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What Are Supergirls Made Of ...

Frank caressed the young passerby's face. He didn't want to force her. He didn't enjoy feeling like an asshole. So he just pretended that his body wasn't pinning hers to the greasy pavement. He pretended that the perfume she wore had been meant for him. He pretended that they were on a bed -- but all he could afford was a back alley. Hey, it was the best he could do, and if it wasn't good enough for her, well, fuck her.

She had a beautiful smile. She only showed it once, as they passed on the street, but Frank kept it in his memory.

As he worked open her shirt, she didn't resist, she didn't scream, she just pinched her lips together and closed her eyes. It wasn't usually this easy, so he pretended that she was consenting.

He rubbed against her breasts for a moment, pretending foreplay, but he was getting anxious and went for her belt. Then she chirped out a slight scream.

He glared at her with a rehearsed glare -- a very menacing glare, an almost insane glare. She went silent, but the tears in her eyes, and her shivering body destroyed his illusion of consent. So be it.

Frank was much rougher now, as he pushed down her shorts, and he meant to tear off her panties in one motion, when a tremendous yank from behind snapped the buttons on his shirt and brought him to his feet.

He spun around, expecting some stupid, gallant wimp.

He frowned, and spit out: "Shit!"

There she was, in blue and red. Supergirl, the queen of the bitches. What lousy luck.

Frank was just a rapist -- something no worse in his mind than a man who steals for his food; he was only taking what women should have been giving freely. Why couldn't this kryptonian cunt be out getting real criminals?

But at least it wasn't Superman that caught him. That bastard was cruel to rapists. He'd use his x-ray vision on your balls, and sterilize you right there, before he hauled your ass off to prison. The newspapers said nothing, but it was an underground fact.

Superbitch was something else. She was awfully timid for a girl who could kill you with a harsh glance. The word on her was she's a sucker for tormented guys. Well, Frank thought, I can be as tormented as the next guy.

Sometimes I fly just to relax. When people see me up in the sky, they think I'm after someone or monitoring the city. But sometimes I feel just like a caged bird. Tonight was just one of those times. The air is fresh, and the wind blows my hair wonderfully.

But up here I could hear almost everything, and everything's in plain sight. It was a big city, with lots of problems, and it was hard to relax when someone's in pain.

This time it was a dirty street wanderer trying to rape a terrified young woman, who was too attractive and too small too be walking alone in this neighborhood after sunset. At times like this, I felt right as Supergirl. I pulled him off her.

He spun around as if to strike me, but he recognized me and stopped. I wish he hadn't noticed so quickly; he would have broken his hand on my cheek. I pointed my finger at him, and said "Don't move." I knew he wouldn't.

I helped the girl up. She kept whispering "Thank you" as she adjusted her clothes.

"Are you OK?"

She tried to smile, as she wiped sweat and tears from her face, but she faltered. "Yeah, just shaken up. This has happened before. I can't believe I was so stupid."

I shook my head. "It's not your fault."

She nodded, as she leaned against me. "I know," she said. After taking a few deep breaths, the shock on her face relaxed. She collected herself quickly, I thought. "But this is going to hurt for a while. I know it. God, I should have been more careful. I guess you couldn't understand, but I hate having to be careful all the time. You just never know who's a monster."

"I understand," I said sincerely, but she probably didn't believe me. Maybe she was right; maybe I had lost perspective after all these years.

I talked with her for a little longer, but she seemed fine, so I let her go meet her friends who lived just two buildings away.

The bastard waited just where I told him to, and he was staring at the ground. I walked up to him, grabbed his hair and forced him to look at me. "OK, you want to rape someone, try to rape me."

He didn't meet my eyes. "I don't want to rape you, Supergirl. I'm sorry I got out of hand."

"Don't tell me your sorry."

"But I am. I've never done that before. At first I thought she liked me, then I just lost control."

I shrugged, as I looked as his filthy clothes. Rape is a crime of hate, I reminded myself. But sometimes I couldn't help but wonder of the rapist's pain. He looked pathetic. But I bit my lip. "You sure did lose control!"

He looked at my eyes, but his eyes wandered to my breasts, then to the ground. "You know, a few years ago, I had a crush on you."

I softened a bit. "So ... what difference does that make."

"I don't know. It's just that it hurts that you are the one that caught me."

"Maybe it should hurt. How do you think she felt."

"I don't know," he said while covering his face. "I really don't know. I didn't want to hurt her."

I sighed and did a very stupid thing.

Woman of Steel, hah! I'm just a woman of mush.

I flew over rural areas instead of the city. Not very pretty scenery at night, but I could think in peace. I could think how I let an aspiring rapist go free. I could think about the other crimes I could be stopping right now. I could think of my whole, screwed up life.

