switched off the alarm and got out of the bed, feeling strangely off-balance. My hips were wider, and the weight of my breasts put a slight but noticeable strain on my shoulders. I wandered over to the mirror and looked at myself. Needless to say, I found the effect quite disorientating: the face staring back at me was undoubtedly female, but undoubtedly mine too: the jaw-line was slimmer, but the eyes were identical to my own. The nose was the same shape, but the eyebrows were finer. My hair was long and black, and far smoother and softer than mine had ever been. I was me, but I was a girl. And judging by the appearance, I was about fifteen years old. That would make it what, 1993? I picked up a nearby magazine. June 1993. Of course, the magazine might be out of date, but it was as good an estimate as any for the time being. Of course, magazines always have a cover date in advance of when they actually come out, for reasons that had never been adequately established in my esteemed opinion- so that would make it May. "Come on Amy! Time to get up! You've got school this morning!" came a distant voice. It was my mum. What now then? Out of bed? Get dressed, I supposed. I wondered where I would keep my knickers. I looked in one drawer. Makeup. How much of this shit do I need? Jesus. Another one. Various bit of paper... Song lyrics? A diary? This could be useful reading. No time though. Another drawer. Drawer three was the winner, and I saw several dozen girls panties laid out before me. It wasn't something I had really seen before: I had seen them on women, of course, but never so many pairs, laid out like that. I was slightly struck by the range and variety: different shapes and different styles. Some were bland and practical; some were cute, and covered with cartoonish imagery. Some were sexy. I wondered which I should choose. I wondered how women made that kind of decision every day. I picked one of the more non-descript pairs and put them on. Bra next. There were several in one side of the drawer, and I picked one up. I wondered what size my breasts were, and checked the label. 32B- assuming it was the right size. I struggled to put it on, and soon my breasts were resting snugly inside it. It felt weird, a constant presence against my back and my chest. What next? Tights, I supposed. I dug out a black pair and pull them on. I worried about snagging them as I did so, but my worry was unfounded. I found a white shirt- no, blouse - in the wardrobe, and put it on, and then followed it up with a skirt. Then I found a school tie. I smile as I look at it- it was identical to the one I used to wear. I tie it round my neck and look at myself in the mirror. I grab a nearby hairbrush and brush my hair. I wondered whether I was doing it right, but my muscles seemed to remember how to do it. It was almost automatic. All I needed to do is not think about it. Finally, I was satisfied with my appearance. "Come on Amy!" It was my mum again. I rushed out of the room, went to the bathroom and ran down the stairs. Dad had already gone to work, and my mum was sitting there, eating toast. I stared at her for a moment, exactly as I remembered her: irritable, rushed off her feet, overprotective. "What's wrong?" she asked. "What? Nothing!" I smiled. "I'm good. Really." For a moment she looked puzzled, and then just said "Well, hurry up and eat your breakfast." I did so. Twenty minutes later I was heading down to the bus stop and off to school. Just as I was walking in, I heard a voice behind me. Suddenly a girl appeared beside me. It took me a moment to recognise her: it was Susan Wallace. I had fancied her for about six months when I was at school, in third year. I felt a memory trickle in- it wasn't mine, and the details of Amy's life seemed as distant as those in a book I had read a year or two ago. She was my best friend, and had been for four years now. Memories started to trickle in: sleepovers, dancing to dodgy boy bands, swimming trips together, arguments. "Jesus, Ames, didn't you hear me? I shouted on you about five times." I muttered something about being worried about the biology test this afternoon. "Please. You were thinking of Jason Cole's ass." I blushed. I hadn't been, but when she said it I knew that I had a major crush on the boy. I remember him from when I was a boy: he was a twat. I was slightly disappointed that I hadn't better taste in men. We spent the next ten minutes in meaningless conversation: last night's television, bitching about girls in our year, gossip, and other nonsense. This lasted all through Registration and soon we were in our first class: English. We sat beside each other, as was the norm. Susan whispered something to me: she was urging me to start talking to Tommy, who sat on the other side of me from Susan. He was a weird kid; quiet, but occasionally eloquent. He read a lot: he had quotes from Nietzsche and Oscar Wilde written on his folder, where most boys would draw the Metallica logo... or penises. She said she didn't fancy him; that she just wanted to figure him out, but she was lying, or at least giving the truth a quick kicking out behind the allotments and a stern warning to keep it's damn mouth shut. She wanted to fancy him; she was nursing a fantasy in which he was cool and smart and sensitive and deep, and she wanted more data to determine whether to upgrade idle fantasy into a grade 3 crush (moderate). Reluctantly, I turned to him and spoke. He was sitting gazing intensely at a magazine, his hair flopping down, obscuring his eyes. From a certain angle he looked a bit like Brett Anderson from Suede. I suppose I could see what Susan saw in him, and for a moment that realisation confused me. Was that James or Amy thinking? "What'ya reading?" I asked. Susan tried to look innocent. "Oh, just a guitar magazine." "Mmm." I nodded knowingly. "You play then?" "Yeah. You?" "A bit." "Great! What sort of guitar you got?" "Just a crappy acoustic. You?" "I've got a strat. Well, strat copy. Second hand. I'd kill for a Les Paul though." "Totally. I'd like a Fender Jag though. Same guitar Kurt Cobain used to play." He looked puzzled. "Used to? Why, did he stop or something?" I blushed. "Never mind." Susie butted in. "I play drums." "Not really." "I do! My brother's teaching me. He says that a good drummer's hard