How I Met My Husband                   by: Michelle C.

 

You know how high school boy’s locker rooms are. Or maybe you don’t. Then again if you’re reading this, you probably do, or wish you did.

Well, mine wasn’t quite typical, but all the essential ingredients were there. I mean, boys are boys, and all that…more or less…maybe less than meets the eye…but I’m digressing. So it was a quirky little private high school in a famous desert resort town in the Southwest which will remain nameless. Let’s call it Oasis Dunes, which is a kind of almost-oxymoron, isn’t it?

This school, Something Pretentious Academy let’s say, was smaller than your average public high and it had a kind of threadbare reputation for snobbishness and what the people who ran it called—unforgivably, I always thought--exclusivity. Right. Twelve or thirteen grand a year and you were exclusive.

Anyway, this is about how I met my husband, so let’s cut to the locker room, where it happened.

I’m sitting on a too-often-painted bench in front of my locker after what was grandiosely called P.E. (which consisted of us aimlessly tossing the ball of the season around) and I’m naked, having just walked out of the shower.

There are about ten guys around. (I told you, it was a small school. I mean, this was just the senior class, but still…).

Now, as you may know, boy’s locker rooms are a mixed blessing, for some of us at least. On one hand, they’re often full of young, naked guys. On the other hand, some of those guys tend to get a little squirrelly if they think they’re being looked at with…ulterior motives. High school homosexual panic. You know what I mean.

Now, I was a smart kid, if you don’t mind me saying so. There’s something about being a raving cute passionate girl kidnapped at birth and squeezed into a boy’s body that sharpens the faculties, isn’t there? So I sometimes felt kind of like one of those guys who are always going on about how they’d love to sneak into a girl’s locker room, drool, drool, drool, except I was a girl who had successfully pulled off the neat trick of infiltrating a boy’s locker room. Sort of, anyway.

And I enjoyed it, yes I did. Good, clean, voyeuristic fun. And sometimes I thought--what the heck--there might be an interesting, shy young fellow around who’d secretly enjoy the sight of a slim, blonde, long-legged, rather androgynous…person (namely me), as that person, mmmm, showered and dried off and swing that person’s longish hair around to dry it, and, with just a hint of unboyish delicacy, got dressed. So throw in a dash of good, clean, mild exhibitionism. Just a dash. A girl, even a secret one, does like to be noticed, after all.

But, listen, quirky high school that it was, it was still a high school in America, and this smart kid knew enough to not make trouble. So, despite what I just said, I was careful, discrete, and—sigh—resolutely non-swishy. No kidding.

So there I am on the shiny bench and over walks…let’s call him Oscar Weiner. A big, dull, plodding kid whose main claim to fame was that he obsessively talked about his karate lessons and wore—I’m not kidding—his black belt to school. It was sophomore year, true, but still….

Big dumb Oscar has been on my case ever since I wouldn’t let him look over my shoulder during a history exam junior year. Just didn’t feel like having this guy breathing and grunting all over my neck.

Let’s see, what was his favorite put-down? Ah yes. Faggot. He liked to call me faggot. The rest of the guys pretty much ignored Oscar, and despite my raving, passionate, and very, very secret girlhood, I passed comfortably as a boy, and none of them gave me the least trouble. They were really pretty good guys, the rest of my class, and, hey, some of them were real friends.

So there’s Oscar standing in front of me (naked, but I would have passed up the honor in a second, believe me), and he says, "Hey faggot, when you goin’ to cut your hair, huh, faggot."

"Jesus, Oscar, get lost," I say.

"Get lost!" he says, "I belong here. This is a guy’s locker room, faggot, in case you haven’t noticed and I bet you have,"and he raves on in that imaginative vein for awhile—I won’t bore you—and he seems to be getting himself excited, edging into a nice episode of homosexual panic, and I’m just slipping on my socks, and he does something he’s never done, which is give me a slug on the shoulder and when I tell him to cut it out (adding a run-of-the-mill insult at the end of my request), he slugs me again, and now he’s really excited-panicky and he shoves me off the bench onto the concrete floor, where I lie rather unbecomingly, and he gives me a kick in the tummy, the s.o.b., and I double up in pain so I can’t see, but I can hear, a deep voice say, "Leave him alone, you jerk," and when I raise up a little I see my future husband pulling Oscar away from me and flinging him—I’m not kidding, he just flung the guy—across the room, where he landed with a satisfying thud.

