Chapter IX Watch out for that first step

By Kelly Ann Rogers

. . . Why aren’t you sleeping with him?” he asked as we shared coffee one morning. It’s quite clear he’s got a huge crush on you. Guys like me wouldn’t even be here, if you just got in bed with him.”

“I’m not gay,” I responded evenly, . . .and I’m married and hope to stay that way.”

“You mean you got yourself a woman who wants you to be a woman too?”

“Well, not exactly.”

. . . Were you two really in the changing room together?"

Their voices became too soft to hear, until I heard Courtney say, "No, not yet. But I bet they will be soon though."

Chapter IX Watch out for that first step

“Ronni, I think it’s time.”

“Time for what?” she asked, teasing. She knew exactly what I meant. For the past eighteen months, ever since I had moved out of my house, we had been talking about giving me a new hairstyle, but I so loved my long hair, I just didn’t want to cut it, except to keep the ends neat and even. It hung down almost to the middle of my shoulder blades, the ends cut straight across. I kept it parted simply in the middle, with just a couple natural waves that I could easily blow out if I wanted to look really sleek. I never believed it could happen, but I got bored with it. If I had been more adept at putting it up, perhaps I wouldn’t have felt that way, but I haadn’t yet learned how to do it, and most times I either didn’t do it very well or just gave up in frustration. Like the fox who couldn’t reach the grapes, I had decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. In any case, my long straight hair looked like something a teenager would wear, and it had been quite a while since my teen years. I wanted something more sophisticated.

There had been so many changes in my life. For a couple of months I had been thoroughly depressed and terribly lonely. Phillip, good to his word, did what he could, spending much of his time with me when he was in town. We went out on occasion, just as before, played racquetball when we could, and really carried on pretty much as we had been. Now that I no longer lived with Rebecca, however, Phillip and I now spent a good deal of our time together staying in, doing things like cooking for each other and watching old Fred Astaire movies. He loved the dancing and I loved Ginger Rogers’ spectacular dresses. When she danced, every one of them flowed around her like they were enchanted. They must have been because even though they were almost always ankle length, they never got caught on anything, even when she twirled like a figure skater in heels. Astaire was the most elegant and debonair dancer ever, but he didn’t have to wear heels! Had the Greeks invented a goddess for trannies, she would have been Ginger Rogers, or more appropriately perhaps, her dress designer.

Not surprisingly, the relationship between Phillip and I grew closer. Without Rebecca as my anchor and support, I gratefully allowed this sweet and attentive man to take her place. Even though we had often touched, and even lightly kissed, when I first moved into his apartment I found myself rather uncomfortable with him physically. I guess it had been easy to be relaxed while I still lived with Rebecca, because Phillip knew he and I were simply playing a game, and I knew I was going home to my wife at the end of the evening. Now I had no where else to go, and the touching took on whole new possibilities.

One night, Phillip literally pulled me up off the couch and danced me around the room as Fred and Ginger twirled around the screen. He danced really well and quickly had me feeling comfortable in his arms as he spun me around backwards, my hair whipping around my face as I spun. His large left hand just enveloped my right, and when I leaned onto his right hand, which was on my back, I felt like had leaned onto a warm wall. The sight of my own hand, with my brightly polished nails, on his massive shoulder made me feel exquisitely feminine and small. When the song finished, he pulled me into a spin that finished with my back to his front and his arms wrapped around me, as we both laughed. I tilted my head back to look at him, and our eyes met. For a moment we looked at each other with no inhibitions and I could see the affection in his eyes.

I realized that had I been doing this with Rebecca, that look would have led to a kiss, and at just that moment I longed to feel his lips. That thought caused me to blink and the moment passed. I quickly suggested we have a drink, just to get me away from him. I longed for the protection of his arms but at the same time feared what might happen if I actually let myself slide into a deeper relationship with him.

Another night, Phillip and I were sitting on the couch, his arm resting comfortably on my shoulder watching Julia Roberts flirt with Hugh Grant, who quite frankly, I found adorable. He had his arm around Julia’s shoulder for few moments until she turned to face him, and after exchanging deep looks, they kissed. Just then I felt Phillip’s arm shift, instead of simply resting on my shoulder, it began to pull me towards him. In response I started to turn to look up into his face thinking how lovely a kiss would be. But when I saw his face, and realized it was Phillip instead of Hugh Grant, and that I was Michael (not even Sara) Cohen, not Julia Roberts, I nearly jumped right off the couch.

So instead of becoming lovers, our friendship took another turn. I related to him a conversation I’d had with Rebecca, when she told me that she didn’t want to have sex with Sara, but that we could still be intimate. I like to think that’s where Phillip and I went, sharing intimacy, as friends. Despite all my fancy rationalizing, I revisited scenes like that many times over the following months as I lay by myself in bed trying to fall asleep. I knew I had let a wonderful opportunity to experience a new love pass by. Would I ever get one like it again - with anyone?

I was lonely and insecure, and he was warm, gentle, and patient (I couldn’t imagine how in the world such a sweet man ever excelled at football, and as a linebacker no less), and I decided that being physically close to him shouldn’t be off limits. Other men I wasn’t so sure about, but Phillip I could deal with. So when we watched movies, we continued to cuddle together, sometimes with his arm around me and my head resting on his chest or shoulder. When we were together, he would reach for me reflexively, as if the most natural thing in the world was to put his arm around my shoulder or my waist, and soon it was. Our relationship was like the one you have when you’re really close to your best friend’s lover: warm, emotionally intimate even, full of shared feelings and activities, but no sex.

I often wondered about sex with Phillip, even though I knew I would never let it happen. I had always been curious about what it would be like (what trannie hasn’t been?), and, frankly, I was horny. Besides, after what he said to me in the car when I gave him a hard time about being my friend, I couldn’t get the thought that I owed it to him out of my mind. That's what happens between men and women, isn't it, especially if they're very close, and they’re… unattached?

There was the rub. In my mind, at least, I wasn’t unattached. I was still married to Rebecca and had every intention of getting back together with her. Would sleeping with a man betray my vows to Rebecca? I was sure of it. It’s not the sex of the person you’re with; it’s the fact that you’re having sex with anyone at all. Isn’t it? Besides, if I ever had sex with Phillip, it would have to be more than just sex. We had too close a relationship now - just the kind of relationship that marriage vows said should never become carnal.

But I didn’t really know how to be a woman around a man in any case. Just what were the proper behaviors? When we danced, could I lean on his chest, reach my arms behind his neck and allow our bodies to melt into each other? Or should I stay some discrete distance from him, totally upright, the way the girls in my etiquette class danced with me when I was fourteen. Is it okay to tease, to flirt, to grab him around the chest as we stood in the kitchen together because I was so grateful just to have someone to be with? How does a woman create and share emotional intimacy with a man she’s can’t be romantically or sexually interested in? I just didn’t know.

It didn’t end there. Everything about living with him challenges me. How, for example, should I dress around the apartment when he was there? Should I always keep my breast forms on? Did I need to be modest, or were low-cut jeans, bare belly buttons, and heels acceptable? What did it mean when I went out of my way to look attractive, which I almost always did because more than anything else, attractive is what I wanted to be. Besides, what’s the point of being a trannie if you don’t want to dress up? And what did it mean on those days when I just didn’t have the energy to make myself up, but still wanted to be around him? How should I dress then? Should I be dressing for myself or for him, and what did he want anyway? I was clueless, and my women’s magazines didn’t have articles about it.

Having decided I wouldn’t sleep with him, I felt like I had to pay him back for his kindness in other ways, and here I felt more comfortable. I would nurture him. I would make the apartment more like a home. Because it looked like a sterile crash pad when I moved in, I made him go shopping with me for accessories that would warm the place — oriental rugs to brighten the parquet floors, lamps to create some warm light to fill in the dark places not illuminated by the harsh flood lights that shone from the ceilings, throws and pillows to soften the leather furniture, and a few things to hang on the walls to give the rooms some visual interest. I would have done it myself, but it was his apartment and I didn't want to buy anything he didn't approve of. Actually, he shopped very enthusiasticly, and over the first few months, he bought far more than I ever would have, and the place started to feel like a home, warm and welcoming, rather than just a Motel 6 with expensive leather furniture.

The other way I showed him how I appreciated his kindness was through food. I loved to cook anyway, and he was always eager to eat, which he did like a human vacuum cleaner. Better, he wanted to learn to cook himself. When I arrived, there was hardly enough stuff in his kitchen to boil water. By the time I left, all that had changed. He gave me carte blanche to buy the best cookware, so I purchased a good set of All-clad stainless pots and pans, with a few pieces of Calphalon non-stick thrown in, the best Wustoff knives, a powerful Kitchen Aid food processor and other appliances as well. Bowing to his taste, most of the appliances had what he described as manly (and which really were expensive) stainless steel finishes. He insisted he had an image to keep up and it was his money. Men.

Whether he wanted it or not, I guess I domesticated him a little while allowing my own nesting instinct to express itself. Trying to be homey without being overtly feminine was a challenge. I found hard to do because I so wanted to distinguish myself from the man I used to be that I wanted to surround my self with feminine things. But I worked at it, especially because it was fun pretending to be part of a couple making a nice place to live together.

