Another Universal Language

Info SilverMack
25 Dec. '14

A very crisp December morning had settled over New York in a year when snow had yet to cover the city's sidewalks.  People walked briskly along Fifth Avenue through the 15-degree wind that cut between buildings catching you at each alley.  It picked up moisture crossing the East River forming ice crystals that plated out on Renée’s glasses.  She wore shades everywhere due to her celebrity.  She laughed pulling them off and wiping ice away.  (Her celebrity was in a small circle of super-rich Fifth and Park Avenue matrons and Renée's Spa friends.)

“You’re a crazy bitch for walking from Central Park West to Saks this morning Renée,” Michelle bluntly spoke into the phone.  Renée, for her part did not need advice from Michelle.  She after all was an adult; and besides, her respiratory doctor was a hot one, though his wife would not approve of extracurricular activity, a trip to him would present a chance.  “Look Michelle, I’m covered from head to toe so there is no chance of me catching cold,“ Renée replied in a bawdy voice used with a sister  Approaching number 611 she could see the Saks crystal Christmas decorations were still as they were when she stepped out onto the street on Friday.  They were gorgeous and quite different from Hell’s Kitchen where she, the little boy, first searched for peace.

“I have to go Michelle,” she announced into her iPhone, “Mrs. Abercrombie has an appointment with me at 10:00 AM in the salon and you know how she refuses to wait.  I do not want Cassandra to grab my prize.”  The doorman winked at Renée as he pulled the heavy door open, it being set into the stone face of the building just past where the Saks building began and the neighbor building ended.  This was the employee entrance; therefore it set further down the street away from the main Saks door.  Even though she entered through the employee entrance it had a doorman no less.  She had in her mind achieved success, if but only in her corner of the world.  Most of the people who walked along the street beside her would not match her income in a lifetime. The discomfort was that she also would never be an Abercrombie.

The Salon & Spa of Saks Fifth Avenue was abuzz.  Soon after Renée began to work with Mrs. Abercrombie, Cassandra stopped by to gloat that she had captured a new Upper East Side client.  She went on to say, “A client who just loves me.”  Her tip for the last visit she claimed was $250.  Renée remained silent not wanting the girls in the shop to know she often received four-figure tips.  She had taken to discreteness.  It was a trait she observed in her wealthy clients.  It was most likely this discreteness that protected her from all-out brawls in the Salon.

The individuals who worked in the salon were perhaps a good example of the diversity that was present in Midtown Manhattan.  Cassandra was exclusively heterosexual.  Standing at 5’8” she was heavier than many of the ladies at perhaps 145 pounds.  Her hair was a red that shimmered having achieved its color through a Redken color treatment whose application few would sit through.  The hair itself was crinkled.  Today it was pulled back -- as most women in the salon wore their hair while working with clients -- fully exposing breast whose cleavage showed dramatically by stretching her top.  Cassandra was a 40 Double-D.  She bragged about “riding the pony” with her long time live-in Tony stating to a group of Saks employees at a holiday party that he loved her hair swinging back and forth across his chest and belly as she rode him to climax.  For her part Renée thought Tony was simply hot, but he was particularly dumb and rather crude.  A fuck yes, husband material no.  She had observed him at the 52nd Street subway stop jerking off behind a column.  It could be Tony found other locations to place that cock that Cassandra of which knew nothing.

Anthony.  Dear sweet Anthony.  Renée loved Anthony in so many ways.  He had been with his partner since age 16.  Now at 34, he stood 6’4” at 235 pounds.  Anthony’s work area could be seen through the inner glass partition between the salon and store.  He charmed with a handsome; some would say hot, grin.  The shop manager Elizabeth reminded them on a weekly basis that they needed to attract men into the salon, those men being both straight and gay. Therefore, Anthony had been assigned and would remain in the area near the window.  For this reason, Anthony the “hyper-male” who could discuss football, baseball, and other sports for hours on end was also a prize marketing tool known as “The Advertisement.”  He had met with some success Elizabeth would add.  He had brought men into the salon.

