The Fappening

Part I: The Data Breach

I padded quietly down my stairs and crossed over into the kitchen. I felt the need to be absolutely silent for some reason even though I was, as usual, totally alone. Maybe it was something about the absolute silence of the early morning, with the crisp orange light pouring in through the window, that I didn't want to disturb. Maybe it was just that I couldn't believe that this beautiful home in the Hollywood Hills really belonged to me. I might've been small and the view of the city less impressive than some, but for a 24 year old woman, it should've been impossible. The end result was that I still felt a little bit like I was sneaking in. That none of this really belonged to me and that it could be taken away at any minute.

I had to remind myself every morning as I grabbed a banana and a glass of water that not only was it mine, but that I'd earned it. The packet of papers sitting on the kitchen table really drove that point home. I could see, splashed across the title page the words "Fallen, 2X22, 'Conjuring.'" Fallen was the name of my television show. My. Show. Thinking about it like that never, ever, ever got old. It didn't even matter that I really didn't "get" the show and definitely wouldn't have watched it if I wasn't the star. That's right, the star. I was the fallen angel referenced in the title. I was the superhero ass-kicker trying to get back into heaven's good graces. Or something. I guess people who read the comic book understood what was going on. I just did what I was told. And loved every minute of it.

I sat down at the table with my banana and lifted the script. The number was the production code and the 'Conjuring,' was the name of next week's episode. The second season finale of what had become, in the last few month, a surprise hit. We'd changed time slots after the first season and lost a ton of viewers. We thought they were gone for good. But suddenly, they'd come flowing back and brought along a bunch of their friends. The show was getting renewed. I was getting a raise. There was even talk of my character (portrayed by me, of course) getting tied into the comic publisher's universe for the movie franchise next summer. Somehow, all the sudden, it was coming together.

I'd come to Hollywood when I was 18 years old with a dream to be a star. I'd struggled and bumbled and screwed up so many times that it seemed like I was destined to fail. Literally nothing ever worked out for me. Before I read for "Fallen," I had never gotten a single job. No bit parts, no commercials, no nothing. Hell, I'd showed up at a movie shoot one day and got cut as an unpaid extra. The only way I'd managed to keep my apartment was working weird shifts at a local grocery store chain.

And then it'd happened. I'd showed up at an open casting call for some minor character in the pilot (like I did every possible chance that I got) and , just like out of one of those old Hollywood stories, a producer spotted me in line and moved me to the front. He said that the girl they'd originally cast in the lead had dropped out (if the tabloids are to be believed it was a heroin overdose) and I had "just the look," that they'd been searching for. He even had a sort of real-to-life drawing of the comic book character and he showed it to me.

The fallen angel had long, thick midnight black hair. Her eyes were large, wide set and a deep, icy blue color that looked almost hypnotic. Her nose was small, somewhat upturned, and it gave her face an arrogant, almost haughty look. Her skin was somewhat dark, I guess a sort of olive color. Her lips were full and a darkish red sort of color. She had large breasts (mostly exposed) sitting up high on her chest. Her body had a dramatic hourglass shape with a very narrow waist and wide hips. Her legs were long and slender.

Would it be vain to say that the producer was right? The fallen angel in the comic book looked taller than me, but if you could account for my 5'3, 105-pound frame, then I had to say I was almost perfect. I mean the character had my eyes! What are the odds? The only real difference was that I have a small beauty mark above my lip, to the left side of my nose. I also have a tattoo of a rose on the underside of my left breast (but that never makes it on screen). The audition was a breeze. I'd never had confidence like that before. And when the guys from the comic book company saw me, the guys who wrote and drew for the Fallen for years, they didn't have any doubts. I had the part.

Now here I was, sitting in the home that Fallen paid for, chewing easily on a banana and thinking about what sort of cliff-hanger was in store to end the season. A cliff-hanger...because we already knew we would be back for the next season! It was incredible. I flicked through the pages in the script, but even thinking about the future made me too excited. I had time to learn all of this stuff. Filming wasn't for a few more days. I decided to do now what I hadn't really had a chance to do yet: bask in the warmth of my sudden success.

