[TITLE NOT SET 2]

Kyra was not the girl of my dreams. I never DARED dream a woman
that good would just walk into my life. She was smart, sassy,
vivacious, intuitive, resourceful, and a real 'people person'. We met
in an Internet chat room called "Working Girls". We're not talking
about the kind you find in corporate offices or retail stores. C'mon,
be honest; what guy hasn't fantasized about being with a woman like
that? The room was filled with the usual posers and wannabes. Every
girl was a drop-dead-gorgeous slut who would bang a guy on the hood
of a car if the price were right. Every guy was a 'Sugar Daddy'
with hundred-dollar bills hanging out of his pockets. At least, that is
what they all would have you believe. Kyra was different. There was
just some indefinable... SOMETHING that made me believe she was the
real deal. It was not so much what she said as the way she said it that
spoke of a woman who had truly "been there, done that."

Naturally, a lot of snerts in the room asked the obvious, stupid
question: "Are you REALLY a...?" She artfully deflected their
inquiries, reminding them of the name and nature of the room and
playfully suggesting they draw their own conclusions. Still, if one was
astute enough to read between the lines.... Whenever she entered the
chat room, people flocked to her. She reigned like a Queen on her
throne. I was a little intimidated. I chatted mostly with my own online
friends, interacting with her only in group conversations.

One evening, out of the blue, SHE started chatting with ME. Was I
stunned? Oh, yeah. Our light, breezy banter in the room took a more
personal turn that required private messaging. She revealed that, aside
from my courteous, non-threatening manner, there were "little things" I
had mentioned in passing about myself that had intrigued her. I hadn't
remembered saying ANYTHING definitive about myself. In fact, I avoided
doing so. The room was fun enough, but I thought it best if the people
in it did not know I really WAS rich (I was blessed with being born
into the right family). Kyra didn't ask, just as I hadn't asked about
her. She simply stated: "Breeding shows."

We clicked - and spent long hours deeply immersed in IM's. This
intriguing vixen told me she lived in a city on the other coast. She
was a bit older than me, but it didn't matter to either of us. We
exchanged pictures of ourselves and I was instantly in lust. She was a
stunning redhead with sparkling emerald eyes and a dynamite body. I
fervently hoped this vision really WAS her, not some random picture she
scammed from Cyberspace. Finally, I booked an airline reservation
(ticketless; she was impressed) to have her come for a visit - on my
birthday. She promised she would bring a gift I would never forget.
"Don't take my pledges lightly, Michael," she admonished. "A promise
made is a promise kept."

Meeting her in the flesh was the best birthday present I had ever
received. I had expected to wait outside the airport security
checkpoint for her to arrive. Instead, she was already there waiting
for ME - wearing a bow pinned to her top and holding a lit birthday
candle in her hands. She explained her flight had gotten in early. Her
pictures hadn't done her justice; she was even more spectacular in the
flesh. As in the chat room, there was nothing in her appearance or
demeanor that overtly suggested she was a 'woman of ill repute'. She
was merely the most beautiful, sensual, desirable woman I had ever
seen. Our first kiss was instinctive - and pure electricity. The
breathtaking redhead was all over me, oblivious to the scornful/envious
stares of those around us. It was all we could do to contain ourselves
as we loaded her bags in the trunk and drove home - to my two-acre
walled estate with swimming pool, Jacuzzi, guest cottage, four-car
garage and thirteen-room, forty-five-hundred-square-foot 'bachelor
pad'. The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was, the rich Sugar Daddy (at
newly-turned twenty-one, I had trouble envisioning myself as ANYONE's
'daddy') and his beautiful ex-hooker girlfriend. I thought that only
happened on television....

Consummating our physical intimacy was almost an afterthought
after the emotional intimacy that had flowed back and forth those past
months - almost. I had never dreamed Sex could be so good, so
fulfilling, so... well, kinky. Kyra could get inside my head like
nobody's business, make me visualize the most outlandish, erotic
scenarios in a depth of detail that made them appear life-like. Talk
about Virtual Reality! We shared the same tastes in kinky, fetish sex.
Our favorites included big-boobed porn goddesses, overdone, overblown,
over-the-top hookers, and tall, well-muscled, magnificently-endowed men
- especially Black men. Kyra playfully chided me about my attraction to
the hooker stereotype ("You boys are all alike!") and was particularly
amused that I could see the value in sucking and fucking big, black
dicks.

About the only thing we clashed on was our taste in music. I
listened to Classical, Blues (B.B. King, Muddy Waters, Lightnin'
Hopkins, John Lee Hooker, Hound Dog Taylor and the Houserockers), and a
lot of Rock. She was heavily into Hip-Hop and Rap - a legacy from her
'past life'. I had a deep appreciation for the old Motown Sound and
could certainly get into some of the genuinely artistic R&B singers,
but 50-Cent? Nelly? OK, OK, Usher was pretty good. So were Outkast
and Black-Eyed Peas - and is/are the latter considered SINGULAR, or
PLURAL?

Now that she had come into my life, I couldn't see being without
her. Money certainly wasn't a problem. My parents had retired and
bought one of those huge, sprawling estates in Incline Village,
leaving this more humble residence (yeah, right) to their only child
- me - along with my Mercedes and comfortable inheritance. My lover
teased me about being a "trust fund baby". Laughter aside, she
confided to me how comforting it was to be able to relax and enjoy
life for a change. She vowed she was looking forward to my spoiling
her rotten.

I took her to meet them. She was nervous - without reason. They
adored her as much as I did. I knew they would. We told them our desire
for a small, intimate ceremony, not the usual big, splashy Society
thing. Mom might have been a little disappointed, but they both gave us
their blessing. We got married right there, overlooking Lake Tahoe,
with my parents as witnesses. I didn't think Life could get any better
than that.

Did I say Kyra was resourceful? In no time, she was plugged into
my hometown as though she had lived here all her life. She found the
best beauty salon (naturally), the best sources for clothes, shoes,
and accessories (from classy to fetish kink), the best restaurants,
theaters, and nightclubs. She even found the best plastic surgeon in
a town full of them - a town where cosmetic procedures are considered
a rite of passage. I treated her to a few little 'touch-ups' that
rendered her beauty other-worldly.