Oscar looks like he wants to get up and do some of his silly karate stuff, but I can see him take a look at my knight-in-no-armor-whatsoever, just dreamy naked skin, and he thinks better of it.

My knight turns to me.

It’s Mike. The new guy in school. Just with us a few months. Kind of quiet. Shy, maybe. Gorgeous, certainly. Black hair, strong nose, strong chin, strong enough to toss poor Oscar across the room. Nice chest hair, too, not too fluffy and apey, just the way I….

"You okay?" he asks. I’m still on the concrete, though I’ve collected my wits enough to re-arrange myself into a more…pleasing tableau.

"Yeah," I say, "except now I’ve got a big crush on you and I’ll probably start following you around with my books held tightly to my heaving chest and write your name in my notebook and surround it with little hearts or something, and sooner or later you’re going to catch on, the whole school’s going to catch on, and there I’ll be, yanked out of the closet by my very own little self and Oscar will pound me at will while you look on shaking your head. Yeah, big beautiful boy, I’m okay. Just a little doomed, that’s all. Damnit."

"Good," he says, kindly ignoring all but the first word of what I said (which he couldn’t hear anyway, natch). "What a loser that guy is," he says, and looks around to make sure Oscar, just now hauling himself up, has heard him. Oscar has indeed heard him, I can tell, and Oscar is clearly in the mood to opt for discretion over his bullyboy notions of valor, poor schmuck.

My future husband gallantly offers his hand and lifts me up like I’m a rag doll--an image I don’t find unpleasant--and stands in front of me just long enough for my pulse to start galloping at the big, glorious sight of him, and turns away.

 

Chapter Two

About a week went by, during which I successfully resisted the impulse to follow him around and write his name in my notebook, etc., etc., but my crush just got crushier every day. He sat next to me in Trig class, and three seats over in English, and two seats in front of little pulsating me in French. I will now grandly flunk out, I thought, and I will spiral down to barely articulate unemployability, all because of this big lug’s utter lovability, which absolutely demands my hypnotized attention. You know how it is.

Friday, just as school was getting out, I decided that sheer compassionate humanity dictated that I talk with him. After all, he seemed so…lonely. Everybody needs a little innocent friendship, don’t they?

I sidled up next to him as we walked to the locker room to store our books. "Hi," I said perkily.

"Hey," he said.

"I’ve been meaning to thank you for that thing with Oscar."

"No problem. That kind of stuff is so ugly." Nice choice of words, I thought.

"Yeah. Well…." (Why didn’t you script this, girl!) "I don’t know if you’re interested in…"(Oh, God, what is he interested in!) "…in…uh…hiking…"(Oh, god!) "but, I, ah, I know a really neat trail, kind of off the map, sort of, and if you’re new to the…uh…area, you might want to, these mountains are really pretty, looking down on the desert and everything, and you know, you might want to take a hike one day. Just an idea."

"That sounds nice," he said. And I just about swooned. I decided to press my luck a mile or two past good sense.

"How about tomorrow? I mean, if you’re not, you know, busy or anything." Now I was rolling. He was looking at me with his big green beautiful friendly eyes and I was hurtling into them and there was no turning back. "We could…you could come over to my house, I’m near where the trail starts, and we could…maybe make some sandwiches or something, and…uh…head out from there."

"Sounds good," he said. And we stood on the lawn in front of the locker room and I gave him my address and told him how to get there and we set a time and put away our books and said see you tomorrow and I floated to the parking lot, got in my funky old Plymouth and drove home in one sweet tizzy, let me tell you.

 

Chapter Three

Okay, now. You can imagine me fluttering around the house all afternoon and evening, tingling with expectation and nerves. Thank god my mother was away—she was away most of the time, which was fine with me. Her being gone all the time gave me lots of opportunities to slip into something more comfortable, more real. Lots of time to be my true self.

