Awakened Ch. 02

The next morning hit me the way I imagined a bad hangover must feel. My mind immediately went to work constructing the events that had led to my inaugural paroxysmal convulsions on the armchair the night before. Retracing my steps from start to the finish I supplanted how did it happen with how can it happen again.

I certainly wasn't in the mood at the moment; I needed coffee and I needed to make a phone call that would free me up for an early embarkation on a long weekend.

"Hey, Keith, I can't come in today...", I started hesitantly, not having had the foresight to come up with a decent excuse for holiday, "I learned how to make myself cum yesterday and I want to spend today repeating that activity" didn't seem like the right move. Eventually I mumbled something about not feeling well and I just ended the message there.

Next order of business: make coffee. Oh God, coffee. Could I ever show my face at Paul's again? Would people see me and quietly warn the other patrons, "there she is, she shows her lady business off for the effect of male arousal!". And then my mind labored on "lady business". I suddenly hated that idiom, along with all the others with inferred embarrassment, masked by humor: "oh, my hoo-ha", "my va-jay-jay", "coochie"...God, what was wrong with us? Why were we forever apologizing for our anatomy? As of today (yesterday, really), I had a pussy. A nice, full-lipped, hot, juicy, pink pussy, capable of producing the most exquisite, mouthwatering pleasure I could have ever imagined.

It also occurred to me I hadn't really taken a good look at mine. Not ever. It was like seeing someone out in public you kinda knew, but not that well, so you avoided eye contact and acted mesmerized by the ingredients on the box of croutons you were examining. Hmm, Italian seasoning is the secret sauce, who knew? And eventually the moment passes and you go on with your day, successfully avoiding awkward contact.

But today, something was different. Actually, everything was different.

I went into the side drawer of the bathroom sink, fumbled around back past the curling iron (which was still in its original plastic), and found the appropriately-colored pink hand mirror. I then headed to the futon, stripped off my shorts, panties, laid down and propped the mirror up against a pillow facing my vagina.

I possessed what I came to learn was a "puffy [fat] pussy". Thick lips, and with arousal a clitoris that did not demur; it stuck out like the tip of a swollen pinky. The color was good, not too dark -- but definitely too much hair. I was going to take care of that later.

I adjusted the mirror a bit and spread my pussy lips apart. My heart beat faster. There was my tight pussy hole, nothing bigger than a tampon had ever entered. It had never felt the incursion of a hard cock, thrusting away, in and out of its buttery grip. I instinctively put two fingers together and slowly moved around my opening, mesmerized by the way my pussy folded around the fingers, opened up, closed again. I was turning myself on. Soon I could see strands of wet silk forming around my pink hole. I was wet. My hot pussy was wet again. I was horny.

I started to experiment more, putting my fingers in, scooping out the wet honey and applying it to my clitoris. It was my own, self-made lubricant, and there was a copious amount coming out of me ( I would later learn that I was a gusher ). I stopped looking, closed my eyes, and laid down completely, just feeling myself, the liberating innervation of sexual pleasure revealing itself to me as I played with my pussy.

I moved my fingers around and around, finally finding their way to the periphery of my clitoris, which was now engorged and insisting on attention. I moved faster and was suddenly jolted by an unexpected wave of pleasure, an audible moan escaped my mouth. I breathed in deeply, massaging my cunt, finding every new sensation as devilish plunder, my fingers seducing my pussy the way Eve had been beguiled by the serpent.

Then I thought of Brad again and his big concealed snake. How he had desired me, yet was powerless to act upon it. Secretly watching me, only to be outed by his hard cock, bulging against the chastity of his jeans. He wanted to fuck me. He wanted to spread my legs apart right there on that couch and slide his big fat dick into my tight wet quim.

I fingered myself faster. I allowed myself to moan out loud, which excited me even more. Until this moment, I had no idea one could turn oneself on. My fingers worked my pussy harder, around and around, I spread my legs far apart, desperately working my juicy, greedy cunt.

And then it happened for the second time in my life. I went over that deliriously marvelous threshold. My legs clasped together as the first wave of orgasm was followed by another, cresting, rising, crashing, until finally the tide ebbed and I lay there, soaked, and panting.

