Day 20

Insa

Must be the Oddball Annual Outing tonight. That's the third person I've seen tonight who looks like a bit of a kook. If they're not swaddled up like mummies, they're dagger-elbowed journalists panting after tip-offs over who's eating dinner where. And now this one. Can hardly tell whether it's a man or a woman. Still, beats hanging around Cadderine and her freaky stalking programme.

Seriously, though, it's almost mesmerising how bizarre this ' well, this figure ' looks. I reckon it's a bloke, but only because the hands are chuffing huge. Remember seeing a documentary on drag shows on the telly and some of those blokes were absolute stunners. They could have been singing soprano in Madame Butterfly down the Royal, instead of miming to old power ballads. As for the height test, well it's bull. It's absolute guff that you can tell someone's sex by how tall they are. Think about it. Yes, there are tall trannies, but there are tall genuine girls and short men too, and I bet you any money some short men cross-dress. The hips can be padded out (this guy has ins and outs all over the place anyway, like a badly stuffed sausage, so it'd be pretty impossible to tell from that) and fake boobs just get closer and closer to the real thing. Short of saying "Excuse me, and peeking under skirts (or unzipping jeans in this case), the only sure fire way I reckon to tell a queen from a girl is the hands. You can't bind them, shorten them, neaten their appearance with gloves ' they're a dead giveaway.

Having said that, of course you can shorten them. Of course you can. I just don't know anywhere reputable that would do them, but then I haven't really researched any of this. But there must be somewhere, be it back-alley nightmare knifing cage with grubby lean-to beds, squinting surgeons with fake certificates and rusty tools or be it affluent Filmland zen den, gleaming with the wealth gleaned from steady and amicable bribery.

I order a pot of tea. That can be spun out to fill the hour. Right now, Mum and Cadderine are probably screaming at each other because Number One Daughter won't eat whatever food has been prepared. This happens a lot. She'll sit there, watching Mum painstakingly bake and boil, roast and plate some huge meal, then turn her nose up at it, claiming it's not on her Heart Foods list for Thursdays. No surprise, surely, when I tell you that the HeartBeep Diet was popularised by one Maren Gilligan. Blah blah, fucking blah.

"Excuse me, do you know the time?

I start suddenly with a gasp. Christ, it's upon me. The man/woman creature from table thirteen is standing above me, and it's horrible. There are unbalanced crows' feet on his/her eyes, an oddly bent finger which seems to point terminally rudely at the invisible person to his/her left. No, it MUST be a man. The hands, remember the hands. There are liver spots dotted over this pair. Stray greys are draped here and there over a mid-length mop of brown hair. It seems surprisingly thick for someone greying. There are lines around the mouth, but the lips are full like those of someone in their mid-twenties, perhaps thirty at most.

"Sorry to bother you. Only I need to know if the newsagent has shut.
"Five-fifteen, I manage, still intrigued by the random dispersion of fat rolls around the figure's midriff. "I think you're ok.
"Thank God, he/she/it said (Dammit, HE!) "I should take out a subscription really. It would save a lot of stress. The voice is strong and youthful, if a little tired. "Thank you so much. I'm afraid I have to go, but if you're ever in here again, I owe you a coffee. Thank you.

He is panting as he exits, but walking with no effort unreasonable for a fit young man at the end of a long day. Pervert, I think, as I finish my tea and slope off back home, back to where the arguments practically power the heating.

Zoom

Think you're having a fat day? Well how about this poor bloater? Too many Cooble Cocoa bars? Too much TV? No, it's simply the latest celebrity trend for looking your best ' Fat Donation, or Blubberdumping as it has been nicknamed, has been the method of choice for obese celebrities who want to spend more time on the red carpet than on the treadmill. Part of the whole 'umbrella' treatment programme available from megabucks companies like Grays, Blubberdumping works on the same principle: pay enough and someone will adopt your flab. So while Hendra Kinn (to pick a name out of the air) and co. walk around with stomachs we could rest a spirit level on, spare a thought for their morbidly overweight counterparts. Wonder why there's an obesity epidemic? There's your answer. We at Zoom Towers can practically smell the lawsuits.

Course, it could just be those Cooble bars after all, in which case, the Zoom Crew are sticking to their original story. We're all victims of the umbrella system! (Munch munch!)

