One Summer Stand

“This is very nice. I always wanted to see what was inside this old house. I love the shades of gray on the walls and the deep tuxedo chairs and couch. Very elegant. Very Savannah. And so many windows.”

Yes, it should look great, I thought, as I guided Lucy into the one-bedroom long-term rental in the historical Bird Baldwin house on the corner of Barnard and Liberty Streets in the heart of historical district of Savanna, Georgia, between the Orleans and Pulaski parks. It was costing me $15,000 for a summer stay—two and a half months—and there was just the one bedroom. On bedroom was all I needed, though—and the queen-sized bed, of course.

“Beer good enough?” I asked.

“Yes, please,” the lovely slender Lucy in her slinky silver-sequined minishift said, as she ran her neon-blue polished fingernails over the back of the sofa, facing the fireplace with a flat-screen TV above it. She was multiraced, as so many in Savannah were, a white mother and black father, she’d told me between dances at the Savannah Smiles Dueling Pianos nightclub on Williamson near the riverfront. She hadn’t been shy about telling me that. It wasn’t the only significant mixed element about her.

I came out of the kitchen with the beers, came in close behind her, and handed her one. When she took it from my hand, I moved that hand down to palm her lower belly as I nuzzled my face into the hollow of her throat. She sighed and leaned back into my body. I moved my hand down lower, under the hem of the minishift, and then up. She gasped as I possessed and worked her folds and slit. There was no question where the evening was headed. She wasn’t wearing panties, and she rocked on my possessing hand for a few moments.

This was one of the new experiences I had wanted to acquire in taking this sabbatical in Savannah—exploring the world of fucking T-girls.

“Naughty, naughty,” she murmured in a breathy voice, but she leaned into the exploration rather than moving away from it. I moved my fingers deeper, stretching her channel, preparing her for mounting.

“Oh, baby, baby,” she whispered, turning her face for a deep kiss and moving her pelvis on my spreading fingers.

It wasn’t a surprise to me that she was a fully transformed T-girl, not that I had any experience with them before coming to Savannah. I’d seen her on the stage in the altogether. I admit I was intrigued. Pursuing such fetishes without embarrassment was one reason I’d come to Savannah. Changing venues to one where I wasn’t known so well was freeing in the sexual pleasures I pursued.

I spread the folds more and buried a third finger in her while rubbing the vestigial penis at the top of the slit with my thumb. She maintained her interest. “Fuck me. Fuck me now,” she begged. “Fuck me in the lady bits.”

I laughed. “All in good time.” I was pleased, though, that there would be no coyness, no required seduction. I was hard, in heat. I released her, backed away, and said, “I’ll go get comfortable. I’ll only be a few moments. There’s a stack of DVDs over by the fireplace. Pick out one you like and put it on.” The bathroom was by the kitchen on the opposite side of the small apartment from the bedroom and I went there first, scrounged around in the medicine cabinet for a tub of lube and a fistful of condoms. I brought those back and put them on a side table next to the sofa on my way to the bedroom. Lucy was at the fireplace, sorting through the DVDs. I made no effort to hide the sex implements. She turned her head and gave me a coy smile.

The living room was separated from the bedroom with its queen-sized bed by double pocket doors, but I didn’t bother to close them as I went to the closet, stripped off my party clothes, and pulled out a pair of green velour lounging pants that I knew I looked good in. I stripped completely down, giving her a full look. I was in full erection. I wouldn’t need even briefs.

I was thirty-eight, but I gymed myself into great condition and I’d never had trouble gaining approval in the looks department. I received more compliments for the gray streaks in my hair and at the temples than I had before the gray started to show. The pants hung low on my hips, dipping in front almost to the root of my cock. It may only have been my raging erection that was holding them up as I walked back into the living room. The erection certainly pushed the front of the pants out, leaving no question that I was hard—and hung.

What I saw when I returned was a sequined shift hanging over the back of one of the side chairs. The DVD that was running was of a muscular white guy fucking a small, shapely black woman in a missionary position. What was showing invited the question of how she could sheath what he was putting in her. Prominent in the frame was the black woman’s blue-lacquered fingernails moving on the white stud’s back—the same neon blue on Lucy’s nails. An empty beer can was on its side on the fireplace mantle. I could see a shapely brown arm dangling off the sofa toward the floor, a delicate gold bracelet on the wrist—and, of course, the neon blue fingernails.

This was going to be something different. Andre Bouchard the manager of Club 1, who had introduced me to Lucy, had told me that it would be—that I couldn’t go all summer in Savannah without experiencing one of the special delights of the city. I already was three weeks into a two-and-a-half-month sabbatical stay here from my New York job.

“You haven’t fucked a T-girl with a cunt yet, Mark?” he’d asked, and upon the shake of my head, he said, “We’ll have to fix that pronto.” Soon after that he brought Lucy to my table. I’d seen her on stage already, but she had been so convincing in her performance that I had thought she really was a woman.

