Randy’s Story

It was a sweet kiss, one that lingered and I found Maria Elena’s lips warm and tasty. The girl seemed to want more from me, but for some reason I did not feel like reciprocating her obvious invitation. I treated it as a goodnight kiss, one that would properly follow a first date, but not necessarily invite further liaisons.

Nothing about Maria Elena excited me or stirred my emotions, and I wondered what was wrong with me. The girl, a slender lovely girl with dark eyes and long black hair, was everything a 16-year-old boy could hope for in a date to the homecoming dance at the girl’s high school. She was light on her feet and I found her a great partner on the dance floor. She laughed easily and her smile was infectious.

I walked away from Maria Elena’s doorstep, returning to the car being driven by my best friend, Ryan who had wrapped his arms around his longtime girlfriend next to him in the front seat. The two were kissing passionately.

Breaking apart, Carmen, a chunky, cute girl, turned to look at me as I opened the door and slipped into the back seat.

“That was quick, Randy,” she said.

“Huh?”

“You could have given her a longer hug and kiss, Randy. I know she likes you,” the girl said.

“It was just a first date,” I said as an excuse.

“You going to ask her out again?” she queried.

“I don’t know.”

“What’s wrong with her, Randy?” my friend Ryan said.

“Nothing, she’s great, but I don’t know.”

“Come on. Why?”

“Just start the car and you can drop me off and then you two can kiss away the night,” I said, angry at my friend’s probing.

As the car moved from the curb, Carmen turned back to look at me, though I hardly noticed her. My mind was wandering elsewhere.

“Are you still mooning over that Julie woman?” she asked.

“Why do you care?”

Five minutes later, they dropped me off at the apartment building in which I lived with mother. I mumbled a “thanks” to Ryan and turned to Carmen just before stepping out of the car: “I appreciate you arranging the date for me. She was great, but you don’t have to do that. Let me worry about getting a date. I don’t want you to put yourself out for me.”

I slammed the car door shut and rushed into the building.

*****
It had been nearly four months since that magical Sunday — the day before Labor Day — when I spent the day with Julie. Not a night went by in which I didn’t struggle to get to sleep as I pictured her smooth, soft features, lovely slender legs with somewhat chunkier thighs, narrow shoulders and slim arms. It was her bright blue eyes and warm smile that entranced me the most. Her pretty face was framed in short light brown hair with bangs.

My penis hardened each night in bed as I thought of her, always moving into intense climax. Oh, what sweetness. Often I grew sad, realizing that I’d likely never see her again.

Ryan and me ran into her on the train late that Sunday morning as we were headed to the beach; it was a chance meeting and we could see the girl was alone. We invited her to join us at the beach, where we would become a foursome, since Ryan’s girlfriend, Carmen, would be joining us. We spent the day together, swimming, laughing and sharing thoughts, with Ryan pairing off with Carmen, while Julie and I became a couple. Julie was so lovely and I found myself falling for her badly; I wondered whether she felt the same about me. She was so warm and friendly and I suspected she liked me, too.

As we parted for the day, I was shocked when Julie said simply: “We can’t see each other again.”

The reason was our ages: I was sixteen and she told me she was twenty-three. I couldn’t believe it; she didn’t look to be seven years older than me. I remembered her words vividly: “I like you, Randy. I like you a lot, but we can’t continue this. You’re underage for one thing and I could get arrested for doing stuff with you.”

We parted that day when Ryan and I left the train at our stop. I will never forget the look on Julie’s face as I looked back to see her looking out of the train window and giving a tentative wave. Though her face was darkened by the tinted glass, I sensed Julie was beginning to cry.

Julie’s Story

Why do we always seem to wish for the unattainable? I couldn’t get Randy out of my thoughts after the day on the beach at Point Pleasant. In my sad and pathetic life I had never before felt anyone would want me, except of course my mother, and now she was gone. I couldn’t believe that a marvelous hunk of a boy like Randy would find me desirable; yet, he did. What did it matter that he was only sixteen and I was a college graduate and twenty-three? Couldn’t we be in love?

Every night, it seemed, my reveries found myself in his strong arms, his hard hands gently caressing me as our lips met, at first with light touches and then with growing passion until we both fell into intense, gratifying climaxes.

But, the truth was that Julie was a fiction, a product of the application of makeup and lovely feminine clothing, but underneath still a man with a functioning piece of manhood. My transformation from Jason into Julie was made easy for two reasons: I was not very strong and that was obvious as I had soft slender legs, narrow shoulders and pretty arms; perhaps most importantly, I really felt that I was a woman in my attitudes, likes and dislikes.