to come by. Everybody wants to be a singer or guitarist, but bass players and drummers are harder to come by than straight male Take That fans." My friend, there's only one problem with that. Good Drummers, you said. You, on the other hand, play like a man having a heart attack." She scowled at me: she didn't want me putting her down in front of Tommy. "That was ages ago. I've got a lot better since then." "Yeah, well you could hardly have gotten worse." She nudged me. "We could play together some time. If you want," she said, turning to Tommy. "I... I don't know... I'm not good enough, and I... " "Let's see. Can you play an E?" He nodded. "A?" He nodded again. "G?" Another nod. "C?" Nod. "D?" Another nod. He looked at her expectantly. "How about..." She paused dramatically and started to whisper, "B minor?" "Yeah." "Very good. You know twice as many chords as the Ramones. You're in." I looked at her. "Did we just form a band?" Brightly smiling, my best friend turned to me and nodded. "You want in? We could do with a bass player. You can switch from guitar easily enough." "That would require procuring a bass." "Now, that's a thing. I saw one in that second hand shop for, like sixty quid. You said you'd got leftover birthday money. Get it." I nodded dutifully. Before the discussion could go any further, however, the teacher walked in. We spent the next forty minutes listen to her warble on about Macbeth. Then we went our separate ways: I had Chemistry, Susan had biology, and Tommy went somewhere else entirely. I didn't know where. Lunch provided a brief respite, but I didn't see Susan: I ate with some other girls, who seemed to be friends of mine. I stayed mostly quiet. The afternoon was uneventful, but tedious. Defiantly, the clock rolled slowly to 3.55, showing disdain for the thousands of kids across the country who wanted the bell to ring and the day to end. I left school, taking a detour past the second hand shop Susan had mentioned. The bass she had mentioned was still there, and it was... beautiful. It was dirty and beaten up, but it looked solid; it was a red copy of a fender Precision. I wanted it. I wanted this band to work more than... Well, not anything. Not as much as I wanted to live, last night, when I killed myself. The thought of the moment when I stepped from the chair made me feel slightly sick, and I was sure that I went a little pale. "Come on, Ames. Get home," I muttered to myself. I didn't want to think about that any more. It was irrelevant, anyway. I had her back. But as I left for my bus stop I realised how refreshing my desire for that bass guitar was. The last decade of my life had been void of desire: everything worth wishing for seemed utterly unreachable. Back then I only wanted things to change back: Every relationship I had which failed, I wanted reunion. I wanted my mother back. I wanted my chances of succeeding at Uni back. Actually finding something I wanted, and then trying to achieve it had seemed absurd, and somewhere along the way I had given up on it. Desire was merely something that happened to me in the wake of yet another tedious tragedy. But this was different. I felt as if I could do... if not anything, then at least something. No crippling sense of futility. I listened to my personal stereo on the bus home: Primal Scream. It was a pirated tape, and I recognised the handwriting as Susan's. Tapes! They were the main music format all through my childhood, and coming from a world where CDs were almost obsolete, they were a heady rush of nostalgia. It was the way they went clunk when you pressed play, the gentle, oceanic hiss of static at the start.... The rage when the tape gets chewed up. "Fuck, I muttered, pulling the tape out, magnetic tape spewing everywhere. I wound it carefully back in, and nearly missed my stop. I walked the rest of the way home in silence. When I get home, I start to read my diary, leafing through it, trying to get a sense of who I was. I was starting to remember my new life: Amy's experiences seemed a little more real to me now, and James' seemed distant and unreal. I wondered if I would eventually forget about my old life. That scared me. I read all about the boys I fancied, my main crush changing every three months or so; of so many romantic disappointments. I read of rows with friends, of arguments with my parents, of nights out, of hopes and fears. And as I did so, it started to become real to me. And it scared me. I wanted my old life back. Then I watched Neighbours, and Mum made me my dinner. I spent the evening much as I had spent my evenings as a boy, listening to the radio, reading, watching TV and playing my guitar. Almost without thinking, I went to my old piggy-bank and opened her up, counting out the money for the bass I had been ordered to buy. I would get it tomorrow. Pretty soon it was time for bed. I slept more soundly than I had in years. When I woke up I was still a girl. This peturbed me at first, but it felt increasingly comfortable. I was sure I had dreamt something... something about speaking to... an angel? A goddess? I had demanded answers, but I can't remember what I got in return.The next morning went in a straightforward enough manner: I ate breakfast and dressed and did all my normal morning things, and stuck my headphones on and set off for school. I was listening to the Smiths- A Hatful of Hollow. The whole day had gotten off to a rather pleasant start. Rather pleasant, at least, until Heaven Knows I'm miserable Now started. Instead of Morrisey, there was a woman singing, a woman who's voice sounded oddly familiar. And she was singing to me, about my predicament. You were born a man but then you killed yourself, and heaven knows, you're a girl now. Maybe you deserved a second chance, but heaven knows you've got to prove it now In your new life, Girl, you've got to prove why, Exactly why you should live and not die. Time is running out you've only got six months, To prove your life will be different now. I was looking for a job and then... The song reverted to normal. I rewound it, and listened to it again, but it was Morrisey singing, and not a weird message from an angel or whatever. Suddenly overcome by an air of desperation, I stopped the tape. How does one go about proving you deserve to live? It was rather an existential