Chapter Two of Seven

Jim wakes up naked in a motel room. There are two letters on the table. One is from his wife and the other is from his three friends. There are several boxes in the room filled with his secret wardrobe.

Friends Four Life
Gill: A Girl Friend Part Two
By Angela Rasch

Chapter Two
A Prison for My Mind

Two of Seven Chapters

As I opened my eyes, I was greeted by a dull headache. I had obviously been drugged.

I was naked, in bed, in a motel room, covered by a chenille bedspread and a sheet. I sat up on the edge of the bed and pulled back the edge of the drapes. The motel had seen its better days. It had about twenty units, and judging by the lack of cars -- few customers.

The door to the room, which led directly to the parking lot, was not locked. Locked or unlocked, it made no difference to me. I needed answers -- before I could decide where to go.

The room was sparse, dingy, and had been modified. A large floor-to-ceiling mirror made the area look bigger than its tiny dimensions. The room had no TV or radio. There was a phone jack, but no phone.

In addition to the bed, the furniture included an old-style dressing table with a big mirror like my mother once had, an overstuffed chair, a tall dresser, and a nightstand with a clock that said 11:00. I had been out, for over twenty hours.

The room had recently been cleaned with pine-scented disinfectant.

Scattered around the room were cardboard bankers’ boxes, the kind we used at work to store old files. The closet was empty.

The full bath no longer had a door to allow privacy. After standing over the toilet, for quite some time, relieving myself, I gave the room another going over. I found two sealed envelopes on the nightstand. One was addressed to Jill - my husband, the other was directed to, Jill - our soon to be friend.

I opened the one from Jackie.

Dear Jill,

I have loved you for almost two decades. Ever since I met you, I knew that you were the person I wanted to be with the rest of my life.

At times, it has been difficult living with you. At times, you lack basic compassion.

You don’t understand my needs, or just don’t care.

When you are in women’s clothing you change -- and I lose my identity. Sometimes, I think our lovemaking is really your masturbation. You become so lost in the pleasure of your female role that you shut me out.

I want you as a husband. I want you as a friend. I can’t stand to have you around when you are unhappy and uncaring.

Because of your lack of compassion, bad things have happened.

You can be so much better than you are. I can hardly wait to see you when this is all done. I know you will remember how to be the loving, kind, and considerate person I married.

You will become a person who is finally true to your identity.

If by some extremely slight chance, you come out of this experience unchanged, I will have no choice but to demand that you move out. In that case, I will file for divorce and custody of the children.

Please listen to your friends. Do what they tell you.

I love you.

Jackie

Damn her. What has she done? Haven’t I expressed my love by telling her my most intimate secret?

How could she have done this to me? She’s seen how I get when I don’t get relief from the pressures at work, by cross-dressing. Dressing as a woman isn’t a hobby. I absolutely have to do it. It’s part of what maintains the lifestyle we both enjoy.

Damn! She’s really done it. We’re truly screwed.

“Listen to your friends.” Is she nuts? They want to ruin me over a little embarrassment. Someone must have said something awful to Anne.

What the hell was Jackie thinking of when she betrayed me? I’ve always thought Jackie’s hatred of cross-dressing is at least in part because of some discomfort with her own gender role. She’s as feminine a person as there is. Yet, at times, she wants to put her arms around my shoulders. At times, she wants to be the one in control. She wants to make the decisions I should make.

My anger and disappointment were all-consuming. I stared at the ceiling for over an hour before deciding to read the other letter. Jackie’s letter had been handwritten on plain, white, typing paper.

The other letter was on corporate letterhead, in business memo format.

To: Jill
From: Debbie, Anne, and Sarah
Subject: Friends Four Life

What the hell does that subject line mean?

We would love to get to know you. We would love for you to know us. We can’t let you go on the way you have, in the past.

You don’t understand what you’re like at times. Your frustration with your life has left everyone around you feeling your pain in different ways. Our pain is real.

Anne’s is very real.

Six months ago, you went to Boston for a home office meeting. The three of us took Jackie out to dinner. It was a normal night for the three of us. Jackie was in bad shape, long before the rest of us had even gotten started.

Sarah and Debbie can drink with the best. Jackie’s limit is two glasses of wine.

We went to your house for a nightcap. We used that as an excuse to give Jackie a ride home. Your kids were in bed. After the babysitter went home, Jackie continued to drink and started to pour her heart out. She told us your marriage was on the rocks. She blamed the problems on someone named Jill.

It took us forever to realize just who Jill is. Once we caught on, things began to fall in place. Your shoulder-length hair, the frequently too long fingernails, the occasional raccoon eyes, and the sweet-smelling “aftershave” you wear at times — it all fit.

Jackie showed us pictures of Jill. She gave us a few to keep.

We assured her that your secret - her secret - was safe with us.

Sure my secret is safe -- until they need the pictures to humiliate me. Why did I ever take pictures of myself? What had I been thinking of? How could Jackie do this to me?

Several weeks ago, you came up with the idea to hold a Taste of France party. It was a good idea -- until you felt a need to prove to everyone that you’re the master.

It doesn’t take much of a psychologist to realize that we were being used to affirm your masculinity. The three of us have seen your compulsion to over-compensate hurt you again and again. You have taken unnecessary risks. You have pushed situations to the extreme, to show everyone that you’re the man.

