Rock Star: Coda, by Karin Bishop

A sequel to “Rock Star”, by Jennifer White

---

Part 1

The band got huge headlines from me leaving the band. More publicity for them. I had nothing now. No girl, no band, no fans, no manhood, nothing.

I had enough money from my royalties to buy a small but comfortable home in the Hollywood hills, up one of the canyons. The band offered to buy out the rest of my contract; it was obvious that I had been totally burned and there was no way in the world that they’d take me back, so I took the money. If I didn’t run out and buy things like a Ferrari for every day of the week, I was set for life financially, but it rang hollow.

My days were empty.

I would get up at some point. Breakfast was whatever was in the fridge. I didn’t like the concept of being a hermit–it seemed kind of pretentious–but I just didn’t want to mingle with people too much. Even the mundane shopping for food was more than I wanted to deal with, because people looked at me even if they didn’t know who I was. Or had been. The thing with living in LA is that there are so many celebrities from so many different fields–music, film and TV, or those just famous for being famous–and people stare, on the off-chance that you might be one of them. I certainly didn’t feel like a celebrity; I didn’t feel like much of anything.

So I had groceries delivered; it was very common and I could just order online. I had hired a housekeeper, and Mrs. Hernandez took the deliveries and put everything away. I generally was in whatever room Mrs. Hernandez wasn’t in. Some days I didn’t get dressed much beyond a robe over my sleepwear, which was not a glamorous nightie but a t-shirt and boxers. They were what I’d slept in for most of my life–my life as Mike–and except for the times that Julia had gotten me to wear nighties, they were what I slept in as Lisa. Some fuzzy slippers and a blue robe and I was good for the day.

And my days were empty. I didn’t go near anything that made music–not a guitar, not a keyboard, not a CD player, nothing–since I’d become the tambourine girl that last time in the studio. I felt like I’d betrayed the one thing I truly loved. Music was too painful to bear, now. It had been the driving force of my life, and it had driven me right off a cliff. No; that wasn’t right–I had driven myself off the cliff. I wasn’t suicidal, exactly, but there wasn’t much of anything I wanted to do.

At first I’d thought that television would be my only friend, but even flipping through channels, I’d catch Billy Bush going on about ‘Julia and Juan raised some eyebrows at the American Music Awards’ and couldn’t change channels fast enough. Or, worst of all, or a commercial for a new CD of theirs.

‘Of theirs’? And the bitterness would flood back, stronger and more sour than ever. So the TV had stayed off. I also avoided magazines because there might be an article or pictures of the band–Juan and Julia were at this opening or Julia and Kayla were at that fashion show. Then I thought maybe I could listen to some music, some classic rock, my first love. I opened iTunes and there, splashed across the screen, featured that week, was All The Rage with pictures of all of them. None of me. Juan, Julia, Kayla, Robert, and Jeanne. As if they had always been All The Rage.

Forget about a social life–I’d had no friends outside of the band–and none in the band, now, after what they’d done to me. So I got friendly with Amazon. I ordered books and read a lot–a lot–and finally got through Gravity’s Rainbow and Infinite Jest and The Stand. Then I thought about Moby Dick or something classical, but thought, what the hell, and dove into the popular stuff, the Twilight and Hunger Games series and some other best sellers and a curious thing happened.

I was reading like a woman. Not the choice of books themselves; it was the way I was reading them, the way I was reading everything, the way the words affected me. I was feeling emotions and sensibilities that I knew were feminine. Among the books I read were some non-fiction, including a great book, You Just Don’t Understand, about the differences in how men and women communicate. I thought it would be helpful since I was neither, really. That book led me to others on the differences in gender, which I read alongside the novels. And I realized that my mind had shifted enough–my life had shifted enough–that I did not think and feel as a typical male. I could argue that it was a bell curve, a spectrum, that lots of guys had different ways of thinking and feeling …but to be honest with myself, I knew that I was thinking and feeling as a typical female.

Okay. Juan changed me externally; now I’d discovered he’d changed me internally as well. My brain chemistry itself had altered. I went through a very dark period of bitter, impotent anger. And then it blew off. Every morning I would lay in bed wondering if I should even get up, but then came a morning when I wondered what time it was. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d actually looked at a clock. It was as simple and as profound as that–I cared about what time it was. The cliché of the ‘weight I didn’t know I’d carried’ held true; I felt lighter.

