Who’s that girl?

 © 2008 Nick B

With help and inspiration from Lady Eleanor and editing by Gaby--thanks Gabi

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I have always been a player. You know, one of those blokes with a different girl on his arm every time he’s seen out and that was the way I liked it. Well, I thought that was the case, but now I’m not so sure.

It changed rather drastically when I was out with a couple of my mates one Friday night…

Friday night is the traditional “boy’s night out” and well, I’m no different to any of my mates–hunting down “a bit of skirt” wherever I happened to be, but in the first couple of pubs we entered on this particular evening, we found the “skirts” to be too young, too old or just plain–well, never mind them.

At pub three however, she waltzed in like something off the catwalk with that challenging strut in the ubiquitous LBD that was doing its level best to contain the bounteous attributes that bounced gently within their fabric restraint, not to mention a definite lack of VPL. That meant one of two things–either she was wearing a thong or she wasn’t wearing a thing underneath.

Either option sent the pulse-rate into overdrive.

Both Andy’s and my jaws hit the floor simultaneously and had it not been for the fact that Rob was buying the drinks with his back to the door, there wouldn’t have just been a drum roll as our collective jaws bounced on the sticky, beer-stained carpet, but there would also have been a rim-shot and cymbal crash to accompany her entrance.

She was blonde–not my favourite, but hey, you don’t look at the mantelpiece while you’re poking the fire do you? Anyhow, birds who look like that don’t stroll into a dive like the one we were in every day of the week, so who cares what colour her hair was?

Andy and I were practically drooling–our tongues were dangling somewhere around our knees with eyes on stalks as we stood in shocked awe of southern Britain’s answer to the Venus de Milo–but with arms.

By this time, Rob had seen her too and that meant trouble. I could have handled the competition with Andy, but not both of them and because I was too shocked at the arrival of this vision of beauty, I didn’t get the chance to make a move on her first; Rob got that.

It happens from time to time–it's no big deal.

Bullshit!

I was gutted, feeling that I should have been first in the queue, but after she turned Rob down flat, I knew I still had a chance. Things were looking up.

The trouble was that this was one of those “shit happens” days–or rather nights.

With Rob trying his level best to chat up our armed–and legged–"Venus de Milo", Andy shook his head and disappeared to start chucking money down the throat of a slot machine. As the cold shoulder finally sank in, Rob buggered off to the toilets and when I looked round, who should be standing next to me at the bar?

I nearly messed it up right there, but managed to get that “I’ll get those…” line out without crashing and burning. All this without realising that she had ordered two drinks. Nevertheless, I let my mouth do all the work and before long, I had her laughing–which according to my dad, was a sure-fire way of getting in there.

I had struck gold.

Soon though, she was joined by another girl–the recipient of the other drink, who seemed to look at me as if her shit didn’t stink and I was something that wasn’t fit to scrape off the bottom of her shoe. I can’t tell you how grateful I was that she wasn’t my intended target.

So now, I’m drinking with two birds and feeling like the cat that got the cream when it all went pear-shaped for me–or so it seemed.

It was my turn to point Percy at the porcelain–drinking does that I've noticed–so I made my excuses, laughing as I told the girls not to go anywhere. The blonde–Debbie, as I found out, I think by the end of the second sentence, smiled and said something along the lines of “Missing you already”, while her friend–I don’t even care what her name was–just tutted loudly and rolled her eyes.

Well the lavatorial duties were harder to complete than I thought as after dumping a fair dollop of liquid soap in the palm of my right hand, rubbing my hands together and turning on the tap, I discovered that neither of them worked. Perhaps they were only there for show, but worse still; the dispensers were also out of paper towels.

I spent the next few moments waving my hands in the air and wondering what to do next. Then it dawned on me–the toilet.

Now don't go jumping to conclusions here, the toilets have bog paper don't they?

God knows what was going through your minds.

Anyhow, after a couple of minutes of wiping with toilet paper that felt more like greaseproof paper, I made my way back into the bar.

When I got back, Rob was getting on like wildfire with Debbie’s mate while Andy, who had finally managed to drag himself away from the slot machine, was standing in my place with his arm around Debbie’s waist.

Talk about jumping in quick. I wasn’t gone that long was I?

Mind you, she was no more discriminate, snuggling into him as the four of them laughed and joked.

Using the rule we played by, which was if we hadn’t all scored after two drinks, it was time to hit another pub or a club–depending on the time. I called over to them, tapping my watch and got the nod back.

I didn’t wait and headed straight for the door. For some reason, Andy’s manoeuvre touched a nerve. Before I had gone to relieve myself, I had the feeling that Debbie and I should have been an item for the evening, but whatever she was feeling, it wasn’t the same as me. In fact, by the looks of things, what she was feeling was in Andy’s trousers, which was trying it’s hardest to get out.

Boy that was subtle.

As I stood outside, the alcohol started to make me feel a little light headed, but a few deep breaths I was back under control. Hearing what I thought were squeals–screams–whatever, I went to investigate and walked into a bit of a skirmish between three blokes and a girl.

It seemed that they had something she wanted, only they wanted it more–her handbag. She was putting up one hell of a fight despite being outnumbered. I almost didn’t want to break it up and poke my nose in where it wasn’t wanted but, three against one wasn’t fair.

Time to put on the cape I suppose…

Even with me joining in meant we were still be outnumbered, but I steamed straight in–which is not usual for me I can tell you. Throwing one of them to the ground, I immediately started on the next. I don’t know how I did it–I must have had the element of surprise I think and they beat a hasty retreat.

“Are you alright?” I asked, getting my breath back.

“Oh, thank you, yes, yes, thank you, oh. I’ll be fine,” she replied, evidently flustered and I thought I had seen her blush, but that may have just been the lighting.

I led her back to the pub and was about to open the door for her, when she stopped me.

“I can’t go in there,” she said.

“Fine,” I replied, thinking that there was maybe someone in there she didn’t want to bump into and me being me, I knew all about that one!

“Do you want me to phone the police or take you somewhere else?” I asked, but before she could reply, someone else shouted

“Hey, Billy-boy, we’re off–you coming?”

