Something like a Love Story Ch. 00-02

# # # Prelude # # #

I had been divorced for two years when I started going to gay clubs to meet women. While the idea sounds a little strange at first; when, Brandon, an openly gay friend of mine, proposed it, he made a strange sort of sense.

I'd gotten married at 27 after college, "sowing my wild oats," and business school. After a little more than six years of married life (and dating my future wife all through business school before that), I had lost whatever "game" I had previously had, even if I had gleaned a fair bit about seduction in the interim. I had swiftly learned that the two skills, that of being able to take stranger home from a bar and that of enchanting a woman, were very, very different and to pull off one in an environment designed for the other was all but impossible.

My straight, single friends and associates were all either confirmed bachelors or nearly a decade my junior and the places they went to meet women were loud, churning, carnal venues in which expectations and intentions were very clear: brick-and-mortar versions of Tinder. While I was successful, intelligent, and (according to my female friends) good looking, I had never been able to recapture the intuitive grasp of the "pick up" I had possessed in my early twenties.

As Brandon pointed out, my odds where the highest in a place where a man could talk to a woman for more than thirty seconds without generating the assumption that he was trying to take her home. A gay club, he argued, offered me the most time to actually converse with a woman before I had to begin the proverbial mating dance. The logic seemed sound and, as we lived in a sophisticated city, there were a variety of "gay clubs" which had a large enough number of straight patrons to make it worthwhile. I'd never had any particular hang-ups about gay clubs beyond not really caring for Cher, so I agreed to try it out, with him as my chaperone.

Even the most macho of my straight friends could not argue with the results . While the strategy didn't produce many long term relationships, I ended up with "seeing" several women well above "my league." This story isn't really about those women though; it's about someone else entirely.

I had found one club that provided the right atmosphere and identified the best night to attend: Friday. Friday was always the "Female Impersonators" show, which is a lot like a drag show which also included performers at various stages of transitioning from male to female. I have to say that while I found some of the regular performers to be quite passable, even attractive, they still fell into what psychologists call the "uncanny valley:" very, very close to female, but not so close that I could be entirely fooled.

The close ones generally fell into two categories. Some were just a little too manly, too angular, too hard edged in features and movement to fully suspend my disbelief. Others were on the other end of the spectrum, surgically engineered beauties that were hyper-feminine with impossibly round breasts, full lips, tiny waists, and bubbled backsides. Members of the latter group were usually the traveling performs, women (as they couldn't fairly be called anything else) who made their living on tours of such clubs.

My thirty -fourth birthday fell on a Friday and Brandon insisted I celebrate being "older than Jesus" in style. He said he would drive and "keep me out of trouble;" I was in a bit of a slump and hadn't been laid in far too long, so I agreed. He, and all of his friends, then proceeded to get me drunk; very drunk, so drunk that memories of everything which followed are only of still frames, like Polaroids taken to document the night.

Her name was Allie and she was still in the Catholic schoolgirl outfit from her routine when she set her sights on me. After spending so long as the aggressor in this sort of situation, I suppose I lacked the instincts to "defend" myself; the alcohol had me on autopilot and the pent up need for release didn't help at all. I think that what began as "playing along" soon became a much more serious game of cat and mouse, one which I quickly began either winning or losing very badly depending on my intended outcome.

If my intention had been to charm her, apparently I did very well; I remember a rambling conversation about music, specifically a lot of bands I loved that were "before her time." Mostly, I remember laughing; her at me, me with her, us at others, and in all other kinds of combinations. If I was trying to avoid being seduced, however, she very quickly had me outflanked and before I could offer much by way of resistance, I found myself in the parking lot, leaning back against a car receiving a "birthday blowjob."

Brandon found me passed out in the back seat of his car sometime after last call. She must have helped me in, because the next day, when I checked my phone, her number had been added, along with several very revealing selfies.

Now I know it seems like I've skipped over the good stuff without even giving an idea of what she looked like, but trust me, there will be plenty of time for that. After all, this is really a story about her, and maybe one about her and me.

