Roll Me Away

Roll Me Away

To my regular readers,

This story is not my usual genre, it's a transgender romance, very loosely based on a 10-minute real-life encounter I had some years back. The works of MsNatalie99, a gifted poet and author, sparked my inspiration to write it. She also graciously agreed to be the beta reader, providing essential feedback.

As usual, a tip of the hat to JuanaSalsa for her edits, and to RiverMaya for her unflagging support of my work.

- NewOldGuy77, July 4th, 2022

~~~~~~~~~~

Roll me away,

Won't you roll me away tonight

I too am lost, I feel double-crossed

And I'm sick of what's wrong and what's right

- Bob Seger

~~~~~~~~~~

It was a nice scooter, a black 2007 Vespa GT 200 with 5,655 miles, and for a scooter, it was loaded: rear tour pack, extended windscreen, and a folding luggage rack. The dealership was asking $3500 for it, but I knew they'd take less. For some reason, despite all the options this scooter had basically been nailed to the showroom floor of Golden Bear Motorsports for months.

As nice as it was, it was the woman looking at it that had my attention. She was, um, unique. Physically, she looked a little thin, mid-20s probably, 5'5" with slim hips and long brown hair; the straps of her backpack pulling on her shoulder accentuated the small bumps of her bust, I figured she was maybe an 'A' cup. Not that I minded small breasts; hell, it had been over a year since I'd seen a live naked woman, I'd be the last guy to complain about cup size!

When I walked up to her and asked if she had any questions, I was struck by her big brown eyes. They were pretty eyes, to be sure, but I was also moved by the vulnerability I saw in them. It was one of those instant impressions, stirring something in me that made me want to bend over backwards to help her.

As a kid, my immigrant English mother had often teased me about having a weakness for 'wounded birds'; as the old saying goes, in every bit of jest there's a bit of truth. While growing up in Milford, Delaware, if there was a new kid in my class who didn't have any friends, well, I'd be his friend. If the shy nerd-girl in high school didn't have a date for prom, I'd ask her. I wasn't trying to be a 'white knight' or anything stupid like that, that's just... who I was.

Even now, 20 years and 2883 miles later here in Berkeley, California, despite getting fucked over in an acrimonious divorce (no kids, thank God), I was still the same Chris Beatty I'd always been, just taller and a little thicker around my middle.

Oh, and lonely. After our battle royale in divorce court, I didn't exactly love my wife, but there were times I still missed her companionship. And now, true to Chris Beatty form, every cell in my 38-year-old body screamed that I should help this woman because, dammit, I could just tell she needed it!

I should explain that I'm not on the dealership's sales team, I'm just a mechanic. This week however, both members of the sales team - Fat Dog, a mellow old white guy hippie, and Pilar Ramirez, a loud Latina biker chick with the personality of a caffeinated ferret - were not in. Fat Dog was at some men's retreat in the Mojave desert banging on drums, while Pilar was back in her hometown of Puerto Nuevo, Mexico, visiting her sister. The owner, Marianne Giordano, was attending a motorsports convention in Kansas City, leaving me in charge.

I gave her the standard spiel, "That Vespa's in great condition, I tuned it myself. Can I answer any questions for you?" That's the moment I saw her eyes, and my life was unknowingly about to change.

"I really like it," she said, "but $4200 is a little too much for me." I noticed her voice was breathy but with a slightly deeper tone, a blend of Marilyn Monroe's and Scarlett Johansson's.

This is the point where Fat Dog or Pilar would find out the details of what she could afford, then break down how the dealership could arrange a longer loan so her monthly payments would be affordable. Of course, with interest and so forth, over time the $4200 cost would end up being more like $7000 by the time the loan was paid off. But Fat Dog and Pilar weren't here today. I was.

"Maybe I can help you." I extended my hand, "I'm Chris Beatty, by the way." She extended her hand - one with very soft skin and long fingers, I noted - and we shook.

"Arya Bowes." A shy smile flashed across her lips, and that was enough to kick my brain into overdrive.

"Nice to meet you, Arya. Why don't you tell me what kind of budget we're talking about?"

"I just moved here and started my job, so I haven't gotten paid yet. I do have about $3500 saved up to work with. I need reliable transportation to get to my new customer service job over at Oski Autoglass. I can't afford gas and insurance for a car, plus there's not much parking in my apartment complex, so I was thinking a scooter would be good. I'll be paying cash since I'm not established enough for financing anything."

