Chapter Ten: A Boy’s Story

Marcus relaxed into the strong grasp of Amy; the two had enjoyed a dinner of eggplant creole prepared by Miranda at Amy’s apartment, cleaned up the dishes and after a few sips of Drambuie retired to Amy’s bed.  As usual for these once-a-week dinners at Amy’s, Marcus dressed carefully, choosing an outfit from his limited wardrobe of women’s clothes that he felt Amy would most like.  On this particular evening, he chose a casual light blue and green summer belted dress that featured spaghetti straps, a ruffled bodice and a flared skirt that ended in mid-thigh.  He was bare-legged and wore ballet flats.  He tied his hair into a high ponytail and donned a light blue baseball cap, tucking the tail of his hair through the gap in the back. 
 
“My, oh my, you look like you’re fifteen years old,” Amy gushed when Marcus, as Miranda, entered the apartment.   
 
Marcus giggled and did a little twirl. 
 
“Jail bait, if I ever saw it,” Amy teased. 
 
“Kiss me,” he said. 
 
In bed, the two snuggled, kissed and caressed each other passionately.  Marcus felt safe and warm in the older woman’s arms as Amy’s strong hands massaged smooth soft flesh.  Both were naked and they satisfied each other so that Amy gave out with several, loud and excited orgasms and Marcus’ small penis emitted short spurts of semen. 
 
After a while, the two fell asleep.  Marcus’ sleep was interrupted by a repeated buzzing; confused as to where he was, he soon realized it was his cell phone ringing.  Before he could react, the phone quieted, only to begin ringing a few moments later. 
 
“Is that yours?” Amy asked, awakened by the ringing. 
 
“Yes, I guess I better answer,” he said. 
 
Marcus grabbed the purse he used when dressing as Miranda. It was resting on the floor next to the bed. The purse was already filled with those things most women carry about, and he rummaged about in the contents before finding the phone.
 
“Hello,” he answered, his voice thick from the deep sleep. 
 
“Mr. Whiting, you gotta do something,” the high-pitched, excited voice said. 
 
“Who is . . . Jefferson is that you?” 
 
“Yes, you gotta do something.” 
 
“About what?” 
 
“It’s Mrs. Harrison and Mr. Harrison.  They’re going to sell Larry, just like they sold me,” the boy said in a rush. 
 
“What do you mean? Sell you and Larry?” Marcus said.  The boy’s urgent phone call quickly sobered him.  He was no longer Miranda, the submissive young lady engaged in a lesbian affair with his boss.  Now, he was Marcus, the caseworker.  He realized that Jefferson must have been talking about Larry, the eleven-year-old foster child also being raised by the Harrisons. 
 
“Where are you, Jefferson?” he asked. 
 
“Still at Hope Place, but I got this call from Larry just a few minutes ago.  He’s scared Mr. Whiting,” the boy said. 
 
“He called your cell phone?”   
 
“Yes, I told him to call me anytime he was in trouble or something.  Even if Larry sometimes like to tease me, I liked him.  He was always being egged on by Melody who liked to call me a girl,” he explained. 
 
“Well you’re gone from there now and we’ll find you a nice place, I promise,” Marcus said, not too certain that he should promise that.  Foster homes for teen African-Americans were hard to come by.  “But what’s this about being sold?” 
 
“I can’t talk now, but you have to come tomorrow and I’ll tell you everything then, OK?” 
 
“You’re not on my case now, Jefferson.  It’ll have to be Latesha or Amy.” 
 
“No, you.  Only you.  It’s important.  Please,” the boy said and Marcus could hear the urgency in his voice. 
 
“I’ll talk to Miss Dacosta my supervisor about this and one of us will see you tomorrow.” 
 
“No, Mr. Whiting.  Only you.  I have to hang up now.  I’m not supposed to be calling on my cell phone at this time.” 
 
The conversation ended.  Marcus looked at the digital clock on the small table next to the bed.  It read “2:40 a.m.”  Amy by now had awakened and was sitting upright in the bed, covering her naked upper body by holding a sheet up against her breasts. 
 
“What’s that about?” 
 
Marcus summarized the call; the two discussed it before Amy said, “Marcus, go over there tomorrow.  See what the boy has to say and then we’ll decide what should be done.  Just go as his friend, not his caseworker.  I’ll alert Latesha.” 
 
***** 
Marcus found Jefferson the following morning curled up in the fetal position in his room at Hope Place.  “He refused to get up for breakfast this morning,” commented the young receptionist who led Marcus to the room. 
 
“I thought breakfast was mandatory here,” Marcus said. 
 
