Sara, my ex-wife, who divorced me 15 years ago after she caught me cross-dressing, declares a truce! Why?   A Blast From The Past Part 2 By Ginger Collins

“The past is foreign country. They do things differently there.” (L.P. Hartley)

The unexpected encounter with my ex-wife, Sara, at Lana’s beauty salon after a 15-year absence left me with conflicting emotions. After my initial euphoria over my parting and trump (catty) remark to her, defeat and triumph regarding our táªte-á -táªte were now battling furiously inside my mind for possession and a clear winner could not be declared. At best, it was an indecisive victory. At worst, it was a meaningless draw. My warring spirits dictated a change of scenery and I decided that going to work was not an option. Instead, a mini holiday was in order, and, therefore, I would catch a cable car to Aquatic Park where I would luxuriate in one of my favorite watering holes, the Buena Vista Café. I smacked my glossy coated lips in anticipation of the thick, floating whipped cream in the bar concoction that awaited me there.

As a 45-year-old trans woman, I had in effect erased the first two-thirds of my life, which had been spent as Michael. Only my last 15 years as Michelle merited candles on my recent birthday cake. Thus, the re-emergence of Michael’s ghost along with Sara’s bitchiness filled me with anxiety and weariness, but not for long. It was a splendid spring day in San Francisco and the click-clack of my heels on the pavement as I made my way down Geary to Powell was music to my “street sweeper” jewelry-adorned ears. A slight breeze was playing gentle tag with the hem of my light, print dress, and as I checked my image in the reflection of each store window I passed, I started to feel better and better. I really did “enjoy being a girl.”

The cable car ride to Aquatic Park was pleasant and I sat upfront on the outboard, left side. It was fun. The tourists or visitors aboard were chatting gaily about the delights of our city and at almost every stop, the grip man would lean forward and steal a peek at my lace-festooned décolletage. Ah, the wonders of push-up bras!

My Irish coffee tasted like elixir. Its soothing effect led me to follow it up with a scotch and soda, courtesy of the United States Navy. I had forgotten that it was Fleet Week in San Francisco and there was a group of Navy Pilots, resplendent in their Blues with gold braid and wings who were the toast of the Café. One of them, a young lieutenant whom I guessed to be about 30, caught my eye and began to regale me about the joys and hazards of flying F-18 Hornets on combat missions from carriers. For reasons I will explain shortly, he had my full attention if not my love interest. After all, I was his senior by at least a decade-and-a-half. In fact, I really wanted his boss, a lean squadron commander with grey-flecked side burns and loads of chest decorations. Unfortunately, another unattached lady had moved in earlier than I for the kill and was not about to let him go. C’est la vie!

Two scotch and sodas later, my eager Naval companion and I were in a cab and headed downtown to quaff a few at the Top of the Mark and the St. Francis Hotel. By now, I had switched to club soda and lime while Tim, Naval Aviator extraordinaire, continued his assault on Scotland’s finest liquid products.

The Mark Hopkins as always was romantic while the St. Francis was regal, plush, and queenly, my kind of place. Surprisingly, Tim was holding up fairly well under the 80-proof coursing through his veins, although he was certainly in a race wherein the difference between passing out drunk or getting laid would be a photo finish. At every opportunity, I encouraged the latter by ordering appetizers with our drinks.

What saved the occasion for a quick joust between the sheets was when I was able to steer him to one of those delightful Italian restaurants with “Joe” in their name that claim to be the “Original.” There, we wolfed down juicy hamburgers on French bread with large, rough-cut French fries. Afterwards, it was off to the Marines’ Memorial Club, a quasi- military hotel, at Sutter and Mason where he and many of his shipmates were staying.

Upon our arrival we dispensed with any pretense of social formalities and went directly to his room on the eighth floor, which faced Sutter Street. He wanted to rut and so did I, although for different reasons. Face saving is everything when you are a Naval Aviator. Understandably, then, it was most important that when Tim got back to his carrier ready room in the days ahead that he could claim getting laid in San Francisco, even if it was with a matronly lady. (He would, no doubt, describe me to his fellow officers as worldly, sophisticated, and sex starved.) In military parlance, it would be called a “charity fuck.” Not as preferable as balling a young, hot chick, naturally, but still highly acceptable within the warrior community. After all, when you are a member of America’s elite fighter and attack corps, “Pussy is Pussy!” It’s yours for the taking. At least that’s what they tell fledging goshawks in the Naval Air Training Command during Pre Flight at Pensacola, Florida.