Jesus, I felt good.

And then bad. Very bad. I had wasted over two decades of...well, not doing this. I could have been doing it all along, every time I had been stressed, every time during the middle of my cycle when I felt that odd frustration I couldn't quite put a finger on. I, literally, could have put my fingers on it, and released it with indescribable satisfaction.

What shocked me more than the novelty of the physical feeling was the instant metamorphosis happening in my own head. Just twenty-four hours earlier, I was a girl who simply didn't have a sexual thought or impulse, certainly no comfort-level with the new array of words now proudly parading between my ears, and one that didn't relate the abstraction of sex with something that could happen within my corporial jurisdiction. It was different now. My life was in color.

Scientifically, I knew exactly what was happening. My mind was transmuting endorphins from one neuron to the next, fomenting opiate discord throughout the kingdom, a pituitary firework celebration culminating in a hot juicy climax that had left me a hot juicy mess. But the scientific explanation wasn't nearly as fascinating as actually experiencing it. The scholastic presentation of human sexuality would put half of my high school biology class into a narcoleptic stupor. But the reality of it had now turned me into a Tenderloin junky looking for his next high.

I showered (again), and was about to towel off when I realized I had more unfinished business to do: I needed to liberate my vagina from its hirsute cover. So I gingerly, ever-so-carefully took my pink Bic razor and shaved down the maiden chamber to its original state. Even bald, I had quite a protruding, fleshy mound, made even more pronounced by its naked vulnerable exposure. The issue became even more emergent when I put on my beige yoga pants. You could just...well...you could just kind of just see my pussy. Its fat, soft roundness, the plump thick lips sucking up the thin nylon resistance, resulting in that other dreaded phrase: cameltoe.

I hated that expression. I hated that this was something people noticed. Having had a thick, prominent vagina my entire life, I had spent an inordinate amount of effort in creating the illusion that I didn't have one at all. Extra padding, sometimes underwear under my swimsuit (though as I gained weight my freshman year in college I vowed to never wear one again), I made every effort to conceal the external evidence of my assigned gender.

So the yoga pants were a no-go, I couldn't go out in tight, flesh-colored spandex that now perfectly outlined my fat cunt. This wasn't the kind of attention I wanted from everyone, that was exclusive viewing of the occasional overly-endowed, testosterone-laden-but-well-read coffee shop "Brad". This is typically where the long tee comes into play. The pre-faded, 1999 Summerteeth Wilco slash REM tour shirt, neither band did I listen to but their generously-sized tee covered my fat ass and now fat pussy. And if I did want to put anything on display, maybe I'd do that thing I'd seen the thin hot girls do, where they pull up the bottom of their shirt and kind of play with it, briefly exposing her flat stomach while in the field of vision of some guy's line of sight.

I sat down in a chair, facing a full-length mirror. You easily see the shape of my pussy if I were facing you, especially if I leaned back and spread my legs at 45 degree angles. You could see every contour. I'd have to wear panties...but God, then you get that panty line...so I went with my comfy pants that made me feel like a Disney princess and I headed out for what I hoped would be a makeover reflective of how I now felt on the inside.

My first stop was the hair salon, and the first salon I saw was Kenny's, which stopped me dead in my tracks: the beautician, whom one can only assume would be Kenny, was that cute, indefatigable demi-God of the panhandle park fitness scene. Every Sunday he lead a group of forty or so girls that absolutely could not get into better shape outside of surgery, dancing around with the kind of frenetic energy typically reserved for off-Broadway show girls and spastic toddlers. Everyone would stop to take in this spectacle of tireless beat-pumping hardbodies with a sort of reverent awe, and all probably thinking the same thing: how do they do this for an hour??

"Hey girl, I'll be right with you!", Kenny said, apparently to me, though he didn't look up. He coiffed hair and head the same way he led his exercise battalion, hopping from one side of the chair to the other as he put the finishing touches on a mostly bald, thirty something man in a leather vest.

"Ok, hun, right here" he said, still not making eye contact as he patted the chair I was to occupy. "So what are we doing today?"

