Part One

I couldn’t imagine a more delightful way to spend a Tuesday afternoon.

Outside, it was a cold, dreary late November day. The sun woke up in the morning and then decided not to bother, leaving a gray pallor over just everything. And while it wasn’t raining or snowing, those clouds certainly wanted to do something and the air was just as damp as if it were raining.

Inside, though, I was curled up on my couch, my stockinged feet tucked under me, some Stan Getz on the stereo, a chilled glass on Italian white wine in one hand and a Linda Barnes mystery in the other. I love Linda Barnes’ books. Part of it, of course, is that she’s a great writer whose books are as funny as they are engrossing. Another part of it, though, is that I imagine myself as Barnes’ character, Carlotta Carlyle. I may not have a beautiful shock of thick red hair (my hair is dark brown and a little on the short side) but we share a 6’1” height and size 12 feet. One big difference between us is that I have much better fashion sense than Carlotta.

I guess if I was chasing bad guys all over the place I might settle for jeans, T-shirts and sneaks, too, but I don’t chase bad guys and I wouldn’t be caught dead in jeans, T-shirts and sneaks. Take that Tuesday, for instance. I was wearing a knee-length Stewart plaid jumper over a soft, bulky ivory cowl-necked sweater. I loved that sweater, which looked like Angora but wasn’t and I knew it worked well with the jumper, which I picked up the spring before for $10 at an end of season sale rack at Sears. I usually wore this outfit with black tights but today decided on pantyhose instead. I don’t know why. I’d kicked off my sensible 1” pumps and they were lying beneath me on the floor. I wasn’t wearing much makeup, just some lipstick (as bright red as the red in the plaid!). My earrings were gold-colored with faux opals placed just a bit off-center and I’d borrowed a couple of my wife’s gold bangles and a gold leaf-cluster pin for the jumper. It was the season, after all.

My wife’s bangles and pin, I hear you say?

Yes, my wife’s. I’m a crossdresser, have been as long as I can remember and I take every opportunity I can to indulge. Those opportunities usually take place when Kathleen (that’s her name) is working and I’m not. I’m a librarian at a private school and generally work Monday to Friday, but we get lots more vacation time than most folks. This week, for example, was Thanksgiving week and the school was closed, so I took care of some paperwork and administrative matters on Monday and took the rest of the week off. Since it’s a private school, too, none of the faculty or students live in the area, so I never have to worry about meeting someone from work when I shop. Kathleen, on the other hand, is the assistant manager of the customer service department of one of the last local banks in our area. She works Tuesday through Saturdays.

At the very least, then, I get all day Saturday for myself. I’ll usually go shopping in the morning, maybe pick up something new and cute, maybe something functional, maybe nothing at all. Then I’ll get dressed the way I feel that day, in something romantic, or professional, or casual, or silly. I’ll work around the house a little, then relax with a nice book and some music and around 4 o’clock or so I’ll begin preparing dinner. By 5:30, I’m back upstairs, changing into my boy clothes again before Kathleen gets home. She doesn’t know, you see.

I’ve never told Kathleen about this part of me. I didn’t mean to be deliberately deceptive, but it just never seemed right. I mean, you just can blurt out one day at dinner, “By the way, honey, I’m a crossdresser. Does that bother you and can I borrow your silver strap sandals tonight?” And if I was going to do something like that, I should have done it years ago. Now, after eight years of marriage, there’s not only the crossdressing but the fact that I’ve been hiding it for ten years (we dated for two years before we got married) would be an issue.

Besides, what possible benefit could there be to telling her? On the downside, I could very easily hurt the one woman I’ve ever truly loved. She could leave me. She could become disgusted with me. She could hate me. I don’t think I could bear any of those things. Was there an upside? She could accept me, but then what? I could dress more often and more openly, but what would that mean and would that be worth the risk? All in all, I think I’d prefer to keep Martha (my female alter ego) in the closet with my dresses and lingerie.

Every once in a while I agonized over these thoughts, but those mental torture sessions were growing further and further apart. These days, I was more often than not perfectly content to enjoy a few hours as Martha, like I was doing that Tuesday. The CD-changer had replaced Getz with Anita O’Day. The book was beginning to get complicated. I was dimly aware that it was starting to rain and the wind was picking up. I wasn’t aware at all of the key turning in the front door lock.

“Hi honey, I’m home early. There was a power failure and they… closed… the… bank…” Kathleen’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper when she saw me.

I don’t know which of us was more shocked. I know that my heart just stopped dead. My brain froze. I couldn’t move. A million thoughts raced through my mind. Should I bolt out of the room? Begin to “confess?” Leave with as much dignity as I could muster? Pretend there was nothing wrong? Cry? Promise I’d never do it again? I wanted to do all of these things and needed to do something but I couldn’t move or speak.

Kathleen was equally paralyzed. Her mouth was open as she stared at me. I could tell that her brain was sending messages to her tongue, but I could also tell that nothing was coming out. Her hands still held the keys in the lock that she had just opened.

It seemed to me that we just looked at each other for hours, but it could only have been a few seconds. The abruptly, Kathleen spun and walked out the door without saying a word. A few seconds later, I heard her car start up and pull out of the driveway.

I was devastated.

I went upstairs and almost ripped my clothes off. I’m usually very careful to pack everything just so when I’m getting ready to dress as a boy again, but that day I just crammed everything into a bag and flung them into my closet. In the bathroom, I rubbed my lips raw trying to get rid of my lipstick. No matter how hard I tried, though, every time I looked in the mirror I saw traces of bright red lipstick mocking me. I didn’t think I’d ever get back to the way I “should” be.

After a while, I gave up. Got into my khakis and a golf shirt and went downstairs to wait. I watched television but I couldn’t tell you what was on. I didn’t know if Kathleen were coming back. I desperately hoped she was, but I had no idea how to act or what to say when she did. A million scenarios danced in my mind, none of them good.

I wondered if I should leave.

I swore to myself that I’d never do it again. Never. A voice in the back of my head kept whispering that I could not possibly “never do it again,” but I tried to shout it down, saying that I had to. I had to put Martha behind me. I had to.

Kathleen came home about an hour later. I was incredibly relieved to hear her car pull up but terrified as to what would happen. As she came in the front door, she avoided looking at me.

“I don’t think I want to talk right now Mark,” she said. “Maybe tomorrow. Right now, I’m just going to fix myself something to eat and go upstairs to read.”

That’s what she did and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening brooding in the living room. I tried to read and tried to watch TV but couldn’t concentrate. I reheated some leftover Chinese chicken but spent more time moving it around my plate than eating it. Finally, a little after midnight, I slipped softly upstairs, undressed and got quietly into bed. I don’t know if Kathleen was sleeping or not, but her back was turned to me and she didn’t stir when I got into bed. I don’t know if I slept that night either, but I don’t remember the sun coming up and I don’t remember Kathleen turning over and placing her hand on my hip. That’s where it was, though, early the next morning right before she stretched, yawned and got up.

