The very thought of throwing myself overboard made me recoil. There were Conrad and Melville, of course, maybe Golding. No other major writer of fiction who’d spent much time at sea came to mind. The watery writers didn’t much appeal. Eugene O’Neill was the only playwright I could think of who sailed. Hart Crane and Virginia Woolf drowned themselves, of course. The whole thing was preposterous. Taking poison seemed a much better alternative.
There was someone at the door. I buzzed him in and was met by a fellow carrying a pile of take-out boxes, enough to feed an army. Middle Eastern cuisine is great, but not even hummus, my favorite dish in the whole wide world, temptedme. I had been poked and pinched so much back in Houston that my whole body felt numb. I already looked like a Barbie doll designed for the Arab sex-trade. The boobs were not done yet, but my coifed hair and bright cocksucker lips screamed slut. The delivery man gave me the once-over. I thought of offering a BJ as a tip but decided against it. One blow job, and his friends would be lined up at my door.
The clinician told me that Malik wanted to see 700 cc silicone implants, or something bigger. The doctor asked what I thought about going, possibly, to 720-750. “You’ll look like Playmate.” When he showed me the digital models, my mouth dropped. How long would my back hold up under that load? By the time he was finished, the only original equipment left I cared about would be my dick. This is the fate that awaited me if I stayed in town and went under the knife.
I was trapped. That’s not the same, to be clear, as feeling trapped. Most people feel trapped but aren’t. I actually was in a trap, held against my will. There was no use coming up with some sort of heroics or concocting a grand gesture, no point in rehearsing a speech to set the angels afire. I was down and out. Escape would have to be my final act. Not words; a single deed. Get out.
This time I’d be on the run. That was the plan. This was no metaphor. No, I wasn’t lighting out for the territories. My life was at stake. Not like before when I was trying to find myself. There wasn’t to be any of that Tom Sawyer shit this time. Now I was trying to get away, this time for good. I wanted out before surgery, ideally, but the next best option was before becoming embroiled with the Sheikh, that is, before commencing employment.
I anticipated arriving at the marina with two huge new tits, 34D, on my small frame. Malik wanted to turn me into a stacked chick, now with blonde hair, looking a bit like Reese Witherspoon, only bosomy. The result would be unrecognizable – even to me. Now I knew what the Roman poet meant when he wrote of someone’s swollen breasts appearing like tall ships on the horizon. The doctor promised my tits would be beautiful and firm, with pigmented “Asian” nipples and enhanced areola to better suit local tastes; “dark and sensual” was how Malik put it. I knew what Malik wanted; he’d told me a million times.
Would people find me ridiculous? I’d been fondling my heavenly breasts compulsively when, upon closer inspection, I found myself wondering if my freshly peeled pair would attract the attentions of men used to caressing the finest. My confidence level had not grown to match my not fully-endowed bosoms by a long shot. I felt like some junior-high cheerleader hoping her date wouldn’t be put off by her cross-eyed tits.
It’s one thing to have been born a Tom and then find oneself an Esmeralda, and quite another to have been born a Zeus only to become a Zoe. There is bound to be some sort of image one is aiming for, possibly a fantasy fulfilled through sex reassignment, perhaps disappointment. I’ve listened to tons of confessions made by trans women and so many of their adopted personae appear campy. Instead of passing, they end up giving themselves away. They put on too much makeup and overdress. According to the experienced gals on YouTube, the ones who succeed appear natural. Those who pass spectacularly do as little as possible.
Mine would require realignment as they appeared “cross-eyed,” according to the doctor. As Malik’s company was calling the shots, the doctors would certainly ignore any requests that came from me. Nonetheless, I begged for something smaller. Flat and sassy was more my speed. The doctor, a Syrian, said I should discuss it with Malik who was paying the bills. He who holds the thunderbolt reigns supreme.
The Syrian was fit and capable enough, I supposed, but it was not possible to overlook his hairy fingers with their wide dimples running from the back of his nails to his knuckles. What else did he and my former lover have in common? The tits on the screen, although beauties, would never feel like they belonged to me. On someone else they would no doubt be praised as a stunning pair. Look at me. I was not sure which of the gods if any had dominion over my transformation – probably none of them. I was not after all being turned into a tree.
