The Chelsea Drugstore

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Alton is a frustrated man. The world isn’t fair and there doesn’t seem to be much he can do about it.

The Chelsea Drugstore
By Angela Rasch

He leaned over to adjust the settings on my window-mounted air-conditioning unit. In the process, he exposed a pimplish, hairy, plumber’s crack. Standing tall he turned toward me as he pulled a filthy, blue handkerchief out of his back pocket, and then dabbed at the sweat on his furrowed brow. “That baby’s blowing all ten thousand BTU’s.”

I backed away to give him space to collect his tools. A gentle, cool breeze somehow found its way around his ample girth.

There’s hope I can salvage part of the day. I thought. The high temperature in my condominium had dreadfully upset me -- because the inconvenience cut into my “special” time. If my apartment hadn’t been filled with sweltering heat, I would have been deep into an en femme weekend.

Saturday was my day for all-out dressing, so all traces of perfume and make-up would be gone by Monday morning. Once I had “dressed” on Sunday, and then Sarah in my office remarked the following day about how much my “after-shave” smelled like Obsession. Of course, Obsession does smell like Obsession.

He appeared done with his job and ready to leave.

I suddenly remembered my manners. “Thank you so much. I had been surprised to find someone who would make a service call on Saturday.” Surprised and relieved. The temperature in my condo had already reached 84°. Given the upper ninety-degree day outside, I had considered renting a hotel room for the weekend to avoid melting.

“We do some of our best work on weekends,” he said. “People stop to think when they get away from work, so they know what they want. They become especially good at talking about their desires on Sunday mornings.”

Huh?

The sweat under his arms had turned nearly a tenth of his maroon shirt a color much closer to black than red.

He must be horribly hot from working so hard. “Would you like a glass of pink lemonade, or a beer?”

He frowned as if to tell me that a man who chilled pink lemonade in his refrigerator had committed a high crime. “What kinda beer do you have?” he grunted.

“Cold,” I answered pointedly, but then I felt a blast of the heavenly chill coming from the air conditioner and changed my tune. “I have a nice assortment of imports and a few domestics. Maybe you’d like a Michelob?”

“Ya sure — a Mick sounds good.” He smiled, but with reservation, so as not to be overly friendly.

Gawd! What a homophobe. If pink lemonade bothers him so much, imagine what he would do to me, if he caught a glimpse of my lingerie drawer. “Would you like a glass for your beer?”

Try as I might, I couldn’t take all of the lilt out of my Saturday voice. Thankfully, he didn’t react adversely.

I hate all the stupid games I have to play, so as not to show my femininity. Next thing you know he and I will be talking football. This is my apartment, I should be able to be “me” here, don’t you think? Why does the world have to intrude on my pleasure?

“Sure, I’ll have a glass, please.” He laughed, having considered my question for more than enough time. “I’m civilized, ya know.”

I chuckled on my way to the kitchen to show him that I was one of the boys . . . most of the time.

If losing my job over someone discovering my hobby wasn’t a distinct possibility, I wouldn’t care so much what people think. My active pursuit of sexual partners had ended long ago; I preferred personal satisfaction to all the bother of sustaining a relationship. At twenty-seven, I had become a confirmed bachelor and a master of self-gratification.

I reached into my refrigerator and found a Michelob Light. Then I opened the freezer door of my side-by-side and took out a frosted mug. I noticed with some dissatisfaction that it was the last one. I had planned to drink a tall pink lemonade and vodka from it later. . .leaving lovely magenta lipstick stains on the rim, in the process.

I slid the frosted mug back into the freezer, and then grabbed a mug off the cupboard shelf. “He wouldn’t appreciate it anyhow,” I whispered shamelessly.

Pulling out another mug for myself from the shelf, I tossed in five ice cubes, and then placed a can of Diet Coke on a tray along with his mug and beer bottle, which was already perspiring.

“Hmmm,” I said, talking quietly again to the most important person in my life, “maybe he would like some pretzels.” A check of my pantry revealed two bags, one that had been open for about a week and a new one that still had its seal.

Those old ones are probably a little stale. Maybe I should throw them out, and serve him the new ones?

My job paid well. I had to clock in looking like a straight, conservative, male asshole in a white shirt and tie -- and they in turn rewarded me with $95,450 a year. I could afford to eat fresh snacks. Yet, something made me dump the older pretzels in a bowl for him, and then happily press my way back into my living room.