What was unique about Lucy, was that, though she was Lucy at night, during the weekdays she was Lamont, who worked in the pharmacy, as male unquestionably, in the Bull Street CVS store. I had gone with transvestites before, but not with a fully transformed one. Though Lamont, small and trim, could pass as male in men’s clothing, s/he now was fully transformed with breasts, albeit pert ones, and a cunt. I don’t know if I’d ever get the hang of what to call T-girls like Lucy, who had gone male to female. I’d heard the acronym MTF for that.

Picking up the beer I’d left on the side table, I tossed that off and came around to between the sofa and the fireplace. Lucy, naked, slender and small and beautifully formed, milk chocolate, sat up on the sofa, ran her hands under the waistband of my lounging pants and onto my buttocks, cupping them, as she shrugged the pants off my hips with a flick of her wrists. My eyes followed the neon-blue fingernails as best they could.

“Oh, baby, baby, you’re magnificent,” she murmured, as she took my cock in her hands and glided it up between her small breasts, bunching them together to give me a brief tittie fuck. It wasn’t long, though, before she’d guided me to her mouth and into her throat and gave me head.

I could only take this for so long before I moved my hands from her head to her shoulders, turned her, and laid her stretched out on the sofa, her torso inclined on the sofa’s side pillow, her breasts, small and perky, invitingly jutting out to me. I slipped my lounge pants off and moved over her, knees pressed between her legs on the sofa, on hand cupping her head and the other gliding down her belly and into her V, possessing her as she gasped and arched her pelvis up into my hand. My lips went to her nipples and I feasted on her there, as the fingers of my hand explored her surgically provided lady bits.

“You gonna go right to fucking me, sugar?” she asked. “No play first?”

“Yes, I’m going fuck you now—and then fuck you later, and fuck you later than that,” I answered.

She laughed a deep, husky laugh, but yelped as I drove a finger deep up into her cunt.

The hands weren’t enough to satisfy my curiosity. Pulling away from her nipples, I kissed and licked down her torso and belly and into her tightly groomed snatch. She clutched at me and rocked as I took her vestigial penis at the top of her slit between my teeth and toyed with it.

“Oh, baby, baby,” she moaned. “Put it in. Fuck me,” rocking her pelvis against my face.

After several minutes of this, I rose up, reached for and picked up the small bottle of lube and a condom packet from the table by the arm of the sofa by her head, did what I had to do with them, brought the other knee up to between her legs, and hovered above her in position. Lucy hooked her ankle on my shoulder, moved her hands between our bellies, grasping my erection in both hands, and putting it in position.

“Now, fuck me now,” she begged.

Looking down into her face, I saw her eyes flash and her mouth open in a long, low moan, as I entered her. I took it slow, not knowing how it would feel. But it didn’t feel much different from any of the women I had fucked.

She began to pant and move her body under me, as I became well saddled and attained a steady cadence. I looked up at the screen where the white stud was still missionary fucking a black beauty. He’d gotten a start on me, but I wondered which one of us would finish first. I was pretty good at control and endurance. I was great at stretching the channel.

“Oh, baby, baby.” Lucy moaned. “You’re huge. Take me to heaven.” I was in deep, both of us working together on the long slide in and the momentary pull back, me in awe of what the new snatch would take, Lucy knowing what she was capable of sheathing, her surgeons having been generous and understanding what she wanted. Her neon-blue fingernails moved from stroking my cheeks to grasping my biceps and then to digging into my shoulder blades as I gave her no mercy in how much of me was inside her. Surprisingly, I bottomed in her.

She didn’t have a whole lot of variety of expressions. I got a hand behind Lucy’s back and moved it down her back and over her buttocks. I slid my middle finger into her crack, and lower. Lucy gasped and gave me a wild look with her eyes, as I entered her ass with, first, one finger, and then two, and stretched and fucked her ass with my fingers while I was fucking her cunt.

She bucked and panted and groaned. “Oh, baby, baby,” she moaned.

“I want it old style now,” I murmured.

“Oh, baby, not after I went through all this to get this. Come in my cunt, baby. Oh, fuck,”

I turned her on her belly. She didn’t resist.

The white muscle dude on the screen won the endurance battle, but he was a pro and they’d spliced together multiple sessions anyway. I knew he’d win—and that it involved the splicing of multiple sessions. I knew it because the white muscle guy in the film was me from a previous life—before I’d left porn and moved on. It was why I had the DVD. I wondered if Lucy knew that—or suspected it—because she chose the film. She couldn’t have known before the DVD was running that the black woman had the same neon-blue fingernail polish as she did. It was a nice touch, though.

I was pleased with my first time—but to be a one-night stand like all the rest—with a luscious T-girl.

Lucy was sprawled out, on her belly, as open as she could be on a sofa, arms spread wide, thighs open to me, me stretched out on top of her hovering over her, propped up on my toes and one hand, the other hand under her, fingers inside her slit, me deep inside her ass, doing her the way she took it before the transformation. And then I was jerking and coming, jerking and coming in the bulb of the condom.

