Epilog: Whatever Happened to the Boi Cunts?

©2010 Herb Cat. Do not reproduce or distribute this story without the author's permission.

"What are you thinking so intently about?" asked Marcus.

Alejandro was twirling the confiscated key chain, lost in thought. "Oh, sorry, Boss. I was just thinking about Brianna. It's been four weeks since they left. Wonder how she's getting along."

"I often think about our girls, but why her in particular, Alejandro?"

"Shit, Boss, I just can't get her huge clit out of my mind!"

"Ha ha, yeah. That was a monster all right. At full length well over six inches, poor girl! Well, she's been on the pills a couple months, so maybe at least she's not getting as many erections."

At that very moment, three hundred miles away, Brianna was trying to get into her bathing suit for one last swim before the school year started. As much as she tried, she just couldn't hide that bulging appendage. She too was thinking. Before this summer, Harvey was fuckin proud of his manhood! At the pool, while his buddies donned trunks, he chose to wear a speedo so the females would notice his ample endowment. And notice they did. The protuberance aroused their curiosity (as well as other things) and they wanted to see it uncovered, see if it was truly as impressive in the raw. Harvey was happy to oblige them--for a price. To see it up close and personal would cost a blow job, a price most girls considered fair and willingly paid. Some even swallowed for him, although the magnitude of his shots was more than they expected, even from such a large cum-machine. However only the most venturesome allowed his tool anywhere near an orifice other than her mouth.

One of those daring young ladies was Annie. Her twat and her asshole battled over which one had dibs on Harvey's cock. Both craved it and before the lad zipped up, both had usually gotten their share and temporarily called a truce. Annie wasn't his only conquest, but she was definitely Harvey's favorite. It was her picture he carried in his wallet, and it was her bed where he shot his load just two nights prior to going to BCS. As he stood in the field that first day wearing nothing except a sign with his new name, he didn't know what pained him the most, having his manly chain stolen, being called a girl, or hearing someone accuse his lovely Annie of being a lesbian.

When Brianna got back home, of course, she hoped Annie might just be a little bi. Enough to take her into her arms again, and cradle her head on her perky young breasts. But Annie thought the boy who used to wear a leather jacket and do rag and had the most amazing cock has lost his fuckin marbles, both mentally and testicularly. There was a chorus of former friends who now ridiculed the sissy boy mercilessly and Annie was the choir director.

But Brianna faced her derision with strength. For the first time in her life, she knew inside who she was now. She didn't have to hide behind dorags and leather and chains. She could finally be herself. Her true self. Her female self. So she walked proudly on the streets in her eye-catching outfits. Shopped boldly in the stores whose proprietors once suspected Harvey of all manner of petty crimes. And bravely donned her suit for a visit to the local pool. The speedo had been replaced by an eyepopping nylon/spandex Sanqi swim dress, a halter top with plunging neckline, a skirt flaring out from below the bra, and a detached brief. She needed to stuff the top, of course, but wished she could something about the stuffing in her briefs.

But then, at night it was a different story. When her father's friends came over for entertainment, it was the shemale's large cock they found most alluring. Like Brianna, they also looked forward to the time when her daily pills would give her some mammoth mammaries, but they didn't want to see any diminishment of her mantool. Brianna, wearing only her high heels and baby doll nightwear, would have one man pounding away at her boi cunt with his throbbing tool while another man would be jacking off Brianna's own organ. Meanwhile other hands would be pinching her nipples and stroking her hair, while lips were kissing her mouth, feet, and neck. She was surrounded by horny men and loved every wet moment of it. Harvey used to hate it. His father forced him to endure these frequent gang rapes, because of some warped pleasure it gave him, and Harvey overcompensated by dressing and acting as macho as possible the rest of the day.

After the men left in the wee hours of the morning, Brianna would crawl into bed next to her father and express her gratitude. "Thank you, Daddy, for sending me there. I was so fuckin stupid to resist you all those years. I would have been so much happier if I'd only learned sooner what you tried to teach me."

