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Author’s note: This is a work of fiction and fantasy. References to the Vietnam War and Naval Aviation in general as well as to Naval Air Station Miramar in particular were done for story background; there is no actual resemblance to real persons, Navy Fighter Squadrons, Aircraft Carriers or factual happenings. These characters, entities, and events took flight solely in the “theater of my imagination.” There they will remain. Suffice it to say, I have nothing but the utmost admiration and respect for those Navy Fighter Pilots who flew and fought over the hostile skies of North Vietnam.
 
 
CHAPTER 1: MIRAMAR SUNSET
 
 
It was a typical ending to another great Southern California day. My spouse and I were relaxing on our lanai in the foothills above Miramar overlooking the Pacific Ocean and watching the sunset. Each of us was alone in our thoughts. Neither had to speak. After more than three decades of marriage, we communicated by gesture and body language as well as verbally. The chilled Chardonnay we were sipping contributed to our contentment.

Both of us were holding up against the race of time. I reflected, however, that I was becoming a little frumpy or dowdy in my appearance as I approached my 60th birthday. Gravity and middle-age spread had taken their toll. My breasts were sagging, and a panty girdle was a necessity on those rare occasions that we dressed up. Where once I had been a veritable fashion horse, now I was content to while away the hours in slacks, a sweatshirt, and sensible shoes. My salt-and-pepper hair was cut short for minimum maintenance. My only concession to female vanity was lipstick and small, gold studs in my pierced ears. This was a far cry from my days in designer dresses, stiletto heels, lacquered nails, and expensive coiffures. I found myself nodding in the affirmative. Yes, it had been a good life and I was happy to be where I was and run out the clock.

Off in the distance in the rapidly fading blue sky, I could see white-high-altitude-condensation trails carved out by military jets, probably FA-18 aircraft from Marine Corps Air Station Miramar. That immediately brought back a flood of distant memories. I must have reacted. Madeline reached over and squeezed my hand.

I squeezed her hand gently in return and lovingly looked at my companion of 30-plus years. It had been and continued to be quite a relationship that is hard to explain, let alone understand. Passionately in love, we had started out as man and wife. After one year into our marriage and with her full support, I began psychiatric counseling and, subsequently, hormone therapy in preparation for male-to-female sexual reassignment surgery. Two years later I underwent the surgery and legally changed from Andrew to Tiffany, a transsexual. We have remained married and completely devoted to each other. For whatever unfathomable reason, we are as happy together as a lesbian couple as we had been as husband and wife.

“Yes, Tiffy?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing, Maddie. I was just musing about the old days.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe what it would be like again to strap on a helmet, oxygen mask, and G-suit and go bore holes in the sky like those guys.” I pointed up at the wispy contrails.

“How do you know they’re guys? They have female Naval Aviators, now,” she deadpanned. “Perhaps you’ll be recalled.”

I smiled and refilled our wine glasses. We resumed our silence.
Night had fallen, but we continued to sit in the pleasance of darkness, a mild ocean breeze, and twinkling lights that stretched as far as we could see from San Diego to the south and to Oceanside to the north. Despite my best efforts, I started to think about the past and how I had traded pants for dresses. When did my feminine persona really begin? What were its roots? I wasn’t sure.

My earliest remembrance as a child is sitting on my mother’s lap in the kitchen of our San Francisco apartment when I was three or so. The scene is indelibly inscribed in my memory because in it, I am wearing a red pinafore dress with white sox and black patent buckle shoes. There is a ribbon in my curly, blond hair and I have red polish on my fingernails. Was this early display of transvestism my idea or my mother’s?

I sip my wine, enjoy the darkness, and take comfort in the holding of Madeline’s hand. As I do so, another scene from my childhood flashes by from a hidden cranny in my memory. In this one, Joe Moore, a playmate from across the street, and I out of idle curiosity, explore my mother’s lingerie drawer on a summer afternoon and don panties, bras, and slips. We run about the shade-drawn apartment and have a grand time. I was about ten years old. From this moment on, though, I am hooked on full-length slips, lavished in lace. In fact to this day, whenever Madeline is stuck as to what to get me for a birthday or whatever, she usually opts for a luxurious slip or chemise. I am never disappointed.

Madeline is a very sensual woman. She enjoys physical expressions of endearment and we have always had a very active sex life. I wasn’t sure what sex would be like after my surgery, but to my delight, I find it satisfying. Across the years, Madeline instructed me on the use of vibrators, dildos, “G” spots, erogenous zones, and oral sex. Suffice it to say, each of us knows which buttons to press when we make love. In the Miramar darkness, Madeline senses my turn on and leans across to me. Without a word, we kiss each other full on the mouths, exchange competing lipstick tastes, and our tongues play tag with one another. Each of us instinctively feels for the other’s breasts. Four nipples go taut. Soon we are petting hot and heavy and both of us are ready. I don’t want the evening on the lanai to end yet, so I call a truce. We break off. Madeline smiles that impish grin that attracted me to her in the first place. We both lapse into contented silence. It goes unsaid that once we hit our bedroom, a long bout of lovemaking will ensue. But first, I have a trip through the portals of my past.
 
 
CHAPTER 2: AN OFFICER AND A GENTLEMAN
 
 
My reverie begins as I try to puzzle out the how and why of my journey from manhood to womanhood. In retrospect, I really didn’t cross dress that much in high school or college. The opportunity wasn’t there. Infrequently, when I really felt the need and my sister was away at a friend’s house, I would put on one of her outfits complete with under garments and prance around an empty apartment. Not for long, I might add. Invariably, all that soft and delicate fabric rubbing against me would produce an erection that was all too soon followed by an uncommanded ejaculation. The first time it happened I was caught so off guard that I made a mess in her panties. Trying desperately to get her dress and slip up and her panties down between a garter belt and high-top hose to free my penis before climax was too much for me. Until I started cross dressing full time, this premature excitability was always a problem for me.

Somewhere in my junior year in college, I fell in love with the romance of flight, specifically, I wanted to be a Navy pilot. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it was because of the strong Navy presence in the Bay Area, especially, Alameda Naval Air Station. Anyway, after graduation with a degree in Liberal Arts, I plowed my way through a battery of tests and was accepted as an Aviation Officer Candidate. Then I was on my way to Pensacola for Pre-Flight training. Primary was next at Saufley Field. Then came Basic at Whiting and Carrier Qualification back at Saufley. Because I was a good stick-and-rudder guy, flight grades were not a problem, and I was one of a select few in my class to qualify for jets. For my finale, I was off to Texas for Advanced. Eighteen months after I began, I was designated a Naval Aviator and sent to a Replacement Air Group at Naval Air Station Miramar in Southern California to learn to be a F-8 “Crusader” pilot. The year was 1964 and I was 23 years old.

1964 was a hell-of-a year. This was when the old order of the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s dissolved and a massive generational change hit America. Free speech, love, and pot were in. So were long hair, granny glasses, and funky clothes. Crew cuts, Joe College togs, and respect for authority were out. The Beatles, not Britannia, ruled the airwaves.

In the midst of all this, I became a Navy fighter pilot. After four months in replacement training that included familiarization, formation, gunnery, and air combat maneuvering, radar intercepts, in-flight refueling, and day and night (shudder) carrier landings, I was sent to an operational fleet fighter squadron, VF-77, “The Rat Pack.”

Needless to say, the Navy was not a conducive atmosphere in which to cross dress. For almost two years, I had gone without slipping into something soft, slinky, and feminine. I knew I was overdue to cater to my softer side, so I took a week’s leave before reporting aboard to my new squadron and hightailed it home to San Francisco. My sister was currently working for the State Department in England, and I had a hunch she hadn’t taken all of her clothes with her. She hadn’t. At my earliest opportunity, I raided her closet and drawers. For five glorious days and nights I played dress up in a wide variety of lingerie, nighties, sweaters, skirts, blouses, and dresses. I had no experience with makeup so I shied away from that. I didn’t have a wig either, so the best I could do was fashion a scarf around my head into something I thought was stylish. On four of my five nights, I ventured out solo in guy clothes to a famous drag club in North Beach to catch their show. I had to be careful. From my second night on, other regulars started to make passes at me.

On my last night at home, I started to slip into one of my sister’s nightgowns, as was my routine after my mother had gone to bed. Only, she surprised me by coming in to say goodnight after I thought she was asleep. Caught in the act, there I was in pink panties (my favorite color) with my arms extended over my head and about to don a full-length-Empire-waist gown of matching shade when the door quietly opened and my mother came in. It was a tie as to who was more surprised.

“Oh!” she said.

“Oh, Yeah!” I replied.

A long silence hung over us both. We eyed each other. Her gown was yellow.

“I’ll say one thing, dear. Pink looks good on you.”

“Thanks, mom.”

“Maybe we’d better sit down and have a little talk,” she suggested.

“Sure.”

We sat down on the edge of the bed. Almost as if on cue, we each fidgeted and smoothed out imaginary wrinkles in our sleeping wear. She took my hands in hers.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you in female clothes, you know,” she began. “When you were a small, I used to dress you as a little girl until your uncles made me stop. You would have been about four or five then. Do you remember?”

“Only vaguely. Whose idea was it?”

“I’m not sure, Andy, darling. You certainly had a predilection for female things. Perhaps I was trying to humor you. I well remember how you cried and cried when I stopped. We all assumed that you would get over it.”

“I guess I didn’t, huh, mom?”

She smiled sadly and then asked gently, “Would you like to be a woman?”

“I think so…at least when I wear women’s clothes I feel that way. Most of the time I’m too busy to think about it, particularly now that I’m in the Navy. It’s something I control fairly well.”

“You’re not attracted to boys are you?”

“I’m not sure. It gets a little confusing when I dress en femme. I fantasize a lot.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt, dear. Please be careful.”

“I will, mom. Don’t worry.”

She patted my hands and said, “You’d better go to sleep, dear. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.” With that, she kissed me. I could tell that she was crying. We hugged each other.

“I love you, mom.”

“I love you too, dear. And whatever you decide is OK with me.”

“Goodnight, mom”

“Goodnight, son.”

The next day, I departed for Miramar and my new life with the “The Rat Pack.” Before I left, my mother gave me a small, scarf-wrapped parcel to take with me. As she handed it to me, she winked, and said, “Just in case dear.” I threw it in my B-4 bag. Later when I opened it, I found it contained my sister’s nightie and panties from the night before, freshly laundered, and a sexy bra.

Like most Navy squadrons of that era, VF-77 was loaded with guys who drank a lot, smoked too much, chased women, and took pride in their airmanship. Although I wasn’t big on the smoking and drinking aspects of squadron social life, and had some confusion with regard to my masculinity, my flying skills more than compensated for the former. I was soon accepted as a “Rat” albeit a quiet one.

The squadron, recently activated, was preparing for a Western Pacific (West Pac) deployment, and our daily routine was pretty standard. Usually during the week, I’d fly one training flight in the morning and one in the afternoon. Weekends were normally free. Friday and Saturday nights were spent at parties or bar hopping, the purpose of which was to get laid. I never did, although I would pretend that I did and join in the ready room discussions on the following Monday with the other pilots about how I had porked some broad with big tits that I had just picked up. And then I met Madeline…

It was a few months before we were ready to embark for a six-month carrier cruise aboard USS SHILOH (CVA-35) to West Pac. The tragedy known as Vietnam was just starting to unfold. “The Rat Pack” would be there at the beginning. In typical weekend fashion, the squadron was over at a squadron mate’s house on a Saturday evening, getting drunk and horny, and talking flying. It was all very macho with lots of braggadocio. In the midst of all the boasting and swaggering, one new girl stood out. She obviously didn’t belong there. A friend of a friend, she had obviously made a mistake in accepting an invitation to this gaggle. She looked bored and pissed off. I was immediately attracted to her, one outsider to another. I sauntered over to her as casually as I could.

For lack of anything better, I said, “Hi! You don’t look like you’re having a lot of fun.”

“You got that right, sailor. Can you get me the fuck out of here? The bullshit is ankle deep.”

“Let’s go,” I hastily replied. And off we went.

She told me she lived in San Diego and we headed that way. My attempts at small talk got me nowhere. As we got closer to the city, she occasionally gave me curt directions. By the time we arrived at her address, I was resigned to having flamed out. You can imagine my surprise when as I stopped the car she turned to face me and asked, “Do you want to come in?” Boy did I ever although I wasn’t sure why!

Once inside her small apartment, she didn’t ask me what I wanted to drink. She just made coffee. As she served it, I sensed that a lot of her hostility had waned. We said nothing as we looked at each other. I liked what I saw. She was tall, slender, attractive as opposed to beautiful, and conveyed an artistic air. I made the immediate judgment that she read a lot. I soon found out what she thought of me.

“You’re different,” she remarked.

“I’m a ‘Rat’.”

