Everybody Knows E-Book

Giselle Renarde

• Herausgeber: Giselle Renarde
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Rainbow Award-winning author Giselle Renarde is back with 15 sweet and sensual transgender tales that run the gamut from romantic fantasy to true confession.

In Lust in Translation, a techie invents a new communication device to unlock his ex-girlfriend’s heart. In Hot Oil Treatment, partners explore their most memorable experiences together. Postcards from Paris follows a polyamorous triad as two dapper Doms take away their submissive’s razor. These and a dozen more round out this collection of diverse stories featuring characters who identify as gender non-normative, transgender, genderqueer, as well as those who aren’t really sure where they stand.

Challenging, amusing, stimulating and tender, these stories are sure to captivate the hearts of readers of all genders. In Everybody Knows, love is love regardless of how it’s packaged.

Leseprobe

Giselle Renarde Erotica

Everybody Knows: 15 Transgender Love Stories © 2015 by Giselle Renarde

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be access by minors.

––––––––

Cover design © 2015 Giselle Renarde

First Edition 2015

“SM, or How I Met My Girlfriend in a Queer Theatre” originally appeared in Nine-to-Five Fantasies (Cleis Press); “Licorne” was originally published by loveyoudivine Alterotica; “Eclipse the Stars” was originally published by Torquere Press; “Glitter in the Gutter” originally appeared in the anthology Twice the Pleasure (Cleis Press). “The Therapist and the Whore” originally appeared in Take Me There (Cleis Press); “Wedding Heat: Catering to the Masses” was originally published by Excessica Publishing.

Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

Table of Contents

Disclaimer

Introduction

-1- | Hot Oil Treatment

-2- | Lust in Translation

-3- | SM, or How I Met My Girlfriend in a Queer Theatre

-4- | Everybody Knows

-5- | Max Alone in See-Through Panties

-6- | Licorne

-7- | The Therapist and the Whore

-8- | Postcards from Paris

-9- | Bertie and the Vamp

-10- | Eclipse the Stars

-11- | Max Doesn’t Steal (Anymore)

-12- | Glitter in the Gutter

-13- | Wedding Heat: | Catering to the Masses

-14- | More Than Anything

-15- | One Woman Show

Introduction

––––––––

A lot of readers, writers and people in general seem fascinated by the idea of having sex with someone who identifies as transgender—with trans women, in particular. I guess that’s why it’s such a thriving theme in erotica and porn. But, with the exception of marvellous projects like the Crash Pad Series and Tristan Taormino’s awesome anthology Take Me There: Trans and Genderqueer Erotica, very little of the stuff that’s out there is produced with trans people in mind.

If you know me, you know my girlfriend is trans. When we were first getting to know one another and I told her I write erotica for a living, she shuddered.  She told me she hates the way trans people are represented in erotic content. Rather than seeing a trans character in an erotic story and being like, “Oh, hey, I am in some way represented here,” she’d read it and wonder why trans people were being characterized solely in fetishistic and derogatory ways. Instead of being turned on, she’d get pissed off.

She set me to the task of writing books that featured trans characters who weren’t stereotypes. She wanted to see herself and her friends represented in ways that did them justice as individuals. That was just the starting point.

I’ve spent most of my career as a short story writer, but over the years I’ve written a few longer works with the focus of honouring my commitment to my Sweet. My novella Friday Night Lipstick is loosely based on a friend of hers: an older trans woman who was trapped in an abusive marriage to a transphobic wife.  I also wrote a trans lesbian Christmas novel called The Red Satin Collection and it won a Rainbow Award for Best Transgender Romance. I assembled an anthology called My Mistress’ Thighs and it was awarded an honourable mention in the same category. Tristan Taormino contacted me out of the blue to ask if I would contribute to her book Take Me There: trans and genderqueer erotica, which went on to win a Lambda Literary Award.

The story I wrote for Take Me There (The Therapist and the Whore) also appears in this anthology, alongside a wide array of content. Some of these characters identify as trans while others view themselves as genderqueer or non-normative. Max (of Max Alone in See-Through Panties fame) gets off on women’s lingerie. Neil from Bertie and the Vamp doesn’t see any reason why he shouldn’t dress like his favourite competitor from the Gender-Non-Normative Arm Wrestling Association.

Some of these stories (like Hot Oil Treatment and More Than Anything) are blatantly about me. I’ll tell you that upfront. They’re first-person accounts of stuff that happened. SM, or How I Met My Girlfriend in a Queer Theatre is a more fictionalized version of same. So is Eclipse the Stars, in a sense.