It was Rob. Debbie was still all over Andy and by the looks, was trying to give him a tonsillectomy with her tongue. No wonder he was quiet. Her mate meanwhile was trying to go as far as she could legally go with Rob–without being arrested for indecency that is. She had her hand down the front of his trousers and whilst it may have been dark, no prizes will be awarded for guessing what was going on down there.

Both the lads needless to say, looked particularly smug, but for me it just didn’t seem to light the spark as normal. For some reason, I just wasn’t in the mood.

“Nah, I’ve got something I need to take care of…” I said, but only just in time as the lads were dragged off by the girls amidst a volley of giggles.

“Don’t mind them,” I said, shrugging. “It’s Friday, what can I say?”

“They’re boys,” she replied with a return shrug. “Anyway I’ll be alright. You should go. I’m going to go home. Thanks ever-so-much, Billy-boy.”

Don’t ask me what was going on, I still don’t know how one minute I was a predatory male with only one thing on his mind and the next, that “thing” was the last thing on his mind.

“I can’t leave you on your own,” I said and I couldn’t. For some reason, I felt very “big brother-ish” and well–protective.

“Let’s get a coffee or something…” I suggested and taking her hand, I led her towards a little café I used.

It was about four in the morning before I got back home and only because the café owners had more or less kicked us out or it probably would have been even later–or should that be earlier?

Thinking about it, the strangest thing was that compared to the sort of girls I am normally attracted to, Vicky didn't fit. I’m much more used to birds with more makeup than Max Factor, boobs hanging out and thongs or nothing at all under mini skirts that would be stretching it to call them belts or to say that they actually covered anything.

Yup, you guessed it–Debbie.

Vicky on the other hand was much more conservative. He skirt was long–almost to her ankles and seemed if anything to be doing a good job of disguising her curves rather than accentuating them. Her top was a fairly figure-hugging blouse that displayed her breasts nicely, but in a much more classy way than Debbie and her friend’s had.

Vicky was intelligent, witty and, although not "dolled up to the nines"–which actually means lots of makeup and very little else. like so many of the birds I have taken home–she held a mysterious something that was firing off my attraction receptors on a completely different level and apparently for completely different reasons.

At a stab, I would guess that not having everything on display and therefore leaving something to the imagination was far more alluring.

So were my tastes changing?

It certainly looked that way.

I did try getting a kiss from her before I left to go home, but a chaste peck on the cheek was all she would allow. It was the first night out in ages that didn’t result in my waking up the next morning with someone snoring beside me, whose name I didn’t know.

This chance meeting couldn’t be termed as a “date”, but led to many real dates over the next couple of months or so.

Initially, we went out over the weekends, but after a couple of times, we added some extra “outings” in during the week also. Sometimes we didn't go anywhere, she would just come round to my place and I'd either cook up something simple or, as happened most of the time, I would get something in from the local takeaway and we would sit and watch a movie or just talk.

We even had an "our tune" which was a Seal number called "Kiss from a Rose". Every time she came round she wanted me to play it and I didn't mind, I was only too eager to please. For those precious few weeks, I must have got to hear that song half a dozen times or more each time she was round.

We were even seen out together once or twice and it made me laugh when we bumped into Rob at the local open-air market one Saturday morning and I asked how Andy got on with Debbie.

"Well, he's had the shots, but still out of the game," Rob said with a completely straight face.

I wasn't sure whether this was a euphemism and Rob must have seen my expression.

"Seriously, Bill. She gave him a dose."

"Bloody hell!" I exclaimed. Boy was I lucky. Vicky was now endearing herself more to me, having saved me from a potential course of antibiotics and the feeling of pissing razor blades–not to mention the embarrassment.

I was just thinking “There but by the grace of God go I” when I noticed that Rob was looking at Vicky with an odd expression while Vicky was looking decidedly uncomfortable. I figured that it was just the conversation and was relieved that as we moved off, Vicky relaxed.

“Sorry,” I said when we had got out of the hurly-burly of the market area.

“What for?” she asked.

“The conversation back there didn’t look as though it was particularly palatable. All that talk of STD’s and such.”

She shrugged and I didn’t pursue things.

The rest of the day was wonderful and I made her a serious Coq au Vin at my place with a quality Merlot and instead of falling into a sweaty heap on the bed at the end of it all as I hoped–fervently, the day ended in a kiss–and that was it.

Granted it was a hot kiss and very nearly lit my blue touch paper on its own, but it wasn’t what I was expecting and certainly nowhere near what I was hoping for.

I thought about it after she’d gone–not that it took much thought–and the weird thing was, each of our dates ended in nothing more than a kiss and I shouldn’t have to tell any of you–I was like a dog on heat by then. I would gladly have humped anything with a pulse or perhaps without…

Nah! Not even I could do that!

I was in a bad way and although the kissing, as I said, had got fairly heated, never did she let it go any further. I was starting to get far too involved and I had to have feelings for her as nothing else could possibly answer the question of why I was letting this "no sex" thing go so long. Prior to Vicky, I would not end a date without some kind of physical gratification other than a bit of tonsil-hockey.

My brain couldn’t believe what was going on either, asking me what the hell I thought I was doing. Even my right hand had stopped talking to me and I think if I were to have looked even fleetingly at a page three girl, I’d have gone off like something from the bomb bays of the Enola Gay. Hiroshima and Nagasaki would have been a mere fireworks compared to how I would have gone off.

I sat her down the next time I saw her and we had a chat.

Of course the tears flowed and I got that “it’s not you, it’s me” routine–one of my favourites.

I considered this carefully. Perhaps she had a disease or something. It explained why she seemed embarrassed or at least uncomfortable when we bumped into Rob the other day.

“NO!” she exclaimed adamantly.

So what then? “Don’t you like me?”

“Like you?” she asked, her eyes brimming. “Of course I do.”

“Then why…” I tried to ask, but she put her finger to my lips and stopped me dead in my tracks.

“Just let’s say we had a good time and leave it at that,” she suggested and a single tear rolled down her cheek.

I knew what was coming. I just didn’t think it would be me on the receiving end.

“Had?” I asked. “Don’t you mean are having?”

“Look, Bill, I like you–really I do, but this has already gone further than I expected.”

"You and me both," I laughed.

"Yes, well I think it would be best for both of us if we–" she paused as she dabbed at her eyes. "Well, I don't want to hurt you."

