You Bet!

Part 5

By Kim Johns

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I didn’t sleep at all well that night, continually jerking awake with my body bathed in perspiration as my mind struggled to retain the elusive vanishing memories of the nightmares that had shocked me into wakefulness, the cold moonlight casting eerie shadows over my bedroom ceiling like spectral warnings of doom yet to come.

Early morning sunlight gradually washed over my staring eyes and I realised that sleep now, for me, was not to be. I threw aside the bedcovers, slipped on an old t-shirt and jeans, and as silently as I could made my way downstairs.

I needn’t have bothered in my endeavours not to wake anybody, as I found my mother and Jean in the kitchen engrossed in a deep conversation over mugs of steaming tea. Their sudden silence as I entered confirmed that the subject of conversation had been me.

I grunted my usual ‘good morning,’ made myself a mug of the welcome brew and replenished theirs, and sat down at the kitchen table.

“Jean tells me your deception went down very well,” commented my mother.

I nodded, glancing at the girl. “Yeah. For two guys who have known me since primary school, they were pretty blind,” I told her.

She laughed. “What did they say when you told them?”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “We…er…didn’t actually tell them,” I confessed.

My mother looked from me to Jean and back again. “You mean they still think they spent the evening with two girls?”

“Well, unless they twigged who I was and didn’t say anything…yes,” I told her.

She laughed again.

Jean leaned forward, her face and voice confident. “There is no way they cottoned on to who you were, John,” she said. “I would have known straight away. They didn’t have the faintest idea!”

“So does that mean you have won your bet?” my mother asked.

I shook my head. “Last night was a trial run. The bet is for tonight, remember? It’s a party for girls only!”

Mum looked at Jean. “What do you think?” she said.

Jean smiled. “It’ll be more difficult, as you know, because girls tend to be more perceptive than boys, but I think John stands a great chance of passing himself off as Kim without too much trouble. No-one,” she added, “Will be expecting a boy to gatecrash the party dressed as a girl!”

I was treated to a look of pride from my mother. “My daughter!” she exclaimed, making me cringe with embarrassment, then she laughed yet again, and I realised she had only said it to embarrass me. Or had she? My paranoia was getting too much of a grip on me.

“Come on, Mum,” I said, “Don’t get carried away. After tonight you can forget Kim. I want to get on with my life!” Even to my ears those words didn’t carry quite the conviction I had intended, and I was treated to a couple of very strange glances from the two females.

“Right, I’ve got things to do,” my mother said, getting to her feet after a momentarily awkward silence. “I’m sure you and Jean have got some last minute planning to do, so I’ll leave you to it. John,” she raised her eyebrows at me, “I will expect a fully detailed account of both last night and tonight at some stage tomorrow!”

I nodded dutifully. Little did she realise that there was absolutely no way she would be getting a complete account of last night’s outrageous culmination of events! I was sure that was what had been contributing to my sleepless night.

I also hadn’t intended to tell Jean the whole story about last evening’s occurrences, especially in the light of my unnatural and strange passion for Harry and my odd and rather disgusting behaviour with him subsequently, but somehow it just came out quite naturally during our conversation, with no pressure on her part.

Jean seemed intrigued by my account of my feelings, laying a sympathetic hand on my arm as I recounted the tale, and was intensely interested if not a little nauseated when I relayed the sordid story of Harry’s and my indulgence in the garden.

“Have you ever..?” I started to ask, and she put her hand over my mouth.

“I’m not going to tell you that!” she exclaimed, blushing.

I smiled. “So all sisters together still only goes so far, then?”

So she relented and told me some extremely surprising things, and we giggled together about men in general, until I realised I was acting just like any female friend would probably act.
“Am I turning girly?” I asked her suddenly, feeling a little uncomfortable about just how comfortable I was with this female bonding.

“I suppose the evening must have had some effect on you,” she told me. “You’ve seen what a bit of life’s like from a girl’s point of view now, and I expect some of the experience has rubbed off on you. Probably just as well, as the big experiment is tonight!”

With a shock I remembered that I had to go through the whole experience again, this time under the critical eyes of a group of women! What hope did I have of fooling them that I was one of their own? My worries over the problem of my interchanging sexuality faded as the enormity of this evening’s undertaking suddenly blossomed into stark reality.