I thought it over, then said, "OK, let me see. I could sell the Vespa to you at that price, but it wouldn't include sales tax, which here in Berkeley is 10.25 percent, so that's an additional $360 or so. Then there's license and registration, which is another $100. So now, we're sitting at just a hair over $4000."

Her shoulders slumped slightly. "I really like that scooter, but that's more than I have. I could maybe ask for a pay advance from my boss to cover that."

It hit me that while riding a scooter in Berkeley was a good idea, Arya hadn't really thought about all the details. "Well, we're still not done," I mentioned, "let's talk about gear. You're legally required to wear a helmet, we have some nice ones for $120. Plus, I would advise wearing a leather jacket and gloves for protection. If the scooter goes down, pavement is pretty unforgiving. We have some nice jackets for $180, and gloves for $35. That's another $335, so we're sitting at just under $4500."

Clearly disappointed, Arya looked down and sighed, "Thanks for your time, Chris. Maybe I'll just buy a bicycle instead."

This would never do, oh no! Doing some quick math in my head, I did some discounting and figured in the tax, then held up my hand.

"Hold on, Arya," I told her, "since I'm the only one here today, I'm in a position to make you a sweet deal that my boss probably won't like. I'll sell you the works: the Vespa, helmet, jacket and gloves together for $3000. Add tax and registration onto that, it will come in at a mouse whisker over $3400. How does that sound?"

Arya's eyes lit up, "Really? That's perfect!" I couldn't explain why, but the look of pure joy on her face gave me a huge endorphin rush. I guess Mom was right about me being drawn to wounded birds, because I sure was drawn to this one.

"Great! Let's go get the paperwork done." My hand delicately placed on her upper arm, I ushered her into the sales area where she had a seat at the table there. Opening the sales filing cabinet, I pulled out the proper forms and picked up my pen.

"Full name?" I asked.

"Arya Bowes, A-R-Y-A, not like the opera aria, and Bowes, B-O-W-E-S, not like Christmas wrapping ribbon."

I diligently filled in the form, then went on, "Address?"

"2407 Milvia Street, Apartment 538. It's near the intersection of Channing Way."

Ah. I knew that area well. There was a large public housing complex near that intersection; it was a high-crime zone. Anything not chained down would usually disappear, so she'd definitely need a high-strength security chain and bullet-proof padlock - another $150, but as a goodwill gesture I decided to throw those in for free. Oh, and a waterproof cover in case it rained. The boss might not like it, but I was determined to make this woman happy.

Having finished the receipt, I moved on to the California DMV vehicle registration form. "I'm going to need to see a government ID, please."

"I just moved here last week, so I don't have a California license yet, just my Illinois license," she said hesitantly, "it might be a problem."

"Oh, no problem at all," I reassured her, "the state doesn't matter, just so long as it's a government-issued ID with a photograph."

Arya seemed nervous now. As she removed a little clutch purse out of her backpack and opened it, she asked, "Are you sure it's necessary? Can't I use my work ID?"

This was... peculiar. "I'm sorry, but it has to be a government-issued ID," I repeated, then I figured she was probably nervous about it being a bad picture on her license. "Don't worry about a bad photo," I said, smiling, "everybody knows their driver's license picture barely looks like them."

Slowly, she removed the ID and slid it across the table. It was face down, so I flipped it over and got the biggest surprise of the day.

The picture on the license was of a guy who looked like he could have been Arya's twin brother, and the name on the ID was James Bowman. The address was a street in Wheaton, Illinois, a western suburb of Chicago. I'd heard of it because it's the home of the Billy Graham Center. While the Chicagoland area is predominantly liberal, Wheaton is, hands-down, Chicago's most conservative suburb.

It took me a few seconds to process what I was seeing, then the pieces fell into place. Arya was a trans woman; 'James Bowman' was her dead name. She still needed to file the forms to legally become Arya. She must have had a bad time of it in Wheaton, fleeing for Berkeley to be accepted as herself without being judged.

Did all that matter to me? Not a damned bit. I was a little concerned that her ID revealed she was 24, 14 years younger than me. The age difference, though, was secondary. What truly mattered was my being a lonely man and her being an attractive woman, one that I wanted to see happy. If my mother was still alive, she'd have been pleased that she'd been proven right again about me and the 'wounded bird' thing.