Hurt me? I thought, trying hard not to laugh. I made Charlie from Two and a Half Men look like a rank amateur. How could she possibly hurt me? Then the penny dropped.

“Are you breaking up with me?” I asked, incredulous.

“I think it’s for the best,” she said, unable to look me in the eye, choosing instead to stand, touch my shoulder and leave.

I was left in the same sort of shock as seeing Debbie that first evening.

I couldn’t move, think–anything. The difference was that my tongue wasn’t hanging out round my knees this time.

I don’t know how long I sat there, looking at non-existent patterns on the carpet, but it must have been ages.

What was I going to do?

I tried over the next couple of days to contact her and tried harder to think of what it could possibly be that put her off; had made her want to call a halt–neither with any success.

The irony struck me that this was the first time I had been dumped and after so many weeks–nearly long enough to call it months too. Normally the girl was the one getting her marching orders, but that was usually after the one night. It felt odd for the boot to be on the other foot–very odd indeed.

I thought the shit had hit the fan when I lost out to Andy in the Debbie stakes and look how that ended. So ever the optimist I figured that this business with Vicky was just a technical hitch–one that could be quickly overcome.

I had my fingers crossed anyway.

---

By the end of the first week I thought I was doing really well, but along came Friday and all the hard work from the rest of the week went out of the window. I started the morning like a bear with a sore head and it went downhill all the way from there.

I decided that since this one woman thing wasn’t working; perhaps a return to the old ways was more sensible. If nothing else it would help take my mind off what had happened, was happening and the fact that the future was more important than the past.

Wrong.

The chatting up bit was no problem, but then I found that the girls I was talking to had precious little between their ears and were three sheets to the wind or worse. This had the effect of not only making the thrill of the chase a bit empty, but made me realise that going back to my old ways was not a realistic option.

Even after such a short time–I mean it was only a few weeks after all–it was still enough to prove to me that I wanted, or needed, more. Oh, there was one more thing and that was that I desperately wanted Vicky back.

Despite renewed efforts, the next week proved unsuccessful with regards to getting in touch with Vicky. All I seemed to get was her answering machine and whether she was picking up her messages or not was something I had no idea about.

Come Friday I was just as strung out as I was the week before and for want of something better, I headed out to the Rose and Crown to meet the lads.

“For God’s sake Bill, pull yourself together,” Rob said, evidently irritated.

“What?” I asked.

“Whatever it is you’ve got for this “Vicky”, drop it. I warn you, it’ll end in tears.”

“We haven’t been together for the last two weeks now,” I assured.

“But you’re still carrying the scars aren’t you. What happened to not getting emotionally involved?”

“Couldn’t help it,” I said quietly.

“You obviously haven’t slept together.”

“What? You should know better than to ask that,” I exclaimed, wondering how he knew that we hadn’t slept together.

“But you’re over it now aren’t you?” he asked.

The word “it” probably meant “the affair”, but somehow to me “it” was a derisive term used when talking about women and that didn’t impress. I took his sentence as meaning “you’re over her now…”

“Mind what you say about her,” I said with a trace of vehemence in my voice.

“Alright, Bill. I’m sorry, alright? Look, I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I recognised Vicky when we bumped into each other down at the market the other week. She’s not what she seems.”

“What do you mean–not what she seems?” I asked, not wanting to hear anything Rob had to say, but unable to let it go.

“She’s not–er–not…”

“Spit it out!”

“She’s a bloody tranny alright?” he almost spat. “He’s a fucking weirdo.”

Anyone else would have got a smack in the mouth at that remark and it was all I could do to not to include Rob in with everyone else. I turned away from him and picked up my drink, studiously ignoring him.

“You didn’t know?”

“No!” I said; my tone flat.

“You really got it bad for it didn’t you?”

“Just drop it Rob, alright.”

“But you did, didn’t you? You’re in love with the fucking Nancy-boy aren’t you?”

I could feel the smug look on his face and the supercilious grin that replaced it moments later. I didn’t need to look to know it was there, it was something he did regularly and even when it was focussed on someone else, I didn’t like it. I liked it even less now.

It was at this point that Rob went from being “excluded” to “included with everyone else” and with uncharacteristic speed, accuracy and malice, I hit him. It was most unlike me to actually hit anyone, but in this instance, he deserved it.

I know, you’re thinking about the first night with Vicky aren’t you? Well it may surprise you to know that there was no hitting, like I said, I think it was just the fact that I had the element of surprise. Who knows, I might just have picked the right bloke to take out first.

I peered down as Rob lie there on the floor a small trickle of blood starting to leak from his left nostril and didn’t wait to be asked to leave–something else I knew was inevitable, I just picked up my drink and downed the remainder, placing the glass gently on the bar and walked out of the pub.

I wandered home, my head going round and round in circles.

So Vicky wasn’t really a Vicky at all. What was she–Victor?

I was confused to say the least. Anger was gnawing at me, in ever increasing quantities and by the time I knew where I was, I was standing outside Vicky’s front door.

Should I knock or just go home? She obviously didn’t want to speak to me if the phone messages were anything to go by and now I knew, or thought I knew her secret…

Shit. No wonder things fell apart.

There I was thinking that she had some unpronounceable disease or something, when all the while, it was a case of acute maleitis.

I could feel my temperature rising and knew that the anger in me was reaching a point where if I stayed, I might well do something stupid and if I left, I didn’t know what I’d do.

Rock–me–hard place.

I sat down on the steps to Vicky’s front door, my head in my hands.

It was time to be honest with myself.

Was it love?

I didn’t know. I had never been in love with anyone before, so I wouldn’t know it if it bit me. This, however, was not just biting, but gnawing at me–hard. It could well be love.

So having decided that it could be love, had I fallen in love with a girl called Vicky?

Well, I really didn’t know what to do when she wasn’t around, but she’s a girl who’s not a girl, not even close–if Rob was to be believed.

Why was it then, that although I was angry, I couldn’t say I was angry with Vicky–why was that?

My arse was getting cold and numb, but the fact was, I felt better being close. Yeah, I know, daft bugger and all that, but it was true. I had spent the last two weeks entirely alone–save for those few birds I spoke to, but bless them, they were nought compared to Vicky.