That Sunday trip to the beach on Labor Day weekend had been my first jaunt out of the house as Julie; I took it in desperation to relieve the severe loneliness I felt on the long weekend. How easily I fell into the role of Julie! And, no one suspected I was anything but a young lady on the trip to the beach. I was treated with deference, with nods from gentlemen and, though I didn’t see anyone take lustful looks at me, I suspected more than a few men wondered what such a pretty girl was doing all alone on a holiday.

And, yes, I did cry as I saw Randy wave back at me from the train platform. I would never see that marvelous boy again.

Of course, the age difference would make such a liaison nearly impossible. In my mind, however, the real reason, of course, was that if Randy and I became serious lovers he would learn that I was a boy (at least anatomically, if no other way). I couldn’t let that happen, could I?

Try as I might, I couldn’t get Randy out of my thoughts. I figured that if I quit dressing up like a woman — even in the privacy of my own house — and began to do masculine activities I would shred these feminine feelings and begin to live the life of a normal young man. Once I assumed a more manly life I felt that I would then shed my mind of Randy. That night as I got ready for bed, I decided not to wear my nightie — as I had been doing in the months since mom’s death — and to wear a pair of male pajamas. During the day, I no longer wore panties under my male clothes and reverted to briefs. I vowed to become a man!

*****
My quest to assert my manliness was in reality a fool’s venture. The clothes I wore may have portrayed me as young man, but they were but a costume, a charade.

“Young lady,” the old woman said.

“Yes, what do you need, Mrs. Rockwell?” I said to the woman sitting in a wheelchair in the lounge of the nursing home where I worked as recreation director and occasional nurses aide.

I knew Mrs. Rockwell meant me since I was the only staff person in the area at the time. She was a kindly old woman, nearing 100, and was terribly bent and weakened, but she had a lively mind and I liked her. She — along with many of the elderly residents — referred to me as “miss,” “girl” or “honey,” so much so that I had quit trying to correct them by stating my name was Jason. I had tried that for a while, but it only caused both the old person and me embarrassment.

Several weeks earlier, when I told Mrs. Rockwell that I was Jason, she felt mortified that she had mistaken me for a young woman. “I’m so sorry,” she said in her weakening, faint raspy voice. “You’re such a sweet person, and I just . . . ah . . . thought . . .”

“That’s OK, ma’am,” I remember telling her. “Maybe it’s my fault. I should cut my hair, I guess.”

“Jason, please forgive me. You know my eyes aren’t what they used to be,” she replied.

I realized that it wasn’t that Mrs. Rockwell’s eyesight was failing her; it was my mannerisms, my moderately long hair and my slender body that caused many people to look at me as a young woman. Try as I might to lose my effeminate appearance, I had failed.

I had been hired a few months earlier to run the recreational program for the nursing home that served primarily elderly people along with a few physically disabled young people. The staff of the nursing home had gotten to know me when I was a constant presence in the home during the last months of my mother’s life. I had made a return visit to the home after mother’s death to thank the staff for their care and compassion, which they had truly shown her. The hospital administrator greeted me and upon learning that I was still unemployed two years after my graduation from college with an English degree offered me the position as recreation director. I accepted, and became one of the few male employees on the staff, the others being male orderlies and maintenance personnel.

A few days later, while leading a recreational session for the residents, Mrs. Rockwell called me “young lady” again, no doubt because while her eyesight may still me fairly sharp her memory was not. The others in the audience didn’t correct her, and it was apparent that I must be viewed as a young woman by most of them.

Thus, I became “Jay” to the residents. Let them think of me as either a woman or a man, I thought.

Could I ever become the man I was born to be? That thought plagued me almost nightly as I resisted the urge to enter my mother’s bedroom. Her clothes — many of which were from her days on stage in her youth — remained neatly hung in the large walk-in closet or neatly folded into dresser drawers. After her death, I had slowly and with tears in my eyes, cleaned the room meticulously, delicately arranging the many gewgaws she had, as well as her considerable store of cosmetics. More than once, I found myself dressing in the clothes of my mother’s youth. They fit me nearly perfectly, and I would spend many hours prettying myself up, hoping to become a carbon copy of the lovely woman she had been throughout her life. As alone as I was, I had time for this gratifying practice.

I loved her bedroom, and dusted it weekly, even though there rarely appeared to be any dust to remove. I regularly used her favorite perfume spray to scent the room, and loved to remake her bed. She had a lovely, feminine bedroom.

Each night, I cried and cried and cried, dampening my pillow, cursing the person I had become, a pathetic weakling without friends or family. It was only when I recalled the marvelous Labor Day adventure to Point Pleasant and the adoration from a sixteen-year-old high school boy that my crying would stop. It was at that point that I again became Julie, a cute, lovely, vibrant and feminine young lady who won the attention of males and females.