And I felt really grubby. Well, that was taken care of with a really, really good shower and then I stared at myself in the mirror. For too long, my body had been a costume, like a skinsuit that the Real Me was stuck in. I was Mike, okay? But I was trapped in this fake body, soft and curvy with boobs and a vagina and I wasn’t Lisa; I had been Mike masquerading as Lisa.

Maybe it was the realization that I was more female than I’d thought, but I had this moment of clarity, of Reality announcing itself–I was a female for the rest of my life. I was no longer Mike; I was Lisa. But for too long, I’d been a pitiful, miserable excuse for a human being, regardless of what gender I was. ‘Pitiful’? No, I’d been pity-full. Full of my own pity. Nobody else was pitying me; nobody else really cared. So why should I work so hard at making myself miserable? So, back into Reality, back into Life. And as a female. Might as well get dressed …

I went to my closet and automatically reached for the most masculine clothes I had and then stopped, hand outstretched. No. I was female now, so I should at least dress the part, instead of like an embarrassed cross-dresser. No, again. Not dress the ‘part’; it wasn’t a part or a role I was playing. It was my life from now on. And while I was a long way from wearing a skimpy sundress, I would dress as a female. Tight jeans and boots at first, with a nice top; that was a good start.

Over time, learning to get back into Life as a girl, I came to understand one factor that I hadn’t taken into account–that I wasn’t a girl, in the sense of having had a girlhood. I was a woman, undeniably, but without the knowledge of being a girl–because I hadn’t grown up as a girl; I’d been created.

And with that creation, I’d lost everything I’d ever wanted or had. Well, maybe lost wasn’t quite right; I’d handed over. I’d given up. I’d let go. I had been blaming Juan for taking my girl, my band, my gender, everything–but the truth was, I did it myself. To myself. Earlier, I’d felt my self-pity go. Now I stopped blaming Juan and, rather than blame myself, I accepted my own blame. And I suddenly felt lighter again. I could feel that dark heavy cloud of poisonous gas inside of me finally releasing.

Out of the blue, I felt music calling me. I went to iTunes in search of the classic ‘Hush’ by Deep Purple, and it made me pick up my guitar that night for the first time in too long. I’d looked up the song because I’d been waiting at a red light on Santa Monica and my mind wandered and I found myself humming the ‘nah, nah-nah-nah’ part. The next thing I knew, I was halfway remembering the guitar solo. I’d never listened to the lyrics when I was a kid, jamming along with the classics, because I’d been so focused on the guitarist, the amazing Ritchie Blackmore. But the lyrics were all about a girl that was a heartbreaker, with lines like, ‘she’s gonna make me feel so bad’, and ‘she broke my heart but I love her just the same’. They were things I’d actually screamed about Julia. And it had been written before she was even born …and I wasn’t the only guy who’d gotten screwed. Literally and figuratively.

Hell–I’d even gotten screwed out of guy-hood!

For some reason, instead of the lyrics making me even more depressed, they had the opposite effect–I laughed. I laughed and laughed until I cried from laughter. Then I cried as a woman does, and then laughed again, and suddenly, like a storm passing, I was dry-eyed and over Julia. And Juan. And the incredible thing they’d done to me–scratch that; the incredible thing I’d set up for them to do to me.

And just like that, I stopped being a recluse. I started by actually chatting with a very surprised Mrs. Hernandez, and then–at her suggestion–shopping for my own food, and began driving around LA, just soaking up the Real World. Then I moved on to going to restaurants, museums. bookstores–so much more enjoyable than ordering online!–and I started going to the movies. I even began watching TV again, although it took me a while to find where I’d thrown the remote. I began reading the news again, skipping over the music industry, of course.

I moved from jeans and boots to slacks and heels. Finally I tried skirts and found the world didn't seem to care one way or the other–the world wasn’t snickering at Mike. In fact, the male half of the world was checking out my legs! Not only did I try wearing a dress–and found, to my surprise, that I enjoyed it–but I began shopping for more. Sure, I’d worn these clothes when I was in the band, after I’d become Lisa, but I’d still been Mike-inside-of-Lisa and had hated the costume aspect of it. Now they weren’t a costume or skinsuit; they were just my clothes. And they made me feel good to wear them; they made me feel pretty. Then I went to a salon for the first time and omigod it was fantastic!