"Oh come on," I said to myself, "Let's see who Jayne Catalina is dating." It wasn't my real name, of course, but that's what everyone knew me as. My stage name, I guess. Since my sudden rise to fame over the last year and a half, and the relentless publicity machine that is the comic/movie complex, I had become something of a sex symbol. Everyone wanted to know who I was sleeping with. My agent had recently been encouraging me to "become more of a celebrity, less of just an actress," meaning that he wanted me to go out on more dates and be more famous for being famous. But it didn't seem that the tabloids actually needed me to date anyone. Anytime I walked in public next to a famous man (no matter if he was married or what), I was "seen" with him. The same happened to any attractive guy I happened to see on the street. If I said hello, the tabloids would ask whether he was my "new guy." It seemed there was always someone taking pictures of me in public. I guess that was good for my career. If anyone could take pictures of me in private, they'd see I was always alone.

I didn't feel like worrying about that now. Who can feel too bad about being alone when you're just getting famous and everyone wants to know everything about you? I guess more established celebrities (oh god that word! So exciting) get bored with this stuff and then they need something real in their lives. But I certainly wasn't there yet. It was still so...fresh. I reached for the remote and clicked on the little television I kept on the counter in the kitchen (I certainly wasn't cooking in there, might as well have something to watch). The television was already tuned to the celebrity news channel. There was a story about George Clooney's new movie on and I sort of tuned out. Wouldn't be anything about me.

I chomped on my banana slowly and listened out of the corner of my ear for anything interesting. The program had just started and it seemed like they were focusing hard on the movies first. Maybe someday. It was right before the second commercial break when my ears perked up. They had just tossed back to the anchor after a taped segment. She was speaking with a little more somber tone than before, not the excited, gossipy tone that I was used to. I looked up and saw her looking directly at the camera, appearing very serious.

"Well it has happened again," the anchor said, "Several sources are confirming this morning that there has been another celebrity data breach. The private documents of dozens of Hollywood and international stars have been leaked. Most prominently, we are getting word that dozens of nude photographs from some of America's biggest stars are already posted on the internet. Our reports indicate that this could be the largest leak in history with at least two Academy Award nominated actresses included in the mix. One batch of photos purportedly shows a very high profile sitcom actress engaged in an act of adultery."

"How terrible," I said out loud, putting my hand over my face. I'd come to the channel for a little bit of thrill that came with being a celebrity and now I was facing the dirty, underside of it. The complete loss of privacy, the utter lack of security. I felt so bad for everyone involved. I hoped that they would catch whoever did it. Even thinking about the issue was making my stomach turn. I reached for the remote again, to turn off the television.

"Perhaps most shockingly," the anchor continued and, for some reason, I paused briefly, "We have been able to confirm that five photos disclose that a famous starlet, known for her role as a comic book heroine is, in fact, a non-operative transgender woman. More details on this story when we return from our commercial break." And suddenly I was looking at a commercial for eyeliner.

But I didn't see it. I couldn't see anything. My entire field of vision felt like it had gone black. It felt like my heart had stopped beating and my entire body felt icy. Whatever slightly nauseated feeling that I'd had there before was suddenly pushed into a completely different plain. It felt like someone had reached through my skin, grabbed ahold of my intestines, and squeezed for all they were worth. I gagged twice, but my guts were so badly knotted that nothing came out. My skin felt rubbery and it was instantly coated in a thin coating of greasy sweat. I was shivering badly and I couldn't breathe.

Slowly, the shock of the moment started to fade slightly. The blood whooshing in my ears slowed slightly and my vision came back to me. I was still staring blankly at the television screen. There was an ad for cat litter on. I wasn't sure how long I had sort of been out of it. I wondered how long I had before the show came back on. Before the anchor said the name of the "non-operative transgender woman" of stage and screen.