I rose from her, stood there over the sofa looking down at her for a moment, and then stripped off the spent condom and dropped it in the brass bowl I’d put on the coffee table for that purpose. I picked up another condom packet and moved to a club chair facing the sofa. We held there for several minutes, Lucy on her belly, sprawled on the sofa, looking at me, her eyes big, watching me sitting in the chair, stroking my cock, making myself erect again.

After several minutes, she said, “I guess I should leave. It’s late and I have work tomorrow.”

“Nope,” I said. I stood up from the club chair, split open the condom packet, crowned myself again, and strode over to the sofa. I picked her up in my arms and carried her in the bedroom, on the queen-size bed. I did her in a missionary there, putting her ankles on my shoulders and fucking her in the cunt. Knowing there was more to her than a new cunt—that she’d let me have it both ways—though, I pulled out, grabbed and separated her butt cheeks, rolling her hips up to me, and, as she clutched at the sheets, tossed her head back and forth, and cried out in pain-passion, I spiked her in the ass again and gave her the vigorous, deep ass fucking she’d well known before she’d gotten herself transformed. Sometime in the night, she turned me on my back and rode me in a cowboy. I had no idea in the dark and being only half awake what hole I was in and it didn’t seem to matter.

I woke in the morning to the sound of the shower running in the bathroom across the living room from the bed. I feigned sleep as she padded into the living room, drying herself off with a towel, pulled on her slinky shift and her high heels and, after giving me a look showing an expression of “maybe he’ll wake and tell me he’s taking me to breakfast,” shrugged when that wasn’t forthcoming, and left the apartment.

She’d been quite an experience. But this was the awkward stage for me. I’ve never committed. It had always been a one-night stand. The morning after, if they stayed, and I usually prevented that from happening, was just too awkward for me. One and done—night, that is, once fucking, I rarely did it just once. That had been me. Always. And I’d never had trouble getting it done.

First time in a T-girl’s cunt, though.

* * * *

It began the previous evening with me sitting at a table at Club 1, famous for having been the home grounds of Savannah transgender icon Lady Chablis, with the club manager, Andre Bouchard, the two of us chatting while we watched a vivacious, slender Diana Ross mimic shimming on stage in a sleek, silver-sequined minishift. Bouchard had been informed that I’d come south from New York City for a summer sabbatical in Savannah and had invited me to the club. He wanted me to write up a couple of revues for the club’s troupe to perform. It’s what I made the most money from in New York.

“Our routines have gotten stale,” he said, pouring me another flute of champagne. “For ‘consideration’ maybe you could write up a couple of new group revues for us.”

“What I do in New York is for much different preferences,” I said. Several of the male-on-male bathhouses put on Chippendales dancer knockoff revues, and I was in talks with a producer, Cliff Taggert, to open a full-scale gay male revue theater somewhere in Manhattan. I choreographed and designed the sets and costumes for those. I had started as a male porn actor in my early and mid-twenties and worked my way to this point in my thirties. What I designed wasn’t what I saw being staged here at Club 1. I certainly liked what I saw on stage now. If I didn’t know the performer was a cross-dresser, I’d take her—or him; I didn’t know the right terminology going—as a very-close early-Diana Ross impersonator.

“It’s all in delivering sex,” Bouchard said. “From what I’ve heard, you are really good—and versatile—at it.”

I suppose “versatile” was a fair thing to say about my background. It certainly had been versatile. I’d come to New York nearly twenty years previously to study in NYU’s Tisch school of creative arts without having decided what I wanted to do: acting, art, set design, playwrighting? I wanted to do it all, and I dabbled in it all. I still wanted to do it all and hadn’t settled on just one avenue. To get through college, I modeled, and when that didn’t make enough, I became an escort—whether escorting a woman or a man, it didn’t matter. A fee was a fee, and sex was sex was sex. When that didn’t make enough, I did straight porn movies, and then bi ones and, finally, gay male ones. At the same time, I was trying to hone my art skills, concentrating on set design. What I really wanted to be was a playwright, though. I was managing to do that well enough now, but the real money was coming in choreographing and set designing sex ensemble stage revues.

I had come down to Savannah to immerse myself in the playwrighting for the summer season. Bouchard was trying to convince me to do a little backsliding into sex revue design while I was here.

“Tell me why you came down to Savannah for the summer,” Bouchard said. “I’m told that you felt a bit washed out and were looking for inspiration and fresh perspective.”

I was mainly looking for time to work on play scripts, but I wasn’t telling anyone in the sex revue world that they didn’t have my first priority. “Yes, largely,” I said.

“The performer, up on stage, Lucy. You fancy her, don’t you?”

“Yes, as women go. But I don’t see—”

He laughed. “I know of your past—the escorting and the movies, both straight and gay. You have quite a bit of variety in your past.”

“Yes, so?”

“Have you ever fucked a T-girl—one who has fully transformed? Have you ever done it with the sensation that you can do a woman and a man at the same time—that when you’re tired of one hole, there’s another one for you to use?”

“No. I don’t see where this is going, though.” That said, I’d heard about the T-girls of Savannah before coming here and I had, in fact, contemplated the possibility of trying them out this summer.