Arya sat across the table looking down at the floor, ashamed, as if she expected some kind of judgment from me now that I'd seen her ID. She was mistaken.

"Well," I said cheerfully, "I wasn't wrong about your photo not doing you justice. You look amazing in person!"

Telling a customer she was attractive sort-of-kinda-maybe crossed the line of professionalism, but what the hell did I care? I wanted Arya to like me, and if complimenting her made me unprofessional, well then my boss Ms. Giordano was herself unprofessional for leaving a chowderhead like me in charge of the dealership in the first place! DUH!

Arya must have been taken aback by my flattery. Brushing a strand of hair off her forehead, in a quiet voice she asked, "Do you really think so?"

For the last hour I'd spent with Arya, I was unsure if I had even a snowball's chance in hell of getting anywhere with her. Her question was my opening; you'd better believe I took it. "I certainly do," I answered, then before she could think I was just brown-nosing another customer, I added, "I thought that the minute you walked in the door, and I'll even prove it to you. Now that we're finished doing business, I'd like to buy you dinner."

~~~~~~~~~~

Arya and I were seated in a window-side table at Skates on the Bay, a seafood place in the Berkeley Marina with incredible sunset views of the San Francisco skyline and the waters of the Bay. Frankly, given I'd just met her 90 minutes prior, I was shocked that she'd accepted my invitation. As we drove to the restaurant from the dealership, her initial shyness had given way to excitement; expressing her gratitude to me a couple of times.

In the short time Arya had lived in Berkeley, her money had been stretched thin; between her security deposit, rent, a couple of pieces of used furniture, and food, there was little left. Her new job had started the previous Monday, but it would be another week until her first paycheck was deposited.

To that end, she'd been skimping on essentials. After a diet of hot dogs, meatless spaghetti, and instant ramen noodles, going to a place as fancy as Skates was a huge treat. It gave me an endorphin rush for the second time today, knowing I'd made Arya happy. And damn, she was cute!

The server gave us menus, and I saw Arya's eyes widen in surprise at the prices. I quickly reassured her, "Ms. Bowes, tonight you are my guest. Forget about the cost, I want you to order whatever you'd like. If you don't, I'll feel like a failure as a host, and you don't want that, do you?"

Hearing that, the lovely girl endeavored to protect my feelings by ordering the crab & artichoke dip appetizer, the lobster bisque, a small Caesar salad, followed by an entrée of herb crusted prime rib with mashed Yukon potatoes and creamed kale on the side. Arya may have been small, but the girl could really eat!

As for me, I had the clam chowder for an appetizer, with the seafood linguini as my entrée. When the dessert tray came around I just ordered coffee, but at my urging, Arya ordered a slice of apple pie à la mode and a cappuccino. As we walked back to my car, Arya's belly was bulging slightly. Ignoring my urges to wrap her in my arms, I was respectfully beside her when she slipped her slender arm through mine as we made our way through the crowded lot.

"Thank you for a wonderful meal, Chris," she said quietly, "you're the nicest person I've met since I moved here." I felt the fingers of her left hand intertwining with the fingers of my right, and hadn't been so happy to hold a girl's hand since I was in junior high school

"No need to thank me," I told her, "I find you easy to be nice to. Frankly, I enjoy your companionship. I'd really like to take you out again, if you're open to it."

We got to the car, and I opened the passenger side door for her. Right before she got in, she quickly turned, wrapped her arms around my neck, and unexpectedly kissed me! It was not a deep passionate kiss; instead it was a nice gentle one, but the softness of her lips and the faint scent of her perfume were more than enough to get my heart racing and my cock fully erect. Just as quickly, the kiss was over and she was in the car, buckling her seatbelt.

Still staggering from the surprise kiss and the accompanying erection, I somehow managed to make it back around to the driver's side of my Honda, and drove Arya back to her place. Given it was after dark, I double-parked in the street by her front door and walked her to her stoop. The question of whether I should go for a goodnight kiss or not was quickly resolved when Arya reached up and kissed me again.

I thought this day could not have gone any better, but was proven wrong when Arya broke off the kiss and asked, "Chris, are you sure you want to take me out again? I mean, you know I'm not like most girls..."

I chuckled, "Arya, please understand that I meant what I said when I said I was attracted to you as soon as you walked through the door. I want to take you out as often as you'll allow it."