We all think that you’re a good person. We’ve seen the good that you do and wish you didn’t have such a huge chip on your shoulder.

Each of us left your house that night worried about you and your marriage. Over the next few weeks, we thought and talked about little else. We have used our research techniques to pour through everything we could locate on cross-dressing. We were amazed to find a gender studies curriculum involving the transgendered at almost every major university. We probably now know more about what goes on in your mind than you do.

According to the books we’ve read, you’re suffering from mental anxiety. Even though your guilt is inappropriate, you are conflicted by society’s disapproval.

We arranged to give you several gender tests. They were part of the employee personality evaluations everyone took a few weeks ago. Your tests were much more extensive than the tests the others took. Attached are the results of one gender test, which is eighty-six percent confident that your gender is female. Your other gender tests showed similar results.

You have gender dysphoria due to your unhappiness with your gender identity.

At the time I took those tests, I had wondered about their relevance, but Debbie said that the home office had ordered them.

We have established what we think is a logical course of action for you to take. Scholars at York University, Cal State University, University of Cal Berkley, and the University of Nebraska at Lincoln (who have been the most helpful) have agreed, in theory, with our plan.

You have no choice but to go through this process. Should you decide not to cooperate, it will probably mean the end of your marriage and career. In the boxes, you will find your clothes and all the toiletries and necessities you will need.

We have taken care of the home office. As far as they know, your doctor (who is a friend of ours, who has never met you) has recommended bed rest for you for the next several weeks. Her letter and a note with your signature have gone into Boston. As far as they know, you’re now officially on short-term disability due to a rare virus that has sapped all your strength. They’ve been told that full recovery is expected, and that the length of the recovery is different for each person.

The doctor is willing to testify to your forgery of the above note, should you fail to follow our orders. Forgery and fraud (for accepting disability payments when you aren’t disabled) would be added to the criminal charges you already know can be brought against you.

We have prepared a full packet of information regarding “Jill” to be shipped to Boston should you fail to follow every instruction. We have created a website with the pictures. Should you be fired, we will upload the website, and send a letter to every prospective employer we can think of, with the website’s address.

It is doubtful anyone would hire you given the criminal sex offender’s charges Rebecca is sure to get the state’s attorney to file against you, should that become necessary.

In the past, you’ve used your female side for escapism. We think you can do better than that. Good luck!

For the next few days, we want you to relax and think about what you really want out of life. There are forms attached for elective surgery. They need your signature. You have a large nose that has been broken many times. You’ve been ashamed of your nose for too long. We think getting your nose fixed is one of the first steps on the road to full recovery. The company’s insurance will pay for this surgery as part of the “recovery from the virus.”

For today, unpack your things, and get settled. Do what is obviously needed.

Tuesday morning at ten, we will take you to a restaurant to eat. There are two high-energy bars in the desk. Other than those bars, the only food you will get for a while will be what we buy for you at a restaurant. Dress for family-style dining.

We want to be your friends. Take the next two days to think about things. Try to get over your anger. We assure you it’s misplaced.

When you’re recovered, we will discuss how to make things right between the four of us.

Debbie, Anne, and Sarah

Except for part of a cookie, I hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. What little had been in my stomach was soon in the toilet.

Has the whole world gone nuts? First, Jackie violated a trust that has served as a base for our marriage. Then Debbie, Sarah, and Anne decide to be The Freudettes.

I need a plan. I’m not just up against my three so-called friends. There’s a full-blown conspiracy involving Jackie, Ra-freaking-Becca, a doctor, some psychiatrists, and probably others.

My brain kicked in, and the terror that had gripped me subsided.

They’ve already made bad mistakes. Their three-page memo contains enough physical evidence to hang all three of them. I’ll get dressed, leave the motel, and find an attorney. I’ll use their memo, as leverage, to get them to give me the website and turn over the pictures.

I’ll use Jackie’s letter to force her to listen to me. By drugging me, they’ve broken several laws and caused the contract to be invalid. Jackie’s an accomplice. Somehow, she’ll have to truly accept me.

If Sarah, Anne, and Debbie don’t agree, I’ll send the three of them to jail, for a long time, for abduction, extortion, slander, libel, and conspiracy. They’ll all be sorry.

As I searched each of the boxes for something to wear, I found all of my “Jill” clothes, including make-up, wigs, toiletries, and jewelry. The boxes contained nothing else. There was no sign of my wallet. They must have taken the credit cards to pay the expenses, per the agreement I signed.

The girls want to embarrass me by forcing me to wear women’s clothing. I’m to be their entertainment. What a bunch of sick puppies! They’re going to try to drag me around Omaha, in a skirt. I can’t leave the motel dressed in those clothes!

I looked in the boxes, again. They represented many pleasurable hours of online shopping. Jackie hated it when Amazon made a delivery. Her face let me know how foolish she thought I was being.

At least they included my shaving kit. I took out my toothpaste and toothbrush and then cleaned the foul taste of vomit, from my mouth.

My head was pounding. A glass of water was on the nightstand with two tablets that I assumed were aspirin. By providing aspirin, they had shown that they did have hearts. Good! I’ll use their kindness to take them out.

I swallowed the aspirin and rested on the bed. As I looked at the ceiling, I thought of everything I had done in my life, to get to where I was.

