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The last thing I remembered before falling asleep was how dense the fog was as it rapidly rolled into San Francisco from the ocean and engulfed our home at 14th Avenue and Taraval Street and all the other houses with it. I had never before seen anything comparable. The cloud ceiling was zero. So was the visibility. It was as if the gods had deliberately erased the Sunset District. I struggled to stay awake, but couldn’t. Overwhelming fatigue and other invisible forces were tugging at me and I collapsed in a heap. Everything went blank.

The next thing I knew, it was morning, the sun was shinning, and the view from my bedroom window confirmed that my neighborhood had returned to normal after its strange disappearance of last night. As I took stock of my bedroom furnishings and carefully examined myself in the mirror, however, things were decidedly different. Shock, surprise, and joy welled within me as I realized that my life style had literally changed overnight. Suffice it to say, my longstanding prayers had been answered, and I knew that I had better tell my mom, pronto!

“Mother,” I called out as I partially opened my bedroom door just behind the kitchen.

“Yes, dear,” came her cheerful reply as she prepared our Saturday morning breakfast.

“You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve got something to tell you,” I continued.

“What’s that?” she asked in a somewhat bored voice of a mother who has heard tall tales before from her 17-year-old son.

“I’m a girl, now” I answered in a singsong voice.

“Oh, how nice, honey! But don’t let your father hear you talking like that. You know how it upsets him so,” she cautioned. Her warning was most appropriate. My Irish father was a highly conservative SFPD officer, a zealous right-wing activist, and a NRA member. Moreover, I vividly remembered the vicious belt whipping I had taken from him once when he caught me playing dress up in my mother’s clothes. His near-mad epithets of “fairy,” “fag,” and “queer” still rang in my ears.

“Mother, I’m serious,” I said as I stepped into the kitchen. And I was. “See for yourself,” I challenged her.

“Kevin, get out of that nightgown right now,” she commanded. “If your father catches you like that, again, there will be hell to pay.” After a slight pause, and a double take, she added, “And what have you done to your hair? It’s lighter, longer, and more fluffy.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, mother. I really have become a girl. It’s not an illusion.” My tone varied between sarcasm and incredulity at my new and unexplained circumstance. To emphasize my point, I shrugged the shoulder straps of my Aqua-colored-sleeveless gown off, let them fall to my waist, and exposed the upper half of my torso. In doing so, my two pert, A-cup breasts with youthful pink nipples were presented for my mother’s inspection.

“Feel them, mother. They’re real,” I invited.

She did. “Oh, my goodness,” was her immediate reaction, quickly followed by, “Let me see the rest.” Her voice was hushed, almost breathless.

“Yes, mother,” I answered compliantly and let my gown fall silently to the floor. Next, I nimbly stepped out of my matching panties and exposed my Venus Mound to her with its downy pubic hair and unmistakable vertical slit. My mother’s eyes widened as she could see that this was the “real deal.” There was no need to touch it. All she could do was shake her head in amazement or disbelief, probably both. This was followed by a hurried Sign of the Cross.

Then she counseled, “I can’t begin to explain or understand the supernatural, dear, but you’d best get dressed. Your father will be home soon.” She paused. “It’s going to make for interesting breakfast conversation, though, isn’t it?” With that she gave me a wan smile.

“Yes, mother, it is,” I agreed as I picked up my nightwear as decorously as I could and left the kitchen. Just before I closed my bedroom door, I said, “By the way, I may have some questions about certain girl things, if you know what I mean?”

“I’ll be here, dear. That’s what mothers are for, regardless of whether they have a son or daughter. Now, get dressed. God bless!” she reassured me. I fervently hoped so.

Adjusting to my new room décor did not take long. It was a welcome change. Gone were the planes, trains, and gun models that my father had imposed upon me. In their place were miniature figurines, some stuffed animals, cheerleader paraphernalia, and various female accoutrements. About all that remained to remind me of my previous life as a male high-school senior was a poster of Ted Williams swinging gracefully at a pitch in Fenway Park. Apparently, the “Splendid Splinter” transcended sexual orientation and for that reason, he was still here.

I opened a dresser drawer and to my delight, instead of my usual supply of white cotton T-shirts and jockey shorts, I was staring at an assortment of colorful polyester panties and bras. Whew! My knees started to shake. Was this too good to be true? No, the lingerie was real to the touch and I enthusiastically climbed into a pair of light blue panties and hooked up a similarly colored bra with a small ribbon bow at its center between the cups. Then I stood before the mirror and shook my breasts. They jiggled and bounced and I could feel their weight. There would be no more furtive forays into my mother’s closet when my parents were away. From here on, I would be on center stage.

