by Kelly Ann Rogers
I opened it up and pulled out an eight by ten-inch photograph - a photograph of me - in full drag. I was dressed to the nines, wearing a bright red spaghetti strap cocktail dress that was made out of tiered layers of chiffon.
Hey gang! I’ve got a new story! I think it’s pretty good. It’s been five years since I posted something new, and I can only blame real life and my apparent inability to write anything shorter than 50,000 words.
One of the nice things I’ve learned about writing is to share the process of creation with others. It’s not just that this keeps me from writing badly, but also because it’s fun to engage other writers. As a result, there are several people to thank. First and foremost is Jill MI. She’s a great editor and put in more time than I could ever thank her for. She has posted many of her own stories (some as Angel Rasch) and edited the work of a number of the writers who post here, and she surely must be one of our community’s biggest supporters and assets. Matti Berliot (who you may know as Dee West if not, check out Home on the Range or a Touch of Palm on FM) is a terrific writer and has been my dear friend for quite a while. She not only helps me avoid mistakes and missteps, but pushes me towards my strengths as well. Dimelza Cassidy, who’s Cornering was (deservedly) such a big hit here recently (read it if you haven’t yet) also contributed insight and much needed advice. I also have to thank Ellen Hayes, my sharpest critic, for pushing me closer and closer to reality, even if I don’t get close enough for her tastes.
With that out of the way, let’s get on with the show. I’m going to post this in thirteen chapters. This is both logical and selfish. Logical because the chapters break the story into logical and easily digestible chunks, selfish because I want to keep the story in your minds for more than just a couple of days, and this is a way of spreading over time. Happy reading.
An unfinished Symphony
by Kelly Ann Rogers
Chapter I It wasn't my fault
"Omigod! Michael, that was delicious," Rebecca said, patting her lips clean. "I really didn't think having you work from home would pan out, but it did, and with delicious side benefits as well." She arched a knowing eyebrow at me as she neatly folded her blue, red, and yellow striped napkin and placed it next to her empty plate. When she looked up, her warm, generous smile was all the reward I needed, especially because she had seemed tense and annoyed with me when she had gotten home.
"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed it," I replied, quietly thrilled by her compliment. "It's a new recipe I've been dying to try. Didn't you love the way the cilantro and ginger perked everything up?"
"Ummm. Yeah." she replied, getting up from the table. She had changed from her business suit into jeans before dinner and I watched with quiet pleasure as her lovely ass unaffectedly swiveled towards the living room. It was Friday night and we didn't have anything planned for the weekend.
*Yes,* I thought, as I turned to collect our plates. *This arrangement really is good for both of us.* We'd decided to try it about two years after we had both left our corporate advertising and marketing jobs to start our own company. Rebecca was our CEO and public face. She ran the company, did all the negotiating, and most of the meetings with clients. Her good looks, warm, funny personality, and piercing intellect made her perfect for this job. She was quick to size up both people and situations, and rarely hesitated to make a decision once she figured out what she wanted to do.
I, by contrast, was the artistic one. I was by no means a dummy, but I didn't love the negotiating, personnel work and shmoozing as much as Rebecca. Instead, I did most of the actual design work. I had a great eye and confidence in my esthetic judgment, so I was quite comfortable with artistic decisions, but those were about the only ones I made easily. My sister Leah, a corporate attorney, who, if anything, was even more decisive than Rebecca, always told me that I was too passive and too often just waited for things to happen.
With our creativity and complimentary skills, Rebecca and I had each been big players at the midtown Manhattan advertising firm where we worked. We met on a big project for a Fortune 100 company, which turned out to be hugely successful because of our efforts. That put us on the fast track, both to corporate success and love. After a year, we married, and started saving up the money we eventually used to bank roll our own company, which we call Mind Games. After nearly three years on our own, we had built a solid client base, mostly of small startup companies. They can't afford the big guys with their plush midtown Manhattan offices, but they wanted edgy, eye-catching logos, ad campaigns and product packaging nonetheless. Now, we had six full time employees and a team of about a ten really good freelancer graphic designers, many women with children, who we brought on as we needed them and they were available.
Rebecca oversaw the work of our administrative and copy-writing staff, and I was in charge of the graphic design group. I had always gotten along easily with women, and there was a real feeling of community that allowed the creative juices to flow easily among us. I was really careful to always share the credit with my team, and if one of the freelancers came up with a key concept that helped to make a campaign work, she got a bonus. This kept everybody engaged and eager, and made sure that mine wasn't the only brain on the job.
When we had to bring on a seventh full-timer, we ran out of space at our beloved office/studio. We had both instantly fallen in love with it, which helped convince us just how perfect we were for each other. While we were trying to figure out where to move our offices, I suggested that I work from home. That way we could keep our headquarters in the turn of the century loft we already owned. It was in a building that had once been a factory in a small manufacturing neighborhood in the southern Connecticut town where we now lived. Once totally abandoned, this area had now become quite trendy. Artist galleries, fancy shops and chic restaurants now fill up the lower floors of the old factories and warehouses, while the upper floors have newly renovated condos and lofts. With me at home, we would have room for Roger, a clever young copy writer Rebecca had been trying to recruit for six months.
In order to convince Rebecca that working from home was a good idea, I had promised to handle the housework, shopping, and cooking. It wasn't such a big deal; I was doing most of it anyway. Sadly, I was the neat one. If I didn't keep things neat, no one would. Rebecca's penchant for dropping things wherever she finished using them just drove me nuts; she was like a teenager. What that meant was that while I loved the sexy lingerie that Rebecca wore, I hated picking it up from wherever she had tossed it the night before. But truth be told, once I had gotten the house in order, it just didn't take that much work on a daily basis to keep things neat. And besides, I hired a wonderfully effective cleaning woman to do the heavy stuff.
The other reason I really liked this arrangement was that it gave me plenty of time to dress. I just love women's clothing and the feeling of femininity they give me. Rebecca knew about it; I had fortunately told her not long after we began dating seriously. She wasn't entirely enthusiastic about it, but after we satisfied her curiosity that I wasn't a freak, she was tolerant. She had simply decided it was like a minor disability, something like a limp. We had even made love as women a few times, which she seemed willing to put up with as long as I spent a good deal of time with my tongue in her delicious cunny. But basically, it was my activity, just as teaching Sunday school at our synagogue was hers.
She, of course, immediately understood why I wanted to work at home, and my promise to essentially become the homemaker was the quid pro quo for all the dressing she knew I would indulge myself with. But there were ground rules. First, I had to be completely presentable, and as passable as possible, whenever I was wearing any women's clothes. That meant no panties under my work suits, no pantyhose over unshaven legs, and no dressing like a hooker. I had gone out dressed many times before we met, and was damn good at it, even though I was hardly model-thin, and didn't have the delicate features of some of the real TG beauties I had met. What I did have were large eyes, a killer smile and almost no bulk.
"When you're a man, be a man," Rebecca had said when we discussed it. "But when you're a woman, be a real woman; no caricatures or stereotypes. Take the time to do it right."
Given that first rule, however, I thought the second rule was rather strange. Rebecca didn't want me to wear my breast forms when she was home. She couldn't explain why, but somehow breasts on me really bugged her. At first it annoyed me to take them off at the end of the day, but after a while I thought I had figured it out: the more feminine I looked the more uneasy she felt. My hunch was that Rebecca would put up with my dressing as long as my femininity didn't start to bring hers into question, or something like that. With some experimenting, I soon came to realize that if I was in slacks and a simple blouse or sweater when she came home, she was much more comfortable than if I was in a dress.
I appreciated Rebecca's generosity in this, and I wanted to make it easy for her. So when she was home, and I wanted to dress, I mostly wore women's pants and simple tops. I especially enjoyed a pair of low-cut Diesel jeans with a big, cream-colored, cable-knit turtle neck sweater. I wore either my white Keds, a pair of pink and blue running shoes or any of a number of flats I owned. Underneath would be panties and a nice camisole. In fact, that's what I was wearing this evening. I hadn't done much with my hair, which was collar length with a slight curl at the ends and long bangs that I could sweep over one eye or the other, for a nice feminine look. When I was dressed as a guy, I combed it straight back with gel. Women seemed to like it that way, and I got many compliments, probably because they could easily see my big blue eyes.
My eyebrows were neatly trimmed, with a bit of an arch underneath, but not obviously feminine (at least without makeup!). Tonight I was wearing some smoky brown eye shadow you could hardly see, a touch of mascara, and very light blush, just enough to bring out my rather high cheek bones. I probably looked more androgynous than feminine, but I didn't care. I was dressed in a way that delighted me and didn't appear to make Rebecca feel uncomfortable.
Finally, there was the last rule: keep it private. I wasn't, for example, allowed to have a web site, like so many of my T-girl friends. And I wasn't to go out dressed as a woman. The one exception was that I did get to go to some of the t-girl conventions, as long as they were far away. This was all fine with me. I got to indulge myself more than almost all my online friends, and Rebecca and I had found a comfortable compromise we could live with.
"So what's worrying you?" I asked as I settled into the blue leather wing chair just opposite the matching couch where Rebecca was sitting. She had her favorite pillow snuggled to her chest, with her legs curled under her. With a shake of her head to throw her softly curled dark brown hair off her equally dark eyes, she motioned to the large manila envelope lying on the otherwise artfully arranged coffee table.
I opened it up and pulled out an eight by ten-inch photograph - a photograph of me - in full drag. I was dressed to the nines, wearing a bright red spaghetti strap cocktail dress that was made out of tiered layers of chiffon. It was a flapper style that did a lot to hide my lack of waist and hips, and it had the most adorable fabric belt that rode low around my hips, and closed on the left with a big, red, fabric rose. Of course I was dripping in rhinestone jewelry and gorgeous in full make up. My head was adorned with what had then been my favorite long blonde wig, which had a delightfully feminine spray of bangs, but otherwise was parted in the middle and fell straight top the top of my shoulder blades. I was looking over my bare shoulder, my face full on to the camera. I had a big smile on my face, and I looked great, having emerged from a professional makeover just an hour earlier. I knew just where this had been taken.
As I looked at it, becoming increasingly uneasy, Rebecca said, "Phil Jacobson gave it to me today. He recognized you."
"Ohhh shit," slipped softly from my lips. Phil was one of our biggest clients, and a good friend. Losing his account probably wouldn't kill us, but its steady work made it our backbone account, and we'd really have to hustle to make up for it. And how could I face him now? We hung out together a lot, and were even racquetball partners, typically showering together after a match.
"But honey," I said, feeling both appalled and full of guilt. "I wasn't out in public. That was at the Southern Comfort convention two years ago. You knew I was there."
"Yes, but I didn't know you were posing for pictures. You promised you wouldn't," she said, a hint of anguish in her voice as the fine laugh lines that she hated, but which I loved, showed at the corners of her eyes as she stared at me.
"I wasn't," I protested, my voice starting to rise in indignation. "You can see there are people all around who were cropped out. This must have been someone just taking pictures of the crowd."
"Whatever, you broke your promise, and now Phil knows."
"What can I do? I'll do anything. Did he threaten to drop us?"
"No, he didn’t say anything at all like that."
"Well what does he want? I don't get it."
Rebecca let out a big sigh, glanced briefly down at the picture, which I had carefully placed back on the table so I could easily look at it. Frankly, it was one of the best pictures ever taken of me. She then looked back up at me, sadness in her eyes. "He wants you, my dear. He wants to take you on a date."
"What?" I squeaked again. "I'm not gay. I can't go out with him."
"That's just what I told him. He claims that he only wants you as a companion for the evening. Consider it a business dinner." Her voice was starting to quiver a bit and tears glistened in her eyes.
"Rebecca, this is crazy. I can't just..."
"Yes… you… can," she said firmly, clipping off each word so they were perfectly clear. "Women do this all the time. They go out with clients, behave like the guy is terribly interesting, and if he’s been nice give him a quick peck on the cheek at the end of the evening. And that’s that."
I sat there staring at her stupidly. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. My wife was insisting I go out on a date with a male client, and a friend of mine at that. "I can't," I said again.
"You will," she replied instantly, raising her voice. "Your little," and she said ‘little’ in a way that let me know she meant big, "secret has gotten out, embarrassing me to my core. How do you think I felt when he showed me that picture?"
I looked up, helplessly shaking me head, having not a clue about what to say.
She went on quickly, saving me from saying something stupid. "No, don't guess. Let me tell you. I was humiliated, absolutely mortified. My worst fear had come true. You were supposed to keep your ‘little’ secret, secret. But you didn’t. You selfish shit!"
Bristling at her accusation, I started to respond, “But I didn’t… ,” Then I noticed the tears in her eyes and the frustration on her face. I shut my mouth and grimaced, trying to show her with my eyes how bad I felt for her. It hadn’t been my fault that the picture was taken, but I didn’t have to go to the convention either. My own narcissistic need to show off my great feminine look created the situation that allowed the picture to be taken.
Rebecca was right though, and I would do whatever it took to fix things with Phil.
“You've had your fun and games, and now it's time to pay your dues. You've humiliated me, and if you have to humiliate yourself to make up for it, then so be it," she said sharply.
I flinched at the tone of her voice, and she immediately changed it. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I swore I wouldn't yell at you, and I did anyway. Come here and sit by me," she said with a pained look on her face, and sounding really remorseful.
So I got up and stepped over to the couch, carefully sitting down beside her. I didn't know what to expect and felt totally awkward. Normally when dressed in women's clothes, I would press my thighs together and shift my feet off to one side, sometimes even crossing one ankle over the other. But given the circumstances, I was afraid to look too feminine, and was caught between genders for a moment. Finally I just sat with my legs apart.
Rebecca watched my confusion, apparently amused. But as soon as I was settled, she shifted her position so she was looking straight at me, and took both my hands in hers. "This isn’t a punishment," she said apologetically. "It should be a lot of fun, and I've decided to help you. I don't want you to be embarrassed; I want you to get in the mood and do it as a lark. We've both wined and dined lots of clients, and you know it can be fun if you're in the right mood. And Phil promised he would be a gentleman. Wouldn't it be fun to have a real date with a real guy? Isn't that something you've always wanted to do?"
*Well, yeah, I've had my fantasies about being out on a date with a guy; but I never actually imagined it could happen,* I thought to myself. And doing it with a guy who knew me just seemed all wrong. How could it not be embarrassing? What would I say to him? I mean, we did all kinds of things together. We had gone to football and hockey games, savored unblended scotch and ogled pretty girls, evaluating their various assets. *One thing's for sure, Phil likes long legs and trim assess - just like mine,* I thought ruefully.
I guess Rebecca could see the thoughts flitting through my mind because she pulled me close to her and hugged me. "We'll do it right," she said. "Get you some gorgeous clothes and a full make over - hair, nails, makeup, everything. We'll make you perfect, so no one can read you. You'll love it."
"You're going to help me?" I asked unsurely. "I thought you weren't all that fond of this," I said, spreading my arms and looking down at my femininely clad body. When I saw myself, I almost gagged, because without thinking about it, my legs had come together and shifted themselves to my right, and my left ankle had wrapped itself around the right. *Do I do that when I'm dressed as a guy?* I wondered. But I couldn't dwell on it because Rebecca was answering my questions.
"I wasn't; it's your thing. It doesn't really do anything for me. But I always thought it was mostly harmless, and often rather sweet." She gave me a small smile. "Besides, I figured out long ago that it's a part of who you are, and it probably helps to make you the person I love. Really, I can deal with it." And she gave me one of those anchorwoman nods, which usually annoy the hell out of me, but in this case felt really reassuring.
She went on, "I wouldn’t have decided by myself to let you go out, but since the opportunity presented itself, I started to think that maybe things need to change. It’s time. Now you can help us both by being the sweetest and most feminine girl you can be. In the past, it was always selfish - what you wanted, whether I did or not. Now that Phil is pushing it, and since I think it might be good for both of us, it's something I want to help you with. Really, it is time."
I looked at her slightly askance, not quite sure what I was hearing. Even though I really wanted to believe she was going to help, she was still calling me selfish. Worse, I felt ashamed of myself. Even though I had always known that my dressing was a really self-absorbed thing to do, I had suppressed that knowledge so I could engage in my fantasies guilt free. At the same time, however, I was excited by the prospect of having Rebecca really supportive of Sara, my femme self. I was so happy to hear what I was hearing, I didn’t even bother to wonder why Rebecca had changed her mind about me being Sara or what had changed to all of a sudden “make it time.”
I guess my uncertainty was stronger than I realized because when I asked, "How much time do we have?" I sounded like I was asking how long till my walk to the gallows.
"Oh, don't be so glum," she scolded, cupping my cheek in her soft palm. "This is the opportunity of a lifetime for you. You can wear whatever you want, even a pair of those four-inch heels you love. I’ll bet you can’t wait to show off your legs in some really short skirt and seamed stockings."
The idea of high heels perked me up. I loved them at least as much as Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City, although I didn't own any of the Manolo Blahnik's she so adored. But at five nine, my favorite four-inch stilettos put me well over six feet. When I wore them out, I towered over just about everybody else.
But Phil had to be at least six four. As a guy, he dwarfed me, so as a girl, even in my four-inchers, I'd still be shorter than him. But he wasn't just tall, he was big, a former line backer for the New York Jets before two concussions convinced him that selling high end computer systems was a great career move. No doubt about it, even a tall girl like me would seem dainty next to him, or at least a good fit.
My mind started to drift for a moment, imaging the two of us together. As soon as the image had formed, however, I snapped back to reality. *What am I thinking?* I wondered, slightly startled. I had just imagined myself in a little black dress and my favorite black heels, the ones with the t-strap over the arch. I was standing next to him and he had his arm around my waist and I was looking up at him adoringly.
And then it hit me. "Wait," I almost shouted, snapping my head up to look at Rebecca. "Why in the world would Phil Jacobson want to go out with a crossdresser?"
"He said he likes T-girls. He said he prefers full time shemales, but a hot crossdresser would do in a pinch," she giggled, like a teenage girl telling her friends about the first time she ever held a penis.
"What?" I squeaked again.
"It's true," Rebecca replied doing that stupid anchor nod again. "That's exactly what he said. He didn't even blink. I think he's telling the truth."
"Is he gay? I always thought he had the hots for you."
Rebecca rolled her eyes at me just to be sure I understood how clueless I was. "No, my dear, it's you he's had the hots for. I've seen the way he’s looked at you. And how often do you two go off without me? And what about all those gifts he buys you? He's even given you cologne and jewelry!"
"But those bracelets are copper. They're supposed to keep me from getting arthritis!"
A smile spread slowly over Rebecca's face. "And what would you think if he bought me a bracelet?"
*Holy shit! Was I that clueless?* "You never said anything."
Rebecca paused for a moment and then said, "I just put it together today. The whole thing seemed so far-fetched, I couldn't believe it."
"So he is gay."
"No, bi. According to him he sleeps with women all the time, and enjoys them, although he'd rather be with a guy. One of the reasons I believe him is that he told me a lot about himself, things that could be damaging to him if they got out. I think he purposefully made himself vulnerable to demonstrate that he was on the level."
"Shit, if he likes guys, he's gonna to want to...."
"Michael! Of course he won’t. Would you sleep with a friend’s wife?”
I shamefully shook my head no. I don’t know what I was thinking to say such a thing.
And besides, he said he wouldn't. But he also said that if you want to, he won't say no." Only the twinkle in her eyes gave me any hope she was teasing.
"Well that's not going to happen," I said with as much confidence as I could muster. Unfortunately, it sounded hollow when it came out. Still I went on. "First of all, I'm not gay, and second, there's no way I would cheat on you. I haven't and I won't."
"I know sweetie, and I trust you,” she said patting my knee in what I thought was a rather condescending way. But aren't you in the least bit curious?"
Actually, I was curious; it was something I had first considered not long after I discovered my inner girl. But there was no way I was going to admit that! Instead I lied brazenly. "No. I'm not. I've seen hundreds of men undressed in locker rooms and I never once felt the least little bit of attraction to any of them. Women turn me on, especially you!" At least that was true!
"Oh you're so sweet,” Rebecca replied, this time sounding like she meant it. Then she clinched the deal by putting one hand on my thigh and leaning in to kiss me. Then, with her tongue in my mouth, she reached up with her other hand and started to play with my hair. I spent a lot of time caring for it and it was soft and smooth. After a few moments, I just let myself melt into her.
When she emerged for air, she put both hands on my shoulders, cocked her head flirtatiously and looked at me carefully. "Hmmm, if Phil thinks you're hot, maybe I've been missing something. Wanna go get dressed up for me?"
With that, she dropped her hand to my crotch, and rubbed gently. There really wasn't much to feel because with these jeans I had to do a complete tuck. Nonetheless, her hand on my crotch had the intended effect and I started to swell. I had to shift my position to try to get comfortable.
"Mmmmm," Rebecca replied, her voice soft and sexy. "Does my little Sara like that?"
Sara loved what she was doing. As I looked into her eyes, though, I began to wonder whether Rebecca was up to something. She had never given me any reason to doubt her love for or loyalty to me, but this situation was making me a little paranoid. It was one of those things that seemed too good to be true, although I couldn’t think of anything she might gain from having me go out on a date as Sara — unless… it was some kind of test, or perhaps she was trying to get rid of me. But there was absolutely no evidence for that, so I let go of that idea as quickly as it had appeared as she continued to fondle me.
"What should I wear?" I replied a little breathlessly as I leaned back in to kiss her again.
"I just love your little black dress, the one with the mid-thigh skirt," she said, pulling slightly away from me and talking between little kisses. "And put on some sexy lingerie, including a garter belt. Oh, and your breast forms. I'll see if I can find something just as cute and we'll meet back here in half an hour." Then she kissed me once more and said, "Scoot. Time's a' wastin'."
Even though I took more than forty minutes - I just had to put a quick coat of polish on my nails - I beat Rebecca back downstairs. So I put on some soft music, set the coffee table in front of the couch with wine and cheese, and sat down carefully to have a glass.
*God, a hummingbird’s heart couldn’t beat this fast,* I thought, feeling small and anxious, vulnerable even. *On the other hand, I do feel delicious.* As I settled onto the couch, I rubbed my thighs together to feel the sensuously luxurious joy of one stocking caressing the other.
Rebecca came down ten minutes later. By then I had finished the glass of wine, and gotten up and was standing in front of the three quarter length mirror in the foyer, admiring myself, turning to and fro so that the chiffon skirt of my dress swished around my legs. In addition to the dress, I was only wearing my black pumps and black nylons. I had underdone my makeup except for my red, red lips and darkly lined eyes. My nails matched my lips.
Since I wasn't watching the stairs, the first I became aware of Rebecca was when I heard, "Hey babe, lookin' good."
I spun around, deeply embarrassed to be caught admiring myself, and saw Rebecca standing before me with a smirk on her face. But she wasn't dressed "cute." Instead, she was wearing tight black jeans, a stretchy, figure hugging, black turtle neck sweater and a short black leather jacket. She was wearing her ankle boots, which had sharply pointed toes and a spike heel. She had on no makeup and her hair was pulled severely back into a pony tail low on the back of her head.
*Omigod! She's a dyke.*
"Whatsa matter babe? You too good to talk to me?"
"N..n..no," I stammered, trying to get my voice right. "I...I'd love to talk with you. Would you like to join me for a glass of wine? I hate drinking alone." I pointed to the living room. *I can play this game. If she wants to role play, I'm willing to see where it goes.*
"Sure babe. What's your name?"
"Uhh.., uhh, Sara," I finally replied. *Why am I so nervous?*
"My name's Becca," the black clad woman who was trying to pick me up replied.
*Becca? Rebecca hates it when people call her that. I guess she's not going to be Rebecca tonight.*
"Becca, huh?" I like that. It's a strong name."
"You bet babe."
*Babe?* I thought. *I'm four inches taller than you.*
"And I'm gonna take care of you tonight," she went on. "Just you wait."
I didn't have to wait long. After a couple of glasses of wine and a few dances, which we at first stumbled through as she tried to lead and I tried to follow, she ravaged me - first on the couch, and then later in our room. She insisted on calling my penis, clittie, and refused to let me use it for its intended purpose until the very end. By that time, she had me flat on my back, and before she finally impaled herself on me, she made me beg her to fuck me.
As we fell asleep, I was still wearing my garter belt and stockings. I was too exhausted and too sated to move from the now wet spot where she had finished me off.
. . . . I was just trying to figure out if I had enough clothes for a week. I may have to go shopping."
Rebecca laughed. "Sara, you have more clothes than I do!"
"I do not," I complained.
In the morning, Rebecca was back. As we sat at the black granite kitchen counter, an unusually bright autumn sun shining through the window over the sink, we sipped our coffee and munched on English muffins, mine with butter, hers with orange marmalade. As she finished her first half muffin she said, "You know Sara, I'm really worried about you. Once someone gets you hot, you'll do anything to get laid. I bet Phil has you on your back and begging for it before you know what hit you."
"Rebecca? How can you say such a thing? That was for you, not anyone else! Especially not Phil!"
By then, a huge smile had taken over Rebecca's face and I realized she was goofing on me. But thinking back on the events of last night, I must admit that a little doubt was creeping into my mind. I literally had been out of control. Becca had played me like I was a violin and she was a virtuoso. *It had just been for her, hadn't it?* I wondered.
Rebecca broke into my thoughts, "We've got eight days,"
"Huh?"
"Eight days Sara, before your big date. I want you in girl mode 24/7 until then. And I want you to wear your breast forms, so having them on is second nature to you."
"Uh huh," I muttered offhandedly, because I was already thinking about what I was going to wear after breakfast, along with the clothes I would have to buy to make it through a whole week. I’d need all new stuff! Then realizing what she had said, and that it was a real change in the rules, I finally replied, "I can?"
"Oh geez, where is your head? Did I fuck your brains out last night? Did I turn my Sara into a little bimbo," Rebecca teased me.
That got my attention. "No," I said, indignantly. I was just trying to figure out if I had enough clothes for a week. I may have to go shopping."
Rebecca laughed. "Sara, you have more clothes than I do!"
"I do not," I complained.
She just smiled at me indulgently. "That doesn't mean you don't have to go shopping, but don't you dare try to go without me," Rebecca shot back. "I want in on this game too. If last night is any indication, this WILL be fun."
I smiled up at her demurely. "If Becca visits again, I'm sure it will be," I said as dreamily as I could.
***
We spent most of Saturday and Sunday at various Malls and shopping centers far away from home. I was dressed as Sara, starting off in a blue denim mini, pale pink, long sleeve tee with eyelet lace around the collar and cuffs, and Rebecca's snow white short quilted ski jacket with fur around the hood. With a colorful scarf tied round my neck and my makeup dominated by pink, I felt like a femmy little (well no so little) pouf. Rebecca, dressed just as she had been the night before, was Becca. She wore heels and I wore flats, so she was actually a little taller than me. I hung on her arm as we walked, just like a woman might do with a man.
The two of us had a great time filling in the imagined gaps in Sara's wardrobe. The truth was, I already had a rather healthy collection of very sexy lingerie, more than a dozen fancy dresses, an array of shoes, including five beloved pairs of four-inch heels, and a good collection of jeans, slacks, skirts of many lengths, and tops like the one I had worn yesterday. I mean really, I could have gotten through two or three weeks without buying anything. But you know what? I hadn't bought anything since last spring, and how could any woman (or at least any self- respecting crossdresser) pass up an opportunity to add to her wardrobe when she really needed clothes for a new season?
So I updated. I got a couple of skirts, one of them quite short and flirty, and an adorable, red, crinkly broomstick skirt with yellow roses printed on it. There was also a daringly tight black pencil skirt that stopped just at my knees and nearly hobbled me. Becca loved it. I got a great looking silky, white, button front blouse to wear with it. To go with the other skirts, I got tees, twin sets, cotton sweaters and some stretchy turtle necks. Best of all though was an eyelet lace, French cuff white shirt that was hemmed to wear over pants. With a couple of buttons undone, and the way its darts pulled it in at my waist, it was really sexy. I got some low-heeled shoes and a pair of great over the calf black boots with a three-inch heel. Shopping with Becca was just about the most fun I had ever had. At least that's what I thought until I remembered the previous night. That was the most fun I had ever had, for sure, but this was great in its own way. I’d make sure to thank her appropriately.
I wanted pants, but Becca would only agree to a pair of really tight, low cut jeans and some capris. I also got some workout clothes, including sports bras, leotards, and tights that would go with my blue and pink cross trainers. I insisted on some nylon running shorts as well, although Becca really didn't approve. "But I want to see your cute little butt," she teased, grabbing it as several women looked on. I hoped they believed they were watching two cute lesbians.
"But do you also want to see my cute little bulge?" I whispered, surreptitiously brushing the back of her hand over my crotch to make sure she got the picture. Her eyes went wide for a moment, then she giggled. But without saying anything else, she immediately pulled a couple of pairs of nylon shorts off the rack, selecting more vibrant versions of the navy and cranberry I had selected.
Finally, we looked for something for me to wear to my dinner with Phil. We looked at stuff that was either hot and sexy, flowingly romantic, or very dressy, like the long emerald green gown with the stunning side slit that we were now studying. But then I realized that we were approaching this the wrong way. "Becca, this is all wrong," I whispered as I ran my fingers lovingly over the silky fabric. I don't want to make myself alluring for him. I just want to look feminine and presentable.
"Huh?" she replied, looking at me like I had two heads. "Your date is taking you to one of the trendiest new restaurants between here and Manhattan, and you're not going to dress up for him?"
"That's not what I said; I just don't want to look sexy. Can't I be modest and demure? I mean, what about a Chanel style suit or something like that?"
"Hmmm," she considered, cocking her head in a way that was sort of her trademark, and looking back and forth from me to the dress. "Are you telling me that you don't want to be strutting into the restaurant, with your black stocking-clad leg thrusting through this slit while all the men turn and ogle you? What kind of transvestite are you?"
"Rebecca! Please! Keep your voice down!" I was still whispering, but she was talking in a normal tone of voice. "I'm a girl," I said, emphasizing the word girl, "who doesn't want her date to think she's available. You can be pretty without being sexy. You do it everyday."
"Ahhh, flattery will get you everywhere my dear," she said reaching over to kiss my cheek. “I see your point. I guess I was getting carried away. You want to dress for a business date. I guess I was thinking about how I would like to dress to go out. I wear business clothes every day so I want to dress up prettily when I get the chance."
She carefully hung the green dress back on the rack, straightening the skirt as she slid it back between the other long dresses. Then she turned to me and said, "We're in the wrong department. Come with me."
We continued to look, but didn't find anything we liked. I was dejected, but Becca wasn't. "That's okay," she chirped. "We'll just have to go out during the week until we find something."
I looked at her like this was going to be an impossible task.
"Don't give me that look," she said, condescendingly, like she was talking to a idiot. "I simply can't believe you aren't dying to go out shopping again."
I gave a guilty smile and a shrug, and with my eyes lashes fluttering, I said, "When?"
"Oh you," she responded, throwing her arms around me in a big hug.
***
On Tuesday night, I took Becca out with me to look at the dresses I had scouted out over the last two days. I was already dressed in a simple jumper and turtle neck sweater, and assumed Rebecca would wear something casual as well. But she was in her new Becca uniform, tight black pants, this time with a nearly sheer white blouse, black leather jacket, and high, high heels. I took one look at her and I fled back into Sara's room to change. She laughed at me, taunting, "Can't my little girl decide what to wear?"
*Now that's a first,* I thought. I guess I had teased her often enough when she couldn't figure out what to wear, so I had to laugh at her payback. "No," I shouted back through the door. "Besides I have no intention of looking like a shlub when you look so hot. I want to look good for you so your eyes don't wander."
It was her turn to laugh. She often accused me of looking at any attractive woman who happened to pass by while we were out. While I was still undressing, she knocked on my door, and without waiting for me to answer, opened it.
"I want you looking sweet and feminine," she said, "I'll pick your clothes." So that's how I ended up with my brand new pale gray and charcoal abstract print mini, a delicious wrap around chiffon blouse that had no buttons but tied at the waist, and black pumps with two-inch heel. This made us the same height. The blond wig from the picture was tightly pinned to my head, and Becca did my makeup so I looked like an innocent, doe-eyed teenager, with sweet, glossy pink lips. I was a sharp contrast to her bright red lips and other wise severe image. Anyone looking at us could tell who the top was in this relationship.
It didn't take us long to figure out that we still had clearly different ideas about how I should dress for my date with Phil. Despite our previous conversation, Rebecca wanted me in a little black dress, something she discovered in a bias cut matte jersey that was flowy, clingy, and sexy. I'm not even sure she was thinking about how Phil might react. Instead I think (I hoped) she saw me as her sweetly feminine, sub lover, and she was dressing me for her own pleasure.
I, however, was having none of it. I wanted something structured, in a thicker fabric that would not cling to my non-existent curves. I wanted to look like a woman, not a girl, and like a business woman, not a sex object. The way I saw it, I had to look elegantly feminine, and be passable and attractive. My evening with Phil was going to be hard enough without putting any untoward thoughts into Phil's, or anyone else's, mind.
So we struck a deal. I would select what to wear on my date with Phil, my first ever date with a man, but she would select something far sexier, for a date with Becca. *What the hell, What kind of trannie would turn down a sexy dress?* So when I nearly swooned over a short dress with tiers of chiffon over the skirt and virtually no back, Rebecca immediately had me try it on. What made this dress special to me was that it had two long straps of rhinestones that crossed once just after they arose from the rather modest bodice and then ran over my shoulders, only to cross again halfway down my back before attaching again to the bottom of the draped back, right above my ass. I would have to glue my breast forms on to wear this. No way I could wear a bra, but God, what a sexy dress.
I had taken only two steps out of the dressing room before Becca made me do a twirl, and then said right out loud for everyone to hear, "You're buying that one, and I'm taking you out dancing tomorrow!"
I nearly blanched when I saw everyone who was nearby turn to stare at us. But then I figured, what the hell, and ran to her in slightly mincing steps, throwing my arms around her shoulders and saying, "Oh, would you?"
There was a forty something couple directly in my line of sight and I almost laughed out loud when I saw the man's jaw fall open, while his wife rolled her eyes and punched him in the arm. "Oh grow up, will you Robert? It's not like you've never seen lesbians before." she scolded.
Not being able to resist such juicy moment, I winked at him, and after a moment's hesitation, he smiled back at me and then turned to go with his wife, who by this point was doing all she could not to laugh out loud. The last thing I heard was his voice saying, "But she was cute." I just beamed. It never even occurred to me that he might have been talking about Rebecca.
I then disengaged myself from Becca, who was looking at me the way a starving man looks at a steak. In a teasing response, I used my fingertips to grab the edges of the dress at mid thigh level, lifted it slightly, and ducking my head, I bobbed a little curtsey, something I had perfected years ago because it seemed like something a good trannie should know how to do. Back when I had first started going out, I and a few of my T-girl friends started calling ourselves trannies even though many crossdressers and transsexuals find the term an insult. We figured that we could use it as a way of sticking our fingers in the eyes of those who used it as an epithet. I’d never call anyone else a trannie even though that’s how I thought of myself. "Now that we've got the dress you want, let's find the one I need."
We found it two stores later. It was a dark blue and silver satin brocade in a subtle paisley pattern. The simple high-waisted, hip hugging skirt fell straight to just above my knees, and the matching four button peplum jacket, which gave me the illusion of a smaller waist and wider hips, was perfect. Although the neckline didn't show any cleavage, it actually showed a good deal of skin because the notched collar was cut wide towards the shoulders. My fake black pearls would look perfect with it. Becca insisted I buy the smaller size, which I barely fit into at the waist because she said, "The jacket fits better and we can fix your waist."
I wasn’t sure what she meant.
Once I had paid for it and a couple of pairs of stockings to go with it (no pantyhose for you Becca declared), I thought we were done. I already had a perfectly good pair of four-inch black pumps. But Becca declared, "One more stop." We eventually ended up in a custom lingerie store, where I looked around in awe at the absolutely gorgeous bras, panties and other stuff, and then almost gagged at the absolutely earth-shattering price tags. In the meantime, Becca talked quietly with the one saleswoman.
"Okay, hun," the woman said turning to me. "Let's get your measurements." With that, she led me into the back and had me strip down to my undies, which didn’t even cause her to blink, but which sent my heart rate way up. We left an hour later, each of us with two very beautiful (and expensive!) sets of French lingerie. Becca had wanted to buy me a corset, but I resisted and ended up instead with a less scary looking waist nipper. It took me in almost three inches without much discomfort, but would be cut so that I could be taken in six inches eventually. I made it clear to Rebecca that there was no way that was happening unless it happened to her too. "We'll see," was all she said. In any case, the skirt would now fit easily.
I got through Wednesday and Thursday in a state of barely restrained anxiety. I dressed up in a dress and heels each day, as Rebecca had suggested, and spent a good deal of time in front of the mirror, working on my gestures and movements. Dressing only for myself for so long had left me a little rusty. At the same time, I kept up a constant patter of conversation, practicing both my voice and my choice of words, and rehearsing how I would respond to various things I imagined Phil might say. I knew from past experience that when I got nervous, my voice tended to crack, and I wanted to be sure that didn't happen because I knew I would be nothing but nervous around Phil.
An Unfinished Symphony
By Kelly Ann Rogers
Chapter III - A Surprise Date
"Don't be mad, sweetie," she replied, offering me my martini. "I told you I would take care of everything. And I think I did. Here you are at a wonderful new restaurant where everyone thinks you're a woman and you haven't spent even one moment thinking about passing, have you?"
She was right - the sneaky bitch. She had swept me along so adroitly that I never did have a chance to worry. "But they think I'm a lesbian," I whispered back, although I had no idea why I said it.
"So? You are, aren't you? A woman who loves a woman?"
At about 3:00 on Friday afternoon, Rebecca called. "Hi, babe, it's Becca."
"Uh, hi Becca," I managed to reply in my best feminine voice despite my surprise. "What's up? If Rebecca was going to be Becca, something just had to be up.
"I want you to get dolled up. I'm going to take you out for a romantic dinner."
"What?"
"Well, sweetie, you're going out on a date tomorrow night and leaving me home alone. If that's the way it's gonna be, I want to have some fun tonight." Then she hesitated for a beat before saying in the most lascivious tone I had ever heard, "And you're it." I've already picked the place. Wear the little black dress along with your new lingerie."
Mmmmm, my new lingerie. I knew just which set I wanted to wear. The exquisite Simone Perele's we just bought, including a full coverage bra (to hold my breast forms securely), full cut panty (to hold the rest of me securely), and a matching garter belt. They were a deep red, open Calais lace, with the softest dark burgundy inserts. I started to get hard just thinking about it. As soon as I remembered what it cost, I got soft again.
"Sara? Are you there?" Becca broke into my thoughts.
"Huh? Oh yeah. I just got distracted for a moment."
"You were thinking about your Simone Perele undies weren't you?" she teased.
When I didn't respond right away, she jumped in with a triumphant, "I knew it! You are such a tart!"
"I...I'm not. I'm not!" I insisted trying to recover from my embarrassment.
"What eeever," Becca replied dismissively. "Just plan to be ready by 7:00. I'm going to change here and then pick you up."
*That's weird, but what the hell, she's obviously planned to whole thing already.* "Yes dear, whatever you say," I responded, trying to sound sarcastically submissive. Her snort in reply made it pretty clear that she wasn’t impressed. But as I turned to the bedroom to get ready, I realized that I couldn't wear a bra, my new dress was backless. I'd have to attach my forms and they'd bounce with every step. What had I gotten myself into?
***
"Sara, I'm home! Are you ready?"
I was. In fact, at that moment I was standing in front of the mirror, playing with my blonde wig, turning this way and that to make sure everything was just right. I was a little appalled that I was going out in this dress. My breasts were unfettered, the skirt was short and there was no back. I couldn't imagine where Becca was going to take me dressed like this. I was both scared and loving it at the same time.
"Omigod!" I gasped as she walked into the room. Becca was dressed in a black silk, man-tailored tuxedo suit. Her hair was pulled back into a tight chignon on the top of her head, and her make up was dark and steamy. She was in tall, tall heels and carried a top hat in the crook of her right arm. Her nails were longer than I'd seen them in a long time and painted deep red to match her lipstick.
At about the same time, she said, "Don't you look adorable? "You really out did yourself tonight."
I blushed with pride, curtsying and replying demurely, "Thank you kind sir." Here I was dressed like a sexy call girl looking to get laid, while Becca looked commanding and powerful, and very sexy. The difference between how we looked couldn't have been any more obvious, and I was actually feeling rather intimidated. I decided to try to surf with that feeling and see where it would lead me. Let her take the lead.
She came over to me, took my hand, winked, and said, "Give me a little twirl." I smiled shyly and did just that as she held my hand, lifting it over my head so I could spin under it. Of course, my dress fluttered prettily around my thighs as I turned. But instead of stopping me after one rotation, Becca twirled me another half turn until I was facing away from her, and then grabbed me around the waist with her free hand. She let her other hand go and wrapped it around my shoulder, pulling me close to her body. Then she leaned in and started to nuzzle my neck and ear. "Are you my little girl tonight?" she whispered as she suckled on my earlobe, flipping my dangly, clip-on earring with her tongue.
"Ooh yes," I moaned in return. I was getting seriously turned on. Maybe we wouldn't go out at all!
"And you'll do whatever I say?"
"Ooooh yesss," I shuddered under her touch, goose bumps starting to form on my bare shoulders and arms.
"Good girl. I'll take care of everything,” she whispered. Then she let me go, took my left hand in her right, twirled me back to face her and said, "Come with me."
We went into the living room and I saw several boxes wrapped with bright silver ribbons. Becca handed me the first one, obviously a shoe box. I opened it at her urging and discovered a beautiful pair of black leather sandals.
A laugh started to burst from my lips, but I managed to stifle it to a single giggle. The shoes were gorgeous, and I was already starting to take off my own 4-inch black pumps to try them on. What had made me laugh were the heels: they were at most an inch high. Becca really wanted to be taller than me tonight!