Others filled out and supported the salon, each bringing their own set of skills as master hairdressers and makeup professionals to Saks.  Trisha, moving from Puerto Rico to New York City, possessed an ability to produce intricately detailed braids and weaves.  Her work -- and you had to call it a work as it was art -- had been studied by a group from Columbia University working to develop triaxial braids for joint replacement support.  Mary Beth and Sara, a couple living in Queens, rode court over the rear of the shop performing cuts and tints in such large volume that Elizabeth said they covered the boilerplate costs of the salon.  Elizabeth relied on them in so many ways.  They had become the shops “mothers.”  The go to girls in all matters of tragedy in life.


Blaise worked his way around the bar almost returning to the dance floor where he had begun cruising the crowd.  The building on West 48th had been a bar or lounge as long as he could remember, often changing the name or ownership but never closing.  It was his favorite cruise spot even though it attracted a mixed crowd of gays, straights, lesbians, and transsexuals.  He could walk to and from the bar lessening the chance he would be picked up by NYPD for public drunkenness.  Being close by it also gave him a bed to which to bring home his catch.  Blaise looked for pussy.  He did not mind being around gay men, lesbians, and the few transvestites that wandered through every night, but in his life the term “transvestite” defined transsexuals to him as gay men dressed in drag.

Tonight he saw women he normally saw with one exception.  There was a thin, petite brunette dressed immaculately with her hair pulled back in a bun.  Her face was sublimely elegant and sophisticated.  The hair spun around the ball in a parallel pattern, and he wondered how long it would be if unrolled.  He could see her hips rising and falling as she rode the pony.  With her, he might go missionary style.

Blaise had grown up on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen.  His mother a drug addict, his father who knows who, no one else there to give a shit what he did or what he became in life.  He had made friends, with whom he often lived, first one then another.  Sometimes having to disappear and leave what few clothes and items he had managed to obtain from the proceeds of working odd jobs.  Amazingly he had graduated from high school and finished a degree at Columbia.  He now worked downtown for a financial firm.  This early life led Blaise to be somewhat brash and maybe brutish bringing him to a point where he knew without any doubt what he wanted and what he did not want.  The brunette, well he was not sure whether he wanted her or not.  That was dramatically out-of-character for him.  He would take her doggy style most any evening, never looking back, except for this evening that is.  She didn’t quite fit that something he saw as necessary; something that he was ill at ease to define.  Maybe she was too sophisticated.

Experiences in life can affect one in negative ways, preventing us from overcoming things that perhaps we should overcome.  Blaise thought back to when he was 17, when in a drunken stupor he brought home a transsexual not knowing she was not the ‘opposite’ he expected.  That obvious opposite where one has a penis and the other has a vagina.  He did in fact discover she too had a cock.  It was a rather large cock in fact; however her balls were tiny, being explained by her as being the result of the estrogen therapy that had allowed her to grow tiny breast.  She was to him a man with tiny breasts and shriveling balls.  She was proud of these changes while Blaise on the other hand had no appreciation for the improvement, likely supporting his anger that drove him to call her a faggot -- before tossing her through the door onto the sidewalk.  


Renée would later remember the night she met friends in the bar on West 48th Street and first eyed the handsome man who appeared to be in his mid-thirties.  She caught every feature:  his height, weight, build, complexion, and the smooth movement he made as he progressed around the bar, introducing himself to people and ‘working the crowd,’ she observed and would later relate to him.  Renée had become the woman she always intended to be from the days she sat in her room as a little boy wishing she wore dresses like her sisters.  What she lacked as a woman was an ability to bring the man of her dreams forward into her world.  She was a post-operative transsexual who even though she maintained her physical femininity by taking pills and of course pure feminine skill, could not overcome the resistance that built as if it were a fort wall when she moved close to a heterosexual man.  “Forward,” she would say to herself as each attempt fell into myriad pieces shattered by something she could not identify.

