Jill refused to have her ears pierced to pay off on a bet with Anne; her punishment will be to go out to dinner with a man.

Friends Four Life
Gill: A Girl Friend
By Angela Rasch

Chapter Four
Judgment at Ak Sar Ben

The next morning Debbie, Sarah, and Anne were in my face.

I had dressed in one of my new outfits. I had even used the adhesive to attach my new breasts. I wasn’t sure how long the adhesive would hold -- and we didn’t have the solvent to take them off. They were impressed with my new look -- but were adamant that I needed to pay off, on my wager.

I was just as dug in.

We weren’t doing a very good job of communicating, with each other.

Debbie took the release I had signed out of her purse. She showed me where I had agreed to be punished, if I didn’t do what they demanded. She reminded me that they could demand that I get my ears pierced, even if there hadn’t been a bet.

Anne didn’t want to force me. She said I should only have them pierced, if I really, really wanted to. She couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t want to do something that was so much fun. She said I would look cute, with all the neat earrings made for pierced ears.

Sarah looked like she wanted to rip my head off -- but said nothing.

It looked like a stalemate.

The moment the bickering died down, my stomach growled.

“Sounds like someone could use a little snack,” Debbie said. “I think your body wants a nice meal -- and we can arrange that.”

Debbie reached into her purse again and produced a small piece of paper. “I’ve been trying to decide what to do with this and now I think I have the answer. When you were asleep in the hospital, I went through your purse. I was checking to see what cosmetics you needed for the trip home. I was amused to find this name and phone number. Then I remembered the adorable guy at TGI FRIDAY’S. I had seen him give you something. During all the commotion that followed, asking what he gave you had slipped my mind. Now I see that it was all fate.”

I don’t like the evil smirk on Debbie’s face.

“Your punishment for not getting your ears pierced will be to eat that steak that Anne bet,” Debbie said. “Your date for dinner will be John Schultz, at 531- 845-3927.”

“I can’t,” I said. “I have no interest in dating men. It would be terrible. He knows I’m not a woman.”

“If you weren’t interested, why did you keep his phone number?” Sarah asked.

“I. . .ah. . .don’t know,” I admitted begrudgingly
.
“Think about it, Jill,” Debbie said. “He isn’t going to let on to anyone he’s dating a man. All that will happen is -- you’ll get a free meal. If you don’t go on the date, we will have no choice but to take you before the judge.”

Sarah and Anne both nodded their heads – Sarah much more vigorously.

“Does he really want to go out with me?” I asked. “He did try to be nice at the restaurant. I guess if I have to go out with someone, he would be okay.”

“Okay? He’s a stud muffin,” Sarah said, with a tinge of jealousy, in her voice.

“He doesn’t look like he would be hard up, for dates,” Anne said. “Are you sure he’ll go out with Jill?”

Even though I had no interest in traipsing around Omaha, with a “stud muffin.” I was unexpectedly miffed that Anne didn’t think I was good enough for him.

“I’ll take care of that,” Debbie said. “We’ll need a few new pictures of you, Jill. I’ll get my camera from the car. You can put on a fashion show for us with your new outfits. I would like to see them, anyhow. John will be impressed by the pictures when I meet with him tomorrow morning.”

“How can you be so sure that he’ll meet with you, Debbie?” Anne asked.

“Because I’ve already talked to him,” Debbie said. “If he likes what he sees in the pictures, which he will, you’ll have a date fifteen days from now. Your bruises will be totally unnoticeable by then.”

“I’ll go on the date,” I said, “if I don’t have to have my ears pierced. But I’ll need help. I can’t go out to dinner, with my hair in a ponytail or pigtails.”

“Oh, we’re going to help you,” Debbie said. She had a malicious grin on her face. “We have just the French waitress outfit, for you to wear.”

I turned beet red. They’re going to do it again. This is going to be the worst yet.

“I’m kidding,” Debbie said, grinning. “You can wear anything, from your wardrobe, you think will be appropriate. We’ll help you as much as we can.”

Anne gave me a hug, to let me know our friendship was healed.

I returned her hug with less enthusiasm than I might have, before she started being such a stickler about the piercing thing.

I had already decided which of my outfits I would wear. It was a Brooks Brother’s navy chemise dress with a simple gold belt. The hem came to mid-knee. It had a jewel neck and bust darts. I would wear elegant matching dress pumps with three-inch heels. John was tall — maybe 6’3” or 6’4.” There would be no problem with our relative heights.

Then again, maybe I’ll wear the lavender silk shirtdress. . .. No, the chemise. . .no doubt the chemise.

For the first time in my life, I would also wear stockings. I would use a long-line girdle to help draw my waist in to twenty-four inches. I would wear a cameo necklace -- and of course. . .my wedding band.

My goal was to look elegant, and if at all possible - - - unattainable. I don’t want to look sexy, in the least. I don’t want to give him the wrong idea.

Debbie was watching me daydream, as Sarah and Anne were going through my wardrobe, and debating what I should wear.

“I think it’s time for you to have the benefit of your first visit to a salon,” Debbie said. “I’ve already set an appointment for you, for five hours, before your date. You’ll have your hair done, your body waxed, a manicure, and pedicure. They’ll do your make-up. Sarah is going to be with you the entire time. She will take you directly to court -- should you decide to back out.”

“We’ve brought you a present, from your office,” Sarah said. “It’s your laptop. We’ve fixed it so you can access the internet. We’ve prepared a list of sites that will be helpful. Several of the sites are tutorials covering feminine body language and vocabulary. There are sites about other things that might be helpful, but you’ll have to decide which to use. We’ve set your modem for ‘incoming’ only. Although you can surf the net, you will not be able to e-mail or send instant messages to anyone.”

***

Debbie met with John, and a date was set. We were going to dinner at The French Café, on Howard Street.

They might have picked the restaurant to remind me of how I had embarrassed them.

For the next two weeks, I surfed the net with amazement. I had barely tried the net before to learn about people like me. Over the years, I had craved good information about transvestites. I had guiltily read the cryptic descriptions in dictionaries, encyclopedias, and medical journals. I had read everything the local libraries had to offer, which was almost nothing.

