Cisterwife

CisterWife

Copyright 2017 Jessica Mandella

Used by permission, all rights reserved.

Introduction.

CisGender is the opposite of TransGender. The way some gay people talk about opposite gender body parts makes me blush, but not for terminology. As an ally, I'm mortified by bigotry within our ranks. One cister actually called me a 'trag-hag'!

This story exposes CisGender bigotry. The issue is so important, I've made this novella essentially free, granting permission to copy and share its PDF from my site. I've also held back on my usual SciFi, to be more inclusive. There's still a little high tech, but that's normal for this present age...and I haven't lost my taste for crazy hot, with happy endings.

Here's a sweet lesbian romance about a girl who doesn't happen to have a pussy.

Chapter 1. Choir Practice.

This huge church accepts everyone. I'm finally home. The rainbow sign makes me feel safe. My wife of twenty-two years is now my BFF. I came out to her as a TransGender lesbian two years ago. She won't touch me. I fought it. I bargained. I tried to find a loophole. Now I'm finally accepting it. I've waited 42 years for the first woman in my life to love me as a woman. It won't be my wife Christy.

As a child, the bullies tried to beat the little girl out of what they saw as my little boy body. It half worked. I tried to die inside, but only got buried alive. It was a form of multiple personality disorder, a kind of replacement. Life hurt too much, so I tried to cease to exist, to let some stupid male stereotype inherit my brain. It didn't work. I'm still here, after all those years of trying to hide the real me. Cliché, right? But true.

What's not cliché is that I look like I'm 22, not 42. Bless my nearly immortal mother for that. She still looks young and hot. She beats men away with a stick, attracting women with lipstick. Yeah, she came out after Daddy went to heaven. Many hadn't added T to LGB at that time yet. She never recognized the warning signs of my trying to die inside and be replaced by a horrific gender stereotype. She called me a dick, never thinking to rescue me from it.

Christy and I have finally entered the social scene again...a Welcoming and Affirming church. She's looking for a man. I'm looking for a lesbian. We're not predators, but we can't help it if we have 'that hungry vibe'. We're both so needy. Many twin sisters are closer to each other than to the two men they marry. That's us. But unlike the twins, we need to live together. You see, we still have a transcendent love. How I wish it had fleshly elements!

Don't get me wrong. She tried. Before we met she was raped by something that claimed to be a TransGender lesbian. When I came to terms with myself I came out to her. Ever since, we can't get intimate without her throwing up, passing out or both. It's not normal to bleed at other times of the lunar cycle. It's the PTSD triggering it. I can't do that to her anymore. She needs a man...a real man. I love her enough to let her have him, whoever he is.

I hope and pray she loves me enough to let me have my lesbian lover, whoever she is. Christy said she's all for it. Is she? I don't want to lose my BFF of twenty years. I don't ask for much in life, just a happy marriage of four people who deeply love and respect each other, two of whom we've not yet met. Yeah. I'm screwed.

At least I never have to work a day in my life anymore. Christy and I are both living off of my portfolio. I won't say what the biggest company is, but it's got its talons deep in nearly every computer in the world. Now I can focus on my full time job of waking up as me.

* * * *

Here we are in choir practice. Everywhere we go, a choir leader lusts after our voices. Christy is an opera quality soprano with a soft pop edge. As a tenor I'm about the same. I used to have an awesome falsetto soprano range until a recent illness damaged my vocal cords. I still have good tenor range though. I hate it that I can't sound like a woman anymore, since only a few months after I came out.

Life is full of cruel ironies. Now I admit to myself I'm a woman, I look and sound like a man. I cried about it to a well-meaning gay friend. He slapped me and told me to man up. He messed with the wrong dyke. A body builder with a black belt is no match for a woman scorned. After he apologized, I released him and popped his shoulder back into place. He asked me to teach him to fight like that. I told him he couldn't afford the lifetime of dues. Yeah I'm a bitch.

I don't have to count measures. I can see the music on the page and hear it. My entrance is on time and in tune, as always. Music doesn't judge me. Music has no male or female. It has only four genders: Soprano, Alto, Tenor and Bass. And all four make sweet music together.