Winter deepened in New York City as it always does adding snow to frigid temperatures with residents adapting with little effort to the regimen it required.  Renée loved her work, most especially chatting with her customers who were often, to her mind, remarkable people.  Then too, she was thankful when her last client was finished and she blew through the door onto Fifth Avenue at 6 PM.  She headed out this day to meet with Anthony and others at a bar on West 48th Street.  Anthony, who suggested their get-togethers and was always there, had become the leader of their group, organizing and managing with the bar staff birthdays and celebrations for the group.  He was a southern boy who had grown up on the coastal plain of Georgia.  A gay man who appeared straight -- in other words no woman or man would ever think he was gay.  Anthony was physically attractive to Renée but she realized they both had similar attractions to men.  Anthony was typically gay in that he had zero physical attraction towards Renée.  That in a way was comforting to her.  His emotion towards her was sound and supportive but it was not sexual emotion.  Both Anthony and Renée were attracted to the same straight men and both found them out of their reach.  This fact bound them more tightly.

Anthony spotted Blaise enter the bar before Renée.  He knew her attraction for Blaise, which at times they had discussed endlessly.  “Can you believe him, Anthony,” Renée leaned towards him and said.  “What do you mean Renée, that’s the Blaise, who comes into the bar almost every day,” Anthony stated matter-of-factly.  “No, that’s not what I mean.  Look at him.  Here it is 12 degrees, and he has no jacket.”  Anthony laughed and replied, “Maybe he is a hot guy.”  More laughter followed, and Renée felt embarrassed.  “You know what I mean, he’s being careless.”  “He is hot Renée,” Anthony replied and continued, “I’ve had enough of this, come on and I’ll introduce you two.”  Renée demanded in reply, “And how do you know him Anthony Rhinebeck?”  “We go to the same gym honey and stand pec-to-pec in the shower,” laughing and winking he grabbed Renée by the arm and said, “come on, you refuse to break the ice.  I’m giving you a hand.”

Anthony approached Blaise with an extended hand, breaking Blaise from a conversation he was having with another gym buddy, “How you doing man, I want you to meet someone.”  They shook hands while Renée stood back, a shy young woman not wanting to intrude upon the obvious maleness.  “Blaise, I want you to meet Renée.”  Renée extended her right-hand palm down Blaise reaching for and surrounding her hand with fingers and thumb.  He nodded and said, “It is a pleasure to meet you Renée.”  Anthony promptly chimed, “I’ll leave you two alone, have fun.”

“I am sorry, this is awkward,” Renée said. “I did not intend to interrupt your conversation.”  Blaise studied her for a second, “Oh that was just a bud who as you see has found other people to occupy his attention in the 30 seconds we’ve been standing here.”  The buddy had moved off, alcohol likely loosening his tongue as he chatted and moved further down the bar from where they were standing.  “So tell me about you Renée.”  Blaise towered over Renée with his 6’2” frame to her 5’6” height.  She felt awkward and trapped until Blaise spoke again, “let’s find a table.”  

When they located an empty table he pulled a chair away from the table for Renée to sit, infusing the manliness she so longed for into the surroundings that no longer felt as stifling.  It was an unspoken triumph to be treated like a lady.  Renée exhaled and relaxed more than she thought she would be able to relax.  “There is nothing to tell about me I’m afraid.”  “Sure there is, like what is your profession?”  “I am a hairdresser at the Salon & Spa at Saks,” she simply stated.  Blaise gave perhaps more attention to that statement than you would expect, “on Fifth Avenue, at the main store?”  “Yes, I have been there for eight years now.”  “So what is it like dealing with all those old women who come in there?  Renée sipped from the Champaign he had ordered and responded, “Oh they are mostly nice people, set in their ways perhaps, but some have become friends.”  “All provide ample tips,” she continued, “but not everyone who comes into the shop is female.”  “You’re not aware Anthony works at Saks?”  Blaise paused with a true look of surprise falling across his face, “Anthony is a hairdresser?”  “Yes he is.”  Blaise spoke too quickly knowing it as the words flowed off his tongue, “Anthony is the most straight man I know at the gym Renée.”  She replied, “You’ll have to discuss that with Anthony but one can be masculine and gay.”  Blaise changed the subject and instead they discussed the city, politics, likes and dislikes with the evening wearing on.

