A Mother’s Story

Part 2

How Jerry and the Queen came to a fateful decision.

A Mother’s Story

Part 2

Settling In

When I went to the Boutique, Rene had me do a turn and told me how well I ‘cleaned up.’ “Look at those gorgeous legs and your eyes are to die for! Oh to be 18 again and look as delectable as you, sweetie!

“Still, you can’t be going around with bulges in your pockets. Those pockets are for show, not blow. Empty them on the counter.”

When I finished there was a considerable pile. Rene lead me to a mirror and showed me how much better my hot pants fit with empty pockets. As I turned to see myself at various angles, he was selecting a bag. He returned with a very smart Coach messenger bag that looked businesslike on my shoulder, but hardly masculine.

As it was a little after noon, he invited me to lunch in his apartment above the store. He shared it with Charles, a stockbroker in Century City. Charles had put up the money for the Boutique, but now it was a going concern. In fact, Rene could afford to hire me because he had just finished paying Charles back.

“Rene, I’m curious. Yesterday you said my being married hadn’t slowed me down. I gather that you heard that from someone in the Turner family. Could you tell me how?”

“The same way you got the job, sweetie. Charles belongs to the Turners’ club. He uses his membership to recruit clients like the Turners. Mrs. Turner has been outing you to anyone who’ll listen. She says you tricked her daughter into marrying you to be your beard. Charles takes anything she says with a grain of salt, of course – in fact a whole shaker full. He’s seen the Turner woman twist facts before.

“Anyway, when she showed him your picture, he thought of me needing an associate. He told her ‘it would serve him right to have a gay job.’”

“Thanks for being so straight with me.”

“Imagine me being straight!” We both giggled.

“I want to be honest in return. I know you spent a lot of money on my makeover, but I’ll pay you back if you don’t want me when you hear the truth.” I told him my story, concluding that though I liked Tyler kissing me, I was never tempted to have sex with him. So, I wasn’t gay.

“I’m not a heterophobe, sweetie. We should all love who we love, and have affection from anyone nice enough to give it. So, I don’t care if you’re not gay. I don’t even care if you like kissing women!” He grinned. “But, do you like your new look? I don’t want you uncomfortable. It wouldn’t be good for you or the Boutique.”

“I do! I mean I never imagined dressing like this, but for the first time in my life, I like how I look. That really surprised me. I’m still trying to grok it. Maybe I like people seeing at me instead of acting like I don’t exist. I got some looks on the bus this morning. No one was rude beyond staring briefly. Some even smiled. One lady my grandmother’s age even said she wished more boys had my sense of style.

“Still, I’m not sure how it will wear when I’m not working. If I want to look more like my old self, I can just change my clothes and take off my make up – except for these.” I held out my glossy red nails.

“Your hands are one of your best features – along with your face, legs and feet. If you studied art, you know artists compose paintings to lead your gaze without you realizing you’re being lead. Your polish draws attention to your delicate hands and feet. In the same way, your pants highlight your legs and your makeup draws the eye to your face. All that gets integrated into an appreciation of what a pretty boy you are. That’s why people are looking and smiling instead of ignoring you.

“You’ll be a work of art in my boutique. People will want to come in and admire the masterpiece. That will be good for sales – both yours and mine. Still, remember that there are certain men who will look at you and get an erection, hate themselves for reacting that way, and want to take it out on you for ‘making’ them feel like that. That happened to me when I was younger. Like beautiful women, we have to be constantly alert and walk with confidence so we don’t become the victims of such men.

“So, I got you a little present to help keep you safe.” He handed me a small pepper spray. “Keep this in your purse, sweetie.

“Now back to dressing down. You’re used to being invisible and ignored. Being seen and appreciated takes some getting used to, and you may want a break. That’s why models and movie stars often wear hoodies and sunglasses. Red nail polish is hard to hide, so you may want clear polish instead. You decide.”

What Rene said all made sense. He and Randi’s crew were artists who’d made me into a work of art. That is why I liked how I looked – anyone would unless they were homophobic and hated their own response to a beautiful boy. … A beautiful boy!? Yes, I was! I wasn’t handsome. I knew that. But, now I was beautiful – and I liked it!