My thoughts ran to the immense effort it had taken to push myself away from the “can’t do” attitude, on our family farm. I had become a “can do” person. I set high, but reasonable goals for myself -- and then surpassed them. I found a way.

They’re trying to take it all away from me. It isn’t fair. I’ll show them. Why is this happening? The box they’ve put me in is nothing compared to the imprisonment and suffocation I’ve felt all my life. For all their research about cross-dressing, they have no idea how I feel.

I had often fantasized about being caught. Those fantasies were erotic and fun.

This reality is a nightmare. I’m not in control. They aren’t playing fair. My face aches with frustration. I want to cry. No, I can’t. I can’t lose control. I have to stay focused.

Sleep took me.

***

I awoke with women’s clothing tossed all around me. Immediately, everything fell into its awful place. Those “aspirin” must have been sleeping pills. I have to be more careful. I can’t trust them. They want me well-rested -- probably so that I’ll be fully aware of my humiliation when it occurs.

It’s 7:00 in the morning. In three hours, I have to be ready to face my tormentors.

I have to be ready to do whatever is needed to escape and get to the authorities. Sure, there’ll be embarrassment. But somehow, I’ll survive. I always have. I read both letters again, several times. Damn them! I’m not going to play their game. They’ll never see me in those clothes.

I need money, a way to get home, a way to turn the tables, a way to get to them, to stop them before they ruin me.

But how?

At 10:00 they knocked at the door.

I refused to get dressed, or even open the door.

So, they abruptly left.

With all the sleep and resulting mental clarity, came the realization of the enormity of my problem. I have to do what they say. I can’t take the chance of losing everything. Can they really have me jailed as a criminal sex offender? It’s evident that I can’t go to the police.

Imagine, “Hi officer. I’m a transvestite and three women are picking on me. Say, big guy, do you like my pumps?”

I’m in a tight spot. I’ll fight them. I’ll show them. . .somehow.

***

The next day at 10:00, I was still as naked as I had been two nights before. They said they would be back the next day. No food for me.

The picture on the wall was Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.” It haunted me, as did the lyrics from the Don McClean song; “With eyes that know the darkness of my soul.”

The eleven stars in the picture were yellow eyes -- monitoring my lack of action. I wasn’t doing anything -- because I couldn’t. Van Gogh painted “Starry Night” while he was confined in an asylum. Had the girls picked this room for its painting, as a commentary on my mental health?

***

As I stood over the toilet at 7:00 on Thursday morning, I decided that I needed to convince them I was willing to go along with their plan.

I hadn’t had food, except for the power bars, since Saturday morning. It was going on six days.

I need food for strength. They might not starve me, but they’re willing to let me get painfully hungry. I’m drinking plenty of water, so I’m not in any immediate physical danger. I’ll get dressed in something that would get them to think that I’m actually going to have breakfast at a restaurant.

There are some issues I need to work out. I hadn’t been fair with everyone.

Maybe I can learn something by talking it through with them, but it has to be done under my rules.

First, I have to escape the trap I’m in. Me --- fully dressed as a woman in public. I can’t go through with their plan. Under the circumstances, I don’t dare show up at our house, to face Jackie, dressed as a woman. What if the boys saw me?

Flight is all I have in mind. I’ll grab one of their purses to get money for a cab. Maybe there’ll be a credit card in the purse that I can use to get out of town, and work things out.

It isn’t that I can’t pass. I’m convinced I can. I’m an inch or two shorter than most men. There were a lot of women taller than me. I don’t have a prominent Adam’s apple, and I’m not overly muscular.

I’m thicker through the waist than most women, but not out of the ballpark -- weighing in at about 170 pounds. Lots of women wear a size twenty, like me. My hair is long enough. I’ll just comb it into a high ponytail, and use a scarf to tie it.

I don’t actually need to pass in public. I just have to be convincing to whoever comes to take me out to breakfast, until I can make my move. Then, I’ll get away from them and go somewhere I can think. Cabbies have seen everything. That’ll be no problem.

In time, I’ll find a way to contact Jackie on my terms, not theirs. Maybe, if she comes to her senses, we can salvage something.

I had dressed as a woman many times, so I knew the sequence of how things had to be done. I needed to prepare as if I was actually going out.

There were some things -- like shaving my legs -- that I hadn’t done before, but I needed to go all out, and the idea of making a maximum effort appealed to me. I had been frustrated by my lack of action. I found great satisfaction in finally doing something - - anything.

When I dressed as Jill, I liked things to be ultra-feminine. All my pantyhose were sheer.

I couldn’t go out with my hairy legs. I ran a bath and poured Chanel No. 5 bath oil to soothe my mind. Chanel was the first scent I had ever bought for myself, and I had never grown tired of it.

I shaved my legs while lying in the warm water made oily by the excessive amount of bath oil I had used. I realized I wouldn’t be able to wear shorts to jog, for a few weeks. I can live with that.

I have good-looking legs. They don’t have a lot of hair on them. Even so, once they’re shaved, I can see a real difference. Not bad! Maybe there’s a silver lining to my ordeal.

As I ran my hands over my legs checking for stubble, I was turned on. I don’t need that. I can’t become intoxicated by my femininity. I need all my masculine logic to get out of my predicament. I have to be strong. Even though my body is screaming for sexual relief, I’ll keep my hands to myself, er, away from myself.