How I wish the world were like that. I can't count the number of gay men who call me homophobic when I don't swoon at their hitting on me. I tell them I'm a TransLesbian. They tell me I'm a straight phobic coward perving on lesbians. A sister feminist wouldn't treat me like that. If I'm so straight, why did bullies beat me until I finally put one of them on heroic life support? I should have listened to that last one. He didn't call me a fag. He called me a fem. They called him an ambulance.

That's some weird crap to think about, while singing worship music. Well, they do call Him God of Armies. Focus, Ellie Z, focus! Yeah, that's my real name. My parents named me after my dad Eli Zadok, and they messed up the birth certificate. I think the typist was a prophet.

* * * *

Choir is getting out. Our choir director, Ida Winthrop taps me on the shoulder. "Eli, do you not know where to put your folder?"

"It's pronounced Ellie, just like a girl's name, and I was hoping I could take the music home to practice. I've just joined, and I've got some catching up to do. Besides, I always like to practice at home anyway."

Ida smiles. "Wow, Ellie. I'm impressed with your zeal. See you Sunday morning."

"See you then, Dr. Winthrop."

"It's Ida to my friends. I hope that's what you'll call me."

"Ida it is, Dr. Winthrop, I mean, Ida." She laughs and swats me with a paper.

Now I go out to the fellowship hall to find my wife, who's disappeared. There she is, talking to the ringer in the bass section. I'd been admiring his deep, booming resonant sound during rehearsal. He's got such a lovely voice, but he came on a little strong in the mix, even in the soft sections, like he was showing off. At first I thought he was showing off for the alto in purple hair, obviously the most beautiful woman in the choir, but he never looked her way once, like she was invisible. Now I know who he was showing off to impress...my wife.

I walk toward her as he continues shaking her hand inappropriately too long. In one smooth motion, he turns Christy so she doesn't see me, placing the jutting out wall between me and her. If this were a bar, that would mean he's staking his claim over her, telling me to go take a hike. He seems to have experience at this sort of thing. The purple haired alto is walking too fast, looking back, not watching where she's going. She collides full speed with the show-off bass singer, splashing a whole cup of hot scalding coffee all over his chest, dousing his fancy shirt.

"Sandra, you b..." George stops himself, but it's clear what he was going to say. I guess she did see him after all. She must have some experience in these matters too...and with him.

Sandra gushes in a bright cheerful voice. "Oh, George, I didn't see you. I had no idea Mrs. Zadok was back here. Have you met her husband, El? He's the new tenor. I'm sure you musical men have a lot to talk about. Come with me Christy, you've got a few drops of coffee on your blouse. The ladies room is right back here, let's rinse that before a stain sets in."

My wife follows her purple haired savior into the ladies room to cold wash the few drops of coffee out before it sets.

Now I have to chat nice and friendly with a man I already hold in contempt, not because my wife is so fond of him, but because he's so fond of himself. This isn't going to end well for Christy. He's going to hurt her, and there's nothing I can do about it. If I get in his way, she'll say I'm cock-blocking him cause I'm jealous. Why couldn't a nice man find her first, instead of this vulture? After twenty years, I know her all too well. She's chosen him. I have to stand by and watch him burn her.

"Hi. I'm George Bentley. Your wife gave me her card. I'll be calling her a lot. So, El, what's that short for, Elvira, mistress of the night?"

I strike with one knuckle, crushing his solar plexus. He collapses to the floor. I shout out. "Let's get this gentleman a chair, he sang his heart out and now he's dizzy! We can't lose our star bass!"

Everyone crowds around him, giving him all sorts of attention. I walk away from Gorge Bentley. He looks up at me like I'm a vampire. There are respectful and disrespectful ways to ask for a date with someone's wife. I taught him to consider more respectful ways in the future.

"Looks like I missed all the fun!" It's Sandra. She shakes my hand, turning it over to see my knuckle still a little flushed red. "I thought so. Solar plexus works every time. Your wife won't listen to me. She says his interests are purely musical. It's going to get ugly. He usually takes a couple months to soften them up before he makes the kill. He could move faster, but he prides himself on his patience. He gets off on the process of the hunt, stretching it out as much as possible."

My brain goes on strike, so I just stare at her.

She offers me her hand again. "Sandra Belle at your service. While your wife goes off chatting with bonehead after choir each time, sit with me. I'll be your friend. Trust me. You're gonna need one."

