Untitled Short


I died the night she left me. The sting of her words was still burning in my head when I went to cross the street. I never saw the car coming. In an instant, I was lost.

I’ve spent two months hovering over my broken body. It’s true that the machines are what keep me alive, but my mind is still wide awake. My thoughts are clearer now than they ever have been.

I don’t remember the impact. That is a small blessing, to say the least. I do remember the pain though. Not the pain of having my body thrown over a hundred feet or the pain of my bones crackling as I hit the pavement. No, I’m talking about the pain of heartache. My body was just catching up with my heart.

I don’t blame her for giving up. I made too many mistakes. I took for granted that she would always be there – always be my wife. If my life’s lesson was to learn that it takes more than love – more than passion even, then I learned well. It takes more than love. It takes trust.

I’ve had plenty of time to think about the many mistakes I made while floating over my lifeless form. I’ve watched people come and go; some shocked by my disfigured body, others weeping as they say their last good-byes. Nobody thinks I am going to live, and perhaps I won’t. I was dead before that car ever struck me. I was dead the moment she let go.

There are no angels or demons here. No heaven or hell. It’s the same space I’ve inhabited all along. I don’t know what will happen if I let go. I could float off into a black void and simply cease to exist. I might discover the answers to the greatest questions ever imagined. More than likely, I think I will continue to be here, attached to a world that I can no longer hold claim to. My physical body would simply serve as food for the Earth and my conscience would be eternal. There are so many possibilities, but absolutely no assurances.

I hear her whispering to me at night. She fights me most just before sleep. I listen as she asks for my forgiveness or curses me for leaving her in this wretched world alone. I hear every single word.

I wish I could hold her, touch her, and reassure her that I am fine. But I’m not really fine at all, am I? Even if I were to make a miraculous recovery and return to the life I knew before the accident, I still wouldn’t be fine. I was fine when I knew she loved me. I was fine when she was by my side. I was fine when we dreamed about our future together. No, I’ll never again be fine.

I have to wonder if I’m holding on to this life just to be close to her. Is it more selfish of me to want to hang on to her than it is to cut myself off from my body? Am I not killing a part of her by giving up? Yes, I realize it’s that I’m selfish. I’ve always been selfish. If it weren’t for my selfishness she may still be my wife and I might not have walked in front of that car. If, if, if…all these ifs.

I acknowledge the severity of my crimes. I ask only for her forgiveness as each day I fade. I am beyond prayer and still no closer to God. There’s no penance for the guilty soul. I must let go and end these dreams of absolution. There’s no peace in delaying the inevitable. Now, be quiet my mind and deliver my soul.


The Game

The closet was dark as he fought his way between clothes, shoes and boxes. His breathing was heavy as he positioned himself against the wall and began to regulate his breathing. He could see the last hint of the afternoon sun streaming through the spaces between the wooden planks crossing the closet doors. Soon, she would be home.

He relaxed more as five minutes turned into thirty minutes, finding ways to amuse himself inside her cluttered closet. He pressed his face against her most delicate garments, sniffing them first, and then rubbed his unshaven face over them. He felt himself growing aroused and quickly forced himself to think about more serious things – like what it would feel like to…

He was interrupted mid-thought by the sound of a car door shutting. She was home. He knew her routine like clockwork. His palms were wet with sweat as he heard the downstairs door open and then close. He closed his eyes, trying to keep his breathing under control as he heard the dead bolt lock click into place. She was all safe and secure from the outside world now. No one could get in. He smiled, thinking, and no one can get out!

Sweat trickled down his cheeks in anticipation of her entrance into the bedroom. The light came on and his body stiffened as the light penetrating the planks felt like a spotlight set out to expose him. He closed his eyes tightly, releasing his clenched fists and breathed through his nose. There, much better.

He slowly opened his eyes to the sight of her undressing. She removed her clothing and laid it aside with such care. Her movements were liquid as she quietly maneuvered naked throughout the bedroom. She was humming a familiar tune. He searched his brain trying to place the song with no luck. Then, he settled back on the task at hand.