I’m fairly sure they have the room bugged, and probably even equipped with surveillance cameras. Our involvement with attorneys and court battles had shown me the value of videotape. I’m not going to serve-up footage of me jerking off.

Truman Capote once said, “The good thing about masturbation is that you don’t have to dress for it.” He certainly wasn’t talking about the life of a transvestite.

With a few days’ growth on my face, I desperately needed a shave. A painful nick told me that shaving hair on my legs and shaving my beard don’t mix. The blade had gone dull. I replaced it, and shaved three times for closeness: up, down and across. Each time, I used a smear of Oil of Olay to protect my face from razor burn. I used Noxzema’s For Sensitive Skin Shaving Cream.

After shaving, I jumped into the shower and shampooed my hair. Once out of the shower, I used a blow dryer. Time was of the essence. So, I set it on high.

Once my hair was sufficiently dried, I powdered my body with Chanel No. 5 body powder. I used Powder Fresh Scent Ban deodorant.

I don’t want to offend my friends with body odor if things get rough. Even though I’m angry at their disloyalty and injustice, I don’t anticipate a need for physical violence. The one thing I can’t do was hit any of them. I’m not by nature a fighter.

More importantly, Jackie would never forgive me.

I’m angry.

I want to grab all three of them by their necks. I want to “grab” them, and they want to “garb” me, the same four letters, with a big difference in meaning. We’ll see who’ll ultimately get to “brag.”

Over the years, I had developed a habit of putting on lingerie before doing my face. I wanted to see a woman in the mirror, thus guarding my self-delusion. I located a pair of cotton panties and a cotton bra in one of the boxes -- also pantyhose and a body shaper. I used other pantyhose to fill the C-cups of the bra.

My choices were to wear either a dress or a skirt. Jill didn’t own any slacks. The dress seemed logical. It was cut full enough to allow me plenty of movement. I wanted to be able to be as physical as might be needed.

The dress was one I particularly liked. It came to about mid-thigh and had a paisley pattern on a dark-blue background. The first time I had fixed dinner for Jackie as Jill, I had worn that dress. I look good in it. That dress is a huge confidence builder.

Once I selected my dress, I knew the color of cosmetics to use. I started with a heavy coat of foundation. The heavier I spread it on, the better it would hide my beard. Next, I liberally brushed blush on the middle of my cheeks. I used a dark-blue powder on my lids and blended it with a sky-blue that I carried almost to my eyebrows. I also drew the powder a quarter-inch out beyond the end of my eyebrows. The effect was dramatic.

Next, I glued false eyelashes in place and swept them several times with dark-black mascara. My face was perfect. I set it with enough powder to take away all the shine. I moved on to my lips using Really Red. It was the reddest red I owned. I finished with a thick coat of gloss. I loved the taste and smell of Max Factor lipstick. I preferred the texture of Revlon. On those rare occasions when I didn’t wear gloss, I used Revlon.

In the mirror was the Jill that I loved.

While applying my make-up I had grown stiff again. Damn those cameras. Damn those girls. Once I’m out of this fix, I’m going to do whatever I want, and they can’t stop me.

I slipped the dress over my head. It had three-quarter length sleeves and a Peter Pan collar. I added my pearl necklace and clip-on pearl drop earrings. I didn’t own a woman’s wristwatch. I did have a tennis bracelet, which I snapped on my wrist.

I was wearing a pair of black two-inch heels. I had briefly considered four-inch. They would have made my legs look even better. But I wanted to be able to run.

Haute couture has to take a back seat.

I looked in the mirror for flaws and saw perfection. The dark-blue scarf I used to tie my ponytail topped off my costume. I’m unreadable. I dabbed Channel No. 5 perfume on my wrist and behind my knees and ears. I also sprayed myself with Chanel No. 5 cologne.

My transformation was completed, with thirty minutes to spare. I had time to take the extra step of painting my nails. Because I filed my nails and never clipped, they grew quickly. I kept them about an eighth of an inch past my fingertip. I had been filing my nails, for about five years. They weren’t as long as I would have liked for that morning. But they will do. I don’t have any Lee Press-On Nails.

I selected a polish that closely matched my lipstick. I opened the polish bottle. My penis rose to the occasion by reacting to the scent. My dick was trapped inside the body shaper and was seeking release. It wanted to come out and play, and it didn’t understand why it couldn’t.

Sarah had her nails done professionally. I would show her that she was wasting her twenty-five dollars. I would make them perfect with three coats. If I could do it, so could she. As I really didn’t have all the time I needed, I used the hairdryer set on hot to blow on my nails between coats. The last coat had gone on at five minutes to ten. I used the hairdryer, again. My bright red nails glistened, raising my self-esteem.

As I came out of the bathroom examining my beautiful hands, I ran right into Debbie, Anne, and Sarah.

It was precisely 10:00. I hadn’t heard their knock, probably because of the noise of my hairdryer. I hadn’t locked the room’s door, so they had let themselves in. I was startled, then embarrassed, and then stirred by the challenge before me.
I decided to convince them I was ready to play along by going into character.