“It is, but Jefferson’s been acting like he’s frightened.  He’s shivering all the time and he won’t even go to the nurse to be checked.  He’s been cowering in this room since lunchtime yesterday, even skipping dinner,” the woman explained. 
 
“Damn, he sounds desperate.  I hope you’ve kept an eye on him,” Marcus said. 
 
“Oh yes, we’ve watched him on our screen at the desk constantly.  The log shows he got up once to go to the bathroom and our security guard ran to the room to assure he wouldn’t do anything to himself.” 
 
“Good, but how could he phone me at nearly three in the morning if you were watching him?” Marcus asked.  Obviously, their surveillance must not have been as tight as they said it was. 
 
“I don’t know.  I wasn’t on duty then and I didn’t see anything in the log book,” the woman said. 
 
Marcus assured her that he’d be able to handle Jefferson and she seemed happy to leave him in the room with the boy.  The room carried a sour odor that could only be traced from the sickly sweat of the boy in the bed; Jefferson’s breathing was heavy and thick.  Marcus approached the bed and quietly.  “Jefferson, it’s Marcus here.” 
 
The boy didn’t answer; his breathing labored on.  Marcus was convinced the boy heard him and was only pretending to be asleep. 
 
“Jefferson, my friend.  It’s me.” 
 
Still no response.  Marcus knelt down next to the bed and touched the boy lightly.  “Margot, dear.  Answer me.” 
 
The boy stirred and opened his eyes.  He smiled, obviously responding to the female name he had chosen for himself.   
 
“You came, Marcus.  You came,” the boy said, grabbing eagerly at Marcus, who responded by wrapping the boy in his arms.  The boy’s nightgown – he wore a girl’s beige shift – was damp with the boy’s sweat and the room smelled with a mixture of sweet perfume and musky body odor.  Marcus was pleased the boy had ceased addressing him as “Mr. Whiting,” but now used his first name.
 
“Your call frightened me, Margot,” Marcus said.  “I don’t get many early morning calls like that.” 
 
“I’m sorry, but I needed to talk to you right then, really I did.  I’m sorry,” Jefferson said.  He started to cry. 
 
“No need for being sorry, Margot, dear.  I’m here for you now.  Let’s get you into the shower and cleaned up and then you can tell me what this is all about.” 
 
It took nearly the entire morning, forcing Marcus to cancel his appointments with several families, for Jefferson to tell the story of his life.  What Marcus learned as the boy related his story often brought Marcus near to tears. 

The Story of Jefferson Turner 

Jeanine Taylor was a well-educated, talented young African-American woman.  Unlike so many of her girlfriends from the poor neighborhood in which she had been born, Jeanine resisted the lures of men, drugs and sexual pleasures to pursue a career in dancing.  Spurred on by a teacher in the public high school she attended, Jeanine won a partial scholarship to the performing arts program at the local university.  She got a waitress job at Antonio’s, an upscale restaurant, to both help her mother out and pay for her college.  Her shapely long legs, lovely face and a bright, cheerful personality made her an instant success in waitressing, easily winning generous tips.  Though the flirtations by men were constant, she learned to deftly deflect the advances using good humor.  In addition, she proved to be an excellent server and congenial work partner. 
 
Due to the pressures of work, it took Jeanine six years to complete her degree.  While at the university, she often was the principal dancer in several of the university dance group performances.  After graduation, she had been an off-and-on professional dancer, performing in a modern dance group and taking supporting roles in the well-regarded local ballet company.  To earn a living, however, she continued to work at Antonio’s. 
 
One customer, however, was not so easily discouraged.  Khalil Turner somehow found a way to be given a table that was served by Jeanine during his frequent visits to Antonio’s.  Always dressed modestly in a blue suit, white shirt and conservative tie, Khalil was known as a successful real estate developer with a reputation of using his skills to improve the future for the African-American neighborhood sadly in need to jobs. 
 
Khalil’s persistence paid off and eventually the two began dating sporadically, both too busy with their careers to spend much time together.  After a couple of years, they married and a year later, Jefferson was born, coming into the world at under six pounds.  Sadly, however, his birth had been difficult for Jeanine, resulting in the announcement that she should never attempt to get pregnant again since it would almost likely result in the death of both her newborn and herself.  
 
Fortunately, Khalil’s business provided him with enough income to support a wife and child and Jeanine was able to leave Antonio’s to concentrate on raising her son and do occasional dance gigs.  Khalil worked many hours, leaving the young mother at home with young Jefferson and his ears were filled with the ballet music of Prokofiev, Tchaikovsky, de Falla, Copland and others.  He loved to mimic his mother’s dance moves and she often took him to rehearsals where he charmed the adult dancers with his own childish dance moves. 
 