Jean laughed. “People tend to see what they expect to see,” she told me. “No-one tonight will be looking for boys in drag. If you act as you did last night, I think you’ll get away with it again. And if any of the girls do sus you out, they’ll be more intrigued by the reasons for the dare, and impressed that you actually did what you promised to do, than wanting to ‘out’ you as an imposter! In fact, anyone who did discover you would think they were pretty smart, and keep quiet to see if anyone else was as clever as them!”

“Is that what you’d do?”

Jean nodded. “Oh, yes,” she smiled.

“But wait a minute,” I said as the thought occurred to me, “When it was first suggested I go to this party as a girl, you were worried about your mates finding out!”

“Well, I certainly didn’t want to turn up with an obvious ‘man in drag,’ now did I? There’s nothing more off-putting than seeing a man with too much make-up plastered over his face and an outrageous dress sense trying to be a woman! Of course, when I saw how convincing you were as a girl, it made me realise you just might get away with it!”

“Still only ‘just might’?”

Her lips flexed, and the wicked eyes crinkled at the corners. “Oh, I don’t think anyone will mistake you for anything but what you are!”

The remark initially satisfied me, and I ceased my probing, but later, reviewing her comment, I puzzled over what she really meant by it for a long, long time.
 

*          *          *
 
As the party wasn’t until the evening, Jean coerced me into a shopping trip with her, and it wasn’t until we became immersed in the flimsy items in an underwear shop that I realised why.

“I thought we could buy you your own underwear,” she told me, looking through a rack of barely there panties and bras.

I hastily looked around to see if anyone was listening. I was of course still dressed in my usual male Saturday attire, which is to say a pair of well-worn jeans and a baggy t-shirt. I wasn’t ready for odd stares from the women customers, especially any young women customers!

“Keep your voice down, Jean,” I begged her, “I don’t want any funny looks from anyone in here!”

Her mouth twitched in amusement, but she did lower her voice.

“Anyway,” I continued in low tones, “What would I do with my own stuff? It’s not as if I’ll be wearing any of it again after tonight!”

“Maybe, maybe not,” she said, holding out her hand palm downwards and inclining it left and right.

“What!”

“No, no,” she amended hastily, “What I meant to say is, it’s one thing wearing my old bits and pieces as a test run, and even last night didn’t really matter — it was only the boys, after all. But tonight,” she continued, moving to another rack of flimsy undergarments, “I think you ought to be comfortable with what you have on, and that really means having clothes that are the right size for you.”

“But how will you know what’s the right size?” I objected.

“I’m a woman. We have an eye for these things.”

“Oh.”

“What do you think of these?” she asked, pushing a very cobwebby pair of see-through panties into my hand.

“Come on, Jean, I’m hardly likely to wear anything like this, am I?” I told her, proffering them back to her.

“I’m joking with you, John,” she turned away to another part of the shop, and I followed obediently.

“This is more what I had in mind,” she told me, standing in front of a display of what looked like fancy corsets.

“What are they?”

“These are basques,” she told me. “But these sorts are quite good for what you want. See, they’re like an all-in-one bra and suspender belt, and have little hooks and eyes at the front to do it up, but these also have lacing at the back.”
“What’s so good about that?” I asked, fingering the lacy garment cautiously. It looked pretty sexy to me, and I couldn’t help picturing Jean clad in one. Half-clad in one. Pay attention, John!

“Once it’s on, it’s laced up at the back, and that pulls your waist in, and keeps it in. It’ll give you a more girly figure. A crowd of girls is more likely to notice your odd shape than Harry or Barry ever would. I think one of these with a pair of matching panties would be just the job.”

She riffled through the rack and picked a couple out, holding them against me. I blushed and stepped back, turning away, again looking in all directions to see if anyone was watching Jean’s antics.

She chuckled. “All right. Which one do you like best?”

I looked at them both critically. One was mainly a deep blue in colour, the other a satiny maroon. Both were covered in lacy bits and pieces. I found I liked them both, but was drawn to the maroon job. I inclined my head and flicked my eyes at it.

My dumb show amused Jean even more. “Which one did you say you liked?” she said again, raising her voice slightly.

I glared at her, reached out and touched the maroon basque. “This one,” I hissed in a low voice.

“This one?” Jean raised it to my shoulder level while looking at it appraisingly. “Mmm. Yes, I think you’re right. And I think this size will be OK.” She found a matching pair of panties and handed both garments to me.

