Da Doo Ron Ron Ron

Synopsis:

This is the mirrored story of “Adjustments” posted 9/10/06. It's told from the POV of the husband.

Story:

Da Doo Ron Ron Ron
By Angela Rasch

Our dog stared out at the sprinkler in the middle of our yard and dreamed about what he would do, if he only got the chance. We never allowed him out of the house when the sprinklers were on, because he’d once dug a hole the size of a garbage can lid around that particular sprinkler. His wagging tail indicated that he was perfectly content waiting; and so was I. Plotting his conquest kept my dog sane: I hadn’t found a way.

My recent trip to the doctor had been the single biggest item on our “to do” list for weeks. Not that I was really ill. For about the last six weeks I had been experiencing a feeling of warmth, sometimes associated with flushing; it spread over my body and was accompanied by perspiration. My symptoms sounded strangely like the hot flashes Sandra had been having for the last eighty gazillion years. I went to the doctor because I couldn’t believe I cared enough about Sandra to have empathetic hot flashes.

Even though I had never really been sick a day in my life, I had taken plenty of sick leave. I would moan and sniffle if my body temperature varied by more than a tenth of a degree. It was the only way I could get any valid attention from my life partner.

I’d only been to the doctor three times in my life other than school or life insurance physicals. Any caring wife would have hounded me to have regular checkups. “People die in hospitals,” she would say, “and you only go to the doctor if you need to go to the hospital.”

The doctor went through a thorough check-up and a list of questions regarding my diet. I had long ago given up caffeine and spicy food and showed no signs of cancer or any other disease or illness that might be the cause.

“He gave me this bottle of pills,” I said. I held them up for her inspection, demanding a comment I doubted was forthcoming. “He said they’re estrogen. He wants me to take estrogen!” Sandra lived in world about two inches in front of her nose. I’m not really sure why I told her the pills were estrogen; I suppose I thought it would get a rise out of her. It had been years since we’d had anything resembling a real conversation, in which one or both of us wasn’t lying or at least presenting a false reality.

Hopefully those pills contained something that would pep me up; I’d been lethargic ever since I’d retired and been faced with seemingly endless days of living with her.

She was looking at the expensive wristwatch I’d wasted on her for our thirty-fifth anniversary. Five o’clock, time to make our evening meal. I bolted for the kitchen.

“I’ll get dinner,” I said, scooting by her. “I’ve got it all planned out.”

In my retirement I’d taken over the house. She hadn’t cooked a real meal in almost four months. Let me take that back. Her cooking reflected her putrid soul; she tortured food until it flopped down on our plates in rancid resignation. We could barely eat my fare, but I was getting better every day and already could cook rings around her.

“Sandra, you just sit yourself over there so we can talk; and I’ll put something together. You fed me for thirty-five years; and now it’s my turn.” I’d been using the same line to take over every other household chore.

“Sandra, you’ve washed clothes for me for thirty-five years; and now I can do it for a while. Sandra, you’ve vacuumed for me for thirty-five years; and now I can clean for a while.” The lengthy list of domestic duties she couldn’t accomplish effectively was as long as my enumerations of justifications for revenge.

I had been offered a retirement package I couldn’t refuse, nearly six years before I wanted to retire. I had no hobbies; my friends were still working and would be for seven to ten more years. Basically I had no life.

It intended to do every household chore; and she was to do -- nothing. I’d heard about people who retired and died within months. That was my plan for her, unless something better came along. I meant to ease her along toward a cardiac arrest. To supplement that effort, I’d developed a devilishly simple secondary plan — I would kill her with kindness - which was both lethal and legal. I would wait on her hand and foot until the mortician carried her away in a pine box.

She’d worked for a few years, until Brian had been born. Because of her complications during his birth, he had been our only child. In 1987, he went to Glacier National Park with his buddies and had an unfortunate meeting with a grizzly. That bear killed a little of both Sandra and me, in addition to our Brian.

At first we’d maintained the marriage for the sake of our son; after he died, the amount of pure hate I had for that woman kept me near enough to her to inflict revenge.

My best friend, Dan, thought the world of Sandra. He said any man in his right mind would love to be in my place. BUT. . .what did he really know about her?

“Estrogen,” I moaned. “Isn’t that what you take?”

