Kyra was not the girl of my dreams. I never dared dream a woman that good would just walk into my life. She was smart, sassy, vivacious, intuitive, resourceful, and a real 'people person'. We met in an Internet chat room called "Working Girls". We're not talking about the kind you find in corporate offices or retail stores. C'mon, be honest; what guy hasn't fantasized about being with a woman like that? The room was filled with the usual posers and wannabes. Every girl was a drop-dead-gorgeous slut who would bang a guy on the hood of a car if the price were right. Every guy was a 'Sugar Daddy' with hundred-dollar bills hanging out of his pockets. At least, that is what they all would have you believe.

Kyra was different. There was just some indefinable... something that made me believe she was the real deal. It was not so much what she said as the way she said it that spoke of a woman who had truly "been there, done that." Naturally, a lot of snerts in the room asked the obvious, stupid question: "Are you really a... ?" She artfully deflected their inquiries, reminding them of the name and nature of the room and playfully suggesting they draw their own conclusions. Still, if one was astute enough to read between the lines... Whenever she entered the chat room, people flocked to her. She reigned like a Queen on her throne. I was a little intimidated. I chatted mostly with my own online friends, interacting with her only in group conversations.

One evening, out of the blue, she started chatting with me. Was I stunned? Oh, yeah. Our light, breezy banter in the room took a more personal turn that required private messaging. She revealed that, aside from my courteous, non-threatening manner, there were "little things" I had mentioned in passing about myself that had intrigued her. I hadn't remembered saying anything definitive about myself. In fact, I avoided doing so. The room was fun enough, but I thought it best if the people in it did not know I really was rich (I was blessed with being born into the right family). Kyra didn't ask, just as I hadn't asked about her. She simply stated: "Breeding shows."

We clicked - and spent long hours deeply immersed in IM's. This intriguing vixen told me she lived in a city on the other coast. She was a bit older than me, but it didn't matter to either of us. We exchanged pictures of ourselves and I was instantly in lust. She was a stunning redhead with sparkling emerald eyes and a dynamite body. I fervently hoped this vision really was her, not some random picture she scammed from Cyberspace. Finally, I booked an airline reservation (ticketless; she was impressed) to have her come for a visit - on my birthday. She promised she would bring a gift I would never forget. "Don't take my pledges lightly, Michael," she admonished. "A promise made is a promise kept."

Meeting her in the flesh was the best birthday present I had ever received. I had expected to wait outside the airport security checkpoint for her to arrive. Instead, she was already there waiting for me - wearing a bow pinned to her top and holding a lit birthday candle in her hands. She explained her flight had gotten in early. Her pictures hadn't done her justice; she was even more spectacular in the flesh. As in the chat room, there was nothing in her appearance or demeanor that overtly suggested she was a 'woman of ill repute'. She was merely the most beautiful, sensual, desirable woman I had ever seen.

Our first kiss was instinctive - and pure electricity. The breathtaking redhead was all over me, oblivious to the scornful/envious stares of those around us. It was all we could do to contain ourselves as we loaded her bags in the trunk and drove home - to my two-acre walled estate with swimming pool, Jacuzzi, guest cottage, four-car garage and thirteen-room, forty-five-hundred-square-foot 'bachelor pad'. The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was, the rich Sugar Daddy (at newly-turned twenty-one, I had trouble envisioning myself as anyone's 'daddy') and his beautiful ex-hooker girlfriend. I thought that only happened on television...

Consummating our physical intimacy was almost an afterthought after the emotional intimacy that had flowed back and forth those past months - almost. I had never dreamed Sex could be so good, so fulfilling, so... well, kinky. Kyra could get inside my head like nobody's business, make me visualize the most outlandish, erotic scenarios in a depth of detail that made them appear life-like. Talk about Virtual Reality! We shared the same tastes in kinky, fetish sex. Our favorites included big-boobed porn goddesses, overdone, overblown, over-the-top hookers, and tall, well-muscled, magnificently-endowed men - especially Black men. Kyra playfully chided me about my attraction to the hooker stereotype ("You boys are all alike!") and was particularly amused that I could see the value in sucking and fucking big, black dicks.