I put my hands behind me and stepped away from her. “You surely don’t expect me to carry them, do you?” I said aghast.

“No,” she said calmly, “But I do expect you to wear them!”
 

*          *          *
 
Back at home, Jean insisted I have another bath, and while it was running she poured more scented bubble bath into the water, where it foamed incredibly, forming a mass of bubbles over the surface of the water, and exuded a pleasant, definitely feminine aroma into the room.

On her instruction I stripped to my underpants, and she gave me a visual once over, stroking my body here and there to assess whether there had been any noticeable hair growth.

“No, you’re fine,” she announced. “All you need is another good double shave to get that face nice and smooth, and we’ll be ready to rock and roll!”

As I tested the heat of the water, Jean stripped down to her bra and panties. I looked at her appreciatively.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t forget,” she said, “I’m going to this party, too. I need to be clean. I’m having first bath!”

My mouth dropped.

“It’s all right,” she continued, “I’ll be quick, and you can take your time. While you’re in the bath, I’ll be getting ready, so that I can help you afterwards!”

She stood looking at me in silence. Suddenly the penny dropped, and I mumbled something and backed out of the bathroom. As I closed the door I could see she was smiling to herself as her hands unclipped her bra.

Later, when I finally emerged from the bath, drying myself with a huge towel, I had to admit Jean looked great. She was wearing a cream silk dress with almost non-existent shoulder straps, flesh coloured stockings (or tights — she didn’t enlighten me this time) and cream low-heeled court shoes. Her hair was scooped up on her head and secured in place by a silver clip, and she wore two small diamond ear studs. I gaped and she smiled in appreciation.

“Will this do?”

“You look fabulous!”

“I’m sure not,” she said, “But thanks for the compliment!”

The time had come. I slipped on the maroon panties, pushing my boy bits back out of sight, and tugged them up waistwards. They didn’t actually reach my waist, sitting just above my hips, but they felt secure and very comfortable.

Jean wrapped the basque around me and fastened it with the fiddly little black hooks and eyes. If felt fairly tight, pulling the slight bulge of my blossoming beer belly flat. She then eased it up my body slightly, teasing me with the soft, satiny elasticity of it. Finally I put my arms through the straps, and she smoothed it into place.

Standing behind me she instructed me to take a deep breath and hold it. When I did so, I felt her pulling from behind, and my waist and belly were constricted even more, to a point where I thought I would never breathe again.

Jean obviously fastened the garment at the rear, for she then told me to breathe out. I did so, and my fears faded. Whilst I was conscious of being ‘held in place,’ I found I could breathe normally with no discomfort at all.

“We’ll pop the stockings on first,” Jean said, “And attach them to the suspenders. Then we’ll put the breast forms in and I’ll adjust your bra straps.”

It was the strangest thing to feel once more the slight pull of the stockings against the suspenders, and the firm settling of the shoulder straps. Strange, but again very sexy. The little fellow hidden in my panties was struggling again.

After carefully making up my face again, Jean helped me on with the same dress I had worn the night before. This time it felt normal to be wearing a dress, and I twirled a little in it.

“I think you like being a girl,” she told me, as I pirouetted.

I blushed big time and stopped the fashion parade.

“I can understand girls feeling sexy wearing clothes like these,” I told her, thinking I ought to explain myself. “They just have a great feel to them. Guys don’t have anything that compares to the feel of this!”

The girl sat me down and spent some time arranging the wig again, assuring me that she was fixing it in place so securely that there would be no possibility of it slipping on my head or being pulled off. “Unless you get into a cat-fight, that is,” she said slyly.

“A cat-fight?” Light dawned and I laughed. “I shouldn’t think there’ll be much chance of that!”

“No,” Jean agreed, “Not tonight. There’ll be no men to fight over!”

I nearly said, “But there’ll be me,” then shut my mouth firmly. No one, I decided firmly, would know I wasn’t what I appeared to be tonight!

Jean finally sprayed a light but very nicely perfumed scent over me and told me to shut my eyes. Used to doing what I was told now, I obediently did so.

“Ouch!”

A sharp pricking pain pierced the lobe of my right ear, and I jerked my head back and my eyes open. “What on earth…”

Jean was holding a small needle in one hand, and a ball of cotton wool in the other. There was an antiseptic smell close to my nostrils, and suddenly she was swabbing my ear gently. I felt her press something against the lobe of my ear.

