In Her Arms: A Transgender Romance Story Page 4

  Egyptian Secrets

  Hot’s Bite

  The Reality of Falling in Love

  Mistress Vanessa's Pets Episode 1

  Mistress Vanessa's Pets Episode 2

  For the Melody

  Bound by the Bronco

  Sharing Seals

  Strange and Beautiful

  KIKI Woods

  Whispering Universe

  The Kindergarten Teacher

  WE WERE THREE

  Skin-Walker

  The Peace Treaty

  Immortal Souls

  Cabin Fever

  Luck Out

  Forever

  Shifters Mountain

  Interview with an Alien

  Hearts of Dust

  Werebear in the Woods

  Dimensional Love

  Going Full Circle

  Hear Them Roar

  Completely Yours

  Laws of Passion

  Aileen

  Hunter in the Flight

  Kissing a Scoundrel

  The Unbitten

  Bonus Story 1 of 36

  An Offensive Tactic

  Colby stripped out of his pads and threw a towel around his waist. Every muscle in his body felt sore, but it was a good soreness. The Rangers had won their eighth game in a row. He’d scored two goals.

  Voices were loud and spirits were high in the locker room. Everybody had a smile on their face. All the players had towels wrapped around their waist, showing off their hairy, muscular torsos. The room was full of hockey stars, the ultimate American alpha males.

  Colby took the towel off his waist and tossed it into a basket. He walked into the shower, knowing that plenty of the other guys were checking out his impressive physique, the huge pecs, large, perfectly sculpted biceps and triceps, the six-pack abs. He was quite the male specimen.

  Even other guys, professional athletes, had to take time and admire the sculpture, the work of art that was his body.

  An hour later Colby got home from the arena. It was a Friday night. Some of the guys had mentioned going out to a club. He definitely felt like going out.

  Colby popped the top of the beer, leaned his head back and took a long slow sip. It tasted delicious, so refreshing. It felt really good to have a few days off, a few days before he had to hit the ice again, throw on his pads and go to war again with his teammates, trying to bring the Rangers another championship trophy.

  It was rare to have three or four days off at this time of the season, when every part of your body ached and creaked, the months and months of playing a physical and violent game, finally taking their toll. So he was especially grateful. Yet he wasn’t the type of guy to sit around his Lower East Side, $3,000 a month apartment, all alone on a Friday night. That’s not the kind of thing you did when you were 27, rich, handsome, and a magnet for all of New York City's most beautiful women. Nope, that's not the kind of thing you did when you were one of the most eligible and desirable bachelors, in a city full of them.

  Colby walked out onto his balcony and looked down on the busy streets below. It was only seven. The humid July night air brought sweat to foreheads and arms and breasts and legs, all those beautiful body parts glistening in the heat. Even at night this time of night, the air still hung thick with humidity. It had taken a while to get used to the humid and muggy summer weather in New York. He much preferred the milder summers that he’d experienced growing up in Montreal.

  Since the playoffs were only a couple months away, this would be one of the last time he got to party and really let his hair down before the season came to an end. One or two phone calls, and he could’ve had a bevy of buxom beauties bouncing up and down in his apartment, rolling around in his king size bed, servicing him like they were his personal whores. That kind of thing came easily to him. Very easily. And it always had. Even before he became the NHL's leading scorer, even before he became team captain, it was the ultimate acknowledgment of his alpha male status.

  He wasn’t in the mood to be surrounded by dozens of desperate, fawning women. He wanted to be around his male friends, some of them hockey players, some of them Wall Street guys. They would hit a cigar lounge or two, then swing into an upscale bar, before taking a nightcap at a fully nude strip club. It would be just the guys, shooting the shit, whistling in the wind, comforting each other. Pats on the back, loud voices, and heart, full-bodied laughter.

  They would puff on fine cigars, Cuban of course. Now that the embargo had been lifted, there was little question about what kind of fatties they would be smoking. Colby had always loved how the big cigars felt as they rested on his lips. Something about the act of smoking had always excited him. He’d never given much thought as to why he found it so damn exciting, he simply kept coming back for ore and more, hoping to experience that titillating feeling again and again.

