Interlude: Rich Bromely, the young man from a small Pennsylvania town was abruptly introduced to the world, a man’s world, in 1966 when he lost his student classification that deferred him from the draft just as the Vietnamese War was heating up. Rich graduated from Johnstown High School, attended a small community college for two years and met a girl named Brandi. Rich and Brandi met through a mutual friend and attended separate schools, she in upstate New York. They only saw each other occasionally but they both felt the other was the one they wanted to be with for the rest of their lives. They became engaged shortly before Rich enlisted for four years in a special program, a program that would likely keep him out of Viet Nam.

Struggles

A Weekend in San Francisco (Part one of Two)

The World War II barracks on the hillside in Monterey stood out in their complete uniform exactness. They were perfectly alike in every detail except for the sign next to the door of each showing a unique letter and number. Private Richard Bromely lived and studied in the one marked “B4" and the joke for those who lived and studied there was ‘what comes after B4’. Inside, each of the two floors were divided into cubicles, open in the front, shared by two students; those fortunate enough to be at the Defense Language Institute during a very hot war in Viet Nam, studying Russian or one of many other languages. Yes, a ‘survival’ course in Vietnamese was taught but far too many graduates of that course did not survive.

On the lower floor of the look-alike barracks were the showers and the latrine, completely open toilets and urinals, and open showers. There was no privacy in the Army.

Engaged to be married, and aware of the consequences of not making it through the ten month Russian course (a quick transfer to Fort Ord and a ticket to the jungles of Southeast Asia) Rich worked and studied hard, making at least average and passing grades. There was little time for fun, except for forays into town, a movie on Cannery Row, or an occasional visit to the theater in Carmel V alley.

By the time he enlisted in the Army Rich Bromely had severely repressed his childhood feelings of being different, of feeling like he should have been a girl. He was a repression expert, also repressing rape, incest and serial oral sex as a young teen boy. At age 23 however, he was living the reality of being a single man in early 1968, trying to survive and stay alive, trying to stay away from the bullets. What choice did he have; as a male he was a prime target for fighting some nebulous war; as a man there was no acceptable outlet for the feelings he had and didn’t understand. He was lucky enough to pass the language test which would allow him to stay away from the fighting.

More fortunately, he had met a wonderful girl, and they fell in love, from afar mostly since they were now living 3,000 miles apart, she in college in New York and he in Monterey. But through letters, occasional visits and expensive long-distance phone calls, they hit it off. There was something special about their forced separation; of course there was physical attraction and some petting when together, but mostly there was an emotional connection, a love of the other. She loved his humor and gentleness; there was something different about him that other guys did not have. He was enthralled with the beauty of her soul and her body, naturally, and in awe of her femininity. A few months before Rich left for basic training they became engaged. Yes, they faced more separation, more struggles but they had a future.

So he suppressed the feelings, as best he could. He confided to his fiancée, mostly in letters about wanting, or needing, to wear female things but he inaccurately couched it in terms of comfort and yes, sexual arousal. His inability to explain it to himself spilled over to very inarticulate ramblings on the subject in letters. He wasn’t really lying about the sex; to him, at that time, he believed it. He had no other explanation and really didn’t want one. She accepted his explanation happy that the man she loved had a soft side; she could live with that, she reasoned.

Even if Rich could have possibly understood or acknowledged what constantly bothered him, what could he do about it in the midst of the life he had in open barracks with 40 other men and no privacy? So he tried not to think about it, usually succeeding, but when he did think about it, it was in the context of looking forward to sharing a life with a woman. A life with a woman, sharing intimacy and hopefully a little cross dressing would provide much comfort, if not a complete cure he reasoned.

But repression also failed at times, and he gave in to the feelings, the devilish urges. Soon after he first arrived in Monterey he was invited to Salinas to dinner with old friends of his parents who had a daughter about his age. When he asked to use the bathroom he found himself behind the locked door going through the dirty clothes hamper and stealing a pair of the daughter’s panties, hiding them in his own underwear. He hated what he did but he loved having the silky panties to wear at night with other men sleeping close by; he would conceal them in his bed until lights were out just as he had done as a boy of eight or nine. He was so scared someone would notice the pink lacy panties when he washed and dried them along with his male white briefs and tee shirts. But he was careful and no one noticed.

Rich really didn’t believe things like that just happened, without some reason or context. As had happened before, and would so often happen in the future, Rich was routinely presented with some reminder, some connection to what he considered the dark side, the temptation that would pull him into the deep, dark murky water where he would drown. What happened in San Francisco in January 1968 was more than just a reminder, so much more than the average trigger, like the panties he stole out of the clothes hamper.