"Shit, Bitch! You're making me all soft and gooey. Go to your own room and go fuck yourself! Your mama's been waiting all night for my lovin cock. So get the fuck out of our bed." Then she'd smile at her patient mother, give her father a kiss on the cheek and leave, knowing she was truly loved.

And the next morning, this assurance of her love coupled with the surety of her true gender, would give Brianna the fortitude to face her challenges and they were many. The boys who once admired Harvey and even emulated him now taunted Brianna as she traveled to school, walked the halls and sat in class. The girls who lusted for Harvey's cock now considered Brianna an insult to all females if not to the human race as a whole. Her books were knocked from her arm, her hair was pulled, her falsies were groped, her ass was slapped. At least once a week she was dragged into a cleaning closet to perform fellatio on one of Harvey's erstwhile friends, while at least one voyeur looked on. And after a football game where she had cheered on the home team (from a bench in the bleachers that was otherwise vacant), she was pulled under the same grandstand and forcibly raped with neither love nor lube.

Everyone had to take notice of Brianna. Her flamboyant wardrobe, her affected walk and speech, her artificially inflated breasts and naturally inflated crotch, all combined to make her the school freak. But there were a handful of observers who saw something else, although they would not discuss it openly. This unique person was resilient, dauntless, stalwart. She bore her cross with grace and strength, refusing to take the easy course of truancy. She held her head high and her chest out. She carried herself as someone with no reason for shame and no excuse for timidity.

One of those who noticed this was Calvin. He was neither a jock nor a nerd. Neither a genius nor a dope. His average was B- with very little deviation in either direction. He was just another boy in the class.

Calvin was neither a lothario nor a virgin. In his sophomore year, he had two sexual encounters which he performed as well as most boys his age. Neither girl was anything special to Calvin or to anyone else.

He played all sports but not well enough to get on a team. His basketball occasionally went in the hoop, bat sometimes made contact with the ball, and in races he was consistently in the middle of the pack. If anyone predicted the tenth year class reunion, the chatter would certainly be all about Harvey/Brianna, but at the mention of Calvin's name, the reaction would be "Calvin who?"

But Calvin had a secret passion that no one else knew about. Poetry. In grade school when other boys held flashlights under their covers to read comic books in bed, Calvin was delighting in the rhythms of Riley and Longfellow. In Junior high, as his friends devoured motor magazines, he read Whitman and Dickenson. Now in high school, instead of secreting a stash of Playboy, he could jerk off to Rumi and Cadafy. He haunted the used book table at the library and picked up anthologies and small esoteric literary quarterlies to buy for a dime or a quarter. He was prepared to say they were for his mother, should anyone ask. No one did.

He knew about odes and sonnets and sestinas. He could scan iambic pentameter and anapestic tetrameter. He could explain the difference between a ghazal and a villanelle, should anyone ask. No one did.

Not only did he read poetry, Calvin wrote it. Like Dickenson, he filled notebooks with his verses. He played with language, metaphor, rhythm, the way other guys played with their baseball cards or dicks. And no one, not his age peers, not his teachers, not his parents ever saw a single scribble. Occasionally he'd finish tweaking a piece and mutter to himself, "That is pretty damn fuckin good, Calvin." Then he'd be tempted to show his mom or Mr. Havergal, his English teacher. But invariably he'd get cold feet and stick the notebook back under the jockstraps in his dresser drawer.

Then, one day, he read the back page of one of his used quarterlies. It was entitled "Writers' Guidelines" and explained what the editors were looking for and what was required for a submission. Calvin culled through his notebooks and selected three poems he considered his best work (the guidelines said send up to four). He meticulously followed the instructions to type one poem per page, double spaced, with his name and contact information in the upper left corner. He was told he had to include a SASE. Luckily his dictionary explained what that was. He addressed the envelope, stamped it, sealed his versified babies inside and stuck it under his jockstraps. There it waited while Calvin nervously pondered whether to actually mail it. What if they accept it and publish it and everyone in town sees it? (Of course no one else in town would, since the worldwide circulation was 500.) Or what if they reject it and write to tell him any future envelopes with his return address would be summarily disposed of unopened? Or what if they never returned his SASE at all and he was left to wonder? Could this non-outstanding lad deal with any of these scenarios?