“Mmmmm.”

“A man shouldn’t have to take estrogen,” I whined. “But, if I have to - to stop those darn hot flashes - I suppose I should.”

Then I had a decisive moment, one of those flashes of brilliance that separates the weak from the powerful. If I played my cards right, I would drive Sandra to her grave within months.

If there was one thing Sandra despised it was an effeminate man. She was totally femophobic. Throughout our marriage, if I wore a shirt or pair of slacks that were colored anything but those colors brought over by the Puritans, Sandra would call me a fairy. Singing the National Anthem at a ballgame brought her wrath down on me for “acting like a sissy in front of people.” It was okay for women to sing, “but men should preserve proper decorum.” I would find ways to act like a sissy; and it would kill her.

She buried her head in a “National Geographic” and intently studied a story about extinct reptiles. Reptiles are resilient to change and somehow make it through one era and out the other. Just like Sandra.

“What if I grow breasts?” I forced my eyes wide as if I was dismayed at the thought of such a horrible fate. Her head flinched. That had hit her where it hurt. My plan was set in concrete. I would find a way to act so feminine that she would expire. She would turn black and curdle, just like milk or cottage cheese. At that point, I would set her out on the curb; and the big blue truck would pick her up with its mechanical arms and haul her away to the landfill.

I had been a good father and excellent provider. Even though she had done everything she could to turn our son against me, I had remained calm; and had brought home a weekly paycheck. She had demanded a household allowance. Through miserly spending, she’d raked off a good deal of that money, which she invested in an account I wasn’t supposed to know about. Often I had to spend other money to have even a minimal amount of food in the house or to do much needed maintenance.

Her investments barely broke even. Once I saw what she was up to and how incompetent she was at managing money, I put all the raises and bonuses I got after that straight into a retirement account. We had nearly three million in the bank and seemed bulletproof through our retirement — especially after I would arrange for her to die young from shame and apoplexy. She would never divorce me and take a chance on losing her share of the money.

“I’m having enough problems already,” I said, carrying on my look of despair. “A man’s testosterone level goes down in his older years.”

“Oh,” was all she said. It was amazing that she’d missed another opportunity to tell me that she never had an orgasm with me.

Before Sandra and I met, I had spent the night with one of the women in the office. Linda was full figured and blondish-cute. I had been the first in the office to sleep with her, but not the last. She organized her version of a company welcome wagon and eventually topped a dozen willing sexual partners who sat in cubicles around her. Then she compared all of us. I had been ranked as Linda’s best lover.

On another occasion I had been in a bar when an old girlfriend and her new husband sat down with me. She drank a bit too much and suddenly stated to him, “You could learn a thing or two about what to do in bed from Ron.”

And yet, somehow it was my fault that Sandra never fully enjoyed our lovemaking. She would sigh and say, “That was . . . okay.” As the years went on, she expanded her attacks upon my “inadequacies” by suggesting that I look into products she saw advertised in magazines and on television that promised an increase in the size of my penis - or better performance. Eventually I gave up sex with her entirely.

I looked across the kitchen. She probably was thinking about Dan, which she did quite often -- and never failed to tell me about in some way. He pretty much looked like he had when he stood next to me at our wedding. He was a metro-sexual long before it was popular. He worked out and was fairly into himself.

Dan’s wife, Nancy, had been a wonderful woman. I’d been in the room with Dan and her when she died two years ago. His strength had been admirable throughout the ordeal, almost to the point that I wondered if he really loved his wife.

Sandra finally took a look at the pill bottle. Obviously she wasn’t familiar with the name of the drug, but I was. I knew exactly what they would - and wouldn’t - do.

“The doctor had a sample of those in his cabinet,” I said. “He gave me a whole year’s supply for nothing. Isn’t that something? Just so long as I don’t wake up one day with a vagina.”

I was wearing one of her aprons, which looked appropriate. I had left my hair grow out, because I no longer had to answer to “the man.” My long hair would blend right into the plan I was formulating.

“Can I get you a nice cold glass of ice water, Hon?” I asked. “Your magazine? Some cheese and crackers?” I added a little lilt to my voice to get under her skin.

She got up and circled a date on the calendar. March 5th. Six months in the future. She didn’t say what that date was, but I knew what it meant to me. That was the date they would commit me to an insane asylum — if my plan didn’t work.