After lunch we went down to the shop and Rene became all business. I had a lot to learn. We started with the mechanics of ringing up sales and proceeded to stock layout. That way, I could take some of the burden off Rene without having a mastery of body types, coloration, fabrics, styling and especially personality. The Boutique didn’t push the same styles on everyone like a traditional men’s store. Instead, we helped guests express their inner self – even when they did not know it themselves – as Rene had done for me. Until I mastered those things, I was to follow Rene and his ‘guest’ around, observing in silence and awaiting his orders. When the guest left, I was to ask Rene about anything I didn’t understand – which turned out to be a lot. Rene was a lot more analytical and perceptive than one would guess from his bubbly persona.

By the end of the day, my calves were on fire from my wedges, my mind was buzzing with undigested information, but my soul was satisfied that we had really helped a couple of people to accept and express themselves. I had been hit on – nicely – once, but deflected it by flashing my wedding ring. Rene said I had done better then he had hoped and he was glad he’d hired me. He even gave me a commission on a Coach bag like my own I had suggested to customer, er guest, I was ringing out.

It was a little after 8:00 when I arrived home, dog tired. Jane had nuked herself something for dinner, and was munching popcorn and watching TV. “Gawd! You really are a sissy! Look at you – makeup, nail polish, wedge sandals, hot pants and a purse. Are you wearing panties and a bra?”

“No! This is just how I have to dress for the job your mother found me.”

“Well, you should be. It was bad enough you screwing around with that guy in Hawaii, now you're embarrassing me at home. What do you think the neighbors’ll say? ‘Oh poor Jane Zimmerman, she couldn’t even find a real man to marry her!’ Gawd! You make me sick. I’ll get you for this!”

“I told you, nothing like that happened with Tyler. He was just nice to me while you were off all night doing God knows what.” She gave me an evil, satisfied grin.

“Getting what you wouldn’t give me – a thorough screwing.”

“I wanted to make love with you, but you refused!”

“Do you think you could ever satisfy a real woman with that dinky thing of yours? Do you think I’d ever fuck a man who uses makeup, wears hot pants and carries a purse? Get out of my sight you little shit!”

I was tired and stressed from strangers staring at me on the bus home. I’d felt so nice this morning when Randi and his crew finished with me. Now Jane made me feel like crap over the same thing. I started crying and went to my room. About midnight I woke up, ate a banana and a carton of yogurt, and drank a glass of milk.

The next day Rene taught me fabrics and fibers. I sold some earrings and pairs of shoes while Rene was busy with another guest. The commission was less than on the bag, but I viewed every commission as a bonus. One of the customers from the previous day came back to buy a shirt and ask me to lunch, which I politely declined.

When I got home, Jane didn’t talk to me, but gave me a strange grin. I baked a chicken leg quarter and a potato, and ate it alone in the kitchen. I thought about removing my red polish and replacing it with clear, but that would have been like drawing a moustache on the Mona Lisa – ruining an artwork that was not my own.

As usual, Jane was still asleep when I got ready for work. After my shower I went to my underwear drawer and found all my jockeys gone – replaced with nylon panties. Next to them lay a neatly folded pile of camisoles in place of my tees. I thought about putting yesterday’s underpants on, but then what was the point showering? No one would see the panties, so wearing them would be no big deal. Besides, I didn’t want to give Jane the satisfaction of making a scene – let her have her laugh. It was a strange sitting in purple print panties doing my make up, but I decided I liked their look.

After the third guest eyed my hot pants and smiled, I looked in the mirror. The thin fabric made my panty line very noticeable. I was embarrassed, but told myself that it was all part of the costume. When things were quiet, I asked Rene why he’d said nothing. He told me as long as it did not spoil the image he’d created, my choice of panties was my own affair. He told me if I didn’t want my panty line showing I could always wear a thong – no thanks!

By noon I decided that I did not mind showing a panty line – at least not in the Boutique. Maybe I was becoming an attention whore. At least I liked being noticed – being someone as opposed to the invisible nothing I'd been.

When I got home, Jane was in a good mood, and had actually made us dinner – if you can call baking frozen lasagna and pouring premixed salad in a bowl making dinner.

“Look, Muffin, let’s declare a truce. I told the neighbors my husband is in Afghanistan. You’re my gay brother, and I’m not responsible for you wanting to be a girl. So, if you don’t cross me on that, we can get along until the two years are up. Deal?” She held out her hand for me to shake. So far my life at home had been the hell her father had predicted. Anything would be better. I didn’t need to lie, just not say anything about the real situation. So, I shook.

