T-GIRL CONFESSIONS:

MY TRANS TRICK OR TREAT

 

 

DICK CHRISTMAS

 

SHABBY STREET BOOKS

 

 

 

She's standing on the shore, her size ten feet trampling the wet sand as the moon casts a spotlight on her flamingo legs. The wind picks up and it's throwing her honey blonde hair around like she's in the throes of an exorcism.

I stare at her stems, those strong calves where they taper down into thin ankles, as her long toes are sucked down into the bubbly sand. She knows I'm watching, I can tell by her body language, and she decides something in that moment.

Her lithe fingers remove the leather jacket and cast it asunder. Then comes the shirts and, finally, the jeans, until she's standing before me in nothing but a hip-hugging pair of burgundy panties, her Callipygian ass calling to me in the silvery gossamer light.

I inch closer to her, wishing to have my hand swallowed up by her cheeks the way her long feet have been swallowed up by the sand. I want to feel her heat envelope me, feel her insides grind me into a fine gossamer dust that she can snort.

She turns to me, her dappled chest glowing opaque and kissed by the ocean mist, and her lips dare me to violate them. Her teeth demand my flesh.

“The only thing that kills the demon,” she says, and a cocoon bursts open inside me, my heart and my cock and my head shedding like a chrysalis.

She holds her shirts over the front of her panties, whether timidly or teasingly, and she wets her bottom lip with her tongue.

What comes next is pure magic, dark and true—the feel of our bodies mashed together, fusing like something out of a body horror movie, the squelch of our juices mingling, and her breath in my face as she reaches a new plateau. But I'm losing the plot, going way too far.

Time to be kind and rewind.

I should probably tell you that I love scary movies, but I hate not knowing whether evil will win. There's nothing worse than sitting through eighty-five minutes of thrills and chills, rooting for the final girl, only to find out in the last five minutes that she's worm food and the demon seed is going to triumph over all that is supposedly good and holy. Like I would much rather know up front so I could root for the demon. That's how come I love Natural Born Killers so much and it's why I decided to go as Mallory Knox for Halloween this year.

Because Natural Born Killers is a different kind of horror movie, it's a horror movie about the media culture we live in and it establishes out the gate that the bad guys are the heroes, not because they deserve to be necessarily, but because our culture has made icons of its worst children.

So, in the interest of being as transparent as Oliver Stone, I should tell you now that the villain gets the girl here. Or, rather, the two baddies get the ending they deserve. And if you're anything like me, you know the one thing that could have made NBK better would have been a hot sex scene between Mickey and Mallory. Suffice it to say this Halloween, Mickey and Mallory get more than an over-the-pants handjob in a visitation room.

I'm at the beachfront mansion my boss is pretending to own, the Weekend at Bernie's style pad where he's hosting this year's office party, and I'm beginning to regret my costume choice, if for no other reason than I'm tired of having to explain it to people.

Ask any of the administrative bitches and they'll tell you I'm going as Zendaya or Vanessa Hudgens or Britney in her Oops! I Did It Again era. Ask the queen from our marketing department and he'll insist I'm cosplaying Harry Styles.

When I first arrived, my boss was sucking up to a group of senior reps and territory managers from NepenthCo and he bust out laughing when he saw me.

“Mr. Wright! Who the fuck are you supposed to be?”

“Mallory Knox,” I said.

He stared at me nervously, as if I was stealing his shine or embarrassing him in front of the competition.

“That dyke who killed her roommate?” he said with visible distaste. “You're a fucking flop, Wright. Why don't you go to the hallway closet and change. I think my maid left one of her tunics in there.”

The senior pharm reps yucked it up. I didn't bother to tell the boss he was thinking of Amanda Knox, the wrongfully convicted criminal justice reform advocate, as it probably would have scrambled his brain. Instead, I mo