The Faded Cross Insisted

"It's his birthday!" Jake sprayed, crudely pointing in my direction. The resident alcoholic of our friend group had insisted on buying me a drink. As he leaned over the bar to order, his body teetered far enough for his feet to leave the ground. Jake's legs fluttered in the air like a ballerina performing an entrechat between shots of Jaeger. He found his footing once more, staring incredulously at the bartender.

The bartender stared back without expression, then turned to me. "Happy birthday," he dryly managed before looking to Jake once more.

"We'll take two Stone Delicious IPA's." He fumbled his wallet out and slurred "Don't you guys give out free birthday shots or something?"

"Please don't" I interjected, embarrassed and annoyed.

"Eighteen bucks for the beers, cash only."

When I looked back at Jake, he was trying to hand his credit card to the bartender, not clearly understanding what was going on, growing more confused when the bartender didn't move to take his Visa for several uncomfortable seconds.

"Don't worry, go watch the game." I reassured him with several pats, maneuvering him away from the bar.

He put up little protest. "Thanks man. I'll get the next one," returning his own pats of meaningless reassurance before quickly staggering through the crowd.

Jake was originally from Philadelphia, but had lived in Southern California long enough to lose his accent. He avidly followed the Eagles (who he fondly referred to as the birds), and basically worshipped the Philadelphia 76ers. That night, the Sixers would play the Toronto Raptors in game seven of the Eastern conference finals.

When everyone asked where I wanted to go for my birthday, I suggested we have a couple drinks at someone's house. Naturally, my friends insisted we go to a bar in North Park called Coin Op. They said it was kind of like Dave and Buster's without kids and "all of that other bullshit." I said it could be fun to watch Jake have a public meltdown when the Raptors make it to the NBA finals. They said we could play video games while we waited.

Now they were all sitting on the patio while I paid for our drinks alone. "Is he going to be okay?" said the bartender.

I handed him thirty dollars, exasperated. "I don't know, but can I get five dollars in quarters too? Keep the rest."

Waiting for beers and quarters, I turned my back to the bar and stared out at the arcade. To my left were games which lined the walls and took up a large swath of floor space in the center of the room. A crowd gathered around Pop-a-Shot. Two men repeatedly tossed miniature basketballs into miniature hoops. A shot clock buzzed incessantly as the pixelated numbers counted down below ten, causing the platers to shoot faster. To my right were stand-up tables swarmed with young adults. Men tried to find that special someone to bury their cocks in while a few scattered women looked altogether disinterested. Beyond was an outdoor patio where people smoked, and drank, and belched, then drank some more. Segregated from the bar, outdoor patrons watched any number of sports on a dozen or more enormous flat screen televisions. That's where Ian, Phil, and Jake began the second half of the Sixers game. I never made it back to the patio that night, but I heard when Kawaii Leonard hit Toronto's game winning shot, Jake practically flipped a table. Although I never really had any control over my birthday, minutes after I handed cash over to the bartender, April saw to it that I never would.

As I turned back to the bar, the first thing that caught my attention was the sound of a shot glass being slid in my direction. Next was the sheer size of the hand which guided it. Her glossy black nails snared the small glass like a dollhouse accessory, bringing it to rest squarely in front of me. She tapped delicately, the faded cross tattooed on the inside of her middle finger insisted.

"You can't get out of a birthday shot that easy." The voice was feminine, but resonated through the barroom chatter.

When I turned to respond, my words became peanut butter at the roof of my mouth.

She was statuesque, towering over me by a full twelve inches, yet her face appeared as pure and delicate as porcelain. She had eyes that were soot-like, smoldering quietly behind a curtain of bangs. The lean muscle of her bicep engaged as her elbow kissed the bar.

The corners of her measured smile twitched expectantly as I struggled to form syllables, gasping like a fish. My silence said more than words ever could. When her smirk broke into an ear-to-ear grin, the joyful expression crinkled her upturned nose. She held up her own shot of tequila, "Well?"

"To new friends?" I nervously suggested before tipping the glass towards hers.

"I certainly hope so," she teased, sounding as though she might be disappointed.

The bar tender came with the quarters and IPAs as we set our empty shot glasses down in unison. She continued to smile when I handed her Jake's beer. "I got this for you," I tried in my best nonchalant tone, inevitably sounding out of breath from the burn of cheap tequila.

There was no hesitation in her response. She feigned outrage,"What about your friend? Isn't that for him? I couldn't."

"Please, do us all a favor. I'm surprised he's still conscious." I paused, taking a purposeful sip to wash the liquor down. "You'd be saving him a trip to the emergency room. He's basically a drink away from needing his stomach pumped."

"I guess if it's for a good cause." She held the pint while running a free finger over condensation on the glass, studying me closely while making provocative circles around the rim.

Heated silence settled in once more; the air between us became humid and unbearable. Water beaded and trickled down her sweating glass while I, for the second time in several minutes, lost my words. She was at home in that uncomfortable silence, relishing every moment I shied away from her gaze. She never broke eye contact, glaring the way a dog trainer would when priming an undisciplined puppy.

Heat prickled at the back of my neck. I felt pressured to somehow please her, totally unaware that my desperation was doing the trick. As I realized she wouldn't be pursuing the next link in our conversation, the obvious finally clicked. I was forgetting to ask a question that she had been expecting. "What's your name?"

Her eyes ignited when she spoke, "For now, you can call me April."

Too jittery to notice the premonition in that statement, I responded "I'm Matt." Then holding up my quarters, jiggling them eagerly like a pair of keys before a road trip, "Wanna play Galaga?"

