Sex is Epic – David Lohrey

It is difficult to know something and to act as if you did not know it.

    ̶   Ludwig Wittgenstein


        I wouldn’t be free for long, so my escape would depend on exquisite timing. My idea was to head for the airport before being taken to the marina to meet the royal family. That would be in a few weeks. In the back of my mind, I had a film running that told me everything likely to happen if I showed up with a big smile and even bigger boobs. By then, I would be trapped. Malik wanted to turn me into a knock-out. I ran this movie over and over in my mind as I simultaneously planned my escape. I was already a wreck.
        There was someone at the door. I buzzed him in and was met by a fellow carrying a pile of take-out boxes, enough to feed an army. I loved Middle Eastern food but didn’t feel like eating, not even hummus, my favorite dish in the whole wide world. I’d been poked and pinched so much back in Houston that I could no longer feel my body. I already looked like a Barbie doll designed by Malik Al-Otaibi for the Arab sex-trade. I didn’t have the boobs yet, but my coifed hair and bright cocksucker lips screamed slut. The delivery man gave me the once-over. I thought of offering a BJ as a tip but decided against it. If I did, his friends would be lined up at my door in the morning.
        In the morning, from the clinician I learned that Malik wanted to see 700 cc silicone implants, or even bigger. The doctor asked what I thought about going larger, possibly, to 720-750.  “You’ll look like Playmate.” When he showed me the digital models, my mouth dropped. I wondered aloud how long my back would hold up. By the time he was finished, the only thing I’d still own that I cared about was my dick. This was what I could realistically anticipate if I stayed in town and went under the knife. I had to escape. 
        This was no metaphor. My life was at stake. I was trying to get away, this time for good. I wanted out before surgery, ideally, but the next best option would be to get away before becoming embroiled with the Sheikh’s family. I anticipated arriving at the marina having huge tits, 34D, on my small frame. Malik wanted to turn me into a stacked chick, now with blonde hair, looking a bit like Reese Witherspoon. I would no longer be able to recognize myself. The doctor promised my tits would be beautiful and firm, with pigmented “Asian” nipples and enhanced areolae to better suit local tastes.
        My tits would require realignment as they appeared “cross-eyed,” according to the local experts.  As Malik’s company was calling the shots, the doctors would ignore any requests from me. I was in no position to make demands. I begged for something smaller. Flat and sassy was more my speed. The tits on the screen, although beauties, would never feel like they belonged to me. They were sure to be well-proportioned but wouldn’t bear any relation to my petite body. I was sure to appear top-heavy, just what my rich patron demanded, as I was reminded over and over by the hairy Syrian, but for my taste, they made me look like a freak.
        My friend lived on the other side of Sharjah, some distance away. Nonetheless, he promised to pick me up. We just had to set a date. During the days that followed, I made arrangements, quietly. I bought a second set of luggage so I would have one to take with me, another to leave behind. We’d race to the airport and I would leave the UAE, never to return. This was what I was thinking at the time.
        From the airport I would send Malik his money, not enough to cover the scheduled boob job, but enough to pay him back for many of the little things he had done for me. Nothing for the things I didn’t want. That was blood under the bridge. I planned to fly out prior to my scheduled surgery. I’d leave with small boobs, small enough to pass as a man which was what my passport said I was. Once situated in China, I could teach as Dennis Vanderhoff, although perhaps at night I might glide about as Del in my Japanese kimono.
        Things were not going according to plan. For one thing, I never had any time to myself. Every day someone beeped me, sometimes before 7:00 in the morning. A car was sent to take me to the clinic, first for measurements, then for further humiliations, all having to do with turning me into a living doll. I was sent to the beautician. The thing that upset them most was the hair in my ears. They had me in on three separate occasions. My phone rang all day with reminders and confirmations. The Sheikh had an aversion to body hair on his women. “No Italian widows” was his rallying cry. He was emphatic. 
        Believe me, this was not easily managed, not to the standards of this maniac. Female staff would never be employed, but he insisted that my body be that of a nymph. Suffice to say, I lost my free time along with my dignity. By the time I had caught my breath, I was in every day of the week, first with the hair stylists and then with the cosmetic surgeon. They marked up my body one day but, instead of sending me home, I was kept overnight and introduced to my anesthesiologist right after breakfast. He put me under before I had a chance to know what had hit me. In short, I got fake boobs. They were gorgeous but not mine.