I gave her about 15 minutes after she went downstairs before I got up. It seemed to take forever to brush my teeth, shower and dress but it was really only a few minutes before I clomped downstairs in jeans and my most macho flannel shirt. That was kinda funny, too, because when I reached the kitchen, Kathleen was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt over a T-shirt.

“Kathy, I am so sorry about yesterday. I’m…”

“Stop talking Mark,” she said with a smile. “I’m not upset. I’m surprised. I’m a little unhappy, I suppose, that you felt you had to keep your hobby a secret, but I’m not upset.”

I don’t think her words registered with me right then. “You have every right to be mad at me.” I looked at the floor, then at her, then at the floor again. “I’ll stop. I’ll stop. I promise I’ll never dress up again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, honey, of course you will.”

I must have looked puzzled.

“If you’ve gone as far as I think you have, and what I saw yesterday tells me you have, you’re not about to stop now. Just tell me this honey.” She paused and looked out the window. “Is it the just the clothes, or is there more?”

I was confused. I didn’t know what she meant and my confusion must have been apparent.

“Mark, honey, do you just like to dress up or do you think you’d be happier as a woman?” I heard her voice catch and I realized that my entire future rested on the next few minutes. I’d heard about one’s life passing before one’s eyes. Now I knew what it meant.

I’m 45 years old and to this day I don’t know why I enjoy wearing women’s clothes. I remember being 5 years old and being fascinated by my sister’s Easter dress. I remember a few years later staring at the girdle ads in the Sears catalog. I remember raiding the laundry hamper to try on my mother’s things. I remember the first time I bought my own clothes, terrified that someone I know would see me. Of course nothing fit right that first time but it didn’t matter. I remember the first time I wore panties to work and how I couldn’t concentrate all day. I remember getting the nerve up to approach a sales woman to tell her that I was a crossdresser who’d never had the opportunity to buy my own clothes and ask her help in getting me sized properly. I remember how her smile and reassurance made me feel absolutely wonderful. I remember the first time a salesperson asked if I wanted a gift box and I said “no thanks, it’s for me.” All these images ran through my mind all at once and none of them had THE ANSWER stamped on them. I just opened my mouth, let my heart do the talking and hoped it would come out right.

“Kathy, darling, I love you more than anyone or anything I’ve ever known and I know that you love me too. I don’t want anything to spoil that, ever. I don’t want to be a woman. I really don’t and I don’t think that’s ever been part of it.” Our eyes met for the first time since that moment yesterday afternoon when she came home.

“…But you’re right, I don’t think I could stop. At any rate, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t stop and not go crazy. I don’t know why I like to dress up, but I do. I know I really like feeling pretty. I love, really love wearing soft, pretty clothes. There’s some part of me that feels completed, fulfilled when I’m dressed in something lovely.

“All I can do is hope you don’t hate me and we can work it out, because I can’t imagine living the rest of my life without you.”

“I’m not going anywhere, honey.” Her smile was warm but there was something in her face that was distant. “I loved you yesterday and I’ll love you tomorrow. I don’t understand this at all, and I don’t understand why you couldn’t share this with me 10 years ago, but I’m not sure that matters. It’s still you and me, honey. I promise.”

We both started to cry and then hugged each other.

Part Two

After a couple of minutes, Kathleen broke away. “I have to get to work,” she said, but I noticed she didn’t look at me as she slid out of the kitchen. A few minutes later she came downstairs in her uniform (white blouse, slim navy skirt, matching navy vest, neutral pantyhose and sensible 1” black pumps — she wore this outfit, sometimes without the vest, sometimes with a navy blazer, every Tuesday through Saturday). She gave me a peck on the cheek and hustled out the door.

That left me figuring out what to do with the rest of the day. What to do with the rest of my life. Everything had changed, but I didn’t know what it had changed to. Yesterday, I would have run right upstairs after Kathleen’s car had left the driveway and rummaged through my closet for something pretty, or maybe I would have gotten in my car and done some shopping. Somehow, though, neither one of those alternatives seemed like the right thing to do. I wound up spending the day puttering around the house in a daze, not doing anything or accomplishing anything and feeling the time wasting away.

When Kathleen came home she called my name before opening the door (which she’d never done before) and when she saw me dressed in boy clothes, I could have sworn I saw disappointment on her face. She gave me a quick kiss and went upstairs to change into jeans and a turtleneck. We made small talk for a bit while I finished preparing dinner and continued talking about things of no consequence all through my Pasta Putanesca.

It wasn’t until she was clearing the table that I felt Kathleen get serious. Her back was turned to me when she said “Honey, there’s just a couple of things I want to get straight.”

I felt my stomach drop. “Here it comes,” I thought to myself. To her, I just said, “OK.”

“I don’t pretend to know what’s going on, but first, I want to know, no I need to know if you still love me. Do you? Do you still love me and want to make love to me and live with me and hold me and grow old with me?” She still wasn’t looking at me.

I didn’t hesitate for a second. “Yes. I do. To all of it.” My mind buzzed with other words, but none of them seemed right.

She turned around and looked at me. Her expression was blank but I could tell her mind wasn’t. She looked at for what seemed like hours, but was really only about thirty seconds. “I love you too honey. Still. And I think we can still make this work.

“But there’s one other thing. This is just between us, right?”

I just looked at her, confused, not understanding what she was saying.

“You’re not dressing up with anyone else, or parading around the streets, or hanging around in bars, or anything like that, are you?”

“God no,” I splurted. I must have looked so shocked she believed me, which was a good thing because I was telling the truth. I mean unless you counted the several women’s clothing stores where I was known as a regular customer, I hadn’t shared this part of me with anybody.

Kathleen looked relieved and almost relaxed. She still seemed a little tentative, but the tension that had stood between us for the last 24 hours seemed to be fading. We watched a little TV (no pun intended), listened to a little music, had a couple glasses of wine. Just before we headed to bed, she turned to me and asked “Do you have a nightie?”

“Umm, yes.”

“Why don’t you put it on tonight. I’ll be upstairs in a bit.”

I did just that. Then I turned off the lights and pulled the covers up tight to my neck and waited for her. She came upstairs in about ten minutes, changed into a sleepshirt and sleep panties (panties that had lost their stretch but were fine for sleeping) and crawled into bed beside me. She started caressing my body through my nylon and lace and soon we were making love like we had the second time we’d ever made love.