And speaking of center stage, I remembered in a flash that in my new life, I had cheerleader practice in an hour and that I needed to get ready. My best friend, Cynthia, was coming by to pick me up and take us to practice. So in a breeze, I slipped into my uniform’s red brief trunks, matching red pleat skirt, and pulled the blue, long-sleeved shell emblazoned with my high school’s letters over my upper torso. My budding twin mounds peaked gently from my cashmere top like emerging volcanic islands in a distant ocean, hinting of future heights or elevations to come. I quickly arranged my shoulder-length, blond hair into a ponytail and applied some fire engine red lipstick and a touch of blush. I was now ready to romp and tumble for the good old red and blue of St. Aquinas High. The ear-to-ear smile on my face that reflected from my mirror said it all: This sure beat being a boy (Yuk!)

I then waltzed into the kitchen and headed to the breakfast table. My mother inspected me silently with a critical, yet approving eye. That was a good sign. My father was next. He had just gotten off duty and was sitting at the table resplendent in his uniform with its brass buttons and badge. “Come here, little darling,” he bellowed in a friendly tone as he patted his lap for me to sit. “So you’re a Sheila, now, huh?” he exclaimed using the Australian colloquial term for “girl.”

“Yes, daddy. Is that okay?”

“Of course, sweetheart. You were kind of a sissy as a boy. I guess the Almighty realized there had been a mistake and corrected it last night.” He gave me a warm hug. “It will be better this way,” he continued. “No more dropped fly balls in the outfield or strikeouts at home plate for you. No more tears when roughhouse with some of the lads becomes too much for your sensitivities. No more being sent home from scout camp because you are homesick. Yeah, little darling, you’re in your true element, now, Moira,” calling me by the phonetic form of the Irish name, Maire or Mary. ‘Sugar and spice and everything nice.’ “Right?”

I hugged him back in affirmation of my new status, my eyes watered, and I whispered, “Yes, daddy, Yes.”

In my 17 years of being his offspring, I could not remember one time, babyhood an exception, when he and I had been this close or shared intimate affection. Suddenly, he was not the monster perfectionist figure of a Marine Drill Sergeant who constantly intimidated me, but rather, he was a warm, loving, and venerable human being. It was like an epiphany: I could scent his aftershave lotion, I could see faint specks of dandruff on his uniform’s shoulders, and I could even smell the pleasant aroma of brewed coffee laced with a shot of Bushmills Irish whiskey on his breath. It was fun and very daughter like for me to run my polished fingernail hands against the coarseness of his face that was in need of a shave.

“Now, lass, get a move on and eat your breakfast. Cynthia will be here soon. And I certainly don’t want my daughter to be late for practice on the first day of her new life.” With that, he smiled and whisked me off his lap. I gave him a big, wet smack on his cheek as I exited. I could tell that he liked it and I planned a lot more of the same.

Breakfast went by in a blur. The next thing I knew. I was running out the door with my ponytail following me and into Cynthia’s waiting car along with my accessories bag and poms in tow. She was bubbling with enthusiasm. Tommy Richfield, our star, All-City running back at St. Aquinas, was starting to date her. She was literally on “cloud nine.” On our way to the practice field, she did most of the talking and it was filled with typical “girl talk” exclamations. That was fine with me. I just wanted to luxuriate in my recently entered world of total femininity. Thus, I was constantly admiring my nail polish or stealing glances at my bust line or checking my face for blemishes or applying another coat of lipstick. So much so that Cynthia finally stopped me and asked, “Hey, what’s up, Mary? Have you got a hot date tonight?”

“Not yet,” I giggled in reply. “But you never know. And I didn’t.

Cheerleader practice went without a hitch and I was in complete sync with all the precision routines. All the girls were friendly and quite chatty. Boys were very much on our minds, though, because as we did our Sis-Boom-Bah thing on the sidelines, our undefeated varsity football team, the Tigers, with Tommy Richfield leading, was running various drills on the center of the field. I could see that Cynthia was constantly sneaking glances at him and in turn he seemed to be looking at her. I say, “Seemed to be looking at her” with some trepidation because as it turns out he wasn’t ogling her. Guess what? He was checking me out! How do I know? Well, because around 3:30 that afternoon, he called me on my cell phone.

“Hey, Mary,” he began. “Do you know who this is?”

“No, should I?”

“I’m Tommy Richfield.”

“Oh, you’re the jock who dates Cynthia.”

“Naw! We’re just sort of like friends. You know what I mean?”

“No, I don’t. And how did you get my phone number?”

“It really doesn’t matter. The point is that I would like to meet you. I think you’re pretty cute, especially, in that cheerleader rig.”

“What about Cynthia?”

“What about her? We broke up this afternoon.”

“Oh!” That caught my attention.

“I know it’s too late to ask you out tonight for a date, but maybe I could come by your house for just a little while later this evening and we could talk. Kind of feel each other out. Okay?”