Smiling, April put a hand to my arm. "I'm more of a pinball girl." It gave me goosebumps.

April got up and I followed eagerly. The room parted as she made her way through the arcade. Being 5'5, unassuming in stature and behavior, I fell behind. When she turned to find me lost in the crowd, April reached out her hand with dismay, impatience, and what I thought might've been a glint of satisfaction. My fingers crumpled awkwardly together when her hand took mine. I almost yelped in pain as she pulled me through the crowd, conjuring images of a chihuahua on a short leash.

April was beautiful, but I was starting to fully realize she was not like other girls. I had cast the thought aside in the midst of sexual tension and the gratification of being pursued. Now, as I was being dragged across the room, clarity set in. I-- a straight, cisgender male-- was being strung along by a transgender woman roughly twice my size.

A man snickered as we passed. I thought I heard another loudly whisper "Looks like he's in for a long night." Almost every person we crossed gave pause to slowly acknowledge what they were seeing. I found myself wondering how a person could live with the kind of unwanted attention April must've been subjected to. I was mortified and, if I'm being perfectly honest, turned on. I had never had something like this happen to me, but sometimes happenstance is the only way to illuminate the darkest corners of our sexuality.

She swung me towards a pinball machine. A glowing image of Gomez and Morticia stared back at me. April had chosen a pinball machine with an Addams Family theme, which was funny because she kind of reminded me of Christina Ricci (if Christina Ricci was 6'6 and could palm a basketball). "You first," taking her place beside the machine.

"Alright, but don't expect much, I've never played," I said shakily, slipping in two quarters.

"A pinball virgin? Don't worry, we'll get you all broken in." She snickered like the man we passed earlier. Maybe she was in on the joke, envigorated and salivating at the chance to showcase a straight convert to the gawking audience.

I pulled back the plunger and watched as my ball flew around the board, the eyes of bystanders darting from her to me. I engaged the paddles with no real purpose. The pinball bounced off colorful bumpers and rolled across a metal catwalk before finally cutting directly between my flippers. Under a minute and my first turn was over, a pathetic showing.

To my defense, I was understandably distracted. I couldn't shake the thought I was doing something wrong. Looking towards the patio, I scanned the room for my friends when she leaned in and whispered, "Eyes forward."

As the machine loaded a second ball into the chamber, April slipped around the table, positioning directly behind me. A sly look flashed as she disappeared from my peripherals. All that was left was Gomez, Morticia, and the accusatory glances of the crowd. Then I felt her body press gently against mine. Her hands cupped my hips for a moment, sliding down and squeezing firmly as she framed my crotch. "Sometimes, to keep the ball in play, you have to nudge the machine."

Her hands wrapped around the edges of the table, pinning me in the process. "Most of the time you use your hands to slide the machine left or right," she paused and demonstrated briefly, nudging the table this way and that with ease. "But on occasion, there's an opportunity to use your hips."

On cue, April thrusted, using her hand to subtly tip me forward. I could almost hear the friction as she leveraged my body, briefly grinding into me with one long stroke as I bent over the machine. She sighed and giggled softly as I reflexively straightened and turned to face her. The crowd was now shamelessly watching. April knew, but paid no attention. She only grinned devilishly as my blushing intensified. "Are you going to let my suggestions go to waste? Or are you going to pull that plunger?"

I paused, heart racing, head swimming. Pulling that plunger was accepting an offer. A very public one at that. If I walked away, I could save face. I could tell myself that it was nothing, an honest mistake. Maybe I'd be a story people told, that guy at the arcade who got seduced by a tranny. That would be better than a story of shameless exhibtionism. That absolute freak that let a shemale have her way at a pinball machine. In that moment, I truly thought that I was going to continue living my sexually sheltered life, safe from any shame or embarrassment, free of any real promiscuity. But the faded cross insisted. Her middle finger trickled down, tracing the head of my cock like the rim of a pint glass. I was throbbing before my choice had fully registered. I turned silently and pulled. "Good boy," she exhaled.

I felt April press tight against me as her hands took the edges of the machine once more. Her body cradled mine, causing me to let the ball blindly roll between my paddles. She thrusted firmly and it came back into play. "Did you do that on purpose? We don't need to pretend." She panted softly, whispering so only I could hear. "You've never had this much attention before. I think you like it."

I pressed the buttons, watching the flippers send my ball across the table while she steadily swayed from side to side. I felt her cock dragging over the denim of my jeans, swollen and thick, demanding attention. Its size made my legs go weak, realizing that my initial shock was quickly replaced with intense arousal. She was so big.

"Now after this ball plays out, I'm going to the bar alone to have one more drink. We wouldn't want your friends dropping by to find you're more than a strait-laced heterosexual." She nudged the table left and slid the ball into a bonus slot. "I want you to meet me after you finish your game... I have something special for you." The ball shot out and rebounded off my paddles. "You're going to be my little birthday slut tonight, and desperate little birthday sluts need proper presents, don't you think?"

Breathing heavily, frozen in place, I let the ball go through my paddles once more, only this time I didn't get the third thrust that I now ached for. Instead she whispered, "One last thing. I prefer that straight sluts like you call me Daddy."

With that, she left me under the glow of Gomez and Morticia. As the final ball entered the chamber, people around me resumed their previous distractions, dumbfounded as the images of a trans woman grinding against my ass were imprinted in their memories. I did my best to make that final ball last, but my thoughts kept returning to April and how she felt pressed against me. She wanted me to call her Daddy. The word echoed in my mind as the ball ricocheted over the neon table, finally sinking below my lifeless paddles.