I had even gone into a Barnes and Noble looking for books by an author I had heard about, on television. I couldn’t find anything, so I had asked for help. I had figured I would be safe asking for a book by the author’s name. The young man who waited on me said, “Oh, you want the book about transvestites.”

He spent several horribly awkward minutes trying to help me find the book, which turned out to be out of stock. He put in an order, but I never went back for it.

The internet had information far beyond anything I had found, in the public library. Most revealing to me was a fact I kept seeing that stated at least one percent of the male population is transgendered. I had been convinced that I was a freak. The more I read, the less guilty I felt.

What I read validated there is no sure cure for transvestism, as I had expected, from applying what I had learned training rats in college. I needed to make cross-dressing fit into my life, without hurting anyone. One of the sites spoke of treating patients who wanted to decrease their desire to cross-dress by medicating them with buspirone or fluoxetine to dampen their mental acuity. I couldn’t imagine taking that course of action.

Some people go through life with no seasoning on their mashed potatoes. I’m a salt and pepper person.

I was a sponge absorbing everything I read. Debbie dropped off a series of books. One by Virginia Prince was a little dated, but very comforting. There was so much to learn.

One informative site said the name for cross-dresser hating is “transphobia.” That gives me a name for the convenience store clerk that I can use in mixed company. Come to think of it – I’m my own “mixed” company.

Just the sheer volume of information available was encouraging. Several times, I saw estimates of over three million male transvestites in the United States. Given the plethora of goods and services sold to cross-dressers, on online sites, it would appear there were lots of ready buyers.

It would be interesting to know how they went about researching the numbers. According to the estimates, seventy-five percent of all transvestites are married with children. Most suffer from an intense fear of discovery. About half have told no one. If half have told no one, how accurate can the estimates be?

The vocabulary itself was extensive. I had heard of transvestites and transsexuals. Words and terms like: femaling, gender migration, gender blending, and transgenderist were new to me, but very important to my new understanding of myself.

One site provided a description of feminine walking. I shortened my stride by about a third, transferred the weight of my body to the inner balls of my feet, and lightened my heel-strike. I struggled to have my footprints in almost a straight line, by walking for hours, toward the mirror, in my room. A fluid motion soon replaced my gait. The hardest part for me was keeping my legs together. It was also difficult to keep my head high, arms relaxed, and fingers curled to my side. In a very short time, it became natural. It was thrilling to watch my skirts and blouses move naturally.

As I walked, I threw my 36B chest forward, pulled in my stomach muscles and tightened my bottom. My arms were held loosely at my side. While swinging my legs from my hips, I did my best to hold my pelvic bones at an upward tilt.

I concentrated on the don’ts: don’t toe in, don’t shift hips, don’t take either giant strides or baby-steps, don’t lead with my head, and don’t swing my shoulders.

I learned to “inspect” my chair’s seat cushion before I sat down. I found the chair with the backs of my legs, held my skirt in the proper position, made contact with the front of the chair and then pushed back into the seat with my shoulders straight.

I grew to be most comfortable when sitting against the backrest, both legs slanting to the same side. My feet were properly positioned, pointing the same way with one foot slightly in front of the other. Occasionally, I crossed my legs at the knee. I discovered it was best not to cross my knees in a straight, knee-length skirt.

Modesty had always been a big issue with me -- and it became huge.

Given the cameras, I couldn’t imagine masturbation. Each day, sexual arousal because of my clothes seemed to be less frequent. It occurred to me that my friends might have been slipping me something to reduce my libido. I dismissed the idea, as I trusted them, at least that much.

They seemed to be all about me making my own decisions -- just as long as I kept making some decisions.

Sarah, Debbie, and Anne were no longer trying to embarrass me. Their conversations with me were all constructive. They weren’t at all condescending. I felt better about who I was -- having read that “normal” is anything that feels right for the individual and doesn’t harm anyone.

Anne helped me the most with my voice.

I had been going in the right direction. My pitch was about right, about half an octave higher.

I became happier with my slender body, new nose, and graceful deportment, it was reflected in my voice.

I had developed a relaxed self-confidence.

Most of the work on my voice was done in solitude with almost no outside noise. My years of jogging helped immensely, as I had good breath control. The increased air I was getting through my newly opened nasal passages was welcome, an added benefit of my nose job. I was careful to use my breath for an entire phrase, with a little air left at the end. I was learning not to puff or make exhaling noises at the end of my sentences, like most males.

The process of adding proper inflection had become like singing. I heard how I wanted to sound in my mind and then allowed my body to produce it. My voice became melodic and much less staccato. In time, I added a dash of Scarlett O’Hara. I dropped the dripping tones I had once used -- but salvaged some of the techniques. I sounded the first letter of each phrase softly, gently using my mouth to form the sound and slightly stretching the vowels.

A measured amount of Tara does wonders for a girl.

Inflection was my ally. I had never realized how monotoned I had been. By allowing my voice to rise and fall much more often, I had become more expressive.

Sarah brought a tape recorder so I could practice.

It was fun and not really that difficult. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. By George, she's got it! By George, she's got it!

Anne also started me on a stretching program, which further relaxed me.

I was having a re-occurring dream. In that dream, I was lying on a bed next to a woman. The woman was nice-looking but had no personality. We looked at each other and started to meld into one being. I tried to get away from the melding together. At that point, I woke up.

As I experienced the warmth and caring nature of my friends, I adopted their attitudes. It seemed like I was forgetting about rules and regulations that had been with me for years. They didn’t apply under my circumstances.

In business, attitude is everything. I was finding that attitude was everything in the gender world as well. I was eager to give all that I had learned a road test.

***

The time preparing for my date, in the beauty shop, went by in a flash. I had never before been so pampered. If they knew my secret, they must not have cared. I showed them what I planned to wear -- the chemise, after what seemed like eight hundred changes, in front of my mirror. I also told them where I was going. They descended on me, in a pack.

I placed myself in their hands. Much of what they said about my head - went over my head. Do I want a rinse? Sure! If they’re going to wash my hair I would hope that they would rinse it. Did I want my hair highlighted? Sounded good. Why the heck not?

Everything was just great. They brought me herbal tea. There were aromatherapy candles everywhere. More-is-more with aromatherapy. I almost dozed off, once the body waxing was done.

