Compelled
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

I am not sure what made me do it – I only know that it changed my life forever. Sure, I had played around with a little cross-dressing in my youth. I had always admired my mother and the way she dressed, and when I was alone I would sometimes slip into her things. It was harmless fun. It all changed when I met the woman who was the love of my life – the woman I married and raised a family with. Whatever transvestitic compulsion I had, disappeared when I met her.

Maybe it was the fact that I no longer had a woman in my life. Since her tragic death, I really had nobody. Both of my sons were away at college. I just sat with one of her dresses on my lap, fighting back the tears, and I found myself thinking what a nice dress it was. I found myself thinking that I should put it on.

The boutique was called “Fantasy Transformations”. There seems to be at least one in every major city. I guess that meant that I was not alone. Plenty of guys like me – normal middle-aged hetero guys – get off a little on dressing up., right? Just a little release from the stresses of grief. No big deal.

Who could have known where it would lead?

So, the options offered by “Fantasy Transformations” were just to be dressed and fully femmed up and have a photo shoot (keep the images for your own private pleasure); or a brief outing in drag. I was really only committed to the former option, but as it was late in the day; my “tutor” suggested that we go for a drink at a nearby bar, with me in costume – no extra charge. The only change was to tone down the make up a little and put me into a more modest dress. It was suggested to me that if I did not want to be recognized as one of the boutique’s customers, this was the right look. She said that she would not have suggested it for everyone. For some it might even be dangerous, but she said I looked so relaxed and convincing as a woman.

I suppose the only thing that really allowed me to pull it off was the voice. It is not that I have an unusually high speaking voice normally, but somehow, I just managed to pull off a really good woman’s voice from the moment my junk was tucked up.

Both my “tutor” and the makeup girl went with me to the bar, and I felt confident enough to go up to buy the drinks. That was where I met Josh.

I was not looking to talk to anyone, other than the barman, as I was paying. It was just that the girls had asked for cocktails (I just wanted a glass of wine) and they took a while to get ready. He was just another customer, drinking at the bar and writing something in a small book. I don’t even know what he said to me to get me talking. I just remember that he was charming and funny.

It seemed to me that he had no inkling that he was talking to a man. That was somehow flattering. I wanted to make sure that he continued to look at me that way, so I was mindful that my tutor had warned me that I should not overdo it. I just kept my hands clasped together on the bar.

When my drinks arrived, he offered to help me take two of them to the table. One person always has a problem with three drinks, so how could I refuse. He introduced himself to all three of us. His name was Josh. I told him that my name was Maria. Half an hour later, another three drinks were delivered to our table. He stayed at the bar smiling at us. Only when we stood up to leave did he come over.

“If you ladies drink here often, perhaps you might invite me to join you next time?” he said. He handed me his card. Me, not the others. He looked at me. I should have declined the card, but I took it with a smile and slipped it into the handbag I had borrowed for the evening. I just gave him my best smile as we left the table.

I could not help but look back at the door. He was grinning, and I have to say that I had the oddest feeling in my chest. It was as if I was terrified that I might never see him again, this stranger. I reasoned that it was the bra that was constricting me somehow. I had never worn one before.

“Josh Halverson, Financial Advice”. It was written on his card. I should have thrown it away or left it in the handbag when I left that with the wig and the dress, at the boutique. But instead, I took it and transferred it to my wallet, now lightened a little by my feminine experience.

It had been a diversion, and not a cheap one. That should have been an end of it. I would never see Josh Halverson again. Or if I did, he would never recognize me. I was back to being a man. I was back to the way things were, a widower on my own.

Of course, I had friends, but curiously as a person without a partner, you seem to get fewer invitations to things with other couples. And nights out with the boys had never been a significant thing for me. After a few weeks it occurred to me that the last time I had been in a bar it had been as Maria, getting chatted up by a man. It had been a special night, and I decided that I wanted to do it again.

This is not so unreasonable. I was lonely and maybe on the verge of being depressed, what with the loss still being raw despite the time that had passed, and the loneliness gradually accruing the way it does. But why I felt the need to call him and include him in my evening is much harder to explain.

