The Interview

I don't know why I agreed to this. There was a reason why I avoided these kinds of conversations. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that this wasn't going to go well.

Rounding the corner, I saw the coffee shop. There was safety in being in a public place, and I picked up my pace. The sooner we started, the sooner we got it over with.

As soon as I walked through the door, I saw him. He looked exactly like he did in the selfie he sent me, so at least he wasn't hiding or trying to be fake... yet. I walked quickly over to where he was sitting and threw my purse on the table, just a little too hard. Oh well.

He looked up and a broad smile lit up his face. "Hi!" he said, excited.

"Hello," I replied, somewhat coolly.

His smile wavered briefly, but didn't falter completely. "Thank you for coming," he said, cheerfully.

"Sure," I said. "Whatever."

I was being a rude bitch, which wasn't normally my style, but I was bracing myself for the inevitable personal questions.

He picked up on this. "Are you okay?" he asked. He seemed genuinely concerned.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" I challenged.

His mood seemed to be turning more cautious. "Well, you seem to be upset about something," he said, choosing his words carefully. "When we were talking online, you seemed a bit more..."

"Easy?" I challenged. Might as well get it all out up front. Then I could get home sooner.

He flinched as if I had slapped him. "Approachable," he said quietly.

I sized him up for a moment. He was a lot shorter than I had expected. True, I had been expecting some neckbeard wanna-be granola "alternative" writer, but this guy was so clean cut I wasn't sure if he belonged to the Young Republicans Club or something. I'm of average height for a woman, but even sitting down he looked like he was shorter than me.

I relaxed a little. He certainly wasn't a threat. Short cropped blond hair, slight build. The only thing missing from his non-threatening look was an argyle sweater.

"Look," I said, trying to relax my tone but winding up sounding exasperated. "I've been doing some thinking since we chatted online. I know what this is going to be, and I just want to get it over with."

"I'm sorry," he said. I think his apology was genuine. "I didn't mean to upset you. We don't have to do this."

He started closing up his laptop and putting his things away. "Can I at least buy you a coffee for your trouble?"

I was a bit stunned. He gave up really easily. Maybe he wasn't going to be a dick after all.

I reached out and put my hand on his arm. My bright red fingernail polish seemed vibrant against his pale skin. "No, wait," I said. He stopped. "I'm just..."

I sighed. "Look, let me go get my own coffee, and we can start again."

"I can -" he began.

"No," I said, firmly, pressing against his arm a little more. "I'll get it." The last thing I wanted is to have him think I owed him anything, whether it be private information or something else. Not for a fucking coffee, I thought to myself.

I grabbed my purse and headed to the coffee line. Relax, Cherie, I scolded myself. He hasn't done anything wrong, and after all, you agreed to this.

I stood and waited for my drink, knowing that they were going to mispronounce my name. Just one more irritation in a day that seemed to be determined to keep me in a bad mood.

"Cherry?"

Sigh. I went and got my drink.

When I returned to the table, he raised an eyebrow. "Cherry?" he asked.

"Oh yeah," I said. "People seem to have incredible difficulty saying it properly. Sometimes I think I should just change it to Sherry so that people can pronounce it more closely."

"Mais oui, c'est tres jolie, le nom Cherie, ma cherie, he grinned. "C'est dommage que personne ne peut pas pronconer correctement."

I smiled despite myself. Maybe it wasn't perfect French, but it'd do. "Yes," I agreed. "I think it's a pretty name too. And yes, I don't think it's too much to ask for people to at least try to pronounce it correctly."

"Do you get called 'Cherry' a lot, then?" he asked.

"Ever since I was a little girl. That was fun, let me tell you." Memories of being teased in the girls' locker rooms during puberty began to resurface. Once again, I wasn't sure why I agreed to this.

He must have read the look on my face. "I'm sorry," he apologized again. I could see that this was going to be a big part of his personality.

I shook my head. "No, it's okay," I said. "That's why we're here, right?"

"Only if you want to be. We can simply have a nice chat, or you can leave if you wish, I don't want you to feel obligated," he said, trying to give me an out. I had the choice to take it or leave it, but if I continued then I couldn't keep holding my mood against him. It wouldn't be fair.