The first time we were too eager, too hot, too passionate. It was an explosion that left us weak and exhausted and empty. The second time was the next evening and was far more intimate. That time, we played with each other, slowly and lovingly. We explored each other’s and our own bodies with a loving touch that neither of us had ever felt before and by the time the sun came up the next morning, we knew that we’d be spending the rest of our lives together.

This night was almost like that. It was as if we were both new people and though we knew we weren’t, the experiences all felt new and wonderful. The only difference was that we fell asleep a couple hours after midnight (we are in our 40s, after all!). That, and when I woke up, Kathleen was cuddled in a ball on the edge of her side of the bed, as far away from me as she could get. I couldn’t quite figure out what to make of it all.

That morning was Thanksgiving, and we went to her folks for Thanksgiving dinner and had a wonderful time. When we went to bed, I wore a different nightgown and we again made wonderful love together. In the morning, Kathleen made a point of getting dressed and going downstairs ahead of me, which made the task of getting dressed that morning almost momentous. I had permission to wear a wardrobe that I’d kept secret for my entire life, but had no idea what reaction wearing something from that side of closet would bring.

I ended up going right down the middle, sort of. A pair of plain, white, cotton panties. A lacy camisole under a big, blousy poet’s shirt. My regular (i.e., boy’s) jeans. No socks or hose. Penny loafers. I almost trembled when I entered the kitchen, but Kathleen didn’t seem to notice. A peck on the cheek, a cup of coffee and it was as if there was nothing unusual in the world.

That’s how this part of our lives got started and it continued in the same way, more or less. Every once in a while, I’d go a little further but it all seemed so, logical. Soon, I started wearing panties every day and when the novelty of wearing panties wore off it seemed like my wearing panties was the most natural thing in the world. The first time I wore a skirt in front of Kathleen was on a chilly Saturday morning in early December. I came downstairs wearing a long, almost ankle length denim skirt under an Irish fisherman’s sweater and she didn’t blink an eye.

A couple of weeks after that, I took what I thought was a big gamble when I wore the same sweater with a knee length wool plaid skirt, black tights and chunky shoes. It was the first time I’d worn hosiery or women’s shoes in front of Kathleen and the first time I’d worn a skirt that showed off my legs. Again, I entered the kitchen trembling with something between fear and excitement and again, Kathleen didn’t seem fazed at all. “You look cute this morning, honey,” she grinned as she poured my coffee and that was the last notice she paid to what I was wearing.

As the weeks went by, I brought out Martha’s (my alter egos name) wardrobe more and more but the one article I couldn’t bring my self to wear again was a bra. I didn’t need one. Back when my dressing was a secret, I loved wearing bras and I stuffed them with all kinds of things but now that there wasn’t a secret, there was something about putting on a bra that seemed, I don’t know, decadent. I mean, here I was wearing panties and camisoles almost every day, coming home from work and changing from sportcoat and slacks into a blouse and skirt but a bra just didn’t seem right anymore. I had a half-dozen or so in my dresser and my attention was drawn to them everytime I got dressed in the morning but I just couldn’t wear one in front of Kathleen.

Then, one morning, about a week before Christmas, I got dressed in a silk poet’s blouse, denim jumper and tights and headed downstairs. Kathleen already had the paper open and the coffee ready. As she gave me a section of paper, she said, “That’s a really cute outfit, Mark honey, but you’d look a little cuter with something up top.”

I must have looked confused. “Mark, you really need some kind of tits to make an outfit like that work. Don’t you have a bra?”

“Uh, yeah.” I must have blushed a million shades of red. “I just felt a little weird…”

“You’re wearing a jumper and tights, and you’re telling me you’d feel weird wearing a bra?” She smiled. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She put on a schoolteacher’s voice. “Go upstairs and get dressed properly young lady!”

Well, I did, but I still felt a little funny and I certainly wasn’t going to put anything in it. When I came back downstairs she smiled. “That’s a little better. Didn’t you ever put something in it to fill it out?”

“Yesss, sometimes.” I remembered spending hours getting knee-hi’s with bird seed, water balloons and baggies filled with water just right to give me the look I wanted. “I don’t have anything like that anymore. It’s kinda ridiculous, I guess.” I was lying through my teeth.

Those weeks I’d spend some evenings dressed in women’s clothes, and most of the time on weekend mornings I’d dress. If we were going out, I’d change into boy clothes, with panties and sometimes pantyhose or a camisole underneath. Certainly I’d never wear anything that anyone would notice. We’d do our errands on Sundays and go to various stores but neither of us would go near a clothing store or clothing department. The closest we came to acknowledging this new phase of our life in public was in a grocery store. The store had their house brand of pantyhose on sale and Kathleen picked up a half dozen pair for herself. Then she turned to me.

“Do you need any?”

I didn’t. Partly because I still had worn any pantyhose in front of Kathleen (so far, just tights and long skirts — I didn’t want her to see unshaven legs under pantyhose) and partly because I didn’t like cheap pantyhose. But, even though I didn’t, I didn’t think I could let this opportunity pass so I tossed a half dozen in the basket too. She didn’t say anything else until we neared the checkout when she grinned at me and said “I wonder if the cashier will notice these are two different sizes?”

Our life was proceeding normally (well, as normally as a gradually de-closeting crossdresser’s life could be). There were occasional moments of weirdness. While watching Monty Python one night, the “Lumberjack Sketch” came on. It used to be one of our favorite bits but that particular night we both sat in awkward silence. I used to do the laundry most of the time and one week I mixed in a couple pairs of my panties with hers. She didn’t notice until one morning she put on a pair and they almost slid of her hips. Kathleen also told me this story of looking in the car’s rearview mirror just before she went to work on Saturday and noticed in a panic that there was a lipstick smear on her cheek. From me. But apart from those incidents we were very, very careful to go too fast or to get ahead of ourselves.

This all ended on Christmas. I’d gotten Kathleen some lovely presents, the kind I’d gotten throughout our marriage. There was a beautiful stained-glass window hanging, a big, luxurious picture book of English gardens, a big, fluffy sweater and some odds & ends. She got me two gift certificates. The first was from one of the plus-size stores in the local mall. The second was from a foundation/lingerie shop in the same mall and where the amount should have been were the words “one pair of breast forms.” I was speechless.

“I really don’t know what you like, honey, so I got you gift certificates. I hope you don’t mind,” she said as she smiled at me.

I leapt across the couch to give her the biggest kiss I could. I couldn’t believe how much courage it took for her to do this. “Kathy, you couldn’t have given me a present that meant more.”

“If you think you could handle it, I’d like to go with you, too. Is that OK?”

“Of course it is. I’d dreamed about this for years, Kathy, for years.”

