tagTranssexuals & CrossdressersThe Giver and the Gifts

The Giver and the Gifts

byCal Y. Pygia©

From the beginning, when my breasts first began to bud--that was my true beginning --men accepted my offer of them, pleased to receive such gifts.

My admirers, admiring them, circled their soft, tender areolas with the tips of their forefingers, as delicately as though they were outlining the circle of an angel's halo. They pressed their lips to their nipples, as if my breasts were mouths to be kissed, and, oh! how my nipples responded, swelling and stiffening, to stand erect! Men squeezed them in their hard, calloused hands, as if they were fruits from a tree whose ripeness they'd thus determine. They spoke, softly and reverently, of their blessed attributes, calling them, in whispery, trembling voices, "rosy" and "full" and "firm" and "high" and "round." One fool, more romantic or lovelorn than the rest, called them "twin mountains of paradise."

I still giggled at such expressions--and the cruelty of my reply. "They're tits," I'd say. "Nothing more. Just tits."

In reality, I knew, my breasts were--and are--magnificent. They're splendid. Words don't describe them, could not describe them, no matter how poetic or elegant the language used--or, at least, words could not describe them well, any more than the word "apple" describes the fruit to which it refers or "cunt" captures the beauty and the mystery of a woman's deepest, most feminine parts.

My breasts may be, as many a lover has told me, "high" and "round" and "soft" and "firm," and they are "sleek" and "smooth" and "like the touch of the budding rose against one's cheek." I laugh at this line; it came from a poet among my many suitors--a bright, intense, sympathetic soul who wasn't half as good in bed as he was with words. His clumsiness as a lover--or, rather, as a would-be lover--amuses me, as, at the time we'd been a couple, it had frustrated and annoyed me. I'd thought, many a time, of saying to him the exact words that Eliza Doolittle, in My Fair Lady, says to Freddy Eysnford-Hill: "Don't say another word! Show me!"

In fairness, though, the poet hadn't done much worse than the other men I've let into my life. My suitors might start amorously enough, glad to accept the gifts of my areolas, my nipples, and my breasts; they might be delighted, too, to fondle and caress and stroke and pinch my fabulous bottom. However, each, to the last, from the moment that my breasts first started to swell, or to "develop," as my older sister Susie insists upon saying, became awkward and embarrassed, even angry, when I offered them the gift of my other, less womanly charms. Repeatedly, Susie has warned me of this possibility, except that she refers to it more as a probability, or even, with some men, an inevitability. "Be prepared," she cautions. "Some men--maybe most--will be angry; some may be verbally abusive. A few--" and here, she shuddered--"may get physical."

Recalling the words to Madonna's "Material Girl," I thought, I'd like them to get physical. I'd enjoy making their bodies "talk." I'd love to make them scream with the pleasure I could give them, if only they'd give me the chance, if only they'd accept all of the gifts I have to give.

I was beginning to think it was as hopeless as Susie seems to believe. Then, I met Brad. The handsomest man in the world, Brad smiled at me one day, and my heart melted.

I was at Betty and Veronica's, a 1950's-style soda fountain adjacent to the local Beefy Buns hamburger joint, and Brad, its owner, was working the late shirt, covering for his nephew, who, at the last moment, had asked for the night off so he could enjoy a "hot date" with a local high school beauty (poor girl).

I'd ordered a sundae, with two scoops of vanilla ice cream. Brad, gazing at the massive display of cleavage I had on display that evening, smiled, his cheeks dimpling, as he said, in a tone that was flirtatious without being crude or vulgar, "Looks to me as if you already have two scoops of the sweetest vanilla ice cream anyone could want," meaning my breasts, of course.

Normally, even though his tone had been friendly and sweet, I'd have been offended by so obviously forward a remark; most likely, I'd have slapped his face--but Brad was just way too cute for either such response, and, instead, I merely returned his smile. "Sounds like you've been reading a little too much Updike lately," I retorted.

As he busied himself with the ice cream, Brad, brow wrinkled and eyes agleam, asked, "Updike?"

"John Updike," I explained. "Famous writer."

"I know who he is," Brad said.

As if he hadn't, I continued. "Among other works, he wrote a short story, 'A & P,' in which a grocery clerk, unfolding a dollar bill, does so with great tenderness, advising the reader that it had 'just. . . come from between the two smoothest scoops of vanilla I had ever known were there,' meaning his customer's breasts."

"I know the story," Brad confided. With a wink, he added, "Where do you think I got the line?"