“But you’re not a member of the ‘Pack’,” she observed. And I really wasn’t despite how much I enjoyed the flying.

We began to talk. I found out that she was a Drama Major who liked to draw and paint. She found out I that I was an English Literature Major who liked to play Berlin, Gershwin, and Porter tunes on the piano. Our talk continued. It turned out that politically, we were both Roosevelt New Dealers from a bygone era. Pretty soon we were telling each other confidences that you don’t normally reveal to strangers. About three or four hours later we ended up in bed together. It was my first time with a woman and I was rather clumsy. She was patient.

In between our couplings, intimate revelations were exchanged. Although I didn’t come right out and say it, I hinted at my liking for all things feminine and told her how I had dressed up as a little girl when I was very young. She found that amusing and said, “More men should wear pinafores and ribbons in their hair when they’re growing up. Maybe that way later on, they wouldn’t be such pigs.” If you only knew, I thought as I mounted her and we went at it again. Her patience paid off handsomely.
 
 
CHAPTER 3: OUT OF THE CLOSET
 
 
With less than 30 days to go before deployment, everything in my life was happening at a quickened pace. By day I flew or attended briefings or lectures. At night I was always with Madeline. In fact, I had moved my gear out of the BOQ (Bachelor Officers Quarters) and into her apartment. She made room for my things in one of her dressers and I made myself at home. I didn’t know how much at home until I returned one afternoon after an early secure. We were planning to barbeque steaks on the patio and drink some mellow Chianti.

As soon as I walked in the door, I detected something different. Madeline was a little too polite or perhaps too clever, I wasn’t sure which. I tried to figure it out but couldn’t. We went through the motions of having a pleasant cookout supper. Both of us were glad when it was over. It was merely a prelude to something else. That’s when she told me she had a surprise for me. She left the table to get it. I swirled the after-dinner scotch idly in my glass and wondered what it was. I shortly found out.

With a soft “plop,” Madeline dropped a familiar looking parcel in front of me, only the scarf was no longer tied, and a trio of matching pink panties, bra, and nightgown were arrayed before me. She victoriously crossed her arms and stood before me. Her stance said it all, “Gottcha.”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea, but go ahead and try to explain,” she commanded. “And by the way, a Channel scarf wrapped around women’s underwear among my boyfriend’s clothing invariably catches my attention.”

My face was beet red. Admittedly, I wasn’t much of an ass-kicking male, but heretofore, only my mother knew of my cross-dressing. Zap! I had been “outed.” The best response that I could muster under the circumstances was, “You’re not going to believe this.”

“Try me,” she challenged.

“OK, I will,” I sighed. “These are mine; well actually, they belong to my sister. I borrowed them from her without her knowledge. From time to time, I feel a need to wear women’s clothes. I tried to give you a heads up the first night we met and I told you I used to dress in pinafores, ribbons, and ‘Mary Janes’ as a toddler. Does this make any sense?”

“Maybe.” A little of the sarcasm was out of her voice. “Then what do you do?”

“What do you mean?” I wasn’t sure where she was taking the conversation.

“You know. After you slip into these little delicates, then what? Do you jack off?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

“Come on,” I pleaded. “Don’t rub it in.”

“Oh, no. You don’t get off the hook that easy. You’re going to perform your little charade for me.” With that she picked up the underclothes and opened the patio door. “Into the bedroom, sweetie, unless you’d prefer to change out here and do your thing. I’m sure that our neighbors would enjoy the show.”

Resigned to my fate, I preceded her into the bedroom. She left me standing in the center and sat down at her vanity table with the chair turned towards me like a spectator at a stage show. Mischievousness was spread all over her face.

“Start stripping,” she ordered.

Reluctantly, I did. When I was completely naked, she tossed me the high-cut-nylon panties and I stepped into them. The bra came flying at me next. Much to her delight and giggling, I expertly strapped it on.

“Hey!” she exclaimed. “Cinderella needs some tits.” Out of seemingly nowhere, she filled my bra cups with some hose. With great fanfare, she handed me the nightgown as she dramatically intoned, “Ta Da!” I shrugged, held it above my head, kneaded my arms through the sleeves and shoulders, and let it fall into place.

In spite of my best efforts to the contrary, I could feel the beginning of an erection in the making. A slip, chemise, or nightgown would forever be my Achilles heel. My penis started to gorge and quickly came to full mast. I never felt so vulnerable in my life as my most intimate feelings had just been exposed.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Finish the job.”

“I need a towel.”

“No problem.” She got one from the bathroom and handed it to me. I lay down on her bed on my back, hiked the gown up over my bra to expose my belly, and pulled my panties down and off. The towel was within easy reach. Then with my panties clutched in my left hand and my penis in my right, I began to masturbate.

“Are you fantasizing that you’re a woman having sex?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of a guy is screwing you?”

“A big stud, bald, muscular, lots of body hair, and a bushy mustache. All the things I’m not.”

“Why do you hold on to your panties?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I pretend that I’m in the backseat of a guy’s car, and he’s balling me, and it’s dark, and I don’t want to lose them. I’m not sure. It’s part of my ritual.” I continued to stroke my penis. I was amazed at how long I’d gone without climax. My femme side must include a “showgirl” somewhere. I kept on stroking, and snuck a peek at Madeline. She was fidgeting in her seat, and viewing me with rapt interest. I suspected that it was a turn-on for her.

“How many times have you done this since you began to date me?”

“I haven’t.”

“Don’t ever let me catch you,” she warned.

“You won’t.”

I delivered a few more strokes; then, I erupted. The show was over. I reached for the towel and began to clean up.

Madeline began to clap. “Bravo!” she cried. “That was quite a performance.” She was smiling broadly.

“Thank you. I’d like you to know it was my first and last public one.”

“We’ll see,” Madeline said as she handed me a powder-blue bathrobe. “Here, slip this on. You don’t want to catch cold. I think it’s time for some girl talk.” We tromped off to the kitchen. Over coffee, I bared what little was left of my soul.

“Now, what?” I asked. “Do you dump me?”

“No way. I think you and I can have the best of both worlds.”

“What do you mean?’

“Well, you can be my boyfriend and my girlfriend. There are advantages to each, and we’ll exploit the best of both. It will take some adjustment in our life style, but if you can handle it, I know I can. Besides, you’re the one who will be switching back and forth. A fearless Naval Officer by day, and a compliant, negligee-wearing roommate by night.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Absolutely.”

“You won’t make fun of me?”

“No. Why should I?”

“Because it’s not normal.”

“What’s normal? Besides, I like the idea of having a male that I can control. It’s every woman’s dream. Oh, I can hardly wait to see you in a silk blouse and a mini skirt. You’ll be ‘My Fair Lady.’ Now let’s go to bed.” We did. Our foreplay was much longer than usual. Madeline took the initiative and guided my hands and lips to heretofore unexplored regions of her body. When it was time, by unspoken agreement, she climbed on top of me, inserted my shaft, and slowly slid down it to the hilt. As she bobbed her pelvis up and down on it, we French-kissed, and I played with her boobs and wished that they were mine. In a flurry of movements and groans of ecstasy, we both came simultaneously. Exhausted and slippery with sweat, she collapsed on my chest. I stared at what was to be my first of many ceilings to come. Later, after we had showered together and powered our bodies, we jumped into sensuous nightgowns sans panties (just in case), and fell asleep on our sides in a matching fetal position, she in front of me with each of my arms wrapped around her waist. I couldn’t have been happier. It was short lived, however.
 
 
CHAPTER 4: YANKEE STATION
 
 
All too soon, Navy Fighter Squadron 77 embarked aboard USS SHILOH (CVA 35) and began its scheduled cruise in the Western Pacific. Scuttlebutt (gossip) had it that we were headed for the Gulf of Tonkin in Southeast Asia. Most of us didn’t know or care where that was. President Lyndon Johnson did, however. By Executive Order, SHILOH with VF-77 aboard would soon assume a position 100 miles off the Indo-China coast at 16 degrees North latitude and 110 degrees East longitude. For the next nine years, carrier pilots would refer to it as “Yankee Station.” It would be the best of times and the worst of times for “The Rat Pack.”

Madeline didn’t come pier side to see me off. We had made our goodbyes quietly and tearfully at her apartment the night before. Just before liberty expired at midnight, I walked up SHILOH’s gangplank and requested permission “to come aboard.” It was granted and as the hymn goes, I silently bid “farewell to college joys,” Madeline, and feminine finery, at least for the duration of the cruise. My only reminder of my other life was a desktop-framed picture of Madeline and me which I displayed whenever possible. It was taken at the San Diego Zoo a few days before I sailed. Maddie is in disguise, namely, a shoulder-length, black wig and hippy-style clothes. I am en femme, also wearing a shoulder-length wig, a light auburn with bangs cut, a blouse-sweater-and-skirt combination, flats, makeup, and earrings. Additionally, I affect large Audrey Hepburn-style sunglasses. Why not? Madeline has bestowed the alter name of Tiffany on me. Besides, the glasses make for excellent camouflage. Probably only my mother might detect that the taller of the two smiling, slim girls in the photograph was Lieutenant Junior Grade Andrew Crewson, UNSR, an officer, a gentleman, a fighter pilot, and a transvestite. Anchors Away!

My first peacetime West Pac deployment quickly turned into a combat cruise. After departing San Diego with brief stops in Hawaii and Yokusuka, Japan, SHILOH took a position with two other carriers on Yankee Station in late February 1965. We were just in time for the start of Operation Rolling Thunder, the aerial bombardment of North Vietnam by US Air Force and Navy aircraft from March 1965 to November 1968. As a fighter pilot, my job was to protect the strike force from enemy aircraft and enemy air defenses. Over the next seven months, I flew more missions over North Vietnam than I care to remember. MiG sightings were few and far between. I saw a lot of the enemy’s air defenses, though, from small arms fire to various calibers of anti-aircraft artillery (triple A) to surface-to-air missiles (SAMs). Each mission, the North Vietnamese (NVA) air defense coverage seemed to be better coordinated and more intense. The United States was waging a strange air campaign. The odds were not in our favor.

My first MiG encounter was in June of that year three months after our arrival on Yankee Station. While flying as a wingman in a two-plane flight on a routine combat air patrol, we were vectored in pursuit of a distant bogey but never got close. It was the briefest of encounters and I only saw it as a blip on my radarscope. Before we could close to missile range, we had to break it off because the MiG took sanctuary in China. Two months later, though, in August 1965 and just before we departed Yankee Station for our return transit to San Diego, I saw my first MiG, eyeball to eyeball. Again, I was a wingman in a two-plane flight. This time we were escorting an attack mission on a bridge south of Haiphong when a flight of four bandits jumped us. They made a high-speed pass through the attack formation. Typically, whenever they did, they kept on going balls to the wall. They never seemed eager to reattack. This time they did. The fight was on and it was short and sweet. My section leader never got into the right kill position and came out of the engagement empty handed. Through luck more than anything else, I did. My first sidewinder missile missed because I shot it prematurely and was not in range. My second missile shot was near perfect. Everything was lined up and I had good audio tone. I saw it strike. There was a big fireball and no chute. Scratch one North Vietnamese MiG-17. Not too shabby for a nugget on his first combat deployment. I became one of the first Navy MIG Killers of a long, long war. Two days later we left Yankee Station for Subic Bay in the Philippines on the first leg of our homeward journey. Suffice it to say, that I, a 1960s-Ed-Wood-wannabe, had struck gold. Most Naval Aviators would give one of their nuts to nail a MIG. I had done so with seemingly minor effort and was the toast of the Air Group. All of a sudden, I was everybody’s friend and human tape recorder. The old adage from Lefty Gomez of the 1939 Yankees was true: “ I’d rather be lucky than good.” A Silver Star awarded to me on behalf of my actions in the best interests of the Naval Service was in the offing. This along with seven Air Medals swelled my chest just below my “Wings of Gold.” As an aside, I would later give both my nuts, not for another MiG, but for another cause, a la Christine Jorgensen.

At the end of December 1965, SHILOH returned to its homeport at Naval Air Station North Island (San Diego), VF-77 breezed into Naval Air Station Miramar, and after nearly an eight-month absence, I was reunited with Madeline. In less than twenty-four hours, a Justice of the Peace married us in Las Vegas.
 
 
CHAPTER 5: HELLO TIFFANY!
 
