Chapter Five: The Confrontation

In the remaining four days of spring break, I waited anxiously for a call from Hank. He never called, nor did he email or text me. On Saturday I debated whether to call him; several times, I got my cell phone in my hand and wanted to touch the speed dial button that would bring up his number (yes, I had put his number into my phone). Realizing that traditional advice was that a young lady should never call a man, I never did punch the button.

I concluded that Hank never called because he may have been ashamed of his own conduct toward me, his sudden kisses and desires to treat me as a woman. For a while, I was convinced that he wanted nothing more to do with me and might even report my behavior to the principal. It finally dawned on me that he wouldn’t do that since he would be exposing his own behavior and would risk his own job.

I continued to wear casual female clothes the rest of vacation period, since I spent much of it grading papers and working on lesson plans. My concentration, however, was distracted with memories of both Randy and Hank and my school chores seemed to take twice as long as normal.

I was struggling with grading schoolwork at two o’clock Saturday when my cell phone rang; my heart skipped a beat, hoping it was Hank. Instead a young female voice answered by cheery “hello.”

“Mr. Pearson?”

“Yes, this is he.”

“This is Carmen Mendoza.”

*****
I was speechless and let what seemed like an hour go by before the girl asked: “Mr. Pearson, Jason. Are you there?”

“Yes,” I said, hearing my voice squeak out in a high register.

“I need to tell you that Randy was talking about you today,” she began hesitantly.

“Oh?”

“I was with him and my boyfriend Ryan today at the mall, and I was trying to interest him in taking out my friend Maria Elena who really likes Randy,” she said.

“That would be nice for him to find a nice girlfriend,” I volunteered, finally pleased that I was growing calm and my voice was dropping down to a more masculine level.

“It would be and Maria Elena is really a sweet girl, too, but the fact is, Randy wants you, Julie,” Carmen said firmly.

“Oh, you know that’s impossible for many reasons, Carmen.”

“Yes, I know that and I told Randy that it’s impossible, using the age thing,” Carmen said. “But, he responded saying that he’ll wait ‘til he’s 18 and can be with you legally.”

“Oh dear,” I said. “Just tell him that you can’t find me and that I’m gone forever.”

“I tried, but somehow he felt I was lying, Mr. Pearson. I dunno, maybe he could see it in my eyes, but he said I knew where you were.”

I shuddered and muttered, “Oh, my.”

“I didn’t tell him anything, Mr. Pearson, but that didn’t satisfy him.”

I felt sorry for Carmen, of course, since she was being put in the middle; yet, I couldn’t risk being exposed any further as a man who sometimes dressed as a girl and had won the attraction of a sixteen-year-old boy.

“He should soon forget me, Carmen. Boys grow out of such infatuations,” I tried to assure her.

“I guess, but there’s something you should know and that he’s coming to our school next week in the forensics contest. He’s on the Hamilton forensics team.”

“Oh my Lord,” I said, the words coming out involuntarily.

The announcement came as a bolt of lightning, since I was assistant coach of the Farragut forensics team, which was host school this year for the Coastal Conference Forensics Tournament. Since I had assumed the duties of Ms. McGuire, I had also been expected to assist the team. It was a good fit, since I had been on the forensics team during my own high school days, and I had relished the competition; it seemed to be the only thing I excelled at in school. I had handled many of the details of the coming tournament, including the registration function, which meant I would inevitably come face-to-face with Randy as he signed in.

“Yes, Mr. Pearson,” Carmen said. “That’s the main reason I called, since I knew you would be involved in the contest.”

“Thank you, Carmen. Let me think about this.” After exchanging a few words, I hung up. I was in deep despair.

*****
Twelve schools made up the Coastal Conference, competing in everything from basketball and football to music competitions and forensics; all twelve had signed up for the forensics contest and my job was to assure they all got registered, had proper credentials, and were directed to the appropriate classrooms while they awaited to do their on-stage presentations.

All week I dreaded what might occur when the Hamilton group showed up for registration for the all-day Saturday event. Because of my direct involvement with the competing students I would likely come face-to-face with Randy more than once. Eventually, I was certain he’d recognize something in me, perhaps the way I brushed my hair back, the inflection in my voice or the panic he’d sense emanating from me. Then what?

Even though I was having a busy week in the school – due both to the preparations for the tournament and a series of tests I was giving to my classes – I was unable to get Randy out of my mind, cursing myself for encouraging the boy during my weekend outings to Point Pleasant. What a folly it was for me to engage the affections of a sixteen-year-old boy!

I was also disturbed by Hank’s obvious efforts to avoid speaking to me. Since he and I both had no classes for third hour, he and I often saw each other in the teachers’ lounge. This week, however, he was a “no-show,” and while there could be many reasons for his absence, I felt he was fearful that he felt seeing me would be awkward. Maybe, too, given his previous outwardly homophobic actions, he was feeling ashamed for kissing me as his “girlfriend.” I considered calling him – or at least sending him a text message – to invite him over on an evening for lasagna, one of my culinary specialties. I didn’t, of course.

