My 10-Inch Lover

MY 10-INCH LOVER

I met Talulah in a small coffee cafe in Greenwich Village. It was a Tuesday, and I was wearing a green shirt. Should I have known better? I had no ulterior motives; it was just a nice shirt with intense color. Maybe I should have remembered from High School that Green on Tuesday meant you were gay.

I looked around the room for a free table, and there wasn't any; that was when my eyes met Talulah's. Instantly, I was aware of how pretty she was, and from her expression and how she smiled at me, I thought she was approachable. I don't care for snobby women, common among New York ladies, particularly the wealthy.

Tall women have always attracted me. I sensed she was taller than I was, and I was comfortable with this. It may indicate something deeply psychological about me, but I've learned that when you are intimate with a large woman, it transports you back to your childhood in your mother's arms. You feel protected and secure in her arms.

Don't get me wrong, I'm no pansy. I muscled out when I was a college wrestler at 156 pounds. When you stop training, you put on weight, but I tip the scales at 169 (okay, 170-172). But the fact is, I'm 5'8" (okay, 5' 7 1/2"), and she was easily 5'10 ". With her high heels, she must have been 6'3".

When I looked at her, I assumed she was in her mid-twenties; I was forty-five.

Was I ever married? Of course, I was married; who hasn't been married? But fate played a cruel joke on me. My wife was a singer in a few successful Broadway musicals. Like many actresses do in off-time, she signed on to a six-week tour in 2012 on a cruise ship that crashed into the Italian coast. Thirty-three deaths occurred, and hers was one of them. Discussion of that event is too upsetting, so I rarely mention it. I never looked at another woman for the next five years and only occasionally dated. Of course, I felt I was too old to chase after this beautiful young woman, but perhaps sitting in her presence might be permitted.

I was holding a folded copy of the daily newspaper and pointed it at the empty chair across from her, and to my surprise, she waved at me to come closer.

I wasn't looking for romance; if I was, I knew I didn't stand a chance with such beauty. I thought, young women can tell you there are many advantages to dating a middle-aged man. We older guys have had more sexual experience, wealth, and there must be a third thing, but I don't recall what it is. Holding on to that thought bolstered my confidence.

The little cafe was crowded. I approached the empty seat at her small table and asked,

"Do you mind if I sit here?"

"No," she said, and her eyes opened wide.

"Hi, I'm Anthony. I work nearby."

"I'm Talulah."

As I sat down, I realized I have a thing for Latin chicks; my first wife was Nicaraguan. I wasn't sure of Talulah's origin. I could tell she wasn't Mexican. I assumed she was from one of the Caribbean archipelagoes. Is that what it is, or is it just an Island?

She wasn't white, but I've known Mexicans who could pass for Swedes. Her skin was better than white; it was a beautiful golden color, and as the sun shifted and filtered through the window, I thought she resembled a golden statue with a Hermes scarf around her neck.

Her long hair fell to her shoulders, her lipstick was a light tan, and her breasts were large enough to suckle an army of admirers. I hadn't yet seen her rear. As I looked, I saw it was magnificent. I realized instantly that she was the girl of my dreams.

"Do you speak English," I asked.

"Of course, do you speak Spanish?" She countered with only the slightest trace of an Island accent.

"Not well, but I can get by."

"Let's start in English," her eyes locked on mine.

We made small talk for a while.

I asked her how she'd come to the US.

I'm studying fashion. I work for a well-known fabric house in Jamaica.

"How interesting. If I had my way, I wanted to design Women's clothing, but my parents pushed me to attend Law School."

"So, you are an attorney."

"Well, yes, and no."

"Yes. I worked for a huge real estate firm, I named the company.I do mostly contracts for large block purchases."

"Isn't that the outfit whose heir had murdered a few people and dressed like a woman to avoid detection?"

"Yes. The firm doesn't like to talk about him. He was the black sheep of the family. He died after a lengthy trial in Los Angeles."

"What did you think of his attempt to pass as a woman?"

"He worked hard at it but couldn't get the voice down, so he passed as a mute, very clever. He was intelligent. He beat a murder rap, pleading self-defense. It worked in Texas but wouldn't fly in New York City."

"He had top attorneys."

"Yes, the firm paid millions for his defense."

"Were you involved?"