The stylist seemed to be clipping off a lot of hair. She must have been reading my mind. “I’m only cleaning up the split-ends, Honey. Your hair will actually look longer and grow faster. Have you been using your hairdryer on high? Try using a lower heat setting with higher speed.”

My barber had never told me that -- and he had never shaped my eyebrows, as she did.

They finished by doing my nails in that French style with white tips. Sarah probably ordered that for me.

When they finally spun my chair around. . .. “Ooohh!” They had taken my dull dark-brown hair and changed it to medium-golden brown with light-blonde streaks. My make-up was what you would expect to see at a fine restaurant like The French Café. In the mirror, was a very girlish me, looking elegantly natural.

It became crystal clear why they call it a looking glass. I could go on looking all day.

They gave me the lipstick and powder they had used to go in my purse. The rest of the cosmetics were placed in a bag to take back to the motel.

I had thirty minutes to return to the motel, change, and get to the restaurant to meet John. I was too euphoric from the pampering, to be panicky.

Sarah met me in the waiting area of the salon and went in the cab, with me. She was going to be in the restaurant -- but out of John’s sight. He wouldn’t know she was there.

I’m not sure I could have made a quick clothing change without Sarah’s immense help.

I was fashionably late.

The Maitre d’ fussed over me like a mother hen. He clucked about the ‘oaf’ my date was to be seated before his lady friend. He gently took my hand and pressed it to his lips.

What a rush!

When he complimented me on my dress, my knees trembled. I had spent so much time deciding on my outfit that I had a large emotional interest, in someone’s approval.

At first, John didn’t recognize me, despite having seen recent photos.

While the Maitre d’ chastised him for being so rude, John jumped to his feet, to pull out my chair.

“Jill, you’re the most beautiful woman in this restaurant,” John said. “No, scratch that. You’re the most beautiful woman, in all of Omaha and Council Bluffs. . .the world.”

I wasn’t prepared for such a reception. I had thought he would look me over like some specimen, in a Petri dish. Had I ever sounded like such a sycophant? Yet, I want to believe his compliments. I felt a prickle, in my cheeks. My face has to be glowing red, through my sheer make-up.

I had prepared a lecture questioning the base nature of anyone who would date a man, in a dress. I planned to deliver it the second, after I finished my steak. Omaha has a steak house that serves fifty-six-ounce steaks. If you finish one, they give you a medal and put a picture of you, on the wall. The French Café isn’t that kind of place.

They do have steak on their menu and I’m going to order it.

The Maitre d’ helped me with my napkin. The linen felt dreadfully rough compared to my world, of silk and satin.

John ordered Dom Perignon champagne. He toasted my beauty -- too many times.

To my amazement, I couldn’t stop blushing.

He toasted my blush, as I giggled. He told the history of a Benedictine monk, Pierre Perignon, and his search for the perfect white wine. He quoted Victor Hugo, “God only made water, but man-made wine.”

As we munched on baked escargot, he told a story about a social-climbing snail.

The snail bought a fast car and painted a large S on the exterior of each front door. It was the snail’s dream to drive his car down the street, causing people to turn their heads and say, ‘Wow, look at that S car go.’

I found myself laughing. Maybe he isn’t a sycophant. My feminine giggle sounds much more genuine than my “Jim” laugh had been.

I was pleased when John followed the waiter’s advice regarding which wine, to have with our meal.

Several times I had argued with waiters merely to assert my dominance. It was comforting to be with someone who allowed things to flow smoothly.

After gaining my permission, John ordered the chateaubriand for two. It came in a béarnaise sauce, with a garland of vegetables. He added onion soup and baked brie with a salad of mesclun in almond and thyme dressing.

John is single and a history professor at a liberal arts college. He has definite ideas about where he wants to go and what he wants to do. All of his telling and quoting is funny, kind, and not the least bit patronizing.

Out of habit, from the weeks I had spent with my friends, I spoke only to elicit more information. We were having a conversation, with him doing most of the talking.

I told him about myself only through my response, to his monologue.

Not once did he bring up my gender -- or ask annoying questions regarding cross-dressing or sexuality.

As Jim, I would have tried to dominate the conversation, by interrupting him constantly. It was much more fun to hear him talk, and respond only when he wanted my opinion.

He respected my outlook.

I felt no pressure to initiate ideas.

He apologized several times, for behaving so badly at TGI FRIDAY’S. He was very sorry for being part of what almost happened. He was sensitive enough to know our short conversation had been hurtful and inappropriate.

I canceled my planned reprimand.

Once we were comfortable with one another, he showed me a worn piece of paper he carried, in his wallet. It was a list of things he wanted to accomplish. Some of the items on the list were adventurous -- others were humanitarian. He showed me how he had drawn a single line through them -- after he did them.

I was impressed by what he had accomplished.

He made me feel special, by telling me that I’m the first person he’s shown his list.

I felt no desire to one-up what he had done. It was enough to share his joy of life.

I searched the list for “Date a Transvestite,” and was relieved not to find it. I don’t want to be something to be crossed off. Our fingers touched when I passed the list back to him. Mmmmm. His smile is intoxicating.

When our food arrived, my eyes feasted on the superb presentation of the food -- a visual display that was as satisfying as the actual eating.

We had a lot in common, beyond our biological gender. It was like being out to dinner with a charming business associate. Except, no business associate had ever flattered me with such intense attention. Nor had any compared my eyes to precious jewels.

His eyes rarely left me, making me anxious about my hair, my make-up, and my dress. I compared myself to the other women in our part of the restaurant and confirmed that I was properly coifed, attired, and made-up.

Each woman I saw smiled at me and gave me the impression she was there for me, if I needed her.

I put my fears behind me and enjoyed the conversation.

There was no “footsie” or battling to keep his hands off me. He treated me with the utmost respect.

I hadn’t felt so appreciated for quite some time. I hadn’t even been giving myself respect. It’s hard to feel good about myself when I’m unsure of the morality of my most personal activities.

I like him. John is one of the most attractive men in the restaurant. He’s too young for someone my age -- even though I looked much younger as a woman than my “Jim” age.

I’m still proud to be his date. He makes me feel proud that I’m appealing enough to be with him. We look good together.

