It’s a Girl!

I wasn’t ignoring you. I made the mistake of binge watching every Philomena Cunk, every “Glove and Boots”, and every “Ozzy Man Reviews” video back-to-back, and only now stopped laughing.

So where was I?

Oh yeah. Vaginas.

Imagine one of your male buddies comes up to you and says “Hey, wanna see my vagina?” What would you think?

You’d think one of three things was about to happen:

1) If he’s under 18 he’ll introduce you to his new girlfriend, who will giggle appreciatively at being so designated.

2) If he’s between 18 and 78 he’ll pull a novelty silicone sex toy from behind his back and mimic humping it. Or maybe more than mimic.

3) If he’s over 78 he’ll introduce you to his new girlfriend, who will giggle and give him his scheduled meds.

So when my 30-something year old buddy said to me, “Hey, wanna see my vagina?” I was fully expecting an anatomically correct and fully functional model of Asa Akira’s money maker to be produced.

I was not expecting a real vagina.

If you go waaaaay back through my archives you’ll eventually happen upon the time I housed two of my buddies while they were on leave from the army, and how they attacked a guy in Manhattan who was trying to steal my car but stopped when they realized it was a chick.

After being discharged from the army (honorably, somehow) one of the two moved west and became a commercial pilot. The other stayed on the east coast, became an engineer, and now does…I dunno, engineering stuff. He lives in Brooklyn and we’ve kept in regular touch over the years. I got to know him really well.

Or so I thought.

Back in 2014 he – oh, let’s call him “Buggles H. M. Worthington-McGee III” (not his real name). Anyway, Buggles called me and asked if he could come over. He sounded stressed. I said sure, and we made plans for that Saturday.

Saturday morning I drove to the Park-n-Ride and sat til his bus arrived (like most sane New Yorkers he’s too scared to own a car himself). He looked as stressed as he sounded over the phone. We drove the hour back to DangerHouse in silence.

When we walked in the door he spoke his first words.

“Waddaya got to drink?”

“Let’s see…wine…a 6 of Sierra Nevada IPA…Maker’s Mark…some girly liqueurs …homemade slivovitz…homemade limoncello…Pims Cup….and I think water.”

“You got Everclear?”

“Uh…that’s kinda, you know, poison.”

“Yeah. Got any?”

“No.”

“Fine. Maker’s Mark.”

I pulled down two tumblers and the bourbon. He grabbed the bottle and filled his to the brim.

“You want a bigger glass?” I said. “Just a straw?”

He shook his head and downed it.

He poured another. Downed it.

“I’m a girl” he said. He poured another.

I grabbed the bottle. Was it Everclear?

“Dude” I said. “You’re a lightweight. Two drinks and you’re already telling stupid jokes.”

“I’m not joking”  he said. “I’m a girl.”

“Do tell” I said.

And he did. I got the entire story of how he always felt “different” as a kid. How in adolescence he thought maybe he was gay, but…no, that wasn’t quite it. Nor was he just a cross-dresser…sorta. Maybe.

Thinking it was a phase he did the overcompensation thing. Dated chicks. Bought a sports car. Took up cock fighting (er, the animal kind).

Then he joined the Army and went to war. Served on a mobile rocket launcher team in Iraq, then as an explosive ordnance disposal specialist once the main fighting was over. When he was rotated back to the States he made chief armorer at his base.

He had biceps. He pooped into a can out in the field. He jerked off into his “special” sock at least twice a day. He ate Spam.

In short, he did everything every soldier does. Like a man.

Except he wasn’t.

Four years of fighting, pooping, jerking, eating rubber lunch meat, and doing every other stereotypical he-man thing on the planet did nothing to stop him feeling “different”. A week after being discharged he knew. He knew he was a girl.

It was a riveting story.

Or it would have been if I hadn’t fallen asleep 15 minutes in. Seriously, what is it with chicks and their need to recount every event in real time? Do none of them even know what “synopsis” is? *

That sold me.