He still occupied the space in front of the air-conditioning unit -- hogging all the cold.

“Have a chair,” I said cheerily, setting the tray down. I handed him his beer, mug, and pretzels, and then directed him toward my burgundy, leather loveseat, located about fifteen feet downwind. I sighed with bliss as I sat directly in front of the A/C.

He was well-mannered enough to wait perched on the edge of his seat, until I had poured my Diet Coke. “Mud in your eye,” he said, while jauntily tipping his beer bottle toward me.

I reciprocated with a wave of my mug.

His eyes danced around the room, skipping from my eighty-four-inch, oak bookshelf, which I had crammed full of tattered paperback romance novels, to a lighted trophy case that contained too many memories of not enough first-place finishes.

“Are you a bowler?” He asked politely, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

I gasped at the notion of dragging around a huge black ball and wearing funny-colored shoes. “Heavens no. Those trophies are for theatrical performances.” Actually, my “theatrical performances” were drag queen competitions. I had perfected my fetish to the point of nearly always being judged as one of the top three divas.

Thankfully, I had the good sense to remove all the little metal labels and store out-of-sight all those that had engraving right on the trophy. I would have had a horrible time explaining how I won first in the Miss Upper East Side contest. An essential part of having friends or family come over had become policing my apartment, so I could keep my job and the few good relationships I had.

If anyone ever found out, I would be ruined. My boss had once commented, a few years ago, on how he had walked out on “The Danish Girl”-- once he figured out the plot included an “asshole cross-dresser.”

I fantasized about waltzing right into work looking spectacular and letting the chips fall where they may. As long as it remained a fantasy I would be okay, as one of the “chips” that most certainly would fly would be never working in my industry again. I didn’t ever come close to kids, but the stigma would prevent me from doing my job as an efficiency expert in the childcare industry.

No one wants a pervert associated with his or her little bundle of joy. Acceptance and tolerance stop within an arms-length of your progeny. Some people accept women who have had a sex change – but hardly anyone tolerates a cross-dresser.

The repairman munched on the pretzels as if they tasted like the best snack he had eaten in years.

I thought about opening the other bag -- but decided he would only want another beer and that whole cycle of eating and drinking wouldn’t get me into my little aqua Michael Kors print any sooner. I had been dieting for weeks so it would fit. Whatever possessed me to buy a size ten?

“Can we get down to business?” He asked gently.

“Business?” Oh, I haven’t paid him. “I’ll get my checkbook.” I started to rise, but he waved me back into my chair.

“I’m not going to charge you,” he said.

“No,” I responded, a little frightened, “that wouldn’t be right. You fixed my unit; and I’m going to pay.” He had to weigh well over two bills, maybe double my weight, or so -- and unlike my thin arms, his were heavily muscled.

“That was nothing,” he said. “It’s the other problems you have that will take a little doing. Changing the whole world isn’t as easy as it once was.” He leaned back and put his feet up on the coffee table as if to conserve energy he would later need. The bottom of his left shoe had a wad of pale rose gum stuck in the part that doesn’t quite hit the sidewalk. “Back when Noah asked me to clean things up, all I had to do was add water and stir a bit, but what you want done. . .now that’s major duty.” He ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair, which seemed to sparkle as if charged with static electricity.

“I don’t follow,” I said honestly. Maybe I should ask him to get his feet off my furniture; he might get offended and leave — or he might just kick my ass.

He rubbed the bottom of his nose lightly with his index finger and sniffed. “When you called into the shop you asked if I could help you with your problems.”

“No, I didn’t,” I argued, not wanting to extend his stay. “I asked you to help me with my problem.” I pointed to the window unit. “And, you did.”

He shook his head. “Nope. . .you said ‘problemssss.’”

“I said problemmmmmm.” Although I tried my best to sound like “Chuck,” my voice had slipped into “Nancy” -- sounding more like singing than talking.

He shook his head slowly. “Let’s check.” He snapped his fingers and nodded.
“Hello, Dairy Air?” I heard myself giggle and remembered I had just caught the humor in the firm’s name when I said it out loud. “I have some problems here at my condo I would like help with.”

Okay, so I did say “problems.” No one could deny he had recorded my voice and somehow could play it back. But how?

“How?” I asked, wondering how much it would cost to add that option to my phone.