They were sure to be well-proportioned but wouldn’t bear any relation to my petite body. The result would be an emaciated figure with enormous breasts. I’d be buxom. I was sure to appear top-heavy, just what my rich patron demanded, as the hairy Syrian reminded me over and over. Somehow, an image formed in my mind of my new breast pierced by an arrow like the one that killed that poor old sissy, Mr. Peacock. Meanwhile, the good doctor put me on the pill, promising it would make my buttocks swell. “We can discuss gluteal augmentation at a future date.” He gave me his card. On the front was a picture of a dolphin in a forest. I loved that he couldn’t resist giving my ass a pat.
Malik called Carmen my titty-tutor and laughed when I told him she had lectured me on breast care. I didn’t totally get it, but he thought topics like boob rashes and nipple coverage were very funny. Less funny was the dedicated voice training program he signed me up for. He said when I snored, I sounded like the kind of man who drives an eighteen-wheeler. My body may have been petite but my voice was unchanged. He told everybody how much he was paying for my boob job and said it would all be wasted if I didn’t do something to feminize my voice. He wanted me to practice on his driver. He also insisted on a titty-fuck before returning to Riyadh. He expected to be first. “I’m warning you, Del. I’m not fucking used tits.”
My friend lived on the other side of Sharjah, some distance away. Nonetheless, he promised to pick me up. We just had to set a date. I arranged to have my two sets of luggage ready to go. We’d race to the airport, and I would leave the UAE, never to return. That was the plan. From the airport I would send Malik his money, not enough to cover the scheduled boob job, but enough to pay him back for many of the little things he had done for me. Nothing for the things I didn’t want. That was blood under the bridge. The idea of never seeing him again began to torment me. C’est la vie.
I planned to fly out prior to my scheduled surgery, still with boobs small enough to pass as the man recorded in my passport. Once situated in China, I could teach as Dennis, my former self, although perhaps at night I might glide about as Del in my Japanese kimono. Things were not going according to plan. For one thing, I never had any time to myself. Someone took me to the clinic, first for measuring, then for further humiliations, all having to do with turning me into a living doll. The thing that upset them most was the hair in my ears. They had me in on three separate occasions. The Sheikh had an aversion to body hair on his women. “No Italian widows” was his rallying cry. He was emphatic: “You like Italian widower!” On top of that, there was my upset stomach, acid reflux, gas; it wouldn’t quit. I asked for some Maalox, but all they had was some French medicine, Phazyme Ultra. It worked.
Believe me, this was not easy to manage, not to the standards of this maniac. Female staff would never be employed, but of me he demanded the body of a nymph. Suffice to say, I lost all my free time along with my dignity. By the time I had caught my breath, every day of the week found me there, first with the hair stylists and then with the cosmetic surgeon. They marked up my body one day but, instead of sending me home, kept me overnight and introduced my anesthesiologist right after breakfast. He put me under before I had a chance to know what
had hit me. In short, I got the fake boobs. They were gorgeous but they were not mine.
I spent several days in bed and waited every morning to be picked up, but nobody came. Days were spent looking at myself in the mirror. They’d arranged three weeks of supervised recovery. Even Malik came by. He was eager to see for himself. Those first days passed in a blur, but as soon as the doctor unwrapped me, I spent much of the time cupping my breasts or bouncing them on my open palms, constantly looking myself over and, to tell the truth, not giving a damn who saw me. Not after Japan. It did not matter anymore. One day, I noticed the Filipino custodian trying to cop a look, so I kicked the door open. He looked like he wanted to give them a kiss, so I invited him in for a feel. Had he leaned over I would have let him kiss my nipples. I had in fact lost ten pounds since I had checked in and looked damned good. My ass was fine. I hadn’t been working out, but it was firm. Everyone’s eye focused on my branding scar. It gave the men hard-ons. None of that shamed me.
After an extended time in recovery, they took me out to Dubai Harbor, which was both exotic and beautiful. The water there was as still as sand. The Sheikh’s yacht appeared indistinguishable from the many others floating there, with the exception of its unique flag and its much-publicized solid gold trim. That morning, a package of pricey lingerie was delivered: three-bras and one-panties sets ̶ a gift from Myla of London and sent by Malik’s staff. I was already wearing my favorite set, colorfully embroidered in copper lace. Malik, God bless, could be generous. I’d also had overnight an epiphany. My metamorphosis would never be complete.
