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I look like a slut. Perfect.


Andrea with banana and peach

It's What You Think You See That Counts

True Tales from the Edges of the Bi-Trans Continuum

by Andrea Michaela-Gonzalez
photographs by Amy Conger


The stories you are about to read are true. The names have been changed, and physical appearances and locations altered, to protect the not-so-innocent.

Do you know what you're doing?

The bar is just starting to get crowded as I work my way toward the single unisex washroom. When I reach the facilities, I thank the Goddess that there's no line, which is fortunate both for me as well as for the person who has to mop the floor.

I close the door behind me, lift my skirt, and sit down. After releasing several pricey drinks, I get up, wash, and check my makeup in the small mirror stuck on the wall with double-sided tape. ["Worried? Get tested. AIDS is a fact of life," says the sign above it.] I apply fresh lipstick, and then emerge from the quiet solitude of the washroom.

Beneath the cacophony of loud conversation, the Dead Kennedys' "Too Drunk to Fuck" blares from the sound system. The bar has become even more crowded in the few minutes that I was in the loo, and I have to slowly work myself between the standing groups of people now occupying the aisles. I move left when I should have moved right, and suddenly find my face a mere few inches from two well-shaped, moderately sized breasts, encased in shimmering black PVC.

"Yum," I think to myself, and then it occurs to me that I'm six feet tall, and I'm looking straight into this woman's tits! I slowly lift my gaze upward, to see a beautifully painted, smiling face looking back at me from underneath a huge pile of curly brunette hair.

She's seven feet tall, easily. She's trans, but trans-what, I have no idea. It doesn't matter -- she's stunning, and I can't break her gaze, and neither can she break mine. We stand there for a long moment, just staring and smiling and fantasizing about the possibilities. I can almost see the sparks.

Finally, I move on, throwing her a beckoning glance over my shoulder as I work my way through the crowd. I reach my table and return to my seat, next to Jeanette, the stunning blonde pre-op MtF with whom I came. A few minutes later, the tall gorgeous trans returns, smiling lustily at me. Wordlessly, she sits down on my lap, and my arms instinctively wrap around her corseted waist. I'm hot for her; she turns me on in a strange, almost forbidden way.


Jeanette passes so well that I often completely forget that she has a dick. It's reminding me now, though...

Our eyes meet again, and our faces drift closer and closer together until our lips meet. I don't even know who this gorgeous tranny is. I'm sure that she was born with a male body, but her gender is as feminine as can be, and perhaps she's had surgery.

Whether she identifies as male, female, both, neither, or something else entirely, I have no way of guessing, nor do I know what her actual anatomy is -- nor do I care. It doesn't matter, and I don't even think about it as I plunge into her mouth and trace the outline of her teeth with my tongue, while the heavy-set German tourist snaps Polaroids of the two tall, smooching femmes to take home as a souvenir from San Francisco.

Jeanette

Tonight, the bar is more or less ours, having been rented out for a private party by one of the most wonderful, crazy women I've ever met. It was through her that I met Jeanette.

Jeanette looks like a California girl all the way: Tall and sleek, with blonde hair, blue eyes, soft skin, firm breasts... and a dick. You'd never guess about that last part unless she told you. To look at her, you wouldn't even know she was trans.

We've been sitting and drinking for hours. Someone passed a joint around the bar a while ago, and I'm still buzzing -- no, I'm half-looped. But it doesn't matter, and people around us are already beginning to lock lips in couples, then triads, and then entire groups. A petite, slender brunette dances the can-can on the other side of the room. In classic French fashion, she's not wearing panties, either.

It could be the cider, or the pot, or the fact that half the people in the room are naked or engaged in some sexual activity, or all the above, but my desire for Jeanette is getting stronger. I move closer to her. She looks me in the eyes, and then pats her lap, inviting me.

I sit on her lap all right, but not in the way she expects: I stand up and face her, throw my leg over, and sit down straddling her. She sighs. Our lips meet, and as our tongues mingle, I feel her hand slipping up my blouse. I begin to squirm, and I hear sounds of approval from her. I open my blouse, and pull Jeanette's head into my exposed cleavage. She locks her teeth around my left nipple, and that's when I feel the incongruous bump underneath me.