Christmas fell on a Sunday that year and I had the week between Christmas and New Year’s off, so on Monday we planned on getting my breasts. As I was getting dressed (boy clothes today — khakis and a sport shirt), Kathleen suggested I wear a bra. I was planning on it, but her suggestion was a sweet one. I put on my prettiest bra, which was a 42C and it really didn’t show under my shirt and coat.

We got to the shop and one of the salesladies brought us to a relatively empty part of the store. She showed us the different kind of breast forms (I didn’t know there were different types) and explained the features and prices. She asked if I had a particular size in mind and after determining that I had a bra with me, sent me off to the most isolated dressing room to try them on. Kathleen didn’t accompany me and I was a little disappointed at that. At any rate, I slipped them into my bra and saw how they all looked and I was electrified. Part of it was pure fear — after all, I was a man in a lingerie shop wearing bra and trying out breast forms. But beside that fear was the feeling I was experiencing by seeing MY breasts under my shirt and knowing that Kathleen was behind it.

Then I wondered if she really was behind it or whether she was just humoring me. Off and on for the past month I had agonized over what this really meant to Kathleen and I had moved oh so carefully, following her lead. Buying me breasts seemed like such a bigger step than we had ever taken before and I could not stop thinking about where it was taking us. On the other hand, I just couldn’t explain how wonderful I felt with the weight of my breast forms filling out my bra. It took a while, but I eventually I stopped thinking, made my choice, repacked everything and came out of the dressing room. Kathleen and the saleswoman met me and they took my purchase to the register and did everything that had to be done. I offered to carry the bag but Kathleen made sure that she carried the bag with the shop’s logo when we entered back into the mall.

When we got home, she said “you gonna try ‘em on?” as if it were no big deal. I bounded upstairs with the bag, took out the breasts and slipped them into my bra and then put on the same jumper, blouse & tights outfit she’d teased me about earlier. Kathleen was absolutely right, this outfit did look so much better now. I discreetly tiptoed downstairs and with a soft “Ta Dah” did a ballet leap into the living room. Kathleen didn’t say anything, but she smiled warmly and gave me a big hug and kiss. When our breasts touched, I went electric and tingled all over. And I know that mine were only silicon, but just the same…

When we went to spend the other gift certificate, it went about the same way. We went to the mall and I was dressed in my boy jeans and a polo shirt (although I was wearing panties, pantyhose and a camisole underneath). When we entered the store the saleswomen looked at me a bit quizzically — not because I was a man but because this was the first time they had seen me with anybody. It also could have been a bit confusing for them because Kathleen could have been shopping for herself, as she’s a plus-size herself. I smiled in a way that told them everything was OK and started right towards the skirt rack.

While we were in the store, Kathleen just sort of poked around aimlessly. Occasionally, she’d check the price tags of a T-shirt or a pair of jeans and when I showed her something, she’d comment. We were there for a while but in all that time I didn’t see her really look at anything for herself. I mentioned that a couple of times and she’d reply “I’m not in the mood,” so I decided not to press it.

Eventually, after going through almost every rack in the store (I really wasn’t interested in outerware or sweatpants, so I left them alone) I settled on a couple of outfits that I really loved. I had them rung up and chatted with the sales women for a bit. As we left, Kathleen took the bag as we hit the mall.

Over the next several weeks, my wardrobe grew dramatically as I actually started to develop a style. With the ability to spend an increasing amount of time dressed at home, I started to see what kinds of clothes looked good on me and what didn’t. Kathleen helped out here, too. At first, she expressed approval with everything I wore but I suspect that this had more to do with psychological approval than it did anything with a fashion perspective. After a while, though, she’d notice something that looked off and say “I think that this might look better if you…” or “We don’t really do it that way. You should probably…”

It was one of those comments that led to her giving me my first makeup lesson. It was late February and the first spring dresses were in and I fell in love with a long, almost ankle length yellow floral print. Big bright pink and red flowers were sprayed across the sunny yellow background, the sleeves were gathered into puffs and the shoulders and the neckline was almost a collar style. I loved it and ran right home to try it on. I kept it on (under an apron, of course) as I made dinner, and met Kathleen at the door with a big hug in my new yellow spring dress.

She could tell I was excited but when I stepped back to show it off, all she did was look at me appraisingly and said “That’s very nice, dear. Very nice.” Then she went upstairs to change. During dinner we chatted but I’d catch her looking at me with a funny look every once in a while. As I was clearing the table, she cleared her throat. “Honey,” she said.

“Uh oh,” I thought to myself. She’s having second thoughts. This is all about to come crashing down on me. “Yes,” I replied, as neutrally as possible.

“That is a really pretty dress. I think you look very nice in it, but there’s something off. Turn around and look at me.”

I did. She looked at me for a couple of minutes and I was getting more and more scared.

“Have you ever worn makeup, honey?” she asked, when she finally broke the silence. My jaw must have dropped but nothing came out. “I mean, I look at you and I see a nice body with big boobs under a beautiful dress, but it still doesn’t look right. I think it’s your face. There’s no makeup.”

“I tried a couple of times a long time ago,” I answered, “but I wasn’t very good at it. It always came out looking either sloppy or slutty.”

“We can fix that, hon,” she said brightly. “Change your clothes, we’re going shopping.”

After I changed (I hated getting out of that dress) we drove to the local strip mall. In the parking lot on the way to the drugstore she whispered to me “we’ll just get some basic, inexpensive stuff this time. After you learn what to do, you can get something nicer.”

We went straight to the makeup aisle and she picked up a whole bunch of stuff. I recognized the lipstick, nail polish and mascara, but I’m not sure I knew what everything else was. As she was going through the racks she kept looking at my face and a couple of times, when she knew nobody was watching, she’d hold something up to me and frown thoughtfully. When she had everything she needed, she told me to wait in the car.

A couple of minutes later she plopped down in the seat next to me and said, “Let’s go home. I have a couple of things to show you.”

When we got home, she told me to get dressed (although I’d been dressing in front of her for nearly three months now, she still hadn’t seen me get dressed) so I got into something simple and told her I was ready. She came upstairs and sat me down on the edge of the bed and proceeded to pull everything out of the drugstore bag and explain to me what it was.

Then, piece by piece, she began working on me. She kept up a running commentary on what she was doing as she rubbed, smeared, dusted and drew on me. I kept up with her for a while, but after a few minutes I just began to bask in her attentions. A couple of times she pulled away to look at me, but then she’d start in again and do a couple more things. Finally, she put down the lipliner (the last piece of the puzzle, I guess), picked up a hairbrush, did a couple of passes through my hair and then stepped away from in front of my face so I could see.

I’ve read enough stories to expect that I should have been dazzled by my reflection. I wasn’t dazzled and I wasn’t shocked by how beautiful I was, but I was amazed by how much difference Kathleen had made in my appearance. It was still me, but it was an enhanced me and I really, really liked what I saw. What I saw looking back at me was a woman. A woman with a funny haircut, but a woman. And in this moment, I understood that everything had changed, again.

