NOVEL NEXT PART NINE: (18+) Final Draft of a Girl
They didn't see each other for weeks.
Gail, resourceful and unruffled, had first set Jamie up with a cozy bed on her couch, and then helped the young dancer finalize the details of her new housing situation: a shared loft in a predominantly industrial neighborhood in Brooklyn. Although her new room was more like a glorified utility closet, it was clean and private, and had enough high shelves for Jamie's modest possessions.
Moving in, she was relieved to no longer be underfoot at Gail's apartment; the willowy blonde's assortment of girlfriends and lovers were always caught up in some kind of drama, whether manufactured for the purpose of roleplay (usually the case when someone was overtly bratty) or stemming from actual hurt and trauma (usually the case when someone was sobbing softly in the corner).
Jamie's new roommates were more eclectic and laidback: they were all genderqueers, trans guys, another trans woman with a punk haircut, a couple who shared the larger bedroom and seemed to have ordinary jobs, based on the way they dressed when leaving in the morning. Everyone else seemed to be a student, or working unusual jobs, or not working at all.
The friendliest of the roommates, a muscular pink-haired artist named Liger, spent most of their time painting huge murals on the empty concrete wall at one end of the loft. Jamie found it relaxing to watch them spatter globs of pigment with their bare hands. They all shared meals several times a week, although lentils and beans made several repeat appearances; most of all, it was cheap and felt safe.
Life at Noxx had resumed its regular cycles. At first, Jamie had notified Carlo that she needed to take a few days off. Carlo’s managerial instincts had led him to say yes with no questions asked; there was clearly something going on with his newest dancer. However, after one day of pondering her life, questioning how she felt about Alexandra and the shifting ground of her own sexual desire, she realized she'd spent most of the day just staring at the wall. She thought through problems better by acting on them, moving through them, Jamie decided. So, she went back to work.
Dancing on the pole was as exhilarating as ever; in addition to her own moves growing smoother and more confident, boosted by nothing but raw physical practice, she was starting to understand the nervous thrill that drove exhibitionists. She watched the strip club patrons' eyes light up when she unzipped her top, letting her naked breasts bounce out, or when she peeled her panties off to show a single line of tape over her sex.
The crowd was excited by the idea of seeing her exposed—and by the knowledge that she wanted them to see her that way; the feedback loop built her confidence. She was at once an object of desire, and a subject to be worshipped; her own questing sense of self slipped assuredly through the gaps of that contradiction.
Tina came in several times after their initial encounter, but the sexual charge between them had shifted. She was still in “boy mode,” dressing predominantly in men’s clothing though with a few softer touches. She was still needy, though looking for a different kind of reassurance and conversation. Jamie was open and honest with her about her own life, and what little experience she had moving through the world as a woman.
The ache in Tina's yearning to resolve her own identity was hard to watch, and Jamie felt more guilty about taking her generous payments for advice and emotional comfort than she did for a strictly sexual encounter.
A few times, she took Tina into the third booth and tried to help her feel more connected to her body. She described her own ideas of how round and supple Tina’s ass might become, how her legs would look in skirts and hose. These descriptions seemed to make Tina ache with pent-up desire, and Jamie stroked her clit to release more than once. Afterwards, she saw a look in the nascent trans woman’s eyes that she recognized as peace and acceptance, rather than shame.
“Do you think…” Tina asked her hesitantly at one point, “That I’d ever be able to transform like you did? Is it something that could happen… again, for someone else?”
Jamie paused, thinking carefully. It could, but maybe my ex-girlfriend can’t be trusted with it, she thought. And we still don’t know if what she did to me has any side effects.
Tina saw the distant, distressed look on Jamie’s face and said, unable to remove the note of curious hope from her voice, “I’m sorry. I know you said it’s complicated.”
Jamie gave her a small smile. “The truth is that I don’t really know. But if I do stumble upon something, I’d definitely tell you.” There are other ways to transition, Jamie thought. And holding out for a magical solution wasn’t exactly the healthiest way to accept your own identity, even if it was the route she herself had stumbled down.
Still, if she ever figured this all out; if she ever managed to go to the doctor and face her fear of a thorough physical examination; if she ever resolved things with Alexandra, then she might be able to find a way to help Tina with the burin. That was too many “if she evers,” of course. Despite the attraction she’d felt to Tina when they’d first confessed their secrets, she resolved to maintain a little professional distance with the new girl.