“Ok, you’re a girl” I said. “Did you tell your folks?”

“Yeah. My mom gave me a hug and said she loves me no matter what. But then she went to the store and bought a bottle of Everclear.”

“She loved her soldier boy” I nodded. “What about dad?”

“He stared at me a minute, then said ‘Yeah, I always figured. Just don’t come home pregnant one day.'”

“He always was pretty perceptive” I said.  “So Buggles, is there anything I can do to help you out here?”

“Yeah. First of all” he said. “My name isn’t Buggles H. M. Worthington-McGee III any more. It’s Bunny H. M. Worthington-McGee III.”

“Ok. Um..so, Bunny, what can I do for you? I mean, I don’t know what girls are even into these days. Wanna go, I dunno, chintz shopping or something? Find a salad bar? Do you need to buy maxi pads?”

She shot out a fist before I could duck and caught me flush in the sternum. I barely managed to keep my chair upright.

“Jesus, Buggles! You don’t have to – OWW! ”

She caught me with her other fist, in the forehead this time. “It’s ‘BUNNY‘! I will seriously fuck you up if you forget that again. And if I hear ‘do you wanna buy chintz and tampons’  even one more time I swear I’ll ram my dick so far up your ass you’ll see it when you brush your teeth. I’m a fucking GIRL, dammit, and you better start treating me like one. NOW.”

“I said ‘maxi pads’, not tampons. There’s a difference.”

She cocked her fist again.

I quickly waved my hands. “Fine, fine! So then, Bunny, what DO you want to do?”

“Drink.”

She stood up and grabbed the back of my collar, lifting me out of my chair with one arm til my feet were a foot above the floor. I weigh 220 pounds. We went to a bar and drank.

.

The next several years were kind of interesting. Apparently you can’t just walk into a doctor’s office and ask to have your dick cut off, then go get fitted for a training bra. Bunny had to undergo a psych evaluation to determine if wanting to get her dick cut off was just a phase. Y’know, like all us guys go through. (Usually after nailing our nads on the top bar of a bicycle.)

When they determined that, yes, she did suffer from genuine gender dysphoria…they still didn’t cut her dick off. She was required to live like a girl to see if she could handle it first. She was put on hormone therapy which gave her both tiny little boobs and, for a few months, the emotional disposition of a 14 year old girl. She called me a few times literally sobbing into the phone that we don’t understand her, and she hates us! Hates us! I never felt like punching a girl before – especially one with 15 inch biceps – but let’s just say she’s lucky she lives over an hour away.

Once that initial tsunami of hormone tides simmered down though she became much more pleasant, and it was at this point that NewWifey(tm) took over. Bunny now needed things like dresses and heels and makeup and curling wands and earrings and other shit that I know as much about as I do tact.

I have to say, NewWifey(tm) was in her element. For all her motorcycle racing, general contracting, auto mechanic ways, she still has a real soft spot for girly-girl trappings. So once a week or so she drove from New Jersey across lower Manhattan, through the Battery Tunnel, and a mile into Brooklyn so she could ferry Bunny around to various estrogen-themed stores. After shopping they usually hit up a salad bar, drank mimosas with little umbrellas in them, and talked about boys. I assume.

But once Bunny’s wardrobe was filled and her bathroom was stocked and she stopped falling in heels and she got used to being paid 25% less than what she made for doing the same job as when she was a man, we lost contact with her for a while. She had to get on with her life, after all.

Then last spring she phoned us up again.

“Yo Bunny, good to hear from you! What’s new?”

“Not much. Got some new curtains for my place. Chintz.”

I knew it.

“Great! Er…did you want to talk to NewWifey(tm)? Need help with eyelash extensions or something?”

“Nah, I got that down” she said. “I need to talk to you. I’ve got a favor to ask.”

“Shoot.”

“It’s a big one.”