***

Three days later, we were about to turn off the lights and go to sleep, when opportunity knocked. I had been scratching my crotch, more than likely I had used too much soap in the laundry. “Hon, I’m getting a rash.”

What she said next surprised me so much I almost missed my chance.

“Uhmmm,” she said. “That happened to me about a year ago. I solved the problem by wearing cotton panties.”

Inside, my heart smirked. “Cotton? My underwear are cotton.” Was it possible she was trying to do something to me?

“I know Ron, but you probably should try a pair of my panties for a few days. They don’t have elastic where you’re getting your rash.”

Damn she was trying to make me into a woman! “Ohhh.” I looked over my glasses at her. “Panties, huh?”

“It’s probably a day or two cure thing,” she said. “Your body needs some time to get used to that estrogen. Tell you what,” she jumped out of bed and opened her drawer, “you wear these until Wednesday, or so; and let me know what you think. We wouldn’t want your skin condition to worsen, or for you to be permanently scarred.”

They were pink. She almost always wore plain white. She was obviously trying to make me feminine.

If that was her game — well — let’s have at it. We’ll see how far she pushes it and I’ll go right along with her. I don’t really give a damn; and her friends will think she’s nuts for living with me. They all hate her anywho.

“I don’t know,” I said to play along, but in the morning I dutifully donned her pink panties.

Four days later, she went to the store and bought me a dozen pink panties of my very own. Several were covered with little purple and green flowers. There was little doubt what she was up to.

“I wouldn’t even chance going back to your kind of panties until after you’re off that estrogen,” she commented.

If I didn’t know better I’d think she really cared. “But that’s a year from now,” I wailed, for effect.

That Saturday she replaced our detergent with a milder brand that allowed me to use a generous amount without bothering anyone’s skin.

***

That next weekend I slipped while turning the mattresses and strained my pectoralis major. Later that night I sat up in bed and said. “My chest hurts.”

Her eyes brightened. She would raise the stakes.

I couldn’t have played this game in our previous house. It had been a larger home on a four-acre wooded lot. At that time I liked to say the four greatest technological advancements in our lifetime were the chain saw, power washer, wood chipper, and snow thrower. My real love for using those power tools rose from their ability to drown out her screeching voice.

Since the association did all of our yard work I had traded in my tan work-clothes and tools for an apron and a vacuum, food processor, washer, and dryer. All of which I used to finally make our home less than a pig sty, which was how she had kept it.

“Oh,” I said, “it’s probably not a heart attack. It’s more of a dull ache when I move too fast.”

She smiled, although she tried to hide it. I prepared myself for more of her B.S.

“Where does it hurt?” she cooed.

“Ahhh. It’s painful all over, but the worst is here. . .and here.” I pointed to both sides of my chest.

“Omigosh! Omigosh” She faked minor terror.

“What! What!” I did my best to look like I was worried.

“You know what it is?” she asked, trying to get me to beg.

I did exactly what she wanted. “Tell me, please. Please tell me. Please.”

“It’s that estrogen. You said it yourself. It was only a matter of time before you grew breasts.”

“Nooooo.” I deserved an Oscar or at least a “Femmy.”

She nodded slowly.

I delivered my line again. “Nooooo.”

“Uh huh. I noticed how much you’ve grown when you were wearing the t-shirt that says, ‘Dad’s Make the Best Lovers.’” She’d given me that shirt hoping to entice me back into another attempt at love-making. She was frozen from the waist down and I wanted no more of it. The truth was, if there had been any change to my chest it would have been a miracle.

“But . . . boobs?” ACTING!

“Poor baby,” she said.

If I had a dime for every time she’d said “poor baby” to me, I’d have millions, which we did, so what was the use?

“Tomorrow I’ll fix it for you,” she said.

I could hardly wait to see what she was going to do to me next. “How?” I asked softly.

“A bra, of course.”

Of course, a bra. “Nooooo.” Better Acting! I would see her bra and raise it by a breast-form or two.

“Poor baby.”

That, that is - is. The next day she bought me several padded 38B bras that took the fat I’d always had on my chest and made little titties to fill the cups.

The game was afoot.