question to face a fifteen year old girl on a number 43 bus at 8.45 in the morning. But I knew the answer, deep down. Live the sort of life that won't make me want to kill myself again in fifteen years. Live a life that was more than a series of regrets and tragedies strung together with tedium. I was so deep in thought I missed my stop, and with a sudden realisation got up and had to walk back to the school. I saw Susan coming in, and went over to her and said hello. "Hey. You got your money?" "Maybe," I said, smiling coyly. "Come on, bitch, prove it!" she said, smiling and frustrated. I rolled my eyes and pulled out my wallet, and showed her it. Seventy pounds. Her eyes lit up. "Yeah, that's what I like to see. This time tomorrow, you're gonna be the next Kim Gordon." "Ay, that's a lot of money! You girls going to the dildo shop after school?" I turned round, but I already knew the voice. I experienced a weird sensation: my female memories conjured up a sense of dread and loathing: pinged bra-straps and pinched bottoms, while my male memoried conjured up a disconcertingly similar sense of dread and loathing, of punched stomachs and systematic bullying. It was Scott Ferguson. "Look, Scott, the grownups are talking. Don't you have a goat to rape somewhere?" sneered Susan. "Fuck off!" he said, and wandered off. By his standards, that constituted a witty comeback. "He does it because he fancies you, you know," I said. I remembered from my last time around, as a boy, that he would regularly describe Susie as 'fit' and 'had a pair of knockers I'd give up a bollock for.' "He does it because he's a moron," she replied, evidently perturbed by the thought of having the starring role in his wank fantasies. She mentioned her folks were away until late tonight, and asked me to come around to piss around with my bass and her brother's drums. Then the bell rang, and we went to our classes. The morning passed. It didn't pass pleasantly, but it wasn't unpleasant either. It was just a lengthy spell of tedium while I watched a succession of teachers drip-feed knowledge into my brain. The morning ended with double French. I hated French; I sucked at it. My main problem was that I kept performing a number of accidental sex- changes on ordinary household objects, simply because I could never remember to refer to the with the masculine 'le' or the feminine 'la'. "Non, Non, non, Amie! LE taille-crayon!" proclaimed the teacher, waving the pencil-sharpener at me "Very true," I replied. "In general. That specific pencil sharpener, however, has gender identity disorder. I think it'd prefer to be referred to in the feminine." That didn't go down too well. After class, at lunchtime, I waited in the queue with Susan and got ready to pay for my food. I reached into my jacket pocket, and then into the other pocket, and then my skirt pockets. My wallet was gone. "Bollocks!" I said, a little too loudly, provoking a Stern Look from Mr. Carmichael. I explained what had happened to Susie. "It must have been Scott. He was the only other one who knew how much I had, and he was sitting behind me in French. We've got to get it back," I said. Susan lent me enough money to pay for my lunch, and then we went to the table to discuss what to do about Scott. That didn't take long, however. We would have to confront him. Normally Scott could be found pretty easily; he usually spent his lunchtime smoking surreptitiously in the multi-storey car park a block or two from the school. We went there to look for him, but he was nowhere to be found. We searched frantically for him, and eventually found him, surprisingly, lurking around the school. He was sitting on a bench in the playground, chatting to one of his friends about football. "Scott. A word please." The peanut gallery cheered. We led him away. "What did you do with my wallet, you scumbag?" I hissed. "Don't know what you're talking 'bout." "I had a wallet. Now I don't. It disappeared in French. You took it." "No. I didn't. Of course, if Susie were to go out with me, I could help you look for it." "Come on!" she hissed in outrage. "If you think I'm going to reward you for robbing my mate..." "Yes, she will," I replied. "Ames, are you out of your frigging tree?" she snapped. "In fact, can you even see your fucking tree from where you are? No? Well, that's how far out of it you are. Please return to said tree and consider what you said, and why it was wrong." Scott stared at us for a moment. "Friend Susan, might we confer over hither for a moment?" She nodded and held a finger up to Scott in a polite 'excuse us one moment' gesture. We whispered between ourselves for a moment. Angry whispers turned into conspiratorial whispers. She nodded in agreement. We returned to Scott. "Well, I won't go on a date, as such, but if you want to hang out for a bit after school, we could do," said Susan. His face lit up. I felt sorry for him. "Please return my wallet now," I said. He pulled it out of his jacket, with a bashful look on his face. "I was only playing a joke on you. I wasn't going to keep it." "Of course you were," I agreed. Susan made plans to meet him after school, and we went away. Before long the bell rang, and we went to our classes. Right after school we put our plan into action. Susan gave me her house keys, and I went to the second hand shop to buy my bass guitar. Meanwhile, Susan hung out with Scott- I believe they went for an ice cream; he paid for her, in an uncharacteristically gentlemanly gesture. I returned to Susan's house, let myself in, and hid the key under a specific flowerpot. Then, I went to Susan's room, and waited. Susan returned home fifteen minutes later. She told him to wait outside while she checked to see if anyone was home, but in actual fact went to retrieve her keys. She then led him into her room, where I was hiding in her wardrobe, watching through a crack in the door. She was holding his hand, and smiling sweetly at him. "Mind if I get changed?" she asked, unbuttoning her blouse. "I mean, it's nothing you've not seem before, right?" "Uh... yeah!" he agreed. He was obviously lying. Soon she was standing there in nothing but her panties and a bra. She walked over to him and kissed his cheek. "You seem a bit over-dressed, Scott," she giggled. "Get 'em off!" Gulping with nerves, he started to