“What was all that about?”

“You’ll see,” she told me, “But I’m sorry, I’ve got to do it again with the other ear.”

“That’s what you think,” I snarled.

“If I don’t,” she said patiently, as if to a child, “Everyone will wonder why you’re only wearing one ear-ring. That will make them notice you.”

“One ear-ring?” My hand flew to my ear. I fingered the small, hard alien object that appeared to be fastened to my injured lobe.

“Yes. I’ve pierced one ear and put a stud in for you. I just have to do the other one.”

“Ear-rings? But I’ll look like a…”

“Yes, we want you to look like a girl, remember? It was OK last night with Harry and Barry, men don’t notice things like that, and to an extent the wig will conceal your ears, but it’s all girls tonight, OK? You’ve got to look right.”

I reluctantly suffered the agony of the second ear, and the antiseptic swabbing and then Jean allowed me to look in the mirror.

Well, I had to admit I looked a bit of a babe, my hair and the ear-rings were stunning!

“Hey, Jeannie,” I told her, “You’ve missed your vocation! You can make me up anytime!”

Again that head on one side look and the twisted smile. “So,” she said, “You think you might want to do this again sometime, then?”

“Oh! Well, no,” I blustered, “I mean…well, what I really meant…”

“Let’s check you out in the big mirror,” Jean suggested, cutting me off in mid-babble, thankfully before I could decide what I had really meant.

I slipped my feet easily into the black court shoes, again the same pair from yesterday, and we went along the landing to my mother’s room.

If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed it. That girl was back again with a vengeance! Her shape looked even better tonight, the black dress fitting snugly to every curve as if made to measure, and as I’ve already said her hair and make-up, complemented by the tiny ear-rings, was superb. Her legs in the black nylons were as shapely as any I’d seen on a real girl.

Jean stood beside me, eyeing me contemplatively.

“I don’t think I should take you out tonight,” she told my reflection.

“Why not?” Her comment worried me.

“You’re too much competition,” she laughed. “I’m glad we’re not going out ‘on the pull.’ I wouldn’t get a look in. I never thought I’d say it, John, but you make a better looking girl than some of my girl-friends!”

I laughed, relieved, my self-confidence boosted by her ego talk. “Are we still sticking to the Kim story?” I asked her.

She nodded. “I think so, don’t you? We’ve got it off pat now; it’ll come as second nature if anyone asks.”

Back in my bedroom Jean took a small cloth case from her bag. “Try these,” she suggested, and from it produced a small chain-link necklace with one tiny diamond pendant suspended from it. Fastening it around my neck she nodded in satisfaction. “Thought that would look good,” she muttered, and handed me a couple of rings.

I carefully slipped them on, one on each hand, and again Jean nodded, satisfied. “You’d look a bit odd without some sort of jewellery,” she informed me. “You’ve got about the right minimum now. Effective but not flashy. In fact,” and she winked at me, “You’re a bit of a classy babe!”

I felt that old familiar flush climbing the back of my neck, and she laughed.

As we gathered our bags and coats up, my Mother came home.

“Are you two still here?” she called as she climbed the stairs.

Answered in the affirmative, she came into my bedroom, and looked us both over carefully. “Oh my God,” she breathed.

“What?” I said.

She moved forward and put her arms around me. “You look absolutely beautiful,” she told me.

I shifted uncomfortably, once more embarrassed, but inside I was bursting with pride. Yes! I was going to get away with this! Even my mother was convinced I could do it!

“Mum,” was all I said, in what I realised was a bit of a whining voice.

“Are you sure this is just a girls-only party?” she asked.

“Yes, why?”

“You both look as if you’re going out to pick up a couple of fellows. Jean, you look wonderful. John…” She turned to me. “I can only repeat, you look really great! I can’t believe how lucky I am!”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve got a really handsome son, and now I find I’ve also got a daughter who will turn heads!” She winked at me. She, too, did not intend to discuss our two girly evenings together. Although I felt I wouldn’t mind Jean knowing at some time, tonight wasn’t right.

“Come on, Mum,” I said, remembering the reason for all this, “It’s only for tonight, so I can get free beer for half a year. Don’t get carried away!

She smiled. “I can dream, can’t I? I take it you’ll both be staying here again tonight?”

