BY DA RYA TEESE W ELL
I
was soaking in the tub at the Holiday inn in San Francisco on Kearny Street. I had just finished shaving my legs, chest, arms and pubic area. I also took this opportunity to insert a butt plug. I had flown up here and checked into the hotel for one reason: to have sex with a guy I had met in a chat room on America Online. His name was Charles, he was a lawyer, and he had a serious thing for me and the pictures I posted in my online profile. We had chatted via steamy instant messages and finally, by phone and he kept saying that he’d fly me up for a night in a hotel and “take care of me”. Finally he said: “Darya… pick a weekend and come up. I’ll take care of you. I’ll put you up in the Holiday Inn near Chinatown”. The process seemed complex on its face, but it went smoothly and simply. I told my wife I was working on a German rock video for cash. Charles mailed me cash for the flights in my boy name, along with an imprint of his American Express card to show the clerk at check-in, since I would arrive first. On the day I left, I went over to see Bev and Brandi who helped make sure I didn’t have hair on my back. Bev was using some gadget that pulled the hairs out mechanically. It wasn’t painless. I was leaving their apartment to catch the two-o’clock Southwest to SFO from Burbank. “Fucking a guy for money, huh? Our little girl is growing up,” Brandi said. She was drinking a martini at eleven a.m., her normal late-morning choice. “You packed an enema, right?” Bev asked. “It’s just common courtesy,” She was right. It’s the little things. I had packed a lot of stuff for the trip, more than I needed, but I am not the world’s most decisive person. My online photos sold me as a big, rideable, Ginger tranny with a dark red cupid-bow of a mouth and a fondness for garters, stockings and thigh high boots. I believed in truth in advertising. I was flying up in my male mode; t-shirt,
86 www.fourculture.com | ISSUE THIRTEEN
jeans and dirty Nikes. I had one checked bag full of boots, shoes, clothes, sex toys and a coat, and a carry-on filled with breast forms, makeup and toiletries plus a back up wig and outfit in case they lost my bag. Preparation is the sign of a pro, whose ranks I would be joining tonight. When my carry-on came into view on the x-ray, I overheard one TSA agent tell the other, “Someone has a little secret”. I said nothing, but the response, in my head, was simply, “A girl’s gotta eat”. Charles had given me money for the cab ride from San Francisco Airport to downtown. The check-in got a little tense for a moment. The officious young man at the desk didn’t accept the photocopy of Charles’ American Express Card. The young man finally agreed to call Charles on his cell phone, which I had a feeling irritated both of them. Nonetheless, I now had a lovely room on the eighth floor looking out over the city. Charles was supposed to come by around 8:30, so I got busy. The bath was heavenly. I’ve always had mixed emotions about buttplugs. There is something I find oddly claustrophobic about using them, but tonight it was preparing me for the main event. I showered off loose hair and let the soft San Francisco air breeze into the room to dry me off. I applied moisturizer all over and shaved any vagrant hairs off, especially around my nipples. The enema had done its work and my southern portion was clear and ready to receive. My makeup was simple then. I was slowly mastering the art of seductive illusion. My go-to base had been taught to me by Jim Bridges, the old master. I blended two Kryolan Dermacolor tattoo covers to match my skin tone and mask what was my then pre-laser beard, set it with powder, and then blended with a water-based liquid foundation. I used a light golden green color on my eyelids, then a dark brown shadow in the crease. I used dark brown liquid liner along the edge of the top lid, and another dark brown pencil along the bottom lid below
the eye. Charles was paying so he deserved sex-kitten me in false lashes. I applied some fairly natural looking ones. Brows and cheeks were next. I waited on lipstick until I had an ETA on Charles. I hate it when lipstick bleeds on the edges. I chose my go-to red wig after putting on a wig cap. It had bangs and layered sides. I’d primp it more later. I put on my black quick-untie panties, a patent garter belt and then pulled up and snapped on the lace-top black stockings over my freshly shaven legs. I had some new breast forms with fairly realistic nipples, and a see through bra that fit them. The effect was pretty convincing for a moment or two. I hadn’t eaten much, so my corset would be pretty effective at narrowing my waist. I sucked in and began the tighten, double-tighten routine I had gotten so good at. I stepped in the black pumps I’d brought and stepped in front of the full length mirror. I decided that I would definitely fuck me and that was the look I wanted. The sky was darkening and fog was rolling in. Charles said he was at a dinner and delayed. He’d be there before ten. I watched local news while applying a double coat of brownish-red “Vixen” on my nails. The city was coming to life below. I could hear traffic and smelled an occasional garlicky whiff of something Chinese. I slipped into a short, snug, tight skirt and a top that would slip off easily. There was no balcony, so I smoked a long cigarette by the window. Waiting. I clipped on my favorite hoop earrings and tied on my velvet choker. I painted my lips with my favorite MAC color of the day, deep burgundy “Carnal”, after some wine colored pencil outlining. I sipped Diet Coke through a straw as the ten o’clock news came on. Ten minutes later there was a knock at the door. I looked through the peephole and saw a tall white haired man. I opened the door. He looked down the hall and stepped in. He smelled like he’d had some expensive white wine and fish for dinner. “Hi, Darya.” I took his hand. “Come in.”