“We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget.” ~Joan Didion   A Blast From The Past Part 4 By Ginger Collins

A Blast from the Past

(Part 4)

By Ginger Collins

It was turning out to be quite a lunch! Only 30 minutes or less into it, and I had found out from my ex-wife, Sara, that I was the father of a 14-year-old cross dresser and possibly gay son. I should have been upset, but I wasn’t. I admit that the news that I had a son startled me, but obviously not the cross dressing or even the possible issue of his homosexuality. No doubt my own transgendered background, which had included MTF Sexual Reassignment Surgery 15 years earlier, had conditioned me. Who, other than God was to say? My concern of course was for our child’s happiness and future success. At this point, my role was muddied. Yes, I was the biological father; but I looked, acted, and dressed like a second mother, which created an unbalanced family equation. Moreover, I was too young to be a grandmother. Where would I fit in? Maybe, Sara would allow me to be an aunt. I hoped so.

Now, that the “shock” and “awe” of our first, post-divorce meeting was evaporating, both Sara and I went from gulping our “Stoli’s” to sipping them. We also started loading up on the delicious, freshly baked Sour Dough French Bread with heaps of fattening butter to slow the alcohol’s path through our bloodstreams. Additionally, we ordered half portions of linguine with clam sauce along with small House Salads as a further foil to the booze in our systems. Our respective vodka buzzes had peaked and now we were feeling quite mellow. This opened up all kinds of conversation avenues that led to juicy disclosures.

Sara led off: “For obvious reasons, I can’t call you Michael anymore, but at the same time, I have trouble calling you Michelle because I remember when you wore pants instead of a dress. How about if we compromise and I call you, Micki? That’s a variant of Michelle.”

“I don’t have a problem with that, Sara,” I replied.

She smiled mischievously and said, “Good. Next question, Micki: Are you married or in a relationship?”

“No to both. How about you?”

“Yes, I’m married, but in name only, thank goodness. I did it for our child’s sake. He needed a name. My husband is David Cronenburg. He’s an investment guru or at least up until recently he was.” She made a face as she said, “Cronenberg Financial Group. Yuk!”

“What’s the ‘Yuk’ for?”

“That’s for our marriage and for his financial group. Both are shams.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, on our wedding night, and by the way, we were staying in a luxury suite at the Royal Hawaiian, he pulled out this special suitcase from under the bed and began to unpack. Guess what? It was loaded with sex toys and kinky paraphernalia. It was unbelievable! He wanted me to wear this bizarre dominatrix costume complete with a black mask, boots, and a bullwhip. Meanwhile, he was going to wear a matching black bra and panties set and I was supposed to beat and humiliate him as part of foreplay. He was absolutely buoyant when he began describing some of the routines he wanted to undergo at my hands to include physical restraints, ball gags, and a choking device.”

As Sara paused to catch her breath, I interjected, “What’s a choking device?”

“I’m not sure of the technical points involved, but apparently it’s a rope that’s tied around the neck and the penis that is adjusted to cut off temporarily the flow of oxygen to the brain. It’s then released immediately before the male climax to heighten the orgasmic sensation. As a matter of fact, I didn’t know what this sex act was called until last week when the media reported that David Carradine was found dead in his Bangkok hotel room. His cause of death was termed autoerotic asphyxiation.” She continued, “Suffice it to say, I was speechless at first. Then the enormity of it all hit me like a splash of cold water, and I stormed out of the room. The next day, I was on a plane back to San Francisco, alone.” Sara shook her head in disbelief as she concluded, “Now, do you understand when I use the word, ‘Yuk,’ to refer to my marriage?”

“I certainly do. But more importantly, what happened after your ugly encounter with him in Honolulu?”

“Neither of us ever mentioned the incident again. We also never consummated our marriage in the traditional sense. We have separate bedrooms and share no intimacies. It truly is a marriage of convenience. He has a trophy wife and I have a picture-perfect father, for my son. He’s tall, graying, rich, and handsome, a veritable pillar of the community, if not the bedroom. Fortunately, we both signed pre-nuptial agreements to protect our respective estates. Thus, he can’t make a run on mine, and the irony is that legally, he doesn’t have any of his left.”

That caught my attention so I asked, “What do you mean, Sara?”