I also insisted he not change his dating habits, and that he continue to go out with women, as well as men. I just had to assume that people figured I was transsexual, so he had to be seen with women to maintain his image as a real guy's guy. Strangely, even though I knew he was essentially gay, and that none of these women could snare him, I couldn't help being jealous. Worse, I lusted after some of those hotties myself. And when I say hotties, I'm not just talking about the cute, young things with perfect bodies and artfully highlighted blonde hair who were always throwing themselves at him. I'm talking about full-grown, sophisticated, successful women — writers, news anchors, and corporate lawyers, who probably thought bedding him added a notch to their belts. Since they mostly pursued him, I guess it did. I tried to stay out of sight when he had a woman over because I didn’t want to have to compete with them in any way. It would have been stupid of me. They had me outclassed in every category, or so I thought.

I found it hard, bunkered in my bedroom, to listen to Phillip and his dates carrying on. It felt worst when they were in the living room, because of its nearness to my door. At least when they were in his bedroom, things were quieter. But, you know, there's hardly anything lonelier than being so close to two people who are enjoying themselves with each other while you are both physically and emotionally miles away from the one you love.

Being around those women embarrassed me. Even in the morning, when they emerged disheveled, they were so feminine. And what was I? A freak, a transvestite, not even really a transsexual, no matter how carefully I did myself up. In fact, the worst times were when they weren’t made up, which made the differences between their natural femininity and my aritifice all the more apparent. But not one of them ever did or said anything to make me feel bad. They were by turns complimentary and empathetic, curious about what I was going through and why, or indifferent. Many months after I moved in, and with not a single bad interaction, I realized that Phillip must have told them to behave themselves.

And then there were the guys. It quickly became obvious that Philip’s taste for guys ran mostly to sweet young things, who were so handsome they might have been called beautiful, *sort of like me,* I thought, *‘except more attractive, and they don’t even need makeup.*. And by and large, these guys were even nicer than the women, and I certainly felt more comfortable around them. I particularly remember Bradley, a little taller than me, but thinner, with blond hair and fine English features.

“Why aren’t you sleeping with him?” he asked as we shared coffee one morning. I always seemed to be the first one up, and so ended up acting like the housemother. “It’s quite clear he’s got a huge crush on you. Guys like me wouldn’t even be here, if you just got in bed with him.”

“I’m not gay,” I responded evenly, “and I’m married and hope to stay that way.”

“You mean you got yourself a woman who wants you to be a woman too?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“Well then, what are you waiting for? He’s a terrific lover. Have you ever seen his cock?”

I nodded.

“Dearie, you just can’t imagine what it feel like inside you,” and he wiggled his butt on his seat.

I thought for a moment and then crinkled my nose and said, “That’s alright, I’ll leave that for you.”

“What… Ever, I sure hope I get to see you again.”

“You do?”

He leered at me. “Yeah, ‘cause that means I’ll see him again.” And then he laughed.

These guys always made me wonder just what I was missing. It seemed clear that Phillip was a terrific lover, and I just assumed that he was as attentive to people’s needs in bed as he was to mine out of it. That would explain it no matter how big his dick was.

As curious as I was, I had no intention of ever getting into bed with Phillip even though he was dear to me, and served as my emotional life preserver. Other than him, I didn’t have much of a social life. During the first few months, I was not only depressed, but I also worked really hard. We had all that new business, which was great, but we had to deliver, which was exhausting. With my commute between the city and Connecticut, and my depression, I was tired, and I rarely made an effort to do anything fun after work. I had some friends, ones who had been supportive from the outset, and acquaintances, who I’d met since then, who stopped by or took me out to dinner or to a show when they visited the city. Unfortunately they were mostly far away, and I was emotionally spent and eager to retreat into a protective shell after a long day of interacting with people and trying to seem pleasant and attentive, neither of which I felt. Unless I made a real effort, I was often difficult to engage, and really not that much fun to be with. Not surprisingly, even their calls and visits became increasingly less frequent.

I had another reason not to see people. I started to get laser hair removal treatments almost as soon as I moved out of my home. My dark hair and only slightly olive complexion made me a good candidate. I had to let my beard grow slightly a day before, and then my face was quite red and irritated afterwards. Better, I knew, to do this out of sight of the rest of humanity. So when Phillip travelled, I rushed to the clinic to have my face nuked. Actually, it wasn’t that bad. I started off with laser, which got most of my beard fairly quickly, and then I added electrolysis for those hairs too ornery to be killed by the laser. I lost lots of hair quickly, but still, it took months before I was really clean, and even longer to finally mop up the stragglers.

At about the same time, I started on hormones. I had many complex rationalizations for doing it, like wanting my skin to be smoother after electrolysis, and wanting shinier hair, but I think in my heart I understood that I would never go back. I just couldn’t yet admit consciously what my behavior already made quite clear.

Of course, I still had to see Rebecca almost every day for work. In the first month, as I tumbled into depression, she seemed to be loosening up and regaining her confidence. I was delighted for her, after all, I had moved out because of the effect my life on her, but I it made me totally miserable. If getting me out of her life made her feel so good, what chance did I have of ever getting her back? Still, even though her warmth comforted me, and she obviously worried about my well being, she kept our conversations on inconsequentials things, like a new outfit or perfume. We certainly didn’t talk much about us. We were still very raw, so it was just too dangerous.

It didn’t take too long for my moodiness to cause problems with clients. You can’t very well sell yourself when you’re depressed and distracted all the time, even if you had, like I most certainly had, spent an inordinate amount of time trying to look dishy for them. So after about a month, Rebecca told me that she didn’t want me interacting with clients any more. That worked just fine for me, even though I knew it was a symptom of my declining mental health.

On the day of our 9th anniversary, Rebecca took me to lunch. After trading gifts, I gave her a David Yurman bracelet and she gave me lovely antique pearl earrings, she said to me, “You’re depressed. Get into therapy to deal with it. I did, you know.”

I didn’t know.

“If you screw up our business because you refuse to deal with your depression, I’ll kill you.” She smiled to let me know she wouldn’t really kill me, but I was only slightly reassured.

I had my psychologist recommend a psychiatrist. The psychologist, who I saw every week, and my support group meetings, which were only once a month, were the only things I had been doing with any regularity. The group had turned me onto to the psychologist in the first place. It really supported me as a new member, and because my femme presentation was so good compliments were plentiful. Several had also been turned out by wives, girlfriends or families, and had real insights into what I was going through. Had I allowed them to, they would have been really good for my mental health. But when I first joined, still wallowing in my misery, I kept my emotional distance.

A few of the girls weren’t too enthusiastic about my “woe is me,” shtick, which made it easier for me to rationalize my emotional separation. They just couldn’t understand how someone so femme could possibly have anything to be depressed about. They didn’t realize depression doesn’t discriminate according to how passable you are, something that is apparently hard to understand if your greatest aspiration is simply to go out as a girl and not freak anybody out.

I did as Rebecca demanded, and my T-friendly psychiatrist, Dr. Martin Binder, a very cute, very well turned out sixty-five-year old man with a full head of white hair and the most wonderful eyes, taught me that brain chemistry really can be destiny. After interviewing me for forty minutes he said, “My dear, you have the classical signs of depression, and the reason Dr. Randall sent you here to get you on antidepressants. Here’s what I want to do. I’m going to give you a combination of drugs that should be effective and minimize any side effects. Many people find that they lose their libido and ability to climax with these kinds of drugs, and I doubt you want that.”

I laughed.

He frowned in response.

“Doc, I’m just not gett’n any. I’m separated from my wife, sharing an apartment with a gay man, and don’t have any intimate friends. Sexual side effects are just not going to be a problem for me. In fact, not feeling horny would be a good thing for me right now.”

He nodded as I spoke, but when I finished he said, “Don’t be so sure, my dear. You’re very attractive, as I’m sure you know,” which made me blush and look away, “and will probably have things sorted out soon. You’ll be on these medications for at least six months, and probably a year. Do you plan on remaining celibate that whole time?”

“God, I hope not,” I blurted out. We both laughed and his eyes sparkled. He really was cute.

“But,” he cautioned, “it may be six or eight weeks before anything happens, so you’ll have to be patient.”

So I stopped by a pharmacy on the way home and filled the three prescriptions he had written. When I got home I took them. Nothing happened. *Sort of like starting hormones,* I snorted to myself. *It’s huge step, but then nothing happens for a long time.*

In about ten days, however, my sense of desperation started to lessen. Another week or two, I don’t know, the sun seemed a little sunnier. After a month, I one day found myself whistling as I walked to my car to drive home. I couldn’t remember the last time I had whistled. It shocked me and delighted everyone around me to see how quickly my mood started to improve once I started taking antidepressants. After a couple of months, I was pretty much back to my old self, with a little help from my new “vitamins.”

When I told Dr. Binder how well I felt, he said, “I’m a genius! Don’t you feel lucky to be in the presence of such a brilliant doctor?” I looked at him like he was crazy, and he chuckled and gave me one of his darling little smiles. “Okay, truth is, you’re what we call a good responder. I gave you a medication regimen that has worked well with other of my female patients, and it’s obviously good for you too.”

“Female?” I questioned. He knew perfectly well what I was.

He just shrugged his shoulders, and flashing that little smile again, he said, “Intuition - women aren’t the only ones who have it you know.” Before I could reply he went on. “If you keep progressing like this we don't need to do anything else. Come back in six months. But if you find yourself getting depressed again, I want you to call me right away. There’s lots more we can do if this combination stops working. Okay?”