Five days before Christmas, Henrietta Jackson, a bouncy, friendly nursing assistant, casually asked me what I was planning for the holidays. Mrs. Jackson was a large fiftyish African-American woman with bright eyes and an ever-smiling demeanor, even though I knew she’d had a difficult life raising five children.

“Nothing much,” I replied as we sat in the employee lounge during break. “Maybe go to a movie, I suppose.”

“You poor dear. It must be tough on you, not having any family around. Your mother was such a lovely person. We all loved her while she was here.”

“Thank you, Henrietta. I miss her terribly,” I admitted. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes.

“You’re always welcome to join my family for Christmas dinner,” she said.

“I couldn’t do that. It’s really a time for you and your family.”

“I’ll be serving 15,” she said, smiling. “One more won’t make a difference.”

‘No thanks, Henrietta, I’d love to. But I’d feel too much like an interloper.”

“I understand, but the invitation stands,” she smiled.

*****
I pondered Henrietta’s invitation as the Christmas holiday period neared. I had volunteered to take the weekend shifts of other workers, but I had already built up so much overtime that the Administrator nixed the idea. Thus, I faced three free days with nothing much to do except sit alone at home while others gathered for family parties.

On Thanksgiving Day, I had made the best of my loneliness by volunteering at a meal program for the homeless, where I served the veggies.

While there was a mix of men and women volunteers, I repeatedly heard the hungry recipients say, “Thank you, miss” as I heaped the broccoli and Brussels sprouts on their trays. I resisted correcting the men, women and children who addressed me as such, realizing they were being polite. Indeed, I had come to expect such mistaken identities to occur; I knew my mannerisms had become those of a young woman. Though my longish hair was tucked under a hairnet and covered with a paper hat, I noticed that I looked distinctly feminine when I looked in the stained mirror on the homeless shelter’s men’s room.

An unfortunate incident occurred when the rush of individuals slowed down. I was emptying a fresh bowl of broccoli into its serving dish when a youngish man in a hooded parka approached.

“What’s your name, honey?” he asked.

I was so taken aback I almost spilled the broccoli, but was saved when the man caught the bowl and helped me empty it into the serving dish.

“Thank you,” I said to the man, realizing that my voice reached a high register, something that seemed to occur whenever I was surprised or nervous.

“Do you have a name?” the man asked. His voice was kind and gentle.

I looked at him. In spite of the man’s unshaven face, straggly hair and rough clothing, he had a handsome face, bright eyes and none of the rheumy demeanor of so many of the persons who had gone through the line.

“Just call me Jay,” I said finally.

“Nice to meet you, Jay. I’m Michael. It’s so nice you volunteered your time to serve us.”

“Thank you, Michael,” I said, turning to face the next man coming through the line.

I tried to ignore him, but he hovered nearby and when the next break in the line came, he spoke to me again.

“You seem like a nice young woman,” the man began.

At that point, the shelter’s supervisor, a middle-aged woman named Emily, came by and noticed the situation. She had a definitely commanding presence and blurted out to the man, whom she obviously knew.

“Now, Michael, you know better than to bother the volunteers. Get back to your table, or if you’re done with your meal, you may leave now,” she ordered sternly.

“OK, Miss Emily,” he said, then turning to me, he said, “Real nice meeting you.”

“Was he bothering you, Jason?” Emily asked.

The young man stopped in his tracks, turned to look at me, and screamed out loud: “You’re a guy? Holy Christ in heaven.”

“That’s enough, Michael, now leave,” Emily repeated, beginning to lead him out of the cafeteria.

“But, she’s a guy,” Michael said.

By then the ruckus had drawn the attention of most in the huge room, and I found myself under examination by every eye in the room. I could see by the mumbles and giggles that I was being viewed as some sort of freak. It was humiliating and within moments I was in tears, and turned and left my station, rushing into the kitchen where I found a bench and cried.

A security guard helped me get on my coat and assisted me out of the building. Emily came by and said she was sorry for the incident and thanked me for assisting. She ordered the security guard to walk me to the bus stop and wait with me until the bus arrived. I never felt so shamed and inadequate as I did that day.

Emily called later and wondered if I wanted to assist at the Christmas meal, but I said the memories of the incident were so horrifying that I couldn’t feel I could come back. She said she understood, and then offered her help since she was on the board of the Community LGBT Center.

“No, I’m fine,” I lied to her, thanking her for her interest. “I’m not gay, Emily and nor am I transgendered.”

Emily replied that she was sorry to have inferred that, but that she wanted him to know I had a friend.

I thanked her again, and hung up.

It got me thinking: What am I?