He fumbled with the thin piece of packaging rope he had stuffed in his pocket earlier in the day. He preferred piano wire but he didn’t have time to prepare as much as he had wanted. The window of opportunity fell short and now he was forced to play his hand unrehearsed.

He watched her disappear into the small bathroom adjacent to her bedroom. He closed his eyes again, breathing in the scented, humid air as she ran a bath. His jaw tightened as he ground his teeth together, methodically calculating the perfect moment to make his move.

He watched as she bent over her bed, laying out her virginal looking night gown and placing her white frilly panties just so. He slid the door open cautiously. The water filling the tub echoed loud enough to mask any noise from the closet doors. He moved catlike behind her, his cock suddenly rock hard as he wrapped the rope around her neck and snapped her backwards.

He smiled when she gasped. He knew he’s taken her off guard. She struggled not to free herself from his surprise attack, but to be able to breathe. He had practiced this technique before.

He loosened the rope slightly, giving her body enough leverage to slide down so that he could push her face forward into the bed. As she gasped for the little bit of air he was allowing her to have, he had already unzipped his pants and has forcing himself inside her. She let out a loud whimper, at which time he tightened the rope once again. She needed to realize she wasn’t going to be able to scream for help. Hell, she was lucky if he allowed her to breathe!

He used the rope as a reign of sorts, pounding into her repeatedly as tears streamed down her cheeks. He clinched his teeth, thrusting hard into her as if he were stabbing her over and over again until finally, he buried himself deep inside her, spewing his seed inside her.

He stepped back, admiring his work, watching her gasp for air, gagging as her body shook. She found her ground and faced him. A quick slap echoed throughout the room as she scowled. She walked toward the bathroom and turned off the water.

He heard her step into the bath and walked toward the bathroom. He stood over her contemplating his next move. She glared up at him and yelled, ‘not good enough!’

He lowered his head in defeat. She splashed water at him, yelling, ‘I expect more from you! Now bathe me.’

He slid to his knees, taking her favorite sponge and gently scrubbing the day away. She relaxed, settling down into the tub as he washed her hair.

Identity & Comfort Zones

My lesson for today:

It’s ok to be a woman who wants to look/act like a man.

Not that I didn’t already know that, but it must have been important enough that someone would point it out to me. For anyone who has been following my blog for a while, or for those who know me on a more personal level, you know that I have been struggling for some time with identity. It’s far more than the questions of who am I? or where do I belong?, but also, am I in the right body? 

Ever since I was a tiny child, I remember imagining myself to be a boy. I liked girls, therefore logically, I’m a boy. That seemed to suffice for a young me. Now, as I get older, I’ve begun dissecting myself and my life in order to find that place where I can feel a sense of peace within.

One thing is certain and has never changed: I am attracted to women! I love women! Women do it for  me! The only attractions I’ve ever had to men were more of wow, I wish I looked like him.

Another certainty, I love masculinity. I love dressing in men’s clothing and looking like a man. I am most comfortable in my own skin when I look and feel masculine. That doesn’t mean that I don’t have feminine qualities. Sometimes I feel as if I am more comfortable with my own femininity the more masculine I look. When I look in the mirror, I am much happier with the masculine me.

I’ve always rebelled against labels, but at the same time, I’ve always wanted to “fit” somewhere and realize that in most cases, labels are important in finding others of like mind. For a long time I referred to myself as a lesbian. Other terms were harder for me to swallow. After I’d just come out, words like “dyke” or “butch” seemed offensive to me. Now, I find them to be power words.  It is the same with “FTM” or “Transman”. I turned away from expressing myself using these words because of my own fears about myself. Now I embrace them.

Yes, it is ok to be a woman who wants to look/act like a man. And yes (!), it’s alright for a transman to decide he doesn’t want to take hormones or have chest reconstruction surgery. Just the fact that I have come to terms with who I am, I am now slowly realizing that I don’t have to be anybody other than who I am. I don’t have to be like everyone else — I can be me!