I responded as I got up to leave, “You bet. But I don’t think we’re going to be seeing much of each other.”

As I turned to the door after shaking his hand he said, “And don’t you dare stop taking these medications until I tell you to, do you understand? I’m not kidding.”

“Yes doctor,” I replied submissively, bobbing a quick curtsey before I had even thought about it. Once I did, however, my hand flew to my mouth. That must have looked so totally stupid.

He just smiled and shook his head. Then he flipped his fingers to hurry me out. “Out, out. If you do anything else like that I may have to take you home and turn you into my maid. Would you like that?”

I vigorously shook my head no, and we both laughed as I let myself out. For some reason, having his official opinion seemed important to me, as if it gave me permission to reengage with life. My improved mood may have been chemically induced, but what the hell, it was sooo much better than it had been.

So, after having lived as a woman 24/7 for nearly nine months, my life only approximated normal. And on top of everything else, I remained infatuated with the whole dressing thing. I loved selecting clothes in the morning, wearing different outfits for different activities, putting on makeup and playing with my hair, even though I could barely braid it evenly, and a French roll was a total mystery. All of those activities elicited a little sexual thrill, and still felt a little naughty, as did experimenting with new feminine behaviors. I even became something of a flirt at times when out alone in public. I always wore heels or wedge-heeled sandals, along with short, flirty skirts or skintight jeans. I thought my little butt was quite tasty in a pair of DIESEL’s, though, truth be told, I really liked my much cheaper DKNY jeans, which also did wonders for my ass and had the cutest embroidery on the back pockets. On the weekends, l took to sitting in the window of a Starbucks a few blocks from the apartment and watching men as they watched me putting on lipstick while I sat with my legs crossed, back straight, and head cocked just so. I simply gorged on the attention this brought me, reaffirming my belief in myself as a woman, and keeping me slightly turned on all the time.

I felt so good that at the end of June I decided to fly out to Chicago to visit my sister, Courtney. Then I realized that I would have to go through airport security with Michael driver’s license. I’d die if I had to dress as a guy, and as I thought about going en femme, I realized that I could be searched and interrogated by some nitwit TSA storm trooper in full view of all the other passengers. Instead, I convinced her to come to New York.

“What do you want to do,” I asked, planning really full days in my head.

“Sleep!”

“I’ll give you eight hours both nights. Plus you can sleep on the plane - both ways. That’s like four extra hours.”

I heard her giggle and we set a date for the end of June, when she had four days off.

The next day I went shopping. My bedroom had to be more feminine, as did hers, and I absolutely needed casual clothes! This would be so delightful. Two sisters together for a three-day weekend! My first ever! Sadly, Phillip would be out of town, and I really wanted Courtney to meet him.

***

I made her take a cab from LaGuardia. I refused to fight that traffic, even for my baby sister. She arrived at about 8:00 Thursday night, and when she got to the apartment, I threw the door open to greet her. I had been preparing all day for her arrival. Early in the morning, I had started cooking a Bolognese, carefully sautéing the onions, carrots and celery so they didn’t brown, and browning the meat just the littlest bit so it lost its raw color. I then cooked it all with wine and then milk to keep the meat tender and juicy. After I added the tomatoes -okay, I admit it, from a can - I let it simmer slowly in the deep, Le Crueset cast iron pot I had bought just the day before at some absurdly expensive shop nearby. Four hours at a minimum, I thought. Then I made the dough for the pasta. I considered kneading it by hand, but, what the hell, I had only recently bought the gleaming Kitchen Aide food processor, so I took the short cut, finally wrapping the dough in wax paper and putting it in the fridge for later.

Then I went out to get my hair and nails done, and to pick up the ingredients for the small antipasto and salad I had planned. Don’t you just love it when you’ve just come from your salon and look like a goddess -or at least feel like one - and guys are twisting their necks to get a glance at you? In my jeans, black high heel boots, and short black leather jacket, I looked like a total babe. I couldn’t help it; I strutted shamelessly, swishing my hips as I stalked down the sidewalk.

I went all the way down to Prince Street in the West Village just to shop at Dean and DeLuca. They say all the fruit there is perfectly shaped, and one of the other shoppers apparently thought mine was too, because I felt a hand rest on my butt at one point as I reached up to take my Volpe Genoa salami from the guy behind the counter. I managed not to freak. Instead I savored the feeling, and let the hand stay for just a moment too long before I turned to check out my admirer. I almost burst out laughing. A woman! - just about my height, very trim, with her hair cut really butch, and wearing not so tight jeans, bulky sweat shirt, and Timberland boots. She just had to be a dyke.

She winked and said, "Verrry nice."

I almost curtsied in thanks for the compliment she didn't even know she payed me. She thought I was a woman!

It’s not true, as Courtney never tires of asserting, that I had tried on twenty-three different outfits before she got there. Maybe as many as ten, or maybe just six or seven, who can remember? Anyway, no one had planned “casual” any more carefully than I had that night. No one had ever fussed with her hair more, or tried on more jewelry for a sister’s visit than I did. I wanted everything to be perfect! The food was ready, I was ready and Courtney’s room was ready.

No jeans. I wore a skirt. I really wanted to be a little sexy, but reluctantly decided that a normal sister would only be casual. So I finally ended up in my denim mini and a big, white cable knit sweater than came down to my hips. I even managed to stay out of heels. For the longest time I had on my white Keds, but couldn't stand it, I had to have something more feminine on my feet. So I switched to a pair of wedge-heeled espadrilles. Sure, they had a heel, but only two inches, and they would certainly be considered casual on the streets of Manhattan. Oh yeah, and I put on pantyhose. It only took me two tries to find the right ones. First I tried dark blue, but they looked yucky with my shoes. Nude, however, looked just right.

Once the doorman called to announce her, I opened the door, and tried to stand there as I waited for her to appear from the elevator. But I was too excited and bounced up and down on my toes as I took deep breaths to calm myself. All of a sudden, the doors opened with their usual thump, and my little sister stumbled out, looking around in confusion until she saw me and knew which way to turn. The brown hair dangling around her shoulders looked like it hadn’t been cut in months, and her jeans were so baggy at the knees they looked like they hadn’t been washed for at least that long. The huge black circles under her eyes made it seem as if she hadn’t slept in months either.

“Courtney!” I nearly shouted.

“Mi…Sara?” she sort of whispered back, dropping her bags beside her. “Omigod, I. . . . I never. . . . I couldn’t. . . . You. . . . You’re like so cute!”

“And you look exhausted. Come. . . .” I grabbed her bag. “Let me give you some dinner. Let’s talk. I’m so glad you came!”

And as we fell into each other’s arms, we laughed and cried for joy.

After I had hustled her inside and showed her the bathroom so she could shower, I went to put the finishing touches on dinner. This would be so great!

Fifteen minutes later, she emerged from her room, dressed in a set of green scrubs that she had apparently “liberated” from the hospital. Even with her hair still wet, she looked much better. I sat her at the table, and poured a glass of the wonderful Chianti my wine merchant - as he liked to be called - had picked for me.

We munched on warm Italian bread and cold antipasto, and talked of nothing in particular, except how wonderful I looked, and how drained she looked. We reveled in our wine and each other’s presence. Really, she seemed totally delighted to be with me, even though she was seeing me for the first time as a woman. I coldn’t have been more thrilled, or hoped for any more.

“Go sit on the couch,” I said. “I just need to finish the pasta.”

She gave me a wan smile, which I ignored because of the excitement of having her with me and having her treat me like her sister. She moved to the big leather couch where Phillip and I sat to watch movies. I could see her head, but was really focused on dinner as I continued to jabber while I put the finishing touches on my casual masterpiece.

I put everything on the table, turned down the lights, lit the candles, and then went to the couch to get Courtney.

She was sound asleep.

My first gentle nudges didn’t rouse her. Even saying her name didn’t work. I guess if you can sleep in a noisy hospital while you’re on call, you can sleep in a quiet apartment when you’re not.

I was crushed.

What could I do? She mumbled and grumbled as I got her up and into her bed, but never really woke up. I ate my half of our delicious dinner alone, cleaned up, finished the wine myself, and essentially pouted my way to bed.

Tomorrow better be better.

***

“Where am I?” Courtney almost shouted when I woke her just after 10:00 the next morning. I had given her twelve hours of sleep, which I though was enough, even though she showed no signs of waking up on her own.

“Relax sis,” I replied, sitting on the edge of her bed.

“Oh! Mich…uh… uh… Sara, it’s you. Oh right, New York. Omigod, I fell asleep while you were cooking dinner didn’t I?” Her eyes begged my forgiveness.

“Yes my dear, you did,” I said calmly. “You must have been very tired.”

“But you said you worked on it all day! I can’t believe…. That’s so rude of me.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get even with you,” I teased lightly. “And besides, I said it cooked all day. I didn’t watch it the whole time. But forget dinner, right now you have to get up. We’ve lots to do. I’m taking you shopping.” I sort of expected her to object, but instead she appeared thrilled.

“Great,” she replied happily. She threw the new yellow duvet cover off as she sat up - still in her scrubs. But then a frown crossed her face. “How did you get my bra off?”

“Oh, I called mom and had her come over to do it,” I replied earnestly, furrowing my brow and nodding my head at the same time, like I was really serious. I mean, how did she think I got it off?

Glancing at my chest, she asked, “Are those real?”

