A Story Song of the Berdache

A Story Song of the Berdache

By Ellie Dauber
Copyright © 2003 Ellie Dauber

I am Lito.

I am a berdache, man-woman shaman of the Sioux. I walk by night along the roadside in answer to a crow-summons from my clan chief. I am wanted at the clan home on the Black Mountains Reservation to the west. This is a tale from my journey.


It is a long walk across the wintery plain. I pull my deerhide jacket tight around me. Even lined with rabbit fur, it is not enough. I draw more warmth from the lines of magic that flow along the open prairie on the sides of the highway.

I see lights, a pick-up truck, coming up behind me. I take a step farther from the road to hide in the darkness. It is too late. They have seen me. Most people would simply drive by. I sense that they decide to have some "fun" with me.

I can feel their minds. A sour emptiness eats at their souls. I know that I look like a man in woman's blouse and jeans. Men like these would call me "faggot." Men like these dragged a white "faggot" to his death behind their truck. I do not want to think what they would do to an "Injun faggot."

I draw the magics into me. I have done this so many, many times. My body shifts without protest. Maleness vanishes. It is a woman that now stands in their headlights. I am proud of my woman's body. My breasts are high and firm. My waist is narrow. My hips are rounded, the sort that could birth a score of babies.

The men see me clearly in their headlights now. The hate for anything different from themselves remains. But the desire to humiliate me has become a harsh, animal lust.

They pretend politeness and concern. It is cold. They have a heater in their truck. They have whiskey, too, to warm me from the inside. I say that I do not need their warmth. I do not need the whiskey to warm my body and numb my mind. I thank them and walk on. They become more insistent. How odd it is, that they speak of dangers on the road. It is they who are the danger.

When I refuse, I am forced into the truck. I do not struggle very hard. They expect some struggle. They enjoy what they see as my helplessness.

They have had their chance. I lay quietly and draw in the magic as they drive.

The truck pulls off the highway and onto a gravel road. There are not as many lines of magic here, but they pulse stronger away from the fumes of the highway. The truck pulls into a driveway and stops next to a small, darkened house. My captors are brothers. This is their home.

Two hundred years ago -- two hundred winters, my grandfather would have said -- this was all a sea of high grass. A great herd of buffalo, as many as the stars in the sky, roamed this prairie sea. I feel the last remnants of their shaggy spirits. One of the brothers throws me over a shoulder and carries me into the house.

I blink as the lights go on. The house is one large room. I see chairs, a couch, and an old TV. The kitchen is in one corner. The beds -- and when I look at them, the brothers laugh -- are in another.. The room is a midden, a garbage heap. It reeks of spoiled food and sweat and urine.

The brothers are little better. They are tall men, with muscles going to fat. Their dark brown hair is long and uncombed. They have not shaved or bathed in some time. The one who carried me tried to kiss me when he set me down. His breath smelled of garlic and worse.

"Now for some fun," that one says. He is Marlon, the older brother. The other is Dwayne. Marlon yanks off my jacket and tosses it on the couch. His greasy fingers pull at the buttons on my flannel blouse. Buttons pop as it rips open. I started this journey as a male. I wear nothing beneath the blouse. Marlon laughs. His hands roughly knead my breasts like a woman making bread.

"Please do not do this," I say. They do not deserve this last chance. I offer it out of charity.

"Don't be like that, babe," Dwayne says. "You'll like us once you get to know us." I have read their minds. I know them better than they know themselves. There is little to like.

I am wanted elsewhere. I cannot tarry with these men. "If I do what you want, will you let me go?" The bait is tossed.

They both agree. It is a lie. They have visions of keeping me through the winter. I will be sex slave and house servant for them. I have visions, too. Mine have power.

"Promise?" I ask. They raise their hands and make the "king's X" with a finger over their hearts. They have no hearts.

I nod my head. I pretend to be shy. I am like the prairie grass. It bends to the ground before the north wind. When the north wind is gone, the grass remains. My woman's feet are smaller than when I am a man. My boots come off easily. My socks are still in them.

The brothers smile when I unsnap my jeans. I slide them past my hips and let go. They fall to the ground. I step out of them. I am a berdache. My underwear is a pink, cotton panty. Dwayne giggles.

I walk towards the beds. My hips roll as I walk. "Who's first?" I ask.

"First born, first screw," Marlon says.

"Fuck that," Dwayne says. "Why should I get sloppy seconds?" The men glare at each other. Let them fight. Let them kill each other if they want. It would be simpler.

"Toss for it?" Marlon says. Dwayne nods. Marlon takes a coin from a pocket and tosses it into the air. "Call."

A coin, now I am truly angry. I push down my wasted pride.

"Tails," Dwayne says hopefully. The coin lands head up in Marlon's hand. "Fuck!" Dwayne says. That was what the coin decided. I laugh at the joke of it. The brothers do not understand my laughter.

"That there's my bed," Marlon says, pointing. I walk over and sit on the edge. Marlon kicks off his shoes and wriggles out of his own jeans. He sits down next to me. Dwayne sits on his own bed a few feet away.

Marlon grabs me by the shoulders. He pulls me to him. He kisses me. I gag from his breath. His tongue slides into my open mouth. Now I want his whiskey. It would kill the taste.

He finishes the kiss. He moves downward. He rubs his rough tongue across my left breast. He sucks my nipple. I feel his hand on my other breast. He squeezes it as if to see whether it is ripe. I distract myself by gathering in the magic for what I will do.

The groping stops. "I'm ready," he says. He pants like a pony. He pushes me back onto the bed. A hand grabs the waistband of my panty and pulls. The material rips away. I am naked. "Get yourself ready for some good lovin', Injun gal," Marlon shouts.

I am ready.

I release the magic. It flows into both men. It sucks up every bit of their maleness. Then it returns to me. I am male, very male. I am more than six feet tall. My muscles are the hard muscles of a warrior, not the softness of a berdache. My male organ is erect, thick, and very long.

They cannot move. It is a part of the magic. They are small now. Their faces are soft and pretty. Their new figures are lush with female curves. The arousal that they felt as men is still upon them. The room smells of female musk.

I push Marlon down onto the bed. He is wet and loose. I have no trouble entering him. There is fear and surprise in his eyes. I pump away. He screams and screams. The screams become moans of delight. He is moving with me now. His body trembles and bucks with orgasm after orgasm. My own pleasure builds. I grunt. My essence shoots into him.

I climb off of Marlon. He is weak from the exertion and from the pleasure. I touch his forehead. He cannot move.

I walk over to Dwayne. My warclub sways at my groin. I am hard again. He stands. In a trance, he removes his clothes. He lies back down on his bed. I climb atop him. He gets his "sloppy seconds." He screams in delight as his brother did.

Small magics clean me and repair my panty. I resume my normal form and dress. It is late. I am in a hurry. I leave their truck. They will still need it.

Marlon and Dwayne are now Marla and Dana. They are submissive women. Their aggression left them when their maleness left them. They will crave sex with men as others crave liquor or drugs. No one will mind that the brothers are gone and these two now live at the farm. The sisters will be most welcome at the bars, the pool halls, and the truck stops along the highway. They can never say who they were. They will make the long nights more tolerable for many, many men.

Marla and Dana will have much more respect for my Native American brethren. They will have more respect, as well, for the non-heterosexuals they encounter.

It is a small teaching, but it is an effective one.

That is what I do.

I am Lito, I am a berdache.



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This story is 1663 words long.