Roll Me Away

Then she stopped kissing me, snuggled against my chest, and began talking softly. "Thank you, Chris. I hope you know you're very special to me, and I don't want you out of my life either. If it's any consolation, I promise it's just dating, I'm not having sex with anyone. I'm still struggling with my dysphoria.

"I hate my penis, it's like the last link to my life as a man; my goal is to get sexual reassignment surgery, but it's going to take a long time to save up for it. The last guy I dated before I left Wheaton didn't take me seriously, and decided that it would be a good idea to try to jerk me off. It felt disgusting and wrong in so many ways that it turned me completely off from sex, and only added to my dysphoria."

Arya stopped and kissed me again, not as passionately, but beyond the chaste kisses we'd been sharing up until now. My hands unconsciously slipped down, cupping her ass cheeks. I knew it was not the right time to tell her I loved her, but I felt it in my bones.

After she ended the kiss, she said, "What I love about you is, more than any other man in my life, how you treat me tells me to you, I am a woman. I used to look in the mirror and hate what I saw there, but now I like what I see. Part of that is because of you. I promise you that someday we'll make love, it just can't be now. I'm not emotionally ready to be naked with you yet. I hope you understand."

I nodded my head, "Of course I understand, but having you sitting on my lap straddling my cock isn't making it any easier." Unable to help myself, I gave her ass cheeks a gentle squeeze.

Realizing I was fully erect, Arya blushed, and asked, "So you're saying I'm woman enough to get you horny?"

I pulled her face down and kissed her, then growled, "You little vixen, you turned me on the minute you walked into the dealership. You've always been woman enough for me."

She sat there for a bit, not saying a word, as if she was conducting some kind of internal debate. Finally, she spoke up. "I want you to do something for me. I want you to reach under my sweatshirt and feel my chest."

Wait, what? Was this a trick? There was only one way to find out. "If you insist," I told her, then had second thoughts and added, "but I don't want to be like that guy who traumatized you."

She kissed me, and replied, "There's a big difference between you and him. I'm in control now. He just rudely did it without asking, while you're listening to my needs and following my instructions."

I was relieved to hear that. "OK, then, what do you want me to do exactly?"

"I've been taking estrogen and androgen blockers for 11 months," she explained, "I want you to touch my breasts and tell me how they feel to you."

She didn't have to ask me twice; I slowly slid my hands up her torso until my fingers located the soft mounds of her breasts. She gave a little gasp of pleasure; I took this as a good sign.

"Your breasts are small and perfect," I told her, "and I want to hold them all night long."

She kissed me and whispered, "Do you think I should get implants?"

I chuckled and quickly replied, "Oh, hell NO, Arya, you do not need implants! Why mess with perfection?"

Massaging her little breasts, I could sense Arya getting as heated as I was. She leaned forward and gave me a kiss I could feel in my soul, our tongues dancing with one another. I felt her rub her crotch over my erection, and it was all I could do to contain myself from stripping her naked.

It all came to a sudden halt; Arya jumped up and ran into the bathroom, locking the door after her. I sat there stunned - it was like listening to a Metallica song, only to have it abruptly end in the middle of the guitar solo. I heard her sobbing behind the door, so I gently tapped on it. "Arya, honey, are you OK?"

After a few seconds, she answered tearfully, "I'm fine. I'm really sorry, Chris, I thought I might be ready but I'm not. I've still got a lot of anxiety about us, please don't hate me."

"Arya, you mean the world to me, I'd never hate you," I reassured her, "and I'm sorry, too. I should have known better and backed off. It felt so good to touch you, I kind of got lost in it." Then, as a good boyfriend would, I realized what needed to be done. "Unless you need me here for support, it's probably best if I leave now," I told her.

It was killing me that the woman I adored was distraught, but I was the cause of it; there was nothing I could do to make her feel better. The flimsy hollow-core bathroom door between us may as well have been the armored door of a bank vault. "Thank you, Chris, that would probably be best. You can go, I'll be fine," I heard her say.

Before I left, I stood next to the door and asked, "Can I call you later to see if you're doing OK?"