I stared into the deep shadows of the park and didn’t hear the footsteps behind me.

“Can I help you?” she asked and I recognised the voice immediately.

“I don’t know. Perhaps it is I who should be helping you.”

“Bill?”

“The very same,” I said standing and bowing with all the flamboyance I could muster, despite some stiffness in my rear thanks to the cold steps.

“You fool!” she exclaimed grinning and gave me a big hug.

“I think we need to talk.” I suggested. “Fancy a drink?”

“I can do better than that,” she said. “Why don’t you come up?”

It was the first time I had been in her flat and I was quite surprised. Contrary to being the pad of a single man or a single woman, it was something of a mishmash of both–like a man’s place, but with a definite woman’s touch–or was that a woman’s place that had been sullied by the presence of a man?

She sat me down on the sofa in the lounge and disappeared, only to reappear moments later with a large bottle of something and two glasses with ice in.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Some sort of Vodka I think–it was on special offer in the supermarket. Should do the trick,” she assured.

She sat on the chair opposite and poured a couple of drinks–large ones, passing one to me. We “chinked” our glasses and I took a large gulp of the clear liquid, grimacing as I did.

“This is disgusting,” I spluttered.

“It’s cheap but it gets the job done,” she said, shrugging. “You get kind of used to it.”

Fair enough, I thought and took another slug, draining the glass–thinking get it down and hopefully that would be that, but bugger me if she didn’t fill it back up again–this time with more.

We sat and chatted about nothing in particular and for me, the feelings all came back–with a vengeance. I felt comfortable and confused all at the same time.

We were skirting the real point. I felt sure that she liked me, perhaps more than liked and for me I needed to know one way or the other what was what and more to the point, was I gay, bisexual or just deluding myself that things would change and I could have a normal relationship with Vicky.

Some chance.

Even though I knew she was a he, I still couldn’t get past the fact that despite knowing her true gender–wait–her physical gender, I still saw an attractive girl–not a bloke in a frock–and it was really clouding my judgement.

Actually, that might have been the vodka.

“So Rob was right then was he?” I said, realising that it had actually come out rather than staying in my head.

“That’s direct,” she replied. “You don’t beat about the bush do you?”

“I’m sorry, it just popped out.”

“No, it’s okay, it’s a fair comment.”

She topped off our glasses again and whilst I didn’t really want any more of that stuff, I was gradually losing coordination and wasn’t quick enough to stop things.

“Yes,” she said.

“What?”

“Yes, Rob was telling the truth.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling a little embarrassed.

“Why?”

“I gave him a bloody nose for calling you a tranny.”

“You did?” she asked, looking at me in a strangely proud way.

I nodded.

“Oh dear. I suppose I had better explain then, hadn’t I?”

It transpired that she felt drawn to the glamour of women’s clothing, the colours, styles and most importantly, the feel. Then it became more of a life choice–feeling more comfortable in a more feminine role and although she didn’t feel she could take it on full-time, she did spend most of her time ‘en-femme’ in her spare time.

I couldn’t understand. It just seemed so alien.

“Well, it’s a question of preference.”

“What do you mean?”

“Women’s clothes–especially the underwear, is much softer, silkier and feels much nicer than men’s stuff. You can’t appreciate it really, unless you’ve actually tried it,” she said.

I noticed it had suddenly warmed up, or was it me?

The alcohol, that’s what it is. I quickly took another slug from the glass.

“Doesn’t seem so bad after a while does it?” she asked. “Like I said, it does get the job done.”

“Hmm,” I said and sat back, my head starting to feel quite light after several fingers–sorry, that should be fists of this rocket fuel.

She finished hers, refilled her glass and topped mine off too. I wasn’t quick enough to stop her and frankly I had ceased caring.

She sat back, both of us glasses in hand and I for one was feeling decidedly light-headed. Whatever proof this stuff was, it was strong. It seemed to have stripped all the taste buds off my tongue and now I couldn’t taste anything. About the only sensation I was truly aware of right now was the fact that the temperature was much higher now and despite knowing about Vicky, her proximity was doing all sorts of things to me.

I put my hand on her knee and she quickly removed it.

“?”

“I’m sorry, but I meant it. We can’t be that way. I’m not that way inclined.”

“B-b-but the kisses…” I stammered.

“A mistake. We’re friends, or I hope we are and I trust you. I hope you trust me too, but it can’t go any further.”

That put a bit of a downer on things I can tell you, but given a couple of moments, I was calm, considering things. So I hadn’t got the girl of my dreams, but at least I knew that I was safe around Vicky. Not much of a consolation.

My understanding of what she was; what she was doing or anything that she was about was a little vague to say the least and the messages I had been getting I had evidently misread completely.

“So how long have you been doing this?” I asked, trying to take my mind off what it was thinking about, but instead, jumped out of the frying pan and had plopped straight into the fire.

“About eighteen months now.”

“I can’t understand it,” I said shaking my head–carefully.

“Like I said, lady’s underwear–well women’s clothes in general–are so much more comfortable, softer–more delicate. You wouldn’t understand unless you tried it.”

This was the second time she’d said this.

“You’re not suggesting…” I spluttered.

“I’m not suggesting anything, but if it helps you to understand things better, then it wouldn’t hurt would it?”

“No way!” I said, and meant it. Trouble was, my erstwhile appendage, having been kept on bread and water for the last nearly three months was becoming curious.

“Doesn’t look as though you mean it,” she said, one eyebrow raised.

I could feel my face burning as it turned through pink to crimson.

“Come on, just so that you can say you know…” she whispered, drawing closer and I went from crimson, to almost blowing steam out of my ears I was blushing so much.

Say I know? I thought. What the hell does that mean? I know about pregnancy, but that doesn’t mean I should go and get pregnant just for the experience, but before I had a chance to voice my objections, she was up and practically dragging me out of the room and into what I can only describe as a particularly feminine room.

“What’s…” going on? I was about to say, but she pushed me on the bed and spun round, pulling open drawers and rummaging enthusiastically.

“Won’t be a minute,” she said with panties, bras and all sorts of other things flying hither and thither.

I was starting to get rather nervous. “I‘m not sure that this is such a good idea,” I said trying hard to get up and not doing such a good job, aware that I was slurring after all the vodka.