The next box, a really small one, revealed a gold ankle bracelet. It had a small gold plate that was engraved "Becca and Sara." The two names were intertwined in a heart.
"Oh Becca!" I gushed. This is gorgeous. Thank you sooo much." And I reached up to kiss her, which is just what she wanted, for me to have to reach up that is. She looked down at me with a barely contained look of triumph on her face.
"Would you put it on for me?" I asked, trying to put a small pout in my voice.
"Sure babe, put your foot up here," she said, indicating the cocktail table that was holding all the boxes.
So I lifted my right foot for her.
"This is to remind you that I love you no matter what," she said emphatically.
"Oh, I do so love you," I replied equally as emphatically. And I pulled her into a tight hug as soon as she had finished with my ankle.
She returned the hug for a few moments and then broke away. "We need to go soon, so let me give my girl the rest of her gifts.” The third box held a white orchard, which she quickly pinned to the right side of my head, pulling the hair back slightly from my face as she did so.
I watched intently in the mirror as she worked, my knees weakening as I understood the utter femininity of the look she was creating. Tears started to form in the corners of my eyes, but when Becca noticed them, she quickly grabbed a tissue and blotted them gently, saying, "None of that now. We don't have time to redo your makeup." And she winked at me!
The final box, which was by far the largest, held the biggest surprise. It was what looked like a silver fox jacket that would just cover my ass. I was absolutely floored.
"Omigod," I breathed out, my hand over my mouth. "Is that real?"
"Don't be silly,” Becca said as she held it open for me." "It's just a real good fake. I can't afford a real fur coat! Especially for you!"
I was actually relieved. "But it's still gorgeous," I replied, snuggling my cheek into the big soft collar. "And you're just amazing. Doing all this for me."
"Yeah, I don't know what came over me," she giggled. "But I wanted to be sure you knew how a man should treat you before you actually start going out with them."
"Oh. You mean they should buy me jewelry and furs?"
She cocked her head at me and considered me for a moment. "Well, maybe eventually, if you really get real serious with one. They don’t give this stuff away easily, you know." There was a strange tone of regret in her voice. I didn't understand it, and was afraid she meant I hadn’t given her those kinds of things, even though she had always insisted she didn’t want them. But before I had a chance to dwell on it, Becca reached back into the box, pulled out a long black and silver silk scarf, which she wrapped around my neck so one end was over my shoulder, hanging down my back, and the other hanging down the front, and a pair of bright red leather gloves, which I quickly pulled on. As soon as I had slung my small evening bag over my shoulder, she caught my hand in hers, and ushered me out the door.
We drove about 30 minutes to Greenwich, where a very hot restaurant had just opened. We chatted aimlessly on the way over and I thrilled to the touch of Becca's hand on my thigh as she drove. She was always a confident woman, but tonight she just exuded strength. I felt protected, and I loved it.
I was feeling great until the moment when the valet opened the car door for me. Then I froze, turning towards Becca, for what I didn't know. But she just rolled her eyes at me and flicked her head up in a gesture that said, 'Just get out of the car.' When I turned back to the door, the valet's hand was waiting for mine, so I put my fingers in his palm, swiveled my hips so my legs were out of the car, and let him help me up.
"Thank you," I said quietly, without looking at him, because I was feeling intimidated. But he didn't let go of my hand right away, so I had to look up. Feeling insecure, I first glanced up through my eyelashes before actually lifting my head. He was a young Latino man, neatly groomed and very attractive. After a small smile, I gently pulled my hand from his and turned to look for Becca.
She was standing by the back of the car, her top hat tilted jauntily on her head, and a brilliant smile on her face. "Come love," she said brightly, as she walked up next to me holding out her elbow for me to put my arm through. "Stop flirting with that cute young man."
I blushed furiously, I could just feel my face and chest heat up, and hurried to take her arm so we could get out of there.
"What did you say that for?" I whispered urgently as soon as we were at the door, which was held open for us by a smartly dressed middle-age man who examined us both carefully with a big smile on his face. "Ladies," he nodded to us as we had entered. Then he turned and left.
"You little tease," she said with a small laugh. "I can't believe what you did to that poor boy. You've already showed me that you're an easy lay, now I discover that you're a shameless tease. Thank goodness I never let you go out before." Her laughter tinkled like fine crystal, but I wasn't at all sure what she was teasing me about.
"He was so rude," I whispered insistently as we entered the spare, Japanese-style lobby. It was done up in pale wood, with a small fountain in the middle. Black sand surrounded the water, with a few rocks scattered artfully about. But a chill ran through my body as I looked up and noticed that seemingly every eye in the place had turned to us. The blood drained from my face and I grabbed Becca's arm even tighter as I suddenly realized what they were seeing: the very femmy lesbian girlfriend of a beautiful woman dressed in a top hat and tails. Not to mention that my breasts bounced with every step. Of course people were looking at us.
I wanted to die, or run, or have the floor swallow me up. But Becca held me in place with her arm, and standing straight up, calmly scanned the room, giving everyone a good chance to study us. Then she turned to me, lifted my chin with her hand and kissed me firmly on the lips. "Come love," she said clearly. "Let's see if our table's ready."
She sauntered casually to the maitre d's desk, leaving me no choice but to hurry along next to her, my heels clicking along with hers on the pale hardwood floor.
"Matti," she said enthusiastically as a somewhat petite, red-head, dressed in a tight black dress and high heels, approached the desk from inside the restaurant. She really was quite striking, with pale skin, rich dark red lips, and even darker eyes.
"Rebecca!" Matti smiled back, hurrying over and pulling Becca towards her so she could air kiss each cheek. "And you must be Sara," she said turning an incandescent smile on me. “I'm Matti. I own this place."
"Uh, hi Matti," I mumbled, totally confused.
"I love your work," she went on, her voice an unusual mixture of breathy, hoarse, and husky. Then, holding my arms, she reached up to do the air kiss routine with me. She couldn’t have been more than 5 feet six inches tall, even in her heels. "I'm so glad you're here because I want Mind Games to take over my marketing."
*Huh? Mind Games? She knew my work? That could only mean.... Shit.* But I did my best to accept her greeting in the warm spirit in which it was offered, and then turned to allow her to take my coat. Before she pulled it off my shoulders, however, she gently touched the orchard, and cooed, "So pretty." Then when she had slipped my jacket off one shoulder and onto my arm, she bent in and kissed the shoulder.
I literally shivered at her touch and turned to look at her. She had pale freckles on her nose and cheeks, and a, I don’t know how to describe it, a shy but somehow lustful look in her eyes, as she touched my cheek gently, almost lovingly, I thought. "You are just lovely, yes, quite lovely," she said so only the two of us could hear.
I caught Becca's eye while this was going on and glared at her as Matti finally took my coat and gloves. I had decided to keep the scarf. But Becca only smiled at me benignly, making me even more angry. Then she put her hand low on my bare back, a feeling that totally surprised me, and made me shiver. Again, goose bumps rose out of my flesh as I realized how uncovered I was. But that was nothing compared to how I felt as Becca turned me to go into the bar with her hand on my butt. As a man I had done that to her because I just loved the feel of her shapely behind and because I thought it was a sexy thing to do. Now that the roles were reversed, I felt really vulnerable. I wasn't a man at all, I was a woman possessed by someone stronger than me. I had to shake my head to clear it of the dissonant images of me as a man holding Rebecca's butt, and me as a woman being held by her.
"How could you?" I accused her once we had settled into a small cocktail table in the bar. "She knows who I am."
"Yes, isn't she exquisite?" Becca said, leaning in close to kiss the tip of my nose.
"Don't do that," I snapped in a hoarse whisper pulling my head back. "This is serious. You were the one who insisted I keep this secret. How could you tell her?"
"Oh calm down," Becca said dismissively, as she sat up so the waitress could put our martinis on the table. She had gin with olives. I had Stoli Orange with an orange slice. Once they were safely on the table she lifted hers, indicating with her eyes that I should do the same, and then toasted me. "To the most beautiful girl in the world - the apple of my eye - may you always get what you wish for." Her face was glowing with love, and I could feel myself falling into her warm dark eyes.
I sat paralyzed for a moment, a warm flush mounting onto my face. I was completely disarmed. "Oh Rebecca..." was all I could get out. But even though I couldn't think of anything to say, I knew what I wanted to do. Without breaking eye contact, I put my glass down to my right, took Becca's from her hand with both of mine and put it down to the left so the middle of the table was clear. Then I tilted my head to the side and leaned over the table. She understood immediately and leaned the rest of the way in while tilting her head the other way. Then she found my lips. We kissed gently for a few moments, our hands in each other's before we sat back up.
I was feeling dreamy until I realized that complete silence had overtaken the bar around us. It was only then that I remembered that we were two girls kissing in a public restaurant. That probably wasn't exactly what people expected when they showed up for dinner. Then I heard someone behind me say, "Wow, that was some kiss.”
Another voice replied, “They shouldn’t be doing that in public.”
I whispered to Becca, "Yes we should, but why did you set me up like this?"
"Don't be mad, sweetie," she replied, offering me my martini. "I told you I would take care of everything. And I think I did. Here you are at a wonderful new restaurant where everyone thinks you're a woman and you haven't spent even one moment thinking about passing, have you?"
She was right - the sneaky bitch. She had swept me along so adroitly that I never did have a chance to worry. "But they think I'm a lesbian," I whispered back, although I had no idea why I said it.
"So? You are, aren't you? A woman who loves a woman?" And she cocked her head and an eyebrow at me, a gentle smile and little creases forming at the corners of her eyes warming her look.
A lesbian — is that what I wished I could be? Is that what I wished for Rebecca? Is that what she wished for? Is that why she introduced me as a woman? I had to ask. "Why did you tell her?"
"Matti is interested in hiring us. She much prefers to work with women, so I thought we would make more of an impression if she saw you like this."
"You're kidding, right?"
"Nope. She used to be a chef out in LA, but followed her lover, here to Connecticut so she could start this restaurant with him."
"God, I'm like the company slut," I moaned, trying to sound aggrieved. "First you set me up with Phil, and now Matti. Next you're going to tell me, 'It's only business.' Right?"
"Well, it is," she insisted. "Other than that, you're mine." She seemed quite pleased with herself.
We only had a couple of minutes to sip our martinis before we were called to our table, so, I drained mine before I got up, figuring I could get another as soon as we reached our table. I was really self conscious and needed the bottled courage. I was hoping for something in a corner, so we could be all romantic with each other in private, but Matti had other plans. She put us at one of the most visible tables in the place. "You two are gorgeous," she said. "I want everyone to be able to see you." I could only blush at the idea. And as she pulled my seat out for me, she said, "It'll do wonders for business; consider it the first phase of our contract. I'll even pick up dinner."
I turned towards her, surprised at her generosity, and as I did, she slipped her hand around my waist, pulled me towards her just a little and kissed the side of my neck. Then she patted my behind, and urged me to sit. I was too dumbfounded to do anything else.
We were a little less openly affectionate than I had planned, but had a wonderful dinner just the same. The menu featured wonderfully complex Asian fusion fare, obviously influenced by Matti’s many years on the west coast. We sampled the appetizers and split a main course, fire grilled Ahi tuna with some kind of amazing raspberry salsa.
The food was the least of it. I discovered that it was kind of fun being the center of attention, at least while I had someone around to look after me. Being here with Becca felt nothing like when I used to go out by myself before we had met, or more recently at the conventions I occasionally attended. Then, all I really wanted to do was blend into the woodwork and hope no one would out me.
But tonight there was no place to hide, and Becca made it clear that if I tried, people would really wonder about me. "A beautiful woman is proud of herself and pleased to show herself off to others," she declared. So I sat upright, smiled as often as I could, and moved with all the feminine grace I could muster. Becca kept plying me with wine, which, on top of the two martinis, got me rather giddy. I guess that buzz was what led to the high point of the dinner, which came right before dessert. Becca dared me to catch the attention of four guys who were at a table that was sort of on the way to the restrooms. I’m sure (really I am) that I wouldn’t have done this sober, but I really wiggled my butt as I passed them on the way to the ladies room. On the way back, I turned up the wattage, which actually elicited a quiet whistle as I passed them. I couldn't help but glance back over my shoulder, give them a smile and a wink before turning my head slowly around and strutting back to our table. I don't know where I got the courage. Well, yes I do, and it taught me two important lessons. The first, which I should have known anyway, was that it's really easy to lose control if you're drinking and in a good mood. The second, which really was new, was that it doesn't take much more than a wiggle to get men to pay attention to you. That was a little scary.
After dinner, we chatted briefly with Matti, who couldn't seem to keep her eyes off me. At first, I reveled in it, but after a few minutes, I started to feel a bit like a bug under a magnifying glass. Finally, while Becca and Matti were engaged in a discussion about a potential contract, which didn't stop Matti from giving me the eye, I felt just like the little wife, decorative, but not terribly useful, which was fun, in a weird sort of way.
After dinner, we left the restaurant, but instead of heading for the car as I had anticipated, we went in the other direction. This was an old Main street, which, like so many others, had started to die as new malls drew shoppers out of town. But more recently, this once abandoned area of several blocks, which held many buildings of architectural interest, was undergoing a renaissance, and the old buildings had been renovated into clubs, shops and restaurants, some with condos on the top floors. Two blocks away, we reached our destination. It was barely lit, except for the name, which was in pink neon lights: Dawn's Sunset. It didn't make much sense, but seemed amusing. Becca knocked at the door and a peephole opened. "You've got to be kidding," I whispered to Becca, who shushed me like I was an annoying child. A moment later the door opened.
It only took getting through the door to see that this was a lesbian club. As we stood there, waiting for our eyes to become accustomed to the dim light, everyone nearby studied us closely. That wasn't much different than the straight restaurant we just left. Still, it was something I'd never experienced, so I inched closer to Becca, who put a protective arm around me as she smiled brightly and said hello to the women who were nearby. I was scared to death. Lesbians often don't like T-Girls, and the last thing I wanted was to be outed here. So I sighed a mixed breath of relief, when one beefy short-haired dyke looked me up and down after I had taken my coat off and said, "Mmmm, aren't you a tasty morsel."
"Sorry, love. She's taken," Becca cut in, folding my coat over her arm. "But maybe you can get a dance later."
My eyes flew open and I turned on Becca, who was doing everything she could to not laugh. "Relax babe", she said. "You don't have to worry. You can dance with whoever you want. Just remember, I'm the one taking you home."
Our new friend smiled at us, and taking a sip off the Budweiser bottle she was holding by the neck with just her index finger, she winked at me and said, I’ll see you later hon.” Then she walked away.
I glowered at Becca, who just laughed.
As Becca deposited my coat in a seedy looking coat room, the kind that makes you think anything nice you leave there will be stolen, I took the opportunity to check the place out. It was not only dark, but like the coat room, rather seedy looking, with a long, old, beat-up wooden bar on one side and tables on the other. But it had a classic metal ceiling, now painted black, very intricate moldings around the top of the wall and all the doorways, and beautiful wainscoting on the walls. This had once been a very elegant room. Between the bar and the tables was a small raised dance floor, which was about the only place with any light on it. Despite its lack of esthetic appeal, there was quite a crowd. The most obvious women to me were the ones who seemed to be what most people think about when they say the word dyke. They were doing the best they could to look and behave like men. But there were more than a few pretty, feminine girls there as well, and just about everything in between. Very few people were at all dressed up, which really made Becca and me (especially me!) stand out, but they all seemed relaxed and comfortable with each other.
Dressed as we were, it looked like Becca and I had been dropped here by mistake after having been teleported from a wedding or something. But no one really seemed to care, except perhaps to check us out, which I figured was okay, because I was busy checking them out as well, especially the scene on the dance floor, which was pretty frenzied.
"You've got to be crazy, bringing me here," I whispered to Becca.
"Huh," she replied off handedly. "Speak up I can't hear you."
"You have to be crazy," I repeated, my face right in hers so she could see my lips. "I could get killed in here."
"Well," she smiled back at me. "You better keep your date happy or she might start loaning you out to the natives."
"Stop teas.... Oh look there's some people leaving that table. Let's grab it."
Once we had settled ourselves in, Becca went to the bar to get us some wine, and women started to arrive at our table to hit on me. It was only a slow trickle, but it never really let up till we left an hour later. These women apparently lived in some kind of 1950s world, where the idea that you could steal someone else's date if only you had the balls to do it, still existed. And let me tell you, these women all seemed to have way more balls than I ever did.
I couldn't escape the irony of the situation. As a guy, I would have reveled in the attention of all these women because I would have been the one to give out the favors. As a woman, I just didn't know what to think. It was obvious I was an object here and that I had none of the power I naturally assumed as a man. All the power relations were flipped upside down and while I was flattered at the attention, it made me feel small and vulnerable, and quite anxious.
Becca remained aloofly amused as I dealt with these predatory women. One actually came over while she was sitting there, and the others were not just more aggressive than I'd ever been, but they carried themselves more aggressively as well.
"I guess you just never tried very hard," Becca teased me when I pointed that out. "They're trying real hard. Just about as hard as you're trying to be a woman." And then she laughed, although I wasn't quite sure what was so funny.
"You just better be sure you ravage me tonight," I taunted back. "because I've already turned down a half dozen offers."
"I don't think you'd like what they have to offer," she teased back. "You've never actually been on the receiving end of a strap-on, have you?"
"You wouldn't," I responded with more than a little anxiety. She just cocked her head at me in that familiar way and winked, holding her hands about a foot apart, pursing her lips and shaking her head approvingly.
"Perhaps if you dance with me, I might keep you to myself," she said, in mock seriousness. "I'll lead, of course."
*Of course,* I thought to myself, gulping down my wine in the absurd hope it would make me graceful. "How 'bout another?" I asked urgently as I pushed my glass over to Becca.
"First we dance. C'mon, babe," Becca said as she stood and grabbed my hand, dragging me with her.
A moment later we were on the dance floor, where we started to shake and shimmy to a fast techno pop song. I was stiff and awkward at first, but Becca urged me to imitate the other women, some of whom were really letting go in a sinuously provocative way, and after a couple of minutes, I started to become more fluid, and, I hoped, although I wasn't sure why, more sensual.
Then the music shifted to a slow ballad. Becca held up her left hand and put her right arm around my back. At first, I couldn't figure out which hand to put up, even with her guidance, but eventually got it right, even though it felt awkward. It turned out that we both felt awkward and despite our attempt at practice the other night at home, Becca was still somewhat uncertain about how to lead. But then, she just wrapped both hands around my back, leaving me little choice but to put mine around her neck, and we swayed together in time with the music.
After a minute or so, Becca's hands slowly found their way down my bare back to below my waist, which made me shiver. Then they found their way to my ass, which almost made me swoon. By the time she pulled me tight to her body I couldn’t get enough of her hands, and even started to rotate my hips to encourage her to rub my dress over my pantied ass. What the hell, I thought, and I laid my head on Becca's shoulder.
And there we were, looking just like every other lesbian couple on the dance floor, holding each other tightly and enjoying the warmth and affection of someone else's embrace, and probably dreaming of getting laid.
It turned out that Becca was thinking just that because when the music stopped she said, "Let's go. I've got plans for you at home."
And she did too. And they took a good couple of hours to carry out. But by the time we were done, we were both fully satisfied, falling asleep in a tangle of arms, legs, and French lingerie.
…"Honey," she replied. "It's downright sad. I've always thought that there's nothing sadder than a transsexual who's afraid to be who she really is…"
…Not only would my expensive panties stay hidden, but now they were starting to feel like a brand on my ass. It said coward. . .
Although we had stayed up well into the wee hours the night before, we couldn't sleep all that late on Saturday because I had so much to do to get ready for my date with Phil. My God! It was probably easier to plan the president's inauguration. And things started off badly. Right after breakfast, I had to run to the bathroom for the second time that day because my bowels were acting up. This had been a problem of mine since I was a kid. When I got really anxious, I tended to get diarrhea. When I was 12, I took a trip with my class to Washington D.C. and almost didn't make it onto the bus because I couldn't get off the toilet. Although I've only rarely had that problem recently, it was now back. I had to laugh. Going on a date with a guy had regressed me to the emotional status of a 12 year old. And that image of vulnerability made me shiver.
Because of my little problem, we left the house quite late. Our first stop was to the drug store so I could get some Imodium. From there we ran to the store where I got my waist nipper. “What are we doing here?” I asked.
“Just you wait and see,” Rebecca replied as she approached a trim older woman with great posture named Dorothy, who led me to a back room where, Rebecca said, they had a surprise for me. I wasn't sure I wanted any more surprises, but Rebecca, it turned out, had bought me new breasts, sinfully expensive Amoena Tria Plus forms. While I hadn't realized it, I had been measured for them at the same time I had been fitted for my other lingerie. After some very unconvincing objections - I mean I had to seem like they were forcing me didn't I - I lay down so they could be attached to my chest.
When I sat up, I didn't know what to think. They sagged down with a most delightful bounce and even bulged slightly into my arms. I turned left and then right to see how they moved, and sure enough, there was a slight delay before they caught up with my turn, then some overshoot, and then the opposite on the way back. The women both giggled when I looked up with a big, stupid grin on my face. "Oh my," was all I could think of to say.
"Oh my indeed," Rebecca replied, admiration in her voice. "Aren't you something? Let's get your little corset on. I want to see the full look."
This was a serious garment, made of what appeared to be satin, but was also very sturdy. Mercifully, Dorothy only laced me in two inches. But still, who with diarrhea would wear even a small, loose waist nipper? What we trannies do to look beautiful! Even for a date we don't really want to go on!
"Pull it in another half inch in about three hours," Dorothy told Rebecca, just as I was reconciling myself to the nasty thing, "then the last half inch three hours after that." Then turning to me she said, "You should have plenty of time to get used to it and still be comfortable when you are out tonight."
"Uhh, thanks, I think," I replied. Two inches felt plenty snug. If that was enough to allow my skirt to fit, that's where I wanted to stop. I was a little worried about the look Rebecca was giving me though; she looked like she was just dying to squish me down further. *No way,* I thought to myself.
After selecting several new bras, because my old ones no longer fit, I redressed. I was only wearing high-waisted jeans and a stretchy turtleneck top, which now encased a busty young woman with a slim waist. We paid for our purchases, now having spent well over a thousand dollars in this little store over the past week, and headed out to have a light lunch before going to the salon. I was due for a complete make over, starting with my toes and ending with the top of my head. With my new figure I was starting to get excited about the prospect.
I discovered I had little appetite, and was worried about eating anything that might set me off again in any case. Some toast and yogurt was about all I could handle, and it sure didn't leave me feeling satisfied. *Still, better safe than sorry,* I thought.
Sara then drove me about a half hour away to a salon that specialized in makeovers for T-girls. This was a full service operation, almost like a day spa, and they gave me the works, trying to find the butterfly inside my caterpillar. You should have seen everything they did for me. Even though I was nervous, I felt like a princess!
Rebecca had set the whole thing up and left me to enjoy myself, which I fully intended to do. The pampering was as delightful as I had anticipated, and being mixed in with real women, who basically ignored me except for an occasional conspiratorial smile, was fun. The only problem was that I had way too much time to think. It seemed that every time I began to relax, images of me and Phil invaded my consciousness.
The first time it happened, I was just finishing up with my body waxing. The operator, Rosa, had just finished with my bikini line, leaving only the smallest patch of hair above my penis. "You don't want anything sticking out from the edges of your panties, do you?" Rosa asked when I questioned the extent of the work she had just done, as if I could get the hair back.
*Well, no. I guess I don't,* I thought to myself as I simply shrugged to her. And then, as she finished up by massaging a wonderfully aromatic and soothing lotion into my skin, I drifted into a day dream. I imagined myself standing in front of Phil, naked except for my small corset, stockings and heels. My new breasts hung alluringly over the top of the corset, and my slightly engorged penis hung below it. Phil was staring at it.
"You really went all the way for me, didn't you, darlin'," he asked, a bit of lust in his voice as he reached down and tickled my remaining pubic hair with his fingers.
I giggled from his touch, and looked up into his eyes. "Isn't there something else down there you want to get your fingers around?"
"You are just the cutest little sissy," he replied, now hefting my penis, which was beginning to come to life. “Just wait until you see what I have for you.”
"Sara, this isn't very ladylike. Is it for me?" Rosa giggled.
I looked down and could see that the erection I was beginning to get in my daydream was in fact real. I blushed furiously, and could only smile at her with a totally embarrassed look on my face. I sure as hell wasn't going to tell her what I had been thinking, which surprised the hell even out of me. "Your touch is quite lovely," I half whispered, half choked out, trying to somehow recover some dignity. "I'm sorry."
"Oh don't be silly," she said, flicking her wrist at me to show she was just teasing. If this was going to scare me, I sure as hell wouldn't be working here. And we both giggled. "C'mon, I'm done with you. So I pulled my panties back on, admiring, the smooth, hairless skin that surrounded them, wrapped myself in the baby blue robe with pink piping they had given me, and followed Rosa to my next station.
"Big date tonight, hon?" a rather large woman in a crisp, baby blue smock asked me as I settled into her chair.
"Yeah, I guess you could say that," I replied, as I realized that Veronica, which is who her name tag said she was, was no more female than I. But even though she was nearly six feet tall and rather large boned, she had an unmistakable air of comfortable femininity about her. Her long, bright, orangey red hair was worn in large, loose curls that bounced with remarkable body when she moved her head, which she did in quick little motions, like a bird. Her makeup was exquisite, emphasizing her large pale blue eyes and ample mouth, and there just wasn't any evidence that she ever had a beard. Because she talked so much with her hands, it was easy to see that she had gorgeous nails, quite long, with intricate airbrushed art on them. I wondered what those might look like on me, but then shook it off because I had already decided that I wanted my nails no more than a quarter inch past my finger tips, and in a simple deep red that I thought would go with my dress.
As we discussed what my nails should look like, Veronica, who insisted, "Call me Ronnie," said, "What do you think of this color?" She was holding up a pearlescent dark blue polish called Lustre. "I checked out your dress,” she went on, “and this coordinates with it perfectly." And then she pulled out a plummy colored lipstick that didn't exactly match the polish, but complimented it perfectly, and then some earthy-plummy eye shadows. "See?" she went on. "Everything goes together. And I think these colors will be great with your skin. You really should go to a tanning parlor you know. You need more color."
I sat there studying the colors as she applied them to the back of her hand so I could see them together. *What the hell,* I thought. *I would never pick anything like these, but there's no harm in being a little daring.* I smiled up at her, "Okay, I love the idea, let's go for it. But I want my nails to be ovals, just a quarter inch past my finger tips, okay?"
"Oh that's just wonderful," she gushed. "So many of my clients are just too stuffy to try anything avant garde. The men will all be drooling over you and the women will be jealous."
"I guess," I replied, not sure whether that's what I wanted to happen.
"You just relax. I'm going to give you a facial, and while your mask is on I'll do your nails. Your wig is already done, but we’re going to trim and touch up your hair anyway. Then we'll do your makeup and you'll be good to go."
"Sounds too good to be true," I smiled at her, and then lay my head back as she lowered the chair to a more horizontal position.
The feeling of her fingers on my face as she worked on me was just exquisite, and even though she kept up a constant prattle, by the time she applied the aloe-cucumber mask, I was drifting in and out of a comfortable semi-consciousness.
Phil was again in my dreams. This time, he was oohing and ahhing over my beautiful nails as he held my hand in his and lowered his head to kiss it. I shook my long blond hair off my face and looked up at him longingly. His eyes devoured mine, and he reached around my back with his other hand and pulled me tight against his body, kissing me deeply. As I gratefully returned his kiss, I could feel his erection growing against my belly. It was like touching a magic wand, and a warm feeling spread out to the rest of my body from where it touched me.
Then, without warning, he pushed me away and in a harshly cutting tone said, "I always knew you were a faggot, you little sissy." And we were suddenly surrounded by hundreds of people who were pointing and laughing at me, calling me sissy or faggot. I searched for a way to flee, but I was trapped.
I snapped my eyes open and shook my head. I could feel the tightness of the hardened mask on my face, and my heart was accelerating into a range that would give a hummingbird a heart attack.
"You okay hon?" Veronica asked.
"Huh? Oh. Yeah. I think I just had a bad dream."
"Well, let me get you a glass of wine to relax you," Ronnie said standing up and starting to turn away from me.
"No, no," I insisted. "Don't." I was pretty sure my sore little tummy wouldn't be real happy with alcohol right now.
"Oh. You're nervous about your date. How precious," she gushed again (it seemed to be her only way of talking), as her hands fluttered all around her face like escaped butterflies. "Just like a teenager going to a prom."
"Well, maybe," I allowed. "Anyway, I'm okay now, why don't you continue."
So I settled back down and Ronnie picked my hand back up and started in again on my nails. Now, however, I was rattled. All my fears of humiliation were now dancing wildly in my mind.
*How am I going to get through this? I'll come downstairs after Rebecca lets him in, and make my grand entrance as the two of them stand next to each other watching me. I guess Rebecca'll be supportive; she's been great all week. I hope she'll be proud to see what a lovely woman I make. Or will seeing me as a lovely woman threaten her or make her think less of me as a husband, even though she had a big hand in getting me to this point. Aack!*
*And Phil?* He'll think to himself, *What a little sissy. He didn't even have the guts to turn down my little offer of a date. What a pansy.*
*And that's what I'd be,* I thought dejectedly, *a pathetic little pansy. At the rate things are going, I'll probably have an accident right there in my panties.*
And then I thought of Ronnie. *Obviously not a born-woman, but one who seemed to revel in her femininity. She's just herself, even though she's not perfect. Hmmmph. Where does she get her self-confidence?*
I was starting to feel even more insecure, realizing that even with all my intelligence and financial advantages, I didn't have anywhere near the confidence she did, or the courage to just appear as I wanted to, something she had clearly done. *You're pitiful,* I thought, and I almost started to cry. And then, to make things even worse, I could feel my stomach start to cramp up, which, inside my corset felt like the build up to an explosion, and I knew I had to get to a toilet, fast.
So I started to get up again. "Veronica, I need to go to the bathroom, now," I said urgently.
"Oh! Oh! You poor dear. Here let me help you up. It's right over there next to the changing room. She hurriedly escorted me to the restroom and then stayed there, repeatedly asking if I was all right. Actually, this was the easiest it had been all day, and I had a hopeful feeling that this might be the last time I needed to go. Surely, there couldn't be anything at all left.
I emerged from the restroom feeling embarrassed. l really didn't need anyone witnessing the humiliation of my anxiety driven bowels. But Ronnie was right there, looking very concerned and hovering around me like a mother bird at her nest.
"Well," I said. "I think that might have been the last one. There couldn't possibly anything left inside me."
"That's great!" she replied, as if I had just won the lottery. This woman's enthusiasm knew no bounds. "Now you won't have to douche your pussy to get ready for tonight." She really seemed to be pleased for me. "Here," she said, handing me a tube of anti-inflammatory cream. Use this. It'll help."
"Do you have diarrhea a lot?" I asked, surprised that she was so prepared for this particular eventuality.
"No, silly," she said blushing and turning her head down and away in a most fetching manner. "I keep this for when my boyfriend get really hot and poles me till I'm raw."
My eyes widened at the image, but I couldn't be sure if she was putting me on until a moment later when she wiggled her ass at me in a most kittenish way (*What a great move,* I thought. *I've GOT to learn it.*), with a look on her face that was a priceless mixture of pride and embarrassment. After a moment's hesitation, we both started to laugh.
"What are you telling me?" I squealed.
She leaned in close as if we were long time confidants. "Well, honey, don't tell me you're going to all this trouble to get ready for a date and that you don't intend to get laid?"
"What?" I squealed again. "No. I don't intend to get laid! I'm going to do everything I can to avoid it."
"Huh?" Her face fell, and it was obvious that she was truly confused.
"Oh shit," I muttered, raising my hands and dropping them to my sides in frustration. "Veronica, it's complicated. The truth is, I'm a happily married, heterosexual and the guy has promised to be a perfect gentleman."
She still looked confused.
"Ronnie, you seem to be a dear, but I don't really know you, so I'm not quite ready to dish everything. Just know that I love to dress, and this make over is like the coolest thing I've ever done."
Disappointment now shared her eyes with the already present confusion, but she took my hand and led me back to her station. It didn't occur to me till later that I had been holding hands with a guy.
As I sat down, I felt like I had to tell her something, "Ronnie," This is my first real date with a guy, but the circumstances are kinda weird. I mean I've always dreamed of going out on a date just to see what it was like to have a guy treat me like a woman, but..."
"You mean, be careful what you wish for, or you may get it?" she interrupted.
"Exactly," I replied, relieved that I didn't have to tell her any more. "And on top of everything else, I've got diarrhea."
She looked at me, her face grave for about two seconds. Then her hand flew up to her mouth as she tried to hold in her laughter. But it was no use. It came out in gales. And a second later I was laughing too. When you thought about it, it really was ludicrous.
When we had both calmed down, Ronnie got a glass of wine for both of us and we shared a few sips before she settled back down to work, and I settled back down to figure out how I was going to handle the evening. Before I settled fully back, I lifted my head and said to Ronnie. "You know, I'm wearing $100 panties, but I'm not letting anyone see them. Seems, too bad, somehow."
"Honey," she replied. "It's downright sad. I've always thought that there's nothing sadder than a transsexual who's afraid to be who she really is."
She said it wistfully, as if she wasn't talking about me; after all, here I was getting a make over so I could go out on a date. But it stunned me like a slap across the face. Without knowing it, Ronnie had effectively gutted me. A deep gush of shame ran through my soul, and I didn't want to talk about it any more. So I put my head down, saying as I closed my eyes, "Why don't we finish up. I still need to get home before I go out." I grimaced inwardly at how harsh I sounded, but I was too upset to really care.
Lying there, again near tears, I thought to myself, *You're a hypocrite. A hypocrite and a fraud.*
*No, my life is okay the way it is,* I argued back.
*No. You're a wimp, a wimp and a coward. You never commit wholeheartedly to anything. You're afraid to give up being comfortable, even when a little risk will lead to something really fulfilling.* Now I was on a roll, punishing myself. *What you are is dishonest and sneaky. You've pushed the envelope just a little by dressing at home, but you never reveal your true self. You feel embarrassed, shamed even, not only of who you are, but because you sneak around too. You feel humiliated because you're afraid to stand up and be who you are.*
A sob caught in my throat. I tried to cover it up by pretending it was a cough, but Ronnie apparently caught it. "You okay hon?" she asked, her brows going up in alarm. When I didn't answer for a moment, she went on, "Don't be sad that you won't be sleeping with your date. If you two like each other, there'll be plenty of time for that later."
"Yes, yes, of course," I mumbled, trying to avoid a conversation. *Its amazing how she gets things to totally wrong, yet seems to see right through me anyway.*
She looked at me dubiously, so I closed my eyes and she went back to work. I continued to think. *Stop being a fool. Be what you are and like yourself. You're not a bad person. Why do you treat yourself like one?*
I knew the answer, of course. I was projecting onto myself how I thought my family and society would judge me if I let them know about Sara. After all, wasn’t being transgendered somehow an inherently evil thing, like looting damaged stores after a hurricane? Hadn't Rebecca just told me that she had been "absolutely mortified" when Phil handed her the picture of me at Southern Comfort? Why would she be humiliated by that if there wasn't something dreadfully shameful about it?
*Oh shit,* I realized suddenly. *Rebecca's part of the problem. Until this past week, she had hidden Sara at home in the same way that people used to stick their deformed relatives in the attic or the barn, as if they were a stain on the family. I wasn't just my own stain, I was hers as well. We both bought into the shamefulness of my very nature. I never had the courage to face the potential scorn that being an admitted trannie would certainly bring (wouldn't it?), and neither had she.* Not only would my expensive panties stay hidden, but now they were starting to feel like a brand on my ass. It said coward.
. . . I discovered this quote from Eleanor Roosevelt: "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent."
"Yeah, right," I had muttered.
. . . but I gave them a little finger wave, and then, tossing my head back in the direction I was headed, I swiveled my way out of the room, my hair flowing behind my head
I thought I heard one guy almost choke as I left.
. . . Even after I had described it to Rebecca in excruciating detail over some hot tea, I still wasn't sure what it all meant. I did know, however, that I really wanted to go out again with Phillip. . .
Alright folks, whether you think this is femdom or not, try to accept at least this chapter just as it appears. It is what it is, Sara's first date with a guy. I hope you enjoy it!
And if you haven't been reading my blog, you might want to check it out. I reveal my deepest, darkest secrets and have an interesting conversation with readers.
Chapter V - My Date With Phillip
"Phillip! So nice to see you," I said as brightly and sincerely as I could despite the butterflies in my stomach. I had decided to call him Phillip because Michael called him Phil, and I wasn't Michael. I was Sara, and Sara hadn't met him before so being more formal was appropriate. Besides, I thought the use of his full name would make me sound more like his sister or his mother, rather than his girlfriend, which is what I was afraid he was thinking, or at least hoping, I would become.
Phillip and Rebecca had been standing next to each other watching as I descended the staircase, my long blonde hair hiding my face as I looked down and turned slightly sideways. I was holding my tight skirt up slightly so I could actually navigate the steps without falling, and I trailed a navy blue and silver chiffon scarf in my other hand. Walking down the stairs like this was first and foremost a safety measure, but the whole scene made me feel deliciously feminine, and, I thought, made for a boffo entrance. And now, as I closed the last few yards towards them, carefully placing one foot in front of the other so my hips would sway, they both shared a slightly stunned look. I wasn't sure whether I wanted it to be a reaction to my apparent confidence and assertiveness, or, how terrific I looked. Ronnie really was a genius with makeup, and they had curled the ends of my old blonde wig, the one from the picture that Phil had found, the one that he had requested that I wear, so it looked really romantic. I enjoyed the view for a moment, and then, shaking my head to throw the long blond hair off my face - even though I just loved to have it fall by my eyes - I held my hand out to Phil to shake his. I angled it slightly down, as many women do, with my arm fully extended, and waited for him to take it.
He hesitated for a second, and then broke into a big grin while his giant paw swallowed up my hand, with its lovely sparkly blue nails. Once he had me in his firm yet gentle grip, he said, "Sara, you look lovely. I'm so pleased to meet you at last!" And with that, he pulled my hand towards his face, dipped his head, and kissed the back of my hand, just like in my day dream.
He allowed his lips to linger just a bit longer than necessary, and then he continued to hold onto my hand. I have to admit it: the lingering touch of his lips and hand on my skin made me tingle and I think I might even have blushed a little. At the same time, I thought, *At last? How long has he known?* But even though I was somewhat surprised at his warm and familiar greeting, I could see he was flabbergasted. He had obviously gotten more than he had anticipated. *Score one for me.* I had spent my time since getting home from the salon really working on my attitude, and at least for now, it was paying off.
My encounter with Ronnie left me looking gorgeous, but in a piss-poor mood. In an attempt to chill out, I spent some time surfing the web before my bath. While scanning the site of a post-op transsexual who I had always admired for her simple, unadorned good looks and stick-it-in-your-face positive attitude about who she is, I discovered this quote from Eleanor Roosevelt: "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent."
"Yeah, right," I had muttered.
It wasn't until I was sitting in the tub, luxuriating in a deliciously aromatic lavender bath oil, that the import of that quote hit me. For the second time today, I felt like I had just been slapped across the face. *Of course!* I thought, *How could I have been so stupid? When I played racquetball with Phil, he almost always won, sometimes he creamed me. But I never felt embarrassed about it. Why not?* It only took a moment for the answer to become clear. *Because I knew that losing didn't make me any less of a person. I once even encountered someone who had been watching who sniggered at me as we left the court, shaking his head as if I should be taken out with the trash. What I wondered was, *What's his problem?* not, *What's wrong with me?*.
But I was afraid that if someone sniggered at me while I was out as Sara I would fall apart, feel absolutely humiliated and look for someplace to run. I wouldn't have to ask, "What's wrong with me?" The answer would be obvious: I was a trannie. But sitting in the tub after my little lesson from Ronnie, and some reinforcement from Mrs. Roosevelt, I had decided that it was stupid of me to buy into society's view of my transgendered self. If I couldn't be proud of who I was, I should at least not be ashamed of it.
I now understood that it had always been me who humiliated me. I was like the long-gone cartoon philosopher Pogo, who once said, "We have met the enemy and they are us." The only person I had to fear tonight was me. I vowed that tonight would be different. I was pretty sure Phil wasn't going to be a problem. In fact, he would protect me if I needed it. And, surrounded by the smell of lavender, and with water beading up on my brand new tits, I had decided that I was going to enjoy this evening, going all out to be my most feminine self. Tonight, Sara would have her first date, and just like the morning sun signaled the day lilies and morning glories to open their petals, this date was going to be my signal to blossom.
"You look absolutely beautiful," Phillip went on. "I'm a lucky man tonight."
"You are," I replied lightly, using the back of my index finger to flick the blonde hair of my wig off my face as I shook my head again. "What do you think of my dress?" And I gave a quick spin in my four-inch heels, letting my hair fly around my face. The dress, of course, went no where. There really wasn't anything soft or flirty about it, although it was gorgeous and did have a spectacularly smooth satiny lining.
He burst out laughing. At first I was appalled, thinking I had completely misjudged him and he was making fun of me. But before I could really react, he grabbed my hand, lifted it over my head, and spun me around again. "Stunning," he said, obviously admiring what he was seeing. "Absolutely stunning. Rebecca, you didn't tell me about this.”
"I didn't know. I just didn't know." Rebecca replied, looking at me like a proud parent. But then she broke into a big grin, and said to me, "Sara dear, you're amazing."
I looked at her for a second trying to see if she was putting me on or not, but the glint in her eye made it clear she was just enjoying the show. I couldn't help but give a small dig in return. "There's lots about me you don't know, darlin'."
As she turned to the closet, she admitted, "I guess so. Let me get your coat and you two can be on your way. I have plans tonight too, and I need to get moving."