  Colby sent a few texts to his closest buddies in the city.

  While he waited for them to respond, he flicked through the TV channels: another explosion overseas, terrorism they said, wall-to-wall coverage. Death, carnage, destruction. He wasn’t in the mood for that so he quickly changed the channel, shot through a stream of dull reality TV shows and put the remote down on the couch next to him. It wasn’t even worth trying to find something entertaining. He wasn’t the kind of guy who would ever be content sitting on a couch watching other men push themselves past their edge, overcome their fears and bravely throw themselves into the heart of the action. Action. That’s what got him excited, got his blood firing, and his eyes alight with enthusiasm, determination, and purpose.

  It was shaping up to be a pretty boring night so far. Almost 45 minutes had gone by since Colby had texted his friends, inquiring what they were doing on this glorious Friday night in the Big Apple. He’d yet to receive a response. Where the hell was everybody? It never took this long for his buddies to get back to him, especially when the subject at hand was going out, having fun, and enjoying a night out on the town. Where could they be? It didn’t make any sense to him.

  He was working on his third beer, starting to lose hope, starting to think that he might just have to hit the streets, maybe the East Village or Chelsea or the Meat Packing district on his own. He always chuckled when he said meatpacking. There was something that seemed so funny about it. And what made it even funnier was that the actual place was full of meatpackers, some of the city's most attractive and eligible gay men.

  Colby preferred to stay out of the gayer sections of town. He didn’t have anything against gays. He would never have made fun of someone because of their sexual orientation. Or maybe that wasn’t true. It most likely wasn’t. But that’s neither here nor there. The only thing that mattered was that he knew he wasn't gay. Of course, he wasn’t. He was 100% sure of that. He was 100% Grade-A USDA beef, blonde hair, and green eyes. All-American. All American? Hell yeah, even though he'd spent half of his childhood in Montréal, the other part in the suburbs of Boston. All-American, even though he was bilingual. He had a bit more savoir-faire, a bit more class, and sophistication in your average, all-American beefy stud.

  Just as he was about to give up hope, to call one of the girls in his harem to come over, his phone beeped. It was a text from his friend Jack, a fellow hockey player for the Rangers archrivals, the Boston Bruins.

  Colby stared at the screen in surprise. He couldn’t believe that Jack was texting him. There was an unwritten rule amongst players, especially those who played for rival teams, that it didn’t matter how much they socialized during the off-season, during the season, there was to be no contact. Absolutely none.

  Colby was the kind of hyper, ultra-competitive guy who usually adhered to those unwritten rules without the least bit of hesitation. But for some reason, this year, he felt a bit different. He didn’t think that it would be such a big deal to meet up with a rival.

  He texted back: Let’s just make sure that the place isn’t full of photographers. Not feeling like ending up on page 6. Got it?

  Jack texted back immediate
ly: Got it!!! Place is very discreet. 786 Houston Street. Red Plum.

  Colby smiled. He couldn’t wait to get there.

  *****

  Colby got off the train at the Houston Street station and hurried up the steps.

  There was a lively energy in the air. He felt great, cocky, and confident. He always felt like that after scoring in a game. Two goals. Usually, that would've meant that tonight he’d be trying to sleep with two women. But tonight, he didn't know if he was up for that. He was trying to move past that part of his life, put some distance between himself and his playboy days.

  He checked his phone for the address. It was right up ahead. Red Plum Bar. He’d never heard of this place before. He wondered why Jack of all people would want to meet him at a new place. It seemed strange, but maybe he was a bit too paranoid. At the end of the day, despite how mean and rough he could be on the ice, Jack, and most of the guys in the league were pretty friendly, laid-back, and cool off the ice.

  But during the season things could definitely get testy. Colby looked at the address on his phone, then at the red neon sign that he saw in front of him. This was the place. Looks pretty cool, Colby thought.

