My Friend Amber

When I first met Amber she was a man. Back in college David was a good friend of mine, he was always full of jokes and his eyes sparkled with secrets. But I often wondered at the insecurity that his jokes were meant to cover. David’s Asian features were rather feminine and accentuated by his long raven hair that flowed around his soft features. One day David sat down to have a talk with me. He took my hand gently in his, and a look of insecurity and even fear came about his features. “Christa,” he said, “I have something to tell you.”
“Here it comes,” I thought. I had noticed David’s awkwardness around his masculinity, his strange emotional outbursts, and had been thinking that he was probably gay. I looked him strait in the eye, determined to give him the support he needed.
“You know you can tell me anything” I said. He squeezed my hand and continued his voice suddenly a soft purr. “I have had these strange feelings my whole life, and I’ve tried to contain them, I’ve tried to make it go away. But finally I have to accept this, I have to accept that this is who I am.” he paused as I waited expectantly, “Christa, I am a woman. I am a woman and my name is Amber.”
Strangely I was not surprised by this. All the pieces slid into place, and I saw a light in my friend’s eyes that I had never seen before. Amber was looking at me, and I recognized that I had seen her before in David’s moments of strength and certainty.
“Amber…” I murmured, reaching out to touch her cheek, and felt the slight stubble of her masculine features. As I pulled her close for a hug, I understood her pain in being trapped in this body that did not reflect her soul.
Amber and I became even closer after that. She began to dress more femininely – faltering at first through the stylistic choices and body language that most women have spent all their lives perfecting. Amber was a skilled artist and her paintings were full of voluptuous female forms lounging seductively on her canvasses. The figures seemed to glow with an inner heat, and the dappled light that played across their painted skin evoked feelings of touch and intimacy.
One evening I went to visit Amber at her studio. She was just putting the finishing touches on a beautiful black nude draped in a swath of wine-colored silk. I was returning from a frustratingly unsuccessful attempt to seduce a beautiful younger woman. We had shared a joint and luxuriated in the smoke-induced euphoria, talking and teasing as we watched a bad movie in her bed. We had lay down together and cuddled, but when I tried to kiss her, she pulled away, her fidelity to her boyfriend finally overriding her excited lesbian urges.
I entered Amber’s studio quietly and watched in silence as she lovingly sculpted the sensual hips and glorious breasts of her creation. My recently thwarted venture still on my mind, I looked at her painting with longing. Amber’s brush stroked and molded the form in the way I wished my own hands could caress this beautiful woman’s curves.