About the only thing we clashed on was our taste in music. I listened to Classical, Blues (B.B. King, Muddy Waters, Lightnin' Hopkins, John Lee Hooker, Hound Dog Taylor and the Houserockers), and a lot of Rock. She was heavily into Hip-Hop and Rap - a legacy from her 'past life'. I had a deep appreciation for the old Motown Sound and could certainly get into some of the genuinely artistic R&B singers, but 50-Cent? Nelly? OK, OK, Usher was pretty good. So were Outkast and Black-Eyed Peas - and is/are the latter considered singular or plural?

Now that she had come into my life, I couldn't see being without her. Money certainly wasn't a problem. My parents had retired and bought one of those huge, sprawling estates in Incline Village, leaving this more humble residence (yeah, right) to their only child - me - along with my Mercedes and comfortable inheritance. My lover teased me about being a "trust fund baby". Laughter aside, she confided to me how comforting it was to be able to relax and enjoy life for a change. She vowed she was looking forward to my spoiling her rotten.

I took her to meet them. She was nervous - without reason. They adored her as much as I did. I knew they would. We told them our desire for a small, intimate ceremony, not the usual big, splashy Society thing. Mom might have been a little disappointed, but they both gave us their blessing. We got married right there, overlooking Lake Tahoe, with my parents as witnesses. I didn't think Life could get any better than that.

Did I say Kyra was resourceful? In no time, she was plugged into my hometown as though she had lived here all her life. She found the best beauty salon (naturally), the best sources for clothes, shoes, and accessories (from classy to fetish kink), the best restaurants, theaters, and nightclubs. She even found the best plastic surgeon in a town full of them - a town where cosmetic procedures are considered a rite of passage. I treated her to a few little 'touch-ups' that rendered her beauty other-worldly.

We went everywhere together. We humored each other on our disparate musical tastes, as played out on the car stereo. I was thrilled to be seen with this gorgeous woman on my arm. Kyra was shamelessly affectionate in public, kissing, hugging, nuzzling me without a care who saw us. It was a major turn-on to see other men leer at her with obvious intent and just-as-obviously wish they were me. Eat your hearts, out, Guys!

Having tasted the world of achievement and privilege I inhabited, this love of my life developed a burning ambition to succeed. She expressed a desire to correct a mistake she made long ago; to go back to school and complete her education. She had already begun attending classes a couple of nights a week to earn her GED. I was delighted and promised her a full "scholarship" and that I would "pull some strings" at any college she chose to attend if the school was being a little too stringent on their admissions policy.

Our emotional intimacy included sharing the most intensely private, personal details of our lives. My suspicions had been accurate. Kyra finally admitted to having been a "sex worker", as she put it, for six years; from the time the then-sixteen-year-old had run away from home until we had met in Cyberspace. The experience had changed her, matured her in ways few people ever achieved - certainly not at her age.

Kyra hadn't wanted to deceive me, but she had been afraid to divulge that part of her life to me before we had a chance to meet face-to-face and really get to know one another. As she explained it, most men regarded hookers as 'damaged goods'; suitable for a quick, anonymous fuck, but not relationship material. Kyra had desperately wanted a safe, sane, stable relationship away from her sordid existence. She had turned to the Internet as a way of meeting people in a neutral environment, free from the preconceptions inherent with her life.

The "Working Girls" chat room was a very canny ruse on her part. She could meet people who, at least, were inclined towards getting to know a hooker as a real person. At the same time, she could easily hide among the obvious phonies and filter out the low-lifes who frequented the room only to find a 'date'. She had been attracted to me because I hadn't come on to her like all the rest. I had played it cool, allowed her to get a sense of what I was all about at her own pace. She liked that in a man.