"You're not very original, are you?" I asked him.

"About some things, I am," he replied.

"Which things?" I challenged him.

His smile broadened into a grin, and there was a lascivious glint in his eye as he set the ice cream soda on the counter in front of me. "The important ones."

The next night, on our first date, Brad said, ""To me, a woman's breasts are ice cream." Looking at me from the corner of his eye as we drove the road that wound up the mountainside, he asked, "To what do you compare the fairest pair of all?"

He meant my breasts, of course. What game was this? I wondered, repressing a giggle. There was only one way to find out, I thought, and that was to play along. "Why do you ask?" I asked.

"I know how men think of women's breasts. I'd like to hear how a woman thinks of them."

I shrugged. "I think of mine as gifts."

Brad looked puzzled, but the bemused glint in his eye suggested that he was intrigued as well. "Gifts?" he repeated. "Why gifts?"

"A woman, seeking love, offers sex," I replied. "Breasts are intimations of intimacy. They're gifts that promise more, like the bouquets of roses a man gives to a woman he admires. Flowers are promises, too--promises of love." I rolled my eyes, chuckling. "Of course, they're not always promises kept."

"You're quite a philosopher," Brad told me.

I swallowed. The air, rushing past the interior of his open convertible, was warm on this sultry summer's night, and had a fresh, spicy scent, not unlike men's semen. "I wanted to be a poet once, actually," I confided in him.

"Do you remember any of the poems you wrote, when you wanted to be a poet?"

I smiled. "One or two."

"Could I hear one?"

"This one is called 'Breast Friends.' The title is silly, but the sentiments, I hope, are not." Having introduced the verse, I recited the poem:

A rose is a vow, solemn as a nun's, By which a man pledges eternal love, A flower as radiant as the sun's Warm light, which, like the rainbow set above The flood, by God, to remind mortal Men and women that he has chosen grace, Not judgment, so his covenant annulled Shall never be, prompts the beloved her lace To open, thus to bestow upon him Who pledges love an intimation of Intimacy, a stem that to the limb Of passion joins, that ripened fruit of love Be not forbidden, not denied. My breasts, Bared to his view, do, to these things, attest.

Brad looked surprised. Lifting his hands from the steering wheel, he applauded. "A sonnet!" he cried. "It's lovely. May I hear another?"

"Keep your hands on the wheel, please!" I admonished him.

Sheepishly, he gripped the wheel again. The wind continued to rush past us in great, warm waves, tousling Brad's auburn hair and making a swirling mess of my blonde tresses.

I realized that I was attracted to Brad, and he seemed to be attracted to me. Was there a basis for a deeper bond, a more intimate union, between us? I wondered. His reaction to my next poem would suggest the answer, and, smitten as I was with him, I wanted, almost desperately, to know. "This one is called 'The Gift,'" I said, reciting the poem before I lost my nerve:

Men sensitive enough to see will know The holiness of breasts, for the haloes Of their pink areolas clearly show The glory upon them which God bestows, But 'tis a blind fool who mistakes the breasts For the fullness of feminine beauty, Fav'ring them, while excluding all the rest, Though her other charms may be more lovely, Especially when she's transsexual, And the dainty ornaments of penis And testicles, completing her, make full The bounty of her beauty and the bliss She has in store for those men who want more Than either sex, by itself, can explore.

This time, Brad didn't take his hands off the wheel. He didn't applaud, either. He said nothing, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

Tears sprang to my eyes, not as a result of the wind that blew past us and into my face, but from the pain and the grief that rose inside me, bitter and intense--the agony of rejection, which I'd known so many times since--well, just since, that's all. He'd take me home now, if I were lucky. Otherwise, he might just stop and tell me to get out of his car and to stay the hell out of his life.

A tear trickled from my eye. I felt it course down my cheek, warm and wet and drying, already, in the rush of the warm wind that swept over and around the convertible.

On the left, beyond the narrow shoulder of the high road, the mountainside fell away, in a sheer cliff that showed the dim stars rising in the near-darkness of the gathering night and the lights of distant town, glittering upon the valley floor, far below. On the right, the mountainside continued to rise, almost vertically, and trees, growing almost horizontally from the craggy face of the cliff, writhed in the wind. The road, reduced by the landscape's contours to two constricted lanes, hugged the mountain, spiraling up, up, up, above the darkening quilt of the land spread out below the clouds drifting above, hazy in the glow of a full moon. There was no place to go but up. The road, at this point, featured neither a turnout, a scenic overlook, nor a place wide enough--or safe enough--in which Brad could execute a "U" turn.