# # #Chapter 1 # # #

I suppose everyone reacts to this sort of thing differently: I was fairly philosophical about the whole thing, which was made easier by the fact I barely had any concrete memories of the event. I wrote the whole thing off as something totally out of character that happened when I was drunk out of my head: it would not be the first time I had blacked out and done something I could not explain, though it was the first time in a while.

I didn't have much by way of concern about my sexuality; while I consider myself 'mostly straight', I have jerked off to a staggering array of pornographic genres, including more than a little 'futa' and 'shemale' porn, so there was not much to be done by way of soul searching. Last of all, I had very little fear of being found out; after all, the photographs left behind were of near perfect breasts, a strong indication that she had been the featured guest that night and would, by the time I returned to that club, be safely in San Francisco or New Orleans, never to be seen again.

As the hangover had reminded me of my own mortality, it was a good month and a half before I went out again in earnest and even longer before I even thought about going back to the club where I met Allie. When I finally did get around to it, I went alone, without telling a soul. I can't really say why: maybe I was scared Allie would be there, maybe I was hoping she would, and maybe there was some inherent uneasiness at returning to the scene of the crime. I have to admit that my choices in pornography should have been a tip-off: I imagine the implications of the increase in the use of the search terms "schoolgirl" and "shemale" were lost on me only because I didn't want to acknowledge them.

I went straight from the office, as though my stylish suit might provide some kind of armor. I had only been there an hour when a voice behind my cut through the noise of the crowd.

"I was wondering what happened to you." The voice was lush, feminine, and just the slightest bit husky, like the "dangerous dame" from a noir radio show. I turned slowly, simultaneously panicked and relieved; at least the waiting was over. As my memory was a bit fuzzy from the last encounter, I took my time looking her over.

She was about head shorter than me and her blonde hair was shorter than I had remembered. now expertly styled to match her outfit: Marilyn Monroe's famous dress from the Seven Year Itch. She certainly had the figure for it; sweeping hourglass curves which just accentuated those lovely, full, soft breasts, deliciously cradled and shaped by the sheer white fabric. Most of the large breasted performers looked as though they were strung just a bit too tightly; Allie looked like she had been born with them and she wore them well. I took a long, slow sip from my drink.

"I suppose I was wondering a little too." I tried to flash a sly smirk, but I suppose it ended up more of a nervous smile. She gave a sweet, comforting, but certainly flirtatious smile and reached up loosening my tie and then running her fingertips down my chest.

"You look tense. Let's go out and have a smoke before my number." At the word "smoke" a flood of memories rushed through my brain. We had shared a joint that first night; suddenly my level of intoxication made sense. Still, I had earned a position in the firm well above those who might "randomly" be drug tested and I was no stranger to the stuff from college.

I gave a little nod; at the very least, if things got awkward, it wouldn't be in public. She took a hold of my tie and turned, gently leading me through the crowd for just long enough for me to wonder if she would let go before she released it. We cut through the backstage area, which was a quick burst of lights and skin and chaos, though in all the hustle and bustle we were barely noticed.

When we reached the patio, she leaned suggestively against the railing and plucked a joint from her bra, or whatever it was holding her breast in place, and let it hang loosely from her lips as she purred.

"Got a light, handsome?" I always carried one, a slim, silver, expensive thing I'd purchased when I smoked regularly and still carried out of habit. I flicked a flame into being and, shielding it from the wind, moved it toward her face. She leaned in and torched the end of the joint into an orange ember with a few quick puffs. She took her drag in silence and I did the same.

After a long exhale, I passed her back the joint and began to formulate just what I wanted to say. It must have been plain on my face, because she cut me off, taking a quick drag and letting the smoke ride out on her words.

"This is the part where you stammer about how drunk you were when we met last time and how this isn't really 'your thing' or whatever..." Each excuse was punctuated by a dismissive gesture with the joint, painting little swirling patterns in the smoke. " But I don't really care about all that, Jay. When we met you were funny and you were sweet. You're smart and you've got style." Another drag. "You know a lot about music and you're a sarcastic bastard. I like all that."