“The son-of-a-bitch was a co-conspirator with Bernie Madoff. They were great friends, and had been for years that date back to their time together on Wall Street. Bernie, his wife, Ruth, and David liked to call themselves the ‘Three Musketeers.’ In fact, my husband’s firm was nothing more than a funnel to pump funds into Bernie’s Ponzi scheme at a handsome profit for them. Naturally, when Madoff was arrested last December, David’s business collapsed immediately or went ‘tits up’ as you used to say when you were in the Navy.” She laughed heartily before she added, “I am assuming that you no longer use that expression since you have a set of your own now.”

“Right on,” I smilingly reposted. “Wearing heels and hose full time has made me an ardent feminist. But tell me, where is David now?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. The little prick is hiding out somewhere, probably overseas in Southeast Asia. His personal and financial group accounts are all frozen, of course, but I suspect he has a considerable amount of funds stashed away, no doubt in a Swiss Bank. We’ll see. A lot of people are looking for him, namely, the Feds, angry investors, and according to Lana, Russian Organized Crime.

My only reaction was, “Huh?’ This was the stuff of tabloids!

“That’s right,” she began. “It seems that as Madoff’s scheme began to unravel last fall with the tanking stock market, Bernie put lots of pressure on David to solicit new investors so he could pay off old investors who were cashing out. That’s when David got involved with the Russian mafia, and he imprudently lured a west coast group of them into Madoff’s falling empire. Shortly afterwards, though, it all came crashing down and the Russians were out millions as well as royally pissed. For David’s sake, he had better hope that the Feds get to him before the Russians.”

“Do you fear for your own safety or for that of Michael,” I asked with considerable unease.

“Not so far, but you never can tell. Unlike Ruth, Bernie’s wife, I was never closely associated with my husband, let alone with his business. In fact, I can’t ever remember going to David’s office.” She shrugged her shoulders before she said, “Someone recently trashed his Mercedes and Porsche, though. That’s why I only take taxis nowadays. I also switched to an unlisted phone number without an answering machine. I was in receipt of too many vile voice messages with decidedly European accents.”

By now, our lunch was way past, and we were sipping strong, Kona coffee with large snifters of Italian brandy (Tuaca) on the side. Our waiter had long given us up for an early departure and only occasionally and perfunctorily checked with us regarding our needs. That was fine. This was a time for serious talk and not needless interruptions.

I could sense that a change of serve was in order, however, and Sara did not disappoint as she aced me by asking, “ Hey, Micki, that’s enough about me. Now, how about you? What’s it like to lose your dick, grow boobs, and become a chick?” She was smiling broadly.

“Glorious! I don’t miss that vulgar appendage or those clanging balls one bit. And let me tell you, I love having breasts. Perhaps this will put it in perspective, Sara. Would you like to be a man?”

“Of course not.” Disdain was written all over her face.

“Okay, then, I rest my case. From my earliest recollection, I identified with women, not men. As I grew older, this identification became an obsession and I constantly toyed with taking the big leap to the distaff side. For all sorts of reasons, though, I wavered until your divorcing me pushed me over the edge. My cross dressing was only a symptom of my internal struggle, not the cause, namely, female gender identity. The day after we settled in your lawyer’s office on your terms, I took off my pants, donned a dress, and have never looked back, until yesterday when by chance we met at Lana’s.” I drew a deep breath and said, “Sara, what you see before you is what you get. I am your ex husband, the father of our child, Michael, and although my legal name is Michelle, I am Micki to you, a transsexual woman. Take it or leave it. From what you have told me this afternoon, your life story hasn’t exactly been a Norman Rockwell painting either.”

Sara put her snifter down, reached across the table and clasped both my hands. “Micki,” she quietly said, “This is not easy for either of us. Let’s work on it. I’ll get off my high horse if you’ll put away your bitterness. We have a son to worry about. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Flexibility is the hallmark of Naval Aviators. Even a former one like me who voluntarily had his dick chopped off. I’d like to meet him. May I?” There was no rancor in my voice. I was sincere.

“How about in 30 minutes? I told him I’d be home by six.”

“Six?” I was incredulous. “It’s only three, now,” I protested.

“Hey, girl,” she replied sprightly. “He’s a cross dresser, remember? I told him six so that we could ease home early and catch him playing dress up with my clothes. No offense, but like father, like son!”

“Touché, Sara,” was all I could say. We signaled the waiter for the bill, split the tab, hit the ladies room, and left Scala’s Bistro more as friends than as enemies. As we click-clacked our way out in unison, I fervently hoped that my son possessed solid moral fiber, had good taste in clothes and didn’t overdo his makeup. We caught a cab. Soon, I would find out!

TO BE CONTINUED