After starving for several days, Jim finally agrees to get dressed again as Jill, and go to another restaurant with his friends.

Friends Four Life
Gill: A Girl Friend
By Angela Rasch

Chapter Three
Tough Guy Again

Chapter Three of Seven - Completed

The next morning at 10:00, Anne came to the door. “How ya doing, Jill?” She asked.

It appears she’s decided to use “Jill” even when we aren’t in public.

I had been lost in misery, on the bed, covered by a sheet. I answered her through the door, which remained closed and locked from my side. “It’s ‘Jim’ and you can go screw yourself.”

“Jill, please. We want to be your friends. If you want, we’ll come back at two to take you to lunch.”

“Buzz off.”

“Jill, be nice. From now on, we’ll ask you out to lunch once a day at 10:00. If you turn us down, we won’t be back for twenty-four hours.”

“Will you ask Debbie and Sarah something for me?”

“What’s that, Jill?”

“Would you please ask them -- What has six tits and no brain?”

“Six ...? Jill! That’s not funny. We’ll be back tomorrow.”

For the next three days, I remained naked. I had placed what needed to be on hangers and put everything else in drawers. I’m not going to wear any of those clothes.

For the first time in years, I had time to really think about my life.

***

I had been raised on a west Nebraska farm that was ten miles from Interstate 80, which was our link to the real world. I was the middle child in a large family, with four brothers and one sister. My sister and I were quite close. She was three years older.

One of my earliest memories was playing dress-up as a four-year-old. It was one of the games we played the most often. Also, when I was four, my mother gave me a doll for Christmas. She often gave dolls to boys and trucks to girls. I have no idea why she would do that. I didn’t like the doll and hated the idea that my mother gave it to me.

I thought nothing of being dressed as a witch one Halloween when I was ten. Looking back, I could only imagine what our neighbors thought of the weird boy, in that long black dress.

Boys in our community started working in the fields when they were six or seven. I had older brothers to do most of the fieldwork, so I didn’t drive tractor until I was nine or ten.

Before I started working all day in the fields, I spent most of my time playing with my sister and our cousins, who lived just half a mile from us. The cousin closest to me in age was a girl one year younger. She and my sister were my best friends.

It wasn’t unusual to spend entire afternoons with my sister and cousin writing and acting in plays. Gender was never of any importance. We mixed and matched as needed. Sometimes we were three young ladies living in the big city. Other times, I would be the father to two evil sons. Sometimes we wore costumes -- other times we didn’t. We could easily change gender through our actions and attitudes.

At times, I thought of myself as androgynous. I spent quiet moments in my sister’s closet staring at her dresses. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I inherently knew those feelings weren’t something to talk about. Once I was old enough to be busy working in the fields, the urge to put on a dress was rare. On rainy days, if I had been left to myself, I would sometimes try on a dress, but I would quickly take it off, disgusted and disappointed with myself for having done something so terribly wrong.

My brothers were five and six years older, and five and six years younger. If we got hurt playing, we toughed it out. Men don’t cry. Any boy seen crying was told by an adult to, “Quit crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.” If he didn’t quit, he was either slapped or spanked.

Saturday nights and Sunday afternoons were spent visiting our relatives. They mostly lived on farms, within ten miles of ours. Ten miles was considered next door, on the plains. The men sat on the porch and drank beer while discussing farming and politics. The women were in the kitchen preparing meals, tending to infants, exchanging recipes, or planning future family get-togethers. The women didn’t yell at each other.

Over a million and a half people lived in Nebraska, about fifty-three percent were female and forty-seven percent were male. A more apt breakdown would be .oo6 % of the population were members of the Big Red football team. The rest of us cheered for them. We were all femmes compared to the gridiron heroes of Lincoln.

I was raised Catholic, so we had rules for everything. Some things were just taboo. You didn’t even discuss them. I reasoned that cross-dressing was one of those, as no one ever mentioned it. Nothing in the Baltimore Catechism seemed to cover cross-dressing unless it came under the general heading of “impure thoughts and deeds.”

Later in life, I ran across mention of cross-dressing in the Bible. In Deuteronomy, it says, “The woman shall not wear what pertains to a man, neither shall a man put on a woman’s garment, for all who do are an abomination unto the Lord thy God.” That passage seemed rather explicit and condemning. I failed to notice, until many years later, that other laws in that same book of the Bible stated that other things were also “an abomination” such as eating pork. A minister once told me, “That’s why they wrote a New Testament.”

As a young boy, I would daydream about actually becoming a girl. One of my chores on the farm was to watch the cattle, while they grazed on the unfenced areas of our farm. I made sure the cows were eating only those things that were good for their milk and kept them from our crops. It wasn’t hard, other than staying awake in the hot, dry summer air. There was ample time for daydreaming and fantasizing.

I wanted to sneak a dress out with me, into the fields, and wear it all day. It would have been great to have the wind blow the dress around my legs as I twirled around. I imagined myself as Julie Andrews dancing, in a high meadow, in the Austrian Alps.