“Good, I promise to be the supportive big sister as long as you go along.”

“OK, thanks, I guess. … Ah, what do you mean by big sister?”

“Well, if we’re brother and sister we can’t both be 18, so I told the neighbors I’m 22 and you’re 18.”

“I see.”

We had a pleasant dinner. And Jane even asked me about work and listened. After dinner she put a frilly apron on me and we did the dishes together. We watched TV until 10:00, when she said it’s bedtime. That was unusual, because she’d been staying up to the wee hours and sleeping in.

“Isn’t 10:00 a bit early for you?”

“I have to get up early and make my little brother breakfast. Don’t worry, I’m DVRing my shows. I’ll watch them in the morning.”

Maybe she was turning over a new leaf. Anyway having breakfast made for me was better than being called “a little shit.” Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

I learned that Jane could be pleasant when she wanted to be. When I came out for breakfast, I found hot coffee, a soft-boiled egg and OJ. I was used to a bigger breakfast and the coffee had no cream or sugar. I wanted both, but was told that my big sister was taking charge, and I'd be eating healthy from now on. If that was the price of peace, it was not too high – it would even be good for me.

Another surprise was a bag lunch with cottage cheese, a banana, and a container of cranberry juice. Jane told me to put it in the fridge when I got to the Boutique. I got a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the butt as I left. It wasn’t marital bliss, but it wasn’t hell either.

The new regime continued when I got home to find a dinner of skinless chicken breast, a small portion of brown rice and broccoli, accompanied by a glass of vegetable juice. Again, we did the dishes together. After, Jane brushed my hair and put barrettes in it.

“I don’t need barrettes.”

“Yes, you do. Remember you promised to go along with my story. We’re going for a walk and I want the neighbors to see how much of a girl you’re becoming.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“Yes, the doctor says I need more exercise, and it would be strange if I went alone when my girly brother was home.”

So began our new pattern of behavior. Jane was pleasant as long as I allowed her to show the neighbors that I was becoming ever more femme. When I objected or refused to go along, I got a vicious verbal hiding that reduced me to tears. While I was not heavy, my new diet caused me to loose the little fat I had around my waist and on my abdomen. My arms and legs also became thinner. Still, I felt healthy enough.

Things were going well at work. Rene was letting me serve many guests on my own and my commissions were increasing. Also my presence had increased traffic, and the Boutique’s increased sales more than paid my salary. I was content, but not really happy.

The big negative was no sex life other than what I provided for myself. If I were interested in men, I could have had more than my fill – I was constantly hit on in a respectful, but often persistent way – but that was not my cup of tea. No one seemed interested in me the way Tyler had been – as an object of chaste affection. The few girls I met weren’t interested in a guy that looked better in makeup than they did – besides, I still considered myself married and held out the vague hope that Jane might move past accommodation to something approaching respect or even love. Things got easier as time went on: my libido dropped, and I thought about sex less than before.

Birthing Class

As summer ended, Jane’s doctor sent us to birthing classes. I would be her partner/coach. I arranged to get off early two nights a week so we could attend the 7:00 PM classes together. I found them fascinating, while being confronted with the reality of giving birth only put Jane off.

One of the classes dealt with the many benefits of breast, as opposed to formula, feeding. As we drove home that night, we broke our détente by getting into a huge fight over nursing. Jane did not want “the thing” “sucking the life out of my body,” while I reminded her that her father wanted me to do the best possible job of taking care of his grandchild. That meant the baby must be breast fed. As we arrived home, I decided not to bring the argument into the house, and so I said, “Ok, just think about it.” Jane was tired and agreed to think about it. So, the rest of the evening was quiet, if not cordial. I could tell that she was seriously thinking about it, as she was researching lactation on the web.

At breakfast Jane told me that she had thought about it, and that maybe the baby should be breast fed. I was pleasantly surprised.

“It’s very important to you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. Even if you don’t want the baby, I do, and I want it to be as happy and healthy as possible.”

“I gathered that. OK, let’s agree then, the baby will be breast fed.”

“Good.”

“You know, I’m really glad that we are beginning to agree on things.” Jane smiled, kissed me on the cheek and patted me affectionately on the rear as I left for work. I felt that my hopes were being realized.