He’s well-built -- but not too burly -- with Paul Newman-blue eyes. There’s a warmth to his laugh. His smile involves his entire face. He appreciates my attempts at humor. His clothes betray his profession.

There has to be a rack of pipes in his study, even though he doesn’t reek of that stale odor of a pipe smoker.

Debbie, Sarah, and Anne made me promise I would report back to them on three things:
1. The color of his eyes?
2. Whether I like his sense of humor? If so, I’m to give them examples, and
3. How large are his hands?

I made mental notes, to answer their questions.

I picked at my food -- knowing that if I ate too much my stomach would rebel.

Much to my surprise, my real appetite was for attention. Unlike my trips to Perkins and TGI FRIDAY’S, I wanted the eyes of everyone, in the restaurant, to be on me - without having to make a special effort.

The champagne was going to my head -- and also to my bladder. I needed to visit the ladies’ room. What had caused me such a fright at Perkins seemed no problem whatsoever.

I excused myself, found the ladies’ room, and took care of my needs.

As I took my powder out of my Italian shoulder bag, I realized it held only cosmetic and other feminine items. There were no money or credit cards.

I’m not in control. I’m at someone else’s mercy.

From the things I had read, I knew being reliant was considered feminine. Over the years, Jackie had bridled at having to rely on me. If we were at a restaurant or going into a movie, she always wanted me to know that she had her money.

It felt pleasant, to trust John, to take care, of me.

I fixed the damage to my make-up that had been caused by drinking two glasses of champagne and eating a small amount of steak. I used the skills I had acquired over the past few weeks, on the internet, in the beauty shop, and from the trio.

As I floated back to the table, it never crossed my mind that anything was out of the ordinary. I was a good-looking woman out on the town with a good-looking man who was lavishing, on me, all the attention I deserved.

I love it.

It occurred to me that there was a potential for disaster. But just as quickly, I reasoned that disaster was a possibility, in almost any activity. My potential for honest-to-goodness fun seemed much more probable.

The trip to the ladies’ room had taken about fifteen minutes, solving the secret of what takes women so long.

We finished what we wanted of our entrees.

The waitress asked if I wanted a doggie bag.

Debbie, Anne, and Sarah had coached me that my doggie wasn’t to get anything.

I declined.

John had a healthy appetite. He wouldn’t hear of me not having something from the dessert cart. He ordered raspberry covered cheesecake for me, even though I told him I could only eat a bite and then beamed when I proclaimed the cheesecake to be, “Splendid.”

I spotted Sarah. I had forgotten about her. I signaled for her to meet me in the ladies’ room and excused myself again. As I used the mirror to repair mostly imaginary flaws, I gushed, “Sarah! He wants to take me dancing. What should I do?” We were in the Old Market district and there was music in the air. I had never danced with a man, but John had raised my confidence to where anything seemed possible.

“Not a chance, Jill. Tell him you agreed to dinner. That’s it. Tell him you’re sharing a cab with someone and that person is already waiting for you. I’m tired. I signed on to babysit you until your meal ended. This Fairy Godmother is about to turn your carriage, into a pumpkin.”

Sarah’s right. It’s time to end the evening. Oh, but the idea of a dance with him sounds delightful. Jackie is a wonderful dancer, but we haven’t danced much after the boys had been born.

I allowed myself a bit of a pout, as I walked back to our table.

I had been to The French Café before. He would pay well over three hundred dollars, for our meal. I was taking his time, and allowing him to spend money, under false pretenses. I reached across the table and patted his large and hairy hand. I hoped the smile on my face was warm and affectionate. “Thank you ever so much for the wonderful evening, John. This has been a very special night for me. It has been truly lovely. But I really have to go. My cab is waiting.”

“I’m disappointed, Jill. The night is young. We’re getting along so well. Everything, especially you, has been perfect.”

My body trembled.

While walking toward the door, I pointed to the band on my finger. “John, I have to be honest. This really is my wedding ring. I’m married. I’ve never cheated and never will.”

He did not answer.

The evening air was exhilarating. The lights of downtown Omaha were unable to mask the brilliance of the stars sparkling above. Without warning, John swept me into his arms and placed a firm kiss, on my lips.

At first, I was repulsed. No man had ever kissed me. Never had I given such a thing a moment’s consideration. But like the maitre d’s kiss of my hand, I found myself enjoying John’s homage. Even though he outweighed me by fifty pounds, I felt safe wrapped in his arms.

John’s one hand was gently caressing my backside, while the other pulled me close to him.

I offered no resistance as I dissolved into his body.

He probed my mouth with his tongue.

I accepted. My kiss was meant to thank John for treating me like a human being. I was relieved by how well the evening had gone. Our actions were fitting, in the context of the moment.

It was the first time anyone had touched me in weeks. I reverted to how I had been as a teenager, fogging the windows of my parent’s car locked in a goodnight embrace. I was vaguely aware of other people passing by us on the sidewalk -- but had lost a sense of the time.

I might still be floating above the sidewalk on Howard Street -- lip-locked with John -- had Sarah not told her driver to honk his horn.

Startled, I broke away from John, and ran to the cab. My penis strained against my body shaper.

What has happened to me? I supposedly am a fetishist cross-dresser, who often wears women’s clothing for their erotic effect. I’m not a homosexual.

From what I had read, the percentage of cross-dressers that are homosexual is roughly the same as the percentage of homosexuals, in the general male population. Yet, I was fully clothed in women’s clothing, and had been enjoying the attention and sexual advances of a male companion.

I love to touch Jackie. I have trouble sleeping at night unless I’m in contact with her.

He isn’t Jackie. But he is human - warm - and I had been in his arms.

My behavior, thoughts, and actions had matched my clothing. Or rather, it was possible that my clothes were finally matching my core thoughts and desires.

As I used the mirror, in my compact, to fix my make-up, I was lost in thought. Was I finding myself, or losing what little definite identity I once had?

In my heart, I knew I could only be unfaithful to Jackie, with another woman. Yet, I had been. . .something. What?

***

The morning greeted me with an upset stomach, even though I had eaten only a small portion of the steak. It had been the first red meat I had consumed in quite some time. I stared at the ceiling and toyed with the idea of becoming a vegan. What would Warren Buffett, with all his Dairy Queen stock, think of the prospects of no more “Cool Treats or Hot Eats” for Jill?

