Never Enough: A Novel by MiashaNever Enough: A Novel by Miasha

Never Enough: A Novel


Paperback | July 1, 2008

Pricing and Purchase Info


Earn 95 plum® points

Prices and offers may vary in store


In stock online

Ships free on orders over $25

Not available in stores


Some prayed for my death, but I didn't go anywhere. I was a bad bitch before -- wait 'til they see me now....

In a single act of violence, beautiful gold digger Celess lost her best friend, Tina, and her good looks. She also lost her former love, Michael, when he learned her secret. Now depressed, suicidal, and horribly disfigured, Celess gets a phone call that changes her life.

Her heartbreak and a near-death experience transform Celess into a woman whose healed spirit takes her in new directions -- and straight into a modeling contract with one of Hollywood's top agencies. In Los Angeles, she reconnects with two old friends, Terry and Derrek, and through them, finds new friends and a new love. Life is good once again. But under the Hollywood limelight, will Celess's checkered past come back to haunt her and destroy the new life she has built for herself?
Title:Never Enough: A NovelFormat:PaperbackProduct dimensions:240 pages, 8 × 5.25 × 0.7 inShipping dimensions:8 × 5.25 × 0.7 inPublished:July 1, 2008Publisher:TouchstoneLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:141655338X

ISBN - 13:9781416553380


Read from the Book

The Introduction Flashbacks of my life appeared in my thoughts. Tina's pretty smile, money, cars, designer clothes, jewelry, and the men -- oh, the men! I think I might have been smiling in the hospital bed when I thought about the men. Their sexy asses. I couldn't believe the turn my life had taken. I couldn't believe I was up in the hospital once again having doctors fight to save my life. What was going to come of all this, I didn't know. Was I facing life or death? I wondered. And if I was to survive this one, what would I do differently? How would I live my life? I felt myself regaining consciousness as more thoughts filled my head. "Celess," I heard a woman's voice mumble. It grew louder. "CELESS!" I opened my eyes slowly and blinked several times trying to adjust to the bright lights. Ms. Carol was standing over me. "She's awake!" Ms. Carol shouted. A nurse entered the room and began waving her hands in front of my face. Naturally, my eyes followed her hands and that was a for-sure sign that I was no longer in a comatose state. Days later, right before my discharge, Ms. Carol came to see me and try to talk some sense into me. "So," she said, shaking her head back and forth. "What are you going to do, live the rest of your life in and out of the hospital, pitying yourself?" "That's not what I want," I answered, depressed. "Then what do you want?" "I want my life back. The way it was before." "Well, I don't know about that, Celess. I mean, you weren't living right before and that's why you're suffering now." "I know. So really it's not up to me. It's karma." "But you can change all of that," she said, reaching into her pocketbook. "I've been doing some research and I found out that men who go through with the sex change tend to have happier lives post-op than pre-op." I looked at the pamphlets Ms. Carol had in her hands and didn't say anything. "I just think you should do it. I know you want to be a woman more than anything, and you have so much more living to do. This is your second brush with death because of the same thing. How much longer are you going to allow this dark cloud to hang over you? And how many more times do you think God is going to spare your life?" Ms. Carol pressed. I thought about what Ms. Carol was saying and she was right. I did want to be a woman. But I was letting my situation get the best of me. I was letting sadness and depression take control of me, and I was actually getting used to sympathy. Maybe I was pitying myself, and that was no way to live for somebody like me, who'd loved life at one time. Ms. Carol interrupted my thoughts. "You're so young, Celess. You're only twenty-two years old. You have a full life ahead of you. Why let it waste away?" I finally spoke. "All right. I want to do it." Ms. Carol's face lit up. "Are you serious?" she asked. "I mean, by no means do I want you to go through with this on my account. I want it to be something you really want to do." "Ms. Carol, I'm tired of living this way. You're right, I'm only twenty-two. I could be doing so much, seeing so much, being so much. If it was meant for me to die, I would have been dead. God must have a plan for me. And who am I to disrupt that?" Ms. Carol nodded and with tears in her eyes she said, "I just think you'll be so happy. I can see you being this beautiful woman with so much to offer this world." "Well, whatever the outcome, I'm tired of risking my life for one organ. Cut the shit off," I said plainly. Ms. Carol went on to explain the procedure and the costs based on her research. She even gave me the names and numbers of a few surgeons. Most were out of town, but they were specialists and had achieved optimum results. When it was all said and done, I took Ms. Carol's advice. I left the hospital with a mission to accomplish. I was going to be a woman once and for all. Getting sexual reassignment surgery, or SRS, took a lot more than what I initially expected. I thought I could research a surgeon, schedule an appointment, and have it done. That was so not the case. I was ordered to be evaluated by a psychiatrist for six months -- luckily, I had Ms. Carol -- and a medical doctor had to determine me a suitable candidate according to the guidelines of the Harry Benjamin International Gender Dysphoria Association. In the meantime, I opted to go ahead and get the facial feminizing surgery I had discussed with my doctor in the past. I had the forehead surgery, which included scalp advancement, brow elevation, the