Rooster Ch3

Charli 2.jpg

Chapter Three


When I woke up this morning, I stood up and staggered slightly on my way to the bathroom. My family doctor had warned me long ago. Because of low blood pressure, I need to take my time getting out of bed. I have to be careful standing up too quickly.

But, in my case, I was only interested in sitting down. I reached under my nightgown and pulled on my underpants taking them down to my ankles. As I reached in to direct my flow, I closed my eyes and sighed. I regularly consume too much liquid for the size of my bladder.

You see, my best friend Joy told me, "Charli, when you drink wine you need to drink water, too!"

Last night, I drank a lot of wine. We were also doing tequila shots. I like tequila. So, this morning, I was full of water.

Once I was done going, I gave it a shake and used a bit of toilet paper to dry little Dizzy off. I stood up carefully, held onto the counter, and looked in the mirror. I was a mess, but I was secretly pleased with my reflection. Even first thing in the morning, without any makeup and my hair looking a mess, I am pretty. I’m happy about that.

I carefully reached for my pills. I counted out my hormones. I like the colors. Estradiol’s lavender, oval tablet and the funny look of the spray-painted blue finish of my Premarin. But, the real party color was my antibiotic Cefalexin. I finished up my last one this morning. They were gorgeous enormous bright shiny red capsules.

Three days ago, when I first got my prescription from the pharmacy and shook one out into my hand, I immediately had to show it to my BFF, Joy.

She was funny. "Charli, I think it's the color of lipstick."

I said, "Stilettos!"

We both starting associating the color with an incredible cocktail dress. I riffed and pictured an adorable cap sleeved, body-hugging, pleated mini. These were huge pills and incredibly red and shiny. The prettiest red ever. I wanted a pair of heels in that color.

When I got dropped off at my house, we did our air kisses and promised to talk tonight. I thanked her for the afternoon and taking care of me.

I turned and faced my house. Matilda and I own a three-story Victorian three blocks from campus. Sure, she's my mom and I love her more than anything else in the world. But she's the one that said, "Charli, you're old enough to call me Matilda and stop making me feel ancient!"

I was achy and feeling the local anesthesia wearing off. A ninety-minute ride back to The Art Institute from over near Sea-Tac with six stitches in your crotch ache. But, for some reason, I was pumped. These were the coolest pills ever, they were awesome.

I showed them to my three roommates and their friends who were crowded into the living room. They all gave it a quick look, and the consensus was ‘candy, Mike & Ikes.’ They went back to playing video games on a huge TV and ignored me. I guess I was used to being ignored. I live with three guys. But, It’s a tough thing for an only child to be ignored.

For eighteen years, I grew up as the most important thing in the house. I talked, and my mom would stop and listen. Mom used to always say that she didn't have time to run a lingerie company, raise me, and be married. She said I was the sun that everything revolved around. Until the world hit me square in the face and I wasn’t a god anymore. I graduated and went to college. Life as I knew it had come to an end. It was all over.

Now I was just some skinny thing who was way too excited about the color of some pill. I was ignorable. Sometimes when that happens, I fell like lifting my shirt and flashing them, especially when I wasn’t wearing a bra.

As I was walking away, I knew a few of their new friends, yeah I noticed them, were staring at my butt. Even though everyone knows I’m trans, I am still a curiosity to guys.

They were staring at me, thinking about my gender and what was between my legs. My roommates all knew me well. We had gone to school together forever. But their new friends had trouble adjusting to the fact that I’m in transition. I confuse them, seriously, I do.

I can tell you stories, well, and I will, that’s the purpose of this whole writing effort. You see, my counselor wanted me to take notes about my day and how I react to stimuli. So I was doing my best to jot down notes when I could and flesh them out later.

What can I say? Yes, I like guys. Yes, I was born in the wrong body. And yes, I’m spending a lot of time and energy correcting that.

Back to my antibiotics, right. I think lipstick, stilettos. They guess candy, Mike & Ikes. Life has definitely made me hold back on speaking my thoughts aloud. If I gushed about how I thought they were a beautiful color for lipstick or four-inch stilettos, they’d just look at me weirdly.

Communicating with these guys was tough. It’s simple to understand. I’m not like them. Sure, I might have been born in a male body, but my brain isn’t wired like their brains. I wish it were. Things would be a lot simpler. But, at this point, that ship sailed, and I’m on my way to Girl Land.