“High on the hill was a lonely goatherd.” I never dared to become the Maid in a Pale Pink Coat. Lay dee odl lay ee odl oo.

Mom was the only mother in our community who worked outside the home. She was a teacher. Psychologists might suggest that I was simply expressing a form of nostalgia, for traditional gender roles. As I started wanting to dress as a girl at four, I’m not sure I had a clear distinction, at that time, about gender roles. So, I think that particular assumption would be fairly weak and unfounded.

Later in life, I read that seventy-five percent of all transvestites first want to dress in girl’s clothing, before they’re four. That would seem to point toward being born with a female spirit. Or it could be that babies, who don’t seem to react to gender until they’re about two, still haven’t fully learned how society wants them to differentiate.

Some psychologists have suggested that men who feel trapped in a low social-economic class will use cross-dressing to imaginatively compensate for the higher class that a gendered culture has promised him. Society says, “Do these manly things, and you will be rich and famous.” The logical conclusion would be that if you’re not rich and famous, and you have manly sexual characteristics, you must really be a woman.

By the age of four, I hadn’t developed the comparative skills to consider myself an abject failure. Further, as I continued to cross-dress after becoming an acknowledged success in business, I didn’t place much credence in gender-slumming theories.

Alone in my wretched motel room, I still had read very little about cross-dressing. There were only three pertinent books in the county library, and they were outdated. I had found information online stating that the potential for a cure was low. After that, I all but gave up trying to find more information. Who would want to read more? According to those books and websites -- I was a sexual deviant, with little hope of ever being anything else.

My favorite dress-up dress as a child had been a satin, party gown. It was a hand-me-down to my sister from a great-aunt. My sister never wore it. It was ankle length and had at least two-dozen brass buttons. I wore that dress several times, but never with any appropriate underwear or make-up. Wearing it made me feel at ease with myself and fully relaxed.

One daring day, I used some of my mother’s talcum powder. It was called “Evening in Paris” and came in a cobalt-blue can. I never forgot the enchanting smell, or the way it made me feel. I have been enthralled by feminine fragrances ever since.

Despite my urges, I had been determined to be all male. I tried to restrict thoughts of girlish ideas to those moments, just before sleeping.

Even though I wanted desperately to wake up one morning magically transformed into a girl, I never spoke of my feelings. Not with my sister, not with anyone.

Having been physically beaten for crying, or other minor transgressions, I could only imagine what would have happened had I been caught trying to be a girl.
Our community believed so strongly in sex-differentiation that they would humiliate anyone who tried to blur the lines. Despite all their efforts, I didn’t perceive any major differences between girls and boys.

The nun who taught my fifth-grade class noticed that I often played with the girls at recess. I didn’t think much of it, as it was normal for me to play with my sister and girl cousins. The nun announced, in front of my class, that either I would play with the boys, as I was supposed to, or she would get a dress for me to wear with ribbons for my hair. I was in awe of nuns, considering them to be saints in the making. Her threat confirmed what I had sensed from other adults. Wearing a dress should be humiliating.

There was an effeminate boy in our class. I wasn’t like him. I just wanted to play with the girls. No more than I wanted to play with the boys, but equally. The girls wanted to play sports with the boys, mainly softball or kickball. The nuns wouldn’t allow that. I thought the nuns’ concerns were stupid. “Discriminatory” would have been the word to use -- had it been in my vocabulary.

In junior high, I was severely criticized by the principal, in front of my homeroom, for being excitable. I had just been told we were getting new uniforms for our basketball team and was passing the information on to everyone I saw who was on the team. In the principal’s eyes, I was too emotional. That was one of the lessons that told me I would get along better with others, if I would suppress my emotions.

Later in life, cross-dressing helped me get along better with myself. The price for this self-therapy was fear, guilt, and lowered self-esteem - - which led to a vicious cycle. The lower my self-esteem, the more I needed the peace found in cross-dressing, which lowered my self-esteem. . ..

Our family moved into town when I was fourteen. I soon had lots of male friends.

In one of my classes, a nun gave a psychological test to the entire class that determined I was one of the most popular boys.

I played every sport I could, every minute I could. If I wasn’t shooting baskets, I was hitting a tennis ball, or playing football. A natural competitor, I lettered in four sports. I played fiercely, breaking several bones. My nose alone was broken four times. Although I never looked for fights, I never turned one down.

I liked girls a lot and spent as much time as I could with them. I dated and dated and dated. Girls were for dating. Boys were for friends.

Several times during high school, I thought how nice it would have been -- had I been born a girl. But I wasn’t a girl, and that was that.

In college, I rarely thought of being a girl. I continued to have lots of dates. I became increasingly analytical and introspective. And, I started to drink heavily.