Jamie was making more money from lap dances for other clients. She’d resolved to simply never mention her past; even as a magical transformee, it had proved too problematic, either for those obsessed or reviled. Instead, she riffed on being the “normal-looking girl” and hinted that she had a terrible curse which had to be kept in check lest she lose control, or that she was a succcubus-in-training who hadn’t sprouted horns and hooves yet.
She was exceedingly careful, trying not to get caught up in the desperate feeling of scrambling to find her own apartment. With just a handful of lap dances, she could make her portion of the rent and more. She joined other girls in requests for tag-teaming two or more guys, and had a oddly effective rapport with the ghostly Kira, reacting to her appearances and disappearances with a wide-eyed shiver that delighted clients. She did private sessions with men who were known quantities, who other dancers had vouched for.
Every time, she decided in the moment how far she’d let things go, and what she felt like: she let a college football quarterback feel her breasts, but wouldn’t make any other contact with him, and asked a cute Korean businessman if she could undo his belt to touch him. He quickly agreed and paid well for it.
Just as on the first night when she’d discovered Alexandra’s drawings of her, she found that she was no longer disturbed the shape and presence of a cock. Some of this involved getting used to the way guys grew and hardened, and how she could choose what to do about it; another aspect was definitely aesthetic appreciation for the form and texture, curvature and differences that made each penis unique.
She found she felt curious at times about what a client might be packing, and at other times uninterested. Had her panic with Tina simply been a blip of anxiety, in the moment she’d run from the room, unable to handle the situation? Or had something about her willingness, her orientation, been changed? She was no longer certain; once she’d handled and kissed and sucked a few dicks, and Tina’s handsomely thick clit besides, it just didn’t seem like a big deal.
She wondered if her body might have changed at all, on that night or since. When she looked in the mirror now, often after showering in the small, shared bathroom some enterprising queer had built at one end of the loft, she couldn't tell much difference in her appearance. She thought she might have gotten curvier, fuller in the hip and thigh, perhaps rounder in face and her breasts.
That could be due to ongoing hormonal changes, she thought, since her organs and tissues had only kicked into gear after being redrawn. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she had somehow been made sexier, more provocative in her shape and demeanor, a little more Jasmine Blackriver and less Jamie Kurokawa. She just didn’t know if Alexandra had done that to her, or if she’d done it to herself.
At night, she found herself frequently doing late shifts. The last round of clients that came in before closing was always the drunkest, which meant problem customers but also those who were incredibly easy to please and didn’t place too many demands on girls in private sessions. Steer clear of the first type, and it was easy to make money off the second.
Some nights, after closing, she went out dancing with the other girls, or to one of the late-night hangouts frequented by restaurant workers, bartenders, performers and other late-night entertainers. Those gatherings, full of various denizens of the small hours who made the city’s nightlife run, were always raucous releases of pent-up energy. Although Jamie stuck to non-alcoholic beverages, the atmosphere itself was intoxicating—sometimes literally.
At one point, she found herself making out with a Broadway lightning technician who’d quickly impressed Jamie with her swagger, androgynous gender presentation, and the fact that she’d immediately sensed Jamie staring at her. After swaying and laughing through the empty streets, other girl pressed her up against a chain-link fence in a parking lot; they kissed, she grabbed Jamie’s wrists, then was moving her lips down, across Jamie’s belly and under her skirt.
Oh God, thought Jamie, a hot butch is going down on me in a parking lot!? The girl’s tongue slipped into her cleft, stroked upwards, making her shiver and tense as it flicked her clit. The sensations were almost secondary to the wild fact that it was happening at all; Jamie didn’t even know this girl’s name. She felt… debauched, was that the word?
Afterwards, her partner smoked a cigarette and laughed before she reminded Jamie of her name: Claudine. Jamie had been too nervous to come, although she’d made sure Claudine knew how much she’d enjoyed it. The lighting technician just smirked. “Maybe I’ll… see you around?” Maybe, thought Jamie. But who knows?
It was the first time she’d dallied with anyone since Alexandra. Well, not counting work, she thought. She knew the difference between inside and outside of a work situation, not least because she’d been thinking of the differences between Claudine’s mouth and Alexandra’s the whole time. Maybe I should text her, she thought. It was the same thing she thought at least once a night. She hadn’t texted her. She wouldn’t know what to say if she did.