As I thought about our Mike & Ike conversation, I wondered what my roommates would say if they knew about my most recent surgery. I never told them that Joy and I were going over near Sea-Tac to see a doctor. If they knew, they'd cringe.

But, in all honesty, I have no idea what they honestly think of me or how they describe me to their friends.

I imagine this dialogue if one of my roommates was standing with his friend and saw me walking by. I see them, and I wave hi.

A friend of roommate would say, ”Hey, who's that chick?"

Roommate would look at his shoes. When he looked up, he’d have this strange smirk on his face. “Uh, well, that's our roommate, Charli."

A friend of roommate would respond. ”Oh wow, dude. She’s cute. You’re one lucky guy having her around. Wow."

Roommate would look sheepish. ”Uh, dude. She's a tranny. She's a guy."

The confused look would appear on the friend's face as he wonders what the fuck a tranny is or salivates because he enjoys porn, and knows chicks with dicks are hot.

Okay, so it’s not easy being an alien among earthlings. I have to watch where I tread. You don't want to step on toes, especially some that would kick you when you are down. And honestly, I do get feeling down. I have a hard time railing against injustice, especially when its pointed towards me. But, I bite my tongue cause you just don’t want to upset the old apple cart.

Apple carts? You have to go back to old black and white movies to see apple carts being upset. Of course, that's easy for me to dig as a film buff. I've spent many a hot, humid afternoon watching old black and white movies on cable. I love to escape to old b&w movies. Dreaming of a PG world that where the bad guys are dark haired and wild-eyed, and the good guys have dimples, strong jaws always get the girl with their smile.

No one knows what's going on in your head when you watch a movie. Growing up, I always stared at the women and what they were wearing. Because of mom, I was always hip to lingerie. I mean, when your mom designs the stuff and it at the top of her class, you have to get into it. But, I was into other things. I mean I got gooey over the handsome guys. Back when you were in middle school and getting all misty over a Jimmy Stewart flick , no one could see inside your head about how you wished to be held by that right guy. How you wanted to be cute and demure and pretty and attractive and desired by the handsome, hunky man.

So, you go over near Sea Tac. I mean. You and Joy quietly slip away with your medical procedure prescription in hand and drive to all the way over to Burien to spend an afternoon in an outpatient clinic having an orchiectomy. Of course, if I were to say Burien to anyone who is not from Seattle, they’d look at me funny. Everyone knows what Sea-Tac is. Note to others considering the procedure. One pound bags of frozen peas make a much better ice pack than an ice pack. And when it’s all over, you can eat the peas, too. And when the pain goes away, which it does. And, yes, you have peas. No regrets, no loss. No deep pain in my heart. Dude, I was gleefully happy. Those parts of my body were never placed on a pedestal, they were not sacred or worshiped.

But, did I hear it. Wah. Wah. “Aw, gee, Charli. You made more peas? C’mon. How many peas can a guy eat?"

I smiled and pointed the wooden spoon at him. “Hey, I told you, they were on sale. Don't eat them if you object. You didn't buy them.”

Roommate Two says, “Peas like this, they’re great in a beef stew with those little white onions. Hey, Dizzy. Would you make that?” A quick aside. I’ve had the nickname Dizzy for most of my life. It’s that blood pressure thing. I move to fast, I get Dizzy.

Roommate One and Two are standing there in my kitchen coming inside from running around outside in the heat. It’s October. They are both hot and sweaty from playing with a football with other hot and sweaty guys. I stand there and smell the testosterone and look at the damp hair and flushed faces. Apparently, my thoughts are not in line with theirs.

I turn to Roommate Two. “Sure. I'll give you a grocery list of what to buy. You get all the ingredients, and I'll make it for you on Sunday."

Roommate Two gives me a big grin that melts my heart. I've known Ronny since middle school, and I would climb in bed with him in a New York minute if he showered first or maybe not, depending upon my mood.

By the way, filing this under too much information. My moods are all in my head. All this medication has made my sex drive live in my head and not in my groin. Nothing is happening between my legs.

I want to be a girlfriend. I want to be somebody’s girlfriend. I want to be the one to make him hot and sweaty. I want to be cute, demure, pretty, attractive and desired by the handsome, hunky guy in my old B&W movies.

Standing there in the kitchen spooning out another pound of cooked peas with butter on the top, I feel like bursting into tears. Fuck, I can’t believe I’m getting emotional over peas and the fact that I’m not pleasing these guys. Green vegetable rejection. Instead of crying in front of sweaty, hunky guys, I turn away and say, "eat them, don't eat them." I toss the wooden spoon in the sink. I head to my room on the third floor. I feel my hips shift and my butt sway as I walk across the room and up the steps.

