Birth of a New Dawn Part Two
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Birth Of A New Dawn Part Three free porn video
Birth of a New Dawn Part Three
By Heather St. Claire
Hi everyone. I can't believe three years have passed since I last checked
in with you. Right at this moment, I find myself standing naked in front
of my bathroom mirror, giving myself a careful, critical going over.
It's the kind of thing a girl does when she's got a big milestone like a
thirtieth birthday just around the corner. Guess it's time to stop
thinking of myself as a girl and start thinking of myself as a woman.
It's still a lot to wrap my mind around, since up until five years ago, I
was a man.
If you read the first chapter of my story, you know that my girlfriend
Brittany got a hold of a magic statue and accidentally changed me into a
female. The story's a bit longer than that, but that's the bottom line.
Brittany and I remember the Don that was, but as far as the rest of the
world's concerned, I always have been, and always will be Dawn.
I cup my breasts and with more than a touch of dismay see the beginnings
of droopiness. This despite the fact I started working with weights
several months ago in an effort to minimize this problem. But as Brit
told me, when you're as well-endowed as I am, this is going to be
inevitable.
Just so I'm not tucking them into my waistband in another few years.
I also see very faint crow's feet creeping in by my eyes, and little
lines--smoker's lines, my mother's quick to point out--forming around my
mouth. My mother's been ragging on me to quit smoking ever since she did,
right after her breast cancer scare a few years ago. But it's more than
just my face. My skin just doesn't have that dewy, youthful feeling it
did five years ago. My mother talked me into adding moisturizer to my
daily routine a few months ago, but I'm not sure if it's helping. She
says kicking the cigs would be even more helpful to my skin and points to
her own wrinkles as proof.
She's right, of course. I need to take better care of my body, especially
since It's an essential part of my business. No, no, I'm not a prostitute
or anything like that. If you remember from the earlier chapters, I'm a
barista turned coffee stand owner. In fact, I've got four of them now.
Cowgirls' Coffee is a rousing success.
In fact, we're such a hit, that you'll generally only find me in one of
our stores one day a week. It's important to me that I put on the pink
leather hot pants, silver bikini top and cowgirl boots that represent our
main uniform and find out what's going on under our small roofs. I'll
show up more often if we've got a lot of new girls to train, have a
problem to work on, or are short-staffed. Otherwise, you'll find me in a
blazer, skirt, tights and heels in our little business office, at the
bank, with a real estate agent, a lawyer, or at a Chamber of Commerce
meeting.
Sometimes, I pull my one grey pinstripe suit out of the back of the
closet when I really want to dress to impress, but most of the time, its
business casual. I like colorful boyfriend blazers, silky camisoles,
short skirts (especially in leather; I had a real thing for girls in
leather skirts when I was a guy and I love the way I look in them now
that I'm a girl, excuse me, woman.)
You may have gotten the impression I was kind of a slacker as a guy, and
you'd be right. Totally right. Don was a selfish slob who was more
worried about a good lay, his Oakland Raiders and Golden State Warriors
and keeping his truck super clean than just about anything else.
Dawn...she, that is, I, am a different story. I can't explain it. The
magic that transformed my body also did something to my brain. Maybe it
does come down to the old story that women are smarter than men.
(Allow me a diversion. This is one of my favorite jokes. It's about dumb
blonde guys:
Three blonde man are on one side of a wide river and don't know how to
get across.
The first man prays to God to make him smart enough to figure out how to
cross the river, so God turns him into a brown-haired man and he swims
across.
The second man prays to God to make him even smarter, so God turns him
into a dark-haired man and he builds a boat and rows across.
Then the third man prays to God to make him the smartest of all, so God
turns him into a woman and she walks across the bridge.)
When the former owner of the coffee shack where Brittany and I worked put
the place up for sale a couple of years ago, I persuaded my rich Great
Aunt Connie to bankroll the purchase. I came up with the concept, which
really wasn't original, but seems to have gone over well in lots of
places. Why? Men like to look at pretty girls and women without many
clothes on. Imagine that.
Everything went great the first week were open. I sent girls out when
they weren't working the shack to hand out flyers and two-for-one coupons
at the beginning of the week, and by the end of the week, we had more
business than we could handle. We also had something else. Half a dozen
picketers from a local church.