undo his tie. Noticing Susie's encouragement, he started to unbutton his shirt, to reveal his chest. I noticed his upper body was well-defined and smooth, and I felt a brief flush of desire, which made me quite uncomfortable. Just two days previously I had been a heterosexual man; getting used to the new desires of this body would take some time. He pulled his shoes off, still-laced, and then took his socks off. It was awkward, but I thought he deserved some credit for that: at 15, knowing to avoid the ridiculous naked-but-for-socks moment takes a degree of sexual sophistication. He unbelted his trousers, gazing at Susan, who was sitting watching him. They fell to the floor, reveal white boxer shorts, and sizable erection peeking out of the hole. Susan looked down and smiled. Scott looked embarrassed. "I, um..." "That's okay," she said reassuringly. She walked over to him and kissed him on the cheek, running her fingers down her chest. "Get them off," she whispered. She stepped away again, and he did as she requested. His shorts fell down to the floor, and he stepped out of them, utterly naked, his erection pointing at her. "So.. uh..." he mumbled. He had expected her to kiss him more than she had; she seemed to have jumped straight to fourth base without passing the first three. He stepped forward and started to kiss her. She let him, and started to climb on top of her. This was getting out of control; I knew that was not a place Susan wanted to be, especially not with Scott. "No, wait." she whispered. "There's something I want to try." "What?" "Maybe it's a bit naughty for you." "Tell me." "No, forget I said anything. Dumb idea." She started to kiss his neck, and run a finger absent-mindedly on his nipple. "You can tell me." "Nah, forget it." "I promise, it'll be cool. I like naughty." "Let me dress you up as a girl." Scott said nothing; he just blinked very slowly. "It'd be like being lesbians! Isn't that sexy?" "Hmmm." he said, unsure how to react. "I knew it. It was a stupid idea. We should forget this ever happened." She stood up. "I'm sorry Scott, I shouldn't have invited you back here. I just thought you would be a bit more open-minded than the other boys. You always seemed so much more experienced than them." I almost burst out laughing at this. I clamped my hand over my mouth to avoid giving the whole game away. Very slowly, Scott stood up and hugged her. He started to nibble her ear and whispered, "Yes. I'll do it." Susie's face lit up, and she kissed him briefly on the lips. "This is great. Thank you, Scott! I am so horny right now!" "Where should I start?" "Baby, put some panties on. Top drawer, just over there. Take your pick. Whatever you think is sexiest." Scott wandered over to the drawer in question, and pulled it open. He stood there, completely naked- and I couldn't help but admire his bottom, again triggering a queasy moment of doubt and shame- and picked a pair. They were black and quite lacy. He held them up for her, silently asking for her approval. "Nice choice. Put them on." He did so. "You need a bra now. There's a black one that'll go nicely with it. I'll help you put it on." He picked it up. Drawing slowly towards him, she plucked the bra from his hand. She wrapped it around him, and clipped it together at the back, raising the straps over his shoulders. She reached around him from behind. "Play with me..." he whispered. "Can't you wait?" she said, with playful condescension. She kissed him on the cheek. "Now... Makeup." "Can't we just... I want you." He said. I started to feel sorry for him. He was an arse, a moron and a thief, but beneath his crassness and mysogyny, he had genuine feelings for Susie. He was horny, yes, and he wanted a shag, but he also really liked her, and was happy that he was with her. "After I put your lippy on." She looked through her selection, and then picked one. "Fuscia. I think it goes with your skin tone." "Okay." "Do this," she said, tensing her lips into a weird toothless smile. He did so and she applied the lipstick. She kissed him on the cheek. "Please," he begged. "Are you ready?" "Nearly, nearly. What name do you want me to call you? I mean, you've got to have a girl name, if you want to be a girl. Stands to reason." He looked at her, desperate to kiss her, desperate to press her down on the bed and slip inside her... She stared at him, as if to tell him that the one thing between him and the loss of his virginity was the need for a name. "Roxy," he said. "I like Roxy." "Nice," she agreed. "Come over to the mirror, and have a look at yourself Roxy." She led him to the mirror, and he stared at himself. "I think you're beautiful, don't you, Roxy?" "Mmm," he agreed. "Now..." she said stepping back. He turned to her. "AMY! NOW!" I jumped from the cupboard, my camera ready. He stood there mortified, embarrassed, as I took shot after shot. He stood there in his panties and bra, shouting with outrage as I took photo after photo. Susie burst out laughing. He tried to grab his clothes, and ran from the room, towards the bathroom "Great work, Suse!" I cheered, high-fiving her. "We should go talk to him. Let him know the conditions of his surrender." When we got to the bathroom we heard the sound of sobbing. We looked at each other for a moment, suddenly guilty as hell. "Scott?" "Leave me alone," he howled. "Tut, tut, tut," said Susie. "Can't you take a joke?" "A joke! I thought you liked me! You just wanted to humiliate me!" I turned the door handle; he hadn't locked it and walked into the bathroom. Scott was sitting on the floor, surrounded by his clothes, his face red and blotchy with tears. He was still wearing Susie's underwear. We looked at him for a moment. "I'm sorry. I didn't think it would upset you like this." "My God! You really expect me to believe that?" "Yeah. It's true." "So you lead me on, make me think you liked me, and then have it all turn out to be a big plan to humiliate me, and you think it wouldn't upset me? Fuck off." "You don't understand. I mean, we wanted to get back at you- Amy was really worried about the money you stole, and... well, you can be a bit of a fanny at times. We just wanted to get your own back. I didn't realise how much you liked me." Scott grunted non-commitally. "I'll destroy the photos. We can pretend this never happened." I