*****
It was the night of the twenty-second of December and I was in despair as I pondered what I would be doing with myself over the coming three-day holiday. I could sleep in, of course, and watch a bit of television, but the thought of watching all of the repeated holiday shows with their saccharin sentiments brought on an even deeper depression. I could find some other volunteer activity, too, but I couldn’t think of one, nor was I eager to put myself into awkward positions again.

I looked at my life since mom had died: I had nothing to look forward to. No friends and a job with no future. True, I liked my work, especially my interactions with the old ladies at the home. I found myself smiling — for a change — thinking of Mrs. Rockwell, the 99-year-old woman I found to be an enchanting person with whom to share conversations. Ridiculous, wasn’t it, as I pictured myself to be a person with such terrible shortcomings?

Other than the occasional joys I found at work, I could remember only one time I had been carefree and happy since mom had died: the Sunday during the Labor Day weekend that I spent with Randy at Point Pleasant. It was the time I broke out of my shell, turned myself into a comely young woman named Julie and ventured out on the train to the beach.

That was it, I thought. Why not take another adventure? Should I go again as Julie? No, I argued with myself, I won’t do that since I was hoping to shed all my ideas of dressing up as a woman. Yet, hadn’t that been the time I was most happy this past year? As Julie, I felt strangely human and alive; I was free and open to adventure as Julie. Jason was frightened and hesitant about life.

Yes, I decided, I would become Julie on Christmas Eve and take another trip.

*****
The first thing I did upon arriving home from work on December twenty-third was to take off my male clothes and draw myself a bath, loading the tub with scented, bubbly soaps. I luxuriated in the tub for nearly a half hour, fondly caressing my soft tummy and small breasts. Yes, I had tiny breasts, like I imagined a slender thirteen-year-old girl might have. Perhaps it was because I did so little to strengthen my body that I had developed the soft mounds of flesh where most boys my age would be sporting a muscular chest. I followed that with a shampoo, using the brand that mom had used for years. I smelled sweet and feminine when I was done.

I soon was singing softly as I rubbed the conditioner into my hair, and the tune that seemed to come naturally was “White Christmas.” I loved how Rosemary Clooney sung the piece, and hoped I had come close to duplicating her sound. How lovely I felt!

I put on panties, bra and a camisole. I found pair of dark blue women’s slacks and donned a red sweatshirt with bright green, white and pink Christmas decorations that was among mom’s clothes that I had not yet given away. I loved how she looked in the outfit. I brushed my light brown hair so that it hung freely and curled a bit at the ends, fashioning bangs that crossed my forehead. From my image in the mirror, I honestly and truly believed I looked like a cute girl, and that’s just exactly how I felt.

I put on several CDs that played Christmas carols and busied myself around the house. I uncorked a bottle of pinot grigio to celebrate my liberation and prepared a light dinner from a package of frozen shrimp, pasta and some veggies.

The wine quickly went to my head and it wasn’t long before I began to cry, wishing that mom were still around and we could enjoy and mother-daughter Christmas together. Strangely, the crying session didn’t bring on a period of depression; rather, I began to imagine mom was sitting across the table from me, sharing in the wine and shrimp pasta dish I had prepared. We were giggling together. Later after supper, slightly tipsy, we went to the living room and mom sat down at the piano to play and I began singing, my voice a soft, lovely mezzo-soprano.

In that sweet euphoria, I went to sleep.

Randy’s Story (Continued)

I was busily bagging groceries at the Shop ‘N Save Mega-Mart around eleven in the morning on Christmas Eve when I felt my cell phone buzz, signifying I got a text message. While I waited for the next customer, I checked the message:

“Call me on break. Great news” It was from Carmen, the girlfriend of my friend, Ryan.

What could she have to tell me that was “great news?” Certainly, Ryan wouldn’t have proposed to her; they were both too young at age sixteen. Maybe he just got her a nice gift for Christmas, but why was that so urgent? Girls could be so emotional sometimes, I thought.

“What’s so urgent?” I said a half hour later, calling Carmen from the break room in the store.

“What do you think?” she teased him.

“Come on, Carmen, don’t play with me. Did Ryan do something stupid and propose to you or something?”

“Randy,” she yelled back at me. “Why would that be so stupid?”

“Oh Carmen, you’re both still in high school. And yes that would be stupid.”

“And I was going to tell you something real nice,” she said. I could picture her pouting. No doubt I had hurt her feelings.

“I’m sorry Carmen. You and Ryan make a great couple and maybe someday you guys might get married, but come on.”

“OK,” she said.

“Guess who I saw on the train this morning on my way to visit my aunty?”

“I don’t know, Carmen. Quit playing games.” I was getting frustrated with this girl, but she was always a bit of a tease I know.

“Guess.”

“Lady Gaga.”

“No, silly, I saw Julie.”

“Julie?” I was nonplussed.

“Yes, Julie. Your love from Labor Day weekend.”

