Chapter VI Sara's Got Game

By Kelly Ann Rogers

. . . Then, looking down at my own chest, I realized what they were really looking at. My nipples, the nipples which Rebecca had insisted I glue to my breast forms, now jutted aggressively through my sports bra. They were calling to the men like the Sirens called to the lost sailors in the Odyssey.

. . . He had never turned his personality on like this when I was a man. Now, he was totally engaging: a force of nature, nearly. I knew that if I continued to look into his eyes, he'd melt me, and all I'd want to do was caress his face with my hand, and then pull him down into another kiss. But I just couldn't let that happen. . .

. . . And as long as I was rebelling, I decided to leave my toes, figuring that no one would see them anyway, and I could wait until they chipped to clean them up. At least that's what I told Rebecca. I really thought that once they needed to be redone, I could just switch to another color, and no one would see that either.

Chapter VI Sara's Got Game

When Phillip called the next morning at 11:00, Rebecca and I (which is to say Sara) were already up and dressed and finishing a light breakfast. I was only a little hung over, which, I believed, was because I had started my little binge last night with vodka instead of scotch. Had it been scotch....

Although I was totally sure I didn't want to do it, Rebecca insisted I go play racquetball with Phillip, after I went shopping with her for some "really cute" outfits. I must say that Rebecca always looked totally put together at the gym, while I always looked like I had just arrived from Albania in the hold of a junk freighter. So after Phillip, who Rebecca coerced into paying for everything, and I arranged to meet at his new club, Rebecca and I were off to shop for Sara's first racquetball wardrobe.

We headed straight to the Ski and Racquet Station, which was well known for its large selection of sexy athletic wear for women. It also had a great selection of racquetball equipment. All the serious local players shopped there.

When I left to head for Phillip's club, I was wearing the cutest, hooded, powder blue warm-up suit, with three hot pink strips down the arms and legs, and curved pink panels on the sides of the jacket, which Rebecca insisted gave it a slimming look. Underneath, I had packed my nuts up into my groin and tucked my penis back between my legs, a gaff holding them all tightly in place, I hoped. A sturdy black sports bra with a T-back squashed my breasts close to my chest, although, as I turned from side to side, imitating my swing to test it, it didn't seem tight enough.

"Honey, Rebecca said, holding up a really cool, printed tank top, "this would look terrific over that bra, really hot."

"Not a chance. I've seen too many women wearing combinations like that and they are hot. The only thing you forget is that I don't want men staring at me. I’m sure you don't either."

"Well, how do you know you're attractive if men don't look at you?" she asked, looking me up and down and leering like a man might.

"Rebecca, stop teasing me! I'm wearing this: I held up a pale pink, cotton-lycra, short sleeve leotard that zipped from the neck to the navel and snapped at the crotch, layering a slightly oversized reddish-purple tank over that. I added midnight blue compression pants, figuring that with those, the leotard, and the gaff, I was pretty sure not to pop out. Deep violet nylon running shorts, and racquetball shoes with hot pink inserts finished me off. This was a lot more complicated than my usual jock strap, ratty shorts, and torn cotton tee, but damn, it sure looked better. Rebecca was thrilled, flitting around me like a hummingbird that had just discovered a dish full of sugar water. Hell, I was thrilled too.

Rebecca soon discovered a set of purplish wrist and head bands, which even I could see went perfectly with my nails. I was wearing my own hair, which I blew out carefully before we left home (I would never wear the blonde wig again), and light blush, eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick, even though almost no women wear makeup to the gym. I figured I could say that I just came from a post-church lunch with my family if anyone asked. Still, I was so well dressed in all new clothes that I felt like a store mannequin, and I knew I would stand out at the gym as one of those “girly-girls," who everyone looked at with both disdain and admiration. But as I studied myself in the dressing room mirror, I didn’t care because I decided that I was totally delighted by how I looked. A new black gym bag with purple piping around the edges and some kind of deep purple abstract design printed on the fabric, and assorted other pieces of equipment, like a couple of new gloves, and I was good to go: Connecticut's first ever trannie racquetball star.

But once Rebecca had paid for everything (I couldn't very well use a credit card that said, "Michael Cohen," could I?), she pulled me back into the dressing room, and pushed me into one of the cubicles. "Here," put these on," she said, holding out her hand. In it were two rather dark brown nipples, the soft plastic kind that fit on top of breast forms to... well you know. They weren't gigantic, maybe a quarter inch long and twice as wide, but they would show clearly through my bra and leotard.