So: I puttered nervously that afternoon in a cute little denim skirt and clingy tee, and slipped into bed in that fantastic pink babydoll I found at the Salvation Army, and got up the next morning, had a quick bite and….

What to wear on my big…date?

He’s due in two hours. I’ve got to shower and shampoo and condition and thank goodness I don’t have to shave! And it really isn’t a date, I mean, he sure doesn’t think it’s a date, but I do, I do, I do, damnit.

So what to wear?

Okay. It’s a hot day, late spring. So: something cool. Duh. Okay, you know you want to wear those cut-offs, you know you do. Sure they’re a little short, but, hey, it’s hot and regular boys wear cut-offs, and anyway they really do make your legs look extra long. And they’re comfortable. A little tight maybe...I mean, those jeans were bought when you were still in grade school practically, but, no, they’re really comfortable. Practical for a day like this. Besides, this isn’t about comfort, right? Okay, now, which top? Simple. Something simple. That blue tee, the one with the little sleeves. Just a little…mmmm…girly, but, hey, it’s just a simple blue tee. And so, so powdery blue, too.

Great. Those socks, the ones that sort of fold over a little. Just regular socks, pretty much. And those simple tennis shoes, a little thin for a hike, but you don’t want to wear anything clunky, that’s for sure. And that light taupe daypack, that’ll do quite nicely to complete the…ensemble. Great. Decided. Oh, and, um, how about those light blue panties? He’s not going to see anything, after all. And they’re cotton, nothing…fancy, just simple panties. I mean, there’s no sense in going on a…date in total boy drag, is there?

I get dressed, give my self a twice-over in the mirror…(yep, not too much. Just enough--I hope!), and sit around waiting until the doorbell rings and I scamper…slow down, honey, take it easy… and open the door and there’s my future husband and if I throw myself in his arms and wrap myself around him do you think he’d mind? Probably. So I say Hi, perkily.

He’s dressed in chino shorts and a blue golf shirt and low-cut hiking shoes with blinding white socks and he looks like he just popped out of GQ. He quickly runs his eyes over me. Oh, god, maybe those cut-offs are a little much. Gulp.

He says hi and I take him into the kitchen and we fill up my water bottles and make Swiss cheese sandwiches on some nice hard French rolls and we chat naturally. My little heart is pumping, and I put some effort into not hyperventilating, with reasonable success.

I tell him a little about myself, about Mom and Dad’s divorce and how he’s nowhere to be found, and she’s not much for staying home, leaving out the drinking part, and there’s not much else, oh, I read a lot, science fiction and history and stuff like that, and he tells me about his Dad who made a lot of money on Wall Street and his parents are divorced, too, and he and his Dad decided to move to the desert, now that the old man is retired, and he likes science fiction, too, and reads all kinds of stuff, and I imagine lying in bed reading on our honeymoon in Hawaii after making love for the fifth time that day and tossing the books away, and snuggling, and….

"Okay. Ready to go?" he asks.

"Onward," I say.

We drive to the trailhead in his sensible Japanese car. I really do know and love this trail. I’ve walked it many times alone, dreamily. It’s a tomboy thing. I love to hike. Freedom of the hills, and all that.

We get out and he takes my little day-pack and puts it in his big black one and says "I’ll carry this stuff," and I say, "Um, okay, thanks," and we start walking up from the desert into the dry, beautiful, chocolate-colored hills that most visitors to Oasis Dunes never even notice.

We’re quiet. The trail is steep and we gain elevation quickly. About 30 minutes go by and I stop and say, "Look," pointing to the desert. "Oh," he says, "It’s beautiful. Now I really see that it’s an oasis. This is so…extraordinary. Thanks for bringing me here." He has amassed about a five hundred thousand bonus points. He was already a winner, but this was a nice icing for a scrumptious cake.

The trail takes a turn. We’re hiking close together and suddenly a rock slides under my (yes: too thin) tennis shoes, and I fall, and feel a pain in my ankle and say, "Ow." He squats down next to me.

