Cynthia V. Hart

The Role of A Lifetime

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THE ROLE OF A LIFETIME
Fiction by Cynthia V. Hart

David shivered. The old mansion could get drafty at night. He had to jump a little to lay down on the bed, as it was slightly higher than modern beds. Looking up, all he could see was the canopy and the curtains almost walled off the room. It was as if he was in a whole other world, insulated from the one he knew. The mattress was so soft, so comfortable, he felt himself relaxing immediately. Had it really been only a week since he got that letter from the law firm representing her estate? Imagine—his dull, drab old Aunt Frances, the secret love child of one of Hollywood’s most glamorous and tragic silver-screen sex goddesses. It still was hard to believe he was any relation to the legendary Ginger Garrison. And with her and Aunt Frances both gone, the magnificent old mansion in L.A.’s tony Holmby Hills neighborhood was all his now -- every stick of furniture and stitch of clothing in the place. The fancy cars in the garage and the paintings on the walls. He would think about how to pay the inheritance taxes on all of it tomorrow.

Flying out here from Vermont had really taken it out of him. The butler had installed him in another room, but when he’d been told this was her room as they passed, he couldn’t resist sneaking a peek inside. He closed the door quietly so as not to alert anyone to his presence. He took in the opulence of the room, like the rest of the house only more so: the huge dresser and dressing-room-style lighted vanity, a closet and wardrobe, the lavishly appointed bathroom...and a big four-poster bed with gauzy curtains that seemed to draw the eye to it. He struggled with temptation, gave in at last and opened a drawer or two. The topmost ones were full of lingerie, the old-fashioned kind from the mid-century period of their owner’s heyday: panties both brief and less so, stiff, lacy underwire bras, stiffer girdles, garter belts, waist cinchers, and silky hose galore. He let his hands savor the texture of the garments before carefully placing them back where found, then toyed with the impressive arsenal of makeup on the vanity: blush, mascara, rouge, scented powders, nail polishes and lipsticks in dozens of shades. Thoughts that made him blush beet-red went through his head.

Finally, he wandered over to the bed and sat on its old-style high mattress experimentally. It gave beneath him, with a lush softness one would expect in a home whose occupant could afford the very best of everything. Surely it couldn’t do any harm just to lay down for a bit... he thought. He sank down and down into a trancelike state of half-sleep. Presently he heard something...a whisper or a rustle of drapery, he couldn’t be sure which. No, it was definitely a whisper: ...Hi there, sailor!.. He looked around, but saw no one through the curtains.

Relax... the whisper came again. Lay back...get comfortable. He started to get a bit nervous. But the whispering voice seemed so seductive, so enticing that his nervousness couldn’t go much further than mild unease. Take all those clothes off, honey. You must be sweltering.

Take his clothes off? Well, he was going to sleep...it did seem natural enough. He pulled off his shoes and socks, unbuttoned his shirt, loosened his belt and pants, slid them off and was down to his shorts. Take it all off, the voice hissed. With a swallow, he took off his shorts and lay naked on the bed. He didn’t feel the chill he had expected. In fact, he could swear he felt someone’s warm breath on his neck. And though he still saw no one but himself, he was starting to feel...something...touching him, caressing him.

So handsome, the voice whispered. Young and smooth...just the way I like ’em.

Suddenly something in his brain clicked into place and he recognized the voice. He had to be hallucinating. It couldn’t be her; she was decades dead. But the soft soprano was unmistakable, even at a whisper. “Is someone there?” he asked aloud, still not allowing himself to think the obvious.

Nobody here but us ghosts, darling, said the voice. Now he felt a chill...right up his spine. “G...Ginger?”

Right the first time, the voice replied. What did you expect? This is my bedroom, after all. Or was, at least.

Outed at the Office

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OUTED IN THE OFFICE
Fiction by Cynthia V. Hart

The white #10 business envelope had no printing on it, just my name handwritten on the front. I found it sitting in my chair Monday morning when I arrived at work and came to my cubicle. I wondered who it was from; if it were official company communication, it would have been in one of our letterhead envelopes. I sat down, opened it and found a folded letter-size sheet of paper. On it was a printed photo, obviously taken by a smartphone’s camera…and my eyes widened in shock.

It was a photo of Andrea, no question. The dress, the face, the wig, the décor of the club…they were unmistakable. Someone had snapped a photo of me in my “other life” and left it here waiting for me in this envelope. I had thought nobody in the office knew I was a crossdresser, but here in my hands was proof that I was wrong. My heart was in my mouth and I started shaking with sheer terror.

Under the photo was printing from Microsoft Word or some other word-processing software, in that annoyingly overused Comic Sans font. It read:

“Dear Andrew: Is this you?

“I took this picture at a club last Saturday night, and after looking closely I am positive it was really you. If I am wrong, please forgive me and destroy this note. I swear to God, I am NOT trying to blackmail you or get you fired; I am really just curious. You looked really sexy - if I hadn’t known your face from work, I would almost never have guessed you weren’t a real woman. I would really like to get to know this other side of you. Please let me know if you are interested; I promise never, EVER to tell anyone no matter what you decide.

“Your friend always, Wendy.”

I gaped at the signature. Was this the gorgeous young lady I had spent two years or more working alongside, who sat just down the row of cubicles from me? Young, pale-skinned and freckled, busty and red-haired, blue-eyed and very cute, Wendy Parsons had always seemed a bit friendlier to me than most of the people there…but I had put it down to the rapport I often had with women, with whom I had always gotten along much better than those of my own gender. She strongly resembled a younger version of the actress who plays Joan on Mad Men -- Christina Hendricks, I think her name is -- right down to the epic prow. I had always loved the way her wavy crimson mane cascaded down from her head back over her shoulders, and the way her ample breasts filled out the front of her businesslike blouses and dresses. Sometimes I liked to imagine she wore something cut a bit lower than usual or left one extra button unbuttoned just for me to enjoy…but of course, that was mere fantasy.

I sat there for what must have been close to an hour, not even getting any work done, just trying to cope with the news that at least one of my co-workers was on to me and deciding what to do. Was it really from Wendy, or one of my other co-workers who’d spotted me and was trying to trap me?

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