I shook my shoulders provocatively to set them in motion. “Why don’t you just come over here and find out,” I challenged. It was a line from our childhood that often led to friendly wrestling matches, which typically ended with her in gales of laughter as I tickled her mercilessly.

“I’m not as small as I used to be,” she shot back.

“Well neither am I,” I teased sticking out my chest again.

“Oh you,” she spluttered, throwing her pillow at me.

“You don’t think I’m going to let you get away with that, do you?” I shrieked, grabbing the pillow and turning on her with it. Just like when we were children, we ended up struggling with each other, in our playful way. Well, not exactly - I couldn’t help but notice the way my breasts moved around or how it felt to press them into Courtney’s. And she wasn’t as small as she used to be, and the tickling went both ways. She eventually managed to - okay I let her - pull off my t-shirt, and then when she had it in her hand, holding it aloft like a prize from battle, her face furrowed in concentration and she sat there, staring at my chest and my bra covered breast forms.

“May I?” she asked, lowering her arm and handing me my shirt.

I pursed my lips and started to to cover back up, but for some reason, I figured what the hell and reached around to undo the hooks.

“You do that like you’ve been doing that since you were a teenager,” she commented. I gave her a small shrug and shy smile before letting the bra slide down my arms. As good as they were anyone could see I was wearing breast forms. “Glue?” she inquired, reaching out to touch one.

"Tape," I nodded.

While my sister examined my faux titties, I felt as shy as a fourteen-year old virgin being fondled by a boy for the first time. They were something that really shouldn’t have been there, and I felt a flush of shame as Courtney’s hands explored them, getting their feel.

“Is this what you really want?” she asked, as she let her hand fall from my breast and rest on my hand, which rested on my lap.

“I don’t know,” I sighed. “If it was just me, I’d say yes, but I just don’t know yet. I don’t want to lose Rebecca, but I’m afraid if I keep going like this I will. I’m very confused. That’s what this living apart thing is all about. I have to figure out who I am before I can even begin to imagine how to create a relationship with her. Don’t you think?”

“I didn’t know how I would feel when I saw you, but now I see you’re still the same sweet person I always knew. You were a nice older brother, and I’m sure you’ll make a nice older sister too.”

“Thank you, Courtney," I croaked, a lump rising in my throat. I reached down to grab my bra, pulled it up my shoulders, and leaned forward to seat the forms in the cups. “The rest of the family is still pretty freaked out,” I went on, sitting up straight and reaching behind me to fasten the hooks, “So I really appreciate your support. You have no idea how much.” I think I had tears in my eyes ‘cause everything got a little blurry.

“C’mere big sister, big sister Sara, c’mere and let me give you a hug. I’m afraid this is going to be a bumpy ride for you.”

“Going to be? You have no idea.” She opened her arms to me and I fell in them gratefully, cherishing the unqualified love of a family member for the first time in far too long.

A minute or so later, as she gently disengaged from our hug, Courtney asked, “So, are we shopping for you or me?”

“Why you, silly,” I replied somewhat dubiously. I couldn’t figure out what she was really asking.

“Uh…, like, uhh… Do you actually know anything about clothes? Women’s clothes I mean?”

“Excuuuse me,” I replied with mock outrage. “You come in here looking like you haven’t changed clothes or had a haircut in your entire life and you have the nerve to ask me if I know anything about clothes? Don't you know anything about trannies? If there's one thing we know about, it's clothes.” And I gave my head one good nod, said "Hmmphh," as if I had been really insulted, and then began to giggle.

I don’t know what I was thinking, but I went on. “Do you have any idea how many perfect outfits I tried on before you got here?”

“No, my dear sister,” she said with an evil grin. “Tell me, how many? Ten, twenty, thirty?”

“No where near thirty,” I squealed, trying to sound indignant.

"You mean you tried on twenty outfits only to end up in a denim skirt and cable knit sweater? Like, that’s the most basic outfit of all.”

“I wanted to look nice for you,” I pouted.

“You did sweetie, you did. Don’t go worrying your pretty little head about that,” she went on sarcastically. “But if it took you twenty-three outfits….”

“Twenty-three? Where did you get twenty-three? I never said that.”

“No, but you haven’t denied it yet either.”

"What are you, a lawyer?” I laughed. “I thought you were a doctor.”

“Twenty-three outfits,” she said again, as if it was the most amazing thing she had ever heard. “Who has twenty-three outfits any way? Besides you and Paris Hilton?”

I hit her with a pillow, but that didn’t stop the twenty-three outfit story from being born. I knew immediately Courtney would tell it to everyone who would listen. It was silly, but with something more to it.

It spoke, in a brilliant way, both to me and any woman she would tell it to. Viewed one way, it complimented my femininity, and welcomed me to the club, emphasizing the underlying need I shared with other women to look good. It also played into the insecurity that many women feel as they get dressed, especially if they are doing it for others. What woman hasn’t changed outfits at the last moment because of some imagined imperfection? What man does that, unless he spots something as egretious as a ketchup stain on his tie? So I was included in that club - another woman insecure about her looks, different from men because of the lengths she’s willing to go to look good. The days of throwing on the jeans and the nearest t-shirt were over.

From another perspective though, I could feel a subtle put down. She might as well said, “No real woman would need to try on twenty-three outfits to find something casual to wear. Only someone who isn’t a real woman, and doesn’t understand how she looks would need to change that many times. What makes her think she can be one of us?”

“Well, my dear sister,” I responded, just wanting to change the subject, “if you behave yourself and get ready to go, you can start to catch up. Judging by what’s in your bag,” it lay open on the floor as if the insides had exploded once she’d unzipped it, “you don’t even have one yet.”

She looked down, stuck her tongue out at me and then smiled. “Okay, give me a sec.”

“A sec?” I responded dubiously.

“Yeah, a sec,” she insisted. “If you’re gonna be a girl, you have to understand that a ‘sec’ is however much time you need. That’s a free lesson, just from me.” She beamed.

“Thank you, teacher.” I smiled. “Try to make it a short ‘sec,’ okay? Don’t spend much time on your hair; I made an appointment for you at my salon.”

We had a great afternoon, shopping and bonding as sisters. I bought her a whole lot of things, mostly casual wear because she didn’t do much that required anything dressy. I got her a pair of DIESEL’s to match my own, several soft sweaters to help fend off the cold of the Chicago winter, and a pair of calf-length black boots, with chunky two-inch heels. I also insisted on a lovely little black dress, cut rather daringly across the décolletage, with spaghetti straps to hold it up. The hem stopped several inches above her knees, and the layers of chiffon that made up the skirt, swirled invitingly around her thighs. I had no trouble talking her into a cute pair of pointy-toed three-inch heels to go with the skirt.

She let Lacy, the woman who cut her hair, talk her into something sexier than she usually wore, creating a nice mid-neck length bob, the ends turned nicely under, with bangs to keep it off her face. “I’m a surgeon,” she explained. “I can’t keep brushing my hair out of my eyes while I work.”

Then we had our adventure in the lingerie section of Bendel’s. When she saw the first bra and thong outfit I held up for her she shook her head and backed away as if I had brandished a rattlesnake. “I don’t have any chance to wear something like that,” she whispered urgently. “I work more than eighty hours a week; and I need stuff that’s easy to care for.”

“So the next guy you want to attract is going to see you your white cotton Hanes for Her bra and panties that are already yellowing because you've worn them so many times?” I asked, aiming the hanger at her.

She ignored my little dig except for crinkling her nose. “I’m not sure I want to attract a guy that way.” Still she stepped forward tentatively to feel the shimmering fabric.

“No, of course you don’t,” I agreed, handing her the set, and then turning to find a saleswoman so she could be fitted properly.

By the time we were done, she had tried on at least ten different sets of gorgeous lingerie, with different cuts and colors of bras and panties. The most amazing and wonderful part of the whole experience occurred when she turned to go into the changing room to try on the first few things the saleswoman had found for her. I just stood there smiling when she said, “Aren’t you coming in with me?”

“Huh?” I replied, not even having considered it.

“Well, if you think I’m gonna buy any of this stuff without my sister’s advice, you’re crazy.” She gave the saleswoman one of those looks that said, “I don’t know where I got such a dimwitted sister.”

“Uh. . . . I. . . . uh, okay, if that’s what you want.”

“Ye…es,” she said rolling her eyes at me and reaching out to take my hand.

As soon as she had dragged me through the door, I urgently whispered, “Are you sure you want to do this? I may be passable but I’m still your brother.”

“No you’re not,” she said blithely, while she stripped off her top. “You recently told me you’re my sister, and that’s what you will be till you tell me otherwise, got it? And that’s how I intend to treat you.” And with that, she unhooked her bra and let her lovely young breasts fall free. I knew from the bras we had selected that she was a thirty four C. At just twenty eight and in magnificent shape, she awed me.

“Oh my,” I said.

“Nice, huh?” she teased, rubbing the undersides with the backs of her hands.

“Oh my,” I said again, stupidly, as I jerked my head away to keep from staring at her. She seemed totally relaxed, in contrast to my complete tizzy. “Here, take this,” I urged, handing her a bra I now really wanted to see her wear.

“So you’re a lezzie, huh?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“Well any woman who stares at boobies like that must be a lezzie,” she replied, with a teasing lilt in her voice. “Do you find them attractive?”

My mind finally got back to reality. “Ooooh yeah, they're absolutely gorgeous. If you weren’t my sister. . . .” I smiled as lewdly as I could, and then nodding, I went on. “Yes, dear sister, I like women. Men do nothing for me.”