"Okay?" he asks, his hand on my shoulder.

"Yeah, except now I don’t have a crush on you anymore because I’m in love with you, damnit, and I don’t feel like going through the rest of the day, much less the rest of the school year, not to mention the next sixty years without you next to me, really next to me, the real me, and I’m close to tears because I don’t have the slightest idea how to tell you and what to tell you, you big, smart, beautiful lug."

Gallantly hearing just my first word once again, he takes me by the shoulders and lifts me, and I float up in his strong arms until I’m looking into those green eyes, inches away, and I put my arms around him and bury my face in his sweaty neck and whisper "Damnit, damnit, damnit," and hold on to him like it’s the last time I’m ever going to be this close to him and I have to hold him tightly and feel his body against mine so I’ll have something to remember when I’m alone and scorned and pining away for the next sixty years.

I start to cry, and break away, stumbling back.

"I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s just…I didn’t…" I’m sniffling. My fists are clenched and my eyes are closed tight.

"What are you sorry for?" he says.

"Just that…I didn’t mean, oh, damnit, damnit."

He takes a step forward and puts his right arm around my waist and draws me to him effortlessly and lifts my face and I open my eyes and he pulls me closer and kisses me.

Absolute, heavenly, total kiss. True, nothing left out, passionate, delicate, forceful, what- will-you-do-with-me-now-that-I’m-utterly-yours kiss.

After about sixty years I come up for air. "What…" I begin. "Shush," he says. "Here, put your arm around my shoulder. Let’s go back. I don’t want you walking too far on that ankle."

 

Chapter Four

His sensible Japanese car had bucket seats, or I would have been glued to him all the way home. As it was, I curled up and stared at him the whole time and he turned every once in awhile and smiled the sweetest smile I’d ever seen in my seventeen and a half years, or ever would see again, for certain.

We got to my house and my future husband came around to help me out of the car. I opened the door and he reached down and touched my ankle and said, "It’s swollen a little" and then he picked me up and I put my arms around his neck and he carried me through the doorway and home.

He laid me down on the couch in the living room and sat beside me. "Can I get you anything?" he said. "Yes," I said, "you can get me right out of these too-tight cutoffs and out of my tee and off with my panties and socks and shoes and into your arms and make it quick, buster."

As usual, he was touchingly hard of hearing.

"What?" he said.

"Oh, just stay here with me." Like I was a pretty flower fading away. He smiled and brushed a strand of hair from my face.

"No, I’ll tell you what I need," I said, and grabbed him and pulled him down to me and gave him my best (and, until then, only) I-belong-to-you-but-you-belong-to-me-too kiss.

When he came up for air, he said, "Where’s your room?" and picked me up again and carried me to my bed, and plopped me down and got me right out of that tee and shoes and socks and—oh god, he’s going to see my panties…I don’t care, I don’t care. I don’t care, damnit—and unbuttoned my cut-offs and pulled them down and saw my panties, and looked up at me and smiled and bent down and kissed them right smack wetly where my boy thing was throbbing away, and he took them off too, and I yanked off his golf shirt and he kicked off his shoes and I tore off his shorts and jockeys and we just flowed into each other, kissing, caressing, urgent, young, crazy with each other, just absolutely crazy with each other.

When we resurfaced my head was on his chest and he was stroking my bottom.

"So soft," he said.

"I love you," I said.

"So quick," he said.

"So true," I said and slid down to his middle and took his beautiful big man thing in my mouth and slurped and sucked and loved it And his firm balls, I loved them too, and I turned him over and licked his bottom cheeks, just staking a claim for future exploration, and he pulled me up and kissed my wet face and said, "I guess so. Me too," and kissed and sucked at my nipples until I whimpered for mercy and licked one great lick down to my belly and took my little shy thing in his mouth and loved it and flipped me over like a rag doll and licked and kissed me there, on my true pussy, until I went a little crazy and then he loved me some more until I went a lot crazy and I said, make love to me really, really, please darling, please, and I turned onto my back because I wanted to do it that way, looking at my future husband while he loved me and went inside me.