 
So, I began a new life as a husband. At first, our marriage was quite traditional, but gradually, my impulse to cross dress began anew. Madeline neither encouraged nor discouraged me as I fought my inner battle, although she knew a war was in progress. Eventually I surrendered unconditionally to these urges. It was too much for me to be surrounded by all the sights, smells, and trappings of femininity. Every time I opened our closet I was greeted by her wardrobe, which took up more than half. Her vanity table, laden with all the necessary makeup tools and ingredients, was another object of my attention. It was hard to miss. So too were her panties or hose which were frequently drying on the shower curtain bar in the bathroom. As for her lingerie drawer, I couldn’t walk past it without sneaking a peak. All that soft, lacy, and colorful finery took possession of my soul. I felt akin to an alcoholic attempting to dry out in a room full of heavy drinkers. I also realized that cross-dressing was like flying, i.e., the more you did, the more you wanted to do. Conversely, the less you did, the less you wanted to do, although the basic urge never went away entirely. It was always there like a cancer that would go into remission and then inexplicably return. Finally, one night I accepted my fate. While Madeline was washing her face after removing her makeup, I eased into a pair of her panties and one of her luxurious nightgowns, jumped into bed, and pulled the covers up to my chin. Unsuspecting, Madeline lay down, settled in, reached over to grope me, as was her custom, and immediately came to grips with an enormous erection encased in nylon. “Welcome home, Tiffany,” was all she said as she pulled my nightgown up and panties down, took my throbbing penis in her mouth, and began a series of oral ministrations, which produced a torrential climax on my part. Payback was next as she maneuvered my head face down on her privates and held it there for what seemed like hours as she gently undulated her pelvic area. I let my tongue and imagination run wild. She began to emit moans of delight. This was followed by multiple orgasms as her body shuddered uncontrollably. Our sex life had never been better!

Every night thereafter, I wore a nightgown to bed. Madeline didn’t say a word. She smiled ruefully as if it were inevitable. Next, I started to wear panties under my civilian clothing; then a camisole; later a bra. A garter belt and hi-top hose came next. My progression continued. My favorite lounge attire at home consisted of a mini-skirt and a baggy Squadron T-shirt under which I wore panties and a bra. Without being asked, Madeline purchased a pair of foam-rubber-prosthesis breasts, and soon I was sporting a set of 38B jugs complete with false nipples. Whenever we watched TV together, we felt each other up during the commercials.

In between petting sessions one night on the living-room couch, I asked her what she saw in me. “A guy with a soft side,” she replied. “I much prefer that to a wife-beating-beer-guzzling-pot-bellied slob.”

“Do you hate men?” I asked.

“No. I tolerate them.”

“How about me?”

“You’re obviously an exception.”

“Did you ever have an affair with a woman?”

“Do you mean did I ever have sex with a woman?”

“Yes.”

“Sure. Once I hit puberty, all those hormones got the better of me. Everyone thinks that guys are horny. Believe me, so are girls. Melissa, one of my closest girl friends, and I experimented with kissing one afternoon when we were alone. That led to fondling while fully dressed and then to fooling around with each other in just our panties and bras. In a matter of time, we were jaybird naked and crawling all over each other rubbing boobs and snatches. That was my first of many girl-to-girl orgasms. The best part was that you didn’t have to worry about getting pregnant or hearing through the grapevine at school how you had put out for some dumb jock.

“Any hang-ups about this girl-to-girl stuff,” I asked.

“Absolutely none. I feel sorry for you guys. You have to be so macho all the time. You can’t be ‘touchy-feely’ or cry or be vulnerable like girls can. But, hey, tell me about your first time.”

“Well, the icebreaker,” I began, “was when I went to Boy Scout camp for the first time during summer vacation. I was probably 12 years old and had never had a sexual experience, although I was just starting to become aware of my sexuality. Because I was the youngest as well as the smallest kid in my troop, I was on the receiving end of a lot of horseplay. One day after lunch we were on what was called ‘admin’ time. That was a fancy name for unsupervised activity. It meant the leaders or instructors were off somewhere and we were on their own. Naturally, this was an opportunity to start “grab-assing” around and someone would get singled out for special treatment. On this particular day, I was the victim and in short order, I was spread eagle on our cabin floor and held down by eight or so fellow scouts. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, they had stripped all my clothing off. First, they tried giving me a ‘pink belly.’ That’s where they slap your stomach softly but repeatedly until it hurts. After a while, however, they tired of that. Then, they tickled my nose and ribs with a feather. I suppose I didn’t respond with enough discomfort to please them because the next thing I knew, they took my scout neckerchief, blindfolded me, and began to tease my penis with the feather. It was only a matter of time before it was rock hard. That brought on all sorts of jeers and comments. Then one of my assailants slipped my neckerchief knot over my penis and began to slide it up and down to the amusement of everyone. Needless to say, I ejaculated. They cheered. Then they left me to clean up my mess.”

“Aw, that was mean,” Madeline said.

“Yeah, it was, but I wasn’t as humiliated as you would expect.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I know this sounds strange, but I liked the feeling of being made to do something against my will that I really had wanted to do myself but because of religious beliefs couldn’t. Also, and I know this sounds even more strange, but I enjoyed being naked, vulnerable, and submissive. I liked being looked at. It’s a great feeling, almost as if I had power over them. They wanted to see me have an orgasm more than I wanted to have one. And I wasn’t hurt. Am I making any sense?”

“A lot. Why do you think women wear short skirts and see-through blouses? They want to be looked at. At some point, all women have fantasies of muscular warriors, handsome rogues or whatever kidnapping and carrying them back to exotic lairs where they are made to submit to the male’s dominance. Women’s lib aside, a woman wants to be swept off her feet. That’s why romance fiction is so popular.” Madeline paused and then quickly asked, “What happened next?”

“As you might expect,” I continued, “I began to masturbate. Even after my camp experience, it still took a long time for me to build up the resolve to do it, though. I was raised a Catholic, and the Church claims that it’s a sin to perform self-gratification. One night, I was especially aroused and instead of stopping as I usually did whenever I had an erection, this time I lay belly down on the bed with my penis sandwiched between my stomach and the mattress. Then I began to push forward and back so that there was friction between the two surfaces. Nothing happened at first and I was about to call it quits when nature took its course. I started to experience these incredibly pleasant sensations followed by orgasm. This time, I had crossed the line by myself and jacked off. Up until I met you, that’s all I ever did.”

“How often?”

“A lot. And because of the Catholic Church, I always felt guilty.”

I turned to face Madeline and asked, “How about you? Did you feel guilty when you and Melissa were getting it off together?”

“Not at all. We had a grand time.”

“When was the first time you slept with a guy?’

“In college. I never had a steady, but I was anxious to find out if all the hype about getting laid was true, so one night I made sure not to wear a girdle, and I pretended to let my date sweep me off my feet. I balled him in the front seat of a 1938 Chevy. He wasn’t very expert. Despite his swagger, I was probably his first lay. I had teased him mercilessly throughout the evening. Lots of hand holding, slow dancing, whispering in his ear, the whole bit. Then we parked on a lookout near Point Vista. I let him unbutton my blouse and take my bra off. The poor kid was panting so hard I felt sorry for him. After a while I guided his hand down toward my panties. He was really excited now. To help him out, I placed his hand over my clitoris. I don’t think he knew what it was. For fun, I reached over and squeezed his hard-on. He flinched and started to deep kiss me. I broke away from his lip-lock and asked him if he had a rubber. He didn’t. I did, and I slipped it on him. Then I let him mount me. I had to insert his penis. On his own, I don’t think he ever would have found the mark. And let me tell you, the front seat of a floor-shift car is not the most romantic place in the world to relinquish your virginity. It went pretty much as I thought it would. After two or three strokes, my Lothario shot his load. I didn’t see stars or hear bells ringing. We cleaned up; I rearranged my clothes and stuffed my bra in my purse. Then he took me home. I never went out with him again.”

“That didn’t sound like a lot of fun,” I said.

“It wasn’t. What was fun though, was being in control. I like that. Men believe that women are the weaker of the sexes, but that’s a myth due to male conceit. When you have a pussy, you have real power. Unbeknownst to most men, the sex act itself is a great equalizer between the sexes. In fact, it’s clearly weighted in the woman’s favor. She can have multiple orgasms while the poor, muscle-bound Hercules is limited to one, and usually a quickie at that.”

Silently, I agreed with her. More and more, I felt my maleness being subjugated by my desire for femaleness. It was confusing. With my forefinger, I began to delicately explore her mound. How I envied her.

“You’ve got the right touch, Tiffany, a girl’s touch.” She started to wiggle in response to my explorations. In return, she went for my cock. In a matter of seconds, our skirts were coming up and our panties down. Like fledging acrobats, we were forever experimenting with new positions. This time, she had climbed on my lap with her legs wrapped around my waist in a vise-like grip with my penis deep inside her. We began to rock to and fro. She was moaning softly. I couldn’t get enough of her. We both came together. It was glorious.

Too glorious! There was that little matter of the war in Southeast Asia. SHILOH and “The Rat Pack” had to go back out. Before I went, however, Madeline and I decided on one more public outing together with me en femme. We had made several carefully selected forays with me dressed as Tiffany to shopping malls, movies, the San Diego Zoo, and restaurants. Invariably, we dressed down, i.e., nothing provocative, flashy or hot. I always wore a long-sleeved-collarless dress, minimum makeup (foundation, blush, eyebrow shadow, and lipstick, of course), and jewelry (gold necklace, clip-on pearl earrings in a gold setting, and a matching pearl ring) flats, a seven-eights coat or straight-line jacket, my Audrey Hepburn shades, and my trusty shoulder-length wig. Sometimes, I favored a headband. Underneath my mousy exterior façade howsoever, lurked a vintage tramp. My intimates were a combination of satin, nylon, lace, miniature rosebuds, tiny bows, and other frills. My slightest movement produced swish and rustle sounds that sent electric shocks up my spine. It was slippery to sit and loads of fun. I was constantly crossing and uncrossing my legs and guarding against dress creep. I loved the sensation of hose rubbing against hose and the feminine mannerisms of making sure that my slip wasn’t showing or tugging at my bra band or realigning loose straps. Madeline got a kick out of watching me discover girl things. Applying or refreshing my lipstick from a bullet tube was my favorite. She said that I was an apt student, but she was also a good teacher.

Before she let me go out in public as Tiffany, she had put me through a female “boot camp.” I had to walk, stand, sit, retrieve dropped objects, climb in and out of an imaginary car as both a passenger and as a driver in a female manner. At first, my attempts were awkward, exaggerated, and downright campy. Gradually, though, my female role-playing assumed a life of its own and with practice, I could exhibit convincing female movements, gestures, and body language. My voice tone was a problem, initially, and we spent a lot of time on that. Madeline had a great ear for pitch and eventually had me speaking in a reasonable feminine sound. At least, that’s what she said. It didn’t sound right to me, but I went with her judgment and it seemed to work. I was never challenged in person. Occasionally on the telephone, a clerk or dispatcher or whatever would respond “yes, sir” if I didn’t identify myself in the beginning as “Miss.” Once I corrected that person, then he or she would be most apologetic, but the damage had been done, and it would take me time to restore my confidence. It took me years to perfect, but I’m jumping ahead of myself. To cover our tracks even more on our outings, Madeline would hide her tawny-blond tresses under a black wig plus alter her normal clothing colors and makeup style. Our intent was that friends or acquaintances would not recognize either her or me. We were successful beyond my wildest dreams.
 
 
CHAPTER 6: DINNER IN CORONADO
 
 
On our last girls-only escapade before I sailed on my second combat cruise, we got into a rather tenuous situation. Foolishly, we ventured into a Mexican restaurant on Coronado that was a hang out for the Navy pilots from Miramar. We went in the late afternoon and thought we would beat the crowd. We almost did. After taking a secluded booth, ordering food and Margaritas, and engaging in innocuous chitchat, I heard a couple of familiar voices from the bar area. One was Mike Riordan; the other was Charlie Parker. Both were new to the squadron, replacement pilots recently trained for our upcoming cruise. It would be their first. My initial reaction was to bolt and to forget about the food and drinks we had just ordered. Madeline counseled restraint. Her view, which prevailed, was that our abrupt departure might cause uninvited attention to us because of waitress and bill complications. She reached across the table and patted my false-fingernail varnished hands. I was on the verge of voiding in my panties. All I could think about was a courts-martial for conduct unbecoming an officer. Madeline was grinning. She liked to push the envelope as we say (fighter-pilot jargon). “Hang in there, Tiffany,” she said soothingly.

I did. The Margarita helped. So did the fact that our booth was not visible from the bar. There was no reason for Riordan or Parker to come into the nearly deserted dinning area since they could order food at the bar. I relaxed further and began to enjoy my Chile Rellanos. Then I heard “Hey, Charlie. Look what I found.” The voice was loud, drunk, and belonged to Mike Riordan. The next thing I knew Mike was plopping down beside me and across from Madeline. I scooted over to the wall to put distance between us, but I was trapped. I was afraid to look at him. Instead, I looked to Madeline for help. She was caught as off guard as I and was speechless. That was a first.

