The Saga Of Bobby Jones–From Choir Boy To Trannie And Back

Bobby Jones was a small unassuming Catholic boy, devout and obedient – stations of the cross, Easter Duty, reverence, and fidelity – until he had heard LaShonda Williams.  

“You are all that you can be”, said Williams, guest teacher at Bobby’s Marin County Jefferson T. Billings School for the Gifted And Talented.  Williams had been invited to speak to the students at Billings because they were of the Bay Area’s up-and-coming social elite, children of aware, sensible and sensitized parents who espoused identity, alternative sexuality, black primacy, and social progressivism. 

“Many if not all of you boys”, Williams went on, “have felt the girl inside of you, the girl waiting to feel sexual abandon, gender integrity, and human completeness – a female, clitoris- and vaginal-centered orgasm”

Here Williams paused, wondering if she had been age-inappropriate in her remarks.  Although she had been given complete license to speak her mind and her principles, too much too soon would put off her young audience; and yet, there was the sexual imperative of her new, radical, gender generation.  So what if these children were temporarily confused or indecisive.  It was her job to explicate, to promote, and evangelize the new sexual order.

LaShonda Williams, formerly Pharaoh Williams, body-builder, rap artist and model man knew what she was talking about.  The little girl within – that sweet harbinger of honeysuckle and orange – had for too long been frustrated in the body of a stone macho stud.  It was she, the emergent LaShonda who had slept with lambent, succulent young things over and over again, but as a sentient woman she felt herself used and done, abused, and tossed away.  She had been victor and victim in the same body at the same time; and to be honest she had been excited by the prospect.  How many people could walk both sides of the street?

But whoa, she was getting ahead of herself.  She had had an epiphany.  In the midst of sexual delight where she/he was making love to a lovely coffee-and-cream colored virgin from Barbados who moaned with passion and sexual release, LaShonda became that vulnerable, receptive girl.  She wanted to be made love to and by herself, in a congress that even D.H. Lawrence could never have imagined. She changed genders.  He/she wanted to be all cunt, vaginal fluids, clitoris, and he/she made it happen.

The transformation was a bit difficult in her case, since her former male self was so male; but her sails were trimmed, her jib reefed, and her bowsprit transformed.  She became a woman, a teacher, and a gender evangelist.

This story, however, is not about LaShonda Williams but about Bobby Jones who had been tempted into the tender trap of her crafting.  He, like her, had always wondered when he fantasized making love to Nancy Boothby what it would be liked being seduced by him. What was it like on the other side, to open one’s legs, bare one’s breasts, and be taken?  He knew what it was like to come like a Roman candle, but to be taken?

To be honest, for all Bobby’s interest in sexual transformation, he could not take his eyes off LaShonda Williams.  She was an impossibly voluptuous, high-shelved, big bosomed, long-legged, full lipped woman of color that he wanted to see what it was like to love in the diverse universe that everyone talked about; so he was distracted from his message of sexual choice.

Her persuasions took hold and her encouragements worked.  Bobby, although never wanting to permanently, irrevocably change genders, was interested in a sexual hiatus – and cross dressing, temporary transvestitism was the thing.  Girl for a day, receptacle not depositor; a frilly, seductive, come-on. 

LaShonda, who had been completely taken in by Bobby’s faux sincerity and sandbagged by her own sexual presumptions, agreed to this transitionary phase.  She would help Bobby be a woman in dress, demeanor, attitude, and approach on the condition that he would proceed to the next steps of hormonal reset and final sexual transformation.

Of course he agreed, knowing full well that such promises were not contractual, and after all, sex change was not an iffy, legalistic thing.  So Bobby became Bobbie, a delightfully coquettish, sexy woman.

He turned out to be an excellent woman, for who wouldn’t have sexual empathy after having bedded and loved so many real women? Needless to say, he had to demur once his male suitors began to grope, but he was enough of a theatrical comedien to make a good show of female demureness and chastity before they grabbed and pulled. 

This sexual hiatus, as revolting as it was when slippery tongues were down his throat, was revelatory.  Men were really disgusting when it came to sex and had no sense whatsoever about female reserve.  The boorish dopes that courted him were a lesson – once transformed back into a pursuing male, he would never be so obtuse, gross, and ignorant.

Transference is a common sequel to the psychiatrist-patient relationship; and it is no different in the transgender-straight one.  LaShonda was never attracted to Bobby as a male, but head-over-heels for her as a woman.  She made obvious overtures and suggestions, and made it clear that she wanted him as her lesbian lover.  

Bobby the man thought it might be interesting to bed LaShonda the woman, but was turned off by the fact that she really was a man; and sex as a woman with a faux woman was too complicated. Male organs would get in the way, his big one and her, truncated, surgically diminished one.  Ugh, it was an unsavory idea to say the least.

So to LaShonda’s chagrin and disappointment, Bobby returned to his macho roots, tossed away his frilly undergarments, went back erections and conquests.  Yet, the whole unusual twisted exercise had been worth it.  Bobby never intended to become a woman, but thanks to this new, woke, gender sensitivity, he bedded more women than ever before.