“Oooh myyy, wheeere haaas the tiime gooone? Is iiit teeen-n-n already?” My voice sounded exactly like Scarlett O’Hara. I hope that they’re pea-green with envy.

“So, this is ‘Jill.’”

Hearing Debbie say “Jill” was disconcerting.

“Wow! You’re hot.”

I can’t let her compliment put me off from my goal.

I have to look for an opportunity to get out of my calamity. I can’t really tell if she’s being a smart-ass, or if she’s really admiring my beauty. From the looks on their faces, they’re surprised. They obviously didn’t expect me to look so good.

Compared to me, the three of them look dowdy.

I blushed, pleased at long last, to be able to show Jill to someone other than Jackie. They were subjecting me to real scrutiny. I was ashamed, but at the same time - quite content with my presentation.

Reality hit home.

I have no real plan.

There’s none to be had that would allow me to get out of the fix I’m in. I have to do what they say, because my entire life is at stake.

So much for running off!

Before they had arrived, I stuck the incriminating letters inside my dress. That, and all my other preparations -- had been for nothing.

“So, are you hungry?” Sarah wasn’t one to get her priorities out of order.

Surprisingly, I hadn’t thought much about food. Note to Maslow: When faced with total ruin, your hierarchy of needs becomes flexible.

“I suppose I could eat a little,” I said.

“Let’s take care of minor details then we can go to Perkins.” Anne seemed to be in good spirits. “Once you return the two letters and the signed form, we can strap on the feedbag.”

“Letters?” If I give them the letters, my tenuous plans to incriminate them will become even less realistic. My options are evaporating.

“Come on Jiillll.” Debbie wasn’t going to be easy on me. “I put the letters on the nightstand myself.”

“I say we forget the whole thing, and turn the photos over to management in Boston,” Sarah said. “They’ll fire his perverted ass. I’ll take my chances, on the new boss being less of a dick.”

“Come on Sweetie,” Anne said. “You don’t want to be all dressed up with no place to go, do ya? I thought we had a date? What are yaaa ... chicken?” She was grinning, and having a good time. She didn’t want it spoiled by being tough.

“Okay, okay.” I used my Jim voice again, as I reached inside the front of my dress, and pulled out the papers.

Debbie giggled. “Down the front of your dress, Jiiilllll? You’ve seen waaayyy too many movies.”

I handed the papers to Anne. By playing up to Anne, I was trying to form an alliance with her. She appeared to be the weakest link.

My hopes diminished when Anne took the contents out of the envelopes and examined them. “Hey, you haven’t authorized the nose job. What’s going on here? What are you trying to pull? We saw you read the letters.”

I was right! They do have cameras. It’s a good thing I used discretion in the tub.

Anne handed me the form, with a pen.

“If you don’t sign the form immediately, there’s going to be trouble.” Debbie’s face was etched with resolve.

“Okay, I’ll sign, for whatever that’s worth to you,” I said. No decent doctor will operate without my verbal consent — the form is meaningless.

Debbie sighed, and placed the two letters and the signed authorization, in her briefcase, with obvious care.

Anne was pleased and once again became bubbly. “Are you ready to go to breakfast, Jill? Do you want me to help you with your make-up or hair?”

What the hell is she talking about? My hair is just fine and my make-up is perfect -- better than theirs. You can hardly tell they have any on. No, I’m not mentally ready for Jill’s first public appearance, but any fool can see I’m physically ready. I need food. I need time to think, to develop a plan. They’ve won round one, but I can win the fight -- by a knockout, in the second round.

“I’m ready,” I said.

“Do you want to take a purse?” Sarah asked. Sarah had been the one who, for years, had called my soft-sided briefcase a purse, which bugged me.

Even though I didn’t think of my briefcase as a purse, she had been hitting too close to home.

“No. Why would I need a purse?” I asked. “You’re buying and I’m not on the rag.”

Debbie frowned.

What the hell is her problem? I’m the one being made to look foolish. Maybe she’s pissed because my disguise is too good. Maybe she thought I would be wearing a wig she could yank off halfway through the meal.

Once we were outside the door, I noted the motel was in a secluded area close to where Ak Sar Ben racetrack had been.

Ak Sar Ben -- Nebraska spelled backwards -- was a monument to how quickly things can change. For nearly a century, it had been one of the premier racetracks in the country. As late as the mid-eighties, it had been in the top-ten in attendance of all U.S. tracks.

Many came to see the resting place of the Triple Crown winner, Omaha, who was the only Triple Crown winner to have been sired by a Triple Crown winner -- Gallant Fox. The decision to close Ak Sar Ben permanently had been made overnight. Supposedly the change had been needed.

The temperature was already in the high seventies. The humidity was stifling, which is about average for Omaha. Sarah was in the back seat with me. She was to be my keeper, a role she relished. They were on guard so I couldn’t run off, even if it was a realistic option. The three of them chattered like birds, giving the impression of happiness and contentment.

About halfway to the restaurant, in Debbie’s Toyota Camry, I noticed my smeared nail polish. When I had reached inside my dress for the letters, I must have wiped polish on my clothes. My fingers were a mess.

Sarah saw me looking at my hands. “Next time, give yourself a few more minutes between coats. Sometimes it takes me two hours to do mine. That’s why I have them done. I can make an appointment for you at my salon, if you would like. If you really get in a bind, set your hairdryer on cool. That dries them quicker.”

