“I don’t have any sisters. The girl you saw was... was me.”
Lolita was quite surprised, and somewhat uncertain that I was telling the truth. “What are you saying? Are you telling me that you like dressing up like a woman, or something like that? Are you a fag? A transvestite?”
“Honey, I wish it were that easy,” I answered, nervously. “What I’m telling you is that I am a woman. I’m a woman trapped in a man’s body. I know it sounds corny, but that’s exactly what I’m saying; it’s exactly how I feel. I feel I’m a woman... or that I should have been born a woman.”
Lolita seemed upset—unsettled by my awkward revelation. She stood and stared at me with her mouth partially open, trying to evaluate—based on the little amount of information I had given her—whether I was sincere or not sincere. After a fairly long period of time, she sat back in the chair, providing me with a very clear view of her pink and freshly bathed pussy. Although I noticed her `jewel,’ I continued to look her in the eye.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” she inquired, concerned.
“Serious as a heart attack.“