“It’s sort of what you might call ‘magic.’” He smiled. “Maybe it would help for demonstration purposes, if I played something from your file from a few days ago.” He snapped twice and nodded briefly.

“Cynthia is such a bitch.” Again it was my voice. I recognized the context immediately. I had been backstage speaking to the owner of Barely Vagina. My archrival had demanded she go on last in the competition, which was too, too much of an advantage when I’m already five years older than her and. . ..

“What?” I asked, knowing my one-word question would have to do, as I couldn’t possibly say anything more.

“Oh, we don’t tap into private conversations any more than what we have to -- but yours have been quite interesting, for over a year.” He took another handful of pretzels, and then laid his head back on my new sofa throw.

“Ah. . .um. . .ah?”

“I’m a spirit,” he said. “There are more precise terms for what I am in my world -- but I find them too restricting. I’m not one for labels.” He grinned.

I cupped my chin in my left hand, and then leaned forward with my elbow resting on my thigh. I felt faint.

“You’re not going to pass out,” he assured me, looking at his wristwatch, which seemed much too expensive for a tradesman, “but I’ve got a portal to get to; and we need to proceed.”

I shuddered. He’s the devil!

“I’m not the devil,” he laughed, “but I can read your mind. That’s what got me here in the first place. You’ve been visualizing a changed world you’d like to live in -- and I can’t think of a reason why the world shouldn’t be like you want it. I think just about everyone would enjoy life on Earth much better that way.”

I blinked. He’s going to offer to change me into a woman, and then in return, I’m going to have to have sex with him and have his baby.

He laughed so hard tears rolled down the side of his chubby face. “Believe me,” he forced out between his mirthful cackle, “you’re no sex goddess.”

“Then what?” I asked, realizing fully I had no secrets from him.

He stood and stretched. “What?” He paced to the cabinet where my trophies were displayed. “You’ve done well in your dressing-up contests.”

Dressing- up! Well, it’s a lot more than that! “Do you want my trophies, or -- are you going to offer to rig all future runway walk-offs, so I win -- in exchange for my soul.”

He nodded. “That could be arranged, I suppose. Except the maintenance on a soul is ungodly high and the market is severely depressed, so what’s the point?” He moved back to stand just four feet from me. “And, that isn’t really what you want, is it?”

Again with the finger-snapping and nodding. . .and my voice coming out of the thin air.

“Why can’t we have a world where people just leave us alone? Why should people care if I want to put on a dress and make-up? It’s my business, not theirs.” That was me whining to Cheryl at the Barely Vagina; she was really Ralph, an accountant — or so she said. Everyone lied about their name, occupation, age, weight, and whatever else they told you.

I looked up at my visitor’s face. He stared into my eyes. Unexpectedly, he smelled a lot more like caramel than sulfur. If he had chosen a female body to wear while harassing me, I might have wanted to nibble on his ear.

He smirked and covered both of his ears with his hands.

Even though I knew I didn’t have to speak to communicate, I did. “That’s how I feel. People are such losers about things. Women can wear trousers, but if a man puts on a skirt, all hell breaks loose.”

“Not really,” he giggled. “I’ve seen ‘all hell’ break loose. It happens every Halloween. Those guys really know how to get it on.” He stopped and suddenly became serious. “So here’s the deal. . .there is no deal. There’s no quid pro quo. You’ve already earned what I’m about to offer. All you need to do is say the word, and I’ll fix things just like you said. You’ll be able to dress just the way you want, and no one will say ‘boo.’”

My eyes shot wide open and my heart pounded. This can’t really be happening. This whole thing has to be an elaborate hoax . . . but what if. . .? “What the hell! What do I have to lose?”

“You’ll be able to wear your new aqua dress -- or anything else you want -- walk around any place you want, and no one will think anything of it.” He smiled encouragingly. “That little number waiting for you in the other room will look great with your dark skin-tones.”

Damn Skippy it will! I folded my arms across my chest like Barbara Eden. If I could have wiggled my nose like Elizabeth Montgomery, I would have. I settled on Patrick Stewart. “Make it so.”

The next instant he had vanished. Half a mug of Michelob Light sat on the coffee table in mute testimony to what had been one hell of a self-delusion.

I ran my eyes around my living room; still sitting in my chair in the path of the manufactured cool air . . . bewildered. Obviously, I had too much to drink last night. I must have dozed off and dreamt the whole thing. Everything from my A/C breaking down, to a stranger drinking my beer -- has to have been the product of a cheap-wine hangover.