We went everywhere together. We humored each other on
our disparate musical tastes, as played out on the car stereo. I was
thrilled to be seen with this gorgeous woman on my arm. Kyra was
shamelessly affectionate in public, kissing, hugging, nuzzling me
without a care who saw us. It was a major turn-on to see other men
leer at her with obvious intent and just-as-obviously wish they were
me. Eat your hearts, out, Guys!

Having tasted the world of achievement and privilege I
inhabited, this love of my life developed a burning ambition to
succeed. She expressed a desire to correct a mistake she made long
ago; to go back to school and complete her education. She had
already begun attending classes a couple of nights a week to earn
her GED. I was delighted and promised her a full "scholarship" and
that I would "pull some strings" at any college she chose to attend
if the school was being a little too stringent on their admissions
policy.

Our emotional intimacy included sharing the most intensely
private, personal details of our lives. My suspicions had been
accurate. Kyra finally admitted to having been a "sex worker", as she
put it, for six years; from the time the then-sixteen-year-old had run
away from home until we had met in Cyberspace. The experience had
changed her, matured her in ways few people ever achieved - certainly
not at her age.

Kyra hadn't wanted to deceive me, but she had been afraid to
divulge that part of her life to me before we had a chance to meet
face-to-face and really get to know one another. As she explained it,
most men regarded hookers as 'damaged goods'; suitable for a quick,
anonymous fuck, but not relationship material. Kyra had desperately
wanted a safe, sane, stable relationship away from her sordid
existence. She had turned to the Internet as a way of meeting people
in a neutral environment, free from the preconceptions inherent with
her life. The "Working Girls" chat room was a very canny ruse on her
part. She could meet people who, at least, were INCLINED towards
getting to know a hooker as a real person. At the same time, she could
easily hide among the obvious phonies and filter out the low-lifes who
frequented the room only to find a 'date'.

The more she had gotten to know me online, the more she had been
convinced I was The One, the man of her dreams who would rescue her
from the emotional trauma of life on the streets. She was quick to
point out there was much more to her attraction to me than just that.
It was just that she was...complicated. She didn't hate men. In spite
of her past, she hadn't lost her taste for sex - especially the kind of
lurid, edgy sex that had ensnared her in 'The Life' in the first place.
If the truth be known, she still had a special fondness for the kind of
overdone sluts whose pictures we both enjoyed. She had simply come to a
point in life where she wanted to deal with it all on her terms, not
someone else's. She new instinctively I would make her very happy. And,
in return....

I swept her up in my arms and kissed her deeply, passionately.
When our lips parted, I explained that, although Cyberspace is
Cyberspace and anyone can pretend to be anything they wish under the
cloak of anonymity, I had suspected all along she was a genuine
'working girl' and the thought had not bothered me. She avowed that
part of her life was over and she would never 'date' again, in
deference to her love for me. I smiled, gently placed one finger to her
lips, and replied even if she did, I believed in her and my love for
her was stronger than any jealousy or insecurity that might tear us
apart. She liked that a lot. It SOUNDED like the right thing to say at
the time, didn't it? I mean, this was my first experience with
anything this serious and I was head-over-heels in love with her. If
SHE had blown in MY ear, I would have followed her anywhere.

I wasn't a 'hunk' in the traditional sense. I certainly wasn't a
'hulk'. Most women considered me "too small and too pretty", as they
often put it, to take seriously. True, I could have had any woman I
wished simply by flashing my money around. Does that sound cynical?
Anyway, I didn't want to do that and didn't respect guys who did.
Then there was Kyra. She and I were within millimeters of the same
height. If my diminutive, less-than-imposing physical size and
pretty-boy good looks were a problem for her, she never mentioned it.
She had giggled about it once, shortly after we had met. She teased
that it was nice to finally have a man with whom she could really see
"eye-to-eye" - except when she wore heels, of course. "In fact," she
purred, "your stature makes you perfect for OTHER PURSUITS."

I suited her to a "T" when it came to oral sex. Although we
enjoyed our intercourse, Cunnilingus had always been my favorite form
of sexual intimacy. I excelled at eating my (few) lovers out. Since
Kyra and I had first begun having sex, I had learned how to push all
the right buttons. I knew exactly what to do to bring her to the most
shattering, mind-numbing climaxes imaginable. She avowed it was like
making love with another woman. That it was a MAN who made slow, soft,
considerate, gentle love with such depth of emotion - like a woman -
made it even better in her mind. She returned the favor, fellating me
to levels of orgasmic bliss I never knew existed.

My love was nothing if not uncannily perceptive - and VERY crafty.
One night, in the afterglow of an intense session of sex, she
manipulated me into admitting to my most intensely personal, private
desire.

"Fess up, Michael," she teased. "The pictures. The lurid pillow talk.
The racy, provocative girls we BOTH stare at on the streets. The
porn videos we like to watch together. I know you WANTED to be with a
hooker all along, even if you don't want to admit it. That's why you
were hanging out in 'Working Girls', isn't it? Don't worry; you won't
chase me away. I know what a living doll you really are. You are STUCK
with me now. Just tell me I am the girl of your dreams and I will be
happy."

"No, not exactly," I replied.

She pouted, teasingly. Then, she lightly caressed my naked chest,
tenderly raking the flesh with her elegant sculptured nails in that
sensual, seductive way she did so well.

"NO? Well then, if it isn't ME, who is it? Britney? J.Lo? Christina?
I can show you things those lame-assed bitches have never dreamed
of."

"Um, that's kind of complicated."

"I UNDERSTAND 'complicated'. I wrote the book. Tell me more."

I explained it as tactfully as I could, terrified of revealing my
sordid secret to ANYONE, let alone one I was truly, madly, deeply in
love with.

"You teased me about always having wanted to be with a hooker. That's
ALMOST accurate. I have always fantasized about... experiencing Sex
from the other side of the gender divide. Oh, there is more to it
than that; a lot more. You know me. You know the kind of girls I - WE
- lust for. In my fantasies, I never envision myself as the Girl Next
Door. I have always been obsessed with the kind of fantasy slut you
see in "B" movies; standing on a street corner with Big Hair, too
much makeup, long, glistening fingernails, killer curves sheathed in
tight, revealing dresses and dangerously high stiletto heels, the
works. I want to get inside that slut's head, to know her thoughts,
desires, what her life is like. That dream has haunted me as long as
I can remember, but I have always regarded it as exactly that; a
dream that will never be realized. How would I even begin? I feel so
far removed from that world. I haven't known any hookers. I had no
idea where to find one until....