“If that’s OK,” said Jean. “We’ll get a cab from the party, and sneak in like last night.”

My Mother smiled again. “I heard you come in,” she told us. “No, you didn’t wake me, but a Mother worries about her daughter!”

“I think we’d better go,” I protested, “Before you get maudlin!”
 

*          *          *
 
It was obvious, from the music drifting into the street, that the party was well under way when we arrived. Although all the curtains were drawn, muted lighting shone from every window, and a couple of girls were standing just outside the open front door sharing a cigarette that I suspected from the smell wasn’t a brand freely available from your corner shop tobacconist.

Once again the journey had been uneventful, unless you count the predictable remarks that seemed to be the stock in trade of almost every other male group we encountered. It made me a little ashamed to be one of their gender, and I found my sympathies slowly swinging to the female side with every comment.

The one effect these asides had on me was to make me feel more comfortable in my adopted persona. It was obvious the guys had no idea I was anything other than what I appeared to be, and my confidence increased considerably.
The only cloud on the horizon was the discomforting prospect of being the forthcoming focus of female appraisal, a hurdle I was dreading, even though my morale was constantly being bolstered by Jean’s positive comments on my appearance.

Jean clicked open the front gate and passed through it with me a nervous and apprehensive close second, and smiling at the two smokers we pushed open the front door and entered.

The hallway was packed with women of all shapes and sizes and peering further along the hall to the kitchen I spotted more females chattering and laughing. The door to a room immediately on our left was open, and from this room came the sound of music and more laughter and giggling, while even more female shapes drifted in and out in a regular stream clutching glasses of drink and paper plates of food.

“Jean!”

A large shape detached itself from the formless throng and materialised in front of us, beaming. She was a big girl, attractive, wearing a flimsy and very frilly party dress. She flung her arms around Jean and kissed her warmly on the cheek.

“Mary.” Jean beamed back and embraced her friend. I knew it was Mary’s house and that she had instigated this get together.

“I hope you don’t mind,” said Jean, turning sideways to reveal me, “But I brought an old school-friend from years ago with me. Kim’s down with her parents for a flying visit.”

Mary gave me a quick hug and a perfunctory peck on the cheek. “The more the merrier,” she said, stepping back to look me up and down. “Love your dress! Is it new?”

“What, this old thing?” I found myself saying, slightly tongue in cheek, and Jean gave me a sharp sidelong glance.

Mary laughed. “I can tell you’re a bit of a joker,” she said. “Come and get a drink and mingle!”

We made our way to the kitchen, depositing the bottles and food Jean had thoughtfully provided to add to the provender, and sorted out drinks. All the time Jean was being accosted by old friends, and constantly introducing me to all and sundry. In every case I was accepted unconditionally by all present, and was surprised to receive flattering comments over my dress, my ear-rings and my hair. Apart from that nobody gave me a second glance, a suspicious or searching stare, or any indication that they believed I was not what I purported to be. Either Jean had pre-warned them all of my intended masquerade and sworn them to go along with it, or she was correct in thinking that, seeing what they expected to see, none of them had penetrated my disguise!

The evening flew by, and I enjoyed my fair share of the food, although I was careful to limit my drinking by holding a half-full glass of white wine in my hand for ages without taking a sip. The last thing I wanted to do was get drunk and reveal all.

Jean disappeared and reappeared at regular intervals, and I could see her in various parts of the house chatting to different girls and generally enjoying herself.

My own part in the evening was far from lonely. Hardly had Jean gone from my side than one or other of the females would appear beside me and engage me in conversation, quizzing me about my friendship with her, my clothes, what it was like where I lived, shopping, boys (a difficult subject that I felt I fielded quite well) and every other thing under the sun! I realised with a bit of a shock that I felt an integral part of the gathering, quite at home, and that I was enjoying myself immensely.

At odd times during the evening I found myself coming face to face with one particular girl, a beautiful blonde with cornflower blue eyes and a figure to die for. The first time we met was by the buffet, and she grinned at me while filling a paper plate with goodies.

“Hi. Enjoying yourself?”

I nodded, selecting food with a gluttonous intent. I was starving. “It’s great, isn’t it?” I offered.

“You’re a friend of Jean’s?”

I nodded again, just about to launch into the old school-friends routine, when she rather burnt my boats by saying, “Yes, we were at school together. How do you know her?”