“He’s so graceful,” he was told repeatedly. 
 
At age six, he was enrolled in ballet classes, often as the only boy.  It never bothered him and he was happy to learn the basic moves of ballet dancers, even though they were focused on developing young ballerinas.  It was an idyllic time, as mother and son found much comfort with each other.  Khalil was seldom home, though Jefferson never thought much about his father.  All that ended when Jeanine died, six months after being diagnosed with cancer.  With his wife’s death, Khalil brought his off-and-on mistress into the house to care for Jefferson.   
 
The mistress cared little about Jefferson, ignoring him even when she was supposed to be caring for the boy.  She indulged herself instead by constantly fixing her makeup and hair, or taking Jefferson on long shopping sprees at the mall or gossiping on the phone with her girlfriends.  Left to himself, Jefferson found his mother’s old dance costumes, soon comforting himself by putting them on and prancing about as if he were a prima ballerina.  He looked ridiculous, of course, in the oversized outfits, but he enjoyed his mother’s familiar scent from the clothes.  And he cried a lot. 
 
The boy became rebellious and his pseudo stepmother complained to Khalil when he got home. 
 
“Your mother’s gone, boy.  Dead. Buried.  Never coming back.  Don’t forget that.  Francine is your mother now,” his father yelled at him. 
 
“She’s not my mother,” Jefferson cried out.   “She’s nothing but a . . . a . . .  slut.” 
 
And the beatings began. 
 
Not long after that, the mistress Francine discovered Jefferson dancing about in Jeanine’s costumes.  She tore the clothes off him and threw them in the trash.  Jefferson went into an uncontrollable tantrum and he was locked into his room where he pounded and kicked at the door, eventually giving up and heading to his bed where he cried and cried.  He wanted to join his mother in heaven.  Yes, how could she not be in heaven?  She was a saint.  He saw himself dancing with her, wearing peach-colored tutu, matching tights and looking pretty and feminine.  Some nice old gentleman looked on as the two danced and Jefferson was convinced it must have been God. 
 
His lovely dream ended when he felt himself being jerked up sharply by his arm.  “No son of mine is going to be a sissy!” he screamed. 
 
Jefferson was pulling this way and that, his father slapping him hard, all the time holding onto his arm.   
 
“Dad.  Stop. You’re hurting me,” Jefferson yelled. 
 
“You’re going to start treating Francine with respect, you despicable child,” his father screamed, slapping him even harder. 
 
Jefferson felt a sharp pain in the arm as his father jerked him about angrily.  He screamed loudly, drawing even only more and harder slaps from his father.  The beating ended with Jefferson being thrown down harshly onto the bed and left there in pain.  His father walked out of the room, locking the door behind him. 
 
The pain had subsided in his arm, but Jefferson couldn’t move it.  It was limp and felt dead.  He was happy the pain had been reduced and he soon fell asleep.  His dreams were not happy ones that night. 
 
When he awoke the next morning, Jefferson realized that his arm was hurt badly. Maybe it was broken, he thought, but he felt he shouldn’t complain since it might bring on another beating.  He readied himself for school; neither his father nor Francine had ever assisted him to get up in the morning, made sure he had washed and brushed his teeth, had his breakfast and got to the school bus stop on time.  He had learned to take care of himself. 
 
In truth, he was happy to go to school that day, even though he knew he couldn’t use his right arm.  He couldn’t move it, but felt it would probably get better as the day wore on.  He was glad to be out of the house, away from his father and Francine.  He hated the sweet stifling smell of her heavy perfumes, a stench that permeated the whole house. 
 
When his second-grade teacher Miss Trent saw he was attempting to write with his left hand, she knew something was wrong.  The boy’s face was puffy and his right arm appeared limp.  She walked closer to Jefferson, finally noticing the bruises on his face; they had not been easily seen on his black face.  She took him to the school nurse.  Child services and the police were called and Jefferson became a ward of the state. 
 

*****
When Jefferson finished his story, Marcus said nothing at first and remained silently contemplating the boy's difficult life. It surprised him how strong such a tender young boy could be in the face of all this abuse and humiliation.

Since the age of ten, Jefferson had been in a series of foster homes, often being switched because of behavior that ranged from periods of reclusive silence to times of highly manic rebelliousness.  He was labelled as “hard-to-handle” as one foster caregiver after another gave up on the boy.  He was shifted around between caseworkers, seeming never to have one that lasted more than a few months.   
 
