Anecdotal History of an Organ  

I had this one girlfriend, (me and rather a lot of other guys), named Cindy. She had three kids, two boys and a girl. I had my two, Ian and Derek. Sometimes we had sleepovers with our combined brood. Cindy and I'd send the kids to bed and smoke pot and watch videos and fuck. She had very small breasts. Just a soft chest, really, with beautiful areolas and nipples.

She noted once that my organ was... "well," she said, "uh, almost disproportionate."

Yeah, she was big. I never knew that. Even when Cindy told me that it didn't sink in.

I believe that the first time in thirty-five years that I truly realized how big my penis was was the night I spent with James. This was following my move to San Francisco for the Change. My savings was gone; my rent was due. I'd been jobhunting for months. All to begin the change. Electrolysis, hormone treatment. The whole spiel.

Turns out James had had the hots for me since we'd attended acting school together, maybe since we'd been at A.C.T. But I wasn't gay, you know. Which makes our years later encounter oh so much more delicious.

It was James' birthday, so he took me out on the town. Well, to dinner, anyway. I was dressed as a guy then. But I'd lost any thoughts of being, like actually 'male.' So, sleeping with a reasonably attractive, pretty good actor friend seemed like fun. And I did. It was fun, too. Jim was amused to discover me wearing hose under my jeans. But he liked me in my jeans. Later, he said, "Dave, you've got quite a shlong there." I said, "Uh, really. Like, compared to what?"

He said, "Well I've seen a few here and there, and yours is... distinctive. By comparison. And because you're so, you know, short. I suppose."

I was highly amused. Maybe even then I appreciated the irony a little. Upshot of it all is that I had this big member. I guess the men who paid for me to perform got a kick out of it. They liked women with outties. Turned them on. Can't understand it, myself. Not particularly erotic for me; it paid the bills.

Mack loved my cock. Mack loved women. All kinds of women. Once, twenty years before he met me, Mack walked into a bar. He met attractive women. There was a show of some kind-- exotic dancers. Mack had a great time and walked out without a clue there was any difference between these and any other women. He found out eventually. And kept visiting. Discovered something new about himself. He actually got off on these "she-males." He hung around the 'scene' between marriages. Mack was a loyal man. Husband of four women, sleeper with more than a few, (including a lovely mother-daughter pair), and enjoyer of chicks with dicks. For Mack, women were women. Some had innies while others had outties. In that way, he was marvelously liberated.

I'd met Mack at the Motherlode in San Francisco. When I was in the game. I'd fished out pretty good by then. Still had a man's toned physique, a twenty-four inch waist and a woman's face and small breasts.

I'd retired my street activities, mostly. Ran an ad in the local sex rag:

"Pretty, petite and oh so sweet. 5' 4", 108lbs, red hair and green eyes. Oh, and a cock. Incall/outcall"

I wore tinted contacts. Dyed my hair red. Made some good cash. Independent contracting. And back then I was so much more in love with surrender than I am now. I miss that. The flavor of surrender is a painfilled feast of ecstasy.

Mack noticed me dancing one night. I usually wore a leather biker jacket. Deep pockets to put things in. A punk whore named Kola was my role model. She often wore her black biker jacket. Then there was Sylvia, my across the hall neighbor. A beautiful young woman with long dark curls and perfect pale skin. Smart, too. Her dad'd taught at Berkeley and written a book about San Francisco art.

Back in San Francisco, the three of us hung out together. A born woman and two women by birthright. Mack kept coming to the 'Lode and sitting right in the spot where he'd noticed I'd get a table and leave my jacket to go dance. One night I spotted a table through the crowd. I shoved my way through to get my chair and table. I squirmed provocatively out of my jacket (always on stage, I am) and a handsome, silver haired gentleman said, I'll hold that for you. That was Mack. He was 54, same age as my father when he died, and like my father, an engineer. Later on, he paid me to spend the night. He became a regular.

At some point in the story, I retired sex work at Mack's invitation and bid farewell to San Francisco. That was where the real fun began. Sunday mornings of stock car racing and bountiful love-making. Mack was either watching Jeff Gordon and Dale Earnhardt or biting my nipples and sucking Ms Penis.

Half Moon Bay was otherwise lonely. Mack worked from four in the morning till six in the evening. Engineering was only his cover gig. He made more money transporting coke with his boat, a seventy-foot motorsailor named Lone Wolf. We'd cruise out after dark on the steely cold Pacific several miles, eventually meet another boat, transact and head to port. There were guns on that boat. I'd never handled a weapon. Canes and cat-o-nines don't count.

You'd could say we were lucky in those days, love. No harm ever befell us. Except one time when the engine died and another boat had to tow us portside. Coast Guard ship escorted the Lone Wolf to the harbor buoys. I nearly to pissed my knickers.

Most of the time, though, I was home alone. With the boob tube and the stereo.

I might mention one or two trends that characterized this time:

First, I'd had powerful dreams for three months running. Violent dreams. Me getting dismembered by very cruel persons. Men--and women, too, sometimes. Slash my breasts. Fingers, hands cut off. Being spit at and kicked. Eyes scooped out. Eventually, the dangle in my crotch is discovered and gets dismembered too. Dreams like that.