I'm stunned. An offer of friendship comes from this vision of incredible beauty. I can't believe how attracted I am to Sandra. I'm not being a hypocrite. I'd thrill watching a loving man give my wife what she can't accept from me.

I still love Christy dearly, and seeing her fulfilled would fulfill me, even if I'm not the one doing it. Since she won't have me, it's up to someone else now. But George is not loving. He'll hurt her. It'll hurt me to see that.

Sandra is loving. She cares about other people like they were her own heart. Oh, how I wish she were gay! She's so pretty, so feminine, so downright girly, the word dyke doesn't even belong in the same language as her name.

There's no way she could ever desire a woman like me. She's going to make some man very happy someday. I still need a friend. I'll take her up on it, and try not to fall completely in love with her. The one person I'm crazy attracted to is a straight girl. I'm so fucked.

I'm also questioning my own integrity. If I want to be taken seriously as a woman, why am I attracted to a CisGender woman? Why not a TransGirl like me? I don't have any answers, but I do know this. I was aware of her extraordinary good looks, but she hadn't turned my heart inside out until she did her best to protect Christy from the vulture. That kind of compassion for a total stranger did something to me. It turned her pretty into beautiful, her likable into lovable.

Chapter 2. Connections.

Choir is getting out again. After twelve weeks of her bolting out the door with George Bentley, my wife waits for me instead by the choir room door. Sandra Belle looks at me funny. She knows.

Sure enough, as I get to the door, Christy is glowing. She hands me the car keys. It feels like she just handed me her wedding ring. "I'm going to fetch a bite with George, then we're going over his place to practice our duet in the cantata. We need to work on our timing. He has a habit of rushing the beat, you know."

I can't help myself. "His timing has been pretty slow if you ask me. It took him long enough. I'd say I'm happy for you, but I already know him too well."

"What's that supposed to mean? Ellie Zadok, are you getting jealous?"

"No Christy. I'm getting sad. I'm already weeping for you."

"Too late to change our deal, Ellie. You didn't find any dykes. I found a man. You lose. I win. Get over it." Christy bounces away, her golden coils dancing behind her back.

* * * *

I spot Sandra at the coffee machine. I'm blown away by her. Long wavy purple hair, pink bubblegum lipstick, abundant breasts almost pouring out of a super tight lilac body suit for a top, partially covered in good taste by a white suit jacket that hugs her waist and flares at the hips. Her white jeans look painted on her. Lilac is the color of her fingernails, I bet her toenails too.

I'm staring at her. People will think I'm letching on her. That may be true, but more than that, I'm crushing on her. It's her kind heart that conquered mine without a battle. For a few months now, we've had long conversations every Sunday. We talk about soul mates, true love, poetry, art, music, God and even erotic romance books. She's so merciful! She never brings up the elephant in the room, the budding romance between my wife and the vulture.

As we get our coffee, I inhale her fragrance. My head spins. It's not her perfume. It's her. It must be her pheromones. My heart is pounding.

She looks in my eyes, sees my face flushed and finally speaks. "So you DO know."

I'm afraid of how much she knows, so I try to dodge. "I do know what?"

Do I know that over the last few months I've been developing a huge schoolgirl crush on her? Yes. Do I know she's straight? She must be. Next to the word 'feminine' in the dictionary is her picture. I may be a TransGender woman, but I don't crave men. I'm a lesbian. I crave a woman. I crave her.

Sandra chuffs a single half chuckle. "You do know your wife will finally fuck him today. What's your deal? Are you a cuckold? Do you get off on that sort of thing, or is she just used to getting whatever the hell she wants?"

Blinking back tears, I know I'm blushing something fierce. "I'm not comfortable talking about this here. Is there somewhere we can go?"

Sandra whispers to me. "Your wife won't be home for hours. When he first makes a conquest, George is a very thorough, patient and imaginative lover. My last partner told me so. You need a friend right now, someone to talk to. We can go to my place. I promise I won't try to seduce you. I'm gay."

As we make our way to her car, my tears won't stop. Just as I mistook this beautiful lipstick lesbian for a straight woman, Sandra has mistaken me for a straight man, imprisoning me in the 'friend zone'. Now two women are out of my league and off limits to me. My 20-year BFF Christy, and my new gay friend Sandra.

Sandra gets it all wrong. "Oh, honey, how could you not know today was the day? You're crying a river, and I'm the one who broke the news to you."

