Arizona ICE’d TGirl

 © 2010 by Nom de Plume

A very short, very sad story based on current events, as told in a letter to my friends:

Arizona SB 2010: Where reasonable suspicion exists that the person is an alien who is unlawfully present in the United States, a reasonable attempt shall be made, when practicable, to determine the immigration status of the person. Any person who is arrested shall have the person’s immigration status determined before the person is released… A person is presumed to not be an alien who is unlawfully present in the United States if the person provides to the law enforcement officer or agency any of the following: a valid Arizona driver license, a valid Arizona nonoperating identification license…a valid United States federal, state or local government issued identification.

Greetings from sunny Mexico!

To those who thought I was dead, kidnapped or lying in a hospital somewhere with amnesia, the good news is that I am very much alive. The bad news is that I have been deported to Mexico, or ICE’d as my fellow deportees put it. How did this happen to an American citizen on a business trip to Phoenix? Read on.

There is something about me that you should know: I have a little hobby. Well, more like a little fetish. Okay, call it an alternative lifestyle: I dig dressing up like a woman and going out dressed in women’s clothes…are you that surprised? Didn’t you begin to wonder when I started shaving my chest, legs, etc? Sure, I told you it was for swimming, or was it cycling? I’ve been living a lie for so long that I can’t remember what I’ve said sometimes, not that it matters anymore. It looks like I’ll be living down here as a senorita for the foreseeable future.

But I digress. The last time most of you saw me, I was getting ready to leave for a confab at the Arizona Biltmore. Unbeknownst to you, as always on such occasions I “packed for two”, one half of my suitcase for my guy stuff and the other jammed with skirts, dresses, heels, lingerie, makeup, bling, purses, accessories, and my two most prized possessions: a pair of lovely silicone breast forms, and a wig styled especially for me at a sympathetic salon. Getting all this into one suitcase and keeping under the airline’s weight limit was quite the challenge, but I’ve had a lot of practice over the years, living a double life…

Now you know why I volunteered for all those business trips whenever and wherever, living the high life as a woman on my fat expense account. Fancy restaurants, evenings at the theatre, shopping sprees, even the occasional tryst with discriminating men who find TGirls like me irresistible, thanks to the Internet…I know this will come as a complete shock to most of you who knew me as a womanizer, but there’s a lot to be said for swinging both ways. As George Carlin observed, “Being bi doubles your chances of getting laid before closing time.”

Back to Arizona. My conference in Phoenix allowed plenty of free time for me to slip away and play girl, and on that fateful day I intended to knock off one of the objectives on my bucket list: a pedicure. With temperatures over 100 degrees, nylons were out of the question, and I needed to do something about the gnarly toes peeking out from the strappy sandals I planned to wear with my sundresses.

Can you begin to imagine the excitement of crossing the gender line, and trespassing that forbidden boundary between male and female? I guess you could call me a real-life shape shifter. My pulse was racing that fateful afternoon as I prepared to morph from hard-charging businessman to foxy cougar, savoring the sensations as I went about my transformation. The Biltmore featured a fabulous array of bathroom amenities, and after filling the oversized whirlpool tub with effervescent bath salts, I luxuriated in the swirling suds as I lovingly shaved my legs. Then, after wrapping a plush, thirsty towel around my fragrant body, I treated myself to the Biltmore’s sumptuous moisturizer from head to trembling toe.

Sitting here now in my cheap motel room, in a peasant skirt and rough cotton tee, how I savor the memory of those last, lovely moments! The sheer delight of slipping into lacy lingerie, which felt so cool and silky against my tender skin! Then back to the bathroom in my bra and panties to apply my makeup. After years of trial and error, aided by plenty of professional makeovers, I was an expert in creating my female face, and soon the eyes looking back at me in the mirror were smoky under lush lashes, bringing a smile to my pretty-in-pink lips. I took my time with my wonderful wig, fussing with it until my perky bangs were just so, before watching the pretty woman in the mirror fasten a coral necklace around her elegant neck and clip on her matching earrings.

Then it was back to the closet to select my dress for the afternoon, a green and white sundress that I carefully slipped over my head before zipping it up in the back. All those sit-ups were worth it when I spun back and forth in front of the full-length mirror, admiring the trim waist and deeply tanned legs under the hem of my beautiful dress. The sight of my reflection, the sound and the feeling of my dress rustling around my knees, the taste of my lip gloss, and the scent of my cologne as I dabbed it behind my ears, all came together to bombard my senses and stoke my adrenaline. Not even the sight of my feet could dampen the incredible rush I was feeling as strapped on my white high-heeled sandals.

I perched on the edge of the bed and crossed my legs with a swish while I organized my matching white purse. It was then that I made my first fatal mistake: rather than transfer my Illinois drivers license into my women’s wallet, I left it behind, not wanting to face the embarrassment of presenting a male license while dressed as a woman. I hadn’t been stopped by a cop since I was a teenager, and besides, I’d drive carefully....