“Can’t be any worse than when you asked me to hold your purse while you tried on training bras. Fire away.”

She took a deep breath. “I’m getting my dick cut off in a few weeks and I need a place to stay while I recover from the surgery.”

“Is that all? Sure. We’ve got a pull-out bed in our computer room. How long do you think you’ll need?”

“….. 12 weeks.”

“Twelve WEEKS? As in, 3 months? As in, all summer??”

“………….yeah.”

I sighed. What could I do? The poor guy needed help. Besides, maybe when it was all over and he was…she was….healed up, she’d throw me one.

“Ok, you can stay. But I’m not putting up chintz curtains.”

“Deal.”

A few weeks later Bunny got lopped (I’ve been wracking my brain trying to think of a funny name for the surgery, but I can only come up with one for the female-to-male version: an “addadictomy”. Thank you, thank you.)

Three days later she was released and NewWifey(tm) drove out to pick her up. Bunny wasn’t allowed to sit upright, so for the drive home we stuffed the back of the Rogue with yoga pads and cushions and bolsters so she could lie flat and in relative comfort til we got her home. It was just like my college van.

I, meanwhile, stayed home and prepped the hand truck.

Yes, the hand truck. Aside from not being able to sit upright for the first several weeks, Bunny was also not allowed to climb stairs.

From the driveway to the front door of DangerHouse requires climbing two flights of stairs.

So…hand truck. I got out our big green 2-wheeled fridge mover and duct taped a bunch of cushions up the inside. Then I threaded a series of motorcycle tie-downs along the rungs, and after that tried to jury-rig a ramp for the stairs so the wheels could roll up instead of bounce. That’s when I discovered I suck at jury rigging ramps for stairs. After my fourth failed attempt I gave up. She was gonna have to bounce.

For all my ineptitude at ramp building though, the modified fridge mover was an unqualified success. When NewWifey(tm) pulled up with the Rogue and popped the back lid, I was able to slide Bunny out feet-first like a 2X4 right onto the bottom lip of the cart. We made sure she was aligned dead center, then I strapped her in with the motorcycle tie-downs from forehead to ankle. Except for the face guard, and a few more straps, she looked exactly like

.

We had to be mindful of the two catheters that Bunny had inserted, the tubes of which snaked out from under her hospital gown and were emptying into seperate bags. One tube emptied her bladder, the other the fluid buildup inside her newly constructed tunnel. Both were almost full. I slung one over each of Bunny’s shoulders and told her to stay as still as possible since I was wearing new sneakers.

Then came the stairs. Brilliant design or no brilliant design, lack of ramp meant that Bunny’s new lady bits were going to get their first pounding. I wondered if the surgeons crafted her a cherry. If so, I had a funny feeling I was about to pop it.

However, NewWifey(tm) to the maidenhead’s rescue! At the last second, as we each grabbed a handle and prepared to lift/hoist/bang Bunny over the first step, NewWifey(tm) said, “I got an idea” and disappeared into the garage for a moment. She came back with a long, broad, woven nylon strap that she looped through the bottom rung of the hand truck, then across her own back, where she tied it off while hunched over. By straightening up she was able to lift the bottom portion of the cart with her back and shoulders, and when done in synchrony with my pulling the top handles it made for a smooth transition from one step to  the next. Brilliant!

It took a while but eventually we made it to the top, most importantly with Bunny still a virgin. We got her through the front door, unstrapped her, and gingerly fireman carried her to the bed we’d prepared. We laid her down on the wedge pillow the hospital sent her home with, and that’s when she said it.

“Wanna see my vagina?”

“No” I said.

“YES!” said NewWifey(tm).

I left the room while NewWifey(tm) took the tour.

“You can come back in now” she called after a few minutes.

Bunny was fast asleep on pain meds.

“So what did it look like?”