Mid-night approached with Renée reminding herself and at the same time communicating to Blaise that the hour was one where she must head home because tomorrow was another workday.  To her surprise he stated, “Would you like to come home with me?”  Blaise was a man with that boyish grin.  Oh Renée loved him for that.,  Something in her moved further towards being complete -- not that she had not had sex with men, but Blaise was one she found most attractive and with a pleasing personality to boot.  She also knew reality.  Her mind racing she thought it best to add some clarity to the moment.  “Better to get this over with here than at your apartment,” Renée stated to Blaise bringing a puzzled look to his face.  He seemed confused as you’d expect and said, “Renée, are you ok?”  “Oh God yes Blaise but there is something you must know.”  Blaise sat even more puzzled but pulled himself up closer to the table as if to use it as a prop asking, “What?”  Renée stated simply, “I am a transsexual Blaise.”  God did not block his tongue so out came, “You have a cock?”  He blushed immediately and began to jabber and apologize, “Oh I’m so sorry Renée. Oh damn, that didn’t come out right.  I mean, I mean.  I’m not sorry you have a cock, if you have one, but…..” he trailed off with Renée the one grinning at this point.

“Blaise I am a post-operative transsexual.”  Renée definitely had the floor, Blaise sitting with mouth open and eyes locked on Renée.  “I have no penis.  I have a surgically formed vagina.”  Renée wanted to run, to be honest, yet this was maybe the first time she’d spoken the words she did this evening the way perhaps she should have always spoken them to a man to whom she was attracted.  She apologized in effect, “Blaise I am sorry I let Anthony drag me across the bar for an introduction.  He knows I’m transsexual.”  When he spoke, Blaise was flat in his words, “Let me get you home, I’ll see you tomorrow.”  

He was so sweet was all Renée could think as this man opened the door for her, stepping onto the West 48th Street sidewalk and hailing a cab.  When she gave the driver her address, on Central Park West, Blaise turned and looked at her without saying a word.  Renée for her part was not ashamed she could live on West Central Park, but none-the-less she lowered her head and looked directly at the back of the seat in front of her intentionally not holding her gaze upon Blaise.  When the cab arrived at her address, Blaise paid the driver and made him hold until he exited the cab and came around to open the door for Renée.  He handed her off to the doorman at her condo, moved back into the cab and off into the crisp night.

Around noon the next day Anthony finished work with a client and walked into the Spa’s break area finding Renée’s alone and eating one of their catered salads. The first thing from Anthony’s mouth was, “How'd it go?”  “It didn’t,” Renée replied.  “What do you mean it didn’t?”  “Just that, we chatted at the bar, and that was that.  If you are asking if we had sex, we did not.  I told Blaise I was a transsexual, and he escorted me home,” Renée spoke matter-of-factly.  Anthony, however, wanted to prod, “You mean that stud of a straight man did not find you attractive?”  “No Anthony, that is not what I said, I simply told you what happened.”  “Then you guys aren’t going to get together some other time?  He’s damn hot Renée and, of course, a straight top.  I’d suck him off though.  From the looks of his package, his cock and balls are huge.”  Renée said little else thinking Anthony was too gay this day, and both moved back into their work areas.