Feeling pretty was completely new to me. Lisa in the band had been told she was hot, a babe, a fox, whatever, but the Mike-inside-of-Lisa hadn’t believed it. I distrusted the comments as part of the whole scam, and at bedrock it made me feel creepy and a complete fake. It always brought my automatic pity response, ‘Yeah, but not as hot as Julia or Kayla or Jeanne’. Followed by, ‘Yeah, but I’m not even a real woman’. But with the realization that I was thinking and feeling as a typical woman–from all my good books!–it made perfect sense to just accept that, as a typical woman, I liked feeling pretty. It made me feel better about myself.

I stopped hating men and hating women and just stopped hating. I didn’t mind being alone; for the first time I was discovering who I was, without any other person to distract. I was getting to know this woman Lisa, and she was me. And being Lisa wasn’t as bad as I’d thought.

And I healed further.

* * *

A long time later–a long time later–I was picking up some bras in Victoria’s Secret at the Beverly Center when I saw two girls looking at me. I figured it was the familiar ‘celeb-look’–it was unlikely they knew who I was or had been; most likely they thought I must be Somebody Famous. Maybe it wasn’t the celebrity thing; maybe I looked weird to them, somehow. I took stock; I was wearing a black skirt and Jimmy Choo heels and a burgundy satin top that draped off my shoulders. I’d let my hair go back to its original color from the platinum blonde. It wasn’t the rock chick style as before, but was a comfortable shoulder-length shaggy cut.

It was funny; that girls’ night out in New York with Julia and Kayla had been fun. I’d enjoyed every minute of it, once I’d stopped being Mike-in-a-dress. Once I’d relaxed and just went with the flow, I became one of the girls and had a fantastic time. There was a freedom and sharing and it had been wonderful and in some ways was one of the best nights of my life. Up until the goodnight girl’s-cheek-kiss thing at the end. And, of course, it all came crashing down around me the next day. So the Platinum-Perfect Hair was a reminder of a happy time swallowed up by hell, and I’d let it go.

And the two girls were still staring.

I sighed. “Can I help you with something?”

The shorter of the two nudged her friend, with black-rimmed eyes and a dyed-red shag. They both wore the impossibly tight jeans and Converse shoes that teens wore, and the red-head had a Ramones t-shirt while her friend had, improbably, a t-shirt for Wham!

The red-head cleared her throat. Cautiously, she said, “Um …are you …um …Lisa from All The Rage?”

That was a shock! The poisonous gas that I’d released now threatened to puff up anew inside me. As evenly as I could, I said, “I was.”

Okay, I thought. This is where they ask about my sex change. Or about Julia. Or, God forbid, about Juan.

The shorter one said, “You’re really good.”

”Great,” the red-head nodded solemnly.

“Huh?” I responded eloquently.

The red-head said, “You made that band. Your playing …man, they were never the same after you left.”

This was exactly the reverse of reality! I said, “Well, I think you might have it backward …” They stared. I reminded them, “Hello? Multi-platinum?”

They made faces and the red-head said, “Fleetwood Mac.”

It was my turn to stare. In two words, she’d crystallized something, distilled its essence. She was too young; she couldn’t possibly know about the Mac …and then she proved she did.

“Their early stuff was pure. The songs rocked and had such emotion,” she said. “Then they got Stevie Nicks and yeah they got huge and rich but they got all messed up, too. But the music …it wasn’t Fleetwood Mac anymore, not really. Mick and John played in it, but it was the other guys’ band, really. Go back to Peter Green, man. Go back to the real music.”

The shorter one said, “That was you. The first All The Rage CD? It was burnin’!”

The red-head said, “That solo you did in ‘My Fire’? Incredible!”

And just like that, I felt the threatening poisonous gasses leaving me, draining out, making me light once again. “I’m, uh …I’m just going to go to Jamba Juice, to get a smoothie,” I said. “If anybody wants to talk music …”

That did it, and thanks to Heather and Becky, I fully came back into the world. Heather, the red-head who hated her name, was a budding guitarist and pointed out that nearly all the rock guitar teachers were men and already kind of looked down on ‘chicks who rock’. They couldn’t see beyond The Bangles and seemed ignorant even of The Runaways. I began giving lessons to Heather and then she referred me to a couple of young girl guitarists in the Valley who wanted a hard-rocking woman to teach them.