I shook my head and looked at the grandfather’s clock I had inherited from my parents. Nearly noon and I’ve wasted almost half my day. I cleared away the remnants of a strange mental episode and headed for my bedroom.

For the next two hours, I went through an A to Z transformation. My mother had named me “Alton” after her favorite uncle -- and I called the prettier side of me “Zora,” which means “dawn” in Slavik.

Whoever that man had been in my dreams, he had been right; my dress does look fantastic with my skin. I had planned to stay in and enjoy myself in bed, but the vision in the mirror urged me to take a walk.

“I’ve never been outside . . . dressed,” I said to my reflection. “I’ve always been an inside girl” except for the drag theatres and bars where I got dressed on-premises for the competitions, I had never been dressed as a woman anyplace but in my condo. No one other than those who took part in or witnessed one of those gala drag affairs had seen me as Zora.

My make-up is perfect for a walk in the park. My accessories are understated -- but quite attractive. My wig is freshly coiffed. There will never be a better time.

After a thorough Zora-inspection, I decided to give it a shot. What the hell; you only go around once. In competitions, I always lost points for hand size and voice, but only rarely for anything else. If I don’t draw attention to my hands, and don’t talk to anyone, I can pass.

I went to the door before I could convince myself not to. It was as if an invisible hand pushed on the small of my back, forcing me out.

I pranced about twenty steps from my building -- my head held high -- before I realized how imprudent my decision had been. My legs suddenly turned to concrete as fear overwhelmed me. I had lived in the neighborhood forever and knew everyone. . .and everyone knew me. Spinning in a full circle, I saw at least a dozen people I had known for years — as Alton.

Mr. Parkins from the Rotary had his brown and white Jack Russell Terrier on a bright red leash -- and stood nearly on top of me. He smiled broadly. “Zora, you’re looking lovely today.”

I didn’t know whether to turn and run for my door, or gut it out.

Zora? No one knows that name — but me. I never even used “Zora” in a competition, preferring to take on a new name for each one on whimsy. Some of my better ones were: DeFox, Izzy R. Naut, Rita Maeta, and Maci Duecey. “Zora” was mine and mine alone.

He stopped and stared. “Are you feeling okay? That new diet isn’t too much for you, is it? No dress is worth killing yourself over, although I’d say that one might be.” He leered at me as if I was a sex object.

My God. He did it. That A/C repair guy changed me into a woman!

Mr. Parkins’ dog put his paws up on me and stuck his nose in my. . ..

I reached down to protect myself, and grabbed my. . .johnson. Nope. It’s still there.

Mr. Parkins gasped. “Zora! Well, I never!” He stomped off, apparently offended by something rappers do all the time on stage.

I let go of a piece of me I was delighted to still have and smoothed the front of my silk dress.

Before I could collect my thoughts, Mrs. Jones from my church came up to me. “Zora, could I bother you for a minute?” She proceeded to bend my ear about the upcoming church bazaar. She and I chaired the prize committee. She was having trouble getting one of the merchants to pony-up goods for the silent auction. From the way she spoke, and her facial expressions, you would have thought my dress was a suit and tie -- and my face hadn’t been covered with more cosmetics than hers. “. . .and, perhaps next week you and I can go see that skin-flint together. He’ll listen to you. He responds better to a man.”

I nodded. . .lost.

She moved away waving gaily, while throwing compliments my way about all the weight I had lost.

My head spun; and I decided to make myself a moving target, until I figured things out.

What the hell?

Mr. Tson, my supervisor at work, came toward me. “Alton,” he called.

Goodness gracious, he’s wearing an Elie Tahari skirt and blouse! Mr. Tson looked like he had stepped off the pages of Vogue. He’s better with his make-up than I am. I never would have thought. . ..

“Alton, am I glad to see you,” he said with great excitement.

I suppose you are. You’re as nuts as I am -- going out dressed in public, and misery loves company.

“The boss called this morning,” he continued. “I wish the union could find a way to force him to stop calling me at home on Saturday. He loved your report and wants us prepared on Monday to take over the Wadsworth file. Are you willing?”

The Wadsworth Care-center account had to be our most important client. It would mean a promotion. I almost forgot how I was dressed -- as I nodded fiercely.