Many times, I felt like an outsider, unable to participate fully in life. The loneliness was trying. For a time, alcohol masked my pain. Just before I met Jackie, I had gone through a period of promiscuity. I had sex with a lot of girls, some that I didn’t even know their names.

Jackie and I were married shortly after college. She became my best friend. Her family has been wonderful to me, especially her four brothers. She has no sisters.

The first cross-dressing incident between us occurred shortly after we were married. We were in our bed reading a book about sex. We took turns reading chapters, to each other. We tried to have an open discussion about each subject.

When we came to the topic of cross-dressing, Jackie asked if I would like to give it a try. I was, of course, very excited about the prospect. I hadn’t told Jackie about my childhood urges, as I thought that was all behind me. Or, at least, that I could control it.

She offered me a peach, tricot gown she had been given as a wedding shower gift.

I knew the minute I put it on that it felt right. We made love. From that day forward, we sporadically mixed sex with cross-dressing.

I had ordered quite a lot of clothes from mail order and online. I had become adept at applying make-up and enjoyed a variety of scents. I tended toward the romantic: White Shoulders, Chanel No. 5, Shalimar, or my absolute favorite, Heavenly.

Several times I tried to quit cross-dressing. It’s not that I’m a weak person. After smoking three packs of Marlboros a day for over six years, I quit smoking overnight. Wearing women’s clothing was an addiction for me. Jackie had innocently enabled that addiction. It had caused many tearful arguments and long periods of anger and silence.

Not that Jackie had been unreasonable. She lived in fear of the wrong person catching me. She was worried that our friends wouldn’t understand, if they became aware. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that her brothers would hate me. She was convinced that a neighbor, early in our marriage, knew about me.

Jackie lived in fear of the unknown consequences. Would I eventually go too far and lose my job? Would my lifestyle harm our boys? Was I a strong enough father figure? Would I become gay? Would I someday want to cross-dress fulltime?

I shared some of her fears, and believed some of them were valid, but we couldn’t talk through any of it. There was always a tension between us that would easily surface. She had told me that she no longer respected me. We lashed out at each other over nothing.

Jackie found many of the things that I loved doing, to be demeaning to women. She thought using make-up was a bother. She deemed unnaturally curly hair as being silly. According to her, long nails did nothing but impair her dexterity. She once had asked, “If that’s what you think a woman is, what am I?”

I had told her many times that the things I admired about feminine women were: their compassion, their increased communication skills, their heightened sense of esthetics, and their emotional adroitness.

She either didn’t hear or believe me, or both. She said she didn’t know where she fit in. She told me she wasn’t bi-sexual or a lesbian.

Fear has kept me from seeking counseling. . .fear and the absolute belief that my condition couldn’t be cured.

Some psychologists think part of the immense attraction of cross-dressing is the heightened sexual experience because of fear-driven sensations. That’s akin to those who use near asphyxiation to increase sexual pleasure. No one answer I had read came close to an explanation of cross-dressing’s addictive nature.

What an exquisite curse! Unless you’re a transvestite you will never understand the intense pleasure and deep shame involved. A cross-dresser’s mind will allow him to suppress cross-dressing for days, weeks, or months. Then a random thought, an aroma, a piece of cloth -- and all he can think of is satisfying his urge.

The girls had left me with no real choice. On the fifth day at 10:00, I finally agreed to be picked up at 4:00, for dinner. They obviously thought I needed more embarrassment. I knew I didn’t. I also knew it didn’t matter what I thought.

During those five days, I had done nothing but think and scheme. I had made and then rejected dozens of plans. Every time I came up with what appeared to be a good idea, I eventually found a hole in it. I had to do better with my female illusion. If I could somehow pass -- then their plan to shame me would cease being fun for them.

I dressed in a flared skirt and peasant blouse. The skirt came to mid-knee. The blouse was a dusty orange that gathered at the waist. It had long sleeves and was made of tricot. The cotton skirt was eggshell flecked with gold and brown. I selected a pair of three-inch white heels with taupe pantyhose.

Despite what you have seen in the movies, heels are not all that hard to walk in. Hollywood directors should walk a mile in my heels, before making their next gender-bender movie.

The day was much cooler, so I could wear pantyhose without worry about perspiration. I took greater care in shaving and used even more foundation. I wasn’t beautiful, but no one would see my beard. I bathed in Shalimar bath salts. I love Shalimar. It’s an old scent and one of my faves.

My legs were covered with stubble, so I had to shave them again. I did my face first to conserve blades. Since the blouse was cut lower than what I had worn the first day, I was also forced to shave my chest. As I was doing my chest, I realized any body hair was a problem. I shaved everywhere I could reach, leaving only my pubic hair.

My mind was adrift, slipping from topic to topic, and drawing no conclusions. I want out, but how and to where? I’m so hungry I’ve forgotten how horny I am.

The Shalimar scent drove me nuts. I needed sexual relief and had no suitable way to get it. Before I got dressed, I used Shalimar Body Lotion on every part of my body except that one rigid member that was begging to be massaged.