The final lines of my second sonnet echoed in my mind:

. . . when she's transsexual, And the dainty ornaments of penis And testicles, completing her, make full The bounty of her beauty and the bliss She has in store for those men who want more Than either sex, by itself, can explore.

I stifled a snort of self-derision. What a fool I was to think that my having both a pair of womanly breasts and a set of male genitals would captivate a man as handsome and virile as Brad! It was apparent, in his steady, forward gaze, the set of his jaw, and his stiff posture, that I'd horrified, rather than captivated, him. He was obviously bent upon finding the first place available along this mountain road to turn around, take me home, and be rid of me forever. Once again, sister Susie had been right. I just hoped she'd be wrong about the violent reaction that some men might have toward transsexual women or that, at least, Brad wouldn't prove to be one of them. I didn't relish a black eye, a broken nose, or a split lip. Facial scars don't go all that well with makeup and an Oscar de la Renta evening gown.

As Brad continued to drive up the winding mountain road, under the full moon above the drifting shreds of cloud, I continued to bemoan the curse of my transsexual nature. I wasn't gay, as many men thought. I like men, sexually and otherwise, because I'm a woman. A woman trapped inside a man's body, perhaps, but a woman, nevertheless--or, in my case, not quite a woman--but not quite a man, either. If anything, I'm both--and, yet, neither--a hermaphrodite, more than anything. That's why, after undergoing feminization procedures, including the daily use of female hormones, electrolysis, the surgical reduction of my Adam's apple, finishing school, and breast implant surgery, I've opted to retain my cock and balls. They're not all that big--my cock, erect, is only five and a half inches, and my balls are half the size they used to be. My dick is cute, though, and, although my male genitals are perfectly functional and able to shoot a load of semen swimming with sperm, they're more like ornaments than sex organs--at least, to me. That's why I think of them, like my breasts, as gifts. Unfortunately, a lot of men don't care to accept such presents (although, quite frankly, more than a few do appreciate them). Brad, I feared, was one of the former, rather than one of the latter.

He'd said not a word, since hearing my poetic confession, as it were, of my transsexual--or hermaphroditic--nature and the offering, in my verse, of all of my charms to him as gifts that were, at the same time, "intimations of intimacy" to follow--if he wished to accept them and the additional gift--the gift of me, of my sex--that they implied. Obviously, Brad was not interested. He drove on, eyes fixed upon the road ahead, jaw like steel, shoulders stiff and formal, seeking, no doubt, the earliest opportunity to turn his car around and be rid of me forever.

My tears flowed; I couldn't stop them. I didn't want to stop them. I wanted--I needed--a good cry, to get the pain and grief out. Silently, so as not to upset Brad any more than he already was, I let it pour freely from my anguished soul, a lifetime of fear and anger, of sorrow and shame, of desire and passion, of self-doubt and misery, of conflicting and confused masculinity and femininity. I was more than attractive. I was fucking gorgeous. Both my friends and my mirror tell me this, and, well, I may have my share of faults, my share of problems, and my share of issues, but false modesty isn't one of them. I'm as beautiful as any actress who's ever appeared on the silver screen or the cattiest model who's ever strutted her stuff on a Parisian runway. My hair is perfect. My makeup is flawless. My breasts are magnificent. My butt is heavenly. I'm better looking, by far, than all but a few of the loveliest genetic girls--my cock and balls notwithstanding. The one thing I don't have, though, is the gaping hole of a bloody cunt, the so-called wound that never heals.

As unlikely as it seems--to me, at least--a lot of men still want a pussy, rather than a tight asshole inside a sleek, firm-soft ass, to fuck, and that I can't--or won't--provide. I have other, better gifts to give.

I just hoped that Brad wouldn't beat me before he abandoned me. Rejection, although it hurt like hell, wasn't injurious to one's looks or potentially fatal to oneself.

Sometimes, though, I wished it were. I wished, sometimes, that a homophobic Neanderthal of a man, horrified at the duality of my hermaphroditic sex, would pummel me with his ham-size fists until he'd killed me or would strangle me with his sausage-size fingers until he'd crushed my throat in his bare hands and the life from my beautiful, but repulsive (to some men) body. I wished to be stabbed or shot, that my misery and torment and self-loathing could stop and that I could be no more. For a fleeting moment, I thought, even now, of seizing the convertible's steering wheel as we streaked toward another sharp curve in the road ahead and of twisting it, with all my might, so that the car would leave the road and tumble, end over end, into oblivion, my rejecting suitor, so full of contempt and hatred, beside me as we fell and fell and fell.