As the import of my words suddenly dawned on me, I rushed to put
words in my mouth, hoping that, by sheer volume alone, I might
accidentally hit on the right ones to cover my amazing lack of
sensitivity.

"I love you, Kyra; I really, really do. YES, when we were in the chat
room, when I first suspected you might be a REAL 'working girl', my
imagination ran wild. I conjured up all the lurid, wanton images that
have occupied my brain since... well, a long time, OK? When you
started chatting with me, when we began to get REALLY CLOSE, I fell
in love with the PERSON, not the sex object. That you were ALSO... uh,
'experienced', was a nice plus. You are out of The Life now. I wouldn't
change anything about you. I certainly would not, under ANY
circumstances, expect you to go back into it and share your experiences
with me, just so I can live it vicariously through you. My fantasy is
more direct than that. It's ME that would have to change. I don't want
to HAVE a slut. I dream of BEING a slut,"

Kyra raised one eyebrow quizzically.

"Oh? I had a few of dates that liked to act out their own hooker
fantasies with me. It was fun. Do you want to play dress-up and be my
little B-movie hooker for me around the house?"

"Yes. I mean, no. I mean... this is REALLY complicated. Dressing up
might be fun for a while, but it just wouldn't be... enough. I would
know it was still ME - a guy in a dress, pretending to be something he
wasn't. I think I've been watching too much Reality TV. My fantasies
are all in High Definition and Surround Sound now. I don't want to be
some old, tired closet queen like those other guys you were with. I
want MORE. God, I wish I could just clone you, climb inside your skin
and be the 'you' you used to be."

Open mouth, insert foot. REALLY MICHAEL, I thought to myself, YOU
HAVE TO LEARN TO JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP. In spite of what she had
assured me BEFORE I had begun my little rant, I was deathly afraid
Kyra would walk out in disgust, right then and there, and never see me
again. She didn't; far from it. She regarded me with her twinkling
green eyes, smiled that knowing little smile of hers and snuggled up
even closer to me.

"Sweetie, that is the nicest compliment anyone has ever paid me - in an
'out-there' kind of way. It is SO KINKY, too! That explains a lot of
things - including why you are so damn good at oral sex. You already
THINK like a slut when it comes to pleasuring your partner. In spite of
what you might think, I was never quite THAT extreme, but I knew girls
who were. You would have loved them. I did - but you already knew that,
didn't you? Do you actually KNOW anything about that lifestyle?"

I pursed my lips and shook my head.

"Not a damn thing. Look at me, how I live. I wouldn't know where to go.
I wouldn't have the slightest idea how to hustle... JOHNS? TRICKS?"

"Dates."

"DATES. See what I mean? I am completely clueless about all that. As
far as living, even LOOKING the part, dream on, Bud. It exists only in
my head."

Kyra smiled and gently stroked my cheek.

"That is ACTUALLY a really good way to approach it. You want to see
what it's really like to be a slut like that? It's nowhere near as
impossible as you think. I hadn't wanted to mention this, but you are
a little... well, effeminate. Remember when I told you your stature
made you perfect for 'other pursuits'? Look at you. You are almost
exactly my height and bone structure. You have that long-legged look
that drives men crazy. Those long, slender fingers and
perfectly-shaped nails are to die for! I think you would make a
GORGEOUS woman with a little work here and there. As for the rest...
well, I'll let you in on a little secret. Michael, 'Society' - as you
think of it - is a sham. It's all about pretense, image, and
spin-control. We are what we PERCEIVE ourselves - and each other - to
be. Believe me, I know. You may think you are worlds apart from a whore
like that, but you are much closer to her than you could possibly
imagine. It's all about the right attitude and how you perceive
yourself. If you project the right image, others will perceive you in
the same light.

As it happens, you came to the right girl. You want to get inside
a slut's head? I know a little something about that lifestyle, Baby.
You like the way I get inside YOUR head, don't you? It would be no
problem to help YOU get inside HER head, experience her thoughts,
desires... her LIFE. Before I say anything else, I have to ask: Do you
really love me?"

"I love you more than my life."

"Do you TRUST me?"

"Implicitly."

She kissed me tenderly and smiled her Cheshire smile.

"Then hear me out. I... have always thought the WHOLE IDEA of a man
becoming a gorgeous, sexy woman was a real turn-on. I met a lot of
T-girls in my time on the streets. They were among my closest friends.
I mean, really close - catch my drift? Some of those girls were
really into the 'extreme' look, like you and I are so crazy about. In
fact, I had a 'drag mother' who taught me most of what I know about
makeup, hair, and just being the kind of slut that drives men wild.
Through her and the rest of my friends, I made contacts, met people,
and learned the tricks and techniques used to transform them into the
sexy sirens they became. Soon, I was HELPING them whenever I could. It
was such a rush to help change a cute little man into a soft, shapely,
sexy, beautiful woman - and from there into the cheap, trashy slut she
wanted to be. I hate to admit it, but I got a little... POSSESSIVE. I
didn't mind sharing the girl with dates. Dates are dates; they show up,
pay you, get off, and leave. What really ate at me was, as soon as the
girl was 'done', she would dash off and find herself a 'husband'.

Michael, do you want to know what I thought the first time I saw
your picture? 'Wow, with a little work, he would look GREAT in a tight
little dress and sky-high heels!' Now you tell me you have always
dreamed of being a girl just like the ones I lust for? Oh, my dear,
sweet JESUS.... The IDEA of transforming YOU into a girl like that for
ME makes me WET. THIS TIME, dear 'husband', I'm going to keep you all
to myself! Naturally, it helps that we enjoy... shall we say, UNLIMITED
financial resources? Why not play with this a little, explore your
ultimate fantasy - for BOTH of us? I love you so much - and this is
just so wicked, we can't NOT at least give it a try. This would be my
way of sharing myself, my life with you on a level of intimacy few
couples ever experience. It would also be a really kinky way of saying
'Thank you - for everything."

There are a couple of conditions, though. First, we can't tell a
soul; at least, not the people from YOUR life. That includes family,
friends, neighbors, anyone who really knows you. They aren't like us;
they would not understand our desires or what we share. They CERTAINLY
wouldn't approve of the 'nasty girl' you are going to portray. I don't
know WHAT I am going to tell your dear, sweet parents, but I will think
of SOME reason why they can't see you. Maybe I will tell them you
contracted Berri-berri or something. I can be pretty convincing when I
want to be. Second, I will be in charge of EVERYTHING. After all, who
knows more about girls like that than me? You must trust me enough to
put yourself completely in my hands, without reservation. I crave
'reality' as much as you do. If I think there is something we need to
do to make the experience more authentic, more pleasurable for us,
then we do it. Baby, I can get you so deeply into a slut's head, you
will think you were BORN there. Does that thought appeal to you?"