Martaro

"Sorry, sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me. This isn't ' I don't normally -
She separates herself from my embrace, nose wrinkled, shaking her head.
"Never had you down as that kind, Marty.
She sniffs, the source of her tears suddenly dammed.
"Who am I kidding? You all would if you could get away with it. That's why I get so much work. Fucking nonces, the lot of you. Why am I even surprised?
"Ms Renee, Miffy. Please wait. It's not that. I -
"Well come on then. I'd be intrigued to hear an explanation, sweetheart, as to why the sight of a little girl crying gives you such a raging boner. And it IS raging. I'm about the right height to sort that out for you if you'd like.

There is a cruelty in her voice that cuts me in two. I feel like I've just kicked an alleycat it has taken years of painstaking care to domesticate, and it has scratched me as if we'd never met. As soon as that simile pops into my head, I feel pissed off that it is so natural for me to dehumanise her. It makes it easier to distance yourself ' it's about as natural as you can get to want that around such a creation. She was never natural to begin with, I tell myself. You fuck, I tell myself. There is an explanation. Give it to her. She deserves it. And don't you dare jerk off. This one will have to fade naturally. You haven't earned anything more than that.

"Miffy, I'm so sorry. Please sit down a moment. Give me five minutes of your time.
"I don't really have that, she said. "But I do need the company, and like I say, it's nothing new, so I should be used to it. OK.

She clambers back onto the chair, and unsticks strands of hair from the tear tracks on her cheeks.

"One condition, she says, pointing a stubby finger.
"Of course.
"You share, I share. We both bring something to the campfire.
"Of course.
"So come on, then, she grins bleakly, and manages a diluted wink. "Do spill.

The following is the account, categorised by girls, of why.

* * *

Jenta

Jenta was sixteen, and looked like a stylised Victorian flower fairy. Big eyes, wrists that could slip through a needle and short, flirty skirts that looked to be the tailoring of spiders. She bought them in some obscure market place in a country where heat requires immodesty, and they drifted around her thighs like gauze around cherubs. As unlikely as it seems, I didn't particularly want to fuck her at first. I was content to look at her creamy cheeks and stroke her shapely little limbs.

The first time Jenta cried on me was after a film in which two panda bears in love have their sweet, bamboo-munching days cut short by a hunter's gunshot. They fall, united, in the ruins of a habitat destroyed by that most savage beast, Man. Or so the story goes. I was relieved the film was over. Any interest in the story had been killed off for me by the foot-long eyelashes and Californian accents of the two furry protagonists. When I looked over at Jenta to comment on this, however, I noticed that she was snuffling and her eyes were wet through.

She looked at me, her whites all pink, and buried her head in my neck. As I felt her tears dribble down into my shirt opening, I suddenly became sharply aware that my penis, practically still in the cellophane from the crappy seconds shop that is puberty, was swelling and tenting my trousers. I licked my finger quickly and ran it across my own eyes, so that when she looked up and caught the sheen beneath my lashes, she bit her lip in admiration of my panda empathy. That night, we screwed for the first time and I threw away the receipt.

The relationship ended after a week of film-gazing and arm-sneaking, when she suggested we watch a comedy.

Emilet

I had fully intended my foray into the world of weeping to end with Jenna. Maybe I just liked a girl who could feel empathy for animals. That was natural enough. But when I met Emilet, I think I realised I couldn't go back. Her shopping bags had broken. Add to that a lousy day at work and a crashed computer, as well as a vindictive ex, and, well, the girl was only human. I saw the first tear fall as soon as the eggs fell through the bottom of the carrier, smashing brightly onto the pavement, and like any true pervert, was there like a shot.

"You're so kind, she stammered. I was only too happy, I assured her, to help. She was simply pretty. Honey hair held out of her face by a blue flower clip. I didn't notice her clothes. I was too busy concentrating on ways to prevent her body damming the flow of saltwater, the way blood clots. I tried every memory trick in the book, and succeeded, through reminiscing about hypothetical exes and mean bosses, to plunge my emotional drill through fresh water mains every time. Really, I quite amazed myself.

We made it back to mine, where she stayed for coffee, and I put on "Casablanca (could have chosen Bambi, but I didn't want to risk her making any assumptions about me that could impede sexual activity and end up with us discussing her outfit after all.). My cock was raging when the final scene played, and, right on cue, Emilet filled up, her eyes as raw as if they were sitting in tiny acid pools.
"I'm sorry, she sniffed. "You must think I'm such a drip. I just get so emotional about silly things.
"Shhh, I soothed her. "You've had a tough day.
"You've been so kind to me, she said, her hand finger-stepping across my burning crotch, "and I'd like to thank you, if that's OK. I gasped, as her nail tapped lightly on the cloth covering the head of my cock. She smiled and asked if we could go upstairs.