So as Phillip and I stood there awkwardly, not really knowing what to do now that we were past our initial greeting, Rebecca disappeared for a couple of seconds before returning with my new fake fur. A few moments later, I had slipped the scarf around my neck, Phillip had helped me on with my coat, I had slung my bag on my shoulder, pulled on my new red gloves, and we were out the door.
Phillip gave me the full gentlemanly treatment, holding my arm as we made our way down the walk, opening the door of his 740i for me, and then helping me into my seat. He was full of good humor as we drove along the two lane country roads towards the inn where we were to have dinner. He praised my looks and my behavior, and really seemed thrilled to be out with me. I mostly kept quiet, except for the thank you's I had to offer because of all his compliments. I kept telling myself that there was no reason for me to be ashamed or embarrassed. I was a good man and a lovely woman. The world was lucky to have me in it. I almost had myself convinced.
When we got to the restaurant, Phillip helped me out of the car, easily pulling me up from my seat as soon as I had swiveled my legs onto the pavement and laid my hand in his. We left the car for the valet, and as we turned to walk up the few broad stone steps towards the well lit entrance of the large, white, Federal-style building, he surprised me by wrapping his arm around my waist. I froze for a moment, my feet locked to the ground as I looked up at him, alarmed. But he offered me a slightly crooked, sort of embarrassed-asking-permission grin that totally disarmed me. How could it not, coming from a big rugged face that jutted out from a cap of brown hair that was just long enough to show a little of the curl. I had no idea he could be so charming. So I thought, *Sure, why not,* and I threw a bright smile up at him to let him know it was okay. With his big arm around me, I couldn't help but lean into him slightly, and as we walked through the huge oak doors, which he easily pushed open with one arm, he put his hand in the small of my back to usher me inside. Phillip was so big, this was all really rather comforting, and I kinda liked it, even though he was a man.
The inn had been built in the early 19th century, though it had been extensively renovated since then. It was warm and woody, with built in cabinetry and antique-looking nick knacks on just about every surface except the tables. We followed the formally dressed maitre d' through a small warren of intimate dining rooms that each held six or eight tables. Each was decorated somewhat differently than the others, but in each, the diners checked us out as we passed by. I loved the admiring looks I was getting from the men, and better yet, some of the not so happy ones from the women. I couldn't help but put a little extra wiggle in my walk. I could just imagine what Rebecca would say if she saw me now, "You are such a tart!" And I loved the very idea of it.
At the back of the Inn we reached a wonderful round parlor that overlooked a small pond, which was surrounded by trees that were all hung with strings of glistening white lights, giving it a sort of fairyland look. Eight tables, each set with starched white table clothes, were evenly spaced along the windows. All but three already had diners seated at them. Despite the spectacular view, with the lights mirroring themselves off the glassy smooth surface of the pond, the highlight of the room was a huge fireplace, which dominated the wall opposite the windows, filling the room with that special light and warmth you simply can't get from any other source. The setting was totally romantic. Phillip had really set this up well. Michael was a little intimidated, but Sara was thrilled. "Oh Phillip," I said, as I turned to take in the whole scene, "this is just scrumptious."
Once we had reached our table, which was not right next to the windows, but instead in the middle of the room in front of the fireplace, where everyone could see us, the maitre d' first held my chair for me, and then pulled my napkin from the water glass with a big flourish, folding it into a neat rectangle before handing it me with a slight bow. "Madame," he said. I almost giggled. He then took our drink order. I was still really anxious, so despite the tenderness of my tummy, I decided that I just had to have one of my favorite Absolut Mandarin martinis, while Phillip asked for a BIG glass of Johnny Walker Black. The maitre d' took his leave with a, "Very well, sir."
As soon as he was gone, Phillip leaned forward over the table and looked at me earnestly. Without hesitating, he said, "Look Sara, I really want this to be fun for you. I'm not doing it to embarrass or humiliate you."
I was already pretty sure he wouldn't, but there was some old business to deal with. "Well then," I said frostily, "why did you go through Rebecca to set this up instead of just asking me?" I punctuated my question by tossing my head to throw my hair behind me, in what, I realized immediately after I had done it, could only be seen either as flirting, or a silly little feminine gesture of pointless defiance, which probably looked like flirting anyway.
Phillip looked absolutely delighted with my response, supporting my worst fears, and I almost cringed outwardly because I was sure he was enjoying the helplessness such a gesture suggested. I steeled myself, waiting for him to say something like, "You're so cute when you're angry." But thankfully, he didn't say anything. Instead, his face lost its smile, and he became impassive for a brief moment.
"I was afraid to ask you," he went on defensively, trying to look a little like a sad puppy, and, surprisingly, pulling it off despite his size. "What would have happened to our friendship if you had gotten angry and turned me down? He looked and sounded totally sincere, including the small embarrassed grin that flitted across his face as he finished.
Just then a neatly dressed busboy came to fill our water glasses, and he fell silent, although it was obvious he had more to say. I just sat there quietly, my hands in my lap, waiting for him to continue, and hoping that I wouldn't do anything else to embarrass myself. Phillip just looked at me and shook his head slightly. I wasn't sure what that meant, and in response, I reflexively looked down and tucked my hair behind my left ear. I was just too nervous to sit still. *Where IS my drink? * I fretted.
When we were alone again, he went on, his voice even lower than before. "Look, you now know that I'm bi, more gay really, but I work in a very conservative industry and both men and women look at me as some kind of super macho hero because I played pro ball for a few years. The men want to take me out drinking so I can tell football stories, and the women just want to get me into bed to see if my cock is as big as the rest of me."
It was. I had seen it when we showered at the gym.
"They both convince themselves that they are somehow better or more important by basking in my supposed celebrity. They're both using me," he went on sourly, crinkling his nose in disgust when he finished. He was either a really good actor, or he really did feel used.
"While my life may seem ideal to most guys," he said as if the way he lived was the heaviest burden in the world, "it's not for me." He looked up plaintively, and then lowering his voice even further said. "I'd rather be with a cute guy who was unabashedly after my body and could care less about football or all the rest of it," he finished up, waving his hand like a magician trying to make the world around him disappear. "But because of all that other stuff, I just can't be seen going out with cute guys. So over the years, I've sorta collected a few companions, some are female, but more recently they have more and more been convincing T-girls, who I can take to parties and stuff. I share something with even the most femmy transsexuals that I've just never found with a real woman."
He pursed his lips and thought for a second. Then he took a sip of water. "But you know what? I've never been able to find a T-girl who was bright, clever, and not running her own agenda. Just like the men and women who think my fame projects onto them when they're nearby, they're all looking for something from me; they're not really friends." And he stopped again.
I could see this was hard for him. "Yeeaaah?" I urged gently, pointlessly resetting behind my ear hair that was already there, and hoping he would continue.
He gave me a small smile and went on. "You and I have always gotten along; we share a lot of the same interests, and you're certainly not overwhelmed by my so-called football heroics..." He hesitated and I could see something going on in his eyes. "And when I discovered you were a really attractive cross dresser, I just couldn't resist asking you out."
"Ask me out?" I shot back at him in a hoarse whisper? "I hardly call what you did, 'asking me out! You had my wife do it."
"Well, would you have done this if I had simply asked?" he responded reasonably.
We both knew the answer to that, so I just shrugged.
He nodded knowingly. "I need a friend," he said quietly. “Someone I can talk to, someone I can do things with, someone who I know won't try to take advantage of me. We've been like that haven't we?"
"Sure, but..."
He held up his hand, to stop me. "I just wish I had a friend who I can take to fancy parties, and plays, and ball games as a date so the men think I'm straight and the women won't hit on me." And knowing that I loved steak, he went on, "We could go to Peter Luger's, or Smith and Wollensky or the Palm every time I'm in town and you'd never have to pay for it!"
I think my mouth fell slightly open, and I know my stomach lurched at what he was implying. "You mean this isn't a one time thing?" I started to hyperventilate a little, a sure sign I was anxious. Of course, with the stupid waist nipper on, I couldn't take a deep breath in any case, and my breathing was already a little rapid.
At that moment a lovely young woman with long, straight, shiny dark hair, and wearing a short black skirt, white blouse and starched white apron, approached with our drinks on a small round tray. I nodded for Phillip to shut up.
As she put our drinks in front of us, she gave us the usual kind of restaurant greeting, "Hi my name is Emily, and I'll be your yada, yada, yada. Oh you don't have any bread!" she exclaimed, seemingly as agitated as if she had just discovered a dead rat in the middle of the table. I guess that was a big no-no in this place. "I'll get it for you right away."
I immediately reached for my martini. My plan was to down it in one gulp, even though it was quite large. That way I could order another as soon as she got back.
Phillip put his hand on my wrist and said, "Hey, slow down there. Don't you think we should make a toast?"
“Phillip, if I don’t get at least two of these into me really quickly, I think I’m gonna totally freak out.”
And just at that moment, dear little Emily came back to place a basket of hot rolls on the table. The smell was heavenly. I again surprised myself when I gave Phillip an imploring, apologetic look while Emily worked to rearrange the table so the basket could go in what was apparently the only proper place for it.
"Would you like to hear the specials now?" she asked, nodding her head as if she was answering her own question. Seeing the look on my face, Phillip said, "Tell you what dear, why don't you go get each of us another drink, just like the ones we have now, and when you come back, we'll order."
"Okay?" she chirped, as if that was the best idea she had ever heard. And she turned prettily on her heel and left. I envied her unconscious grace.
I grabbed my drink and handed Phillip his. "I have a toast," I said, although I had no idea what to say. After a moment's hesitation, which seemed to me like an hour, I just blurted out. "Here's to the hunkiest guy in the restaurant," and I hesitated for a moment, gave him a half smile, which I hoped he would take as ironic, and went on, "from the cutest." And I quickly took a big gulp of my drink. *What had I just said? I must have shit my brains out at some point during the day because I was acting like a bimbo.*
But Phillip was obviously quite pleased. "You really think so?" he asked after taking a hit off his drink.
"That I'm the cutest guy here tonight?" I answered preciously, opening my eyes wide and nodding my head just like Emily. "No question." And I held my drink out to the side, my pinky out straight, and raised my other hand, palm up, as if I was taking a bow. Then I tilted my head slightly, deeply shrugged my shoulders, and threw my hair back with a quick flick of my head as I gathered all my body parts back in towards the table. I gave Phillip, who was looking at me with rapt attention, my biggest smile.
He had already started to take another hit as I went into this little act, and he almost spit it out as he started to laugh.
I was quite proud of myself, and took another hit from my own glass. It was totally yummy. And I was sooo clever!
But after he recovered, he replied. "You're not only cute," he said. "But you have a great ass and terrific legs." Now he was beaming at me.
"So that's why you spend so much time in the back court when we play racquetball,” I said, feeling quite playful all of a sudden. "So you can look at my ass?"
At that, he again burst out laughing, and I couldn't help it, I started to laugh too, looking down and hiding my mouth behind my fingertips, although I have no idea why.
That really broke the ice, and after that, it just seemed really easy to be with him.
"Do you really think I have a cute ass?"
"What I'd really like is to feel it," he replied lasciviously.
"In your dreams," I shot back. "I have a terrific woman in my life, and even though I can see that you really are quite endearing." He gave me that puppy dog look again. "I don't intend to have any men. They're just not my thing."
"But we can be friends? Me and Sara?"
"We'll see," I responded, trying to look thoughtful by wrinkling my brow and tucking my hair behind my left ear again. "Let's get through this evening first, and then we can take it a step at a time. I'm not the only one who has to make this decision."
"Oh, don't worry about Rebecca. She'll go along with anything you want to do," he said brightly.
"How do you know that?" I asked, suddenly suspicious, although the answer seemed obvious. They had discussed it. Still a shiver or paranoia ran through me. What was Rebecca up to?
Trying to recover from his apparent gaff he went on quickly. "I mean she loves you and everything, so I just... uhhh... I just figured she would do what ever you wanted."
"Uh huh," I replied noncommittally, still suspicious.
"No, really, I didn't.... I mean we didn't... we didn't talk about it all. Really."
"Phillip," I responded, as if I was talking to a child, "I think you better just shut up. You've done enough damage already." *On the other hand,* I thought, *If what he says about Rebecca is true, this could mark a real turning point in our relationship. Sara could become a much bigger player.* But I decided to ditch that line of thought as Emily came back, looking eager as a puppy. As she placed my second martini on the table, I dug into the menu. We had, after all, promised to order when she came back.
Dinner was exquisite, and totally fun. We had the classic caviar appetizer with blinis, chopped egg and capers. Phillip, of course, had steak, and I had a lobster. I didn't even have to go through the effort of getting it out of its shell. Oh no. This they did for me, and arranged it just so on top of some kind of exquisite polenta, with radicchio, and asparagus, seasoned in a way that made the lobster even more exquisite than I had ever imagined, although I had thought that melted butter was the only way to eat lobster.
Despite the second martini, we had a bottle of wine. By the time we were done with dinner, I was totally lit up, and Phillip was looking like some kind of minor god: he was handsome, charming and funny, and had me totally relaxed. Hell, he was so good, that by the time we got to dessert, he had me feeling almost like a minor goddess.
Unfortunately, this goddess was drunk. I discovered this when I decided it was time to pee. As I got up, I teetered a bit. He jumped up to help me, and I accepted his hand as I steadied myself. Then I focused carefully on the door to the women's room, which was just outside the parlor where we were seated, and started off. I don't know what I was thinking, but I somehow fell into my best I-wish-I-was-on-a-catwalk strut, and when I got to the door, I turned over my shoulder to see if he was looking.
He was! And he had the biggest grin on his face. Not only that, but each of the three guys in the room whose seats were facing the door were looking too. My face just lit up in a big smile. I don't know what I was thinking (actually, the next day, I decided I hadn't been thinking at all), but I gave them a little finger wave, and then, tossing my head back in the direction I was headed, I swiveled my way out of the room, my hair flowing behind my head
I thought I heard one guy almost choke as I left.
The women's room was just gorgeous, but I really didn't have time to appreciate it on the way in. Thankfully, the stalls were open, because I had really waited too long to go, and was on the verge of a disaster by the time I got my skirt up and pantyhose and panties down and let go. I sat there with my face in my hands, wondering what the hell I was doing, besides peeing that is. I knew I was doing that.
As I sat there, I started to think about the other women in the room. One of them was really tan, but wore a shade of coral pink lipstick that looked just horrible next to her skin. Thinking of it made me wrinkle my nose. Maybe I should recommend that she see Ronnie. Her husband was also quite tan, but he had a rather obvious and totally unattractive pot belly. Thinking of it made me wrinkle my nose again. Then there was the woman who must have been nearly 60, judging by the crow's feet around her eyes, but her ultra blonde hair was exquisitely coiffed, making me feel like a dorky teenager with my simple style. Her husband also looked gorgeous: tall, trim and perfectly groomed. If I was into older men. . . . And the woman at the table next to them was rather plain, but she had diamond studs in her ears that were as big as Phillip's BMW. And come to think of it, a shiny deep blue jersey dress that swept around her body in an enviable way. She had curves I could only dream of. And here I was stuck in my well constructed suit. I was really envious. But I didn't much like her date. He was dressed rather too casually for this place and couldn't sit still. He would have driven me crazy in ten minutes if I had to go with him. And when I had looked back into the room while strutting out, he was leering at me in a creepy way.
I took my time fixing my makeup, being especially careful with my lipstick, which had totally worn off by now. The pencil line was still there, so I filled it in with a brush, and then, just as Rebecca had taught me the other night, I added a touch of lip gloss right in the middle of my bottom lip so it would stand out a little. I studied myself in the mirror for a moment, and quickly reached into my purse for a comb. Patting my hair into place, I had a stunning revelation. I had studied the other women, but not as a man. I was interested in their hair and clothes and their dates, who I had evaluated as potential dates! Sara really was the one on this date, Michael, apparently was no where to be found. So, after taking a big breath, and promising myself I wouldn't do anything else to embarrass myself, I headed back to our table.
As I entered the parlor where we were sitting, I adopted a slightly more modest version of the catwalk strut I had used on the way out. But no one was looking. They were either around our table, or watching the action as Phillip signed autographs and chatted comfortably. It suddenly struck me that perhaps no one had noticed me on the way in - maybe they were all looking at Phillip, the football star! One of the people at the table was a very curvy brunette showing lots of cleavage, and she was in my chair! That just wouldn’t do.
"Hi Phillip, I chirped as I got back to the table. The girl who was in my seat stared at me blankly, perhaps thinking I was another fan, but she didn't move. "Would you mind," I asked archly, planting a hip next to her face and staring down at her.
"Uh…, uh," she stuttered, before finally deciding to get up.
"Thank you so much," I said sarcastically as I pulled the seat out to get into it without ever looking at her, but instead turning a big smile towards Phillip who was still writing.
The others had melted away by now, but the brunette was still waiting. After a moment Phillip handed her a piece of paper, and said, "Here you go, Courtney. Thanks for stopping by." She gave him a full smile, turned to me, shot me a dirty look, and left.
"Don't tell me you were jealous," Phillip said with a big smile. "Were you afraid my dear friend Courtney was going to steal me away from you?"
Yes, I was, for a moment anyway. But I wasn't going to admit that to him. So, laying my napkin back on my lap with an exaggerated pat of both hands, I said, "I think I'm drunk. Perhaps you better take me home before I try to take advantage of you."
He laughed briefly, and asked, somewhat snidely, "Don't you have that backwards?"
"No," I exclaimed as quietly as I could, while I reached my foot up and rubbed his leg with the pointy toe of my shoe. His eyes went wide and I quickly pulled my leg back under my chair. Then, I started giggling.
"Damn, you are drunk. I had better get you home before you make me do something to break my word to Rebecca."
So we skipped dessert, and headed home. The cold air in the parking lot must have sobered me up some, because when we got into the car, I felt really embarrassed, but I still couldn't keep my mouth shut. "Phillip, I'm so sorry. I hope I didn't embarrass you in there. I don't know what came over me. I've never behaved like that before," I babbled.
After a few minutes of more of the same, Phillip almost shouted, "Sara. Shut up."
Stunned, I clamped my hands over my mouth.
He burst out laughing.
"Phillip! Don't make fun of me! I must have humiliated both of us. I was so anxious I just lost control. I've never been like that. Really! Usually when I drink, I just get quiet."
"Sara," he soothed. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. Really." He nodded his head at me, just like TV anchors do, although for some reason, when he did it, he didn't look quite as stupid as when they do it.
"Are you sure?" I asked, really needing to be reassured.
"Yes. I'm sure." And he patted my thigh. Because my skirt was pulled up a little, his hand landed on skin protected only by nylon. I was so startled by the feeling that I felt almost as if I had been branded.
I looked down, aghast, my heart accelerating, and my mouth going dry. That was way too familiar! But his hand was already back on the steering wheel, and his eyes focused on the road, like nothing had happened. I myself really wasn't sure what had happened, but he had either just treated my like a woman friend he was familiar with, and who needed a little reassurance, or he had just come on to me, just a little. I had no idea what to do. But I had to ask.
"Phillip?"
"Yeah," he replied, slowing down to take a curve, and sounding like nothing was amiss.
"What did you just do?"
"Oh shit!" he exclaimed, turning his head quickly to glance at me. "I'm so sorry. I really didn't mean anything by that. Really." He turned to me again. "It was just a reflex. You were so uptight and I wanted to help you calm down. Really. I won't do it again I promise!" And he almost missed the next curve, forcing him to break hard.
"Really," he exclaimed again after we had passed through the turn. "I was just so comfortable with you I forgot. It won't happen again. I promise."
"Okay," I replied, now much more relaxed. "Don't worry about it. I won't break if you touch me."
He looked at me quickly to see what I was talking about. Once he had turned back to the road, I patted his hand. "Really, I'm okay. I was just surprised. I don't think anyone has ever patted my thigh before."
"Did you like it?" He asked, his voice betraying a certain nervousness that kept the question from being offensive.
"Phillip, don't get your hopes up."
"Hmmph," he replied. We were both silent for the rest of the ride.
When we got home, he helped me out of the car, and escorted me to the door. As I fished in my purse for my keys, he asked, "You want to play racquetball tomorrow?"
"Huh?" I replied as I pulled them out.
"You know, hitting balls off walls with a racquet?" he replied, as if talking to an alien. "I need a partner for doubles."
"Well, maybe, what time? I need to ask Rebecca."
"Uh, we have a court at two, my new club. You haven't been there yet."
I nodded as we entered the house. I could hear the TV going in the den.
"Well, she's still up, let's ask her." I said as I turned I started to take my coat off.
"Here, let me get that," he said, helping me to take it off and then reaching into our closet to put it on a hanger. Then he took my arm and escorted me into the den.
"Rebecca, we're home," I shouted, to alert her.
"Sara," she squealed as she jumped up off the couch to greet us. "How did it go? Oh. Hi, Phil. You're here too?"
"Philip wants to play racquetball tomorrow at 2:00. Is that okay?"
"Yeah, I want to play doubles with Sara," he added evenly, causing me to choke.
"Whaa..." I started to say at the same moment Rebecca said, "You're going to play racquetball as Sara? That's so totally awesome."
"No, wait! I didn't say that!"
"We can go out shopping for an outfit for you in the morning!" Rebecca went on. That will be so much fun!"
"But I never..."
"Sara!" Rebecca interrupted. “It'll be perfect — a great experience for you. You've just got to..."
I looked back and forth at the two of them. Had they set me up again? I couldn't tell. Rebecca was excited and Phillip simply smiled. Did I want to do this? "Call me in the morning Phillip," I said clearly. "Let me see how I feel?"
"Sure, I’ll call around 11:00. I have no intention of getting up any earlier than that anyway."
"Well, that's something we can both agree on. Why don't you leave me alone with Rebecca, so I can try to figure out what happened tonight."
"Sure Sara, you're the greatest," he agreed. Then with a big goofy grin on his face he turned to Rebecca and said, “She’s quite the young lady.”
“Who knew?” Rebecca giggled, leaving Phillip and me just standing there awkwardly, not knowing what to do next.
Finally, but in a rather haughty tone of voice, Rebecca said “Sara. Haven’t you learned anything yet? The polite thing for a young lady to do is to show her date to the door. If you're lucky, maybe he'll give you a goodnight kiss." Then she laughed outright, apparently quite impressed with her own sense of humor.
Giving her a rather sour look, I turned to Phillip and said, "Don't you dare.” He just gave me a don't-be-silly grin, so I took his arm, which somehow seemed safer than his hand, and led him to the door. When we got there, I turned to face him and said, "Phillip, thank you for an amazing evening. I really had fun. Maybe we can do something like it again, but even if we don't, I want you to know it's been one of the highlights of Sara's life."
Then, I thought about what Rebecca had told me about how women might end an evening like this, and closing my eyes, I leaned up and gave Phillip a quick peck on the cheek. Thankfully, he accepted it gracefully, saying, "Sara, I really want to see you again. You're terrific." And he turned and opened the door, stepped out and headed down the walk without looking back.
"Shit," I sighed to myself as I closed the door. "What the fuck happened tonight?"
Even after I had described it to Rebecca in excruciating detail over some hot tea, I still wasn't sure what it all meant. I did know, however, that I really wanted to go out again with Phillip.
By Kelly Ann Rogers
. . . Then, looking down at my own chest, I realized what they were really looking at. My nipples, the nipples which Rebecca had insisted I glue to my breast forms, now jutted aggressively through my sports bra. They were calling to the men like the Sirens called to the lost sailors in the Odyssey.
. . . He had never turned his personality on like this when I was a man. Now, he was totally engaging: a force of nature, nearly. I knew that if I continued to look into his eyes, he'd melt me, and all I'd want to do was caress his face with my hand, and then pull him down into another kiss. But I just couldn't let that happen. . .
. . . And as long as I was rebelling, I decided to leave my toes, figuring that no one would see them anyway, and I could wait until they chipped to clean them up. At least that's what I told Rebecca. I really thought that once they needed to be redone, I could just switch to another color, and no one would see that either.
Chapter VI Sara's Got Game
When Phillip called the next morning at 11:00, Rebecca and I (which is to say Sara) were already up and dressed and finishing a light breakfast. I was only a little hung over, which, I believed, was because I had started my little binge last night with vodka instead of scotch. Had it been scotch....
Although I was totally sure I didn't want to do it, Rebecca insisted I go play racquetball with Phillip, after I went shopping with her for some "really cute" outfits. I must say that Rebecca always looked totally put together at the gym, while I always looked like I had just arrived from Albania in the hold of a junk freighter. So after Phillip, who Rebecca coerced into paying for everything, and I arranged to meet at his new club, Rebecca and I were off to shop for Sara's first racquetball wardrobe.
We headed straight to the Ski and Racquet Station, which was well known for its large selection of sexy athletic wear for women. It also had a great selection of racquetball equipment. All the serious local players shopped there.
When I left to head for Phillip's club, I was wearing the cutest, hooded, powder blue warm-up suit, with three hot pink strips down the arms and legs, and curved pink panels on the sides of the jacket, which Rebecca insisted gave it a slimming look. Underneath, I had packed my nuts up into my groin and tucked my penis back between my legs, a gaff holding them all tightly in place, I hoped. A sturdy black sports bra with a T-back squashed my breasts close to my chest, although, as I turned from side to side, imitating my swing to test it, it didn't seem tight enough.
"Honey, Rebecca said, holding up a really cool, printed tank top, "this would look terrific over that bra, really hot."
"Not a chance. I've seen too many women wearing combinations like that and they are hot. The only thing you forget is that I don't want men staring at me. I’m sure you don't either."
"Well, how do you know you're attractive if men don't look at you?" she asked, looking me up and down and leering like a man might.
"Rebecca, stop teasing me! I'm wearing this: I held up a pale pink, cotton-lycra, short sleeve leotard that zipped from the neck to the navel and snapped at the crotch, layering a slightly oversized reddish-purple tank over that. I added midnight blue compression pants, figuring that with those, the leotard, and the gaff, I was pretty sure not to pop out. Deep violet nylon running shorts, and racquetball shoes with hot pink inserts finished me off. This was a lot more complicated than my usual jock strap, ratty shorts, and torn cotton tee, but damn, it sure looked better. Rebecca was thrilled, flitting around me like a hummingbird that had just discovered a dish full of sugar water. Hell, I was thrilled too.
Rebecca soon discovered a set of purplish wrist and head bands, which even I could see went perfectly with my nails. I was wearing my own hair, which I blew out carefully before we left home (I would never wear the blonde wig again), and light blush, eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick, even though almost no women wear makeup to the gym. I figured I could say that I just came from a post-church lunch with my family if anyone asked. Still, I was so well dressed in all new clothes that I felt like a store mannequin, and I knew I would stand out at the gym as one of those “girly-girls," who everyone looked at with both disdain and admiration. But as I studied myself in the dressing room mirror, I didn’t care because I decided that I was totally delighted by how I looked. A new black gym bag with purple piping around the edges and some kind of deep purple abstract design printed on the fabric, and assorted other pieces of equipment, like a couple of new gloves, and I was good to go: Connecticut's first ever trannie racquetball star.
But once Rebecca had paid for everything (I couldn't very well use a credit card that said, "Michael Cohen," could I?), she pulled me back into the dressing room, and pushed me into one of the cubicles. "Here," put these on," she said, holding out her hand. In it were two rather dark brown nipples, the soft plastic kind that fit on top of breast forms to... well you know. They weren't gigantic, maybe a quarter inch long and twice as wide, but they would show clearly through my bra and leotard.
"Not a chance." I shot back, horrified.
"Ohhh yes, I insist." Rebecca replied calmly.
I looked at her like she was crazy.
She cocked her head in that way that she does and smiled back at me in a kindly way, creases forming at the corners of her eyes.
"But why?" I asked plaintively, slowly beginning to understand that the argument was in fact over and that she had won. "I'll be embarrassed."
"Have you ever stared at a woman whose nipples had hardened under her workout clothes?" she asked, arching one eyebrow at me and again holding out her hand. "Welcome to our world."
What could I say? What could I do? I started to undress. A few minutes later we were back out in the store, but under all the clothes I was wearing, no one could see anything, even though I felt like I was wearing a set of laser beams on my breasts.
I got to the gym a little early, and after parking, walked up to the big front doors. There I was, reflected in the mirrored glass in all my glory. Really, I looked great. But all of a sudden I got really anxious. *What was I thinking?* I thought. *How can I possibly convince anyone that I'm a girl once I start playing? How in the hell does a girl play anyway? * And as my anxiety drove me to start fluffing my hair out with my fingers, in the reflection from the door I saw, people coming behind me. *Shit.* I rushed to open the door before they could ask me why I was just standing there.
I entered the busy lobby with a big, fake smile pasted on my face and those laser beams on my chest. For a moment, a very long moment, everyone looked at me. *Oh shit! They can tell.* Of course they couldn't, and after quick, appraising once-overs, the women went right back to what they were doing, as did most of the men. In fact, they turned away so quickly that my smile fled from my face, as I suddenly started to worry that I was unattractive, not even worth looking at. But thankfully, a couple of the men looked a little longer, clearly checking me out. One looked even longer than the rest and gave me a big smile when I noticed him looking. Relieved that at least one person found me interesting, but not at all willing to get into a conversation with a stranger, I returned his smile with a perfunctory thin-lipped smile of my own, and headed over to the racquetball courts to warm up and watch people play.
I had just straightened up from a calf hugging straight-kneed hamstring stretch when I was enveloped from behind by a gigantic force, which was kissing my neck before I knew what had happened. I almost jumped out of my skin as I spun around, right into Phillip's face. He looked thoroughly amused by my response, and I could tell he was just about to laugh.
"Don't you dare laugh!" I said, trying to sound put upon while at the same time keeping my voice in its girl range, as I pushed him away. "And who said you could kiss my neck?"
"Darlin', you are just too delicious not to kiss," he drawled, as if he was from Nashville instead of San Francisco
Inside I beamed, but I knew what Phillip's game was and I refused to flirt back. "Shit, shuga," I snorted, turning on my own really lousy southern accent, "Y'awl better keep your hands to yourself, or you'll be one lonesome cowboy."
In response, he went into that sad puppy look he did so well. Two beats later he laughed, and gave me a big hug.
I couldn't help it. I laughed too. *What am I going to do with him?* I thought as I put my arms around his upper back to return his hug as chastely as I could. *He is just irrepressible. And I can't help it; he just makes me feel great. I just wish he'd stop pushing my boundaries; there's no way I can let him go where he wants.*
"Hey Phil," a wiry fellow with long dark hair and what was either a short beard or simply a three-day unshaven growth, called out just as I started to take off my warm up pants. I knew him; he was one of the "A" players who hung out at several gyms around the area. He was a more than couple of steps out of my league.
*Shit, we're gonna play him?*
Then, as he and Phillip were greeting each other warmly, another guy showed up. He wasn't any taller than me, but must have weighed a good 200 lbs, was unshaven, and had unwashed hair that hung around his ears. I had no idea who he was. Phillip introduced me to Bobby, his friend, and Bobby introduced us both to Buster. *Bobby and Buster?* I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. They both took their time sizing me up, lingering on my tightly packed breasts.
I knew just what they were thinking - 'How would those babies look if they weren't all squashed down by that bra?' But I was thinking, *Can they see my nipples?* Finally, they managed to look up at my face, and Bobby said, "It's real nice to meet you Sara."
I gave him a nice smile, but, because we were going to be sharing a small humid cube for the next hour, the only thing I could think of was whether Buster had showered recently.
"I'll take the backhand," Phillip said after they had already walked onto the court. "That should pretty much neutralize Bobby. Buster's pretty good up front, but you're way faster than him, and you have better shots," he grinned at me.
"Maybe, if I can actually run the way I'm tucked."
I could see Phillip mentally double clutch, and then he started laughing again. And for a moment he looked like he was going to hug me. So I turned away to reach into my bag for my new glove, and mumbled, "You think I'll be able to get in front of him?"
"Don't worry, he can't go backwards very well, and he's pitiful against ceiling shots and three wall junk. If you get stuck behind him, just throw it into the back corner," he said nodding at the forehand side of the court. "And try not to hit anything that'll come up short on the left. Bobby'll just eat it up."
I rolled my eyes and started to put on my glove so I could go warm up. When I stood up, I could tell he had been looking at my butt. He grinned sheepishly when he realized he had been caught, but just shrugged his shoulders and said, "I can look can't I?"
Given the number of times I had said that to Rebecca when she caught me looking at some attractive woman, I could hardly be angry, but I had to say something. "Well, if you take care of Bobby and we win, you can look all you want. If not, I'm gonna start wearing granny dresses, and you can just eat your heart out."
"You really know how to motivate a guy," he replied lightly, his voice full of playful sarcasm. And then turning towards the court, he went on. "Let's go get em, darlin', and after we win, I'm gonna buy you the tightest pair of black leather pants you ever saw. And then I'm gonna walk behind you for an entire day."
I beamed at him despite myself. He'd done it again. I was giggling to myself and looking forward to holding him to his promise. After a brief hesitation, I said, "Shoes too - high heeled boots," and winked at him.
With that, he opened the court door and gestured for me to enter first. But just as I did, I gave him that wonderful little butt wiggle that I had learned from Ronni just the day before, having practiced it in the mirror while I was waiting for him to pick me up for dinner. I was rewarded when I heard his shoulder bump into the door because he was looking at me instead of it. Still giggling slightly, I turned and stuck my tongue out at him, turning back to the court quickly before he could do anything else. And as I turned, I saw Billy and Buster smirk at each other like this was going to be the easiest win they'd ever had. Not only was I behaving like a ditz, but I had poor Phillip all flustered.
I warmed up slowly, trying to be careful about my new body, and soon discovered that breasts as large as mine did make a difference. They weren't so much a problem on my forehand, where my swing was entirely below them, but the back swing for my back hand was right across my chest. The first one was a real surprise! I could even feel the nipples as I brushed them with my arm. After a few minutes, I basically forgot about them, perhaps because running and turning started off uncomfortably. After a while, I felt freer, perhaps the adrenalin starting to pump into my blood stream as I got ready to play just shriveled everything right up, thank God.
Have you ever seen doubles racquetball? At its best, it's like a ballet choreographed by a madman. Theoretically, the players hit their shots and then move out of the way so their opponents can hit theirs, and visa versa till the point is won, which usually doesn't take long, five shots would be a lot. Teammates usually play side by side, one on the forehand side of the court, and the other on the backhand, although they sometimes switch so one is covering the front court, while the other covers the back. But the game is almost always won by the team that controls the front court, where it's easier to hit outright winners. So when the score gets close, there's often aggressive jockeying for position up front, and things can get physical. Then, it's more like demolition derby than ballet. Phillip and I had played many games of doubles together, and we were a good team, knowing intuitively where the other would be in a certain situation.
As a girl, I should have been immune from the physical stuff. But it turned out that I was a much more skillful player than Buster, so he eventually decided that what he couldn't accomplish with good shots and clever strategy, he could achieve by physical intimidation. I found myself in the same position endless numbers of women before me had found themselves in. I had to figure out how to outsmart some small-brained asshole who thought he could beat me just because he was bigger and stronger than I was. In essence, I had to be twice as good as him.
They came at me right away, trying to jam me into the back corner and hitting hard shots to my body no matter where I was standing. And much to my surprise, I was tentative, uptight, and generally not very good. Shit. I was playing like a girl! They were already up 8 to 3 by the time I calmed down. But when I did, I was able to follow Phillip's advice and started hitting junk shots to the back right hand corner, and, just as Phillip had predicted, I soon had Buster tangled up in his own feet. He hit weak returns, which we put away easily. So by keeping Buster back to give me clear shots in the front court, and with Phillip and Bobby playing even - Phillip was amazingly fast for someone his size - we eventually won the first game, 15-12.
In the second game, they changed tactics. Bobby started to race down everything in the back court so Buster could stay up front. This meant no more weak returns from the back - Bobby could hit winners or great defensive shots from anywhere - and worse, I no longer had free range in the front court. I was having a real hard time getting around Buster, who was alternatively hitting winners or keeping Phillip in the back court, where he was less effective. So they quickly went up 7 to 2, and I was really frustrated. Plus, I was dripping sweat. My carefully blown-out hair was now a wet stringy mess.
To counter, Phillip and I adopted a similar strategy. I would mostly take the back court, and he would play up front. I was a good enough player to ensure that we didn't lose points from the back court, and the momentum changed quickly. Phillip's size and speed intimidated Buster, who started hitting the ball weakly while retreating, instead of blasting it while attacking. By pounding the ball to him, we were able get a bunch of weak returns and were catching up quickly.
That's when things really changed. Because Phillip had forced Buster back, I started to get around him again. I guess the straw that broke the camel's back for him was when he tried to hit a splat into the left corner. I saw it coming and charged forward, skipped past him on his left, and turned what he thought was going to be a sure winner for him into a point for us. It was now 9 all.
I crouched there near the front wall, grinning at Phillip, my hands on my knees, panting from the exertion of that all out sprint. My top was now totally drenched in sweat, and, I realized, as I looked at my breasts heaving with each breath, that I would be much cooler without the leotard.
"Hey guys, gimme a minute," I said, careful with my voice as I tried to catch my breath. Everyone just nodded and I left the court thinking I would run into the women's locker room and take off the leotard. But just as I left the court, I saw a young woman pull her tee shirt off over her head, leaving her with nothing on underneath but her sports bra. In fact, a number of women in the gym were only wearing sports bras. So I figured I didn't need to go into the locker room to pull off the leotard.
Quickly bending over to hide what I was doing I unsnapped it. Then I pulled off my tank top, unzipped the leotard, and just like that other woman, I peeled the leotard off over my head, twisting my torso first to the left, and then to the right as I peeled the leotard up and over my body and then each arm.
In the moment that the leotard covered my head, while my hands were raised, the right above the left, and my body tilted left as I wiggled free of the tight, wet garment, I realized that there wasn't a sound to be heard around me even though it had been quite noisy just a few seconds before. A second later, as my head reemerged into the light, I could see that most of the guys hanging around waiting to play were staring at me.
*Oh fuck, what have I just done* And the image of Brandi Chastain pulling off her top after she scored the winning penalty kick in the World Cup popped into my mind. *At least I 'm not in the Rose Bowl, with 90,000 people watching.*
Then, looking down at my own chest, I realized what they were really looking at. My nipples, the nipples which Rebecca had insisted I glue to my breast forms, now jutted aggressively through my sports bra. They were calling to the men like the Sirens called to the lost sailors in the Odyssey.
I started to freak, embarrassment quickly flooding my awareness. This, I thought in horror as I looked at my chest, is why Rebecca wanted me to wear the nipples. She wanted me to experience what a woman experiences when her nipples show through her clothes.
Then, three things happened at once. First, I got a little turned on. *Whoa, that's really sexy,* I thought, and I imagined myself wiggling my shoulders to show off even more. As soon as that thought had flashed into my mind it was replaced with, *Omigod! I'm sexy!* At the same time, I realized that it made me look like a real woman. After all, nipples suddenly showing through a bra could only happen to someone who had real breasts with nipples that could get turgid.
I started to calm down as quickly as I had started to become embarrassed. *Why am I embarrassed? Women's nipples often show through their clothing and you don't see them running for cover because of it. In fact, it usually looks like they're not even aware of it.* So I just shook the hair off my face, straightened my bra by pulling down at the bottom in a few spots, and put my tank top back on. After grabbing a dry head band, I headed back onto the court. There was a big guy standing right by the door, one of those guys who obviously worked out a lot, and wore a tank top to make sure everyone knew it. As I approached, he just couldn't wipe his stupid grin off his face. My first thought was to give him a dirty look. But something came over me, and as I opened the door, I turned and winked at him!
Before, I had wondered how I could look feminine while playing racquetball, but now it seems that Rebecca had figured it out for me, although perhaps feminine was not exactly the right word. But no one in this gym would ever think I was anything but a girl, and, in fact, I became something of a minor legend around the racquetball courts. As in, "There goes Sara, the one who did the striptease outside of court 5."
When I closed the door to the court, Buster and Bobby were looking at me with slightly stunned expressions on their faces, and Phillip just shook his head like, 'I can't take you anywhere...' For the rest of the match, we also had a good crowd watching us. I could just imagine why, "She looks great with her hands over head, twisting her body like a stripper, but can she play?"
The game kind of got stuck for awhile after that. Neither team could score (unlike tennis, in racquetball you can only win points while serving), but Buster was getting his courage back as he came to realize that Phillip wasn't going to deck him on every point.
Then he got stupid. Phillip blasted a cross court backhand, which Buster cut off. But he only hit it weakly into the front right corner. I again started to rush around him, tasting another point, but just as I started to slither past him on the right, he stuck his hip out and knocked me into the wall. I literally bounced off, with an audible squeak escaping from my lips as I fell on my side and rolled over towards the middle of the court onto my face.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," Buster said immediately. "That's a hinder (if you prevent your opponent from getting a fair shot at the ball, either of you can call a hinder, and the point is played over).
Phil hovered over me to make sure I was okay, which I seemed to be, although we had to get a couple of towels to wipe up all the sweat I had gotten on the floor. "Did you see that?" I whispered hoarsely to him. "That wasn't an accident." He nodded in agreement.
And then, on the very next play, he decked me again, only this time he didn't use his hip. I was standing just behind him to his left, hoping to get in front of him, when he turned towards his left, as if to look over his shoulder, and caught me with an elbow, right across the top of my chest, just above my breasts. Again I went down, this time flat on my back. Again I squeaked as I hit the floor.
It was clear Buster had been planning this one because as I lay there, he turned on me and shouted, "Why can't you stay outta my way. You gotta give me room to play!"
"What?" I shrieked in disbelief, trying hard not let my anger lower the tone of my voice. "You deck me with an elbow, and then blame it on me? No way in hell."
He snorted at me and turned away.
Now I was fuming. I wanted to jump up and punch his lights out, but while Michael might have tried that (probably to no great effect), Sara couldn't even dream of it. Still, smoke was coming out of my ears. "I'm gonna get that asshole," I whispered to Phil as he again helped me up and made sure I was intact. "And you better back me up."