took off the camera and took out the film. "Look, there you go," I said, handing the film to him. He took it, but said nothing. "I thought you liked me though. But you don't. Why do you hate me?" "Hate is a very strong word," said Susie, after an awkward hesitation. "You do have a way of winding people up." "Look, I like a laugh, so what? That doesn't make me a bad person!" "Yeah, but nobody else was laughing. Not when you stole that money, not when you go around pinging our brastraps and calling us names and... we're sick of it. Maybe you are a good person, but it's bloody hard to tell." Very slowly Scott started to stand up. "Could I at least get changed and take this shit off my face?" "Yeah." I ran through to Susie's room and got his clothes for him. "But... you didn't have a bad time when we were hanging out? You know, before we came here?" "No... I enjoyed it. I was starting to feel really guilty about what we were doing, but then I thought of how upset Amy was, and how much we wanted her to get that bass, and I changed my mind again." "Okay... how about this then: we go out for a proper date. I promise I won't wind you up or anything. I mean... I'm not like that. I mean, yeah, I get a bit carried away when I'm with my mates and that but..." Naturally Susie looked quite startled at the suggestion. "I think you should," I said. She hesitated for a moment and then agreed. Delighted, Scott started to smile. "Thanks, Suse. You will change your mind about me." "Maybe." "Come on, I think we'd better let him get changed," I said. After he emerged he made arrangements to see Susie on Saturday. A movie, some food, nothing too heavy. Then he left. We spent the rest of the night eating pizza and fannying around with her drum kit and my new bass. It was very different to play than guitar, but before long we were playing a nearly-competent version of "I wanna be adored". That evening I went home more excited than I ever had before. I had tried to start a band when I was seventeen, but then I had to leave to go to Uni. I never met anybody else who seemed suitable there- I didn't have many friends, and those I did weren't interested in forming a band with me. I was too shy to advertise or respond to any adverts. Then real life started to get in the way, and I was too... too shy. Too much of a perfectionist. This was the first time I had been in a band for years and it felt good. I got home at nearly eleven, my dad told me off for coming home so late. Then he asked about the bass. "What've you been wasting your money on now?" "French dressing, twelve gherkins, and an electric blue Winnebago." "No need to be sarcastic." "It's a bass guitar. I bought it after school. Me and Suse are forming a band." Papa - I call him that in sarcastic homage to the Renault Clio ads- harrumphed disdainfully. "Well, you've got exams to worry about. This'd better not interfere with that." I nodded, and made my excuses to leave. Twenty minutes later I had cleaned my teeth and I started to get undressed for bed, but I was too excited. My mind couldn't help but wander to watching Scott in his pants... in Amy's pants, no less. I couldn't help but think of his cock, hard and pretty, stuffed inside Susie's black knickers. Realising how horny I was, I decided I would have to do something about it. Let's give this clit a test-drive, I thought. I took my panties off, and looked down at myself, totally naked. I spread my labia apart, and gazed at my clitoris. I touched it gently; it felt weird. I licked my finger, and rubbed my clit. it felt a lot less weird, and very good. I started to relax more, and lay down naked on my bed. I still felt self-conscious, however. I tried to fantasise, but I still felt uncomfortable thinking of boys. Even seeing Scott naked today- even though he's not my type... it felt wrong, just as much as it excited me. I decided to think about girls. I thought about Susie. I imagined kissing her; running her fingers through my hair and stripping down to her underwear. I imagined fondling her breast, biting her nipple gently, peeling off her pants. I imagined her running her fingers over my crotch, rubbing my clitoris, holding me down and kissing me as she worked my clit and... Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. I felt uncomfortable. She was just my friend, and I didn't really feel right sexualising her like that. Plus, I had seen her undress so many times- mostly for P.E. or when we tried on various outfits together- that it felt too normal for a fantasy. It felt like a bit of a betrayal, to be honest. Perhaps I should think about guys. It was something I had never done before, but I could still feel Amy's memories in my mind, and I could remember her fantasies. Maybe I should try one of them. Johnny depp. On a beach. He sees me coming towards him and smiles. We kiss. He's topless, naked but for a pair swimming shorts and a pair of flip-flops. The flip-flops are important; I don't want the fantasy to get side-tracked just because he steps on a sharp stone or ringpull or a poisonous jellyfish or something. God, it really was working. I reach down and touch my... touch myself there. It still feels odd to think of it as 'my vagina'. At best, I can only manage 'the vagina'. I'm moist now, and feeling a lot more relaxed. I lick my finger and start to rub my clitoris. It feels a little weird at first; as if it's only getting started, but after a minute or two I was starting to get into it. I rubbed and stroked, changing the motion every thirty seconds or so, learning how each motion felt, as the novelty of each stroke wore off I would switch to a slightly different movement. I wished I had a vibrator; I raked through my- Amy's- whichever- memories but I hadn't hidden one anywhere. She was way too shy to buy one, and wasn't even really sure where she would go for one. Maybe I should buy one off... Huh. No credit card. No internet. It's 1993; the world wide web was only developed this year. Twenty minutes passed. I had rubbed and stroked and carressed; and in my mind Johnny and I had torn off each other's clothes; I had sucked him and he had licked my clit until he came in my mouth- the thought made me feel dirty and powerful all at once. Johnny was then replaced by River Phoenix, who fucked me hard in the ladies toilets of an LA