I matched my make-up to the blouse, using a soft orange tint for eye shadow and Avon Shimmery lipstick. My foundation was slightly darker than what I had used five days before, giving me a healthy-looking “tan.” When I pulled back my hair, I took care to use a tight scrunchie, before tying it with a scarf that matched my blouse. There would be no flyaway hair for me.

In the mirror, I saw Amy Poehler. Hopefully, everyone else would see Marie - and not her ex, Will Arnett - decked out in orange. Before doing my nails, I sprayed Shalimar Cologne over my body. I was hard as granite. However, I wouldn’t put on a show for the cameras.

I started doing my nails in tangerine an hour before they were due to arrive. I put on three coats. Each one was carefully dried before I applied the next. My nails matched my lips, eye shadow, and the powder I used for a blush. I enjoyed buying cosmetics and my make-up kit was well-stocked.

I was wearing a seashell necklace that bobbed when I spoke. Other than my wedding band, I wore no other jewelry.

They arrived precisely at 4:00.

I don’t need a clock, with three anal-retentives for friends. I had just finished washing errant make-up from my hands when they knocked. I walked to the door drying my hands with a towel.

“Hi, Jill, how’s it going?”

How is it that someone as friendly as Anne, with that body, has managed not to have a handful of babies? I thought.

“I’m okay, Anne,” I said. “Don’t I look okay?”

“You look Maaarvvelouss,” Billy Crystal / Debbie said.

My mind was thinking, screw you, but my lips said, “Thank you, Debbie. I really tried to do much better today. Just let me get my purse, and I’ll be right with you.” I had learned from our first “miss-adventure” that my face might need a touch up after our meal.

“Jill, is that water running?” Anne asked.

I had left the tap on and then walked away. It shook my confidence to realize how preoccupied I had become.

They chatted on our way to the restaurant, with not one word about work, the stock market, or world affairs.

Instead of steering the conversation to my normal topics, I hungrily took in everything they said about my family, their families, or the sales at the local stores. I told myself that I was lonely and would have listened to them read the label from a tomato soup can. The truth was I ached for news of Jackie and the boys.

Sartre said, “If you’re lonely when you’re alone, you’re in bad company.” Given my problems, and the way I whined to myself, I had everything I could do to put up with me.

When I finally joined their conversation, I used a muted Scarlett O’Hara voice. My Tara accent had drawn too much attention to me. I had softened my voice and raised it half an octave above my normal range. To my ears, my voice seemed to blend with theirs.

As we pulled into the lot at TGI FRIDAY’S, I realized I was scared stiff. Yes, I was stiff - deep under all the clothing. That wasn’t the problem. My legs didn’t want to move. My mind raced with images, of an encore, of the last outing.

“I’ve changed my mind,” I said. “You can starve me to death. I can’t go in.”

Debbie, who again was driving, looked at me in the rear-view mirror. “Jill, you agreed to do exactly what we tell you to do. We’ve been patient with you. It’s time for you to cooperate. Either you get out of the car, or I’m going to drive over to the Federal Court House. The judge will enforce our contract.”

Somehow, I found a way to slide out of the car. Sarah half carried / half pushed me toward the restaurant door. The interior was a little darker than Perkins. I tried to be one of the girls and then relaxed a bit when we got to our table, without incident.

I hadn’t had any water since noon. I didn’t order iced tea or lemonade. I sipped my water with the salad Debbie forced me to order. I wasn’t going to be put in a tight spot over the ladies’ room.

We might have made it through the lunch unnoticed had we not been sitting on those damned stools. Their seats were about thirty inches off the ground.

The girls even appeared to have trouble perching on them.

If I didn’t make a conscientious effort, my legs spread naturally about a foot and a half apart at the knees. By the end of our lunch, I had put on quite a show for a table of men sitting three tables away from us.

They were young professionals -- the kind I normally ate up and spit out. Just before we finished, one of them approached our table and whispered in my ear.
“It took us about ten minutes to figure you out. Sitting with your friends -- you almost look like a real woman. My friends are paying me to come over here, and embarrass you, but I’m really here to tell you that I find you interesting. If you would like to go out sometime, let me know.” He pressed a note into my hand.

For the first time, I looked in his eyes. He was blushing from the embarrassment that he was trying to save me from experiencing. Flustered by the gratitude I felt, I bowed my head and slipped his note into my purse.

“My buddies expect me to be really rude to you,” he continued, as I froze, afraid to say anything. “If you don’t get up, and leave the restaurant immediately, I’m going to be forced to create a scene and you’re going to be the star. I hate to do this, but if I hadn’t come over here someone else would’ve. That person won’t give you a chance to leave.”

“Sarah, let’s go,” I said. I dragged her out to the parking lot. Anne and Debbie stayed behind to take care of the bill, with what I assumed was my credit card.

