#she was this tiny butch lesbian who was like a head shorter than me and was just

[cinematicnomad]

i was just talking about my favorite professor from undergrad who taught me queer lit?? and so i decided to email her to catch up and in the middle just dropped the bomb that i’ve since come out as bi and i spun it as a joke and was like “haha if i could go back in time i’d probably write a v different final essay for your class!!”

anyway i am literally shaking lol why did i do that 😂😂

[longhardtransitionreturns]

I'm too weak to stand by the time my wife and our midwife decide it's time to transfer me to the hospital to give birth to our son. I'm splayed listlessly in the birthing pool, my red-rimmed eyes half slipped back in my head. The baby is lodged so tightly in my hips that any tiny movement sends sharp spikes of pain through my pelvis. Pushing is white hot fire and absolutely out of the question so I'm left skewered on the girth of my baby, too out of it from pain and exhaustion to have anymore input on what happens next.

When the paramedics arrive they do their best to hide their shock when they find a 350lb bull dyke with a buzz cut and biker tats inked across her swollen GG breasts grunting in a pool so small I'm touching all the sides.

They move away to confer, likely about moving someone my size, but I'm too out of it to be offended. My big, hairy pussy is bulged out so far it seems almost impossible there's no head showing. My wife Monica moves to my head and kisses my cheek. I can tell she's scared but trying to put on a brave face.

The paramedic who is clearly in charge, a tall, butch Black woman with short nails and even shorter hair, jumps into the pool and introduces herself as Jean before announcing her intention to check me. I'm briefly relieved another lesbian is going to be the stranger who is digging around in my pussy then I feel her fingers enter my overstuffed hole and I can't bite back a weak moan at the intrusion. She rubs my bulge gently near my clit and makes a shushing noise. My eyes roll back in my head involuntarily at the intimate touch. I'm hurting too bad for it to be pleasurable but it gives me a tiny ounce of relief nonetheless.

Monica is staring down at me with worry on her face when Jean announces to her team that the baby is stuck on my pubic bone and the first step to getting it unstuck is to get me standing. I barely have time to protest before the 3 muscled young men taking orders from Jean are helping lift my bulk from the tub.

Even with five people supporting my weight I am unable to keep myself from falling gracelessly into a wide squat as the weight of my huge child drops down even further. My bulging pussy hits the water as I feel the unmistakable sensation of urgently crowning what must be an absolutely huge head.

I'm screaming about the fire in my crotch as Jean takes one of my meaty thighs, the biggest paramedic takes the other, and the other two support my back as I am lifted, legs spread around my crown, onto the floor beside the birthing pool.

The best case scenario, Jean tells me over my screaming sobs, is that I push it out right here and she and her team give me and baby a ride to the hospital. It looks like that might work for a few pushes but I'm fading faster than before and don't have much to give in the way of help. She briefly considers forceps but would rather get me to the hospital if my baby is still in danger of breaking my pelvis when I push him out. She reaches inside my rubber band tight lips to feel where the head had previously been stuck on a bone and noticeably pales.

She doesn't say anything out loud to alarm me or my wife but she tells her team with harsh urgency that we are transferring to the hospital immediately. I'm being moved again, still with my legs spread wide by men on either thigh, on to a bariatric stretcher and rolled out of my living room before I can even think to protest being rolled out of my front door naked, my crowned, leaking pussy bared for for all our straight, conservative neighbors to see.

I hear Jean telling Monica and our midwife that they're going to have to meet us at the hospital. Between my size and the seriousness of my potential injuries, they need all the room they can get to keep me intact until I'm able to be rushed into emergency surgery.

I don't hear whether my wife argues or not because I'm being lifted up into the ambulance. The jostling sends a sharp, warning pain through my pubic bone and I scream for them to stop moving me. Jean yells almost at the same time, glaring at her subordinates. She orders them to freeze with my feet tilted up into the ambulance and then leans down to place her palm firmly against my crown.

The counter pressure immediately eases some of the burning sensation around my lips and the ominous aching in my pelvic bones. I lay my head back and groan at feeling, for the first time since I hit transition, some of the pain lessening rather than intensifying.