I mumbled something about our parents being friends, which she appeared to accept. She popped a suspicious-looking hors d’ouvre on my plate.

“Try that, it’s gorgeous,” she said, munching one herself.

I slipped the pastry into my mouth. It tasted foul. I smiled as I chewed and manfully (girlfully?) swallowed it.

“Great,” I lied.

Her lips twitched. “You’re not a very good liar, are you?” she said, and turned.

I dabbed my lips with a paper serviette. “I try hard,” I told her, and she smiled, her eyes twinkling. Then “See you later,” and she disappeared into the throng.

I took a deep draught from my wineglass to dispel the taste of the strange morsel I had felt obliged to try.

Later she emerged from the loo where I had been waiting outside.

“Hello again!”

I couldn’t help but smile back at her. She was as beautiful as I remembered, and naturally vivacious. What’s more, she seemed to like me. Did I have a chance here? Should I try a chat routine? Uncomfortably I remembered I was a girl tonight. Life can sometimes be a bitch. Under normal circumstances I would have been making a play for her.

Under normal circumstances, I reminded myself, I wouldn’t have stood a chance with her. My success rate with girls was pretty low. She was the sort of girl Harry would have swept off her feet, with his strangely magical ways with the opposite sex.

“What’s up? You look a bit sad?”

I realised my face was reflecting my thoughts, a habit of mine that made me fairly useless as a dissembler. I smiled wanly. “Just thinking,” I fabricated, “What a great party, and what a shame it’ll come to an end!”

“All things must pass,” she said, slipping past me with a bright “See you later!”

“Hope so,” I mumbled to her departing back.

I finally succumbed to the temptation of another drink and drifted to the kitchen to fill my wineglass for the third time when I noticed the back door was ajar. Feeling a bit hot, I slipped quietly through it to find myself in a largish back garden, full of tall shrubs and wandering footpaths. I stood with my back to the wall at one side of the door, absorbed in the peace after the hubbub, relishing the fresh and free sensation of my girly clothing as I slowly cooled off.

The door slipped open again and a girl stepped through, also holding a glass. She looked around at me and smiled.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Of course not.” I smiled back.

It was my wishful thinking standing there, the girl who had swept me off my feet. She was about my age, with short blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes, and wearing a light blue strapless silk dress that set those eyes off to perfection. Her blue high heels also matched the dress and her eyes, and she wore a pair of slightly pendulous clear crystal ear-rings. She was absolute perfection, and my maleness asserted itself as prominently as it could given its concealed and secure trappings.

Since our brief chats I had noticed her a lot (in fact to tell the truth I had made a point of looking for her), and it had been obvious she was aware of me. Apart from those chats, for some reason, every so often, I would gaze up to see her looking towards me through the crowd, an enigmatic smile on her face.

Often, unobserved, I would see her in earnest conversation with friends, laughing at some unheard joke or making some serious point, emphasised by eloquent hand gestures, and been impressed by her unselfconscious poise and grace.

She looked at me, smiling again. “We meet again. Can I say how stunning you look?” she asked.

I flushed. Was she making fun of me? I demurred: “You beat the socks off everyone,” I heard myself saying. “You are beautiful.”

She laughed. “Laura,” she introduced herself.

“Kim,” I said, unsure whether to shake hands.

“I’ve been watching you all night,” she offered.

“I had noticed.”

“And you’ve been watching me.” It was said as a simple statement.

I felt my cheeks redden. “I have,” I admitted.

Her lips twitched in a quiet amusement. “Can I ask why?”

Truth is often the best route, I have found in the past. “Frankly,” I said, “I think you are the most beautiful and self-confident girl here tonight. I’ve been watching you because it’s been a pleasure to do so.”

“I thank you,” she told me, “Although it’s an unusual compliment to get from another girl.” Was there a question mark after that last sentence?

“Do you think it should be only boys who say you look nice, then?”

“I didn’t mean that. But you must be used to people saying how great you look, surely?

I blinked. If only she knew the truth. “I can’t say I am,” I told her honestly.

“I get the impression you’re not quite like the other girls,” she offered, a little cautiously.

Shit! I thought frantically. She was obviously the astute one in the pack, the only one to guess my secret! My disguise was not as good as we had hoped. I decided to play ignorant for a while.

I stalled, thinking hard. “How so?” I wondered aloud.