nightclub. This was taking ages. That was when I realised how late it was getting; next time I want to masturbate I think I'll have to schedule a much longer time-slot. It was midnight, and I wondered if I should give up. I felt too horny; I felt too close to orgasm but unable to reach it. It was infuriating. Then I started to think of Jason from school; here, right here in my room. My parents were away, and I invited him round. I want... a thought popped into my mind, and took me by surprise. I want him to tie me up. I want him to fuck me. I want him to call me names. I want to feel dirty and shameless and free. "Oh!" I yelped, suddenly taken by surprise. I coughed a couple of times to cover it up; my parents probably hadn't heard though. I continued to rub- so close, so close- and I rolled over onto my front, kneeling bent over like a dirty slut, being fucked doggy style- and I buried my face in the pillow to muffle the sound of my moans. My orgasm rose, but then, just as I thought I had peaked, it continued, rising and rising, feeling better and better. My legs started to quake, I was barely able to stay in position, and soon I was supporting myself on two knees and one elbow. I reached in with my one free hand to play with my nipple, pulling it and tweaking it, realising I enjoyed the slight pain. With a final muffled gasp of exhaustion, I finally came. My mind felt as if it had exploded. Orgasms were so much better as a girl! I felt as if I was in a daze, it was almost as if I was stoned. I was exhausted, my heart was racing. I rolled over onto my back to enjoy the sensation, and started to fall asleep. Seven hours and forty-five the next morning I was woken by my mother shouting at me through my door. I had forgotten to switch my alarm clock on and was late for school. The day passed without note; other than for a discussion with Susie and Tommy; Susie had been looking into rehearsal space. There was a place where we could book a room for a few quid for an hour; she would make a booking for Saturday morning, if we were both available. We were. We discussed songs we might want to practice; we agreed to focus on covers for the short term, to try and get to a point where we could play well together before worrying about writing well too. I could barely sleep that night. I was excited. I woke at eight, then nine, and dressed and packed my bass, ready for the morning. Dad gave me a lift in; there seemed to be a smattering of pride mixed in with his disdain. My heart was racing; I wanted this so badly. Tommy arrived a couple of minutes later; he was wearing a McCarthy t-shirt and a look of practised contempt for everthing the world had to offer. He said hi, and started to tune his guitar while we discussed McCarthy. Susie showed up a few minutes later. "Come on, we've only got two hours!" I said. "Perhaps you were slowed down by the weight of those heavy sticks you have to carry?" "Yeah, yeah. Sarky wossname." she replied. "Let's get in there." The dude who ran the place was in his forties; he had a thick white beard, and long, tied-back hair. There was an old poster on the wall advertising a Stones gig; I would later discover that he played bass in the support band. He took us into the room; it was dirty, but there was a large mirror, a drumkit, a PA, a mike stand and some soundproof foam around the walls. He handed us a couple of microphones, and explained how everything worked. We plugged in our equipment, waited for something to happen. Nothing did. Looking at each other nervously, nobody wanted to speak. "What are we actually going to do?" asked Tommy, finally. "We were battering out a vaguely competent version of "I wanna be adored." You know it?" asked Susie. "Hmm," he said, as if racking his brain. "Yeah. I know it." Susie counted us in and we started to play. We were a bit slower than the original, and I kept missing notes, but it wasn't bad. Tommy was pretty much perfect. After a few minutes of looping aimlessly through the verse and the chorus, we fell apart; Tommy stopped, and then Susie and me did too. "That was pretty good," she said. "Needs work, but a good start." She paused a moment. "It needs a singer," she added pointedly. "Very true," I agreed. "Who do we know that can sing? Are you any good, Tom?" Tommy turned pale. "No... No, I can't." "Well, I can't do it," replied Susie. "I'm on the drums, and when you let the drummer sing, you're halfway to Phil Collins territory. Ames?" "But... I'm not much good?" I stammered. "Well, if Tommy's not up for it, then we're going to have to draft someone in." "Give it a go, Ames!" said Tommy. "No... I..." I gave up. "Fine then. I'll give it a go..." We started to play, starting up into the first verse. "I don't have to sell my soul..." I sang... "He's already in me." I tried not to notice Tommy wince as I went off key on the 'me'. We stumbled through the song, and I looked at my two bandmates for comment. Dark glances were exchanged between them, a non-verbal attempt to cajole the other into speaking first. "Your vocals could do with a little work. Try to breathe from your diaphragm more- your belly. And I think your tone's a little nasal. Try lowering your larynx. Try talking like this for a bit." He then started to talk in a weird, dopey voice, like a cartoon bear. "It makes you sound ridiculous, but it helps you learn what to do with your throat. And you might want to try running or swimming or something, it'll help improve your breath support." Susie and I just stared at him. "Christ! How the hell do you know all this stuff?" "I read a book or two." "So, you must be a pretty good singer then. Why don't you give it a go?" For a moment there he looked petrified, as if he was going to run out of the room. "No... I couldn't. I'm too... Singing plus lead guitar? It's too attention hogging. Don't want that." "Oh, okay. Give it a go though," I said. "I just want to hear how you sound." Desperate for the earth to swallow him, Tommy stepped up to the mike. We started to play, and Tommy started to sing. He was fantastic. He voice was alternately savage, angelic; each note weighty with measured purity. Afterwards Susie and I stared at him. "That was fucking amazing!" "Christ, why didn't you tell us you could sing like that?" "Because I don't want to sing." "Why the hell not?" "For fuck's sake, I just don't want to! It's too much pressure. I don't want to be the centre of attention, okay?" "Okay, sure," I replied. I knew it was time to let it go. For now. Things went a little downhill from there: we started to bicker over which song to do next: I wanted something by the Smiths; Susie suggested Debaser by the Pixies; Tommy wanted to give Motorcycle Emptiness a go. Realising that I would actually have to sing it, I soon sided with Susie. Emptiness was out of my league. We plodded through Debaser a couple of times, Susie having procured the chords from her brother helpfully provided them. Then our time was up; we left, popping into the chipshop for some lunch, before going to the city square to debrief. We discussed what new songs to add to our set. We discussed names. "Parabola!" said Susie. "Too mathsy! Terrapin!