"No, I just handled rental contracts and small buyouts. I left the law firm recently when I was hired to manage security at the art museum. I was an Anthropology major before law school. I have to deal with many legal questions relating to artifacts, particularly the providence of art objects we inherited or purchased years ago. The rules of acquisition are much stricter today. If an object has shaky providence, it may have to be returned to the country that claims an ownership right."

"Like pre-Columbian statues?"

"Exactly; native American bones, many early African carvings, are the classifications currently being challenged. We get visited by diplomats with paper and pen making lists of items on display that they think should be returned to their country."

When I felt my coffee cup had gone cold, I realized I was fascinated by this beauty.

Our discussion continued a little longer, and then she said,

"I have to say goodbye. I have a class starting, so I will arrive on time if I hurry.

"But we just met. Can we carry on our discussion at a later date? I mean, could I take you out to dinner or a special museum tour?"

"That would be nice."

"Would you give me your phone number?"

"Sure, but I think it best to make something clear, so there are no misunderstandings."

"Oh, are you married?"

"Oh, no." and she laughed.

"So tell me," and I came closer and looked into her dark eyes. Tell me this deep, dark secret. Did you murder someone?"

"Oh no, I'm not violent, but okay, I'll just say it."

"Go for it."

"I'm a transsexual woman. If that is a problem for you, I understand."

"You mean you have a ..."

She finished my sentence for me, "Penis, yes, a very large one.

At her comment, said a little louder than I would have preferred; it seemed as if the cafe chatter around us was silenced.

To save the day, I reached for Billy Wilder's line from 'One Like It Hot' that came out of Joe E Brown's mouth. "Well, no one is perfect."

She laughed, 'Some Like it Hot.'

"Yes, wasn't Marylin gorgeous in it."

"And the dress blew up on the sidewalk."

"Jess, terrific."

"Did you know that Wilder shot that scene between 52 and 53rd on Lexington Avenue? DiMaggio was Marylyn's husband, and he was furious."

She smiled," I guess he was being protective of her."

"He was jealous, almost ruining one of the best scenes in cinematic history. It's not as if Marylyn was a virgin; she'd had a history of being passed around to service the movie executives."

Talulah nodded. "Jess, If you marry someone who is so promiscuous, you have to accept that fact."

I thought her English was terrific, but she hadn't mastered the Y in yes, pronouncing it "jess."

"So give me your number, and we will have some fun."

She handed me a linen business card, 'Talulah Carre', with a company name and a street address. She took out a slender red pen and added her cell phone.

"Call me anytime; I live not far from here."

I arose, and she extended her small hand. I don't know why, but I kissed it.

She smiled, picked up her large Vuitton envelope handbag, and left me sitting there. At the door, she turned and gave me a two-fingered wave, and she was off, but the delicate perfume she wore was still in the air. That was when I saw her gorgeous ass and a bead of sweat ran down my forehead.

What had I gotten into? How do I describe her? There was no question she was a 'she,' but under her fashionable outfit, she said she had a guy appendage. How big is that Penis? Oh? God, I'll probably find out soon enough.

We were going to have to set some rules of engagement. Let's be clear on one thing, no one was fucking me in the ass. I'd experimented with anal with several 'modern' girls where I was 'analyzing' their butts, and a tight ass-pussy was quite pleasing, but for me, anal was a one-way street. I could fill the hole, but no one was filling mine.

How do you sexually satisfy a transexual or trans person on a date? Give her a blow job, jerk her off? I knew already what the answer was, you let her fuck you. Oh damn, and she said she has a big one.

When my occasional girlfriend Judith, a 'me-too' girl, not the best in bed but always available, wanted to service me with a strap-on, I refused.

Judith said, "You should let me; it will teach you what being a woman is like. A woman on the end of your big dick."

"It's not so big."

Judith responded, "I know, I was being kind. I've had bigger inside me. That dildo you spied on my night table is bigger than you."

"Thanks, now I feel like shit."

"A little competition shouldn't drain the blood out of your weiner."

"I'm sorry we've had this conversation. I apologize, I shouldn't have opened your drawer." I said.

"No need to apologize on the phone," said Judith, "When you are ready to make amends, come over here and take off your pants and offer up your ass to meet Mr. Dildo. That's the only apology I'll accept."

Judith hung up on me, having said the last and final word. I sent her flowers to apologize, but she never responded. There is no chance of getting back inside her pussy unless I comply, and it's probably already too late.

