Mirrored Erotica

By Roberta Angela Dee

I was born in 1949. World War II had ended only 4 years earlier. I was just beginning to adjust to life and could not know how much the world was changing. Nor could I know of the "sameness" that was sweeping across the globe as cultures began to assimilate one another.

Today, except for architecture and language, there is little difference between Moscow and Paris, or between Tokyo and Brasilia. The rich are rich -- their walls covered with expensive portraits and original paintings. The poor are poor -- their walls either covered with newspapers to keep in the heat, or with peeling paint chips to better illustrate their poverty.

The sameness I write of is mostly reflected in the people -- their aspirations, their needs, their ambitions, their dreams.

In 1953, I was 4 years old. This was the year that I first began to realize I was not like other boys, that I was different. The difference, of course, was that I did not want to be a little boy. I wanted to be a little girl. In fact, I was already convinced that somehow, concealed within my male form, was the body of a little girl. And that little girl wanted an identity, a way to express herself, and to be recognized as both real and human.

Younger transsexuals do not understand how terrifying these thoughts were for me back in 1953. People did not talk about transsexuals. They rarely even referred to homosexuals. Homosexuals were referred to as being "queer" or "funny." The writers of the day used the word "gay," and it's still used today.

The point I am trying to make is that there was no word for me -- no word for who I was, nor for what I felt inside. There was no internet accessible for me to do a keyword search. There were no magazines, nor references from which I could draw a better understanding of my nature. Physically, I was male. But emotionally, there was a void and abyss that desperately needed to be filled with answers.

Today, people take transsexuality for granted. They hear about transsexuals on talk shows. They see transsexuals and transvestites in the movies. VH-1 even has Ru Paul, the famous African-American female impersonator, hosting a variety show. But back in 1953, if there was another male-to-female transsexual, she kept it to herself. She did not confess it, nor could she talk about it. These things were not discussed. It was not as it is today. Today, everything and anything is discussed. It was not this way when I was a child.

I imagine it was even more terrifying for the female-to-male transsexual. For him, the idea of a woman becoming a man was simply unthinkable, unimaginable. It would be regarded as an even greater act against God than the idea of a man wanting to be a woman.

It was not until I was 10 that I learned of Christine Jorgenson and Virginia Prince. These individuals became my heroines. They were the pioneers of transgender exploration! They were, and continue to be, my role models.

I do not know who the role models for a female-to-male transsexual might be. I do know they exist, and that for the female-to-male transsexual, these transgendered pioneers are as important to them as Christine Jorgenson and Virginia Prince are to me, and those of my generation.

By 1979, at the age of 30, I had taken a position as a writer for a small publishing company on Long Island. The company maintained offices in the newly constructed mirrored towers on Hempstead Turnpike. At the time, they were the most impressive examples of modern architecture that Long Island had to offer, and provided a clear indication that Long Island was well on its way to becoming a major metropolis.

The twin buildings were not only taller than anything else on Long Island at that time, but their reflective windows gave the illusion that the building was constructed solely of glass -- an impressive and equally impossible accomplishment. Both the employers and employees who worked there had a sense of working in the future, or at least of working in some futuristic setting that somehow made them superior to those who worked in less impressive structures.

1979 was an interesting time. It was the year that Ohio agreed to pay $675,000 to families of the dead and injured in the Kent State University shootings. Margaret Thatcher became Prime Minister of Britain. Three Mile Island became the site of America's first nuclear power accident. The Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan. Dustin Hoffman won an academy award for his role in "Kramer vs Kramer; and the play "Evita" won the New York Drama Critic's Circle Award.

I was 30 years old and had been living as a woman for 5 years. There were a few who suspected that I was a transsexual. No one, however, knew that I had never had a sex change operation.

I had already decided that, for me, there was no need for surgery. I was already a woman in mind, heart, and spirit. Nothing a surgeon could do could "carve in" or "carve out" a greater measure of womanhood. I do not suggest that surgery is wrong for everyone. It was wrong for me, and wrong for some who commit to surgery only to regret it later.

I was in the office working late one evening -- working on an important book proposal for a friend of an agent associated with the firm. I was alone. I looked at my watch and it was approaching 8:00 PM. The building -- with the exception of security -- was vacant. At least, that was my impression. However, as I walked down the hall towards the elevator, a gentleman in an office a few doors down called to me by name. "Miss Dee," he yelled out. "Could I get your opinion? It will just take a moment."

The gentleman was very attractive. He had a European, almost aristocratic air about him. His dark hair and dark bedroom eyes was coupled with a beautiful smile. It made him quite nearly irresistible.

"How do you know my name?" I asked.

"My dear," he began, "it's common knowledge that you're one of the best writers in the building."

"I'm flattered," I replied while adjusting my bra strap and fluttering my lashes ever so subtly. "I hadn't realized I was the topic of conversation here."

"Oh, trust me, Roberta. May I call you Roberta?" he asked. "I'm Philip Capolinni. I'm a partner with this accounting firm."

"Kah Ching," I thought to myself. "Yes, by all means, Mr. Capolinni, call me Roberta."

"No, just Phil," he interrupted. "Just call me Phil. Please."

"All right. But, tell me, Phil, why am I the topic of so much talk?"

"Because there isn't another woman working in this building who is 6 feet tall and as attractive as you," he answered while fully employing his charming smile.

"Right answer," I thought to myself. But I simply told him that once again I was very flattered.

"How can I help you this evening?" I asked.

"I'd just like you to read the second paragraph in this document and tell me if it's grammatically correct," he explained while handing the document to me.

I looked at it and while I was reading, Phil approached me from behind and suggested that I pay particular attention to the third sentence in the second paragraph.

He was terribly close, and it didn't take but a second to realize that he was coming onto me. "But did he realize I was transgendered? Did he think I was a post-operative transsexual or a genetic female?" I wondered to myself.

Before I could protest, he moved even closer. I could now feel his manhood pressing between my buttocks. A part of me wanted to protest his physical advance, but the feminine part of me overruled any protest and I found myself pressing back.

His hand moved quickly to my chest and he began fondling my right breast.

"Mmmm, real breasts," he announced.

The fact that he had said "real" breasts and not simply "nice" breasts told me that in some way he realized I was transgendered. Again, before I could even think to protest, his hand was under my skirt and he inserted a finger under my panty. Doing so, he removed any doubt as to what he did or did not know.

"You're so exquisitely feminine," he responded.

"And you're so exquisitely masculine," I replied

"I've wanted to make love to a woman like you my entire life," he commented, breathing noticeably more heavy than earlier.

"You're not afraid you'll be disappointed?" I asked

"I'm certain I won't be disappointed," he replied.

I removed my clothes and laid upon his desk. Although I could see the people and the street below, I knew they could not peer into the mirrored building. Still, the fact that there were people visibly beneath me added to the excitement I felt while with Phil.

After a half hour of pleasing me orally, I reached an incredibly intense orgasm. He mounted me at this most perfect moment, and took me to erotic heights I had never even imagined.

Our relationship remained discreet and a secret. No one knew of our passions for each other. There was no pretense of being in love, and it only lasted for the eight additional months I remained in the employ of the publisher.

I am sure that most men would question the ethics of our affair, and that the majority of women might see it as a passionate expression between two men. I maintain, however, that there was nothing queer, funny, nor gay about our love. It was driven by the same lust, the same passion that draws any aroused man to an equally aroused woman. Consider it however you wish. For me, it was and shall always be a union between feminine and masculine, male and female, man and woman.

Roberta Angela Dee
RADANGLE@aol.com