Despite my pains, I was happy. I was pleased with the decisions I had made in my sleep. I’m going to tell my wonderful jailers that I’m a willing participant in whatever they have in mind. They don’t have to use coercion. I’m a believer.

They were on the right track. I was starting to understand myself.

What happened with John will have a lasting impact on me. That impact will be much more permanent than ear piercing. I can deal with pierced ears. I had made a valid bet with Anne, and it’s her right as my friend, to trust me. I’ll have my ears pierced, as soon as possible.

Debbie was ready for lunch at 10:00. She was delighted with my decision to be a willing participant. They had reached the same general conclusions. She handed me a packet containing my Jill photographs, the signed agreements, and a CD containing the only copy of the incriminating website.

I’m free. Free to be me. And, I have a pretty good idea who “me” is.

“We’ve decided it would be okay for you to hear from Jackie,” Debbie said. “This note is from her. We aren’t going to allow you to write back, but we’ll bring you her messages every day. She’s been kept up-to-date on how you’re doing. You’re free to follow our program, or go on your own.”

“I have to see it through to the end.”

Debbie smiled.

“Does Jackie know that I went out on a date, with a man?”

“She knows that we made you go to dinner, with John.”

“Oh!” I don’t know what to think.

Debbie didn’t offer an opinion.

Jackie’s note was only a few sentences long, as were all that followed. They contained words of encouragement and love. They were enough to sustain me. Up until I received that first note, I had suffered tremendous anxiety, while dithering about our relationship.

Debbie, a closet earring maven, was excited about the ear piercing. We went directly to Borsheim’s.

If you’re going to have your ears pierced, you might as well do it at one of the world’s largest jewelry stores.

As soon as we got in the car, Debbie turned and touched my hand. “Did you enjoy your date?”

Is she teasing me? I don’t think so, but I’m still a little embarrassed. My feelings were more unsettled than I had thought when I first woke up.

“Joohhnnn called this morning,” she teased when I didn’t answer.

For once I didn’t mind Debbie’s drawl. I was both anxious and eager to hear what “Joohhnnn” had to say.

“He thinks you’re lovely. He’s hoping what you told him about your fidelity to Jackie isn’t true. In fact, he’s hoping that Jackie is just a figment of your imagination.”

“. . .a figment of my imagination? Why would he think that? What did you tell him?”

“I told him the truth. I told him that you love Jackie. I also told him that to the best of my knowledge you’ve never been with anyone else since your marriage.”

“What did he say?”

“He wasn’t happy. He went on and on about how sexy you are. He said that you’re one of the nicest people he’s ever met.”

“Was he intrigued by me? Or was it my being a cross-dresser? Does he date other transvestites?”

“He originally asked you out mainly because of his curiosity. You really surprised him. He completely forgot about you being a man, until after he got home last night. He said something about your sex being a very minor flaw, in a very special lady.”

“Debbie, it was so different. All my life, I’ve been the one to talk -- while women listened. It’s been hard for me to carry out that masculine role. I’ve always felt I was being too assertive, too strident. Many times, in social settings I have been unable to summon the energy needed to be as manly as expected. I’ve forced myself to speak with a confidence I didn’t really have. It was so wonderful to defer to John and listen.”

“Men need to develop their listening skills,” Debbie said. “They tend to give pop answers to complex subjects, without doing anything but superficial thinking.”

“I’ve felt like such a boor many times, by cutting in on other people. I’ve been especially bad with women. I’ve felt social pressure to dominate every conversation.”

Debbie thought for a while. “I hate it when men keep dragging the discussion out of context, to bring in topics where they can show themselves as experts -- or to be smarter than others. Men are such competitive pigs.”

I felt no obligation to defend men. “Last night, all I wanted to do was to help John complete his thoughts, to expand his ideas. Did he really say that I’m sexy?”

“He said it several times. He said he wasn’t the only one who thought so. Evidently, the eyes of every man in the restaurant were devouring you.”

“Devouring? Debbie. - - Stop it.”

“No, kid. You really did overwhelm them last night. Sarah said the same things.”

“Sarah said something nice about me?”

“Sure. She really does like you, you know. She said that you were the sexiest, most feminine person, in the restaurant, last night.”

“How could that be? I took such great pains - went to such lengths - to select a sweet, conservative outfit. My make-up was understated. I didn’t try to be sexy. The only scent I wore was from the lotions they used, at the beauty shop. I don’t get it.”

“‘Sexy’ is a mysterious quantity, as is ‘femininity.’ John couldn’t believe that someone as feminine as you could possibly be a man. Get this, Jill. He thinks you’re really a woman, who was made-up to look like a man -- that day at TGI FRIDAY’S.”

“No kidding.” I laughed at the irony -- but was immensely pleased. In a way, he was right. I was beginning to see that I truly had been a woman in men’s clothing. “I don’t know what to think of all this. I enjoyed last night. It was a once in a lifetime experience though, as I’m devoted to Jackie. I didn’t have the same kind of feelings for John that I have for Jackie. Yet, I was extremely comfortable being his date.”

“Sarah said that you were a lot more than comfortable -- saying goodnight.” Debbie was smiling at me, with a sparkle in her eyes that spoke of high mischief.

I hadn’t seen her so affectionate, in months.

“Sarah talks too much,” I said, not meaning a word of it.

With that, we drove to Borsheim’s in silence.

Femininity is indeed a mystery. It occurred to me that less-is-more might apply to other things besides perfume. Femininity, as we see it portrayed by Madison Avenue, was invented by a male-dominated society. Their ads show feminine women to have those talents and shortcomings that make women best suited to perform domestic labor or childbearing. Those who embrace the essence of Madison Avenue femininity seem suited for almost nothing else.

I had always given value to the feminine perspective. I appreciate the beauty of a robust woman as well as one who is dainty. I don’t believe femininity is achieved through perfume, make-up, or clothing. Those items can only enhance an existing attitude.

Some suggest that being feminine includes being inadequate, helpless, and inferior. I had never equated those qualities with being female. Most feminine women I admire are physically strong, emotionally stable, and very competent.