Part Three

I don’t know why I crossdress. I don’t know what caused me to put on my first pair of panties. At one time, I thought that my fascination with women’s clothes was merely erotic, but after a time I grew out of that and began to realize it was something deeper. I once thought that it was merely practical, that soft fabrics and skirts were more comfortable and more practical than suits. That didn’t explain the bras and pantyhose, but so be it. I once thought that maybe there were two psychological parts to me that were represented by my external wardrobes, but the more I dressed, the more I understood that there were hundreds of different threads running through me and while some seemed more prominent when I was in a dress, some didn’t and they were all part of the same me. The more I dressed and the more I thought about it, the more I discovered about myself.

There was one thing, however, that was consistently a part of me from the very beginning. I was a man and through it all, I never really wanted to be anything else. Being male was as much a part of who I was as my fascination with architecture, my need to be organized (I may have been psychologically as disorganized as hell but you’d never find anything out of place in my file cabinets or my reference shelves), my need to dress in women’s clothes and my love for Kathleen.

I may have wanted to look and feel like a woman, but I never wanted to be a woman.

And now, looking back at me from my bedroom mirror, was a woman. I was more confused than I had ever been in my entire life.

I think the same thing may have been true with Kathleen, or maybe my reaction was upsetting her a little.

“Like it?” she asked, her voice trembling and her face utterly without expression. “I kept it pretty simple, so you can probably do the same thing yourself next time. The important thing …”

I lost track of her voice as I continued to look into the face in the mirror. I wasn’t entirely sure of what I was seeing. Kathleen wound down after a bit and her silence became loud enough to hear.

“Honey, I don’t know what to say,” I finally managed. “I’ve seen you made up a thousand times but I didn’t know it could make this much of a difference. I look so, different.”

“Now you know all our little secrets, honey.” She was trying to be flip, but she sounded anything but genuine. I don’t know what I heard in her voice, but there was a little fear, a little anger, some disappointment and a lot of confusion in what I heard. I heard all that, but I wasn’t listening. It was like background noise to me as I was far too consumed with trying to cope with what I saw and what I felt. And I knew that it was more important than ever that I come to grips with “this,” whatever “this” was.

Eventually, my heart resumed it’s normal rhythm and we spent the rest of the day doing what we normally did on days that Martha appeared, which was to talk and putter around the house and watch a video or two and not do much of anything constructive. Beneath that calm, my mind was churning and in retrospect, I’m sure Kathleen’s was too although we both did our damnedest to pretend that there was nothing out of the ordinary. We made love that night, but it felt very mechanical to me, as if I was watching myself get excited and I programmed this body of mine to do what it had to. When I came, I was early and spurted all over my nightie. I apologized in a sort of perfunctory way and then rolled over and went to sleep.

A few days later, for no particular reason other than it seemed right, I shaved my legs and armpits. Kathleen smiled when she saw my now-smooth legs under pantyhose for the first time (I hadn’t dared before, preferring tights, long skirts and pants) but she didn’t saw anything. A couple of days after than I shaved my chest and within days after that bleached the hair on my arms. I couldn’t reach my back but I did the best I could, under the circumstances.

My life was becoming ritualized and I felt almost powerless to stop it. I was now wearing panties every day, which was no big deal. I’d come home from work almost immediately after the school day ended which was a change because I used to spend lots of extra time with any kids who wanted to use the library in the afternoon. As soon as I hit the door I’d be taking off my male clothes. I’d almost race to the bedroom to get a bra so I could put on my breasts. Then I’d spent an inordinate amount of time in front of Kathleen’s mirror putting on makeup before selecting a dress or skirt/top combination. I’d started buying lots of jewelry and would add whatever I thought worked with my outfit and only after I was utterly satisfied that I looked absolutely lovely would I go downstairs to begin dinner.

I always got home before Kathleen and I loved to cook so making dinner was never a big thing but I was spending so much time in front of the mirror that I often didn’t get to begin dinner until just before she came in the door. This meant that we were eating a lot of hamburgers, grilled chicken and salads. Not that I did a bad job on any of these, but they were quick and they didn’t get in the way of my fantasy world.

Since we first were married, dinnertime was special for us. I don’t know why, but food and good conversation seemed as intimately connected as we were ourselves. It didn’t matter whether dinner was something I’d prepared after coming home from work, or maybe one of Kathleen’s specialties on the weekend or take out pizza or even an evening out in a restaurant, but this was the time where we talked about what was happening in our lives. Now, though, even that was changing because I was just so bursting with new energy and new experiences that dinner was becoming a monologue. We might talk about something that happened at work (either hers or mine) but sooner or later I’d bring the conversation around to something I did for the first time dressed en femme or some feeling I’d experienced for the first time. One part of me rationalized all this Martha’s introduction to the world but all parts of me failed to recognize that to Kathleen, it was all Mark and Mark was not only monopolizing what had been their special time but he was ignoring Kathleen for Martha. Not only was I beginning to push Kathleen into the background during dinner, but my continuing fascination with Martha’s coming out began to push dinner itself into the background. I never noticed. Kathleen was saddened, and I didn’t notice that, either. It also meant that we didn’t eat out as much as we had, because I insisted on spending as much time as I could as Martha and neither of us could imagine Martha in a restaurant.

Martha was also beginning to put a financial strain on us. As Mark, I never was much of a clotheshorse but I’d always been presentable. Kathleen never spent much on clothes, either, which was fortunate. We both spent lots of money on books, food, music (I’m a jazzaholic, Kathleen a confirmed world music explorer and we both share a love of classical music and Anglo/Celtic folk music) and decorative art. We’ve never been poor, but we’ve also never been more than a paycheck or two beyond the mortgage. Now, with Martha spending every Saturday shopping for clothes and jewelry and experimenting while developing a style of her own, we added an entirely new category of expense we’d never had before. The first time we’d ever bounced a check was that spring when I’d miscalculated how much money we had in the bank and the water & sewer bill didn’t clear. It was written the same day that I paid my credit card $500, which was about half the total (I used to pay my bill in full but we couldn’t afford to do that anymore) I’d racked up on clothes and accessories for Martha in the past three months.

It’s easy to see now, but back then I couldn’t tell that my life was spiraling out of control. I was out of control. This idea of being Martha had taken control of me and while I was still extremely careful outside the house, Mark had pretty much ceased to exist once I got home.

And this was not good. Not at all.