I stood there for two minutes waiting for a reply that never came, then left.

~~~~~~~~~~

Home, for me, was a single bedroom condominium in Emeryville, just over the Berkeley city limits. It was located on the 25th floor of a high rise, with spectacular views of the San Francisco. My ex-wife Maureen was a financial manager for one of the big San Francisco firms, earning far more than me; I'd gotten the condo in lieu of alimony. She certainly didn't need it, having moved in with her lover as soon as the divorce papers were filed.

I'd invited Arya up to my place multiple times, but she'd never been here. Although we'd been to her spartan apartment plenty of times, she didn't want to come to mine. I got the distinct impression that she feared if she came up to my place, it might imply a more serious relationship than she wanted. So, yeah, that sucked.

Despite the amazing views, the joy of living there had been sucked out of it when Maureen left me. In spite of having never been there, the misunderstanding with Arya made it feel even emptier.

In the days following that fateful Saturday night I'd called and texted her several times, but received no reply. A few times I toyed with the idea of popping over to Oski Autoglass to talk to her on her lunch break, but then I stopped myself. She obviously needed space, so I'd be a nice guy and give it to her. I had to admit, it might have been the right thing to do, but that didn't change the fact that being a nice guy really sucked.

It was about an hour from closing one Friday afternoon, and I'd just finished rebuilding a carburetor on a Kymco AK 550 - cheap gas gums up the carbs on older scooters, just so you know - when Pilar walked into the garage bay. "Yo dude, there's a Dianne Richards in the showroom asking for you."

"Are you sure she wants to talk to me? You and Fat Dog are the salespeople," I replied. In the years that I worked at Golden Bear Motorsports, nobody ever asked for me; I'd basically been invisible.

"She don't want to buy nothing, pendejo, she saying she's a friend of yours," Pilar snapped back, then added, "I gotta say, if this woman is a friend of yours, amigo, then I don't know you as well as I thought. This machetona's a little extra, tú entiendes?"

OK, now my curiosity was aroused. I washed my hands of the carburetor goo, then got up and went into the showroom to meet Dianne Richards. Immediately, I saw what Pilar meant by extra. The woman was wearing a bright pink double-breasted blazer and matching shorts, a shiny silk high-necked bright blue blouse, and bright yellow stiletto heels. Her earrings were blue dangly things that matched her shoes, with long blonde hair that I was fairly certain was a wig.

This was certainly adequate to make her stand out in a crowd, but topping it all off, she was tall, like 6'3" in her heels, and broad-shouldered. Great, one more on the list of people who can kick my ass, I thought to myself.

Spotting me at the same time, she walked swiftly over and brusquely demanded, "Are you Chris Beatty?"

Me being 5'10", she was slightly intimidating, but I put on a brave face and responded, "Yes, that would be me. Who's asking?"

"As I mentioned to your associate, I'm Dianne Richards. I'm a friend of Arya Bowes. She tells me you were dating."

"It kind of sucks that you say that in the past tense, but yes, I've taken her out quite a few times." I looked over at Fat Dog and Pilar were sitting at their desks, pretending to do paperwork. It was bullshit, of course; they were just eavesdropping, the nosy shits.

I barked at them, "It's after 5:00pm, don't you two buttheads have somewhere else to be? ¡Sal de aquí!!!"

That did the trick, prompting them to quickly stash their bogus paperwork and head out the door. Then I turned my attention back to the urban Amazon warrior in front of me. "You asked me about my dating Arya," I said defensively, "what business is it of yours anyway? She's a grown-ass woman who can do as she pleases. What are you, her prison warden or something?"

"I'm not her warden, no, I'm more like her guardian angel. We became friends not long after she moved here to Berkeley. We're two of a kind, only I'm a few years into my transition, while she's barely a year. She may be an adult, but emotionally she's very fragile right now."

"Yeah, I get that, you're not telling me anything new. What's your point, Ms. Richards?"

"She's very upset right now, and you seem to be at the root of it."

Hearing this seriously pissed me off, but if Dianne Richards really was a friend of Arya's, I needed to keep my cool. I didn't want to give Arya another reason to be upset with me. "Look, not that it concerns you, but we hit it off and were getting along fine until things heated up a few days ago, and I think she panicked. I haven't heard from her since, and I'm not going to lie, it's killing me."

The Richards woman seemed not to have heard me. Instead, she scowled and began peppering me with questions.

"Arya's 24, and seems kind of young for you. How old are you, anyway, over 40?"

Ouch, that stung. Did I look over 40? "I'm 38, thanks, but what difference does that make?"

"I'm trying to figure out your game," she shot back, "is sleeping with a trans woman something you had on your bucket list? Or you're angling to be her sugar daddy, perhaps?"

I felt my temper rising, and hissed, "Sugar daddy? Arya's not a whore! She's sweet, kind, and funny, everything my ex-wife wasn't."

The big woman practically gloated at my revelation. "Divorced? I see. So you're some bitter divorced dude who hates his cisgendered ex, so now as revenge he fetishizes trans women, is that the deal? Using Arya for some cheap thrills before you dump her?"

I was getting pissed, but to prevent things from going sideways I tried to hold my temper in check. "Look, Dianne, before you piss me off any further, let's get something straight," I growled, "I was drawn to Arya the minute I met her in this showroom. It was only when she showed me her Illinois license that I learned she had a deadname, and I didn't give a shit. I had a good feeling about her and asked her to dinner, and we've been going out regularly since then."

The disgusted look on her face told me what she was thinking, so I interjected, "Before you ask, no, we haven't slept together. She told me she wasn't emotionally ready; I really want to be with her, so I respected that."

The tall woman skeptically uttered, "Hmph," then said, "Just watch yourself, Beatty. If you hurt that girl in any way, I'll make you live to regret it."

I snorted in derision, "Look, Richards, there's not much chance of that. From the looks of it, Arya's already dumped ME. I've been trying to reach her, but she's not responding to me at all."

For a second, Dianne dropped the hostility, a tiny glimmer of sympathy in her eyes. "I think that's because she's scared by her feelings for you," she said kindly, "Arya's afraid you're not for real."

My heart sank. "With all she's been through, I understand if she's uncertain, but she's gone no-contact. How can I prove myself to her if she won't even respond to me?"

"I thought old men were supposed to be patient," she wisecracked as she headed out the door, "give the girl some damned time."

Well, this was a pisser. I was back to being lonely, my crush having ghosted me for the last eight days while her Amazon fairy godmother had just raked me over the coals, falsely accusing me of evil intentions. Shit! Shit! Shit!

After locking up the dealership and setting the alarm, I decided I could use a beer. I walked two blocks down to the local micro-brewery, the Costanoan Ale House, and took a seat at a table in the back. The server took my order, a Flanders red ale and a basket of onion rings, and not long after I was savoring the nice blend of flavors while watching the NBA Eastern semi-finals on the bar's big screen. My mood began to improve slightly. Then it all went to hell, because Arya walked in with a date.

