Miss O. Jenny

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Over a decade ago, I grew weary of the misogynistic tone of a large percentage of TG stories posted online. In response, I posted this story. There are great Marines -- and then there were these two.

Miss O. Jenny
By Angela Rasch

I wiped a bit of dust off its imposing left fender before entering the coffee shop. My truck’s body had to be twenty-five degrees hotter than the air around it. On a day like today, a truck like mine could inflict a certain amount of pain on the unsuspecting.

The black paint on my Chevy Avalanche LTZ 4x4 gleamed through several layers of Rainshield Total Body Protectant. I purchased my car washes by the month and ran my wheels through about once every three days.

A clean ride was a requisite parked outside my Title Insurance office where I spent my days protecting my clients from liens, defects, and other scary things that could ruin a creditor’s day.

My business, Aegis Home Titles, operated under the motto, “I minimize your risk.” I slapped my corporate logo, a gold rampant griffin with red claws on an azure field, on everything my trinkets-and-trash guy could find.

The other cars in the small lot that serviced the Starbucks all looked to be the kind of cars that women drive. Perhaps Rook hadn’t arrived yet. He normally was punctual on-line. . .but this was RL.

I hesitated while wondering if I should wait, in my truck, until he arrived. The whole let’s-have-coffee thing felt uncomfortable. If Rook and I hadn’t become such good friends online, I never would have considered it. Months ago, we had met in a chatroom for people who read and write TG fiction. Had he been one of those who tries to pass himself off as a woman, I would have never agreed to a meeting.

After all, I’m a happily married man with four kids.

I opened the door and was jolted by the sickeningly sweet smell of heated sugar and ground coffee. He wasn’t hard to spot amongst the six customers, in his poly/cotton woodland BDU jacket. I wore my blue blazer with the Aegis shield, on my pocket. I’d left my red tie hanging, from the rearview mirror, in my truck, and loosened the top button, on my shirt.

“Chuck,” he called out. “Beard and blazer,” he added. He obviously recognized me from the description I’d given him and toasted me with his coffee.

“I’ll get some java -- and be right over to our table,” I said, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice.

It isn’t every day you meet someone like Rook. He’s possibly one of the best-loved TG fiction writers on the web.

I write a little, but my stuff can’t rival his . . . on my best day, even though Rook said I had real potential.

I scoured the Starbucks menu looking for something that would make the right statement. Caffe Americano seemed to suggest the right spirit. There’s nothing frou-frou about it. After paying more than enough for a cup of Joe, I made my way through the chairs and tables to join Rook.

“Good to see you, Chuck.” He stuck out his hand, which I immediately grasped. “I’m Buster.”

“I know,” I said, showing off my equally firm grip. “I recognized you from the police-blotter sketch you gave me.” He had said he was average height, a little overweight, with a red Van Dyke.

When he released my hand, I noticed a tingling as the blood ran back into my fingers.

He pointed to the tattoo on my right forearm and grinned. “Semper Fi.”

“Always faithful, Mac,” I responded. “I should’ve known.”

He chuckled. “I expect there are quite a few other things we have in common. You could’ve knocked me over with a feather when the mighty Fishburne told me he lived in the Twin Cities. Can you imagine — Rook and Fishburne both living in the same city? That’s one for the book.”

Any fear I harbored had been resolved. A Marine isn’t about to rape you in the parking lot, not unless you’re prime, cock-teasing poontang. I nodded toward his ink, which simply stated “MOM” — “I got me a tattoo a lot like that one, but only my wife and the guy that needled me have ever seen it.”

“Uh-huh,” he said sadly, “Ma passed on a few years back. If all women were like her and knew what’s what, about ninety percent of what’s wrong with this man’s world, wouldn’t be.”

“Sure enough,” I agreed while thinking of the saint I called Ma. “Hey, we should have done this long ago.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what we were afraid of.” He shook his head. “Hey girly-girl,” he yelled toward the woman running the counter. “You got any decent bottled water, Honey. Or is it all that Dasani horseshit?”

“Do you want a bottle?” She held up something, in a container that clearly hadn’t been made by Dasani.

“What do you think?” He sneered, and then turned to me and dropped his voice. “Fucking cunt. If I didn’t want it, why would I ask? She’s about as out-to-lunch as those cross-dressing stories that foul our sites. I can’t imagine what people see in them.”

I nodded. The image I had of the average cross-dresser made my stomach roil.