“Whoa there, Jill,” Sarah said, once we had cleared the restaurant’s front door. “Remember who’s in charge here.”

“He was going to make trouble.”

“So what?” Sarah asked. “This whole futzing thing is trouble. When I went to the ladies’ room a few minutes ago, the manager grabbed me. We aren’t welcome here, ever again. This isn’t any fun for any of us.”

“If you didn’t want trouble,” I said. “You shouldn’t have forced me to come here dressed like I am. It’s your own damned fault for being a bitch.”

Debbie and Anne sauntered across the parking lot with big smiles, on their faces.

“Jill, you really did swell.” Anne looked extremely pleased.

“I’m sorry to pop your bubble,” Sarah said, “but the whole freaking place read Jill like a book. I’m tired of this bull. Let’s file the papers and be done with it. He ... she’s never going to change. She’ll always be an asshole.”

“That’s not fair, Sarah.” Unexpectedly, Debbie came to my defense.

Maybe they’re trying to do a good cop/bad cop thing.

“I still think our plan can work,” Debbie continued. “She’s going into the hospital tomorrow morning, so we’ve got a few days to think things over. As long as she’s sticking to her part of the bargain, we should stick to ours.”

Anne and Sarah nodded.

“Hospital?” I asked.

“Yep. . .ya airhead – ‘hospital.’”

“Airhead” was a name that I had frequently applied to Anne.

She was turning the tables on me. “Remember - - you’re getting a nose-job.”

I had forgotten.

When they dropped me off at the motel, Anne said, “Don’t forget you can’t eat anything after ten. Oops! I guess I’m the airhead. You don’t have any food, do you? I’m sorry.”

I could tell by the look on her face that she truly was sorry for what she had said.

She went on, touching my hand -- and smiling. “Look, Jill. I’ll stop by later tonight. We can talk.”

***

Anne did come back to talk.

I had decided it was foolish to be naked, all the time, in my room. To stay warm, I was dressed in a long, white Celida nightgown, made of soft cotton with long sleeves and lots of frilly details. I looked like Meg Ryan, in the closet, in Sleepless in Seattle. Only, I was out of the closet in Omaha. I also was wearing my fluffy clog slippers.

I had been thinking all evening about the need for friends. As angry as I was at the situation, remorse had already settled in for some of the things that I had said, in the past, to Anne, Sarah, and Debbie.

Anne had brought a pamphlet about the hospital, to let me know what to expect, and how to prepare. It outlined the hospital’s rules. The hospital had ten beds in private rooms.

At least, I won’t have to enter a ward, in a dress.

I voiced my biggest concern. “Anne, when I wake up in the hospital, will I have a vagina?”

She blushed. “Of course, you won’t. Nothing is going to happen to you that you don’t want to happen.”

“I believe you. But can I trust Sarah and Debbie?”

“Jill, Honey, the goal of everyone involved is to be supportive and sensitive. We want to help you through a process of discovery and resolution. What we’re doing for you and with you is the best option available. You can afford private help, which is good because there are almost no social services for transgendered people. Many misguided people think people with gender disorientation are mentally ill and need to be cured. The politics involved has become very mean-spirited.”

“Are you trying to cure me?” I asked, willing for the moment to let her description of me as “transgendered” stand. I don’t want to start an argument. I have always liked Anne the most.

“Nope. We’re no longer that misinformed. We know enough to be helping you in, a different direction. We want to assist you, in ending your anxiety.”

“I’m scared.” Despite considerable effort not to, I wept. At first, the tears were a surprise. Once they became a comfort, my emotional gates opened. I told her of my fear of being physically beaten, if they made me go out in public again dressed as a woman. Fear of violence is part of a cross-dresser’s life.

Some time ago, Brandon Teena had been a Nebraska “boy” who was raped. “He” tried to get help from the police. The police interrogated “him” in a very hurtful manner calling into question “his” most private thoughts and actions, because “he” anatomically was a girl. Even though the assailants each said the other had committed the rape, the police released both of them. Once the boys that raped him were freed, they found him and then murdered him. The town had been successfully sued. Reflective of society’s bias against the transgendered, the award was only sixteen thousand dollars. That incident occurred less than two hundred miles from Omaha.

“I’m fearful too,” Anne said. “Bad things happened to me. Things you aren’t ready to understand. I’m dealing with my problems and you need to deal with yours. For now, you need to know that nothing could ever make any of us hurt you -- or allow you to be hurt. You can count on that.”

I fell asleep thinking about having my nose fixed. It seemed like a good idea, no matter what.

***

I was dressed in a simple tan suit with a white silk blouse when they came for me at 10:00 the next morning. I had used a Passion Pink color combination for my nails, lips, blusher, and eye shadow. My shoes were British-tan leather flats with auburn pantyhose. I had a matching shoulder bag to carry my essentials. The skirt seemed unusually large, but I belted it tightly.

I had pulled my hair back into a bun. My gold loop earrings were matched with a simple gold heart on a gold chain necklace. The hospital literature had requested that I not use any scent.