***
Jamie waited outside as Vijay locked up the sturdy metal gate that covered the main door. She hadn’t felt like going out to party, but she’d still waited as the imposing security guard closed the club for the night. This late, or terribly early, the company and safety was worth it; she didn’t feel quite well-off enough to splurge constantly on car services.
Vijay lived further out on the same subway line that Jamie took home to the loft, in a suburban home with his wife and her extended family. He was a pleasant subway companion; they sat next to each other and didn't say much, reading or looking at their phones.
Tonight, he was more talkative than usual. “Blackriver. You okay?” Vijay used her stage name quite a bit. He didn’t consider it professional to use the dancers’ first names and had a hard time pronouncing her Japanese name.
Jamie straightened from where she’d been leaning against a lamppost. “Huh? Yeah, I’m fine… why do you ask?”
Vijay shrugged, checking the padlocks. He too, straightened to his full height. When Jamie wore heels of any significant size, she was extraordinarily tall, but Vijay was one of the few men even taller than her. “Seem different lately. Like you don’t care as much.”
She put a hand to her chest in mock horror. “Why, Vijay! Of course I care. I’m living my best life, dancing here at Noxx.” She noticed he wasn’t looking at her, but across the street. One of the customers who’d been among the last to leave was still hanging around, sitting on a utility pipe and looking at a cellphone.
He was a guy in his late 20s or early 30s, on the short side, a burst of russet hair poking out from under an oversized hoodie; Jamie hadn’t interacted with him at all; she'd pegged him as one of the relatively shy “just here to watch” types who were on their first visit, perhaps their first ever to a strip club.
Vijay shook his head. "Tough girl now? Jaded is good in some ways, bad in others." His task finished, they began to walk the long blocks towards the subway together. The guy on the other side of the street watched them go.
"You're talking like you've known me longer than you have," said Jamie. "Or like I don't know what I'm doing..." she frowned, as they paced side-by-side. She hunched her shoulders in her old, familiar pea coat. The other girls teased her about it being frumpy, boyish, but she liked the way it contrasted with her femininity.
Vijay just looked over at her, raising one eyebrow. She continued her defense. "I get it, okay? Dancing and doing extras for guys isn't my long-term plan. I'm building up savings, and I'm not just saying that. You know me well enough to see that I don't have any expensive habits."
"Then what?" the big man asked.
"I'll get my documentation sorted out. Deal with some old business. I used to have a professional certification, and I know I could work towards... something similar. Or I'll go back to school." She realized as she was saying it that it didn't sound anything like a clear plan—just a morass of possibilities beyond the real tasks of dealing with her new life, the basics that she’d been avoiding: “go see a doctor" and "register with the Office of Supernatural Affairs.” Admit that you let your ex-girlfriend draw you into a new destiny and ended up stripping in a club by the river; what would your mother say?
She put a hand on Vijay's shoulder. "I promise you, I'm not going to get stuck, okay?" He gave her a quiet smile and nodded.
***
Jamie was gyrating to a Shakira song when she caught sight of the new customer again. He had his hoodie off for a change and was staring at her while sipping a highball cocktail. Maybe he was ready to tip, worth flirting with? She slid forward, dropped into a split, then windmilled her legs around to the edge of the platform, a little closer to him. While continuing to dance, she studied the man—he was short but well-built, his shoulders clearly defined beneath a white muscle tee. Young and cute, though a little hesitant; now that she was closer, he was glancing away.
As her hips moved up and down in a sensuous grind against the pole, she saw that he was younger than she initially thought; maybe only a few years older than herself. He was watching her from the corner of his eye, though, while pretending to study the contents of his glass. Was he interested enough in her to be one of her "regulars?"
He'd come by three times at this point, though always keeping to himself. Should she try to chat him up? She could tell that he wasn't going to approach her on his own; he was like many of the customers who came in during the mid-evening shift—mostly regulars or people who worked nearby. It was a quiet night, with few customers and more than one girl out sick; some kind of flu bug was going around.
As the music reached the height of the last chorus, she pulled herself close to the pole and arched her back, thrusting her breasts towards him. She'd already pulled off her bra earlier in the set and was wearing nothing but a G-string and thigh-high boots with three-inch pole heels.
She heard his breath catch audibly, and leaned around to catch his gaze as he was in the process of looking up from her bare ass. As her gaze roamed downwards, she noticed he was adjusting himself in his khakis, dealing with an unmistakable bulge. He was certainly… interested.