“Well that’s good to know,” she said. “I have a lot of male doctor friends who wouldn’t mind taking a shot at someone as lovely as you.” She had a twinkle in her eye as she peeled off her new jeans. Now, I guess there’s no point in fixing you up with them.”

“Well, just cause I don't find them sexually attractive doesn't mean I'm scared of ’em. I do like to eat at fancy restaurants, go to shows, and dance,” I replied hopefully, not actually sure why I had said it. “Guys are good for that."

She looked at me a little sideways, as if trying to see if I was for real, and then rolled her eyes. "And what happens when it's time to pay them back for their generosity?"

"A gentleman would never want that," I said, as snootily as I could, pointing my nose in the air.

"Right." She giggled.

"And besides,” I went on, “who knows what I'd do for the right guy. I must admit I'm getting curious." Damn, why had I said that?

"Well now. Do tell me more."

"There isn't any more. I'm just curious. I don't find men attractive, although I can appreciate when one is. I don't know, all you women seem to find something fascinating about them, so I figure there might be something there." I shrugged my shoulders and smiled, feeling a little ashamed for some reason.

“With us it’s genetic, we can’t help it. Although I must say, having a nice cock way far up inside you is something special, and she wiggled her butt just like Ronnie had taught me to do.”

“Well I don’t have any place I’d really like to really put one,” I insisted.

“Whatever! So — I should tell them they shouldn't get their hopes up, but to take a run at you and see what happens," she teased as she started to pull down her white Hanes for Her panties.

“Wait," I interrupted. "You're not supposed to take off your panties when you try those on."

“How am I supposed to get these on over my panties?” she exclaimed holding up a teeny thong. Sort of mauve in color, cut extremely low in front, and with a delightful little lace panel that would hide nothing, it delighted me to think of Cortney wearing it. In the back, however was a length of fabric attached right at the top and tied into a small bow with the ends hanging down several inches. It had to be one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.

“Oh, you just HAVE to get that,” I squealed, “but only wear it when you want some guy to throw you down on the bed and fuck your brains out, ‘cause that’s what any guy seeing it will want to do.”

“Yeah,” Courtney replied looking at herself in the three-way mirror. “This is to die for. It hardly matters what the bra looks like.”

Then she tried on another set with a demi-bra and boy-cut panties in a charcoal-colored stretch netting appliquéd with purple and gray flowers. The panties had a pink ribbon woven through the fabric just below the waist band that matched the bra straps and the little bow between the cups. Courtney ooohed and aaahed over them as well.

Then, she pulled out another set and said, “These are for you. Try them on.”

“You're kidding, right? You want to see me undressed again?”

“Why not, sis? You’re look'n at me, Kid” she teased, in her best Bogart imitation.

“Yeah, but you’re real,” I tried to reason. “I’m just good padding.”

“I don’t care; I want to see you in this set. The saleswoman thinks they’ll fit.”

Actually, the full coverage bra and rather full French cut panties were a good choice, enough material to hold me in on top and bottom. The panties were pretty substantial, with some Lycra in them and black with purple roses printed all over. The bra was stretched netting with purple flowers appliqués. The petals formed the top of the bra, giving it a subtle scalloped design. I loved the way they looked, but still hadn’t moved.

“Do you need me to help you?” Courtney asked, as she closed in on me.

I rolled my eyes and started to undress, carefully pulling off my tight, ribbed sweater and simply dropping my denim skirt to the floor. As I looked up after placing the skirt on the chair, I could see Courtney examining me with what seemed to be open curiosity. I gave her a little smile and reached behind myself to unhook my bra. I let it slide down my arms, and stood with my forms hanging from my chest.

“C’mon, the panties,’ she urged.

“You’re not supposed. . . .”

“Oh poo, it’s not like you’re gonna leak any fluids on ‘em, are you?” She ended by arching her eyebrow at me.

But why do you want to see. . . .”

“Cause I’m curious how you do it. Now let me see,” she said in her little girl pouty voice that always got her whatever she wanted from Dad.

I laughed, shrugged, and skinned my rather full-cut stretch panties down my hips and legs, finally pulling them off with my feet. When I stood my penis swung forward, slowly relaxing from its compressed state, and my balls found their way back down into their sack. Courtney watched intently.

“Do you find it attractive,” I asked, mimicking the question she had asked when I had stared at her luscious breasts.

“Yeah,” she cooed. “I never knew you were so big. Now I see why Rebecca married you." She giggled, and just as I had done to her, she leered lewdly. "If you weren’t my brother. . . . .”

Instead of finishing she helped me with the bra, adjusting the straps after fastening it in back.

“Oh geez, this is just gorgeous,” I said, admiring myself in the mirror.

“Are you sure you want to get rid of it,” Courtney asked, nodding at my crotch.

“NO," I squealed. "I have no intention of getting rid of it. The very thought freaks me out. And I intend to keep it fully functional.”

“Then how are you. . . .”

“I don’t know yet. But after everything that has happened in my life, I just had to live like this for a while to see if it’s what I really want. Besides, once I got outed by that magazine article. . . .” and I just shrugged, letting out a big sigh. I began to feel a little overwhelmed by my life.

Courtney moved close to sooth me. “Oh, I didn’t mean to upset you. Come let me give you a hug.” That sounded like a good idea right about then, even if she had nothing but a sexy bra and panties and I wasn’t even wearing panties. I don’t know, maybe her training as a doctor came into play, but she hugged me without any reservation or stiffness, even after I jumped a little when my penis hit her thigh.

After a few moments, during which she rubbed her hand over the bra straps on my back, she pulled back. “I kinda like the feel of your breasts on mine. I think I could get used to this sister thing. Here, try the panties." She smiled at me, her eyes sparkling.

As I retucked myself, she asked in a worried tone, “Doesn’t that hurt?”

“Not really, but it’s not exactly fun.” After I had smoothed everything into place I smiled. “Not exactly fun until I see this." I turned from side to side, enjoying the view of myself in the mirror, my groin showing no tell-tale bulge. “How do I look?”

"Like a girl in beautiful lingerie, just scrumptious."

I just grinned at her perfect compliment.

"Now try these." She had another set. This one a pale blue demi-bra with embroidered designs that looked sort of like clouds. The cups cut right above my nipples, slanted sharply from the shoulder, leaving a huge expanse of breast exposed. The bra really seemed too insubstantial to hold my forms, especially after I got it on, but the panties, an absolutely adorable, very low-cut boy panty were out of the question. "I can't wear these," I said to Courtney after trying to pull them into place. "They'll castrate me, or I'll just hang out." I frowned.

She giggled.

"And I really don’t think showing tons of silicon breast form is going to seem particularly sexy to anyone." I emphasized this by pushing out my chest, letting the overhead light glint off the too shiny surface.

"Well, you could get implants, you know.” She said it as if suggesting nothing more than that I buy a new scarf. “That way all the bra has to do is hold 'em up." she pushed her own breasts up with her hands. "Not hold 'em on." She giggled. "As for the other problem. . . ."

"Yes, doctor?" I asked sardonically. "You've already recommended one surgery, what else are you going to recommend?"

She stroked her chin, pretending to really think about it. "It would be a little more complex, and rather more permanent."

"You're a big help," I said, rolling my eyes at her. Then I pulled on the other pair of panties, stripped off the bra, and replaced it with the one that matched the panties. I was well protected, well supported, and neatly tucked.

"Your beard's not coming back," she noted. Before I could say anything, she went on, "No, really," and she paused to watch me lean forward to seat the forms into the bra. "You could get implants, and then if you don't like 'em, they can always be removed."

"And what would my chest look like then?" I asked sarcastically.

"Well, they can do the implants through an incision in the axilla."

"Huh?”

"Oh sorry, armpit." She lifted her arm to show me where. "It's your choice, but think about it, if you want to be a woman, or even live like one successfully, you have to make some choices. You can't have it both ways."

"I know," I replied, quietly, “but there's no rush, is there?

"Guess not, sis," she responded thoughtfully. "Let's get dressed and get out of here before we spend any more money." She started to remove her new panties.

“Oh, no," I said waving my finger at her. "You’re wearing your new set too. I may not be able to wear boy-cut panties, but they’re totally cute on you, so just leave 'em on. If there’s one thing we trannies know, it’s the joy of wearing gorgeous lingerie, even if no one is going to see it. You silly real girls seem to be too practical for that.” She just laughed as I stood next to her beaming. As we examined at our reflections in the mirror, two smiling sisters stared back.

***

Once we got home, we both decided a nap would be nice, but before I could even lie down, the phone rang. I usually didn’t answer Phillip’s phone unless I knew the caller, so I looked at caller ID and saw it was my sister Leah. *How great!* I thought, she’s finally calling me. “Hello, Leah?”

“Let me speak to Courtney?”

“Leah,” I nearly shouted into the phone, “can’t you even say hello?”

“Hello Michael, let me speak to Courtney.” Her tone couldn’t have been any more dismissive.

*Well fuck you too.* I thought as I went to Courtney’s bedroom. I knocked on her door and told her to pick up the phone by her bedside. When she did, I went to push the off button to hang up, but for some reason… I didn’t. I’d never done such a thing before, but I hit mute and listened. It didn’t take Leah long to get to the point.

“Why are you there? You can’t possibly be supportive of this?”

