It would be a night of serendipitous self-discovery, one that would change your life forever.
You've had a rough week at work. And like many twentysomething, good-looking, professional heterosexual males, you've decided to burn off the stress of the past few days with a Friday night out on the town. You've agreed to meet up with a couple of buddies at a Manhattan club... one of those anything-goes places, frequented by everyone from conservative Wall Street bigwigs to avant-garde Greenwich Village artists, from successful businesspeople to down-and-out crystal meth addicts who somehow managed to finagle their way in. The plan for the evening, as might be expected, is to seek out female companionship. And if all goes well, you are expecting to ditch your buddies, head back to your East Side apartment and spend the rest of the night in intimate contact with the naked body of an attractive young woman.
However, on this particular night, your partners in crime prove to be well ahead of you, both in rate of intoxication and in luck with the ladies. Before too long, they both have departed the premises, each in the company of a woman of marginal attractiveness. Being a more discriminating man, you silently disdain their approach to the art of one-night courtship. You prefer to minimize the alcohol intake, keep a clear mind, and set out to strike gold. And if it takes you half the night to find that absolute knockout, so be it. You want to savor the pursuit.
A few hours later, though, the search for gold has yielded little in the way of results. You've circulated through the club multiple times, and have spotted several ladies who appear to meet your exacting standards. You have engaged each in brief conversation, and found that every last one is either attached, too drunk to even talk, just there for dancing, or - and you hate to acknowledge this - just not interested. It is becoming apparent to you that on this night, it just isn't meant to be. It's true that your buddies have lower standards than you, but at least they're getting laid.
Dejected, you sit yourself down on a stool next to the bar. The loud, non-stop pounding music is giving you a headache. You decide to resort to Plan B... give up the chase, and drink yourself into oblivion. You order a shot of some concoction that you had heard your buddies talking about, but have never tried yourself. The bartender looks at you kind of funny, and mutters, "I haven't mixed that one up in ages." Your personal humiliation seemingly complete, you turn your gaze away from the bar with abject resignation.
All of a sudden, the whole aura of the evening changes. Sitting on the adjacent stool, eyeing you intently, is a tall, shapely vision of loveliness. She has long, wavy auburn-red hair, soft brown eyes, fair skin, and is wearing a sleeveless leopard-skin top that barely contains an ample pair of breasts. Taut nipples are well in evidence beneath the fabric. A black miniskirt completes her attire, which reveals another outstanding asset of hers... long, smooth, creamy-colored legs.
Just then, the bartender returns with your drink. "Cheers," he utters with an air of sarcasm. "Asshole," you fire back, under your breath, but perhaps loud enough to be audible.
But before you can pick up the shot glass containing the horrid mixture, the young lady in the leopard-skin top grabs the glass and downs the contents in one quick gulp. She looks in your direction and lets out a soft giggle, like a ten-year old who'd just eaten a worm on a dare. The bartender, taking in the scene, laughs. "There's your dream girl," he comments.
You look at her with a mixture of curiosity, intrigue and desire. "I'm Mindy," she declares, in a husky but feminine voice. She abruptly seizes your hand. "Let's dance."
And can she ever dance. You spend the next hour and a half out on the floor... all the while gazing at her while she moves her body with exquisite, sensual grace, shaking everything on her body that is shakeable. It is all you could do to keep from reaching out and grabbing those firm, round, perfectly shaped tits. There is little in the way of conversation at this point, but the way she looks at you with devour-me eyes makes you feel certain about which way this is headed.
Finally, you ask her if she'd like to come back to your place. To your utter delight, she accepts with a nod and a sly smile. There is a strange quietness about her, but she has the rare ability to communicate almost as well through body language and aura as she can verbally.
