Three Times a Lady: Keeping My Pussy-Less Status Until It Leads to Fame

A guy in a pink skirt becomes a weirdness magnet on the streets. I learned that early on, and it's only gotten truer as I've gotten bolder with my public crossdressing.

Druggies, panhandlers, yuppies, gay-bashers, street preachers, Mary Kay reps, strippers and insurance salesmen all assume it's okay to expose their nappiest dendrites to a transvestite. But inevitably, the strangest encounters come with other gender-queers.

San Francisco, where I live, has become the kind of oasis for transgenders it used to be for gays. Without wandering too far, I can interact with a scene ranging from guys into mutual panty-sniffing to large-breasted shemales who work the Polk St. red light area. Strange confessions abound: "I want to be sexless, with no genitalia at all," or "I want to wear diapers and high heels all the time."

Not that most TGs I meet are that loopy. Most of them are insurance salesmen or programmers who crossdress or transition to a new gender without once doing the freak dance.

But every once in a while, I meet someone who redefines the edge. Recently, I met a girl on the street who looked supermodel hot at first glance. She wore Daisy Dukes and pink ribbons over her lithe body, and it filled me with a crossdresser's lust. It made me want to fuck her and then steal her clothes.

But at second glance, she looked lacerated. She had horizontal lines on her neck and face. The biggest covered where her Adam's apple had been and just over her eyebrows. Her perfect slender nose had a ski-jump tip, but it seemed in the process of disintegration. Nose flakes peeled everywhere.

This slash-faced babe told me she was visiting San Francisco from the farthest notch of the Bible Belt for plastic surgery. A local knife-wielder planned to "letterbox" her forehead, tapering it to make it more delicate. And he planned to shave her chin to make it pointier and eliminate macho jut.

The Bay Area isn't the hotspot for sex change surgery, but a lot of trannies flock here for facelifts. Doctors here specialize in turning brows from Sam Donaldson to Connie Chung, and chins from Dick Tracy to Betty Boop. This wasn't the first girl I've met who thought her chin unwomanly. The main difference with this chick was that her face already looked about as delicate and feminine as you could get while still making room for sinuses and teeth. And from the slashes and disintegrating nose it was clear she'd already made the acquaintance of Mr. Scalpel plenty of times. In fact, she told me this would be her 13th facial surgery. She'd had 11 nosejobs, but planned to revisit her nose at a later date. "I won't be satisfied until I look like LaToya Jackson," she joked. I said her face looked fine as it was, and her friend standing next to her said, "See?" as if I were repeating her advice.

But suture-girl would have none of it. She explained that she'd had her original sex reassignment surgery and had lived happily as a woman for a while. Then guilt had struck: as a born-again Christian, she decided it was a sin to have privates other than her God-given ones. I'm unclear on where exactly the Bible condemns sex changes, but I guess anything's a sin if you stare up its nostrils long enough.

In the throes of Evangelical genital-loathing, the woman went back to her surgeon and demanded to have her sex change reversed. Instead, he left her with both a penis and a vagina. Well, that was no way to live, especially not for a right-thinking Christian in the Bible Belt. The new-made hermaphrodite still wanted to find a nice normal heterosexual relationship with a God-fearing person. But only thrillseekers or "weirdos" wanted to date someone with multiple-choice genitals, and it wasn't clear what would count as a heterosexual coupling. The inadequate dating pool warred with her fundamentalist angst. What would Jesus do if he suddenly had both kinds of sinful flesh?

At this point, I interjected to ask how she could have had both a penis and a vagina. Male-to-female sex-change operations these days usually mean forming a vagina out of the penis: a one-way ticket. The more skillful surgeons create a clitoris out of some of the tip of the penis. The result wires your nerve endings and sexual responses to your spanking new snatch for life.

So where did the penis come from? More surgery. The vagina-formerly-known-as-penis couldn't be undone, but the surgeon cut his most lucrative patient open and removed a section of intestine. Out of that he fashioned a new Frankenweenie. She also gained testicles?from where I'm not quite sure.

Anyway, a few months earlier she'd had the superfluous prick removed, leaving her an authentic woman for life. We parted company soon after she finished her tale of tears and reconstruction. But the story stuck with me. I'd been feeling inadequate for a while, mostly because I'm still stuck with the body my genes ordained. The only hooter I possess juts rudely from the middle of my face, while my chest sports meek double-A-cup tits.

And people are always rubbing my nose in my shortcomings. A group of young girls decided to harass me when I was out in a tourist area wearing "rock star" drag. "Is that a real girl? No, it can't be. Look at her big nose. No real girl has a nose that big." Meanwhile, a friend schemed elaborately to get into bed with a coworker who'd received huge breast implants to go with her still-functional cock. He raved about the sexiness of a large-breasted girl with an erection. I looked at my un-cuppable titties and mourned.

Some days I toy with the idea of getting either breast implants or a nosejob. Sometimes other crossdressers ask me why I haven't gotten both yet. When I look at transgender porn or see the working girls of Polk St., with their sculpted faces and chests, I do want to call the surgeons and work out a payment plan. But then something will happen to make it okay.

I recently ventured to the Power Exchange, San Francisco's mixed-gender public sex club. It's almost as big a magnet for tranny hoze as the Polk St. area, and on this night almost every girl there had a Y chromosome. Not only that, but all the girls but me had Kitten Natividad chests and perfect manmade faces. A sense of inferiority followed me around the dark club, and the other girls shunned me because the men won't talk to girls who are already talking to other girls.

I ended up sitting between two guys named Dan and Dave. Dan was chubby and Dave was thin, with a Vandyke beard. They were both good ol' boys, and they were both hoping to put their moves on me. I let Dan and Dave stroke a leg each while I decided what, if anything, I wanted to do with them. I reached into both pairs of jeans and soon had a penis in each hand. The three of us chatted like that for a while.

Dave had a wry sense of humor that appealed to me, while Dan seemed a bit pushy. So I ended up going off with Dave to another room, where the club has a special bench. The bench rests at a 45-degree angle and has a circle at the top with little lightning bursts inside it. If you lie on the bench and put both hands in the circle, you conduct electricity. Wherever someone touches you, you feel little shocks. I demonstrated the bench on Dave, then got on it myself. I stripped off everything but my little skirt and let him shock my legs, my nipples, my stomach. Dave hooted and tickled me. Then he asked if I was having fun, and I said, "I'm really hard now."

Dave looked pole-axed. He stopped touching me and sat down on a nearby couch. I joined him. He looked as if he'd just received a much bigger jolt than I had.

"You mean...?" he said haltingly. "You mean you got what I got?"

"That's right."

"You ain't got no pussy?"

I confirmed my pussy-less status. Every time it looked as if Dave had taken in this revelation, he'd start up again. He'd go really quiet and then start twitching with something that was almost laughter. "You sure fooled me," he said at one point. I told him I wasn't trying to fool anyone. He went through the cycle of silence and twitching a few times, then found an excuse to get away.

I felt rejected and judged, but also validated. I mean, this guy had seen me nearly naked for half an hour and still thought I was female.

Most of the time, I think I would go for surgery if I knew for sure it would lead to fame. Not just ordinary fame, but screaming monkey vomit fame. Like, say, if the network told me I could replace Katie Couric, but only if I had my chin filed to a pencil point and tits as big as an American morning.

Or if someone offered me an abnormally lucrative porn deal?perhaps even a starring role in a porn film in which I'd have sex during facelift surgery! That would be a worthy cause for visiting the operating table?and a porn movie worth watching.