When I saw them marching up to the building, I cried. (Brittany had
taught me never to be ashamed of tears. They're a great way to release
emotions before they build up into something dangerous.) But then I
quickly dried my tears, pulled my phone out of my purse, and called the
local TV station, radio station and newspaper. By the end of the day I
had given four interviews and all sorts of people who had never heard of
Cowgirls' Coffee knew who we were and where we were.
Three months later a real estate agent called me about another coffee
stand that had closed down and was up for lease at an attractive place. I
immediately saw the potential and set about fixing up the place, hiring
and training a staff, and rolling out promotions. I pissed off a nearby
day care center by daring to open up so less than a block away from them.
I laughed when the bitch that ran the place came to me with her
complaints.
Too much makeup, no tits, no hips, way too fancy clothes...hell, she
looked more like a guy than I did when I still was one. Anyway. If I had
done a little checking, I might have found out that her brother in law
was the chief of police. But I wouldn't learn that little fact until it
was too late. She caught me while I was painting the interior walls of
the new stand, and I stepped out when she knocked at the back door.
"We don't need erotic entertainment so close to vulnerable children,"
she told me with a sneer.
"Erotic entertainment? Are you serious?" I replied. "Look, this is a
little harmless fun for the guys, and frankly, we're getting more and
more female customers. The girls and friendly and the coffee is great. In
fact," I said, reaching into my purse and handing her a coupon, "I'd love
it if you'd give us a try at no charge."
She let the paper flutter to the ground as if it carried a disease. "Your
loss," I said, reaching down to pick up the paper as she walked away.
"Oh, be sure to tell your husband, if you have one, there's plenty more
to see like this."
We had a grand opening all set for Saturday morning of the Labor Day
weekend, and it went off without a hitch even though I missed it. I
missed it because I was in jail, charged with soliciting. That's right, I
was accused of being a madam.
God, I try to laugh, but it still rankles the shit out of me. There was
this one fat old retired detective who had been watching out stores for
months. He claimed he had evidence that my girls were accepting extra
money for letting customers touch them, take their pictures or watch them
lick whipped cream off of each other. But when they came for me with
handcuffs, I started to cry, and I didn't stop for quite a while.
Getting booked into our local jail was a pretty hellish experience. When
the jailer handed me a one-piece orange jumpsuit, a pair of panties, and
orange crocs, I said, "Seriously? Am I on TV?"
She smiled and shook her head. "Gee, I've never heard that one before.
You win the originality award today, dearie. Look, be grateful that you
were born a woman. The guys don't even get undies."
I started to say, "But--" then quickly changed course. "Why don't the guys
get underwear?"
"Too many of them were flushing it down the toilets and jamming up the
plumbing."
"Again...why?"
She shook her head with an even greater air of resignation. "Because
they're men, that's why. By now you should have figured out we're the
smarter sex." I nodded, tried to compose myself, and headed to change.
I was stuck overnight. My lawyer was out of town and his voice mailbox
was full. So was Aunt Connie, who was chasing doddering old rich guys in
Monaco. Brittany and her husband were at a remote wooded cabin off the
grid. I was too mortified to call my mother, so I spent the weekend in
the joint.
Other than having to endure the stares of a few of the other ladies in my
pod (I couldn't decide if they wanted to hate me or date me), it wasn't
that awful. My lawyer got home late Sunday night and immediately posted
bond, and I was a free woman again. A huge burden was lifted from my
pretty little shoulders several months later when the city not only
dropped all accusations against me, they actually charged the old
detective with entrapment.
I'm not sorry I went through that weekend, because it really changed my
life, and even better, the lives of a whole lot of young women in this
city.
I was sitting at a table in the center of the pod, my face buried in my
arms, crying my eyes out for the second time in as many hours. I felt a
soft tap on my shoulder and heard a familiar voice ask, "Dawn?"
I looked up, and through a haze of tears, I saw Bessie Cleveland, who had
worked at the shack about the time Brit and I were hired. She got
arrested for theft a few months after Brit and I started, and Kayla
immediately fired her. It had been what, seven years since I had seen
her, but I swear she looked twenty years older. Her hair was streaked
with grey, her skin was pockmarked and scabbed, and her cheeks were
sunken. When she smiled at me, I realized why. She was missing several
teeth.
"Honey?" she said, throwing her arms around me. "What the hell is going
on? Why are you in here?"