Strange as it seemed, she appeared to be trying to be kind. I’m not going with her to any damned nail salon. Maybe she’s making some sort of subtle threat. Nope, can’t be, Sarah never insinuates when she can hit you with a brick.

My stomach was in knots. All too soon, we were in the restaurant’s parking lot. I looked for an escape route. The idea of flight was hard to repress, even though I knew I had to do whatever they told me.

As we waited to be seated, the hostess spent much too much time looking at me. I tried to slide behind the other three. Every time I dared to look -- she was openly gawking.

“Smoking or non-smoking for you four - ah - ladies?”

She’s the first person to see me, and I’ve been read. What are the odds?

She paraded us to a table, in the center, of the room.

Why didn’t she put us, in a booth, in a corner? It was as if she wants me on display. I’m the grand prize and she’s Vanna White, waving her arms and hands toward me.

“Your waitress will be with you in a minute. Can I start you off with something to drink?”

I wanted to order a quart of scotch -- to go. The others had all ordered pink lemonade. Not wanting to draw any more attention to myself, I used my best Scarlett O’Hara voice. “Ah’ll have a big ol’ glass of lemonade as welll.”

“Coming right up suugaaar,” the hostess said. “Aren’t you the sweetest little thing?”

I was certain by her tone that she knew I was being forced to dress as I was.

She also knew what I had between my legs, and who was calling the shots. She took a moment to look each of us in the eyes. “Your waitress will bring you your drinks. You have a nice morning, whatever it is you’re up to.”

There it is -- that unspoken pact that exists between women. She had determined the women are in charge, and that’s good enough for her.

There aren’t too many people eating. It’s after the breakfast crowd, and before the working people come in, for lunch. I silently thanked whoever had picked the time.

The girls were jabbering amongst themselves like nothing unusual was happening.

My deodorant had failed. Sweat was running down my legs. There was a reason why no one else was wearing hose. Every eye in the place was on me. I wanted to adjust my bra, which had slipped out of place, but I didn’t dare.

I need to use the bathroom. I haven’t gone since I first got out of bed. I’ll just have to hold it until I get home.

Home? My motel room? Was I really starting to think of it as home?

I can’t go to the men’s room. If I went in the ladies’ room, the hostess might call the cops. I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure I could get arrested for using the ladies’ room. For all the legal research our office had done, we had never investigated that particular law.

Our waitress arrived with our beverages. She was all business, and thankfully didn’t seem overly interested, in me.

I hadn’t even thought about ordering. As I looked at the pictures of food, I could smell hot coffee, with bacon and eggs frying. I was salivating. The others went first. They all ordered a full breakfast with eggs, bacon, hash browns, and toast.

Before I could give my order, Debbie stepped in. “Didn’t you say you were starting a diet today, Jill? She’ll have a half a grapefruit with iced tea.”

“She -- could stand to lose a little weight,” the waitress said. Apparently, she had been added to those who were in on the joke.

What the heck is it with women? Does being a woman get you membership in a man-haters’ club? I was so upset by their blatant attempts to humiliate me that I didn’t think to argue with Debbie, about my food order.

“Cheers.” They tapped their plastic glasses together.

In a feeble attempt to be part of the crowd, I went along. They all used a straw to daintily sip their lemonade. Even though I also was using a straw, I sucked in more than half in one gulp. The tangy flavor awoke my slumbering taste buds. Abstinence had cleansed my palate. My mouth had grown fonder.

Really Red lipstick ringed my straw. Normally that would have been a big turn on. Given my situation, it was just one more sad reminder that my life was topsy-turvy. I glanced across the aisle at an elderly woman sitting with her husband. She openly gawked at me, while shaking her head, in disgust.

What? Do I have a big sign on me that says, MAN IN DRESS? I decided to keep my eyes down and concentrated on just getting through the nightmare. I jumped when the waitress slammed my grapefruit half, on the table.

“Enjoy,” the waitress demanded.

Does anyone ever really “enjoy” a grapefruit?

“Is there anything else I can get for you? Refills on your lemonade? Coffee?” She stopped, looked directly at me and then raised her voice. “Maybe you’d like a little estrogen?”

Debbie and Sarah broke up. Anne looked a little bewildered.

My shame is the pound of flesh these three Shylocks crave. I’m their personal Antonio -- or maybe Antoinette?

“Please bring her a little more lemonade,” Debbie said. “She seems awfully thirsty this morning. Is it that time of the month, Jill?”

I instantly regretted my comment about not being on the rag. Debbie never forgot, or missed -- anything.

“Well, we wouldn’t want our little Jill to be uncomfortable,” the waitress said.
“Jill, I’ll be right back with more lemonade. What a lovely name you have, Jiiilll.”

Do they have to drawl?

The waitress made several more visits. Despite my already uncomfortable bladder, I twice emptied both my iced tea and lemonade glasses. The waitress didn’t seem to have anything better to do than hang around our table. For the next thirty minutes it was, “How are you do’in, Jiilll?”, and, “Can I get you anything else, Jiilll?” or, “You know Jiilll, if you need a Midol, I’ll be happy to loan you one.”

Even though it was clear she knew I couldn’t possibly be having my period, I did my best to keep up appearances. There was always that chance that there was one person in the restaurant who didn’t know my true sex.