"Just stay cool. He's trying to get you angry, to throw you off your game. And watch your voice."
*Watch my voice?* I screamed in my head, knowing he was right. *That mother fucker just decked me with an elbow and all you can do is tell me to watch my voice?*
"I think it's time for him to understand just what kind of game I have," I said in a husky falsetto, as I walked back to await Buster's serve. *Just let him give me something I can hit out on, * I wished. I guess he thought he had me pretty rattled by then, because he tried to drive a hard serve into the right hand corner, even though I had been killing that serve all match, usually passing him on his right through the space between him and the wall.
He again failed to stick the ball right in the corner, which is the only chance he had of beating me on that serve. It's just like in baseball, when a pitcher tries to throw a fastball low over the outside corner of the plate, but leaves it further up and in than intended, a good hitter is going to cream it, and that's just what I did. I had a full swing with all my weight over my front foot, plus the momentum from his hard serve. But instead of shooting for the right corner, I hit it right at the back of his pudgy left thigh.
On a shot like that, I probably hit the ball around 100mph (racquetball is a fast game), and even though the ball is made of soft rubber, it stings like hell when it hits you, and leaves a long-lasting, nasty black and blue mark.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," I exclaimed sarcastically in my best girly voice, after the ball exploded against his skin with a rewarding ‘thwak.’ "I so thought you were going to move."
He just glared at me.
That's all he could do. People get hit all the time by accident, and the etiquette of the game and the macho rule for guys say that you just absorb the blow and go on. His next serve was a nice soft lob, something I couldn't get a clean forehand drive out of. But I did hit a three wall shot that ended up bouncing crazily in the corner behind him and he hit a weak return that Phillip simply devoured. Now it was our serve.
Phil served first and Bobby killed it from deep in the backhand corner. My serve led to a brief rally that seemed like it would end when Bobby passed Phillip with a hard backhand drive, leaving him lunging at nothing but air.
But I was there. I caught it on my backhand, simply trying to direct it into the front left corner as its speed almost tore the racquet out of my hand. Bobby was trapped in the back court, and there was no way Buster could get around me in time to get it. But that's not what he had in mind. Instead, he just ran over me, yelling, "Hinder," a moment after he knocked me over and then grabbed me by my left bicep to keep me from hitting the floor too hard.
I shook loose angrily, turning on him and hissing, "That's no hinder. You had no chance to get it."
He looked at me blandly and simply said, "I thought I did."
Again Phil came to collect me, although he refrained from even looking at Buster. As he helped me up, I looked at my arm because it felt achy. It was quickly obvious why. Buster had grabbed me really hard; his hand print was clearly visible in red on my arm.
We lost our serve after that, and Bobby stepped up and hit three straight aces into the back corner so close to the floor that God couldn't have returned them. We won the next point though, and now Buster was up again. I prayed he'd try that hard drive serve again, but he hit one off of three walls that died right in the corner, leaving me no swing. It was now game point for them.
But this time, dear old Buster again answered my prayer. The moron tried another drive serve; he apparently just couldn't believe that he couldn't overpower a "mere" girl. Realizing I was going to kill it, however, he moved closer to the right hand wall, so I had no angle to hit it past him.
In that situation, in a friendly game, I would have called a block, which, like a hinder, allows you to play the point over and keeps people from getting hit needlessly by the ball. But this wasn't a friendly game, so I hit it as hard as I could.
I'm really not sure how it happened, really, I'm like so totally not, but somehow I failed to get it past him, instead nailing him again on the inside of his left thigh. *What a delicious sound,* I thought to myself as the sickening thwack of ball on skin echoed in the small court.
But my joy was short-lived. He turned on me and snarled, "You bitch."
"What's your problem?" I asked, inching over towards, Phillip. "You're the one who moved in the wrong direction. Off hand, I'd say that was as much of an accident as this," and I help up my arm, which now had clearly visible welts where he had grabbed me.
"Hey! Phillip shouted, stepping between us, but finally facing Buster. "This has gone far enough." Then, lowering his voice to a threatening whisper and glaring directly down into Buster's eyes, he went on, "If you two can't play without trying to hurt each other, I just might get a little careless myself."
There was little question about who would suffer if Phillip got careless. But by then, Bobby was there to pull Buster away, which not surprisingly, was remarkably easy to do. It was my turn to snort.
"Listen, Buster," Phillip went on, always the reasonable one, "I'm twice your size, but Bobby and I haven't collided once. There's a lesson there. Learn it."
*Ooooh, my hero,* I thought, batting my eyelashes at Phillip in sarcastic thanks as he turned to walk to the back court. Then I tried telepathy. *You're supposed to beat the shit out of him,* I beamed at his brain. He must have sensed what I was thinking because he turned to me and just stared me down. *Okay, be like that."
We took back the serve, but couldn't score any points, and Bobby served out the game. We broke for some water and to get ready for the deciding game.
By now, there was quite a crowd around our court. It's not that often that women get knocked down, and certainly never more than once, and it has probably almost never happened that a woman who just did a strip tease for the fans, attacks the guy who decked her. Sex and violence, plus a really competitive game, what more could you ask for? People wanted to watch.
"Phillip, what the fuck is your problem?" I bitched as we sat next to each other toweling ourselves off. "That asshole is beating the shit out of me and you're not protecting me."
"What am I supposed to do?" he asked plaintively. "I can't haul off and deck him. I'm way too big for that."
"You mean to tell me that my partner is a former linebacker and I have to get beat up because he's too big to protect me? How fucked up is that?"
"What do you want me to do?" he asked.
"Why don't you just knock him down once, they way he's been knocking me down?" I responded, pissed off at his lack of empathy.
Just then we heard an "ooofff," and turned in time to see Buster stagger. He had been knocked off balance by the big guy I had winked at, who was now staring down at Buster. "We don't knock girls down here. Know what I mean?"
Again Bobby was there quickly to prevent it from going any further.
"See?" I whispered to Phillip? "At least one guy knows what to do." And I gave a little finger wave to my new best friend.
"Careful Sara, he probably has a real good idea about how you can thank him."
I started to lecture him, "Phillip Jacobson, I'm sure you have the same idea, but neither of you is gonna get anything." I threw my towel back onto my bag and grabbed a dry glove. After putting it on, I turned back to Phil. "If Michael was here, he could protect himself, but Sara can't. I need your help." I hesitated a second or two before going on, "Especially if you want to have even a glimmer of a hope of seeing me in those tight leather pants you're hoping to buy me."
He gave me a little grin.
"And by the way, the price has just gone up. It's not just pants and shoes; I get a jacket too. I need something to cover my bruises." And I help up my arm.
"Oookay, I get the message," he replied, rolling his eyes as if he was the most put upon man in the world.
We were back on the court a few moments later. Bobby was really popping his drive serve into the back corner and got three quick points before Phillip was even able to return one, which he ripped off for a splat into the left hand corner. Now, it was back to Buster and me.
He started with a lob, which I returned by hitting a mediocre cross court shot that bounced to the middle of the court. All Buster had to do was take one step to his left and he could cut it off with his backhand. But as he did, Phillip took a step to his right and they collided. Buster literally went flying back to his right, hitting his shoulder against the wall as he fell.
At first I was elated. Phillip had finally started to protect me. But Buster didn't get up right away, and I immediately started to feel remorse because it was my fault he got hurt. But he pulled himself up just as Phillip got there to help him. Phillip whispered something to him as he helped him up, lifting him easily from the floor to his feet. Later, Phillip told me what he said, "We can play or we can fight, your choice."
I, of course, didn't know this, as I ran off the court to get a couple of towels, one for Buster and one for the floor. While I was out there, my new friend gave me a thumbs up. "I see your boyfriend got the message," he said, as if it was what he did that inspired Phillip to knock Buster down.
I just raised my shoulders and my eyebrows at him in a questioning way and scurried back onto the court. When I got back, Buster was already up, leaning against the wall. So I threw one towel to Phillip and nodded towards the wet spot. Then I walked over to Buster and handed him the towel. I realized that there was an opportunity here for a little bad cop - good cop routine that might really keep Buster off balance. So I tried acting a little deferential.
Trying to sound concerned, I asked, "Are you okay? You really don't want to get Phillip riled up. The last thing we want out here is him in linebacker mode, know what I mean?"
He looked at me dubiously for a second as he started to test his arm, wincing slightly as he raised it over his head. "He did that on purpose, didn't he?" Buster surprised me be asking.
"Oh, I didn't actually see it," I lied.
"Well, he better not get in front of me. You're not the only one who can hit a forehand drive into someone's thigh."
That was such a remarkably stupid thing to say that I was stunned for a moment, standing there with my mouth partly open. Trying to figure out how to make the most out of this, I indicated to Buster that I would take his towel, and then turned to get Phillip's towel from him, throwing them both out the door. As I took my place, to await Buster's serve, I said loud enough for all of us to hear, "Phillip, you better be careful, Buster said he's shootin' for your legs."
Phillip looked at me as if to accuse me of lying, which, given the way racquetball is usually played, actually made more sense than anything else. I mean, no one in his right mind would announce they were going to intentionally try to hurt someone, and certainly not someone as big as Phillip. And even a flea would be smart enough not to say it to the partner of the guy you were threatening?
"She's making that up, right?" Phillip asked Buster.
For a beat, then two, there was silence and you could almost hear the gears working inside Buster's brain. Then he blurted out, "Yeah, she's just trying to blame me for what she did herself." And he glared at me.
But it was obvious to everyone that he had hesitated because he needed the time to figure out what to say.
Phillip just looked at him and said, "Don't do it." Bobby stood at the side of the court shaking his head. I had everything I could do not to laugh.
In any case, Buster didn't run into anyone or hit anyone with the ball for the rest of the match. Plus, he had lost his nerve. Without him threatening me and trying to push me around, I had a pretty free reign on our side of the court, and, as Phillip had noted at the outset, I was better than Buster.
Too bad he wasn't the only one we were playing against. For whatever reason, Bobby turned his game up a notch and was really outplaying Phillip. So after 15 minutes of all out play, we finally got the serve back with them ahead 12-10.
As Phillip got ready to serve, I went over to him and put my arm around his really thick and disgustingly sweaty shoulder and turned him to the front court so Bobby and Buster couldn't hear us talk. "Hit him some lobs, will you? He's killing your drive serve. Don't be as stubborn as Buster and keep hitting something he's gonna kill."
Phillip furrowed his brow at me. He and Bobby had been pounding the ball at each other all match. They were like two heavy weights, slugging it out. It was like there was some unwritten code that the only way you could win was to be tougher than the other guy, even if being smarter made more sense.
"Huh," he grunted in a noncommittal way, as if I had just pointed out that his shirt was wet. But when he served it was a nice soft lob that forced Bobby to hit a defensive shot. This drove Phillip all the way to the back wall as well, but Phillip hit it to Buster, who hit a decent but not great shot back to Phillip. Phillip in turn hit it back at Buster, and this time, Buster hit a much weaker return. I had the front court all to myself and was able to cut his shot off and easily put it away. Two more of those and it was 13-12.
When I couldn't score on my serve, Bobby was up again. Quickly, he hit his low drive into the backhand corner. It was perfect, bouncing twice before Phillip could get to it. But Phillip did get the next one, and after a brief rally, I again found myself all alone up front and hit another winner, this time hitting a hard drive past Bobby's backhand as he charged towards the right front to get the shot he thought I was going to hit. Phillip and I grinned at each other. If Bobby wasn't serving, we still had a chance.
But Buster finally beat me in the forehand corner, his knee high drive serve hitting right in the crack, spinning out, and leaving me swinging at the air like an uncoordinated ditz. Game point for them. Fortunately, even though he was only about one for ten on that serve, he tried it again. All of us, including Michael, would have done the same thing. You just want to win on your best serve, not some wimpy lob. Instead of trying for an outright kill, I hit a defensive shot to the back corner, which Buster never expected and he had a hard time turning to get back there. Bobby, realizing that Buster might not get there, also charged over and they ran into each other. It was 13-14, but now, it was our serve.
Phillip got ready for his serve, crouching down to hit his drive serve again. "Hey," I urged gently, shaking my head.
He pursed his lips at me, like I was some kind of annoying teacher who had yet again caught him talking to the cute little girl in the next row, but he stood back up and thought for a second. Then he ripped a hard three wall serve that caught Bobby by surprise as it took a weird bounce out of the backhand corner. Still, he managed to return it, driving me back to the wall on my side. I hit a defensive shot that put Buster in the back corner, and even though he hit a pretty decent return, Phillip was all the way up front and ripped it for a kill.
In racquetball, you have to win by two, so even though the score was tied, we still had our work cut out for us. Phillip had now figured it out and hit another three wall serve, this time much softer, that not only took a weird bounce, but left the ball way up high, where Bobby could only hit a defensive return. This led to a brief rally that ended when Phillip again took a shot out of the air and killed it.
Phillip's next serve wasn't as good as the previous two, and Bobby was able to kill it even though he was deep in the backhand corner. I could only shake my head in wonder. I had to be six feet closer to the front of the court to hit a shot like that, and Bobby was skinny. Now it was my serve. I knew better than to try a drive serve, so I just hit a lob that Buster returned into the back corner, forcing me to the wall. I tried to hit it to the back corner again, but didn't catch it clean, leaving Buster a chance for a kill. But his splat to the right corner was a little high and Phillip dug it out, forcing Buster back again. This time, though, Buster had Phillip trapped up front, so he hit a low drive off the middle of the front wall that angled towards the backhand corner, passing Phillip.
I don't know how I knew where it was going, woman's intuition perhaps, or simply good game sense, but as the play developed I slid to the left side of the court, behind Phillip. As Buster's shot passed him, it came right to my backhand. My position gave me a perfect angle for my favorite shot, a splat into the front right corner, and I started to set it up, my backswing passing over my chest and compressing my fake boobs.
But again, something told me what to do. At the last moment, I switched directions and hit the splat into the front left corner. And just as it left my racquet, Bobby flew past me angling left to pick up the shot he thought I was going to hit towards the forehand corner, and which would bounce left. Even though my splat wasn't perfect, in fact, it was pretty mediocre, it didn't matter. Both Bobby and Buster were out of position and it bounced twice for a winner.
Our game 16-14, and our match 2-1. Phillip turned to me with a big smile on his face, and then threw his arms around me in a big wet hug. At first I was thrilled, caught up in the joy of winning a hard set and tickled by his enthusiasm. But a moment later, I realized what he was doing - hugging me with his gigantic, hot, sweaty body.
"Phillip!" I sort of squealed. "What are you doing?"
"Celebrating our victory," he said, his voice still full of joy.
"You're gross!" I complained, figuring that was better than saying I didn't want a man hugging me while I was at the gym.
"I'm gross?" he boomed at me, as Bobby and Buster looked at us mildly dumbfounded at what was going on between us. We were not behaving like racquetball partners.
So he let go of the hug and instead put his hands around my ribs and lifted me into the air so we were face to face. "You're terrific, Sara Cohen," he whispered sincerely right to my face. "Why did it take me so long to meet you?" And then he planted a big wet kiss on my lips.
Before I could react, he let it go, leaving me gasping, open-mouthed, and, although I couldn't admit it to myself right then, thrilled. It was only in retrospect that I understood that had he held it a moment longer I might have opened my mouth for more.
"Put me down, you gigantic monster," I managed to splutter out. I somehow thought I should be angry even though I was as far from angry as a person could get.
"Sure, darlin'," he replied confidently, lowering me to the floor as if picking me up in a huge hug had been no different than briefly saying hi. I was trying to glare at him, which is hard to do when you're staring up at someone. But just like last night, he wasn't going to let my little scene bring him down. He continued to smile at me like a teenager.
He had never turned his personality on like this when I was a man. Now, he was totally engaging: a force of nature, nearly. I knew that if I continued to look into his eyes, he'd melt me, and all I'd want to do was caress his face with my hand, and then pull him down into another kiss. But I just couldn't let that happen. So I straightened up, turned away and headed for the door of the court.
I had been sitting on the bench, having loaded all my gear into my gym bag and trying to dry myself with my sweaty towel, when he came out and said, "So, Sara, my love, when are you gonna let me buy you those tight black leather pants?"
Every eye and ear in the place instantly snapped onto me, the stripper queen, to see how I would respond.
After recovering from nearly having choked on my own saliva, it was easy. Really, it was easy. As long as they're not touching you and making your tummy go all gooey, guys are a snap. I stood up slowly, grabbed my bag and made a big deal of hefting it onto my shoulder. Then, I straightened myself out, and as clearly as I could, I responded, "In your dreams." Then I turned and sashayed towards the lobby, swiveling my hips for all I was worth.
The place exploded in laughter behind me, and I couldn't help but let a huge grin over take my face. It hadn't been my plan to just leave Phillip behind like that, but the scene was too good to give up. So I just got in my car and drove home. I figured it would take him about an hour to call. Despite what I had said, I fully intended to get those leather pants. And I knew just where to find a pair of oh-so-soft glove leather ankle boots with three and a half inch spike heels. I was sure Rebecca would help me with the jacket.
***
"Rebecca, I'm home," I shouted as I came in the door, keeping my voice in its girly range. I dropped my gym bag by the steps in the foyer, like I always did.
"In here, love," she called back from the sun room we had added behind our living room. It was one of our favorite places to work on the weekends. Its all around windows, airiness, and comfortable furniture made it irresistible. I'd little doubt she'd be there.
So I bounded into the room, thrilled and delighted with myself, and still out of breath despite the 20 minute ride home from Michael's club.
"Oh my! Look At you!" Rebecca exclaimed as I fairly burst into the room. My hair and clothes were soaked, but my face was radiant, flushed with both exertion and exhilaration. The whole afternoon had been an incredible high. "How did't go?" she asked, looking eager to hear my story.
"It was great!" I replied bouncing up and down on my toes, my hands fluttering around my face as if they had a life of their own. "We won this great match and I played great and Philip promised to buy me these great leather pants if we won so he could walk behind me to watch my ass and everyone saw my nipples!" I started to take off my warm up jacket and jut out my chest to show her how they looked.
Rebecca looked at me as if I was a Martian. "Whoa, Nelly," she said, "Slow down there a bit could you?'
"Where should we go for the pants?" I asked, peeling off my jacket, without any awareness of her cute attempt to get some control of the situation. "He's gonna buy me boots and a jacket too!"
"Sara, honey," she replied slowly, running her hand through her hair, "Are you on cocaine or something? You really do need to slow down."
It was starting to sink in. "Huh?" Was all I could say through my dim realization.
"I see you had a good time." Her raised eyebrow-cocked head-rueful smile combination finally brought me back to reality.
"Uuhh... Yeah. I did." I grimaced, finally starting to talk at about the normal speed for an adult. "But I think I became a legend at the gym."
"Well, my love," she countered gently, "you're already a legend here, so I'm not surprised."
Suddenly, I realized who and what I really was: a sweated-through, crossdressed husband talking to his wife after returning from a racquetball game, which he had played in drag with a guy partner he claimed he didn't want to be with, but who made him feel exhilarated. And he had just blurted out that everyone had seen his nipples, which his wife, who was now standing in front of him, had made him put on.
"Omigod!' I blurted out. "Am I horrible?"
"Oh no, love!" She replied instantly. "You're amazing, and totally surprising. But what happened to your arm?"
"Oh, that," I replied, glancing down at the obvious red welts. It's amazing how it stopped hurting after we won. "Buster thought he could win by trying to beat me up. But we took care of him!' I was starting to get excited again.
"I'll bet you did," she responded quietly, obviously not interested in the details right now. "And just how did everyone see your nipples?"
I threw back an embarrassed, grimace-like smile, and then pursed my lips tightly together, like I was trying to make a hard decision. "You set me up, didn't you? You knew I would eventually have to show them." And just like I had with my t shirt at the gym, I peeled off my tank top, and pushed out my chest, making the nipples clearly visible through my sports bra.
Rebecca burst out laughing. "You hussy!" she screamed. Did you do that at the gym?"
I grimaced again. "Well, sort of, I guess," I said softly, allowing my chest to deflate, although that did nothing to hide the nipples.
"So? Tell me!" Rebecca immediately responded. She obviously thought this was going to be fun to hear.
So I told her. I really was clueless when it happened. I mean, it was unintentional, but in the retelling, it somehow took on a more lurid cast, which could only have come from my dirty little mind.
But Rebecca didn't seem the least bit upset, simply shrugging her shoulders. "I'll bet Michael would have loved to have seen that, wouldn't he?"
I wasn't sure what she was getting at, so I imagined myself watching..., and immediately snorted out a laugh. But then I had an inspiration. "Specially if it was you!" I said, as lasciviously as I could.
“Ohhh, you do have a dirty mind don't you?" She replied, a smile lighting up her face.
"I love to think dirty thoughts about you," I responded, wiggling closer to her.
She wrinkled her nose as I got within arm's length and said, "Well not right now. You really do need a shower, and until you take one, you can forget about touching me."
I wasn't going to be put off that easily. "Not until you tell me why you made me wear these nipples!" I shot back, again thrusting out my chest and wiggling my shoulders so my boobies would bobble in front of her nose, except they didn't because of the sports bra.
She cocked her head and hesitated for a moment, ensuring she had my full attention. Then she said, "You're really very cute, you know! Not only do I have a sexy husband, but I have a girlfriend as well, and she apparently thinks she's a teenager!"
"What does that mean?" I asked, not positive I wanted to hear the answer.
She got up out of the chair she had been reading in and came over to me. She kissed me gently on the cheek and took my hand in hers. "C'mon honey. You really do need a shower. We can talk after that.”
It always feels good to peel off sticky gym clothes, especially once they have started to dry and harden against your body. This time was a unique treat. First to go, with great relief, was the intentionally too tight sports bra, which, I discovered with some dismay, had left some impressively deep welts around my chest. Removing the gaff and freeing my cock and balls from their even tighter prison was even better. Reflexively at first, but then gratefully as I became aware of how good it felt, scratched, rubbed and stroked them as they finally unfurled down between my legs. It took almost a minute before they felt normal again. When I had finished, I was glad that I was in the bathroom with the door closed. For some reason, this little celebration of my newly unbound masculinity on my otherwise feminine body embarrassed me when I became aware of what I was doing. Not wanting to think about it, I jumped into the shower and enjoyed a thorough cleaning. I especially enjoyed washing my latex nipples, and making believe they were real.
*Real breasts, is that what I want? And if I had 'em what would Rebecca think? Could she deal with that (them!), or...* I stopped right then; there are some questions that just don't have to be answered.
Rebecca watched me emerge from the bathroom rubbing my hair with one towel and with another tied above my breasts. I had already applied eyeliner and lipstick, a nice coral red this time, and had plucked a few more hairs from under the arch of my brows. I really wanted to keep going, but I also realized that if I did, I would end up a little too femmy looking when I wanted to pass as a guy.
"Aren't you just the cutest thing?" she teased, sitting propped up by pillows on our bed.
I was still in a great mood, so I flashed her a huge smile and dropped a small curtsey. "Thank you ma'am. I like to think so." You know all those pictures of t-girls you see on the web? You ever notice how few of them are smiling, and how the ones who have great smiles look the most like real women? I guess I was just lucky, but I was blessed with one of those of smiles, and I learned early on how to use it, which was frequently. Men, of course, will fall all over a woman for a smile. Women respond to men pretty much the same way.
"I think you are," Rebecca said thoughtfully. "I really do think you are. It's amazing."
That of course got her another huge smile.
"You gonna do something about that?" I asked, dropping my towel I had been using to dry my hair and swiveling over to the bed. "I'm clean, sweet smelling and sanitary?"
"Uuuhhh," she replied, clearly not sure what to do. Then she gave a slightly pained smile before saying, "You know what love? I think not. I'm afraid I still don't find those fake boobies of yours much of a turn on."
I stopped, standing over her right next to the bed, and my face fell. That had totally shattered my sweet illusion. A dispirited "Oh," was all I could get out.
"But how 'bout if I dry your hair for you, and finish your makeup. And I think I know just the place for you to buy those leathers you were talking about," she finished, nodding her head and smiling, obviously trying to make up for her previous comment with a consolation prize of non-sexual attention.
"No," I replied, sounding petulant in spite of myself. "Maybe it's time for me to be Michael again. I forgot that you found me selfish when I indulge myself like this." By the time I had finished I was sounding downright sarcastic.
"Oh Mic... Sar... Michael, don't. I really do like Sara. Really. It's just hard for me to have sex with her. There're lots of things Sara and I can do together without having sex aren't there?"
"But what about Becca? She liked to have sex with Sara didn't she?"
She gave me another one of those of pained smiles. "Honey," she began, in a way that made it clear this wouldn't be good news either, "Becca was very hard for me to pull off. It was kind of a rush, and lots of fun, but she's just not me. I really don't look forward to being her again."
"So you'd be just as happy if I was never Sara again, wouldn't you?" I half asked, half accused, my resentment again slipping out.
"Truthfully?" she asked, then hesitating to see what I'd say. But that hesitation was all the answer I needed.
"I'm changing," I said. I can see I've already had too much fun this weekend."
"Don't you dare be petulant with me! This has been one of the best weeks Sara has ever had, and I feel like I've been very generous, and I'm willing for it to continue. I think you just need to accept the fact that I don't really want to have sex with Sara, especially not when she's wearing fake boobs. Can't you accept that?" she finished almost plaintively.
The look on her face made me realize how selfish I had just been. She was right. I did have a great week, and she had been not only been supportive, but enthusiastic as well. She had stayed home while I was out on a date, and then, essentially a second date this afternoon. I felt like a heel. "I'm so sorry," I said. "You're right. You have nothing to apologize for. I guess I just got carried away by my enthusiasm." And then after a brief pause, "And I do love you, and it felt so intimate, the way we were teasing when I got out of the shower, I just naturally..." And I held my hands up to my sides, palms up, showing I had no more to say. But before she could say anything else, I blurted out, "Can you forgive me?"
She gave me one of those indulgent smiles women use on men when the guy realizes he has done something thoughtless, like leave the toilet seat up, and then said, "Oh honey, of course I do. I told you last week that I want this to be fun for you, but I guess we'll have to figure out how to deal with some issues. Having Sara around so intensively is new. We'll figure it out. I know we will." And she threw her arms around me in a big hug, which I gratefully accepted. At least until I felt her breasts press against mine, and then I felt uncomfortable because she said she didn't like them, and I pulled back a little, as if I could hug her without our breasts touching.
"Don't be silly," she said, pulling her head back and looking into my eyes. "Women hug all the time, and we really enjoy the intimacy." She emphasized the word intimacy, drawing it out. I guess she was trying to teach me that there were different kinds. "But you well know..., or maybe not, cause you're a man," she tossed me a pitying smile, "you can be intimate without it leading to sex. Now give me a wholehearted hug. I need it. I haven't seen that much of you over the last two days."
So we hugged and just by readjusting my point of view a little, I could almost see what she was saying about being intimate without it leading to sex, although I was still sure that having it lead to sex was better. As for right now, the hug felt pretty good.
***
Phillip called about 30 minutes later, and we arranged to meet him at a boutique that Rebecca said had great leather. By the time we were done shopping, the morning's racquetball win turned out to be the most expensive ever for Phillip. But he could easily afford it, so I didn't care. I was totally thrilled, and when I looked at myself in the mirror, with my new pants, cropped jacket, and three inch spike-heeled boots, I thought I would just cream in my pants. I was hot! And I started to wish I had long blonde hair. I imagined myself tossing a corn-silk blonde mane off my face as I turned around to confront some guy who had been staring at me. He creamed in his pants. I smiled smugly.
Looking at me, and then apparently seeing, or at least imagining, an envious look in Rebecca's eye, Phillip decided that he had to buy her something too. She of course objected, but he was persistent, finally arguing that she had fixed him up with one of his best dates ever and she deserved a reward. She selected a stunning pair of red crocodile-print sandals with a tall heel and several thin straps that crossed over her instep. They weren't Jimmy Choo's, but for what they cost they might have well been.
Then Rebecca and I decided we had to take Phillip out to dinner. We decided on a local steak house that was one of those real guy places: wood paneling, cigars and big steaks with expensive cabernets. It was a good pick too because Phillip met several friends and acquaintances, and was just beaming with pride as he showed off his two dates. The tall, thin one in the striking black leathers, and her slightly shorter but much more attractive friend, in her red mini and fuck-me sandals.
Sunday night finally found me sitting cross-legged on my bed, using a solvent to remove my beautiful blue nails. I hated the way my hands looked when I was done and decided I would grow my nails out a little more even when I had to be in guy mode. When I was a kid, my nails were very soft, and broke easily. But as I matured, they started to harden. At times, I had grown them out to half an inch, and they would be hard and strong. But my pattern was that I would let them grow overly long, though I never manicured them into a feminine look, and then cut them all the way back to a standard guy length. I hated to cut them. Now, I decided to grow them out and leave them longish. I felt very proud of myself. And as long as I was rebelling, I decided to leave my toes, figuring that no one would see them anyway, and I could wait until they chipped to clean them up. At least that's what I told Rebecca. I really thought that once they needed to be redone, I could just switch to another color, and no one would see that either.
. . . This realization made me quietly buoyant. It freed me from the transvestite prison of being my clothes, and opened more attractive options for defining my personality
. . . Everyone could see me changing but me, and I was having so much fun I was blind.
. . . I, of course, was clueless, perhaps willfully so, about her feelings, just as I had been clueless about my increasingly femme image.
By lunchtime Monday, it was as if the previous week had never existed. We were back on the work treadmill, beginning with our standard Monday morning staff meeting. We caught up on old business, made sure everyone was keeping up with their assignments, solved problems and discussed approaches to a new account we were pursuing. During the day on Monday, it never even entered my consciousness that my toe nails were painted. I only realized it that night, when I took off my socks. I must admit that I delightedly wiggled my toes at myself, but that’s as far as it went. And the rest of the week just flew by the same way, even though I was mostly at home. Because Rebecca had been so generous with me last weekend, I made sure I was in total guy mode when she arrived home each evening. And it paid off. She was relaxed, warm, and very attentive and joyful in bed.
I didn't expect to see Phillip for at least two weeks because he told me he was off on a west coast swing, and typically spent only a week or ten days in New York each month in any case. Often he would be away for six weeks at a time. And indeed he was gone for two weeks. But when he came back he wanted to see Sara again, and Rebecca graciously consented, telling me that as long as Michael was so attentive to her, she thought it would be okay if Sara went out to play with Phillip now and again. I was thrilled! This was a great deal! It took no effort at all - in fact it was a joy - to be attentive to the woman I loved, and I was thrilled to be able to go out with Phillip because I got to be as feminine as my heart desired. Rebecca even helped me with things like accessories and matching my makeup to my outfit. She said her purse and jewelry collections were always open to me. I was really touched by her generosity.
Veronica and I became great friends because each time Phillip came to town, I needed a make over. I was going from boy to girl and back to boy and back to girl again on a fairly regular, though not terribly frequent basis. And true to my word, I let my nails grow, and then, my hair as well. Veronica insisted that I get my ears pierced, and Rebecca finally went along, “as long as it’s only one hole in each ear.” I was in trannie heaven, with both a loving and accepting wife and a boyfriend who took me on dates, but demanded no sex, though he was very playfully affectionate.
Out of Rebecca's sight, we were like teenagers overcome by their first infatuation, and I'm sure many people who saw us together assumed that we were lovers. Phillip often copped a grope of my ass, which, after I began to relax at his touch, I really sorta liked, and it was a constant (though very enjoyable) battle to keep his hands off my faux breasts, something that seemed important to do for propriety’s sake, but that at the same time felt silly. I mean, they weren’t real and I couldn't feel anything in any case. Still this often led to a good deal of semi-public twisting and squirming and swatting and pushing whenever Phillip felt like teasing me, which seemed to happen whenever he thought no one could see. And as I half-heartedly, though insistently tried to divert him there was something about seeing my manicured hand on his chest or his arm that really made me feel really special, in an attractive, sexy, vulnerable way. I came to realize that this was one way Phillip and I could safely express affection for each other, and I enjoyed it. And though I probably would have denied it at the time, it turned me on. So we slowly became chastely intimate. I let him hold my hand, or I took his arm in my hands, or cuddled under his massive shoulder. After a few months, touching was no longer a big deal between us, and I savored being sheltered by his gigantic presence.
This all led to me become quite comfortable as a woman and as I relaxed, I began to explore various ways to present myself, looking for the real Sara somewhere within me. I started off timid and demure, and my hair and clothing were conservative and constructed. But that wasn’t really me, and I moved through phases when I tried to be elegantly sexy, softly romantic, an artistic gypsy, and on rare occasions, even provocative, in very short, clingy, backless dresses and high, high heels. The few times I tried that particular persona Phillip and I went out to guy places, where I could be shown off as a trophy date, but where we weren’t likely to meet people we knew. I found it both thrilling and frightening, and Phillip really seemed to have great fun showing me off, but that wasn’t me either. I started to feel like I would never find the real me.
And then one day, as I watched Rebecca get ready to go with me for a long-planned sixth anniversary evening of dining and dancing, it hit me. I could be any of those kinds of women, any time I wanted. She had come home very distracted, and in a hurry because we were late. Her movements were tight and hassled-looking. She was dressed in her usual business suit, some pedestrian brown pumps with blocky heels, her hair up in a tight French roll, and wearing very light makeup, as she typically did during the day. Then, after a quick bath, she seemed much more relaxed. She slipped on a most delightful set of lingerie and then sat at her makeup table. She unpinned her hair and let it down, before using hot rollers to give it some bounce and lovely little curls at the ends. She darkened her makeup, and slipped into the most romantic dress made of several layers of transparent chiffon over a rayon lining. When she was done, she stood up and gave me a twirl, a huge smile lighting up her face. “Come Michael,” she said, slipping her arm through mine as I looked on beaming, “I’m ready for a romantic evening with my favorite husband.”
In less than an hour, she had gone from being a rather well dressed and attractive, though intense and harried, business professional to a relaxed, vibrant curvy babe, but she was still Rebecca. It was then that it hit me. I couldn’t pick a persona by what I was wearing, and my clothes certainly weren’t going to be able to define who I was. I would be who I was; I didn’t have any choice about that. On occasion, I could be whoever I wanted to be, or whoever the situation suggested I be, and then switch back again or to something else altogether, no matter what I wore. There had to be a me there to begin with, and that me could be dressed up any way I wanted. Although I understood that I still hadn’t found my authentic Sara, it was then that I learned that I could play at, and dress like, whoever I felt like being. The clothes didn’t define me.
This realization made me quietly buoyant. It freed me from the transvestite prison of being my clothes, and opened more attractive options for defining my personality. This night for example, I was dressed as Michael, wearing a softly constructed black suit, dark charcoal silk tee shirt, and soft, black dress loafers, very urban hip, but clearly a guy. Earlier in the day, however, I had been wearing a pale pink, short pleated skirt, a figure hugging purple tank top, with a white cotton gauze shirt over it. I had spent four hours working on a series of design problems without ever once thinking about what I was wearing, except to pull my skirt under me when I sat down. And the me inside these two different sets of clothing hadn’t changed, although the way I moved and talked and held myself certainly had.
By the way, we had the most wonderful evening, both of us basking in the glow of each other’s love. We truly felt like soul mates.
After that, I paid much more attention to the things I did and said. They, I realized defined me far better than anything I was wearing. Sure, I was still hyper-aware of my clothing, but I discovered that Sara was a woman very much like Michael was a man. I liked being nice to people. I was attentive to and empathetic with their emotional needs, even if that only meant a nice smile or a gentle touch in return for a small courtesy. I wanted people to like me, and was willing to go the extra yard to make myself likable. And I wasn’t at all eager for confrontations, which, of course, is why Rebecca did all our negotiating, and tended to be the dominant one in our relationship. I was somewhat shy and far more comfortable when I was dressed more modestly than when I was at all provocative. And as I learned to be myself, the whole experience of being womanly took on a different dimension for me.
My nurturing impulses blossomed. So instead of being somewhat embarrassed that I was the “neat one” in our family, and cleaning up guiltily (how bizarre is that?) or resentfully (which is, of course, far more typical), I began to see my nesting instincts as an expression of my femininity and let them have full reign, which allowed me to enjoy them far more than I ever had. Now, when I was straightening up the house, or arranging some flowers, or cooking a dinner, I didn’t have to dress like a woman (although I still loved to and often did), because I was doing something that felt like an authentic expression of my femininity, which was a far more meaningful and enriching then just dressing up.
I started to imagine myself as Rebecca’s housewife, and reveled in my ability to make her life easier, to comfort her when she was angry or depressed or upset, and to take care of the little things, like buying gifts for her to give to our employees so that she didn’t have to worry about “little stuff” like that. She was my queen and our home was her castle. I knew this was a rather old-fashioned view of what a wife was supposed to be, but as time went on, I could see her confidence, optimism and energy flourish. It made my heart feel so full! Then, if I happened to be wearing one of my now favored longer skirts - perhaps an ankle-length pleated crinkle skirt in gauzy cotton paired with a spaghetti strap cami or wrap front halter, it was icing on the cake, rather than the whole cake, which is what it used to be.
And unexpectedly, my work started to change. My designs lost some of the assertive edginess that had been one of my trademarks, and became much more liquid and sensual, exploring curves and interconnections in new ways, while being more peaceful. This turned off some or our potential clients, and some of our existing ones who left us, but it attracted others, and over the course of a year or so, we found ourselves with a rather large portfolio of women-run businesses, or at least of businesses that had women making decisions about marketing. Rebecca and some of our staff were uneasy for a while because our style had changed, and they didn’t know what we were selling. But after a rough period that lasted a few months, things got evened out and everyone was content again, knowing who we were.
I was also getting increasing numbers of strange looks and responses from people. I know now, and would have known then had I not been in denial, that those looks were due to my increasing femininity, and to the increasing invasion of my male life with feminine gestures, expressions, and mannerisms. In my heart, I must have understood that people now perceived me strangely, but I also remembering thinking, ‘What’s his problem,’ ignoring the obvious. The staff at work didn’t seem at all concerned, and if anything, my relationships with them, or at least most of them, seemed to get better.
And for that year, the whole thing seemed to be working. Things with Rebecca seemed fine, sometimes even really great, our business was prospering, and Sara had great adventures with Phillip. When he took me to the ballet at Lincoln Center, I got to wear a long velvet gown for the first time. And when we went to a Knicks game, sitting only three rows from the court, I wore my leathers, and drew the attention of not just the fans, but a couple of the players as well. I went to a couple of fancy parties in flirty cocktail dresses, and a few times, just had quiet dinners out with Phillip, who was always gracious, attentive, and protective. The problem was I came home from nearly every excursion exhilarated. This apparently happened even when I sometimes came home the next day, after staying in the spare bedroom at Phillip’s corporate apartment on Seventh Ave and Central Park South. And each time, though I didn’t see it, Rebecca would become a little more distressed.
Everyone could see me changing but me, and I was having so much fun I was blind. Phillip was becoming an increasingly important part of my life, and while I was having great fun going out with him in what seemed like a big game, I was also growing emotionally closer to him, peppering my conversations with “Phillip this” and “Phillip that.” Not surprisingly, Rebecca could tell what was happening and became increasingly anxious and threatened by the whole scene.
I did question her about how she felt rather frequently; I could sense when she was upset, impatient, or distant, but she always dismissed my concerns airily, saying that she had no problem with two guys being good buddies, even if it was in a rather strange way. Sadly, I believed her. I was having too much fun to want it to end, so I never probed below the surface, even when Rebecca would become withdrawn or short with me for no apparent reason. After awhile, we were both lying to each other and keeping the best face on our marriage and working relationship even as strains started to grow.
Rebecca eventually told me that each time I came home from one of my “dates,” she used the word bitterly, I behaved just like a teenage girl who had a crush on some new boy and couldn’t wait to tell her sister, all about it. “I thought I was watching you fall in love,” she told me. “And I was heartbroken. I didn’t know what to do. How could I compete with a man?”
I, of course, was clueless, perhaps willfully so, about her feelings, just as I had been clueless about my increasingly femme image. Even though I had never been what anyone would call macho (I was much too “artistic” for that) I was gradually becoming more and more feminine with my longer (although publicly unpolished) nails, long, smooth, shiny hair, and carefully trimmed eyebrows. Now, looking back, I have no doubt that feminine gestures, phrases, and movements often crept into my behavior, and most of the world probably thought I was gay. This must have been terribly embarrassing for Rebecca, though she didn’t let on to me for the longest time.
In the end, it was our contract with Matti that blew everything wide open. I had already agreed, initially at Rebecca’s urging, but later because it was what I wanted to do, to meet with Matti only when dressed as a woman. But we always met with her away from the office, often at her restaurant. We all got along great, and she seemed to especially like me. It was if we had some special affinity for each other. We had an easy, teasing, relationship, and I somehow seemed to understand just what she was looking for in a marketing approach. Although her contract wasn’t very big, we all felt our approach was really exciting, and Rebecca and I were terrifically proud of it. But that wouldn’t have changed anything, if it hadn’t really been as good as we thought it was. A few months after we rolled it out, an east coast trade journal noted it briefly, but admiringly, in a sidebar to a bigger article on small advertising firms. We, of course were delighted because it was free publicity, and it did indeed lead to an up tick in business. What we didn’t foresee at first, but which became all too apparent later on, was that this increased publicity would lead to increased scrutiny as well.
A month or so after that story appeared, we got a call from a much larger, national business magazine that was doing a story on restaurant marketing. They had decided that our approach for Matti was on the cutting edge of a new trend, and they wanted to interview us. Despite the new business that might bring, we said no, this time understanding the risks. But the reporter was insistent and eventually agreed to meet with us and our staff one day when, at the very last minute, I turned out to be “unexpectedly out of town.” The reporter was really interested in what we were doing and how we worked, and Rebecca thought the interview had gone really well until the story actually appeared two months later, just after Labor Day. Actually, the story was really very complimentary and we would have been basking in its praise, except for one little detail. It also included a picture of Sara.