“You came down to get a fresh perspective. You have a history of fucking women and men and you’ve designed revues for both girlie shows and Chippendales routines. But you’ve never done a trans revue or had experienced with a trans, have you?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Maybe that’s a challenge you’ve come to Savannah to get. You couldn’t go to a better place to get the best of transgender shows. Maybe what you need—what brought you here—was the need to do something fresh. That’s Lucy up on stage. She’ll come down here and sit with us after she’d done. You can have her for the evening—for the night, if you want. She’ll party with you. She’ll lay down and open her legs for you. She’ll give you her ass if that’s what you want. You can have her three ways—her mouth, her ass, and her cunt. She knows about you. She’s eager for it. Then maybe you’ll agree to work with us here while you’re in Savannah—freshen up your perspectives and freshen up our shows at the same time.”

What could I say? Lucy came off the stage and to our table. The three of us chatted for a while. She was delightful, and I was having trouble seeing her as anything but fully female. The knowledge that she was more than that, though, piqued my curiosity and I couldn’t help but speculate on how this and that would work—where this would fit and what the resulted sensations were. Could I get it up with a mixed gender? I guess that wasn’t really a question, though. I was bi; I still could get it up for female even though my preferences now were male. I was hard now, talking to her at the table at Club 1.

She was such a delicious little piece to sit with, talk with, contemplate coupling with: small, trim, perfectly turned out in the slinky, sequined shift, beautiful of face, coy and saucy without being saccharine. She was creamy chocolate brown, freely telling me of her black father and white mother parentage and how this in itself had brought her to highly tolerant Savannah. She made no bones that she fancied me. I had no doubts she would let me bed her. She put a hand below the surface to the table and quite thoroughly got the measure of me. I, of course, was in erection.

“My, my you are a big boy, aren’t you? Andre told me you were the pride of the porn camera.”

“Do you have a problem with size?” I asked.

“Only ones too small to stay in,” she answered.

It wasn’t long before I realized that Andre Bouchard had left us but that champagne continued to be brought to the table. Not long after that, she asked me if I’d seen any of the other clubs and I answered that I had not. Did I dance? When I had to to get where I wanted to go, I answered.

She took me to the nearby Savannah Smiles Dueling Piano gay- and trans-friendly nightclub, where we shimmied against each other on a crowded floor to rocking piano music, backed up by a bass fiddle. Other patrons stared at us and gave us space. I could tell that they thought we were an attractive couple.

“It’s crowded here tonight,” she blew into my ear. “Want to do somewhere else?”

“Yes, please.”

“Is there someplace you want to go?”

“Yes. My place. It’s just a few blocks away, at Barnard and Liberty.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she said, with a laugh.

My sex education was complete. On my living room couch, I experienced fucking Lucy, a T-girl, for the first time. On my bed later I was able to enjoy fucking the young black guy, Lamont, in the ass. Even later I gave up to control to both Lucy and Lamont, as both rode me in a cowboy, I enjoyed her/him both ways, and I played with her luscious tits.

It was, as Andre Bouchard promised, an exhilarating experience. I had a strict one-night-stand policy. Lucy/Lamont, though, left me regretting that and knowing I’d have to work hard to resist the newly established pull of the transgendered.

* * * *

I tried working through the morning—I had a session to go to at the Book Gift Shop on E. Gordon, famous as being the headquarters for programs on the bestselling Savannah murder-mystery book, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, in the afternoon. I had been asked to speak there about how one became a playwright—but I couldn’t concentrate on the writing. I’d taken my pen and paper out to the long balcony across the back of the building that my apartment had access to. I didn’t use them to jot down play ideas, though. As was often the case, my fallback doodling that sometimes resulted in set designs I could use, I sketched rather than wrote. And what I sketched was Lucy, as I was able to remember her.

It hit me as I languidly sketched, that I needed a bottle of Tylenol and more toothpaste. Abandoning the failed attempt to work, I dressed and walked over to the CVS drugstore on Bull Street. Gathering my supplies, I found myself going to the pharmacy counter rather than to the front of the store to buy them. Subconsciously I knew I was acting on having heard about who worked there.

Lucy was there—or rather Lamont today. He recognized me immediately and gave me a glorious smile as he rung me up—and rang my chimes, I must say. He touched my hand for a moment longer with his than necessary as he gave the bagged items and change back to me. We didn’t say anything. I just smiled sheepishly back at him and turned and left. I’d been wondering all day about how demanding I’d been with Lucy the previous night and whether she resented me not waking up when she left. But Lamont’s smile told me we were good.

I told myself that I was just buying drug store supplies I needed. Then I told myself I was just checking to ensure he—or she—was OK. No, I didn’t usually do that with my one-night stands. But this one had been different. So very, very different.

The program manager for the bookstore was a young, intense, trim, and good-looking guy named Ted Danforth. Six turned up to hear me speak, and they asked questions. So, I was satisfied. How many were around any given place who were interested in playwrighting anyway?