She held out the joint and I took it dumbly, barely aware of it as I watched her face. For the first time, I realized that this conversation, wherever it was leading, was as tough for her as it was for me. She couldn't have been much older than twenty-three and her struggles with sexuality made any awkwardness I felt miniscule by comparison. I took another drag as she continued, her words coming a little faster and the undercurrent of confidence in her voice seemed to ebb.

"You're brave enough to at least come out here and talk to me. I like that too. Anyway, when we met, you actually listened to me and made me feel like I wasn't just... this... " She gestured to herself, her clothing, her hair. " This outfit, this getup, this act. I know this sounds sad and desperate, but I need that right now. So look. Why don't we just pretend your cock was never in my mouth and get a cup of coffee after my number. If that goes well, you can come up to my apartment and tell me all about Belle and Sebastian or The Field Mice. And I promise," she added drily, " I won't take advantage of you."

While my mind was moving a million miles a minute, there really wasn't any question as to what I was going to do. We all have moments, moments and times in our life when we need to reach out and connect to someone, to something.

"And what if I ask you to?" I gave a smile that I hoped was so comically flirtatious that it might take the tension out of the air and then added with a more serious tone. "Meet you here?"

She smiled. "Backstage. I'll let them know you're coming. " Sudden realization flashed across her face. "I've got to go, it's my number" and she moved as quickly as I'd seen someone in heels move, pausing only to give me a quick hug before vanishing inside. For my part, I finished the joint and made my way back inside, rejoining the crowd but feeling as though somehow I had peeled back the curtain on the whole show.

Allie's routine was a burlesque style dance and tease to two classics by Marilyn: Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend and I Want to Be Loved by You (the one with the little "bo bo be doo!"). Marilyn had been the perfect choice for Allie: her voice had the same character and while I knew she was lip synching, it was a convincing illusion. I was struck by both the sensuality of the number but also the kind of girlish innocence she brought to the routine; Ms. Monroe would have been proud, or at least not offended. When the show was over, she smiled brightly when she saw me waiting by her changing room back stage. It had been so long since my presence made anyone smile like that; I couldn't help but smile back.

# # # Chapter 2 # # #

Coffee and conversation seemed to do the both of us good, but I could tell that she was a bit uncomfortable in the diner; it must have been an odd, in-between world; still in her 'costume' but no longer on stage. We quickly retired to her apartment and, as it was already three in the morning, she indicated I was welcome to crash "on the couch, or wherever." We stayed up until dawn listening to music, smoking, and laughing about the ridiculousness of the world. I went to sleep on the couch but eventually moved to her bedroom, which had blackout curtains to ward off the early morning sun.

Nothing happened that night, or any of the other nights I crashed at her place for a few months. At first it was just Fridays, then I ended up 'escorting' her to a smaller club and show on Thursdays. She never seemed bothered by my leaving early and pretty soon we were leaving together. I feel the need to point out that we weren't cozy or cuddly when we were out; far from it. When I wasn't trying to meet women, Allie and I would kick back, have a few drinks, and get cynical; we elevated people-watching into a competitive sport, if not an art form. When I was on the prowl, Allie was the best wingman I could possibly have asked for; she was instrumental in sending me home with three gorgeous women during that time. None of those turned into relationships, but I appreciated the gesture all the same.

After she had gone well beyond the call of duty one night, I sprang for a few bottles of expensive champagne as a 'thank you' gift, even though her efforts hadn't panned out. She always said that she loved champagne; it gave her, she said, a kind of "little girl bubbly drunk" that she enjoyed. I figured I would treat her to a night of bubbly drunk; I even made a playlist of poppy, bouncy music that I thought she would like and brought my laptop with me to her show and then back to her place.