Rich wasn’t planning to get laid that weekend, not consciously. Maybe in the back of his mind he had that hope; he was a young man after all with all the barely controllable urges that went with surging testosterone. Yes, he was acutely aware he was engaged and yes, he intended to keep his commitment of premarital celibacy. It was a matter of honor and trust. With his fiancé he had an unbelievable opportunity, a life with an educated beautiful woman from a very respected Christian family. Rich felt God had given him a gift, as well as a way to beat the temptation.

Rich just needed to get away, leave all the studying, the immersion in Russian behind. He had just passed a major exam and he was nearly assured of completing the course. So he set out for the city by the bay on a Friday in January 1968 taking the two p.m. bus. He checked into the YMCA, took a shower and headed out into the city, a little overwhelmed and a lot lost. After wandering for a few blocks, he was approached by a young woman wearing a tight skirt, revealing blouse and high heels.

“Hey, soldier.” The woman called to the skinny young man with the standard military buzz cut.

Without thinking Rich stopped and looked at the pretty, if not beautiful, woman, with hair half way down her back. He stood there just a couple feet away, smelling the heavy perfume and losing control of his ability to think.

“Where you from? Fort Ord? Presidio?” She immediately asked.

“Uh, Monterey.” Rich answered while he sized her up finally realizing she was not just a friendly woman but a prostitute.

“A Merry, uh.” She said smiling showing she knew the common nickname given to DLI students, Monterey Merry. Derogatory yes, but mostly inaccurate. Rich felt the term had more to do with those at DLI with him being perceived as soft and afraid to fight, rather than being homosexual.

“Been studying too much? Do you need some love, honey?”

Rich stared at the woman’s breasts squeezed up into tight cleavage bulging out of the top she was wearing and showing the outer edges of each areola. The woman edged closer and let her breasts brush against Rich’s bare arm and, at the same time, gently feeling between his legs, checking the status of his emerging erection.

“Oh, you need some love, baby. Let’s get a cab and I’ll take you to my place. Ten, twenty, thirty. OK!”

Rich had never had intercourse before, if you didn’t count the only other time he was with a prostitute at age 16 on a foray to South Wheeling one weekend. And to him that experience didn’t really count because he came all over the woman, who wasn’t much older than he was and was very pregnant, before he even got inside her. At 22 he was naïve and inexperienced never getting close to coitus with his fiancé or anyone else. Now standing so close to so much woman he was fully aroused and without resistance.

“Ten, twenty, thirty?” He repeated as a question.

“You know. Ten dollars for a blow job, twenty for straight sex and thirty for round the world. Get a cab, you know you want to.”

Rich had thirty dollars on him, probably a little more. He didn’t want to spend it all on this but he had lost his ability to say no. He put his arm around her waist and pulled her against him looking down at the ever enticing breasts. He wanted to touch them, and he did, briefly without objection from the prostitute.

“Sure, I’ll get that cab. What’s your name?”

“Trista. And you pay before, not after.”

Rich stood on the curb and put his hand up, looking for a cab. The third one stopped and he opened the door and slid in. Trista followed him but as she started to get into the cab the driver hit the gas and sped away with the cab door still open. Shocked Rich looked back to see a very angry and cursing whore. The driver stopped and told Rich to close the door. He did as the cab started moving again.

“Do you have any idea what you are doing? Do you know how dangerous that is? Most of these girls carry knives and they’ll rob you or stab you, or both. And if you don’t get stabbed or robbed, you’ll be in the infirmary next week getting penicillin. You want to meet a nice clean girl. I’ll take you to a bar where you’ll have a chance and you’ll be safe. In this town, stay away for the street girls. It ain’t worth it.” The driver spitted out almost as one sentence.

The cabby drove numerous blocks and stopped in front of a nice lounge near the wharf. Rich paid and gave a dollar tip. The cabby told Rich there should be lots of nice single women there and sped off.

Inside Rich found a small table and ordered a beer. He looked around, very nicely dressed women his age and men too. The men had longish hair and the women had longer hair. No woman was alone and the groups where there might be an available woman were not exactly inviting. Besides these men and women looked classy, well dressed, young and were obviously successful. All were probably college grads and professionals. None worried about the jungles of Viet Nam. Rich felt out of place and after his second beer when no opportunity came up, he left hailing a cab back to the YMCA.