I’m certain I’m no longer able to be as masculine -- as I once had been. I’m not at all certain what all that means.

Madison Avenue’s manly men seem just as bogus. I just know that things have changed with me -- a lot.

As we walked up to the jewelry store, our reflection in the main doors could have been a Doublemint ad. Debbie was cuter, there was no doubt about that, but I wasn’t all that bad. We both had pleasant smiles. We looked like we would be fun to know.

I had always prided myself on my ability to intimidate people. The womanly image reflecting back at me, from the store door, wasn’t the least bit intimidating. I’m inviting and quite content.

The ear-piercing was more ritual than pain. I left Borsheim’s with drainage studs in my ears and several other pairs, in my purse. Through Debbie’s knowledge, I became skilled at the ins and outs of when to dangle and when to glitter.

We also bought pins.

Debbie loved pins. She had pins that were expressly made for her Chanel suits and other pins, for every occasion.

Up until that morning, I hadn’t owned a single pin.

When we got back to the motel room a dozen long-stemmed roses were waiting for me. The card said,

Debbie told me that you’re leaving town, for a few months. I hope to see you the minute you get back. It will seem like years, to me. — John.

Debbie had made an excuse for me, if I want it.

See me again? Jackie is the only date I want. How am I going to take care of John? I don’t want to hurt him. But hey!

I stared at the roses and read the card several times. I didn’t know if the roses were an award or an affirmation. Whatever they were, they made me happy and tearful.

The next five weeks, the four of us had daily lunch and dinner. It varied whether one, two, or three of them took me. We ate at a variety of restaurants -- never going back to a Perkins or a TGI FRIDAY’S.

My appetite was greatly reduced. I always ate a light fare. In many of the restaurants, eating within my diet was a challenge because of the fat-based menus and large portions.

Each of the several times Sarah, Debbie, and Anne asked, I reported that John had blue eyes, a great sense of humor, and large hands.

They thought the large hands part was exceptionally funny.

I told them the most enjoyable part of his humor was the lack of a target. His humor was gentle, based on the incongruities of life.

I was constantly dressed from head to toe in women’s clothing, which I no longer needed to feel feminine. My life, the people and things around me, weren’t battering me to be masculine. My natural actions and emotions came to the surface. I would have been feminine wearing combat fatigues.

My guilt disappeared. My Catholic upbringing -- combined with the religious leaders in my community -- had done a thorough job of making me feel terrible about myself.

Some well-intended people believe that cross-dressing -- and homosexuality -- are sinful, as it will interfere with one of our primary goals, that of perpetuating our race. Given the over-population of our planet, such a line of reasoning is outdated.

Why is it we can see the oppression in other religions, but can’t see subjugation for what it is in our own religion? Someday, Christians will take a more Christian attitude toward cross-dressing.

I talked to God about what was happening. I was at peace in my relationship with Him.

Sarah, who normally avoided physical activities, and I went on several long walks around Elmwood Park. I loved the feel of the wind blowing under my skirt and the sun on my face. The outdoors made me so happy -- I just hadn’t allowed it to happen before.

During one of our walks, I asked Sarah what she thought were her most feminine qualities.

Women love to multi-task. Men will stop in their tracks to answer a serious question. We strolled on as she answered.

“I take a lot of pride in being a woman,” Sarah said. “I want to be different than a-hole men. I’m not at all afraid to allow my intuition to run its course. It’s done okay by me. I enjoy pleasing my senses with colors, soft clothing, and scents. The biggest thing to me is the ability to depend on other women to watch out, for me. I couldn’t get through the day, without their support.”

I was flabbergasted that Sarah would expose her soft side and proud she felt that she could open up with me.

Later that day, I asked Debbie the same question.

“It’s the inner softness that makes me feel feminine. Some people call it mystique. Others say it’s a touch of class. I think it’s my sensitivity to my own vulnerability. I enjoy knowing I’m not a block of granite.”

Much of that was apparent in Debbie. She’s lovely.

The next day, I also asked Anne what it was that made her female. She lightly punched me on the arm and bounced around me.

“Being a female is all about playfulness. Don’tcha just love to play? I’m down with a feminine sense of humor. Women have such musical laughs. We also have the ability to weep buckets when we need to. My biggie is knowing other women won’t take advantage of my trusting nature. You know what? Trusting, crying, laughing, and tickling pretty much sums up my life, Baby.”

Anne is certainly playful. Like the others, she seems to know herself quite well.

Women seem to be much more introspective.

As each bared her soul, I knew I was rapidly developing similar attitudes. I was expanding beyond life-long boundaries. I wanted the immense versatility a woman has in her life. Society allows women much greater latitude in emotions and personality. A huge part of being female to me is the knowledge I don’t have to vie with a man on his ground. I don’t like the rules men play by. I want to exist on a higher moral plane.

Regretfully, most of our time together seemed to be centered on me. They delved into my life with hundreds of questions. We spoke of things I had never thought about, and things I had thought about almost constantly, but never imagined I would discuss with anyone.

Anne brought over a Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog.

-- I knew it! –

She spent hours teaching me the wonders of lingerie. We went over the finer points of teddies, corsets, and bustiers. She gave me a seminar on panties - - bikinis, high cuts, and microfiber.

I was dazzled by the myriad of colors and designs. The attention to the finer details of women’s needs was enthralling.

Anne knew everything there was to know about slips -- and made sure that I did too.

We reviewed their specialty section, including several French-maid costumes.

Much to my relief, Anne didn’t comment on them.

We discussed foundation garments: waist cinchers, control briefs, and shapers.

They were all exciting to me, in that I could visualize ways they would allow me to wear more becoming fashions.

Anne made a special effort to help me understand bedroom attire. We laughed at Frederick’s “limited edition anniversary gown.” She called it the “va — va — va — voom” nightie.

We laughed so hard that we both were snorting like Sandra Bullock.

They bought me an old CD player and shared some of their favorites from the past, with me. I listened to the lyrics and I cried through the entire “Bridge Over Troubled Water” CD dozens of times. I was especially taken by the message of ---
“I have no need of friendships
Friendship causes pain -------
And an island never cries.”

By avoiding real friendships, like those I had with Debbie, Sarah, and Anne, I had been missing out on life. I no longer wanted to be an island. Crying was okay by me. I often cried for silly reasons. The beauty of nature made me cry, at least once a day.