I smiled and thanked her for her kindness. She took one last shot at me.

“It’s always nice to get a REAL woman in here. Some people are sooo phony.”

I squirmed. The long morning without a bathroom break was becoming too much, for me.

Two uniformed policemen sat down in a booth close to us and ordered coffee.

Visions of jail dressed as I was floated through my head. What would become of me, in a holding tank? I tried to disappear. “Can we get out of here?” I hissed to Sarah.

“Oh. Are you ready to go?” Sarah smiled, as if there wasn’t a care in the world. “We’ve all been waiting for you.”

That just isn’t so. I had been done eating two minutes after my food had arrived. How damn long does she think it takes, to eat half a grapefruit? The truth was I had been forced to watch them enjoy every mouth-watering morsel of their eggs and bacon.

“Let’s go,” Anne said. I jumped up and make a dash for the door. In my haste, my heels pounded the floor with enough force so that my teeth chattered.

Sarah was right with me.

“Hold it, Jill,” Debbie called out, “The car’s locked and I’ve got the keys. Besides, we all need to fix our faces.”

All? Is she telling me I have to go into the ladies’ room with her? I can’t believe she wants to take that chance. Didn’t she see the police? “Oh, you go ahead,” I said. “I forgot my purse.” Hey! That was pretty good. I’m beginning to think on my heels.

Debbie finished paying the teller and then headed toward the restroom. She turned toward me and beckoned with a finger. Sarah poked me in the side. I was going into the ladies’ room -- whether I wanted to, or not.

I really did have to go. However, I reasoned I would be in big trouble -- if the police came in and my panties were down. I didn’t want to add indecent exposure, to any other possible charges.

I had learned in the fifth grade that the bladder is a distensible membranous sac. Several other boys and I had called each other “distensible membrane*ous sacs” for as long as it took for the thrill to wear off, which had been about a day. I needed my bladder to distend just a bit more.

The room had a bouquet of female usage. I was definitely in no man’s land. Luckily, we had it to ourselves.

They took turns going into the stalls. At least one of them was at my side, at all times. They were surprised when I declined to use the facilities. They primped, taking their time with their make-up, as they pushed errant hairs into place.

Omigawd! The mirror revealed to me what everyone else had been seeing. A man in a dress, with huge sweat rings under each arm. My make-up was horribly smeared and clumped. My hair had fallen out of my ponytail. My bra had slipped, so that my boobs were in a position unknown to any real woman. I did what I could to shove my chest into a locked and upright position. I had thought I could pass! What a joke! How could have I have been so self-deluded?

Leaving the ladies’ room, I was relieved to see that the policemen had not moved from their table.

As we went out the door, a mother and her kindergarten-age son were coming in. “MOM! Why is that man wearing a dress?” The boy’s eyes were stretched wide taking in the freak show that I had become.

The mother spoke while boring into me, with her eyes. “He’s doing it because some men aren’t really men at all. Some like to pretend they’re women.”

After I stumbled to the car, in a mental fog, I lashed out. “Are you happy? Does this make us even for what happened to you?” I was reasonably sure my suffering was over. Nothing they could make me do would be more embarrassing than what I had just gone through. They had to be satisfied.

“Jill,” Anne said softly, “We knew it wouldn’t be easy. This is all for the best. You’ve come a long way this morning. The rest should happen naturally, over time.”

“The rest? How cruel are you? I’ve been good to you. You aren’t being fair. I had once thought that you were my friends. Some friends -- you bitches turned out to be.”

Debbie slammed her car back into the parking spot she had just vacated and twisted around in her seat, to face me. “Have you forgotten how much the four of us have been through together? What have any of us ever done to be judged so harshly?” Her face softened. “We’re trying our best to help, can’t you see that? Jill, you’ve got a lot to learn. This morning was a start. Now sit back and shut up, or we’ll go back inside and see what those officers are having for breakfast.”

I was almost certain she didn’t mean that, but I sat back, in silence.

It would take us twenty minutes to get back to my motel. I would pee in my panties, if I didn’t immediately find a bathroom I could use. Any bathroom would do. “Debbie! I’ve got to use a bathroom.”

“Be quiet,” Debbie hissed. “You should have taken care of that in the restaurant.”

“Debbie, I’m not kidding,” I said. “I have to go. Don’t you think I want to get back, to the motel, and out of these clothes just as fast as I can? I really have to go - - right now.” My penis burned.

She yanked the car into the parking lot of a convenience store/gas station. Sarah was with me every step of the way, into the building. I saw the restroom sign toward the back of the store and made my way there with my legs held tightly together. The sign on the door said, “Attendant Has Key.” The image of me in the mirror at Perkins ran through my head. “Sarah, will you please get the key for me?”

“Not a fricking chance, Jill.” Sarah was all heart.

There were three people standing in line. It was all I could do not to scream at them to hurry. The attendant was making inane small talk with each customer. He was one of those creepy-looking guys with multi-colored hair. He had scraggly blond fuzz on his chin and at least seven or eight visible body piercings.

By the time I worked my way to the counter, there were four people in the line behind me. Despite the overwhelming need to use the bathroom the smell of fresh Krispy Kremes was orgasmic.