Jeanette passes so well that I often completely forget that she has a dick. It's reminding me now, though, and suddenly it occurs to me: I can lap-dance on this chick, and it'll work for her. This revelation, along with her continued nibbling on my tits, brings my clit to full attention. I can feel myself getting wet.


"Would you gals like to try to explain transgender?"

"No," I say, "Let's get naked and show them."


I writhe on her, throwing my hips into a rhythmic, almost circular motion. The moans come, and she bites my nipple so hard that I almost cry out. I don't want this to end. Ever.

Unfortunately, we are interrupted by the hostess. I'd promised to help her with some things, and she needs to coordinate with me, right now. I tell her that I'll be right there, and she goes away. Reluctantly, I climb off of Jeanette, straighten my skirt, and button my blouse. Jeanette pouts.

A man approaches us, his arms outstretched, a business card in each hand. We take them.

Andrea bites a peach"I make movies," he says to us, "I think you two might be interesting."

"Are these adult movies?" asks Jeanette.

"Yes," the man says.

"Oh good," I reply, "I was afraid you might ask us to do clean stuff. We have our standards, you know." I giggle.

He gets the joke and Jeanette smiles and winks at me. I think she liked my answer.

"Anyway," the guy continues, "Give me a call if you're interested."

He wanders off, and I prepare to go do what I'd promised the hostess I would, so I can get back to what I want to do. Namely, Jeanette.

Just as I'm about to leave, I turn to give Jeanette one more long, deep, wetness-inducing kiss to last until I get back. When I look up, there's another man standing there, looking at us.

"Excuse me," he says. "I was wondering if you two might be interested in speaking about transgenderism. A pre-op and a post-op together would be really special." He points at us as he speaks, and I note with amusement that he thinks Jeanette is post-op, and I, a pre-op MTF. Knowing what he thinks he sees, I start dreaming up ways to mess with his head.

Jeanette speaks first. "You can't really explain transgenderism," she replies. "It's subtle. It's a nuance. It's something you feel; it's something that you just are."

The man nods, pretending to understand.

"I'd like to feel some transgender right about now," I say to Jeanette, and wink, squeezing her thigh.

She bats her eyelashes. "Oh, honey," she responds.

The man interrupts us. "Would you gals like to try to explain transgender?"

"No," I say, "Let's get naked and show them."

I can only imagine the look of surprise on his face if we had.

It's what you think you see that counts

I am going to one of those sex parties that the San Francisco underground is famous for. It's a good thing, too -- it's Friday night, I'm bored out of my skull, nothing on television seems even remotely interesting, and besides that, I'm horny as hell. I want a man. I want him to take me, use me to get off, and then go on about his business without the need to discuss a relationship.

It's harder than one thinks to get this, too. Lately, every man I've gone out on a date with has ended up calling me three times a day and asking me when I'm going to break up with my girlfriend and marry him. That's why I'm very happy that there's a party tonight. There's only one other easy way that I know of to satisfy a craving for instant, anonymous, commitment-free boy sex, but it's risky -- not to mention illegal.


"I'm alone, and everyone else seems to be otherwise occupied, but I can still have fun all by myself."

I step into my bedroom, and start sorting through my clothing, deciding what to wear. PVC, leather, what am I looking for? I strip down to my stockings, and slip on my tight black ankle-length skirt, low-cut PVC top, and matching lace-up leather stiletto boots. I pin a barrette into my hair to keep it from getting into my face, and then spend a few minutes in front of the mirror to put my makeup on.

I look like a slut. Perfect.

I stuff a couple of dildos and some lube into my toy bag, step out of my apartment, walk up to the corner, and wait for a cab to come by. I don't have to wait long -- half a cigarette later, I see a taxi coming up the street. I wave my arm, and the cab driver stops. Actually, he flips an illegal U-turn against a red light, and comes to a stop amid a cloud of burnt-rubber smoke. It must be the way I'm dressed. I get in, and give him the address. A few minutes and a few dollars later, I'm in the warehouse district, South of Market.