Billy Joel seemed to be talking directly to me when he sang;
“I don’t want clever conversation,
I never want to work that hard,
I just want someone to talk to,
I want you just the way you are.

When my treatment is over, I’ll make time every day to talk to Jackie. Not about “important things’’ -- just talk.

I used to wonder what Jackie and I would find to talk about when we retired and our family was out of the nest. It was my theory that the real reason for middle-age divorce and trophy wives was so that men didn’t have to answer that question. I want to have a life where I don’t have to make time to talk to Jackie -- a life where we talk as a matter of course.

The more I got to know Anne, the more the blatant sexism she faced daily because of her stunning looks made me disgusted to be a guy. What license does her body give to men that allows them to think of her as a bimbo? My ideas were becoming abnormal for a male, and I embraced the change. I was no longer afraid of my sensitivity.

Sarah and I also talked at length about sexism. According to Sarah, one of the things the three had always found endearing about me was my willingness to accept women for their abilities.

Sarah told me she thought the theories that demanded two distinct sexes exhibited sexism at its worst. She felt that those who actively espoused two distinct sexes inherently accepted significant and obvious differences between males and females. That kind of thinking prolonged a male dominant society. Sarah was appalled at women who supported such nonsense.

I could no longer see the physical resemblance between Sarah and the Duchess Fergie and quit calling her by that nickname.

In many ways, Sarah is much more butch than I am. She can be ultra-femme, like with her nails. But on the other hand, she’s rarely nurturing and doesn’t value that trait in others.

Anne loves to hunt and fish and she’s okay with killing Bambi.

-- Does Frederick’s make lingerie suitable for a deer-stand? –

Conversely, she’s also a wizard with cosmetics and spent hours teaching me about applying, wearing, and removing them. It was a course in the what, when, and where of make-up.

Debbie is very masculine in her strength, leadership, and vigor, yet she’s dainty and delicate.

Jackie is the most feminine person I know. She’s gentle to a fault. Her mother had named her after Jacqueline Onassis. She has all the elegance of Jackie O. Yet, she had taken over many of the male duties in our household and relished her abilities to accomplish them. She’s very independent, often cutting off my remarks mid-sentence.

Each of the four women defined “female” as they wanted. They were vastly different from one another.

My feminine nature fits easily, within them.

When we went out, I studied other women. Some had classic masculine physical features: large feet, broad shoulders, narrow hips, square faces, and muscular definition. Others carried themselves like a guy. Many exhibited aggressive, obnoxious, man-like behavior.

In my opinion, I fit toward the feminine end of the women spectrum.

I couldn’t go on cross-dressing, on a part-time basis. I no longer would be able to satisfy myself, with temporary fixes. I needed to make a full-time gender switch.

But one that wouldn’t involve sex reassignment surgery.

Debbie brought over a portable video player and her aerobic tapes. We jazzercised and jogged.

My new exercise clothes were so incredibly fun. I loved the scrumptious way spandex hugged my curves.

Sarah and I watched every Nora Ephron film.

I memorized Sleepless in Seattle.

Through sharing them with Sarah, I understood what it is about a chick flick that is so wonderful. I love Ephron’s humor.

Anne gave me a book in which Nora said, “Women are considered as candidates for the Vice President of the United States because it’s the worst job in America. It’s amazing that men will take it. A job with real power is First Lady. I’d be willing to run for that. As far as the men who are running for President are concerned, they aren’t even people I would date.”

I couldn’t agree more.

I couldn’t agree less with something else attributed to Ephron. There is a very sensitive autobiography called Conundrum. A transsexual by the name of Jan Morris is the author.

Morris said, “I was three or four when I first realized I had been born into the wrong body and should have been a girl. I was sitting beneath my mother’s piano.”

Ephron said, in a review of the book, “A boy sitting under a piano would probably be looking up his mother’s dress. A visit to a Freudian analyst to recover this scenario might have saved Morris the trouble and expense of transsexual surgery.”

How can she make such tender movies, and utter such an ignorant remark?

My top-ten favorite movies of all-time no longer included Caddyshack, Animal House, and Slapshot. So I got that goin’ for me; which is nice.

We went to plays and concerts, but almost no sporting events. I made a real effort to break with that part of my past. I spent time contemplating my competitive nature. Over the years, I had been beaten badly by women in tennis and long-distance running. The gender difference was greatly exaggerated, in at least those two sports.

I had learned that winning wasn’t the point in either tennis or a marathon. I gave my opponents my best game out of respect. But I was much more concerned about the fun involved than the outcome. I was starting to see that I needed to transfer that lesson, to the rest of my life.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with sports, but I needed to go, in a slightly new direction. I would never give up my seats, for the College World Series. They were right behind home plate and two rows up. I had purchased them for years, and I loved the slow pace of a spring day, at Ameritrade Park.

Anne and I went to the Henry Doorly Zoo twice. I loved watching the families on the steam-powered locomotive. Boys love trains and I wanted to be on that train with my boys. I had never taken my boys to the zoo, even though I had often intended to.

I found myself smiling — a lot. I felt so alive. My senses were taking in everything. I was elated that I wasn’t taking Prozac or any other drugs to dull my sense and “cure” my so-called disorder.

We shopped.

Day in and day out we hit every woman’s clothing store in Omaha. We had been to every “Road.” We also went to the smaller malls and the specialty shops. We traveled to outlet malls and even went across the river to Council Bluffs. We went to Regency Mall, which was close to my house.

They always paid for whatever I wanted, with my credit cards.

Many days we didn’t buy a thing, and I still loved it.

I was doing girlish things with my girlfriends. No one was disapproving -- especially me.

They taught me fashion and about various kinds of clothing. Things my mother would have taught me under different circumstances.

I found a darling denim shirtdress with three-quarter length sleeves. It was indigo and fell to just above my knees. It was a Michael Kors creation and had been $225; it was marked down to $40.14. Jim would have bought three of them, thereby reducing the need for future shopping. I was pleased to buy one, allowing me to hunt for other treasures.