I was excited. Julie was never far from my thoughts, and I pictured her in my mind, her lovely legs and luscious body. And, oh yes, her warmth and cute smile.

“Did you talk to her?”

“I did, and she asked about you, Randy,” the girl replied.

“She did?” I said, and I knew that if anyone was watching me talk on the cell phone just then they would have seen a pleased smile cross my face.

“I told her you were crying yourself to sleep each night over her,” Carmen said, obviously teasing again.

“Darn you, Carmen, quit teasing, and tell me what she said.”

“She said she hoped you were doing well in school and that you had found a nice girlfriend for the holidays,” Carmen said, he voice serious.

“Is that all?”

“What else could she say? You know she’s old enough to be your math teacher or something,” Carmen said, laughing.

“I guess. What’s she doing out here?”

“She said she was going to Point Pleasant for the holiday, but that was all we talked about since she had to board the shuttle bus that goes to the resort.”

“Oh? Did she say anything about meeting someone there? A boyfriend, or something?”

“No,” Carmen said. “She might be all alone, but I couldn’t tell. Maybe she’s meeting someone, but I got the feeling she was alone, just like she was when we met her last summer. She’s such a pretty girl, too.”

“Did she say where she was going to stay?” I asked.

“No, but she did board the resort bus,” she added.

“I know but that doesn’t mean much, since we rode the bus too last summer and we were only going to the beach, not the resort. But where else would she be going? There are no other motels at the Point.”

“I have an idea, Randy. My cousin works as a maid at the resort and if she’s working today, I’ll ask her to see if there’s a girl named Julie staying there.”

“Could you, Carmen?”

“I really shouldn’t Randy,” Carmen answered. “You should get her out of your mind. She’s too old for you. I still don’t know why you and Maria Elena didn’t hit it off. She liked you, Randy. She really did.”

“I said I was sorry, didn’t I, to you, since she is your friend,” I answered, feeling sincerely apologetic for my failure to be enamored with Maria Elena. She was a nice, lovely girl, I knew.

“OK, Randy, I’ll check with my cousin for you, but I feel there’s something weird about that Julie girl, as pretty as she is,” Carmen, disconnecting our call.

I thought about that for a while. Yes, it was strange. A pretty girl spending the holidays by herself. Nonetheless, I was captivated by the images of the girl emblazoned in my mind; I had an unyielding compulsion to see this unusual girl and to hold her hand and be her friend.

*****
Two hours later, as I was loading groceries into a taxi for an elderly woman customer, the cell phone sounded, indicating a text message.

I knew it was from Carmen and was eager to check it out, but the old woman who was terribly crippled moved slowly and it took both the cabdriver and me to assist her into the cab. It seemed an eternity.

Freed of the chore, I ran to gather up a stack of carts from the corral to push them back into the store, all the time fumbling with my phone to bring up the message, my hands chilled with the cold of the Christmas Eve day. The text, from Carmen, read:

“Julie Pearson, Room 231, looks alone”

My heart took a leap. “Julie Pearson, what a pretty name,” I said softly to myself. I texted back:

“TY. I owe u. Should I go out to PP?”

She replied:

“To do what?”

I thought about that for a minute, but before I could reply, the supervisor saw me dawdling and yelled for me to “get my butt” back on the job; the checkout lanes were jammed and they really needed baggers. The frantic day continued, but even in the rush my robot-like duties I still dreamed about seeing Julie. I worked as in a fog, so much so that Alisha Henricks, a good-looking African-American cashier whom I loved to bag for, yelled at me to “get my head outa my butt” when I started mixing up customers’ orders. Of course, she said it quietly so the customers couldn’t hear.

At break time, I called Ryan to discuss my quandary. “How could I explain going out to meet her, Ryan?”

“Do what Carmen said: Forget her,” was his reply. Of course, I didn’t want to hear that.

“Ryan, I’m going out there tonight regardless what you two say,” I said. “You’re my friend. Help me out here. I feel strange just going out there, especially alone.”

The three of us, Ryan, Carmen and me, had been planning on getting together for a while on Christmas Eve. Our families shared a common Christmas practice, holding their family get-togethers on Christmas Day, leaving Christmas Eve free for us. We had planned nothing for the evening.

“I don’t know what excuse you can have, other than to just show up and be honest with her,” Ryan said.

“Would you two go with me?” I asked.

“Maybe, but it depends on what Carmen would like to do.”

“A ride out to Point Pleasant sounds neat. There’s a full moon and it would look cool.”

“Let me think about it, Randy. I’ll talk to Carmen and get back to you.”

Things finally quieted down as I neared my 3 p.m. quitting time, giving Alisha and me time to chat a bit between customers.

“You must have a girl on your mind, Randy,” she said, a smile crossing her face.