“Why not? Michael and I always adored each other and I love Sara just as much. It’s not like some kind of joke, it’s a medical condition.”

“Courtney! It’s perverted!”

“Leah! What IS your problem? Michael was your brother, you always liked him.

“Courtney, this is sick. I can’t accept it. If he’s. . . .“

“She,” Courtney insisted.

“If HE’S going to do this, I’m not just going to sit back and take it.”

“Well you better not act out when we’re at mom and dad’s tomorrow. I want to see everyone and have a nice time.”

“Why don’t any of you see what’s going on? Why are you aiding and abetting this”

“Leah, did it ever occur to you that the rest of us are right and you’re wrong?

“No,” Leah said with complete and utter finality.

“Well in any case . . . promise me you won’t make a scene.”

“Why?”

“Leah! If you ruin my one evening with our family, I’ll kill you!”

“Yeah, whatever. I don’t understand any of you.”

At that point I took my ear from the phone, breathless.

***

By 9:00 that evening, we were in a SoHo gallery for an opening. I had many friends in the visual arts community in New York, and often went to openings, though tonight’s would be my first as Sara. I made Courtney come along for support, which is why we had gotten that little black dress. Frankly, she looked gorgeous - sexy in that unaffected way a confident young woman in great physical shape could look. With her sophisticated new 'do, and carefully applied, but dramatic makeup, she was a knockout. We had played with her look for about forty-five minutes before she caved in to what I wanted to do. If you don't wear any makeup, even a little seems like a lot. In any case, she looked so spectacular I figured no one would even notice me.

I dressed in glossy dark gray, my dress a not-too-tight, simple, sleeveless column of silk that didn’t reach my knees. It was covered by a sheer duster of dark gray, very open lace that went to my ankles. Its long sleeves showed the skin of my arms and shoulders, which I thought looked pretty sexy in a demure kind of way, and the collar, when buttoned, could hide my Adam's apple, though I planned to leave it open tonight so I could wear my fake black pearls.

From the moment we walked in the door we attracted lots of attention. I had a great time introducing everyone to Courtney, who soon was surrounded by guys who couldn't get over the fact that this sexy young woman was a surgeon! The poor artsy guys were so intimidated I almost laughed as I watched. I don’t know why, it’s not like I had anything to do either with her success or how sexy she looked - well, maybe a little there - but I felt so proud watching her soak up the attention and play cute. If only I could be so unselfconscious around men.

There were also quite a few people I hadn't seen since my coming out, and they were all very curious and mostly quite complimentary. I felt at home, not having to fool anyone, or worry about being outed. No one here cared what I was, except maybe a few who guys who wanted to get me into bed, and even they made me feel attractive and good about myself. My sister was a big hit, and I got lots of compliments.

"So you’re a lezzie," one totally buff gay artist shouted out with great pain in his voice as he clutched his heart. "Does that mean I have no chance with you?"

"Sorry love," I comforted him, my hand on his forearm, before giving him a kiss on the cheek.

He whispered dramatically. "Well, if you ever change your mind I'll be there in a heartbeat. I just love putting little sissy boys through their paces."

I gulped as he gave me a little finger wave and wandered off towards the bar. *Sissy boy? Is that how people see me?* I wondered glumly. The very concept appalled me and my sense of self confidence evaporated. All I wanted was to be an ordinary woman. Did people really consider me a sissy? I didn’t like that idea alone bit, and just the thought of it made me clutch my arms around my chest. One thing for sure though, no way anyone would ever put this girl through any paces. I threw the remainder of my drink down my throat just to prove my toughness.

As I stewed over that, and tried to recover from the stupid move of throwing too much alcohol down my throat, I spotted Rebecca just inside the door. She took my breath away. I don't know what others saw, but she absolutely stunned me, no one had ever been so luminous. It looked like someone had shined a spotlight on her, and the rest of the room had faded away. Her hair was up, her lips bright red, and her eyes smoky dark. She wore a short, strapless, red dress that hugged her curves and came to mid-thigh. It seemed to me the room went silent as people caught sight of her.

I'm not sure how long the sight of her mesmerized me, it might have been only a second or two, or it could have been an hour.

Then I noticed her date. That broke the spell.

A big, good looking guy in black trousers, silver sport coat and black turtle neck, he had his arm around her waist as if he owned her. She snuggled into his left side as if she loved that he owned her. I recognized him - Martin Strauss, the PR guy for one of our clients. I had worked with him not two months ago on a project. He was very sharp, knew exactly what he wanted, and charmed my pants, or by that time actually, skirt off. He’d even made me giggle like a teenager. He could be really charming and especially good with women. As I watched, she snaked her right arm up and around the back of his head, pulled him down as she twisted her neck back and up, and gave him a quick kiss and then a huge smile.

I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach.

I turned my back on them, walked over to Courtney and whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”

But . . . as Courtney turned to look at me, she spotted Rebecca over my shoulder and began to wave and call her name.

Rebecca immediately turned our way and spotted Courtney. She waved back and started to move in our direction. Half way through her first step, she spotted me as I turned to fully face her. She seemed to hesitate for just a moment, the expression on her face changing from delight to concern to that decisive look she got when she knew she had to do something that maybe she didn’t want to do. She set her course, reached around to take Martin’s hand and started in our direction.

“Shit,” I muttered, as plastered a smile on my face and prepared to deal with her arrival. It never occurred to me she might show up here, and from the look on her face, it hadn’t occurred to her I would.

“Courtney!”

“Rebecca!” they shouted simultaneously, as they moved into each other for a hug.

As I thought about it, I realized they hadn’t seen each other in a couple of years. As they embraced, I had no alternative but to turn towards Martin and say hello.

He beat me to it, reaching out his hand, apparently to shake mine. Much to my surprise, once he had my hand in his, he lifted it to his lips and kissed it. He looked back up into my face with that killer smile of his. “Sara, how delightful to see you again; you look absolutely lovely. That's a great outfit."

His gracious greeting and wonderful compliment so took me aback that I actually felt embarrassed. I turned my head, and looked down, feeling a huge blush work its way across my face.

He didn't stop there. As he slowly releasing my hand he said, "Now that I have you here, I must tell you again that your work for us was outstanding, just brilliant.”

You could have knocked me over with a feather. After being showered with his compliments, I could have kissed him! I had been prepared to hate him, after all, the son-of-a-bitch was out with my wife. But he so charmed me, he had me totally flustered. I felt like a fish flopping in the bottom of a boat. “Eh. . . . Ah. . . . Ah. . . . Martin, you're so sweet. You know we always try to do our best.”

“Yes, you and your former wife make a remarkable team. Doesn’t she look lovely? I feel privileged to be her escort tonight." He dropped his voice into a fake whisper. "Plus . . . I wouldn't have been able to get into this opening if she hadn't invited me.” He flashed me a big smile, which, by now, I totally believed was sincere.

Just as I started to tell Martin that Rebecca and I were still married, Rebecca and Courtney turned towards us. "Who's this cutie" Courtney asked, looking Martin up and down with a delightful smile in her voice.

"Uh, oh, I. . . ." I started.

But before I could collect myself, Rebecca beat me to it, giving me a glance and rolling her eyes as if to say, get with it, girl. “Martin Strauss, this is Dr. Courtney Cohen, Mi. . .uh. . .Sara's sister.” She then turned to Courtney and in dead serious tones said, "He's mine. You can't have him," which made us all laugh.

As Courtney and Martin said hello to each other, Rebecca turned to me. With a big smile, she took my hands and leaned in to kiss me. . . except it was a girl-style air kiss, not the kiss on the lips I hoped for. She did hold it a rather longer than necessary to let me know it wasn't just a thoughtless social gesture, but still. . . . When she pulled back, she looked at me for moment. "Sara, you look magnificent." She leaned back in to kiss me, this time on the lips.

I reveled in the feeling, but I was ws only getting more confused.

"Where did you get that gorgeous outfit?" she asked.

I beamed at her compliment. "Do you really like it?"

"Yes. It's both elegant and sexy. You look great, radiant almost. Your depression seems to be pretty much under control, huh?"

I ignored her question. "But look at you. I swear a hush fell over the entire place when you walked in. You look perfectly stunning."

She actually blushed, and then turned to Martin. "How 'bout that drink you promised me? You two need refills?"

Courtney and I looked at each other and nodded. Right about then, I knew for sure that more would be better.

"Sure,” Courtney said, brightly, reaching for my hand. "I don't go back on call for two more days."

I wanted desperately to get away from Rebecca and Martin; they seemed so comfortable and familiar with each other. They had no inhibitions about where their hands roamed, but Rebecca and Courtney seemed intent on hanging out with each other, and I couldn't figure out a polite way to flee. So, ten minutes later, I found myself still alone with Martin as we examined one of the paintings, waiting for Rebecca and Courtney to bring us more champagne.

“How’s the transition going?" he asked. "You seem to be taking to this girl thing like a duck to water." He seemed completely sincere.

Again I found myself off balance. I wanted to hate him. The bastard with my wife was being really nice to me, solicitous even, like he really did care about me! It just didn’t compute.

What could I say in reply anyway? I didn’t think of myself as transitioning, although I could easily understand why people might think that. Hell, he even thought Rebecca had divorced me. But really, aside from zapping my beard, taking some hormones, and dressing as a woman all the time, I hadn't done anything else - if you didn’t count therapy and my support group. In my mind I wasn't in transition; I had ensconced myself in a holding pattern, so far unwilling to go too far in either direction.