Through my veil of tears, I saw an alcove in the rocky mountainside. The convertible slowed.

This is where I get off, I told myself, hoping I wouldn't be beaten or killed before I was left alongside the road, high in the dark mountains above the twinkling lights of civilization, such as it was, represented by my hometown, in the distant valley below.

When the car had come to a complete stop in the recessed space in which Brad had parked, he turned to me. Although it was dark, not dusk, now, I could still see his handsome features fairly distinctly, thanks to the light of the full moon that hovered above us. His face was impassive, like a mask. His voice was unemotional and matter of fact. "Recite the poem again," he asked--or ordered; it could have been a request or a command--"the one you call 'The Gift.'"


"I want to hear it."

Wasn't it enough to leave me stranded on the side of a fucking mountain, my dignity in tatters? I wanted to scream at him. Isn't it sufficient to reject and abandon me, after knowing how I feel--or felt--about you? Instead, my voice atremble with fear and sorrow and the wish, still fervent in my heart, that things could have turned out differently between Brad and me, I recited the poem again:

Men sensitive enough to see will know The holiness of breasts, for the haloes Of their pink areolas clearly show The glory upon them which God bestows, But 'tis a blind fool who mistakes the breasts For the fullness of feminine beauty, Fav'ring them, while excluding all the rest, Though her other charms may be more lovely, Especially when she's transsexual, And the dainty ornaments of penis And testicles, completing her, make full The bounty of her beauty and the bliss She has in store for those men who want more Than either sex, by itself, can explore.

"I'm neither 'a blind fool' nor an insensitive jerk," Brad told me. "I believe in God, and I believe he made you, just the way you are, as he has made me, just the way I am."

Surprised by his declaration, I nearly choked. "You mean you're attracted to me, despite my being a transsexual?"


My lips trembled, and the tears flowed again, warming and wetting my cheeks. A great grief welled within me, and I wanted to die.

"Not 'despite' them," Brad corrected me. "Because of them."

I turned to him, joy upon my face, and hugged him, the best I could, across the console that separated our bucket seats.

"I've waited all my life for someone like you," he told me, and I kissed his cheek. "No," he corrected himself, "not someone like you--you yourself."

I was crying again, but, this time, my tears were tears of joy, not of misery, and I did nothing to repress the sobs of joy. Sister Susie, I said to myself, this time, you are wrong!

Brad frowned. "You're crying! What's wrong?"

"They're tears of joy, Brad, not sorrow or pain. I want you, here and now. I want you as I've never wanted anyone else before. I want you to take me, to ravish me, to own me."

Brad smiled, and his teeth, white and even in the moonlight, were dazzling--or maybe it was his smile that dazzled me and the look of love in his warm, soft eyes. "Me, too," he assured me, "but it's kind of cramped in here."

His convertible was a sports model, and Brad was about the size of a professional wrestler, so I had to agree with him--the car was, for him, at least, rather confined. "Why don't we step outside," I suggested.

"I have a blanket in the trunk," he said. "I'll get it."

While he was retrieving the bedspread, I doffed my clothes. My breasts, as firm and full and upright as all the other men I'd previously been with had assured me, looked as womanly and beautiful as ever, as did my round, dimpled bottom, and my legs were shapely. I knew my face was as lovely as any celebrity's countenance as well, so the only complaint, if any, that Brad would be able to find would be the cute cock and balls that adorned the space between my thighs, and, he had already assured me, he loved me, in large measure, because, not in spite of, them. The moonlight gleamed upon me, making my smooth skin seem to glow, my cheeks to blush, and the rosy pink of my areolas, nipples, glans, and scrotum to bloom.

Soon after Brad had spread the blanket beside the car, hidden by the semi-darkness of the moonlit night and the recessed niche within the mountainside, we had him out of his clothes, too. We knelt, face to face, upon the cover, and I marveled at the splendor of his naked masculinity. He had broad shoulders, a deep chest, six-pack abs, powerful thighs, a sculpted back, and arms and calves that were thick with muscle and strength. His hands were large, although not the size of the hams I'd imagined in my self-doubting dreams of violent rejection and disdainful dismissal, but his touch was soft and gentle.

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byCal Y. Pygia© 0 comments/ 31127 views/ 6 favorites

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