“Does it show?”

“Yes, I’ve never seen you so distracted and you know you’re making me jealous,” she said, giggling a bit. “I thought you were my boyfriend.”

I blushed; I have to admit I had a crush on Alisha who was trim and curvy with sparkling dark eyes.

“You’re too old for me, Alisha,” I said, even though the girl was only 18. “Besides you’re Jackson’s girl, I thought.”

“That’s what he thinks, and besides I don’t mind robbing the cradle for a hunk like you.”

We kidded back and forth like that almost daily in our work hours; even though both of us took these conversations in good fun, I think that secretly she probably may have been as “hot” for me as I was for her. The lingering image of Julie Pearson in my mind overcame any desire I had to begin a relationship with Alisha, whose own relationship with her longtime boyfriend Jackson was a troubling one since he was extremely jealous and I wasn’t interested in fighting him.

With a “Merry Christmas” to her and the other co-workers I left the store at three o’clock sharp, quickly calling Ryan on my cell.

*****
“Carmen came up with a great idea,” Ryan said.

“Yes?”

“Let’s go in the Christmas spirit, the three of us, and wish her a happy holiday,” he said.

I thought about that for a moment but didn't say anything. Ryan continued:

“Carmen thought we could be sort of like the Three Wise Men who brought gifts to the baby Jesus.”

“Wow, what a great idea!" I said. "I think she’d like that.”

“Yeah, and it’s a good excuse for us all showing up,” Ryan said.

I found myself smiling at the idea, but then it dawned on me that the Three Wise Men brought gold, frankincense and myrrh. I knew what gold was, of course, and we certainly could not have afforded something in gold, but I was mystified as to what frankincense and myrrh were.

“But what would we bring as gifts, Ryan? The Wise Men brought gold, frankincense and myrrh and we couldn’t bring such things,” I said.

Ryan chuckled. “Carmen already looked that stuff up. Frankincense is a perfume and myrrh is like a lotion or healing oil. We can find that stuff easily, and we could get a cheap gold plated necklace or something like that.”

*****
Ryan had his father’s car for the night and he came by the house about four o’clock after I had quickly showered and changed into a pair of gray slacks and a dark blue shirt. I rummaged through my dad’s closet and found a light gray tie mainly to appear adult-like. If my mom and dad would have been home, they would have wondered what prompted me to put on a tie. Strangely, I liked the look.

“We’ll pick up Carmen and still have time to shop,” Ryan said. “There are several stores near her place where we can do our last-minute shopping.”

Julie’s Story (Continued)

I had been in Room 231 about an hour, and after putting away my clothes in a dresser drawer or hanging them in the closet, I looked out the second-story window of the Point Pleasant Resort at the nearly vacant and motionless Main Street of the quiet coastal community. Street lights grew out of snow drifts lining the sides of the street, which appeared black and wet from the salt put down after a recent snowfall. There was little auto traffic, except for a few pickup trucks leaving the Point Bar and Grill, which had just closed up for Christmas Eve.

It was six o’clock, and I wondered where I’d get something to eat; I hadn’t reckoned on the fact that the tiny community might be so barren on the holiday. Perhaps that was why I was able to get one of the best rooms in the aged resort at such a reasonable rate. The place seemed to be nearly deserted for the night.

But I couldn’t argue with my decision to become Julie for the holiday and to come to this quiet place. I felt so free riding the train out to the destination, seeing the generally cheerful faces of young children, accompanied by mothers and sometimes fathers, asking such questions as: “How long before Santa comes?” “Will Santa come to grandma’s?” and “Why do we have to wait to open our gifts?”

I loved seeing Carmen again; it reminded me vividly of Randy, and I wished we could have spoken longer so that I could have asked her more about the boy and how he was doing. The shuttle driver was waiting for me, however, and I couldn’t prolong our conversation.

“Welcome to Point Pleasant, Ms. Pearson,” the desk clerk said pleasantly as I registered.

I could tell the clerk’s welcoming remarks were her practiced behavior with all guests, because when she looked at me a bit closer I detected a distinct scowl develop.

Did she read me, I wondered in a sudden panic, worried that she detected a boy underneath my feminine looks? She was a tall woman with slightly graying short hair fashioned into almost a male haircut.

“Will you be alone, miss, or will someone be joining you later?” the woman asked, her voice taking on an accusatory tone.

“I’m alone,” I said simply, suddenly wanting to rid myself of this horrid woman.

“I’ll remind you this is a family resort, miss,” the woman said, sarcastically accenting the “miss.”

“And I’m a single woman who respects that,” I said pointedly, taking offense at the suggestion that apparently she thought I was to have a tryst later that night.

“As you wish, miss,” the woman replied testily.