The fact that I’d been a male guitarist never entered into things. I asked Heather about it and her answer surprised me, because it was so far from the reality. Or at least, the reality that I thought was reality …

She shrugged and said, “Because you always were a chick.”

“Huh?” I responded, eloquent as ever.

“You know,” she chuckled. “I mean, as much as we blast Jerry Springer and that whole ‘I was a woman trapped in a man’s body!’ thing, it really is kind of the truth, isn’t it?”

“Well, there’s more to it than that,” I began, about to tell the truth.

Good thing I didn’t.

Heather said, “What I mean is, the feminine essence was in you. Sure, you were being the hard-rocking guy because that’s the only way you could get your music out. But the feminine is always there, peeking out. Like your lyrics in ‘Nightfall’? And those lines in ‘At the Window’, in the bridge? No dude wrote those. No dude could know.”

I was shaken to my core. Those were feminine? I’d just thought they were pretty rhymes in an otherwise-rocking song.

Heather wasn’t done. “There’s a fluid quality to your solos, too. Guys go for speed and play all blocky, all full of bluster and …well, it’s like they’re into ‘hammer-ons’ and you were into ‘grace notes’. Hammer, grace. Yang, yin. Male, female.” She smiled placidly.

“I thought I …” What could I say? “I thought I wasn’t that obvious.”

She chuckled. “You weren’t, not to guys. They’re oblivious to …well, most everything. Just harder-faster-louder, you know? Anyway, I don’t think of you as a guy that became a chick. None of us do. You were a chick that had to rock hard as a guy–” Her eyes widened as she realized the sexual reference. “Omigod! I didn’t mean it that way!”

“I know you didn’t,” I laughed with her.

When she was composed, she continued, “Until you couldn’t stand it anymore. The mask, I mean, having to pretend to be the guy that you clearly weren’t. And that asshole …”

“Which? Who?” I was confused.

“That asshole Juan. He was the Stevie Nicks. Turned your tight, serious band into a mega-platinum boring machine. Sounds just like every other band. Added girls and reduced the girls, you know?”

“Huh? Reduced?” Still confused.

“I saw concert footage of you guys, right after you first hit big. Very, very tight. And, yeah, once you added Juan for the live shows, there was a punchier sound with him on rhythm, sure, but you started giving up some tasty solos to that wanker. He sounds like every fourteen-year-old boy in Guitar Center. Jacking off on his Strat, harder-faster-louder but sloppy and no imagination and such a rip-off of every good riff out there. But even when Juan was crapping all over your band with his macho stud nonsense, the band still had this chick vibe that was cool, especially with you and the blonde.”

“Kayla,” I said automatically.

“Yeah. I know you were tighter with Julia, supposed to be her boyfriend and everything, but musically you just locked in with Kayla. And she’s really good. But then it became The Juan Show and then you were gone and they got that plastic Jeanne …” She shook her head in disgust.

“What about her? She’s a hot guitar player.”

“She’s a hot guy guitar player! You’ve gotta know it; she’s not playing herself, she’s just doing warmed-over licks of Juan’s.” She grinned wickedly. “Juan’s sloppy seconds!”

This ran completely counter to what it had seemed.

“She’s just Juan with boobs, you know? And then the other two chicks just became …chicks in Juan’s band. So they became window dressing. Backup bimbos. They could be any two chicks.”

“Window dressing? They’re really good players–”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she waved a hand, frowning. “But what have they done lately? They don’t write, they sing back up or–Ooh! They get to sing to Juan!” she simpered in a little-girl voice.

“They sell a lot of CDs. The press loves ‘em,” I said lamely.

“Oh, sure. Media darlings, blah-blah-blah …but there’s a whole lot of press that doesn’t buy their act. And it’s not just the press that really knows music, like Rolling Stone and Village Voice. They supposedly sell a lot of CDs, but I’ll bet there’s a warehouse somewhere full of ‘em, bought by their label. Because they’re not so hot in downloads. iTunes, Rhapsody, the others …I saw a chart of actual downloads, and they were barely a blip. There’s probably not a college station that’ll play ‘em, and already the bands in the Valley, the dudes? They use All The Rage as a punch line. They’re a joke, Lisa! You made great music, then that asshole Juan came in and ruined it. Don’t care how fashionable they are. Entertainment Tonight covers ‘em? They’re in People? Big deal! Because anybody who knows music knows that the music’s gone, you know?”