“You’re not backing out are you?” she asked.

Backing out? I wasn’t aware I’d backed in.

“Come on. It’s not going to hurt. Who knows, you might even like it.”

Talk about coercion. I felt backed into a corner, I was drunk, almost incapable of walking and was waiting like the condemned man for something to happen that no sane man would ever even consider–isn’t that right? I was being taken advantage of.

Moments later and with a cry of “ta-daaaaa!” she spun round and I could see she was holding two items that on any woman would have got my pulse racing and here I was, knowing that I was about to be the recipient of said garments, expected to actually put them on and certain parts of my anatomy were getting curious–again.

“The bathroom’s just down the hall on the left,” she instructed.

“You’re expecting me to wear your knickers?” I asked.

“Panties, darling,” she corrected. “And don’t forget the bra as well.”

“Whatever. I can’t wear these.”

“Chicken,” she said and made a clucking noise.

“I’m no chicken,” I said, and without any way out of the situation that I could see at that point, I staggered down the hall with these two articles dangling from one hand, eventually finding the bathroom.

I wasn’t in there long before there was a knock on the door.

“You still awake?” came the call from the other side.

Oh, I was awake alright. I had stripped down to my “Y-Fronts” and was holding these–panty-things up and trying to work out just what I was getting myself into.

“I’m fine, thanks. Won’t be long.”

“If you’re not out in ten minutes, I‘m sending in a search party!” she quipped.

I could feel the softness of the material of the panties–a gauzy transparent material that would leave nothing to the imagination and up until that point, my manhood had retreated, but now I was best part naked, its interest reasserted itself.

“This isn’t going to work,” I called.

There was no reply.

I opened the door to the bathroom and poked my head round.

“This isn’t going to work,” I called again–loudly.

“What’s wrong?” she called back.

Ah.

How do you explain to a girl that trying to put her panties on was causing petrification of the nether regions and was proving to be something of an issue?

“I said…” I called even more loudly, only to see that she was standing before me holding some other garments. I didn’t need a degree to know that those were destined for me.

“I see. Well there’s nothing else for it,” she said in a very business-like way, pushing past me and heading for the cabinet. “Here.”

She handed me a bottle of something or another.

A liquid stiffy remover?

No. This was much worse. This was hair remover!

“What the hell do I want this for?”

“You’re right. With those spider’s legs, it’s not going to work–won’t look right at all. You’ll need to get all that hair off. Come on. It’s going to take a while as it is.”

“But…”

“I know. I was a bit frightened first time, but it really doesn’t sting much and when you’ve finished you’ll be as smooth as a baby’s bum,” she said and turned away, telling me as she walked down the hall to use the shower to remove the cream when I was done.

“And tuck that over-enthusiastic thing of yours between your legs when you put the panties on.”

This was starting down a very slippery slope and she wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

Sitting on the side of the bath, I read the instructions and could feel the resolve within me falling away.

I tried to justify what I was doing; what I was about to do. I know I should have been trying to justify why I shouldn’t, but somehow, I found myself in a situation I had never been in before.

Prior to this particular evening, the nearest I had been to messing with a woman’s clothes, was when there was a woman inside them, who in my opinion, needed to get out of them.

Now I was about to divest myself of all my bodily hair and don a pair of panties the likes of which, I had only seen in porn magazines or on the internet. God knows what I was going to do with the bra. For a start I was only any good at removing said item, not putting it on.

I applied the cream, trying at first to leave a nice “V” above my thing–which mercifully had ceased its throbbing curiosity and had returned to just hanging around as usual.

Anyway, I cocked that up if you pardon the pun and wound up applying the cream all over, leaving artistic interpretation to the professionals. I ended up doing a fair impression of a mannequin, standing as still as I could for what felt like hours before feeling that the tingling sensation was just a tad too strong.

Showered, remarkably sober considering and once again devoid of the cream, I was now also devoid of hair anywhere other than on my head–an odd sensation that I hadn’t experienced since school and was actually hoping I wouldn’t experience again.

How wrong we can be.

I went to step into the panties and was shocked at the sensation as I drew them up my legs. Once again, my man-thing wanted to know what was going on and whether this was one of those things that would involve him, making things awfully difficult. I tried to bend it back between my legs, but to no avail. I’d need to be able to rip phone books in half before I could bend that!

I guess I wasn’t as sober as I thought as I was misguided enough to think it would listen to reason, but I think turning a deaf ear is a forte of these appendages–well this one anyway. I tried again, thinking pure thoughts or thinking about work related things in order to get him to stop misbehaving, but to no avail. The one thing that didn’t occur to me was to try getting rid of it the old-fashioned way–with a swift one off the wrist. It would only have taken a few seconds after all!

I tried flicking the end–a trick I had heard about from a nurse who used it often to deflate amorous men. She used a biro and since I didn’t have one, I figured flicking it with my finger would work just as well.

“TWANNNNNG!”

Apart from nearly hitting the ceiling and being almost unable to see due to the tears in my eyes, the trick actually worked and I was able to tuck him back between my legs and jump into the panties before “it” decided “it” was curious again…

The feeling was electric and not just a little weird.

Vicky was right. The fabric was much more of a caress on the skin compared to those things I had been wearing. Admittedly, the “Y-Fronts” were like armour plating compared to the gossamer delights I was currently in and against hairless skin it was something I really wasn’t ready for.

The bra was something else entirely.

For a start, I didn’t have the necessary accoutrements to fill it as was intended and plus, I had the devil’s own job to do the damned thing up winding up giving Vicky a shout.

“Problems?” she asked.

“Just a little difficulty with the bra,” I replied and seconds later, it was done up and she was pulling it that way and this to make it fit properly.

“How do you fill yours?” I asked.

“I have forms,” she said and popped one out, hefting it in her hand.

“Blimey, it could be real!” I exclaimed.

“For the price, I should think so. Now, try these on,” she said, handing me a black circle skirt she called it, a white blouse and a couple of spongy bra-fillers.

Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m not really into being or feeling girly in any sense of the word, but trying on those panties–I still want to call them knickers, after all this is England not some cheesy American coming-of-age rom-com, but hey-ho.