"It's kind of lonely, actually. I really miss Rebecca." Surprised at my candor, I threw my hands up to my mouth. "I'm so sorry," I blurted out. “I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

He tilted his head and looked at me for a second, as if trying to understand something important. Then he totally surprised me. He reached around my shoulders and pulled me into a hug. Speaking softly, so only I could hear, he said, "I'm so sorry. I can only imagine how alone you must feel, but I'm the one who needs to apologize. Here I am with your wife, and… well… it's only just occurred to me how that must make you feel. If I were you, I think I would be furious."

I could feel tears start to form in my eyes as I looked into his face. "I want to be," I replied, as he handed me his handkerchief. "But you won't let me." I gave him a rueful look. "You're being too nice." As I stepped back out of his hug, I said to him, "There is one thing you should know, however, Rebecca and I aren't divorced - only separated."

Obviously surprised, he said, "Oh, I guess I just assumed. . . . I mean. . . . when Rebecca asked me to be her date tonight. . . ." He had a pained look on his face.

I put my hand on his arm. "It's alright. We both have lots of things to figure out, and one of them is what we need in a mate. I know she needs to experiment." I gave him a small smile and turned towards Courtney, who had just arrived with Rebecca. "Hey, sis, how ‘bout showing me how to use the little girls’ room?" I asked with a forced smile.

"Don't be silly," she replied, still looking at Rebecca with a big smile on her face. "You can…. Oh. I see. 'kay." Once she had seen my face, she quickly realized I needed help .

"Be back in a jif," she said to Rebecca, as she took my arm, and turned to search for the ladies’ room. As soon as we had gotten a few steps away, she whispered, "Are you okay, you look a little ill."

"I don't know what I am, but I just can’t bear to hang out with Rebecca and Martin for even one more moment. It’s too sad and too confusing and they were both being really nice to me."

Unnerved, I struggled with my skirt, pantyhose, panties and gaff, just so I could sit to pee, as if I had never done it wearing women’s clothes before. And when I finished, I lingered in the stall. I sat there with my elbows on my knees and my hands under my chin thinking about what Martin had said about transitioning. Should I? Could I if it meant losing Rebecca? Could I not, no matter what happened? Wasn’t I doing it already?

“Sis? You okay in there?” Courtney called out, startling me out of my reverie.

“Uh… yeah.”

“Well are you coming out?”

I didn’t want to, but figured I didn’t really have a choice.

By the time we had redone our lipstick, and fixed my eyes, which had become a little blotchy from the tears, my self-control was back and I felt ready to go back into the main room to face Rebecca and Martin again, but they were gone. I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or guilty, so I got another drink, thinking that it would be best if I couldn’t feel anything at all. After spending about an hour that I spent drinking too much and Courtney spent exchaning phone numbers with eligible men, we too left. I cried all the way home in the cab, though I wasn’t quite sure why. I just knew that I really missed Rebecca and that I hated Martin Strauss, a very nice man who didn’t deserve it.

***

Because she so rarely got to New York, our parents had planned a family gathering at their apartment so everyone coud see Courtney. I had spoken to my mother a few times since I had come out to them, and she had been very cordial, though she clearly hoped I would change my mind. My dad’s anger had dissipated as well, and he felt so embarrassed about his behavior the night I came out that he had offered to take me out to the restaurant of my choice to make it up to me and show he wasn’t embarrassed to be seen with me in public. Still, we hadn't seen each other, mostly because I hadn’t been brave enough, and they hadn’t pushed it. As with Rebecca, I felt really guilty about putting them through such a difficult time, even though, and to their credit, they hadn’t laid a guilt trip on me.

I hadn't had any communications with my sister, Leah, although I had spoken to her husband Zach a quite a few times. He was friendly, very curious and apparently supportive. Even though I looked for it, I couldn't detect even a hint of disapproval in his voice or anything he said. Leah never called me back, so I really didn’t know how she felt, although I figured it couldn’t possibly be good.

Getting there had not been easy. I was so nervous I could barely eat anything and totally got on Courtney's nerves when we visited the new Museum of Modern Art because I couldn't stand still long enough for her to enjoy the paintings. As we gazed at Van Gogh’s Starry Night, with all its swirling color, I imagined that's how my brain must look. It's certainly how it feels! When I told Courtney she laughed and said, “Well no wonder you’re so twitchy.”

Once we got home in the late afternoon, I started to obsess over what I should wear. As I vacilatated for the third time between pants or a skirt, Courtney started chanting "twenty-three outfits." She thought it was hilarious, but I was not amused. With her help, however, I eventually picked a long, red peasant skirt, under a long, turquoise wool sweater that clearly showed my bust. Once I added a belt of silver circles that hung loosely around my waist and over one hip and my red cowboy boots, I thought I looked slightly southwestern, appropriately feminine, but not overtly sexy. I still couldn’t sit still so Courtney showed me how to curl the ends of my hair lightly with a curling iron. It added a nice feminine touch that I thought looked really sweet.

I tried to talk her into a skirt too, but Courtney wanted to wear her new jeans and a tight, black, ribbed turtleneck she borrowed from me. I forced her to use some makeup, somehow convincing myself that mine would be less obvious if she wore some too. She looked effortlessly sexy, like a model on her day off. I felt all artifice by comparison.

Needless to say, everyone was really thrilled to see Courtney, who I forced through the door ahead of me as if somehow that would take everyone’s attention away from me. As she moved into the apartment getting hugs and kisses from everyone and oohs and aahs over her new look, it inevitably it became my turn anyway. When Mother turned her attention to me, I thought my heart would beat itself right out of my chest from the anxiety. I had to really concentrate to keep myself from hyperventilating. I saw my life pass before my eyes as she looked up into them.

“How are you, my dear?” she asked as if she really meant it. I couldn’t help but notice she didn’t call me by name.

“I’m fine, mom,” I replied earnestly, my anxiety starting to dissipate a little. “Nervous as hell, too,-being here with everyone for the first time.”

“Oh don’t be silly,” she replied in a nicely dismissive way. “Courtney read us all the riot act and we all promised to behave.” And she gave me one of her big bright smiles, the one I remember from when childhood and had drawn something with crayons that I thought was terrific and took it to her for approval. That smile never lost its power to make me feel good about myself, and it did this time too.

As my mom wrapped her arm around mine to lead me further into the room, I thought, *Things sure have changed, now my little sister is taking care of me.* As soon as I realized what a vast understatement that thought was, I couldn't help but snort out a laugh. Still, between my mother’s smile and the thought of Courtney taking care of me, I felt so grateful I almost started to tear up.

Dad turned towards me as he released Courtney, and I could feel my heart start to accelerate again. Even though he had apologized several times on the phone since then, he had been so angry the last time I saw him, I didn’t know what to expect.

He stepped toward me with a warm smile on his face and enveloped me in a big hug. At first I just stood there, stunned. It felt so good, just like when I was a child running to him because something had scared me, and his hug let me know everything woud be just fine. It only took a moment for me to relax into him, soaking up his affection the way a dry towel soaks up water. I was a little embarrassed, however, as I felt my breasts press against his chest. *What must he be thinking,* I worried. Only later did I realize that was the biggest hug I could ever remember sharing with him.

Then he pushed away, put both his hands on my shoulders and looked me right in the eyes. “Sara,” he began, pausing to take a deep breath, “can you ever forgive me for the way I behaved last time you were here? I’m so sorry.”

I struggled in vain to find the proper words to respond. His I really needed his acceptance, but had been afraid to hope for it. I could only nod because I had a big lump in my throat. Tears rolled down my cheeks. “Oh Daddy,” I finally spluttered. As I heard myself, my eyes went wide and my hand shot up to my mouth because I couldn’t believe I had just called my father, “Daddy.” What had happened to Michael?

He gave me an indulgent smile. “Really, I’ve always thought you were a terrific person, and my response to seeing you as Sara had more to do with how I thought people would look at me than with you.”

“I still think it’s ridiculous,” Leah blurted from further in the room.

“Leah,” Zach, Courtney and my mom all admonished at once.

“You promised you would behave,” Courtney went on. “Please don’t ruin the evening for the rest of us.”

Leah glared at the others, looked at me as if I was a cockroach, and then turned toward the kitchen. “Perhaps I’d better get some hors d'oeuvres before I shatter any more fragile sensitivities.”

“Leah!” Zach said, as he turned down the hallway.

“I’m really sorry,” he went on as he turned toward me. “That was uncalled for.”

“It’s not your fault. She has a right to her own feelings. Lord knows she isn’t the only one who feels that way." I had always liked Zach. Like Leah, he was a lawyer. He was also a dedicated runner, having participated in marathons all over the U.S. and in a few foreign countries. A little taller than me, quite thin, wiry I guess would be the right word, he had a full head of curly brown hair, a slightly crooked nose and a lopsided grin that was totally disarming.

He turned that grin on me and indicated he would take my coat. “Well, I have to admit I don’t understand it, although I know you’re not the only one, so there must be something that compels you to do it.” As I turned and he lifted my jacket from my shoulders, he added, “And you are rather cute.”

I almost melted.

“Thank you, kind sir,” I said with a teeny, little, curtsey-like bob, while turning my head to the side slightly. “Unfortunately, it’s not quite that simple, as your wife just demonstrated. It has a huge effect on others, and some don’t like it." I gave him a rueful smile.