She smiled and placed her hand on my shoulder, then patted my hair. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” she murmured. “I am right, aren’t I?”

I figured that was her way of telling me she knew I was wearing a wig! I felt honest admission was the only thing now. If Jean was right, Laura would be so pleased she was the only one to find out about me that she wouldn’t tell anybody else. “I guess you’ve seen through me,” I said.

“Oh good. I thought I was right. I think you’re great. Do you think you could like me?”

I swallowed. What a ridiculous question. “Like you? I think I could fall in love with you,” I admitted, in a low voice. “In fact, I think I have fallen in love with you!”

Her eyes sparkled in the moonlight, her smile enveloped me, and she stood on tiptoe and kissed me lightly on the lips. I put my arms around her, drawing her closer, and we kissed again, this time passionately, our tongues teasing. I was intensely conscious of her warm and alluring femininity, and my penis was fighting like crazy to spring into action from the confines of my restricting panties.

I couldn’t believe this was really happening.

She looked up at me, surprise written over her face. “Wow!” she said, “That was great!” Her brow corrugated. “Have you got a girl-friend?” she accused me playfully, prodding my shoulder.

“Not at the moment,” I told her truthfully.

“Honestly? That’s hard to believe.”

“Trust me,” I told her. “I’ve been waiting all my life for you!”

She looked carefully into my eyes, searching for the lie. “I knew the moment I saw you,” she finally whispered. “Like calls to like, doesn’t it? We all find our own level.”

I nodded dumbly. What the hell is she talking about, I wondered vaguely. So beautiful, and it sounds like she’s got a screw loose!

“Hold me again,” she begged, and I pushed the thought from my mind. Who was I to refuse? I grabbed her carefully, and our dresses rustled silkily as we engaged in another kiss. She was wonderful. Not only had she figured out my secret, but she obviously didn’t care, and she liked the man she saw beneath the layers of feminine packaging. How lucky was I?

As we stood apart again, the kitchen door opened.

“Kim?”

It was Jean. “Oh, hi Laura,” she acknowledged the girl’s presence, and then looked at me. “We’d better think about going,” she informed me, “It’s getting late. Perhaps another half-hour?”

“We were just chatting,” I said inconsequentially, for no reason whatsoever. Then, “Half-an-hour? Sure.”

“Have you got a moment,” she then said, and touched Laura on the shoulder. “You don’t mind if I steal Kim for five minutes, do you?”

Laura smiled, a touch wistfully I thought. Hoped. “Of course not.”

As I turned to go she took my hand. “Will you have time to come back to finish our chat?” she asked.

I looked at Jean, who paused. “Oh,” she said, slowly, looking at each of us in turn, “I should think so.”

I smiled at Laura as she released my fingers. “I’ll see you in a minute,” I told her.

Back in the house I pushed Jean into a quiet corner excitedly.

“Guess what?” I told her, “Laura knows who I am! And she doesn’t care! She actually likes me!”

“She knows who you are?”

“Yep! She saw through my disguise straight away!”

Jean blinked and stared at me in disbelief. “She knows you’re a boy?”

“Well,” I admitted, “She didn’t say so in so many words, but it’s obvious from the way she kissed me she fancies me rotten! How lucky am I? Don’t you think she’s beautiful?”

“She kissed you?” Jean was doing her parrot impression.

“Yes! She said she knew I wasn’t like the other girls, then she snogged me like there was no tomorrow! I am so in with this girl, Jean!”

Jean put her arm around my shoulder and lowered her voice. “You don’t think there might be another explanation?” she suggested.

“What? What do you mean? What sort of explanation?”

Jean said slowly, “Don’t get me wrong, Kim, Laura and I go back a long way, and she’s one of my better friends. She’d do anything for you…”

“She can do anything for me,” I said enthusiastically.

“That’s just it,” Jean said, shaking me by the shoulders to bring me back down from cloud nine. “She’s not kissing you because she’s discovered you’re a fanciable bloke in drag.”

“What? Then why is she kissing me?”

“She’s kissing you because she doesn’t think you’re a fanciable bloke in drag. If she thought that she’d run a mile. She’s kissing you because she thinks you’re a girl.”

My mind didn’t quite comprehend what Jean was saying. “Don’t be silly. Why would a girl want to kiss another girl? Surely it’s only … oh!”

Light dawned.