Where was I? Oh yes. After I tried on the knickers, I could feel how this cross-dressing thing could be something other blokes got into. As I have said, they were light and comfortable; silky to the touch and against my bare, smooth skin, truly pleasurable.

I was intrigued and wanted to find out how it all fitted together. I had my doubts that just a bit of hair removal and a few odds and sods of clothes could transform me into a female at least on the outside.

I drew the skirt up my legs and marvelled as it slid, rippling; brushing gently against my skin, causing goose-bumps to rise on my arms and a shudder to course from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

“There,” she said popping the bra fillers into my bra and helping me do up the blouse–well it buttoned on the wrong side, didn’t it?

“How’s that?” she asked with a look of admiration on her face.

“Er, not what I was expecting.” I replied.

“Oh?”

“It’s kind of like a bit of a sensory overload. There’s a breeze going up my skirt, my legs are super-sensitive and…”

“Now you can see what attracted me.”

“No shit!” I said, turning this way and that to feel the skirt brush against my legs some more.

“Makeup?”

“I don’t know. This putting a few clothes on is one thing, but I don’t know. I feel it’s like crossing a line.”

“Didn’t you cross whatever line you’re referring to a while ago?”

“I suppose.” I said, not entirely convinced.

“Look, you’ve come this far, why not finish it off?”

“I think I need a drink,” I said and headed to the lounge and that giant bottle of vodka, plunking myself down on the sofa, knees wide apart.

“Close you legs,” she said. “I can see what you had for breakfast.”

“Oops!” I said, blushing again, clamping my knees together with a slap and an “ouch”.

“Easy, tiger.”

I was in a real fix here, my body telling me one thing and my brain telling me something else. I had to admit that this new set of sensations were interesting and something I was really getting into, but my head was telling me at the same time, it was so wrong.

“Penny for your thoughts,” she asked.

I was dumbstruck. She was right in that I did trust her, but at the same time, I didn’t trust me. I was three parts drunk, though still able to think fairly straight, but my attention kept wandering to the feelings I was getting from these clothes and the sensations that just wouldn’t quit.

“I don’t know,” I said quietly.

“You’re torn aren’t you?”

“Between a rock and a hard place. Does this mean I might be gay?”

“I doubt that, however you might find you’re a bit more “bi” than you think.”

“Why?”

“It’s a challenge to your sensibilities. Up to now, you’ve seen everything in black and white and now, something ‘grey’ has come into the equation.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Everyone is what they appear and a bit more. Blokes are generally all male–with a bit of female thrown in. Sometimes that feminine bit is a bit more pronounced–like with me and I suspect you too. You have seen someone–perhaps a kindred spirit in me and are fighting with yourself because it challenges what you believed was possible. It happens a lot.”

“I don’t know if I can handle this,” I said. “So far I think it just feels nice. Surely that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Maybe; maybe not,” she said. “What’s for sure is that you have feelings for me that you can’t quite reconcile. The idea that you could have those feelings for another man is causing you to have a minor mental meltdown.”

“I just can’t see it as ‘normal’. It’s so much to take in.”

“I know and we’re not finished yet,” she said and stood up. “Come on, time for makeup.”

About twenty minutes later, I had my face shaved, foundation, blusher, eye shadow, mascara, lippy and eye liner applied and was trying to get used to a wig.

Looking in the mirror I was stunned. True, I was no supermodel and probably in a lot of cases, easy to spot as not being a real woman, but mostly, it wasn’t bad at all.

“Well, well, well,” she said, beaming. “Who’s that girl?”

“I would never have believed this,” I replied, still unable to believe quite what I was seeing.

“It’s not bad for a first time. Of course the more you get into this, the better you will be at sorting out a look that best suits you.”

I spun round and looked her in the eye. “What do you mean “the more”? You don’t think I’m going to do this again do you?”

“I think so.” She knelt before me and put her hands on my knees. “You were obviously receptive to the idea, otherwise you wouldn’t have let it get this far. You’re obviously pleased with the outcome–not disgusted and you have made no attempt at all to stop any of this from happening.”

“Um…” I said, faltering at the first hurdle and losing the will to try to talk my way out of it.

“So you are going to be doing this again aren’t you?”

“Um…” I replied–eloquent as always.

“Well?”

Do I have to make a decision now?

Well having thought that last thought, I realised that yes I did like what I was currently doing in the comfort of a closed environment, but even letting the idea of going outside flutter gently trough my brain very nearly caused an apoplectic fit.

“I don’t know, I mean, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” she asked. “Don’t you like it?”

“Yes.” I admitted very quietly.

“Then why ever not?”

“There’s a moral imperative here.”

“Morals? That’s rich coming from a man who regularly screws strangers and then dumps them after one night.”

“That’s not the same at all.” I argued.

“It is so. Here you’re harming no-one, just doing something that makes you happy and you’re suggesting that it’s morally wrong?”

“Yes,” I blurted, then added, “Oh, I don’t know.” And I didn’t either. Suddenly all the preconceptions I had about what was right, what was wrong, what was taboo and what wasn’t were beginning to become one big sticky mess.

“How many people do you know that wear jeans?” she asked.

“It would be easier to count those that don’t.” I replied, feeling better that we were now talking about something that was on solid ground.

“And how many people do you know that wear trousers?”

Again, it was one of those questions that would have been easier to answer the other way round.

“And skirts or dresses?”

Ah, the crux of the matter. Now we had crossed that invisible but nevertheless ever-present line between what’s acceptable and what’s not. I couldn’t answer.

“So you’re saying it’s alright for women to wear jeans and trousers, even masculine suits, but it’s not alright for men to wear skirts or dresses or makeup?”

“Um…” I said, receding back into monosyllabic responses.

“Just as I thought,” she said, getting up. “You need to think very carefully and I think I can help you decide, but you have to trust me.”

I looked at her as if she was just about to shoot me. “How?”

“Do you trust me?”

“I guess,” I said and got a look that wasn’t at all encouraging. “I mean, yes.”

“Right,” she said and dived into the bottom of a wardrobe and emerged moments later with a pair of three inch stilettos in red. “Try these.”

I gingerly inserted a foot into something that when I approached, seemed to grow to skyscraper proportions, but once my foot was firmly pressed home, didn’t feel nearly as uncomfortable as I first thought it would–until with the other attached, standing joined in.