“No one wanted me around,” he told Marcus.  “No one.  I never again saw my father, which is just as good because then I’d have to be with that Francine.” 
 
It turned out Khalil Turner fled the state, not only to avoid child support payments to the state but apparently facing financial difficulties in his development company, and was considered a fugitive.  His mother had been an only child and he knew his grandparents on his mother’s side were both deceased; he never knew his father’s parents.  He was alone, rarely able to make friends; perhaps it was that he never stayed long enough in any of his foster homes or perhaps because he was “a different child.” 
 
When he was twelve, his disruptive behavior caused the Child Protection Bureau to send him into a home for boys, St. Jerome School for Boys, apparently named for the patron saint of orphans, St. Jerome Emiliani.  Marcus was aware of the School, which had a good reputation among the area’s social workers in trying to do the best with too few staffers to deal with some seventy-five hard-to-manage and often destructive teens.  It was really more of a glorified detention center, with housed the children in dormitories, providing them school classes and opportunities for recreation.   
 
As one of the youngest boys in the center, Jefferson was constantly beaten up.  His growing effeminacy likely didn’t help. Marcus wanted Jefferson to tell him exactly how he was harmed, but the boy wouldn’t.  Marcus didn’t press him to talk about it, knowing Jefferson’s memories of the incidents likely caused him not only to relive the horrors but to reinforce his own feelings of inadequacy and failure. 
 
“If it wasn’t for Brother Benedict I don’t think I’d be alive,” he told Marcus, tears flowing into his eyes. 
 
Benedict was a youngish monk who came upon Jefferson while the boy was being attacked in one of the storerooms at the school.  He had been pushed into the room by three boys who took his clothes off, laughed at his weak body and played with his tiny penis, trying to arouse it by tweaking it, kissing it and finally slapping it so hard that Jefferson screamed, a high girlish sound that caused Brother Benedict to check into what was happening. 
 
“They were trying to put some girl’s dirty old panties on me when Brother Benedict charged into the room,” Jefferson related. 
 
It was Brother Benedict who took the boy under his wing, got him assigned to a smaller dormitory where he’d be under closer supervision and alerted Amy Dacosta who had been assigned to Jefferson’s case by then.  Brother Benedict pleaded that she look more closely at the boy’s situation, claiming that if Jefferson could be placed with a loving foster family he’d likely become more settled and flourish.  By coincidence, the Harrisons’ oldest foster child just turned eighteen and was off on his own, leaving a vacancy in the Harrison household, already well-regarded as an ideal foster home for troubled youth. 
 
“I loved it there at first,” he told Marcus.  “They were nice people and I liked Melody and at first I spent lots of time with her, doing mostly girl type stuff, y’know.  I guess after a while, she got a whole bunch of new friends and she forgot about me and even began teasing me.  I was so alone.” 
 
Jefferson began to sob, and Marcus reached over to hold his hands.  The contact seemed to calm him down and Marcus suggested taking a break to see if Hope Place might have something to eat; the boy had missed breakfast and Marcus understood the boy barely ate anything the previous night.  He looked hopeless and frail, thinner than Marcus had ever seen him. 
 
He shook his head.  “No Marcus, I have to tell this to you now,” he said.  Marcus gave him a tissue and he wiped his eyes, brushed his face.  Marcus felt Jefferson needed food and left the room briefly to find something to eat.  The Hope Place receptionist summoned Tatiana who rounded up several doughnuts, orange juice and milk for the boy and a bagel and cup of coffee for Marcus. 
 
***** 
“I think Mother Harrison saved my life then,” Jefferson continued after the brief interlude to eat.  Interestingly, Jefferson asked if he could have the bagel and coffee; Marcus gave him the bagel, but said he really needed the nourishment of the juice and milk. 
 
“Why do you say that?” 
 
“I didn’t think my life was worth saving, Marcus.  I really didn’t and I’m still not sure it is.  Look at me.  Such a . . . what can I say?  Who will ever want me?  I’m nothing.” 
 
Marcus held up his hand as if to halt the boy’s laments.  He wanted to protest, to tell Jefferson that he was a bright, likely talented young man with lots to offer the world, but Marcus knew his words would do nothing to change his mind at the moment.  He had to convince himself of his own worth and Marcus needed to show him that by continuing his story he’d be showing how courageous and worthy a young man he was.  Marcus was convinced the boy had the strength to come through if only he would be given a chance. 
 
“Mother Harrison told me I should really be a pretty girl and that deep-down I wasn’t really a boy,” he said.  “How could she know that?  I always felt I was a girl but I couldn’t tell anyone that.” 
 