“Hey, babe,” Mike said to the table more than to either of us. He was that drunk. We said nothing. “How about letting a Navy Fighter Pilot buy you chicks a drink?’ He reeked of beer, his eyes were red, and his voice was slurred. And his hands roamed. One of them was on my thigh; the other was fumbling for a cigarette. I squirmed. Madeline was stifling a smile. “What’s the matter, cutie, you don’t like fighter pilots?” He was talking directly to me, now. I was afraid either to look at him or to answer. In desperation, I shook my head. “That’s your loss, sweetie, not mine. I could show you a good time.” He had trouble getting the words out. He was that far gone. “And what’s with this Veronica Lake peek-a-boo bullshit? Let me see your face.” I was petrified with fear and as a last resort, turned to face the wall and put both of hands up to cover even the back of my head as I twisted around in the booth. It was not enough. He wrenched me around with drunken force, if not coordination. The front upper part of my dress ripped and momentarily the three of us were looking at the lace bodice of my slip. It was a defining moment to say the least. Then all hell broke loose. As drunk as he was, Mike knew he had gone to far. About the time he was sputtering, “Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” Madeline reached across the table and hit him in the nose with a short punch. Two waitresses came running over with round trays that they were prepared to use as battering rams on him or as shields for us depending upon how the battle went. The first one hissed, “Get out of here, you prick.” The second one yelled to the bartender, “Miguel, give us a hand.” Mike’s buddy, Charlie Parker, considerably less drunk and who heretofore had been missing in action, appeared out of nowhere, grabbed Mike, pulled him to his feet, and hurried him out a side door. Charlie reappeared shortly to apologize profusely to Madeline and me, the waitresses, the bartender, and everyone in general. Further turning on the charm, he placed a $20 bill on the table and said, “We’re really sorry. The dinner is on us. Let Miguel know how much we owe you for a new dress in the next day or so. We’ll leave the money with him.” He followed this up with an embarrassed smile and a goodbye hand wave. Then he was out the door too.

“Are you OK, Hon?” the first waitress to our rescue asked. Her nametag said Rosa. She was buxom and in her thirties pushing forty. She would have made mincemeat out of Mike. I was afraid to answer so I gamely nodded my head. The other waitress who also looked like she could hold her own, said, “Oh you poor thing. Let me help you.” Her nametag said Isabel. Magically she produced two bobby pins from her hair and pinned the front of my dress so that I was decent. “Thank you,” I managed in my best falsetto voice barely above a whisper. I was afraid to look her in the eye and I could only hope that my wig had not gone askew. “It’s nothing, dear. I’m glad that I could help. We girls have to look out for each other.” Rosa chipped in, “Those fucking Navy pilots from Miramar think that they are God’s gift to women. Piss on them.” Ah, sisterhood!

Madeline engaged Rosa and Isabel in small talk as she paid the bill and we made our departure. I felt about as inconspicuous as an elephant in a living room, but I brazened it out. Exercising my best femme posture, we made our exit. This was not the time to screw up and apparently I didn’t.

Once inside the car, though, the enormity of what had just happened hit me full force. “Holy Shit, Madeline,” I exclaimed. “That could have been a disaster. What if my wig had come off? What if someone had recognized me? What if the cops had been called?” I was shaking. “What…”

Madeline cut me off. “Enough of this ‘what if’ bullshit,” she said. “It didn’t happen and you got a first-hand look at what it’s like to be a girl. It’s not all chocolates and flowers. It can be demeaning and even dangerous. Let this be a lesson to you, sweetheart. Never let your guard down.” She leaned across and kissed me on the lips. “By the way, I was proud of you back there,” she continued. You held up well. Now, I think it’s time to go home.” We did. When we got there, it was a rush to get into the sack. Neither of us bothered to take our makeup off. Our hands and lips were all over each other. We pawed each other hungrily and wrestled from one end of the bed to the other. Soon we were both soaked in sweat and smeared makeup. Our perfume and body powder fragrances intermingled pleasantly into something not quite the other. Without penetration, she came first. Her shaking reminded me of the onset of buffet on an airfoil about to stall. I had never heard her moan so much. It made me all the hotter. I knew I was about to ejaculate prematurely, and it was going to be messy. Intuitively, she sensed my impending climax and with deftness twisted her body so that she could take my penis in her mouth. As soon as she did, I was off. She stayed engaged and swallowed and swallowed until I was completely spent. Then we both collapsed side by side. It was as if two Roman gladiators had fought to exhaustion and neither could gain an advantage. Bread and Circuses!

Youth was on our side, though, and we began to recharge. She began to finger randomly my chest while I traced lazy eights on her lower stomach with mine.

“Maddy, I’ve got a question.”

“So ask.”

“Why do you swallow?”

“It’s a girl thing, cutie. You’ll find out.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, and I was afraid to find out. Later, I would.
 
 
CHAPTER 7: THE GULF OF TONKIN
 
 
Once again, I found myself at Carrier Pier boarding a warship for combat duty in the Western Pacific. It was in the fall of 1966. So long to Madeline, San Diego, Maiden Form bras, Frederick’s of Hollywood panties, mini skirts, bubble baths, and my hidden life. Hello to “YANKEE STATION,” shipboard showers, Olongopo, San Miguel beer, enemy anti-aircraft artillery (triple “A”) and Surface-to-Air Missiles (SAMS), and I hoped, a MiG or two. Lieutenant Junior grade Andrew Crewson, also known as Tiffany, an officer, a gentleman, a husband, a MiG killer, and a cross dresser was off to war. This time, though, instead of a single snapshot of me in drag, I had several photos of myself in female garb affecting various poses at home and in the San Diego area. Madeline had performed her masquerade on me well. In fact, I was so proud of my concealment and ability to pass that I taped several of these pictures prominently alongside my bunk on SHILOH. None of my shipmates ever guessed that the tall, leggy, young woman in the pictures who favored flirty sundresses along with Jackie Kennedy like scarves around her neck and either wore large sunglasses or never looked directly into the camera was I. Whenever anyone would ask me who the mystery girl was, I would enigmatically tell them that she was a girl who meant a lot to me. I wasn’t lying.

We hit “YANKEE STATION” and went right into a full-court press as far as air operations were concerned. For fighter pilots that meant lots of Combat Air Patrols and escort missions. The biggest change since my previous combat tour was the increased intensity of the enemy air defenses. There were no holes in it. It may well have been the densest concentration of surface-to-air weaponry ever encountered by American aircrews. My survival trick was not to think about it. If I did, I probably would not have been able to man my aircraft, let alone be catapulted into that daily maelstrom.

It was hard not to think about it, however, when a shoot-down occurred. There were too many. On our first 45-day line period, “The Rat Pack” lost two aircraft and pilots, one to triple “A” and one to a SAM. There were no chutes. Under our silly Rules of Engagement, it was a race to see if the North Vietnamese would run out of ammo before the United States ran out of aircraft. The NVA had a decided advantage. Ammo was a hell of a lot cheaper than aircraft. I found this out for myself, first-hand, late in the deployment when coming home to the carrier “balls-to-the-wall” from an Alpha Strike, I took some triple “A” just as I was about to go “feet wet” over water and depart the North Vietnam coastline. I was low-level, fast, jinxing, and almost near the end of a hairy mission. By now, I had become a little too complacent with regard to dodging flak and surface-to-air missiles (SAMS). In retrospect, I might have thought that I was bullet proof. I wasn’t. As I flew over a Russian ship at mast level in Haiphong Harbor on this particular egress, I heard and felt some “thuds” strike my aircraft. Immediately after that, everything went to hell. It became deathly quiet in the cockpit. My instrument gauges told me that the death of my aircraft was imminent. There was no torque and the turbine temperature was unwinding faster than “a gambler’s lucky streak.” So was my airspeed. It was as if I had hit a wall. Unpowered flight will do this to you. My wingman, Mike Riordan, remember him? My antagonist from the Mexican restaurant was shouting, “Eject! You’re on fire. Get out!” I did. The Gulf of Tonkin awaited me and I became a charter member of its Yacht Club.

I would like to tell you that I was cool and collected as I struggled for survival, the epitome of grace under pressure. I wasn’t. I was scared, hyper-excited, and wounded, although I didn’t know about my wound until much later. It seems that some of those “thuds” that I heard striking my aircraft also struck me in the form of metal shards on my right upper bicep. A jagged scar would be the result. For years, I would not wear a sleeveless dress or blouse, but I am ahead of myself. Realizing that my Chance-Vought Crusader jet had overstayed its welcome, I made a brief radio call to the effect that I was “punching out” and pulled the face curtain. Shortly, thereafter, I was swimming in the Gulf of Tonkin, alone, afraid, and without a two-piece-Janzten-bathing suit.

To his everlasting credit, Mike Riordan, my ever loyal wingman, stayed on station overhead as I bobbed in the waters about two miles off the coast of North Vietnam. Various Vietnamese small boats attempted to intercept or surround me, but his low-level runs with 20 Mike-Mike guns held them at bay. Before long, I was on the receiving end of a hoist from a Combat Search and Rescue Helicopter. About two hours later, I was drinking medicinal brandy in Sick Bay with squadron mates aboard SHILOH. Mike landed with only fumes for fuel. He didn’t have enough for a wave off. I got a Purple Heart. Mike got a deserved Distinguished Flying Cross. Forever after, he was “always gentle on my mind.”

Suddenly, I found myself in demand. Because my wound wouldn’t heal, I was whisked off to the Naval Hospital at Cubi Point in the Philippines for rehabilitation. Hey, I was a celebrity of sorts, in that I was the only member of the Rat Pack to score a “kill” in combat since WWII. Korea didn’t count because VF-77 had been deactivated between the wars. Anyway, my point is that I was hot property. I was young, a wounded combat pilot, and a MIG Killer.

This was a mixed blessing. Once I hit Cubi, Navy nurses, younger ones, anyway, fought to date me. Older ones pretended that I wasn’t even on their radar screen, but at the same time, always managed to change my dressings or administer me sponge baths or wanted to catheterize me on specious grounds. Fame wasn’t my style, however. Remember, I was a closet cross dresser known only to my wife. Understandably, the Navy frowns on those of its male cadre who prefer skirts vice pants. So, I politely shrugged off any efforts at publicity and returned to my squadron as fast as I could. Besides, our war cruise was about to end and I wanted to be with the “Rat Pack” when it did. I barely made it back in time before SHILOH departed Yankee Station homeward bound. As fate would have it, my last mission over North Vietnam didn’t take place. Although I launched to escort a flight of attack aircraft whose mission was to bomb another worthless bridge, which would no doubt be repaired overnight, I experienced a complete electrical failure shortly after take off and had to abort. The next day, SHILOH was relieved on station. My combat days were over. San Diego, here I come.

SHILOH and its embarked Air Wing arrived in San Diego and Miramar in the late spring of 1967 in grand style. Families and friends were waiting. Maddy and I embraced warmly on the flight line after our fly off and headed straight for our apartment. She was wearing a mini skirt and a silk blouse that left nothing to the imagination. I could see her lacy bra underneath and her dormant nipples. They wouldn’t be at rest much longer. We had a lot of love making to catch up on. As soon as I opened the door, I knew that I was home. Waiting for us in the living room was a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon and two fluted glasses. So was a black, silk-full-length slip with matching panties and bra plus a gorgeous Kimono wrap. They were in my size. Emotion flooded over me like the Colorado River fueling Hoover Dam. I was alive, home, safe, in love, and a transvestite who was not condemned to closets and peep shows, at least not with my life partner. Maybe I could go mainstream or something fairly close. I fervently hoped that I could. Time would tell.
 
 
CHAPTER 8: TIFFANY STRUTS HER STUFF
 
 
A long, hot tub bath followed, not the shipboard showers that had become my norm. Included were perfumed oils, bubbles, candles, and incense, not to mention sips from the French champagne. A razor was too. Between Maddie and me, my pliant skin was shorn of all body hair. It was pink, fresh, and virtually hairless. A terry-cloth towel dry-off was next. Then came gobs of body powder and a random dabs of my favorite scent applied to me in strategic places. I don’t know who was hornier, Maddie or me. Maybe it was a tie. We both were panting.

Despite our obvious fervor, Maddie insisted on giving me a “quickie” makeover before we hit the sheets. “I want to kiss it off of you,” is what she said. Lipstick, blush, mascara, eyeliner, and an eyebrow pencil were thrown on me like an Impressionist painter with a deadline. Her strokes were measured, even, and effective. In no time, because of my short hair, I looked like a WWII French collaborator mistress who had shacked up with a German soldier during the Occupation. It didn’t matter. I was ready to burst. Maddie was ready to explode. Shortly, thereafter, we both did. It was frenzied, animal like, and enjoyable. Monkeys or rabbits could not have had a better time.