I wanted to say to her, "After all, I'm the man; my dick is like a jackhammer; I don't come in second!" But she'd hung up, and the cell phone line closed, and my dick was limp.

Back to the case at hand---

I phoned Talulah the next day. It was early morning, about 8:45 am. I wanted to catch her before her work or school day started.

"Hi, Talulah?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"Did I wake you?"

"No, I'm up and just about out the door."

"But who is this?"

"Frank Ganin, we met at the coffee shop yesterday."

"Franky, don't you know you are supposed to wait at least three or four days before calling a girl? It builds suspense."

"I don't need suspense, Talulah; I need you."

I was breaking out in a hot sweat, amazed that I had called, but I couldn't wait any longer.

"Can I take you out for dinner, wherever you like, maybe Saturday night? I think it's Thursday now."

"No, Franky, it's Friday."

"Not adequate notice? You already have a date? Oh, I'm so sorry and disappointed."

"No, Franky, I'm as free as a bird and looking forward to seeing you. Wherever you'd like to go is fine?"

"I'd like to kiss you right now, was that part of your invitation?"

"Sounds good to me. I'll text you my address. Is 7:30 a good time?"

"Any time is good; I can't wait to see you."

"We did discuss my situation, didn't we?"

"I'm eager and ready, and nothing is going to stop me, and as for your situation, I don't see any impediment; I'm so nervous I'm losing my breath."

"Have you ever dated a trans person?"

"I don't think that way. I consider you a beautiful woman, 100% perfect in every way. I won't disappoint you. I know it would be crazy to say how I feel."

"How do you feel?"

"I feel I'm in love; it's crazy. But give me a chance, and we will be the perfect couple."

"You must be crazy, but crazy good. I gotta run. See you Saturday."

"Text me, don't forget."

"I won't, bye for now."

"Oh, T, your voice is so beautiful."

"Okay, Franky, bye now."

She hung up the phone, but my dick felt like it had grown two inches, but that wasn't the dick I was worried about.

The next night, I called Talulah around 7:00 pm to tell her I was on my way. She didn't answer my call but called me back a few minutes later, breaking my disappointment.

"Sorry, Franky, I was in the bathroom. Sure, come on over."

"Will you wait in the bathroom for me?"

"Stop with the jokes, I'm hungry."

"Me too, hungry to give you a good kiss."

"Okay, tiger, keep your pants zipped and come on over."

"I'll be right there."

It took a little time to arrive; it was only about twenty New York short blocks away. The short blocks are the numbered streets, and the long blocks are the avenues. I lived on the west side in the 40s, and she was also on the west side but in the mid-60s. My mother's sister lived on 72d Street, and as a kid, I'd spend an occasional night sleeping on the living room sofa, hearing the sirens of the ambulances and watching the cop cars go by below her window. New York City was always busy, day or night.

I recognized her apartment building, which I'd passed often on my way to the subway station from my Aunt's apartment.

Talulah's building was constructed just before the Second World War ended, probably in 1942. Only six floors and a rounded red brick exterior that had turned gray from accumulated dust. Surrounding the doorway entrance were glass bricks to let light through their yellowed surface. The lobby was small, serving as an entrance to the small elevator. Shiny brass postal boxes were on the left. Miscellaneous legal notices were attached to a large bulletin board on the right. Some letter-boxes were stuffed with old mail, and had broken doors. Then I spotted 402B, with Talulah's name on tape attached to the letterbox.

I lingered a moment, looking at her precise penmanship. Talulah Brown was her full name. The ancient slave market often assigned the name Brown when auctioning off slaves. If her ancestors came from the Caribbean or immigrated, skin color often replaced a last name. But there was John Brown, a white man who fought as an abolitionist, so my theory was fragile. I'd ask about her ancestors if it was not too personal. And there was Hamilton Brown, an 18th-century white Jamaican enslaver whose plantation was used as a model for the American plantations where cotton was king and human life was worth what the auction hammer deemed. Brown eventually freed his slaves, and as freemen, they probably carried his last name. This was my historical curiosity but of no importance.

I felt comfortable as I waited for the elevator to descend. I thought about my name, a derivation of Gaelic, ironically meaning white. The coach made a few stops and finally arrived, disgorging several black and white shoppers on their way to the nearby grocery store with rolling wire baskets. The inside of the elevator was clean, not painted with graffiti, although the 4th-floor button was starred by someone with a sharp knife.