In one dream, a huge bird came swooping from the night sky, grasped me in her huge talons, and flew with me for miles toward the gibbous moon. We arrived at her nest and she fed me, shred by shred to her three hatchlings. I awakened, fearful, to sweatsoaked sheets.

Murderous, terrible dreams about holocausts and barren cities from the near future. I'd walk around my little town wanting to burst into tears fearing the sky would fall any moment bringing pestilence and catastrophe. God knows I'm insane enough as it is.

And my tabasco cravings. I put pepper sauce, salsa, horseradish--anything hot on everything-- yes, I mean everything that I ate or drank. I amused our local Miramar bartender who observed the amount of tabasco and horseradish I'd put in my Virgin Marys. I cooked with tobasco and habanero. I made Jalapeno pasta sauce. Like italian pesto, but with pinenuts and minced Jalapeno peppers. Three meals a day.

I took steaming hot baths. I put herbs and dried red peppers in my bathwater. Why? I sure as hell didn't know.

I'd quit smoking pot and was doing two and a half hour sessions of strenuous yoga. I got pretty compulsive about this, doing breathwork in the car, watching TV and standing in video rental lines. Exotic dancing at the Motherlode weekends.

I'd begun to perspire all the time. My purse carried fistfuls of tissue to mop my always moist face. The ecology of my life, music, books and weather, home and town, seemed marked by and mystical signs and prophetic intimations.

OK, yes, this all relates to our present tale of my first experience with mystical eroticism.

For Mack, bless his heart, adored sex. A fifty-four year old kid in a candystore. For the first time in my life, I was experiencing an eroticism that I'd always thought perhaps existed, but had only imagined and craved. An eroticism of surrender. This was the time in a relationship when you are filling a jar with pennies for every climax. The first six months, the first year. This all fades, of course, and you spend the following years only hoping to remove all the pennies before divorce, death or taxes. Not necessarily in that order.

Mack had a pretty hot little member himself. Thick and long. He was a slender man. A thrill seeker. Spent most of his life while not working, skydiving or scuba diving or bungee-jumping. An adrenalin junkie.

When I met him, he'd moved into a kind of post-adrenalin lethargy. He'd had to give up parachuting and now walked with a limp. Told me he'd broken most of his body's bones. Particularly his ankles. We walked slowly when we walked. He had a bit of a limp. But there was such life in his light blue eyes. So he tried to relive the past by running coke instead.

Sidebar: Once, during this time, I remember lying in bed with Mack. He was asleep. I'd begun jerking and twitching from the bolts of electric energy that had mystically awakened in me. (I think while I danced one night at The Motherlode.) I put my arm on Mack's shoulder. Immediately a picture appeared of a slim darkhaired boy in a striped shirt standing beside his bicycle. I knew it was Mack.

The next morning, I described the picture scene to him. He said, sure enough, he could remember when that picture was taken. I told him about seeing the plastic tassles hanging from the holes in his handlegrips. He remembered that, too. That's still my favorite picture of him.

Mack took me right in stride. If you have to change sex and then have a major spiritual emergency, you want to do it living with a guy like Mack.

He paid for my breast job. Pretty cool of him, wouldn't you say? He was generous, all forgiving, never sarcastic and never expected more than honest love in return. And to pick up after yourself. I was for once lucky in finding him.

He wanted me to sail with him. To the South Pacific. He bought a boat and everything. Mack'd been a sailor. In the Navy. A submariner.

I was tempted. At one point, my younger son, Derek, and I were both going to go sailing. But Derek ran away after I discovered porn mags in his room featuring She/males. I tried to talk to him to no avail. Got him counseling and everything. Meanwhile I decided I needed my career more than the South Pacific. My acting career. Amusing.

I told Mack that I wouldn't go sailing away for several years without getting my organ reversed. I wanted to wear bikinis and go blissfully naked. We were sitting together on our waterbed, smoking reefer. Finally, I asked him, "Mack, how would you rather have me, with or without cock?" He hesitated just long enough to answer my question. I said, "Snookums-- you'd rather have me stay like this, wouldn't you?"

Fact is, dear Mack didn't want to lose Ms Cock. He really liked it. My breasts and butt and everything else, too. But when he took out his dentures and sucked my penis, his gums' orgasm was at least as ecstatic as my own genital climax.

Mack wanted me AND the organ. I just wanted me. And that was that.

So much for the shlong. She shrank and shriveled with the hormones till she was a castrated insignification of her former self. Never got the recognition such organs often crave. C'est la guerre.

Is that irony or what?!

Turned out to be a gift, though, that big organ. Cause like any good Sex Reassignment Surgery surgeon'll tell you: the bigger the stick, the deeper the hole!

As for sex with a vagina with a woman?

What makes you think that I am not a virgin?

Madhyanand's appearance here at In Posse represents her first publication of fiction. Her poem, The Pelican, will be soon published in the online publication, Alchemy Journal. Madhyanand is an actress, playwright and director. Her story is part of a larger text for performance entitled, Surrendering Jamie. She is the author of a yet unpublished book of poetry entitled, The Gnostic Soil.


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