"Not a chance." I shot back, horrified.

"Ohhh yes, I insist." Rebecca replied calmly.

I looked at her like she was crazy.

She cocked her head in that way that she does and smiled back at me in a kindly way, creases forming at the corners of her eyes.

"But why?" I asked plaintively, slowly beginning to understand that the argument was in fact over and that she had won. "I'll be embarrassed."

"Have you ever stared at a woman whose nipples had hardened under her workout clothes?" she asked, arching one eyebrow at me and again holding out her hand. "Welcome to our world."

What could I say? What could I do? I started to undress. A few minutes later we were back out in the store, but under all the clothes I was wearing, no one could see anything, even though I felt like I was wearing a set of laser beams on my breasts.

I got to the gym a little early, and after parking, walked up to the big front doors. There I was, reflected in the mirrored glass in all my glory. Really, I looked great. But all of a sudden I got really anxious. *What was I thinking?* I thought. *How can I possibly convince anyone that I'm a girl once I start playing? How in the hell does a girl play anyway? * And as my anxiety drove me to start fluffing my hair out with my fingers, in the reflection from the door I saw, people coming behind me. *Shit.* I rushed to open the door before they could ask me why I was just standing there.

I entered the busy lobby with a big, fake smile pasted on my face and those laser beams on my chest. For a moment, a very long moment, everyone looked at me. *Oh shit! They can tell.* Of course they couldn't, and after quick, appraising once-overs, the women went right back to what they were doing, as did most of the men. In fact, they turned away so quickly that my smile fled from my face, as I suddenly started to worry that I was unattractive, not even worth looking at. But thankfully, a couple of the men looked a little longer, clearly checking me out. One looked even longer than the rest and gave me a big smile when I noticed him looking. Relieved that at least one person found me interesting, but not at all willing to get into a conversation with a stranger, I returned his smile with a perfunctory thin-lipped smile of my own, and headed over to the racquetball courts to warm up and watch people play.

I had just straightened up from a calf hugging straight-kneed hamstring stretch when I was enveloped from behind by a gigantic force, which was kissing my neck before I knew what had happened. I almost jumped out of my skin as I spun around, right into Phillip's face. He looked thoroughly amused by my response, and I could tell he was just about to laugh.

"Don't you dare laugh!" I said, trying to sound put upon while at the same time keeping my voice in its girl range, as I pushed him away. "And who said you could kiss my neck?"

"Darlin', you are just too delicious not to kiss," he drawled, as if he was from Nashville instead of San Francisco

Inside I beamed, but I knew what Phillip's game was and I refused to flirt back. "Shit, shuga," I snorted, turning on my own really lousy southern accent, "Y'awl better keep your hands to yourself, or you'll be one lonesome cowboy."

In response, he went into that sad puppy look he did so well. Two beats later he laughed, and gave me a big hug.

I couldn't help it. I laughed too. *What am I going to do with him?* I thought as I put my arms around his upper back to return his hug as chastely as I could. *He is just irrepressible. And I can't help it; he just makes me feel great. I just wish he'd stop pushing my boundaries; there's no way I can let him go where he wants.*

"Hey Phil," a wiry fellow with long dark hair and what was either a short beard or simply a three-day unshaven growth, called out just as I started to take off my warm up pants. I knew him; he was one of the "A" players who hung out at several gyms around the area. He was a more than couple of steps out of my league.

*Shit, we're gonna play him?*

Then, as he and Phillip were greeting each other warmly, another guy showed up. He wasn't any taller than me, but must have weighed a good 200 lbs, was unshaven, and had unwashed hair that hung around his ears. I had no idea who he was. Phillip introduced me to Bobby, his friend, and Bobby introduced us both to Buster. *Bobby and Buster?* I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. They both took their time sizing me up, lingering on my tightly packed breasts.

I knew just what they were thinking - 'How would those babies look if they weren't all squashed down by that bra?' But I was thinking, *Can they see my nipples?* Finally, they managed to look up at my face, and Bobby said, "It's real nice to meet you Sara."

I gave him a nice smile, but, because we were going to be sharing a small humid cube for the next hour, the only thing I could think of was whether Buster had showered recently.

"I'll take the backhand," Phillip said after they had already walked onto the court. "That should pretty much neutralize Bobby. Buster's pretty good up front, but you're way faster than him, and you have better shots," he grinned at me.

"Maybe, if I can actually run the way I'm tucked."

