Batwoman meets Catwoman Part One
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Patchwork People: Chapter II: The Good Man Hard To Find free porn video
II. The good man hard to find.
Marcia was soaping the morning coffee carafes in the back room when she
heard the jangle of the bells and Walt's cheery "hello." She smiled as
she continued to scrub away at the indestructible orange ring at the
bottom of the pot, listening to the flirtatious interplay between Walt
and Grace, as regular and satisfying as a ritual.
At last, Marcia dried her hands on the dish towel. She poked her head
around the corner to say "hi."
"Hey there," Walt hailed. "Where's my coffee?" What kind of shoddy
establishment is this anyway?" He turned to Grace. "This is what happens
when you're too lenient with the help. You don't see my wage-slaves
goofing off like this."
"You don't employ anyone, Walter."
Grace always called Walt by his full name, an entitlement that Walt
bestowed on only a precious few.
"Smartest business decision I ever made. Making
myself the boss and hiring myself as the only employee. Of course, it
helps that I'm not in the business of making any money."
"You can't claim any credit for that brilliant idea. That you learned
from me."
Walt gave a mock bow. "Credit to where credit is due, madam."
* * *
Walt had opened his bicycle shop ten years earlier after retiring on a
full pension from his job with the state highway department. "Everyman's
Cycles" was a labor of love more than a profit-motivated venture.
Bicycles were Walt's hobby, tinkering with them, repairing them, taking
them apart, modifying them, and rebuilding them again. He'd do it for
free and he often did, donating, as often as not, his beautifully
restored bicycles to charity.
His first love had been motorcycles. And he still looked every inch the
biker he'd once been with his long graying hair pulled back in a grizzled
ponytail, his pointed goatee, and his massive arms covered with colorful
tattoos: skulls, tigers, flying eyeballs, swords, and scrolled legends
extolling the virtues of honor, freedom, and rebellion. He was the kind
of man other men instinctively gave a wide berth. His friends, though,
knew him for the sweetheart he really was.
"What kind of goodies have we got today?" He scrutinized the display
case. " Orange spice muffins. Where're the tarts? I heard a rumor someone
was baking my favorite. Don't tell me they're gone already?"
"Don't worry," Marcia said, "I saved you one."
"That's my girl. Well go fetch it, for crissakes. I'm starved. And
parched. Where's that coffee you promised anyway?"
"Coming right up sir!" Marcia saluted and ducked back into the makeshift
kitchen.
Even after three years, it stunned her when Marcia thought about her luck
in finding a man like Walt with whom to share her life. There were women
who'd been lucky enough to be born women who hadn't been as lucky as
Marcia had been in finding love.
How could that be?
It was a mystery that defied any rational explanation. It was a mystery
so deep and obscure and irrational that it tempted one into an
embarrassing belief in destiny, in God, in something. Indeed, if Marcia
came to believe now in a guiding force of goodness in her life capable of
creating miracles, it would be a grizzled, tattooed, long-haired ex-biker
named Walt.
He had allowed Marcia to experience a life she would never have believed
it possible for her to enter. She would have been satisfied with just a
peek; he'd thrown open the door and brought her inside.
He was more than just her lover. He was her hero, her knight in shining
armor, and, yes, her proof that God, or something like Him, might exist.
Walt would have laughed to hear her talking such absurdity. Well wouldn't
you expect God to laugh it off as a big joke if anyone had managed to
penetrate his disguise?
Marcia laughed it off, too, half-ashamed at her own blatant hero worship.
Worse still was that Walt insisted that she'd been the miracle in his
life.
Maybe that's what love was when all was said and done. Maybe that's all
God was, too. Some little bit of divinity in each of us scattered around
the world like seeds.
Sometimes they were found and nurtured into growth.
Sometimes they didn't.
* * *
Not long ago, Marcia would have waved off such ideas as the most
sentimental kind of nonsense. In the beginning, she hadn't expected much
out of her relationship with Walt. In fact, she resisted having a
relationship with him at all. How it actually came about was still
something of a mystery. And she had been there when it happened.
Back then, Walt had known nothing of the gory details of her past. And
Marcia had been determined to keep it that way even if it meant
sacrificing intimacy. Intimacy wasn't in the cards for Marcia. She knew
that from the start. In Walt, she sensed a fellow warrior. There was a
quiet reserve to his character that had communicated itself to Marcia
beneath his easy-going jocular exterior. He was a person who had
struggled at the bottom of the pit between the urge to existence and the
temptation of non-existence. Those who'd known that struggle themselves
recognized the quality in others.
Marcia must have communicated something of the sort to Walt. Because to
hear Grace tell it, he hadn't been as surprised as one might have
expected to learn the truth about her past.
They went out on a couple of dates. These dates were casual, friendly
outings to dinner and the movies and such. They flirted, they kissed, but
it was all kept light, almost superficial. Marcia steered well clear of
the moment of truth, when all things would have to be explained--or made
plain of their own accord. She realized that she was skating on thin ice.
But she talked herself out of the danger she was courting. Then,
suddenly, it became clear to her that she had gone too far. She liked
Walt immensely. Even worse, there was compelling evidence that he liked
her just as immensely back.