I had it all: a woman’s face, a woman’s lips, and flowing hair, but my eyes gave me away, my soul. Another woman would surely be able to tell. A woman could see the real me behind the facade. That’s all I knew. What remained was a premonition and a few scars. I felt less of a woman with the big boobs than I had before with the bare minimum. The hormones had given me a bump but, after surgery, I was stacked.
As promised, Malik showed up. He told the doctors he wanted nipple rings, permanent ones, but the doctor said it was still too early for that; there was still a risk of infection.
“I want them to stand at attention 24/7.”
“Do you expect them to bow when the sheikh enters the room?”
We were still talking about my nipples.
“Curtsy,” he nodded, this time with a big laugh. He was in a good mood. “Didn’t Carmen
teach you anything? I am not kidding around. She told me you preferred to stay flat.”
“She showed me nipple collars. They’re little rubber bands. We priced them.”
“Let’s see them. I want you perky. Perky: isn’t that the right word?”
“Those can wait,” the doctor interrupted. “I recommend 14 caret gold. I know the perfect
thing. Solid gold fish hooks, right through the nipples, left and right.”
“That’ll hurt.”
“Good,” Malik smiled as he looked over at me.
I couldn’t help noticing Malik’s good humor. Being self-centered, I naturally assumed that he was happy for me and my sensational breasts. They were too beautiful to remain tits. Why not? When the doctor came in, he threw up his hands, “How are the twins?” There was momentary confusion between my “twins”, the newly released beauties and the newborns Malik’s fourth wife had just given birth to. I had no idea. Malik didn’t answer but before departing he presented a beautiful present of a L’Oréal makeup kit.
I knew myself. I was big enough to star as Cleavage Galore in the next James Bond film. Big tits might impress the Sheikh and his entourage, but I would never be satisfied unless I got to pick them for myself. He’d already branded my ass; now I let him brand my chest. Still, I was not going to let it get me down. I had inherited from my father his penchant for imitating lunatics, I was totally caught up in that Korean rapper’s “Gangnam Style” so, as it had recently come out, I would do him for the hospital staff, mainly the custodians who had time to waste. I even bought a pair of Bermuda shorts in Psy’s signature pink and wore dark shades just like him. I called myself Psycho.
The private hospital served a rich clientele. I’d see a lot. Brits do affluence so well. Rich Americans, however, wealthy Saudis, Emirati, Bahrainis…they seemed coarse, greedy, even dangerous. The English, by contrast, the elegant rich, the fabulously rich are so well-bred, so cool, so feminine – don’t they seem feminine? – effete, smooth, almostcreamy. But these big fat stogie-smoking Cadillac millionaires really act like pigs. Isn’t that why they breed, so they can fuck in mud holes, covered in shit and dollar bills? That was my main reason for running away, anything to get away from these fat cats who want you to lick their fingers.
Thank God, they picked me up and took me everywhere. I was ashamed to be seen now that I was dressed. Why was that? My first time out was daunting. I expected to feel disoriented and confused after being isolated in the company apartments, cut off from all human contact save for my visits to the clinic. I wasn’t sleeping well and became obsessed with my childhood. So little had really changed in my life. That night I met Malik, the faculty parties, and then the gala parties my parents held for the arts council. It all sort of blended together.
If anyone had been foolish enough to bring chips and dip, Father would take them out to the kitchen and drop them on the floor.
“Whoops!”
He’d return to the party, flamboyantly blowing kisses. He didn’t want any of “that shit” served to his guests. Then, he’d turn on me if he caught me looking in.
“The least you can do is empty the ashtrays.”
He’d be all keyed up. My brother Nathan called them our “Lucky Charms Nights.” There would be no dinner for us. We hid in our rooms as the party unfolded and ate cereal, often without milk. We were not invited. They told people we hadn’t been born. Sometimes, I wished it were true. I dreamed of being taken away. From time to time, a family friend might wander in and catch us with our pants down. She’d grasp her pearls and let out a cry. The door would close. Me and my brother hid under our beds and prayed Father wouldn’t come up.
For opening nights, Estelle made cassoulet. All Mother had to do was serve it. It’d be two or three in the morning when the guests were good and drunk. Father poured champagne. Occasionally, I wandered in, especially at late night parties. One time, an actress ran outside in nothing but her bra. When they called for her to come inside, she took it off and waived it in the air. She flounced around and, as she came in from the patio, she screamed, “Oh, darling, you take it,” and draped it across my head.