I have to rescue her from the guilt. "I knew. You have no idea what I'm really going through right now."

How can I tell her the one person she thought was safe has been perving on her, not just with lustful eyes, but much worse, with a needy, deeply admiring heart?

* * * *

Finally seated in her living room, Sandra does her best to make me comfortable. As she takes my hands, my chest is hammering. I'm feeling a rush of something I thought I'd never feel again. It's the blossom of young love. I fought so hard against this. I can't help it. She's too wonderful. I wish I could be with her not only on Sundays, but always and forever. I'm a love-struck little girl way over her head in deep waters.

Sandra sees it. "Your eyes are dilated, Ellie. It's natural to cling to any life raft in the storm. Don't start falling in love with me. I'm gay. I only date women. You need a friend right now, and I can't walk away. You'll come over every Sunday afternoon while your wife is out fucking George. You're enough of a gentleman to keep your hands to yourself. But I must ask something extraordinary of you. Please keep your heart to yourself. You can share from it, but don't give it to me. You're so wounded right now, your heart feels soft like a woman. But I can only receive a heart who actually IS a woman. Please understand. Now I'm going to hold you, and you're going to cry until you have no more tears left in you. You need to let it all out."

* * * *

The weeks go by. She has me over every Sunday afternoon. Am I being a dildo for sensing how amazing she is while she holds me? No. I refuse to be judged for being a lesbian. Am I being dishonest by crying in her arms while the only woman I had loved for twenty years gets her brains fucked out by the vulture of the bass section? Hell no. My pain is real. It's just not what she might assume.

I'm not upset that my wife as a free woman is getting some. I'm upset that as any kind of woman I've never had any. I always did to her, always did for her. For two years she's not even let me do that. So much of my sensuality is in my breasts. Even before I came out, Christy would never kiss them. Any touch of physical affection lit up my body like a woman. Her subconscious awareness of my feminine sensuality grossed her out worse than if she'd accidentally touched the slimy red dick of an aroused dog. The bullies tried to beat the girl to death. She tried to starve the girl to death. That's why I'm crying. I'm so empty inside!

For forty-two years, I've never been loved as who I am. As soon as I came up for air to receive that love, Christy slammed steel doors in my face. I feel like I'm dying from lack of affection. I love Sandra more and more for caring about my pain, for putting up with my oceans of tears. I don't know why I'm so afraid of coming out to her. Sandra's sisterly consoling comfort is the only affection I've known since opening up my true woman's heart.

I have my own fear to blame for this. As long as I don't tell her, there's a secret hope she might say yes someday. She's so selfless and pure in her love. She warned me not to fall in love with her, far too late. I'm hopelessly lost in admiration. I'm locked in the closet, parked illegally in the friend zone with my beloved, beautiful Sandra, who could never want me.

Chapter 3. Ironic Hypocrisy.

The coffee strikes my face hard in a hot stream. I'm lucky Christy didn't let go of the mug or I'd need stitches.

Christy is raging. "Who the fuck is she, El? Nobody tells his wife he's happy about her affair, unless he has a little something on the side already. When the hell were you going to tell me?"

I'm stunned. "Christy, we talked about this. You told me you were going after George. With every cougar in church chasing him, you had a challenge ahead of you. I'm happy you won the competition. Congratulations on landing George. Most women regard him as a high value catch."

Christy is red-faced pissed. "There it is again, that nonchalance! Nobody gets over me that easy unless I'm being replaced. You fucking prick! Who is she, and how long have you been fucking her behind my back?"

I'm sniffing. "I'm not fucking anybody. I'm just fucked. You wanna know what we do at her place, while you're getting your 'holier than thou' stuffed by George? I cry and she holds me. That's it. The only bodily fluids I'm sharing with her are snot and tears."

Christy's voice is low now, almost menacing. "Oh, so that's how it is. This is worse than I feared. You're not fucking her. You're falling in love with her. I know you. I'm losing my BFF. How soon 'til you move in with her and leave me with all the bills?"

I'm ashamed to admit it, but that thought has some appeal. Maybe starting over isn't such a bad idea. I just need to figure out a way to come out to Sandra without pissing her off. I've been so safe for her, in the friend zone. How can I tell her I'm a woman who's already given herself to her in love? Coming out to Christy was a total disaster. Coming out to Sandra terrifies me even more.