How could anything good come of it? I tell him that I am not a woman – he is angry – there is a scene. He finds out without me telling him – he is angry, I am sad – there is a scene. It could all be avoided if I had not called. Why would I do such a thing? Vanity, I suppose.

Who does not like to be desired? I could see it in the way he looked at me. But I was in a fragile state. I know now that it was not a condition that could allow a man to express himself properly. Grief is a strange thing. I was sad and vulnerable, and I was trying to hide myself. When I stepped out of the boutique the real me was totally concealed – except maybe the vulnerability. But then vulnerability just adds to feminine attraction.

Josh did not want a rendezvous at the bar where we had first met, but rather at the small Moroccan restaurant on the same block.

For some reason I felt that he was looking at me a little differently. I still felt that he was attracted to me, but he seemed to be examining me. Out of my painted mouth came a torrent of lies. I could hardly believe that it was me that was talking. The soft, lilting feminine voice that seemed to have come from nowhere was talking about my ex-husband who had recently left. The man I was describing was me. I was my wife. As if the tables had been turned. Except of course, in my story, he was not dead – he had just found love elsewhere. That is a better story. It avoids the oppressive sympathy associated with a death; that I had already endured too much of.

But he was understanding. He seemed to like listening to me. He was harder to draw from, but I learned that he too had been married for many years until recently, and like me he had children who were no longer dependent.

“They are fake – stick-ons,” I said. He had taken my hand (I felt a little awkward) and seemed to be examining the manicure. “I have to admit that I am a bit of a fake, with my get-up tonight.”

“I like a woman who takes care with her appearance,” he said. He was giving me a look that brought back the same feeling I had the first night – flutters in the chest. “But perhaps the next time, I can see something more of the real you?”

Now was the time. Tell him. Burst his bubble. Bring this poor besotted fool back to earth.

“Next time?” I asked, coyly.

“I am away for a conference this weekend,” he said, “But next weekend we could go to the NBA playoffs if you like. I am associated with a sponsor, so I have seats.”

I had told him that I was a basketball fan, and he had every reason to think that I would be free to go, so I felt trapped. Trapped, but excited too. I just blurted it out: “That would be great!”

As soon as the words had left my mouth I realized that I had gone too far, but the truth of it was that I had no plan as to how I would end this crazy charade. I was just riding with it – a thrill ride, a dangerous thrill ride with a certain crash at the end. But I did not want that end to come.

Then, just as I was contemplating how I would disappear from his life but standing him up on that weekend date, he kissed me. He had hailed a cab and as it pulled up and he opened the door for me, he took the opportunity to kiss me. Not a peck on the cheek as a polite “au revoir”, but a full-on passionate kiss. I did not throw my arms around him and kiss him back – that would have been weird. No, in fact, I did something even weirder. My arms fell to my side and I accepted his tongue. I was truly passive and receiving. And when our lips parted there was a moment – a look between us. Thankfully I had the seat of the cab to collapse into.

On the way home I felt a warmth, but it quickly turned to panic. Appear as a woman in daylight? Well not quite daylight, as it was an evening game. But still, he wanted to see “more of the real me”. The real me has a cock

I still had the option of a no-show. That was by far, the better option. The alternative was … well anything from bad to violence and death. I never even contemplated a path that would forever compromise my maleness, but no outcome was good. But despite all the warnings I heard in my head, the path I chose was the worst one. I had decided that Maria would keep that date with Josh, but that she would have to be pared back to the bare woman. Even though there was no such woman. There is no logic to it. I felt compelled.

I had some time. I decided that I would give myself a week and if I felt that I could not pull this off by the end of that week, I still had a couple of days in which to call Josh and break it off. If necessary I would tell him that I was a guy. But I knew that if I was going to give the chance to go to playoffs with him my best shot, or people around me would notice.