Jon Edwards again asked me to join him for our usual Wednesday night outing, and I accepted, hoping the company would distract my mind. I had grown fond of Edwards as a companion, whom I found to be sensitive and caring; most of all, he did not have a narcissistic bone in his body, rarely reflecting upon his gayness or the issues it had caused him in life. While he had some mildly effeminate mannerisms he was not flamboyant; I dare say my own girlish movements might have been more noticeable to the casual observer. I’m certain many who saw us together in the restaurant or bar (we had soon decided to avoid being together in places which catered to gays and lesbians) viewed us as two handsome (or certainly pretty) young homosexual men. That was hardly anything rare in the city and thus we became comfortable companions.

It wasn’t long in our friendship that Jon began to share his feelings, experiences and life with me.

“I tried so hard to be accepted as one of the boys in high school,” he confessed on Wednesday as we finished our after-dinner cognac. I was still in my deep funk over the potential meeting with Randy and Hank’s apparent dismissal of me.

“I guess I can understand your situation, although I didn’t particularly try to do much to fit in with others then,” I replied. “I pretty much stayed out of sight and was pretty lonely. I never had a date.”

Jon smiled. “You didn’t miss anything. I tried to date, even had a girlfriend in my junior year. Her name was Jillian and she was really a cutie and smart and nice. As often as we cuddled and kissed, I hardly ever felt anything. It was so strange.”

“Didn’t you get the least bit aroused?”

“Well, maybe a little bit, when I tried hard, but that was when my mind drifted to Jared Timmons, a slender, wiry boy on the basketball team.”

“Hmmm. And it was then you got hard?”

Jon blushed. He had a cute blush, and I could see why girls might be attracted to him, even though he was not attracted to them.

“Here I’d be hugging and kissing this perfectly luscious girl while at the same time I imagined Jared was in my arms. Then I got hard.”

“What happened?”

“Eventually Jillian seemed to figure it out and one night as I was kissing her goodnight in front of her house, she said, ‘Jon, you never seem to get too inspired when you kiss me. I guess you don’t really like me.’”

“I told her I liked her – a lot – but she didn’t believe me. And I really did like her and enjoyed being with her, but I didn’t want to have sex with her or anything like that. I only wanted Jared, it seemed; that’s when I realized I must be gay, for sure. I guess I knew all the time . . . well at least from about age 13 . . . but that time with Jillian convinced me.”

“That must have been hard for you,” I volunteered.

“It was, largely because it would mean I’d have to come out to my parents and my friends, but on the other hand, it was a relief to know just exactly who I was and what I was.”

*****
Jon and I took in a movie, another “chick flick,” a type of movie the both of us shamelessly admitting to enjoying. I have to admit to a proclivity to cry easily at movies; fortunately Jon suffered from the same non-macho malady.

“I feel like a drink,” I suggested as we headed for Jon’s car.

“Good idea. How about this place?” Jon said, pointing to a small lounge bearing the sign “Interlude” in its small rectangular window.

We were both surprised when we entered to find a dimly lit place with a small bar at the entrance. There was only room for a half dozen drinkers at the bar; to the left was an arch that led into a larger backroom. In the faint light, there appeared to be numerous clusters of easy chairs and sofas. Soft, light jazz filled the room along with the undercurrent of voices, muffled by the carpeting and curtains that provided pockets of privacy for the customers. A slender, older man with flowing white hair welcomed us: “My name is Porter. Would you gentlemen prefer a sofa or two chairs?”

I looked at Jon, wondering what he would answer. Obviously Porter, who appeared to be an old hand at the business, believed us to be a gay couple and I was hoping Jon would answer that he’d prefer the chairs.

“The chairs will be fine,” Jon said, looking at me questioningly.

“That’s great,” I added, relieved.

Porter led us to pair of chairs, located in a cluster around a small fountain that provided a soft, soothing sound of gurgling water, lighted with ever-changing colors of lighting.

“This is most relaxing,” I said as we sat and looked over a drink menu that contained a plethora of exotically named – and pricey – alcoholic concoctions.

“This is quite a place,” Jon said.

Even though we were seated near several other groups of people, I was astounded to realize that I could not distinctly hear what they said. The sounds were muffled and the place gave an overall feeling of comfort and easiness.

“We specialize in cocktails made with champagne, but otherwise we serve a full range of cocktails, wine and imported beer,” Porter explained.

After studying the menu, I felt a bit adventurous and ordered a “kinky boots,’” made with Ciroc, lime juice, simple syrup and champagne; Jon chose a “pink pussy cat,” made with lemon, Chambord and champagne.