How could it not?

The pills, diet and exercise came first. I wasn't overweight by
any means, but Kyra promised she would have me down to her own sleek
one hundred fifteen pounds in no time. I missed my burgers and pizza,
but the salads weren't that bad and I wasn't really starving or
anything. She said the pills saw to that. She also began
"figure-training" me. If I wasn't hungry before she started lacing me
into that corset every day, I sure wasn't after. The crushing
sensation was really uncomfortable, too. She said I would get used to
that after a while.

To take my mind off my physical discomfort, she took me 'back to
school' to focus my attention on something else. I began learning what
she called "Street Speak", that odd patois of slang, euphemisms,
malapropisms and bad grammar that she claimed was the common currency
of the life she had known so well. The vocabulary was simplistic, to
say the least. The words tended to be slurred, run on, and had a kind
of sing-song cadence to them. There seemed to be code words and buzz
phrases for EVERYTHING. Everyone is "Baby", "Honey", or "Sugar". She
drilled me incessantly, chiding me good-naturedly whenever I slipped
up, using a big word or phrase that would have been just as confusing
for a street girl as all of this was to me. I was perplexed. It was
all so... ALIEN to me.

"Honey, I don't REALLY have to talk like this, do I?"

Kyra put it succinctly:

"Baby, do you KNOW how girls like that talk?"

"No."

"Believe me, I DO; I lived it for six years. We agreed we want this
experience to be authentic. Before you can experience a slut's life and
desires, a slut's WORLD, you first have to understand what that world
IS. Baby, the street scene she inhabits is, for want of a better term,
a 'Black Thing', and this is the way everyone talks - even the White
girls."

"But we've seen African-Americans, both singles and couples, whenever
we went out. THEY don't talk that way."

Kyra smiled sadly and shook her head.

"Michael, 'African-American' is a politically-correct term for a
politically-correct segment of the population. The 'African-Americans'
you have seen do not represent the world your slut lives in, nor do
they want to be associated with it. Remember what I said about
Perception? THEY speak the way their peers speak; that is, the people
whom they PERCEIVE as their peers - and wish to be perceived as PEERS
OF. THEY are on their way UP. YOU, on the other hand..."

She kissed me lightly on the cheek.

"...are on your way DOWN. Your kind of girl is a GHETTO HO', not some
suburban ingenue. The 'hood is still about flash, pretense, and
spin-control - perhaps even more so than the world you know. But it
ISN'T about country clubs, trust funds, and social niceties. It really
IS a different world, with its own rhythms, values, and customs. The
PEOPLE are different, too. Do you imagine the girls turning tricks on
the streets are college graduates? Of course not; most of them are
dropouts. I was. They know the streets, their own bodies, and that they
can make money by making themselves attractive to men. They look cheap,
think cheap, and talk cheap - and the men they date like them that way.
In short, they are just like I used to be - like you WILL be when I am
finished with you. The first step is to teach you how a slut talks."

"But YOU don't talk that way."

She looked down - and far, far away. When she spoke, her voice was very
quiet.

"No, but I USED TO. If we had met even a year ago, you would have met a
very different girl. I decided I wanted more from life, wanted to make
something of myself. One thing I DID learn in my time on the streets
is, a certain perception can make or break you, regardless of what kind
of person you are. I realized if I was going to have any chance of
escaping all that, I would have to change how others PERCEIVED me - and
how I perceived myself. I worked very, very hard to UNLEARN the streets
and re-learn THIS. Television and Internet chat rooms were my
'classroom' and you..."

She kissed me again, this time on the mouth.

"...and others like you were my teachers and role models. First I
learned WHO to emulate; then I learned HOW. YOU were the prize at the
finish line. Now, we're going to have a little fun 'deconstructing' you
and re-shaping you into 'a girl like THAT'. Who knows? If I can show
you what a slut's life is REALLY like, you might have a better
appreciation for THIS one. I know I do.

Now, try again. I want you to THINK in this language, just as any
other ghetto ho'does. Lose yourself in the role. In fact, maybe we
should work more on THAT right now. Perhaps we need to create a whole
new identity for you. That might make it easier for you to get into the
right frame of mind. Let's see, what shall we call you? I know! How
about... 'Gigi'? Do you like it? I think it sounds scrumptious."

"Gigi? Yeaaah, I like it a lot!"

She smiled at me bemusedly, a twinkle in her eyes.

"OK, GIRLFRIEN', from now on, you are 'Gigi'. 'Michael' doesn't exist
anymore. You are that street-smart slut from Uptown you have always
seen in your fantasies. To a girl like you, this house, this world,
this life might as well be on another planet. You are gorgeous, sexy,
overdone, and not too bright. In fact, about the only thing you think
about is Sex. You down wit' it, Sugar?"

"ABSOLUMENT."

Kyra sighed heavily and rolled her eyes upward.

"I never thought I would say this to any man, but you are too damn
smart. Whether or not you are willing, your subconscious mind is
fighting it. I'm gonna have to haul out the HEAVY ARTILLERY."

She came home a few days later with a coy smile on her face. She
had arranged with a local professional hypnotherapist to commission a
series of subliminal learning CD's that would aid me in my language
study. Sheila Crane was willing enough and had extensive experience
with subliminal learning, but knew nothing about this particular
subject matter. In the end, a substantial sum of money had persuaded
her to embark upon a collaborative effort - and a somewhat unorthodox
method of delivery.

The initial 'induction' therapy was to be performed in person by
Ms. Crane herself. She would implant certain 'trigger phrases' in my
subconscious that would allow me to be 'converted' - returned to the
induction (trance) state - easily. She recorded the introductions to
the disks, speaking the triggers that converted me, then passed control
to Kyra's voice. SHE narrated the training portions of the therapy,
owing to her extensive knowledge of the subject matter. Kyra promised
they would not be harmful in any way. They would simply break down the
subconscious barriers that prevented me from embracing this simplistic
form of communication. We were both excited about the prospects of me
learning to speak 'properly' and couldn't wait to begin the therapy.