The first tear in the fabric came on a warm night in early May. School wasn’t out yet, but it was winding down. I came home from work a little early, changed into some particularly lovely lingerie and a rayon robe before putting on breasts and makeup. I was absolutely meticulous with my makeup that afternoon and mentally congratulated myself on how beautiful I looked, then slipped into what you would have called a little black dress if it were black and not turquoise, faux pearls and black pumps. I was sophisticated and lovely and late for dinner.

I didn’t even notice that Kathleen had come home and as I dashed by the den on the way to the kitchen. I said hello, blew her a kiss and said breezily “Sorry about not getting dinner started hon. I’ll just whip up something in a jiffy and we’ll be all set.”

“Don’t bother,” Kathleen replied. “I had a big lunch. I’m not real hungry anyway.”

I looked at her. “Are you OK, honey?” I asked.

She didn’t respond for a few moments. Then she looked up at me. “Dear,” she said, “I don’t think you’re playing this role all that terribly accurately. Most women who come home from work take the dress off, wash away the makeup and kick the pumps into the closet.”

She gave a big theatrical sigh and settled a little deeper into the couch. “You might be working just a little too hard at this.”

I was shocked into silence. My brain started spinning in circles, not sure if I should apologize, whip off a witty bon mot, a psychological explanation or begin an argument. The apology seemed like a pretty good bet, although I didn’t have a clue as to why.

“Honey, I’m sorry. I just…”

“No you’re not, dear.” She smiled at me, but the smile looked tired and far too deliberate. “You’re not sorry. You just think that that’s the right thing to say, but it isn’t. It really isn’t.”

I knew it wasn’t but I didn’t know what else to do. I desperately tried to think of something to say but nothing coming from my brain seemed to connect with my tongue, so I remained speechless.

“I know how important this must be to you, dear, but it just isn’t working for me. I’m trying incredibly hard to imagine myself in your mind, but I just can’t do it. I can’t imagine myself coming home from work and willingly putting on a girdle and pantyhose. I can’t. I can’t imagine why anyone in the world would want to wear high heels if they didn’t have to.

“And then my imagination starts to run wild. What are those heels and that dress doing for you? What need are they filling for you that I don’t? Or can’t?” Her voice was gradually rising in pitch and intensity. Then her voice dropped and she looked at me directly.

“Or do they replace me? If you can look like the woman of your dreams yourself, what do you need me for?”

“Kathy, you can’t begin…”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP,” she screamed at me. I was stunned.

“Just…shut…up.” She was quieter now. “I love you Mark, I really do. But I don’t know who Mark is anymore. I don’t even know if you still exist. You are confusing the hell out of me. I know I’m not a lesbian but for months every time I make love I’m making love to someone in a nightgown and lipstick. I wake up in the morning and watch you get out of bed and put on a pair of fucking panties. I come home at night and get a peck on the cheek from someone wearing a dress who has bigger boobs than me. What does that make me?” She was beginning to sob. “What the hell does that make me?”

I started to sit down next to her but she pulled away. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t touch me.”

For almost five minutes we stood still in awkward, painful silence. Kathleen, huddled in a corner of the couch, trying desperately not to cry as she hugged herself, staring into space. Me, dressed for a cocktail party, staring at her, not daring to move.

Finally, Kathy pulled herself up. “I’m going to bed.” She shook her head a couple of times and then headed upstairs without looking at me.
That night I slept on the couch rolled up in an afghan. When Kathy came down in the morning, I bolted upstairs to take a shower, get rid of my makeup and grab a robe (my male robe) before coming down to make breakfast. Kathy and I were civil to each other and then she left for work and I got dressed for work right after. That evening, we were polite and civil and nobody said a work about our flare-up the night before.

And that’s how it went. On the surfaces, our lives had returned to what they used to be. We went back to all our old habits and rituals and we smiled and were polite and life went on. At first, I stopped dressing completely, but it wasn’t long before I found an excuse (to myself, anyway) to wear panties instead of jockey shorts to work one day, and then another and so on. I never let Kathy see me dressed anymore, but I found occasions to dress anyway, just like I used to.

There were a couple of moments here and there. There was the time I hadn’t finished putting away the laundry when Kathy came upstairs. She saw me folding and putting away panties that obviously weren’t hers, but she went on as if there was nothing out of the ordinary. One afternoon, too, I was feeling particularly guilty about the state of our marriage and loaded (almost) all of my clothes into three or four big Hefty bags and was hauling them down to the car to bring to Goodwill. Kathy walked into the garage just as I was getting ready to put the last bag in the trunk. She asked what I was doing and I told her.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” she said and went into the kitchen. I left those clothes in the car’s trunk for almost two weeks before hauling them back upstairs and putting them away. Again.

Several months went by like this. Spring faded into summer, summer into fall. The coolness between Kathy and I gradually dissipated but I can’t say it was replaced by anything warm. I wanted desperately to move the clock back a year, for Martha to never have left the closet but we both knew that wouldn’t happen and I didn’t know what to do about it. Kathy seemed to have built a cast-iron box around that part of our marriage and while she was obviously and laboriously carrying that box around, she refused to even see that it was there.

Until one day in late October. It was one of those beautifully sunny fall days that occurs all too rarely. Most of the leaves had already fallen and the sunshine just poured through the bare branches to flood the still green grass. I was puttering around the kitchen, brewing a second pot of coffee and doing a little cleaning while Kathy was sitting at the kitchen table pretending to read the paper and letting her coffee get cold. I was putting away the dishes from the dishwasher when I felt her eyes following me around the room. I tried to ignore the feeling for a bit, but I couldn’t. I just turned around and looked at her.

“Yes?” I smiled, but it wasn’t a confident smile.

“This isn’t working, is it?” She was staring at me but I could tell that she wasn’t even looking at me. I was getting a little unnerved. I must have looked bewildered.

“This isn’t working. You, me, your ‘other’ self, any of it.” Finally she broke eye contact. “We are working way too hard to pretend this is a couple of years ago and I never saw you in a dress and you never made love to me in a nightie. I never bought your tits.” Her voice was getting quieter but her eyes were filling with tears.

“No, I never doubted your masculinity,” she almost whispered, with the sarcasm fairly dripping from her tongue. “I never doubted that you were a man and I never doubted that I was all woman for making love to a ‘man’ who was wearing lingerie that was prettier and sexier than anything I owned.”

“Goddamn it,” she said, her voice beginning to rise. “I was married to you for 16 years. I thought I could deal with a husband who occasionally wanted to explore a little but I couldn’t. I couldn’t.” She stared at me again. I was frozen stiff. “I couldn’t.” She started to sob. “Believe it or not, I could handle seeing you in a dress. I really could. I think I know what it means to you and I love you and I need you to be happy. The first time we kissed and you were wearing lipstick I thought it was the sexiest thing.” She giggled through the tears.