Between the champagne and the smoking, the atmosphere at her place got very bubbly, very fast and I remember she was bouncing around to "The Party's Crashing Us" by Of Montreal, sporting nothing but a lacey matched pink bra and panties set and a hot pink feather boa. She was doing this half-dancing, half-hopping motion in which her hips, her shoulders, and her head all managed to wiggle in opposing directions at the same time and I remember thinking it was the kind of thing that might best be done while jumping up and down on a bed. For my part I was in the closest thing most men have to pajamas: some lounge pants and a soft shirt, feeling the most at ease I'd been in a long time.

I went to fix another drink in the kitchen and told her to Google something or someone. I forget what it was, maybe it was Chromeo or Ghostland Observatory, but I will never forget what happened next. In retrospect, it isn't clear whether she had done it on purpose or not. While typing in the search term, my "visited sites" had come up thanks to auto-fill and either she didn't see it, or saw it and couldn't help herself. In an instant the music was replaced with grunting; she had opened my porn. It was of course, not just any porn, it was transsexual porn. I had been watching a fair bit of that particular genre lately, mostly, I told myself, out of curiosity.

There was a moment of stillness filled only by the groans and grunts, followed by her frantic cries of "Shit! Shit! Sorry! Shit!" and equally frantic mashing of keys, which only resulted in the video being paused just as a cock vanished into parted, painted lips.

A long moment of silence followed and I could see her body shrink and tense, like she was expecting me to fly into a fit of rage. I admit I was less than thrilled but I certainly wasn't going to scream at her. Instead I took a slow sip and stated, flatly, "that wasn't what I told you to Google...Nice choice though."

She burst into laughter, part out of relief, part out of embarrassment, and flung herself on me in a tight hug, giggling. Her breasts pressed tightly to me and each little giggle caused them to bounce a bit. I laughed too, for want of any better reaction and as we stood there laughing, pressed together, I felt my cock stir. There was nothing I could do; my cock was thickening, squirming, and stiffening; pressed to her flat belly like it was, she could not have missed it.

She kept laughing until it was straining against my lounge pants, which were doing a poor job of holding it back. She was still smirking playfully when she looked up at me.

"How long's it been?" She pressed against me, swiveling her hips and causing my cock to sway back and forth against her.

"Longer than I'd like..." Her electric blue eyes met mine and she bit her bottom lip to portray that perfect blend of nervousness and seductive intent.

"I don't know..." She tugged at the draw string of my pants. and ran her palm up and down my length. "I think it's just the right length..."

"Oh really? Because I seem to remember you having a little trouble with it last time." That was, of course, a lie, as I barely remembered anything about the last time, but my brain was on overdrive and I was hoping a snappy comeback might buy me some time.

Her eyes went wide and she gave a little gasp of only partially feigned indignation.

"I did NOT!" and she gave my chest a playful swat. "I think I did just FINE." To punctuate the last word, her hand shot past the waistband of my lounge pants and gave my cock a vicious squeeze. Her eyes flashed wildly as she spoke.

"At least you didn't seem to mind."

A kind of smug confidence was creeping into her voice and while her grip relaxed, her hand didn't move. As the realization of what we both wanted washed over us, we stood still and silent for the length of one, long, breath.

I will never forget watching her face, that angelic, Golden Age of Hollywood face, as each little piece of the puzzle fell into place. First came the pensive, almost frantic attentiveness in those blue green eyes as they searched for the slightest sign of rejection or revulsion in me, like a gunfighter in an old spaghetti western, ready to shrink back and apologize the instant I flinched. Then, when I didn't flinch, a slight wave of confusion rolled across her entire face, as though she had been so sure that I would push her away or object that she hadn't really thought of what she would do next if I didn't. Rapt anticipation came next as my lips parted to speak.

"No..." the word seemed to crush her for just an instant before the rest followed "... I didn't mind."

I watched elation bubble up through her as her body rose until she pulled herself up onto her toes to plant a hot and likely long awaited kiss on my lips. I'd barely had time to react when she gave me a stern shove, depositing me back on the couch. She was moving toward me with a feline, predatory grace when she purred out a single word.