After Buster settled-up for the bottle of water, he leered at the woman, who appeared to be five or ten years older than our mid-fifties. “Maybe you and I should find someplace fun to go -- after you get off.”

She smiled. “The only fun I’m having this afternoon is a foot massage and some warmed-over, creamed vegetables. And, when I’m looking for the kind of ‘fun’ you might be suggesting, I reach into the pre-Viagra generation.”

“Whore,” he sputtered to her departing back so that only I heard him. Then he raised his voice so that everyone in the place could hear. “Women are less than shallow.”

I quickly scanned the room and counted eight “shallow” beings and the two of us. “Where were we? Oh — you were saying how you were scared to meet up with me.”

His face turned a bit red. “Ain’t nothin’ that scares me.”

For the first time, I realized Rook weighed about thirty more pounds than me. I had been a scrapper in the service. But he’d gotten the same man-to-man combat training and probably was mean as hell when he was pissed. “I know what you mean, Rook. My Gunny once told me I was dumb to know proper fear.” I laughed, hoping he’d join me.

He managed a small snort. “There’s only one damn thing in the whole world that makes my heart palpitate. . ..” He waited several moments to build the tension. He was as good a conversationalist as he was a writer. “The only thing that causes me to sweat blood is the idea of waking up, in the morning, with a beaver.” He poked me with his elbow and sniggered.

I nodded. “Imagine walking around with a rack like that.” I nodded toward an attractive young businesswoman, with a pair nearly popping out of her jacket. “She probably can only count to two, with help. But who the fuck cares?”

“Or. . .,” Buster noted, with a side-long glance toward another patron, “think about how long it took that one to do her face this morning. Michel-fucking-angelo could have done a whole damn church ceiling with that amount of paint.”

“You cannot believe how often I have to go to the whip to get the nags who work for me, to actually get something done.” I sucked on my lip a bit as I considered how many messes the women, in my office, would make without my constant and immediate supervision. I would spend all afternoon cleaning up their female fuck-ups.

“Geez, Fishburne,” Rook said. Even my priest can’t stand women. He’s always quoting St. Paul, to me. He was really hacked off when Paul II issued an apology for sins against the dignity of women. The dignity of women. . .what a laugh!”

I smiled. I thought about some of Rook’s classic stories, and some of mine, and how horrible they would be if they happened, in real life. “Women serve their best purpose as contrast -- to make men look good.”

We both laughed.

“If only they would all realize their natural function in life is to obey.”

“You’re expecting them to act rationally,” I stated -- feeling quite close to Rook. It isn’t every day you meet someone whose philosophy of life is identical to yours.

“These are compliments of the house,” the bitch from behind the counter said. She had rudely broken in on our conversation as she set down two lattes.

“Fishburne and I don’t drink vaginal crap like that,” Rook smirked.

The woman smiled devilishly. “Did you gentlemen notice my necklace when you came in?” She held the chain of her necklace, away from her body, so that the large gold medallion she wore around her neck swung slowly from side to side.

I stared at her pendant and found it like nothing else I’d ever seen. It easily was the most interesting piece of jewelry. . .hmmmm, silly me, I had forgotten to wear any jewelry this morning. No --- I hadn’t. My lovely golden hoops bounced against my neck, while several matching bracelets jingled mockingly as I bent my wrist.

I took another large sip of my drink at the same time as Rook dabbed at her lips, to remove a bit of whipped cream.

“Mmmmmm,” I sighed. “Rook–ky,” I simpered, feeling rather languorous in my Ann Taylor’s basketweave jacket over a cute little “T” I had found on sale, just last weekend. “Isn’t this latte divine?”

“I’m afraid,” she answered, “I’m afraid it’s given me a bit of a hot flash.” She waved a perfumed handkerchief she had taken, from her purse. She fanned her ample breasts, which threatened to burst out of her silk poppy print dress. “Or maybe it’s because my clitty needs your attention.” Her front was tented, in a most inviting and naughty way.

We strolled out arm and arm, not concerned at all that our skirts were flipping in the breeze about us. I searched my gigantic purse until I found the keys to my cute, salsa red VW Bug. They were on a keychain with that horrendous shield logo my stupid boss Larry put on everything. At least, he had given one free keychain to each of us office girls.

I looked into my mirror -- before starting the Bug’s engine and freshened my lipstick, frowning at the amount of laser hair removal I still had in front of me.

Rooky is so lucky to have all of her face done. It’s a bitch to get that asshole Larry, to give me time off. He always wants a little “quim” pro quo.