Jefferson said that at first he denied wanting to be a girl, but that Mrs. Harrison (the boy persisted in calling her “Mother Harrison”) one day brought in some girl underclothes, a cute skirt, blouse and nylon stockings and suggested he dress up in them.  No one else was home that day and after some hesitation Jefferson said he agreed to put them on. 
 
“Mother Harrison fixed my hair, helped me put on lipstick and light makeup,” he said.  “I really looked pretty.” 
 
He smiled as he related his story.  It must have been the highlight of his troubled life, Marcus suspected.  
 
In the ensuing weeks, Jefferson said his foster mother brought him more feminine clothing, taught him how to do his own makeup and helped him refine his already effeminate mannerisms.   

“All the time, she told me not to tell anyone, even my foster brother and sister or my social worker who was Amy then about dressing as a girl,” he said.  “I was to do it only in my room with my door locked.” 
 
“So, no one else discovered your dressing?” Marcus asked. 
 
He smiled.  “Melody suspected something was going on.  I was acting more and more girly and one day she asked me, did I want to be a girl since I acted and even looked like one.” 
 
He continued, “I denied it at first but she grabbed my arm and twisted it until a said ‘yeah I wanna be a girl.’  She’s so strong.” 
 
“Weren’t you angry at her?” I asked. 
 
“No, because then she helped me become a real teen girl, even let me borrow her clothes.  When Mother Harrison found out, she actually seemed pleased and let us do these girly things together.  Soon Larry was joining with us and he, too, was dressing up.  He’s so cute, Marcus.” 
 
“You hid all this from outsiders, including Amy your social worker?” Marcus asked. 
 
“Yes, we were sworn to secrecy.” 
 
*****  
“Leah, that’s Larry’s girl’s name, and we spent lots of girly time together, even playing with dolls, trying on different clothes,” he continued.  “We giggled a lot and pranced about trying to see who could be the prettiest girl of all.” 
 
Mama Harrison approved it as did Papa Harrison, when he was around, Jefferson said.  “He said I was the daintiest of all the girls in the house. Larry is a bit stronger than me and Melody is like a cow,” he volunteered proudly. 
 
“No one else knew about this, then?” Marcus asked again. 
 
“No, the Harrisons were careful that we’d never go out of the house except as boys, until one night and that’s when it happened,” he said. 
 
“What?” 
 
He hesitated.  “Well, that’s the night the police found me in the street.” 
 
“Yes?” 
 
Jefferson paused at this point, tears formed in his eyes and he turned his head to lower it onto the back of the couch upon which he was sitting.  He began shaking as his sobs mounted in intensity.  Marcus was seated next to him on the couch and wanted to hug him and comfort him, but he knew such affection to be not only unprofessional but perhaps even causing him to be accused of molestation.  He put his hand softly on his throbbing, slender shoulder. 
 
After a while his shaking calmed and he sat up.   Marcus handed him a tissue and he wiped his eyes and dried his face. 
 
*****  
“You poor girl,” Marcus said as Jefferson sobbed.  He had completed telling his story of being beaten and thrown into the street where he’d be viewed as “just another tranny whore.” Marcus no longer fought his need to hug the boy, and his took the boy into his arms, letting Jefferson’s tears to fall on his shoulders. 
 
The story was horrific.  Marcus wondered how human being could treat a defenseless tender young boy with the cruelty and too humiliate him so deeply.  Marcus believed his story; it took Jefferson nearly half an hour to tell him of the event and Marcus let the boy relate the happenings of that evening without many interruptions. 
 
“Mother Harrison told me that because I had been such a good girl she had a treat for me that evening,” he said to begin his story.  “By then, everyone in the house knew I was dressing as a girl when I was home. And, I had been doing more and more of Mama’s housework, helping in fixing meals, cleaning up and even the laundry.  I didn’t mind doing it, because Mama Harrison began favoring me a lot, being real nice.  And I seemed to be good at all this stuff, I guess. 
 
“Melody was also being real nice to me, too, since it meant she was relieved of a lot of the chores she had been doing.  She even gave me some of her old clothes that she had grown out of and helped me learn how to do makeup and be a real girl.  And, Larry, you know he’s only eleven, he even began wearing girl stuff more often.  I guess he felt left out.  Mama said she was proud of her three girls one night, too. 
 
"For a while, I was never happier.  Being a girl was so much nicer than trying to be a boy.  But I was teased and even bullied in school, but I always knew that when I’d get home after school I could be a girl again. 
 
