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The cab ride to Sara’s apartment at Clay and Jones Streets on Nob Hill was pleasant and uneventful. It was a beautiful summer day and San Francisco was at its best. Someone, and I forget who, once described the city as a “1940’s movie set.” I couldn’t have agreed more. It had style, charm, and character from a bygone era that was irresistible. Our driver, a young black from the Caribbean, after a polite and cheery greeting left us alone. That gave Sara and me more opportunity to talk about our son, Michael.

“Sara,” I began, “How long has Michael been cross dressing?”

“It started in the last year or so, but I’m not absolutely sure. The first indication I had was when I began to notice that articles of clothing, especially my lingerie, were not quite the way I placed them in the drawers. The alignment was close, but not exactly the same. Then I noticed similar disarrangements in my clothes closets. Certain items of apparel, particularly my evening gowns and cocktail dresses were sometimes not hung in the order that I normally followed. The same trend showed up with my pumps or heels.”
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Sara sighed as she continued, “Then, I would occasionally find a run in my hose and I never keep hose that have runs in them. Also, I began to notice that someone was taking liberties with my makeup table. Again, a lipstick tube or compact or a brush or whatever was slightly misplaced. Obviously, something was going on. The clincher came, of course, when I noticed semen stains on one of my slips. That really blew my mind. Does this sound familiar?”

“Yes, it does,” I answered in a rueful tone. She had just described my youthful forays into my mother’s wardrobe over three decades earlier

I followed this up with, “What happened next?”

“Well, it was easy to determine his window of opportunity for dressing. With school and such, it had to be on weekends or probably on a night when I had a social engagement and was out. So, I set up a phony schedule one Saturday about three months ago and told Michael that I would be gone all day. Within an hour or so I returned, and there he was in all his glory, dressed up to the nines in a red silk sheath with black hose and three-inch stilettos, sitting at my vanity table and applying mascara. It was truly a memorable moment! Somewhat like the one when I discovered your penchant for satin and lace. Remember?”

“I have never forgotten it,” I answered evenly as well as truthfully. “It has been with me every day for the last 15 years.” I turned to look directly at her as I said, “The difference, though, Sara, is that you threw me out. What do you plan to do about Michael?”

“I don’t know. He’s a good boy and I love him.” She paused. “But it’s all so crazy. Why don’t you men act like men?” She started to cry softly. “It’s not normal for guys to wear our clothes and prance around in panties and bras. What the hell is going on? Her voice like her anguish was on the rise to the point where our cab driver began eyeing us warily in his rear-view mirror.

I squeezed Sara’s hand to calm her down. She squeezed back. This was a lady in pain.

“How did you and he handle his outing?” I asked.

“Surprisingly well. Initially, he had a ‘deer-in-the-headlights’ expression when he saw me in the mirror’s reflection. No doubt, he expected me to scream, I guess, but I didn’t. I was more hurt than shocked since I had been through this routine once before with you. He was very embarrassed, though, and I felt deeply sorry for him. Needless to say, he apologized profusely. After a long, frank talk, we both ended up crying and hugging. By the way, hugging your son and feeling his bra strap is a novel experience for a mother, I might add. So is kissing your son’s cheek when he’s wearing foundation, blush, and facial powder.”

“Then what happened?” was my next question.

“I pointed out that his urge to cross dress was not normal behavior for a boy and that he might be getting into something from which there was no exit. For the record, Micki, I had you in mind. He in turn, promised to stop and we left it at that. But then, about a month ago when he got out of the shower one morning and was returning to his room with a towel wrapped around his waist, I noticed that he had distinct tan lines on his upper torso in the outline of a women’s bathing suit, so I knew that he was back at it. Also, I set some traps.” Sara smiled as she uttered the latter.

“Traps?” I questioned.

“Yes,” she replied laughingly. “I carefully arranged my lingerie in such a way that there would be no doubt in my mind if it had been tampered with. On each occasion that I set a trap, Michael took the bait. I’d been debating for some time now on how to handle the situation when, viola! After a 15-year absence, who pops into my life at Lana’s Salon? None other than my cross dressing ex husband, an expert on the subject. And remember, Micki, dear. It was you who identified yourself to me and not the other way around.”

I noted that Sara’s voice was not laden with anger or sarcasm and that our respective hands were still joined. She fervently wanted my help. I would not disappoint.