Times have changed; as a child, it was rare to find black tenants or condo owners in this area, a sign that maybe the promise of America was finally working. Black rights are a given, but trans rights seem to have run into a backlash, primarily a result of guys in skirts winning all the swimming events. Can't they have their own separate tourneys? These conflicts serve to keep the kettle boiling. Talulah could pass, but it doesn't take long for neighbors and friends to find out what she has in her panties, even if no one mentions eight to ten inches. How will I be received when I'm identified as her lover? Do I have the courage to deal with backlash?

I was curious to walk up the stairs rather than take the elevator, but I feared I'd get sweated up or accused of being a stalker. I got into the elevator and pressed number 4. The elevator door took a while to close, then let out a grunt and started uphill. On the 2nd floor, an older woman got in carrying a potted iris. She smiled, and I smiled back.

"Have a nice day," I said as I exited on the 4th, and she continued her ride.

There was no sign to indicate the direction of Talulah's apartment, but I got lucky and spotted the door marked 402B. An antique metal buzzer on the door didn't work, so I knocked twice. The door opened into a fog of heated air that smelled of perfume and shampoo. Talulah wore a red Terry cloth bathrobe, and her impressive cleavage divided the robe. She didn't pull the bathrobe tighter as she leaned forward to give me a damp kiss.

"I'll be ready right away, Franky."

"No rush, we have a half hour to get to our reservation; if we miss that, it's McDonald's.

"McDonalds? Sure, that would work," and then, with a sly smile, she turned and disappeared into the bedroom.

A few minutes later, she appeared fully dressed,

"You look marvelous,"

I imitated Billy Crystal imitating Fernando Lamas. Lamas was an aging Argentine-Hollywood actor years back, married to two famous starlets. It was a funny line, but I was never a Billy Crystal fan, although his career was going strong after 'Harry Met Sally. I admit I thought he was 'marvelous' in that flick.

Talulah didn't seem to catch the parody, and I let it slide. But after I helped her on with her tight leather jacket that left her curvaceous Latin ass beautifully exposed, she grabbed my jacket cuff as we walked to the elevator,

"Cristal, Lamas, 'Harry met Sally,'" she said.

"So you caught it?"

"Of course. Did you think you were dating a dummy?"

If I did, I wouldn't think so anymore.

The elevator descended, and we exited in the lobby.

"How long have you lived in the US?"

"Just about all my life. Why, can you hear a bit of Island in my voice?"

"Hardly, probably a family influence, and it's very charming."

"My dad was in the military. We traveled. He retired after 29 years, and we settled in Mount Vernon, New York, just outside the city. That was the home of Harry Belafonte, Ruby Dee, and others. That was when the black stars had not yet achieved superstardom; they all moved to the West Coast when they became famous."

By now, we were out on the street.

"Hey Tal," some dark, straggly haired, slender ragamuffin type, probably in his 40s, ran up to us. I would have decked him if he hadn't said her name.

"Franky, this is Romeo Garcia the 3rd. He has outfitted an old bus, and he, his boyfriend, and their older lover are going on a tour of the USA with their two bulldogs."

I nodded, "Good luck," I said, "Sounds like a great adventure."

"Romeo, I'll catch up with you later, " said Talulah, "We are on our way right now."

"Sorry, sure, have fun." And Romeo dropped back and stopped following us.

"Who was that?"

"Oh, one of the neighborhood crazies. I see Romeo and his group with the two black dogs seated in front of the luncheonette. I don't know much about them, but from what I know, they are all gay; the older one is not often in their company, but he is the one funding them. They have two dogs, Boston Terrier mixes, and they are adorable and friendly."

"Are they dangerous?"

"The dogs?"

"No, the group."

"No, not at all, just hippy-style crazies. God knows how they will manage in that old covered school bus when it breaks down in the middle of nowhere."

"Why are they on the road?"

"They got into a row with the apartment building, probably over unpaid rent. Now they have thirty days to pay up or get out, and they are getting out."

"Changing the subject, we have only one more block, and then we get to the restaurant."

"Where are we eating?"

"It's a new place, recently written up in the morning paper, called Astoria; they have classic American dishes like roast beef and ham, southern desserts like Pecan Pie or sweet potato pie, vegan dishes, and a wide assortment of bread and rolls."

"Okay, sounds good."

"I should have asked if you were vegan."