I was too shocked to say anything.

Heather didn't notice. “Anyway, that’s why nobody gives a shit about your operation. You were always a chick, pure and simple. It was just a correction. Like …” She looked at her guitar. “Like if I had six fingers on my left hand and one didn’t work very well, it’d pretty much suck to play guitar. And nobody would have any problem taking off that extra, stupid finger.” She shrugged. “That’s what it was with you.”

She was so wrong, but it was obviously a workable cover story. But more importantly to me, it meant my music had meant something, regardless of being a guy, or what happened with Julia or Juan, or anything else. I’d gotten the taste of fame that I’d wanted, but I’d lost the music in the process. Heather and the other girls gave it back. And she gave me more than that; she let me begin to reevaluate my life in terms of the feminine within.

I could feel myself energized after spending time with one of my students. I learned so much more about girls than I’d ever learned with Julia and Kayla, because these girls were still growing, still finding their way, still exploring life and their girlhood and moving, tentatively or slam-bang, into womanhood. The girls were similar and different. For instance, Heather came from Hollywood wealth, Devon lived in a trailer in Pacoima. Tanya was black and lived on Van Nuys Boulevard, while Marie lived in a dome in the Santa Monicas. But they loved rock, they loved purity and truth in their music. And their lives were often a mess. Completely unasked for, I became a big sister of sorts, even though some of them had big sisters. I had no obvious life skills to impart, but as Devon said, ‘You’ve been out there, though, haven’t you?’ meaning in the world. So, yes, I had.

Their lives were involved with school, of course, and family and boys. More and more it seemed like boys ruled their lives; finding their own voice in rock music was their way of striking out for independence. One girl quit after two sessions; tearfully, she told me her boyfriend had said ‘chicks can’t rock’ and that if she wanted to rock she was obviously a dyke and she loved him so much and I wanted to go and belt the guy. Of course, even as Mike I wasn’t a belter, and I certainly wasn’t now. But I told the girl to be herself, not to let a guy run her life–or ruin her life.

My girls gave me my music back. They gave me a life, and in some way, they also gave me a girlhood, too. I may have shown them how to rock on the guitar, but they showed me how to embrace life.

* * *

A few months later, I ran into Ted, who’d produced All The Rage on the album that changed everything. I came out of a boutique on Melrose and there he was, parking his BMW. We had lunch and talked a bit about old times and he said he had a confession; he told me that he’d thought that Juan had just wanted to hear alternative takes to get some ideas. Then Juan reported that the label liked his mixes, although they’d actually never heard any of them. Ted released Juan’s mixes to the label, believing that they’d been approved. He’d had no idea I was being completely aced out of the mixes, out of the band, out of everything. And at the party when he’d told me about the mixes, he was an employee of the label so he’d had to toe the company line about how great the mixes were. I said I knew that now and had always liked Ted and bore him no ill will. I was taking things one day at a time. I joked about my daily life being ‘rehab from being a rock star’. Ted nodded and then he asked what I was going to do and I said I had no idea, beyond my guitar students.

It was strange to be sitting there so casually with somebody that had known me as Mike. And yet I was relaxed, after the poison had left my system through my girls. I was no longer a bitter half-man, half-woman, non-man, non-woman. I simply was Lisa now; I was female and allowed myself to be feminine. And I liked being a pretty girl on Melrose. I’d picked up a pink-and-white halter sundress at the boutique and wore platform espadrilles that wrapped up my leg. And, of course, makeup and jewelry and …well, I was Lisa, a woman. Who didn’t know what she was going to do, other than teaching True Rock to my girlies.

“Look,” he said, frowning. “You got a raw deal. You were taken in the worst way by the lady you loved and you’ve dearly paid for it. I’m saying that upfront.”

“Very nice,” I said sadly. “I could have used that information, oh, maybe when I was a guy.”