Ms. Crane came to our home consecutive evenings for a week. Each
visit lasted a couple of hours, but seemed like mere minutes. I really
don't even remember being hypnotized on any of those occasions, but
upon her final visit, she assured me my mind had been thoroughly
'conditioned' and was completely receptive to my new training. That
night, after we made love, Kyra gave me a pill to help me relax. She
popped the first CD into my Discman, placed it on my bedside table,
then slipped the headset over my head. "Miss Thing, you'll have this
rap down cold in no time, " she cooed in a sing-song voice.

It was a month or two later when I realized there was something
wrong with my cock. I just couldn't get it up anymore. I was so bummed!
This isn't supposed to happen to someone my age. Kyra was quick to
reassure me.

"Baby, it's nothing to worry about. You are going through some serious
chemical and hormonal changes to make you feel more like the woman you
have always dreamed of being. This is just an inevitable side effect
of those changes. I won't love you any less. In fact, I will love you
MORE - because you are willing to put yourself through all this for
US. It's not like we won't continue to have great ORAL sex, you know?
After we've had our fun with this and decide to change you back, your
full function will return, as good as it ever was. In the meantime,
we'll cope. Don't dwell on it. Just enjoy the changes in you as they
happen. I sure am."

Did I say I wasn't getting erections? Silly me! Oh, I was getting
erect all right. My nipples were standing out firm and proud! My
breasts were developing, too; AA-cup, A-Cup, B-Cup. My hips and tush
were filling out just as prominently. Part of me was thrilled. There
was still just enough masculinity within me to cause me to question if
perhaps we were wrong to take this fantasy as far as we were. Kyra
smiled and giggled.

"Wrong? Baby, from where I'm standing, everything is going wonderfully
RIGHT! In fact, I think it's time we ACCELERATE your hormone therapy.
When I first agreed to do this with you, I wasn't sure whether or not
it would be as good with you as it was with the T-girls back in the
'hood. You know what? It's BETTER! I've REALLY gotten into it. Don't
stop now, Baby; not when you are just beginning to look REALLY GOOD.
Let's just go with it for a little while longer. You're having fun,
aren't you? I'm having a ball with this! If not for yourself, do it for
me - please?"

Well, when she put it that way.... I could tell she was pleased with my
decision. She already had my first booster shot of 'mones ready and
waiting. I put my hands on my hips and glared at her in mock disgust.
Kyra smiled impishly. She didn't make me wait for it another second.

"Thank you, Baby. I can't tell you how much this means to me -
buuuuut... I can show you. I think this is the perfect time to take
your fantasy to the next level. There is a whole new world of sexual
experience and response just waiting for you to explore...."

She introduced me to her strap-on.

"It's time for you to experience sex the way girls like you do. Relax.
Let go of your hang-ups. Enjoy the sensations. Let me help you get in
touch with your 'inner slut'."

She taught me the right way to pay oral homage to a cock, showing
me all the little tricks she had learned to make a man gush buckets of
cum. She also introduced me to the pleasures of being thoroughly,
gloriously, exquisitely FUCKED. The first few days, I was SO SORE!
While she had fucked my ass, she had stroked and massaged my limp, but
sensitive cock ('clit', as she called it now). I came big time, more so
than I had ever experienced as a 'Michael'. She just smiled
contentedly, knowingly. When we weren't having sex, she made me wear a
butt plug 24/7 to make sure my 'pussy' was properly stretched out - and
that I became accustomed to having cock in me all the time. "After all,
Sugar," she chided, "that's what sluts like you are for." I guess I
shouldn't have been surprised the dildos she fucked me with got
successively larger, as did the butt plugs.

I don't know why I continued to put up with shaving. I hated the
daily ritual, not to mention the constant nicks and cuts. She thought
it was pointless, too - and set up a series of appointments to have my
beard removed by laser. OK, it wasn't a really HEAVY beard to begin
with, but I was delighted it was gone forever, nonetheless. While she
was at it, she had the clinic depilate the rest of my body - including
the baby-fine, thinning hair on my head. I might not have gone THAT far
of my own choosing, but Kyra reminded me of my pledge to put myself
completely in her hands. She had a ready answer to calm my
misgivings.

"Don't even TRY to tell me you're going to miss that yucky body hair,
Baby. I know you too well. I can tell you for a fact, I won't miss it
at all. I like you soft, smooth...FEMININE. As far as the head goes,
it's not like you had a full head of thick, attractive hair to begin
with. This will actually give us MORE options, not less."

We ordered custom-made wigs with adhesive tabs that hugged my
baby-smooth scalp securely. Blonde was the natural choice for my fair
complexion and Baby Blue eyes. I soon became accustomed to managing my
fuller, longer, thicker, more luxuriant hair. My lover spent hours
teaching me how to wash, set, curl, tease, fluff, and shape my new
tresses, then fix the 'do in place with lots of sweet-smelling, sticky
hairspray. "You have an advantage most of us girls don't, Sweetie,"
Kyra observed. "You can take your hair OFF and really see it from all
sides. You can work with both hands, too, instead of holding a mirror
in one and brush in the other." My new hairstyle was not trendy in
the sleek, straight, contemporary fashion that was currently en vogue.
Kyra had dictated a slut like me looks best with a big, blowsy mane of
teased and lacquered curls. She purred how much she adored that style
on me, that it made me look deliciously CHEAP.

Kyra made an appointment for us to consult with Dr. Bruce Jensen,
the plastic surgeon who had worked his magic on her. He revealed from
the outset my girlfriend had confided in him about my desires. I was
embarrassed she had 'outed' me to a complete stranger. She smiled
breezily and squeezed my hand.

"Don't be silly, Sweetie. First, he is NOT a stranger. We have known
him for months. You like what he did for ME, don't you? Besides, he has
to know what we want in order to give you the best results - and only
the best will do for MY baby. Dr. Jensen is the consummate
professional. He is here to HELP you, not pass judgment. Please, hear
him out."

Dr. Jensen went on to say he was fascinated with my case. Although he
had made many women beautiful beyond compare, he had not yet had the
opportunity to work with a 'girl' like me. He relished the personal
and professional challenge of such an "extreme makeover". Like Kyra,
he could already see intriguing 'possibilities' in my attractive
features. The handsome surgeon hoped I would trust him enough to put
myself in his hands and promised I would not be disappointed. I
acquiesced.

"Ain't no thang, Sugar. Do what ya gotta do. I'm down wit' it."

