Brandy was looking forward to the next stop.  New York was her kind of town.  It was the guys!  She thought of them more as fans than as customers.  They seemed to really enjoy the show.  But of course she would never refuse the $5, $10, and even $20 bills they would so generously stuff inside her bra and panties.  That’s showbiz!

Every year, their nationwide tour would stop at this lovely theater in Coney Island.  It was much better than the usual county fairs.  She and her fellow artists and performers would do their thing, show their stuff, and receive the love and laughter of their adoring fans. 

The group of performers was growing.  All except the midgets, of course!  Some of the originals were still around, including the Siamese twins, Tom Thumb the 2 foot “tall” man, Handsome Hans with the six fingered hands, and of course, her royal self.  And they had gradually expanded to include fire eaters, snake charmers, the guy that hammers steel spikes up his nose, and the girl that eats and vomits razor blades.  Amazing, creative individuals, all.  And they were hoping to sign on the Boy with Balls on Chin for next year’s tour, if he could be released from his South Park contract.

In front of the mirror, she could not help but admire her own divine femininity.  She ran her hands down her small waist and around her curvaceous hips.  She approved of the lacy push up bra that fetchingly revealed her breasts and cleavage.  She ran a brush down her long, thick head of hair, and then down her long, thick beard.  She smiled as she thought about the next show.  She knew all eyes would dart from her face to her body, and back and forth like ping pong balls.  She knew their laughter and pointing would turn to admiration as they heard her Broadway singing voice.  And she knew that the few who stayed to talk would leave with fond memories of her charm, her humor, and her knowledge of the world.

She was happy with the way her life had turned out.  She was doing all the things she ever wanted: singing, and traveling, seeing the world.  She was making good money.  She had many friends, and a boyfriend who adored her.  She was glad she didn’t have the medical evaluation her mother had wanted her to have.  She didn’t want to be labeled with a hormone disorder, screwed up genes, or with ovaries full of cysts.  She didn’t want to be labeled a freak.  She was just... herself:  a child of God and nature, a gift to the world, a warm, loving, beautiful girl with a beard.

                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~

How well do you accept your own freakishness?