“Look, Sara,” I began. “You have a lot on your plate right now with a husband on the run from the Feds, creditors, and the Russians. You also have a son who is showing possible signs of sexual confusion. Plus, as we sit here, you are holding hands with your ex husband whom you have not seen for 15 years, who is now a legally recognized woman.” I paused to collect my thoughts. “I want to help Michael and I will if you let me. Moreover, I want to make some amends for the hurt and pain that I caused you so long ago. When I put myself in your shoes, and I literally have, it must have been a tremendous shock to see the supposedly virile Navy pilot that you married turn out to be a closet diva. I truly regret that I was not honest with before we took our vows and exchanged rings.”

Once again, I felt a slight squeeze of my hand by Sara, which I took for a positive sign. A lot of old wounds may have partially been cauterized today, I hoped. I would find out shortly, because the cab pulled up to 1250 Jones Street.

We took the elevator up to Sara’s apartment on the 19th floor, but instead of using her main entrance, we went around in back to the service entry. There, Sara whispered to me to remove my heels and she did likewise. Then with great stealth and caution, she unlocked the back door that led to a walk-in pantry behind the kitchen. We padded in silently and she closed the door softly behind us. In the distance, we could hear a stereo playing an Andrew Lloyd Weber tune. From the kitchen we proceeded Indian file through the dining room and living rooms to the master bedroom. As we got closer, we could hear the music more loudly and we could see that the door was partly open and that the window shades were drawn and that a table lamp was illuminated. It was the classic cross dressers setup! Memories from my own experimentation with my mother’s clothes as a young boy hit me full force. I knew all too well what it was to be in the closet. I started to perspire and I prayed that my makeup wouldn’t begin to run.

Sara motioned for us to put our heels back on, which we did. Then with dramatic flair, she pushed the door to her bedroom open, and announced, “Good afternoon, Michael,” as we both entered and faced the vanity table transfixed.

There was no reply. In fact, there was no sound other than our breathing if you discount Sarah Brightman singing “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina” on a bedside CD player. More importantly, there was no Michael. The room, closets, and bath were empty.

Sara immediately went to her lingerie drawers to check her “traps.” She shook her head in amazement. They had been sprung! A quick search of the apartment followed. Still no Michael. The Great Houdini couldn’t have pulled off a better caper, I mused.

At this point, both Sara and I began to laugh. In between hiccups of levity, she exclaimed, “Micki, hon, I think I know two old broads who need a drink. Chablis, okay?”

“You bet, Sara,” I replied. “The colder, the better.”

She made a beeline for the refrigerator while I made one for the living room couch where I sat down and admired the sweeping views of the bay. It had been 15 years since I had last done so from this room. Nostalgia and remorse began to play tic-tac-toe with my emotions.

In a few minutes, Sara returned with two cold glasses of Chablis in Waterford Crystal. We clinked each other’s and Sara proposed a toast, “To Michael.”

“To Michael,” I returned the toast. At which point, I heard a door close and a young voice cry out, “Hey, Mom, were you calling me? I was downstairs picking up the mail.”

The voice and name soon merged and in front of us stood our son, Michael carrying a handful of mail. He was about 5’6” tall, slender, and handsome. High cheekbones and a well-shaped nose gave his face an androgynous look. His thick, blond hair was worn in a casual, just-above-the-shoulders cut. In him, I saw the best of his mother and a little bit of me. To both Sara’s and my relief, he was dressed in boy clothes, namely, baggy khaki cargo pants and a polo shirt.

‘Yes, dear, as a matter of fact, I was,” Sara answered in a tone remarkable for its aplomb considering our previous conversation. "We just came home, and the CD player was on in my bedroom, and you weren’t here. We wondered why, that’s all."

“No problem. I was reading in your room because the workmen were making so much noise outside of mine. Then, Jake, that’s our doorman,” he said for my benefit, “Called and told me we had mail. So I went down to get it.” Almost as proof, he laid a packet of letters down on the coffee table and looked at me quizzically.

Sara picked up on his unasked question as she smoothly said, “Micki, this is the Michael I’ve told you about.” A pause. “Michael, this is your Aunt Micki. She’s an old friend of the family. You can expect to see a lot more of her in the future.”

“Cool, “ Michael said as he shook my hand. He was polite and friendly. I sensed a good boy and that was reassuring. Two things, though, in the next few minutes as we conversed caught my attention. The first was that the small cut that I had initially observed on the right corner of his mouth was really smudged lipstick that he had forgotten to wipe clean (he was in a hurry?). The second was that under his polo shirt he was not wearing a T-shirt and when he bent over sometimes, I could see a “tramp stamp” on his lower back torso, just above the lace edge of his black panties which peeked out above his cargo pants.

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To Be Continued...