Not all these stories are real-world-y, though. Licorne is historical fantasy about a unicorn saving a damsel in distress. Lust in Translation is about a trans guy who invents a freak-to-geek translator to woo back his ex-girlfriend.

Some of these stories have appeared in celebrated anthologies like Best Women’s Erotica. Others are brand new. I made an effort to include a higher than usual percentage of never-before-published fiction for those readers who’ve been voracious consumers of my work over the years. I wanted there to be something new for everyone.

The title of this collection, Everybody Knows, comes from a Leonard Cohen song. It’s also the title of one of my favourite stories in this anthology. For years, my girlfriend asked me to write a heartfelt love story between a trans woman and a trans man. I finally did, in 2013, for a Rachel Kramer Bussel book called Baby Got Back.

At first, the sentiment behind the words (and the song) Everybody Knows seems slightly jaded (okay, extremely jaded), but to me, it represents a fundamental fear that sits in my girlfriend’s heart: that she doesn’t “pass” as a woman. Everybody knows she’s trans. They’re laughing at her behind her back.

Everybody knows.

Let me tell you a quick story that redeems the concept of Everybody Knows, in my mind:

My girlfriend belongs to a number of women’s social groups. She feels comfortable in these spaces. She can be herself. You and I can be anti-social as we like, but she enjoys going out and meeting people.

As many of you know, Sweet isn’t out with her family. She’s an older person and she’s just too afraid of losing them. So when she spends time with her siblings and her adult children, she presents male even though she doesn’t identify that way.

One day she was out with family and she spotted a friend from one of her women’s groups. Her friend spotted her presenting as him. Recognition sparked. When she got home, Sweet had an email from this woman saying, “Let’s get together for a coffee.”

Sweet freaked out. I’d never seen her so panicked. She was afraid this woman would out her to the whole group and there’d be a bleed-through to other groups of friends. Her world would fall apart. She’d lose everything, lose everyone.

I held her hand and walked her to that coffee meeting, waited on pins and needles, and met her afterwards.  She was still shaken, but in a different way.  She told me this woman had chosen not to come over and talk to her that day, when she’d been presenting male, because the coffee friend didn’t want to make Sweet uncomfortable or put her in an awkward situation.

The woman said, “I think I always knew about you, or at least suspected. But it doesn’t matter.”

What about the rest of the group? What about the other women?

“I think everybody knows, probably. But it’s not like we talk about it. You’re one of us.”

We hear about transphobic violence. We hear about trans women being murdered all over the world just because they are who they are. We don’t tend to hear tales of discovery like this one, but they do happen.  And this event in my girlfriend’s life drove me, the jaded pessimist, to see the world in a slightly better light.

If everybody knows and nobody cares, we’re taking a step in the right direction.

Giselle Renarde

Toronto

2015

-1-

Hot Oil Treatment

––––––––

I had to ask my girlfriend’s opinion before I put pen to paper.

It’s not that I’m particularly needy, or that I bow to her beliefs, or that I couldn’t remember which of our sexual experiences impacted my life most deeply.  It’s more that my satisfaction is inextricably tied to hers.  If my Sweet hasn’t taken pleasure in an experience, then it isn’t terribly significant to me.  Even if I come forty times.

Orgasms used to be the end goal, especially when I was younger, but they’ve always been a dime a dozen for me.  These days, sex isn’t about coming.  It’s about being close to the woman I love.  There are a lot of sexual experiences I could write about because they were scandalous or sensational, or would make for titillating confessions, but I’d rather share something close to my heart. 

When my girlfriend and I started dating, I lost friends.  People near and dear to me called her a freak, a pervert, a deviant.  They couldn’t handle my romantic involvement with someone who identifies as a male-to-female transsexual.  It’s a shame their fears and prejudices prevented them from discovering what an amazing girl Sweet is.

Generally speaking, I wouldn’t advocate outing a trans partner to the reading public, but I do have Sweet’s permission.  She finds it empowering that I share not only our sex but our love on my blog and in my body of work.  She says my transgender fiction humanizes people like her, so she’s happy to appear in print, even if it is through the filter of my pen.

I asked Sweet which of our sexual encounters she thought I should write about in this essay, and her responses charted the entire course of our relationship so far.

First, she said, “Write about sucking my toes.”

Actually, I knew she was going to say that.  We’ve been together just shy of seven years, and already we’ve become repetitive and predictable and repetitive.  Did I mention repetitive?