"Look... you know, I'm sorry, I can't remember your real name. All I know is the handle you use online," I said.

He smiled. "Bubba," he said without missing a beat.

I reacted. The what the...? look on my face must have been comical, because he laughed so hard he began to wheeze.

"Okay, okay, sorry," he said between gasps for air. "The look on your face... so funny..."

I had to confess, he had a demeanor around him that was very difficult to remain stand-offish. He did have a way of lightening the mood.

"Tommy," he said, finally.

"Tommy?" I asked. "How old are you, twelve?" Bitch mode, again.

He didn't rise to the bait. "It's completely mercenary," he said, leaning in conspiratorially. "I'm not a very big guy, as you may have noticed, and I've found that it's easier for people to engage if I use the name 'Tommy' instead of 'Tom' or 'Thomas.'"

"Why?" I asked, genuinely curious.

He shrugged. "People like to feel like they are in charge," he explained. "I can often avoid conflict because people don't need to see me as a threat. It just makes my life easier."

I knew what he meant, and told him so. "But," I continued, "Tommy, I know I agreed to help you with this, but I have to tell you, I've been asked about this stuff for a long, long time. I'm tired of being treated like a freak or abnormal. I'm just a girl. I'm a bit nervous about where this conversation is going to go."

He nodded. "I can understand that," he said. "I don't want to give you any reason to be worried. If you want to stop at any time, just say so."

I took a sip of my latte. Tommy looked at me, expectantly, and I suddenly felt a pang of guilt for being so rude to him when I first arrived. There was something about him, something delicate, that made me trust him a little more.

"Okay," I said, sighing. "Let's get this out of the way, then. I'm 27 years old, 5'7" tall, 130 pounds. I'm 36-26-34, and I have a six inch penis..."

"Whoa, whoa!" he said, a look of true shock on his face. "Wait a minute!"

I stopped, surprised. "What? Isn't that what you want to know?"

"No!" he practically exclaimed, and then realized he was in public and lowered his voice. "I mean, no!"

I was confused. "I don't understand," I said. "I thought that's why we were here."

He shook his head. "It really doesn't matter what your measurements are," he said, his eyes flicking over my body. "Any of them. What matters is who you are as a person."

I simply looked back at him. I wasn't sure what he wanted.

"Look, you've agreed to help me out because I want to be a writer," he continued. "I want to know about who you are, not what your parts are. There's no way I can calibrate my experience to yours - I don't think anyone can. Whether you are 100 lbs or 300 lbs, whether you are 'average' or whatever - doesn't do anything special."

I hesitated, thinking. "Okay, so what do you want to know, then?" I asked.

He paused. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Now all I can think of are these 'parts' questions."

"Go for it," I sighed. So much for a departure from the normal interrogations.

"Can you get pregnant?"

I wasn't expecting that question yet. Normally people want to ask me about whether I used to be a boy (No, I've always been a girl), if I've had treatments (my breasts are natural, thank you), what was I born like (like, oh my god! like, I was born, like, exactly the way I, like, am now. Like.), that sort of thing.

"No," I said. "The plumbing isn't fully formed, because there needs to be room made for the other plumbing." I hoped that was clear enough. I really didn't want to go into a deep anatomy class.

"And to your next question," I continued, "No, I can't get anyone else pregnant for the same reasons."

"Do you mind if I take notes?" Tommy asked, indicating his laptop. I shrugged. He started typing.

"So you don't have any testes?" Clinical question, but a reasonable one.

I shook my head. "No," I said. "Do you want to see?" It was supposed to come off as a joke, but it came out considerably more harsh. Stop being a bitch, Cherie!

Tommy politely took my snark with a small smile, and ignored the comment completely. Good for him. "Have you ever met anyone like you?" he asked.

This was a new question, and I was curious as to where he was going with this. "Not in real life," I admitted. "There were a few people online who claimed to be intersexed or futanari, but I have a feeling they were just role-players."

He looked at me. "Why?"

"Things that they said," I said, shrugging. "I don't live and breathe by my genitals, but they did."

I thought about the times when I was in my teenage years, trying to make sense of my body and the world around me. I read through the literature for both boys and girls, reading about how the changes to their bodies were normal, how certain milestones were reached. None of them ever applied to me. I never had wet dreams, I never got periods. I simply didn't have the equipment for either of them.