***

From that day forward it was just one thing after another. Each time she saw an opening, which I made sure were plentiful, she used my estrogen intake as an excuse to heighten my femininization. It gulled me to think she thought I was that easily manipulated, but her ego was such that she never suspected I was actually playing her.

A blemish on my face led to nightly skin care -- using Oil of Olay products. That escalated with other blemishes to foundation, translucent powder, and then blush. Each time she made some flimsy excuse that mystically related to the estrogen pills.

At her suggestion, I was soon wearing a camisole to protect my “delicate skin” from my rough clothing, clothing that she systematically traded within weeks for softer things from the women’s department.

All the while I continued to clean the house and make all the meals -- being careful to state, “Sandra, you’ve ‘done’ for me for thirty-five years; and now I can ‘do’ for you for a while.”

Sandra delighted in taking pictures of me. She evidently thought it would embarrass me to see how ridiculous I looked. In fact, the photos gave me opportunities to look for visual flaws in my feminine appearance, flaws I quickly corrected. One of these had been my weight. Women are smaller than men and to project the image of a woman I had to go on a diet, which I found to my liking.

I also started a regimen of stretching and yoga. Sandra saw the results I was achieving and began daily workouts at her gym, which gave me three to four hours a day on my own, when she was out of the house.

I used that time to scour the internet for beauty tips and other ideas.

I also used the internet to order groceries delivered rather than going to the store, so I didn’t have to leave the house looking so odd.

The only person who seemed to miss me was my friend Dan, who kept calling to get together. I found one excuse after another not to see him.

It was absolutely amazing what the power of suggestion was doing to Sandra. She had been entirely sucked in. I had been bored out of my skull; and she’d provided an intriguing game for me to play.

***

“The doctor called today,” she lied. What a moron. I lived in the same house and would have heard the phone ring. Lying had become part of her daily arsenal to lead me to what she evidently thought was my destiny, much like moisturizer had become part of my nightly beauty ritual.

“My doctor, I hope,” I said. It would have been all right by me had her doctor called to tell her she was succumbing to the stress my plan was creating.

“Your doctor is concerned about you,” she added.

“Uh.” This was going to be good. She obviously wanted to up the ante. I smiled at her. One of the tips I’d learned on line was to smile all the time, which I did. Not just my lips; my whole face was lit up in a “radiant” smile during all waking hours.

She picked at the meal I’d prepared. She did that every so often to get my goat. My culinary skills had gotten much better; and whether or not she enjoyed my efforts meant little to me.

“I told him about all the problems you’ve been having,” she said.

“You didn’t tell him how. . . .” How cute she was when she was being her evil best!

“I told him exactly what you’ve come up with to resolve each problem.”

“But, it was you who. . . .”

“He thought you were doing the right thing each time.”

“He said that?”

She struck a scout’s honor pose. I had been an Eagle Scout and took that kind of thing quite seriously. She had screwed George in his scout shirt, in a tent in his backyard, when she was thirteen. She had told him that she loved a man in uniform.

“Then I guess. . . .” I gave her an opening.

“He said you’re in deep trouble.” She scowled.

“What?” What I made my eyes the size of the hubcaps on a ‘57 Chevy. Sandra had loved the backseats of those cars. “Did he say why?”

She seemed ready to set the hook. “He said your body is going to get confused, if it isn’t already. Have you noticed any problems lately?”

Part of her scheme seemed to be to convince me that I would become ill if I didn’t follow her every advice, so I made up some things.

“My muscles have been a little sore.”

“Uh huh.”

“And my eyes have been watering.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh no???”

“Oh no.”

“What did he say I have to do?” I asked. I was curious what her fictitious doctor had prescribed.

“Dresses”

“Dresses?” Wow, she was serious in her intent.

“The more feminine, the better.”

“He said that?”

“Uh huh.”

“I can’t.” I folded my arms across my chest. It sounded interesting, but I couldn’t cave too quickly.

“Can’t?”

“Can’t.” I was perched on a stool going through my cookbooks trying to find a recipe that I could prepare that would make her ill without putting any suspicion on me.

“Ronnie, you wearing panties, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“And a bra, right?” She fixed me in her gaze. Her eyes were dark and clouded with her personal bile.

“That’s right -- and all sorts of other things and make-up, too,” I whimpered, “but a man has to have limits.” My only limit would be her death. Until that wondrous day arrived, this game had no boundaries.