In the morning we’d find hundreds of cocktail glasses in the sink and the refrigerator door wide open. My parents slept all day. We were told to go to the Appels if we got hungry. As phony as this baloney was, I’m not sure it made me unhappy. One numbs oneself. My brother and I watched Cosby. I saved baseball cards I stole from the five-and-dime. The Starship Enterprise was always lurking and so was The Simpsons. When I look back now, I’d say it wasn’t so bad. I might even say we never had it so good.
Back to reality. I was still in hospital. The doctors said there might have to be additional surgery. They kept bringing me back to the clinic for tests. Malik’s staff escorted me around the piers, snapped a few pictures ̶ mainly of me ̶ and we climbed back into the big Audi SUV. Luckily, there was no one else. I had spent my entire life with a flatchest. Now, men and women stared. When I spoke to Reggie on Skype, the first thing he said was, “You didn’t say anything about twins. What are their names?”
Malik was pushing hard for total sex reassignment or feminization. “Make it final,” Al-Otaibi said with a shrug. I still loved his masculine nonchalance, but I had gotten to hate his manners. He joked that I might want branding, this time on my right cheek, next time on my left. I said I would. This would be our last exchange, our last time on Skype. I couldn’t resist congratulating him on his bravura performance. All he said was, “Now we are waiting for yours.” In a matter of days, he’d deleted the audio and managed to turn my topless Skype appearance into an ad for his trans dating service. I hadn’t sat that close to the camera, but he used zoom. This final back and forth reminded me of that sad old saying, “There is no affair that doesn’t end badly.”
I stepped to the door.
“All right?”
“All right.”
In my fantasy he went to kiss me on the cheek. I pulled back. I took one last look. I wasn’t about to hang around. My new breasts made me look fat, made me feel positively ridiculous. Finally, I too stepped out into the corridor, threw the silver butt plug, his gift, into the trash, and made a run for it.
Minutes later found me on board my friend’s SUV. Reggie was right on time. I jumped in the back, and he pulled away. He had a full set of clothes for me, a suit and tie, shoes and socks, the works. Thank God for the Brooks Brothers at Dubai Mall. I wanted to look sharp; it always helps when going through customs and checking into hotels. My tits were big, but I had to pass as Dennis Vanderhoff, so I put on two undershirts. Reggie spoke little as we raced for the airport. He was a good driver.
My plan was to fly into Hong Kong and worry about getting to Mainland from there. I figured on flying but thought about taking the bus to the border, then on to Guilin by train. One way or the other … I’d get there. Time was of the essence… an elegant escape…but nothing too devious, something simple. Once in China, I would be free. There were tons of jobs for teachers.
I told Reggie I’d be in touch once I arrived in Houston, but didn’t mention a word about Hong Kong or about anything else for that matter. It was critical that he not know where I was in case Malik was able to find him and apply pressure. I had begged him not to say a word, but knew he would break if they threatened his job. In the Middle East, it was easy to revoke someone’s visa. We were friends but not that close. I left other clues pointing back to Houston back at the company apartment, left some notes under my bed, all pointing to a return home. I had also said something to the doctor just to stir the pot and asked him to keep it to himself.
While buttoning my shirt, I turned around one last time. The doctor was standing on the stairs. Had he seen me? He was fading from sight, growing smaller and smaller. My memory of him dwindled as we moved through the impenetrable traffic. At the red light, a white Lamborghini pulled up to our left and, in the oncoming lane, an orange Rolls. Reg stepped on the accelerator. As I tied my tie, I couldn’t resist looking back once more. He was gone. He’d vanished. The rest of it would come out soon enough.
Thanks to Reggie’s driving, and a fair amount of luck, we arrived at the airport with time to spare. I could scarcely believe my good fortune. Somehow, I had both remained and become myself. I no longer thought of myself as trans and doubted that transexuals would accept me. Joining the girl scouts had never appealed to me. It was not physical; it was mental. I had perhaps not in fact transformed so much as metamorphosed. I resolved to think of myself as a metaphor. I closed my eyes and imagined myself eating hand-made wontons in red chili sauce. Who the hell could say? Maybe fortune would find me at the famous titty bar in Kowloon, the Fortune Nookie.