I focus on how good it feels to have Jean pushing back on some of the insane pressure in my cunny while they settle me into the ambulance. A strap is placed around my straining middle and the stretcher is locked into place. One of the nameless young men starts an IV as the sirens start blaring and I feel the ambulance start to move.

Jean, still holding my crown, tells me her colleague is giving me something for the pain and that a surgical team is being assembled right now to meet the ambulance and rush me into the operating room.

"Everything's going to be just fine, Libby. You and your baby are going to be just fine as long as you don't push. No matter how bad you need to bear down, you can't. You will break your pubic bone and probably your tail bone and you really don't want to do that."

I don't. I've already started to feel the effects of the drugs and I'm still in more pain than I've ever been in my life but there is a thin, hazy distance from it now. I feel the warmth of Jean's hand around my crown and I blink up at her with what I think might be close to a flirtatious smile.

"Just don't move your hand, baby," I mumble and she clearly understands because her cheeks redden and she cracks a wide, slightly embarrased smile.

"Alright, Sappho. Glad those drugs are starting to work."

I probably wasn't going to respond because I was seconds away from passing out when suddenly the ambulance is hitting something with extreme force and my gravid body is bouncing up into the air. I see, as if in slow motion, Jean's steadying hand get ripped away from my pussy.

I'm slammed back down on to the stretcher and, inevitably, my bones shatter. When they give way my baby is ejected out to his shoulders before anyone can stop him to try to spare me even greater injury.

I'm writhing and screaming incoherently as I feel Jean gingerly pull my son out the rest of the way. I can feel his heft shifting around pieces of bone in me as he slithers out and I am acutely aware how badly I wish I could lose consciousness.

I don't. When my son leaves my body to be handed off to one of the men and my clenching cavity clamps down on nothing, I am catapulted into another stratosphere of pain. I start hyperventilating and am barely able to understand Jean as she straddles the stretcher in between my legs and starts to touch my lips.

"Libby, hold on for me, honey. I'm gonna do something and it's gonna hurt like the dickens and then it's going to feel amazing. Just keep breathing for me, sweetheart."

Why I look down right at that moment I will never know but I watch her gloved, fisted hands plunge into my pussy and my asshole at the same time. I use my last remaining strength to wail in protest as it feels like a white hot iron is being rammed through my pelvis. Then she does what can only be described as a punch with the fist in my cunt and I almost throw up with how suddenly relieved I feel because of whatever Jean's hands are doing to hold my gravely injured body together.

Don't get me wrong. I'm still in agony. But between whatever Jean's fists just did and the drugs starting to kick in even more, I'm barely able to do anything other than lay there and whimper.

When we get to the hospital the medics have just taken me down from the ambulance when Monica runs up. She takes in Jean, straddling the stretcher in between my legs and then the position of her fists in both my holes. My face is a rictus of pain and shock and I'm horrified to discover I can't talk. I'm not even able to close my mouth when I feel drool slipping down my chin.

I look up at my wife, who's being handed our 15lb baby. She walks beside my stretcher as I'm rushed in to the trauma bay. I fight with all my will to be able to muster up the strength to say one more thing to the love of my life before the drugs pull me under completely. The fact that I'm about to almost die on the table three times because I'm silently hemorrhaging into my abdomen as we speak is the only thing that comes between me and divorce later so stupid were the words I chose to say.

"Jean's hands feel so good in my ass and my pussy. God, it feels so good."

[bookswithmissingpages]