When I was going through puberty and suddenly realizing that people were looking at my forming breasts was hard enough. Needing to explain why I got special permission to avoid gym class to anyone and everyone who asked - student and teacher alike - didn't help.

I explained to Tommy that I couldn't simply ask anyone else that I knew, and my parents didn't believe in therapy, so I could only really look online or in medical journals to find out what was going on with me. Everything I found happened to be listed as "abnormal," even though I didn't feel that way. Whatever happening to me was normal - for me. I just didn't know it.

Growing up, I met people online who wanted to help, but by and large they were simply looking for a cure for their fetish. Once they realized I was underage, most of them - fortunately - disappeared for good. Others didn't, but I was smart enough to never put out my real name or pictures of myself.

That was more than ten years ago, and being a stoic woman today only belied the daily angst of feeling like I was about to be discovered at any moment. I could only imagine how much of an impact such an upbringing still had on me.

"Do you think that there are other people like you?" Tommy asked, a welcome barge into my reflections.

"Oh, I know there are," I said.

"Do you want to meet them?" he asked.

I was really grateful he asked that question. Most of the time people simply didn't think about what I wanted. "Actually, no." I confessed. "I know you meet people who have something in common with you, but that's just not the way I want to establish a relationship."

"It's kind of how we met in person," Tommy said, challenging me.

"Do you have a pussy, too, Tommy?" I said, this time with a grin.

Bless him, he blushed bright pink. "No," he said, looking down.

"Well, then, there you go," I said. I couldn't help but keep smiling at his reaction. He actually did look pretty cute.

"When do people find out about your..." he trailed off, uncertain how to finish the sentence.

"Condition?" I prompted.

"No," he said, thoughtfully. "I was thinking about how it must be difficult to find the right time to let people know that you're different, because it's not as if there's a point in time when you reveal this to people. No one else has to choose a time to talk about their genitals unless they're going to see it, right?"

I was a bit stunned. Tommy seemed to be remarkably insightful. He was looking off to the side, his mind working, but he continued.

"It seems like there would be a constant pressure on the relationship, then, a risk to your friendships, the possibility that they may react negatively either because you're different, or because you kept a secret from them."

He looked straight at me. I wasn't sure, but I began to think I saw his eyes were just a bit moist. Could he be internalizing my situation? All I could do was nod.

"Do you have many close friends?" he asked.

"A few," I answered. But then quickly added, "but not everyone knows."

He nodded, understanding. "How do you prefer to let them know, when you do?"

"Oh, I just whip it out," I said, flopping my arm onto the table, palm up. I smiled, but I don't think it was very convincing.

He humored me by laughing nonetheless. "Pardon me while I whip this out," he joked, quoting Blazing Saddles.

"I love that movie!" I squealed, letting my guard down. For the first time, I started feeling a bit more comfortable with Tommy as a person, rather than just as an interviewer. God bless Mel Brooks.

He grinned like the Cheshire Cat. "Yeah, not too many people our age have seen it, I think," he said.

I cocked my head. "How old are you, Tommy?"

"Twenty-three."

"So tell me," I said, turning the tables. "Why are you so interested in me? Are you a perrrrverrrt?" I drew out the last word on purpose in an effort to keep the lighthearted tone going, more for my sake than his.

"Oh, absolutely!" he said. "My psychosexual proclivities will keep me in counseling for decades."

I giggled, despite myself, covering my mouth with my fingers. Suddenly I felt like I wanted to flirt with him, and I didn't know why. That would be a bad, bad idea, though.

"Honestly," he said, looking around to see if we were being overheard. Confident that we weren't, he said, "I want to learn as much as I can about sex."

The implications about this statement hit me. "Tommy," I said softly, "Are you a virgin?"

He shook his head. "No, but that's actually what I mean. What I've experienced has told me that there is so much more to learn."

"Like what?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"Well, I want to be a writer, which is why I'm really grateful for you to spend the time with me today," he said, indicating his laptop. "But personally, I know that people can feel all kinds of sensations and pleasures that are unique - and I'm dying to find out about them."

