If a man in woman's clothing has a odd ring to it then a 6'2", 250# wolf in sheep's clothing is surely fair game for some hearty guffaws. If there is one thing serious about the situation it is that I have enjoyed bras, panties and garters for the last 20 years. I still do, but I only enjoy this apparel in the privacy of a motel room or other secluded setting. When I dress it is for the feel of the clothing and the intrinsic pleasure it brings, and this pleasure is largely separate from the rest of my life. I make no distinction between Ricky and Ralph, and outside of costume parties no one has seen Ricky except my wife. When you add this to the fact that I am in serious contention for the laziest person in the world it becomes obvious that shaving is an activity that holds little fascination for me. Besides the beard hides my double chin and keeps small children from running off screaming.

But all things change. When I discovered Tri-Ess and as I got to know others with the same peculiar hobby a tiny devil began to rattle his pitchfork between my ears. I mean, just what did I look like under all that hair? As I looked through the directory I felt a pointed thought take shape: "Maybe you could look like her" (him?) (them?). When I strolled through Lane Bryant "Wouldn't it be nice to know if this thing will fit before I pay for it?" scratched at the base of my neck. When the night became late in my motel room "Damn it would be nice to take a walk in a skirt" began to claw somewhere above my right eye. But the next morning, when I crawled blearily out of bed, the thought became "I'm gonna kill myself if I get my hands on anything sharp when I feel like this", and the beard was safe for another day.

That is until the weekend before Thanksgiving when, with the kids gone for the night, curiosity overcame me. Before sanity could return in the morning my wife hauled out the scissors, soap and razor and the deed was done. Well started anyway. Along the way we made some discoveries. Like it takes a long time to get rid of a beard that has had all those years to take root. Like two hours. Like the first shave after fifteen years hurts! Like razor burn is not any better than it was when a teenager I knew was trying desperately to shape what he then called a beard. Like the beard I had now was rather blue immediately after a close shave, and the young man who could miss shaving for two days and never notice was gone forever. Like I had to shave my chest or wear turtle necks. Like I'd be damned if I would shave my arms too. Like it was a Dumb Idea to start this at ten o'clock on Friday night. Like my wife doesn't use the kind of makeup I need and that the body paint pencils just won't cover a beard.

Talk about your learning experiences. I won't got into detail about the other things I learned about trying to procure makeup in a small town that would cover a blue shadow, or the gyrations involved to get another night alone to get the pictures that all this was being done for, or the funny looking stranger who stared back at me in the mirror. Suffice it to say that Saturday night all was ready and Ricky made her first appearance in full regalia. It is difficult to describe the experience. Since the beard made the use of makeup rather unnecessary I had never experimented with it before. I can only try to describe the warm glow as I sat there, dressed in my favorite bra and best blouse while my wife curled my hair, painted my face and generally worked me over. There was a deep, warm glow to simply sit there and be fussed over, an intensely pleasurable feeling that every man should know. In a sense this was the culmination of the feelings that make me dress, and to be totally accepting for while is a beautiful experience.

Even the pulled hair, curling iron burns, and exasperated demands to "Keep your eyes open until the mascara dries!" could not dampen the excitement and pleasure. Finally all was complete and I looked in the mirror. It was kind of a shock to see my sister in there. Now I know that one of my stature should not expect Miss America to return his gaze in the mirror, but anyone but my sister! Please! Oh well, I guess we are what we are, or at least what our makeup makes us seem.

Anyway, out came the camera, the flash, the backdrop and the commands to "Keep your legs together, you're supposed to be a lady" and "Straighten your shoulders. If you're going to wear a bra you may as well show off your attributes." Somehow those thirty-six exposures ran through my wardrobe and poses from serious to whimsical.

I'll let you in on a secret. I'll never get a ride if I hitchhike with my skirt pulled up on one leg. The ten days before the pictures came back were an eternity, and then I learned something else. I was so excited about my first pictures as Ricky that I forgot everything I knew about photography. They were undoubtedly the most technically bad pictures I have ever taken, and I'm glad that they were processed by a computer because they were embarrassing. But still in all they did provide an excuse for Ricky to sit under the ministering hands of her hairdresser and makeup artist a second time, which made the situation easier to bear.

This time I retained my former professional instincts, set the equipment up properly, and zipped through another thirty-six frames all too quickly. The results were technically better, but I fear Ricky will never be able to hide her hairy arms or blue shadow without enough makeup to keep Max Factor in business forever. A head and shoulders shot provides a view of a matron that will now be known to the world as Ricky, for better or worse.

Ah, but now comes the problem. The morning came once again and I found that I could not convince Miss America to replace my reflection, even with lucrative offers of multi-year contracts and promises of anonymity. The thought of looking at that face every morning while employing a razor took on it's old horror, and the fun of watching the double takes diminished as I ran out of people who hadn't seen me lately. I hereby announce that I have given the razor to my wife for her legs and the phiz is once again hirsute.