Up to now, Marcia had skillfully avoided the touch that would betray her,
steering Walt's roving hands as subtly as she could around the restricted
zones. She was not as subtle as she liked to imagine. Her reticence to be
touched in certain, very specific places, were not, in Walt's experience,
the sole consequence of womanly modesty or sexual prudery. She was
decidedly neither too modest for sex and in no way a prude. She showed a
remarkable ingenuity at deflecting Walt's attention and his southward
roving hands by eagerly going down on him at a moment's notice,
sometimes, it struck Walt, in desperation.
Grace denied that Walt had ever pressed her for details on Marcia's
origins and Marcia had never asked Walt if that were true. She didn't
want to compromise any confidences her two friends may have had with each
other, or to embarrass either one of them by the exposure of a lie. For
her own part, Marcia didn't want to know the truth. If they'd lied, it
would have been the whitest of lies, told for the best possible reasons.
"I don't want this to turn into my own personal 'Crying Game' moment,"
she'd explained to Grace at the time.
Marcia had been seeing Walt for nearly five months and Grace was
encouraging her to open herself to the possibilities of love. Grace
denied she was playing matchmaker. It was role she claimed to loathe,
expected as it was of old women passed the age of any possibility of
romance in their own lives, which, she hastened to remind Marcia, she
most definitely was not. But if love wasn't yet impossible for Grace, it
certainly wasn't for Marcia.
"The possibilities?" Marcia responded, with resigned incredulity.
In fact, she'd been thinking of breaking things off with Walt. She'd
tried to handle the situation as conscientiously as she could and yet she
saw now that she'd made a complete hash of it. The only thing to do would
have been to stop things before they'd even begun. But she'd been weak
and lonely and vulnerable. And it had been so long since she was involved
with anyone. It was a pleasant fantasy to think that she could have a
real relationship and she'd liked Walt right from the start, liked him a
lot. So she allowed herself to go along with it, telling herself at each
stage that there was still time to cut things off before it went too far.
Before she knew it, though, things had already gone too far.
Even looking back now, Marcia couldn't decide when would have been the
moment to pull the plug. They got along so well that any break would have
seem abrupt and irrational. Heartless, too. Marcia would have to come
with some extravagant lie sufficient to end their relationship. It didn't
seem fair. If nothing else, Walt deserved the truth.
Perhaps there was the perfect moment to tell him, but if there had been,
Marcia had missed it. To reveal herself too soon would have been
presuming too much and possibly putting herself unnecessarily at risk.
But that was just the problem. When was too soon? Who knew if he were
even serious? Was it too soon when they were just two people getting to
know each other, friends, nothing more? When was too late? When they were
already falling in love? The problem was that there were no clear
demarcations between any of these states.
All along, Marcia half-talked herself out of what was happening between
her and Walt. She assuaged her conscience that she was outside the
possibility of being loved by anyone, that she was more likely to win the
lottery than find herself the object of love, more likely to be hit by
lightning than one of Cupid's arrows.
She'd been wrong.
To her shock and surprise and, yes, grief. By allowing Walt to fall in
love with her under false pretenses, she'd been not only selfish, but she
had set Walt up for a terrible disappointment. Not only would he be
disappointed, but Walt might well be mortified at his own gullibility.
And then, who knew what his reaction might be?
Marcia would rather have had it be anger, directed not at himself, but at
her. She was braced for his possible nuclear eruption with herself
standing alone at ground zero. She would have even welcomed the fallout,
embraced his wrath with wide-open arms and a wide-open heart. She decided
that she would deserve whatever she got, no matter how violent.
She felt that he could even have killed her and she wouldn't have held it
against him. He could have killed her and it would have been worth it.
She would still feel only gratitude for this man who'd give her a glimpse
of what it could feel like to love and be loved, even if it were only
based on an illusion. Because he didn't know who she "really" was; he
hadn't fallen in love with the "real" her.
That was exactly the problem.
Grace, of course, had already long divined the problem. She assured
Marcia that she was worrying about nothing; that Walt had already
understood the situation.
"But how?"
"Walt is no fool."
"I never took him for one...but..."
What Marcia found difficult to say was that if Walt could divine her
"secret" then perhaps it wasn't so well-hidden as she would have liked to
think. Either that, or Grace had betrayed her confidence, which was an
accusation Marcia didn't want to make. There really didn't seem to be
another option.
"Well there's love," Grace suggested. "When you love someone, there is
understanding. It isn't necessary to explain every last little thing."
But Marcia didn't believe that. There were some things that needed an
explanation.
What she still had between her legs was at the top of the list.
* * *
Postscript:
My husband challenged me to write a "real" novel about a transgender
woman, using my own experiences. I told him that no one--or very few--would
be interested. He said, "then write it for yourself." I accepted his
challenge and "Patchwork People" was the result. I offered it on Kindle
under the pseudonym Aimee Menoux for $2.99 and I was right. Very few
readers were interested. But he was right, too. Writing "Patchwork
People" was a good exercise for me and quite therapeutic. It helped me
dramatize a lot of what I experienced during my transition and it is my
hope that it might do the same for others. There is a dearth of
literature featuring realistic transgender characters facing realistic
life challenges and I'd like to think of "Patchwork People" as
establishing a kind of baseline.
The complete novel is still available as an Amazon Kindle e-book but I'll
be posting the complete novel here over the coming weeks so eventually
the entire novel will be available for free.
You can see more of my transgender writings, thoughts, drawings, and
erotica at my blog Sissypop! which can be found at
sissyforlife(dot)blogspot(dot)com.
Thank you for reading.
Myra
- 05.04.2022
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