“But what I couldn’t take was what this was saying about me. Did this mean I was a lesbian? I don’t want to be a lesbian. I mean, I am who I am and I don’t exactly relish the idea that all of a sudden at 42 I’m supposed to accept that the love of my life has bigger tits and nicer hair than I do? I know they’re fake and I know the plumbing’s still right but now I’m supposed to tell my brain to start fantasizing about, I don’t know, Cindy Crawford instead of Clint Eastwood?”

I felt like I needed to say something, anything, but I also knew that to open my mouth right now would be a mistake. A Serious Mistake.

“But you know what got the most?” She continued. “I couldn’t look at you and see you being a better woman than me.” Her sobs became louder. “I couldn’t stand you being prettier than me.” At this, she completely broke down. “I was never a very pretty girl. I was always too fat. I spent too much time reading and not enough time talking about boys and makeup. I didn’t look anything like the girls in the ads in Seventeen and I knew I never ever would.

“So I never even tried. I read books. I talked with adults. I only bought clothes when I had to and everything I bought was navy or white so I never had to worry about how it would match. I only would think about things that were important. And I carved out my life that way.
“Then I met you and we fell in love and I knew that everything I had been doing was right. You were absolutely the right man for me and I felt it in my bones and I knew that everything I thought about high school that was stupid really was stupid.” She has quieted down a little by now and for the first time since this outburst, she was looking directly at me.

“Then I see you in a dress. And at first, like I always do, I intellectualize it. I go read about crossdressing. I do the research. I try to put myself in your brain and I try to understand. And we talk about it and I tell you it’s OK with me and I even help you out and try to share this with you.

“And then one night all my defenses just fell apart. I couldn’t help it, honey, I just couldn’t. You just looked better than I ever had in my entire life. Your clothes looked beautiful together and on you. You had just finished your makeup and were looking at yourself in the mirror and I went crazy with jealousy because you obviously loved the way you looked and I always hate the way I look. And not only that, but I thought you looked like one of those women in the fashion ads too. You really did look great. And I’m standing out of sight gazing at you and my hair looks like a rat’s nest, I’m not wearing makeup, my blouse is wrinkled and has sweatstains under the pits, I have on one of my seven knee length navy skirts and I’m wearing my grandmother’s shoes. And for a second, I hated you and then I hated myself for hating you and then I got so confused I fell apart.

“What are we going to do, honey?” She was spent. There were no tears left and precious few words. “What are we going to do.?”

I pulled up a chair next to her and hugged her tight. “I don’t know Kathy. All I know right now is that I love you more than I’ve ever loved you or anyone else before. Beyond that I don’t know…I don’t know.”

I was wrong about the tears.

Part Four

Eventually, we both cried ourselves out and talked our way through the rest of the night. We both apologized for things we did and things we didn’t. We talked about things that were silly and things that were serious, but we never talked about my desire to dress in women’s clothes. As the sun came up I knew that we were both committed to making this marriage work and that neither of us had the foggiest idea of how to do it.

Kathy broke our embrace and said she was going to try to get a little sleep. On her way out the kitchen, I blurted “If you want, I’ll promise I’ll never dress again.” I don’t know if I could have backed that up, but I meant it.

“I don’t want that, honey,” And she went upstairs to bed.

I puttered around the kitchen for a while, cleaning up and then stepped out on the porch with a bottle of chilled Chardonnay and a handful of Miles Davis CDs. I know it was 7am, but I figure that since I hadn’t been to bed the rule against drinking before noon didn’t apply. As I sipped the wine and listened to the muted tones of Davis’ trumpet, the chaos whirling around my mind began to settle into patterns. By the time “All Blues” rolled around (the fourth disc on the changer) I knew what I wanted to do and I allowed myself to fall asleep, the morning sun shining on my face, but not shining any brighter than my smile.

The next Sunday, I slept in a little later than usual so Kathy got up before me. After she went downstairs, I showered and shaved (beard, legs and pits) and got dressed — panties and chemise under Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and a sea green polo shirt that L.L. Bean sold only in women’s sizes. I put on boat shoes with no socks and went downstairs, getting ready to appear dressed in women’s clothes in front of Kathy for the first time in months. The only thing was that unless you knew the signature Gloria Vanderbilt stitching on my butt and you looked closely enough to notice that the three buttons on my shirt buttoned the “wrong” way, I don’t think anyone could have noticed.

I poured myself a cup of coffee and popped a couple of English muffins in the toaster and grabbed a part of the paper that Kathy had finished. We made small talk for a while and lapsed into a comfortable silence.

“Do you trust me?” I asked her out of the clear blue sky.

“What? Of course I do.” She looked confused.

“I mean, do you trust me enough to try an experiment, no questions asked?”

“Sure. Yes.” She paused. “You know I do.”

“OK then, it’s settled.” I slammed my coffee cup down on the table like a judge pounding a gavel. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“You’ll see,” and I swept the dishes into the sink, threw the papers into the trash (no recycling for this impulsive fool!) grabbed the car keys and held the door open for Kathy. “After you, my sweet.”

Kathy reached for her purse and I knocked it away. “You won’t need that,” I said smartly.

“I’m not going anywhere looking like this,” and I could see her point. She was dressed in a very faded, formerly white Cape Cod sweatshirt, faded navy sweatpants and grayish Keds, but that’s what she always wore on Sunday mornings so I guess I didn’t notice.

“You look just fine dear,” I lied.

“And I haven’t even brushed my hair!”

“You can do that in the car. Let’s go.”

She huffed and began to sit down. “You said you trusted me…”

Having played the trump card, she glowered at me (but I did detect a hint of a smile) and stomped out to the car.

There are four malls in our area. One is anchored by supermarket on the southern edge of town and has a liquor store, dry cleaner and a couple of specialty stores. Another is across the street from a WalMart and has a couple of discount stores, a hardware store, a drug store and a bank. I hardly ever went to those two. The other two malls are on opposite corners of the intersection of the interstate and the turnpike on the eastern edge of town. Those were the big malls. That’s the direction we headed.

We stopped first at the large, enclosed mall. As we headed from the car to the mall, I slid my hand across her back. “Oh good,” I said. “You’re not wearing a bra.”

The look she gave me could have penetrated a two by four at four hundred paces. I just giggled silently.

Our first stop was at Under It All, a store that specialized in foundation garments, swimwear, lingerie, and so on. As we entered, the owner, Loretta, spotted me and waved from across the counter. “Hi Mark, is this Kathy?”

“Yes Loretta and she’s all yours. I don’t think she’s had a properly fitting bra since before we married.” Kathy’s face flushed deeply, but I couldn’t tell whether it was from embarrassment or from being furious at me. “Once you figure out her sized right, I think she’ll need several,” I said to Loretta, as if Kathy wasn’t even there. “A couple with smooth cups for T-shirts, a couple of real pretty ones and some for every day. I’ll look out here for some other things.”