Although she swore up and down that she had nothing to do with it, I was sure Matti had set me up because the picture was of the two of us, sitting at one of the little cocktail tables in her bar. We had hit it off so well while working together that we started to get together socially. It wasn’t a big deal: we’d have lunch or shop for an hour or two. She always had wonderful ideas about what would look good on me. Sometimes, when I wasn’t too busy and the restaurant was quiet, as on the day of the picture, we’d have tea. The junior staff, trying to show off for their boss, made us delightful little snacks, and we sampled all kinds of exotic teas. I had no way to know for sure if it was her; one of the staff who knew I was coming might have set it up. Still, I didn’t see her for a very long time after that.
The picture was, in fact, quite flattering. I was wearing a tight, long sleeved tee shirt and a colorfully printed silk robe-like jacket over it. My hair was in a high pony tail, tied with a ribbon that picked up the background salmon color of the jacket, and I had arranged carefully curled tendrils around my face (I had no idea how to make them - they took me forever!). I had on dark eye make and very red lipstick. The picture was taken from behind Matti, and I was gesturing animatedly about something, a big smile on my face. The major saving grace was that they didn’t use my first name, describing me only as M. S. Cohen, co-owner and artistic director of Mind Games. Whether I wanted to be or not, I was now out.
Over the next couple of months, as word got around, the shit really hit the fan. Rebecca was nearly frantic, the staff was in turmoil, our neighbors were aghast, our families freaked, and I was appalled. I spent hours and hours talking with people to explain, as best I could, who I was and what was going on. But to do this, I had to first figure out what to say. Rebecca pushed the subject the very night the article was published. She came home early and found me sitting in the sunroom, dressed in shorts and a tee shirt, my hair in a low pony tail. I had been trying to figure out what to do, and in fact had spent some time cursing my bad luck, feeling sorry for myself and crying. My eyes were red.
“What’s your problem?” she asked sarcastically as soon as I looked up.
“Fuck you,” I hissed back. “If you’re here to fight, I’ll just lea… — No! Wait! I didn’t mean that. I’m really sorry for what’s happened. I feel bad for myself, but I’m mortified about how it’s going to affect you and everyone we know.” Then I looked down, my shame preventing me from looking her in the eye.
I could see her legs shift, and she came over to the sofa and sat down next to me. “Oh honey, what are you gonna do? What are we gonna do?”
“I don’t know Rebecca. I really don’t. But I think I have to decide whether this is just some crossdressing game I’ve been playing, and then rein it in, or whether I really am transsexual, and just go full time to see what that means.”
“I….” and I looked up at her helplessly, holding my hands out in a gesture of futility. That’s just what I’d been trying to understand all afternoon, but by now, I couldn’t figure out what was in my heart and what was in my head, whether it was riskier to do nothing or to go full time. Whether I should tell people dressing is just something I enjoy doing, or that I think I’m a woman.
Rebecca, bless her heart, leaned over and gave me a hug. “Let’s talk,” she said softly. “Maybe together we can work it out.”
We talked for hours, and that’s when I learned about all of her fears, and her anger and her frustration. She understood she had some responsibility for what had happened, especially by introducing Sara to Matti, but was adamant that I was responsible for everything I had done: the way I had enthusiastically gone out with Phillip every chance I got, the way I had pursued increasing femininity, and that I seemed unable to restrain my feminine impulses, giving little thought to the implications of what I was doing.
At first, I listened impassively, then resentfully, and finally with increasing hostility. *How dare she accuse me like that?* I thought to myself. *This never would have happened if she hadn’t pushed me into it.* But as we talked, things became clearer to me. Just because she had forced me to go out with Phillip once, didn’t mean I had to go out with him over and over again. Just because she had become lenient with my dressing at home didn’t mean I had to push the envelope every chance I got. And it certainly didn’t mean that I had to be blind to the effect it was having on her and everyone else around me. I was becoming wracked with guilt.
“I’ll quit,” I finally said. “I just can’t do this to you any more.”
“No you won’t,” she replied, evenly. “You won’t be able to. Not only that, I won’t let you. It would be stupid of me.”
“What are you talking about?” I responded, trying to sound offended. “Don’t you think I love you enough to stop doing this?”
She cocked her head in that way of hers and looked at me sadly. Then taking a deep breath and straightening up, she said, “What I think Michael, is that you are really Sara. And that if we force that little bird back into the cage she just escaped from, not only will she die, but she’ll take Michael with her.” By the time she had finished, she was crying. Still, she went on, “And I can’t bear the thought of doing that.”
Of course, everything I knew about crossdressers told me that I would never stop entirely. I could purge and suppress it for a while, but it would inevitably come back. In the meantime I would be miserable, especially after all my recent freedom. Apparently Rebecca understood that also. And looking into her eyes in that moment, I understood that what I wanted to do more than anything in the world was live full-time as a woman to see if I was in fact transsexual. Could I do it day after day, in every activity, in front of all people? But before I could say that, Rebecca started talking again.
“Michael — Sara — I don’t know who you are any more, and I can’t go on like this. I need to know one way or another. Are you a guy who likes to dress like a girl or are you a girl? Do you even know?”
All I could do was shake my head sadly.
“Then I think our path is clear,” she went on, obviously having made up her mind. “You have to become Sara full time. If you do that and discover that you’re really Michael, then maybe we can continue our marriage. If you discover that you’re really Sara, however, I’d rather know that sooner rather than later.” Her eyes were filled with tears, and she had a pleading look on her face.
My lips quivered, but no words came out. l felt stupid, culpable, guilty, and worthless all at once.
But Rebecca wasn’t waiting for me to reply, she was only trying to get control of herself so she could continue. After a deep breath, she went on. “I don’t want to lose you, but I can’t stand the way things are.” She hesitated for a few moments, and then went on, “And besides your hand has been forced. It’s just impossible to continue on the way the way you have.”
“I know,” I mumbled dumbly, trying to imagine what I would say to my parents. All of a sudden my life didn’t seem like such a big adventure any more; it had turned into a bad dream an adventure in the Twilight Zone.
That night, as we got ready for bed, Rebecca placed a sweet spaghetti strap, knee length nightie on our bed. “Wear this,” she said, when I had come out of the bathroom. “And then cuddle up with me in bed. I need to feel you near me.”
So I did and we did. But cuddle is all we did. We didn’t have sex. Rebecca pointed out, gently but firmly that she wasn’t a lesbian, and if I was a girl, well, we could be intimate, but it was hard for her to imagine how that would lead to sex. I don’t know whether Rebecca intended it, or was even aware of it, but I saw another message embedded in what she said. If I became Sara our marriage would be over.
CAUTION!! This chapter may require tissues.
. . . Look,” she said, patting the seat next to her so I would move over there. “We always thought you were a little, errr, different. You were always a little effeminate, you loved art, I don’t know. You just weren’t terribly manly.”
. . . What kind of a wife lets her husband turn himself into a woman? Couldn’t you satisfy him?
. . . But it still makes me really uptight to see you kissing a man,” she mumbled.
The next day, I called my parents, and made arrangements to drive into Manhattan to visit them. My father was a senior partner in a small investment banking firm, and they lived in a really nice, rather large apartment on the upper west side, which they had moved into once they had gotten me and my two sisters off to college. My mom was delighted to hear from me and wanted to go out to dinner, but I insisted that we meet first at their apartment and then decide what to do. *Good,* I thought, *word hasn’t reached them yet.* I could deliver the bad news in person.
I drove into the city early and spent most of the day shopping and trying to figure out what to say to them. No matter what I imagined, it turned out bad. My dad especially worried me. As I made my way, I picked up a few copies of the magazine that now held my picture. By the time I got to the apartment, I was dressed androgynously in a pair of tan women’s slacks and a pale blue polo shirt, with my fake crocodile women’s loafers on my feet, and my hair pulled back neatly, but no makeup. Underneath, I had on panties but no bra.
My parents met me at the door and I gave them a quick hello. They told me how pleased they were that I had decided to just drop by as we walked from the small foyer into the living room. You just had to stop as you entered that room. It was large by Manhattan standards, and the far wall was nearly all windows, which, even with gauze curtains over them for privacy, filled the room with light. A baby grand piano, which as a child I had considered as an instrument of torture as I failed at piano lessons, sat to the right of the entrance way. A brightly colored couch, like something out of the summer catalogue from Pottery Barn, only way more expensive, dominated the wall just past the piano. Several comfortable chairs and small tables faced the couch on the other wall.
But none of that really characterized the room. What did was on the walls. Art covered nearly every square foot of wall space above the furniture. Most of it came from one of two places: paintings from Cape Cod and pottery from the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, which is something you don’t see much of in New York City. My parents, who liked to vacation in both places, were, as it turned out, very astute collectors. Paintings that had cost a couple of hundred bucks when they were purchased on Cape Cod 30 years ago were now worth tens of thousands. Museums now displayed pottery purchased for a song from young potters in the Blue Ridge Mountain artist colony at Penland. Their collection filled the entire apartment, and as always, it startled me when I saw it again. I shook my head; no wonder I had become an artist.
But I couldn’t linger, as I loved to do, because I had business to attend to. I handed them the article and told them to read it while I “went to change.” They were perplexed, but just shrugged and nodded.
When I came from the guest room 15 minutes later, my hair was loose and fluffy because I had back-combed it to give it some volume. I had on full, though light makeup, with a pale blush and lipstick. A pair of brand new A cup forms (I didn’t want to scare them) were in a bra I had just bought to hold them, and I wore a soft, jade green silk camp shirt that draped fluidly. Two gold bracelets adorned my right wrist, a small watch my left, and I sported dangly, multicolored glass earrings and a matching pendant. Their color was perfect with the blouse. A pair of casual dark green pumps with a two inch stacked heel completed my outfit. I felt really pulled together. And scared to death.
“What’s going on here?” my dad asked the moment he saw me. Anger tinged his voice.
“Honey?” my mom said plaintively at the same time.
“Did you see the article?” I asked, in my normal voice. They both nodded studying me carefully, and with some alarm, as I stood before them. “Well,” I said, switching to my girly voice, “this,” and I held my hands out and did a twist from one side to the other, “this is going to be me for the foreseeable future.”
“I told you he was gay,” my father hissed at my mother.
“Honey?” my mother asked plaintively. “What’s going on?”
“Anyone besides me want a drink?” I asked, turning to head to the small bar on the other side of the room, so they could see how I walked. I heard a strangled noise come from my father, so I turned and gave him an expectant smile.
“Yes!” he blurted out. “Make me a martini — in one of the big glasses.”
“Arthur!” My mother said, aghast. “You know what Dr. Bernstein said.”
“Diane,” my father responded tartly, “If Dr. Bernstein was here she’d want one too.”
My mother just said, “Hmmphh.” And a moment later, “I’ll have one too.”
After I handed them their drinks and perched primly on one of the chairs, my father said, “So, Michael,” he emphasized the Michael quite emphatically. “What’s going on?”
“Will you listen?” I asked. “And let me finish before you start to respond?”
They both nodded.
As I daintily rearranged myself on my chair, they watched stiffly from the couch, something not terribly easy to do because it was big and soft and just swallowed you up if you sat back on it. When I had settled myself I told them my story - how I had always thought that I might be a girl, how I had always cross-dressed and how Rebecca knew and accepted it, although it didn’t thrill her. I didn’t tell them about Phillip, although I spent a lot of time explaining that I wasn’t gay.
“See, I told you,” my mom said smugly to my dad, as if it things had turned out okay since I wasn’t gay.
I went to great lengths to explain that the picture had been taken without my knowledge or permission. I apologized for surprising them and for any hurt this caused them.
“Okay, I’ve heard you out,” my dad said when I stopped. Now you hear me out.”
I had to admit, he had been a very good listener, something not usually in his behavioral repertoire. I nodded.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he exploded, jumping up and stalking towards me. “Is this some kind of a sick joke?” he went on gesticulating wildly. “You can’t just go around changing your sex whenever you feel like it. You’re not my daughter; you’re my son. I don’t want to see you like this.” He turned away from me, and paced to the piano. Resting his hand on it, he turned back. “I’m no fool; I’ve read about this stuff. And I’m not naíve. I live in Manhattan! But I will not permit it in my family!” And with that, he spun around and stalked out of the room.
I just sat there a little stunned by his vehemence, though not by his attitude. But my mother didn’t seem terribly concerned, so I had some hope for her being more accepting. “Oh don’t worry about him,” she said, waving her hand in the direction he had gone. “He adores you. Sometimes he couldn’t relate to your sisters at all, but you were always his son and that always made him so proud. He just needs some time.”
“Mom?” I asked, although I didn’t really know what I was asking.
“Look,” she said, patting the seat next to her so I would move over there. “We always thought you were a little, errr, different. You were always a little effeminate, you loved art, I don’t know. You just weren’t terribly manly.”
“That’s not true,” I objected. I played all sorts of sports well, and dated lots of girls, I couldn’t help it if some people looked at me questioningly.
“Be that as it may,” she went on, “look at you now. Even after you married Rebecca, we still wondered.”
“But she’s Jewish,” I said teasing. “You always said you wanted me to marry a Jewish girl.”
She looked at me as if I had just developed small pox. Perhaps joking wasn’t the best idea given the current circumstances. “Don’t worry,” she finally said, “You’ll figure it out. Once you see how lousy it is to be a woman, you’ll be happy to go back to being Michael again, and we can forget all about this.” She gave me one of those indulgent-mother smiles and then one of those hopeful but vacuous TV anchor nods, as if we had just discussed nothing more important than changing my hair color. But after a brief, pregnant pause, she rolled out the heavy artillery. “We’re still waiting for grandchildren, you know.”
With that, she tuned me out entirely, which is what she did whenever confronted with a difficult emotional situation. “Michael,” she said, putting her hand on mine, and then pulling it back suddenly, as if she had put it on a spider. “I just assumed we’d go out for dinner, so I don’t have a thing to eat. And I don’t think your father wants to be seen with you the way you are.”
Then she paused, which meant it was my turn to say something. It only took me a moment to figure out what she meant. I’d had years of training in reading her indirection. “Okay mom. I guess you’re right. I should get going.”
She nodded thankfully, and after quickly collecting my things, I fled.
I really didn’t want to drive back to Connecticut right then, so on a whim, I dialed the number of Phillip’s apartment. But the answering machine picked up instead of Phillip. I smiled briefly to hear his voice, but didn’t leave a message. Instead, I headed out of the city, disconsolate, but not totally defeated. At least my parents hadn’t actually thrown me out of their apartment, or told me they never wanted to see me again.
***
“So I guess that didn’t go so well, did it?” Rebecca said when I got home way earlier than either of us had anticipated.
“What do you mean?” I asked playing for time to see what she was getting at.
“Your mom called,” she responded flatly. “And Leah.” Leah was my older sister, a married corporate attorney, who, at 37, still didn’t have children, much to my parents’ oft-expressed dismay.
“I’m sorry,” I said, brushing my hair off my face with a finger as my shoulders slumped. I could see that being outed would produce a lot of collateral damage, and that Rebecca would be the major victim. A bolt of white hot guilt shot through me, not just because of the pain it would cause her, but because I now clearly understood that even if I had known I would be outed, I wouldn’t have changed anything I had done. I had been just like a smoker, who intellectually understands that she might get lung cancer some day, but who manages to emotionally quarantine that horrid outcome in some kind of neuronal bunker that keeps it from her awareness.
“You better be.” she came back at me. “They’re both ready to blame me for what’s happened, either because I caused it, or because I didn’t stop it. You know what you mother said?”
I shook my head, afraid to guess.
“What kind of a wife lets her husband turn himself into a woman? Couldn’t you satisfy him? If you had given him children this wouldn’t have happened.” And she started to sob, something she must have been doing a lot of judging by the size of the pile of crumpled tissues next to her on the couch.
“I’ll set them straight,” I said a little hotly. It infuriated me that they would blame Rebecca.
“You’ll set them straight?” she replied angrily, looking up into my eyes with more questions than I could answer. “Who the hell is going to set you straight? Or me for that matter?” I sure as hell don’t know what happened.”
“Rebecca?” I pleaded. “What can I do? I didn’t plan this. I didn’t want it to happen?”
“No, you didn’t plan anything did you? And you sure as hell didn’t think about what might happen as you were out there having a grand old time playing party girl!” She spat her words out at me. “You’re a fool. A selfish fool. And I’m an idiot for letting you go as far as I did.” She paused for a second and looked down, her curls hiding her face. When she looked up, skewering me with her eyes, she added, “And you were irresponsible for letting me do it.” She glared at me, tears running from her red-rimmed eyes.
And before I could say anything, she added ruefully, “But you do look cute in that blouse. Does your mother appreciate what a great sense of style you have?” And she started to cry again. Then, as I moved to her side and sat down next to her on the couch, she said, “Michael, what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know hon. I don’t know. But I do know I’m going to protect you. This is my mess. There’s no reason why you should have to clean it up.”
But I couldn’t protect her. As the weeks went on, and the world began increasingly to encounter me as Sara, everyone Rebecca ran into asked her what I was doing. At first, it was only business associates who had seen or heard about the article, but after a while, as the word spread, and more and more people saw me, and we started spreading the word ourselves, wherever she went, the dry cleaner, the supermarket, to business meetings, in her gynecologist’s waiting room, wherever, people asked about me. Although we had decided to tell everyone some version of, “He always thought he might have been a woman and now is the time to find out for sure, and yes I support her,” it was hard for her. I had some idea of just how hard because I fielded the same questions. But because of the guilt she felt, and her defensiveness about her own role, which I absolutely forbade her from revealing, she was not only assaulted with all kinds of painful inquiries, but was reading all kinds of hidden messages into what people were saying.
Rebecca heard them implying that the reason I had changed genders just had to be due to some kind of lack of nurturing, failure, or actual manipulation on her part. I mean, a real woman makes her man feel virile and manly, doesn’t she? What, then, had she done to me to make me feel all girly instead? When her morale ebbed, she interpreted this to mean that she had been a castrating bitch who drove me to it, though how she had managed to pull that off remained unclear. And just to be sure all bases were covered, there were the kind folks who just had to ask if my nascent femininity didn’t it threaten hers, which, actually, it did. That’s why she didn’t want me wearing breast forms at home.
And, of course, many wondered what kind of man would do this to begin with? I must have been a total sissy when she married me, and certainly a flaming faggot, and, needless to say, completely perverted in ways normal people couldn’t even comprehend.
Frankly, gay would have been a step up from what some people really thought of me. At least if I had come out “only” as a garden variety gay man, I would still be a man. Although it wasn’t true - lots of people actually were kind and accepting - it seemed that most people were either threatened by me or angry with me. To men, I seemed to represent the fragility of their own masculinity. And to women, who knows? I seem to have crossed some forbidden border to a land where men were not supposed to go. Or maybe, I liked to imagine, I simply made an attractive woman, rather more attractive and put together than most in fact, and they were just jealous. At least, that’s what I liked to imagine.
Of course, not everyone thought Rebecca had controlled things, some people, both men and women, assumed she had been victimized. She should have been outraged that I had hidden this from her for so long From their perspective, lying about my sexuality was as bad as having an affair Why, these people wanted to know, did she continue to stay with me? How could she possibly put up with it, my obvious and shameful betrayal. Telling them that they were wrong about all of that seemed to do little to change their minds.
But in the end, even the interactions with people who understood or who were supportive, and they were by far the largest group, took a toll. It is of course better to have someone tell you that you are brave “to go through something like this,” but that carries its own costs, especially when people then started to share their problems, as if by having a transsexual husband, Rebecca had suddenly acquired some unique insights into the world.
So, over a period of about two months, I watched helplessly as my lovely, brilliant, tough-minded wife first became stressed out, then started to lose her self-confidence, and, finally, her joy de vivre, which by the end, seemed to be fading visibly on an almost daily basis. It was like watching Tinkerbelle die in Peter Pan, her light slowly fading. Only this time, simply clapping wouldn’t bring her back. Things were bad enough for me, with all the snickers and stares and disbelieving questions, but eventually, more than anything else, I just couldn’t bear the thought that I was literally destroying the one great love of my life.
***
Coming out to my parents was only the first of many explanations I was to give over the following months. I had to call Leah the morning after visiting my parents to confirm that my mother had indeed gotten it right and to castigate her for being unkind to Rebecca. Leah and I hadn’t been terribly close as kids. First, she had to baby sit for me, which cramped her style, but even when I got older, she just didn’t want her “creepy” little brother hanging around. She belittled me in front of her friends to make sure I wouldn’t hang around to bother them. But after we became adults, we discovered a real fondness for each other, and a new way to relate that had nothing to do with who we had been as kids. By now, we were comfortable enough to tease each other about who would produce the first grandchildren, thereby getting the pressure off the other.
“So,” she started off, right after I said hello, “does this mean the burden of grandchildren is solely mine now?” That little joke was the highlight of our conversation. By the time our conversation had ended, it was clear she no more accepting of me than my dad. While she hadn’t been as explosively angry, she was far more cutting and dismissive of my “choice.”
My younger sister, Courtney, who, for no justifiable reason, had always adored me, and who I, of course, had always taken for granted, was much more accepting, although she wasn’t quite sure the whole thing was for real. “This is a joke, right?” she started off, calling between surgeries. In the end, I had to promise to visit and hang out with her as Sara before she would pass judgment. But she lived in Chicago, working about a thousand hours a week as a third year surgical resident, so getting together would have to wait. But she had decided to go into plastic and reconstructive surgery and volunteered to do my face, if it came to that.
“How about my breasts?” I asked, only half joking. There was a kind of garbled noise from the phone, and then a moment of silence. “Ahhh…, I don’t think so,” she finally said. That would be too weird. And besides you should get a real expert. If you need help finding one, let me know. I’ll help you.” Then there was a long pause before she said, “I think.” At least she was taking me seriously.
The people at work were as easy going as Courtney. Of course, they had seen me gradually change over many months, so they knew something was up. Two of the women actually praised me in private for my courage, and promised to be “girlfriends.” Of course, I was their boss. Still, no one quit. Our clients, not surprisingly, were a different matter. We lost a few right away, and Rebecca got furious with me. “You see,” she shouted one day a week after my coming out, when two had called up to say they were looking for ‘other creative avenues.’ “You see what you’ve done?”
Actually, the magazine article helped us far more than it hurt, and we started to get more inquiries than ever before. Many of those who called expected to work with Sara, and only a very few changed their minds when I told them who Sara really was. And a second, smaller group of inquiries came from companies that called because they knew just who Sara used to be. So even though we were losing some clients, we actually gained more than we lost, and in the end, we were terribly busy trying to keep up with the work. This turned out to be my greatest blessing. Work became a refuge, a place where I could experience camaraderie, work hard next to people who liked me, wanted to protect me and took me at face value. Thankfully, it ate up most of the day. Still, it took months, well after the New Year actually, before we hit an even keel again and could turn those inquiries into paying clients. Over the short run, we worried that we wouldn’t have enough cash flow to keep ourselves up and running. We dug a little into our savings to keep all our staff,
In the meantime, it took me two weeks before I listened to the advice I got in my support group and wrote out my explanation in the form of a letter and mailed it to literally everyone I knew. At first, I wasn’t sure I felt ready to do that, but it only took Rebecca about 15 minutes to convince me that I had to do it, and to add a whole bunch of other names, those of her friends and family and all the people we did business with, to the mailing list. It must have taken me about four hours to write what turned out to be a one page letter. Walking into the post office with a large shopping bag full of letters almost did me in. Having done that, however, people knew what to expect when they saw me or Rebecca. I still got all kinds of different responses, from support to hostility, especially from some of my male neighbors, and I still had to explain why I did it almost every time I saw someone for the first time as Sara, but it did allow me to avoid that initial embarrassing moment when someone would look at me, trying to figure out how they knew me, and then become totally stunned when they did. For Rebecca, it compressed the time it took for the whole thing to play out, and it also lowered the emotional tone of her interactions with people. But still, our lives were incredibly stressful.
Like our personal and work lives, our social lives were in disarray. Some long-time friends shunned me, something I had seen once before when one of the couples we were friends with split up because the guy simply walked out. Others, close and not so close, came calling out of curiosity, the way people gather round to look at a bad car wreck. What worried me the most, however, was that I could feel Rebecca slipping away. We spent a lot of time talking, trying to figure out what we should do and what kind of relationship we could have. By turns, we embraced the deep yearning we both had for each other, and then vented anger and resentment at each other. Given the way the situation had developed, we each had plenty of ammunition to use against the other.
We still usually ate and slept together, and I tried to make sure Sara was never very femme when we were at home. But there were times we were so angry with each other that I would get really femmed up just to piss her off! On those nights, of course, I slept in the guest bedroom, not that I actually did very much sleeping, using the time instead to beat myself up for ruining our lives. So it just seemed inevitable that over time Rebecca would grew increasingly short and impatient with me. She didn’t want to discuss clothes or makeup, and stopped sharing the little observations and thoughts that make living with another person rewarding. She didn’t only stop making small talk with me; she eventually stopped touching me as well. Our relationship became cold and barren; our home stopped being our refuge and instead became a source of pain. I had put a huge amount of stress on both of us, and Rebecca was resentful as hell. Who could blame her?
But I also knew that she knew that she had to bear some responsibility for what had happened. So instead of being able to vent her anger entirely at me (and she did plenty of that), and be the victim some urged her to be, she was furious with herself as well. And so one night, five months after I came out, as she paced around the living room, ranting and raving, I made a decision. “Would you like me to leave?” I asked quietly.
“NO!” She shouted back, twirling around to face me. “What kind of stupid idea is that? What would it accomplish?” She glared at me for what seemed like forever, and then broke down in tears, kneeling by the side of my chair. As she cried into my lap I stroked her hair. Finally, she looked up into my face. “Yes,” she said tearfully. “I need a break. If we stay together like this, I don’t know what I might do.”
“I understand,” I said quietly. And I think I did. I had become like a splinter that had caused an infection. If you don’t remove the splinter, the infection never heals, and might even lead to blood poisoning. Leaving, I thought, created the best chance to save my relationship with Rebecca.
“Would you like me to leave tonight, or can you give me a couple of days to set something up?”
“I don’t want you to leave,” she cried, as if I had proposed ripping her arm off. “I want you to live in my house and sleep in my bed.” That night I did, and I think we both felt wonderful holding each other. But I clung to her the way you might cling to someone going off to war, fearing in your heart, but not being able to admit it consciously, that once you let go, something horrible would happen. I slept fitfully, and each time I woke up, I grabbed hold of Rebecca, fearing it might be the last time I would touch her.
The next morning, I got up early, and got ready for the day. I put on makeup, blew out my now more than shoulder length hair, and dressed in a long sleeve purple top and long white cotton skirt. Then I made breakfast. When Rebecca finally made her way to the kitchen, she gratefully thanked me for doing it, and we sat together to eat. We kept looking into each other’s eyes, as if we would find something there other than the reality we both knew. Although both our hearts ached, we couldn’t find anything to say.
But before she left for the office, Rebecca did the most amazing thing. She asked me to sit on the couch, and then knelt down in front of me, scaring me to death. I sure she was going to tell me to never come back. Instead, she held out her hand to me palm up, saying, “Remember this?” It was the ankle bracelet inscribed, “Becca and Sara,” that she had bought for me the day of our last giddy date with each other, just before I first went out with Phillip. “Wear it for me please?” she asked, her voice choked.
A bolt of lightning shot through my heart. My brain melted, my eyes teared up, and I my throat closed tight. Even if I could have spoken, there wasn’t an articulate thought in my brain. All I could do was nod at her dumbly. So she gently wrapped the slender gold chain around my right ankle and clicked the clasp closed . Then she rotated it so the thin gold plate holding the inscription rested on the outside of my ankle. “There,” she managed to splutter out through her own tears. “Now everyone will see it and know you’re mine.”
I started crying, but I put my foot on the floor, fell to my own knees on the soft carpet grabbed her for all I was worth. We sat there hugging each other for many minutes, before she cleared her throat and started to disengage from me. “Now we have to redo our makeup,” she said, almost sounding as if she might be teasing. But I understood what she meant, and we both managed to get up, still blubbering, but no longer uncontrollably. Forty minutes later, we couldn’t even get a word out as she gave me a warm hug and lingering kiss. Neither one of us had the heart to mention that I might not be there when she got back.
After cleaning up, I called Phillip on his cell. I knew he would help me. A couple of weeks after the magazine article outed me, on the day that turned out to be the second anniversary of our first date (he remembered, not me), we went to dinner. We just planned a quiet meal in a small Italian restaurant that was short on ambiance - straw covered Chianti bottles on tables covered with vinyl table clothes printed with images of olives - but which had a brilliant chef who was well known among local lovers of Italian food. After we had finished eating, while we were sitting there fiddling with perfect cannoli and sipping cappuccinos, he told me he couldn’t see me any more. “Sara,” he said, his eyes looking so sad I first thought he was going to tell me he had fatal cancer, “I need to stop taking you out. Being seen with a famous transsexual wouldn’t be good for my reputation. It could ruin my business.”
I just ducked my head, crushed my cannoli with my fork, and nodded sadly.
I started steaming, but didn’t want to make a scene in the restaurant. Instead, I waited until we had seated ourselves in his car. Then, as soon as he had settled into the driver’s seat buckled his seat belt and started the car, I really unloaded on him. I turned to face him, my own seat belt trying to haul me back to my side of the car as if it didn’t want me to do it, I shouted, “You selfish son of a bitch. It was okay for me to take the risk of going out with you as Sara to protect your precious reputation as Mr. Macho, but as soon as there’s any risk to you, you drop me? What kind of person are you?”
For a moment his mouth just opened and closed as he tried to find words. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting that. “Sara?” he half pleaded. “This is my livelihood we’re talking about. I thought we both understood while we were going out that it was just a game. I mean, anyone else who had been out with me as often as you, would have been in my bed many times, but I never pushed that on you.”
“What did you say?” I screamed into the nearly soundproof environment of his new 750Li. Now I was really seething. Startled at my own anger, I lowered my voice, but let the intensity stay. “Is that what you expect? A quid pro quo? Well, you already got it buster! You got the safe date you wanted, one you could relate to, and who wouldn’t be running any scams on you. Surely you didn’t forget about that? And look at what it’s cost me! I’m trapped in this now and have been publicly humiliated!”
“Sara, Sara, okay already,” he pleaded, raising his hands defensively. “That was stupid of me. I didn’t mean it. Really. I was feeling defensive. Forgive me, please?” And he looked at me with such a pained, apologetic expression, that my heart went out to him.
“Alright,” I said, somewhat disgustedly, “I’ll forget about that last crack, but it still doesn’t excuse you from dropping me just because I might tarnish your precious reputation. That’s just chicken shit. And besides, lots of people already know you’ve been out with me. Some have even seen us more than once. All you need to tell them is that you knew I was TS, but that you thought I made one gorgeous babe. I bet they see you as courageous, rather than anything else. Probably make you seem even more macho. Who,” I asked sarcastically, “but someone who is really sure of his masculinity would risk going out with a transsexual?”
“I don’t know,” he replied dubiously. “Let me think about it, okay?”
“Well you better think about this while you’re at it. What kind of a person drops a friend because she all of a sudden becomes a little inconvenient? Someone who would do that is no friend at all. He’s a user, a manipulator.”
I could see by his expression that the idea deeply wounded him, so, despite the fact that I was hyperventilating and on a total adrenalin rush that wanted me to close in for the kill, I managed to keep control of my breathing and my mouth. I settled back into my seat and straightened my skirt and coat. Then I just sat there silently.
After a few moments, in a whisper so soft that the very quiet whoosh of the car’s heater almost obscured it, he said, “I don’t manipulate people.”
I tried to restrain myself, but I was still furious, though more under control than a few moments ago. So matching his quiet tone, I replied, “It’s one thing to talk the talk, it’s another to walk the walk. When you figure out which you plan to do, please be so kind as to let me know.” My anger was still so hot I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice, though I cringed when I heard myself.
I felt defeated. There was only one thing that could be done at this point. So I said, “But in the meantime, just take me home.” I tried to settle myself in the slippery leather seat, believing that I had just severed our relationship. In the darkness of the exquisitely appointed car cabin, the smell of new leather filling my nostrils even through my sniffles, tears began to wind their way down my cheeks. I didn’t try to stop them or wipe them away.
The restaurant was only about 20 minutes from our house, so he slipped the car into gear and headed off. The winding two lane roads of Connecticut, which require a lot of attention in most cars, slip by silently and smoothly in a big BMW. But the tension between Phillip and me seemed huge. Instead of being relaxing, the quiet ride of the car now became oppressive, like a weight pressing down on me. It reminded me of when I had been a child and desperately wanted to say something to my father while we were at Shabbat services, but because it was during the silent meditation that preceded the Torah reading, I had to hold my tongue. I didn’t really know why, but the powerful silence that surrounded me kept me mute.
After about ten minutes, panic started to overtake me. What would I do if I lost Phillip as well as Rebecca? The silence became too much; I couldn’t take it any more, “Philip,” I said, my voice first catching in my throat, and then finding a way to come out gently, “I’m doing something really hard. I need all the friends I can get. I thought we were friends. I don’t really have anyone else. I need you.”
He glanced over at me and nodded, but I had no idea what he was thinking. My heart became heavier by the second. By the time we pulled into my driveway, I had just about given up hope that he would ever speak to me again. I tried to imagine how he would end it: would he be straight-forward, or would he behave like a typical man and tell me he would call, only to disappear forever.
*Why?* I cried in my mind, *had I ever been so foolish as to attack him like that. Now he hates me.*
As the car came to a halt and the sound of the gravel crunching under its wide tires disappeared into the trees by the driveway, he finally said something. Turning to me, the left side of his face illuminated by the security light over the garage, he put one hand on the back of my seat and the other on my thigh. I didn’t expect that and it felt huge and hot. But before I could even begin to consider what it meant or how to respond, he said, “Sara. I am your friend, and I won’t abandon you. We’ll go out and play racquetball and do the other stuff just as before. And if anyone ever tries to knock you down again, physically, like that first time we played, or metaphorically anywhere else, they’ll have to answer to me. Will you let me do that for you?”
“Ok..kay,” I replied, stuttering over the word as my throat tightened up and tears started to flow freely yet again. I had prayed for this, but didn’t even dare hope for it. I put my left hand over his on my thigh, and sort of spluttered through the tears that were now fully formed, “Phillip, you are the sweetest man. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
“And you Sara Cohen are a terrific, talented woman. It breaks my heart to see you and Rebecca go through this, and I will forever be ashamed of what I tried to do this evening. I don’t know what go into me.” Tears glistened in his eyes.
What could I do? I sat there for a long moment, savoring the feel of his hand on my leg his words in my mind, and then reached up, put my right hand on his cheek, pulled him closer to me, and gave him a warm kiss on the lips. It just felt like the right thing to do, and it felt right doing it.
“Thank you,” he said, graciously pulling away from the kiss before it could develop into anything more than a thank you. “I mean what I say. You can count on me. I was a fool to have said what I did. I’ll always regret it.”
“Thank you,” I responded, before leaning back to him and giving him another short kiss. I thought I knew what kind of man you are, and now I’m sure. Please call me every so often, okay?”
“Sure babe, he responded, dropping into a rather bad, though recognizable, Humphrey Bogart imitation. “If you need anything just, whistle. You do know how to whistle don’t you? You just put your lips together and blow.”
“Hey,” I responded huffily. That’s supposed to be my line. It was Bacall who used it, not Bogart.”
“Sorry dear,” he teased back, “I got to it first.” And turning back towards the steering wheel, he went on. “I gotta go. You take care, okay?”
“It’ll be easier now,” I replied, serious again. And then I reached for the handle and got out of the car.
A moment after I got into the house, feeling quite heartened, but emotionally drained, Rebecca called out, “That was quite cozy. Are you two becoming a hot item now that you’re done with me?”
“Rebecca, what are you talking about?” I responded as I walked towards the kitchen. She was standing by the sink, which had a clear view of the front yard and driveway.
“That looked like a pretty hot make out session to me,” she replied hotly, turning on me as she did.
“It was two little kisses, that’s all,” I said angrily. “And what were you doing spying on me?”
“Two little kisses my ass,” she shot back. “And I wasn’t spying on you. I came into the kitchen to get a drink just before I heard Phil’s car pulled in. After a while, when you didn’t come in, I looked to see if it really was you. And sure enough, there you were, with him draped all over you and you leaning in to kiss him.”
“Oh shit. That’s not what happened.” I responded despondently. “Can I please explain?”
“Explain what?” she asked angrily. “You think you can convince me that I didn’t see it?”
“No,” I said evenly, trying to control my voice so this stupid argument wouldn’t escalate. “But I can tell you exactly what did happen, and then maybe you’ll have a slightly different take on it.” Her face remained hard. “Please?” I pleaded.
“Oh, alright,” she said, with a little less edge on her voice. Then she turned and headed for the porch, saying, “Bring me a glass of wine. This oughta be good.”
A half hour later, while Rebecca cried, appalled at her behavior and the way she had jumped to a totally wrong, though in some ways not entirely unexpected conclusion, I sat next to her, one arm over her shoulder, and the other holding her hand. “But it still makes me really uptight to see you kissing a man,” she mumbled.
“It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time,” I replied quietly. “It wasn’t sexual. It never will be. I’m not attracted to men and I never will be. Remember when you taught me how women could be intimate without it leading to sex. I guess I’ve learned to do that with Phillip too.”
She just nodded, looking defeated.
“C’mon,” I said, “Lets go to bed. It’s been a hard day.”
“Every day’s a hard day,” she said sadly, turning to look at me to see if I was still mad at her, and giving me a small smile when she saw only concern on my face. I helped her up and we went upstairs hand in hand, she in her jeans and sweatshirt and me in my heels, flirty skirt, and twin set.
***
Although out of town for a while, Phillip immediately agreed to let me use one of the spare bedrooms at his corporate apartment in Manhattan. On the one hand, I was relieved to have a place to stay. On the other, I was crushed because now I really did have to move out. In my mind I understood that I had to find a place to stay so I could give Rebecca the space she needed. But I had hoped it would take longer so I didn’t have to leave right away. Of course Phillip couldn’t know that, and as a good friend who couldn’t read my mind even though I tried as hard as I could to let him, he did what I asked, not really knowing the pain in my heart.
Feeling I had no other choice, I packed my bags and loaded the car. I backed out of the driveway with tears in my eyes and by the time I got to the highway, five minutes later, I was was so disconsolate I had to pull off the road. I stopped on a bare, rocky stretch of ground next to the ramp where I had often seen trucks parked, and tried to get control of myself. As cars and trucks sped round the curve past me, I cried and blew my nose, and sobbed and blew my nose some more. When I had cried myself out, I looked as horrible as I felt. My eyes were rimmed in red, and my nose was as red as Rudolph’s. I tried to cover the mess with makeup, took a deep breath, pulled carefully back onto the ramp, and headed for Manhattan.
Before I knew it, the bellman had my bags stacked in one of the spare bedrooms in Phillip’s apartment and was handing me a key. I gave him twenty bucks, I knew I was going to be there a while and wanted him to be my friend, locked the door and burst into tears again. An hour later, I called Rebecca, but she wasn’t home yet. I left a simple message telling her that I would be staying at Phillip’s so she wouldn’t worry, and then felt totally lost.
For my first evening alone in a strange apartment, I changed into warm socks and a soft cotton, eyelet lace nightgown that went all way to my ankles. Then I went to look for something to drink. All Phillip had was a collection of very expensive single-malt scotches. Normally I wouldn’t think of drinking someone else’s expensive whiskey by myself, and I certainly wouldn’t have loaded up a glass with ice. I had always thought it a sin to ruin the exquisite taste of an aged scotch by diluting it more than just the little bit you needed to let the taste open up. But nothing was normal tonight. I consumed almost half a bottle of a 12 year old McCallan before getting drunk enough to pass out.
By Kelly Ann Rogers
. . . Why aren’t you sleeping with him?” he asked as we shared coffee one morning. It’s quite clear he’s got a huge crush on you. Guys like me wouldn’t even be here, if you just got in bed with him.”
“I’m not gay,” I responded evenly, . . .and I’m married and hope to stay that way.”
“You mean you got yourself a woman who wants you to be a woman too?”
“Well, not exactly.”
. . . Were you two really in the changing room together?"
Their voices became too soft to hear, until I heard Courtney say, "No, not yet. But I bet they will be soon though."
Chapter IX Watch out for that first step
“Ronni, I think it’s time.”
“Time for what?” she asked, teasing. She knew exactly what I meant. For the past eighteen months, ever since I had moved out of my house, we had been talking about giving me a new hairstyle, but I so loved my long hair, I just didn’t want to cut it, except to keep the ends neat and even. It hung down almost to the middle of my shoulder blades, the ends cut straight across. I kept it parted simply in the middle, with just a couple natural waves that I could easily blow out if I wanted to look really sleek. I never believed it could happen, but I got bored with it. If I had been more adept at putting it up, perhaps I wouldn’t have felt that way, but I haadn’t yet learned how to do it, and most times I either didn’t do it very well or just gave up in frustration. Like the fox who couldn’t reach the grapes, I had decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. In any case, my long straight hair looked like something a teenager would wear, and it had been quite a while since my teen years. I wanted something more sophisticated.
There had been so many changes in my life. For a couple of months I had been thoroughly depressed and terribly lonely. Phillip, good to his word, did what he could, spending much of his time with me when he was in town. We went out on occasion, just as before, played racquetball when we could, and really carried on pretty much as we had been. Now that I no longer lived with Rebecca, however, Phillip and I now spent a good deal of our time together staying in, doing things like cooking for each other and watching old Fred Astaire movies. He loved the dancing and I loved Ginger Rogers’ spectacular dresses. When she danced, every one of them flowed around her like they were enchanted. They must have been because even though they were almost always ankle length, they never got caught on anything, even when she twirled like a figure skater in heels. Astaire was the most elegant and debonair dancer ever, but he didn’t have to wear heels! Had the Greeks invented a goddess for trannies, she would have been Ginger Rogers, or more appropriately perhaps, her dress designer.