I could see Phillip mentally double clutch, and then he started laughing again. And for a moment he looked like he was going to hug me. So I turned away to reach into my bag for my new glove, and mumbled, "You think I'll be able to get in front of him?"

"Don't worry, he can't go backwards very well, and he's pitiful against ceiling shots and three wall junk. If you get stuck behind him, just throw it into the back corner," he said nodding at the forehand side of the court. "And try not to hit anything that'll come up short on the left. Bobby'll just eat it up."

I rolled my eyes and started to put on my glove so I could go warm up. When I stood up, I could tell he had been looking at my butt. He grinned sheepishly when he realized he had been caught, but just shrugged his shoulders and said, "I can look can't I?"

Given the number of times I had said that to Rebecca when she caught me looking at some attractive woman, I could hardly be angry, but I had to say something. "Well, if you take care of Bobby and we win, you can look all you want. If not, I'm gonna start wearing granny dresses, and you can just eat your heart out."

"You really know how to motivate a guy," he replied lightly, his voice full of playful sarcasm. And then turning towards the court, he went on. "Let's go get em, darlin', and after we win, I'm gonna buy you the tightest pair of black leather pants you ever saw. And then I'm gonna walk behind you for an entire day."

I beamed at him despite myself. He'd done it again. I was giggling to myself and looking forward to holding him to his promise. After a brief hesitation, I said, "Shoes too - high heeled boots," and winked at him.

With that, he opened the court door and gestured for me to enter first. But just as I did, I gave him that wonderful little butt wiggle that I had learned from Ronni just the day before, having practiced it in the mirror while I was waiting for him to pick me up for dinner. I was rewarded when I heard his shoulder bump into the door because he was looking at me instead of it. Still giggling slightly, I turned and stuck my tongue out at him, turning back to the court quickly before he could do anything else. And as I turned, I saw Billy and Buster smirk at each other like this was going to be the easiest win they'd ever had. Not only was I behaving like a ditz, but I had poor Phillip all flustered.

I warmed up slowly, trying to be careful about my new body, and soon discovered that breasts as large as mine did make a difference. They weren't so much a problem on my forehand, where my swing was entirely below them, but the back swing for my back hand was right across my chest. The first one was a real surprise! I could even feel the nipples as I brushed them with my arm. After a few minutes, I basically forgot about them, perhaps because running and turning started off uncomfortably. After a while, I felt freer, perhaps the adrenalin starting to pump into my blood stream as I got ready to play just shriveled everything right up, thank God.

Have you ever seen doubles racquetball? At its best, it's like a ballet choreographed by a madman. Theoretically, the players hit their shots and then move out of the way so their opponents can hit theirs, and visa versa till the point is won, which usually doesn't take long, five shots would be a lot. Teammates usually play side by side, one on the forehand side of the court, and the other on the backhand, although they sometimes switch so one is covering the front court, while the other covers the back. But the game is almost always won by the team that controls the front court, where it's easier to hit outright winners. So when the score gets close, there's often aggressive jockeying for position up front, and things can get physical. Then, it's more like demolition derby than ballet. Phillip and I had played many games of doubles together, and we were a good team, knowing intuitively where the other would be in a certain situation.

As a girl, I should have been immune from the physical stuff. But it turned out that I was a much more skillful player than Buster, so he eventually decided that what he couldn't accomplish with good shots and clever strategy, he could achieve by physical intimidation. I found myself in the same position endless numbers of women before me had found themselves in. I had to figure out how to outsmart some small-brained asshole who thought he could beat me just because he was bigger and stronger than I was. In essence, I had to be twice as good as him.

They came at me right away, trying to jam me into the back corner and hitting hard shots to my body no matter where I was standing. And much to my surprise, I was tentative, uptight, and generally not very good. Shit. I was playing like a girl! They were already up 8 to 3 by the time I calmed down. But when I did, I was able to follow Phillip's advice and started hitting junk shots to the back right hand corner, and, just as Phillip had predicted, I soon had Buster tangled up in his own feet. He hit weak returns, which we put away easily. So by keeping Buster back to give me clear shots in the front court, and with Phillip and Bobby playing even - Phillip was amazingly fast for someone his size - we eventually won the first game, 15-12.

In the second game, they changed tactics. Bobby started to race down everything in the back court so Buster could stay up front. This meant no more weak returns from the back - Bobby could hit winners or great defensive shots from anywhere - and worse, I no longer had free range in the front court. I was having a real hard time getting around Buster, who was alternatively hitting winners or keeping Phillip in the back court, where he was less effective. So they quickly went up 7 to 2, and I was really frustrated. Plus, I was dripping sweat. My carefully blown-out hair was now a wet stringy mess.