The more she had gotten to know me online, the more she had been convinced I was The One, the man of her dreams who would rescue her from the emotional trauma of life on the streets. She was quick to point out there was much more to her attraction to me than just that. It was just that she was... complicated. She didn't hate men. In spite of her past, she hadn't lost her taste for sex - especially the kind of lurid, edgy sex that had ensnared her in 'The Life' in the first place. If the truth be known, she still had a special fondness for the kind of overdone sluts whose pictures we both enjoyed. She had simply come to a point in life where she wanted to deal with it all on her terms, not someone else's. She knew instinctively I would make her very happy. And, in return...

I swept her up in my arms and kissed her deeply, passionately. When our lips parted, I explained that, although Cyberspace is Cyberspace and anyone can pretend to be anything they wish under the cloak of anonymity, I had suspected all along she was a genuine 'working girl' and the thought had not bothered me. She avowed that part of her life was over and she would never 'date' again, in deference to her love for me. I smiled, gently placed one finger to her lips, and replied even if she did, I believed in her and my love for her was stronger than any jealousy or insecurity that might tear us apart. She liked that a lot. It sounded like the right thing to say at the time, didn't it? I mean, this was my first experience with anything this serious and I was head-over-heels in love with her. If she had blown in my ear, I would have followed her anywhere.

I wasn't a 'hunk' in the traditional sense. I certainly wasn't a 'hulk'. Most women considered me "too small and too pretty", as they often put it, to take seriously. True, I could have had any woman I wished simply by flashing my money around. Does that sound cynical? Anyway, I didn't want to do that and didn't respect guys who did. Then there was Kyra. She and I were within millimeters of the same height. If my diminutive, less-than-imposing physical size and pretty-boy good looks were a problem for her, she never mentioned it. She had giggled about it once, shortly after we had met. She teased that it was nice to finally have a man with whom she could really see "eye-to-eye" - except when she wore heels, of course. "In fact," she purred, "your stature makes you perfect for other pursuits."

I suited her to a "T" when it came to oral sex. Although we enjoyed our intercourse, Cunnilingus had always been my favorite form of sexual intimacy. I excelled at eating my (few) lovers out. Since Kyra and I had first begun having sex, I had learned how to push all the right buttons. I knew exactly what to do to bring her to the most shattering, mind-numbing climaxes imaginable. She avowed it was like making love with another woman. That it was a man who made slow, soft, considerate, gentle love with such depth of emotion - like a woman - made it even better in her mind. She returned the favor, fellating me to levels of orgasmic bliss I never knew existed.

My love was nothing if not uncannily perceptive - and very crafty. One night, in the afterglow of an intense session of sex, she manipulated me into admitting to my most intensely personal, private desire.

"Fess up, Michael," she teased. "The pictures. The lurid pillow talk. The racy, provocative girls we both stare at on the streets. The porn videos we like to watch together. I know you wanted to be with a hooker all along, even if you don't want to admit it. That's why you were hanging out in 'Working Girls', isn't it? Don't worry; you won't chase me away. I know what a living doll you really are. You are stuck with me now. Just tell me I am the girl of your dreams and I will be happy."

"No, not exactly," I replied.

She pouted, teasingly. Then, she lightly caressed my naked chest, tenderly raking the flesh with her elegant sculptured nails in that sensual, seductive way she did so well.

"No? Well then, if it isn't me, who is it? Britney? J.Lo? Christina? I can show you things those lame-assed bitches have never dreamed of."

"Um, that's kind of complicated."

"I understand 'complicated'. I wrote the book. Tell me more."

I explained it as tactfully as I could, terrified of revealing my sordid secret to anyone, let alone one I was truly, madly, deeply in love with.

"You teased me about always having wanted to be with a hooker. That's almost accurate. I have always fantasized about... experiencing Sex from the other side of the gender divide. Oh, there is more to it than that; a lot more. You know me. You know the kind of girls I - we - lust for. In my fantasies, I never envision myself as the Girl Next Door. I have always been obsessed with the kind of fantasy slut you see in "B" movies; standing on a street corner with Big Hair, too much makeup, long, glistening fingernails, killer curves sheathed in tight, revealing dresses and dangerously high stiletto heels, the works.

