Sometimes, George wishes that he were a girl.
He would still be very tall and lanky, of course, can't do much about that, but he could wear modest skirts that cover his knobby knees and sweet cardigans that hug his thin frame charmingly. His curly hair would be long and sleek and always prettily styled and he'd probably enjoy wearing things like bows or ribbons. His big eyes wouldn't be so buggish or unsettling, no, they'd be fawn-like. His pretty doe eyes would always be a bit teary and pink around the edges and his voice would crumble to a trembly whine but it's only because he's sensitive and not because he's a crybaby. Nobody likes a crybaby.
And it would be okay, no one would mind that he spends hours turning himself into something pretty and darling instead of being useful or that he has the tendency to cry at the drop of a hat instead of being mature and stoic or even that sometimes his outbursts veer into tantrums. No one would be angry at him because he's just being a girl and girls are such lovely creatures and he would be the loveliest of them all.
George wonders if Toto would like him more if he were a girl. Maybe he would be kinder.
Toto is always very gentle with his girls. George sees it all the time and has to bite his tongue bloody so he doesn't say something that only a jealous brat would say. He keeps quiet but it's so hard, when he sees how Toto makes himself into something softer and sweeter so easily around girls. How effortlessly he rolls his broad shoulders in and bends down at his creaky, achy knees and smiles without showing any of his sharp teeth and only speaks in the deepest, most patient tone, everything big and scary about him melted away to make space for a reassuring figure of authority. Not quite so paternal—daddyish, maybe.
They're not as pretty as me. They're not as quick or as smart or as good as me. I'm so much better than them. Look at me instead. Look at me, Daddy. George thinks bitterly.
And then he feels a bit silly because it doesn't matter if he drives his car the fastest or if he earns the most points or wins the shiniest trophies. It doesn't matter how good he is because he's not a girl which means he might be good enough for Toto to respect but never good enough for Toto to love.
Sometimes, George wishes that he were a girl.
He would be called Georgie and wear sparkly makeup and go to elegant parties and meet many powerful men. Most of them would be mean to her, in the fakenice way older men are mean to young ladies because they think they're dumb and useless, but he wouldn't really mind. Girls are used to that sort of thing, so Georgie isn't very bothered by it. She knows she'll meet a nice man, one day.
Georgie would meet Toto at one of the elegant parties and they'd talk about the lovely music and the vintage cars on display while drinking too much champagne and, when they stumble into a bathroom tucked away in the far corner of the party, Toto would lay his coat down on the marble floor so Georgie's knees don't bruise.
"People would say you are a slut. No slutty marks for my princess." Toto insists at Georgie's bemused frown. "No owies for my little girl. You have such smooth skin, so delicate. I must be careful with you, yes?"
It's hard to talk with her mouth full, so Georgie nods and tries not to gag when Toto pushes her head down and fucks her throat full. After she works herself into a sticky puddle, Toto brushes her bangs away from her sweaty forehead and wipes the overwhelmed tears from her eyes and kisses her wetly, even though she still tastes like him.
"Such a good girl," Toto croons, cradling her face in his big hands. "I am so proud of you. Give me a smile, sweetie."
And so Georgie does, bright and blushing and with all of her teeth.