Settling back into squadron life at Miramar after two combat tours in Vietnam was not easy for me. It was decision time. As a reservist, my obligated active service was coming to an end. The Navy wanted me to stay, but an inner voice told me it would be the wrong course. Maddy certainly wasn’t “gung ho” about military life and there was potentially a major conflict ahead with regard to my cross-dressing. If the Navy ever got wind of it, I would be summarily dismissed, an embarrassment to good order and discipline. Moreover, by now both Maddie and I knew that I was more than merely a cross-dresser. There really was a woman inside of me who wanted liberation and her own space in the world. My commitment to an alternate lifestyle was as deep as it was sincere. So, three-and-a-half months after the Rat Pack’s return, I bid my squadron mates a fond farewell at “Happy Hour” in the Officers’Club, and drove out the main gate of Naval Air Station Miramar for the last time in the uniform of a Naval Officer. The date was October 6, 1967 and I’ve never forgotten it. Oh, I knew that some day I would be back, but not in dress blues. Lieutenant Andrew Crewson, USNR, Naval Aviator, F-8 pilot, Centurion, MIG Killer, Officer, and Gentleman was adrift in more ways than one. I didn’t want to go back, but I was afraid to go forward. Thank the gods for Maddie. She gave me the strength to pursue my ultimate dream, that of permanently becoming Tiffany. The next day, I began my new life as a civilian. The first thing I did was to get my ears pierced.

The second thing that Maddie and I did was to purge all my male clothes except for my Navy Flight Jacket with its squadron, gunfighter, and “Westpac” patches. There was no way that I could ever give that up. It transcended gender confusion and assumed a well-earned place in our closet. From now on, though, it would be skirts, blouses, “buttons and bows.” I had my eyebrows plucked and shaped and began to grow my fingernails long as well as my hair. The latter would take some time, but there was no hurry. Femininity was just around the corner. Actually, it was several corners removed, an elaborate series of medical evaluations, and lots of female hormone ingestion. Then, in November 1969, I underwent my vaginoplasty at John Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore and Andrew Crewson became Tiffany Crewson, no longer an officer and certainly not a gentleman. All through my pain, I fantasized, “If the Rat Pack could see me now. What would they think?”

Maddie was at my side the whole time. She wiped my brow, held my hand, whispered encouragement in my ear, forced me to walk, helped me go to the bathroom, and never let me waiver when it came to dilation of my new landscape. For the record, let me tell you first-hand that the stretching of a newly artificially created vagina is no fun. Quite the contrary, initially, it’s intensely painful. The procedure is also funny, particularly, when nurses bring in dildos in various sizes, shapes, and colors and ask you to select your weapon of choice. I was somewhat aghast. Heretofore, I had never considered a male penis threatening. Now I did. Intuitively, I recoiled at first when nurses waived them before me like choices on a smorgasbord. Their clinical language and professional demeanor soon fell prey to jokes, winks, and anecdotes. Welcome to the female inner circle, I thought. “Most men are pricks,” one of the older nurses told me. I ruminated on that briefly and began to laugh. Maddie laughed too. She understood.

Two weeks later, Tiffany Crewson, a five-foot-ten-inches tall chick in two-inch pumps, a short, denim skirt, not a mini, a frilly, lace blouse, a cashmere sweater, expertly applied makeup, freshly lacquered nails, a stylish hairdo, the right accessories, and all sorts of fancy and dainty underpinnings left Johns Hopkins for Miramar, California. It was my Manifest Destiny. Although I thought my voice was still a little too deep at times, my hands one size too large, and my Adams’s Apple a smite too notable, Maddie reassured me that I was decidedly passable. I hoped so. The surgery was irreversible. So was my commitment to the distaff side. Testosterone was out. Estrogen was in. Goodbye to male camaraderie, simple logic, and Henry Higgins-like musings such as “Why can’t a woman be more like a man?” Hello to complicated emotions, erstwhile feelings of inferiority, feline competition, and empowerment of a different kind. Men may rule the world, but women are supreme as court intriguers. Ultimately, both sexes end up in bed together, and that’s where a woman has the advantage and the last word. The power of the pussy is awesome, even for handcrafted women such as myself. Men can’t do without it. That’s why they run around with perpetual hard-ons. As Tiffany, I would quickly learn the rules of engagement. I was a natural.

By now, all my savings were gone and I was in debt for my surgery. I had to find a job. I didn’t think I was cut out to be a secretary, teacher or nurse, so, once again, I went out on a limb. I used my GI Bill to enroll in a rotary wing flight school at Lindberg Field in San Diego and I became a helicopter pilot. Believe me, it was quite a novelty for females back in the late sixties and early seventies to be a pilot. This was long before the Equal Rights Amendment (ERA) and it was an uphill struggle. It was doubly hard for me because I had to hide my Naval Flight Training and reinvent myself as a fledgling aviator. I was also a woman in a man’s domain. Welcome to discrimination. Within six months, though, I had my basic ratings and was able to flight instruct full time. This brought in a little money. So too did my part-time job as a waitress at a local restaurant. Yuk! Maddie was teaching music at a local college. We maintained, barely. In the meantime, I simultaneously honed my helicopter as well as feminine skills, especially the latter, since they required more work and were not innate. I learned how to be accommodating to men on small matters and how to end run them on the more important stuff. Makeup, hairstyles, fashion, color coordination, and the like became second nature to me. I learned how to flirt. That was a load of fun. I learned when to play the damsel in distress and when to be a bitch. It’s called survival. I had no choice. Despite the rough and tumble world of commercial helicopter aviation, I slowly carved out a niche for myself as a pilot without surrendering my hard fought femininity. It was tough going. You couldn’t show up on the flight line in a short skirt, a peek-a-boo blouse, heels, gobs of makeup, and reeking of perfume. In effect, I as a female, had to be more professional than my male counterparts. I also had to be subtler when it came to my airmanship. Men do not like to be shown up by chicks when it comes to the flying game. It’s a guy thing. Suffice it to say, I learned patience, humility, and manipulation. After a while, it was as normal as breathing. Maddie and I constantly compared notes. She claimed I was better in the use of female wiles than she was. Coming from a genetic girl, that was a major complement.

Two years later, I got my first big break and was hired as a pilot for a large helicopter company in the San Diego area that had a monopoly on utility operations in Southern California. I was their first female line pilot. Various women’s organizations sought me for interviews and appearances as a role model for other women, particularly, younger ones. Maddie and I laughed hard over that. For the most part, however, I scrupulously avoided the limelight. There were just too many gaps in my biography to explain. People thought that I was shy or modest. It added to my growing reputation as a “classy broad.” In fact, I was merely being careful. Andy Crewson, Rat Pack Emeritus, was long ago and far away. This was the “Age of Aquarius” and his alter ego, Tiffany. My new job meant, of course, that I was through flight instructing for peanuts and that I could kiss off my days as a waitress. Alleluia! I had certainly had enough of both, especially, the latter. “ Hold the pickle.” Right. Screw you!
 
 
CHAPTER 9: HAPPY HOUR AT MIRAMAR
 
 
To celebrate my job success, Maddie and I decided to do something different. We both wanted to dress up, go out, be seen, and have fun. Since neither of us was big on clubbing or knowledgeable about the bar scene in San Diego, Maddie suggested that we hit the Officers’ Club at Navy Miramar for the next Friday Happy Hour. Initially, of course, I had misgivings. The last time that I had been there was four years earlier in 1967 as Andy Crewson and I had been wearing pants. Maddie ever the adventurist insisted, however. As I would later find out, this was her way of finalizing my rite of passage as a woman. Shakespeare couldn’t have imagined a better drama. So, off we went. Life was certainly different for me now as I peered at it through mascara-enhanced eyes.

Before we left, though, we both dressed with the dedication and deliberation of a matador preparing for a “cinco de la tarde” appointment with fate. Each of us remembered how much Navy pilots loved tits. Well, we were prepared to do our bit for fleet morale. We encased ours in less-than-confining-wispy-lace-edged bras that left little to the imagination. Slips, girdles, and nylons were out. Skimpy panties, bare legs, painted toenails, and a casual hair look were in. Then we shimmied into tight, ultra-short, black dresses with lots of cleavage. Minimum jewelry, scant makeup, stiletto sandals and small clutch purses completed our amour. A quick belt, each, of Chardonnay, in our kitchen before we left gave us the courage to continue. Laughingly, we jumped into our trusty 1952 Cadillac Seville and headed out in the late afternoon to our rendezvous with the best that Miramar’s “Fighter Town” had to offer. Glen Campbell was wailing away on a local radio station about some lineman. Maddie drove. She was the personification of cool. All I could think of was how much she reminded me of Janet Greer from those great film noir movies of the 1940s. Egad, how I envied her. I rolled down the window, sat back in my seat, and basked in her glow. I examined my perfectly groomed nails and let my tongue skip along my recently applied lipstick, “Malibu Red.” The girl at the cosmetic counter where I had bought it and struck up a friendship called it “Cock Sucker Red.” She must have been a prophetess. This was “California Dreaming” at its best. Come on Navy Miramar. I was ready to roar.

As we expected when we signed in at the Main Gate and listed our destination as the Officers’ Club, the uniformed sentry ogled both of us thoroughly and with a leer, wished us a “Good Evening.” We laughed in unison.

The parking lot at the “O” Club was packed. Even from outside the concrete building, the roar from within was unmistakable. The Fleet was in town. As if on queue, Maddie and I checked our makeup one more time with compact mirrors from our purses, tugged at our short dresses in a vain attempt to make them longer, and with glistening red lips and swaying hips, click-clacked our way on open-toed heels through the entrance.

Talk about déjá  vu. The Club was exactly as I had remembered it from four years earlier. It was packed, noisy, and reeked of booze and cigarette smoke. Beer was the drink de jour. In some ways, it reminded me of a high-school dance. For the most part, the guys and girls were separated. The latter were sitting at the bar on stools waiting to be hit upon. The former were standing in various groups telling war stories and getting ready to make their advances. Even this early for a Friday night “Happy Hour,” sex was in the air. It would be a race to see who screwed whom. We took our place at the bar, ordered glasses of white wine, and awaited our roll of the dice. We didn’t wait long.

The junior officers made the first passes, especially, those with more than one beer in them. They were cute and fun to dance with. All of them were cocky and exhibited that confidence that only comes from being part of an elite group, in this case, Navy Fighter Pilots. Neither of us felt like baby-sitting, however. So without hurting their feelings, we kept everything light and good-natured. We also indicated that we had dates that we were going to join for dinner.

Next came the more senior officers in their forties, older Lieutenant Commanders and Commanders, mostly divorced and living as bachelors. They were heavy drinkers and harder to rid. Since this was a special night for us both, particularly me, so we bided our time.

Then we struck pay dirt, as we knew we would. Except their was a glitch. Remember the old adage that goes something like, “Be careful what you wish for?” Well, this is what happened. Take it from me: “Fate is truly the hunter.” Maddie saw them first and with an ever so slight nod to me pointed them out. I casually glanced in their direction and immediately gasped. Simultaneously, my bladder muscles constricted. No leakage was done, but it was close. When you have as many skeletons in your closet as I did, it’s no wonder. From the other side of the bar, Lieutenants Mike Riordan and Charlie Parker were coming directly towards us. All I could think of was that Mexican restaurant on Coronado five years ago and the ripped bodice on my dress courtesy of one drunken Mike and a lesser-drunken Charlie. We had come full circle. Now I knew, life really did imitate art. I did two quick Zen-style inhalations and exhalations. That’s all the time I had. Maddie pressed my hand and winked at me as she whispered, “Don’t worry. There’s no way that they’ll remember us.” In the next instant, Mike was saying, “Hey, what are two beautiful looking ladies like you sitting here alone for. May we join you?” They did. “Barkeep,” Charlie called out. “Two of whatever the ladies are having and two drafts, Okay?”

Within the next five minutes, we found out that Mike and Charlie were Navy Fighter Pilots. Duh. No kidding? And former members of Fighter Squadron 77, known throughout the world, at least according to them, as the famous “Rat Pack.” The small hairs on the back of my neck stood up when I heard that. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and crossed my legs first one way and then the other. I sneaked a look at Maddie. She had a Mona Lisa expression on her face that betrayed nothing. Mike and Charlie rambled on about how great Navy Fighter pilots were. Maddie and I played their game. We sat there with rapt looks as if we really believed all the bullshit they were handing us. During rare pauses in their monologues, we would smile adoringly, flutter our eyelashes, and toss them softball exclamations that would cause them to soar to even greater heights in regard to their exploits as carrier pilots and combat veterans. In doing so, I was reminded of Hedy Lamar’s famous line: “Any girl can be glamorous. All you have to do is stand still and look stupid.” Maddie and I certainly qualified.

One thing led to another---the drinks helped--- and Mike and I paired up, as did Charlie and Maddie. Occasionally in between raucous, “go-go” tunes, someone would play a more restrained one on the jukebox and we would take the floor to do some slow dancing. That’s when Mike and Charlie would really lay on what they thought was their overwhelming charm. We played along. Our intrepid aviator beaux unleashed light kisses, heavy breathing, tongues in the ear, copped feels, double entendres, and other little lounge lizard tricks that we were expecting. It was fun. They thought that they were going to lay us. It was just the opposite. We were going to ball them. I knew that Mike was ready because I could feel his manhood pressing against my thigh. Later on a powder room break, Maddie confirmed that Charlie had a similar hard on. “Let’s bust their balls,” she said. We both giggled and planned to do exactly that.