Ted must have been disappointed and concerned for me with the turnout, though. He flitted around, apologizing, and pressing the six to try to fluff themselves up to be a bigger, more enthusiastic flock. As some sort atonement, he invited me for a coffee at the Goose Feather’s Café on Banard, not far from my apartment. I could tell he was gay. I also could tell that he was aroused by me.

I knew what he wanted. After the talk, he’d said, “I want to show you something,” and he pulled a glossy coffee table book out from under his counter that I recognized.

I laughed. “Where did you come up with that?” I asked.

“We have a small room in the back that sells gay literature,” he said. “I want to make sure that this is you.”

It was a photobook on gay porn movies from fifteen years earlier. “Yes, that’s me,” I said. The two photos of me revealed all that I was at that time. Time had matured my musculature a bit, but it hadn’t changed my endowment. It was then that he asked me if we could go for coffee and prolong our connection.

“That—that photo—doesn’t scare you off?” I asked.

“No, I have a fetish for that,” he said. I admitted I had a fetish for one-night stands myself, and with that understanding he closed the shop and we went for coffee.

As we were sitting at a table outside the café, Lamont walked by and our eyes met. I smiled and he smiled.

Later, in my apartment, as Ted lay, naked, on his back on my bed, his eyes opened wide and his mouth in a wide yawn, and I hovered over him, holding his ankles, raising and spreading his ankles, and crouching between his thighs, feeding my porn-actor-quality cock inside him, and giving him the one-time-stand fuck I knew he had wanted since meeting and talking to me in the bookstore, discovering I was a playwright, and begging me to do a program at the store. He didn’t want my program as much as he wanted my cock. And he got my cock big time. He quivered and moaned under me, whining that I was killing him, but not asking me to stop—obviously not wanting me to stop until I had stretched him to the limit and slayed him.

I don’t know what Ted was thinking of other than the size of what he was sheathing while I was fucking him, but I surprised and concerned myself—I was thinking of fucking Lucy/Lamont instead.

* * * *

The next two weeks I threw myself into the effort to make significant progress on the play I was working on. I didn’t only do so because my thoughts of something more than one time with the T-girl Lucy/Lamont, thinking as much of the conversation and just being with her as about the intriguing sex kept bugging me. I was here, spending big bucks I didn’t need to to see if a remoted sabbatical could get my writing moving. I needed to give that a chance.

But while thinking of the playwriting and trying not to think about Lucy/Lamont I also was giving some thought to Andre Bouchard’s proposal to freshen my perspective of sex revue design by working with something quirky—not just girlie shows or Chippendales revues but maybe drag queen programs. Thus, when Andre Bouchard visited me at the Liberty Street apartment with a more concrete proposal, I listened to him.

“I haven’t seen you at Club 1 since that one time,” he said. “I hoped you’d visit a couple of times and maybe work up some ideas for me in your mind.”

“I’m not really all that interested in Club 1,” I said. “Too big and glitzy as a place for me to start thinking program design.” I didn’t want to admit the truth. I was afraid I’d see Lucy there and succumb—that I’d be stripped of my one-night-stand policy.

“No problem. I understand. I have a place out at Tybee Island,” he said, persisting. Tybee Island was a beachfront town where those from Savannah went to get their taste of the ocean. “I have a small club there with a drag queen show. Come stay at my place for a weekend there, take a look at the show, and maybe do something small for me there—to get your toes in the water on designing revues like that.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said. And I did think about it and arranged to visit over a weekend in July.

In the meantime, I’d gone two weeks without sex, which was a long time for me. And although I’d gotten off to a good start in working on the play, Bouchard’s visit had channeled some of my thoughts off into revue and set design and the lack of sexual release was making me tense.

I abandoned the apartment for a bench in the extensive nearby Forsyth Park, where I could sit and dream and either make notes or sketch on a sketch pad I had with me. I also could watch the activity in the park, and being who and what I was, I focused on the young men who went through the park.

My attention went to one who didn’t go through, but, rather, lingered. He had a reason to do so. He was maintaining the flowerbeds around the fountain my bench faced. He was a handsome young man. I determined he was of mixed heritage, but what arrested my attention was that it wasn’t the black-white mix that was prevalent in this area. Instead of black, he had Asian blood in him. I couldn’t decide whether it was Chinese or Japanese or Korean—I wasn’t experienced in whatever the differences there were in those ethnic groups—but looking at him to consider that idea made me see and appreciate the beauty of him more fully. He wasn’t just a handsome and well-muscled young man, but he also moved with fluid, dancing movements.

I wondered what doing an Asian would be like.

Watching him gave me ideas, and I found I was weaving elements of a male revue—not the drag queen one Bouchard wanted, but one that would work well in one of the Asian sections of New York where there was a bathhouse I did some work with.

The effort I put in to noticing him was reciprocated. He couldn’t help but see that I was giving him attention and he gave me attention in return. His check of the flowerbeds between me and the fountain became a need to weed the garden and we were there for two hours or more, communicating interest without voicing it or putting action to it.

I returned the next day and so did he—David Lu. He made the approach and I soon knew his name.

“I haven’t seen you out here before—doing whatever you’re doing there. Drawing something?”

