I Missed Myself

She was as gorgeous as I remembered, tall and beautifully built, and she had an overnight bag slung over her shoulder. I asked her to sit down, and tried to think of something to say to her as I stared at her beautiful legs. She was wearing a short skirt and a white shirt tied above her navel, but I felt nothing.

“I know how you feel,” she said at length.

“Do you? Do you have any idea what it’s like for a man to look at a beautiful girl, and to be dead below the waist?”

“Yes, I do.”

I stared at her in shock.

“Two years ago, I was raped in prison. A men’s prison,” she added.

My head was spinning. What was she? A transvestite? She couldn’t be. After all, I had made love to her five times. Oh, my God. She used to be a guy. My last night as a man, and I had spent it with a girl who used to be a guy.

“I know what you must be thinking,” she said softly. “Please don’t hate me. I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t care about you, and I think I can help you.”

I was completely shattered. “Just leave me alone,” I said weakly.

“When I woke up in the prison hospital, they told me what happened to me,” she said with a faraway look in her eyes. “It took two of them to hold me down while the third one screwed my from behind. When I kicked him in the face and broke his nose, he went crazy and cut off my balls with a knife. I almost bled to death.”

I stared at her in horror. This beautiful girl, the last woman I would ever know, had been through something like that, and now she wanted to help me. Compared to what she went through, my operation seemed like a trip to the dentist. How could I not listen to her?