I tried to persuade myself that I was doing all of this because I was a big basketball fan. That is nonsense. It was as if I was desperate to find some explanation for my strange behaviour. I felt almost as if I was a lemming, but not in a pack. I was a lonely lemming heading for the cliff edge saying: “This is going to be exciting”.

What should have stopped me was the call I got from my daughter, asking how things were and how I was coping. But how can you say: “Oh, I have found a way to cope. I dress as a woman and I date a man and he kisses me and I let him do it”. She would have me committed, or at least she would fly over to rescue me. I told her that I was fine, and I was more worried about her and my son.

The boutique was about a masquerade, but I needed a makeover. My tutor at the boutique recommended somebody. She said that this person was ideal for “moving to the next level.” Her name was Maggie, and I went to have a consultation with her.

Hers was a modest beauty shop, but it clearly had some advanced equipment. What was most noticeable was her clientele. I could recognize immediately that many were transwomen. It was not a phrase that I had even heard before, but I soon learned all about it. Maggie was chatty and so were most of her customers.

I had the advantage of a good head of hair, but I had paid little attention to it. Maggie said that she could do something with it. But she was focusing on my face.

“With the style I am thinking of, we are not talking about hiding those brows with a little concealer and a wig with bangs, we need to pluck,” she said. “And we need to work on your skin. We need to clear the hair from your face, not just shave it. The razor will work on the rest of you. Neck down. Everything has to go.”

I had shaved my legs and forearms for my masquerade, but this seemed radical where most of my body would be covered.

“This is not about appearance,” she said. “This about bringing the inner woman to the surface. The inner woman cannot have a hairy surface!”

She was right. When I had shaved down, I did feel very different – not quite a woman – but certainly less of a man. But when she got to work on my face and hair, I knew that I had crossed a line. She shaped my eyebrows into something unmistakably feminine and she used compounds to strip not just the beard from my face, but my male skin too. That is how it felt.

It was a Thursday night, and I had taken Friday off - I needed all of it to recover. I needed time and moisturizer to eliminate inflammation. Most was gone by the morning, and what was looking back at me from the mirror was an unbelievably feminine face.

It occurred to me that this was not a face that I could conceal on Monday. My compulsion had taken me way too far. Ok, hair can grow back, even plucked hair, but how long would it take? I was shocked at just what a fool I was.

But on the Thursday night at the salon, Maggie had asked me to bring a dress to change into and any accessories. I found a plain black number from my late wife’s wardrobe which Maggie said would do. I had no shoes to fit me, so I just took sneakers, but Maggie said that they would be totally unacceptable for the look she wanted as I left her salon. One of her customers loaned me shoes in my size, nude in color, but with heels that were a challenge to walk in.

She had my hair styled in a short “pixie” cut and she recommended pearl earrings and light makeup but with bright red lipstick.

I looked far better than I had imagined, but I faced the problem of turning up to work on Monday.

But for now, I faced the problem of confronting Josh. Of course, I had cold feet, but I had gone through so much to look this good. More than that, I felt compelled to do this, something almost beyond my control.

I got a cab and I met him outside the hotel across from the stadium. He took a shot of me walking towards him, concentrating on not falling over in those heels.

He recognized me immediately, even without the wig.

“So, you are not really a blonde?” he remarked.

“I am sorry to disappoint you,” I said.

“I am not disappointed,” he said. “Those blue eyes of yours look even more spectacular with the short dark hair.”

I felt like saying: “Maybe you are not disappointed now, but later, for sure you will be”, but I just smiled at him.

We had a great night. We watched the game. The team that we both supported, won. The kiss cam never focussed on us. We laughed and we shouted, and never once did I let my feminine exterior crack. Perhaps that is why I was so disappointed that I failed.

We went for a supper after the game. The places near the stadium were full so we took a cab to an old fashioned diner he knew, and it was there that he burst my bubble.

I cannot even remember exactly what he said. I just knew that I was upset, although I should not have been. After all, he needed to know.

“So, you know that I am not really a woman?” I could feel tears welling up in my eyes, and I could see that he could see them.

“Stop,” he said. “Let me explain. Let me tell you the whole story.”

