"Making lemonade out of lemons, sir," he replied diffidently in a barely there Irish accent."Right, that is it! There's a good lad. Those Americans an... their phrases," he said genially. His whole demeanor was off, however. He spoke in a jovial tone as if we were friends meeting by chance and planning to enjoy ourselves over a meal or cup of tea, the whole time his eyes bore into me with an intensity that was completely creeping me out. The guards could feel it, too. The two meters they were. She lay there for a few minutes, catching her breath then sat up on the bed, “Very nice, you have earned yourself three stripes. Stand up, bend over as far as you can so the skin on your ass is nice and tight. This is part two of your test; you must grab your ankles and stand there as the stripes are applied. Should you lose your balance the count begins all over and it will continue until you have accepted the cane three times without faltering.” I was in pretty good shape so bending over was. I had submitted one of my short stories to an online writing site for critique, and it had been well received. If I remembered correctly, there was a Valentine’s Day writing contest going on. Maybe I could put how I felt down in a short story and ask her to critique it. I still wasn’t sure though. What if the story sucked, or the idea freaked her out? Could I risk it? I needed a second opinion. *** The guy I needed was working at the library that evening. Wes is one of those guys it would have. “Hello,” the man answered.“May I speak to Tank,” Parris asked.“Who? You got da wrong number?”“I just met you at the grocery store and you said to call.” “Oh. My bad. Yeah. Waddup?”“I was just hitting you back. I’m at home now.”There was a pause and some laughter in the background.“Hey I got a question,” Tank started. “Is you a man or a woman?”“Well, I was born a boy.”“What?”“I said I was born a boy.”“Huh? I cain’t hear you.”“I’m a faggot femboi,” Parris said loudly.“Oh shit. You a boy?!?!? I.
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