It might seem like a small thing, but the first time I sucked Sweet’s toes was also the first time we did anything overtly sexual.  Sex did not come easy for us, not in the beginning.  I was incredibly attracted to her, but she rebuked my advances.  Before Sweet could give herself to me, she needed to feel confident that I viewed her as a woman and an individual—that I wasn’t fetishizing her gender expression, or thinking of her as a cross-dresser.  She didn’t want to provide just another lurid experience for my shocking little list.

That’s why the toe-sucking was so significant.  Before that day, I’d only ever kissed Sweet once—on my balcony.  She didn’t say anything at the time, but the next day she told me it made her feel “weird and uncomfortable.”  I persevered, not because I wanted to force her into a sexual relationship, but because I had a suspicion she would blossom even more fully into the woman she’d always been on the inside.  All she had to do was open herself to something new.

When I kissed her on the toe-sucking day, she let me do it.  If I’m not mistaken, she even kissed me back.  I touched her arms with just my fingertips and she shivered. 

I asked, “Is this okay?” and she nodded.

She was leaning, fully dressed, against the side of her bed.  I touched her thighs and listened to her breath grow shallow.  I thought she’d tell me to stop, but she didn’t.  I sank to the floor and unbuckled her shoes.  I took off her socks. 

It squicks some people when I talk about taking my girl’s toes in my mouth after she’s been walking around all day, but I love her feet.  When I sucked her big toe, she gasped.  It sounded like a degree of orgasm every time I took a fresh toe between my lips.  I looked up and her eyes were rolling back in her head, her lashes fluttering.  She told me it was the first time she’d ever had an orgasm fully dressed.

But I’ve told everyone that story, so I asked Sweet for another experience to write about.

“Wearing sexy stockings for you,” she said.  “I felt so self-conscious, even with them under my clothes. I’m not into fetish stuff. It was hard for me to cross that line.”

I knew precisely the day she was talking about—the night, actually.  We’d gone to a free k.d. lang concert as part of Toronto’s Luminato festival.  Afterwards, we had to choose between a Stars performance at NXNE, or heading back to my place.  As much as I love Canadian indie bands and open-air concerts, I could never resist the sparkle in my girl’s eye.  Especially when I thought she might be up to something.

It was my bed she leaned against this time.  She kicked off her pants to show me her secret: black stay-up stockings, the kind with lace tops.  After the number of times I’d told her how much I love women in sexy lingerie and hosiery—and she’d told me she didn’t feel comfortable wearing things like that—the gesture took my breath away. 

So did her legs.  If you ask Sweet her favourite feature, she’ll tell you it’s her legs.  They’re pale and lovely, leading up to the generous swell of her ass and curve of her belly.  She’d worn ultra-tight black panties that day.  When she stripped those off, I hardly knew what to say.  So I didn’t say anything.  I fell to my knees, and I took her in my mouth.

We don’t say “cock,” or even “penis,” when we talk about her body.  In fact, we stay away from specific references to her genitals.  Some trans women refer to that part as their “big clit,” but that term strikes Sweet as silly.  I asked her once what she preferred, and she said, “I like when you refer to it as me.”

So I took her in my mouth.  She was small and soft, and I could swallow her whole without gagging. Grasping the base of her shaft, I swirled my tongue around, like she and I were kissing. I sucked.  At first nothing much happened.  She scratched my shoulders and moaned her approval, and after a time, she grew.

I purred around her hardness, running my hands down her sheer black nylons.  Her legs felt so smooth against my palms.  That was my pleasure—the sucking and the smoothness.  I went at her more vigorously.  She told me to slow down, that I was hurting her, and I obeyed.  Her erection didn’t last long.  I’d frightened it, maybe, or come on too strong.  It dwindled down to nothing.  Sweet says it feels good when I suck her, even if she’s not hard, but after a while it begins to feel aimless.

And I didn’t think an aimless experience would be the best choice for an essay about great sex.  That’s why I asked her for one more idea.  I already had one in mind, but I wanted to see if she would come up with the same instance. 

“What about the time with the oil?” she asked, and I laughed because that’s exactly what I had in mind.  “That was huge, for me.  It was the first time I felt totally naked with you.  There was nowhere to hide.  Just us, skin on skin.”

I don’t remember whose idea it was to buy a shower curtain and a three-litre bottle of vegetable oil.  In my memory, it was a mutual decision that bloomed in the space between our brains.  In reality, it was probably my idea.  I’m certainly the one who carried a plastic jug of oil home on the subway.