I also came across sequined denim slides with two-inch heels. They didn’t go with the denim dress, but I absolutely loved them. I decided to wait to buy them until I happened upon a skirt, to go with them. Jim never would have had that outlook -- or patience.

I had loads of time to discuss fashion with all three. I was amazed at the width and breadth of women’s clothing. My old secret wardrobe had been outdated, the wrong colors, seasonally incorrect, not age or activity-specific, and in general “trashy.” I had been improperly combining pieces and wearing the wrong clothes for the time of day. I assembled a new core wardrobe that could be worn for a multitude of times and occasions.

Once I had no choice but to wear women’s clothing, I became comfortable with them. On those occasions, prior to my friends “capturing” me, when I had that rare opportunity to wear women’s clothing for an extended period of time, I normally lasted less than two or three hours, before I wanted to take them off.

My new mindset was to wear them as clothing and not as a costume. I had no desire to wear men’s clothing.

Once I knew I had my friends’ approval of my cross-dressing, a cloud was lifted that had darkened my life. I suddenly had astonishing energy. I slept less, exercised more, ate less, and seemed to have minimal stress.

We were becoming great friends. I was really getting to know them all. They escalated the level of the questions about my cross-dressing. I could tell they had done their homework. Nothing was off-limits.

They wanted to know how I had felt about my cross-dressing at various ages, when I started, how I started, and much, much more.

My answers were complete and fully honest. It was wonderful to have those conversations with them, even the awkward ones with Sarah, the ones that centered on my masturbation.

Debbie and I talked about my night with John several times. I had become more comfortable discussing it. It had been sexy. I enjoyed the evening because it was a verification that I was lovable. I hadn’t been sure whether anyone really found me lovable, especially Jackie. I didn’t, couldn’t, admit to Debbie that I had been physically attracted to John.

I had concluded that I would be very hard on me, if I was Jackie and Jackie was me. I hate it when people do illogical things. It’s illogical for me to want to be treated as a woman, in a male-dominant society. I’m giving up many advantages. I wrestled with that notion.

Further, I tend to think that people with “untreatable” conditions might well be faking the symptoms. If I didn’t know everything I knew about cross-dressing, I would think transvestites were sensationalists.

Most importantly, I placed a high priority on honesty. Isn’t a cross-dresser that’s trying to pass actually lying to the public? I concluded the cross-dresser isn’t lying, if she’s dressing in her true gender.

I was beginning to see how my cross-dressing had been missing the point. I had been using cross-dressing for sexual arousal and should have been using it for gender identification.

None of them would talk about the specific pain I had caused Anne the night of the “Taste of France.” I tried to get it out of each of them.

Debbie and Sarah simply ignored my questions.

Anne said, “It’s too painful to talk about. The fewer people that know the better.”

I respected her wishes.

I went back to the salon every third or fourth day. I love that place. The staff at the salon taught things about working with my hair. I purchased a curling iron and a few other necessities and then Anne and I worked together on the basics.

Sarah told me that all four of them, including Jackie, had taken the time to do empathy exercises to try to understand what I was going through.

Sarah used make-up to simulate a five o’clock shadow before going into a bar in a dress. She said her results had been a lot like mine at Perkins.

Both Anne and Debbie called old friends. They told their friends they were really male. Their friends were greatly relieved at the end of the conversations to find out it had been a hoax. Through this exercise, Debbie and Anne experienced transphobia first-hand.

Jackie called the police station, and reported that her “brother” had been harassed while he was “dressed.” She found the hatred and heterosexism one would expect.

It’s no longer politically correct to show overt dislike for gays. The day will come when transgenderists will be accepted as a third sex. The day of transgenderists acceptance had not arrived in Omaha, as my three friends discovered.

I spent time learning new things on the internet or practicing new things on my own, in front of a mirror. I was learning about femininity and womanhood -- things little girls took for granted.

Debbie drove me by my house twice. We parked up the street. I waited to see my two older kids come home from school. I watched as the youngest played in the sandbox with Jackie. On both occasions, I made Debbie stay until I saw all four of them. My golden retriever, Champ, was playing with them.

I even miss Champ. He was submissive with me. When I would come home from work, he would immediately flip over on his back. At times, he would even pee. He wasn’t submissive with women. He had a horrible habit of humping women’s legs, if we didn’t keep a close eye on him.

I cried tears of longing and begged Debbie to take me to watch them more often. But she said that it was better if I stayed away until the process was completed.

The process seemed to be moving along. I had gone from a public perception of being really weird, to having others consider me as normal. Who wouldn’t gladly make that transition? I was in high spirits. There had to have been people who read me in the stores and restaurants we went to -- but no one made an issue out of it, at least to my face. There may have been horrible things said behind my back -- but they never reached me. I didn’t worry about it.

I looked online for psychiatric studies about children of transgendered parents. I found no clinical evidence of any harm to children attributed solely, to living with a transgenderist.

Vindictive spouses who wanted to “spare” their children the “humiliation” had done most of the documented harm. I assumed from reading the cases that much of the cruelty was done to establish advantageous positions in divorce negotiations.

At work, I had always stayed away from the actual research. I had anointed myself the office problem solver. Although I didn’t overtly consider research to be women’s work, I more than likely had that bias. With time to think in my motel room, I found that I really enjoyed the research I was doing.

Perhaps when I go back to work, I’ll restructure the office duties.

Sarah and I shared several girls’ nights. We did each other’s nails and hair. It was amazingly calming. We talked at length about submissive women. Sarah wasn’t submissive. Sarah noted that some women are like Melissa McCarthy and some are like Charlize Theron. Some are truck drivers and some sell cosmetics. Sarah understood submissive women -- but didn’t ever want to be one.

Each discovery brought me closer to my friends. We were intimate, but never sexual. None of them ever slept over. We did kiss frequently, but never on the lips, and never anything like I had with Jackie --- or John.

How had they put up with me for so long? Why had Jackie stuck it out?

At times, I was terribly horny. I hadn’t had sex for weeks. If it wasn’t for all the moisturizers and creams I used on a regular basis I probably would have erupted in pimples.

(In Part Five -- Tony, one of the partners who own the large corporation all of them work for -- is coming to Omaha, to meet with Jim. How will they ever explain Jill?)

Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

I have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.

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Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
The Handshake That Hides the Snake