The Arizona heat hit me like a blast furnace when I emerged from a side exit of the hotel near the parking lot. Thank God I had the figure for a sundress! Compared to how I’d felt in my suit and tie a few hours earlier, my women’s clothes were so much more comfortable! Until I sat down on the black leather seat of my rental car, carelessly forgetting to tuck my dress under my thighs…ouch! I rolled down the windows and cranked on the air conditioner full blast, tuning the radio to Dr. Laura while I waited for the car to cool down to a habitable temperature.

Then it was off to the nail salon. The one I’d selected from the Yellow Pages was near Biltmore Fashion Park, so I could do a little shopping afterwards. Just as I was turning left onto 24th Street, the BlackBerry in my purse chirped that I had a message. One of the ways I was able to stay on top of my job while dressed as a woman was to keep in constant contact with the office thanks to my handheld PDA, so I instinctively reached into my purse and fumbled for it while I made the turn.

As much as I’d done this, it was still awkward for me to deal with the challenge of finding something in my purse, and it slipped out of my fingers and fell to the floor between the seats. Desperately searching for it, I veered out of my lane and almost sideswiped the car next to me. Somehow I was able to retrieve my BlackBerry, and I dropped it into the folds of my dress until I regained control of my car. Then I scrolled to the message from my boss, asking for some sales figures. Second tragic mistake: I started tapping out a response, unaware that texting while driving is strictly prohibited in Phoenix.

I almost jumped out of my panties when I heard the police siren behind me. “Pull over!” a bullhorn blared, and when I saw the black and white cruiser in my rear view mirror I nearly died of anxiety. Get a grip on yourself, girl! I eased my car over to the curb and rolled down my window while a burly police officer ambled towards my car. “Drivers license and registration,” he said brusquely when he got to my window.

Although my female persona is flawless to look at, I have a little problem with my voice. Consequently, whenever I’ve been called upon to speak in a pressure situation, my defense mechanism is to start speaking in a foreign language, which usually throws my questioners and buys me a pass. So without thinking, I smiled sweetly and said, “No habla English.”

“Do you have a driver’s license?” the cop asked me again. I shook my head politely. “Any form of identification?” Again, I shook my head. My fate was sealed.

“Well, well…I’ve been wondering when I’d get one of these. Didn’t figure on it being a pretty woman. Okay, out of the car, Miss.” And then, as if I hadn’t understood, “Vaminos!”

Not quite believing what was happening to me, I opened my door and stood awkwardly next to him beside my car. “Spread ‘em!” he commanded, and the next thing I knew I was spread-eagled against the blazing hot hood, feeling his hands pat me down over my dress. Before I knew what was happening, he pulled my hands behind my back and cuffed me! Then he frog-marched me back to his cruiser and tossed me roughly into the back seat. I thought about fessing up and telling him I was really just a harmless cross dresser, but then I worried that I’d be admitting that I’d lied to a law enforcement officer, so I kept my mouth shut, reasoning that my right to remain silent until I consulted a lawyer was my best defense.

The rest of that day is a blur: sitting for what seemed like forever in the back of the cruiser while my captor radioed for instructions, then the long drive to a destination I could only imagine…along the way it suddenly dawned on me that I’d left my purse in my rental car, leaving me with no money and no way to contact the outside world! When we finally arrived at Immigration and Customs Enforcement, I was hustled out of the cruiser and into a holding cell full of Chicanos. Most looked like hapless gardeners, day laborers and housekeepers who had run afoul of the law somehow, but there were a few evil-looking individuals: drug traffickers and smugglers? I curled into a little ball in the corner of the cell and tried to tell myself that this wasn’t really happening, until we were rousted and escorted into a dreadful, smelly van. I looked out the window in despair as we pulled onto the freeway headed south, toward Nogales.

* * *

So here I sit, in a crummy motel room with a bed, sink and a toilet down the hall, with only the clothes on my back. My pretty sundress was nearly torn off me by one of the bad-assed hombres during the drive to Mexico, and only the heroic intervention of a few of the day laborers saved me. Once we crossed the border, we were summarily released into a crowded plaza, full of street merchants selling blankets, Chiclets and cheap clothing. Wandering aimlessly in my torn dress, I was able to barter my inexpensive women’s wristwatch for the peasant skirt and top that I’ve been wearing since I got here. At least I was able to hock my necklace at the mercado for a razor and some makeup.

You may wonder why I don’t switch back to being a guy and sneak back across the border. The truth is, I’ve always longed to see what it would be like to live 24/7 as a woman, and although the circumstances aren’t what I imagined, this may be my only chance. The black market economy is alive and well on this side of the border too, and I’m cleaning toilets and making beds in return for my room. It turns out my motelier is one of those gentlemen who fancies TGirls, so in return for my favors I eat free at the motel’s taqueria. He’s started pressuring me to let him pay for a boob job, with the promise that I can move into his hacienda with him…

Doubtless the manager of the Arizona Biltmore assumes that the pervert occupying my room skipped the bill and fled, leaving his men’s and women’s clothes behind him. I’ve been AWOL from the office since my disappearance, and in this economy, I doubt if my job will be waiting for me if I ever do make it back. So I’m living as a woman in Mexico. I’ll try to beg or steal enough postage to send this letter, if you do get it please break into my apartment, find my passport, and come to my rescue before I make up my mind to stay this way forever!