        I spent several days in bed. I waited every morning to be picked up, but nobody came.  I spent all day looking at myself in the mirror. Then, on Wednesday, I took myself shopping. I needed some stuff to take with me. I’d be traveling, after all, as identified by my passport. The hair and nails would have to come off. They’d arranged three weeks of supervised recovery. Even Malik came by. He was eager to see for himself. Those first days, I can’t remember, but as soon as the doctor unwrapped me, I spent much of the time cupping my breasts or bouncing them on my open palms. I looked myself over and, to tell the truth, I didn’t give a damn who saw me. Not after Japan. I no longer cared. One day, I noticed the Filipino custodian trying to cop a look, so I kicked the door open. He looked like he wanted to give them a kiss, so I invited him in for a feel. Had he leaned over I would have let him kiss my nipples. I had in fact lost ten pounds from the time I checked in. I looked good. My ass was fine. I hadn’t been working out, but it was firm. Everyone’s eye focused on my branding scar. It gave the men hard-ons. I wasn’t ashamed of that either.
        After an extended time in recovery, I was taken out to Dubai Harbor, which was both exotic and beautiful. I could see that the water was as still as sand. The Sheikh’s yacht appeared indistinguishable from the many others floating there, with the exception of its unique flag and its much-publicized solid gold trim. That morning, I received a package of pricey lingerie, three bra and panty sets   ̶  a gift from Myla of London and sent by Malik’s staff.  I was already wearing my favorite set, colorfully embroidered in copper lace. 
        I had it all: a woman’s face, a woman’s lips, and flowing hair, but my eyes gave me away, my soul. Another woman would surely be able to tell. A woman could see I was born a man. That’s all I knew. I’d been left with a premonition and a few scars. I felt less of a woman with big boobs than I had before with the bare minimum. The hormones had given me a bump but, after surgery, I was stacked. I knew myself. Big tits might impress the Sheikh and his entourage, but I would never be satisfied unless I got to pick them out myself.  
        Thank God I had been picked up and delivered door to door. I was ashamed to be seen now that I was dressed. Why was that?  It was my first time out without an abaya. I expected to feel disoriented and confused after being isolated in the company apartments. I had been cut off from all human contact save for my visits to the clinic. The doctor said there might have to be additional surgery. They kept bringing me back to the clinic for further tests. Malik’s staff escorted me around the piers, snapped a few pictures   ̶   mainly of me   ̶   and we climbed back into the big SUV. Luckily, there was no one around to meet.
        Malik was pushing hard for total sex reassignment or feminization. “Make it final,” Al-Otaibi said with a shrug. I still loved his masculine nonchalance, but I had gotten to hate his manner. He joked that I might want another branding, this time on my right cheek. I said I would. This was our last exchange, that last time on Skype. I couldn’t resist congratulating him on his bravura performance. All he said was, “Now we are waiting for yours.” This final back and forth reminded me of that sad old saying, “There is no affair that doesn’t end badly.”
        The doctors had wanted to perform vaginoplasty at the same time as my breast augmentation. Had it not been for the Sheikh, who I heard had a proclivity for male sexual organs, only not when attached to men, I would not have been allowed to keep my penis. He preferred transsexuals. He insisted on being with a woman, and preferred his with big boobs. 
        The shemale suited local tastes if not its laws and customs. There was talk of making sex-change operations mandatory for all homosexuals. I was told I’d feel right at home in a place like Pakistan, where transsexuals had become an integral part of the culture, only very much on the down low, due to the strict segregation of the sexes. Something about the male/female separation has given birth to transsexuality in prostitution. It would be a good place to retire, my doctor had suggested. He’d taken, I couldn’t help but notice, to holding my breasts a little bit longer at each visit. Like a guy who won’t stop shaking your hand, the hairy doctor reached for my breasts the moment I entered his office and never let go. He didn’t even wait for me to undress. “How are they?”  You tell me. 
        Evidently, if I didn’t escape, my body would no longer belong to me. Al-Otaibi told me he’d had it insured. 
        I was delivered early the next morning to the yacht, this time with the understanding that I was there to stay. Bon Voyage. I had received a text message from the Sheikh’s private secretary: after boarding, I was to “repair” to my rooms to prepare for introductions. All that day and the next, I was expected to make myself presentable. There would be a stream of introductions. I was told to look my best. Right on cue, I sent my friend the signal.  
        Once on board, the captain announced we’d be heading for Kuala Lumpur. I’d been told that morning Malaysia would be our first destination. If anything went wrong with my operation, I could see a doctor there, Malik had assured me. He, too, had sent a text. He wanted me on board that ship. The captain mentioned our destination when he dropped by to ask me to join him in his private quarters. According to protocol, he had first dibs on me after the Sheikh. He felt bound to ask, he said, if I liked to eat ass. I could just see myself grinning from ear to ear.