“Can I help you?” the Dante Hicks wannabe asked. He smirked, as he looked at me, for the first time.

“Pleease, cooould I get the key toooa the restrooom?” I used my best Scarlett O’Hara -- praying to pass just once.

“Sure, miss - - - TER, which restroom do you want to use? Men’s or Women’s?”

The king of the Quicky Mart was rewarded with a big laugh from the other patrons. “We usually don’t allow people to use the restrooms unless they buy something,” he said. “We have a sale on tampons. Would you like a box?”

“Look! I don’t have any money. I really have to go. I can’t hold it anymore. Either give me the key -- or go for the mop.” I had used my Jim voice.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch.” He held the key just out of my reach, waiting to get in one last zinger, “The restroom is unisex. Just like you, you freak. Don’t go whacking off in there. We’ve got security cameras, and we will prosecute.”

I raced to the restroom and stood up to the urinal. I tried pulling my dress up and everything else down. I didn’t have enough hands to hold everything out of the way. I gave up the struggle and sat down on the stool. I was sure I had sat down to urinate before, but I couldn’t quite remember when.

It wasn’t one of those accomplishments that you keep in your personal history. You just do what’s natural. Sitting down with my dress up and my panties down wasn’t natural.

The room was unusually dirty. It’s quite the palace that prick at the cash register is guarding.

Sarah was waiting outside the restroom door looking thoroughly disgusted.

The clerk looked up, as I returned the key, and nonchalantly said, “Stay the hell out of my store, pervert.”

I had every intention of doing just that.

All the hateful people; where do they all come from?

We rode the rest of the way back to my prison in silent thought. People demanded absolute simplicity in gender. The first question asked of a new parent usually is, “Is it a boy or girl?” We assume we are either one or the other, when in reality many of us are somewhere in between. Because of that prejudice, many people think a cross-dressing person is a fraud seeking attention, like Dennis Rodman. Or worse, they might think the cross-dresser is trying to trick a heterosexual man into homosexual sex.

I had been playing in an arena where I didn’t belong and was feeling the sting of the consequences.

The three of them followed me, to the door, of my room.

Debbie tapped me on the shoulder.

I spun around to face her as she spoke.

“It’s all about you isn’t it,” she said. “You were embarrassed. What about us? Do you think it was easy for us taking someone who looks like you out in public? Do you have any idea what we’re going through for you? You’re so insensitive. We’ll be back at seven to take you to dinner. Try to look and act a little better.”

I wallowed in self-righteous indignation. Everything she said was baffling. What the hell are they going through for me?

“Hey! Don’t bother,” I raged. “I’m sure I won’t be hungry. I can’t take any more humiliation. I would rather starve.” I’m not going to allow them to take my pride.

Sarah followed me into my room. “If you step even a stinking inch out of line, I’ll make sure the others follow through with all our threats.”

They left.

I saw myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. I looked as bad as I felt. I undressed about as quickly as I had many times over the years when I was disgusted and ashamed of myself, immediately after masturbation. My actions were as frantic as I had been on other occasions when I had been trying to avoid being caught.

I roughly washed off the make-up. I didn’t care what happened. I would NEVER wear women’s clothing, again. As I used a circular scrubbing motion my washcloth became a vortex of brown, red, and black. The once white fabric was now a mess. Just as my life had become.

They’ve cured me.

I spent the rest of that day fruitlessly trying to find a hole in their plan. There was no need to drag me out in public, again. I was done with women’s clothing.

But am I? In college, I had taken quite a few psychology courses. My favorite was behavioral psychology, in which we were taught to train rats in glass boxes called operant chambers. They were also known as Skinner boxes, named after B. F. Skinner. We attempted to change a rat’s behavior through punishment. The idea was to extinguish the unwanted behavior with negative stimuli -- electric shocks. The results proved that negative methods were unreliable and mostly futile. We achieved longer-lasting results through positive reinforcement.

I had read in a medical journal that cross-dressing was sometimes treated by aversion therapy. In my opinion, such treatment would fail dismally. I can’t imagine why psychologists thought it would work. What pain could they use for aversion that would exceed the pain of loneliness experienced by transvestites? If the self-inflicted pain of isolation didn’t extinguish the urge to cross-dress, what would?

Even though I had been utterly humiliated, I sensed I would eventually be back to cross-dressing -- after they were done with me.

The motel staff had cleaned my room. Evidently, the girls had fixed it so that the room would be cleaned only while I was out, indicating a long-term stay. How long was my torment to last? The contract had said two years.

That can’t possibly be. What more can they do to me? I would hold out as long as I could until I thought my way out. My mother used to call me “the thinker.” She said that I could always outthink those around me. I just need time.

The day played over and over in my mind. The waitress’s facetious remarks about me being a “real woman” stuck in my craw. She had been covered in heavy layers of make-up, false eyelashes, a push-up bra, and other obvious garments to hold in her girth. Yet, she had the nerve to make judgments as to what was real and what wasn’t.

Mostly I thought about what Debbie had said about doing everything they did out of friendship. Was that possible?

No friend could ever be that mean.

(In Part Three: After starving for several days, Jim finally agrees to get dressed again as Jill, and go with his three friends to another restaurant.)

If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a kudos and a comment. They mean a lot to me.

Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

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All Those Things You Always Pined For
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Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
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Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
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