I approach the unmarked steel door, every inch of its surface covered with illegible graffiti. I check the address again, and then press the small white button on the right side of the doorway. I wait for a moment, and then the door opens inward, to reveal a twenty-something young man, with a shaved head and myriad facial piercings, his body completely covered in tribal tattoos. He smiles and welcomes me. I enter, and walk up to the folding table in the foyer, sign the release forms, and step into the main room.

This place is huge -- all one room, perhaps two hundred feet deep by seventy or so across -- and it's covered with mattresses from wall to wall. Most of the space is already filled with people in various stages of nudity, grouped in clusters of two, three, and more. A powerful sexual energy fills the room.

I'm alone, and everyone else seems to be otherwise occupied, but I can still have fun all by myself. I work my way to a corner, where the mattress is covered in decorative sheeting, and throw pillows have been placed against the wall to give the appearance of a bed. I strip down to my garter belt and stockings, sit down, and open my toy bag. I pull out my favorite toy, a moderately sized green jellied dildo. I roll a condom onto it, squeeze on a dollop of lube, lie back and slip it inside. It feels so good.

I close my eyes, and begin thrusting the joyous little toy in and out of my cunt, harder and faster, while my left hand begins working my clit. I close my eyes and breathe faster, as the tingling inside me grows. I arch my back and begin to moan.

I open my eyes for a moment to see a crowd of men watching me. There's a good size group, about half a dozen; some of them are jerking off. Usually, I am neutral about voyeurs. Right now, I want them there. I smile.

My eyes settle on one man in the group. There's something about him that seems different from the usual crew of men who absorb my sexual energy at parties -- he's reflecting it back (which is more rare than it should be, but not unheard of), and beyond that, I've never seen this particular look before. It's distinct. His eyes convey warmth, and I feel comfortable with him for some reason. I invite him to join me.

His naked body settles next to mine, and his arms begin caressing my breasts and shoulders. I reach over and run my hands through the light gray fur on his chest, down over his belly, to his stiffening rod. He moans, and I begin rhythmically stroking him, jerking him off with my right hand, while my left hand is fishing through my toy bag.

I find a condom, tear open the wrapper, and slip it between my pursed lips. I move my head down, and take him in my mouth, blessing the day that I learned to put on condoms that way.

We fuck six ways till Sunday. I suck him for a while, then climb on top of him. He takes me from underneath, on top, in front, from behind, sitting down, standing up... I have completely lost track of time and I'm enjoying this so much that I don't really give a damn.

Finally, he cums. I hold him for a few minutes; he softens and slips out of me. I tell him he was wonderful.

"You must really love sex," he says.

I laugh. "You're right."

He continues to lie naked on the bed, and when he speaks again, his words throw me for a loop.

"So, are you planning to have surgery?" he asks.

"Surgery for what?" I wonder, almost aloud. I'm baffled: If he thinks I'm MTF, the surgery question has already been answered. If not, what is he thinking?

"No, I'm not planning to have any surgery," I say, curious about where this is leading.

"Do you take hormones, then?" he asks.

Now I'm even more confused. "Just birth control pills." I don't really take the pill, but I want to see where he's going with this. He looks stunned, and a bit pale. I'm still trying to figure out his point.

"You're not FTM?" he asks, hesitantly.

I'm stunned -- people have thought me to be a lot of things, but this one's a first. "No, hon," I say, "I'm a woman and I have every intention of remaining one."

"I've always been gay, my whole life," he tells me; "I've never been with a woman before." He doesn't seem to be coping with this well.

"Wow, I'm his first woman," I think to myself, "and he thinks that I'm a FTM drag queen." I contemplate this for a moment, wondering what kind of thought process would lead him there, to that conclusion, above all others. I'm wearing makeup and stockings, after all, and I let him in my cunt. I don't know a single FTM who would do that. Unless he was doing genderfuck!

Of course! If he thinks that I am FTM, then he can fuck my cunt and still be gay. If he thinks I'm not FTM, then he's just had a major revelation, discovered bisexuality, and has to re-think his identity. Either way, he did the same exact thing, and enjoyed it.

I suppose it's what you think you see that counts.


Andrea Michaela-Gonzalez is a tall, twenty-something bisexual femme dyke slut (and unrepentant tranny-chaser) living in San Francisco. She never ceases to be amazed at what people think they see.


"You must really love sex," he says.

I laugh. "You're right."




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