Not surprisingly, the relationship between Phillip and I grew closer. Without Rebecca as my anchor and support, I gratefully allowed this sweet and attentive man to take her place. Even though we had often touched, and even lightly kissed, when I first moved into his apartment I found myself rather uncomfortable with him physically. I guess it had been easy to be relaxed while I still lived with Rebecca, because Phillip knew he and I were simply playing a game, and I knew I was going home to my wife at the end of the evening. Now I had no where else to go, and the touching took on whole new possibilities.
One night, Phillip literally pulled me up off the couch and danced me around the room as Fred and Ginger twirled around the screen. He danced really well and quickly had me feeling comfortable in his arms as he spun me around backwards, my hair whipping around my face as I spun. His large left hand just enveloped my right, and when I leaned onto his right hand, which was on my back, I felt like had leaned onto a warm wall. The sight of my own hand, with my brightly polished nails, on his massive shoulder made me feel exquisitely feminine and small. When the song finished, he pulled me into a spin that finished with my back to his front and his arms wrapped around me, as we both laughed. I tilted my head back to look at him, and our eyes met. For a moment we looked at each other with no inhibitions and I could see the affection in his eyes.
I realized that had I been doing this with Rebecca, that look would have led to a kiss, and at just that moment I longed to feel his lips. That thought caused me to blink and the moment passed. I quickly suggested we have a drink, just to get me away from him. I longed for the protection of his arms but at the same time feared what might happen if I actually let myself slide into a deeper relationship with him.
Another night, Phillip and I were sitting on the couch, his arm resting comfortably on my shoulder watching Julia Roberts flirt with Hugh Grant, who quite frankly, I found adorable. He had his arm around Julia’s shoulder for few moments until she turned to face him, and after exchanging deep looks, they kissed. Just then I felt Phillip’s arm shift, instead of simply resting on my shoulder, it began to pull me towards him. In response I started to turn to look up into his face thinking how lovely a kiss would be. But when I saw his face, and realized it was Phillip instead of Hugh Grant, and that I was Michael (not even Sara) Cohen, not Julia Roberts, I nearly jumped right off the couch.
So instead of becoming lovers, our friendship took another turn. I related to him a conversation I’d had with Rebecca, when she told me that she didn’t want to have sex with Sara, but that we could still be intimate. I like to think that’s where Phillip and I went, sharing intimacy, as friends. Despite all my fancy rationalizing, I revisited scenes like that many times over the following months as I lay by myself in bed trying to fall asleep. I knew I had let a wonderful opportunity to experience a new love pass by. Would I ever get one like it again - with anyone?
I was lonely and insecure, and he was warm, gentle, and patient (I couldn’t imagine how in the world such a sweet man ever excelled at football, and as a linebacker no less), and I decided that being physically close to him shouldn’t be off limits. Other men I wasn’t so sure about, but Phillip I could deal with. So when we watched movies, we continued to cuddle together, sometimes with his arm around me and my head resting on his chest or shoulder. When we were together, he would reach for me reflexively, as if the most natural thing in the world was to put his arm around my shoulder or my waist, and soon it was. Our relationship was like the one you have when you’re really close to your best friend’s lover: warm, emotionally intimate even, full of shared feelings and activities, but no sex.
I often wondered about sex with Phillip, even though I knew I would never let it happen. I had always been curious about what it would be like (what trannie hasn’t been?), and, frankly, I was horny. Besides, after what he said to me in the car when I gave him a hard time about being my friend, I couldn’t get the thought that I owed it to him out of my mind. That's what happens between men and women, isn't it, especially if they're very close, and they’re… unattached?
There was the rub. In my mind, at least, I wasn’t unattached. I was still married to Rebecca and had every intention of getting back together with her. Would sleeping with a man betray my vows to Rebecca? I was sure of it. It’s not the sex of the person you’re with; it’s the fact that you’re having sex with anyone at all. Isn’t it? Besides, if I ever had sex with Phillip, it would have to be more than just sex. We had too close a relationship now - just the kind of relationship that marriage vows said should never become carnal.
But I didn’t really know how to be a woman around a man in any case. Just what were the proper behaviors? When we danced, could I lean on his chest, reach my arms behind his neck and allow our bodies to melt into each other? Or should I stay some discrete distance from him, totally upright, the way the girls in my etiquette class danced with me when I was fourteen. Is it okay to tease, to flirt, to grab him around the chest as we stood in the kitchen together because I was so grateful just to have someone to be with? How does a woman create and share emotional intimacy with a man she’s can’t be romantically or sexually interested in? I just didn’t know.
It didn’t end there. Everything about living with him challenges me. How, for example, should I dress around the apartment when he was there? Should I always keep my breast forms on? Did I need to be modest, or were low-cut jeans, bare belly buttons, and heels acceptable? What did it mean when I went out of my way to look attractive, which I almost always did because more than anything else, attractive is what I wanted to be. Besides, what’s the point of being a trannie if you don’t want to dress up? And what did it mean on those days when I just didn’t have the energy to make myself up, but still wanted to be around him? How should I dress then? Should I be dressing for myself or for him, and what did he want anyway? I was clueless, and my women’s magazines didn’t have articles about it.
Having decided I wouldn’t sleep with him, I felt like I had to pay him back for his kindness in other ways, and here I felt more comfortable. I would nurture him. I would make the apartment more like a home. Because it looked like a sterile crash pad when I moved in, I made him go shopping with me for accessories that would warm the place — oriental rugs to brighten the parquet floors, lamps to create some warm light to fill in the dark places not illuminated by the harsh flood lights that shone from the ceilings, throws and pillows to soften the leather furniture, and a few things to hang on the walls to give the rooms some visual interest. I would have done it myself, but it was his apartment and I didn't want to buy anything he didn't approve of. Actually, he shopped very enthusiasticly, and over the first few months, he bought far more than I ever would have, and the place started to feel like a home, warm and welcoming, rather than just a Motel 6 with expensive leather furniture.
The other way I showed him how I appreciated his kindness was through food. I loved to cook anyway, and he was always eager to eat, which he did like a human vacuum cleaner. Better, he wanted to learn to cook himself. When I arrived, there was hardly enough stuff in his kitchen to boil water. By the time I left, all that had changed. He gave me carte blanche to buy the best cookware, so I purchased a good set of All-clad stainless pots and pans, with a few pieces of Calphalon non-stick thrown in, the best Wustoff knives, a powerful Kitchen Aid food processor and other appliances as well. Bowing to his taste, most of the appliances had what he described as manly (and which really were expensive) stainless steel finishes. He insisted he had an image to keep up and it was his money. Men.
Whether he wanted it or not, I guess I domesticated him a little while allowing my own nesting instinct to express itself. Trying to be homey without being overtly feminine was a challenge. I found hard to do because I so wanted to distinguish myself from the man I used to be that I wanted to surround my self with feminine things. But I worked at it, especially because it was fun pretending to be part of a couple making a nice place to live together.
I also insisted he not change his dating habits, and that he continue to go out with women, as well as men. I just had to assume that people figured I was transsexual, so he had to be seen with women to maintain his image as a real guy's guy. Strangely, even though I knew he was essentially gay, and that none of these women could snare him, I couldn't help being jealous. Worse, I lusted after some of those hotties myself. And when I say hotties, I'm not just talking about the cute, young things with perfect bodies and artfully highlighted blonde hair who were always throwing themselves at him. I'm talking about full-grown, sophisticated, successful women — writers, news anchors, and corporate lawyers, who probably thought bedding him added a notch to their belts. Since they mostly pursued him, I guess it did. I tried to stay out of sight when he had a woman over because I didn’t want to have to compete with them in any way. It would have been stupid of me. They had me outclassed in every category, or so I thought.
I found it hard, bunkered in my bedroom, to listen to Phillip and his dates carrying on. It felt worst when they were in the living room, because of its nearness to my door. At least when they were in his bedroom, things were quieter. But, you know, there's hardly anything lonelier than being so close to two people who are enjoying themselves with each other while you are both physically and emotionally miles away from the one you love.
Being around those women embarrassed me. Even in the morning, when they emerged disheveled, they were so feminine. And what was I? A freak, a transvestite, not even really a transsexual, no matter how carefully I did myself up. In fact, the worst times were when they weren’t made up, which made the differences between their natural femininity and my aritifice all the more apparent. But not one of them ever did or said anything to make me feel bad. They were by turns complimentary and empathetic, curious about what I was going through and why, or indifferent. Many months after I moved in, and with not a single bad interaction, I realized that Phillip must have told them to behave themselves.
And then there were the guys. It quickly became obvious that Philip’s taste for guys ran mostly to sweet young things, who were so handsome they might have been called beautiful, *sort of like me,* I thought, *‘except more attractive, and they don’t even need makeup.*. And by and large, these guys were even nicer than the women, and I certainly felt more comfortable around them. I particularly remember Bradley, a little taller than me, but thinner, with blond hair and fine English features.
“Why aren’t you sleeping with him?” he asked as we shared coffee one morning. I always seemed to be the first one up, and so ended up acting like the housemother. “It’s quite clear he’s got a huge crush on you. Guys like me wouldn’t even be here, if you just got in bed with him.”
“I’m not gay,” I responded evenly, “and I’m married and hope to stay that way.”
“You mean you got yourself a woman who wants you to be a woman too?”
“Well, not exactly.”
“Well then, what are you waiting for? He’s a terrific lover. Have you ever seen his cock?”
I nodded.
“Dearie, you just can’t imagine what it feel like inside you,” and he wiggled his butt on his seat.
I thought for a moment and then crinkled my nose and said, “That’s alright, I’ll leave that for you.”
“What… Ever, I sure hope I get to see you again.”
“You do?”
He leered at me. “Yeah, ‘cause that means I’ll see him again.” And then he laughed.
These guys always made me wonder just what I was missing. It seemed clear that Phillip was a terrific lover, and I just assumed that he was as attentive to people’s needs in bed as he was to mine out of it. That would explain it no matter how big his dick was.
As curious as I was, I had no intention of ever getting into bed with Phillip even though he was dear to me, and served as my emotional life preserver. Other than him, I didn’t have much of a social life. During the first few months, I was not only depressed, but I also worked really hard. We had all that new business, which was great, but we had to deliver, which was exhausting. With my commute between the city and Connecticut, and my depression, I was tired, and I rarely made an effort to do anything fun after work. I had some friends, ones who had been supportive from the outset, and acquaintances, who I’d met since then, who stopped by or took me out to dinner or to a show when they visited the city. Unfortunately they were mostly far away, and I was emotionally spent and eager to retreat into a protective shell after a long day of interacting with people and trying to seem pleasant and attentive, neither of which I felt. Unless I made a real effort, I was often difficult to engage, and really not that much fun to be with. Not surprisingly, even their calls and visits became increasingly less frequent.
I had another reason not to see people. I started to get laser hair removal treatments almost as soon as I moved out of my home. My dark hair and only slightly olive complexion made me a good candidate. I had to let my beard grow slightly a day before, and then my face was quite red and irritated afterwards. Better, I knew, to do this out of sight of the rest of humanity. So when Phillip travelled, I rushed to the clinic to have my face nuked. Actually, it wasn’t that bad. I started off with laser, which got most of my beard fairly quickly, and then I added electrolysis for those hairs too ornery to be killed by the laser. I lost lots of hair quickly, but still, it took months before I was really clean, and even longer to finally mop up the stragglers.
At about the same time, I started on hormones. I had many complex rationalizations for doing it, like wanting my skin to be smoother after electrolysis, and wanting shinier hair, but I think in my heart I understood that I would never go back. I just couldn’t yet admit consciously what my behavior already made quite clear.
Of course, I still had to see Rebecca almost every day for work. In the first month, as I tumbled into depression, she seemed to be loosening up and regaining her confidence. I was delighted for her, after all, I had moved out because of the effect my life on her, but I it made me totally miserable. If getting me out of her life made her feel so good, what chance did I have of ever getting her back? Still, even though her warmth comforted me, and she obviously worried about my well being, she kept our conversations on inconsequentials things, like a new outfit or perfume. We certainly didn’t talk much about us. We were still very raw, so it was just too dangerous.
It didn’t take too long for my moodiness to cause problems with clients. You can’t very well sell yourself when you’re depressed and distracted all the time, even if you had, like I most certainly had, spent an inordinate amount of time trying to look dishy for them. So after about a month, Rebecca told me that she didn’t want me interacting with clients any more. That worked just fine for me, even though I knew it was a symptom of my declining mental health.
On the day of our 9th anniversary, Rebecca took me to lunch. After trading gifts, I gave her a David Yurman bracelet and she gave me lovely antique pearl earrings, she said to me, “You’re depressed. Get into therapy to deal with it. I did, you know.”
I didn’t know.
“If you screw up our business because you refuse to deal with your depression, I’ll kill you.” She smiled to let me know she wouldn’t really kill me, but I was only slightly reassured.
I had my psychologist recommend a psychiatrist. The psychologist, who I saw every week, and my support group meetings, which were only once a month, were the only things I had been doing with any regularity. The group had turned me onto to the psychologist in the first place. It really supported me as a new member, and because my femme presentation was so good compliments were plentiful. Several had also been turned out by wives, girlfriends or families, and had real insights into what I was going through. Had I allowed them to, they would have been really good for my mental health. But when I first joined, still wallowing in my misery, I kept my emotional distance.
A few of the girls weren’t too enthusiastic about my “woe is me,” shtick, which made it easier for me to rationalize my emotional separation. They just couldn’t understand how someone so femme could possibly have anything to be depressed about. They didn’t realize depression doesn’t discriminate according to how passable you are, something that is apparently hard to understand if your greatest aspiration is simply to go out as a girl and not freak anybody out.
I did as Rebecca demanded, and my T-friendly psychiatrist, Dr. Martin Binder, a very cute, very well turned out sixty-five-year old man with a full head of white hair and the most wonderful eyes, taught me that brain chemistry really can be destiny. After interviewing me for forty minutes he said, “My dear, you have the classical signs of depression, and the reason Dr. Randall sent you here to get you on antidepressants. Here’s what I want to do. I’m going to give you a combination of drugs that should be effective and minimize any side effects. Many people find that they lose their libido and ability to climax with these kinds of drugs, and I doubt you want that.”
I laughed.
He frowned in response.
“Doc, I’m just not gett’n any. I’m separated from my wife, sharing an apartment with a gay man, and don’t have any intimate friends. Sexual side effects are just not going to be a problem for me. In fact, not feeling horny would be a good thing for me right now.”
He nodded as I spoke, but when I finished he said, “Don’t be so sure, my dear. You’re very attractive, as I’m sure you know,” which made me blush and look away, “and will probably have things sorted out soon. You’ll be on these medications for at least six months, and probably a year. Do you plan on remaining celibate that whole time?”
“God, I hope not,” I blurted out. We both laughed and his eyes sparkled. He really was cute.
“But,” he cautioned, “it may be six or eight weeks before anything happens, so you’ll have to be patient.”
So I stopped by a pharmacy on the way home and filled the three prescriptions he had written. When I got home I took them. Nothing happened. *Sort of like starting hormones,* I snorted to myself. *It’s huge step, but then nothing happens for a long time.*
In about ten days, however, my sense of desperation started to lessen. Another week or two, I don’t know, the sun seemed a little sunnier. After a month, I one day found myself whistling as I walked to my car to drive home. I couldn’t remember the last time I had whistled. It shocked me and delighted everyone around me to see how quickly my mood started to improve once I started taking antidepressants. After a couple of months, I was pretty much back to my old self, with a little help from my new “vitamins.”
When I told Dr. Binder how well I felt, he said, “I’m a genius! Don’t you feel lucky to be in the presence of such a brilliant doctor?” I looked at him like he was crazy, and he chuckled and gave me one of his darling little smiles. “Okay, truth is, you’re what we call a good responder. I gave you a medication regimen that has worked well with other of my female patients, and it’s obviously good for you too.”
“Female?” I questioned. He knew perfectly well what I was.
He just shrugged his shoulders, and flashing that little smile again, he said, “Intuition - women aren’t the only ones who have it you know.” Before I could reply he went on. “If you keep progressing like this we don't need to do anything else. Come back in six months. But if you find yourself getting depressed again, I want you to call me right away. There’s lots more we can do if this combination stops working. Okay?”
I responded as I got up to leave, “You bet. But I don’t think we’re going to be seeing much of each other.”
As I turned to the door after shaking his hand he said, “And don’t you dare stop taking these medications until I tell you to, do you understand? I’m not kidding.”
“Yes doctor,” I replied submissively, bobbing a quick curtsey before I had even thought about it. Once I did, however, my hand flew to my mouth. That must have looked so totally stupid.
He just smiled and shook his head. Then he flipped his fingers to hurry me out. “Out, out. If you do anything else like that I may have to take you home and turn you into my maid. Would you like that?”
I vigorously shook my head no, and we both laughed as I let myself out. For some reason, having his official opinion seemed important to me, as if it gave me permission to reengage with life. My improved mood may have been chemically induced, but what the hell, it was sooo much better than it had been.
So, after having lived as a woman 24/7 for nearly nine months, my life only approximated normal. And on top of everything else, I remained infatuated with the whole dressing thing. I loved selecting clothes in the morning, wearing different outfits for different activities, putting on makeup and playing with my hair, even though I could barely braid it evenly, and a French roll was a total mystery. All of those activities elicited a little sexual thrill, and still felt a little naughty, as did experimenting with new feminine behaviors. I even became something of a flirt at times when out alone in public. I always wore heels or wedge-heeled sandals, along with short, flirty skirts or skintight jeans. I thought my little butt was quite tasty in a pair of DIESEL’s, though, truth be told, I really liked my much cheaper DKNY jeans, which also did wonders for my ass and had the cutest embroidery on the back pockets. On the weekends, l took to sitting in the window of a Starbucks a few blocks from the apartment and watching men as they watched me putting on lipstick while I sat with my legs crossed, back straight, and head cocked just so. I simply gorged on the attention this brought me, reaffirming my belief in myself as a woman, and keeping me slightly turned on all the time.
I felt so good that at the end of June I decided to fly out to Chicago to visit my sister, Courtney. Then I realized that I would have to go through airport security with Michael driver’s license. I’d die if I had to dress as a guy, and as I thought about going en femme, I realized that I could be searched and interrogated by some nitwit TSA storm trooper in full view of all the other passengers. Instead, I convinced her to come to New York.
“What do you want to do,” I asked, planning really full days in my head.
“Sleep!”
“I’ll give you eight hours both nights. Plus you can sleep on the plane - both ways. That’s like four extra hours.”
I heard her giggle and we set a date for the end of June, when she had four days off.
The next day I went shopping. My bedroom had to be more feminine, as did hers, and I absolutely needed casual clothes! This would be so delightful. Two sisters together for a three-day weekend! My first ever! Sadly, Phillip would be out of town, and I really wanted Courtney to meet him.
***
I made her take a cab from LaGuardia. I refused to fight that traffic, even for my baby sister. She arrived at about 8:00 Thursday night, and when she got to the apartment, I threw the door open to greet her. I had been preparing all day for her arrival. Early in the morning, I had started cooking a Bolognese, carefully sautéing the onions, carrots and celery so they didn’t brown, and browning the meat just the littlest bit so it lost its raw color. I then cooked it all with wine and then milk to keep the meat tender and juicy. After I added the tomatoes -okay, I admit it, from a can - I let it simmer slowly in the deep, Le Crueset cast iron pot I had bought just the day before at some absurdly expensive shop nearby. Four hours at a minimum, I thought. Then I made the dough for the pasta. I considered kneading it by hand, but, what the hell, I had only recently bought the gleaming Kitchen Aide food processor, so I took the short cut, finally wrapping the dough in wax paper and putting it in the fridge for later.
Then I went out to get my hair and nails done, and to pick up the ingredients for the small antipasto and salad I had planned. Don’t you just love it when you’ve just come from your salon and look like a goddess -or at least feel like one - and guys are twisting their necks to get a glance at you? In my jeans, black high heel boots, and short black leather jacket, I looked like a total babe. I couldn’t help it; I strutted shamelessly, swishing my hips as I stalked down the sidewalk.
I went all the way down to Prince Street in the West Village just to shop at Dean and DeLuca. They say all the fruit there is perfectly shaped, and one of the other shoppers apparently thought mine was too, because I felt a hand rest on my butt at one point as I reached up to take my Volpe Genoa salami from the guy behind the counter. I managed not to freak. Instead I savored the feeling, and let the hand stay for just a moment too long before I turned to check out my admirer. I almost burst out laughing. A woman! - just about my height, very trim, with her hair cut really butch, and wearing not so tight jeans, bulky sweat shirt, and Timberland boots. She just had to be a dyke.
She winked and said, "Verrry nice."
I almost curtsied in thanks for the compliment she didn't even know she payed me. She thought I was a woman!
It’s not true, as Courtney never tires of asserting, that I had tried on twenty-three different outfits before she got there. Maybe as many as ten, or maybe just six or seven, who can remember? Anyway, no one had planned “casual” any more carefully than I had that night. No one had ever fussed with her hair more, or tried on more jewelry for a sister’s visit than I did. I wanted everything to be perfect! The food was ready, I was ready and Courtney’s room was ready.
No jeans. I wore a skirt. I really wanted to be a little sexy, but reluctantly decided that a normal sister would only be casual. So I finally ended up in my denim mini and a big, white cable knit sweater than came down to my hips. I even managed to stay out of heels. For the longest time I had on my white Keds, but couldn't stand it, I had to have something more feminine on my feet. So I switched to a pair of wedge-heeled espadrilles. Sure, they had a heel, but only two inches, and they would certainly be considered casual on the streets of Manhattan. Oh yeah, and I put on pantyhose. It only took me two tries to find the right ones. First I tried dark blue, but they looked yucky with my shoes. Nude, however, looked just right.
Once the doorman called to announce her, I opened the door, and tried to stand there as I waited for her to appear from the elevator. But I was too excited and bounced up and down on my toes as I took deep breaths to calm myself. All of a sudden, the doors opened with their usual thump, and my little sister stumbled out, looking around in confusion until she saw me and knew which way to turn. The brown hair dangling around her shoulders looked like it hadn’t been cut in months, and her jeans were so baggy at the knees they looked like they hadn’t been washed for at least that long. The huge black circles under her eyes made it seem as if she hadn’t slept in months either.
“Courtney!” I nearly shouted.
“Mi…Sara?” she sort of whispered back, dropping her bags beside her. “Omigod, I. . . . I never. . . . I couldn’t. . . . You. . . . You’re like so cute!”
“And you look exhausted. Come. . . .” I grabbed her bag. “Let me give you some dinner. Let’s talk. I’m so glad you came!”
And as we fell into each other’s arms, we laughed and cried for joy.
After I had hustled her inside and showed her the bathroom so she could shower, I went to put the finishing touches on dinner. This would be so great!
Fifteen minutes later, she emerged from her room, dressed in a set of green scrubs that she had apparently “liberated” from the hospital. Even with her hair still wet, she looked much better. I sat her at the table, and poured a glass of the wonderful Chianti my wine merchant - as he liked to be called - had picked for me.
We munched on warm Italian bread and cold antipasto, and talked of nothing in particular, except how wonderful I looked, and how drained she looked. We reveled in our wine and each other’s presence. Really, she seemed totally delighted to be with me, even though she was seeing me for the first time as a woman. I coldn’t have been more thrilled, or hoped for any more.
“Go sit on the couch,” I said. “I just need to finish the pasta.”
She gave me a wan smile, which I ignored because of the excitement of having her with me and having her treat me like her sister. She moved to the big leather couch where Phillip and I sat to watch movies. I could see her head, but was really focused on dinner as I continued to jabber while I put the finishing touches on my casual masterpiece.
I put everything on the table, turned down the lights, lit the candles, and then went to the couch to get Courtney.
She was sound asleep.
My first gentle nudges didn’t rouse her. Even saying her name didn’t work. I guess if you can sleep in a noisy hospital while you’re on call, you can sleep in a quiet apartment when you’re not.
I was crushed.
What could I do? She mumbled and grumbled as I got her up and into her bed, but never really woke up. I ate my half of our delicious dinner alone, cleaned up, finished the wine myself, and essentially pouted my way to bed.
Tomorrow better be better.
***
“Where am I?” Courtney almost shouted when I woke her just after 10:00 the next morning. I had given her twelve hours of sleep, which I though was enough, even though she showed no signs of waking up on her own.
“Relax sis,” I replied, sitting on the edge of her bed.
“Oh! Mich…uh… uh… Sara, it’s you. Oh right, New York. Omigod, I fell asleep while you were cooking dinner didn’t I?” Her eyes begged my forgiveness.
“Yes my dear, you did,” I said calmly. “You must have been very tired.”
“But you said you worked on it all day! I can’t believe…. That’s so rude of me.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get even with you,” I teased lightly. “And besides, I said it cooked all day. I didn’t watch it the whole time. But forget dinner, right now you have to get up. We’ve lots to do. I’m taking you shopping.” I sort of expected her to object, but instead she appeared thrilled.
“Great,” she replied happily. She threw the new yellow duvet cover off as she sat up - still in her scrubs. But then a frown crossed her face. “How did you get my bra off?”
“Oh, I called mom and had her come over to do it,” I replied earnestly, furrowing my brow and nodding my head at the same time, like I was really serious. I mean, how did she think I got it off?
Glancing at my chest, she asked, “Are those real?”
I shook my shoulders provocatively to set them in motion. “Why don’t you just come over here and find out,” I challenged. It was a line from our childhood that often led to friendly wrestling matches, which typically ended with her in gales of laughter as I tickled her mercilessly.
“I’m not as small as I used to be,” she shot back.
“Well neither am I,” I teased sticking out my chest again.
“Oh you,” she spluttered, throwing her pillow at me.
“You don’t think I’m going to let you get away with that, do you?” I shrieked, grabbing the pillow and turning on her with it. Just like when we were children, we ended up struggling with each other, in our playful way. Well, not exactly - I couldn’t help but notice the way my breasts moved around or how it felt to press them into Courtney’s. And she wasn’t as small as she used to be, and the tickling went both ways. She eventually managed to - okay I let her - pull off my t-shirt, and then when she had it in her hand, holding it aloft like a prize from battle, her face furrowed in concentration and she sat there, staring at my chest and my bra covered breast forms.
“May I?” she asked, lowering her arm and handing me my shirt.
I pursed my lips and started to to cover back up, but for some reason, I figured what the hell and reached around to undo the hooks.
“You do that like you’ve been doing that since you were a teenager,” she commented. I gave her a small shrug and shy smile before letting the bra slide down my arms. As good as they were anyone could see I was wearing breast forms. “Glue?” she inquired, reaching out to touch one.
"Tape," I nodded.
While my sister examined my faux titties, I felt as shy as a fourteen-year old virgin being fondled by a boy for the first time. They were something that really shouldn’t have been there, and I felt a flush of shame as Courtney’s hands explored them, getting their feel.
“Is this what you really want?” she asked, as she let her hand fall from my breast and rest on my hand, which rested on my lap.
“I don’t know,” I sighed. “If it was just me, I’d say yes, but I just don’t know yet. I don’t want to lose Rebecca, but I’m afraid if I keep going like this I will. I’m very confused. That’s what this living apart thing is all about. I have to figure out who I am before I can even begin to imagine how to create a relationship with her. Don’t you think?”
“I didn’t know how I would feel when I saw you, but now I see you’re still the same sweet person I always knew. You were a nice older brother, and I’m sure you’ll make a nice older sister too.”
“Thank you, Courtney," I croaked, a lump rising in my throat. I reached down to grab my bra, pulled it up my shoulders, and leaned forward to seat the forms in the cups. “The rest of the family is still pretty freaked out,” I went on, sitting up straight and reaching behind me to fasten the hooks, “So I really appreciate your support. You have no idea how much.” I think I had tears in my eyes ‘cause everything got a little blurry.
“C’mere big sister, big sister Sara, c’mere and let me give you a hug. I’m afraid this is going to be a bumpy ride for you.”
“Going to be? You have no idea.” She opened her arms to me and I fell in them gratefully, cherishing the unqualified love of a family member for the first time in far too long.
A minute or so later, as she gently disengaged from our hug, Courtney asked, “So, are we shopping for you or me?”
“Why you, silly,” I replied somewhat dubiously. I couldn’t figure out what she was really asking.
“Uh…, like, uhh… Do you actually know anything about clothes? Women’s clothes I mean?”
“Excuuuse me,” I replied with mock outrage. “You come in here looking like you haven’t changed clothes or had a haircut in your entire life and you have the nerve to ask me if I know anything about clothes? Don't you know anything about trannies? If there's one thing we know about, it's clothes.” And I gave my head one good nod, said "Hmmphh," as if I had been really insulted, and then began to giggle.
I don’t know what I was thinking, but I went on. “Do you have any idea how many perfect outfits I tried on before you got here?”
“No, my dear sister,” she said with an evil grin. “Tell me, how many? Ten, twenty, thirty?”
“No where near thirty,” I squealed, trying to sound indignant.
"You mean you tried on twenty outfits only to end up in a denim skirt and cable knit sweater? Like, that’s the most basic outfit of all.”
“I wanted to look nice for you,” I pouted.
“You did sweetie, you did. Don’t go worrying your pretty little head about that,” she went on sarcastically. “But if it took you twenty-three outfits….”
“Twenty-three? Where did you get twenty-three? I never said that.”
“No, but you haven’t denied it yet either.”
"What are you, a lawyer?” I laughed. “I thought you were a doctor.”
“Twenty-three outfits,” she said again, as if it was the most amazing thing she had ever heard. “Who has twenty-three outfits any way? Besides you and Paris Hilton?”
I hit her with a pillow, but that didn’t stop the twenty-three outfit story from being born. I knew immediately Courtney would tell it to everyone who would listen. It was silly, but with something more to it.
It spoke, in a brilliant way, both to me and any woman she would tell it to. Viewed one way, it complimented my femininity, and welcomed me to the club, emphasizing the underlying need I shared with other women to look good. It also played into the insecurity that many women feel as they get dressed, especially if they are doing it for others. What woman hasn’t changed outfits at the last moment because of some imagined imperfection? What man does that, unless he spots something as egretious as a ketchup stain on his tie? So I was included in that club - another woman insecure about her looks, different from men because of the lengths she’s willing to go to look good. The days of throwing on the jeans and the nearest t-shirt were over.
From another perspective though, I could feel a subtle put down. She might as well said, “No real woman would need to try on twenty-three outfits to find something casual to wear. Only someone who isn’t a real woman, and doesn’t understand how she looks would need to change that many times. What makes her think she can be one of us?”
“Well, my dear sister,” I responded, just wanting to change the subject, “if you behave yourself and get ready to go, you can start to catch up. Judging by what’s in your bag,” it lay open on the floor as if the insides had exploded once she’d unzipped it, “you don’t even have one yet.”
She looked down, stuck her tongue out at me and then smiled. “Okay, give me a sec.”
“A sec?” I responded dubiously.
“Yeah, a sec,” she insisted. “If you’re gonna be a girl, you have to understand that a ‘sec’ is however much time you need. That’s a free lesson, just from me.” She beamed.
“Thank you, teacher.” I smiled. “Try to make it a short ‘sec,’ okay? Don’t spend much time on your hair; I made an appointment for you at my salon.”
We had a great afternoon, shopping and bonding as sisters. I bought her a whole lot of things, mostly casual wear because she didn’t do much that required anything dressy. I got her a pair of DIESEL’s to match my own, several soft sweaters to help fend off the cold of the Chicago winter, and a pair of calf-length black boots, with chunky two-inch heels. I also insisted on a lovely little black dress, cut rather daringly across the décolletage, with spaghetti straps to hold it up. The hem stopped several inches above her knees, and the layers of chiffon that made up the skirt, swirled invitingly around her thighs. I had no trouble talking her into a cute pair of pointy-toed three-inch heels to go with the skirt.
She let Lacy, the woman who cut her hair, talk her into something sexier than she usually wore, creating a nice mid-neck length bob, the ends turned nicely under, with bangs to keep it off her face. “I’m a surgeon,” she explained. “I can’t keep brushing my hair out of my eyes while I work.”
Then we had our adventure in the lingerie section of Bendel’s. When she saw the first bra and thong outfit I held up for her she shook her head and backed away as if I had brandished a rattlesnake. “I don’t have any chance to wear something like that,” she whispered urgently. “I work more than eighty hours a week; and I need stuff that’s easy to care for.”
“So the next guy you want to attract is going to see you your white cotton Hanes for Her bra and panties that are already yellowing because you've worn them so many times?” I asked, aiming the hanger at her.
She ignored my little dig except for crinkling her nose. “I’m not sure I want to attract a guy that way.” Still she stepped forward tentatively to feel the shimmering fabric.
“No, of course you don’t,” I agreed, handing her the set, and then turning to find a saleswoman so she could be fitted properly.
By the time we were done, she had tried on at least ten different sets of gorgeous lingerie, with different cuts and colors of bras and panties. The most amazing and wonderful part of the whole experience occurred when she turned to go into the changing room to try on the first few things the saleswoman had found for her. I just stood there smiling when she said, “Aren’t you coming in with me?”
“Huh?” I replied, not even having considered it.
“Well, if you think I’m gonna buy any of this stuff without my sister’s advice, you’re crazy.” She gave the saleswoman one of those looks that said, “I don’t know where I got such a dimwitted sister.”
“Uh. . . . I. . . . uh, okay, if that’s what you want.”
“Ye…es,” she said rolling her eyes at me and reaching out to take my hand.
As soon as she had dragged me through the door, I urgently whispered, “Are you sure you want to do this? I may be passable but I’m still your brother.”
“No you’re not,” she said blithely, while she stripped off her top. “You recently told me you’re my sister, and that’s what you will be till you tell me otherwise, got it? And that’s how I intend to treat you.” And with that, she unhooked her bra and let her lovely young breasts fall free. I knew from the bras we had selected that she was a thirty four C. At just twenty eight and in magnificent shape, she awed me.
“Oh my,” I said.
“Nice, huh?” she teased, rubbing the undersides with the backs of her hands.
“Oh my,” I said again, stupidly, as I jerked my head away to keep from staring at her. She seemed totally relaxed, in contrast to my complete tizzy. “Here, take this,” I urged, handing her a bra I now really wanted to see her wear.
“So you’re a lezzie, huh?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“Well any woman who stares at boobies like that must be a lezzie,” she replied, with a teasing lilt in her voice. “Do you find them attractive?”
My mind finally got back to reality. “Ooooh yeah, they're absolutely gorgeous. If you weren’t my sister. . . .” I smiled as lewdly as I could, and then nodding, I went on. “Yes, dear sister, I like women. Men do nothing for me.”
“Well that’s good to know,” she said. “I have a lot of male doctor friends who wouldn’t mind taking a shot at someone as lovely as you.” She had a twinkle in her eye as she peeled off her new jeans. Now, I guess there’s no point in fixing you up with them.”
“Well, just cause I don't find them sexually attractive doesn't mean I'm scared of ’em. I do like to eat at fancy restaurants, go to shows, and dance,” I replied hopefully, not actually sure why I had said it. “Guys are good for that."
She looked at me a little sideways, as if trying to see if I was for real, and then rolled her eyes. "And what happens when it's time to pay them back for their generosity?"
"A gentleman would never want that," I said, as snootily as I could, pointing my nose in the air.
"Right." She giggled.
"And besides,” I went on, “who knows what I'd do for the right guy. I must admit I'm getting curious." Damn, why had I said that?
"Well now. Do tell me more."
"There isn't any more. I'm just curious. I don't find men attractive, although I can appreciate when one is. I don't know, all you women seem to find something fascinating about them, so I figure there might be something there." I shrugged my shoulders and smiled, feeling a little ashamed for some reason.
“With us it’s genetic, we can’t help it. Although I must say, having a nice cock way far up inside you is something special, and she wiggled her butt just like Ronnie had taught me to do.”
“Well I don’t have any place I’d really like to really put one,” I insisted.
“Whatever! So — I should tell them they shouldn't get their hopes up, but to take a run at you and see what happens," she teased as she started to pull down her white Hanes for Her panties.
“Wait," I interrupted. "You're not supposed to take off your panties when you try those on."
“How am I supposed to get these on over my panties?” she exclaimed holding up a teeny thong. Sort of mauve in color, cut extremely low in front, and with a delightful little lace panel that would hide nothing, it delighted me to think of Cortney wearing it. In the back, however was a length of fabric attached right at the top and tied into a small bow with the ends hanging down several inches. It had to be one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.
“Oh, you just HAVE to get that,” I squealed, “but only wear it when you want some guy to throw you down on the bed and fuck your brains out, ‘cause that’s what any guy seeing it will want to do.”
“Yeah,” Courtney replied looking at herself in the three-way mirror. “This is to die for. It hardly matters what the bra looks like.”
Then she tried on another set with a demi-bra and boy-cut panties in a charcoal-colored stretch netting appliquéd with purple and gray flowers. The panties had a pink ribbon woven through the fabric just below the waist band that matched the bra straps and the little bow between the cups. Courtney ooohed and aaahed over them as well.
Then, she pulled out another set and said, “These are for you. Try them on.”
“You're kidding, right? You want to see me undressed again?”
“Why not, sis? You’re look'n at me, Kid” she teased, in her best Bogart imitation.
“Yeah, but you’re real,” I tried to reason. “I’m just good padding.”
“I don’t care; I want to see you in this set. The saleswoman thinks they’ll fit.”
Actually, the full coverage bra and rather full French cut panties were a good choice, enough material to hold me in on top and bottom. The panties were pretty substantial, with some Lycra in them and black with purple roses printed all over. The bra was stretched netting with purple flowers appliqués. The petals formed the top of the bra, giving it a subtle scalloped design. I loved the way they looked, but still hadn’t moved.
“Do you need me to help you?” Courtney asked, as she closed in on me.
I rolled my eyes and started to undress, carefully pulling off my tight, ribbed sweater and simply dropping my denim skirt to the floor. As I looked up after placing the skirt on the chair, I could see Courtney examining me with what seemed to be open curiosity. I gave her a little smile and reached behind myself to unhook my bra. I let it slide down my arms, and stood with my forms hanging from my chest.
“C’mon, the panties,’ she urged.
“You’re not supposed. . . .”
“Oh poo, it’s not like you’re gonna leak any fluids on ‘em, are you?” She ended by arching her eyebrow at me.
But why do you want to see. . . .”
“Cause I’m curious how you do it. Now let me see,” she said in her little girl pouty voice that always got her whatever she wanted from Dad.
I laughed, shrugged, and skinned my rather full-cut stretch panties down my hips and legs, finally pulling them off with my feet. When I stood my penis swung forward, slowly relaxing from its compressed state, and my balls found their way back down into their sack. Courtney watched intently.
“Do you find it attractive,” I asked, mimicking the question she had asked when I had stared at her luscious breasts.
“Yeah,” she cooed. “I never knew you were so big. Now I see why Rebecca married you." She giggled, and just as I had done to her, she leered lewdly. "If you weren’t my brother. . . . .”
Instead of finishing she helped me with the bra, adjusting the straps after fastening it in back.
“Oh geez, this is just gorgeous,” I said, admiring myself in the mirror.
“Are you sure you want to get rid of it,” Courtney asked, nodding at my crotch.
“NO," I squealed. "I have no intention of getting rid of it. The very thought freaks me out. And I intend to keep it fully functional.”
“Then how are you. . . .”
“I don’t know yet. But after everything that has happened in my life, I just had to live like this for a while to see if it’s what I really want. Besides, once I got outed by that magazine article. . . .” and I just shrugged, letting out a big sigh. I began to feel a little overwhelmed by my life.
Courtney moved close to sooth me. “Oh, I didn’t mean to upset you. Come let me give you a hug.” That sounded like a good idea right about then, even if she had nothing but a sexy bra and panties and I wasn’t even wearing panties. I don’t know, maybe her training as a doctor came into play, but she hugged me without any reservation or stiffness, even after I jumped a little when my penis hit her thigh.
After a few moments, during which she rubbed her hand over the bra straps on my back, she pulled back. “I kinda like the feel of your breasts on mine. I think I could get used to this sister thing. Here, try the panties." She smiled at me, her eyes sparkling.
As I retucked myself, she asked in a worried tone, “Doesn’t that hurt?”
“Not really, but it’s not exactly fun.” After I had smoothed everything into place I smiled. “Not exactly fun until I see this." I turned from side to side, enjoying the view of myself in the mirror, my groin showing no tell-tale bulge. “How do I look?”
"Like a girl in beautiful lingerie, just scrumptious."
I just grinned at her perfect compliment.
"Now try these." She had another set. This one a pale blue demi-bra with embroidered designs that looked sort of like clouds. The cups cut right above my nipples, slanted sharply from the shoulder, leaving a huge expanse of breast exposed. The bra really seemed too insubstantial to hold my forms, especially after I got it on, but the panties, an absolutely adorable, very low-cut boy panty were out of the question. "I can't wear these," I said to Courtney after trying to pull them into place. "They'll castrate me, or I'll just hang out." I frowned.
She giggled.
"And I really don’t think showing tons of silicon breast form is going to seem particularly sexy to anyone." I emphasized this by pushing out my chest, letting the overhead light glint off the too shiny surface.
"Well, you could get implants, you know.” She said it as if suggesting nothing more than that I buy a new scarf. “That way all the bra has to do is hold 'em up." she pushed her own breasts up with her hands. "Not hold 'em on." She giggled. "As for the other problem. . . ."
"Yes, doctor?" I asked sardonically. "You've already recommended one surgery, what else are you going to recommend?"
She stroked her chin, pretending to really think about it. "It would be a little more complex, and rather more permanent."
"You're a big help," I said, rolling my eyes at her. Then I pulled on the other pair of panties, stripped off the bra, and replaced it with the one that matched the panties. I was well protected, well supported, and neatly tucked.
"Your beard's not coming back," she noted. Before I could say anything, she went on, "No, really," and she paused to watch me lean forward to seat the forms into the bra. "You could get implants, and then if you don't like 'em, they can always be removed."