“That’s what the doctor said.”

“????”

“He said any man in your situation would be horribly conflicted. Because you have to take the estrogen, you need to eliminate your personal conflict and make yourself completely feminine.”

“Completely feminine?” No boundaries.

“Or else.” She shook her head which was to let me know that “or else” would not be good. My hate for her reached a new level as my resolve to become as feminine as possible became the focal point of my life.

The next day she took my measurements and went out on her own to buy me a complete wardrobe. She came home loaded down with purchases and directed me to put them away in our spare bedroom in drawers and the closet. Some of the dresses bordered on costumes, but there were others that I found very sweet. I couldn’t wait to wear them. When I held them up against myself in front of a mirror they looked enchanting.

“I didn’t know what perfumes you would prefer,” she said, “so I bought you a dozen different kinds - complete with powders and bath oils.”

I tested them on paper and found each to be something I would definitely use. I had been using Sandra’s White Shoulders. For some reason the idea of the swan logo seemed to match the “Ugly Duckling” process I was going through.

“You can put all your perfume in your bedroom with your clothes.”

“Did you say that’s ‘my’ bedroom?” I was wearing one of my new outfits; it made me look exactly like Donna Reed in those old films. She had done my hair in the fifties style; and I was wearing pearls and full make-up. She must have worn herself out finding such outdated clothing.

I had developed the habit of wearing a frilly apron over my pretty clothes so that they didn’t get “ruined” which added to my Eisenhower-era look.

“Ronnie, Honey. If I had to sleep in the same room as you, all the lotion and perfume you have to use now would give me a migraine. You don’t mind do you? I could make my own bed, if making two beds is too much for you.”

I rolled my eyes at her. “Sandra, you’ve made beds for me for thirty-five years; and now I’ll make two beds for a while.”

But, in a way I did mind. She had purchased exquisite silk night gowns for me to wear to bed each might. I loved to curl up next to her imagining how nauseous I was making her. Surprisingly, the gowns seemed to give me a much better night’s sleep. The only negative side-effect was the recurring dreams in which I was courted by various men and bedded for their pleasures. Several mornings I had awoken to find that I had had nocturnal emission, something that hadn’t happened since puberty.

***

“It’s my turn to host the dessert club next month,” she said.

Despite having mentally prepared myself for this moment I felt dread sweep through my body. It had only been a matter of time before she would want to take my humiliation public. For the last six weeks I’d dressed completely as a woman. I hadn’t left the house even one time. Up until that time the only person who had seen me was the UPS man.

The world was only a mouse click away. The undergarments she had given me were nothing compared to the wonderful things I found for myself on Victoria’s Secret’s website. I augmented and supplemented all of my feminine needs with things the hunky UPS man delivered on almost a daily basis.

“I could get in the car and go for a long drive,” I offered, knowing she wouldn’t go for it.

“What if the police had to pull you over for something?”

“Ohhh? I’ll just stay in my bedroom.” My hands were shaking. My fear was irrational, but I really wanted to test my appearance on other people. I also wanted to humiliate Sandra in front of her friends.

“Nonsense, little Ronnie.” She shook her head. “It’s high time you get over your shyness. What you’re going through is as natural as putting Neosporin on a cut. There isn’t one girl in my dessert club that’s going to think zilch about how you look.”

“You think?”

She put one hand on her hip and scratched her chin with the other. “Now that you mentioned it there are a few things that would bother them.”

“Like what?” I had studied myself in the mirror endlessly. The pictures she took showed no flaws that I could detect. My days were filled with becoming the perfect housewife. If I wasn’t thinking about how to better take care of the house, I was working on making myself all the more delightfully feminine.

Or, I was daydreaming about the UPS man. My nightly dreams about sex with a variety of men had spilled over into the day. I had actually sighed when “Stan” handed me my package from Sephora yesterday. There was something about a man in uniform.

“The way you stand, sit, and walk - for starters,” she persisted. “When you wear a dress you need to look a certain way.”

“Ohhh.” I hadn’t even thought about those things. Did “Stan” know of my birth sex?

“In fact, have you been feeling okay lately?”

Once again I made up a list of minor ailments that the average person would never, ever notice. My mind was racing with a list of all the things I needed to do to. I couldn’t wait to get online and research ways to train myself to look, act, and sound much better.