Part of me wanted to run up to my bedroom and find my iPad. I wanted to quickly Google the most recent document dump. I wanted to find the pictures. I wanted to see the evidence. I wanted to know what everyone had been seeing for the last few hours. But I already knew what I would find. The first hits on Google, the little indented news ones at the top, I could see the headlines already, "Actress Jayne Catalina, 24, secretly transgender" or "Jayne Catalina, 24, of Fallen born a male, sources indicate," and below that in the general search results, in the blogs, "Jayne Catalina is a tranny!" or more likely still, "Jayne Catalina has a dick and you're all perverts for wanting to fuck her!"

It didn't make sense to go and look. I already knew. I was a "young starlet," I was known exclusively for my role as a comic book heroine. And sitting between my legs, as it had been since the day I was born, as a small, incongruous cock. It had never fit me, but I'd never gotten rid of it. Through all of the hormones and all of the other surgeries to transform my body, it had remained a part of me.

It would probably be impossible to untangle all of the reasons that I'd chosen not to have the ultimate surgery. I could fill up an entire book with my intersecting and contradictory motivations. But, if I had to pick the primary reason it was probably, counter-intuitively, that I wanted to be famous. Ever since I was a little girl (and I was always a little girl, regardless of what was between my legs) I saw myself on television. Or in the movies. And, as I got older, I realized that if I wanted to be an actress, if I wanted to be famous, that meant sacrifices. And not just the normal sacrifices most people make (leaving home, foregoing school, that kind of stuff). I was in a unique situation.

Growing up, of course, I knew I was different. And I also knew that being different was bad, regardless of what Disney movies and Nickelodeon television shows had tried to teach me. It is a lesson that any different kid learns very fast. Sometimes someone would get to know you. You'd like them, they'd like you and it would be great. Then they'd learn who you really were. They'd drop you so quickly...When my parents moved me from my hometown to Denver, Colorado when I was 9 years old, I went as Jayne and I never looked back at the person I was before.

It was probably around that time that I decided I wanted to become beautiful and famous. I was lonely, I remember. It wasn't my natural inclination to be standoffish. That wasn't who I was. But that's what I became, because I had to be. But it never sat right. I knew that I still needed affection. Affection that even my supportive(ish) mother couldn't provide. I knew that I needed love, maybe even adoration. The older I got, the more refined my fantasy became. I saw myself on magazine cover, giving interviews on late night television, answering fan mail. I saw myself reaping the love of the world. From afar. From legions of devoted fans who cared about my every utterance, who followed my every move, but who didn't really know me.

That way I could get what I needed, without letting anyone get too close. Allowing someone to love me, rather the idea of me that I presented to the world was...dangerous. So dangerous, for so many reasons. And strangely, I guess that is why I kept my cock. Because I knew that I would always want something more. That there could never be enough love in the world for me. Or that a single kind of love would never be enough. Even if I was loved by millions, I would always want to be known by one. And so I kept my penis, as a reminder to myself that I couldn't let anyone in. A reminder that if anyone got too close, I would absolutely be found out. Even if I removed my penis, if I opened to the world, they'd find out it was once there. And they'd never forgive me for letting them love me under false pretenses. My penis was the insurance policy I kept to prevent myself from becoming careless.

And even with all that, it hadn't helped. I'd been found out anyway.

But that's the thing, I couldn't figure out how I was careless here. I had never let anyone see me naked. I wouldn't even strip down to a bathing suit or panties unless I was absolutely sure that my...'secret' was double taped down and flat against my body. Tucked up high between my legs. I'd never had a boyfriend (or girlfriend) and I had certainly never taken any naked photographs for myself. Only a handful of doctors, bound by redundant confidentiality agreements and professional creeds, knew about me. They certainly never took pictures. Did they?

I looked up at the television. Commercials were still on. The sunlight reflected off of a wind chime that hung from the back window of my house. The light struck my eye, blinding me for a second and forcing me to look down. The window. Suddenly I remembered. I knew exactly where the pictures had come from.