They made eye contact; a dusting of freckles across his cheekbones, and thick eyebrows over jade-green eyes. Eyes that were somehow comforting and familiar. She raised her own eyebrows, and gasped a little bit, then blinked. The guy—he had to be right around her age, if not younger—looked as if he might bolt. Jamie made a decision and hopped off the platform as the song ended.
“Hey there,” she said. “Don’t run off… weren’t you enjoying the show?”
He smiled awkwardly and put a hand to the back of his head. “Sure. Great dancing.” His voice was a low rumble, but the bashful expression on his face made him seem like a teenager.
She bent down to peer at him. In her heels, she towered over him, but she didn’t want to intimidate. Not this particular client. “Do I… know you from somewhere?”
“Uh… you know. I’ve been in here a few times. But I just moved to the city from Boston.” Jamie nodded understandingly and sat down at his table. “Do you, uh… want a drink?” he asked.
She seemed to think about it for a moment, then shook her head, half-stood, and leaned forward. Her breasts swayed, close to his chest. “Let’s cut to the chase. I could tell you liked my performance, and thought you might want a private session? And I think you’re cute, so… I’d even toss in a discount.”
The young man’s pale skin turned bright red. “Wow. Okay, I guess… I’ve never…”
Jamie smiled sweetly. “You can just leave it all to me. But only if you’re comfortable… what’s your name, anyway?”
“Chris,” he said. “And all right, sure. Where do we… back there?” He stood up quickly, seeming a little off-balance. Jamie couldn’t help but notice his erection, rigid along one pants leg, as she led him by the hand towards the back hallway.
Inside the third private booth, she pushed Chris down into a chair and pulled her own boots off. “More comfortable this way, don’t you think?” She swayed a little bit, to the house music piping through small speakers, but then straddled him, fumbling at his zipper to loosen it.
Chris stared at her in shock. He was obviously nervous; Jamie could feel his heart pounding in his chest—and yes, there was genuine sexual interest there too. She lifted her hands away from his pants, ran her hands under the front of his shirt and over his shoulders before kissing him. She never kissed clients. “Mmmm. You taste like… what were you drinking, gin and tonic?”
Chris nodded dumbly as Jamie reached into his pants, slipped his briefs aside, and wrapped her fingers around his shaft. He moaned softly, his eyes wide.
“You’re a little bigger than I expected…” She took hold of his cock firmly in both hands and stroked it slowly. With one quick movement she pulled him out of his pants completely, exposing a slightly curved, circumcised, pink cock that quivered slightly under her caressing touch. “Or maybe I should have expected the size, from you…” she continued, reaching down with her other hand to squeeze his balls roughly.
“Oh god… Jam—Jasmine,” he gasped.
Jamie grinned wickedly at the guy calling himself Chris. She wanted to keep teasing, but this whole situation was feeling more and more insane.
“What were you about to call me, cutie?” She gripped him more firmly, stroking his shaft up and down. She craned her neck down to lick the tip. He smelled like soap, clean hair, and a familiar deodorant. “Jamie? Were you about to call me Jamie?”
His breathing hitched; he was almost panting. His hands squeezed her thighs. "No," he murmured, shifting uncomfortably.
"Well then, why don't you tell me what’s really on your mind?" She rubbed his cock up and down with one hand while gripping his hips with the other. “Mmmm, this dick of yours is beautiful. I’d almost say it’s the work of an artist.” She felt “Chris” freeze beneath her.
“How… how long ago did you figure it out?” asked Alexandra, her ex-girlfriend, who looked and felt just like a guy with a throbbing hard-on. Jamie tightened her grip on the cock she was straddling, making Alex yelp.
"As soon as I looked in your eyes, dummy!” hissed Jamie. “You obviously didn’t change those, and on top of that… once I got a good view of your face, you look just like your younger brother, muscles and all. What the fuck are you doing, Alexandra?”
Alexandra panted; she sounded scared but excited. "I— I just needed to talk to you. You didn’t text me, and I was worried. There’s something you don’t—ow! Can you let me go, please?”
Jamie was incensed. “You come to where I work, you disguise yourself and sneak in, like some kind of stalker. But you didn’t need to draw a cock on yourself just to watch me, did you? What’s the deal, Alex? Did you just want to fuck me, or is this your perfectionistic streak at work? A kink you never told me about? I know you’re not trans… are you?” Her expression was pained, hurt.
Alexandra shook his head—her head? thought Jamie? All right, their head—frantically. "No!"