“I was worried about your health.” She knitted her brow to communicate her deep concern.

It amazed me that she never once suspected I was putting one over on her. “Worried?”

“Uh huh. You know what the doctor said about becoming completely feminine. It doesn’t surprise me at all that you’ve had so many ailments. It’s a wonder you’re not on your death bed. Conflicts — you’ve got to avoid them.”

“Conflicts?”

“You know — the way you dress and how you walk, talk, sit, stand, and your voice. What kind of books and magazines have you been reading?”

“Magazines?”

She sighed and shook her head. “Why do I even bother?”

“Did I do something wrong?” It appeared she might have grown tired of our game. There were moments when my all encompassing hate of her went full circle to actually having fond feelings.

“Nothing we can’t fix,” she said.

That very moment we entered into a serious round of education to improve me. Without ever realizing the exact moment I convinced her to address me as “Veronica."

Over the next few weeks I received calls from Marcy, Patty, and Yvonne. All of them were members of Sandra’s club and had been taken to an individual lunch by her to explain what “she” had done to me. They all had told her that it was a remarkable approach to husbandry and vowed to help her. Secretly they were concerned about her mental health. I told them that her doctor had cautioned me not to disturb her fragile psyche and had advised me to do everything I could to carry out her fantasies. They praised me for playing along with her. I assured them all they had to do was act as if I was one of them at the club meeting, and not express anything other than total acceptance of me as a female.

Which they did.

***

“Dan called,” she said. “He wants to know if I killed you and stuck your body in the freezer.”

“Did he say that?” I giggled. I was studying my hair in the mirror. It had been almost jet black, but “the doctor” and Sandra had made me bleach it. It actually looked quite cute.

Almost everything I wore was pink and short. I still managed to keep the house immaculate and had mastered cooking so that we both looked forward to each meal with fascination. I had been reading nothing but romance novels for weeks which fueled my curiosity and desire to experience sex with a man.

“He wants to hold a surprise party for your birthday.”

I smiled. I would present the perfect picture of femininity and she would be totally mortified. “When?” I felt confident in my appearance and was ready for the next step.

“I’ll tell him no surprise party, Veronica. We’ll just have a regular party; and he can be the bartender.”

“That sounds nice. I could make. . . .”

As I discussed the menu her mind wandered, she was coming loose from the real world right before me. Later that night, Marcy called. Each of them was to bring a “most likely new spouse” for me to meet.

I laughed and assured Marcy that she should tell all of her friends in the club to humor Sandra by doing what she asked.

Hopefully one of them would bring Stan, the UPS man.

***

The day of the party Sandra took me to her salon and treated me to a complete package. I got up the nerve to shop for and purchase my own outfit in a real store.

I looked pretty and confident when we welcomed our first guest. It had been a long road from conception to completion.

Dan arrived about fifteen minutes after the party started. He took one look at me in my chiffon ruffled shirtdress, and then dragged Sandra into what had been her and my bedroom.

Within a few moments we all heard muffled sounds of lovemaking.

The men who had been selected as “my next spouse” surrounded me with words of consolation.

There was only one thing to do. I selected Sammie, the one that looked the most like Stan, and led him to my bedroom to make a little noise of our own. After Sammie’s first penetration I could see nothing but advantages in being a woman.

***

I looked around at what had once been my house. Dan had taken my place; and I had moved in with Sammie.

“The doctor called the other day,” Sandra said. We were looking through a catalog for last minute ideas for the weddings. In three days Sandra would be wed to Dan and just three months after that I was to marry Sammie. We had agreed upon an amicable divorce. In fact, we were going to be each other’s maid-of-honor. “He said the pills you took were placebos.”

“Uhm.”

“It’s amazing what the mind can do,” she posed.

It was almost amazing what Dan could do. I gazed lovingly at him in a picture on her mantel.

My new plan was steal Dan from Sandra. He and I had been meeting for sex every day for the last few weeks while Sandra was at her gym. I would go through with my marriage to Sammie, which was a sham in that people like us can’t really get married at all — so it meant nothing.

Within six months I would convince Dan that he can’t live without me. After all, he and I had much more in common than he would ever have with Sandra.

The End

Notes:

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