When we arrived, I was once again afraid to get out of the car. I was anxious about the nurses and aides. They know my gender. I can’t leave the hospital, for at least four days. How can I survive the kind of continual degradation they might put me through?

I was met at the door by an orderly with a wheelchair. He had brown hair and no visible body piercings. There was no check-in process. It was “Jill this” and “Jill that.” But not in the nasty way the waitress had said it. Finally, I thought, I got my make-up right. I was still worried sick about what would happen when they gave me my first sponge bath.

My room was like the bedroom of a private home. The print hanging on the wall facing my bed was Renoir’s “The Little Girl with the Watering Can.” The orderly asked me to change into a hospital gown. He said that everyone had to wear a gown, until after her surgery was complete. After he left the room, I slipped on the gown and removed my make-up with cold cream.

Since the gown was unisex, it wasn’t fully feminine. I relished the thought of having that little triumph over the girls.

A nurse checked my pulse and blood pressure, hooked me to an IV, and weighed me.

I’m down to 145 pounds!

Debbie and Anne were with me until I went into surgery. I woke four hours later, with my face covered with gauze. Sarah was sitting by my bed. I noticed immediately that I was wearing one of my most ornate nighties.

“We thought you’d be more comfortable in something of your own.”

I’m sure she’s sincere.

Actually, my nightie was nicer than having that annoying draft you get in a hospital gown.

My nails had been polished.

“I thought you might like a little less color -- since you can’t wear make-up for a few days,” Sarah said. She had shaped my lengthy nails, removed the Passion Pink polish, and replaced it with light beige. “I fixed you up with three coats of Beach Beige and two coats of clear. You can do some major league keyboarding in those, without chipping.”

I looked at a proud Sarah through the bandages and felt very close to her. She really does care about me. “Thank you,” I said. That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen Sarah do.

I was tired and my face ached. Sarah gave me a sip of water.

I closed my eyes to sleep. Before I dozed off, I put a well-polished finger between my legs to make sure I was all there. Sure enough, it was saluting the world. Given my immense relief at that discovery, I was absolutely certain I never wanted to have sex reassignment surgery.

Some psychologists have stated that transvestites are solving their castration anxieties by becoming fake women. It was ironic that my cross-dressing had heightened my fears.

During the next four days, everyone in the hospital treated me with great respect. The hospital specialized in sex reassignment surgery and other cosmetic procedures for transgendered people. There were no cross-dresser haters on their staff.

Even so, each time someone new came into my room -- I was embarrassed by the attire the girls had brought for me. I had purchased almost all my nightgowns for - fore? - play. I would have preferred my Meg Ryan nightie.

The hospital staff treated me as Jill. I forgot about what I was wearing. When my clothing didn’t matter to other people, they didn’t matter to me. I was getting back some of the confidence I had lost at Perkins, TGI FRIDAY’S, and that convenience store.

Sarah, Debbie, and Anne stayed by me -- at least, one at a time -- twenty-four hours a day. I had thought I might have a moment alone. But it was not to be. They followed me everywhere. It was just like being on-camera, back in the motel.

On the second day, the doctor said that it would be fine if I used a very minimal amount of scent. Apparently, they didn’t have any current patients or staff with allergies. My heart went out to those transsexuals who couldn’t wear perfume at a time when they needed all the femininity they could muster.

“Minimal perfume is okay,” Anne said. “Less is more.”

Really. That was the first time I’ve heard that.

We tried it, and I liked it.

Layering your scent must be a marketing ploy the cosmetic corporations use to sell more products. I liked the lighter scent, but I didn’t get sexually aroused. In fact, I was sexually aroused much less often than normal while I stayed in the hospital.

The hospital kept me on a low-intake diet. I lost an additional six pounds. The doctor told me I was in great physical condition. She said I was approaching my proper weight. With all of the fasting, came clarity of thought. I could see how I had been hurting those around me.

The time I had spent in isolation had been like a retreat, to renew my spiritual being through reflective thought.

I realized I had reached an emotional bottom and needed the process that Anne, Debbie, and Sarah had devised. Maybe they are The Freudettes?

While reading magazines in the patients’ lounge with Debbie, a middle-aged woman struck up a conversation with us. She looked faintly like Eddie Redmayne in The Danish Girl. In a way, she was quite lovely. It probably was her confidence showing through. She was articulate, intelligent, and composed. We talked about everything except her reasons for having had the surgery. . .surgery that she had called “final.”

She was a gynecologist and didn’t appear to be a person who would make a horrible mistake. After she left us to go back to her room, Debbie and I speculated about what would happen to her practice. We wondered if her old clinic would welcome her back, with open arms.

We were actually talking about me, and both of us knew it. We concluded that “she” had a fair chance, of a good future.

I could have had my nose fixed in any one of a dozen Omaha hospitals. My friends had picked this one so I wouldn’t be embarrassed and so I could interact with others like me.