The whole way walking up the steps the tears rain down my cheeks. I know it’s because my hormones are out of sync and I know it’s going to settle down soon enough, but right now all I want to do is lay on my bed and cry into my pillow.

Of course, most of that is in my mind. I've only been on Premarin and Estrace since last February, eight months and counting. My only salvation early on was the neutering implants I received when I turned fifteen. The anti-androgen kept my puberty in check, so I'm not like the rest of my roommates, all hairy and huge. I am slim and well, neutered. I look like a girl because we blocked all that testosterone before it had a chance to damage my delicate little body.

So, knowing that those implants were running out of steam, I saw my doctor and got this prescription to drive down to the doctor to eliminate this problem. This is what I surgically had taken care of three days ago.

My anti-androgen implants lasted for three years. Now, I don't have to sweat the details. Plus it made for some bonding time with my BFF, Joy.

Joy drove us to Burien. It was a sweet girl's road trip. We stopped for diet cokes on the turnpike. We chatted the whole way down all merry and gay. On the way back, I reclined my front seat and stretched out on two pounds of peas as the local anesthesia wore off and the incision started to throb. I wasn't quite as merry and gay. Just gay.

I'd moan, and Joy would laugh. I'd tell her to go fuck herself, and she'd reply, you wish. I'd look over at her 34 C's and contemplate rolling around with her. She's twenty-two and totally post-op. She's one of those remarkable children who knew she was trans at birth and her body got the message from her brain. So cute, so cuddly, and so totally a woman. All her men are big hunks, and she's barely five foot six inches. So even when she wears big heels, she still looks beautiful and demure.

Me, I'm the freak. I'm five eight and skinny. I'm that underfed and way too thin looking scarecrow. I'm still waiting for the estrogen to give me a girly body. I’m counting on it. Praying for it. But, it’s starting. I'm thickening up in my thighs and butt. My waist is looking better, and I've got a serious A-cup bust with amazingly sensitive nipples.

And let’s not forget, I have a great face thanks to my mom.

Mom. What can I say? I love her. She’s been my savior throughout my discovery process. She's Matilda. Maybe the most famous lingerie designer in the world. And she ran a business and raised me by herself. We thought I was gay until realizing that I was trans at ten.

She was a champ. She made sure I saw the best people and everyone agreed that I was trans. And everyone told me just how fucked up my life would be. I was trans which meant I should get used to prejudice, hate, ridicule, and discrimination early in life. But, God bless my mother. My mom takes no shit. I said she’s an entrepreneur. Let me tell you. She had a vision. She pictured a catalog where anyone in the world could order the most beautiful hand-made lingerie in the world. No one believed in her until she proved them all wrong. She takes no prisoners. She’s an ass kicker.

So, her little fairy son grew out his hair and wore precious outfits and was a princess even though his body didn't fall in line. Mom was my champion, and I grew up healthy and felt loved.

And sure I felt rejection and ridicule. Jeers from lesser souls who thought by putting me down it made them taller. Stupid comments from anonymous voices saying mean words when you’d walk by in-between classes. Shit heads who would actually get up and move if you sat close to them in class. Treating me like I had Ebola.

And I endured. I lived by the rule, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Which is total bullshit. It should read, what rips your heart out through rejection and pain, just helps you get used to future rejection and pain.

But. I have a great face. Thanks to my mom. When I turned eighteen in January of my senior year, My mom's gift to me was facial feminization surgery. I was homeschooled after the new year and had my operation in early February. I was healed by June when I walked with my class. My nose was still a little puffy, but everything else looked good.

I wore a red satin robe like all the other girls. I wore a little makeup, and under the gown, I wore a pretty dress and three-inch stilettos. My nails were done, and I felt that all was right with my world. All the girls standing near me were complimentary saying how pretty I looked. I'd been out since I was in middle school, so it wasn't a big shocker, but now my face looked feminine, and I felt like I fit in as a woman.

I felt like smiling.

Oh yeah, so they ate all the peas and even remembered to put their dishes in the dishwasher after rinsing them off. Good boys, good.

I sat in my room contemplating my options. I needed a shower and a change of clothes. The only class I had on Tuesday was an eight o’clock at night. I’m guessing I’ll meet some commuting night school students tonight. It’s a general lecture course, a pre-requisite for my major, Film. I capitalized it because this is costing me thirty grand a year to get a BS in marketing and fashion. When I graduate, I am going to run Matilda’s for mom.