“One night, mama helped me dress up real pretty, like I was a model and she took some pictures.  Papa Harrison then took me out, dressed like that, to a McDonalds and bought me a sundae and I saw lots of boys looking at me.  At first, I thought they were looking at me because they must have seen me as a boy, but no that wasn’t it.  I thought maybe it was because Papa Harrison is white and I’m black.  Papa saw that I was troubled and he told me it was because I was so pretty.” 
 
“How were you dressed?” Marcus asked, hoping the question wouldn’t stop the flow of his story. 
 
“Oh,” Jefferson said, a smile crossing his face.  “I guess you’d say that I was sexy.  I must have looked older, too.  Short skirt and blouse with a scooped neck.  My hair was fixed into cornrows and parted down the middle, with a bun fixed on the back.  I was real cute.  I even had heels, about three-inch, and white pantyhose. 
 
“Papa was so nice to me and then when we left McDonalds he didn’t return to his car but went toward a big black car and before you know it I was rushed into the backseat and placed next to a lady.  She was white and even in the poor light in the parking lot, I could see she was pretty and dressed nice.  And she smelled nice.  There were two big guys in the front, and one was driving the car.
 
“I started to scream, yelling for papa, but no one was around and the lady put her arm around me, comforting me, telling me that no one was going to hurt me and that I’d like where they were going.  I tried screaming some more for papa, but she put her hand over my mouth.  She didn’t hurt me but I found she was too strong and by then we were out in traffic.  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked and she merely said, ‘It don’t matter.  You’ll like it when we get there.’  I could tell she wasn’t educated because she said ‘don’t.’” 
 
I laughed that the boy could make such an observation while in a terrifying situation.  Jefferson continued: 
 
“She put something over my eyes so I couldn’t see where we going, all the time telling me not to worry.  ‘You’ll love it there with the other girls you’ll meet.’ 
 
“I was scared.  Was I being kidnapped?  I had heard about human trafficking.  We had a lecture in school to be wary of strangers now that we were teens.  They often took pretty girls who were like me, kind of without family and put them out as . . . ah . . . I guess you’d say as . . . whores.  I guess I must have been seen as a pretty girl.  Pretty ironic, right?” 
 
Marcus nodded, again impressed with Jefferson’s powers of observation and his perceptions.  The boy’s intelligence never ceased to amaze Marcus. 
 
“Next thing I knew I was inside a mansion, you know, like the biggest mansions you see in movies or on television where rich people live.  They took off my blindfold once we were inside the house.  There was a big staircase and house smelled nice and the woman took me up the stairs into a huge bedroom where there were two other girls.  One was brushing the other girl’s hair.  They were white girls, maybe my age, or older.  I wasn’t sure. 
 
“The woman introduced me to the girls, telling me that they ‘were just like me.’  At first I wasn’t sure what she meant and looked at her and she then explained they too were boys.  I couldn’t believe it they were so pretty and . . . ah . . . I guess you could say soft-looking like real girls.  Their names were Prissy and Pansy, the woman said, and the two girls just giggled.  She told them my name was Margot. 
 
“Then the woman said her name was Kerry and that we three girls needed to be made pretty for the fun we were due to have that night.   Even though Kerry was kind of crude, she seemed real nice.   She told Prissy and Pansy that they weren’t to tease me, just because I was the new girl there. They both giggled again; they seemed to giggle a lot.  Kerry looked at me closely and smiled.  She told me I looked just like a whore and that wouldn’t do for the night. 
 
“Prissy said that I’d have to dress like them.  I frowned since I felt that they looked like sluts with both wearing extremely short peach-colored skirts that exposed their lace panties when they bent over.  Prissy who was tall and a skinny wore a halter top that showed her tiny, but obviously budding breasts.  Her long legs had no muscle definition and were clad in dark mesh stockings; she wore spike heels that appeared to be at least four inches high.  She had long blonde hair that appeared to be natural judging from her pale complexion.  No way was this slim person a boy underneath.    
 
“The other girl was a different type all together, short, cute and curvy.  Her legs were bare of stockings with stocky, soft looking thighs.  She wore a multi-colored peasant blouse with a low scooped bodice that exposed considerable natural cleavage.  She had darker skin and jet black hair.  She smiled easily and I liked Pansy immediately.  Again, I couldn’t believe she was anything but a pretty girl. 
 
“Surprisingly, neither was heavily made-up; they both wore modest, almost natural lipstick and the eyeliner was tastefully applied. 
 