Oh-My-God I felt like Jerry Hall–huge, massive. I’m not that tall to begin with, but those extra three inches really make a difference–ask any woman.

“How d’you walk in these things?” I asked, tottering around unsteadily. I guess the alcohol wasn’t helping here, but the more I tried the easier it became. If the skirt had been more restrictive, I imagine things would have been a lot harder, but as it was, it was alright.

Still, it was early days I suppose.

So putting a pair of shoes on was no big deal. First time I had ever worn a pair of shoes like this, but I couldn’t see where the trust bit came in. I was about to find out.

“Ready?” she asked.

“What for?”

“We’re going out.”

Once again I was dumbstruck. I was in two minds as to whether I should believe her. She couldn’t be serious.

“What?” I asked in a very small, squeaky voice.

“Don’t piss about. Let’s go.”

“Are you fucking mental? I can’t go out like this.”

“Why not? I do,” she said and to shoot my argument down in flames–again, she reminded me of what I had agreed to. “Trust me.”

It was such a small phrase and yet so very scary–especially right now.

She had phoned for a taxi, which took the edge off and once I had negotiated the stairs, which brought home just how hard walking was really going to be, we jumped in and headed off towards the centre of town.

I don’t think I have ever been so nervous.

“I should have had a drink before we did this.” I muttered morosely.

“I’m glad you didn’t. They won’t let you in if they think you might get out of order.”

“Oh.” I said and sank into being nervous again.

We arrived some minutes later at a rather non-descript building with two of the hugest blokes I have ever seen standing outside and looking menacing.

“Vicky!” one of them exclaimed. “Long time no see.”

“Been busy,” she said, flashing the big man a grin.

He looked at me in that way I knew meant he knew what I hoped he didn’t know–He could see through this flimsy disguise.

“She with you?” he asked.

Vicky just smiled, nodded and linked arms with me, almost dragging me into the building past the two man-mountains.

“He knows,” I hissed at Vicky

“Probably,” she said calmly.

“So?” I asked, thinking I was going to be heading for trouble and was about to duck out and run away as fast as I could when a girl went past in not much more than some black makeup, the tallest pair of platform stilettos I have ever seen, a thong–well, a postage stamp on strings, a spiked collar complete with lead and two crosses of black electrical tape over her nipples.

My jaw hit the deck and I had no sooner got it back to where it should have been when “CLANG!!” and down it went again as someone else walked past–a male this time in nothing but a pair of rubber panties and the obligatory makeup.

I turned to see Vicky almost doubled over with laughter.

“What?” I demanded.

“You, you plonker,” she chortled. “Come on.”

I shook my head and walking down the corridor, which can’t have been more than a hundred feet in length, more and more people all of whom were either cross-dressing, in a uniform, in rubber, leather walked past, some stopping for a moment or two to speak to Vicky and it was all I could do to keep my eyes in their sockets.

Suddenly I didn’t feel out of place–overdressed yes, but not in the least bit out of place.

We got drinks and gradually, I began to loosen up and after an hour or so, I was actually thoroughly enjoying myself.

I was constantly reminded of the skirt as it swished and swayed against my legs, my shoes–although a bugger to get used to, but as I saw my reflection in polished surfaces or mirrors–of which there were plenty, I couldn’t help feeling a sense of pride.

Yes this was a complete one-eighty, but at the same time, I think it had always been there, lurking somewhere, just waiting to get out. I think it would have come out some time or another, but I’m so glad it happened sooner rather than later as this is something I don’t think I’d have been happy waiting too long for.

I know, this was the first night and I haven’t had long enough to make my mind up, but sometimes it’s like flavours–you either like them or you don’t. How long does it take to decide you like chocolate?

What really put the cap on it for me was Sukie.

I know Sukie is not her real name, but I had gone to the bar to get Vicky and I a drink and that’s where we met.

I couldn’t get the smile off my face and suddenly because the whole area was grey and not the black and white I had been used to, I had to rethink how I treated the people I was talking to. There was no lesser of the species, they were just people. Neither male nor female, just people and that is surprisingly liberating.

Sukie stood next to me and made no bones about giving me the eye.

I felt a bit like I was suddenly out there on my own, but I looked back, still with that cheesy grin on my face and she returned my smile.

“Your first time?” she asked.

I wasn’t sure what she meant by that; first time in women’s clothes or first time at the club?

“Yes,” I said; which conveniently covered both bases.

“Sukie,” she said and suddenly I was at a loss as to what to say.

Billy is not just a man’s name I mean there is that Billie Piper after all and when the name’s said, you can’t tell how it spelt, but somehow I didn’t want to be Billy.

Billy was a womanising Neanderthal, with no respect for anyone other than himself. In the very short time I had been in the guise of a woman, I felt different. I didn’t feel that the posturing and arrogance that usually accompanies a man was really necessary and now I didn’t know quite what to do, what to say or anything.

“Hmm,” Sukie murmured, rubbing her chin. “This really is your first time isn’t it?”

I nodded, keeping my mouth firmly shut.

“Perhaps I could think of something appropriate for you,” she suggested.

“I think I would like that,” I replied. “Would you like to join us for a drink?”

“Us?” she asked.

“Vicky and I. We’re just over there,” I elaborated, gesturing in the general direction of the table.

“How can I turn down such a pretty thing?” she asked and I went that beet-red colour again–something that was becoming an all-too regular occurrence.

We went across to the table, through the heaving mass of people doing all sorts of things to each other and themselves, which was still catching me out. I wasn’t used to this liberalism and in some respects didn’t think all of it appropriate, but if it meant that somewhere like this could exist, I felt it was a small price to pay.

I just hoped I wouldn’t be expected to join in.

Vicky was chatting to someone who I have to say, was impossible to make out. He or she, I wasn’t sure, but I quickly reminded myself that I didn’t care either. I introduced Sukie to Vicky.

“Oh, Vicky!” said Sukie, rolling her eyes. “Why didn’t you say?”

I thought I did. I smiled and the next thing I knew, Vicky and Sukie were immersed in conversation, much to my chagrin. Still, I don’t think I have ever felt so comfortable in a club before.