He found his little room and closed the door behind him without turning on the light. He opened his bag and took out the pair of pink panties he had stolen. He completely undressed and pulled the panties on. He stared at himself in the dim light in the mirror, a stick-like figure of 130 pounds at six feet, wearing only panties, too large for his skinny hips. His dog tags hung in the clump of chest hair between his nipples and his limp little penis protruded against the silky panties.

Rich took off his dog tags, got into bed and pulled the sheets over him. He thought of Trista, the prostitute, and visualized her breasts with the peaking areoles. He remembered the smell of her perfume and pushed his hand under the band of the panties and felt his penis. He focused on Trista’s breasts again hoping for the same reaction as when they were pushed against his arm. There was no response from his limp little member. He turned on his side and cried, literally sobbing, calling to himself out loud; 'you sick perverted shit’.

* * *

Rich woke just as it was getting light with an erection. The dream, he asked himself, what was the dream? He touched himself through the panties and felt the excitement he yearned for before he fell asleep. The dream came back to him; a variation of a dream he had many times as long as he could remember. In these dreams Rich was always somewhere public, school, a store, on a bus, and was always only partially dressed but always wearing either panties, a bra, a slip, sometimes just one and other times two or all three. Once in a while he was wearing a dress but that was rare. The strange surreal thing about his recurring dream was that no one thought what Rich was wearing was unusual, strange or wrong. Rich was embarrassed but no one else was. In the dream Rich was aware he should be more fully clothed but it was just the way it was. In these dreams Rich had no definitive gender; wearing a bra and panties he was not male, but he was not complete either, not a complete girl.

In the dream Rich awoke to that Saturday morning in San Francisco, Rich was wearing panties and a bra and he was trying to teach Trista, the whore, Russian, but she just wanted to show him her breasts. That’s when he woke up with the erection. Now holding himself fully in his hand through the panties Rich quickly spilled a large amount of creamy ejaculate into the silky material. He cursed at himself again; he hated sex like this. Rich quickly took the panties off and washed them in the sink. Hopefully they would dry by evening.

Rich spent the morning seeing San Francisco but came back to his room and slept through the late afternoon and into the early evening. He quickly took a shower, shaved and put on clean civies, slacks and a long sleeve shirt. Again he had no inkling where he was going but he knew to stay away from street girls and not to waste time in upscale lounges. He needed to find something in between the two.

Rich grabbed a sandwich at a nearby diner, and strolled out and down the block from the YMCA. The street was crowded and he took in all the wonderful bustle of a busy city on a Saturday night. He checked out a couple of bars but they mostly had old guys, or tough looking couples. He walked on and finally noticed a busy bar where there were girls coming and going. Rich was intrigued. He saw four women get out of a cab and go into the bar, all dressed a little sassy, short skirts, cute tops, bouncy hair. He went in.

The place was packed. There were a few men but the women far outnumbered the guys. Rich weaved his way to the bar, pushed his way between two attractive but tall women and ordered a beer. After he took a gulp of the beer one of the women next to him spoke to him.

“Welcome, soldier. You’ve not been here before, right? First time in San Fran?” The girl wearing a mini-dress asked.

“Yes.” Rich answered. “I’m up from Monterey. This is a nice place.” Rich answered happy that someone finally talked to him. Things were looking up, he thought.

“Sweetie, this is the place. Who told you about it?” The mini-skirted girl continued.

“Nobody. I just saw all the girls and well, what could be better.” He proudly confessed.

The girl nudged her friend and they both giggled.

“Can I buy you a drink? Want to go somewhere more private.” Rich asked courageously.

The girl hesitated and looked a little surprised. “Go with him.” He heard her friend urge.

Then the two girls whispered to themselves and giggled again. The girl in the mini-dress started to answer when someone tapped Rich on the shoulder. He turned around to see a short rather chubby girl with very short hair wearing a tee shirt, no bra and jeans. She pointed to a table in the back corner of the bar.

“See that woman at the table. She wants to talk to you.” The chubby girl announced looking up at Rich. Rich turned to see a relatively large woman with ringlets of hair resting on her shoulders sitting at a table by herself in the far back corner of the bar. She was wearing a long flowing gown in a bright print with no waist that hung almost to the floor. Her face was round and if not striking, she was truly cute wearing a modest amount of makeup, much less than the thin tall mini-skirted woman at the bar.

The woman at the table was looking at Rich and motioned for him to join her. He picked up his beer and headed for the table telling the mini-skirt, “I’ll be right back.”