"And what would my chest look like then?" I asked sarcastically.
"Well, they can do the implants through an incision in the axilla."
"Huh?”
"Oh sorry, armpit." She lifted her arm to show me where. "It's your choice, but think about it, if you want to be a woman, or even live like one successfully, you have to make some choices. You can't have it both ways."
"I know," I replied, quietly, “but there's no rush, is there?
"Guess not, sis," she responded thoughtfully. "Let's get dressed and get out of here before we spend any more money." She started to remove her new panties.
“Oh, no," I said waving my finger at her. "You’re wearing your new set too. I may not be able to wear boy-cut panties, but they’re totally cute on you, so just leave 'em on. If there’s one thing we trannies know, it’s the joy of wearing gorgeous lingerie, even if no one is going to see it. You silly real girls seem to be too practical for that.” She just laughed as I stood next to her beaming. As we examined at our reflections in the mirror, two smiling sisters stared back.
***
Once we got home, we both decided a nap would be nice, but before I could even lie down, the phone rang. I usually didn’t answer Phillip’s phone unless I knew the caller, so I looked at caller ID and saw it was my sister Leah. *How great!* I thought, she’s finally calling me. “Hello, Leah?”
“Let me speak to Courtney?”
“Leah,” I nearly shouted into the phone, “can’t you even say hello?”
“Hello Michael, let me speak to Courtney.” Her tone couldn’t have been any more dismissive.
*Well fuck you too.* I thought as I went to Courtney’s bedroom. I knocked on her door and told her to pick up the phone by her bedside. When she did, I went to push the off button to hang up, but for some reason… I didn’t. I’d never done such a thing before, but I hit mute and listened. It didn’t take Leah long to get to the point.
“Why are you there? You can’t possibly be supportive of this?”
“Why not? Michael and I always adored each other and I love Sara just as much. It’s not like some kind of joke, it’s a medical condition.”
“Courtney! It’s perverted!”
“Leah! What IS your problem? Michael was your brother, you always liked him.
“Courtney, this is sick. I can’t accept it. If he’s. . . .“
“She,” Courtney insisted.
“If HE’S going to do this, I’m not just going to sit back and take it.”
“Well you better not act out when we’re at mom and dad’s tomorrow. I want to see everyone and have a nice time.”
“Why don’t any of you see what’s going on? Why are you aiding and abetting this”
“Leah, did it ever occur to you that the rest of us are right and you’re wrong?
“No,” Leah said with complete and utter finality.
“Well in any case . . . promise me you won’t make a scene.”
“Why?”
“Leah! If you ruin my one evening with our family, I’ll kill you!”
“Yeah, whatever. I don’t understand any of you.”
At that point I took my ear from the phone, breathless.
***
By 9:00 that evening, we were in a SoHo gallery for an opening. I had many friends in the visual arts community in New York, and often went to openings, though tonight’s would be my first as Sara. I made Courtney come along for support, which is why we had gotten that little black dress. Frankly, she looked gorgeous - sexy in that unaffected way a confident young woman in great physical shape could look. With her sophisticated new 'do, and carefully applied, but dramatic makeup, she was a knockout. We had played with her look for about forty-five minutes before she caved in to what I wanted to do. If you don't wear any makeup, even a little seems like a lot. In any case, she looked so spectacular I figured no one would even notice me.
I dressed in glossy dark gray, my dress a not-too-tight, simple, sleeveless column of silk that didn’t reach my knees. It was covered by a sheer duster of dark gray, very open lace that went to my ankles. Its long sleeves showed the skin of my arms and shoulders, which I thought looked pretty sexy in a demure kind of way, and the collar, when buttoned, could hide my Adam's apple, though I planned to leave it open tonight so I could wear my fake black pearls.
From the moment we walked in the door we attracted lots of attention. I had a great time introducing everyone to Courtney, who soon was surrounded by guys who couldn't get over the fact that this sexy young woman was a surgeon! The poor artsy guys were so intimidated I almost laughed as I watched. I don’t know why, it’s not like I had anything to do either with her success or how sexy she looked - well, maybe a little there - but I felt so proud watching her soak up the attention and play cute. If only I could be so unselfconscious around men.
There were also quite a few people I hadn't seen since my coming out, and they were all very curious and mostly quite complimentary. I felt at home, not having to fool anyone, or worry about being outed. No one here cared what I was, except maybe a few who guys who wanted to get me into bed, and even they made me feel attractive and good about myself. My sister was a big hit, and I got lots of compliments.
"So you’re a lezzie," one totally buff gay artist shouted out with great pain in his voice as he clutched his heart. "Does that mean I have no chance with you?"
"Sorry love," I comforted him, my hand on his forearm, before giving him a kiss on the cheek.
He whispered dramatically. "Well, if you ever change your mind I'll be there in a heartbeat. I just love putting little sissy boys through their paces."
I gulped as he gave me a little finger wave and wandered off towards the bar. *Sissy boy? Is that how people see me?* I wondered glumly. The very concept appalled me and my sense of self confidence evaporated. All I wanted was to be an ordinary woman. Did people really consider me a sissy? I didn’t like that idea alone bit, and just the thought of it made me clutch my arms around my chest. One thing for sure though, no way anyone would ever put this girl through any paces. I threw the remainder of my drink down my throat just to prove my toughness.
As I stewed over that, and tried to recover from the stupid move of throwing too much alcohol down my throat, I spotted Rebecca just inside the door. She took my breath away. I don't know what others saw, but she absolutely stunned me, no one had ever been so luminous. It looked like someone had shined a spotlight on her, and the rest of the room had faded away. Her hair was up, her lips bright red, and her eyes smoky dark. She wore a short, strapless, red dress that hugged her curves and came to mid-thigh. It seemed to me the room went silent as people caught sight of her.
I'm not sure how long the sight of her mesmerized me, it might have been only a second or two, or it could have been an hour.
Then I noticed her date. That broke the spell.
A big, good looking guy in black trousers, silver sport coat and black turtle neck, he had his arm around her waist as if he owned her. She snuggled into his left side as if she loved that he owned her. I recognized him - Martin Strauss, the PR guy for one of our clients. I had worked with him not two months ago on a project. He was very sharp, knew exactly what he wanted, and charmed my pants, or by that time actually, skirt off. He’d even made me giggle like a teenager. He could be really charming and especially good with women. As I watched, she snaked her right arm up and around the back of his head, pulled him down as she twisted her neck back and up, and gave him a quick kiss and then a huge smile.
I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach.
I turned my back on them, walked over to Courtney and whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”
But . . . as Courtney turned to look at me, she spotted Rebecca over my shoulder and began to wave and call her name.
Rebecca immediately turned our way and spotted Courtney. She waved back and started to move in our direction. Half way through her first step, she spotted me as I turned to fully face her. She seemed to hesitate for just a moment, the expression on her face changing from delight to concern to that decisive look she got when she knew she had to do something that maybe she didn’t want to do. She set her course, reached around to take Martin’s hand and started in our direction.
“Shit,” I muttered, as plastered a smile on my face and prepared to deal with her arrival. It never occurred to me she might show up here, and from the look on her face, it hadn’t occurred to her I would.
“Courtney!”
“Rebecca!” they shouted simultaneously, as they moved into each other for a hug.
As I thought about it, I realized they hadn’t seen each other in a couple of years. As they embraced, I had no alternative but to turn towards Martin and say hello.
He beat me to it, reaching out his hand, apparently to shake mine. Much to my surprise, once he had my hand in his, he lifted it to his lips and kissed it. He looked back up into my face with that killer smile of his. “Sara, how delightful to see you again; you look absolutely lovely. That's a great outfit."
His gracious greeting and wonderful compliment so took me aback that I actually felt embarrassed. I turned my head, and looked down, feeling a huge blush work its way across my face.
He didn't stop there. As he slowly releasing my hand he said, "Now that I have you here, I must tell you again that your work for us was outstanding, just brilliant.”
You could have knocked me over with a feather. After being showered with his compliments, I could have kissed him! I had been prepared to hate him, after all, the son-of-a-bitch was out with my wife. But he so charmed me, he had me totally flustered. I felt like a fish flopping in the bottom of a boat. “Eh. . . . Ah. . . . Ah. . . . Martin, you're so sweet. You know we always try to do our best.”
“Yes, you and your former wife make a remarkable team. Doesn’t she look lovely? I feel privileged to be her escort tonight." He dropped his voice into a fake whisper. "Plus . . . I wouldn't have been able to get into this opening if she hadn't invited me.” He flashed me a big smile, which, by now, I totally believed was sincere.
Just as I started to tell Martin that Rebecca and I were still married, Rebecca and Courtney turned towards us. "Who's this cutie" Courtney asked, looking Martin up and down with a delightful smile in her voice.
"Uh, oh, I. . . ." I started.
But before I could collect myself, Rebecca beat me to it, giving me a glance and rolling her eyes as if to say, get with it, girl. “Martin Strauss, this is Dr. Courtney Cohen, Mi. . .uh. . .Sara's sister.” She then turned to Courtney and in dead serious tones said, "He's mine. You can't have him," which made us all laugh.
As Courtney and Martin said hello to each other, Rebecca turned to me. With a big smile, she took my hands and leaned in to kiss me. . . except it was a girl-style air kiss, not the kiss on the lips I hoped for. She did hold it a rather longer than necessary to let me know it wasn't just a thoughtless social gesture, but still. . . . When she pulled back, she looked at me for moment. "Sara, you look magnificent." She leaned back in to kiss me, this time on the lips.
I reveled in the feeling, but I was ws only getting more confused.
"Where did you get that gorgeous outfit?" she asked.
I beamed at her compliment. "Do you really like it?"
"Yes. It's both elegant and sexy. You look great, radiant almost. Your depression seems to be pretty much under control, huh?"
I ignored her question. "But look at you. I swear a hush fell over the entire place when you walked in. You look perfectly stunning."
She actually blushed, and then turned to Martin. "How 'bout that drink you promised me? You two need refills?"
Courtney and I looked at each other and nodded. Right about then, I knew for sure that more would be better.
"Sure,” Courtney said, brightly, reaching for my hand. "I don't go back on call for two more days."
I wanted desperately to get away from Rebecca and Martin; they seemed so comfortable and familiar with each other. They had no inhibitions about where their hands roamed, but Rebecca and Courtney seemed intent on hanging out with each other, and I couldn't figure out a polite way to flee. So, ten minutes later, I found myself still alone with Martin as we examined one of the paintings, waiting for Rebecca and Courtney to bring us more champagne.
“How’s the transition going?" he asked. "You seem to be taking to this girl thing like a duck to water." He seemed completely sincere.
Again I found myself off balance. I wanted to hate him. The bastard with my wife was being really nice to me, solicitous even, like he really did care about me! It just didn’t compute.
What could I say in reply anyway? I didn’t think of myself as transitioning, although I could easily understand why people might think that. Hell, he even thought Rebecca had divorced me. But really, aside from zapping my beard, taking some hormones, and dressing as a woman all the time, I hadn't done anything else - if you didn’t count therapy and my support group. In my mind I wasn't in transition; I had ensconced myself in a holding pattern, so far unwilling to go too far in either direction.
"It's kind of lonely, actually. I really miss Rebecca." Surprised at my candor, I threw my hands up to my mouth. "I'm so sorry," I blurted out. “I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
He tilted his head and looked at me for a second, as if trying to understand something important. Then he totally surprised me. He reached around my shoulders and pulled me into a hug. Speaking softly, so only I could hear, he said, "I'm so sorry. I can only imagine how alone you must feel, but I'm the one who needs to apologize. Here I am with your wife, and… well… it's only just occurred to me how that must make you feel. If I were you, I think I would be furious."
I could feel tears start to form in my eyes as I looked into his face. "I want to be," I replied, as he handed me his handkerchief. "But you won't let me." I gave him a rueful look. "You're being too nice." As I stepped back out of his hug, I said to him, "There is one thing you should know, however, Rebecca and I aren't divorced - only separated."
Obviously surprised, he said, "Oh, I guess I just assumed. . . . I mean. . . . when Rebecca asked me to be her date tonight. . . ." He had a pained look on his face.
I put my hand on his arm. "It's alright. We both have lots of things to figure out, and one of them is what we need in a mate. I know she needs to experiment." I gave him a small smile and turned towards Courtney, who had just arrived with Rebecca. "Hey, sis, how ‘bout showing me how to use the little girls’ room?" I asked with a forced smile.
"Don't be silly," she replied, still looking at Rebecca with a big smile on her face. "You can…. Oh. I see. 'kay." Once she had seen my face, she quickly realized I needed help .
"Be back in a jif," she said to Rebecca, as she took my arm, and turned to search for the ladies’ room. As soon as we had gotten a few steps away, she whispered, "Are you okay, you look a little ill."
"I don't know what I am, but I just can’t bear to hang out with Rebecca and Martin for even one more moment. It’s too sad and too confusing and they were both being really nice to me."
Unnerved, I struggled with my skirt, pantyhose, panties and gaff, just so I could sit to pee, as if I had never done it wearing women’s clothes before. And when I finished, I lingered in the stall. I sat there with my elbows on my knees and my hands under my chin thinking about what Martin had said about transitioning. Should I? Could I if it meant losing Rebecca? Could I not, no matter what happened? Wasn’t I doing it already?
“Sis? You okay in there?” Courtney called out, startling me out of my reverie.
“Uh… yeah.”
“Well are you coming out?”
I didn’t want to, but figured I didn’t really have a choice.
By the time we had redone our lipstick, and fixed my eyes, which had become a little blotchy from the tears, my self-control was back and I felt ready to go back into the main room to face Rebecca and Martin again, but they were gone. I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or guilty, so I got another drink, thinking that it would be best if I couldn’t feel anything at all. After spending about an hour that I spent drinking too much and Courtney spent exchaning phone numbers with eligible men, we too left. I cried all the way home in the cab, though I wasn’t quite sure why. I just knew that I really missed Rebecca and that I hated Martin Strauss, a very nice man who didn’t deserve it.
***
Because she so rarely got to New York, our parents had planned a family gathering at their apartment so everyone coud see Courtney. I had spoken to my mother a few times since I had come out to them, and she had been very cordial, though she clearly hoped I would change my mind. My dad’s anger had dissipated as well, and he felt so embarrassed about his behavior the night I came out that he had offered to take me out to the restaurant of my choice to make it up to me and show he wasn’t embarrassed to be seen with me in public. Still, we hadn't seen each other, mostly because I hadn’t been brave enough, and they hadn’t pushed it. As with Rebecca, I felt really guilty about putting them through such a difficult time, even though, and to their credit, they hadn’t laid a guilt trip on me.
I hadn't had any communications with my sister, Leah, although I had spoken to her husband Zach a quite a few times. He was friendly, very curious and apparently supportive. Even though I looked for it, I couldn't detect even a hint of disapproval in his voice or anything he said. Leah never called me back, so I really didn’t know how she felt, although I figured it couldn’t possibly be good.
Getting there had not been easy. I was so nervous I could barely eat anything and totally got on Courtney's nerves when we visited the new Museum of Modern Art because I couldn't stand still long enough for her to enjoy the paintings. As we gazed at Van Gogh’s Starry Night, with all its swirling color, I imagined that's how my brain must look. It's certainly how it feels! When I told Courtney she laughed and said, “Well no wonder you’re so twitchy.”
Once we got home in the late afternoon, I started to obsess over what I should wear. As I vacilatated for the third time between pants or a skirt, Courtney started chanting "twenty-three outfits." She thought it was hilarious, but I was not amused. With her help, however, I eventually picked a long, red peasant skirt, under a long, turquoise wool sweater that clearly showed my bust. Once I added a belt of silver circles that hung loosely around my waist and over one hip and my red cowboy boots, I thought I looked slightly southwestern, appropriately feminine, but not overtly sexy. I still couldn’t sit still so Courtney showed me how to curl the ends of my hair lightly with a curling iron. It added a nice feminine touch that I thought looked really sweet.
I tried to talk her into a skirt too, but Courtney wanted to wear her new jeans and a tight, black, ribbed turtleneck she borrowed from me. I forced her to use some makeup, somehow convincing myself that mine would be less obvious if she wore some too. She looked effortlessly sexy, like a model on her day off. I felt all artifice by comparison.
Needless to say, everyone was really thrilled to see Courtney, who I forced through the door ahead of me as if somehow that would take everyone’s attention away from me. As she moved into the apartment getting hugs and kisses from everyone and oohs and aahs over her new look, it inevitably it became my turn anyway. When Mother turned her attention to me, I thought my heart would beat itself right out of my chest from the anxiety. I had to really concentrate to keep myself from hyperventilating. I saw my life pass before my eyes as she looked up into them.
“How are you, my dear?” she asked as if she really meant it. I couldn’t help but notice she didn’t call me by name.
“I’m fine, mom,” I replied earnestly, my anxiety starting to dissipate a little. “Nervous as hell, too,-being here with everyone for the first time.”
“Oh don’t be silly,” she replied in a nicely dismissive way. “Courtney read us all the riot act and we all promised to behave.” And she gave me one of her big bright smiles, the one I remember from when childhood and had drawn something with crayons that I thought was terrific and took it to her for approval. That smile never lost its power to make me feel good about myself, and it did this time too.
As my mom wrapped her arm around mine to lead me further into the room, I thought, *Things sure have changed, now my little sister is taking care of me.* As soon as I realized what a vast understatement that thought was, I couldn't help but snort out a laugh. Still, between my mother’s smile and the thought of Courtney taking care of me, I felt so grateful I almost started to tear up.
Dad turned towards me as he released Courtney, and I could feel my heart start to accelerate again. Even though he had apologized several times on the phone since then, he had been so angry the last time I saw him, I didn’t know what to expect.
He stepped toward me with a warm smile on his face and enveloped me in a big hug. At first I just stood there, stunned. It felt so good, just like when I was a child running to him because something had scared me, and his hug let me know everything woud be just fine. It only took a moment for me to relax into him, soaking up his affection the way a dry towel soaks up water. I was a little embarrassed, however, as I felt my breasts press against his chest. *What must he be thinking,* I worried. Only later did I realize that was the biggest hug I could ever remember sharing with him.
Then he pushed away, put both his hands on my shoulders and looked me right in the eyes. “Sara,” he began, pausing to take a deep breath, “can you ever forgive me for the way I behaved last time you were here? I’m so sorry.”
I struggled in vain to find the proper words to respond. His I really needed his acceptance, but had been afraid to hope for it. I could only nod because I had a big lump in my throat. Tears rolled down my cheeks. “Oh Daddy,” I finally spluttered. As I heard myself, my eyes went wide and my hand shot up to my mouth because I couldn’t believe I had just called my father, “Daddy.” What had happened to Michael?
He gave me an indulgent smile. “Really, I’ve always thought you were a terrific person, and my response to seeing you as Sara had more to do with how I thought people would look at me than with you.”
“I still think it’s ridiculous,” Leah blurted from further in the room.
“Leah,” Zach, Courtney and my mom all admonished at once.
“You promised you would behave,” Courtney went on. “Please don’t ruin the evening for the rest of us.”
Leah glared at the others, looked at me as if I was a cockroach, and then turned toward the kitchen. “Perhaps I’d better get some hors d'oeuvres before I shatter any more fragile sensitivities.”
“Leah!” Zach said, as he turned down the hallway.
“I’m really sorry,” he went on as he turned toward me. “That was uncalled for.”
“It’s not your fault. She has a right to her own feelings. Lord knows she isn’t the only one who feels that way." I had always liked Zach. Like Leah, he was a lawyer. He was also a dedicated runner, having participated in marathons all over the U.S. and in a few foreign countries. A little taller than me, quite thin, wiry I guess would be the right word, he had a full head of curly brown hair, a slightly crooked nose and a lopsided grin that was totally disarming.
He turned that grin on me and indicated he would take my coat. “Well, I have to admit I don’t understand it, although I know you’re not the only one, so there must be something that compels you to do it.” As I turned and he lifted my jacket from my shoulders, he added, “And you are rather cute.”
I almost melted.
“Thank you, kind sir,” I said with a teeny, little, curtsey-like bob, while turning my head to the side slightly. “Unfortunately, it’s not quite that simple, as your wife just demonstrated. It has a huge effect on others, and some don’t like it." I gave him a rueful smile.
“Anyone want a drink?” Courtney called out from across the room.
Simultaneously, she got a “Please dear,” a “You bet,” and a “Sure,” from the others, and a “God yes,” from me. So Courtney went to work at the bar, but even after she’d served all of us, including the construction of several fancy martinis, Leah had still not rejoined us.
“I think I’ll go get her,” Mom suggested.
“No, let me,” I said, grabbing the chance to make peace in private. “What does she like, Zach?”
He pointed to a bottle of chardonnay he had brought. “She’s loves this. You’ll be her hero, errr, heroine.”
This time I gave him the crooked smile. Courtney poured a healthy serving, and then I took the glass, along with my martini and headed off to the kitchen.
“Just scream if you need back-up,” Courtney teased.
I stuck my tongue out at her.
The kitchen was rather large by Manhattan standards, made even larger because it had been opened up to the dining room. Instead of a wall on one side there was a counter you could sit at. The windows on the back wall of the two rooms let in lots of light during the day, and made the rooms seem even more spacious. Leah was standing in front of the sink and looking out the window. The way she was leaning and holding on made it look as if she might fall in if she let go.
“Hey,” I said softly, as I turned the corner.
She swung around, looking surprised. Her dark curly hair reminded me of Rebecca’s. It hung to her shoulders and it swung back and forth across her cheeks as she quickly threw her head around to face me. She was a real beauty, in a hot, Mediterranean way, with an olive complexion, dark eyes and full red lips. Her only flaw, according to her, was her lack of height, which she got from mother. There are a lot of women who would love to be barely over five feet, yet quite voluptuous. Men had always swooned at her feet, but she hated being so small. That’s probably why she was such a terrific lawyer. She made up for her height not just by wearing high heels, which she almost always did, but with a scary intelligence and tough-as-nails tenacity. For me, winning an argument with her was a rare event, even when I was right. I didn’t know what to expect from her now, but seeing her face made me feel like I should have stayed in the other room.
“Oh, you,” she said, looking at me like I had just been picked out of a police line-up by a rape victim. “You’re the last one I expected to see in here.”
“Ouch,” I replied trying to keep things light. “Here, I’ve brought you some wine. Zach says it’s one of your favorites.” Leah wasn’t just a good lawyer, she was good at everything, cooking, sports, and picking wines. She’s the only woman I knew with her own wine cellar.
“Hmmph,” she replied, as I handed it to her. “Just like a man, trying to buy influence with gifts.”
“Leah, why are you so angry with me?” I started to feel exasperated
“Because what you’re doing’s just not right. It embarrasses the whole family, not to mention its effect on poor Rebecca. I mean, you’re already separated.”
“Yes,” I said, as I leaned against the stainless steel refrigerator, unconsciously tilting my right knee in towards my left, leaving my foot turned inward a little. I watched her gaze go down, and could see by the way her mouth got tight that she didn’t like my feminine posture. *Take that,* I thought, as I jutted out my hip a little more. “And do you think I would do something with so many bad consequences unless I really had to?” I took a gulp of my drink. This was no time for sipping daintily. “You know me; I’m not careless with other people’s feelings.”
She gave me a nasty look.
“And,” I pouted, “it wasn’t exactly my idea to come out either.”
“Wasn’t it?” she asked archly. “You can say what you want, but you were careless. It’s easy to imagine you were hoping something like this would happen just so you could make yourself believe it wasn’t’ your fault.” Rebecca told me all about both pictures.”
Anger rose in my mouth. “Did she also tell you she encouraged me to explore this part of me, and introduced me as a woman to the woman who set up the picture?” I could tell by her face that this was news to her, a slip I’m sure she’d never make at work. “Look,” I went on, trying to be conciliatory, “I’m not blaming anyone here but me. But this is a real part of me, maybe the biggest part, and once I got outed, it became obvious to both Rebecca and me that I had to find out just how big before we could go on with our lives. We’re separated because we both know in our hearts that this is the only thing we could do if we wanted to eventually stay together.” I took another gulp. My glass was getting dangerously low, and I frowned at it as if it was its fault. Looking back up, I continued. “But that’s not why you’re so angry, is it?”
“I told you already; it’s just not right. Even the bible says so. I looked it up: Deuteronomy 22:5, A woman shall not wear anything that pertains to a man, nor shall a man put on a woman's garment; for whoever does these things is an abomination to the Lord your God."
My heart just sank. "Is that what this is about? It's a religious thing with you?" Zach and Leah were Conservative Jews, and even kept a kosher house, but still, it's not like they were Orthodox.
“Well of course it is," she hissed at me. "It’s unnatural. You…you're perverted.''
“Go to hell,” I spat back at her, my voice now rising and tears starting to form in my eyes. “You’re the one who’s ‘unnatural,’ turning on your bro … uh ... me just when I’m most vulnerable.” I took a deep breath to try to calm myself, but it wasn’t happening. “And besides,” I nearly shouted, and the male undertones in my voice broke through. I calmed myself again. “And besides,” I went on, “a couple of verses later God tells us not to mix fibers in our clothing. You don’t by chance have any silk-cotton blends in your closet do you?” I knew she did because I had bought her a silk-cotton twin set for her birthday, and had seen her wear it.
“Hey, what’s going on in here?” Zach interrupted, as he skidded to a stop after turning the corner to the kitchen. Courtney was right behind him and our folks behind her.
I spun on my heel and headed out of the kitchen. “Nothing. Just a debate about the Bible.”
Mt escape was thwarted when Courtney grabbed me up in a hug after only a step. She threw a hard glance at Leah. “You said you would behave.”
“Oh, and you think this is a good thing?” Leah shot back, while pointing at me like I was exhibit “A”.
“Leah,” Zach cut in. “Control yourself. Getting angry won’t solve anything.”
“You’re on her side too?” she asked incredulously.
“Well I am, and that’s for sure,” my father said. “And I won’t have you treating Sara this way in my house. Why don’t you just calm down and apologize. This is not how Cohens treat each other.”
“I will not apologize. All I did was call a ‘spade’ a ‘spade’ - something the rest of you seem unable to do. If my little brother,” she spat out the word ‘brother’ as if she were talking about a child molester, “wants to be a shameful little sissy, I’ll have no part of it and the rest of you are out of your minds if you do.”
“Leah!” four voices shouted in unison.
There was a moment of silence as Leah looked around the room, challenging each of us. When she finally got to me, I stood straight up, shook the hair off my face, and put my fists on my hips. In my heeled cowboy boots I towered over her, and I stared her down. I’m not sure I could have done it without the rest of my family behind me, but with their support I felt emboldened. Besides, she was a shrimp, and I was a pretty strong woman. Moreover, I had a real strong hunch that her concerns with me didn’t have their roots in Deuteronomy. There just had to be something far more important than that.
Realizing she had been defeated, she started to get a deer-in-the-headlights look, her face flushed, and the corner of her mouth twitched. “I’m outa here. C’mon Zach.”
“I don’t think so,” he said calmly. “I came here to spend a nice evening with your family and get to know Sara. If you can’t deal with that, that’s your problem. I’m not goin’. I think you need to spend some time alone to cool down."
She looked at him fiercely, veins standing out on her neck as her face reddened even more. It was pretty clear he would be sleeping in the spare bedroom for at least one night. “Fine,” she hissed, and stalked out of the kitchen, almost knocking my mother over as she surged down the hallway. We all just stood there until we heard the door slam.
“I’m so sorry,” I apologized to everyone. “This is all my fault.”
“No it’s not,” Zach said. “It’s Leah’s fault. For some reason she’s very threatened by you, but whatever it is, her behavior is inexcusable.”
“Oh my,” Mother said. “I haven’t seen her that angry since we told her she would have to pay off her own student loans.” She smiled devilishly. “Or when I told her she couldn’t wear that low-cut gown she had picked out for her prom.” She drew her hands from her shoulders to her naval and rolled her eyes.
That broke Courtney up. “I tried to buy Sara a bra like that on Saturday,” she said, doing the same thing with her hands our mom had done, “but she would have none of it.”
“You two went bra shopping together?” Mother asked, aghast.
“Well, ye..ah,” Courtney responded. “It’s like totally what sisters do, ya know?” She had valley girl down pat. “And besides, she was buying.”
“You bought her bras?” Mother asked me, still somewhat stunned.
I nodded.
“And we tried them on together,” Courtney added. “It was so much fun.”
“That’s was only a small part of the day,” I cut in. “I got her lots of stuff. The bras were only a few minutes.” I was afraid my mother was going to have a stroke.
“Oh geez,” Father said. “I think I need another drink. Why don’t we grab those trays and go into the other room.” That met with a general murmur of approval.
With Leah gone, the atmosphere changed entirely. I was surrounded by family warmth, though with lots of curiosity thrown in. They bombarded me with question after question, but there was no anger or hatred in them, only a desire to understand. This was way better for my mood than antidepressants, and by the time Courtney and I left, I felt almost euphoric. I wasn’t sure any one could really understand what was going on inside my head, but they were at least willing to believe that something was, and that I really felt strongly about what I was doing.
As I collected our coats, I heard Mother ask Courtney, "Were you two really in the changing room together?"
Their voices became too soft to hear, until I heard Courtney say, "No, not yet. But I bet they will be soon though."
Yet? Soon? Did she know something I didn’t?
By Kelly Ann Rogers
. . . I can trust you to behave, can’t I?”
*No!* my mind shouted, even as I calmly said, “Yes, of course.”
. . . I used to think you would be the father of my children, but now you look like you want to be the mother.”
Things got pretty normal over the next several months, at least as normal as they could be for someone who can’t figure out whether he’s a man or a woman. I focused on living as a woman, not considering the ‘man’ part of me at all. I looked good, and I felt comfortable in my skin. Nearly everyone I met treated me just like the woman I appeared to be, and the few you looked at me questioningly didn’t do much more than that.
Best of all, my relationship with Rebecca improved constantly. We were totally in synch at work and started to eat lunch together when we had time, chatting like girlfriends about all sorts of things. The office had become a great place to be. We all felt happy and it showed in our work. Frankly, we were making so much money we were a little embarrassed, and ended up giving everyone a mid-year bonus.
Towards the end of July, Rebecca asked me to stay over at our house one evening after we worked late. Needless to say, I was thrilled, even hoping that maybe we would finally sleep together again.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said comfortably. “I can trust you to behave, can’t I?”
*No!* my mind shouted, even as I calmly said, “Yes, of course.” As I settled into the guest bedroom that night, disappointed to be sleeping alone, I was still delighted with how the evening had gone. Really, it had been like old times. We went out shopping for dinner on the way home, pushing a shopping cart side by side and bumping our hips into each other’s as we playfully meandered down the aisles. We chatted like comfortable lovers, and I could feel myself becoming attuned to her rhythm. Not wanting to blow it, I kept my hands to myself. Our conversation on the other hand had been stressful, though they were eventually heartening.
I froze for a moment when Rebecca opened the door to our house. What a mess!. Strangely, I felt embarrassed, as if Rebecca’s disarray reflected poorly on me. After a moment’s thought, I just shrugged, realizing I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, I had been the one who did the housework. Rebecca didn’t give even a hint that the clutter bothered her, and saying something couldn’t possible do anything good, so I kept silent. After a moment’s hesitation, which I hoped Rebecca had missed, I just wandered in and deposited my grocery bags on the one clear space on the kitchen counter.
After dropping off her bags, Rebecca went right up to change, telling me to grab a drink if I wanted one. All of a sudden I started to feel somewhat anxious to be back in my home, alone with Rebecca. It reminded me of high school when my then girlfriend, Susan, invited me to her house while her parents were away. I just knew it couldn’t be as good as it seemed, and sure enough, the freedom to do whatever we wanted made both of us really apprehensive instead of liberated. Like I had done then, I made a gin and tonic. Back then it finally did lead me to the promised land, though I figured this time all it might do is make me a little less anxious. I found our liquor cabinet crammed with many different types of scotch, vodka, and gin, which was something new. I didn’t like what it might mean. Either Rebeceea had men hanging around, or she was drinking a lot, or both.
Unable to overcome my curiosity, I poked around a little in the living room, but all I could find was evidence that things ended up where Rebecca had used them last. I failed to turn up anything to indicate that men had been there, except for all the whiskey, and became overcome with guilt just for looking. That drove me into the kitchen, and I started getting things ready for dinner. It was obvious that Rebecca hadn’t been doing much cooking because even with all the mess on the counters, all the pot and pans were put away.
As I started to set up, Rebecca came back. “I’ve put some clothes on the bed in the guest room so you can change from your work clothes.” She had changed into loose shorts and a tank top. “That suit is far too nice to risk by cooking in it. DKNY?”
“No, Jones New York. Don’t you just love the color?” I wore a pale lavender, just right for summer. “You look relaxed.”
“If I can’t dress down in my own house when my dearest friend is here, then when can I? Go change. I promise not to ruin any food till you get back.” She gave me a sweet smile.
I headed upstairs to see what she’d left for me. On the bed, I discovered a pair of white capris, with big red roses printed all over them and a sleeveless, slightly cropped red tank top. The two had obviously been purchased to be worn together because the red of the top matched the red of the flowers; and they were my size. Looking at the tank, I knew I’d be showing the skin on my back when I bent over.
Realizing that my panties would also be showing at the same time, I wondered what Rebecca would think when she noticed the scalloped waist band of the light purple panties I had selected to match my suit. Would she find that hint of lace sexy? Or would she think that her husband was a total sissy? When she saw the shoulder straps of the matching bra peak out from the tank, how would she react? I so wanted her to find me attractive, but she liked men, and here I was turning myself into a woman.
Even my discovery of a pair of red espadrilles, with a two-inch wedge heel, that she had left on the floor couldn’t totally dispel my gloom. Rebecca had obviously planned my sleepover carefully, which I really wanted to take as a good sign. But still, I couldn’t help but wonder whether she was setting me up to get rid of me, rather than simply doing something nice for someone she loved. Why does life have to be so complicated?
Not so many minutes later, a mere moment by girl time, I reappeared in the kitchen. I had changed, freshened my makeup, raided Rebecca’s lipstick collection for something that matched the red of the top, and played with my hair. Frustrated yet again because I still couldn’t figure out how to make it look good after it had been through a long day, I had it at least looking neat.
Rebecca had started to make a salad to go with our dinner. Twirling for her, I said, “Thank you. You just happened to have these lying around, huh?”
She gave me a crooked smile and cocked her head. “I almost invited you over a few times, but I chickened out. Those have been upstairs for weeks now.”
I didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed, but decided that as long as I was finally here, I would simply be pleased. “I’ve missed you, you know, and I miss this place.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do,” she replied, although she didn’t move any closer to me. Instead, she turned the tables on me. “Tell me, what are you thinking?”
I sighed. “Oh Rebecca, what do you want to hear?”
At first, she simply looked at me without saying a word. Then she turned to pick up the glass of wine she had poured for herself, before straightening up, and turning to look me in the eye. “Who are you?”
“Who am I? Wasn’t that what this was all about? Who do you want me to be?”
“Oh no, you’re not getting off so easily. We’ve been separated for how long now? How many months? While you’ve been having a grand old time playing at being Sara, what do you think has happened to us?”
I closed my eyes in exasperation. “Rebecca, I’m not playing at being Sara. I am Sara.”
She looked at me like a lawyer who thinks she’s sprung a trap. “So, that means Michael’s gone for good?”
I almost shook with frustration. “Rebecca, I’m Michael. Sara and Michael are the same person. Surely you must know that by now.”
“I don’t know what I know,” she replied, a tear sliding from her right eye. Then she looked up at me fiercely. “I used to think you would be the father of my children, but now you look like you want to be the mother.”
“Rebecca, don’t. Please. I love you and I want to be with you and I want us to have children. Would it be so horrible if they ended up having two mommies?”
With that, Rebecca broke down entirely, crying in huge sobs, her shoulders heaving violently. My first instinct was to grab her up into a hug, but I hesitated. Would she accept that from Sara? A huge wave of guilt washed over me, rocking me back on my heels. What had I done? My selfish need to be something I could never really be — a woman — had destroyed my relationship with the person I loved most in the entire world. Is this what I really want? Or was I being punished for my unfortunate need - at least I thought it was a need - to be a woman.
Was it a need, a compulsion, something I just had to do because I had no other choice? Or was it something less, perhaps only something attractive that I liked to do, a compulsion perhaps, but not an obsession or a need. I looked down at myself, my colorful pants covered with delightfully silly flowers. My chest, inflated with fake tits, my hair — I loved my hair — straight, dark, and shiny, --falling next to my face and brushing past my shoulders. I had control over all of these things. I did them to myself every day. Did I have to do them, driven beyond my ability to resist?
I just couldn’t be sure. But I couldn’t lie to myself about it either; I simply loved being Sara. Now, having lived her life without interruption for so many months, I adored all the things being Sara entailed, and, I realized, with a clarity that made me shiver, there wasn’t much about being Michael that I missed, except. . . except for Rebecca.
And I missed Rebecca terribly.
I reached out and grabbed her into a warm hug, and then let her cry herself out against my breast while I stroked her hair.
When she had stopped and gained control of her emotions again, she gave me a sad little smile. “Sara, I never imagined my life this way. I’m a heterosexual woman who loves men. I love a man named Michael Cohen. I know, in my brain at least, that you’re him, but my heart, or perhaps my pussy’s not buying it. I don’t know if I could live in an intimate relationship with a woman.”
As negative as she sounded, I understood instantly that I still had a chance. “I know, and I know it’s a lot to ask, but I do love you and I believe, believe with all my heart, that you love me too. You do, don’t you?”
Again, she gave me a sad smile. Then she reached up and stroked my cheek, looking into my eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I do.”
“Well I’m not giving you up,” I said grabbing her by the shoulders and holding her slightly away from me. “What can I do to win you back? What can I do to prove to you that we should be living together from now on and for the rest of our lives? Tell me and I’ll do it.”
“You mean as Sara, don’t you?” Her question came softly, but struck me with the force of a Hummer.
I dropped my hands and lowered first my eyes, and then my head. A moment later my shoulders slumped, and my hair spilled over my face at the same time that shame washed over my heart. I was letting my one true love, Rebecca, down. At that moment, it seemed to me that my cross-dressing had brought me nothing but shame. When I had first started, as a child, I felt ashamed every time I did it. Later shame washed over me every time I got outed. Then I felt ashamed when I finally had to tell everyone I was going to live as a woman fulltime, and I was ashamed when I told my parents.
Even now, having finally reached a point where I was comfortable as Sara, I was feeling like a horrible failure because my needs caused pain for my wife. Those wretched needs had forced us apart and now seemed ready to doom our marriage. If I got what I needed, Rebecca wouldn’t. I got lost in the emptiness of that thought, as if we had already split up.
I felt a touch on my arm, which forced me to look up, even though I now had tears in my eyes. Rebecca gazed at me, her brow knitted in concern. “You don’t have to say anything right now.”
Despite the lump in my throat, I managed to croak out, “Yes, yes, I do. Of course as Sara - That’s who I am. If nothing else, I now understand that.”
She nodded, as if finally accepting something that she had been aware of for a long time. She cocked her head and looked at me seriously for an uncomfortably long time. It seemed to me that the creases at the corners of her eyes had suddenly gotten much deeper. I got nervous and wiped the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand, grinning ruefully at the mascara streaking across it. Then I looked back up and threw my head from side to side to flip the hair off my face. Rebecca still studied me. I didn’t know if she was looking for something within me or trying to understand something within herself.
Finally, with a quick nod, she straightened her head, and with a tear at the corner of her eye, said, “You want to win my heart, Miss Sara Cohen? Then do it; court me. Prove to me that I should, that I can, live with you.”
My eyebrows shot up and I rocked slightly backward. Her offer was more than I could ever have hoped for! A smile quickly spread across my face as I thought of the things I could do, the places we could visit. Sara and Rebecca could create new memories together. I almost jumped on her I was so excited. “What a great idea! I’ll do it. But you might as well know, I have every intention winning you. We’ll be raising our children together, and they will have two mommies. Let’s start by me making you dinner. I’m pretty sure I can make something you’ll love.”
Rebecca’s, “Okay,” came out a little choked with tears, but I ignored them as I swept her up in my arms.
As we sat together after dinner and I gazed longingly at Rebecca, feeling really lucky for a change, I remembered a moment I just had to share. “Rebecca, you remember Tom Olden, don’t you?”
She nodded; he was an old friend.
“When we were at the party for his 35th wedding anniversary he said something that I never really understood until right now. We were at the back of the room, on that window seat, the one that overlooks their back yard, watching Beth chatting with friends. ‘She’s such a remarkable woman,’ I said, ‘radiant, absolutely beaming.”
“ ‘Yes, she is, isn’t she? I love her dearly,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know what she ever saw in me.’ We sat silently for a few moments, and then he turned to me. ‘You know, our marriage has worked out really well, and we have great kids, a wonderful home and terrific friends. There’s only one thing I sort of regret.’ He looked away for a moment, and I just sat there waiting for him to continue. When he did, he really did sound remorseful. ‘When you’ve been faithfully married all your life, you never get the opportunity to fall in love again. The best I could do was flirt a little, and wonder.’ ”
I turned towards her and grabbed her hands. “Rebecca, don’t you see? We’re going to get that chance. The one Tom longed for. We’re going to get to fall in love again.” She looked at me dubiously, but I felt like I was on to something. “Oh, I know we already know each other intimately, but now everything‘s different. We’re new to each other. We’ll get to discover our new selves.”
I could tell by the look on her face that I hadn’t convinced her, but I had convinced myself, and I thought that would be all that mattered. Eventually, I would convince her. I also realized that if I couldn’t get Rebecca to fall in love with Sara we would divorce. So my wonderful opportunity to experience new love was also a time of extraordinary risk. I’d need to be both enthusiastic and patient, and a shiver, which could have been either from excitement or fear shuddered through me as I thought about it.