"I want to get inside that slut's head, to know her thoughts, desires, what her life is like. That dream has haunted me as long as I can remember, but I have always regarded it as exactly that; a dream that will never be realized. How would I even begin? I feel so far removed from that world. I haven't known any hookers. I had no idea where to find one until..."

As the import of my words suddenly dawned on me, I rushed to put words in my mouth, hoping that, by sheer volume alone, I might accidentally hit on the right ones to cover my amazing lack of sensitivity.

"I love you, Kyra; I really, really do. Yes, when we were in the chat room, when I first suspected you might be a real 'working girl', my imagination ran wild. I conjured up all the lurid, wanton images that have occupied my brain since... well, a long time, OK? When you started chatting with me, when we began to get really close, I fell in love with the person, not the sex object. That you were also... uh, 'experienced', was a nice plus. You are out of The Life now. I wouldn't change anything about you. I certainly would not, under any circumstances, expect you to go back into it and share your experiences with me, just so I can live it vicariously through you. My fantasy is

more direct than that. It's me that would have to change. I don't want to have a slut. I dream of being a slut,"

Kyra raised one eyebrow quizzically.

"Oh? I had a few of dates that liked to act out their own hooker fantasies with me. It was fun. Do you want to play dress-up and be my little B-movie hooker for me around the house?"

"Yes. I mean, no. I mean... this is really complicated. Dressing up might be fun for a while, but it just wouldn't be... enough. I would know it was still me - a guy in a dress, pretending to be something he wasn't. I think I've been watching too much Reality TV. My fantasies are all in High Definition and Surround Sound now. I don't want to be some old, tired closet queen like those other guys you were with. I want more. God, I wish I could just clone you, climb inside your skin and be the 'you' you used to be."

Open mouth, insert foot. Really Michael, I thought to myself, You have to learn to just shut the fuck up. In spite of what she had assured me before I had begun my little rant, I was deathly afraid Kyra would walk out in disgust, right then and there, and never see me again. She didn't; far from it. She regarded me with her twinkling green eyes, smiled that knowing little smile of hers and snuggled up even closer to me.

"Oh, is that all? Sweetie, that is the nicest compliment anyone has ever paid me - in an 'out-there' kind of way. It is so kinky, too! That explains a lot of things - including why you are so damn good at oral sex. You already think like a slut when it comes to pleasuring your partner. In spite of what you might think, I was never quite that extreme, but I knew girls who were. You would have loved them. I did - but you already knew that, didn't you? Do you actually know anything about that lifestyle?"

I pursed my lips and shook my head.

"Not a damn thing. Look at me, how I live. I wouldn't know where to go. I wouldn't have the slightest idea how to hustle... johns? Tricks?"

"Dates."

"Dates. See what I mean? I am completely clueless about all that. As far as living, even looking the part, dream on, Bud. It exists only in my head."

Kyra smiled and gently stroked my cheek.

"That is actually a really good way to approach it. You want to see what it's really like to be a slut like that? It's nowhere near as impossible as you think. I hadn't wanted to mention this, but you are a little... well, effeminate. Remember when I told you your stature made you perfect for 'other pursuits'? Look at you. You are almost exactly my height and bone structure. You have that long-legged look that drives men crazy. Those long, slender fingers and perfectly-shaped nails are to die for! I think you would make a gorgeous woman with a little work here and there. As for the rest... well, I'll let you in on a little secret.

"Michael, 'Society' - as you think of it - is a sham. It's all about pretense, image, and spin-control. We are what we perceive ourselves - and each other - to be. Believe me, I know. You may think you are worlds apart from a whore like that, but you are much closer to her than you could possibly imagine. It's all about the right attitude and how you perceive yourself. If you project the right image, others will perceive you in the same light.