I’d kill to have Rooky’s glorious red hair framing my surgically reshaped face, which now resembles a sweet little apple.

“I’m afraid you have something that needs me,” Rooky breathed as she rubbed the front of my dress, which had an unladylike bulge -- somewhat like hers.

“Be afraid,” I giggled. “Be very afraid.”

The End

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Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

I have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.

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Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
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The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Imperfect Futures
Voices Carry
Andy and Dawn
The Handshake That Hides the Snake

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Ve-ly intelesting

Must be why guys hate lattes, an instinctive fear. :) I'd say they've been taken down a peg or two, but obviously the pegs are still there. I'm not sure but what it wouldn't have been more fitting to make them complete women, what with all that 'vaginal crap' talk.


"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose"
Janis Joplin

"Life is not measured by the breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away.”
George Carlin


Transformation to womanhood might be poetic justice, but it would have been much too good a fate for these two.

It's left up to the reader whether or not physical changes have been made with these two certified members of the Women Haters Club. Those changes might have been merely hypnotic suggestions manifested only between the ears of Chuck and Buster.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

But bimbohood

Wouldn't. Make them everything they claimed women should be, yet despised. I'm not feeling especially kindly towards men this week anyway, and these two are prime examples of why.


"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose"
Janis Joplin

"Life is not measured by the breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away.”
George Carlin

Take two left turns ...

erin's picture

... and call me when you get to Albuquerque. :)


- Erin

= Give everyone the benefit of the doubt because certainty is a fragile thing that can be shattered by one overlooked fact.

= Give everyone the benefit of the doubt because certainty is a fragile thing that can be shattered by one overlooked fact.

A change is as good as a rest

Not your usual style or format which can be a good thing. Not entirely sure about the plot line (it seems out of character for TG writers to be so contemptuous of women) but, as always, the quality of the prose rescues it.


Not here so much...

But one reason I don't read much on a couple of TG sites any more is the deep-seated misogynism I detect in much of the writing there. Scary in some ways.

Cute story Angela, and as always, very well-written. ;>


Nice to know I'm not alone

I've always thought that myself, and like you it affects how I view the sites where I see them.


"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose"
Janis Joplin

"Life is not measured by the breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away.”
George Carlin

B-I-N-G-O Wanda

Therein lies the whole reason for this sad little tale. I've seen the same horrible shift. And yes . . . very scary. All that guilt, shame, and HATRED boiling in one pot. How long can the lid stay on?

I started this morning to write a blog, but decided to make the social comment using fiction.

The barista's actions probably weren't PMS because her age puts her beyond the blues horizon; more likely it was her attempt to force compassion by having the two walk a mile in her heels.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Forced compassion

I'm not sure that's possible, sounds more like an oxymoron, or a contradiction in terms.

But you have made your point in style, Angela. Gonna post this anywhere else? ;-)

Karen J.

"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose"
Janis Joplin

"Life is not measured by the breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away.”
George Carlin



Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Oh, good grief. . .

Misogyny? In transgendered fiction? How can you tell? Feminists see the whole transgendered experience as trivializing to women and, therfore, misogynistic. This is especially true for M/F transgendered people. Here and elsewhere, when TG's criticize someone's story as "misogynistic" they are, as often as not, reacting to a femdom story wherin a villianous woman is doing diabolically bad things to men. Feminists might very well see such a story as empowering because it treats female villiany similarly to male villiany. In such stories women are powerful, if bad, rather than sterotypically innocent, disempowered victims. On the other hand feminists might also think of "sweet," "sentemental," and "romantic" TG stories, which appear to be preferred by critics of femdom, as disempowering and trivalizing because it places women in traditionally sterotypic roles (as transgendered males' willing helpers) who, therefore, participate in further travializing women by helping men become feminine.

Tossing labels like this around doesn't contribute much to writing criticism or to an understanding of transgenderism. That is, I thought, the whole purpose of BC.

Toss? Aren't you flippant?

What is it about my body of work that suggests to you that I "toss" opinions at the wall to see what will stick.

The central theme of a large segment of TG literature is based on the "horrible fear" of being changed into a woman.

While this dynamic is true of almost the entire spectrum of TG writing, it seems to be most prevalent in the Magical/Sci-Fi writings. The CD side of TG writing seems to make a change to womanhood (or a pretense of womanhood which in some ways embraces femininity much more deeply than the original) a cherished goal, rather than something to be corrected as quickly as possible.