I settled on a shower, my first in three days. The doctor said I needed to leave the bandages on and keep the area dry until I stopped the antibiotic. I started to undress and check out the dressing. The big reveal.

The sweetest thing about this house was that my apartment was private. My apartment was the entire third floor, and I had a locked door to a sitting room, a bathroom, and a decent sized bedroom. Mom bought the old Victorian, and the deal was that I covered the mortgage and the utilities on my own. That’s why I had three roommates. They all paid me a fixed amount each month.

I went into the bathroom and stripped down. Usually, I wore a softly padded bra and panties. Oh yeah, and a gaff which is merely a tight little bikini that kept my genitals compressed and out of sight. Since I’d officially been a girl since I turned eighteen with a license, ID, and adjusted birth certificate, the gaff helps because most girls don’t have a penis and scrotum between their legs.

I pulled down my underwear and used a mirror to look at the damage. I started to remove the tape and gauze until I was staring at my empty scrotum sack. There was a tiny cut with six stitches in it. I had to sit down.

Everything was covered in this reddish tan solution. My body looked fine, no crazy swelling or redness. I gently touched myself, and it was a bit tender around the incision, but otherwise, I was okay.

I stood up slowly and turned on the shower. It takes a while for the hot water to get up to the third floor. When I walked across the room and turned on the shower, I got a shock. It was all different down there, and every step made it obvious. I had a lot less, and weight between my legs was very different. It was very freeing. I was reminded that less is more.

After my shower and moisturizer routine, I brushed my hair and wrapped it in a towel. I picked out new underwear. Sometimes I think about buying different sized bras and padding myself up a cup. A B-cup would be sweet. Every night, I say my prayers. “Dear God, Help fill me out. Add ten pounds of womanly curves to my body and let’s have peace throughout the world.”

I pulled on a striped long sleeve tee. Then I reached for a pair of black leggings. I knew I’d be wearing them all fall and winter and common sense said, ‘Its nice out, wear a dress or skirt.’

I felt like saying back, ‘dude, you don’t wear a skirt to a large class unless you want to look like a pioneer and add a hoop at the bottom.’ I decided not to take the buckboard. My shirt was black and white stripes, and my leggings were black. An easy way to layer. I wore a red dress on top. It had spaghetti straps and a mini skirt. I thought I looked sexy and I thought it gave me some shape and emphasized my legs and booty. I slipped on flats. After all, I’m tall.

I stood in front of the mirror while I brushed out my hair. It was dark and to my shoulder. It fell in waves past my shoulders. Then I pulled it back in a high ponytail. I put in some hoops, matching silver bracelets, a touch of perfume, and did my makeup.

I did the college girl look. I brushed on some powder, did my eyes, and blotted my lips after applying matching red lipstick.

I stared at myself. I did one of those tear downs. ‘She’s dressed like the Wakanda national flag. (a reference to Black Panther).’ ‘She’s matched her Garanimals perfectly, now she wants to go out and play.’ ‘A lovely combination if your boyfriend is wearing a leather jumpsuit.’

I fell short on the last one. I took a deep breath and picked up my book bag. I had the books, I’d checked my supplies. I was ready.

And then I got the call. It was my mom.

“I’ve sold the business, but the new owners don’t want next year’s product that’s already been paid for. How would you like to start your business career earlier than planned? We have a year’s worth of lingerie we can sell.”

“Hi, mom. How are you?”

“Come on, Charli. Here’s a great opportunity to bankroll your catalog now.”

“What happened to me taking over Matilda’s?”

“I sold the name and all its rights for one hundred million dollars of General Foods Products stock.”


“So, you start your own catalog.”

“Can I call it Charli?”

“Of course.”

“Can we sell men’s and women’s lingerie?”

I heard my mom hesitate. “What a great idea! All that free publicity you will get. Of course, if you put your name on it, everyone is going to want to know all about you.”

“Yep. I’m the face of the company.”

“Can you handle it?”

“I’ll have to let you know next year when we start catalog number two.”

“Okay. So grab a pencil. You’re going to need to go to Sea-Tac and receive some cargo in a week. You’ll need a moving van and a large crew. Well, never mind. It’s too big a list. I’ll write it all down and text it to you.”

“I’m going to class now. Bye, mom.


to the reader,

Please take a look at my new novel on Amazon under my name, Claire M Drake called

Living My Fantasy, an erotic transgender story

there are a number of free chapters to look over

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