I also don’t remember watching Sweet undress that day.  It was only after the fact that I realized the trepidation she must have felt as she stripped in my bedroom.  We’d had “intercourse” before (her word, and about as sexy as the sex), but she’d never taken off her top.  She was and is very self-conscious about her breasts, which she considers “fake.”  True, she packs her bra with water-filled spheres, but that doesn’t make the flesh underneath any less real.  My chest is nearly flat too. So what?  We humans, we come in all shapes and sizes.

But Sweet isn’t comfortable with her shapes—with the lacks and the excesses—which makes it all the more moving that she stripped bare and laid herself down on a dollar store shower curtain and let me pour vegetable oil all over her body. 

Everywhere. 

I straddled her, naked on naked, and pushed pools of oil across her belly, up her chest, down her arms.  Her skin shone as I poured more oil into her nest of pubic hair.  She watched as I dragged the slick stuff down her thighs, which were already the softest I’d ever touched.  My pussy craved the same sensation, and I lowered myself down.

Sweet laughed and asked, “What’s with you getting off on my thigh?”

“I just like it,” I said, playing coy.  “Feels good, rubbing against it.  Especially with all this oil.”

My hands were slick, but my body wasn’t—not just yet—and Sweet grabbed my arm to steady me while I grabbed her between the legs.  She arched slightly, and whimpered, and I hoped that was a good whimper because I liked having her in my fist.  The vein on the underside of her shaft pulsed against my palm.  She grew hard before my eyes.

It wasn’t every day my sweetheart maintained an erection, whether it was in my hand, in my mouth, in my pussy.  They usually took a lot of work to arouse, and then faded fast.  She hardly ever ejaculated with me, but she likes to remind me that coming and ejaculating are not the same thing.  They can happen in conjunction, but she often has one without the other.  She often has multiple.

The rarity of a firm, strong erection drove me to writhe harder against her thigh, and tug harder on her shaft.  I used both hands to fondle everything I could touch.  The oil eased my path, though my pussy was wet enough for the oil to be overkill.  It felt good, swirling in circles around my girlfriend’s thigh, but it wasn’t getting me there.  I think that’s what made Sweet pull me down on top of her.

By the time my skin met hers, our oil had warmed to her temperature.  I’d poured so much on her.  There was more than enough to make me slippery all over.

We kissed like that, me on top, she underneath.  Her hands explored my plains and terrains, sneaking between us to pinch my nipples.  There was something freeing about feeling so glossy that I might fall off of her.  At the same time, even with slick hands, I knew she’d never let me fall.

I stroked her engorged shaft the whole time we kissed, and as it grew huge in my hand, I thought maybe I could take it inside me.  Penetrative sex wasn’t always a roaring success with us, but it could be this time.  I knew it could.  So I arched away from her perfect mouth and I straddled her wide hips and I lowered my body down until I’d taken her glistening part in mine.

She’d never filled me quite like that before.  I don’t think she’d ever been so hard—certainly not in the time we’d known each other.  As I rode her, pressing my clit flush to her wiry pubic hair, my hands slipped and slid against her little breasts.  She tried to grasp my nipples, but they got away from her every time.

How could I not have realized, as I looked down at her slick body, that this was a turning point?  Being naked together with the curtains open and sunlight sparkling against our oiled bodies, she felt utterly exposed.  I didn’t know that until later, until she told me in words.

In that moment, her body said nothing of trepidations, of fears, of insecurities.  I fucked her, and I wasn’t dainty about it.  I scoured my clit against her pelvis.  I got myself so close my pussy hugged her tight, milking her body, demanding that she come. 

She grabbed my wrist and brought my hand to my cunt, pressing my fingers against my clit.  Sweet liked to watch, but she was bashful about requests.  Instead, she took hold of my hand and placed it where she wanted it to be.  I rubbed my clit while she stared, transfixed, at the place where we joined together. 

Sweet never made much noise in bed, but me?  I’m loud.  I’m rough.  I rode her hard and smacked her tiny tits and hollered as I came.  She whimpered and said, “Oh God!” but that was it.  Her throat clicked and she took a sharp breath in.  Her belly fluttered, sending curves of flesh rippling like a pond. 

I wish I could have seen her erupt with cum.  It’s rare that I can put her over the edge and watch those thick white ropes explode from her body.  As I write this, Sweet hasn’t ejaculated in over three months—and, trust me, we’ve tried to get her there.

We’ve come a long way together, my girl and I.  That first night when we kissed on my balcony, she left feeling awkward and uncomfortable.  In time, she let me in, started trusting me, and she realized that I see her as a woman.  Not a fetish object or a man in a dress.  That’s not who she is.  Even naked and slathered in vegetable oil, I see a woman where others wouldn’t.