        On my dresser, I found a handsome brochure announcing the yacht’s features. “Not quite a mega-yacht,” the embossed brochure declared, “the 311 foot Austere can accommodate up to 18 guests across 9 cabins in addition to a crew of 45. It has multiple lounges, a sports bar, a pool and a spa. There’s a squash court on the below deck, a glass-bottomed observation lounge, a helipad and a garage large enough to store a sportscar and an SUV and one helicopter.”  I admit to being impressed. I tucked the brochure away in the top drawer, only then noticing that the day’s menu was printed on the reverse. 
        I would not be making my appointment with the captain. After introductions, I was expected to introduce myself to the chef, a Korean who had been working, I’d been told, at a famous sushi house in LA before coming to work in Dubai on a huge salary. Someone described him as a screamer. I couldn’t say I was looking forward to ingesting kimchee semen, but I already knew that would never happen. 
        As the Sheikh’s wife was still on shore, I could expect the Sheikh himself to demand time with me after his favorite game show. Malik’s staff had filled me in. I had had lessons on protocol. The Sheikha and the kids were scheduled to join us later in Malaysia. I should stay in my room and await His Royal Highness’s visit. He’d expect me to smell like jasmine.
        I’d had quite a lot of time to plot. I also had too much time so I worried. My imagination ran away with me, taking me down increasingly paranoid paths. I was afraid of being thwarted and trapped in the UAE, my passport confiscated and some horrible draconian sentence imposed, including hard labor in the desert heat. Emirati were notorious for throwing the book at foreigners for tiny infractions, such as kissing in public. They arrested people at the airport for consuming alcohol on planes arriving from the West! One had to keep one’s wits. 
        The Sheikh’s secretary came by my cabin shortly after my arrival to verify that I had no body hair. “Take all your clothes off, madam, if you please. I must see for myself. The Sheikh’s standard is ‘no trace.’” I was forced to strip and parade myself before him, finally coming up close enough for him to grab me, which he felt compelled to do. He also patted my ass. 
        “Gorgeous. You’re a model, that’s for sure. May I?” He wanted to trace the lettering on my left buttock. “I heard about this. No doubt about it, it’s an enhancement. I agree with your sponsor. It’s sexy.” He stepped back and took a leather case from his bag. “The Sheikh himself wants you to have this.” He handed a box the shape of a case for a musical instrument like a flute or a piccolo.
        “Oh? How kind.”
        I was exceedingly polite. I was trying to hide my disdain.
        “Go ahead and open it. I would normally leave you to it, but this gift, a hand-sculpted intimate accessory, requires instructions.”
        I was looking at a silver butt plug attached to a flowing horsehair tail more or less the same color as the hair on my head. It was designed to flow from my ass to the floor, maybe thirty inches in length.
        “Is it handmade?”
        “That’s right. It is a hand-worked piece of jewelry with eighteen inches of horsehair taken from a Tennessee Walker, selected personally for you. As you can see, the spiral insert was designed to prevent painful release due to suction. It is called a tulip bulb especially designed for deeper penetration and ease of extraction. You have to agree it is a work of exquisite craftsmanship.”
        “I do.”
        “Once inserted, your rectal walls will embrace its contours. Only the beautiful natural hairs will be observable, revealing a tail of unique design. You can sit quite comfortably with the unicorn ornament fully inserted. Let me say, this very expensive gift has never been offered to a servant of the royal family. It is sure to be a conversation piece among His Royal Highness’s male guests. Last year we hosted a former British Prime Minister. The Sheikh expects you to wear this whenever her Highness remains away. It would not be appropriate for her to see you dressed in this fashion. He would like me to assist you tonight so you can make a formal appearance at dinner. I would ask that you offer him some sign of gratitude when he visits you. It is up to you to decide how to show your appreciation. If you’ll turn around and bend forward, I will apply a colorless and tasteless lubricant which you may wish to use when inserting your new comfort plug. I will assist you with your fitting.”
        Something told me Malik was instrumental in this. 
        “Yes, yes. As you wish.”
        “Pardon me. And excuse me if the insert is cold to the touch.”
        “Thank you.”
        “You can feel the spiral move easily within, can you not?”
        “Yes, I feel it.”
        “Design prevents slippage. Is it real snug? I think that’s it.”
        “It looks great. Don’t you like it? You seem subdued.”
        “Of course. It looks like you. All you have to do is whinny. Your breasts and tail are out of this world.”
        “You are flattering me. I’m just a horse.”
        “I know. Would you care to give it a tug, just to test it? It shouldn’t move.”
        “Good idea. No, it’s fine.”
        “Then, I think it’s time. Take a look at the brochure for tips on maintenance.”
        As he departed, he turned and added, “I understand you’re quite the piss-queen. You ready? I’ve been meaning to ask. I’ve got to take a leak.” He gestured casually.
        Sure. I don’t have anything to do.
        “Here?” I kneeled in front of him. My new tail trailed on the carpet.
        “Don’t muss yourself.”