“Well, I’m just saying that upfront to tell you that what I’m going to say next is not out of pity or anything. You have a very nice pair–”

“Yeah, yeah,” I blew him off. Guys were always staring at my boobs.

He laughed, to my confusion. “You thought I was going to say something else! You do have a very nice pair of breasts, but what I was going to say was ears.”

“Ears?” Automatically I reached up and felt my earrings, a nice silver dangly pair, and wondered if he was kinky.

Ted laughed again. “I meant in the studio. Look, I worked for the label but I was more like the hired gun on your sessions so it was my job to do what you guys wanted–which ultimately turned out to be what Juan wanted.”

“Don’t get me started on Juan!” I said with a hand up. “I let him in the band and he took it away from me.” I was pretty much over the pain from his treachery but I still didn’t want to talk about him.

Ted looked at me thoughtfully. “No.”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding vigorously.

“No,” he said quietly. “Julia took it away from you.”

“Well, once Juan hooked up with her, I guess …”

“Lisa, I’m going to say something that might hurt but needs to be said. You are an intelligent, attractive, talented girl, but you’ve only been a girl a couple of years, give or take. You have no idea how crafty women can be. You were taken.”

“Taken?”

“From the git-go. Juan was …” he sighed and looked off into the distance. “The guy pissed me off, okay? He took some very good mixes and turned them into jack-off sessions for himself. I had to do it, of course, hired gun and all. Still, it turned my stomach and like I said, he pissed me off in so many ways. So I did a little research. You want to know why you became so feminine so fast, and so passive, just letting things happen to you?”

“Yeah; he got Julia feeding me hormones on the tour.”

He shook his head. “Nope. Got this from two reliable sources. You remember when you went on for that warm-up band that canceled, way back when?”

The happy memory briefly surfaced and I smiled a little. “Sure do. That was our lucky break. From there we got noticed, got the record deal, toured …good times.” They were, but there was still the dark cloud of What Happened Later.

He studied me. Then, quietly, he said, “Juan was in that band. He wasn’t responsible for the cancellation and was pissed. Quit them that night.”

“I never knew that. Well, we all take twists and turns–”

“You still don’t get it. He hated you. Not your band so much, but you–because it was your band that opened, that got the press, that got the success. Your songs, your talent, and your success. So he targeted you.”

“Targeted me?” I stared at Ted.

He nodded. “He had already drawn a bulls-eye on your forehead before you signed your first recording contract. And he targeted you through Julia.”

“So it was Juan that took my band away.”

“I said he targeted you through Julia. He was only after Julia. I have it on good authority–and Juan’s own mouth; he loves to brag, you know!–that he was going to take your girl away. You were so crazy about her, writing about her, that he thought it would destroy you, to take away your muse.”

“And wormed his way into my band …”

“No. That was Julia’s plan, after Juan had hooked her. All he wanted to do …” Ted rolled his eyes. “Look, the guy’s not Machiavellian! He’s not that smart! But he knew that you were so head-over-heels with Julia that if he took her away, you’d hurt as badly as he hurt when you took away that gig–” He held up a hand. “–which we both know was his band’s fault; they cancelled. But he wanted to take away something you loved. That was as far as his piggy little brain went. And so he landed her; in fact, they were together even before he joined your band. And once he was on tour with you guys, you were already out of the picture with Julia.”

“Wait a minute; I was with her solid back then!” It was very strange to be saying that, in my cute little sundress.

“Were you? I understand they were seeing each other all along, and even got a week together in Paris, during the first leg of your European tour.”

“No; Julia’s mom was sick and she flew home …” Even as I said it, pieces were falling into place. She didn’t fly home? Even then they were together? I shivered. “Ted, are you saying that Juan was planning to turn me into a girl back then?”

“The turning-you-into-a-girl thing started even earlier, but it was not his plan. What happened to you happened in two parts, Juan’s and then Julia’s. Juan made his move on Julia as soon as you replaced his band. You guys hadn’t even signed yet; I’m talking like the week Juan lost that gig, he moved on Julia. Getting her away from you was the extent of his plan. Are you clear on that? Juan’s plan was to get your girl and he’d already completely succeeded by the time you started that first tour.”