When it is considered how much time the authors of these stories spend thinking of their general themes, characters, and plots and how much angst is involved in discovering (gasp) "I've grown breasts and as a consequence have become silly and stupid" the conclusions seem obvious?

Your statement as to the whole purpose of BC leaves out the obvious one-handed pursuits. When feelings are intense enough as to inspire erotica, those feelings should be respected to the point of nomenclature.

Not all TG authors are misogynists. Not all Magic/Sci-Fi stories are based in women-hating. A large enough percentage of Magic/Sci-Fi stories are centered on the premise that being changed into a female is the worst fate imaginable -- and that deserves a label.

When approaching TG literature in the realm of Human studies, one should probably keep in mind the parallel between cross-dressing and literature. Both are the clothes we wear to make our thoughts more compelling.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

The He-Man Women Hater's Club

laika's picture

A bit over the top, eh Jill? Oh well, my most recent story here was very similar in its treatment of evil, it's fun to do. And it is funny, how their whole worldview is so deeply entrenched in this bizarre gender partisanship (the kind of chip-on-the-shoulder "men's advocates" who, when spouse abuse comes up, will flat deny that men do more physical damage to women than vica versa); and then WHAM, the instant switch to the other stereotypical extreme ...... And there does seem to be some t.g. fiction with misogyny and queasy gynophobia at it's core. It's weird, and you do wonder what they're even doing on these sites. What scares me is the nagging suspicion that---given Angela's penchant for satire that goes straight for the jugular---these two clowns are based (however loosely) on one or more actual t.g. fiction authors, a response to comments or blogs or e-mails that made her blood boil, and this story is a bit of cathartic revenge fantasy. It's just a hunch, I could be totally wrong.
~~~hugs, Laika

And re: Stacy's notion (below) that they're doing this on purpose, as a burlesque; It gives me an idea for one about a transgendered individual who deliberately tries to piss of a witch, going against every actual impulse, to get the transformation whammy put on him (tenative title DID YOU EVER THINK OF ASKING?)...

Wood Eye Dew That

I can't possibly think of any connection between my fiction and any persons living or fictional. . .can I?

Do you suppose Spanky, Alfalfa, and Buckwheat had any idea what kind of club they belonged to? That Darla was a fox. Who wouldn't want to hang with her? Of course, we all do know "girls are the bunk."

You should go ahead with your story. Another title might be "Trick. . .or Treat?" or maybe "Cast Away"

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

I caught

The title as soon as I read it. Wondered where it was gonna go. My first thought was they were doing it on purpose as a cliche thing, then they got carried away. Wondered if they did it so they would get changed on purpose, but it seems they were just dumb.


I thought it was a play on a certain author's name, but having no clue about that person I kept my trap shut. Now I see, it's another one of those Damn-Yankee puns. Excuse my language, my grandfather always told me that those two words are linked beyond any separation. I'll try not to use the "Y"-word again. ;)


"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose"
Janis Joplin

"Life is not measured by the breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away.”
George Carlin

I guess ...

... this would have to be classified as little more than a nasty prank. It's obviously not useful as a punishment, since neither man remembers what they did to deserve this, or even who they were before the medallion did its thing. And if the result was an actual transformation, then Fishburne's wife and four kids pay the price for the Barista's PMS-inspired fit of piqué by being excised from existence.

Nice to see you back, Jill! *hugs* You have been missed.


Oh, it's a play on misogyney

And I thought you were punning Jennie-O Turkeys. Mind you these two authors sure sounded like turkeys.

A WEE bit over the top but fun. As Randalynn suggested, will they remember what happened, if this is a temporary change or there is nothing they will learn from the experience? And the one does have a family who would be hurt, even if he is a jerk.

A fantacy comeuppance. I'll have to be careful who I talk to in the future.

I wonder if she could make me a tall redhead?

John in Wauwatosa

John in Wauwatosa


After seeing quite a number of comments n such a new tale I wondered. Its short and brutal, and reminds me of the early morning chit chat at our meetings; where you sorta smile but dread, that you actually work with these people. scthea

This story got me truly

This story got me truly confused.

Two guys writing TG stories and also being that 'macho'?
How the he* do they know anything to write about?

And sounding like that.
Sh*, they would give even rednecks a bad name.
( If not before then after :)

Nah, don't seem possible.
But it was a fun twist.


“Be afraid, Be very afraid.”

Being turned into trans girls is too good for these guys ...

bit surprising that writers of trans fiction could be that much a Neanderthal, but I guess it takes all kinds ...