~~~~~~~~~~

Arya wasn't exactly a mountain troll, so I guess I shouldn't have been surprised that other people besides me found her attractive. Both of them were wearing shirts with Oski Autoglass emblazoned on the back, so they'd apparently come from work. The guy looked to be in his twenties, and a big guy; if he was wearing a dress, he could have been Dianne Richards' missing twin. His biceps were huge, so he was also probably a gym rat. As a mechanic I was no weakling, but you'd never use the term 'buff' to describe my dad-body.

The two of them were laughing and chatty, having themselves a good time. I'd once told Arya that I didn't like the idea of her dating somebody else, but seeing her and the moose that was with her, I realize that I actually fucking hated it! To go for eight days with no word from her, then see her laughing it up with this guy was an emotional gut-punch. I needed to leave.

They were sitting in a booth, but together on the same side, like a couple of high schoolers - nauseating, I know. My table was in the back, so in order to pay my tab I had to walk up to the bar, right past their booth - just in time to see the gorilla Arya was with lean over and kiss her. Holy shit, could this day get any worse?

After I paid my tab, like Lot's wife in the Book of Genesis, I couldn't resist a look back at their booth. (I figured at this point, getting turned into salt might actually not be a bad thing.)

As I did so, I locked eyes with Arya. Based on her shocked expression, I'm sure she knew I'd seen her. As far as I was concerned, no words were needed. What Dianne Richards had said about giving Arya some time was bullshit; she'd obviously moved on.