“I’ll have to clear it with Cynthia first,” I replied. After a deliberate pause, I said, “I have your number. It’s in my cell phone memory. I’ll call you back if it’s okay. If I don’t call you back, get lost Mr. Richfield.”

“Fair enough, Mary. And I hope you call me. Talk to you later.” Click. The phone went dead. Wow! It was just as complicated being a young girl as it was a guy.

Still, Tommy Richfield was All City. Rumors were ripe that scouts from all the major universities including Stanford, California at Berkeley as well as USC and UCLA were courting him. Even in my former life as a wimpy male, that had not been lost on me. So, I called Cynthia and described Tommy’s phone call to me. Her reaction was one of restrained anger, caution and genuine concern for my well being. “Listen, Mary,” she counseled. “All he wants to do is to get in your pants. Once he does that, he drops you. Believe me, I know. He was in mine last night.” She sniffled and went on, “I’m glad the son-of-a-bitch is out of my life. And for your sake, I hope he doesn’t enter yours.” More sniffles and the sound of Cynthia blowing her nose. Then, “Got to go, now, Moira. Be careful and good luck. Another click. The second I had received in the last 10 minutes.

My left-brain said not to call Tommy Richfield. My right brain insisted I do and I did. He answered on the first ring, “Yeah, babe.”

“Do you still want to drop by my house this evening?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could.

“Of course. What time?”

“How about seven?”

“It’s a deal. Want me to bring a movie?”

“No. You won’t be here that long, Mr. All City.”

“I bet I will.”

“We’ll see. Don’t be late. I might not be here if you are.” Click. Only this time, I did the clicking.

Fortunately, my parents had a social engagement so I knew that our house would be clear from six to at least ten. That would give me more than enough time to practice my feminine wiles and to see how they measured up. The wildly popular Tommy Richfield would be the perfect opponent. If I could handle him, I could handle anyone.

Without blowing my cover to my parents that I had a boy coming over to see me in a few hours, I had to delay my final dress preparations until they left. Not all my time was wasted, however, as I took a long bubble bath.

This gave me the opportunity to explore my new body with all its curves, bumps, and major attraction, if you know what I mean. Soaping all these parts was a delight, particularly, my nipples. They reacted immediately to the soapy touch and I began to get a pleasant sensation that spread from my toes to my you-know-where. Ever so slowly I probed the outer and then the inner regions of my private area with an index finger. The tingling sensations in my lower body dramatically increased to the point that I knew something major was about to happen. Moreover, by now my nipples were rigid and had almost doubled in size. My finger manipulation of my love triangle went into overdrive. So did my excitement. I knew I couldn’t last much longer, but just as I was about to peak in a glorious orgiastic spasm, there was a sharp knock on the bathroom door followed by my mother’s voice, “Moira, dear. Are you okay? You’ve been in there a long time, sweetheart.”

Suffice it to say, her interruption had the effect of an instant blowout of my masturbatory fantasy. The sexual sensations stopped as if a light switch had been flipped and my nipples beat a hasty retreat to a deflated state. I withdrew my finger so quickly from my crotch that I hit my elbow on the side of the tub with a loud “bang.” It hurt!

“Yes, mom,” I lied in what I hoped was an even tone. “Just getting rid of that grime from cheerleader practice.” I paused briefly. “I’ll be right out. Then I want to do my nails. Would you help me, please? I’ll do yours.”

“Sure, honey. Give me a call when you’re ready.”

“You bet, mom. Thanks.”

About 10 minutes later after I had dried and powered myself, I found myself sitting across from my mom with my hand extended as she shaped and trimmed a cuticle. Each of us was wearing just panties, bra, and a slip. It was a wonderful mother and daughter bonding moment that I never wanted to end. Sigh! 19 fingers later it did.

My parents left home a few minutes before six. That gave me only an hour to pick and choose my evening ensemble and do my face before Tommy’s arrival. I would have liked more time, but you have to play the cards as they lay. So I did. With measured haste, I ran through a string of dresses and skirt/blouse combinations before I finally settled on a white, cotton dress with delicate trim and elbow-length sleeves. White, leather huarache sandals with a sling strap complimented my choice. Minimal makeup, consisting of brushed eyebrows, eyeliner, blush, and lip-gloss defined my facial look.

My only jewelry was a pair of small, gold studs in my pierced ears. Underneath my exterior was a venerable cornucopia of exquisite lingerie. I didn’t think Tommy would get that far, but if he did, he was in for a treat. Black, satin panties with a matching push-up bra, beige pantyhose, and a pink, satin slip adorned with ribbon and lace would greet him. As an afterthought and final line of defense, I climbed into a white, nylon long-leg panty (girdle). According to what other Cheerleaders had confided to me, it was a girl’s best friend when it came to a boy’s frisky fingers. We would see. A dab of perfume in strategic places, a final mirror check (my 100th), and I was ready. The doorbell rang promptly at seven. Tommy was on time. Let the games begin. And they did.