“No, no; Julia and I were …” I’d been going to say ‘tight’ again, but little flashes of memory were surfacing. The most obvious were the times when Julia cut off phone calls oddly when I came into our hotel room. But there were …gaps in our togetherness. She’d ask for ‘day for myself, to get my head together’ and later tell me about an art gallery she visited, or a boutique she’d found. Add them all up, along with the stunning idea that she was already with Juan, and I realized he’d been dogging our tour, in every city, meeting Julia at that gallery for–wait; they didn’t have to meet at a gallery or boutique. She could just leave our Hilton and go meet him at the Sheraton. Sleep with him at the Sheraton. In city after city …

And all along, I’d thought Julia and I had the Great Love. And I continued writing love songs about her–love songs that she would later sing with Juan.

My mouth was sour. I cleared my throat. “I can …see that now. That they were together. And so Juan decided to turn me into a girl, too.”

“Lisa; you’re not listening. Juan’s plan was get Julia, period, full-stop, end of story. Take away your reason for writing songs, take away your heart, and your life would be misery. You’d feel as miserable as he’d felt when his band lost the warm-up gig that was your ticket to success. And that was the full extent of Juan’s plan for you. Do you understand?”

“I guess so. But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t come up with the girl thing later, and–”

“That didn’t happen, Lisa. He’d done what he set out to do–he’d taken Julia away from you. All that remained was for you to discover it and be destroyed by it. His plan was completed. But it was Julia’s plan to get him in the band and then to feminize you. Juan may not even have known about it until later. Hell; he might have thought it was just something that started as a joke. But it was Julia that manipulated Juan, and it was Julia that feminized you.”

I stared at him, stunned. “What …why …” I shook my head. “No; that can’t be right. What possible reason would she have?”

He took a deep breath as he shrugged. “Several possibilities come to mind. Maybe it was to distract you from her and Juan, to keep you preoccupied.”

“Preoccupied?” I barked a short, un-lady-like laugh. Some heads turned at nearby tables.

“Think about it,” Ted went on, unfazed by my outburst. “You never struck me as the jealous type, or suspicious. That’s how they spent so much time together, right under your nose. But sooner or later you’d tumble to it. Now, on paper, you were in a much better position than Juan.”

“Much better position?”

“Founder and leader of a successful band, principal songwriter, lead guitarist, the focus at the front of the stage. What was Juan? An unemployed guitarist with no band.”

“So she got him in the band,” I nodded slowly, seeing the reasoning.

“Right. And then his own ego took over, in terms of the battle for leader. And lead guitar. And you still were a better guitarist, songwriter, leader …heck, there was no comparison. On paper,” he said again, and leaned forward. “But Julia was stuffing you with stuff that sapped your will. Setting aside the female hormone stuff, you still would have let Juan walk over you, because, baby, you were drugged.” He sat back.

“What are you talking about?”

Ted looked both embarrassed and proud. “I actually …I said I had reliable sources? I actually ran into the guy that provided the stuff for Julia. Well, Juan bought it; that’s what the guy said was so funny–how weird it was that this macho stud was buying some heavy feminizing stuff. And mixed in with it, some stuff to kind of sap your will. Make you passive. Easy to push around, willing to agree to avoid hassles. Sound familiar?”

I’d been so wrapped up in the changing-into-a-girl thing that–once setting that aside, as he said–the sapping-of-will thing was even more horrific. But it explained so much and checked all the boxes about how I’d let my band and my life get away from me. Again, I began nodding slowly as the terrible truth sank in.

“I understand, Ted, and you’re right; that was the key element. Otherwise I never would’ve …” I shook my head. “Even when she first said I should go a little glam, I would’ve said no. Glam didn’t fit us; I would’ve put my foot down. But I didn’t.”

Ted agreed and we sat for awhile in silence. It dawned on me that way back when she’d first suggested the glam look and I allowed it, I had obviously been on the pills long enough for the stuff to affect me. Which meant I’d have to go even further back to when she started me on them. Vitamins, she’d said. It had been when we moved in together, right after that so-important gig–where we filled in for Juan’s band, I now knew.

It was possible that even when Julia and I were getting domestic, Juan was already courting her. Possible? From what Ted said, it was certain.

Then I said, “But why a girl?”