"Supergirl," "Superwoman". Feminists and the media call me "Superwoman." Everyone else calls me "Supergirl".

I'm almost forty now, and although Superman and I age more slowly than other people, I feel age creeping up on me, too. Someday, I know, I will lose my youthful appearance and everyone will call me Superwoman. I can't see it in the mirror, yet, but I dread the day that I can. Men will give me other, cruel names that I can't bear to think about. God, I already have so many names. Superwoman, Supergirl, Superbitch, Superwallflower, Kara, Linda Lee and a few other secret identities. No wonder I have an identity crisis.

Clark's the only one who understands my problems, and he's been great. But still things are easier for him. He had earth parents, grew up as Clark Kent his entire life in a nice home.

I came to Earth at seventeen. Everyone I knew before then had died, leaving me as the sole survivor. Only Clark knows that I was raped before coming here, so I didn't lie to that lady today. And I never knew a family here. If Clark hadn't been there, people would probably call me "Superdelinquent".

Even having my powers were a problem. Very few cultures on earth feel totally comfortable with me. Yeah, I am appreciated, but whenever I do some heroic act, I know people would have preferred that Superman did it. Strength was meant to be a male attribute, while beauty and charm give a woman her power. That's the culture I see every day.

That was even the culture on Krypton. I was physically attractive, but still I felt like a woman seven feet tall and with rugged features. I sometimes felt like I wasn't a woman but some freak, and when I used my powers against men -- even criminals, like that rapist -- I felt like I was offending some gender rule. Feminists looked to me to redefine those rules, and they looked to me as a symbol of powerful women. I didn't want any of that; I didn't care about the powers; I just wanted people, especially men, to see me as a normal woman. The only powers I wanted were feminine powers.

Maybe, then, what I was doing as Linda Lee made sense, even if Clark wouldn't talk to me any more if he learned about it.

Clark didn't want to admit it, but the only sexual partners we could have were each other. Some men joke that men who have sex with me turn into eunuchs, but that is exactly what would happen. Superman has the same kind of problem. And if either of us wanted to have children, we could only do it with each other. The only way I could ever really feel like a woman is with Clark, and that would be so easy for me, since I've loved him from the start. But I was not in his plans, so I had to seek my sexuality elsewhere.

I heard a clock chime somewhere, so I knew it was eight o'clock. I turned around and headed for the city. It was time to become Linda Lee again.

Aerosmith blared from speakers everywhere at about 100 decibels, while I stuffed my super-ears with ear plugs.

Noise was my secret weakness, more secret than any of my identities, much more secret than the kryptonite I held in my hand. Depleted kryptonite, that is, totally harmless, and the only substance hard enough for a super-person to shave with. Afterwards, I hid the special razor and worked on my makeup and wig. Outside, the song subsided and gave way to cheers and whistles.

When I was ready, the DJ announced, "Taking center stage is the lovely Linda Lee. Remember, caress her with your eyes, not your hands." The cheering rose again, strobes flashed, and the Cars began to sing "All I Want is You."

I wore red leather, high heeled boots, a vinyl miniskirt-

G-string combination, and a silly looking leather bra -- it didn't matter, I thought, since it was the first thing I would take off.

As "Linda Lee," I was a favorite with the crowd. All of the dancers were attractive, but I danced more energetic routines, and I truly liked many of my fans. I danced to find myself, while most other dancers had dreams of modeling or making movies or just supporting themselves. They smiled on cue, and pretended passion with talent. I had trouble pretending, but often my passion and smile were real, and the audience could tell.

Once on stage, I was swept into my role. "Supergirl" would ponder the wisdom of dancing in the nude before two dozen excited men, but "Linda Lee" never thought twice. It was the only way I could feel like a woman. I danced like an ordinary human, only rarely dazzling the crowd with a special move. Once, I had floated in the air in a ballet spin for just a second. The crowd was awed, and that made me feel more like a woman, not less.

The loudspeaker spoke: "Linda! Where'd you get that bra?"

I shrugged and smiled, playing my part.

"Men, how would you like to see that 'thing' tossed into the crowd, never to touch her beautiful breasts again?"

The crowd approved.

I tossed the leather strap as the crowd demanded, without the usual tease. My breasts were soft and my nipples hard, like a normal woman. Sometimes I considered letting someone in the crowd feel them, to prove to myself that they were normal. If I did, one of the bouncers would beat up the poor man, as if it were his fault.

Soon the Cars gave way to the much slower "Eye in the Sky" by the Alan Parson's Project. The announcer spoke again: "Oh yeah, guys! I can read your mind. Linda, they want to see down under," and I tried to dance smoothly as I undid the cumbersome ties.