After the waiter left, Jon looked at me and giggled. “I must have chosen that just because of the name,” he said.

“Me too,” I added. “I bet he pegged us as a pair of queers.”

Jon laughed: “A pair of queers? I guess we fool others quite easily.”

I felt a bit giddy, even though I felt guilty about passing myself off as a gay person.

“You’re the ‘pink pussy cat,’ sir?” the waiter said, placing the drink down with a flourish on the tiny table before Jon, who nodded in argreement.

“You must be ‘kinky boots,’ then,” he said, looking at me, giving me a knowing wink.

“I swear he winked at me,” I said, as the waiter walked away.

“He’s got his eye on you, pretty one,” Jon said.

I was happy it was dark, since I was certain I must have burst into a deep blush. We sipped our drinks for a few minutes without speaking, letting the peacefulness of the surroundings overwhelm us. It was then I began to consider whether I should tell Jon of my love of being feminine, how I often wished I were a girl. Now that my mother, who was my lifelong confidant, was gone, I felt totally alone and I wanted badly to share my feelings with someone. Hank, of course knew of my cross dressing, but he was hardly one that I felt like exposing my thoughts to. Jon, on the other hand, seemed like a sensitive, caring person and, best of all, someone I could trust to keep a confidence.

“Jon, I feel I must share something with you,” I said.

“Oh?”

“Well, you just called me ‘pretty one’ and I know you were joking. The truth was that I was flattered when you called me that.”

“You are pretty, Jason. Pretty describes you perfectly,” he said, smiling and reaching over to pat my arm.

“Jon, you flatter me.”

He smiled and paused to take a sip of his drink.

“Jon, what I’m going to tell you must remain a secret, just between us,” I began.

“Unless you’re confessing a murder or bank robbery, your secret is safe with me.”

I said nothing for a minute, picked up my hardly-touched drink and took in about half the liquid before beginning to speak.

“Jon, I love everything feminine and girly; I dress at home like a girl almost every night and most weekends. Most of the time I wish I were a girl. My mom always decorated our house in a most dainty, feminine style and I’ve kept it that way after her death. I always sleep in nightgowns and I only wear panties, nice pretty lacy ones. Even now.”

My friend said nothing. Instead, he took my hand and held it in his two hands. Slowly, he turned it over in his hands, looking at it in the dim light. I felt the roughness of his hands on my smooth skin; I knew he worked out a lot and that he was an avid bike-rider, accounting for the calluses on his hands.

“Even your hands are pretty and soft and dainty,” he said finally.

Just then the waiter came back. Jon dropped my hand, but I’m sure he saw us holding hands. “Care for another drink?” he asked.

“No thanks, we have to work tomorrow,” Jon said quickly.

We paid the bill and left; as he drove me home I told Jon a short version of my girly background, how mom helped me express myself and even that I took to trips as a young woman to Point Pleasant. I didn’t tell him about Randy, of course.

“I really want to consider transitioning to be female, Jon,” I confessed as he stopped before my house to let me off.

“That might be difficult if you want to keep teaching,” he said.

“I know, but for this semester, until I get accepted full-time, I’ll try to live as a man.”

“It’s all you can do, Jason.”

He leaned over and gave me a gentle kiss on my lips.

“You’re a sweet friend, Jon,” I said.

I left his car and as I walked up to my door I felt pleased I had shared my secret. Though I felt complete confidence in telling Jon, I still felt uneasy with the fact that two teachers – as well as one student – knew my secret.

*****
Carmen Mendoza cornered me in the cafeteria on Thursday, drawing me into a corner while I stood balancing my tray of salad, yogurt, vegetables and crackers, “Mr. Pearson, you’re doing the arrangements for the forensics tournament, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am,” I said, wondering where she was going. I noticed several of her girlfriends eyeing our interaction. I had learned that apparently, in spite of my obvious effeminate behavior I had won the attention of a number of the girls in the school; apparently and to my surprise I realized that I must have some sort of sex appeal, and I guess Carmen’s friends may have been suspecting she was flirting with me.

“I heard you need volunteers to help out. Right?” she asked.

“Yes, I have a few students to help with guiding the visiting teams around, getting them into classrooms and so forth, and I can use a few more.”

“I’d like to volunteer and help,” she said.

I looked at her suspiciously, wondering what her motive might be. Did she hope to clue Randy in on my identity? Or, did she merely want to help out? Or, perhaps I could enlist this girl to help keep Randy from paying too much attention to me, thus lessening the chances that the boy would recognize me as Julie.

“Why yes, Carmen. That would be great. Perhaps you’d like to help out with me at the registration table. It’s going to be busy as the schools check in and we have to see each student’s credentials, give them a badge and send them off to the proper room.”