removal of my superorbital bossing, and the contouring of my orbital rim. I also had a rhinoplasty, otherwise known as a nose job. I waited a month to have a cheek augmentation. Then I got hair transplants. I had just completed my genital electrolysis and was ready for my actual sex change, or a vaginoplasty, as it's called in medical terms. Along with that procedure I was getting a boob job the same day. I stored my sperm in case in the future I wanted to have a baby. I didn't think I would -- especially not with my sperm -- but when the option was presented to me, I said what the hell, you never know. I was nervous going into the surgery, even after undergoing so many others beforehand. But this was the big one, the one that would forever make me a woman. There was no turning back. I spent about nine days in the hospital after having my penis inverted to create a vagina. Then three months later I was back in for the follow-up procedure, the labioplasty, where the doctor basically perfected the form and look of my new sex. The next day I was on my way back home to Philly from Portland, Oregon. I had my name changed legally as well as my Social Security number. It took close to two long, gruesome years before I was done with all my surgeries and I officially became Celess. It took me a little while to get fully comfortable in my new skin. Actually, it seemed like I would never get there. I mean, don't get me wrong -- I was pleased with the results. I looked pretty like I had before I was shot in the face. And my body was right. It was just that I was still self-conscious. I guessed it was because of having been cooped up in the house for so long, and then whenever I did go outside I wasn't receiving attention from men like I used to. A casual hello or a minor glance was all I got; the stop-and-stare and the turning heads were a thing of the past. Maybe it was me, but I kept asking myself had I made a mistake. Had I lost my sex appeal when I lost my penis? I didn't know. But what I did know was that I was bound to be one miserable tranny if shit didn't change soon. Ms. Carol invited me on a shopping trip to Woodbury Commons, an outlet mall of high-end stores in upstate New York. I didn't want to go, partly because I didn't do the outlet shopping shit and partly because I hadn't been in the mood to go anywhere since my transformation. But she practically begged me, and when I thought about it, I realized I could use some lounge-around clothes and I did need some new bras for my recently enhanced bustline. So I decided to go. It was a good thing too, because it was there that I met Brad, a New York City-based photographer. He was eyeing me while I selectively picked through the marked-down items in Dolce & Gabbana. He approached me and handed me his business card. "Excuse me for intruding, but I couldn't help but notice your stunning beauty," he said with what sounded like a Russian accent. I smiled and took the card. Not that I cared what it said or who he was. But the fact that he was the first guy to compliment me in such a way in such a long time made me feel open. Shit, I could have fallen in love with him right then and there. "I'm a fashion photographer and I'm actually in the process of shooting an editorial for Harper's Bazaar magazine -- " "I love Bazaar," I cut him off. I was overexcited and maybe even a little fake, but I couldn't help it. I could not keep my cool with the guy. "Yeah? Well, I'd love it if you could come and do a test shoot for it. I think your look is just perfect for the story." "Well, here, take my number," I said, almost throwing myself at him. "Call me. I'll do it." I gave the photographer my cell phone number and got back to shopping. I didn't have any expectations and figured if he called, he called. Shit, I was just happy he called me beautiful. I heard from Brad a couple days later and took the train to New York that following week. It was right before Christmas in 2004. "Hold that, yes. Great. That's beautiful." Brad guided me as he snapped away. "Last frame." I exhaled after the last flash sparked. It had been one long day in New York. Scene after scene, wardrobe change after wardrobe change, shot after shot. I was exhausted to say the least, but my adrenaline was pumping. "How did I do?" I asked Brad. "Just as I expected," he responded. "Fantastic. You can get changed." I smiled at Brad's report and headed toward the changing room. Inside were two guys who were apparently getting ready for their photo shoot. They looked up and greeted me as I entered. Then they continued doing what they were doing before I walked in. I waited a few seconds before grabbing my clothes off the hangers to see if they would offer me privacy. When they didn't I figured I was expected to change in front of them. The nervousness quickly evaporated as I remembered I had nothing to hide anymore. I was a woman with a well-constructed vagina, and, in fact, I was eager to show it off. I hadn't gotten any opinions on it from people other than doctors and nurses, so a positive reaction from the guys in the dressing room would be a morale booster. I pulled off the big fluffy dress I was in, took down my panty hose, and slipped into my jeans panty-less. I noticed the guys peeking and I smiled inside at their obvious hard-ons. I felt myself growing confident and horny at the same time. Then I thought of having a threesome with them. Hell, they were good-looking young models -- possibly even the next Tyson Beckfords. Fucking them while they were still undiscovered could be an investment in my future. Just as I was fantasizing about a sexual escapade, reality set in. I started asking myself all kinds of crazy questions: What if your vagina isn't ready to be penetrated yet? What if your walls come crashing down? You know you can't naturally get wet like that. What if it hurts real bad? I was tripping myself out pondering all the