With that, Loretta took Kathy firmly by the elbow and led her to the dressing rooms and I turned to other pursuits. While Loretta and Kathy were occupied, I picked out a half dozen new panties in colors and with trims that Kathy would never have dreamed of picking out for herself. I also picked up a pair of girdles, one long leg and one a regular panty-girdle. I frequently wear a girdle and Kathy and I are only two sizes apart, but my problem is waist and her problems are tummy and thighs. Finally, I added two darling camisoles, one in ivory and one in white.

It took a while, but eventually Kathy emerged from the dressing room with an armload of bras and one set of tags (which meant she was wearing one of her selections). As we were waiting for Linda (one of Loretta’s assistants) to ring up the sale ($285.45, by the way — outrageous!), Kathy whispered in my ear “You were right, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not going to kill you anyway.” Then she saw Linda folding the girdles and placing them in bag. I could almost feel the heat from her glare.

Our next stop was my favorite clothing store, Laura Brown’s. Catherine, the manager, wasn’t working on Sunday but Carmen, the assistant manager was. We greeted each other and I tried to introduce Kathy to Carmen but Kathy was remaining sullenly silent.

I explained to Carmen that Kathy’s employer had a dress code that stipulated navy and white and that Kathy’s wardrobe thus consisted of a bunch of boring straight-line knee-length navy skirts with simple white blouses and maybe a navy vest or two for “variety.” I wanted to get her a couple of outfits that were more stylish and professional, along with a couple of things for the weekend and evenings.

Again, Carmen and I talked as if Kathy weren’t even there and since Kathy refused to do anything but open her eyes wider and wider and she stared at me and blushed, I figured I had no other choice but to keep talking. Carmen steered Kathy around the racks as she talked to me and led us to their career wear section. The first thing she pulled out was a pair of high-waisted, tailored navy pants. She paired this with an ivory rayon blouse with a banded collar and plackets across the breast. After leading Kathy to the dressing cubicle, she picked out a gold chain belt and a matching, collarless jacket to go with the pants.

Kathy was in there a long time and I had to go in after her. I slipped the belt around her waist and put her arms in the jacket (Kathy seemed to be doing a rag-doll imitation) and then almost dragged her out to stand in front of the three-way mirror.

“That looks very sharp on you,” Carmen said. “Very sharp.”

“I’ve always known you looked beautiful,” I whispered in her ear. “I want everybody else to know it too.” I kissed her softly on the neck.

Kathy just stared into the mirror, the anger gone but I wasn’t sure what replaced it. After a minute or so, she started twisting her hips a bit and I could swear I saw her eyes moisten.

“I hope you don’t think we’re finished,” I said to Carmen, as I gently shoved Kathy back towards her cubicle. We were just beginning.

By the time we left, nearly 90 minutes later, Carmen and I had picked out a long, soft navy skirt (matching the jacket) that was nearly ankle length with a muted floral pattern of whites and greys, a dress made of the same material and a slim cut calf-length navy skirt with slits up the side. That skirt made me glad I picked up a girdle for her, and I was sure that eventually, Kathy would see it the same way. We also chose a soft navy cardigan, three white blouses with varying degrees of detailing and three pairs of navy pantyhose and three pairs of black, both of a quality far better than the supermarket stuff Kathy usually bought.

The more she tried on, the more Kathy seemed to relax and when she tried the dress on, I could tell that she was working hard at suppressing a smile. The dress was the last “professional” thing she tried. “That’s enough of this,” she said. Then she amazed us both by grabbing an ankle length, multicolored (it looked like a patchwork quilt, almost) broomstick skirt and trying that on. When she came out, she picked out two more in different patterns and then four solid T-shirts in complementary colors.

Finally, as we headed to the counter to pay, she grabbed a pair of khakis and an olive camp shirt and added them to the pile. “These’ll probably fit. I don’t think I need to try them on.”

As Carmen was ringing up the sale, Kathy took my hand and gave it a squeeze. That gesture alone convinced me I had done the right thing today (and as the bill came to over $600, I needed a little convincing). Right before the amount showed on the register, Kathy returned my kiss on the neck and I was happier than I’d been in months.

Before we left the mall, we also picked up two pairs of new pumps with 1” heels, one in navy and one black, a pair of strappy black sandals with a low heel and a similar pair of flat sandals. Better than your grandmother’s sensible shoes, for sure.

As we left the shoe store, I had to make a couple of changes in our itinerary. Instead of looking around in the big mall, I lead Kathy out to the parking lot where we loaded our purchases into the trunk and headed across the street to M’Lord & M’Lady, a hairdressing salon where I’ve been getting my hair cut for years. It’s a unisex salon and I’ve developed a nice relationship with Tamara and Beth-Anne, the two owners. I’d called ahead to tell them what was going on and after the experiences in Laura Brown’s and Under It All, I don’t know what Kathy expected here. This time, though, I’d told Tamara (who was working this Sunday) that all I wanted was to have Kathy’s hair softened a bit — to have her made prettier without making too many permanent changes. After all, it was one thing to change the clothes, it’s quite another to change the hair. While Tamara was getting her prepped and ready, her manicurist, Kim started working on her nails. It took a while, but when she and Tamara were done and Kathy looked in a mirror, we were both immensely pleased at the subtle, but very noticeable differences.

The drive home seemed to be instantaneous. It’s really about 30 minutes and I know we chatted inanely, but it seemed as if we got home 10 seconds after we left the hair salon. We hustled the bundles into the bedroom and Kathy began to put things away.

I went downstairs, made a big Caesar’s salad (with anchovies) and a couple of gin and tonics and put some Debussy and Ravel in the CD changer. When I went upstairs with the drinks, Kathy was wearing the khakis and camp shirt and the tailored pants hugged every curve of her butt in a most delightful way and I could tell that Kathy loved it as much as I did. I’d never seen her dally in front of a mirror but there she was.

She saw me in the mirror and smiled. “I got a present for you,” and she tossed me a couple of things — one of the broomstick skirts and the black T-shirt. Apparently, when she picked them out, one of the skirts and one of the T’s were in my size. I slid out of my jeans and pulled up the skirt (I loved it, by the way — it was perfect for me) and then pulled off my shirt and replaced it with Kathy’s T-shirt. I stepped back so she could admire me.

She smiled and then rushed forward and hugged me with more passion and strength than any time since we’d been married. The ensuing kiss was delicious beyond words.

Eventually, we took our drinks down to the patio, where we watched the sun set as we ate our salads and talked about nothing at all. We eventually made it to the bedroom, but I have to tell you that the next morning, my skirt, her shirt, her bra and my panties were all found in different rooms.