“Anyone want a drink?” Courtney called out from across the room.

Simultaneously, she got a “Please dear,” a “You bet,” and a “Sure,” from the others, and a “God yes,” from me. So Courtney went to work at the bar, but even after she’d served all of us, including the construction of several fancy martinis, Leah had still not rejoined us.

“I think I’ll go get her,” Mom suggested.

“No, let me,” I said, grabbing the chance to make peace in private. “What does she like, Zach?”

He pointed to a bottle of chardonnay he had brought. “She’s loves this. You’ll be her hero, errr, heroine.”

This time I gave him the crooked smile. Courtney poured a healthy serving, and then I took the glass, along with my martini and headed off to the kitchen.

“Just scream if you need back-up,” Courtney teased.

I stuck my tongue out at her.

The kitchen was rather large by Manhattan standards, made even larger because it had been opened up to the dining room. Instead of a wall on one side there was a counter you could sit at. The windows on the back wall of the two rooms let in lots of light during the day, and made the rooms seem even more spacious. Leah was standing in front of the sink and looking out the window. The way she was leaning and holding on made it look as if she might fall in if she let go.

“Hey,” I said softly, as I turned the corner.

She swung around, looking surprised. Her dark curly hair reminded me of Rebecca’s. It hung to her shoulders and it swung back and forth across her cheeks as she quickly threw her head around to face me. She was a real beauty, in a hot, Mediterranean way, with an olive complexion, dark eyes and full red lips. Her only flaw, according to her, was her lack of height, which she got from mother. There are a lot of women who would love to be barely over five feet, yet quite voluptuous. Men had always swooned at her feet, but she hated being so small. That’s probably why she was such a terrific lawyer. She made up for her height not just by wearing high heels, which she almost always did, but with a scary intelligence and tough-as-nails tenacity. For me, winning an argument with her was a rare event, even when I was right. I didn’t know what to expect from her now, but seeing her face made me feel like I should have stayed in the other room.

“Oh, you,” she said, looking at me like I had just been picked out of a police line-up by a rape victim. “You’re the last one I expected to see in here.”

“Ouch,” I replied trying to keep things light. “Here, I’ve brought you some wine. Zach says it’s one of your favorites.” Leah wasn’t just a good lawyer, she was good at everything, cooking, sports, and picking wines. She’s the only woman I knew with her own wine cellar.

“Hmmph,” she replied, as I handed it to her. “Just like a man, trying to buy influence with gifts.”

“Leah, why are you so angry with me?” I started to feel exasperated

“Because what you’re doing’s just not right. It embarrasses the whole family, not to mention its effect on poor Rebecca. I mean, you’re already separated.”

“Yes,” I said, as I leaned against the stainless steel refrigerator, unconsciously tilting my right knee in towards my left, leaving my foot turned inward a little. I watched her gaze go down, and could see by the way her mouth got tight that she didn’t like my feminine posture. *Take that,* I thought, as I jutted out my hip a little more. “And do you think I would do something with so many bad consequences unless I really had to?” I took a gulp of my drink. This was no time for sipping daintily. “You know me; I’m not careless with other people’s feelings.”

She gave me a nasty look.

“And,” I pouted, “it wasn’t exactly my idea to come out either.”

“Wasn’t it?” she asked archly. “You can say what you want, but you were careless. It’s easy to imagine you were hoping something like this would happen just so you could make yourself believe it wasn’t’ your fault.” Rebecca told me all about both pictures.”

Anger rose in my mouth. “Did she also tell you she encouraged me to explore this part of me, and introduced me as a woman to the woman who set up the picture?” I could tell by her face that this was news to her, a slip I’m sure she’d never make at work. “Look,” I went on, trying to be conciliatory, “I’m not blaming anyone here but me. But this is a real part of me, maybe the biggest part, and once I got outed, it became obvious to both Rebecca and me that I had to find out just how big before we could go on with our lives. We’re separated because we both know in our hearts that this is the only thing we could do if we wanted to eventually stay together.” I took another gulp. My glass was getting dangerously low, and I frowned at it as if it was its fault. Looking back up, I continued. “But that’s not why you’re so angry, is it?”

“I told you already; it’s just not right. Even the bible says so. I looked it up: Deuteronomy 22:5, A woman shall not wear anything that pertains to a man, nor shall a man put on a woman's garment; for whoever does these things is an abomination to the Lord your God."

My heart just sank. "Is that what this is about? It's a religious thing with you?" Zach and Leah were Conservative Jews, and even kept a kosher house, but still, it's not like they were Orthodox.

“Well of course it is," she hissed at me. "It’s unnatural. You…you're perverted.''

“Go to hell,” I spat back at her, my voice now rising and tears starting to form in my eyes. “You’re the one who’s ‘unnatural,’ turning on your bro … uh ... me just when I’m most vulnerable.” I took a deep breath to try to calm myself, but it wasn’t happening. “And besides,” I nearly shouted, and the male undertones in my voice broke through. I calmed myself again. “And besides,” I went on, “a couple of verses later God tells us not to mix fibers in our clothing. You don’t by chance have any silk-cotton blends in your closet do you?” I knew she did because I had bought her a silk-cotton twin set for her birthday, and had seen her wear it.

“Hey, what’s going on in here?” Zach interrupted, as he skidded to a stop after turning the corner to the kitchen. Courtney was right behind him and our folks behind her.

I spun on my heel and headed out of the kitchen. “Nothing. Just a debate about the Bible.”

Mt escape was thwarted when Courtney grabbed me up in a hug after only a step. She threw a hard glance at Leah. “You said you would behave.”

“Oh, and you think this is a good thing?” Leah shot back, while pointing at me like I was exhibit “A”.

“Leah,” Zach cut in. “Control yourself. Getting angry won’t solve anything.”

“You’re on her side too?” she asked incredulously.

“Well I am, and that’s for sure,” my father said. “And I won’t have you treating Sara this way in my house. Why don’t you just calm down and apologize. This is not how Cohens treat each other.”

“I will not apologize. All I did was call a ‘spade’ a ‘spade’ - something the rest of you seem unable to do. If my little brother,” she spat out the word ‘brother’ as if she were talking about a child molester, “wants to be a shameful little sissy, I’ll have no part of it and the rest of you are out of your minds if you do.”

“Leah!” four voices shouted in unison.

There was a moment of silence as Leah looked around the room, challenging each of us. When she finally got to me, I stood straight up, shook the hair off my face, and put my fists on my hips. In my heeled cowboy boots I towered over her, and I stared her down. I’m not sure I could have done it without the rest of my family behind me, but with their support I felt emboldened. Besides, she was a shrimp, and I was a pretty strong woman. Moreover, I had a real strong hunch that her concerns with me didn’t have their roots in Deuteronomy. There just had to be something far more important than that.

Realizing she had been defeated, she started to get a deer-in-the-headlights look, her face flushed, and the corner of her mouth twitched. “I’m outa here. C’mon Zach.”

“I don’t think so,” he said calmly. “I came here to spend a nice evening with your family and get to know Sara. If you can’t deal with that, that’s your problem. I’m not goin’. I think you need to spend some time alone to cool down."

She looked at him fiercely, veins standing out on her neck as her face reddened even more. It was pretty clear he would be sleeping in the spare bedroom for at least one night. “Fine,” she hissed, and stalked out of the kitchen, almost knocking my mother over as she surged down the hallway. We all just stood there until we heard the door slam.

“I’m so sorry,” I apologized to everyone. “This is all my fault.”

“No it’s not,” Zach said. “It’s Leah’s fault. For some reason she’s very threatened by you, but whatever it is, her behavior is inexcusable.”

“Oh my,” Mother said. “I haven’t seen her that angry since we told her she would have to pay off her own student loans.” She smiled devilishly. “Or when I told her she couldn’t wear that low-cut gown she had picked out for her prom.” She drew her hands from her shoulders to her naval and rolled her eyes.

That broke Courtney up. “I tried to buy Sara a bra like that on Saturday,” she said, doing the same thing with her hands our mom had done, “but she would have none of it.”

“You two went bra shopping together?” Mother asked, aghast.

“Well, ye..ah,” Courtney responded. “It’s like totally what sisters do, ya know?” She had valley girl down pat. “And besides, she was buying.”

“You bought her bras?” Mother asked me, still somewhat stunned.

I nodded.

“And we tried them on together,” Courtney added. “It was so much fun.”

“That’s was only a small part of the day,” I cut in. “I got her lots of stuff. The bras were only a few minutes.” I was afraid my mother was going to have a stroke.

“Oh geez,” Father said. “I think I need another drink. Why don’t we grab those trays and go into the other room.” That met with a general murmur of approval.

With Leah gone, the atmosphere changed entirely. I was surrounded by family warmth, though with lots of curiosity thrown in. They bombarded me with question after question, but there was no anger or hatred in them, only a desire to understand. This was way better for my mood than antidepressants, and by the time Courtney and I left, I felt almost euphoric. I wasn’t sure any one could really understand what was going on inside my head, but they were at least willing to believe that something was, and that I really felt strongly about what I was doing.

As I collected our coats, I heard Mother ask Courtney, "Were you two really in the changing room together?"

Their voices became too soft to hear, until I heard Courtney say, "No, not yet. But I bet they will be soon though."

Yet? Soon? Did she know something I didn’t?