Rich followed the chubby girl and sat down at the table. For a few seconds the tall skinny Russian language student in the Army and the short plumpish but attractive woman in the gown just looked at each other, both trying to find some clue to their identities. The woman spoke first.

“You have no idea where you are, do you?” She challenged.

Rich was caught off guard. Of course he knew where he was; in a bar with seemingly nice and available women; women who obviously weren’t hookers, women who probably just wanted what he wanted, some fun and yes, probably innocent sex.

“Uh, in a bar where guys can meet women.” He answered naively.

“I’m Frannie. This is my place, sort of. First time in Frisco, right?” She continued avoiding his answer to her basic question.

“Yes. Rich, Rich Bromely.” He said regretting gaving his real name.

“Where you from?” The woman continued.

“Pennsylvania. Johnstown, it’s a small town in the middle of the state.” He offered.

“I know. Floods, lots of floods. I’m from godforsaken West Virginia, near Huntington.”

Rich took a swig of his beer and looked back at the bar. The girl in the mini-skirt looked at him and smiled. He was about to excuse himself and go back to the bar when Frannie broke his infatuation with the long legs at the bar.

“She not a girl, you know. She’s a guy.” She paused watching Rich’s reaction. “You really didn’t know did you? You poor sweet naïve thing. Rita here and I are the only real women in here.” She said laughing a little at the look on Rich’s face while putting her hand on the shoulder of the chubby girl with the short hair sitting next to her. Frannie continued her explanation to the speechless Rich.

“They’re all in drag. They’re almost all gay guys who like to be submissive in sex. They want either straight men or dominate gay men. They fooled you, right?”

Rich surveyed the room and still couldn’t believe it. Was he really that stupid, he thought? And what’s this term ‘gay’? He couldn’t remember hearing that before, queer yes, but gay? He looked over at the girl in the mini-skirt who had talked to him at the bar. She smiled at him again and giggled, but this time it seemed she was laughing at him. Now he could see it, at least a little; she was tall with thin legs and really no hips; she wore lots of makeup, too much, now that he thought about it; her shoulders and arms, masculine, yes, the arms straight without the angle most girls have at the elbow, and the breasts, now that he could look at them impartially, no, they didn’t look right.

Rich looked back at Frannie who gazed at him warmly, proud that she had saved another unsuspecting stray in her drag bar. Something else then entered Rich’s consciousness; it was the recurring reminder of his flaw, his weakness, the one seemed to follow him; the one he tried so hard to put behind him. Now, there it was again, literally staring him in the face. Was he like these cross-dressing ‘gay’ men? Was that the message he was being sent? He immediately rejected that idea. He never ever dressed up and thought about being with a man, especially not when he was a little boy dressing in his sister’s panties, crinoline, dress and Mary Jane’s wishing so badly to just be a girl. Boys were never part of the fantasy, not like that, and neither was sex. Again he was brought back from his thoughts by Frannie.

“Are you ok honey? Listen, I can tell you’re shocked. Hey, it’s natural. And you’re safe with me. Just relax. Talk to me. You’ll not have a better experience than here even if you don’t get it off.” Frannie said bluntly.

Rich finally found his voice. He did feel comfortable with Frannie, obviously not a guy in drag but a woman with a mothering air about her.

“Stupid me. No, I didn’t know. They’re good. I’ve never ….” He started but Frannie finished his sentence.

“You never seen guys dressed like women, who passed.” She said using another term Rich was unfamiliar with. ‘Passed’ what did that mean, he thought?

“But to me they don’t really pass. Anyone in this town can tell they’re just drag queens. Oh, there are a couple of girls, I call them sisters, the ones who really want to be girls who pass. Rich, I’ll tell you about me if you’ll tell me about you. Something brought you in here; it didn’t just happen and I want to hear about it.”

Rich froze. Was she referring to his flaw, his secret? How could she tell? How could she know? He really didn’t want to open that box up, the one so firmly packed and sealed.

“I’ll go first. You ready for this? I was born a boy.” She announced proudly watching for Rich’s reaction. “But I knew from the beginning that I wasn’t a boy. I was a girl and after getting caught more than once by my fucking father in a dress and getting the shit kicked out of me, I ran away from home. I first went to Los Angeles, barely 18 and got arrested for asking some undercover cop if he wanted a blow job. I had to do something to live. A friend finally brought me here and I got a job, first as a guy then two years ago, I went full-time.”