Kyra beamed radiantly.

Surgery is surgery, in spite of what you see on television. If
you don't believe it, go in for even a minor cosmetic procedure - and
sift through the mountain of authorizations, disclaimers, releases
and waivers you have to read, interpret and sign. I dutifully went
over each one with Kyra and Dr. Jensen's office manager. It seemed
like they would never end! Kyra had mentioned she had found a
business school she was interested in attending. If SHE wanted to
spend the rest of her professional life doing THIS, more power to her!

Dr. Jensen and my lover coaxed me into having a brow lift and nose
bob, plus implants to make my lips and cheekbones stunningly prominent.
The fat pads in my cheeks were suctioned out, giving me that
hollowed-out 'Supermodel' look and making the cheekbones even more
striking. Shaved brow bones and a 'tuck' at each temple reshaped my
eyes, opening them more and pulling them up and out at the corners for
an exotic, doe-like appearance. After the incisions had healed,
photo-facial treatments with bursts of high-intensity light rendered my
hairless complexion soft, smooth, and flawless. Dr. Jensen referred me
to an associate who practiced cosmetic dentistry. My already-straight
teeth were bleached and capped, rendering my smile as dazzling as a
thousand stars. In the end, my face was an exotic mix of the best
features of both White and Black women. I was stunning - in a
supernaturally, almost obscenely full-lipped, prominent-cheekboned,
doe-eyed way. Extreme? Fo' sho'. NO ONE from the world I grew up in
ever dreams of looking like this - only SLUTS LIKE ME. Girrrl, when
the time came, how would Dr. Jensen EVER put it back the way it was?
I wasn't even thinking about that right now. I was thrilled with my
new face. So was my honey.

Kyra began teaching me to apply makeup. At first, it was just a
little eye shadow, some mascara, a little lipstick. The little, light
touches became more and more pronounced, provocative. My lover taught
me how to achieve the right combinations of light and shadow, to make a
feature boldly prominent or subtly recessive. More and more, she
removed "subtlety" from the equation. My newly-altered features took
well to the heavily made-up look Kyra desired me to affect on a daily
basis. With my Big Hair, my appearance was not even close to the
understated, minimalist style that was en vogue. It was DEFINITELY the
right look to set me apart, mark me as "different" from polite society
- and enflame a man's lust. I knew. When I looked into the mirror, I
was turning ME on! Kyra agreed.

"A girl has to know how to make herself attractive for her lover, Baby.
Now, I want you to practice this every day, until it becomes second
nature for you. I want you to be able to close your eyes and see
yourself exactly like this. If you want to FEEL like a slut, you first
have to know you LOOK like a slut."

Of course, such a "look" required the appropriate compliment. My
lover had delivered on her promise for my diet and figure training. My
slender, long-stemmed body looked as good in Kyra's tight-fitting
dresses or miniskirts and tops as hers did. She insisted her clothes
were too tame for me. I needed my own wardrobe; something flashier,
more daring, tailored for my own unique style. We shopped several days
straight, going only to the little specialty shops which she said
catered to girls with our tastes. We found just the right foundations,
lingerie, hosiery, clothing and shoes for the 'new me'. My 'couturier'
gleefully bagged every stitch of my male clothes and had Goodwill cart
them away. She avowed that was just one more vestige of 'Michael' I
needed to be rid of to submerge myself into the role of 'Gigi'. Later
- after we had had our fun and decided to return me to my masculine
self - 'Michael' could shop for a whole new wardrobe. In the meantime,
we filled the empty space in my closet and dresser with my provocative
new finery.

Kyra had me wear stockings and high-heels (I mean, really high
stiletto heels) to properly accessorize my vampish appearance. The
stockings were a natural. I was already corseted 24/7, so attaching
them to the garters of whatever corset I was wearing (I had about a
dozen by then) just seemed the right thing to do. Soon, I became
accustomed to wearing stockings, heels and slutwear every day, just as
I was always painted and coiffed. I became very adept in strutting in
short, sure-footed, gliding steps, one foot in front of the other,
rolling my hips suggestively. Kyra cooed appreciatively.

"Lookin' GOOD, Sweet Thang. You already do that so well. Nothing turns
a man on like a pair of long, shapely legs like yours wrapped in
stockings and perched on a pair of sexy high heels. You like the look
on ME, don't you? Don't I deserve the same consideration? I like a
sexy-looking babe, too - and you are EXACTLY that."

"Do I REALLY look good, or are you just saying that to humor me? I
mean..."

I extended my arms a bit and pivotted expertly on my heels.

"Would I make a good ghetto ho'?"

Kyra embraced me and kissed me warmly on the lips.

"Baaaa-by, you is SO FINE! A little Retro-80's perhaps, but the boys
will all go crazy over it. You would DEFINITELY fit in. Who knows?
You might just be the Next Big Thing in the 'hood."

The only shortcoming to my daring new footgear was my aching feet,
which became a constant, almost crippling annoyance as I strutted
gracefully in my stiletto stilts.

Although Kyra dressed appropriately sexy too, the emphasis was
on "appropriate". She had earned her GED and begun her course of study
through the University's Adult Education program. She was starting
slow, taking but a single night class twice a week, as she had with
the GED classes. Because this was a professional program, she was
required to maintain a style of personal grooming that would be
conducive to the business environment. Her wardrobe, makeup and
coiffure kept more to the current fashion trends. One evening, I asked
her if she would like to 'dress' with me, knowing she knew what I
meant. She giggled a little, but demurred graciously.

" Baby, the look is fine for you. Really it is. I get wet just
THINKING about you. You are already one hot little hussy and you will
only get more so with time. I promise. But I have already DONE all
that. It was right for me at the time, but now I'm ready to move on
with my life. You made that possible and I will never be able to
thank you enough to express the depth of my gratitude. That doesn't
mean I can't still have fun with YOU. You are the ho' in the family
now, and I'm gonna make you the sexiest, sluttiest damn ho' in the
city!"

Kyra decided my look was not lurid enough; it needed a little more
"drama". I just never got the hang of applying false eyelashes. I may
have possessed long, slender fingers, but I was all thumbs when it
came to that fashion 'necessity'. She clucked impatiently at my
feeble attempts. Finally, she set up an appointment at her salon,
observing it was time to take a more PROACTIVE approach. On the
afternoon of my appointment, I was pacing back and forth across our
marble foyer in a tight black kidskin miniskirt, black and white
python-print tank top and python ankle-strap pumps with five-inch
spikes. I thought nothing of dressing like a five-dollar whore at home,
but I was scared shitless to go out in public for the first time,
looking the way I did. I knew I looked pretty good, BUT.... As if my
nervousness wasn't bad enough, my feet were already killing me! Kyra
pooh-poohed my petty inhibitions.