On the fourth day, the doctor removed the bandages, and held a hand mirror for my inspection. Even though there was considerable swelling, the nose she showed me seemed to be too small for my face. My doctor, a gorgeous woman whose name was Christine said, “You had better like it --- I used my own nose as the model.”

I compared her nose to the one in the mirror. They’ve given me a feminine nose!

“Jiillll…Sheee’s kiiidding yooou,” Debbie said. “Jackie gave us pictures of you when you were six. Christine took your nose back to its original shape. If it’s feminine, that’s the way it was meant to be.” Debbie was drawling again, but she was doing it in a way that made me feel comfortable.

I had to make the trip back to the motel, in one of Debbie’s robes because nothing I owned fit me. Even the outfit I had worn to the hospital had become ridiculously huge. For the next week, as I convalesced in my room, I wore nothing but Debbie’s robe and some of my underwear - which also hung on me. They brought me simple salads and non-fat meals twice a day.

***

Anne celebrated my swelling abating by bringing me a Cobb salad, without the chicken. Ten days had passed since I had left the hospital.

“I’m taking the day off tomorrow, to go shopping, with Sarah and you,” Anne said.

“Shopping? Shopping for what?”

“Well, Honey. . .with your weight loss you need just about everything -- and I’m the shop ‘til you drop kid. You’re a Skinny-Minnie.”

“Anne, I have nothing to wear, into the stores.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.” She grinned.

Even my Meg Ryan nightie had become too big. Someone had let the air out of me. How could have I lost so much weight, without noticing?

Anne sat in the chair as my eyelids fluttered from fatigue. I was stretched out on my bed chirping with Anne -- about nothing. I hardly felt it when she tucked me in and gently kissed my forehead. As I fell asleep, I realized how much I liked Sarah, Debbie, and her. They really were great friends. In my high school Latin class, we had learned that amica – friend -- is a feminine noun.

Maybe women make the best friends? They keep calling me their friend.

Maybe friends make the best women?

I wasn’t all that anxious about the future. I had a feeling that somehow things would work out.

***

At 10:00 the next morning, Anne and Sarah came to the door. Anne brought me a new pair of size six elastic panties and a size large woman’s pink sweat-suit. She also gave me a pair of white cotton canvas sneakers with white sweat-socks.

“Anne, if I can’t pass as a woman in a dress, how will I ever pass in this outfit?” I asked.

“Honey, you’ll look great. Let me help you with your make-up and let’s see what happens. I’ll bet you a steak dinner that no one will see you as anything but female. Just so it’s a real bet - - if I’m right, will you get your ears pierced? Having pierced ears is something I think you would really like. You would look cute.”

“It’s a bet. I’m going to hold you to buying me that steak, Anne.” Red meat would help ease the pain of another inevitable public humiliation.

After tying my shoulder-length hair into pigtails with scrunchies, Anne gave my face a light covering with a concealer called Derma Blend. She then dotted my face with a small amount of foundation and wiped it around with something that looked like a mini sponge. She was careful to cover the remaining bruises from the surgery -- working gingerly so as not to hurt me. She brushed a teensy amount of light-brown shadow over my eyes, and added a hint of blush, some fixing powder, a dab of dark red lipstick and then she was done.

I looked in the mirror and saw my own face. “Anne, I can’t go out like this. That’s me. I’m not even wearing lip gloss.”

“I’m not done,” she said, as she reached in her pocket and produced a tiny set of clip-on earrings. They were so small they looked like studs. “Now, you’re ready.”

I trust Anne. If she says I’m ready, I am. I hope. “I’m concerned about my nails. They’re still done in the beige Sarah had painted on, in the hospital. They don’t even match my lips.”

“They look great,” Sarah said, “especially for shopping on a weekday.”

Who am I to argue with a nail expert?

Following the less-is-more rule, I sprayed a little White Shoulders in the air and barely allowed the mist to reach me.

Off we went to Crossroads Mall. On the way, we chatted our way into a state of girlishness.

My mind was on the clothes I needed to find. I gave no thought to what I was “trying” to be.

The first place we went to was the undergarment department to look for bras. With my weight loss, I had become a 36-something.

Anne and Sarah told me I should actively pick out the clothing I needed. They were there as advisors. They said it would look very suspicious if a woman my age allowed two other women to dress her.

I decided which bras to buy.

They bought a few things for themselves, to maintain our cover.

Every time I took a C-cup -- Sarah or Anne exchanged it for a B.

When we went to the dressing room Anne produced a small box she had been carrying in her large purse. It contained a set of prosthetic breasts. The box’s label said, “Olga’s Breast Enhancers.” They were teardrop-shaped and each had a raised nipple. They were my skin color and designed to be attached to my chest with an adhesive.

“When we get back to the motel,” Sarah said, “you can decide if you want to use the adhesive that’s in the box. For now, you can just put them, in the cups, of this bra.”