My reasons were considerably more complicated than those of Tim, my good natured, albeit alcohol-laden swain for the evening. Unbeknownst to him, as a transsexual woman, I had seen life from the other side as a man. In fact, I was most familiar with Naval Aviation after having spent six years on active duty as a Naval Aviator upon my graduation from the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis, class of 1985. In the Persian Gulf War from late 1990 to early 1991, I had flown 32 combat missions in F/A-18C Hornets with Strike Fighter Squadron 79, the “Jesters,” from the carrier, USS George C. Marshall (CVA 58). Thus, Tim’s braggadocio had not fallen on unsympathetic or unknowing ears. We were one and the same, although he wore pants, and I now wore a skirt.

And speaking of pants, his came off in a hurry. He was impatient and horny. Soon, I was in the presence of an enormous, quivering hard on, a stale breath, and a Johnnie-Walker-Red-fueled passion. I, however, was more cautious and even hesitant. Ever present on your mind as a member of the transgender community is: will I pass? So far so good, but the moment of truth was when you shed your panties and bra and closed the deal so to speak. Throwing my reservations aside, I unsnapped my bra, slipped out of the straps, discarded it on a chair, and stepped out of my satin high-cuts, which then fell noiselessly to the floor. It was crunch time!

At this point, things were becoming surreal. I was about to screw a young Navy pilot, which 17 years earlier, I had once been. Would I measure up? I was about to find out. He was enthusiastic, if not a refined lover, and his groping and grappling had me quickly eagle spread on the bed. Lots of heavy breaths preceded his tongue invasion of my mouth, and I could tell that he loved playing with my tits. For the record, so did I!

Before he could slip his wienie into me, though, I politely asked him if he had a condom. He did not! Anticipating this, I had one ready with which I dexterously sheathed him. Not a beat was lost on his part as he penetrated me and pinned me to the mattress. Four or five energetic thrusts later, he shot his wad and his dick went limp.

“Damn, that was good, Michelle,” was his only comment as Tim’s ardor collapsed like a balloon with a leak in it. He pulled out, rolled over, and in a matter of seconds was fast asleep, and snoring gently. Jubilantly, I assumed that I had passed muster.

In rapid order, I douched, dressed, refreshed my lipstick, and surveyed the room. It was indicative of a typical military bachelor. Uniforms and accessories were strewn about; an opened B-4 bag was resting at an odd angle in a corner, dirty laundry was piled in the closet, and a half-empty whiskey bottle was on the dresser. Memories evergreen of my former flying days overwhelmed me. I instantly flashed back to numerous BOQ’s (Bachelor Officer Quarters) and shipboard staterooms from my checkered past. I also remembered afterburner takeoffs at dawn, night carrier landings, launching HARM (High-speed Anti Radiation) missiles at Iraqi targets, and dodging enemy SAM’s (Surface-to-Air Missiles). One of my fondest memories was standing tall and proud at a ship’s formation when the Air Wing Commander presented me with the Distinguished Flying Cross for “heroism or extraordinary achievement while participating in an aerial flight” during Operation “Desert Storm.”

Regrets? I had a few. Yes, I missed the flying, the camaraderie, and squadron life, but I also knew that my ultimate destiny was not in flight suits and boots, but in skirt suits, heels, and panty hose. A cross dresser from my earliest recollection, I had endlessly battled my feminine compulsions and conflicting mental thoughts over gender assignment on a daily basis. That’s why I had separated from the Navy. Unfortunately for Sara (my ex-wife) and me, a chance meeting during a booze-filled Fleet Week in San Francisco when I returned from Iraq and just before I was discharged at Navy Alameda had led to our ill-fated and short marriage. The rest is the stuff of soap operas. She caught me dressing up like a Barbie Doll one day and threw me out. As much out of spite as conviction, I went to Colorado and underwent Sexual Reassignment Surgery. Michael became Michelle and never looked back. Sara remained an asshole.

So, ironically, 15 years after I had first banged Sara during Fleet Week at the Marines’ Memorial Club in San Francisco (1994), I had just banged a fellow (?) Naval Aviator under similar circumstances. History has a strange way of repeating itself, doesn’t it? My head was spinning and I wanted to go home, which I did. Young Tim had his trophy and I had mine. We were both satisfied. It was all a matter of perspective.

When I entered my apartment, the light on my telephone answering machine was flashing. I hit the “play” button. The voice message jarred me to my soul. It was truly a blast from the past! “Michelle,” it began. “This is Sara. I need to talk to you. It’s urgent. Please call me. Thank you.” She left a number.

Gone from her normal tone were the sarcasm, vindictiveness, and arrogance of bygone years. I undressed, took off my makeup, changed into a comfortable negligee, poured myself a straight scotch, picked up the phone, and called her.