I looked up to see him standing before me, luscious in shorts and a half T, showing killer abs.

“I live nearby—for the summer,” I answered. “I’m a playwright. I found I was feeling stifled in the apartment and came out here to think and write yesterday. It worked well enough that I came back. You work on the gardens here, do you? It’s never-ending work I suppose.”

“It’s good work,” he said. “It helps keep the body toned.”

“I can see that,” I answered. Was this the start of a hookup, I wondered. Was there something about me that got them going this fast. If so, that was fine with me. I hadn’t had it for more than two weeks and I was hornier than hell. And this young man was one delicious little piece.

“And working outside is healthy . . . and I sometimes get to meet interesting people . . . like you.”

“Interesting people or something more than that?” I asked, putting the sketch pad on the bench beside me, spreading my legs, and giving him a good look.

“Not just people. Men. Really good-looking men. And attractive, attracting more than just interesting.”

“Men like—?”

“Like you, yes. I hope I’m not embarrassing you or making you uncomfortable. We aren’t supposed to get familiar with people coming into the park.”

“No, no. It’s fine. I admit that I’m in a mood for it.” It was evident he was staying on the beam with me on this. He looked around to see if anyone was watching and he took a couple of more steps toward me.

“It that what you were doing with that sketchbook?” he asked. “You were making notes for a play.”

“Not exactly.”

“Can I see?”

“I’m not sure if you should.”

“Why not?”

“It may be too forward. It may suggest leading to something, well . . .”

“Let me see. Please.”

I picked the sketchbook up and turned it toward him to show what I had been working on while he was crouching between my bench and the fountain, working in a flowerbed. The sketch was complete. I was a good artist. I was a set designer. I caught his likeness well and there was no doubt he’d be able to recognize that it was of him—in the nude. This was the danger point. Where would it go from there?

“That’s me. Naked,” he said.

“Yes.”

“It’s good. You’re really good.”

“I could be,” I said.

“But . . . I’m afraid to say it.”

“Afraid to say what?”

“I think it will mean you’re not interested.”

“Try me,” I said.

“The sketch isn’t anatomically correct, I’m afraid. It will turn you off, but I’m trans—and transformed. I don’t have what you have sketched me as having. Sorry. I can just go back to—”

“No, that’s fine with me. There’s another sketch. It isn’t finished, but I can rework it. Give me a minute.” A minute was all I needed. After I’d made the change, I said, “I don’t know, though, if you want—”

“Let me see it, please,” he said, and when I turned the page so he could see it, he sucked in air.

“Oh,” was all he could initially say.

The sketch was of both of us, both of us naked—me sitting on this bench and him, David, in my lap, facing me, hands gripping my biceps, leaning back with a look of ecstasy on his face, and saddled on my buried cock. It was a cunt I was buried in. I had redrawn him with a change in equipment.

Tearing his gaze away from the sketch, he looked around us, his attention landing on a brick garden shed not too far away, with heavy bushes surrounding it on three sides. I let my gaze follow his.

“You do it for men, don’t you?” I asked. “Over there, in the bushes, by the shed? You let men come into the park and take you over there and fuck you. Men who have a fetish for T-girls.”

“Yes,” he said.

“For money.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll take my cock for $200?” I asked. “Both ways, if I want.”

“Yes.”

“I’d rather take you back to my apartment. It’s not too far away. Can you get off work?”

“Yes.”

“Make no mistake. Just this once. I just do it once with a guy.”

“OK.”

It was getting past the noon hour by the time he’d cleaned up and clocked out. We stopped on the way back to my apartment at Mrs. Wilke’s Dining Room on West Jones Street for late lunch. I told him to load up on food, as we’d probably not break for dinner.

We didn’t break for dinner. He was a delight in bed, taking it like a champ, starting with the missionary position on my bed, with him on his back, his ankles on my shoulders, my hands gripping his hips and rolling his pelvis up to me, penetrating him deep and fucking, fucking, fucking him—first in the cunt and then changing to the ass.

It was fuck, recover by drinking beer, watching porn in the living room, and fondling each other, fuck, recover, and repeat, until we both drifted off into an exhausted sleep. Sometime in the night I woke to hear him, across the living room, in the bathroom shower. I feigned sleep as he slipped back into the bedroom, dressed, took the $300 I’d put on the dresser top for him, and let himself out of the apartment.

He'd heard me about the one-night stand and that was OK with him.

It had been a good release for us both and the sex had been quite fine. Fucking an Asian was interesting—as was fucking a T-girl—but, though exotic, and though he knew some positions I hadn’t tried before, there was nothing I found that unusual in doing an Asian. He was well fucked. He opened up for a big one as well as any other young man did for me, although, like most, he acted like I was splitting him while clutching me and not showing any desire that I stop.

Whenever we’d reached a juncture where he could have thought I might suggest seeing each other again, I’d shut that down with an “It’s great, but one and done—that’s my way.” He’d gotten the message. He hadn’t asked for my number or given me his. He probably hadn’t even retained my name. And, although, he knew where I lived now, I didn’t expect him to show up here again, and he didn’t. I stopped going to Forsyth Park, sticking to the closer, smaller Pulaski and Orleans squares. I found I could design in my mind and write and sketch in my book on benches there just as well as in the larger park with its David Lu distraction.