That set off the waterworks again. I heard a harrowing tale of abuse and
addiction that left me feeling sad, but also filled me with a new
resolve. The following Tuesday, I asked my friend Valerie Martin, who ran
a local drug and alcohol treatment center, to join me for lunch.
"Val," I asked, "Didn't you tell me that a lot of the women you deal with
have trouble getting jobs?"
She nodded. "So you were paying attention. Men too. Yes, people with this
disease will often lie, cheat and steal to feed their addiction. They get
nailed for possession; they get nailed for dealing to feed the habit, and
for theft. Usually it's grandma's diamond ring. And once they've got a
record, no one wants to give them a second chance." She paused to take a
big bite of her chef's salad. Valerie was a loud, aggressive woman, and
she didn't just eat her meal, she attacked it.
I thought long and hard before speaking. "What if...what if I offered
your clients jobs?"
"Oh my God!" she said, dropping her fork. "That would be so wonderful!"
Her fork crashed to the table and the floor. "But you're going to have to
raise your wages. A lot of these girls have babies. And I do mean girls.
You'll find women under thirty who have kids in their teens."
"But that means--"
"Yes, I can do the math too, honey. Babies having babies."
I had to go see the local chief judge to get his approval to work with
the court system on placing parolees with me. It almost felt like a job
interview. I pulled the gray pinstripe out, toned down my makeup a bit,
and tried to portray the image of a mature, professional businesswoman to
the greatest degree I could. He must have brought it, or maybe he just
enjoyed starting at my tits so much, that we ended up spending close to
an hour together, even though his secretary, a very plain, pinched sort
of woman had told me he had ten minutes, PERIOD, so I better make the
most of my time.
The first girl I hired was only nineteen, a mother of two, and already
had a long rap sheet. Petty thefts, unauthorized use of a motor vehicle,
failure to appear, parole violation....I shook my head as I looked at the
sweet, innocent looking petite blonde with a pixie cut sitting in front
of me.
"Please, Miss, uh--"
"Dawn. Always call me Dawn. Terri, let me just ask you one question. This
is your total and complete job interview." I saw her swallow hard and nod
gravely. "Are you ready to get your shit together? Yes or no?"
"Oh, yes!" she cried. "I promise you, I am!"
Four months later, I sat in the Courtroom and cried as I watched the
judge give Terri back custody of her children, who had been placed with
her own parents. The next day, when I showed up at the store where Terri
worked to give her a supply of diapers and formula, I noted she was out
of uniform. Instead of the usual pink and silver outfit, she was in an
orange bikini.
"Terri?" I said, pointing at her top. "What's going on?"
She blushed. She actually blushed. "Dawn, I'm sorry. I'll never do it
again. But I wanted to celebrate getting my boys back. I'm proud of how
far I've come, and, and..."
I smiled as the light bulb went off over my head. "Orange is the New
Black, right?" I hugged her. "Terri, you should be proud. Very proud. And
you wear this anytime you want."
The next day, I showed up at that same store to cover for a girl who was
out sick. I showed up wearing an orange bikini, even though I had to
visit half a dozen shops to find one the night before. I saw the look of
surprise on Terri's face, soon replaced by an ear-to-ear grin. I shrugged
my shoulders and said, "Hey, I'm a jailbird, too. Remember?"
I posted a memo to all employees a few days later than an orange bikini
would now be recognized as an official alternative work uniform and the
company would provide one to every employee who requested it. Soon close
to half of our girls were wearing them, and I like to think it's sent a
message to a few people that everyone deserves a second chance. And if
it's a turn on for a few of our hornier customers, the same guys who
loved the women in prison movies way back when, so much the better.
So, life went on. I was still dating every now and then, but I was
getting choosier, and frankly, I was tried. Running a business like mine
will take a lot out of you. So I had to scramble for a date when I found
out on short notice that I had to go to a big event.
I couldn't believe it when I got the call. The local Chamber of Commerce
was giving me the Small Business Owner of the Year award. My first
instinct was to pull out the grey pinstripe suit, but I said the hell
with it and really decided to make a splash that night. First I had to go
dress shopping. I do love shopping; getting a sexy new outfit lifts my
spirts. But unlike most of my female friends, I'm pretty decisive. I
don't spent hours trying on skirt after skirt, stewing over whether a
straight or asymmetrical hemline flatters me more.