what-ifs. Meanwhile, the two guys were sending flirtatious glances at me like they were sex deprived and I was the last woman on earth. I figured I had two options -- test my new parts out on strangers who if all went wrong I'd never have to see again, or wait until I got into a relationship with a guy and let him take me for a test drive. It made more sense to go with the strangers. Hell, I done had my share of so-called lovers finding out about my secret. If I was going to get involved with someone, I needed all my shit to be in perfect working order. I ended up letting one of the guys test out my new parts while the other fucked me in the ass, which was tight since I hadn't had any in so long. It felt like I was a virgin all over again. I won't lie, it was awkward as hell and painful, but as my nerves eased and my mind got into it, I was lovin' it like I used to. I guess Brad grew suspicious when I hadn't exited the changing room as quickly as I should have. Who knows? He probably had his ear to the door listening to my moans the way he barged into the dressing room like he already knew something was going on. I just knew the guys and I were in for a cursing out. I mean, we basically turned Brad's studio into HBO's Cathouse. Instead, he asked if he could join the fun. It would have been rather rude for me to turn him down, so I gave him some too. A few days later I got a call from Brad saying that I was chosen to shoot for Bazaar above six professional models. I didn't hesitate returning to New York, and I didn't hesitate fucking Brad once more either. As far as I was concerned, it was that act that got me the gig. Instantly, my mind started to catch up to my body and I was turning back into Celess. My old theory about using what you got to get what you want resurfaced, and I found a new business to apply it to. After my photo appeared in such a major fashion publication, I started getting more print work. From there I landed some runway jobs. I wasn't the best walker, but I was damn good on my knees and I ended up doing two shows during New York Fashion Week in February 2005. I was raking in the dough and making a name for myself at the same time. Nothing could be better. I told Ms. Carol that it was all blessings bestowed upon me, leaving out the extra things I was doing to get where I was. I figured it was none of her business what I did behind closed doors. People were buzzing about me in the fashion industry, and by the summer I had a professional portfolio and was offered a contract with an elite modeling agency in California. I immediately started making plans to relocate. I put my house on the market and started calling all the utility companies I had accounts with to schedule shut-off dates. In the process, I realized that if and when my mom decided to return my calls, she wouldn't get through if I had my house phone cut off. So a day before the scheduled shut-off date, I called her once more. I left a message on her machine telling her of my newfound success and my upcoming move to L.A. I let her know that she needed to call me quickly before my phone was disconnected. Surprisingly, she finally reached out to me. I didn't know if it was because I had told her that I was about to be famous or if she just wanted to see me before I left for L.A. Either way, she arranged for me to visit her the day before my flight out. I walked up to my old house; my mom was out front gardening. Her back was turned to me as I went up the steps. Her lime green short-sleeve shirt and matching lime green capris were a bit tight; I could see that she had put on a few pounds. My mom wasn't what you would call a skinny minnie anymore. I had tears in my eyes, looking at how slowly she was moving compared to how she did when I was a kid watching her tend to our lawn. It made me realize just how much time had gone by since I had seen her last -- how much of her life I'd missed out on. "You still have the best flowers on the block," I said. "Charles?" my mom asked, without turning around. I held out my hands, palms turned up, and replied, "What's left of 'im." My mom turned around to see just what was left of her only son, and her eyes zoomed in on me. She looked me over: starting at my fresh layered weave, making her way down to my white-and-silver Dior tee, faded black Hudson jeans, and finally my silver Dior flip-flops. Standing stiff, tears running down her face, she shook her head. "Charles, look at you." I didn't say anything -- I didn't know how she was taking my transformation. Was she still upset or just surprised? I wasn't sure, so I just stood there quietly waiting to find out. "What did you do to yourself?" she asked, removing her gloves. "Well," I said, not knowing what else to say. "I got a sex change." I stated the obvious. My mom shook her head again and wiped her eyes. "Why did you come here, Charles? Why did you even bother?" she asked. I put my hands down back to my sides and let go of the tears that were waiting patiently in the corners of my eyes. "Because I thought that somehow deep in your heart you would have unconditional love for me like I have for you," I answered her. "But," I said before she could say anything else, "I guess not. Sorry for disturbing you." I turned around and walked back down the steps. My mom watched me as I got inside my rented Dodge Charger. "Unconditional love is one thing, eternal love is another. At some point you have to pray for eternal love, and doing what you're doing, you'll never get it," my mom reminded me. "Good-bye, Mom," I said, starting up the car. With tears streaming down my face I vowed, "I'm going to Hollywood and I'ma be a big star. You don't have to love me. But I guarantee you, the whole world will." I pulled away from the curb and promised myself that that was the last time I would try to make amends with my mom. I washed my hands of her. Copyright © 2008 by Meosha Coleman