"Don't be silly, Baby. You want to come out of the CLOSET, don't you?
It's time for you to get out there in this brave, new world of yours.
Sluts like you are MEANT to be seen, to flaunt their assets for others'
appreciation. You live for the attention, the thrill, and you know it.
That's what this is all about, isn't it? I GUARANTEE no one who sees
you will think you are a man. As for the pain in your feet, it's just
one of the things we girls put up with to be beautiful. Still, we do
know a few SHORTCUTS...."

She extended her hand to me, palm up. It contained a single pill.

"Take this, Sweetie. You will forget all about the pain in your feet
- not to mention your nervousness."

It was small and went down easily. A short time later, I felt a kind of
glowing numbness. The pain in my feet faded away. I felt light as a
feather - and beautiful, sassy, sexy, and invincible! I was ready to
strut all the way from our house to the salon, undulating my hips like
a slut should. Kyra popped a Li'l Kim disk into the stereo as we pulled
out of the gate. Funny, it wasn't as bad as I used to think it was. As
we drove, I found myself really getting into the groove. Kyra couldn't
help but notice me waving my hands and moving my body in time to the
infectious rhythm. In no time, we were chanting the lyrics in unison.

Kyra passed up several available parking places on the bustling
street outside the salon, opting to drop me off at a corner two blocks
down. "You go on ahead, Baby," she cooed. "They are already waiting for
you. I have to run a couple of errands. I'll pick you up later." I
sashayed up the street proudly, shaking my bootylicious butt to and
fro, still gettin' down with that enchanting Li'l Kim rap. Baby, did I
get the LOOKS. Kyra would have been so proud of me! As it turned out,
she was. She told me later she had watched my little show from the car.

Kyra had confided in the girls at the salon, just as she had with
Bruce Jensen. Gayle, the owner, and all her operators seemed to be
entranced with the prospect of helping my girlfriend bring out the
'slut' in me. This time, high as I was on the pain medication, it
didn't faze me a bit. I surrendered myself to their attentions and
relished every moment. Semi-permanent lash implants were applied to
both my upper and lower lash lines. They were long, thick, curly and
really black. The look was very 'Las Vegas showgirl' - or 'Hollywood
Whore'. Dita, the esthetician, read my mind.

"You really like the 'Slut Look', don't you Sweetie? I knew you would.
When Kyra told me what you wanted, I knew this look would be PERFECT
for you. The effect really flatters you, too. It just looks sooo
over-the-top. While we're at it, lets try a couple of other little
touches...."

My brow lift had already raised my eyebrows far above what
could ever pass as masculine - and higher than all but the most
extreme of women's style statements. But they were still unruly, with
no shape to them. Dita removed them completely with her electrolysis
gear, then tattooed in perfectly shaped, pencil-thin, angled arches.
While she was at it, she tattooed deep black liner along my upper and
lower eyelids, a thick, dark red outline around my mouth, then filled
in my plush lips with Softsilver Rose lipstick. As a final touch, she
tattooed a 'beauty mark' just beyond the corner of my mouth. The
permanent makeup would allow me to look fabulous with greatly reduced
effort, while being flexible enough to enhance with more dramatic
makeup for any outfit or effect. Then she multiple-pierced each of my
ears. Consuela and Rachel, the two nail techs, applied acrylic
sculptured fingernails and toenails. That's right; sculptured
toenails - with toe rings ("It's all the rage right now, Gigi. Doesn't
it just make your feet look darling?"). What could I say? I DID like
the look. It just didn't deserve to be hidden away inside shoes....

Kyra took me shoe shopping when she picked me up. We went to
three different specialty shops on the boulevard that catered to exotic
dancers and others who desired more extreme, provocative shoe styles.
We purchased over two-dozen pairs of open-toed pumps and sandals.
We also found a dozen or so pairs of boots - ankle, knee-high, and
ultra-sinful thigh-high - I just had to have. Of course, they all had
ultra-high, stiletto heels; six inches, seven inches, and one pair of
fetish sandals with nine-inch spikes. Some had platform soles; many
did not. My slender, shapely five-foot-six-inch frame was perched high
and proud on my stiletto stilts wherever I went. They made my legs look
sensational. After all the time I had spent in them, the sky-high heels
altered the way I carried myself - even thought about
myself. Pain? Not anymore, Honey! I just popped a pill. I was good to
go - anywhere, anytime, without a twitch.

I saw myself in the mirror, day after day, dressed and made up
like a tramp. The subliminal disks and my girlfriend's loving, but
determined tutelage had done their work. My brain struggled less and
less between the two distinctly different modes of communication - and
thought. More and more, I talked as cheap as I looked, just as Kyra
had promised. I knew I was different than before; one look in the
mirror proved that. I was beginning to see the world around me
differently, too. For the first time, I realized how phony and
superficial the people were. I felt liberated, free to be the real me
for the first time.

Kyra took me out often, whether to go shopping, to dinner, even to
a movie. She developed a little game we both enjoyed playing in very
public places. We would each dress our provocative best - she
tastefully sexy, me in my sleazy 'hooker chic'. Kyra always drove our
SL500 ("No one would believe a slut like you could EVER own a car like
this"). She would drop me off some distance away, then drive on to our
rendezvous, valet the car and wait for me. I would sashay up the
street, alone, under the collective gaze of everyone. Kyra
strategically positioned herself to watch the show. She offered me
incentives to do my best to convince my audience I was 'working it'
on the boulevard. If men solicited me under her appreciative gaze, I
got perks - lots and lots of perks - when we got home.

We had the script down cold. We ran into each other 'by chance'.
We were old friends from high school who had gone our separate - and
very different - ways. Kyra reminisced aloud - for the
benefit of those around us - about our school days, when we were
together on the Pom-Pom squad. She talked about her business career
downtown. Then, she would allude to the start of my 'troubles'; my
bad taste in boys, growing reputation as a 'loose woman', and,
finally, the scandal involving drugs and the gym teacher. That
episode had gotten HIM fired and ME expelled. I would go on to reveal
my new life and 'profession' in a smug, self-satisfied tone meant to
be overheard. I went on about how much I enjoyed doin' the ho' stroll,
out on the street where everyone could see me, want me, have me - for
the right price.