“Like a family sized pack of ground beef” she said. “The entire area is swollen like an Easter ham, and there’s mats of dried blood everywhere. You would not want to fuck it. Not yet, anyway.”

“You underestimate me.”

“Suit yourself.” She paused a minute. “I wonder if they gave her a cherry...”

The next week was pretty uneventful, if somewhat disgusting. Bunny couldn’t do much other than lie there and take pills, so NewWifey(tm) and I took it in shifts to bring her food and empty her bags. NewWifey(tm) was solely responsible for changing clothes and spot-cleaning matted genitals. Carefully.

After a week Bunny had her catheters taken out, and that’s when things got exciting. A nurse arrived that morning to do the deed, carefully sliding each out and inspecting the area for signs of infection. After giving the thumbs up and some advice about cleaning procedures, she left. Bunny was very relieved at having them out, and immediately fell asleep.

Then she woke up.

“I have to pee” she said.

I was the only one in the room. NewWifey(tm) had left for a beer run as soon as Bunny zonked out.

“Fine” I said. “Second door on the left.”

“You don’t understand” she said. “This is the first time I’ll be peeing as a woman. I’m not sure what to do.”

I looked at her. “Apparently you’ve forgotten my backstory” I said. “Allow me to refresh your memory: I’ve never peed like a girl either. You’re on your own, sport.”

“Yeah, but -”

“C’mon, how hard can it be? You sit, and relax. Boom, done. Just don’t forget to wipe now. I heard that’s important.”

She still looked anxious, but apparently the urge was great enough that she couldn’t waste time arguing about it any more. She waved me over. I helped her to her feet, then down the hall to the bathroom. As I closed the door the last thing I saw was her looking down at the toilet with an expression of extreme concentration and…just for a second…fear.

I went back to the living room and resumed my game of Animal Crossing. Tom Nook, the racoon proprietor of Nookington’s Department Store, was offering to buy turnips for the almost unheard of price of 674 Bells apiece. I had only paid 92 Bells per turnip when Joan the wart hog came through selling them the previous Sunday. I was gonna make a killing! I started loading up my sack.

But before I could tote my first load back to Nookington’s and claim my booty, Bunny screamed. Loud.

I ran down the hall and banged on the door. “You ok in there??”

“Help! Help!” Bunny screamed. “Get in here! Help!”

I threw open the door. Bunny was standing in the middle of the floor, ghost white, holding the bottom of her nightgown up around her knees.

There was pee everywhere.

Everywhere.

“What the hell happened?!” I said.

“I don’t know!” Bunny started sobbing. “I sat down and relaxed my pee muscles, and pee just started shooting everywhere. The first stream went straight up in front of me! It almost hit me in the head! Then I leaned over to try to get it in the bowl and it started coming out sideways! I stood up and tried to stop it, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop peeing! I COULDN’T STOP PEEING!”

I reached over to pat her shoulder, but stopped. It was soaked with pee.

“Don’t worry about it” I said. “NewWifey(tm) will clean this up when she gets home. She’s a woman, they’re good at dealing with this kind of stuff.”

Bunny shot me a hard look, and I realized what I just said. “I mean…ah….NewWifey(tm) is better at dealing with this kind of thing than I am. I’m a real girl when it comes to…”  Shit. Did it again.

Bunny started sobbing again. “Oh my god” she said. “What if they put my pee-hole in wrong? What if it’s sideways? Backwards? Danger, you have to check it for me.”

“I…what?”

“You have to look down there and tell me if my urethra is coming out the front or is pointing sideways or something. This is important!”

“Why do I have to look?” I said. “Can’t I just get a hand mirror and YOU look? That’s what they do in porn movies.”

She sobbed harder. “What kind of friend are you? I’m asking you, my buddy, to look at my vagina! Why would you -”

The door opened.

It was NewWifey(tm). She stood in the bathroom doorway holding a 6-pack of beer, her mouth open as she took in the scene in front of her.

To her credit, she immediately figured out what was going on.