My desire to flirt with him began to dissipate, and I started feeling a bit bitchy again. He read the look on my face and the change in my posture, and held out his hands to show me he meant no harm. "What I mean is," he said, "I know that there are people who are attracted to people of the opposite sex, or people of the same sex. With you, all of those ideas go out the window."

"Go on," I said, fighting back my urge to walk out the door.

"When I think of your situation, I see some very intense trade-offs," he said. "I see someone I envy because of the different experiences you can have, but I also see someone who possibly is so much more limited because none of the rules apply any more."

I put my purse back on the table, not even aware that I had picked it up and had been clutching it. I started to feel a bit of a twist in my chest.

"I don't want to overstep my bounds," he continued, "But my imagination often runs away with me. As I said, I'm trying to be a writer. But it seems that if I were in your shoes, relationships that everyone takes for granted would be impossible. You can't simply let a relationship grow from friendship into intimacy, not in any natural way. You have to worry about things that no one else has to worry about. You have risks no one else has."

Tommy's ability to put himself in my shoes was astounding, and I wasn't sure how to react. Part of me wanted to be on my guard because he was able to figure a lot of this stuff out, and part of me wanted to open up to him completely, fill in the gaps of his understanding. If anyone seemed worth the effort, he was.

"Have you ever been in an intimate relationship?" he asked, suddenly.

"Sort of," I said. "I'm not quite a virgin."

"With a boy or a girl?"

"A girl," I confessed.

"So do you consider yourself a lesbian?"

I shook my head. "No," I said. "I like boys. Bitches be crazy."

We both laughed. I explained to him that during my college years my best friend was at my dorm for a sleepover. The night had progressed as it usually did with two girls, including primping, preening, fashion shows, gossip, and lots and lots of talk about sex, even though neither one of us had any practical experience with it at all.

Of course, we talked about boys. Both of us had been completely boy crazy at the time, and we shared our secret and not-so-secret crushes, and what we would allow cute boys to do to us. It was the first time that I had become aroused in the presence of another girl, and there was no hiding my erection inside my cropped underwear.

For my friend, it wasn't the first time she had ever seen a penis in person, much less an erect one. It was, however, the first time she had ever seen one on a girl. Try as I could, I couldn't get it to go down, and I couldn't hide it. She begged me to touch it, and I didn't really want her to. She convinced me that she needed to 'practice' so that she would be able to impress all those cute boys, and before I knew it she was trying to deep throat, using me as her guinea pig.

Even after so many years, I could still remember how amazing the feeling was. The sensation of her lips wrapping around my dick electrified my entire body. I wanted her to finger me, too, but she seemed to avoid my soaked entrance. Instead she seemed content to grip onto my cock with her hands and mouth, sucking me for all she was worth.

She brought me close several times, but I couldn't come like that alone. Desperate to feel something inside me, I rocked my hips slightly to the side and reached behind my ass so that I could get access to my pussy. Feeling my fingers inserted and probing made me complete, and I began to try to fuck myself with my first and second finger while fucking her mouth.

I felt a pressure on my anus, and realized that she was trying to finger me there. My pussy was so wet that I had began leaking down towards that hole, and she had enough lubricant to easily slip inside my ass.

I had just enough time to marvel that she had no problem fingering my ass, but wouldn't go anywhere near my pussy, when my orgasm finally unleashed. I didn't even realize I had been holding her head in place with my free hand until she started moaning and pushing back against it.

My entire lower midsection seemed to be in a concert of convulsions. My cock pulsed in her mouth, firing like a canon, while my ass gripped her finger as if that's what it was built for. My own pussy was shuddering against my two fingers so wildly that it almost seemed confused as to what it should be doing.

When I was done emptying myself into her mouth, I felt her withdraw her finger, and I reluctantly did the same with mine. I felt remarkably empty, suddenly, and wanted to continue. As hesitant as I had been to start with, my engine was now purring and I felt like I was just getting started.

We tried having sex, but after I had come down her throat she had a sudden change of heart. It was too "weird" for her to be pentrated by another girl, and we had to stop before I could completely slip inside her. We contented ourselves with the blowjob, but I never got the chance to enter her completely, because she was too scared.