At first, Kyra would feign utter shock and astonishment ("No! Not
you. You can't be serious!") Her uncomprehending reply was peppered
with words like "hooker", "whore", and "slut". She would try to keep
her voice down, but her 'emotion' would get the better of her, causing
her to speak up just loudly enough for the people around us to take it
all in. At last, she would feign understanding - and reluctant
acceptance. She listened intently, nodding sympathetically in all the
right places, yet showing just a trace of sadness in her eyes for her
former best friend - the good girl gone bad. Kyra was such a good
actress, and I was playing my role from the heart. We would go home
after an evening of 'shock theater' and have a good laugh at the
expense of the people we had scammed. Then, we would fuck like bunnies.

Kyra had been eerily accurate in her assessment of Society and
perception. She, dressed as the young, beautiful, oh-so-chic,
upwardly-mobile socialite, was warmly accepted wherever we went; I
was not - or only grudgingly so when I was with her. I was different
now, not one of them. I saw the looks of scorn in the eyes of 'proper
folk' as they recoiled from me. I also saw the covert glances of lust
from a number of men who would not want others to know their innermost
desires. The shady little pricks! What did I ever think I had in
common with them? There they were in their fine, expensive suits,
drinking their fine, expensive wine, eating their fine, expensive
sushi, then driving back to their fine, expensive homes. They dissed
me, talked trash about me to all their uptight friends - and all the
while wanted to do me when none of their oh-so-proper friends were
watching. Bring it on, Sugar! Just make sure you bring your fine,
expensive WALLET, too.

I gradually retreated from my sense of belonging to the uptight,
oh-so-correct culture that had sheltered and nurtured me all my life.
At the same time, that culture was shunning ME in contempt. The more
they glared at me in silent disgust and ridicule, the more
contemptuous and defiant of them I became. Here I am, you sanc...,
sancti..., little shits; right under your blue noses. And here I stay.
You can hate me. You can disrespect me. But I won't let you deny me!
I became more and more comfortable in the persona of that cheap,
trashy little slut I portrayed.

We continued with our strap-on play, doing it at any time of day,
anywhere she felt the urge, and in more positions than I knew existed.
Kyra didn't make love to me; she FUCKED me, taking me, using me like
the cheap little fucktoy she was transforming me into. She adored
talking trash while she fucked me. She called me a slut, a tramp, a
whore, a cheap little cum-catcher who lived to suck and fuck, the kind
that belonged on a street corner hustling dates. She chided I had
better get comfortable with that idea, because by the time she was
done with me, that would be all I was good for - and all I cared
about.

I adored that kind of talk. It was my perfect fantasy, like she
had tapped into my very soul and was playing it back for me verbally.
Her repeated, insistent 'mind fuck', in addition to my altered
perception of my appearance and persona, gradually altered the way I
responded to sexual stimuli. She was fucking me more and more, but
stroking my 'clitty' less and less. That did not seem to matter. In
time, she brought me to the most gut-wrenching orgasms without
touching my hormonally-shrunken clitty-cock at all.

The more I experienced, the more I wanted. We checked out the
girls we saw on the streets and in the adult videos we watched
together. We both adored the tattoos and piercings many of them
displayed so proudly. My lover had a beautiful piercing in her navel
and a sunburst tattooed on her left ankle. I had always told her how
attractive I thought they were. Now, she turned the tables.

"You know, Baby, since you are becoming this sweet, sexy young thing,
it's time for you to be 'marked', too. After all, you don't want
people to mistake you for Little Miss Pure-As-The-Driven-Snow, do
you?"

I didn't see how there was any danger of THAT, but the idea was
appealing, nonetheless.

We made a series of trips to a tattoo parlor - with me dressed
like I was workin' it. I didn't even give a thought to appearing that
way in broad daylight. I just popped a pill, surrendered myself to
that warm, wonderful glow, and set off atop my spike-heeled pedestals.
Kyra always knew just the right words to say to put me in the proper
mindset.

"Oh, yeah, work it, Baby! Work it GOOD. Isn't this what it's all about,
Baby? You need to be SEEN, out in public where everyone can lust for
you the way I do. You are the sexy, uninhibited slut you have always
wanted to be. That's what people see. That's how people perceive you.
Now, walk sexy for me. I just love to watch you strut your stuff in
those high heels."

When my "artwork" was complete, I had a scorpion on my left ankle,
a 'pole kitty' in thigh-high boots on my right ankle, a barbed-wire
band around my left bicep, an ornate scrollwork design across the
'saddle' of my hips, a large, blossoming red rose on my left breast,
and the words "Fuck Toy" in flowing script across my right butt cheek.
My nipples were pierced with gold rings. My navel had a matching ring.
My tongue sported twin barbells. A delicate gold ring pierced my left
nostril. The tattoo artist came on to me something fierce. Kyra
encouraged me to flirt with him throughout our visits. At the end of
our final visit, Kyra instructed me to 'tip' him for all his efforts
while she ran an errand. She picked me up forty-five minutes later.
I settled into the plush leather seat as she pulled out, a look of
smug satisfaction on my face, a load of cum in my tummy, and another
oozing out of my love nest.

My lover adored my new look - and taking me out to show off her
'creation'. She changed the rules of our little 'game', too. She
began taking me to dance clubs - and introducing me around. A lot of
the clubs in the city's nightlife district catered to a mixed-culture,
hip-hop/rap/extended dance mix theme. The atmosphere was mostly
singles; Whites, Latinos, Asians, and Blacks. It was my first
introduction to the difference between 'African-American' and 'Black'.
She had been right; there was nothing 'politically-correct' about
many of the Black men we met and danced with. Kyra made certain they
knew I liked to 'party' and insisted I act the part. If a man came on
to me, offered me a drink or dance, or copped a feel of my body, I was
not to refuse. Once I discovered how pleasurable it all was, I lost
my inhibitions. On more than one occasion, I returned from the dance
floor or Ladies' room to discover she had left without me - with some
other man. Was I mad? Jealous? 'Michael' probably would have been.
'Gigi' was too busy with her own pleasures. I just got a ride from
one or another of my admirers. If I liked him, HE got a ride, too -
if you know what I mean.

Soon, Kyra decreed it was sinful for a slut like me to be home,