He was wearing his St. Aquinas “Senior Jacket” with his varsity football SA letters proudly on display. A button-down-open-collar shirt that was untucked over his expensive chinos gave him an ultra casual look. So did his adorable cowlick and ingratiating smile. I had heard somewhere about guys who were catnip to women. Tommy was obviously one of them. Maybe, I should have worn two panty girdles and had a chaperone as well for protection? Too late! The fox was inside the chicken coop.

All he said was “Hi, Mary. Boy you look great,” and my resolve dropped. I knew my panties would soon follow, but for decorum’s sake, I pretended that he did not have me overwhelmed. As coolly as I could, I looked him straight in the eyes (They were light blue.) and said, “Good evening.” He looked at me in the following order: tits, crotch, legs, and then, oh yeah, my face. Then he walked past me like I was a zombie and made himself comfortable on the couch.

I joined him at the opposite end sitting primly and found myself breathing more heavily than I cared to admit. My façade lasted all of perhaps 20 seconds. Like an octopus, his arms lashed out and suddenly I was in his smothering embrace. We were soon cheek-to-cheek, mouth-to-mouth, and tongue-to-tongue. Next, his hands were feeling my breasts, and I have to admit, I liked it. Unzip went the back of my dress, and my elbow-length sleeves along with the upper portion of my attire were soon down around my waist. I could tell that Tommy liked my pink slip. He liked it so much that soon, he slid the upper half of it down to my midriff as well. My bra was next. Unsnap, unsnap, and the two small eyelets in the back gave way. It piled on top of the previous two clothing items collecting at my middle section, a major intersection, I mused.

In his spare time when he wasn’t either disrobing me or feeling me up, he guided one of my hands to the fly of his pants. I got the message and undid his buckle and zipper. I could feel this huge bulge in his jockey shorts. I pried them down and out sprung this magnificent prick, the kind I think that artists would want to sculpture. The head of it was leaking a clear fluid. Uh-oh, crunch time!

“Would you like me to kiss it, Tommy?” I asked with feigned innocence knowing full well the answer beforehand.

He moaned and nodded his head.

We disengaged from our embrace and I got ready to go down on him. My own privates were aching with desire and my panties were soaking wet. For a moment, I flashed back to this afternoon when my mother almost caught me masturbating in the tub. It was the same feeling and I knew that I was about to come. I had to hurry. It would be a photo finish with regard to whether or not I could get him in my mouth before I came in my panties. At worst, I hoped for a tie. No dice. Before I could apply my lips or tongue to that divine work of art that awaited me, I shot my load inside my black satin panties, which were buried deep under layers of panty hose, a girdle, a slip, and a dress. They felt sticky and uncomfortable. To top it off, I heard a loud phone ringing incessantly in the background. A phone? What the hell was going on?

As I tried to sort things out, Tommy disappeared. So did the love couch we had been sprawled on. Slowly my senses took a survey of my surroundings. I was splayed on the living room floor of my house, alone, and I wasn’t wearing a white, cotton dress. Instead, I was in a short, red, cocktail dress with black fish-net hose. My blond wig was strewn aside of me along with my 4” fuck-me pumps. An almost three-quarter-empty bottle of Bushmills stared down at me from the top of the coffee table. It had been full earlier. An empty glass turned over on its side was its companion. My panties were cold and messy and the god dam house phone kept ringing. I staggered to my feet, shaking my head in disbelief as I went to answer it. My makeup was caked and I needed a shave. Life can be tough when you are a 45-year-old-bachelor-alcoholic transvestite. To top off my humiliation, I had just had a humongous wet dream after passing out the night before. All I could think of as I picked up the receiver was the last line from The Whiffenpoof Song, “Lord have mercy on such as we. Bah, Bah, Bah.”

The voice on the other end was familiar, jocular, and robust. “Hey, dip shit,” my best friend, Tommy Richfield, bellowed, “Are you going to be ready when Cynthia and I come by to pick you up in about 30 minutes? This is the California/Stanford “Big Game,” asshole, and we need to get their early. We haven’t missed one in over 25 years. Remember?”

“Yeah, Tommy,” I chuckled through a dry mouth. “As a matter of fact, I was just thinking about you and Cynthia.”

“That figures. You were our best man at our wedding, amigo. Hell, you’re family to us. But enough of this sentimentality crap.” He paused to catch his breath. “Man that was some fog in the Sunset last night wasn’t it, Kevin?”

“It sure was, Tommy. See ya soon, partner.” Click. I hung up the phone, wiggled out of my semen-soiled panties, and let them drop unceremoniously to the floor.