~~~~~~~~~~

Arya and I began going out regularly, usually on Friday or Saturday nights. I would have been happy to go out every night, but she wanted to take things slowly. We'd go out and enjoy a meal or see a movie, but aside from exchanging soft kisses, we hadn't really gotten physical. While I certainly wanted to, I knew Arya was still trying to redefine herself from who she was back in Illinois, so I didn't want to put any pressure on her.

Every date, Arya let me see a little bit more of what lay behind her curtain of shyness. She'd started her transition secretly, taking trying to keep things under wraps as long as possible. Her parents were conservative Midwesterners, and as I suspected, once the estrogen and androgen blockers took hold it became harder to disguise the changes; when Arya finally confessed to them about what she was doing, her parents blew up and kicked her out. That same night, she'd packed a suitcase and bought a bus ticket to Berkeley.

Aside from her history, I also got to see that she was really quite playful. She'd gently tease me about my age, asking if I could get the senior discounts when we'd go to the movies, things like that. Before I could get mad or hurt, she'd follow up with a quick kiss and a hug.

One day I took her shopping for clothes, and she must have tried on twenty or more outfits before settling on the first one; not because she was indecisive, but because she wanted to see how long she could try on outfits until I lost patience. Finally I got crabby and snarled, "Arya, PLEASE just pick something!" She giggled, threw her arms around me, squeezed my ass and kissed me. That's when I realized she'd been playing with me again.

She was basically a 5'5" pixie; every time we were together, she charmed her way deeper into my heart.

As much as Arya and I enjoyed each other's company we'd not reached the point of declaring ourselves exclusive; having said that, after our first date I never wanted to go out with anyone else, and was hoping she felt the same. A few weeks in on a Saturday night, while sitting together on her threadbare couch watching a televised Golden State Warriors basketball game, I gently broached the subject of exclusivity. Sadly, she shook her head no.

"Since I began my transition back in Illinois, I haven't dated much," she explained, "it was difficult, mainly because there's not a lot of men in Illinois open to dating a trans woman. I was introduced to a one at an LGBTQ mixer, but it turned out he only was masquerading as an ally. In reality, he was just a straight guy who wanted to be with me because of the freak factor, so he could brag to his drinking buddies that he'd banged a t-girl like on the porno sites.

"Secondly, living at my parents' place in Wheaton, there was no way I could keep my girl wardrobe in the house. All my stuff was stored at a friend's place, so on those few occasions when I wanted to dress up as me and go out, I had to go to her place to get ready, then back again afterwards to switch back to being James again. Now that I'm here, I want to live full time as Arya, and while I know you care about me, I want to get to know different people. If you don't like that and want to break up with me, I'll understand."

This made my heart heavy, but I saw her point. I'd never had to deal with my identity, I was older than her, hell, I'd been married and divorced. Arya, on the other hand, was just getting to know who she was. Impulsively, I pulled her into my lap, lowered my face to hers and kissed her. I'd never been forceful with her in any way, but she seemed to like it; she kissed me back, and I felt her tongue dance seductively across my lips for the first time. I also felt her wiggle her little ass in my lap, making my cock instantly hard. I liked the feeling very much.

"Look Arya," I told her gently, "I honestly don't like it, not at all, but I get why you want to hold off on getting serious. You're young, and got a lot of things to work through to figure out what it is that you want. Me, on the other hand, I'm just an old fart who's been through enough shit where I already know what I want in life." I nuzzled her long hair that hung down her neck, catching the scent of her shampoo. Giving her neck a quick kiss, I went on.

"I'm not a guy who needs a lot of time to make up my mind. Like I said, I know what I want, and that happens to be you! I don't like the idea of you dating somebody else, but if I'm still in the game too, there's no way I'm walking away. If I have to earn your love, so be it."

Arya responded by quickly shifted her position, so her legs were straddling my lap - including my erection. Wrapping her arms around my neck, she pulled me in and gave me the most passionate kiss we'd ever shared. Unbuttoning my shirt, she moved to plant kisses on my neck and collarbone. Leaning my head back, I closed my eyes and let out a quiet moan of pleasure.