  There was a woman sitting on a stool out front, smoking a cigarette, big black stiletto boots covering her legs. There was something a bit strange about her face. He couldn’t tell whether she was Asian or Latina. She was a strange, exotic type of chick.

  What kind of place is this? He wondered as he walked to the front door.

  “Ten dollars, please,” said a lisping, boy with a pretty face.

  Colby frowned, took a step backward. He handed the money to the pretty boy and walked into the club.

  Red couches lined the walls. There was a huge dance floor and dim lighting. Women in short skirts and high heels congregated and cackled around the bar. There were a couple of guys, middle-aged, balding, overweight, each one of them surrounded by three or four girls. What a strange scene. He didn't know what to make of it. Colby needed a drink, maybe a couple of them. A shot and a few beers would calm his nerves. At least, he hoped they would.

  He walked to the bar, hesitantly, his eyes shifting from left to right as he cut across the dance floor. Something wasn’t right. He took out his phone and texted: Jack, Where are you? WTF?

  While he waited for his drinks to come, Colby noticed that the girls, if you could call them that, were checking him out. They were looking him up-and-down from head to toe, smiling, and whispering to each other in Spanish. They must be from the Bronx, Colby said to himself with a snicker. That definitely wasn't the kind of crowd that he was used to being around. As diverse as New York City could be, it still remained very segregated, racially and ethnically: schools, housing, entertainment, people tended to stick to their own.

  This was really strange. He felt so out of place. He spotted another white guy, mid-20s, blonde hair, on the couch, a Heineken on the table in front of him, and a tranny with her legs tattooed curled up next to him. They were both giggling, petting, flirting.

  Colby had never seen anything like that. He didn’t know what to make of it. Sure, maybe these fat middle-aged guys with small dicks, big bellies, and high blood pressure came here to get their rocks off.

  Yeah, guys like that would come here. Sissies. Men who'd lost their virility--lost their mojo. But that blonde guy looked like he could have been the quarterback of a professional football team. What was he doing here?

  Colby ordered two shots of tequila. Why not? Might as well get into the Latino spirit of the place. He washed them both down with a Heineken. He took the cold brew and went and sat down. It wasn't long before the same woman that he’d passed outside, the one with the black boots, red skirt and ethnically ambiguous face, sat down next to him on the couch. She brushed a lock of brown hair behind her ear, batted her eyes, and crossed her legs in his direction. Then she began rubbing his leg,

  “How you doing baby?” She said.

  Colby felt like jumping out of his skin. The whore had a thick coating of makeup on her face. But it still wasn't enough to cover up the acne craters and the masculine jaw.

  “How about a lap dance?” She said.

  She began rubbing the insides of Colby's thighs. He put his hand on top of hers and pushed it away. But that wasn't going to be enough for her. She immediately put the hand back on his thighs and began rubbing, squeezing them even more aggressively.

  Colby could feel his breathing picking up. He looked around the club, panicked. Several pairs of eyes seemed to be turned in their direction. He could see people whispering.

  “No,” he said. I don't want a lap dance. Please get off me.”

  He pushed her off his lap, got up off the couch, and looked around. He could see people laughing and pointing. He needed to get out of there as soon as possible. The dance floor had filled up. The place was packed.

  This was definitely the wrong bar. There is no way that Jack wanted to meet him here. The place was packed. Music was pumping. They were everywhere. Trannies, shemales, ladyboys, whatever you were supposed to call them. Half man, half woman. A strange, awkward sensation flooded Colby's body. He had to get out of there, had to go meet up with his friend, who right now while the season was going on, was still his enemy. Maybe, weeks, months down the line, he would tell him about this, he would tell everyone. And they would all have a good laugh. A really good one.

  The only thing that he could think about was getting out of there as fast as possible. He pushed a few people out of the way. A tall, brown skin tranny screeched as he put his elbow into her back, causing her to spill her drink on her abundant cleavage. Fake tits, no doubt. She spun around and cut her eyes at him. He didn't back down. Eventually, she snickered, said something under her breath, might've been in Spanish, and turned around. That was that. He bumped into another woman. He was about to yell, about to grab her forearms and throw her out of the way. He was about to do all that. But then they locked eyes.