"Wait," he said. "Just a minute. I want to…something I need to know." He was on his knees, looking down at me. My legs were spread wide and I felt like a runaway train. Get a grip, girl, I thought. He’s serious. Deep breath.

"What?"

"What…well…what’s your real name?"

Shock. He damn well knew my name, we were in three classes together, for god’s sake, what is he…oh. Oh.

"Michelle," I said.

"And who are you, really?"

"I am…the person you know already. That person truly." He leaned over and kissed me lightly, then leaned back.

"I know that. And?"

"And I am a seventeen and a half year old…person…who is…trans…"

"Gendered," he said. This was a serious moment, but I couldn’t help thinking that the bonus points were quickly becoming infinitely uncountable.

"Yes, transgendered," I said. "I am a seventeen and a half year old…girl who will become a woman one way or the other, and if I could, I would dress like a girl all the time, naturally, and be a girl, and I think like a girl, and I am truly a girl, and I like being what I am just perfectly fine, and…"

"And?" He was smiling.

"And I am lying in bed with the most kind and smart and gorgeous man I’ll ever meet, and I’m in love and I want to be his girlfriend and I want him to be my boyfriend, seriously, really, really seriously, and I want him to make love right now to his girlfriend, damnit."

"Done," he said. "As good as done, Michelle, my lovely girlfriend."

"Well, I hope it’s not that quick," I said and we laughed. I lifted my legs and wrapped them around him and pulled him to me and ravaged his mouth. He put his hand between my legs and stroked me and then he found my rosebud and pressed against it with his index finger. I grabbed his hand and brought it to my mouth and wet his finger and put it back where it belonged, giving it a helpful push.

Into me. Gently, firmly. Then another finger, until I was writhing and whimpering, and he was playing me like a grand piano, pinching my nipples, playing inside me, deep bass notes and sweet high notes, and booming chords.

"We need…." He said.

"Hold on," I gasped, breaking off and reaching into my bedside table, opening the drawer and pulling out my rose-scented lubricant. He leaned over and looked into the drawer and saw my little—well, not so little—helper.

"You’ve been practicing," he said.

"A girl’s got to be ready for her big day," I said, squeezing a healthy dollop on my fingers. I got myself ready, and him ready, efficient little girlfriend that I am, and said, "Mike, I’m serious." And he said, "I am, too."

I rewrapped him with my legs and lifted up and took his sweet thing and guided it home.

"Tell me if it hurts too much, honey," my future husband said.

"It won’t," I said, but it did.

Like a thick electric shock. I need more practice, I thought, biting my lip. Well, looks like I’ve got a training partner, anyway.

"Okay?" he asked, knowing it wasn’t…quite…yet.

"It feels…divine," I said, managing a laugh. "Onward."

And onward we went, slowly, gently, until my insides got the message and got to know their new man, and welcomed him in and I felt…divine, like a goddess in her paradise with her god in her, and the warmth was golden and I began to cry and say silly things and buck against him, feeling his hair on my tender bottom, wanting to pull him all the way inside me and pet him and take care of him and make him happy and iron his shirts and fold his underwear and never, ever, let him go.

And he said silly things to me, things I wanted to write in my notebook and surround with little hearts and never forget and he moved in and out of me like a big cat until I thought I. Would. Just. Burst.

"Oh, Michelle," he said, and I knew he was ready.

"Do you want…?"

"Don’t…worry about me…just…."

And I arched and squeezed him will all my might and pulled him closer and he…gave me. Himself. In what felt like a loving torrent, filling me with himself, and he said I love you, I love you, I love you, and I squeezed greedily because I wanted to be full of him, just sloshing and wet and sloppy and barefoot and innocent and enslaved to him. Forever.

We melted down, down.

And when we resurfaced I was fussing with his thick black hair, looking him in the eyes, pressing, trembling a little, against his middle with my full and wet middle.

"Simul…"

"Taneous orgasms," I said. "Good sign for a future…"

"Mate?" he said.

"Husband," I said, "Damnit."

 

(To be continued.)

 

 

 

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© 2001 by Michelle C. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.