"As it happens, you came to the right girl. You want to get inside a slut's head? I know a little something about that lifestyle, Baby. You like the way I get inside your head, don't you? It would be no problem to help you get inside her head, experience her thoughts, desires... her life. Before I say anything else, I have to ask: Do you really love me?"

"I love you more than my life."

"Do you trust me?"

"Implicitly."

She kissed me tenderly and smiled her Cheshire smile.

"Then hear me out. I... have always thought the whole idea of a man becoming a gorgeous, sexy woman was a real turn-on. I met a lot of T-girls in my time on the streets. They were among my closest friends. I mean, really close - catch my drift? Some of those girls were really into the 'extreme' look, like you and I are so crazy about. In fact, I had a 'drag mother' who taught me most of what I know about makeup, hair, and just being the kind of slut that drives men wild. Through her and the rest of my friends, I made contacts, met people, and learned the tricks and techniques used to transform them into the sexy sirens they became.

"Soon, I was helping them whenever I could. It was such a rush to help change a cute little man into a soft, shapely, sexy, beautiful woman - and from there into the cheap, trashy slut she wanted to be. I hate to admit it, but I got a little... possessive. I didn't mind sharing the girl with dates. Dates are dates; they show up, pay you, get off, and leave. What really ate at me was, as soon as the girl was 'done', she would dash off and find herself a 'husband'.

"Michael, do you want to know what I thought the first time I saw your picture? 'Wow, with a little work, he would look great in a tight little dress and sky-high heels!' Now you tell me you have always dreamed of being a girl just like the ones I lust for? Oh, my dear, sweet Jesus... The idea of transforming you into a girl like that for me makes me wet. This time, dear 'husband', I'm going to keep you all to myself!

"Naturally, it helps that we enjoy... shall we say, unlimited financial resources? Why not play with this a little, explore your ultimate fantasy - for both of us? I love you so much - and this is just so wicked, we have to at least give it a try. This would be my way of sharing myself, my life with you on a level of intimacy few couples ever experience. It would also be a really kinky way of saying 'Thank you - for everything.'

"There are a couple of conditions, though. First, we can't tell a soul; at least, not the people from your life. That includes family, friends, neighbors, anyone who really knows you. They aren't like us; they would not understand our desires or what we share. They certainly wouldn't approve of the 'nasty girl' you are going to portray. I don't know what I am going to tell your dear, sweet parents, but I will think of some reason why they can't see you. Maybe I will tell them you contracted Berri-berri or something. I can be pretty convincing when I want to be.

"Second, I will be in charge of everything. After all, who knows more about girls like that than me? You must trust me enough to put yourself completely in my hands, without reservation. I crave 'reality' as much as you do. If I think there is something we need to do to make the experience more authentic, more pleasurable for us, then we do it. Baby, I can get you so deeply into a slut's head, you will think you were born there. Does that thought appeal to you?"

How could it not?

The pills, diet and exercise came first. I wasn't overweight by any means, but Kyra promised she would have me down to her own sleek one hundred fifteen pounds in no time. I missed my burgers and pizza, but the salads weren't that bad and I wasn't really starving or anything. She said the pills saw to that. She also began "figure-training" me. If I wasn't hungry before she started lacing me into that corset every day, I sure wasn't after. The crushing sensation was really uncomfortable, too. She said I would get used to that after a while.

To take my mind off my physical discomfort, she took me 'back to school' to focus my attention on something else. I began learning what she called "Street Speak", that odd patois of slang, euphemisms, malapropisms and bad grammar that she claimed was the common currency of the life she had known so well. The vocabulary was simplistic, to say the least. The words tended to be slurred, run on, and had a kind of sing-song cadence to them. There seemed to be code words and buzz phrases for everything. Everyone is "Baby", "Honey", or "Sugar". She drilled me incessantly, chiding me good-naturedly whenever I slipped up, using a big word or phrase that would have been just as confusing for a street girl as all of this was to me. I was perplexed. It was all so... alien to me.