Sticking to a one-night-stand policy seemed to be getting more and more difficult—and fucking one guy but thinking about Lucy/Lamont was getting tedious. I had thought that doing another fully transformed T-girl would cure me of Lucy/Lamont, but it didn’t.

* * * *

Tybee Island, twenty miles and a thirty-minute drive away, is the closest ocean beach from Savannah. I agreed to meet Andre Bouchard there on a Friday to take in the current transvestite revue at his club, Cherrie’s, on Butler Avenue, the island resort’s main street, and then to go back on Saturday for a fuller inspection of what was there and, perhaps, to start to design a couple of new revues for the club. I didn’t plan to spend much effort on this, but I had a lot of formulas available that I’d used before. It was just a matter of mix and match, with an eye on the crossdressing aspect. At the last minute, though, Bouchard couldn’t leave Savannah and dropped off the keys with me to his house on the island.

“It’s the last house toward the ocean on 18th Place, nearly at the far end of the island,” he said. “It has direct access to the ocean. Take a suit and enjoy the beach before going to the club.”

“The club. How will they know—?”

“I’ll have someone from the club pick you up at 8:00 pm take you to dinner and then to the club. They’ll get you into the club on Saturday too.”

His house was a small bungalow. He was right that it sided up right to a broad beach. I was ready for sand, sun, and water when I got to Tybee Island, so I went out on the beach. It was late afternoon and there weren’t many on the beach, but there were two couples who had set up a volleyball net and were playing, one couple against the other. They were all strikingly good looking, young, and in great physical shape.

I dipped in the water, nodding to them in passing and getting smiles in return. I was wearing a skimpy Speedo myself and knew I looked damn good for my age. I strutted and they ogled They all looked a bit familiar to me, but I reasoned they couldn’t be, as I hadn’t really circulated much since I’d arrived in Savannah.

I went back to my beach towel, laid out on my back, and dozed off. The next thing I knew, I woke up quite a bit later than when I laid down. The shadows were long on the guard tower not far from where I was stretched out. And I almost immediately realized that I woke up because someone had laid a hand on my belly.

“You need to wake up, Mark. You’ve been out on the beach too long. You’ll be a lobster—boiled—if you stay out much longer.”

The voice was familiar—and so was the face, I realized, as I came too. It was a woman—one of the volleyball players. But then I realized it wasn’t—that that it wasn’t one of the volleyball players, it was—that it only sometimes, like now, was a woman.

“Lucy?” I asked, being enough in it to have picked the right name for the moment. But was I really awake? Why was I meeting up with Lucy/Lamont out here on an ocean beach a half hour away from Savannah? I’d done my best to avoid this.

“Yes,” she said, as I struggled to sit up. “I saw you come out on the beach. I was playing volleyball with some of the dancers from the troupe.”

“Dancers from the troupe? What are you doing here away from Savannah?” And then, before she could answer, I accounted for myself. I didn’t want her to think I was following her. I had a reason to be here. “I’m staying at Andre Bouchard’s beach house—over there—he asked me to come here and look at the club he has here with the thought of designing some new revues for the entertainers.”

“I know all that. I know Andre has a house and club here. He rotates dancers and singers in and out of his club, Cherrie’s, here and the clubs in Savannah. I’m here this weekend. I knew you were coming out to look at the club and write some new revues too. Andre asked me to pick you up at the house at 8:00 today, take you to dinner, and then take you to the club tonight and tomorrow.”

Well shit, was all I could muster up in thought. And here I had been doing my best to try to avoid Lucy—and Lamont, for that matter.

* * * *

Lucy lay on her back on the bed in the back bedroom of Andre Bouchard’s beach cottage, in the bedroom toward the ocean, beyond sea grass-covered sand dunes. She was fully open to me, naked, her arms stretched over her head, her hands gripping the top brass rail of the headboard, and her hips raised on the pillows stuffed under the small of her back. Her sighs and little gasps were mixed with the night sound of the surf rolling up on the beach and also of the sounds of me, kneeling between her spread legs, devouring her sweet little brown body as I moved down from her lips, to her throat, over her pert breasts, down the line of her torso, licking at her belly button, nipping at her belly, and then down, down, down, into her snatch. My tongue played in the folds of her surgically provided slit. My teeth went to the vestigial penis at the top of the folds, and I inhaled it into my mouth. The fingers of my right hand rubbed her folds, and, as she cried out, entered her. My left hand was under her, palming her tailbone, my thumb entering her ass and fingerfucking her while I feasted on her cunt.

She writhed under me, panting and groaning, moaning and begging for the cock. Her fingers were dug into the hair on my head, holding my face close into her crotch, grinding her hips against my relentless tonguing and nipping and sucking, until, writhing under me, she gave a little cry, came, and collapsed.

Then and only then, I rose over her, hovering over her, spreading her folds with two fingers, opening her up for the thickness of me. She pushed her cunt up into my hand.