As Billy I was always on the lookout for those men who either feel that they need to be taking your girl away from you or are vexed because you’ve taken theirs away from them. Here there was more strangeness than you could comfortably shake a large gnarly stick at and yet, no big problems anywhere.

I was shocked back to the present hearing my name mentioned.

“We were just saying that you definitely need a new name and we’ve been thinking about it,” Sukie informed me.

“You have?” I asked, not sure whether this was such a good idea.

“Yes. I think I like Sukie’s choice. So will you,” Vicky added.

“I will?”

“Definitely,” they chorused.

“Well, what is it?”

The two of them looked at each other and started laughing.

“She’s impatient isn’t she?”

“Very. That’s not very ladylike is it?”

“Not at all,” Sukie agreed. “Perhaps we should make her wait a little longer.”

“For heaven’s sake!” I exclaimed. “What is it?”

More laughter.

Eventually they calmed down and Sukie started to explain a few things.

“We–well, that is, I–wanted to give you a name that was a reflection of the real you. As I have been told, you’ve had a bit of a turnaround lately and over the last few weeks or months even, you are not even the same person.”

I was definitely getting impatient. They were enjoying this I knew. They were dragging it out as long as possible and it was certainly having the desired effect.

“I didn’t realise you knew Vicky, but I’m glad you do. My thoughts on a name would have been coloured by first impressions and having Vicky here to confer with has made things a lot easier.”

So what the hell have you come up with?

“So I have decided to give you a name I think suits you, but more than that, it’s one of my favourites.”

I could just throttle these two…

“Welcome to the club, Tanya.”

I was gobsmacked.

Talk about lost for words. I tried to say thank you, ta, thanks, cheers–anything, but the only thing that happened was that my jaw went up and down and my lips flapped, but other than that, there was very little else happening.

“Do you think she likes it?” Vicky asked.

“I don’t know. I hope she makes a decision soon or I may have to start thinking that she’s a little simple.”

“I’m not!” I stated. I thought I had got over the speechlessness, but it had been replaced with that horrible feeling of that lump in the throat.

I had gone from being frustrated, to emotionally touched and the lump in my throat was winning a battle being waged that I never thought I would ever see, and it was a fight I was currently losing–badly.

I could feel my eyes welling up and that lump in my throat seemed to be bedding in for the night. I felt I tear roll down one cheek and that was followed by another on the other side, then another and another…

“I think she likes it,” Sukie observed.

“I do too,” Vicky agreed and as I tried to look through watery eyes, I thought I could see that the two of them were starting to get just as emotional.

“I love it,” I managed to utter, before the flood started and the next thing I knew was that I had Sukie on one side, Vicky on the other, both dabbing my eyes gently so as not to have me winding up with panda eyes. They each took turns in hugging me and congratulating me, welcoming me to the club.

It just made things worse.

---

We didn’t stay very long after that, but it had been a really good evening and Vicky, Sukie and I made our way to Vicky’s place for a last coffee and home to bed.

Vicky told us to make ourselves comfortable and toddled off to the kitchen. I sat on the sofa with Sukie opposite me.

“Did you have a good time?” she asked.

“Much better than I thought, actually.” I replied. “I can’t thank you enough for Tanya.”

“Oh, I’m sure I can think of a way…”

Did she just say what I thought she said?

The coffee arrived moments later and Vicky placed a tray on the coffee table and put a mug of coffee in front of each of use.

“Milk and sugar is on the tray,” she informed.

I was so pleased that she turned up when she did as I have never been in a position where I am the prey and a woman is the predator, but I saw how it must have felt for the girls I had chatted up in the past.

It was odd; a feeling of being out of control and yet excited at the same time. A real roller-coaster of a feeling and I can’t say it was unpleasant. Of course, much of that feeling was because I felt a connection with Sukie, but I can see that it would be a completely different story if the advances were unwanted.

As we drank our coffees, Vicky and Sukie chatted and I was drifting away–I think.

I was trying to get my head round what had happened in the last few hours. Less than a day had gone by and I had punched and probably lost someone I regarded as my best mate as well as making a change so profound, I was still reeling at the thought. More to the point, the night still wasn’t over and it was with no small amount of trepidation that I faced the possibilities that were presenting themselves by the bucket-load as far as Sukie was concerned.

Partly I wanted something to happen, but if I had learned one thing this evening, it was that one cannot judge a book by its cover. Sukie was what she was and just what that was, was unknown to me at this time.

It was something that bothered me, and yet didn’t at the same time. If she was a he masquerading as a woman, I was likely to find myself in the same dilemma with her as I did with Vicky.

Would I have gone through with it had things got sexual?

I don’t know and the same question was now rearing its head with Sukie. If she was a he, she was doing a bloody good job of hiding it, but I’ve seen pictures of she-males on the internet and some of those are every bit as convincing as Sukie–or Vicky for that matter.

As coffees were finished and so were we, the question of going home came up and it dawned on me that I was still in Vicky’s clothes.

“I should change,” I said.

“Do you have to?” Sukie asked; the disappointment evident on her face.

“Well, these aren’t mine and I don’t know how the neighbours are going to react if I turn up like this.”

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose not, but…”

“Well, let’s not worry about it then,” she said and my eyes went very wide. “I’m sure that Vicky will be okay if you return her stuff cleaned and fresh in a few days, won’t you Vick?”

“No problem. Do you want to take your stuff in a bag, Tanya?”

Tanya? That was the first time either had used my new name directly and I knew that it was going to take some getting used to, but like being the prey, not unpleasant.

“Thanks, perhaps I should.”

We said our–lengthy–goodbyes at the door and left Vicky’s at about half two that morning, the two of us walking arm in arm towards my place and whilst I wasn’t the steadier of the two of us, it marked the beginning of something I had no control over and frankly didn’t care.

I’m not going to tell you how the evening finally finished, whether Sukie was one thing or the other or anything of that nature and I’m sorry if that upsets.

Suffice it to say that Vicky was right and that night was not the last time I dressed this way. I have had a severe wakeup call with regards the way I treat people and this vision from the other side has helped me immensely.

Vicky and I are still friends and two years down the line, Sukie and I are still together and maybe, one day, I’ll get around to telling our story, but this, for the time being, is it.

Thank you for listening.

Tanya.