“Go on then,” I sniffed.

“That first night, I did not know,” he said. “I swear it. I had just stopped for a drink and I thought that you looked good. But after you had left the barman told me that he had recognized the two women you were with as working at a drag shop, so he told me that you might be a guy. I could not believe it, but I accepted a date with you … maybe to make sure, or maybe out of some perverse curiosity. I don’t know which. I was maybe 60% sure you were a guy when I asked you to the basketball. That was to be the big reveal. But then I saw the real you … and …”.

“And what?”

“And I fell in love with you. You see, I know that the real you is not male. I could never fall in love with a man. But I am in love with you.”

Surely everybody has heard those words once in their life – “I’m in love with you”. I pity those who never have. But for those poor souls who have not, I can only say that it is a thunderbolt moment. Not just an expression of love but an admission that he is trapped in a well of love. The only question is whether I am in that well with him.

The crazy thing is that I wanted to be.

Maybe that means he is right? He told me that I was not male – was I? Am I? Well not now, I’m not. If I was before that night in the diner after the NBA playoffs, then that thunderbolt changed all that. Or was it that all of the compulsions that led me to that moment was my real soul talking to me.

When I heard the words, I had to turn away. He was holding my hand over the tabletop, but I could not look at him. It was dark outside and the lights in the diner were bright, as diner lights are. I could see my reflection in the window. The wet eyes made me look even more like a woman. In fact, I saw no man at all in the reflection. It was as if this imperfect mirror was the first reflection of the true me that I had ever seen.

And he was saying to me: “This may come as a shock to you, I know that. I just need to tell you how I feel.”

I agreed to go home with him. I thought that if I get to his home and he wants to get intimate, I will be disgusted and that will be that. But that is not what happened.

First of all, when I walked in, I felt at home. I mean I really felt that I was in a place that seemed like a home. My apartment seemed just like a structure without my wife living there. Or maybe it was just that the memories of life there were now tinged with sadness. His home still had happiness all through it. There were pictures of his family, some including his ex-wife, all smiling.

Secondly, he did everything to make me comfortable. He told me that he wanted me to take my time. He said that he had put his cards on the table, but he knew that it was still win or lose. I did not have to play my hand until I was ready, and he was putting no time limit on it.

And thirdly, he did not get physical. Instead I did. He was talking and just being the nicest person anybody could be. I just had to shut him up, in the kindest way. So, I just threw my arms around him and kissed him. I am going to say it again, I felt compelled to do it. Not an impulse, but a ‘compulse’, if there is such a thing. Not from within, but as if another hand or mind was directing me., like an inner brain, that had been lurking in hiding.

It was that inner brain that had me reach down into his pants and feel the way he felt about me. I had my tongue in his mouth my left hand holding his head to mine, and my right hand on his other head. He came, all over my dress. He apologized. I giggled.

How weird is that? It was clearly not me in control.

I confess that when I woke up in the morning in his arms, I had a moment of doubt, but it was a very fleeting one. That was because he woke only minutes later and held me tight. He told me that he wanted me to have a sexual release like he had enjoyed, but he could not give it. I was still wearing my underwear to keep my fake breasts within his reach, and to hide my male bits. He did not want to see those, ever. He never has. And now he never will.

You can fight compulsion, or you can surrender to it. Sometimes I think we only fight the forces that seek to control us out of stubborn pride. People say: “I will not be moved” not because moving is not a good idea, but because they just don’t like somebody doing it to them. You have to ask: “Is moving a good idea?”

In my case, the answer to that question is love. My man loves me. He loved me when I was an imperfect woman, and now that I am perfected for him, he loves me even more. And I love him back.

Sometimes I feel guilty that I never loved my wife as much as I love him. I could always say that I never loved another woman as much, and that is true, but it is not honest. True love is to be prepared to give everything away for the person you love. That means your job, your old friends and even your old genitals, but in my case (thankfully) not my sons.

But I make it sound like I had a choice. I know now that I never did. I was compelled.

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2019