He continued to babble about the great work I had been doing and how much we needed to get down to brass tacks before Monday. In a haze, I agreed to meet with him at the office for a “Sunday skull-session.” Not once did he mention how I looked, except to ask for the name of my perfume. He wanted to buy a bottle for his son.

As he talked, the sun flashed off his brilliantly painted nails. I must have been gawking at them because he stopped mid-sentence to comment. “I took your advice. I’ve just finished with Maria at Your Nails and Such. Say, she mentioned you were coming in at two. You better hurry or you’ll miss your appointment.”

I looked at my hands and realized my nails were longer than I had ever grown them. The nail shop he had referred to was two blocks south of where we stood. I thanked him for reminding me, firmed our meeting time at the office, and left to have my nails done!

When I opened the door to her shop “Maria” called out cheerfully, “Zora have a seat. I’m just finishing up and you’re next.”

A small TV played a commercial for a movie I had recently seen starring Ted Arneson and Jennifer Grance. As I paid more attention to the film preview, I realized the movie was the same as I had seen, but Ted now starred in the female role and Jennifer in the top male role -- and each was dressed as the other had been in the version I had seen a week ago, at the Rialto.

I turned off the television to give myself time to think -- but couldn’t put everything into a neat box. Taking a deep breath, I decided to go with the flow until an explanation became apparent. While thinking, my hands repeatedly touched my wig, until I realized my own hair had grown two inches below my shoulders.

The sensation of having a complete manicure and polish was as delicious as I had ever imagined. All the while Maria worked on my nails, she kept asking if I had met any new girls. Obviously, she knew me as a heterosexual man.

After paying her with a credit card from my purse, a purse I had never seen before that dangled on my arm, I left her shop. I recognized the numbers on my MasterCard as being very familiar. If I’m not mistaken, it’s the same card I’ve always had.

Everything that needed to be changed to allow me to dress as I want and be accepted has been done, and everything else has stayed the same.

I clicked around the neighborhood for the next three hours in my heels, marveling at how different things were. Everything seemed just perfect. The breeze played with my skirt, flirting with its hem in a friendly tussle that hovered halfway between fun and embarrassment. I had never enjoyed a walk so much in my life.

Men and women dressed in whatever they apparently felt like wearing -- and no one cared. I didn’t see one man berated for his choice to wear a skirt, no matter how hairy his legs or how big his Adam’s apple.

The further I walked, the more I saw that amazed me. My pharmacist, a man who I had thought was as conservative as Ted Cruz, wore a French maid outfit, including fishnet stockings. The policeman on the corner looked like Dorothy from Oz. Everyone covered themselves modestly, but each displayed their own very personal taste in clothing. Gender created no boundaries.

Even more astonishing -- I seemed to be the only one who recalled a world that had been any different. When I asked several people about what had caused the change, I got blank stares for answers.

The only explanation is magic. . .or something.

A window display for a shop called “Chestacular” caught my eye. When I went in I discovered a store devoted entirely to breast forms and other padding for males. I browsed and became fascinated by a display that claimed the last three Miss Americas had used their products. The woman who waited on me called me by name and asked if I enjoyed my new breasts. When I looked down -- I noted life-like breast forms had been glued to my chest.

“They’re wonderful,” I assured her. “They’re easily the best I’ve ever had.” Their competition had been birdseed in a baggie. I purchased a new bra for work and left wondering what awaited me back at my condo. Surely my closets had been magically filled with wonderful clothing. When I had left I hadn’t looked in them, or my drawers, as everything on me had been laid out on my bed well in advance.

Several times during my walk, I refreshed my lipstick and facial powder, and once I spritzed perfume. Other males in dresses around me did the same things.

Best of all, men in dresses carried babies, played in the park with small children, and one man even breast-fed an infant while he sat at a park bench, using a scarf for a modesty cover.

I have nothing to fear at my job.

I quit pinching my wrist to make sure I wasn’t dreaming when I started to raise a welt.

Shortly after six, I made it back to my condo.

Acting more out of habit than anything else I grabbed the body lotion container from my bathroom and headed for my bed -- bent on a bit of personal pleasure.

Never before had I been dressed for so long without sexual release.

I stripped to my bra and panties and flopped down. Much to my surprise, the part of me I had been so relieved to find still attached -- wasn’t interested in sex. I tried some of my old never-fail fantasies, but none of them seemed remotely applicable in my new world. I looked down at my diaphanous lingerie and felt. . .nice, like I would if I was wearing a new tie.