There’s a song by Bjork that I’d heard a hundred times before listening closely enough to realize it described us perfectly: 

I see who you are behind the skin and the muscle. 

When we’re in love, we hear our relationships in every song, but that one particularly left a mark on me.  Every time I listen to it, I think about warm oil and writhing limbs.  And I think about the woman I love, who learned to use her body, who gave it as a gift to me.

-2-

Lust in Translation

––––––––

“This had better be good, Noor.”  Julie slammed her purse down on the 1950s tabletop, then stood beside the bench seat, arms crossed, toe tapping.  “Well?  I don’t have all day.”

“Sit down.”  Noor tried to be inviting, but he wondered if that came out sounding too much like an instruction.  “Sorry, I mean please sit down.  If you want.”

With a sigh, Julie swept onto the red vinyl bench.  “This had better be good.”

“Oh it is, it is!”  Noor pulled his new invention out of the box.  “I’ve been working on it ever since you dumped me.”

Julie glared across the table.  “You asked me here to look at some stupid invention?”

“Yes, but... but I invented it for you.”  As usual, he couldn’t pick the appropriate words out of his muddled mind.  Everything was so clear when he was designing plans or performing calculations, but when it came to Julie, he never knew what to say.  “Please, let me show you what it does.  I know you’ll like it.”

“Why?” she spat, though there was a definite spark of curiosity in her eye.  “What is it?”

“I made it for you.  For us, actually.”  Noor turned on the power and gave his device a moment to warm up.

“But what is it?” 

“Oh, sorry.”  Noor fiddled with the sliders.  “Right, well actually it’s a geek-to-freak translator.”

Julie tossed her head back and laughed.  “Leave it to a trans guy to invent a trans-lator!”

“Yeah, that’s what everyone at the store said.”  Noor felt a blush coming on.  “I made it afterhours with parts from old computers and tube televisions.  Let me show you how it works.”

Rolling her eyes, Julie said, “You’re such a nerd.”

“Thank you.”  He pulled the microphone close and explained the translator’s intricacies. 

When Noor had finished his extensive diatribe, the device kicked in.  In a staggered robot voice, it said, “Julie, I’ve missed you more than you could ever imagine.  I built this machine to breach the gap between us.  Please say you still love me.”

Julie sighed.  “Noor, it isn’t a matter of loving you or not loving you.  I mean, of course I do, but that doesn’t mean we’re good for each other.”

The translator beeped as it worked over her words and then said, “Noor, please tell me more about your machine.”

Julie rolled her eyes, but laughed.

“It took me three months to plan and build,” Noor replied.  “I spent every spare moment working on it.” 

He told her in great detail about every failed attempt, every false start, and how he finally overcame all those disasters to produce the invention before them.

The machine whirred for a moment, which made Noor nervous.  Not another breakdown, not in front of Julie!

“You were more than just a girlfriend to me,” the translator said.  “When we first met, I was a geek boi and you loved me for my mind.  You stuck by me when I realized I was trans.  Even as a die-hard lesbian, you supported my male identity and you helped me understand myself better.  Nobody in this world could ever take your place.”

With tears in her eyes, Julie reached across the table and held Noor’s hands.  “I love you, sweetheart.”

The translator said, “I need you.”

Julie blushed.  “Yeah, maybe I do.”

The translator said, “You look damn sexy today.”

Julie laughed.  “You’re making it say these things.”

The translator said, “Let’s go back to my place for some hot monkey love.”

When Julie cracked up, Noor brought her hands to his face and held them against his cheeks.  She gasped and said, “You’ve got stubble.”

The translator said, “That scares me a bit.”

“Yeah, the T’s really kicking in,” Noor told her.  “I’m shaving once a week.  Not bad, huh?”

The translator said, “This testosterone is making me horny as hell.”

Noor felt his eyes bug out while Julie chuckled. “These pretzels are making me thirsty.”

The translator said, “I use Seinfeld references to mask my discomfort.”

The air between them got so thick Noor could hardly breathe, especially when he looked his beautiful ex-girlfriend in the eye.  Soon to be un-ex, hopefully.  Julie wasn’t the kind of gorgeous that found its way onto magazine covers or runways.  She had a big curvy body and chubby baby cheeks.  Her hair was naturally dark brown, but she dyed it the kind of black that had a purple shimmer.  Most of her clothes were homemade.  She either bought fabric and sewed from scratch, or picked up thrift store dresses and altered them into one-of-a-kind creations.  No matter how she got there, she always looked amazing.