"Honey, I don't really have to talk like this, do I?"

Kyra put it succinctly:

"Baby, do you know how girls like that talk?"

"No."

"Believe me, I do; I lived it for six years. We agreed we want this experience to be authentic. Before you can experience a slut's life and desires, a slut's world, you first have to understand what that world is. Baby, the street scene she inhabits is, for want of a better term, a 'Black Thing', and this is the way everyone talks - even the White girls."

"But we've seen African-Americans, both singles and couples, whenever we went out. They don't talk that way."

Kyra smiled sadly and shook her head.

"Michael, 'African-American' is a politically-correct term for a politically-correct segment of the population. The 'African-Americans' you have seen do not represent the world your slut lives in, nor do they want to be associated with it. Remember what I said about Perception? They speak the way their peers speak; that is, the people whom they perceive as their peers - and wish to be perceived as peers of. They are on their way up. You, on the other hand..."

She kissed me lightly on the cheek.

"... are on your way down. Your kind of girl is a ghetto ho', not some suburban ingénue. The 'hood is still about flash, pretense, and spin-control - perhaps even more so than the world you know. But it isn't about country clubs, trust funds, and social niceties. It really is a different world, with its own rhythms, values, and customs. The people are different, too. Do you imagine the girls turning tricks on the streets are college graduates? Of course not; most of them are dropouts. I was. They know the streets, their own bodies, and that they can make money by making themselves attractive to men. They look cheap, think cheap, and talk cheap - and the men they date like them that way. In short, they are just like I used to be - like you will be when I am finished with you. The first step is to teach you how a slut talks."

"But you don't talk that way."

She looked down - and far, far away. When she spoke, her voice was very quiet.

"No, but I used to. If we had met even a year ago, you would have met a very different girl. I decided I wanted more from life, wanted to make something of myself. One thing I did learn in my time on the streets is, a certain perception can make or break you, regardless of what kind of person you are. I realized if I were going to have any chance of escaping all that, I would have to change how others perceived me - and how I perceived myself. I worked very, very hard to unlearn the streets and re-learn this. Television and Internet chat rooms were my 'classroom' and you..."

She kissed me again, this time on the mouth.

"... and others like you were my teachers and role models. First I learned who to emulate; then I learned how. You were the prize at the finish line. Now, we're going to have a little fun 'deconstructing' you and re-shaping you into 'a girl like that'. Who knows? If I can show you what a slut's life is really like, you might have a better appreciation for this one. I know I do.

"Now, try again. I want you to think in this language, just as any other ghetto ho' does. Lose yourself in the role. In fact, maybe we should work more on that right now. Perhaps we need to create a whole new identity for you. That might make it easier for you to get into the right frame of mind. Let's see, what shall we call you? I know! How about... 'Gigi'? Do you like it? I think it sounds scrumptious."

"Gigi? Yeaaah, I like it a lot!"

She smiled at me bemusedly, a twinkle in her eyes.

"OK, girlfrien', from now on, you are 'Gigi'. 'Michael' doesn't exist anymore. You are that street-smart slut from Uptown you have always seen in your fantasies. To a girl like you, this house, this world, this life might as well be on another planet. You are gorgeous, sexy, overdone, and not too bright. In fact, about the only thing you think about is Sex. You down wit' it, Sugar?"

"Absolument."

Kyra sighed heavily and rolled her eyes upward.

"I never thought I would say this to any man, but you are too damn smart. Whether or not you are willing, your subconscious mind is fighting it. I'm gonna have to haul out the heavy artillery."

She came home a few days later with a coy smile on her face. She had arranged with a local professional hypnotherapist to commission a series of subliminal learning CD's that would aid me in my language study. Sheila Crane was willing enough and had extensive experience with subliminal learning, but knew nothing about this particular subject matter. In the end, a substantial sum of money had persuaded her to embark upon a collaborative effort - and a somewhat unorthodox method of delivery.