My former sexual daydreams now seemed silly. What had been so deliciously wicked -- now seemed . . . horribly normal.

“Some deals are better than others,” an authoritative voice boomed from my living room.

I pulled on my robe and went out to confront my intruder, knowing who it would be.

The repairman sat right in front of the A/C unit drinking beer from my frosted mug and eating pretzels straight from my new bag.

“It ain’t as much fun in bed now, is it?” He asked, apparently quite pleased with himself. “Without the intense feelings of guilt and shame you’re not as sexually excited as you used to be, are you?”

I nodded slowly -- seeing for the first time that he had lied. There had been a quid pro quo -- a big one.

“Next time you ask for a miracle,” he said softly, “open the new bag of pretzels.”

The End

Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

I have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.

If you buy a book from this list, you’re supporting this site.

Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
The Handshake That Hides the Snake

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Comments

Wacky

OK, so did I dream that I just read this? Or am I simply a short-sighted, absent-minded, accident-prone country girl who has just stumbled into another parallel time-frame warp thingy?

Never mind, you have to go nuts some times and just let your imagination run riot - and you did! Well done!

Susie

Another You?

http://www.harrywarren.org/songs/0515a.htm

Is there another me somewhere writing stories I don't know about, yet?

Thank you for the well done, but I prefer my stories rare.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Wicked

erin's picture

This could certainly have gone in the Strangefellows Day Contest, talk about something going wrong. :)

- Erin

= Give everyone the benefit of the doubt because certainty is a fragile thing that can be shattered by one overlooked fact.

And Had the Rolling Stones. . .

. . .been formed as a band five years earlier, they might have been the Beatles.

Timing, or the lack thereof, is everything. Ask Pete Best or Dick Taylor.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Ouch

I didn't quite see that coming -- or not coming, as the case may be. It's like a Perry Mason title, the Case of the Tepid Transvestite.

Weirdly, it reminds me of a date I once had. ::lol:: Now, I'm going to have to write that up!

-- Donna Lamb, Flack

-- Donna Lamb, ex-Flack

Some of my books and stories are sold through DopplerPress to help support BigCloset. -- Donna

twist

Wow that was some twist at the end!
Hugs!
grover

Nicely done, hon!

And magic, too! Not an area you play in much, but as usual, when you do play, you play very well indeed. *grins* Sad for Alton, but it does prove a point. What you think you want may not be all that you need.

Excellent! *hugs*

Randalynn

You Have To Be Careful

when you get your prescription filled.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Vonnegutesque?

Well Angela,
My,my, smack my girly ass and call me Gwen, there is a sense of humor in there someplace! Naturally you could not resist killing off something, but that's lighter than someone. :) This is a story I would not have been surprised to find in "Bagombo Snuff Box", if Kurt were prone to TG themes. I see that Randalynn liked it too, but she also thinks that Gerry was being punished! Hehee. You just ruined Gerry's world so he doesn't thank you! Nice work.

Gwen

Gwen Lavyril

Gwen Lavyril

Good Reads

I like how this story works on a couple of different levels. There's the light and humorous surface, but also the lower level that really makes you think about what motivates you.

Thank You Jennifer

I'm so pleased you saw the more thoughtful side. It's always dangerous to use a caricature for the protagonist.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

I've always 'known' ...

... that everything eventually becomes 'old hat' (I'm a serial hobbyist, even though the periods last for years) and so why wouldn't dressing simply become something you did because it was pleasant rather than exciting? However, the way Zora gets to realise this makes for a very neat twist and one twisted by a mistress of the technique.

Then there's the magic. I don't think you've done magic before. What next? Altered Fates? Spells R Us? I can hardly wait.

As always, an enjoyable story, thanks Angela.

Geoff

Wonder If I'm the Only One...

...so culturally deprived as to have to Google your title?

Enjoyable story. Didn't guess what the catch would be.

Eric

Eric

That song is an urban legend in my neighborhood. The Stones were in a cab on their way from the airport to a gig, less than five miles from where I live when they asked their limo driver about something. His seven-word answer became the title and one of the most famous lyrics in pop history.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Different versions

erin's picture

The story I heard was they were in Minnesota and their gig hadn't gone very well. Several locals in a small town outside Minneapolis gave them that same line about different things, Mick supposedly having heard it first while trying to get a cherry coke from a soda fountain. Perhaps cherry cokes in England and in the US were made differently and Mick was disappointed.