Rich had trouble processing all that Frannie told him. She’s not a woman after all, was his first reaction, but she sure did look, sound and act like one. Most frightening was her conviction, the one about always knowing she wasn’t a boy or supposed to be one; that was the same feeling Rich had all those years as a child and as a teen; that was the feeling Rich had successfully packed in a box, and firmly sealed, forever.

Frannie paused again. “Now you.” She commanded expecting Rich to reveal what led him into her world of men dressed as women. Rich didn’t want to tell anything. His secret was packed away and needed to stay that way. Talking about it now threatened everything, his impending marriage, her future and even his life. Besides he now had so many questions about this person who did not at all resemble the other ‘women’ in the bar. He found it hard to believe she was ever a man; nothing about her was male-like.

“I don’t know. There’s not much to tell.” He resisted but Frannie pushed.

“Never wore a dress Rich, not even panties.” She teased and seeing Rich blush added. “You have! I can tell.” Frannie put her arm around him and kissed him on the cheek. “See, honey, your secret is safe here. You don’t have to hide it. Tell me. I want to hear all about it. Bet you have a sister, right?”

Private Richard Bromely felt his resistance crumble and that locked box swung open.

“Yep.” He confessed almost with relief and nearly giggling like a girl. “Her name is Mary. And yes, I used to wear her dresses, and panties.” He admitted finding it impossible to resist the lure of Frannie. “I would get all dressed up and pretend. But I was just a kid. I haven’t…, I mean I don’t do that now.”

Frannie was now smiling ear to ear, happy that she had unlocked the past.

“How could you? Of course you don’t. But would you if you had the chance?” She posed but didn’t wait for Rich to respond.

“Don’t answer ‘cause I know. Rich will you be honest with me?” Frannie was now being more serious. “And this is important.” Frannie now took Rich’s hand and looked into his eyes. Even in the dim light there was a connection. “Do you like men or women?”

The question hung between them for what seemed minutes. Before he could answer she put her finger up to his lips. “These girls in here. They’re gay guys. They don’t want to be women. They love being men who have sex with other men. The drag is just a charade.” Frannie turned and took Rich’s hand. “You’re not like that, are you honey? You’re not gay, I can tell. You’re not a gay man. But you do like to dress, don’t you? You’re more like me. Am I right?”

Frannie sat back as if she was positive of her premise. Rich was stunned. He was sure that he was neither. He wanted to tell her that he wasn’t queer and that he wasn’t like her but before he could form the words Frannie continued but switched back talking about herself.

“I’m not one of them, either. I was born a boy, yes, but I’m really a woman and I’ve dreamed all my life of becoming as complete as I can. I’ve been taking hormones, female hormones for over three years now. I’ve had tons of electrolysis. I tried to cut my nuts off and convinced a gay doctor to finish it. I’m seeing a wonderful doctor who believes me, believes I’m a woman, or should have been.” Frannie stopped talking again as if she was turning the page in her notes. Rich was in shock, trying to understand what Frannie was saying, trying to record the conversation in his mind so he could replay it later. Maybe he was in one of his crazy dreams again.

Frannie took a tissue out of her purse and blew her nose. She was quite emotional as she continued.

“This doctor, Dr. Benjamin, he just wrote a book about it, about me and others like me. It’s called ‘The Transsexual Phenomenon”. I’m in the book, not by name but my story is, partly. Nobody else would help. Dr. Benjamin started me on the hormones and well, look at the result.” She stood up, pushing her chest out revealing rather large breasts, real breasts, encased in a pointy bra pushing against her gown. “And I’m saving for surgery.”

Rich nodded as if he could grasp the story Frannie was telling him. “Surgery?” He asked jumping to the most shocking part. Rich had led a sheltered life, partly self-imposed by his deep secret. He would deny he ever searched for an answer before this moment, that he ever went looking for anything related to cross dressing. He was afraid of it. He was especially afraid of the bizarre, the weird, the crazy. He wasn’t ignorant however. He knew about Christine Jorgensen, the young U.S. soldier who was somehow surgically turned into a woman 15 years ago. For Rich, though, such things were in a different universe, at least until now.

“Yep, in another year, maybe. I’m going to Morocco. There’s a great surgeon in Casablanca who has done amazing things. Thanks to him there are some very beautiful women in Paris who were born boys.” She said excitedly. “But enough of that. We’re being too serious. Want to see a great show?”

Without waiting for an answer, Frannie was up pulling on Rich’s arm. When he stood she locked arms with him and together they strode proudly out through the still crowded bar of men dressed as women.

“Bye, bye girls” she called as the men in drag parted as if for a true queen, not a drag one. “My date and I are going to Finocchio’s.”