“Do it, do it,” she pleaded.

I put the head of my sheathed erection in place, between my fingers, thrust up inside her, and fucked her and fucked her and fucked her.

After our heaving bodies calmed and cooled, I turned my attention to Lamont.

“Oh, baby, baby,” he murmured as I turned him onto his belly, mounted his ass from on top and behind, glided my arms up his to grasp his wrists at the brass headboard, thrust up inside him, and fucked him in the ass.

I had spent the evening with him at the Cherrie’s club. He’d done his Diana Ross act there and, as before, had been terrific. Afterward, he come out in the audience and sat with me.

“That act is really too good for the club here,” I said. “Why aren’t you back at Club 1 in Savannah and performing tonight.”

“I lost my apartment there,” he said. “The place was condemned and I got tossed out. It will take me time to find something else in Savannah I can afford. Meanwhile, I have friends here. Those you saw playing volleyball this afternoon. They’re all performers here and rent a large communal house. I’ll be back in Savannah when I can find someplace to live there.”

“Did Bouchard tell you I was coming here this weekend and ask you to guide me?”

“Yes.”

“And to seduce me again?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been avoiding you.”

“I’ve noticed,” Lucy said.

“Maybe not for the reason you think,” I said. “You’ve challenged me. I have this strict one-and-done policy. It protects me.”

“Maybe someday you will decide you no longer need that protection,” she said. “Andre told me about your policy.”

“But he set up us even though he knew we’d fucked once already.”

“Yes. I begged him to. I don’t have a one-and-done policy. I’m sorry that you do.”

There was silence between us during which I did some mental processing. I wasn’t getting any younger. Eventually, Lucy broke the silence. “I’m not a morning person. Andre wants me to bring you back to the club when it isn’t open so that you can go over what we have here. When in the early afternoon should I come by his beach cottage for you?”

“Why don’t you come back to the cottage and spend the night with me? We can then return here when we’re both ready too.”

“Are you saying?”

“Yes. I want to fuck you again.”

“And about your one-night-stand policy?”

“Maybe we’ll stretch it to a one-summer-stand policy. I don’t know. I’m too weak now to think straight on that.”

“And too much in heat for Lucy’s snatch.”

I laughed. “Yes, too much in heat for Lucy’s cunt and Lamont’s ass. I want them both.”

And that’s what I did—again and again—take Lucy in the cunt and Lamont in the ass. Sometime in the darkness of the night, when Lucy had rolled off my body after a fuck, I murmured, “If you want to come back to Savannah, you can stay with me until you find a new apartment.”

“But your policy,” she whispered. “You’ve decided to change it?”

“This is sexy Savannah. There’s no reason that a one-night-stand here couldn’t play out as a one-summer stand. I’m just here for the summer. There’s no pressure for it to go beyond the summer.”

* * * *

The first two weeks of December were hectic in New York, but everything was ready now. The reopening of the Gaiety Theater, relocated from Broadway to Chelsea, and featuring glitzy all-male dance revues, had been gossiped about ever since shortly after I’d returned to the city from my summer in Savannah. I’d come back with a lot of ideas—and a couple of play scripts, both of which had been optioned and one of which was in production on Off Off Broadway. Some of the ideas were for gay male strip line revues, though, and one of those had been for a Christmas program.

I’d hooked up almost immediately with an old production friend, Cliff Taggert, who had leased an empty theater in Chelsea, and the rest was just racing to get everything done for a Christmas show.

The last dress—or undressing—rehearsal for the Christmas show had been this afternoon and, for the first time in weeks, I was free for the evening. This called for a small party, I thought—and maybe there would be an opportunity to put up a tree this year. It would have to be a small one, because, although my apartment was convenient to everything, it was the size of a postage stamp.

But, what the hell, it was Christmas. A tree was in order. I’d have lights and an ornament for all the years I’d been in New York—my family had made sure of that—but I’d never before had an opportunity or the motivation to put one up. Two productions on stage for Christmas—the Off Off Broadway play and this male dance revue. I was on my way.

I found a three-and-a-half-foot tree that wasn’t too bushy after stopping for a bottle of bubbly—for that small party—and went home.

I could smell dinner cooking as I opened the door to the apartment. And there she was, decked out in a long, slinky, clinging shift covered with silver sequins, but standing in the kitchen, preparing a meal.

“You haven’t changed,” I said. “You were great in rehearsal. That was Eartha Kitt, wasn’t it—a new impersonation?”

“Yes, doll, that was Eartha Kitt,” Lucy said, coming close in to me, working her way between the tree and champagne bottle I was holding. “I didn’t have time to change after returning from the dress rehearsal at the Gaiety,” she said. “Had to get our supper on. You mentioned something about a small party here this evening.”

“Yes, as small as it gets,” I said, putting the tree and bottle down, embracing her, and going in for a kiss as I unzipped the back of her dress. “Just you and me.”

I was thirty-eight. By the end of the summer in Savannah I had realized that I’d had enough of one-night—or even one-summer—stands.