My first day in the house, a couple of weeks ago...I was so happy. I had gotten up out of bed and, without even bothering to put on my panties and my robe (the outfit I was wearing at that exact moment), I had just headed downstairs. The thick carpet in the bedroom felt so good on my feet...the air conditioned air felt so titillating against my bare skin. I hadn't even been able to help myself. I just want to take advantage of the freedom my new home provided. No more roommates. No more windows opening up on the busy alley behind the Chinese restaurant. Just privacy that belonged to me. So I'd walked.

I must've spent...I don't know...twenty minutes just going about my business around the house before I realized it. I was luxuriating the morning sunlight, just like I was doing now. And somehow, it dawned on me that this place was different from my old apartment in a lot of ways. The windows weren't tinted and there weren't bars on the outside because I didn't have to worry about meth-heads trying to break in. The windows themselves were massive. The view went on forever. And while all of that was lovely in theory...it meant that there was an unobstructed view into my house! I had basically dropped down onto the floor then and crawled back up the stairs to my bedroom and got dressed. My face was so hot and red it could've melted steel. Only once I'd gotten completely dressed had I breathed a sigh of relief. I remember say, "Dodged that one."

But now I knew that I hadn't. Someone had been out there, in the hills or in the valley below. There were dozens of people who followed me around most of the time now to get my picture. One of them had been really enterprising. He had somehow lucked out and gotten a view of me, standing their naked with my tits and my balls out, and he'd snapped some pictures. And now they were included in this "leak." And my career was over.

No, it was a lot worse than that. My life was over. I couldn't even imagine what was going to happen to me next. I didn't even want to think about walking back up to my room and seeing my phone. I was sure that my publicist and agent had already called to tell me that it was over. I was sure that there were calls from dozens of reporters. And hate mail. If they leaked anything I was sure they leaked everything. I'd have thousands of death threats already with more to come. People who had lied and said they'd dated me or who had just been insinuated with me would be ostracized. I would be more famous than ever but I'd never make any money ever again. I would be publicly humiliated and abandoned. All the love, all the new adoration that I was just starting to get...it would all dry up. It'd be gone. I'd turn to hate. And in a few months it would be gone. And I would be alone forever.

As these thoughts raced through my head, my body grew tighter and tighter. I could feel the pressure building all around me. I could barely breathe. I wanted nothing more in that moment than to rush back up to my room, to climb into bed and pull the covers over my head. I never wanted to come out. I wanted to stay there until I died of thirst. I didn't want them ever to find my body. The wrong body.

And I would've tried too. I know I would have. I would have climbed up the stairs and done...something. But I was locked in place. I couldn't die until I heard the actual death sentence was issued. I needed to hear the television say my name one last time. Finally the commercial was over, the anchor was back on television. She still had her serious look on, like she was disappointed to have to give the news. But I knew the glee they felt. It was such a...big story. I took as deep a breath as I could and watched.

"Welcome back," she said, each word dribbling from her mouth impossibly slowly, "As we reported before the break..."

"Oh Christ just fucking say it!" I moaned, putting my head down on the kitchen table and gasping for breath. She recounted pretty much exactly what she had said about the Oscar nominees and the adultery before the break, without naming names. I wondered if she was even going to say my name.

"And, perhaps most shockingly," she said and I felt my chest tighten. The whole world slowed down. I could barely hear her above the sound of my body collapsing on itself, "our sources were able to confirm five of the photographs show clearly that actress..."

"Oh Jesus," I whispered, unable to say anything else. I had everything I had ever worked for. I'd just about the grabbed the end of the line and now I was ready to start climbing up. And now it was getting yanked from my grasp. And it would never come back again.

"Bella Radnor, famous for her portrayal of Agent Double X in the Liberty Squad movie franchise is, in fact, a non-operative transgender woman. Needless to say, Hollywood is shocked by these startling revelations. Let's turn to our panel..."

For a long moment I sat completely silent in my chair. The television was little more than a buzz in the background. It felt like the entire world had fallen away. The words the anchor had spoken were rattling around in my numb mind and my body was totally and completely still. Everything was totally and completely still. Only one coherent thought managed to make its way from my brain. But I had to say the words in order to understand them.