The evening wore on and Mike and Charlie were becoming more amorous. Remember the old Gershwin line? “When bottles are popping and dignity’s dropping…” They probably hadn’t been laid in a week or since the last Friday Happy Hour a week earlier. Needless to say, they were horny as hell. We toyed with them like an expert fisherman with a prize Marlin on his line. It was almost too easy. Women can control their sex drive. Men can’t. We were in charge and enjoying it immensely. Chicks rule! I along with Maddie had become an ardent feminist.
 
 
CHAPTER 10: FROM OUT OF THE PAST
 
 
About 9:30 or so, Maddie and I decided to make our move. We both wanted to get home before twelve. Also, we didn’t want to overextend Mike or Charlie who by this time had consumed more drafts than either we or they could remember. From necessity, we wanted them to be able to rise to the occasion. So we each whispered romantic notions in their ears about retiring to a more intimate place such as separate rooms in the nearby Bachelor Officers’ Quarters or BOQ. Mike and Charlie looked like the proverbial cats that had swallowed canaries. Like the sophisticated “cocks men” they considered themselves, they exchanged “I told you so looks” and winks. We pretended not to notice and prepared to leave. That’s about the time I heard a familiar voice say, “Mike, Charlie, where did you two rats ever find these gorgeous girls?” All too soon the body of that voice was standing in front of us smiling broadly. My old commanding officer, Commander Randy Lee, now a full Navy Captain, was eying Maddie and me appreciatively. We were tasty morsels before his eyes and he wanted one. Remember, this was 1971 and well before those Maalox advertisements; howsoever, I had a Maalox moment anyway and it showed.

“Is something wrong, Miss?” Captain Lee asked more out of surprise than concern.

“No, I’m sorry,” I lied and faked a cough or two. “I think all this cigarette smoke is getting to me. By the way, I’m Tiffany. This is Maddie.”

In an effort to disarm him, we both then gave him 1000-wat smiles that in effect said, “And boy are we impressed with you.” It would be hard not to. He was tall, slim, had jet black hair with light flecks of gray establishing inroads around his side burns, and his Silver Star and Distinguished Flying Crosses ribbons on his left chest attested to his flying prowess. Among the many simultaneous thoughts that were racing through my head, I was struck by how much he looked like a younger Errol Flynn. I began to fantasize about how he would be under the sheets. Maddie told me later that she had the same “yummy” thoughts.

At some point, I fully expected him to say, “You know, you remind me of someone. Did you ever know Andy Crewson?” Fortunately, he didn’t, but I still felt as if he were peering into my soul. He was certainly looking into my eyes. Small talk followed although not for long. It was obvious that we were on our way out of the Club and that the four of us had more on our minds than conversation. A good sport, Captain Lee was most gracious as he bid us goodnight.

As we stood side-by-side in parting Captain Lee said, “I look forward to seeing you young ladies again.” Maddie and I smiled in a polite albeit non-committal manner. Then he added, “Tiffany, have you ever been here before?”

“No, this is my first time, I said with innocence. As a matter of fact, it was my first visit as Tiffany. Not even a white lie. That was easy.

“Gosh,” he continued. “You look like somebody’s wife or girlfriend that I used to know. Someone from my old squadron, VF-77.” He paused and suddenly snapped his fingers. “That’s it. You’re a dead ringer for a girl that I used to know or see around the Club a few years ago. Give me some time, I’ll think of it.”

“Was she as beautiful as Tiffany,” Maddie sweetly piped in.

“Oh you bet, whatever her name was, she was a good looker, just like Tiffany here, although I don’t think she was as tall.” That was no doubt the truth. With my three-inch heels, I was as tall as he.

I could tell that he was stalling for time. He was trying not to show how closely he was scrutinizing me, but my antennae were on full alert. Mentally, he was undressing me and his eyes roamed repeatedly from my face, especially my eyes, to my boobs and back with the quickness of a snake. He was also horny. Poor Claire, at least that is what I recalled his wife’s name was. She was going to get reamed tonight when he came home. What is it with sailors? We began to walk to the door. I made sure my hips had an ever-so-subtle wiggle. Maddie did too. Happy wet dreams, Captain Lee, in the event your wife is asleep.

“Goodnight, Tiffany, Maddie, Mike, Charlie,” Captain Lee said as he shook each of our hands. I noticed that he held mine a little longer than the others. Coincidence? I didn’t think so. He was clearly attracted to me. I was riding a whirlwind and actually starting to enjoy it. Too much wine will do that to you. My comedienne-inner self mused, if the truth ever came out, now wouldn’t that make for great tabloid headlines: “Navy Pilot Falls For Navy Pilot.” Even better, how about: “When Randy Met Andy.” Oh yeah, there were dizzying possibilities that wouldn’t look so funny tomorrow morning.

Maddie and I delivered our “Goodnight Captain” lines with radiant smiles. He was pleased, ever the male peacock.

“See you later, Skipper,” was Mike’s contribution.

“So long, Sir,” was Charlie’s donation.

“Tiffany, I’ll think of who you remind me, yet,” Captain Lee called to me as we stepped away into the parking lot.

“Good luck,” I replied and I blew him an air kiss. He waved back and was gone.

Maddie playfully swatted me on my touché and sarcastically said, “Smart ass.” Then she gave me a conspiratorial smile and quietly continued, “Let’s ball these guys in a hurry and get home. I’m hungry.” That was Okay with me. I was too.
 
 
CHAPTER 11: A ROOM WITHOUT A VIEW
 
 
We followed in our car behind Mike and Charlie as they drove separately to the BOQ. I was about to get laid by a man for the first time ever as a woman. Naturally, I was curious and a little anxious. Maddie’s advice was simple: “Moan a lot and move around a lot. Men don’t know the difference. Besides, all they want to do is climb on you and get their load off. It doesn’t take much finesse on the woman’s part. Believe me!” I did believe her.

“How about, you know,” I paused, “oral sex. Do you swallow?”

“You can. It has a neutral taste. Guys love it when you do. Remember how much you liked it back in your former---uh---life?” She was right. I remembered it very well.

Maddie gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. Then she said, “Hey, Tiffany. Remember this is girl’s night out for us. This is your baptism. You’ve never had a guy jump on your bones and start pounding you or had a pulsating penis stuck in your mouth. I want you to experience it firsthand. After tonight, you’ll never worry about ‘passing’ again. You’ll truly be one of us. If you don’t experience it, you’ll always wonder what it was like. That’s the only reason we’re here. It’s not because you’re in love with Mike or that I’m in love with Charlie. It’s just a simple, mechanical act that can be pleasurable. Don’t make it complicated.” I decided that I wouldn’t and I squeezed her hand in affirmation.

“Maddie, I love you.”

“And I love you, Tiffany. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Now, let’s bust their balls and pickup some tacos on the way home.” She looked at her watch. “It’s 10:00. I’ll meet you back here no later than 11:30.

We each did our lipstick and compact mirror trick. It was second nature to me. As we alighted from the car, I had one more nervous thought.

“Maddie, what about rubbers? Do you think we need them?” I asked.

“You bet,” she answered with a laugh. “Although you don’t have that problem, I don’t want to get knocked up. Not to mention that our lover boys might have picked up a little something in the PI.” I smiled. No reply was necessary. Besides, both of us were carrying condoms in our purses. Maddie had thoughtfully equipped us both before we had left our house. Never leave home without them, right? Hey, that would make a good advertisement sound bite!

Mike and Charlie met us at a side entrance and we clique-clacked our way across heavily wax-polished linoleum floors to a concrete stairwell and noisily made our way up to adjoining rooms on the second floor. Aren’t high heels great?

Once we were established in our rooms, there weren’t any formalities with which to contend. This was about raw sex among willing people for whatever reason. There was none of that, “May I take your coat?” or “May I offer you a drink?” stuff. Mike closed the Venetian blinds, selected a soft music station from the bedside radio, dimmed the lights, and came at me. I flipped my purse on the steel dresser, kicked off my heels, and we met head-on. We entwined as one with a desperation that is borne of need and circumstance. He put a lip lock on me that was airtight and water proof. Our tongues came together like eels in the small tank of a Chinese restaurant. Talk about a deep throat. I didn’t know it was possible to imbibe that much muscular structure, but then, I had never kissed a male before. I could feel his beard stubble on my face and it was a turn on. My tits, tipped with erect nipples, were boring holes in his chest. In return, I could feel his Navy Wings of Gold and multiple combat ribbons from his uniform pressing what I thought were indelibly into the flesh of my right breast. My hands began to explore his back, and his taunt muscles and firm buttocks only ratcheted my desire to get it on. We continued our mutual writhing exercise and I was amazed at his flat stomach and narrow hips. Holy you-know-what, this guy was built of granite. Moreover, he had a nether-region member that was apparently made of kryptonite. Whatever I had felt on the dance floor was merely a tease for the battering ram that was now poking through the cloth of his pants. This was going to be a memorable fuck.

I knew that he couldn’t last much longer. He was panting heavily and exhibiting all the signs of premature ejaculation. I didn’t want that gooey stuff on me. Heck no, I wanted it in me. I think that we both reached the same conclusion simultaneously. We broke for air and loosened our grips on one another. I took the opportunity to ask, “Would you unfasten me, please?” I twirled around so that he was looking at the three, small buttons on the back of my dress. Clumsily, he complied. How come men can’t handle dainty buttons? Is it a matter of not having the right hormones? Hmm, I’d have to ask Maddie, later.

With my buttons freed, I shrugged my scoop-collar dress off each shoulder and it fell silently to the floor. I was down to panties and a bra. He looked at me hungrily. I did my only-as-a-woman-can-unfasten-my-bra trick and flicked it away. Mike was now feasting his eyes at a near-perfect pair of 38B knockers that because of their relative newness, defied gravity. They really were pear shaped. As his eyes roamed my body, they stopped at my shrapnel scar on my upper right arm just below the shoulder. It was red and ugly and he fingered it. “What the hell happened here?” he asked.

“Let’s just say it was an accident that could have been a lot worse. I was lucky,” I replied.

He shrugged his shoulders and said, “I guess.” Lust obviously trumped curiosity as he started to tug at my panties. “Not yet,” I demurred. “It’s your turn.” Clark Kent couldn’t have peeled his clothes off more quickly to reveal his Superman costume than Mike did when he stripped down to his bulging jockey shorts. What struck me as odd and decidedly unromantic, though, was that he kept his shoes and socks on. What was his problem, a Fire Drill or General Quarters? It’s a wonder that he didn’t keep his hat on too. Oh, well, I wasn’t going to marry the guy and be stuck with him for life. We resumed our clinch and he guided us onto the bed and soon I was looking at the ceiling. He was ready to go for Olympic Gold and began to tug at my panties.

“Uh-unh,” I murmured. “First we need to take some precautions, Okay? Slip this on,” I said as diplomatically as I could as I reached for my purse, extracted a prophylactic, and handed it to him. He frowned as he rapidly groped with it, but in short order his long member was encased in a white sheath. It reminded me of a Klansman wearing a robe. I stifled a laugh.

“Now, turn off the lights please,” I said.

“Yeah, sorry. No problem,” he replied with the indifference of someone swatting a pesky fly. With one hand he reached over and clicked the bed lamp off. The room went dark. With the other, he tugged at my panties. Let’s hear it for ambidexterity. Off they came. Almost without missing a beat, he somehow wiggled out of his jockey briefs and easily positioned himself on top of me in the typical missionary-style-conjugal position. I was amazed. This guy must have a minimum of three hands I thought since at least two of his were clumsily massaging my jugs. Then again, maybe I was in Sea World and he was an octopus. If so, five more hands were unaccounted for. That was not comforting. About this time, though, I could feel his manhood throbbing against my thigh and I quit counting hands. Knock, knock, someone was at my door. This intruder was not going to go away

I answered by taking the head of his staff and guided it to the proper positioning. His rod then glided deeply into place like a hand into a familiar glove. We were one and the same. He began to ram me. Thank you, Doctor Jenkins and the hospital staff at Johns Hopkins, I silently prayed. I also started to cry. It worked. I had never been happier. I was now officially a woman.