Anyway, the original line apparently had folk redundancy to it: "Sometimes you don't always get what you want." By the time they heard it again in the cab on the way BACK to the airport, the song was ready to happen. I can't remember the name of the town but supposedly, it was a saying of a local character there which is why they kept hearing it.

Just the version of the story I heard, like you said, an urban legend. Google for it and you can find several others probably. :)

- Erin

= Give everyone the benefit of the doubt because certainty is a fragile thing that can be shattered by one overlooked fact.

Well... ok...

kristina l s's picture

...but...THE STONES...in a cab!! Um.. well anythings possible I guess. Now you're gonna say it wuz before they wuz BIG. Still, cool story, both, um...all of em.
But... it'd be a Chemist or a Pharmacy...not a bleedin' Drugstore. Oh, ok I'm gettin; me titles mixed up...sorry...
Kristina

That Was Sort Of the Point...

A "drugstore" in the UK would presumably be a more informal place where recreational substances changed hands. On Google, sources differ as to whether the song reference is to an American pharmacy/soda fountain or a British pub. (A specific location for the latter has been proposed.)

(And the Minnesota version on Google did upgrade "cab" to "limo", I think.)

Eric

Excelsior

was supposedly the name of the town. It's a small suburb on Lake Minnetonka. I go there to get chemicals for my pool and hottub -- and almost always get what I want.

By the way, in a further legend the Chelsea Drugstore wasn't a drugstore at all, it supposedly was a pub.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Fair trade

To me, exchanging a sexual fantasy for a world where people don't have to be afraid of dressing how they wish sounds like a fair trade. Perhaps things are a little too good to be true, but so far this new world seems to be a better place in general.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Heather Rose Brown
Author of Bobby's Rainy Day Adventure

Heather, My Sweet Friend

I would certainly agree with you, but there are many who would not. For them, the inability to use clothing as "the" sexual stimulant would hellacious.

A world that is more harmonious is a great goal, but everything seems to come at a prioe. To some the price paid in this story would seem meanngless, but do they have the right to ruin another person's existence? The hero's fantasy in this story is his life. He is content to live with his perversion.

This piece was written to stimulate thought about the fetisher. Many, many stories on this and other sites seem to glorify the transitioned person over the fetisher. I've written several like that, in which my heroes have "risen" through the ranks of fetisher to a more "enlightened" state. Is that a true depiction? Are we as a community, maybe a little to quick to segment and judge?

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Perhaps, perhaps not

Like almost everybody, I have that little thing that I love, for me it's hair. I love a beautiful head of hair. So I've been going through the stories on FM with the keyword "hair or hair salon". I've got to say, the "fetisher" story seems alive and well, just going by the general tone of most of the stories. So I'm not sure that the transitioned story has displaced the fetish story.

Like all genres, each one has it's fans and it's detractors. A friend emailed me earlier about a series of books that take place in a fantasy world - magic and swords and all that. Now I can't stand that sort of story, but I love a hard Sci-Fi book. To each his or her own.

Obviously not everybody would be happy in the world that results in this story. But to suggest that there is a "divide" between the fans of various types of stories, with those of one sitting in judgement of the other, may not be quite true.

Up in Oklahoma this weekend there is a GLBTI fair going on that my brother asked if I might be interested in attending. Now, I know that some in the lesbian community in particular look down on transsexuals such as myself. But I don't assume that all feel that way, and I certainly wouldn't allow that possibility to keep me from attending if I otherwise could.

Different stories have different markets, and prompt different responses from the reader. One person's dream come true might be another's horror story. That's the way it goes.

Karen J.

"A dress makes no sense unless it inspires men to want to take it off you."
Francoise Sagan


"Life is not measured by the breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away.”
George Carlin

How much is too much to give up?

I can imagine there might be a few things I might not have the strength to give up, even if it meant the world in general might be a better place to live. I'd like to believe I could give up something I value a great deal for the better good of humanity. Of course, I'm just human. It's difficult to know for sure how we might react when push comes to shove until we actually find ourselves in that situation. All we can do is try and hope things work out for the best.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Heather Rose Brown
Author of Bobby's Rainy Day Adventure

You nailed it

Bryony Marsh's picture

I loved the story. If you’re going to use magic, I think it has to come with a devilish downside, like this. That’s almost a necessary feature of the genre: djinn and faeries trick us poor humans, every time.