- after the Syd Barrett song!" I replied. "Nah. We need something memorable. Like... The Alabaster Dream Complex!" said Tommy. "Really?" asked Susie, raising an eyebrow at Tommy meaningfully. "Why not?" Susie answered this with a withering glance. "My friend," I said turning to Susie, "I believe you have to be elsewhere?" She looked at her watch. "Shit! Shitshitshitshit! She jumped to her feet, stuffed her drumsticks in her satchel, and started to run. "Where's she off to?" asked Tommy. "Got an appointment at the STD clinic." Tommy gasped a little, trying not to look too shocked. "Don't be a retard, Endersby! She's got a date. With Scott Ferguson." Tommy raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "Yeah? Really?" "No- seriously. It's complicated." "Seriously? What does she see in him? The man's a moron. He could knuckledrag for his country." "She's not his type, but he asked her out, and she's giving him a chance." "Oh." He looked disappointed; worried. I knew that expression; he was interested in her. "Meh, I don't think it'll last," I replied. He looked a little happier. "What're you doing now?" "Don't know. If you want I could teach you some singing stuff. I'm no expert but..." "Yeah! That sounds great..." "My parents are out," he added. We finished our food, and half an hour and a bus ride later we were back at his house. It was pretty big. He told me his parents were doctors; his dad was at the hospital, his mum was at a conference. We walked past a room covered with posters from Smash Hits and Just Seventeen- he said it was his sister's room, but she had left for Uni the year before. He led me up to his bedroom. "Like what you've done with the place," I said. The walls were painted black, covered with posters of Nirvana, the Manics, Suede, and Queen. He had a bed, two sofas, two guitars, and a small amplifier. He took me through a number of exercises, playing scales, asking me to sing the note. We stuck at it for half an hour or so; he said I had already improved a lot. Then there was one exercise I got slightly stuck on; I asked him to show me. He started to blush, looking embarrassed, but nodded. He was fantastic. I told him that, but he said no. He didn't like people watching him sing, he got embarrassed. "I'm a guitarist, not a singer," he said. I stared at him, frustrated that he was going to let his talent go to waste. Then inspiration struck. "Very well. If you're not a singer, then stop being you." "What?" "Adopt a new identity. It's what rock and roll is all about. Play at being someone else. Someone new." "But..." He paused. "What do you mean?" I smiled. "Ever wonder what it's like to be a girl?" He stared back at me. He had, most men have. He was too ashamed to admit it though. "Now here's the idea. We dress you up, make you a girl... forget you're Tommy Endersby. Become someone else. Someone beautiful and confident. Someone who isn't ashamed to be a star." "No... I can't... What if someone finds out?" "Scared you might enjoy it?" "Don't be a moron." "Well then, go for it," I cajoled and I prodded and I pestered for nearly ten minutes, before eventually he agreed. "Let's see what stuff your sister left for us," I said. He stood there, bewildered, not knowing what to do. "Come on!" He followed me, awkward, as I went into his sister's room. Her room was large and white, with a double bed in the centre, a chest of drawers, and a wardrobe in the corner by the window. "Let's see what we've got in here," I said, opening a drawer. Fumbling the drawer open, I gazed in delight at the panties and bras before me. I was worried his sister would have taken them with her, but fortunately my fears were unfounded. I picked out a nice, white pair of panties, and a matching bra. "Put these on," I said. "What... now? Here... I can't let you see..." "Please, Chloe. We're both girls here. You haven't got anything I haven't seen before in the girl's changing room." Silently, he started to undress. I knew he was scared, but he didn't want to back down. I turned away as he undressed, but I could see him in the mirror. His penis seemed to be growing hard as he put the panties on. It was beautiful. I wanted to go over and squeeze his bottom, but I restrained myself. "Right, good," I said, as he finished, looking up and down at him as he stood blushing in front of me. His semi-hard penis was bulging in the front of his panties, and his bra sat awkwardly on his breastless chest. His legs were hairy, but I knew he would draw the line at shaving them. The other boys would see them, and ask questions. I handed him a pair of tights, mostly to cover up his hairy legs. Then I looked through his sister's wardrobe, looking for a dress. I found a beautiful red evening dress, and took it out, and passed it to him to put on one he had finished struggling with his tights. Soon he was fully dressed. I smiled at his handiwork. He wanted to look at himself in a mirror, but I told him not to. "Makeup," I announced. I grabbed a bag of makeup from his sister's dressing table, and told him to sit on the bed, I gave him eyeliner, eyeshadow, a light foundation, and red lipstick. Then I painted his nails light blue. The only thing remaining was his hair. It was down to his cheeks- short for a girl, but long for a boy. I brushed it, and added some gel, brushing it over one eye, until it looked at least somewhat girly. I stepped back and gazed at my handiwork. "You're beautiful, Chloe," I said. I told him to