“Cracked it,” Jean told me. “Much as I love Laura, and I know she’d like me to love her, she is without a doubt not interested in men. It’s girls she has the hots for!”

“So she really thinks … “

“No doubt about it,” Jean said. “You’ve won the female impersonator prize hands down, clear leader. You’re so good at it, even a lesbian thinks you’re the real thing!”

I swore as my new-found happiness crumbled about me. “What am I going to do?”

Jean looked concerned. “Well, I think we ought to go now, anyway. Let her down gently, Kim. She is a good friend, regardless of her sexual preferences, and I wouldn’t want to hurt her.”

“I’ll do my best.” It’s true. Your heart can ache. Mine was.

“Ten minutes,” said Jean, as I turned back towards the kitchen door.

Laura was still outside, nursing her glass in her arms and staring at the star-studded sky. She turned as I came out, an odd smile on her lips.

“Well?” She said.

“Well what?”

She came closer to me, and touched my bosom. “I suppose Jean has been warning you off me,” she said.

I couldn’t help myself, even knowing the truth I still thought she was gorgeous. I enfolded her in my arms, squashing her to me. Her hair smelt wonderful, her perfume took my breath away.

“Jean has done nothing of the sort,” I said. “She told me you were one of her best friends.”

She looked up at me with misty eyes. “Did she?” she asked. “And is she your best friend? I always thought she was straight.”

So Jean had been telling me the truth, not that I had doubted her for a moment. I kissed Laura’s inviting lips. God help me, I couldn’t help myself.

“I have to be honest and say I fancy Jean something rotten,” I told her. “However, Jean is as straight as they come. And she has a fiancé to boot!”

“And where does that leave you and me?”

Where did it leave us? Absolutely nowhere. If I admitted the truth to her now, she would probably claw my eyes out. I liked her enough not to want to upset her if I could possibly help it.

“I’m only down here for a few days,” I told her. “Having met you, I wish it was longer, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Laura nestled close to me, hugging me close, smelling of every sweet thing I had ever desired in my whole life.

“So we meet and we part?” She said. “Is that how it was meant to be, do you think?”

I looked her in the eyes. “Laura, I only met you tonight. Believe me, I’ve fallen in love with you, head over heels. But I live a long way away, and I have to go back.”

“But you could write,” she suggested. “If I give you my address and phone number? We could talk on the phone?”

Coward that I am, I accepted the life-line.

“Of course,” I agreed, “Why not? And you never know,” holding out even more false hope, “I will always visit Jean again whenever I can.”

She fumbled in her bag and scribbled on a piece of paper. “Promise,” she said intensely. “Promise you’ll be in touch.”

“Cross my heart,” I lied, “And hope to die.”

The anticipated lightning bolt from Heaven didn’t materialise, and I lived to lie another day.

Her lips suddenly locked on to mine, and I gave this last kiss everything I had. Finally she released me and touched a finger to my lips.

“Love you,” she murmured.

“I love you, too,” I said, cursing the fates that had brought her to me, that had led to her to falling in love with a sham and me with a hopeless cause. I folded the slip of paper and put it in my own bag.

“See you, then.” I could hardly drag myself away from those appealing eyes.

Laura watched me but said nothing.

“Bye.” I backed away through the kitchen door.

Jean met me in the hall with our coats, and we made our goodbyes. As we walked down the street she said, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Did you let her down gently?”

“I did my best, Jean, but it was difficult. I hope to God I didn’t hurt her, because sure as eggs is eggs I’m hurting. Why is it my luck to find a gorgeous girl like that who isn’t interested in men?”

“You really liked her,” said Jean wonderingly, and put an arm around my shoulders. I felt tears welling up in my eyes, and fumbled for a handkerchief. What the hell was wrong with me? I was crying because in one evening I’d fallen in love to find that the object of my passion was a lesbian. And make no mistake, I did cry. For five minutes I shook uncontrollably, Jean holding me close like the honorary sister she was, patting my back while I let it all out.

Finally I felt more comfortable and dabbed at my nose and eyes with my handkerchief. Looking at Jean I said, “Has my make-up run? Is my mascara smudged?”

She began to laugh then, and after a few seconds I joined in, laughing at myself, and my luck, and the ridiculous situation I had just emerged from.

Arm in arm, like a couple of female drunks, we hailed a taxi and went home.
 

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