Crossdressed and Trapped in a Burning Building

By Ginger Collins

My name is Gil Collins. Hmm, that’s not true, not anymore. But before I get ahead of myself, let me go back a few months when it used to be, and I was a successful San Francisco lawyer with a growing list of well heeled clients. My small office, consisting of my secretary, Linda, a paralegal, Gloria, and me, was in a converted, former warehouse on Sansome St, downtown, near the Embarcadero. We rented space on the top or fourth floor. I kept a lean office staff for cost reasons. Thus, whenever I needed help, I outsourced specifics on a case-by-case basis.

Another reason for my lean staff was that I was a closet transvestite, who frequently spent a lot of time en femme at the office, when I was working alone after hours and on weekends. Fewer persons meant less interruptions and less chance of discovery of my alternate lifestyle.

In this regard, my personal office had a specially designed and installed annex with a large wardrobe closet to which I had the only key as well as a complete bathroom that included a makeup table, full-length mirrors and great lighting. Suffice it to say, my annex was like an actress’s dressing room lifted right out of a Hollywood movie studio, which it had been. $200 dollar-an-hour lawyers who are on the rise can do that.

Typically, once my secretary, Linda, and my paralegal, Gloria, were both gone for the day, like Clark Kent ripping off his suit to expose his Superman tights, I would carefully exchange my business-suit jacket and pants for something far more preferable like a light blue, Vera Wang, delicate-lace dress with a V-neckline and princess seams. Naturally, I would color co-ordinate by choosing Dior Deco Platform pumps with a stiletto heel. My wigs were of the finest human hair, and my jewelry was always expensive yet understated. Underpinning me, of course, was soft and luxurious lingerie. Even when my dresses and skirts were lined, a full-length slip was a must. I reveled in them. The rustle and rasp of female clothing touching together was a heavenly rhapsody to me.

More often than not, I wore an open bottom girdle with suspended stockings vice pantyhose. I loved the openness and sensuous comfort that the former provided. As for makeup, I was a slave to it and had practiced long and hard at its application. Less is more, I had learned, and my touch was virtually impeccable. So much so that my eyeliner, eye shadow, and mascara looked like it had been professionally applied. After completing my temporary transition from Gil Collins to Ginger Collins, euphoria raised my spirits to mountaintop heights and enabled me to perform much better on behalf of my many clients. No wonder I was in such demand and a rising star in the San Francisco legal community.

And so it was on a fateful, summer day in early August when my world profoundly changed. It was a Saturday afternoon and I had gone to the office to work alone on a pending case. Because I felt in a femme fatale mood, I decided to reward myself by dressing down, that is, theatrically, with a gun moll costume that I had bought on line. The ensemble consisted of a black wig styled in a puffed up hairdo, a tight, green and red, stretch nylon dress with a short sleeves, a raised hem, and V-neckline that accentuated my silicone breast forms with their “naughty nipples.” Completing my trashy wardrobe were a pair of five-inch, green sling backs. Contrary to my usual dress code, I wasn’t wearing any of my beloved slips. All that stood between my towering heels and my nether region were black panties, a matching garter belt, and sheer, nude hose. I had applied a few more gobs of makeup to compliment the cheapness of my look, and had applied cane-fire red polish to my own nails vice using press-ons. The result was nothing short of a “B” movie central casting from the 1950’s. I couldn’t get over how authentic I appeared. I was a detailed replication of either a bar girl or a gangster’s moll. You could take your pick. It was all so delicious and I was having great fun vamping to the point where I got careless: I locked myself out of my office!

So here I was in the open hallway or long corridor on the fourth floor of a building with numerous business offices, dressed like a hooker who had seen better days with no place to hide. It was obvious that Mr. Gil Collins, Attorney-at-Law, had a major problem. It only got worse.

First, the smell of smoke hit my nostrils and overrode the potent perfume I had liberally doused over my body. Smoke? That meant fire. Sure enough, wailing sirens in the background got closer and louder. So did voices from somewhere both inside and outside the building. Simultaneously, the building’s fire alarm went off. Its racket was nerve shattering. I went into a full panic mode and began to run for the nearest stairs. Five-inch heels are not conducive to running but I gallantly did my best. I made it down one floor to the third only to be stopped by a huge black cloud of ascending smoke. The stairwell was no longer an option.

About this time, I heard a male voice yell, “Over here, lady and get ready to jump.” He was referring to an end window on the third floor that he had raised. At this point, everything was surreal and dreamlike. I felt him take my hand and guide me to the window. I found myself staring out at a large, accumulated crowd of pedestrians, sightseers, cops, firemen, and paramedics. My lifesaving companion sensed my hesitation and said, “They can’t get a ladder up here. You’re going to have to jump into that net below” With that, he edged me closer to the windowsill. “Come on, lady. Jump. We don’t have much time.” And we didn’t. Flames from the stairwell were starting to engulf the entire third floor. I could feel the heat and fatuously wondered if it was causing my makeup to run. Robot-like, I hiked up my skirt and with one-nylon-clad leg at a time, tentatively positioned myself outboard on the sill and eyed the net or trampoline underneath. It looked miniscule and inadequate, pretty much the way I felt.

The next thing I knew, I was falling through space to the ground. For the record, I didn’t jump; I was pushed. All I can remember before I hit the net was that my wig had departed my head. Great! To a great roar of crowd approval, I was safely caught in the safety device. Then the fun began. There I was wigless, dressed like a trollop with smeared and running makeup, and runs in my hosiery, trying to stand on five-inch pumps, one of which was now missing a heel.
News cameras flashed and recorded. Microphones were thrust in my face. My excited male voice sputtered incoherencies. Someone handed me my wig and I hurriedly plopped it on my head but it was slightly askew. Later when I played the tapes of my rescue, even I had to admit that it was comical. And that’s how I became Ginger Collins.

Since my cover had been publicly blown, I was no longer a rising young man about town. Remembering that the best defense is a good offense, I opted to become a rising young woman about town. For starters, after a week of hiding out in my foot-of-Telegraph Hill apartment, I issued a press release to the effect that I was transgender and would be undergoing Male-to-Female Sexual Reassignment Surgery at the earliest. I also immediately began dressing and living as woman full-time. To my delight, Linda, my secretary, and Gloria, my paralegal, supported me along with the California State Bar Association. So did my clientele. They continue to be well heeled. So am I. Manolo Blahnik’s and Jimmy Choo’s are my favorites. In fact, because of my notoriety, I gained business. In time, all my documents were changed to reflect my new persona, and Ms Ginger Collins soon eclipsed her old self, Mister Gil Collins. Sexual Reassignment Surgery in Thailand a year later sealed the deal.

I know that this story reads like a soap opera, but it’s true. If ever you want a competent, tall, slim, leggy, blond counselor in Gucci skirt-suits and designer pumps to defend your interests, give me a call. I’m in the San Francisco Yellow Pages. Sexual discrimination claims are one of my specialties.