close his eyes, and led him to the full length mirror. I told him to open them... "God..." he gasped... "I really do..." "Yes. You're really pretty. Now let's sing." "What do you want me to..." That was easy. I had thought this one out while I was choosing the dress. "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun." He took a breath, and started to sing. It was beautiful. He didn't stumble over his words, or blush, or get embarrassed and stop. He sang all the way to the end, a capella, and then smiled. "Sweetie, that was beautiful. I told you that you could do it." He smiled, embarrassed but obviously happy. We spoke for a few moments about what song he might like to do next, and he got his guitar and sang "Boys Don't Cry" by The Cure. Again, he sang it well, and I clapped and cheered. Then he started to sing Atomic, by Blondie. It was wonderful. I couldn't help myself, I didn't even know what I was doing. I went up to him and kissed him firmly on the lips. We kissed for a while; I was confused, and I think he was too. Maybe it was one last trace of masculinity still residing in me that made me more comfortable if he was dressed as a girl. A few moments later he pulled away, and led me onto his bed. "Maybe we should talk about this..." he said. "I just want you. You look so hot dressed like that." I was embarrassed, scared to admit what I was admitting, scared what might happen if this got out, but I knew I could trust Tommy, even if this all went sour. "I mean, do you want us to start going out or something...?" "You know, I'm not actually sure. I guess..," I replied. He looked non-plussed. "I mean, I hadn't really thought about it before. I just... couldn't help myself. You're hot, Chloe." "Look, this is fun, but... would you be interested in me if I wasn't..."he blushed. "Wearing a dress?" "I think so. Yeah. It just... makes things easier." I kissed him again. "Look, I..." He started. "Hold on. How the hell does that work?" * Time passed, as it always does. Susie and Scott hit it off on their date, and she lost interest in Tommy, which was a huge relief, as I was briefly horrified that an 'I-spotted-him-first' issue might end up tearing apart our friendship- and the band. But for six glorious months, Susie and Scott were together, and I had to put up with her constant rabbiting on about how wonderful he was. Then he cheated on her, and I had to put up with another two months of her going on about how terrible he was. Then there was her brief-but-ill-advised Lesbian phase. The least said about that the better. Meanwhile, however, I started to date Tommy- with Chloe only coming out on very special occasions. He gained confidence as a singer, and with his tuition, I learn to not suck so appallingly... at least, as a singer, anyway. Our band- which we eventually decided to call Liquid Starfish, for reasons that only make sense in Susie's warped mockery of a brain- slowly developed. We learnt to play in time with one another, and to sing in key, and eventually learnt a dozen songs. We even wrote a couple ourselves. Then one day, we realised we were actually quite good. It came as a surprise to us all. Holiday-time arrived, exams now passed, and Susie's brother's mate's dealer let us know that his band were a support band short. Susie's brother's mate's dealer- along with his surly drummer and perpetually bewildered bass player- all gathered in our rehearsal room to watch us play. They approved. We had a gig. The next two weeks were a blur of anxiety and elation. I felt sick just thinking about it. Tommy was a mess. He alternated between military practise routines, panic attacks, and exuberance. It brought us to the brink of break-up twice. We practised daily, but the day of the gig loomed ever closer. The Saturday of the gig came, and after a panicked practise in the afternoon- we spent as much time arguing as we did playing- we met up at the pub in question, the Aigburth Arms. We met Susie's brother's mate's dealer, or Aaron, as he was otherwise known, and he helped us set up our equipment and do the sound-check. We were still underage, and we were under strict orders not to drink, but we helped out selling tickets on the door. At half past eight Aaron came up to us, and said we might as well get started. Very slowly, we looked at each other; panic turned into elation and we knew we were ready. We took to the stage, and introduced ourselves, faux-awkward, everybody hates a show-off. We started to play. I wish I remember more of it, to be honest; it felt like a rehearsal, but with people watching. There were barely twenty of them, but it was enough. We made mistakes; I sang off-key, and my guitar strap bounced out of it's stud at one point, and I had to play the rest of the song crouching on the floor, but we managed to make it work. We played our five songs, and then swaggered off stage. I was shaking, manic with glee, I hugged Susie to steady both of our nerves. Some guy told us he thought we were really good. We watched the rest of the show, and then left at eleven. My dad was picking me up. He dropped Susie and Tommy off at their houses; he seemed almost proud, although I knew he'd never admit it. I made myself a sandwich and staggered off to my room; I was still buzzing on adrenalin; I changed out of my clothes- my stagegear, I thought with a giggle, even though they were just normal clothes- and fell... not asleep exactly. I hovered in a weird state between sleeping and waking. I was in a room with a woman. I knew her instinctively. She hugged me, and I smiled. "Brilliant, Amy, just brilliant," she said. "You've done it. You've changed." "So I'll get to live? I won't go back to... I won't be dying? Back in my male body, thrashing away at the end of a noose?" "No." "Now that is good news," I sighed. "So what happens now?" "Anything you like. You've proved yourself." "But if the whole thing was about proving myself as a musician, forming a band... Surely the whole point is to go on, become big..." "Don't make me laugh! God, you mortals really don't get it! It wasn't about becoming a rock star. It was about not being crippled by a sense of failure. It was about not wasting your life on bitterness and regret." With that, I fell into a deep sleep, happier than I had been for years, knowing that I was safe and free.