"Then why the hell are you redrawn like a guy and calling yourself Chris? This is ridiculous… I asked you for space!” Jamie let go of Alex’s rapidly drooping member and stood up.
“I… I don’t have a good explanation, Jamie.” It was strange hearing Alex’s cadence and mannerisms, shifted into a lower octave. “I didn’t hear anything from you. We don’t know all the effects of the Burin, and then I came by and saw you with… that guy you keep going home with. I was shocked, okay…? I thought that maybe if I… if I showed you I’m willing to go there for you, if that’s what you need…”
Jamie was still angry, feeling violated, and acutely aware that she was only wearing a small thong. Alex had seen it all before—heck, Alex had drawn it. But there had been a breach of trust.
“What are you even talking about? Go where for me?” She sank into a chair.
“I thought you… you’ve decided to date guys, right? Like that bouncer. I’m not trans, not like you. But I’m not all that attached to one gender presentation either. I’m a girl mostly out of default, and I roll with it. But I could be a guy sometimes, for you. It’s fine, I don’t mind it… I—“
Jamie cut Alex off before the thought could continue. “Bouncer? You think I’m dating… Vijay?! Alex, he rides the subway home with me, then stays on when I leave the train, to get home to his wife. We’re just coworkers, and I’m not… interested in guys that way.”
She paced the small room like a caged wolf. “Although that’s no thanks to you! If you have a fantasy about getting your dick sucked, you could have just… said something to me. I would have given you head, at home, even if I felt anxious about it. You didn’t have to redraw me into your personal cock-hungry stripper girl-toy.”
Now Alex looked shocked and hurt, the boyish face they wore looking younger and more vulnerable as it crumpled. “That’s it though, Jamie. I didn’t redraw you. I know you saw those sketches I made. I’m sorry, I should have asked you before even putting a regular pen to paper. I was trying to help—“
Alex saw the look on Jamie’s face, and blanched. “All right, and it was a power-trip, too. I found the idea hot, and I don’t know when to stop sometimes. But I swear to you, I never touched you with the Burin, not after that. The last time was when you wanted to learn that fancy dismount for a closer."
It was Jamie's turn to look confused. "You didn't redraw me in those poses... the, you know, pornographic collection I saw in the sketchbook?" Alex shook their head. "But why... I got so much more comfortable around..." she gestured at Alex's crotch.
"I don't know, baby. Maybe it was some other effect of the magic. Maybe it was just that you got used to it? I thought... I thought maybe your orientation had changed." Jamie laughed at that, softly. “What,” Alex asked. “It’s been known to happen. Gail said—“
“This is too much for me, Alex,” Jamie said, picking up her boots. “I’ll see you some other time, all right?”
Alex got up, fumbling with their pants. “Jamie, wait, please wait… I thought if we could just talk, I—“
“You what, Alexandra?” She was speaking in soft tones that Alex recognized all too well as a quiet kind of anger, scarier than an outburst. “You’d have me back at your place, sketching your dream girl again? Even if you didn’t change my behavior, besides the first time with the heels that you already know was wrong… you realize those sketchbook drawings were still… still a fucking weird thing to draw, right?”
“Yes. I do realize that. I’m sorry. But Jamie, have you even been to the doctor yet?” Alex was apologetic and frantic at the same time, desperately trying to keep the conversation going. The whole situation reminded Jamie too much of family, the clinging, the concerns and orders.
“I can take care of myself. I have been already. Just… I promise I’ll call you, all right?” She opened the padded door of the booth and stepped out. Alex followed on her heels, looking as if they were about to say something more.
“Jamie!” Alexandra implored her, then grabbed her by the arm. Immediately, a much larger, browner hand wrapped around Alex’s left wrist, and turned it slightly, forcing the Alex’s newly toned, masculine arm to release Jamie. Vijay was standing right outside the booth, filling the hallway, instant in his vigilance.
Alex, panicked, reacted out of instinct—reacted not like a smaller, less experienced man trying to avoid a fight, but based on experience, as a woman being grabbed by a strange man. Alex gasped, spun, and tried to backhand Vijay. The large man simply plucked Alex’s right hand out of the air while releasing their left wrist and crumpled it like a piece of paper in his fist. Threat incapacitated and bones broken, with an unmistakable crunch and a loud howl of pain.
“Alex! No, wait! Stop!” Jamie’s frightened cries came too late.
The bones of Alexandra’s right hand, the artist’s hand that wielded the burin and redrew reality—or used to, at any rate—were shattered.