“Oh baby,” he moaned mantra like while he repeatedly plowed into me as if this would be the last time he ever got his rocks off. I felt a little sorry for him. He was semi-drunk, wreaked of hops, lonely, and trying to uphold a mystical tradition that proclaimed Naval Aviators were the best lovers that a woman could ever hope for. I didn’t want to pierce his bubble so I pretended that he was the ultimate pleaser. I feigned, moaned, wiggled, and groaned. This moved him to new heights and he continued to pound me sans mercy or finesse. In effect, he was jacking himself off. The pleasure was not all his. I was fascinated by this novel experience. He was also validating my new sexual equipment. I needed the confirmation and got in sync with his thrusts and pushed back with commensurate pelvis verve. There was no doubt in my mind that he would soon climax. His battering ram engorged even more and I was ready. Almost a heartbeat thereafter, he came like a break in the hull of a torpedoed oil tanker. He emitted one more, “Oh Baby,” kissed me on the tip of my nose, pulled his flaccid pole out of my carefully crafted receptacle, flopped belly down alongside me, and almost immediately fell asleep. So much for true love! His snores said it all. He was out for the count.

I checked my watch. It was 10:45. In 45 minutes, Maddie and I would be having tacos and comparing notes. I could hardly wait. I turned on the bed lamp, grabbed my panties, and headed to the bathroom. Navy lavatories are not designed for women requiring douches, but I managed to get his smell out of me. I washed my face, reapplied my lipstick, ran a comb through my hair, and slipped my dress back on. I decided to hell with the bra and slipped it into my purse. My tits didn’t sag and my nipples stood out. I was pleased. With Maddie in mind, I took my lipstick applicator and deftly reddened the latter. This was one of her favorite fetishes. She claimed that it was like licking a spoon after preparing a tasty confection.

Now it was time to make my exit and I was more than ready. Mike had been an interesting piece of ass, my first, in fact, but it was over. There was no question, now, that I was a confirmed “lipstick lesbian.” So what if I wasn’t a genetic woman, I was the next best thing. Besides, only Maddie knew the difference and she wasn’t about to tell.

Mike, belly down, continued to snore and snore. He was bare-ass naked–shoes and sox excepted--- and looked considerably less imposing than when he was in his uniform with his Wings of Gold and combat decorations. I sat down beside him on the bed and patted his buttocks. Leering at me from his right cheek was an all too familiar image from our squadron patch that our pilots had a Philippine tattoo artist mark us with for life during one of our line breaks from Yankee Station on my last war cruise. It consisted of a vulgar, lecherous-looking rat complete with an aviator’s cloth cap and goggles leering out from the cockpit of a WWII Navy Hellcat or F6F. About the circular size of an orange, the design’s primary colors of red, green, blue and black were still rich and had not faded in the least. It was grotesque and fascinating to look at as well as hard to hide under intimate conditions. Because I was identically marked, that’s why I had worn black panties and had not allowed Mike to take them off with the lights on. There is no way that I could have talked my way out of that. “Goodbye, Mike. God bless,” I whispered softly as I walked out of the room carrying my purse and shoes.
 
 
CHAPTER 12: RANDY AND ANDY
 
 
I decided to wait for Maddie in the lobby, which was deserted, rather than in the car. The Filipino seaman manning the desk looked up from his newspaper as I walked by, smiled politely, and said, “Good Evening, Ma’am.” I smiled and returned his salutation. It was as if nothing had changed. The same military issue chairs, sofas, tables, and lamps were exactly in the same places that I had remembered. Only the magazines had been updated although they, too, were not current. I idly fingered a copy of the base newspaper. No changes, there, either. The smell of Navy coffee led me to the urn in the next room, which was a smaller version of the main lounge except that it was unlighted. It was not total darkness, however, and I could easily navigate in it as I poured myself a cup of coffee.

That’s when I had another of those Maalox moments; only this one was the ultimate and has never been repeated. It came about when I heard that clearly recognizable voice from somewhere in the darkened room. It said exclamatorily, “I remember, now. Andy Crewson.” I gasped as if I had been struck with a bullet. My hands began to shake so much that I could barely control the cup on my saucer. This time Maddy and I had “pushed the envelope too far.” My mind went blank and I had no idea what I was going say. Fight or flee? At this point, I could do neither. Without turning around, I set the coffee cup and saucer down and resignedly waited for what the gods had in store for me.

It was soon in coming. The next thing I knew, Captain Lee was standing immediately behind me with his hands placed gently on my shoulders. I could feel his breath on neck.

“Tiffany,” he began. “It’s been bothering me since we met at the Club earlier tonight where I knew you from. Talk about coincidence, I just figured it out before you walked in to the lounge a few moments ago. How about that?” I steeled myself for what was coming next. “You used to date Andy Crewson, one of my pilots,” he continued. “I remember the photographs of you that he used to have taped on the bulkhead by his rack aboard SHILOH. You were tall, skinny, wore flowered dresses, and large sunglasses. There was another girl in some of the pictures, not all, but I don’t remember much about her. You were the more dramatic one. Am I right?”

Relief flooded over me like the spray from an unleashed garden hose. He hadn’t figured it out. Instinctively, I wanted to let out a loud cheer and do cartwheels. Instead, however, I turned to face my interlocutor and sweetly said, “Captain, you are most observant.”

In reply, he leaned forward and kissed me long and hard. There was no resistance on my part. Some inner, primeval force compelled me to return his affection and once again, I felt Navy Wings and combat decorations boring into the right side of my chest and an unfamiliar tongue exploring my mouth. About a nanosecond later to paraphrase Mae West, either the gun in his pocket or his gladness to see me was poking against my thigh. We broke for air and he guided me to a two-place sofa in the corner. It was crunch time.

“Captain,” I tentatively began.

“No. Please call me Randy.”

“Okay, Randy. Excuse me, though, but isn’t there a Mrs. Lee somewhere?” I asked as diplomatically as I could.

“Claire divorced me three years ago. She said that I spent too much time away from home and that my number one priority had always been flying. And she was right on target. The aircraft or the squadron or the West Pac cruise always came before her. All things considered it was a fairly amicable split. She stills lives in El Cajon. I live here in the BOQ. Hey, that’s life.” His hands began to roam and he found my erect nipples. Then he continued, “By the way, whatever happened between you and Andy?”

“Let’s just say that we had a significant difference of opinion on how each of us wanted to spend the rest of our lives,” I answered. “We parted as great friends and I think about him fondly.” Randy nodded. He understood the reality of different life styles if not the scope of difference that existed between his and mine. In so many ways, we were one and the same. It was time to “push the envelope.” As casually as I could, I asked, “What was your take on him, Randy?”

“A good stick. One of the best I’ve seen. Flying came naturally for him. He was a loner, though. I always sensed there was something different about him. What it was, I never figured out. In the three years he was in the squadron, I never saw him with a girl. In fact if it weren’t for the pictures that he carried of you, I probably would have thought that he was gay. I’ve often wondered whatever happened to Andy? Do you know?”

“No, I don’t,” I lied. “But I’m pretty sure that he’s happy. I haven’t heard from him in years.”

“Well, I hope so. We need more happy people in the world. How about you, Tiffany, are you happy?”

“More than you could ever possibly imagine, Randy.” He took that as a come on and we began to neck again. I had to bring this to an end, pronto.

In between passionate gropes, I said, “Randy, I hate to be a spoilsport, but I’ve got to go soon. What time is it?”

He squinted at his luminous watch dial in the dark and said, “11:20. What’s the hurry?”

“Randy, the hurry is that I have another life and that you’re not a part of it. I’m sorry. But before I go, I’m going to do you a favor that you’ll never understand or forget. Don’t make anything out of it. Just enjoy it. Okay?”

With that, I gave him one more deep kiss, broke our clinch, guided him back against the sofa, and with the speed of a lynx, went for his belt buckle. His zipper came next. He was wearing boxer shorts so access to his penis was as simple as parting a flimsy curtain. In the next instance, I had his ramrod-hard penis in my mouth and began to give the first blowjob of my life. It must have been a bravura performance because in short order the good Captain was panting, squirming, and thrusting in sync with my oral ministrations. He also was squeezing each side of my head like he was holding a basketball. He was hot. I was expectant. I hoped I was ready for what was coming next. That’s when his orgasm cut in. His prick enlarged and he became as tense as a high-wire performer operating without a safety net. POW, POW, POW! Three heavy ejaculations of semen hit me with the force of a nasty boil erupting. Two much weaker ones followed in their trace. It was all I could do to keep from spilling the stuff as I valiantly struggled to swallow every drop. To my surprise, I was leak proof and there was no mess. The taste was neutral. It reminded me of the whites of raw eggs. I didn’t bother to zip him back up. Instead, I kissed him firmly on the mouth making sure that he ingested several dollops of his expended juices. There’s nothing like an even playing field between the sexes.

“Goodbye, Randy,” I said quietly. I smiled fondly, although he couldn’t see that.

“Tiffany,” he sputtered. “You mean I’ll never see you, again?”

I didn’t bother to answer. There was nothing more to be said. Then I was gone. Click-clack, click-clack, I made my way down the concrete steps of the BOQ and along the sidewalk to our car. Maddie was just opening the door to the driver’s side. I opened the passenger-side door, sat down beside her, and checked my watch. It was exactly 11:30. We were both on time and on target. Each waited for the other to speak. When neither of us did, we both simultaneously burst out laughing. We pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the main gate. A different sentry was on duty, but he ogled us as thoroughly as the previous one had when we had come aboard. The slight sneer on his face said what he was thinking, “Officer Pussy” as he waved us through. We smiled brightly. It was taco time.
 
 
CHAPTER 13: MARIA’S
 
 
“Maria’s” was a small family restaurant off the main thoroughfare in El Cajon. Its clientele was for the most part Mexican. The food was delicious and the prices were cheap. The menu was in Spanish. English was definitely a second or unknown language here. Maddie and I had found this place a few years back, just after I had transitioned to Tiffany full-time. At the time, we were looking for out-of-the-way places where we would not run into people we knew as I carved out my new role as a female. Because our Caucasian presence for the most part went unnoticed, we continued to eat there even after I became more comfortable in my new appearance. Occasionally, some of the Hispanic men would look us over, huddle together and make hushed comments to each other, and then laugh uproariously. But, hey, men do that all over, right? It has nothing to do with ethnic origins. It’s all in their brains. Their wiring is screwed up.

We each ordered the Taco plate and beers. The former arrived piping hot and the latter ice cold in longneck bottles. To hell with formalities, we were hungry and thirsty. A flurry of bites and gulps followed. Once our hunger and thirst had been satiated, we sat back and looked at each other. Satisfaction beamed from my face. Amusement and curiosity radiated from Maddie’s.

“Well,” Maddie began. “How was it?”

“Different, that’s for sure,” I answered truthfully.

“What was the best part?”

“Being in control from start to finish.”

“What was the worst part?”

“His shoes and socks.”

“Huh?” Maddie’s eyebrows arched to the point they reminded me of a drawbridge opening to allow a barge to pass under.

I took another draught of my beer. The bottle was now moist and warm to my touch, just like someone after spent sex. An appropriate image I thought considering how I had whiled away the last hour or so. I smirked and then replied, “Calm down, Maddie, dear. It wasn’t kinky. Amateurish would be the correct word.” I then went on to tell her about Mike’s less than romantic bedroom manners. Maddie’s eyebrows collapsed. The barge had safely passed. She laughed long and loud. It caught the attention of some sombrero wearing men at a nearby table. They observed us quizzically, did their huddle thing with the hushed voices, and then laughed too. It was a great moment: at one table you had two gringo women talking about male genitalia in English and at an adjacent table, you had several Mexican men talking about female genitalia in Spanish. They waved good-naturedly to us. We returned the courtesy. Then, the moment passed. It confirmed, however, that sex has its own unmistakable lingua franca. We paid our bill, left a nice tip, and left.

“How about you, Maddie? I asked as we drove home. “Was Charlie any good in bed?”

“Not really. He did take off his shoes and socks, though.” She then turned to me, grinned wickedly, and said, “As a matter of fact, he was a lousy lay. I hope that he’s a better fighter pilot than he is a lover.” She paused, shrugged her shoulders, and continued, “The poor son-of-bitch had a premature ejaculation when he tried to slip the rubber on and blasted his stuff all over my new panties. That’s why I’m not wearing any now. Then he fell asleep. I checked his backside for that grotesque tattoo. It was there all right. As a parting gesture, I left a big lipstick kiss mark right above it. I think that the Rat Pack needs an overhaul.

“Captain Lee doesn’t,” I said.

“Huh?” she exclaimed. Although I couldn’t see her eyebrows arch, I could sense the drawbridge going up.

“I had a slight encounter with Randy in an empty corner of the BOQ lounge when I was waiting for you,” I said in as neutral a tone as I could muster.

“And?” The drawbridge was fully raised now.

“And one thing led to another and I gave him a blowjob.” I was amazed at the matter-of-fact sound in my voice. For all practical matters, I could have been describing a trip to a launder mat.

“Did you swallow?”

“Every drop.”