“Oh, honey” she said to Bunny. “Did you try peeing all by yourself the first time?”

Bunny nodded, eyes closed.

NewWifey(tm) sighed. “This is why we always hover over the seat when we pee in ladies rooms” she said. “It’s impossible to aim these things. Pee just hits folds and hair and all kinds of stuff on the way out and ends up ricocheting all over everything. C’mon, let me show you a few ways to make it easier.”

With that she handed me the beer and motioned me to leave. I was happy to comply. NewWifey(tm) must have been a good teacher. I never heard a bathroom scream again.

After that there really isn’t too much to tell. It surprised me that a guy who just had his dick cut off and a vagina drilled into him required so little care. Bunny gradually got stronger, and every day was able to walk around a little more. After a few weeks she could sit upright in a chair, although on a special donut pad so her new pudendum didn’t get mashed. And…that’s about it.

Oh – except for the dildos.

This was something I wasn’t expecting. Apparently when you drill a hole in someone, that someone’s body tries to close the hole. Y’know, to keep things like germs and small rodents out. If you accidentally drive a nail through your thumb, a week later you’re not still looking through the hole, right? It scars over.

Same thing with a manufactured vagina. The body doesn’t go, “Oh look, I have a new vagina. Sweet!” It goes, “OHMYGOD THERE’S A BIG HOLE DOWN THERE! CLOSE IT, QUICK!!!” And it tries to. Every. Day. By scarring the hole over until it’s air tight.

Bunny, like (I assume) every other girl who’s had this surgery, doesn’t want an air tight vagina. She wants a vagina.

So to make sure she has one, every day she has to insert a medical grade dildo and work it back and forth for several minutes to break up any internal scar tissue that might be forming. The surgeon sent her home with a selection of 4 dildos, color coded by diameter. She started with basically a drinking straw sized one, and every two weeks or so was instructed to increase to the next larger one until she got to the largest. At that point she had to stick with it for the rest of her life.

She named all her dildos (chicks!). Purple was “Barney”, blue “Big Blue”, green “The Incredible Hulk”, and finally….

“The Great Pumpkin”. Of course:

After a while we got used to hearing her say, “Excuse me, I have to go meet the Incredible Hulk” after dinner, then come back a half hour later with a huge smile. It didn’t bother us…but I threw her bed sheets out after she left. The Hulk was never the most sanitary member of the Fantastic Four, you know? Best not to take chances.

I suppose the only other thing worth mentioning is the surgeon’s preoccupation with orgasms. As in, he was determined that Bunny have one. At least once a week NewWifey(tm) had to take Bunny back to the hospital for a follow-up exam. And every single time, once the exam was over the surgeon would have Bunny lie on her back while they diddled her clit. First they did it for her, then they had Bunny do it herself.

It was a longer process than you would imagine. Apparently there’s a trick to just finding the thing, if you’re new to it. Then, once she got a handle on the geography, there was the small matter of tolerating what felt like a bolt of fire shooting from her groin to her uvula from even the slightest stroke. Rather startling, I was told, and not exactly what she considered “pleasurable”. At least not at first.

But then, finally, about two months in, she came home from the hospital, threw open the front door, and screamed, “I CAME!!”

If only I hadn’t had company over at the time. Oh well. I’m sure they’ll come back someday.

That’s about it.

Just…um….

On her last day, the very last day, before she went home, she said to me, “You’ve done so much for me. I’ll never be able to thank you. But I have one last favor to ask. Dozens of people have seen my vagina over the past three months. But not you. You’re one of my oldest friends. PLEASE. It would mean so much to me. Just take a peak. I went through so much to get it, and I’m so proud of it. I want you to be proud of it too...”

So…I looked at my Army buddy’s vagina.

Yup.

It’s a girl!

.

.

.

* He said, noting the irony of a statement like that placed in the middle of a “Paradise Lost” length entry.