“Kerry told me that we girls needed to preserve an innocent teen girl appearance and that she would soon find a nice change of outfits for me.  That didn’t make sense to me, since both Prissy and Pansy were dressed like sluts, but maybe they thought our faces were innocent-looking. My head was reeling about and felt the whole thing must have been a dream.  I didn’t think Mama and Papa Harrison would send me into any place where I’d be harmed.  Yet, I couldn’t get over the feeling I’d been kidnapped.  I had to find out what I was doing here. 
 
“I asked Kerry, ‘What’s going on?  Why am I here?’  
 
“And she said, ‘To entertain some very nice gentlemen and you’ll be rewarded well, won’t she girls?’ 
 
“Pansy and Prissy just giggled and nodded their heads.  I tried to ask more questions but Kerry just shooed me into another bedroom, loaded with girly outfits.  She had me strip all the way done, even to the nude; I was so embarrassed because I have such a tiny pee pee.” 
 
Marcus smiled at Jefferson now; he fully understood the feeling since his own penis was small in comparison with most young men.  He couldn’t help saying to him, “Jefferson, it’s not the size of our male organ that’s important, it’s the size of your heart.” 
 
Jefferson nodded.  “But I still hate to show my male organ.”   
 
The boy explained that Kerry had him put on a gaff under a pair of pink satin panties and a training bra.  Rather than a skirt, she had him put on a pair of tight cream-colored shorts that ended about two inches below his crotch, exposing his slender and lovely legs.  She left his legs bare and had him wear a pair of ballet flats.  She had a teal green tee-shirt with a panda bear on front; its sleeves were short.  Then she found a matching ribbon to fix to the bun at the back of his head, leaving the cornrows intact. 
 
“She told me that I looked like I was thirteen and that I was very cute.  She said they’d all like me and I asked who ‘they’ were, but she told me I’d find out soon enough.” 

Jefferson paused in his story.

“Do you want to take a break?” Marcus asked.

“Please, I do. This is hard to tell,” Jefferson said. He looked like he was about to cry, but excused himself to go to the bathroom. Marcus was worried the boy might hurt himself in the bathroom and wanted to go in with him to prevent anything to happen. Jefferson must have sensed Marcus’ uneasiness and said, “Marcus, I won’t hurt myself, if that’s what you’re thinking. I do want to continue to tell my story.”

“OK, I’ll be here,” he replied. “Why not take a few extra minutes and get out of the nightgown and put on some clean clothes, Margot?”

The boy nodded in agreement and Marcus used the phone in the room to ask for an escort to return Jefferson to his room. Marcus spent the ensuing twenty minutes phoning several of his families to let them know that he’d be unable to visit and to inquire whether they had any issues that were urgent.

Marcus couldn’t get over how pretty Jefferson looked as the boy entered the room after the break. Though he wore only dark blue Capri pants and a pink tee shirt, the boy exuded feminine loveliness.

“Let’s get back to your story, now, Margot,” Marcus said, still addressing the boy in his feminine name. “You were at the point where you had been dressed as a thirteen-year-old girl.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” the boy said. He continued his narrative:

“At first, it was kinda sweet and nice, Prissy, Pansy and me were all prettied up and then we were led into a huge really big room.  It looked like we were in some sort of palace, you know with chandeliers and high decorated ceilings and all.  I was in awe and then I saw about a half dozen older men sitting on sofas and chairs eyeing us over as we walked in.  Kerry told us to walk like we were models on a runway showing off new clothes.  I loved the idea until I saw the men.  They were all old white guys, and all dressed in suits and looking very dignified like they were senators or something.   
 
“One by one Kerry sent us out to walk among the men and she said to me, ‘Let them touch you, honey,’ and then I wanted to run, but she pushed me out into the room and I guess I felt I had no choice so I recovered myself and tried to walk as dignified as possible.  I heard one man say as I walked in front of him, ‘delicious,’ and then reach to grab me, but I sort of shook my ass at him and sashayed on.  I wasn’t so lucky with the next guy who grabbed my arm and drew me to him and I cursed myself for not being quick enough to avoid him.  Oh, it was awful, his hands were all over me and before I knew it he was carrying me up the grand stairway and into a bedroom.” 
 
Jefferson began to cry and Marcus let him sob for a moment.  “That’s OK, Jefferson, I get the idea.  You need not go any further.” 
 
“No that’s all right, I got more to tell you,” he said. 
 
“I tried to fight back, but he was a big man and strong and he held me in his arms like I was a baby or a doll.  I tried to hit him and he just laughed and called me his sweet little girl.  Finally, I gave up and he sat down on a bed, putting me on his lap.  He caressed me sort of gently then and asked my name.  I told him ‘Margot,’ and he said that was a strange name for a girl like me since I guess black girls weren’t usually given such a name. 
 