Outside of the club, you flag down a cab. Mindy snuggles up next to you in the back seat, and deeper conversation finally ensues. She is originally from a rural area of the Midwest, she tells you; but the way of life in the Big Apple has always appealed to her because of its tolerance for unconventional lifestyles. That comment sounds a little strange to you, but you quickly dismiss it, attributing it to her somewhat bohemian nature. You feel such a profound closeness to her at this point, that you lean over and plant a quick kiss on her lips. The spontaneity of that act causes Mindy's eyes to fly wide open with surprise, and after a quick glance toward the front to make sure that the cab driver is oblivious to what's going on, you seize the moment and kiss her again with more intent. Soon your tongues are playing tag, and Mindy's hand wanders over into your crotch area, where she feels for herself the degree of your arousal. There is no longer any doubt as to what will transpire as soon as the two of you get inside your apartment. You congratulate yourself for waiting it out back at the club; you struck gold, after all.
As the cab approaches your destination, you decide to ask Mindy to elaborate on her earlier statement about "tolerance for unconventional lifestyles". She looks at you quizzically. "I thought you figured it out?"
She takes your hand in hers and thrusts it up under her skirt in a rather brazen means of demonstration. You immediately recoil in horror. Underneath that black miniskirt, barely kept confined by a pair of panties, is a penis... a PENIS! And even the briefest of touches informs you that it's an erect cock with a high degree of functionality.
Suddenly, you're awash with realization and disgust. You'd spent an hour and a half back in the club dancing with a man. And just a few short moments ago, you'd been making out with the same guy in the back seat of a taxi. You feel duped, taken advantage of, and wonder if the cab driver, the bartender or anyone else you'd encountered over the past few hours had an inkling as to what was going on. And you mentally berate yourself for not catching on... the husky voice, the tall stature, the too-perfect breasts... all the signs were there.
Mindy senses the rage building within you, and takes steps to deflect it. "I thought you knew," she repeats. "I didn't mean to fool you."
Too angry to speak, you just shake your head. You want to stop the cab, and tell her to get out and find her own way home. But slowly, your thoughts become rational. Somewhere, you muster up the necessary compassion to avoid an ugly scene, and you decide that you believe Mindy's story about not trying to deceive you.
"It's very late, and none of the neighbors are up," you tell her, haltingly. "Why don't you come inside for a quick cup of coffee. But after that..."
"I'll take you up on that offer," Mindy interrupts. "And if you feel uncomfortable, at any time, just let me know and I'll leave. I can find another cab. And I'm not expecting anything more than a cup of coffee."
As the cab pulls up in front of your apartment building, you reply, "Fair enough," and hand the driver the fare. You still can't comprehend how you've managed not to show a violent display of anger at what had just happened. You silently tell yourself, "This situation must be awkward for her, too," before realizing that you're still inclined to use the feminine pronoun when referring to Mindy.
"So why don't you just get an operation?" you ask Mindy across the kitchen table, while you both sip freshly made, hot coffee. You'd fired up the coffeepot, and she'd quickly made herself at home.
"Why should I? So I can justify my femininity in your eyes?" she says with a giggle, but there is a slight edge to her voice.
"Sorry about that," you reply. "I was just curious." You're enjoying Mindy's company a lot more than you're willing to admit. And you find it very easy to accept her as being female... in most ways. There is none of that exaggerated drag-queen femininity about her... she is simple and real.
"I haven't gotten an operation," Mindy offers, "because I've learned to like myself just the way I am."
"A woman in a man's body?"
"Exactly," comes her reply. Silently, you congratulate yourself for not sticking your foot in your mouth again.
"Actually," Mindy continues, "I'm not being totally honest, because I've had enhancement surgery of a different kind." She cups one breast with her hand.
"I was wondering about that," you reply. "I didn't know if you had surgery, or hormones..."
Mindy interrupts, "Hormones don't make 'em grow this big. I've been taking hormones for four years, but I needed implants too."
She catches you staring, and flashes a knowing smile. "You like them, don't you."
Against your own better judgment, you reply, "Yes."
"Would you like to see them?" she continues. You are amazed to find yourself nodding your head.
Without further ado, she removes the leopard skin top. There is no bra underneath, but you knew that already. You see before you, across the table, the most perfectly formed, feminine breasts you've ever seen.
"Unbelievable," you mutter. Then, a voice that seems to emerge from outside of your body says, "Can I touch them?"