The girl smiled and agreed to meet with me and the other volunteers after school on Friday to go over arrangements for the Saturday event. As I began to walk to the area where several other teachers sat, Carmen whispered to me: “Mr. Pearson, I’ll keep Randy’s attention so he won’t pay much attention to you that day.”

*****
I’d be less than honest if I didn’t admit that I had a pang of excitement when I saw Randy, who looked even more athletic and handsome than I recalled from our two weekend meetings. He was standing in line at the registration table, when I looked up to see he was the next student to be registered. I was about to say, “next” in a bid to register him, but found myself looking directly into his eyes; my heart jumped and the words refused to come out. I swear I saw a moment of recognition in his eyes, and before I could speak, Carmen said: “I’ll take that next student, Mr. Pearson.”

She beckoned Randy to come before her, greeting him with a friendly, “Hi Randy. Ready to beat Farragut today?”

“Hi, Carmen,” he said. How sweet his voice sounded, a bit husky, but with gentleness that belied his large, masculine presence.

Fortunately, the day was a busy one for me, and I had few chances to interact with Randy. If he recognized me, he made no indication that he did. Later, as we were cleaning up from the day’s activities, Carmen said as far as she could determine Randy left none the wiser.

“You’re a dear friend, Carmen,” I said. “Thank you so much.”

“I know this job is important to you, Mr. Pearson, and I know all the students like you and think you’re a good teacher,” she said. “I don’t know how long you’ll be able to hide who you really are.”

With that the girl left. It was obvious that Carmen knew me as well as anyone, including myself.

*****
Whether it was seeing Randy – that marvelous looking boy – or the fatigue of the day at the forensics tournament, I wasn’t certain. I knew I could hardly wait until I got home Saturday night to prepare a lovely bubble bath for myself and to lower myself into the warm water amid the pinkish sweet-scented bubbles. It was heavenly.

The soothing bath had nearly put me to sleep when the phone rang; I had forgotten to bring the portable handset into the bathroom, so I had to let it ring until the voice mail picked up. When it did, I was surprised to hear a familiar voice: “Hi, this is Hank calling about six-thirty Saturday night. Call me . . . ah . . . if you wish . . . ah . . . Julie at 555-5896.”

Hank? Calling me, after ignoring me for a week? And now he wants to speak to Julie, not Jason? I decided to get out of the tub and dry myself off. I had also shampooed my hair while in the tub, and stood in front of the steamed mirror, seeing my slender, smooth body faintly through the mist gathered on the glass. I used the hair dryer to clear off a portion of the mist on the glass, so that I could look at myself more closely, smiling at the image. It was clearly Julie’s image in the mirror, not Jason’s.

Wrapping a towel about my head, I walked into my bedroom, reaching into the dresser that held Julie’s intimates to bring out a bra, panties and full length, black slip. I love slips and their silken feel upon my skin. In a few minutes, I had put the items on, along with a robe that my mother once wore; I had loved seeing her in it. It still had the scent of her, a sweet scent combining the scents of the soap she used and perfume she wore. Several months after her death, I decided to try it on and found that the robe’s lacy, dainty fashion made me feel totally female.

It was also at that time that I moved into her room, which had been decorated in a totally feminine fashion, with a dainty duvet, curtains and skirting all in white material with peach-colored and light teal designs. I felt she might like to have her new daughter enjoy her things. Mother was such a lovely woman and I wished so much to be like her.

I didn’t debate long about returning Hank’s call. Briefly, I felt I shouldn’t continue to see him as Julie, since it certainly compromised my effort to continue living as a man. I stood before the phone, arguing with myself over whether to call. Within a few moments, I realized I had become Julie, and I wanted to hear his voice.

His phone rang only once before he picked it up and I heard an eager “hello.”

“Hank, this is Julie,” I said, using a soft, low voice.

“Julie, I’ve been thinking about you all week,” he said quickly.

“You have?”

“Yes, my darling and I hope you’re not mad I called now.”

“No, not at all, but I wondered why you avoided me all this week at school.”

There was a brief silence before he answered. “I’m sorry about that, Julie dear, but you know that when I looked at you in school this week, I only saw Julie. I was so afraid I’d forget myself and call you ‘Julie’ in front of other teachers or a student.”

“We had a lovely time last week, didn’t we?” I asked.

“The sweetest ever,” he said.

In a moment of understandable weakness, I invited him over and he accepted; since neither one of us had eaten, I promised to fix supper. He said he’d bring some wine and suggested we settle in for a nice evening together.

“Please give me an hour, Hank. I am just out of the tub and need to get ready for you and get dinner started.”

“You don’t need to dress up, Julie, since I’m sure you’ll look great no matter what you’re wearing.”

I laughed – a sweet, warm laugh – and said: “You don’t understand girls like me, Hank. We need to look as pretty as we can for our man.”

“I can hardly wait,” he said. “But, I’ll not show up ‘til eight then, OK?”