A real high-quality tale, if tinged with sadness.

The reason I’m replying in this particular threadlet is to applaud your phrase, “a little to quick to segment and judge?” The T* community can be incredibly coercive with the ever-present pressure to establish a ‘right’ way to do the femme thing. Years ago, the need to conform to what my T* friends thought of as right and proper caused me real anguish. There is no rising; there is no enlightened state... just that people gravitate their way into a particular echo chamber.

You can’t please everyone with any particular piece of fiction, but if you can tell the story you wanted to tell and execute it as well as this... that should make you proud.

Best wishes,

Bryony

Sugar and Spiiice – TG Fiction by Bryony Marsh

Angela, Angela, what will we do with you?

Jenny Walker's picture

Don't you get tired of surprising us constantly? Don't you get bored with your unique creative take on things? Well I for one certainly hope you don't. I've only today had time to read this piece. Yes there is a bit of magic in it which is not your usual thing, but I shouldn't be surprised to find that you don't do it like anyone else.

What a refreshing twist on the magical wish granting front. You have painted a glimpse of a world that will sadly probably never be, but you've done it realistically... if one can do that when using magic in a story. Very enjoyable, stimulates the mind, entertains the spirit and lifts the heart. Thank you.

Jenny

(plus I don't think I found a single error... *sniffles* my work here is done...;)

Jenny - You're the Best

Thank you Jenny. Your No Half Measures is still one of the best TG stories ever wrttten. Of course, I love all three of your novels and am patiently waiting for a fourth.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Why and why not?

I read this before but didn't comment because I thought much of what I wanted to say had been said.

Thoughtful story and I think BC is the right place for it. At FM I think it would get lost in the background noise of fetish stories with a more straightforward tale to tell. This one doubles back on itself to look at its own tail and exclaim, "This'll be the end of me!" ::grin::

Now I've got to wonder if in such a resulting world would I have bothered to transition? Well, I probably would have since I prefer male sex partners but it would have been a very different sort of decision to make sans the pressure of not being able to dress appropriately without changing official genders.

And yet, and yet, I get up in drag more now than ever I did before, heck, I don't wear a dress to work more than once a month, if that. ::lol::

Let's not get into personal kinks here but if I ever had a fetish it wasn't crossdressing. ::grin::

-- Donna Lamb, Flack

-- Donna Lamb, ex-Flack

Some of my books and stories are sold through DopplerPress to help support BigCloset. -- Donna

:)

Angela, this was a sweet one, and you're right, most comes with a price, except possibly unrequited love :) Which has its own price naturally ::))

Anyway, it was real good, with a very nice flow.

interesting!

at least that world wouldn't have the hangups about transitioning, surely. Be interesting to know how many would still feel a need to go all the way if they could be accepted without it....

Thanks, random solos

DogSig.png

What I like...

waif's picture

...about this tale is that it makes the reader think.

This is emphasized by the low number of kudos but very high number of comments.

waif

Be kind to those who are unkind, tolerant toward those who treat you with intolerance, loving to those who withhold their love, and always smile through the pains of life.

Actually, It's Because The Kudos System...

...wasn't around when this story was published. The kudos shown for this story all date from the last four or five years, so most of the readers didn't have a chance to participate. (A previous system in use then had to be abandoned.)

Eric

Never cheat the 'repair-man'

Never cheat the 'repair-man' He just about repaired everything for Zora, didn't he?

Punishment!

joannebarbarella's picture

That's what you get for dishing out stale pretzels!

It does show that most crossdressers, or Alton/Zora at least, are heterosexual. He got what he wanted but the price was a droopy dick. Still, I would happily pay that price to be able to live as a girl.

Wouldn't it be nice?

A good chuckle from days before I was a denizen of BC. Thanks, Jill.

This was one of the few stories.

Sunflowerchan's picture

This was one of the few stories that made me think and question myself. A well deserved Kudo. And a excellent story that has stood the test of time. That you Ms. Jill for sharing this wonderful story with us, It's an echo from the first breath this site took, and a link for us new writers to follow. I'm a better writer for having read it and gleamed an insightful look into the tinkering of your muse.