Well, what do you think?

Unfortunately, Emilet turned out ever after that to be 'emotional' in a bounding-through-the-park-like-a-springer-spaniel sense. Everything made her laugh, especially when I was with her, her little sunbeam. The day she told me that, I think she broke my heart.

Gaib

Gaib had conjunctivitis, and her eyes were perpetually weeping. She was miserable. I had wood whenever she looked at me. Several times during our six month relationship she'd return home, cursing the local surgery for denying she had an appointment to treat the condition. She left me when, after pretending to leave for work, she nipped back inside and caught me cancelling her fifteenth booking.

Freywen

After a fruitless fortnight trying to cajole Freywen, a movie critic, to the brink of tears, I conceded defeat.
"Just tell me what you're after, she pleaded. "I'm very open-minded. I've seen Blue Velvet.
Two minutes later, the door slammed, and round my cul-de-sac, the echo bounced:
"You're sick.

Pollu

Pollu burst into tears over everything. Songs on the radio, newspaper articles, soup, you name it. At first, I was in heaven, but as it turns out, you can have too much of a good thing. I grew angry with her, feeling that she was cheapening my fetish, like wearing a ball gown every day, until it frayed. I had friction burns on my dick from the days I had sex with her to shut her up. I dumped her by telling her a knock-knock joke, then running away before the punch line.

Carick

Walking along the seafront one morning, I saw a girl in a blue duffel coat, cleaning up after a Labrador. Animal lovers, especially those willing to scoop up crap with only a membrane of plastic for protection, are truly devoted, in my experience, to the art of expression. Worth a go. I waited till she'd disposed of the bundle, then approached her, asking if she knew of a good place to get a hot drink. Her hair was tucked under a woolly hat, but a couple of strands peeking out told me it was bonfire toffee ginger. Her cheeks were rosy from the wind. I tried to imagine them with red tracks streaking down them, and nearly swooned. She took me to a tiny café, and we talked about the dog and the beach, among other things.

I had intended to take Carick home. I had rented "The Elephant Man for this very purpose, with fond fancies of undoing my zipper at the moment of John Merrick's death to catch any stray saline directly on my prick.
Instead, she took me home. This wasn't fair. I had no tools with which to extract a crying fit. I was on my own.

After an initial panic, I calmed down. Why not just go, have coffee and leave? I thought. You can whack off later to "Gone With The Wind if necessary. But all I could do throughout the ensuing chat was picture Carick naked and weeping, the streams decorating the length of her body like scarves. I barely took in a word she said, and I think she noticed, because after a while, she said:
"Are you OK? I feel like I've been talking about Beska and her collar forever. I think I'm boring you.
No, I said. No. It was me. Carick was a beautiful, interesting girl. I just couldn't concentrate today. I apologised.
"You know, we could just fuck, she said. I recoiled. I'd made no attempt at seduction. How could she have known?
"You've got a hard-on the size of a freight train, she pointed out. "Either you have a thing for dog stories, in which case I'm a little worried, or you'd like to get dirty with me. Forgive me if I'm wrong and it's a medical condition. I just assumed¦
I'm a sick man, I said.
"Who isn't? she grinned. "We've all got our quirks.
"Yeah? I asked, hopefully.

She raised her eyebrow. We went to bed.

As she lay there, soft and cinnamon-freckled and waiting to take me, I looked at her, wondering how I had ever gotten so lucky.
I want to tell you something about me, Carick, I said. Something I think only you can understand.
"Wait a second, she pressed her lips to mine. "Me first.
I grinned, and shivered, as she trailed her soft lips across the hairs of my neck, till she reached my ear.

"Tickle me.

* * *

"And that, I frown, "brings us up to date. I hope that helps.
"You know, she says. "I have a very sad story for my part of the exchange.
I stare at her. Flirting? Surely not. Guileless eyes say no, but Miffy Renee was created to appear guileless.
"You do? I enquire, suddenly nervous again.
"Oh yes, she pipes, slowly. "I can practically feel myself welling up just thinking about it.
"Do you want to tell me this story? I ask carefully.
"Yes, she smiled, faux-shyly. "I've wanted to get this off my chest for a long time.
"Then I'm listening.
"OK. Are you sitting comfortably? she asks, sliding tiny fingers across my crotch. It is all I can do to nod.

"Good. Then I'll begin.