“Like I said, Julia might have done it to distract you from her and Juan. She might even have thought she could ease any guilt she might have if you were less of a man. Forget about the pills for a moment. First, Juan made damned sure she was interested in him; that was his game plan. We’ll never know how he did it, but somehow he wooed her and won her. Long before you were signed and went on tour. But if she’d had even a shred of conscience, she wouldn’t leave you.”

“The band image, you mean?”

“Right,” he nodded. “Remember, Juan wasn’t even in the band at that point. Later he was, sure, but it would still be awkward for her to switch guys mid-tour. But imagine, just for a moment, that you told her that you had realized you were gay and decided to come out–just hold on!”

He said that with a raised hand; my mouth was opening for a response and I closed it and nodded. He went on.

“It’s just an example; go with the gay thing for a moment, okay?” I nodded again and he lowered his hand. “If you came out, nobody would blame her for getting together with Juan, right? And immediately, too, and even that would be acceptable.”

I had to agree. “Yes. Yes, it would.”

“And maybe she planned on Lisa right from the start; maybe she …” He shrugged. “I don’t know her that well, outside of our times in the studio and label parties. Don’t know what makes her tick.” He paused, uncertain.

“Go ahead, Ted,” I said gently.

He still looked uncomfortable. “All along I’ve been looking at it as her way of distracting you, but it’s also possible that she’s got a psychological quirk. A need to dominate men, to feminize men. It’s not unheard of,” he said dryly. Then he chuckled and looked down Melrose. “Right here and now there are probably a few women that are into that, and even more men that are into it having done to them, just within a few blocks.”

“Not me,” I said. “Not …” I sighed. “Not Mike. But now that it’s done, I’m working at trying to accept who I am.”

Ted smiled. “That’s the best and healthiest thing you can do. Unless Julia tells us herself, we’ll never know what her plan was. To sap you of your will, yes, but the feminization …a little or a lot?” He pursed his lips and then titled his head a bit. “Are you accepting who you are, Lisa?”

“I think so. Every day, a little bit more and more.” For some reason I smiled; I felt oddly happy. “Yes.”

His smile widened. “That’s excellent. Because, for what it’s worth, I must say–as an involved but somewhat subjective observer–that Julia may have succeeded too well. Yes, you’re out of All The Rage, she’s got Juan. But I don’t think she ever planned that you would be so natural as a woman. It’s possible that it was a massive side effect of her original plan. That once she started you on the pills, maybe your own body’s system reacted exceptionally well or there was already something inside of you or whatever. Either way, once she started that snowball, it grew and grew, so to speak. Became an avalanche,” he nodded.

“You don’t think she meant it from the start? I mean, that I’d wind up like I am right now?” I had to admit to myself that I was grasping at straws to excuse what she’d done.

Ted zeroed in on that. “Does that mean that you accept now that Julia is responsible, not Juan?”

Bitterly, I said, “Yes; I have to. And knowing Julia did it doesn’t mean I hate Juan less, because whenever he first found out, he still went with it.” I thought of how many times he’d dissed me for being effeminate, like sticking me with a knife, and twisting it–and knowing all along that it wasn’t me; it was being done to me–and he was buying the pills!

Ted shrugged. “Then her reasons aren’t as important as long as you know who did it. The ‘why’, well …” He waved a hand. “I don’t know if you’ll ever find out whether she planned for you to go all the way right from the start. I sure don’t know–but it was Julia all the way, of that we’re certain.”

I stared and everything–I mean everything!–suddenly shifted like a shaken snow globe. And it all fell into place.

“You always thought it was Juan screwing Julia?” Ted shook his head and said, “Julia was screwing Juan and screwing you over long before you thought. You were burned, baby, burned!”

I took a deep breath. “You know, Ted, I’m probably going to go home and scream, and throw things, and cry, and …” Strangely, though, I felt calm.

“You’re entitled,” he nodded. “But let me say this before you storm off. From working with you, I know that you love music more than anything, and that you have great ears. You write and play guitar very well, but it’s your ears that are of particular interest to me. Your mixes were far superior to the released tracks. I no longer have any affiliation with All The Rage, or their management or the label or even the studio.”

“Sorry. You’d be rich.”

“Well, I’m working on it. I have my own studio now; found some fat cats and I’m gonna give ‘em some platinum albums. And I need someone with great ears, the right producer and engineer, preferably the same person. Preferably you.”

End of Part 1