        He let himself flop out of his open fly. It was not a bad cock, as cocks went. He held his uncircumcised penis close to my lips as it began to dribble. I watched as his urine trickled through the folds of his foreskin. I opened my mouth and leaned forward. He placed himself on my tongue and I enclosed his limp thing between my parted lips. As the flow increased, I suckled and gulped but held firm. I had become quite adept at not allowing excess to flow back and out of the corners of my mouth. I had trained myself to keep up with the flow by continuously swallowing and not allowing my throat to close. I took in more of his hose, as I unbuckled his pants and placed my arms around his bare ass. It was solid. I dug into his cheeks. I heard him sigh. My, he groaned. When he finished, he patted his still wet limp prick against my face like a gentleman, thereby ruining my makeup. I thanked him.
        “I’m going to make a point of saving myself for you. The Sheikh serves excellent wines and superb espressos. I don’t have an appointment, but I think I’ll drop by every night before bed. This was nice.”
        “I’m looking forward. Thank you.” I stood.
        “Just so you know, His Royal Highness does not take precautions. You can expect his crew to follow suit. Our physician tests for STDs.” 
        “Someone has to.”
        “Listen: I was thinking. Have you been to the kitchen? No, of course not. After dinner tonight, if you would, why not step inside and see if you can meet Andy, our Samoan dishwasher.”
        “You can’t miss him! He’s…in need of attention. I myself, to tell the truth, really, I’m not into anal. But Andy…your predecessor wouldn’t touch him. Too big, you know? Turned her off. But you. He must have the bladder of a cow. Come to think of it… No, forget that. I’ll bring him with me tonight. We could stay here or go down to the showers. Put you on your knees. Tell you, I’ll go first. After handling him, you’ll be too full. I’d love to piss on those tits.” He grabbed my nipple.
        “Great idea!” 
        “He speaks fluent Japanese!”  He let go. “Lived over there. Sumo wrestling.  I don’t think it worked out.” He reached for my other tit. I turned away.
        “Helluva guy. He’s a little aggressive. She shunned him; no reason for you to. She was a snob. Haughty, fancied herself a model. Now she’s selling happy endings at a Sri Lankan beach resort. You don’t walk away from the Sheikh. I’ll bring him by. We could stay or if you like my idea, we’ll traipse down to the gym. The shower would be perfect. Who knows? She said he was like a bull. Could be. You can talk to him. And he loves anal. Thing is, he won’t be drinking wine. The kitchen is all about San Miguel by the case. Won’t hurt you, a little beer. He’ll have put down a few, after hours: four or five. He tells me in Japan they have a name for girls like you: a gentleman’s toilet. He’ll want to empty half in your mouth and put the rest in your ass! Fantastic if the beer stays cold!”
        I stepped to the door.
        “All right?”
        “All right.”
        He went to kiss me on the cheek. I pulled back. He ran down the hall.
        I took one last look in the mirror. Now, on their own, my breasts made me look fat. I felt ridiculous. Finally, I stepped out into the corridor and threw the silver butt plug overboard. I made a run for it.
        Within minutes, I was in the back seat of my friend’s SUV. I’d called Reggie earlier to fix my departure. He was right on time. I jumped in the back and he pulled away. He had a full set of clothes for me, a suit and tie, shoes and socks, the works. Thank God for the Brooks Brothers at Dubai Mall. I wanted to look sharp; it always helps when going through customs and checking into hotels. My tits were big but I had to pass as Dennis Vanderhoff, so I put on two undershirts. Reggie asked how I slept, otherwise we spoke little as we raced to the airport. I told him I spent the whole night thinking, slept badly. At around 4:00, I began to doze. As he listened to me, he slowed down. He was a good driver. We didn’t want to be stopped by the police.
        My plan was to fly into Hong Kong and worry about getting to Mainland from there. I figured on flying but thought about taking the bus to the border. I’d get to Guilin by train. One way or the other … I’d get there. Time was of the essence… an elegant escape…but nothing too devious, something simple. Once in China, I would be free. 
        Thanks to Reggie’s driving and much luck, we arrived at the airport with time to spare. I told Reggie I’d be in touch once I arrived in Houston, but I said nothing to him about Hong Kong or about anything else for that matter. It was critical that he not know where I was in case Malik was able to find him and apply pressure. I had begged him not to say a word but knew full well that he would break if they threatened his job. In the Middle East, it was easy to revoke someone’s visa; it was easy to make somebody disappear. All that sand was waiting. We were friends but not that close. I left other clues pointing to Houston back at the company apartment. I left some notes under my bed, all pointing to a return home. I had also said something to the doctor just to stir the pot. I asked him to keep it to himself. All of this would come out soon enough. Meanwhile, I would be eating hand-made wontons in red chili sauce.