“By the way, where can I get something to eat tonight?” I asked.

It turned out the hotel’s restaurant would be open until 8 p.m. that night; the other choice would be a diner that was located about a six-block walk from the hotel, meaning that she would be braving a cold walk into the wind to reach the place.

I felt energized by the confrontation with the desk clerk. I hadn’t been read as a man at all; instead, I had been thought to be a young tart out to either practice a bit of trade or to entertain some cheating husband while staying at the family resort.

*****
While I was still deciding whether to eat in the hotel or to brave the walk to the diner, the room phone rang. Who could be calling me? No one knew I was here. It must be that bitch at the desk, I thought, probably telling her the morals police had arrived.

“Yes?” I answered.

“This is the desk,” the voice of clerk was stern. “There are three young people down here for you.”

“Three young people?” I queried.

“Yes. The girl’s name is Carmen. She said she’s a friend.”

“Carmen,” I said excitedly. That meant Randy must be with her. “Tell them to come up.”

“Miss, we don’t like young single woman accepting guests in their rooms here,” the clerk said.

“What? Do you think this is the 19th Century?” I said.

“Miss, if you don’t like it here, you can check out now and we won’t charge you.”

“I’ll be down in about five minutes,” I said, disgusted at the out-of-date practices of the resort. No wonder no one seemed to be staying in the resort that night.

I quickly changed into a plaid skirt and white blouse covered by a soft fuzzy woolen sweater with a holiday design of prancing reindeer; I was still wearing the heavy black tights I wore on the trip so that I could keep my legs warm. I splashed water on my face, touched up my lipstick a bit and ran a quick brush through my hair. Grabbing my parka and a woolen cap I rushed to meet Randy and his friends.

*****
I hesitated as I reached the top of the stairs, sensibly questioning my haste in running to meet Randy. There was no reason why a twenty-three-year-old woman, born a boy, should lovingly embrace a sixteen-year-old school boy. It defied all reason. Yet, my emotions at hearing the boy was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs took over and I began to move down the steps, trying to hold back the impulse to run into his arms.

Randy stood, his eyes looking up to me as I took each step, and I felt as if I were Scarlett O’Hara descending the grand staircase at Tara. I moved slowly and with some stately dignity, I thought, and I looked only into the eyes of the tall young man, ignoring the others.

Reaching him, I stood before him speechless, looking at his square-jawed face and his intense blue eyes. He said nothing, as if he too was mesmerized at the woman before him. I wanted to rush into his strong young arms and be engulfed into his body, his scents and his emotions, but I was aware of the stern, unforgiving stares of the witch of a desk clerk spying on this scene.

Mercifully, Carmen broke the silence. “Merry Christmas, Julie,” she said with a broad smile. “We come as the Three Wise Men came to the baby Jesus. We come bearing gifts.”

Her words brought me out of my entranced state and I looked at her, still bundled in her dark blue hooded parka and looking as fresh and lovely as ever.

“But?” I fumbled for words.

“We hoped you wouldn’t mind a visit tonight, Julie,” Ryan said.

“Yeah, we took it upon ourselves to come out here because we felt you might be alone tonight,” Carmen said.

Randy, my Randy, said nothing, but I could see he was beginning to blush.

“But how did you know?” I asked.

“I must confess I did a little sleuthing, Julie after seeing you on the train,” Carmen began. “I know I shouldn’t have, but we all liked you when we met you that one Sunday. Randy in particular. Mainly for his sake, I felt I should find out if you were alone this weekend.”

I looked at him and I could see his face grow almost into a glowing red. He was so cute. Still he said nothing and stood there looking at me.

“It was all our idea, Julie,” Ryan said. “We know how Randy adored you, so we just wondered if you wouldn’t mind a little visit tonight, since we’re all three free of family obligations until tomorrow.”

I knew I should have been offended by this invasion of my privacy, by their discovery that I was alone and friendless on this Christmas holiday. Yet, I felt their interest to be sincere and innocent. To be truthful, I also welcomed their breaking into what surely would become an otherwise joyless, lonely Christmas in which I’d be mourning the first holiday season of my young life without my mother.

“I’m flattered by all your attention,” I said finally.

“Can we go somewhere to visit?” Randy said, breaking his silence.

“This is a pretty dead place, I’m afraid, and the morals police witch at the desk won’t let you guys come up to my room,” I said.

“I noticed a diner open a few blocks away, and I have a car. We could go there,” Ryan said.

*****
The Coastview Café was located just off the beach along Main Street; it had the décor of thousands of family restaurants that dot the United States. Booths lined the windows that looked out upon the water; tables for four filled in between the booths and counter seating, with the kitchen behind.

As we walked across the parking lot, Randy took my arm and stopped me in my tracks.