On Friday night that week Renée left Saks and hailed a taxi to carry her the short distance up Fifth Avenue and across Central Park South to her condo on Central Park West.  In her mind she was determined to go to the West 48th Street bar whether Blaise appeared or not.  She also decided that she was going to dress as she never had dressed before to visit such a common bar, realizing that truly was the essence of the bar.  She found a black formal dress with low cut centerline highlighting cleavage that maybe only a transsexual would be proud of but it was hers.  She removed her hair from its bun before taking ablutions and dressing.  She pulled on a fur wrap, called another cab, and stood in her foyer taking a final look to ensure she was at her best.  “I’m stunning,” were the words she spoke out loud.

Renée wore amazing earrings of diamonds that hung from each ear some four inches.  As she swayed her hips to the right and slightly crossed her legs, she struck a pose any woman would envy.  Renée’s hair was perfect, the fur around her shoulders in a deep color, diamond bracelet on the right wrist.  She truly was stunning.  Her black heels made her appear even more petite.  She broke from the foyer and off she went.

When Renée entered the bar there was a buzz that spread from table to table and down the long bar sitting on one side of the large room.  There were whispers, veiled glances, and perhaps more importantly genuine smiles.  She sat at the bar where her crossed legs split the gown open so you could see legs from just below the knee down the sheer stockings she wore that gave an amazing smoothness to lithe legs.  Not long after, Blaise entered the bar.  
In reality he wore a coat and tie because he had hosted clients in the office earlier in the day, coming to the bar immediately after work, but you would have thought he and Renée had discussed their dress.  The effect the suit had on his physical appearance as well as on the patrons of the bar was obvious.  He scanned the bar rather haphazardly and hurriedly.  Maybe it was the diamonds that caused him to look back.  His eyes locked on Renée and a smile grew.

Walking across the room in what seemed like slow motion he approached Renée and lifted her hand; bringing it to his lips he placed a kiss on the back of her hand.  His words were, “come on, I have a cab waiting.”  Entering the cab they chatted little, both somewhat reserved with tense anticipation flowing between them.  The drive was not far.  Soon they were there.  Renée couldn’t believe it to be honest.  Blaise lived between 5th and 6th Avenue within 500 feet of Saks.  

Entering the condo, Blaise took Renée’s fur and placed it within a foyer coat closet directing her to a wide sofa saying, “Please sit while I get drinks.  Can I get you Champagne?”  “Yes,” Renée replied.  As Renée scanned the large open area of the apartment she faced almost all glass.  The glass allowed you to look out into the city.  They were close enough to the ground that you could hear the hum of autos as well as an occasional siren.  It was what she knew.  Blaise moved towards Renée and began with, “I have something to say,” pausing as if to look for an acknowledgment.

“When I was in college I was told in a math class that mathematics was the universal language, and everyone throughout the universe could speak it.  Math is not the only universal language.  To put it perhaps crudely another universal language is sex or perhaps more in tune to our attire, love, and lust.”  Blaise dropped his jacket on a wing back chair, reached for Renée’s hand and guided her to his bedroom.

Renée was more feminine than he could ever imagine.  Blaise was more masculine than Renée in her wildest dreams could ever imagine.  She had always thought she would never be so close to such a man.  More importantly, she never thought she would sexually possess such a man.  Now was a time to see what the future brought.

Hairy male skin touched and moved over the soft, supple feminine skin.  Her breasts were a delight, appearing to be a B cup, but nicely formed and wonderful to suck on and massage.  As they progressed, Blaise moved hand over thigh tops and along the inner thigh close to his goal.  His cock grew.  It changed color picking up a purplish tone.  He did not ask her if she was ready, but as he maneuvered her onto her back being lifted by a pillow, she gazed into his eyes and spoke.  She said: “Now.”

Months had passed, and spring had arrived.  The Spa was busy.  Many had returned to New York from Florida.  Saks had extended their hours to 7 PM.  Every evening Anthony would say, “Hi Blaise,” in unison to Blaise blowing through the door to walk with Renée to the apartment they had purchased on Columbia Circle.  Life was good, and life -- a new one -- was just beginning.