Be-bop Gina

So be-bop Gina — that’s how he liked to be called — applied his make-up, shaping his eyelashes with a small mascara brush and carefully applying glossy lipstick, folding his lips in and moving his jaw backwards and forwards, then sideward to spread the lipstick evenly.  Pulling his wig down tight, he patted the curls into the desired shape, making sure that no hair was out of place and that it was on just right, turning his head this way and that and admiring himself in the mirror, pursing his lips and giving his reflection a smacker of a kiss, sucking the air back through his puckered lips to create a loud kissing sound.  “You gorgeous thing, you … I’d fuck you any day.”  Gina ran his hands down his dress, caressing the cloth, smoothing out the wrinkles, and the sliding them lasciviously over his hips like he was a real woman.  He wore high heeled shoes, which made him seem ridiculously tall for a woman (he was 5’11” without his shoes on), but he had a cute face and a shapely body, very feminine features, which he emphasised when walking, wiggling his hips and swinging his Coccinelle handbag and looking at himself in shop windows, seeing his reflection and thinking: “You’re a peach if ever I saw one …” and all the while glancing at men passing and seeing the lust in their eyes — genuine lust for the person they thought was a woman.  “Come and fuck me, baby,” Gina would think, a coquettish smile on her face.  “I’d suck you off any day …” imagining that juicy cock, quivering, hard, sliding between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.  “Oh yes I’d gobble you good …”

His transvestite fetish started when he was around thirteen years old.  Be-bop Gina, or Harry to be precise, couldn’t wait for his parents to go out so that he could fulfil his licentious desires, waiting impatiently as they drove away, then rushing to his mother’s bedroom, opening the wardrobe and taking out her clothes, lovingly selecting a dress or a skirt, then removing his clothes and putting his mother’s on, loving every second of dressing up, constantly looking at himself as his naked male body was gradually transformed.  He loved stockings, the sheer feel of nylon as he rolled them on then smoothed them over his legs, opening his legs and gently rubbing his hands on the inside of his thigh and up to his balls and around his cock, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning back but not too much for he didn’t want to lose sight of himself in the mirror, his dress up around his waist, cock hard, exposing the pink head and glans as he pulled his foreskin back, then waking himself slowly at first, changing his position, lifting one leg up, letting it flop to the side, eyes fixated on the white flesh above the dark stocking tops — white flesh of his leg leading up to his genitalia, and wanking vigorously now, edging it several times, imagining multiple men lusting after his body — some grimacing, some with mouths open and others baring their teeth, as they squirted spunk over his upper-thighs and balls, Harry wanking faster and faster, then thrusting his hips forward, stiffening, and with a gasp ejaculating pulses of semen onto the mirror and floor.

Harry or Gina (when dressed up as a girl) finished college and began a career working for Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise, collecting tariffs and controlling the flow of goods coming in and out of the country.  He was a shy youth who kept himself to himself, an introvert with a fierce sense of duty, paradoxically unafraid to confront or advise people who deliberately or unknowingly flouted the law.  Dressed in a suit and tie and wearing glasses — his hair styled as it always had been, short at the sides and back and with a parting down one side — Harry diligently got on with his job, earning himself a reputation as a thorough and professional employee who would happily fulfil any task required of him.  Good boy Harry, clean cut Harry, righteous good man Harry.  Who in their wildest dreams would ever imagine that he (be-bop Gina) had a dark side.  Harry?  A misfit?  A sexual conundrum?  Impossible! 

It was a hot summers day when two young men dressed in white shirts and wearing ties, a name-badge pinned to their shirt, knocked on his door.  In their young hands they carried a book of Mormon and a holy Bible.  Introducing themselves as elder Jack Rickman and Daniel Brown, they extended an eager hand of friendship.  Harry reached out and took it.  Their grip was firm and friendly.  Elder Brown began the conversation, explaining they were from Salt Lake City in America and were on a divine mission.  “We are here to tell you that Jesus Christ is indeed alive and that he has restored the priesthood.”  Elder Rickman chipped in: “We have a living prophet who communicates with God …”  They were polite, friendly and seemed genuine.  They spoke about Joseph Smith and the gold plates that he had found in a wooded glade — a record of an ancient civilisation, descended from Jews, that existed in America 2000 years ago. 

Harry was a Protestant.  He hadn’t thought much about religion.  Religion was something that other people did.  He could only ever recall going to church when a friend of his got married.  Should I invite them in?  He was tempted.  Hang on, he thought.  Maybe I ought to look on the Internet and do some research before getting involved.  Can’t be too careful these days.  These young Americans with their guileless mannerisms and middle-class American accents, their message of hope, salvation even, was all very appealing but then again salesmen know how to draw you in, too.  Harry was intrigued, though, and wanted to know more.  Manna from heaven (excuse the pun), that’s what they were.  Fine young men.  Good looking young men with sparkling eyes and white teeth.  Harry was off again, his mind conjuring all sorts of wild imaginings — imaginings of a more earthly nature.

He politely thanked them for calling and said he would think about what they had said, then shook their hands again and said goodbye.  Closing the door, he rushed to his mother’s bedroom.  There he opened her wardrobe and ruffled through her dresses.  Harry had his favourites, of course.  Top of the list was a dress his mother wore when she was a teenager.  It was black and short with a lace top.  Licking his lips, he took it off the coat-hanger.  As he pressed it against his body, twisting this way then that, thrilling at the thought of wearing it, a distant memory surfaced in his mind.  A long time ago he had heard his parents discussing a scandal involving a Mormon missionary called Kirk Anderson.  He had been kidnapped by a sex crazed couple.  They forced him to engage in numerous deviant acts, including oral sex.  Strange how he had suddenly remembered it.  As he stood in front of the mirror, he fantasised about the two young men who had just knocked on his door.  In his imaginings he was the victim of an abduction by the missionaries. 

Harry took his mother’s stockings from a drawer and wriggled them on.  Sliding his hands up his legs, he smoothed out the creases and made sure the stockings were tight around his thighs.  “Oh, that feels real good!”  Next he put on his mother’s dress.  Sitting on the edge of her bed, he peered at his reflection in the mirror.  He loved seeing himself in women’s clothes.  “You delicious peach!”  Harry slid the dress up and opened his legs.  His cock was hard.  He visualised the missionaries touching their cocks to his and then taking turns to gobble him.  Enthralled by the fantasy, he imagined elder Jack Rickman pressing his cock against Harry’s mouth and forcing him to suck it.  “Suck my cock, you slut!”  Squirming on the bed now, Harry whisked his cock to orgasm.  Gasping, his seed splashed against the full-length mirror.  “Oh my God!” — Harry tenderly cupping his balls with one hand and gripping his pulsing cock with the other.  “Gina, I love you!”

Maybe he would join the church after all.  But would he ever change?  Would Harry be prepared to give up his fetishes for a lifetime of religious bondage.  I think not.