Anne gushed over the curves produced by the “enhancers.”

I can’t believe a 36B looks so right. I had always tried to be a 38C. Who would have thought smaller breasts would look more feminine?

We then spent nearly an hour selecting panties and other necessary foundation garments.

I picked out some sleepwear.

Anne found another nightie for me.

So did Sarah.

They taught me to evaluate clothing for their comfort and utility, as well as the way they made me feel. They helped me buy tights, stockings, and pantyhose.

One of the items we bought was a four-pad girdle, to provide a little more shape. I wore it out of the store. Even in my sweatsuit, I could see a new me as I looked at my reflection in the store windows.

We stowed our bags in the car.

It’s a good thing I’m wearing an elastic panty as my penis is becoming engorged. I haven’t had sex in almost four weeks. My semen is getting to the point of date expiration. There had been no visits lately from my old friend Rosie Palm. Surprisingly, my hard-ons are becoming less frequent.

We ate a small lunch and then continued to shop. I used the ladies’ room in the mall after Sarah agreed to make sure no one was in it, before I went in.

Anne stood guard at the door, so no one else would enter while I used it.

Sarah told me I needed at least ten dresses and about the same number of skirts and tops. Quick measurements by Anne before we left my motel room had indicated that I had dropped from a size 18 to a 12.

Even with Anne and Sarah’s considerable help, we only found three dresses we liked, plus two skirts and four tops.

I tried on at least ten items for every one we bought. Extensive shopping was entirely new, to me.

When I had shopped for Jim, I had set world records for the lowest elapsed time. I didn’t even take the time to try things on. Slam bam - thank you, sir.

Shopping with Sarah and Anne was a journey versus the destination I had always considered it to be.

I was surprised at Sarah’s well-developed fashion sense, as she normally wore sweatshirts and jeans to work. She surprised me more and more as the day went on.

All new to me was the tactile pleasure of shopping for fine fabrics. Each dress, skirt, or blouse had a feel of its own. The palette of feminine colors made the earth tones of the men’s department seem unbearably limited.

I could have shopped forever. I was enjoying the way I looked after all the weight loss. I had forgotten about trying to pass as a woman and was having a good time with Anne and Sarah.

We laughed, giggled, and snorted the day away.

After finding just the right shoes, for a couple of my new outfits, we carried our loot to the car. I was about to climb in when Anne said, “Jill, we have to go to one more store.”

“It’s nearly 5:00. You’re tired. Sarah’s tired. We had a great day. I feel great. Let’s quit while we’re ahead. Hey! Did you notice? Not one person read me.”

“That’s just the point,” Anne said. “No one read you. We have to go somewhere to have your ears pierced.”

“Forget about it. Let’s go back to my place. I’ll get dressed in that light-beige skirt and burgundy blouse and we can go get a salad somewhere.” Sarah and Debbie look upset. I must have done something wrong, again.

“Jill,” Anne said. “We made a bet. You made it through the day as a female and no one was the wiser. Now you have to get your ears pierced.”

“That just ain’t going to happen, girls. If I were to get my ears pierced, that would be permanent. When you’re done doing whatever it is you’re doing, I’m going back to work as Jim, and, Jim’s ears will not be pierced.”

“You. . .! Have the past few days been a sham? We thought you had changed.” Anne had lost all the bonhomie that had carried the day. “After all we’ve been through, I thought we could trust you.”

“Let’s take Jill in, and have her ears pierced whether she likes it or not,” Sarah said. “She still has to do what we tell her.”

“No. If we do that, we’ll be as bad as her.” Anne was visibly troubled. “Let’s just take her back to her place. We should talk it over with. . .ahh. . .Debbie. One thing I know for sure, there’s one little piggy in Omaha that isn’t going to get any supper.”

Tough. So -- I'll miss a meal. I won’t starve.

I don’t want to let Anne down. I’ve never understood people with body piercings or tattoos. It goes against my grain.

I had seen a show on TV about transvestites. A psychologist they interviewed suggested that transvestites were engaged in self-destruction by paying a gender penalty. He said that they punished themselves for some sub-conscious wrong by voluntarily giving up the superior status of a male.

I don’t want to permanently give up my male status.

I don’t understand why Anne turned on me. Why does someone as nice as her want to publicly humiliate me by piercing my ears? Up until the last several minutes, it had been a great day.

Over the years, people had mistakenly addressed me as “Miss,” both over the phone and in person. When I wanted to pass so desperately at Perkins and TGI FRIDAY’S -- I had failed. When I gave passing no thought -- when I wasn’t even trying -- I had no trouble.

Trying to be a woman is so hard.

Being a woman seems naturally easy.

(In Chapter Three, Jill refused to have her ears pierced to pay off on a bet with Anne. In Chapter Four, we will discover that her punishment will be to go out to dinner with a man.)

If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a kudos and a comment. They mean a lot to me.

Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

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