This trip was different. I did spend all afternoon looking for a dress
that would send just the right message to this crowd. I finally chose a
red sequined mini-dress with a scooped neckline that didn't hide any of
my tats. When I paired it with my sparking glitter stilettos, the overall
effect was stunning, if you ask me. Hell, if I was still a guy, I'd be
scheming to get me out of this dress as quickly as possible.
I felt the stares when I walked into the Holiday Inn banquet room. I felt
the lust of the old men and the jealousy of the old women. And I reveled
in it, all of it. Being on the arm of a good-looking guy didn't hurt,
either.
When I got the award, about eighty percent of the audience stood and
clapped; the rest sat and glared or pretended not to care. Fine. Let them
be that way. Success is the best revenge. As I marched up to the podium,
my stilettos clacking hard on the tile floor, I was all set to make an
in-your-face kind of speech, but then I heard my introduction from Beth
Windsor, the chamber president:
"And now, a young woman who is an example for all young women in our
community, who shows them that a lot of hard work and a little fun can
lead to success. Our Small Business Owner of the year..."
Damn it, I cried when I got up there and she handed me the stupid plaque.
I managed was a heartfelt "Thank you," a broad smile, and a promise,
"This town hasn't seen anything yet! Cowgirl Coffee is just getting
started!" Then I felt myself choking up again, as I talked about the
Orange Bikini program, as I had named it, and the difference it had made
in so many lives.
"But there aren't always happy endings," I said. "Just last week, I
attended the funeral of Bessie Cleveland, the woman I saw in jail the
weekend I was arrested. She overdosed one time too many, and now this
dear, sweet woman, someone's daughter, sister, lover and friend, rests
dead and cold in the ground at age thirty-four. Let's always remember we
owe the Bessies of this world a second chance. And a third."
When I stepped off the podium, I was confronted by the editor of the
local paper. She wasn't angry at me, she said, so much as disappointed.
Didn't I see that I was objectifying women? What kind of a message was
that sending to our girls? That they all had to be model-thin and
beautiful?
"We have plus-size girls working for us," I pointed out.
"Yeah," she said. "But they all look like Ashley Graham."
I shook my head. "It's not about looks, it's about attitude. A lot of my
girls will never be centerfolds, but they've got great, enthusiastic
personalities, they're not ashamed of their bodies, and they love serving
people."
The editor frowned. "You know, I could understand if a man was running a
business like this, I could understand it. But another woman?" She shook
her head. At moments like this, the irony almost overwhelms me, but I
hold me tongue.
Instead, we simply agreed to disagree. I wasn't going to let her spoil
this evening. My date had to fly out on a business trip early the next
morning, so I let him go with nothing more than a French kiss that left
his toes permanently curled. There will be time for more steamy sex.
There's always more time. Besides, I've got a big shopping day tomorrow.
I love this new dress, but it's not right for another big event I've got
coming up.
I'm going to be my mother's Maid of Honor. Yes, she's making her third
trip down the aisle, and Ted seems like a really great guy. He's a
mechanic with his own shop and seems to really dote on her. I really hope
he treats her with all the love, honesty and respect she deserves. Oh
well, if he doesn't, some of my girls have friends who can make sure that
he ends up sleeping with the fishes in the bay. Not that I'd ever
actually do that, of course. (I suppose I shouldn't even be joking about
such things, even though this is all between us girls.)
I found the right dress and ran a lot of other errands, then promised
myself I'd take the next day off. Before I headed home I rented several
good weepy chick flicks at the Red Box. When I got up in the morning, I
was so relieved not to have to put on a bra or do my makeup or hair. I
put on some old gray sweats, my favorite fluffy slippers, pulled my hair
into a loose ponytail, popped some popcorn and curled up on the couch.
Shit. My DVD player was busted. I did NOT want to have to get all dressed
up just to go buy a new one. I've learned that when you're a public
person and you ever go out looking less than you're best, you're going to
run into someone you know. So time for plan B: the cable. Nothing good on
Lifetime, Oxygen, the Food Network...finally I came on an NBA game.
Rockets and Warriors.
I had given up on watching pro sports right after my change. Somehow, I
just didn't care anymore. But something about this game caught my eye,
and before too long, I was really into it. The score was close as the end
of the first quarter ended, but I realized I really didn't care about the
score. It was those hard, muscular bodies that had me enraptured.
Oh well. I guess Don's really gone, but that's OK. Dawn is very glad to
be here.
The End
Stevie
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