But then, near the end of November, Calvin thought about Brianna. He would use her preferred name instead of "Harvey," if anyone asked him about her. No one did. He had watched her walk through the halls on her way to class. By now most kids, instead of peppering her with rude insults were simply ignoring her. Dissing had turned to dismissal. She was the outcaste, yet refused to allow it to get under her skin. Her example steeled Calvin's resolve and when he got home, he lifted his jockstraps, pulled out the letter and biked down to the mailbox before he lost his nerve.

A week later, Mr. Havergal assigned the class to read Profiles in Courage. After discussing ancillary topics like the US Senate, impeachment, and the Pulitzer Prize, Havergal wanted the class to consider the traits that made the future president single out these particular eight men. Then he gave the typical assignment: choose a person you think is a profile in courage to write about. Some of Calvin's classmates chose other political figures, mostly based on their parents' favorite party. Others chose figures in sports or entertainment, many of which were hardly exemplars of courage by any yardstick. Others chose family members, especially those who had served in the military. One brown nose chose Mr. Havergal.

Calvin thought long and hard about his selection. He read up on Rosa Parks. He thought about Gandhi. He even considered one of his favorite poets, Langston Hughes. But his final choice was someone else. And in fact the selection itself was an act of courage. He slipped his homework into the pile on Mr. Havergal's desk and hoped for at least a C.

The next day, Havergal asked Holly to read her essay on Robert Kennedy. Then Pheakdei read about his father who left his home and family in Cambodia to make a new life in America. Half the class was attentive. Others were doing their math homework, passing notes and nodding off.

Just before the bell rang, the teacher called on Calvin to read. "Do I gotta?" he gulped. Havergal's face told him he "gotta." With hands shaking and adolescent voice cracking, Calvin began: "For my profile in courage, I chosed Brianna."

The class started reacting. "Brianna who?" "You mean Harvey?" Then there were giggles, but Calvin had everyone's attention. The paper was shaking so much he couldn't read it, so he tried to say it from memory:

"Yeah, you see, she comes back to school this fall and she don't look nothing like she did cause she used to be a boy but now she looks all different except for her well you know. Her thing. And so she was like teased by everyone and called a freak and all and even those like me that didn't tease her we didn't stick up for her neither. But still she comes to school every day in her dress and all and actually she don't look bad, well I don't mean I find her like attractive or anything, well forget I said that. What I mean is she didn't let nobody keep her down. She mighta stayed home and maybe then the school woulda sent a tutor to her like they did when Lewis broked his stupid leg skiing. But that wouldn't a been courage. Or she mighta quit dressing like a girl and put on her do rag
and said she was Harvey again and it was all a big joke. But that woulda been a lie so that wouldn't a been courage neither. Or she mighta killed herself cause everyone was so mean to her. But that wouldn't a been courage. I useta like reading poems by Sylvia Plath but then I found out she stuck her head in an oven instead of finding a way to live with her problem, so I don't read her poems no more. But Brianna she don't take any easy way out. So I think she has like a courage profile."

Mercifully, the bell rang, and the class moved on to their next period. For Calvin, that was lunch. He knew it wouldn't take long for the word to spread about his English essay. He didn't sit at his usual table. Instead, he walked back to the corner and joined Brianna who was sitting by herself. They nodded at each other, but neither one spoke.

In a couple minutes, Pheakdei joined them. "I liked your homework, Calvin."

"I liked it too, Calvin." It was Norman. Last year he was one of Harvey's good friends. "Hi, Brianna."

Holly joined them and soon the table filled up with more of Havergal's class. No one gave any explanations. No one made any explicit apologies. But inexplicably, Brianna found herself accepted by her peers for who she was. Who she was now. They ate and talked and joked. And what nobody else at the table knew was that it was the shemale's fifteenth birthday.

.oOo.

As an author, I welcome feedback from readers. Please send any comments about this story, positive or negative, to Herb_Cat@mailcity.com. Thank you.