Andre was the one who set me up in my very first business. My partner was Suzie, a Thai woman who was the cutest little thing you've ever seen. She was older than me but looked really young. She must have been about twenty-one, because she always got served at the bars and clubs we went to. But then again, maybe not. She didn't look a day over eighteen, and no bartender would ever card a girl that adorable. 56 Andre and I used travel back and forth between Boston and New York City all the time back then. Andre would say it was "for Business," but I didn't really know what his business was in the beginning. Al I knew was that every time we went to New York, we had the best time. We'd eat in great restaurants all over the city and hang out with cool people who dressed just like Andre. He hung out with a group of rappers, and we'd go to their concerts and video shoots and drink bottles of Dom P that were always on ice in the backs of their big cars. Andre would dress me in furs and drape me in diamonds to take me to clubs where we'd sit at private tables like superstars. I was tiny compared with him—a full ten inches shorter and still rail thin—but we dressed to match and made quite an impression whenever we walked into a room together. The first time I met Suzie she tried to pick me up. She just walked up to me in one of the New York clubs, this tiny girl with spiky black hair who was totally butch yet feminine and sweet- looking at the same time. She had al the confidence in the world, so naturally I liked her right away. Hooking up wasn't going to happen—I was very attached to Andre, and besides, I'm not gay— so instead we decided to become business partners. I was about seventeen. Suzie was from Thailand, but she had married a powerful busi- nessman, a founder and owner of a major Japanese corporation, when she was thirteen. The marriage had been arranged by her parents, and she was his fifth wife. Naturally she hated him and got away from him as soon as she could. I always thought one of the reasons she became a lesbian was that she hated him so much. I never knew exactly how she got away or why he didn't come after her. Maybe he did, but she never seemed to be afraid that he'd catch up to her. Andre was always looking for new business opportunities, and he wanted to find something for me to do with myself. I was so 57 young and thought he was the- best thing in the whole world. I doted on him, followed him around, and generally annoyed the hell out of him. He was a decent guy, so he would never throw me out or tel me to just get lost—he cared about me

But he was feeling crowded and thought I needed a project, something to keep me busy and out of his hair. So when Suzie came up with the idea, he gave me the money to start up a brothel with her. By that time we were living in Fort Lee, New Jersey, and I had worked my way up to being Andre's personal money manager. I had also learned a lot about the drug business he was involved in and how it worked. I stacked his bills, and once a month, I gath- ered up those stacks and took them to a bank thirty miles away for deposit in his safety deposit box. Andre was the one who taught me that $10,000 worth of $100 bills fit perfectly into a small Ziploc sandwich bag, which is a trick I still use to this day to keep track of the cash I have on hand. He also showed me that people like us could store money safely in the bank as long as it was in a safety deposit box and not an account. He even bought me a Cadillac Coupe when I was seventeen so that I could do my errands. I also danced at a strip club called The Body Shop on 123rd and Lexing- ton in Harlem, but Andre was right, even with the dancing and the job I did for him, I still had too much time on my hands. Suzie and I rented an entire floor of a commercial building on West Twenty-first Street in Manhattan to use as our brothel. It was just this large, open warehouse space when we got it, so we had contractors come in to transform it into something workable. We had walls put up to form six booths with doors, each of which was just big enough for a twin mattress set on an elevated platform, a chair in the corner for clothes, and a narrow walkway. It was just the basics—white walls, no decoration, no frills. There was also a big wash area with showers on one side for the girls and wash beds on the other for the customers. 58 When a client walked into our place, he'd pay an entrance fee of $40 to $60, which bought him a massage on one of those wash beds. The girls would sit on benches that lined the perimeter of the entry room and cop their most seductive or demure poses when a customer walked in. He'd pick out the girl he wanted, and then they'd head for the wash area. If he wanted to continue on to one of the booths after that, he'd have to negotiate with the girl directly. Generally speaking, a $120 "tip" would get a guy a hand job, and an extra $200 would get him sex. Those girls knew how to negotiate too, even with the businessmen who were our most frequent type of customer, though we really attracted all types of men. We placed ads in the backs of magazines like Girls and Screw and newspapers like The Village Voice to draw customers. Those ads, which featured pictures of young Asian girls, also attracted women looking for work. We weren't all that picky about who we hired, and we would try out just about any decent-looking woman who came by. All kinds ended up working for us; it wasn't just the young, poor, and helpless. Most of them were either Thai or Korean, and one of our biggest moneymakers was actually a sixty- year-old Korean woman. She wasn't ashamed to tel us her age because she looked like she was about thirty and had no trouble attracting men. She had had work done on just about every part of her body. One of my favorite ladies was a woman who became a really good girlfriend of mine. She was Chinese and in her twenties, but she looked nineteen at most. Her name was Carole, and she had grown up in Chinatown with nine older brothers, all of them gang members. Her brothers looked out for her by controlling almost every aspect of her life. She was never allowed to date when she was growing up, so she got married really young, to escape her brothers' care, I guess, although we never talked about why. Why just wasn't a question that any of us asked about anything.