After a brief pause, Rebecca said, “I’m not making any promises. I can’t even tell you that I’m totally hopeful. Knowing that you’re going to be Sara for the rest of your life, and knowing that I love men. . . .” She looked down, shook her head, and then looked back up into my face. The truth is, Sara, if a good man comes along, I’m not sure how I’ll react. What you want isn’t natural for me, and although I love you and only want the best for you, I don’t know if I can change.”
“But you’ll at least give it a try right?”
It took her an eternity to reply, but she finally nodded her head.
“Great! That’s all I ask.”
That night we slept alone, but we were at least in the same house and we both wanted to be there.
By Kelly Ann Rogers
. . . Omigod! You’re embarrassed, aren’t you? You don’t want people to see you kissing another woman because they’ll know you’re a lesbian! You are such a fraud!. . .
. . . Sweetie, why didn’t you say something? You were the one keeping the secret, . .
. . . I met a man. . .
I decided to start slowly, thinking she would need time to adjust. On Monday she had flowers on her desk, and on Wednesday we went out to dinner. On Saturday, I invited her to a show in Manhattan, and she stayed over with me at Phillip’s apartment, sleeping in the room that Courtney had used. On Sunday, we had brunch with Phillip, along with the utterly charming and delightful young man who had spent the night in Phillip’s room. Monday again found flowers, and we shared lunch a couple of times during the week, but she already had plans for the weekend, so I would be alone.
Phillip would be in town for the weekend, so on Friday we got dressed up and went out to The Palm for dinner. Phillip had insisted that it wasn’t as good as it used to be, but I’d never been there and really wanted to try it. I wore a short, black dress with a flirty hem, along with a pair of four-inch “fuck me” stilettos. They hurt my feet after a while, but so what? I blew out my hair so it was at its glossiest best and wore dark eye makeup and bright red lipstick. When we walked in, both of us over six feet tall and looking gorgeous, everyone looked up. I just stood there at Phillip’s side posing for the crowd.
“You’re shameless,” he hissed at me after we sat down.
“Sorry love,” I replied lightly, “but I’m feeling beautiful and I want everyone to know. And I wanted them to see me showing off the hunk I’m with.” He just rolled his eyes and turned to look for a waiter so he could order his usual scotch and my orange-flavored martini. I was so excited about my new relationship with Rebecca that I couldn’t stop talking about it, except to eat, working my way through a small filet mignon while he absolutely inhaled a huge porterhouse. A lush cabernet washed it all down and gave me a nice buzz.
Later, Phillip’s arm around my shoulder, and mine around his waist, we wandered a few blocks east to the U.N. and the East river so we could look at the lights on the 59th street Bridge. After staring for a while in silence, he finally said, “Sara, you’d better be careful.”
“What do you mean?” I replied, slightly taken aback.
“This isn’t a done deal - you and Rebecca. She has real reservations about what you want her to do.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“She called me.”
“And?”
He just looked at me for a moment and turning to face me, took my hands in his. “And . . . she asked me to look out for you. Your excitement is obvious to everyone, and she’s afraid that if she can’t accept being in love with Sara, that you’ll be totally crushed.”
“I will be,” I replied quietly, lowering my head so he couldn’t see my face because I was all of a sudden feeling small and scared. Was this Rebecca’s way of trying to let me down, to have Phillip tell me? “Is there anything else she wanted you to tell me?” I asked, even though I was afraid of the answer.
“No,” Phillip replied evenly. “I think she’s enjoying what you’re doing, she’s just not sure what the outcome will be.”
“Well I am,” I replied with far more confidence than I felt. “We love each other. We’re soul mates. I think once she spends enough time with me, she’ll find her comfort level. . . . She just has to.”
***
I took Phillip’s warning more as a challenge than anything else, and vowed to not lose sight of my goal: to make the woman I love fall in love with me again. I cleaned Rebecca’s house for her and prepared meals that I put in her freezer. I was tickled to be able to do these things and found it really hard to suppress my enthusiasm. I would have picked up her dry cleaning or shined her shoes had she asked. She even teased about how much I was doing, which I took as a good sign, a sign that she was relaxing.
I also increased my doses of hormones. It was time. In fact, it was past time. I didn’t know why I had waited. My skin was nice, but I wanted some evidence of hips, a rounder butt, and I wanted my nipples to develop. I had decided that when Rebecca and I renewed our vows, something I decided we just had to do, hopefully on the anniversary of our wedding, I was going to have breasts of my own. In any case, I vowed that whatever else happened, Sara was going to be as much of a girl as she could without that final surgery.
I wanted to spend all of my spare time with Rebecca, but she was more cautious. I didn’t terribly mind when she wanted to be alone, but she sometimes went out on dates with guys. I didn’t understand why she was doing it, at least I didn’t want to, and I fretted about her finding that “good man” she had mentioned, but just kept my mouth shut. Even though I stayed at her house more and more frequently, we still hadn’t slept together. I felt like a shy teenager, afraid even to kiss her. It’s not that we didn’t touch, we hugged and held hands and even kissed each other lightly on the lips. I waited for the perfect time to really kiss her again, but the more I waited, the more difficulty I had finding that time.
One day, as we were strolling together in a mall, after having gotten makeovers together, she put her arm through mine and pulled me into the ladies’ room. Then, even though there was someone in one of the stalls, she pulled me to her and kissed me square on the lips, opening her mouth to me, inviting me in. But the toilet flushed just then so we pulled apart and started to play with our makeup in the mirror — now we both needed to fix our lipstick. I was exhilarated, and we smiled at each other enjoying the secret of what we had just done as the teenage girl washed up next to us.
As we headed for the parking lot, she asked, “Sara, why haven’t you tried to kiss me yet?”
The best I could do was, “Uh… I, I uh, I wanted it to be the perfect time, but it just never seemed to occur.” I could feel myself blushing and I looked down and away, letting my hair cover my face. “Uh, and, besides, I was scared.”
“You’re joking!” she blurted out, looking amused. This only made me feel even more embarrassed. As she gazed at me, head cocked, I could see something in her eyes, and she smiled gently. “Sara, do I intimidate you?”
“I just don’t want anything to go wrong. I’m trying not to rush anything, to let you decide the pace.” By this point we were putting our bags into the trunk of her hot, red 330ci, which was in a premium spot, right near the mall entrance. Once our hands were empty, she turned to me. “I like kissing you, I’ve missed it. Would you please kiss me now?”
“I, uh . . . here?”
She opened her eyes wide and pushed her face towards me, quietly saying, “Yes, here.” But I didn’t move. As I stood there frozen, Rebecca looking at me like an impatient bus driver waiting for me to find the exact change, I suddenly had a revelation. I was embarrassed! I didn’t want to look like a lesbian! I must have turned completely red, because my face got very hot.
“What is your problem?” Rebecca demanded, now really sounding impatient.
“N… nothing, really.” But I still couldn’t move.
“Omigod! You’re embarrassed, aren’t you? You don’t want people to see you kissing another woman because they’ll know you’re a lesbian! You are such a fraud!” She sounded amused rather than angry, but she was almost shouting.
“N… no, that’s not true. And please, keep your voice down. Everyone can hear you.”
“Of course it is,” she replied, trying to stifle a laugh. “I can’t believe it. You want us to live together as women, but you’re embarrassed to kiss me in public! And I thought I was the one with the problem.” With that, she burst out laughing.
I stood there feeling totally stupid for a few moments, and then I started to laugh too. When we were starting to calm down, and while everyone within earshot stared at us, almost certainly thinking that Rebecca was straight and I was a lesbian trying to get her into a relationship, I shrugged my shoulders, grabbed her face in my hands, and then covered her lips with mine. She immediately opened her mouth, welcoming me in, and this time I didn’t hesitate to take her offer. Her hands went around my shoulders, like they always used to and we just melted into each other.
She felt and tasted utterly delicious, and our tongues found each other in familiar old ways that made us both shudder and sigh. Within just a couple of seconds, the entire world consisted of Rebecca’s lips and tongue, which I couldn’t explore quickly enough.
We parted from our kiss less than a minute later, as Rebecca pulled slightly away and whispered into my ear. “It’s about time, you jerk.”
“I was just scared, afraid you’d reject me,” I whispered back. “I couldn’t face that.”
She pulled back even further and spoke in a normal tone of voice. “Well, now that we’ve gotten over that hurdle, let’s get one thing clear. You want me to make big changes in my life that will force me to change how I view myself. If you can’t handle all the implications of that, there’s no way, we’ll ever get to where you say you want to go. I’m certainly not going to sneak around, and if you want to be my hus…, uh, partner, you better be willing to let everyone know that’s who you are.”
“I’m sorry Rebecca. This is all new to me, too. I’d be terribly proud to be your, uh . . . partner, if you’ll have me . . . and this won’t happen again. I swear.”
“This is just too weird. Let’s get out of here.” Rebecca shook her head in disbelief and turned to walk to the driver’s side door.
After that our time together often involved serious necking. Although I desperately wanted to make love to her, Rebecca seemed content with the way things were, which I actually thought was kind of ironic, like being back in high school. Over the next couple of weeks, Rebecca became increasingly more comfortable with me, and ever more playful, just as she used to be. Holding hands, walking with our arms around each other, and kissing became normal parts of our lives. Three weeks later, she invited me stay the night, which I had done a number of times. Each time, Rebecca would leave me a gift on the bed in the guest room: clothes, lingerie, perfume — girlfriend gifts.
After depositing the groceries and grabbing a drink, I hurried up to see what she had given me. I gave a little gasp when I saw on the bed a beautiful and downright sexy set of lingerie, camisole, tap pant, and garter belt, in deep navy blue with emerald lace accents. They were lying on top of a sheer navy peignoir, with the same emerald lace, along with dark stockings and very high-heeled sandals with a bow across the toes.
I jumped when I heard Rebecca whisper behind me. “I want you to sleep with me tonight.” I hadn’t heard her walk up, and as I turned towards her, the camisole in my hand, she went on. “And I intend to take all that off you, one piece at a time.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. I didn’t want anything to ruin the growing warmth between us, and as much as I wanted to feel her body next to mine, and to hold her in my arms, I was a little worried about how she would react to me in her bed. I hadn’t told her that I had been taking hormones. There had been several opportunities, like when I had started, right after I got my beard lasered off, or when I finally realized that I would always be Sara, and had upped the dose some, or when Rebecca had challenged me to court her, when I really upped the dose, the most my endocrinologist would permit. My aureoles had enlarged slightly and my nipples had started to thicken. There didn’t seem to be much of anything going on behind them yet, but Rebecca was sure to notice the changes that had occurred.
She smiled, as if to reassure me. “Just get dressed and meet me downstairs. I’ll go change too; I’m really in the mood for a romantic evening with my new girlfriend. There’s finger food in the fridge, so if you beat me, start laying it out.” With that, she turned around and walked down the hall to her room.
My heart was beating really fast, and as I turned back towards the bed I realized my breathing was starting to get out of control as well. So I took a few deep breaths to calm myself, and then undressed. The tap pants were delicious, and it was nice to allow my penis and balls to hang free for a change. She hadn’t included a bra, so I figured Rebecca wanted me without my breast forms. The camisole, however, was so slinky as it caressed my skin that I didn’t care about being flat-chested. It only took a few moments to hitch the garter belt over my hips and get the stocking attached before I wrapped the peignoir around my body, snuggling it close to myself for a few moments. My skin tingled, and as I raised my hand up my chest, I could feel my slightly swollen nipple.
I had the cheeses, bread, and fruit artfully arranged on a silver tray before Rebecca flowed into the room. She wore a similar outfit, but hers was a pale cream color with paler, almost white lace. She gave me a huge smile and swiveled over to where I stood, open-mouthed.
“You look lovely,” she said, reaching out and caressing my cheek with her soft palm.
“S ... so do you, just gorgeous. I never. . . .”
At that moment, she lowered her hand down from my face, and then let is slip down my chest, over the slippery fabric. Before I could do anything, her fingertips ran over my nipple and stopped there. She cocked her head and one eyebrow.
“Re. . . .”
She cut me off. “Is this what I think it is?” she asked, stepping back and exploring more carefully. Then dropping her hands entirely, she asked more calmly than I might have, “Is there something you want to tell me?”
Maybe I should have thought about it longer, but I just blurted out, “I’ve been on hormones. I started on low doses right after we split up and recently went to a higher dose. A doctor is prescribing them.”
Her eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips. “Yes, I thought so. Your skin has been so soft and your hair so full and glossy, and your features seem softer too. Let me see.”
“See?” I pulled back slightly.
She grinned to disarm me. “Yes, let me see your chest.”
I stepped forward, and eased open my robe. She ran both her hands down my chest, sending a thrill through me and causing me to gasp as her hands ran over my nipples. When she had reached my hips, she put her hands under my camisole, pushing it up as she slid her hands upwards over my bare skin. When her fingers reached my nipples, she slightly separated her index finger from her third finger and ran them along either side of both nipples. Then she twirled her thumb around them before finally lifting the camisole completely to my shoulders so she could see my chest.
I stared at her intently as she did all this, fearing all the while that she would turn and run.
But she didn’t. Instead, she let the camisole fall back into place. “Well, you have a long way to go don’t you?”
I just nodded.
A frown flickered across her face. “Does it still work?” Before I could do anything, she reached down to my crotch and carefully ran her hand over the tap pants. She smiled as she felt my partially engorged penis swell even further at her touch. She grabbed it gently, rubbing the slinky nylon fabric over it a few times until I was fully erect. “It does!” she exclaimed, brightly. Then she let go, walked past me towards the food and patted me fondly on the ass. “I’m hungry how ‘bout you?”
I didn’t know what I was, except totally unsure of myself. “Rebecca, you discover I’m on hormones, and all you can say is that you’re hungry?”
“Yes, love.” She reached out for my hand, which I gladly gave her. “I didn’t just discover it, I simply confirmed it,” she continued with a small smile. “And frankly, I’m relieved. It was something you had to do; we both know that. And as I said, there were clues.” She rubbed my smooth cheek. “I’ve read all about your physical changes you know. Did you think I’d let you do this without learning as much about it as I could?”
“Why didn’t you say something?” I asked.
“Sweetie, why didn’t you say something? You were the one keeping the secret,” she accused gently, before dropping my hand and reaching for a strawberry.
I just stood and stared at her. Why hadn’t I told her? All of a sudden I wasn’t sure. It had seemed so clear that I shouldn’t, but now I didn’t know why. Yes I do. “Because I was afraid you’d run away,” I exclaimed.
She cocked her head and looked at me, smiling slightly. “No, I don’t think I would have,” she finally replied. “You really don’t give me enough credit. You told me you were Sara and it seemed clear to me that there’s no way you could be Sara without hormones, and eventually breasts of your own, and who knows what else. You’re going to have to be far more honest with me if you want this work.”
I felt chastised, like a little girl caught lying to her mother. I wanted to run away, to cry, to just disappear. “Rebecca,” I started, without even knowing what I was going to say.
Rebecca turned to face me. “No, I really wasn’t being honest with you just now. In the past, I might have run away. You knew how I felt about you having breasts, so it’s not surprising you kept the hormones a secret, but I’ve totally changed my mind.
“Wha . . . ?”
She again put her fingers to my lips. She sighed. “I met a man.”
My eyes went wide, my mouth dropped open, and I could feel my stomach fall and heart accelerate. “You… you’re going to leave me, so you just don’t care?” A feeling of dread started to envelop me and I could see my future disappear.
“Oh no, nothing like that,” she responded quickly, shaking her head. “I’m sorry I said that. I started the wrong way. But I did meet a man; and he did change my mind.”
I could feel my heart start to slow, but I was still really anxious. Rebecca went on before I could figure out what to say.
“Don’t worry, we were in the airport and he was on his cell phone and when he got off, he was just beaming. ‘Wow,’ I said to him. ‘You look like you just won the lottery.’
’No,’ he replied, ‘better. My wife just got her bone scan results back and everything was negative. Her doc says she doesn’t need to see her for a year.’ I wasn’t sure what he meant, so he clarified it for me. ‘She had breast cancer. They did surgery and then chemo and now she’s clean. This is the best news we’ve had in years.’ ”
I nodded to indicate that I understood what she was telling me.
“I asked him if his wife had a mastectomy, because that would be so difficult.
'Two,’ he said nodding. ‘It was horrible. She was so depressed.’ And then he nodded to himself and went on, ‘And so was I. I couldn’t imagine her without her breasts. I was bitter and angry that fate had done this to me, and started to withdraw. She knew what was going on and things between us got really tense. Then, one day in my husbands’ support group, I let it all hang out, figuring I would get lots of sympathy from the other guys. Instead, they really got on my case. One of them said, ‘What? You married her for her tits?’ They forced me to tell them about her, why we had gotten married and why we were still together, and you know what, breasts weren’t on the list. I mean, I liked them and all, and frankly, seeing a woman with a nice pair is still a thrill, but how stupid would I have to be to let breasts be the thing that made or broke our marriage. She has such courage, such strength, such warmth. For reasons I can’t quite understand, she loves me, and that makes me feel terrific. When you think about what really counts, breasts just aren’t that important. Where else would I find a woman like Elizabeth?’ ”
I silently blessed this man and his wife. They’ll never know what they did for me and Rebecca.
Rebecca sat there pensively, her head down.
“That’s what changed your mind?” I asked.
She looked back up at me and simply nodded, a rueful smile on her face. “I was such a fool to make a physical trait so important.” And with that, she bent down and gently kissed both my nipples through my camisole.
I purred.
“If you want to get implants, please do.” She cocked her head and smiled slightly. “Sooner rather than later, I think. I don’t want anything to happen to this big boy while you’re waiting for hormones to work.” With that, she reached down and rubbed my penis through my panties and continued to fondle me until I was again fully erect. This is something I’m quite fond of.”
I was thrilled. This was more than I could have ever hoped for. “Rebecca. . . .” I started.
But I didn’t get any further. She put her finger to my lips. “Shhh.” Then she removed her finger and replaced it with her lips, giving me a soft kiss. “Let’s eat, and then let’s make love. And the next time you decide to make an important step in your transition, let’s talk about it. Okay?”
I slowly nodded. I wanted to talk some more, but thought better of it. So I retied my robe and stood next to her at the counter as we nibbled different things from the tray, giggling and sometimes feeding things to each other.
Later, in bed, I did my best to thank her for her generosity of spirit and she did her best to cram my cock into her as many ways as she could. By the time we were done, we were both exhausted, and she quickly fell asleep in my arms. But I couldn’t sleep, and after thirty minutes or so, I gently untangled myself and got out of bed. I pulled my peignoir around myself and tiptoed out of the room, softly closing the door behind me. Then I sat on our couch, pulled my knees up to my chest, wrapped my arms around them and cried. Lying in bed with Rebecca, I had realized not only how much I loved her, but how much what I was doing must be hurting her. As I sat there with my guilt, I was having a hard time living with myself.
By Kelly Ann Rogers
. . . I have more desirable men chasing me than you have shoes!”
. . . It’s all been about how you look . . . and that’s just not enough.”
. . . I am not a bimbo!”
Chapter XII
“Honey, are you okay?”
Someone was stroking my shoulder.
I was awake, jumping slightly at her touch.
She looked squarely at me as I tried to straighten out my robe and pull the hair out of my mouth. “What are you doing here?” She sat next to me and turned to look me in the eye. “I thought we had a really good time last night.”
“Oh, we did,” I exclaimed, grabbing both her hands and sort of shaking them for emphasis.
“Then what?”
A sob caught in my throat, and I had to clear it before I could look at her. “We did, we really did, and it made me realize how much I love you, a…and then how much I must be hurting you. I hate myself for what I’m doing to you. I just can’t bear it.” Tears poured freely from my eyes.
Rebecca let me go for twenty seconds or so, and then pulled my hands sharply. “You narcissistic little twit,” she hissed at me. “It’s just as if I’m not here at all. You think you’re the center of the universe and everyone else just revolves around you. I got news for you hon; you’re wrong.”
I was so startled, she might as well have slapped me in the face. “But I…”
“Exactly . . . you, you, you. You are so self-absorbed you’ve forgotten who you’re married to. Do you think I can’t take care of myself? Do you think I can’t analyze what’s going on and figure out what’s best for me? Do you think I can’t make sound decisions? Frankly, my dear, you’re the one we need to look out for!”
She stood up, shaking her head angrily, as she stalked around in a small circle until she came back to stand in front of me. I looked up at her, while nervously tucking my hair behind my ear. I was afraid to say anything. I pulled the peignoir around my legs.
She put her hands on her hips and laid it out for me. “You forgot, didn’t you, that I’m the one who kept you at a distance after you moved out. Hell,” she snorted, “I had to get you into treatment for your depression. I’m the one who invited you here. And it’s not your call whether we stay together or not, it’s mine. You, my dear, are the weak one in this relationship, and you are the one everyone else is worried will crash and burn. I’m worried about you, your family is worried about you, our staff is worried about you, and Phillip is so concerned he has just about given up his social life to make sure he’s there for you.”
I blinked rapidly, trying to absorb what she was telling me.
She slowly shook her head and closed her eyes for a second before continuing. “If I didn’t love you so much or had decided I wanted you out of my life, you would have been gone long ago. I have more desirable men chasing me than you have shoes. So don’t worry about me and work on getting your own act together.”
Her anger seemingly spent, her face lost its edge, and she smiled at me the way an indulgent mom smiles at a kid who is really proud of the crayon drawing she just made on the wall. Then she squatted in front of me, placed her hand on my cheek and leaned forward to kiss me softly but briefly on the lips. “Go start the coffee and lay out the things for breakfast, then come join me in the shower. We’re both covered with stuff we need to wash off.”
I didn’t move for a few moments after she left. It wasn’t that I was trying to understand what she had, said, I was so startled that my mind was blank. Eventually I got up, quickly started the coffee and set out everything else, and headed for the bedroom, a little worried about what would happen next. When I got there, however, it was as if our conversation had never happened. Rebecca was warm and funny, just like the day before. Not wanting to spoil the mood, I didn’t say anything either, content just to wait for Rebecca to bring it up again.
Sure enough, right after breakfast, she did. “Did you understand what I said before?” She patted her lips with her napkin.
“Not really. And I’m sure I don’t know why you got so angry.”
She pursed her lips and shook her head. “I’m sorry about that; I guess I was holding it in a little too long. But really, you have been so totally clueless. Sure you’ve worked hard to become a lovely woman. . .”
I looked away, feeling my cheeks warm.
“. . .but aside from your job, the rest of your life is in shambles. You’ve been living in the city for over a year. Have made any new friends? Have you visited any of our old friends? Do you have any friends at all? Do you have any hobbies? Have you been to temple? Have you spoken to Rabbi Strauss? Have you spoken to your folks . . . to Leah?”
I had to shake my head no, repeatedly. I was pretty much a hermit.
“No, of course not. You spend all your time alone. Frankly, my little Miss Sara, you’re not yet healthy enough to be a partner to me. You’re not complete enough; you’re more like a teenager. All you’ve done in all this time is learn how to present yourself as a woman. It’s all been about how you look - little feminine gestures, inflections, a wardrobe . . . and that’s just not enough.”
She hesitated for a moment, stood up straight, put her hands on her hips, and then stared down at me. “You’re plenty cute, but I don’t need a trophy wife. I need a life partner. You’re really a sweet woman, but you’re nowhere near the person Michael was. There was so much more to him than just good looks and a nice dick!”
When she stopped, I realized I had been holding my breath, so I let it out in a big sigh. Rebecca had nailed me. Aside from work, I had put all my efforts into developing Sara’s look. I hadn’t reached out to anyone, and hadn’t even been good at letting people reach out to me. Now, I was beginning to see how that self-centeredness might even cost me Rebecca. With her I was like a puppy dog, submissive, constantly seeking approval and doing whatever it took to get it. Sara wasn’t really like Michael at all. Michael wasn’t tentative or submissive; he was assertive. He used his intellect to get things done; he was creative and didn’t back down from challenges. Looking at it like that, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Sara, as she now was couldn’t ever be enough for Rebecca, unless perhaps she wanted to hire me as her maid, and that didn’t look likely. I had a long way to go before Sara became the woman who could match Michael as a human being.
And in that moment, I had a little revelation. It was my fear, my old cross-dresser’s fear, of being humiliated that held me back. If I was to become the kind of woman Rebecca wanted, a strong one like herself, I would have to overcome that fear and just start to deal with people, no matter how uncomfortable, or even fearful, it made me.
“I see,” I finally managed to get out. “You’re right. I’ve been totally focused on myself and how I look to other people. I’ve been so focused on how I appear that I haven’t worked on anything else.”
“So there is a brain in that pretty little head,” she said a little too sweetly, making me wince.
“Yes, but with all the . . . uh . . . shortcomings you spelled out, it sounds more like you want to get rid of me than anything else. If you want, I’ll just leave.”
She frowned and scolded me as if I was her teenage daughter who had just thrown a little tantrum. “Don’t get petulant with me. You’re behaving like a child. I want to know what you’re going to do next. Since the time you started ‘courting’ me, as you put it, you’ve proved you can be a good and attentive maid, and that you’re totally afraid of me.”
“I’m not.”
“Of course you are. You’re afraid to do anything you imagine might offend me. You were even scared to kiss me, for God’s sakes!”
“I. . . .”
“You’ve been more tentative than a thirteen-year old boy on his first date. I want you to be an adult, and I’m willing to let you be a woman. That means you have to be an adult woman. I know we have a history together, and I do love you, but all I know about this Sara person is that she’s cute and attentive, and scared to death to be herself, whoever that might be. Why in the world would I want to be married to someone like that?”
“Rebecca. . . .” I started, my voice rising in frustration.
But she wouldn’t be stopped. “Don’t you Rebecca me you . . . you bimbo!”
“Rebecca!” I nearly screamed, jumping up from my seat. “I am not a bimbo!”
She paused for a second and seemed to deflate. Then she giggled and looked straight at me. “No, I guess you’re not,” she said clearly but quietly. Then raising her voice to a more commanding level, she went on, “A bimbo wouldn’t just think about her clothes and makeup, she’d think more about sex. You haven’t even tried to come on to me. Until last night, I was beginning to fear you didn’t find me attractive anymore.”
“Is that what this is about? Sex?”
Her pupils dilated, and for a moment she was speechless, so I just kept going. “Cause if it is, you made it perfectly clear that wasn’t going to happen — until yesterday.” I was so frustrated my voice broke down into a lower register, which left me feeling mortified. I was instantly reminded of who and what I really was. My hands flew up to my mouth, and I could feel my face redden.
We both glared at each other for a moment, our eyes wide and my hands over my mouth. I didn’t know what to think. I couldn’t believe I had yelled at her, and given all she’d said, I feared I had completely ruined my chance to get back with her.
Then she giggled, and smiled, the small creases she hated formed at the corners of her eyes. I wanted to stay angry, but I giggled too. And then we were both laughing. A few moments later she threw her arms around my shoulders and pulled me to her.
“No, it’s not about sex,” she told me while holding me close. “It’s about the kind of a person you’re going to be.” Then pushing me away to arms length, she said, “Do you have any idea?”
“I. . . . I. . . I thought Sara would be just like Michael.”
“Well then, why doesn’t she start acting that way?” She cocked her eyebrow and tilted her head.
“I thought I was,” I whispered because it hadn’t been obvious to me I wasn’t. “I didn’t know.” Which was true.
“So now you do, what are you going to do about it? I want to know the authentic Sara Cohen, not some clothes horse by the same name.”
By Kelly Ann Rogers
I'm sorry this has taken so long, but for reasons I don't really understand, posting this chapter has affected me as deeply as sending my kids off to college. This story is one of my children, and now I've sent it out into the world.
Thanks for reading it.
KAR
Six months later
“That went great!” I sighed, leaning back on the front door, which I had just shut after saying good night to Barry and Diane, the last to leave. Diane had given me a lingering hug and Barry surprised me by adding a kiss on the lips to his own warm hug. “It was almost like things have been like this forever.”
“They are the sweetest people, aren’t they?”
“Yes, it makes me feel stupid to have isolated myself from them for so long.”
“You were stupid, and if I hadn’t kicked you in the butt, you probably still wouldn’t have seen them!”
“Yeah, I know,” I replied walking towards her. I put my arms around her and gave her a hug, turning my head so I could lay it on her shoulder. “Thank you for that. It was a kick I really needed.” After lingering for just a moment more, I stood up and grabbed Rebecca by her shoulders to turn her towards the kitchen. Giving her a little pat on the ass, I said, “Now we have to clean up though. Scoot, or we’ll be up all night.” As she started towards the kitchen, I headed towards the living room to pick up the remains of a lovely evening.
Once I had gotten everything into the kitchen and we sere sorting through it, Rebecca asked, “You and Marty were gone together for a while after dinner. What was that about?”
“That was about him quizzing me to see if being all girlie, as he put it, was what I really wanted to do, and then after I had convinced him that it was, him trying to talk me into letting him feel me up.”
“What? He came on to you?”
“Not hardly. I think he was just being his usual lewd self and goading me to see if there was any guy still left inside this girl. I almost let him do it. I told him the day he beat me at racquetball I’d consider it. But that’ll never happen. He’s too uncoordinated.”
“You little slut,” Rebecca squealed. “Those are mine and no one else is allowed to play with them.”
“Oh really? If you want to own them, you better pay close attention to them, or they might start to wander,” I teased, sliding over to her and pressing my chest against her back and rubbing my breasts against her. As she turned to look at me to see if I was being serious, I waggled my eyebrows at her.
“Well, if you ever start to wonder if I can take good enough care of them, just remember the first time we had sex after they had healed.”
I unconsciously licked my lips. It was a delicious memory. Rebecca was the kind of lover every girl should have, especially teenage girls for the first time they let a guy feel ‘em up.
“You were in the kitchen putting away groceries and starting to get things ready for dinner. Remember?”
I nodded. The memory was still crystal clear, and utterly delightful. “I was at the counter when I heard you enter the kitchen. I turned and when I saw the predatory look in your eye, I suddenly felt very shy. But you just kept walking toward me until you had forced me to lean back and put my hands on the counter behind me to brace myself. You knew it would thrust my chest out, which was just what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
She smiled, cocked an eyebrow and looked directly into my eyes, studying me for a moment. As I looked back, I noticed the creases at the corners of her eyes. They really had deepened since this whole thing began, what was it, three years ago, more? I tried to figure it out, but Sara interrupted, saying, “I knew just what I wanted to do. You looked so shy and demure, so very, very sexy; I almost forced you down on the counter to take you right there. But I really wanted it to be gentle and slow and delicious for you. So I stepped back slightly and put my hands on either side of your waist; it felt so soft as I gently caressed you through our blouse. Georgette wasn’t it.
I nodded, savoring the memories she was bringing back. “Um, you slid them up my waist, to my breasts. When you finally touched them, your palm cupped the outer half and your thumbs lifted and explored the bottoms just above the underwire of my bra. I was on fire. Then you rotated her hands so your thumbs were directly over my nipples. I could feel them tighten; it was exquisite.”
“Yes, I could feel it. Then I unbuttoned your blouse. It didn’t take long, you had already undone the top three, you tease.”
I blushed. Of course I had unbuttoned them. I had spent ten minutes in front of the mirror trying to figure out how many to leave undone. I had really wanted to leave four or five open, but I chickened out. Three seemed both sexy and demure.
“Your breathing was quick, almost out of control, like it always is when you get anxious. I whispered, ‘shhh,’ and you slowed down. As your chest rose and fell more deliberately. I was mesmerized by the way your breasts lifted and fell with each breath. I had never been so captivated by a pair of breasts before. And you had on the loveliest bra. After all those years of seeing nothing but the full-coverage bras you had to wear with your breast forms, that flimsy little scalloped thing was a revelation, just scrumptious. The sight took my breath away.”
“You didn’t waste much time taking it off though.”
“No! I could barely contain myself. I wanted to get to those lovely breasts.”
“You said, ‘Oh my,’ like you had never seen any before.”
“Sara, I had never looked at anyone’s breasts as sexual objects before. It was as new for me as it was for you.”
“You said you loved them, that they were perfect for me.”
“They were. They are! I felt like such a fool for having made them such a big issue. I was totally wrong.”
That broke the spell. It was time to deal with reality again. “No, no, you weren’t. You’re a warm, caring, lovely woman, who through no fault of her own got thrown into a confusing mess by her fucked-up husband.”
She looked up at me somewhat dubiously so I gave an anchor woman nod. Even though I hated the inanity of it, I felt it was just the thing Rebecca needed. I guess it was; she gave me a small smile in return.
“Really Rebecca, how could you have been more unlucky than to fall for a guy who was really a girl, only he didn’t know, or at least wasn’t ready to admit it. And then, after he figures it out, does he have the courtesy to just leave? No. He seduces you into a life of lesbian perversion.” I grinned to show I was kidding, and then went on, “You’ve had to go through a lot of stuff most women don’t even dream of, and your willingness to love me just melts my heart and makes me want to do everything for you — and I will.”
“Will you, now?” she said cocking her head while a devilish little smile spread across her face. “We’ll just have to see about that.
Turning completely around so we were facing each other she replied, “Oh, you. You think you’re such a big shot. I wonder just how you would respond if some guy came on to you seriously. From what I’ve seen so far, you’d probably throw yourself at him just to have him suck on your little titties.”
“No way!” I said with exaggerated outrage. “A guy is the last thing I want. And even if for some crazy reason, I considered it for a moment, the other last thing I want is for some guy to find out how I’m really equipped.” I rubbed my pelvis into hers to emphasize my point. “I’m sure I don’t want to find out what would happen then.” I backed away to start working again. “You and Diane were seriously huddled by the bar for awhile. What was that about?”
“Oh, the usual,” Rebecca replied airily, flipping her fingers at me. “Is he really a girl, are you a dyke, what’s it feel like to be a lesbian — the kinds of things girlfriends always talk about.”
I grimaced. “I’m sorry. I wish you didn’t have to deal with all that.”
She turned to face me again, a soapy bowl in one rubber-gloved hand and a sponge in the other. She was oblivious to the small puddle of soapy water that was forming on the floor under the bowl as she spoke. “You know, in a strange way it’s fun. It makes me special. To everyone else, I’m living this very adventurous life, doing something a little dangerous, like traveling to strange lands, and they can only sit home and feel totally ordinary. Even if they would never want something like this to happen to them, they’re a little envious because their lives are so ordinary. Beth nearly said as much.”
“Wow,” I replied in mock amazement. “This has to be the most amazing case of pulling a silver lining out of a dark cloud I ever heard of. As you may recall, the last couple of years haven’t been that much fun.”
She stood there looking at me for a few moments, and then in a wistful voice she said, “Yeah, I know. I wouldn’t wish them on anyone. But you know what? It’s really challenged me as a person. It’s made me examine what’s really important, and what doesn’t matter so much. It’s made me consider who I am, and how much of my self image is tied up in what others think of me. I mean, at first people saw me as a victim because you ‘did this to me,’ then I was a saint for putting up with it, and now everyone who sees but doesn’t know us thinks were lesbians. I wasn’t sure I could deal with that at first.”
I could see tears start to form in the corners of her eyes and she turned back to the sink so I wouldn’t see how upset she was. Again, I moved over to her, being careful not to slip on the wet floor. I grabbed her around the waist from behind, knowing I had to say something. Before I could figure out what that might be, she spun around to face me again. We were almost nose-to-nose.
“No, it’s okay,” she exclaimed. “Now I see that almost nothing has changed with our close friends and business acquaintances, and I don’t much care what others think. Most people couldn’t care less what we are, and when I see someone who seems to be disapproving I get angry. How dare they judge me without even knowing me! Lord knows, neither one of us has ever had anything but good relations with gay people - we work with them everyday for God’s sakes - but until now I never appreciated the burden they have to carry because some people have these irrational biases. Now that I’ve been thrust into a position of being seen as a lesbian woman, I’m far less accepting of people who are disapproving. What chutzpah!”
I couldn’t help it. I giggled.
“What are you laughing at?” she asked, fire rising in her eyes.
“No. Don’t get angry. It’s just that for me, being a lesbian is a real step up from being a trannie. It’s something I aspire to!”
“To be an outcast, and not a nice heterosexual gal with a nice boyfriend to take care or you?” she challenged.
“Do you think that’s what my parents want for me?” I asked. To find a guy rather than stay with you and maybe have children one day?”
“I’m very proud of you for the way you’ve brought your parents back into our lives. That was a huge step forward for you.”
“I don’t know how big it was, but it’s certainly been strange. My mom treats me like a daughter and we speak almost every day. I sure don’t know where that came from.”
Well, you are her daughter now aren’t you? And isn’t that how moms and daughters interact?”
“You don’t speak to your mother that often.”
She looked at me like I was an idiot. She rarely spoke to her mom, who had become an angry, bitter woman after her husband had died. Rebecca described her as toxic, and kept as much distance as possible, which wasn’t hard because her mom refused to call her.
I tried another example. “And I speak to her far more frequently than either Courtney or Leah, probably both together. Courtney I can understand, she’s always working. But Leah? They speak a couple of times a week at most. I don’t get it.”
Rebecca studied me a moment and then said, “Did it ever occur to you, my dear, that you just may be a sweeter person than either of your sisters? One’s a trial lawyer and the other’s a surgeon. Does that perhaps tell you anything about their personalities?”
I’d never thought about it like that before, but I guess of the three of us, I was the one ‘blessed’ with the most empathy and the skills to relate to other people. Was I the sweetest, even when I was a guy, I wondered. Then I had a clever idea. The reason I speak to her so much is to protect you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you know my mom will never leave us alone till we have kids. As long as she can harass me about it, she’ll be less of a pain to you.”
She looked at me dubiously.
I went on, “By the way, are you sure you want to let her get another shot at you this Sunday too?” We now saw my parents on most weekends.
“Oh spare me. You are such a fraud,” Rebecca teased. “And besides, it’s stupid to make excuses for doing something that’s good and right. I don’t think anyone knows better than me how important a good relationship with your mother can be.” A corner of her lip twitched, and she frowned for a moment. Then she crinkled her nose at me and a smile took over her face. “Yeah,” she said, “I think I do want to give her another shot at me Sunday. It’s worth it. You know my family life is nonexistent, and your parents and sisters are so nice to me. I need that. I really don’t want to give it up. At least not until I have to.”
I looked at her closely. I wanted to shout, ‘You’ll never have to give it up if you stay with me,’ but then I laughed. “I don’t know what you’re worried about; if we split up they’ll surely keep you and get rid of me.” It was supposed to be funny, but I guess it hit too close to home for both of us. We both fell silent.
But I knew what she meant. Things between us still weren’t settled. That good man might still show up, or she might decide she didn’t want to live like this or could never have children with me, even though I was both willing and able. We’d discussed it many times, but I didn’t want to go there again right now. I figured that someday I would have to have the operation and go the rest of the way to womanhood- I certainly didn’t want to end up in a nursing home as a woman with a cock - but I had lots of living to do, and children to create before that time came, so I tired something else to lighten the mood again. “You remember when Larry came over to fix the furnace?”
She giggled. It had been quite a scene. She had stayed upstairs while I opened the door. “You need to face these people,” she had said, and I agreed. How could I live in my own town without everyone there knowing who and what I was? We had been there for some years now and everyone knew Michael and that he was married to the lovely Rebecca. By the time Larry made it over, many of the merchants in town had met the new me, but Larry hadn’t. How often do you need a furnace repair man? He became so flustered when he figured out who he was talking to that I became embarrassed for him. I let him flee down the basement, because he needed time to collect himself, and I guess basements are places furnace repairmen feel comfortable. He so rushed to get down there that he hit his head on the way down, almost falling over. I gasped, and yelled out, “Larry!” For a moment, until he turned and gave me an embarrassed grin, I thought I would end up kneeling over him holding an ice bag to his bleeding head. But you know what? By the time he came up, he behaved as if Sara had always lived in this house with Rebecca. He was so sweet and so cordial that I almost kissed him on the cheek. I didn’t, of course, it probably would have given him a heart attack. Rebecca and I laughed and laughed about it after he left, but I never forgot how sweet he had been, and how accepting.
“Yes dear, you’ve come a long way since our little talk. Every day you look, no, make that behave, more and more like the ma. . .” She stopped and gave me a rueful look, and then went on, “person I married. The one I fell in love with, the one I still love. It’s just that I’m not sure what to do with Sara. With Michael, there seemed to be only plusses; with Sara there are plusses and minuses. It’s not just that I haven’t yet solved the equation; it’s that I still haven’t sorted out all the factors that go into it. I still don’t know what’s really important and what’s not, and how to weigh things against each other.”
I could feel tears start to form in my eyes. It was just so hard, our life. It wasn’t bad, it was just so uncertain. One day up, the next down. One minute up, the next down. Both of us learning and adjusting, or trying to, or refusing to. How much reality could anyone deal with in one dose?
So, as Rebecca and I stood there looking at each other, both of us tired, neither of us looking all that great, I took the path of least resistance. I leaned in and kissed her. First gently, just a touch on her lips, then a moment later, a little more eagerly, moving my lips over hers in a way we had done forever, and finally I really kissed her. Before we got to the point of no return, I pulled back and looked into her eyes. “I love you,” I whispered, and then before she could reply, I kissed her again.
“Oh, Sara,” she finally sighed, pulling her lips from mine. I couldn’t read the look in her eyes, though, and I shivered slightly my unconscious fear manifesting itself physically.
Rebecca picked up on my little shiver instantly, pulling me into a big, really comforting hug. Standing there so close to her, enveloped entirely by her presence, her touch, her hair, even her odor, I decided it was smarter to live in the present than worry about the future. If the past couple of years had taught me anything, it was that I really didn’t have control over much: barely over myself, less over the people I loved and virtually no conttrol whatsoever over the rest of the world. No matter what I did, unexpected things always happened. The best I could do was to work to be my authentic self, be patient with Rebecca and hope. I wondered for a fleeting moment whether I had the courage, but before any defeatist thoughts could form, Rebecca leaned in and started to nuzzle the side of my neck, pushing my hair aside so her lips could reach my skin. I sighed and let myself melt into the feeling. . . .