Mentally I heard the drawbridge lower again as she said, “Good girl. Welcome to the club. You’ve been boffed by a guy and you given head. You had quite a night and it’s not over yet.” She reached over with a free hand and slipped it down the front of my dress and began to finger my left nipple. It snapped to attention. I in turn snuggled closer to her and slipped my right hand under her hemline and let my fingers do the walking up her bare thigh straight for her honey pot. I then entered her private domain with my index finger, found it well lubricated, and began a gentle and systematic probe. We couldn’t get home fast enough and when we did, the car windows were virtually steamed over.

Click-clack, click-clack, we raced up the driveway to the front door. She fumbled for the key and what was only a few seconds seemed like an eternity. Between us, we slammed the door shut, flipped on the hallway light, shook our heels off, and made a beeline for the bedroom. A sensuous embrace followed and our hands and began to roam as our lips and tongues became virtually grafted to their opposites. Mutual violent pelvic thrusting ensued as we dry humped each other. Then, frantic mutual pawing resulted in our “little black dresses” lying at our feet. She had a bra and no panties. I had panties and no bra. We must have looked like “Barbie” dolls run amuck. More groping continued as her bra and my panties joined the wardrobe at our feet. We edged our naked selves toward the large, double bed we shared, lay down, and soon were in the center of it still engaged in our embrace. Busby Berkeley couldn’t have choreographed a better dance routine between partners. And then the real fireworks started. It was “tits-and-clits” time. We suckled, we fingered, we teased and we penetrated each other with vibrators and dildos. A musky aroma filled our love nest along with the smell of sweat, perfume, powder, and other cosmetic products. It was glorious. Maddie came first. She always did. Her whole body shook as if attached to electrical attachments. She cried out, “Yes, yes, yes,” in a rising crescendo. This in turn brought me to climax and my whole body rocked in a delirious sensation. I was home with the love of my life, Maddie, and at peace with myself as a woman. The “Rat Pack” was finally behind me. Our little jaunt this evening to the Miramar O’Club had confirmed that. Andrew Crewson could now be relegated to a distant corner of my mind and would be rarely visited by Tiffany. On those infrequent occasions when I did, it was like watching a movie. That wasn’t me anymore. It was someone else. I, personally, didn’t know anyone named Andrew Crewson. It was like Cary Grant doing an impression of Cary Grant. The body and its shadow didn’t match.
 
 
CHAPTER 14: WHATEVER HAPPENED TO ANDY CREWSON?
 
 
Our Chardonnay bottle was empty, and the darkness surrounding our hillside home had taken on a life of its own. Maddie and I could no longer see the ocean. Night sounds prevailed. The Marine F-18s were long gone. They had probably returned to base. A slight chill was overtaking us. It was time to go inside. In unison as if by unspoken command, hand and hand, we did. In the kitchen, we stopped, faced each other, and paused.

Maddie was the first to speak. She was smiling; her voice was gentle and full of understanding: “You had quite a trip down memory lane, didn’t you, Tiff?”

“It was a blast,” I admitted. I was smiling too.

“Any regrets about whatever happened to Andy Crewson?’ she asked.

“None. I feel like Edith Piaf.” I replied truthfully. “Her signature song was ‘Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien’ or ‘No, I regret nothing.’ That’s exactly how I feel. How about you?”

“The same.” She squeezed my hand.

We inched closer to each other until our breasts were touching. Ever so slowly we began to move our bodies so that our bosoms teased each other. The subtle friction of two Mauna Keas rubbing against two Mauna Loas was delightful. Each of us could feel distant tingling and other primeval body urges beginning to build. Maddie licked her lips. I pursed mine. Our hands began to roam “the old familiar places” of each other’s terra firma. We both knew that great sex was on the way. Who says grandmas can’t have fun?

Maddie’s suggestive grin was followed by a giggle. Then she purred, “I guess dinner’s on hold, huh?”

My answer was to deep throat her with a kiss wherein my tongue seemed endless. Almost as if we were synchronized swimmers, we eased into our bedroom and headed for our rendezvous in the large Hollywood bed that we had shared for so many years. A flurry of disrobing followed. Off came the tennis shoes, jeans, and sweatshirts. So did the panties and bras. Our respective Mauna Keas and Mauna Loas hung down and swayed considerably. They had long ago ceased to be divine shaped pears. Maddie started to get her sex toy bag out from under the bed. I already had mine out and was rummaging through it for my favorites. Just as we were ready to climb under the comforter blanket and begin our lovemaking on satin sheets, on the spur of the moment I suggested, “Maddie, dear, why don’t we do it the old way, you know with all the bells and whistles? We haven’t done that in a long time.”

“Tiffy, dear, that’s a splendid idea. You go girl!”

“You, too.” I blew her an air kiss.

With that, we slowed down our animal like haste to jump into our mattress lair and began to set the mood. It’s called foreplay. Between the two of us, soft, aromatic candlelights appeared, and a DVD with the sounds of one of our treasured musical scores filled the room. I quickly powered my body, jumped into one of my favorite old style pink, full-length slips with matching panties (they’re called vintage now), applied small dabs of perfume in strategic places, and liberal amounts of lipstick to my lips. Then, I hurriedly ran a brush through my air. Tiffany was on a roll.

Maddie’s preparations had been quite similar. Her garment of choice was a white baby doll negligee with matching bikini style panties. Both were loaded with lace and catered to every woman’s fantasy. It was as if a mature Carol Baker had stepped out of the movie, “Baby Doll,” and into our bedroom. Maddie was on a roll.

Shortly after that, we coupled and our sensations went off the page. Two old broads hit all the high notes and low notes as well. It was a concert of love. Tin Pan Alley would have been envious of us. Later while emotionally winding down during pillow talk before we fell into an exhausted sleep, the subject of what the future held for us came up. Neither of us knew or cared. We decided that we were both incurable romanticists and felt that the best was yet to come. We would have it all, and we almost did.
 
 
EPILOGUE
 
 
1973: MIKE RIORDAN, Lieutenant Commander, USN, was shot down over North Vietnam in late 1972 during Operation LINEBACKER. He was a Prisoner of War for five months. Upon repatriation in 1973, he returned to a hero’s welcome and parade at Navy Miramar. Two of the parade attendees who clapped the loudest for Commander Riordan were a tall, skinny blond in a flirty, halter dress, Madeline, and a taller, more athletic looking brunette in a willowy, summer dress with large, almost oversized sunglasses, Tiffany

1979: RANDY LEE, after serving as Commander, Naval Air Forces Pacific and spending 33 years in the Navy retired as a two-star Admiral in 1979 at a gala event at Navy Miramar on a sunny afternoon. Maddie and Tiffany were there for the flight line ceremony. They stayed discretely in the background and did not attend the reception that followed in the Miramar O’ Club. He and his ex-wife, Claire, remained good friends, but were never reunited. After his retirement, he went out to the Philippines, met, and married an attractive Filipino woman in her mid thirties. She bore him two children, a son and a daughter. He named the boy, Andrew and the girl, Tiffany. No doubt, psychiatrists would have a field day with his choice of names, and perhaps deservedly so. He is always the featured speaker at Fighting Squadron-77 reunions.

1989: CHARLIE PARKER, Lieutenant Commander, USN, was shot down also in late 1972, but over Laos. A large explosion was observed in the tail section of his aircraft. There was no chute. For years, he was listed as Missing in Action. Finally, a Joint P.O.W./M.I.A. Accounting Command (JPAC) Team found his aircraft and remains in a remote hillside above the Plain of Jars in 1989. A memorial service was held for him in the Naval Air Station Chapel at Miramar before his casket was escorted to his home of record in Elko, Nevada. The attendance was small. Two attractive and well dressed, middle-age women in black veils were observed at the service. The stoic of the two was Madeline. The one crying profusely was Tiffany.

1994: USS SHILO (CVA-35) was decommissioned in 1994 after 50 years of sailing in harm’s way. Commissioned in September 1944, it reached the Pacific in the final days of the war just in time for the Battle of Okinawa where it sustained a Kamakaze attack on its flight deck that put it out of action, but not out of operation. It steamed home under its own power for major repairs at Mare Island in San Francisco. Subsequently, it answered the call in the Korean War as a platform for Naval strike aircraft from the Pusan Perimeter to the Inchon Landing to the Hagaru-ri Resevoir to the stalemate at the 38th Parallel. When Vietnam reared its ugly head, SHILO was there from the inception of Yankee Station in 1965 to the evacuation of Saigon in 1975. 19 years later, it was considered excess to US defense needs and left the role of active duty warships. It was scrapped for metal and has probably been reduced to razor blades.

1995: NAVY FIGHTING SQUADRON 77 (VF-77) or the “Rat Pack” was decommissioned for the second time in August 1995. It like SHILOH was no longer considered vital to America’s defense needs. In World War II, it had the third highest shoot down record of any Navy squadron. 12 aces, one Medal of Honor, and three Navy Cross winners were on its roles. It sat out Korea, a victim of the post War cutback. When Vietnam flared up, however, so did the “Rat Pack.” Reactivated in December 1962, VF-77 spent most of its next 13 years in Southeast Asia on either Yankee or Dixie Stations. The squadron maintains exceptionally close ties to it former squadron mates. Lieutenant Andrew Crewson was its only MiG killer. He left the Navy in 1967, however, and his whereabouts are unknown. He does not attend biannual squadron reunions. The squadron always closes its reunions with a toast to Andy Crewson, “wherever he may be.” If they only knew!

1997: NAVAL AIR STATION MIRAMAR reverted to Marine Corps control in 1997 as part of a major realignment of bases and installations and is currently known as Marine Corps Air Station Miramar. It is in good hands. Navy and Marine pilots both wear “Wings of Gold” and are designated Naval Aviators. Tiffany and Maddie were in attendance on the fringes at the change of command ceremony. In their late fifties, now, they had aged beautifully, and when an occasion such as this required, they could still dress “to the nines.” They saw Rear Admiral Lee, USN, Retired and his new family from a distance. As always, he looked distinguished and was a magnet for attention. Tiffany thought she saw Captain Mike Riordan, USN, Retired, in the crowd, but wasn’t completely sure. On the other hand, Charlie Parker was there, at least in spirit. So were the rest of the “Rats,” the ones VF-77 had left behind on Yankee Station, in the Gulf of Tonkin, and in North Vietnam. Tiffany took a silent roll call and said a prayer. She and Maddie left early. Each had misty eyes.

2002: MADELINE discovered a small lump in her left breast in September 2001 during a routine self-exam that she performed periodically in the shower. It was diagnosed as cancerous and turned out to be the tip of an infested body system beyond saving. Chemotherapy was useless. She died at age 62 at home six months later in March 2002 while under heavy sedation for pain relief. Tiffany was at her side. Although not completely lucid, she knew who Tiffany was and what they meant to each other as she drew her final, tortured breath. They had been married for 35 years and were inseparable to the end.

2004: TIFFANY is alive and well and lives with her sister in San Francisco in a condo on Russian Hill that has a sweeping view of the Bay, especially, to the east. Back in the city of her birth, she favors gray permed hair, glasses, and an elegant, classic style in her clothes. Gone are the jeans, baggy sweaters, and knockabout shoes of her more recent years. A sophisticated city demands a sophisticated lady. Tiffany will not disappoint. On special occasions she is sometimes seen in seamed nylons, gloves, and a hat set at a jaunty angle. It is all very “retro” as they say now, but so is she. Unlike younger women, she enjoys the labor of climbing into a long-line bra, and an open bottom girdle with garter. Almost daily, particularly at sunset, she feasts her eyes on the recently closed Naval Air Station Alameda that she had visited many times back in her previous life as a Navy Pilot and which reminds her so much of Navy Miramar. Vicariously she roams the deserted hangars, flight line, ready room, Officers Club, and Bachelors Officers Quarters. For her, they are not really deserted. Instead, they are brimming with sailors of all ranks and rates, line personnel, maintenance technicians, and pilots from memories evergreen. On occasion, usually while sipping a martini in a long-stem-crystal glass, she mentally straps into her sleek F-8 Crusader, goes to full military power, releases the brakes, and begins her takeoff roll. Seconds later, she bangs the afterburner and is off in a flight of fantasy. Maddie, her soul mate, understood, but she is gone. Now her sister, Patricia, the one whose clothes Tiffany used to borrow furtively, helps to fill the void of Maddie’s sympathetic ear. Under a pseudonym for obvious reasons, Tiffany joined the Navy League and is active in promoting the goals of that fine organization. She labors tirelessly for young women to apply to the US Naval Academy, Naval ROTC, and for Naval Flight Training. From time to time she is tempted to attend a VF-77 or “Rat Pack” reunion in a haute courte, pink cocktail dress, but doesn’t quite know how to pull it off without becoming a “cause celebre.” Perhaps, some things are better left unsaid. As an enthusiastic feminist, however, she would love to answer the question, “Whatever happened to Lt. Andy Crewson, USNR?” Maybe some day she will.