"Oh uhm, I thought I'd get my hair done, maybe some shopping".

"Some shopping, nice, but what am I doing with this", he said, smiling, and looking at me for the first time in the mirror as he lifted various parts of my hair. His hands went for my bangs.

"Are you staying with the Charlene Yi thing, or do you want to try something else?"

I wasn't sure who that was, but I could only assume it was a famous Asian girl who also sported bangs.

"Oh wow, I really don't know. Can you just do something that would make me less....mmm..."

"Less prudish? Haha, no no I am kidding, you look very assertive, like you know exactly which college you're spending the next eight years in".

"Well, yeah, just make me more...", I was at a loss.

"I'll make you more sweatheart, if you give me free rain, I'll make you a hell of a lot more, I'll make you sexy as fuck".

That was what I wanted. I wanted to be sexy as fuck. Again, this was not an analogy I would have used even a day or so ago, but things were different now. I wanted them to be different. I wanted to look different, but I wasn't sure how to articulate it.

Kenny went to work on my new look.

"So you going butch or full lipstick?"

"Huh?". The question was so weird I wasn't even sure if he was still talking to me, my eyes quickly darted around the shop to see who was the intended target.

"What kind of look are you looking for? Because you're sort of in between everything right now, like you're quite androgenous, do you want to stay with that?"

It was as if Kenny spoke in code. I hadn't the slightest idea what he was saying, and I wished he'd give me choices in plain English.

Butch? Then I realized...

"Do you think I'm a lesbian?"

He went into his roar, and I found myself laughing with him.

"Do you think I'm gay?" he responded through belly laughter, leaving me again, nonplussed.

"Ok, like you have seriously thick hair, I'm going to try to give you that sort of loose, halfway to your shoulders look, it's going to be so sexy you'll even have me with a confused boner", and at that, as if someone else said it, his eyes went wide and he laughed wildly with an "oh my God you did not just say that!" look on his face.

I let Kenny do his thing. He chatted quite a bit, stopping to get my input once in a while, clipping away with scissors and a comb, dipping my head in a sink, everything was fast, rehearsed...professional.

After a solid twenty minutes, he stopped in mid-sentence -- which was something about diet popcorn -- and looked at me with his mouth open.

Oh my God, what happened. I needed a mirror -- immediately.

"Jesus God, you're gorgeous. Look at you." he swung the chair around and I was face to face with a stranger in the mirror.

"Oh fuck yeah, girl. Wow."

Kenny made a few more slight alterations, but he'd worked a miracle. I no longer looked like a boy in a wig, I looked extremely feminine.

"Hello Crazy Rich Asian, goodbye Dora the Explora", he said, awestruck by his own work as he looked me over carefully. I came to the understanding that gay hairdressers are under a special dispensation that excuses them from any form of political correctness.

I remained motionless in the chair, staring at my own reflection. I'd gone from a turtle to Narcissus in less than an hour. I noticed my eyes appeared to be larger, my lips were full and sensual, my hair was wavy, thick, luscious, I was pretty. Not just pretty-for-me, but pretty. And I then burst into tears.

Kenny looked horrified, raised both hands to the top of his head, "Oh my God, no no, you don't like it? I can change it, don't worry!"

I smiled through the tears, "it's perfect, thank you!".

He smiled a bit, "Ok, hun, are you sure? I don't usually associate approval with crying".

"It's so good, it's....I've never looked like this...".

"Hun, you've always looked like this, you're just in a shell. You know what? Stand up a sec!". I stood up from my chair, and nervously pressed my pants down a bit.

Kenny smiled and gently took hold of my shoulders.

"Do you grant wishes?"

"Huh?"

"Do you grant wishes!?"

I knew that there was an expected boolean response. "No..."

"Then why are you dressed like a genie? Ok, when you leave here, go see Jean-Luc, he has a boutique, I'm calling him and telling him to get you ready for the ball...or the balls, if you prefer!", and of course, he went into his high-pitched laugh as he started his text.

"And I'll see you on Saturday morning in the panhandle. You're coming to my class. What's your name?"

And that is how I met my first and best in San Francisco, Kenny Greenberg.