  *****

  Colby took a step back and looked at the 5 foot 10 blond-haired woman with abundant cleavage and a colorful, sleeve tattoo covering one of her arms.

  He looked her up and down.

  “Are you sure you want to leave so quickly?” She asked raising an eyebrow, keeping her eyes fixed on his.

  Colby's mouth gaped open. This woman was the spitting image of his ex-fiancé, the Swedish swimsuit model Ingrid Ljunberg. He stammered a response.

  “Okay, let's go, baby,” the woman extended her arm. Colby took it under his and they walked to the bar, ordered drinks, then they headed to the back section of the club.

  Colby didn’t know what was going on. He’d already handed over $60. He sat down on a black leather couch. She got on top, straddling him. Goddamn, his cock was brick hard.

  The woman was taking control of the encounter, bumping and grinding and rubbing his crotch. What a fine female specimen she was!

  “My name’s Ivanka,” she said. “This is your first time here, right?”

  Colby swallowed hard, then nodded his head.

  She reached into his crotch and squeezed. A huge smile spread across her face. Colby swallowed hard, yet again. He was hard, stiff. He could feel cum rising in his cock. He couldn't take this. It was crazy. This wasn’t a woman. It was a dude. He pushed her away.

  “I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.”

  Ivanka lay on the floor, her shoes knocked off, a look of surprise and hurt on her face—physical and emotional.

  Colby stared down at her, not knowing what to do next. He took out his wallet counted off five more 20s and threw them onto the black couch.

  “I'm really sorry,” he said.

  He turned and got out of the club as soon as he could. The first time, yes that's what it was. And it would be as last time. There's no way that he would ever go back there. Never. Ever again.

  At least, that's what he told himself, that night as he showered off, vigorously scrubbing himself, feeling that the dirt, the filth of his
homoerotic contact wouldn't come off him quite that easily.

  *****

  Colby had never felt anything like that before. Never in his entire life. He wasn't gay. What the fuck was going on? Doubts and insecurities rattled inside his brain. He felt like he was going crazy. Sleep didn’t come easy that night. It would be weeks before it did. He tossed and turned, gritted his teeth, clenched his face.

  What could possibly be going on with him? He was a hot, young, hung stud, living in the heart of the world, playing for a major sports franchise. There was no way that he could be gay. There was no way that he could be anything but a blue-blooded, all-American, alpha male. The ideal American man. That's what he was. It's what he'd always been. But what if it turned out that he was a fag? A sissy? If that were the case, everything that he thought about himself would amount to nothing. His whole identity would be a joke.

  He’d spent the majority of his life in hockey locker rooms, tight stinky spaces with other scruffy boys and then eventually masculine men. He couldn't help questioning himself. When he first started out playing the game as a boy in Montréal, he'd hated the stench of the locker room on a Saturday morning, 5:30 AM, zero degrees outside. All those young kids would open up their hockey bags full of musty equipment. He would often feel like he was choking, suffocating on the filthy air that swallowed up the entire room.

  Now he had a question his lifelong involvement with the game, his lifelong obsession with hockey. Why had he been willing to fight through all the injuries, all the frustration, on his way to glory? He’d never been one to sit and reflect, to ponder the whys and the hows. That sort of thing wasn't for him, or any of the men in his family. He was a man of action. Furious, frenetic, persistent, unrelenting action.

  His cock was hard and throbbing on his belly. It was ready for action. There was no question about that. Action was what he wanted. But how long would he have to wait? There was no way to be sure. He wasn't used to struggling with complex emotions, thinking about, and analyzing his feelings. Usually in these types of moments, hockey would be his refuge. He would have gone down to Madison Square Garden on 34th street to one of the practice facilities that remained open 24 hours a day, just to accommodate the weird, idiosyncratic, and often obsessive work routines of the players.