“Look at the moon glistening across the waves as they roll on shore, Julie,” he said. We stood there for a moment, both looking at the bright full moon.

I stopped, moving closer to him, looking toward the round bright ball in the sky: “Oh Randy, that’s so . . . ah . . .”

“Romantic,” he said, finishing my thoughts.

“Yes, romantic.”

“It’s just like the Magi,” he said. “I feel we followed the bright moon to find you just as the Three Wise Men followed the bright star in the night.”

“Oh, Randy, that’s so sweet,” I cooed.

It turned out the Coastview was operated by a Puerto Rican family whose patriarch was an energetic wiry man in his late fifties with the name of Ricardo Medina. The café welcomed the four of us profusely as we entered; it was a quiet night and the only customers were several aging couples and several single men, seated randomly throughout the restaurant.

Carmen’s Puerto Rican background must have helped since she conversed in Spanish with the host — who turned out to be the owner’s son, Juan — and a young waitress, the owner’s daughter, Barbara.

The whole restaurant staff gathered around me as I opened the gifts of the Magi — my three friends.

Randy blushed — he was so cute — as he presented me with his “gold” gift, a dainty necklace on a thin gold chain with a peace symbol dangling at the end.

“Oh no, Randy, you shouldn’t have,” I said. I was embarrassed since I worried the boy had spent too much money for it.

“I wanted to,” he said, reaching over to kiss my cheek. We sat side-by-side in the booth, while Carmen and Ryan sat next to each other across from us.

“But, it’s so expensive,” I protested.

“I must be honest,” he said. “It’s not that expensive. It’s just costume stuff, Julie.”

“But still . . .”

My protests ended as he leaned in to kiss my mouth. Tears came to my eyes as I heard clapping from what must have been the restaurant staff (mainly the Medina family I suspected) and the few customers in the place.

Carmen provided the second gift, representing the frankincense gift of the First Christmas. It was a small bottle of “Sun, Moon and Stars” by Langerfeld, which was described as a romantic scent. Ryan’s gift — representing myrrh — was a set containing several types of beauty bars and lotions.

I couldn’t help crying as the gift-giving ended, reaching across the table to kiss both Carmen and Ryan. I felt so guilty, being the recipient of gifts, but having nothing to give in return. I insisted on buying the meal, which consisted of a traditional Puerto Rican holiday feast and desserts.

Ricardo Medina refused to charge us for the desserts and we left the place stuffed to the gills with marvelous food and drove to a quiet spot along the water just out of Point Pleasant. Randy and I got out of the car, fully bundled against the cool of the night and ventured to a bench that looked out upon the waves, sparkling in the moonlight of the night.

I snuggled next to him and we sat together saying nothing, watching our breaths vaporize into fog. I was warm and comfortable.

“I love you, Julie,” Randy whispered.

“Oh Randy,” I said, nestling even more tightly against him.

“I’ve missed you. I never have stopped thinking about you.”

I said nothing for a moment, afraid to respond for fear that this relationship would get out of hand. The truth was: I felt the same. I missed him so terribly it seemed unbearable.

“I want you so badly,” I said softly finally.

“Oh Julie, Julie,” he said, as we kissed passionately.

I don’t know how long we embraced, but I was deep into it until a felt a terrible gnawing sensation. No, I couldn’t continue this relationship. It wouldn’t be fair to him: I was too old for him and I wasn’t what I seemed to be. I was a fraud. The truth would devastate him.

“No Randy, we can’t continue this,” I said, breaking away from him, using all my strength to leave his grasp.

I stood up before him, leaving him gasping. I burst into tears and without thinking ran past the car and began to walk down the highway toward town, leaving the car and Randy behind me.

Randy followed me, stopping me violently before I had gone too far, holding me in his arms.

I fought off his kisses, turning my face right and left to stop our lips from meeting.

“We can’t continue this, Randy,” I pleaded.

He firmly but gently led me back to the warmth of the car, and he helped me into the back seat. We sat next to each other, careful not to touch. Ryan and Carmen sensed there was a problem and Ryan merely asked me if I wished to be returned to the resort. “Yes, please,” was all I said until we reached the Point Pleasure Resort.

“I don’t think I can accept your gifts,” I told them as I was about to get out of the car . “I’m sure you can return them.”

“No, you must keep them,” Randy said. “As a memento of this evening.”

“Yes,” echoed Ryan.

“We insist,” said Carmen.

“How can we contact you, Julie?” Randy asked. “I know we can’t meet, I guess, but maybe we can be friends, online at least.”

“Let me think about it,” I said. I offered to take Carmen’s email address and to contact her if I was interested. She gave it to me.

I left the car and walked slowly up the stairs into the resort, cradling the gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh in my arms, tears streaming down my face.