Some dancers only trimmed the hair on their "beaver," but I shaved it completely as the crowd wanted. I felt that when men saw me close up, and still believed that I was just a beautiful woman, then I really was. So it thrilled me to show men as much as possible.

A few men stood at the side of the stage, wanting to put a tip in my garter. It was a symbol of the sexual act, and I believed that it was as close to the real thing as I (and many of these men) would get. The tipper wanted a close-

up look, and I tried to maximize it. I lay on my back and pretended to masturbate to the music -- I went further than even the management liked by moving under the sole spotlight. I stroked my revealed lips with my fingers, and occasionally split them to allow a glimpse of my pink insides.

I was too much into it, though, and I forget my role. I shut my eyes and felt a rush. My finger massaged my clitoris, as I was discovering something new. Something I had not planned on. I never had one before; I had often wondered if I even could, but I was having an orgasm -- right on the dance floor. My fingers were now wet, and I spread the fluid all around my shaved triangle. I was lost. My legs were shaking, my body was convulsing, and I never even tried to hold in the moans.

I wonder if the whole stage was moving with me. I expect everyone was watching my fingers, and wouldn't have noticed if it had. After some time, I sat up slowly, and absorbed what I did. I felt a tremendous heat in my face, and a joyous smile. I planted a big kiss on the already stunned tipper's cheeks. The orgasm left a great feeling.

My boss might yell at me later, but it was a great moment.

Finally, I felt like a Super-Woman. I had always awed men with my powers, but now I awed them with my womanhood.

It even felt right that my orgasm was in public, since my heroic acts were also in public.

"Well." The DJ hesitated. "We sure got something special there! Now, it's time for our dancers to rotate.

Linda Lee and Fantasia will move to the tables, as Sensuous Cindy takes front stage."

The crowd was too stunned to cheer, so the DJ played something extra loud by Boston.

I sometimes liked the table dances. I could see the faces of the audience, and I didn't care that the tips were no good. The men wanted me, and I wanted to dance for them. I wanted to have more orgasms for them. God, the manager was going to be pissed at me.

I was surprised that no one was at the side table when I got there. I started dancing when a middle-aged man sat down in the shadows. With a smile, I closed my eyes and tried to give him a show. But my body still felt excited and I had trouble dancing.

"Please do what you did on stage," he whispered. I heard despite the loud music. I even heard the desire in his hoarse whisper. I nodded and lied down on the floor. I wanted to do it, anyway, but I felt better knowing that it was at his request. So I fondled myself again with almost the same effect as before, disregarding what my manager would say. I imagined my fingers were his fingers. My thoughts drifted into oblivion, as I lay there, motionless, after a second climax, staring into the colored lights, when I heard the gentleman whisper the name "Kara."

I looked at the man in the shadows, and I sat up abruptly to see that the man I danced to and showed every inch of my sexuality to was Clark. He had a slight beard and his hair was longer, but I don't know how I could have missed him.

My emotions were jumbled, a little shame, a little shock, and alot of confusion.

"Kara, can we talk? Please get dressed and come outside."

I hurried off-stage and put on a robe. The manager was waiting for me, but I rushed by him. He grabbed my arm, but I didn't stop. "Sorry, I have to go."

Clark was pacing outside, deep in thought.

"Oh, Clark, I don't know what to say."

He shook his head, "I was so shocked to see you there."

"I know," I said. "God, what you must think of me!"

"No, you don't understand." He looked me strait in the eyes Only then did I think about why Clark was there. The strait-laced Smallville hero, I could barely believe it.

"I come here sometimes, like any other lonely guy who has to sleep alone every night."

"It's OK," I said, seeing the pain in him for the first time. I took his hand. "Every man has a libido. Sometimes I forgot you were a normal man, though."

"I never thought of you as a woman, either. I mean sexually. You brought the subject up, I know. Kryptonian Adam and Eve. How we were destined for each other. But hell, you were like a little sister."

I smiled, and sensed his arousal. "And now?"

He smiled shyly. "Well, your not like my little sister anymore. Regular women could turn me on, but I knew it was impossible. You really excited me."

I smiled shyly this time. "Do you want me?"

He touched my cheek and kissed me, as his hand slipped under my robe. "You don't need x-ray vision to see the evidence."

I slapped his hand away with a smile. "Not here."

"Oh, look who's shy now. I guess you want to do it someplace romantic, like on the moon."

"A bed in a hotel will do fine."

He took my arm and led me to his car. "Let us make up for lost time then."

That night, we kept an entire neighborhood awake half the night.

In the following weeks, the world saw a new Supergirl -- a woman who no longer needed to prove herself, and who was not afraid of her powers.