“He told me I didn’t have anything to fear, that he wasn’t going to hurt me.  He ran his hands all over me, under my skirt and blouse, his fingers playing with my skin and I could tell he was getting excited.  He found my little pee pee and he played with that for a while.  He said I was the softest sissy boy he’d ever had. 
 
“He was so gentle, I almost believed this was going to be all right and then he forced me down onto my knees so that I was kneeling in front of him as he took down his pants and exposed the largest, fattest penis I’d ever seen and it was all hairy around it.  Suddenly I felt my head being pushed between his thighs and he ordered, ‘put it in your, mouth, my little girl’ and I didn’t move.  ‘Take it now, little sissy boy, you’ll love it,’ and he pressed down so hard on my shoulder, pinching between his huge fingers.  The pain was terrible so I took the ugly thing in my mouth.  Oh, Marcus it was awful and I tried to enjoy it, but I wanted to throw up, y’know, to vomit.  I didn’t know what to do, I was too weak.  Finally, I bit down on the thing as hard as I could, my teeth cutting into it and he let out a scream and pushed me away, calling me a ‘worthless cunt.’  I got up to run out of the room but as soon as I got out the door I saw Kerry and those two guys who picked me up.  I guess the man’s screams must have brought them. 
 
“He roared out of the room cussing and pulling his pants up.  ‘I thought these girls were supposed to know they had to satisfy a man,’ he yelled at Kerry.  Then, he looked at me with disgust and told Kerry to dispose of me. He called me just worthless sissy trash. 
 
“Next thing I knew they dragged me into another room and one of the big guys slapped me hard, knocking me onto a bed where they held me down.  A moment later, Kerry came in and she had a syringe in her hand.  I protested, but I couldn’t move, the man held me down so hard and then I felt the needle go into my arm. 
 
“The next thing I knew I was lying on the street where the police picked me up.  I don’t know how I got there.  I was hurt, but the police didn’t seem to care. They were rough on me.  I guess they thought I was a whore.  It was awful.” 
 
Jefferson broke into deep sobs at this point and Marcus hugged him, rocking this sweet, tender boy-girl as if he were a young child who fell and skinned a knee.  Marcus let him cry. 
 
***** 
“Why didn’t you tell us this at the time?” Marcus asked after another short break. 
 
Jefferson had recovered from the crying; Marcus had taken him outside into a small grassy area that formed sort of a patio for the youth and the Hope Place staff.  Since most of the others were in classes at the time, the place was empty and they found a park bench among a small grove of trees.  The day was warm and the shade provided relief. 
 
“I didn’t think anyone would believe me,” he said. 
 
“Is that the only reason?” 
 
Jefferson shook head negatively.  He didn’t say anything and I decided not to press; I knew he’d eventually tell me.  Whatever it was, it was gnawing at him, I expected. 
 
“Mama Harrison said I shouldn’t tell no one about it, otherwise I could get hurt and so might the others,” he mumbled. 
 
Marcus smiled at the double negative in his explanation, and then immediately chastised himself for worrying about his grammar when he was revealing something sinister and frightening. 
 
“Did she tell you why?” Marcus finally asked. 
 
“Not really, but she was very firm about it and she said it might force me to be sent to another foster family and I didn’t want that.  No way.  And she was so nice to me and treated me like I was her real daughter.  I liked that.” 
 
“Hmmm.  When she said ‘others’ might be hurt, what did she mean?” 
 
“I dunno, maybe the other girls who were at that house with me.”  Marcus presumed by the other “girls,” he meant both Melody and Larry at the house. 
 
Jefferson looked sorrowful.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Whiting.  I just couldn’t tell you then.  I just couldn’t.” 
 
Marcus held the boy’s hands; they were shaking.  “That’s all right, Jefferson.  You’re telling me now.  And you know you’ll have to tell all this to the police.” 
 
“I know.  But I don’t wanna hurt the other girls,” he said. 
 
Marcus assured him that police would protect the others, but that those men were causing harm to young people and were committing a crime.  “They need to be stopped and brought to justice.” 
 
The park area was suddenly being filled with teenagers along with adult staff from the agency.   
 
“Guess the morning break is starting,” Jefferson said. 
 
Marcus believed any chance for more information ended for the time being and decided against asking Jefferson about the second incident when the boy was picked up at the park site in Madison Heights.  That would have to wait, since Jefferson’s appointment with a therapist was scheduled to start.