As soon as I got home, figuring I needed to break things off clean and hard, I blocked Arya's number on my phone, then on all my social media accounts. Like Icarus flying too close to the sun, Arya had melted my wings and I'd fallen from the skies, a victim of my own hubris. Blinded by love, I'd ended up broken-hearted.

~~~~~~~~~~

When I got to work Monday morning, Fat Dog came up and handed me a service request printout. "Somebody's Vespa had a breakdown and they have no way of bringing it in, so they're paying for a mobile service call. You gotta be there at 10:30."

In addition to working on scooters in the Golden Bear service bays, we offered mobile service for Berkeley, as well as the surrounding cities of Emeryville, Richmond, and Oakland. For a mobile fee of $150, I'd take the service van out and, if possible, perform the service on-site. If not, I'd load up the scooter and take it back to the shop and fix it there.

I took the printout, and groaned when I saw the address: 2407 Milvia Street, Apartment 538. Arya's place, FUCK! But, business was business, and she was a customer after all. I had only myself to blame, since I was the one who foolishly sold her the Vespa, now it had come back to bite me. Damn it!

I reached Arya's apartment and parked the van. She came out to meet me, and looked fantastic. Her long brown hair was fuller, shining in the sun. She was wearing a little makeup, which I never thought she'd needed, but again it was just right. She was wearing tight-fitting jeans which accented her small ass, and a loose-fitting oversized white t-shirt. As the breeze pressed her shirt against her, it was patently obvious by her nipple bumps that she wasn't wearing a bra.

My brain was screaming, Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it, but my mouth said, "Wow." Her face lit up when I said that; all the old feelings for her I'd been trying to suppress began simmering.

"I'll definitely take that as a compliment," she said but I cut her off.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Bowes, that's not how we treat our customers. That was unprofessional of me, my apologies. Now take me to your scooter, please."

Disappointed by my cold response, her face fell. She took me to where the Vespa was parked; I knelt and pulled off the right side panel, and immediately saw what the problem was - the spark plug wire was cut just above the ignition coil. This wasn't wear and tear, it was a clean cut. If it had been vandalism, other parts of the bike would have been trashed. To me, this was deliberately done - but why and by whom?

I turned my head, only to see Arya standing right next to me, a couple of inches away. "Your spark plug wire's been cut. Let me get a replacement out of the van," I told her.

Taking a step backwards, she bent forward to look at the damage, her shirt falling away from her chest. This provided me a peek at her boobs; they were small, the red puffy nipples prominent - absolute perfection. I looked away quickly, but the image was burned in my brain. I'd had my hands on those luscious little mounds once, but we were broken up now; as tempting as they were, touching them was way out of bounds.

Trotting over to the van, I unlocked the rear door and hopped in. I knew right where the replacement wire was, but I took my time getting back out to allow my erection to diminish. I needed to be professional, damn it!

When I was back to normal, I left the van, walked back to Arya and the Vespa, and replaced it; it took me all of five minutes. "That's $150 for the remote service, $38 for the new wire and installation, so $188 altogether," I told her. "With tax, the bill comes to $207.74. Will that be cash, check, or credit card?"

Instead of answering the question, Arya pleaded, "Chris, please talk to me, I know we can work things out."

I shook my head. "Arya, we have nothing to discuss. I get that you're still trying to find yourself, and need to do that with multiple people. You're on a different path, one that doesn't include me. The bottom line is you were enough for me, but I'm not enough for you."

To ease the pain in my heart I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and told her, "I've accepted that it's over, and moved on." It was a good thing there was an extinguisher in the cab of the service van, because after that lie my pants were seriously in danger of catching fire.

Arya put her arms around me, buried her face in my chest, and whispered, "I don't believe you." Wrapped in her arms, I couldn't maintain my cold façade any longer. Taking her face in my hands, I tilted it so our eyes met.

"Look, Arya," I said gently, "this isn't going to work. You were the one who wanted to keep your emotional distance, and I respected that. I wanted commitment and exclusivity, hell, I wanted you to just come up to my fucking condo, but you wanted none of it. Seeing you kissing that blonde blockhead pushed me over the edge. I can't live like this.

"It may not be right, but that's who I am. I'm the type of guy who'll do anything for the woman I love, and in my mind that woman was you - but that's not what you want. We're done."

Feeling my throat tighten, I stopped for a moment. After our divorce I'd eventually gotten over Maureen, but would I ever be over Arya?

Arya's eyes were brimming with tears, but I had no fucking clue as to why. She was free to do what she wanted, she should have been happy! This made no sense.