To counter, Phillip and I adopted a similar strategy. I would mostly take the back court, and he would play up front. I was a good enough player to ensure that we didn't lose points from the back court, and the momentum changed quickly. Phillip's size and speed intimidated Buster, who started hitting the ball weakly while retreating, instead of blasting it while attacking. By pounding the ball to him, we were able get a bunch of weak returns and were catching up quickly.

That's when things really changed. Because Phillip had forced Buster back, I started to get around him again. I guess the straw that broke the camel's back for him was when he tried to hit a splat into the left corner. I saw it coming and charged forward, skipped past him on his left, and turned what he thought was going to be a sure winner for him into a point for us. It was now 9 all.

I crouched there near the front wall, grinning at Phillip, my hands on my knees, panting from the exertion of that all out sprint. My top was now totally drenched in sweat, and, I realized, as I looked at my breasts heaving with each breath, that I would be much cooler without the leotard.

"Hey guys, gimme a minute," I said, careful with my voice as I tried to catch my breath. Everyone just nodded and I left the court thinking I would run into the women's locker room and take off the leotard. But just as I left the court, I saw a young woman pull her tee shirt off over her head, leaving her with nothing on underneath but her sports bra. In fact, a number of women in the gym were only wearing sports bras. So I figured I didn't need to go into the locker room to pull off the leotard.

Quickly bending over to hide what I was doing I unsnapped it. Then I pulled off my tank top, unzipped the leotard, and just like that other woman, I peeled the leotard off over my head, twisting my torso first to the left, and then to the right as I peeled the leotard up and over my body and then each arm.

In the moment that the leotard covered my head, while my hands were raised, the right above the left, and my body tilted left as I wiggled free of the tight, wet garment, I realized that there wasn't a sound to be heard around me even though it had been quite noisy just a few seconds before. A second later, as my head reemerged into the light, I could see that most of the guys hanging around waiting to play were staring at me.

*Oh fuck, what have I just done* And the image of Brandi Chastain pulling off her top after she scored the winning penalty kick in the World Cup popped into my mind. *At least I 'm not in the Rose Bowl, with 90,000 people watching.*

Then, looking down at my own chest, I realized what they were really looking at. My nipples, the nipples which Rebecca had insisted I glue to my breast forms, now jutted aggressively through my sports bra. They were calling to the men like the Sirens called to the lost sailors in the Odyssey.

I started to freak, embarrassment quickly flooding my awareness. This, I thought in horror as I looked at my chest, is why Rebecca wanted me to wear the nipples. She wanted me to experience what a woman experiences when her nipples show through her clothes.

Then, three things happened at once. First, I got a little turned on. *Whoa, that's really sexy,* I thought, and I imagined myself wiggling my shoulders to show off even more. As soon as that thought had flashed into my mind it was replaced with, *Omigod! I'm sexy!* At the same time, I realized that it made me look like a real woman. After all, nipples suddenly showing through a bra could only happen to someone who had real breasts with nipples that could get turgid.

I started to calm down as quickly as I had started to become embarrassed. *Why am I embarrassed? Women's nipples often show through their clothing and you don't see them running for cover because of it. In fact, it usually looks like they're not even aware of it.* So I just shook the hair off my face, straightened my bra by pulling down at the bottom in a few spots, and put my tank top back on. After grabbing a dry head band, I headed back onto the court. There was a big guy standing right by the door, one of those guys who obviously worked out a lot, and wore a tank top to make sure everyone knew it. As I approached, he just couldn't wipe his stupid grin off his face. My first thought was to give him a dirty look. But something came over me, and as I opened the door, I turned and winked at him!

Before, I had wondered how I could look feminine while playing racquetball, but now it seems that Rebecca had figured it out for me, although perhaps feminine was not exactly the right word. But no one in this gym would ever think I was anything but a girl, and, in fact, I became something of a minor legend around the racquetball courts. As in, "There goes Sara, the one who did the striptease outside of court 5."

When I closed the door to the court, Buster and Bobby were looking at me with slightly stunned expressions on their faces, and Phillip just shook his head like, 'I can't take you anywhere...' For the rest of the match, we also had a good crowd watching us. I could just imagine why, "She looks great with her hands over head, twisting her body like a stripper, but can she play?"

The game kind of got stuck for awhile after that. Neither team could score (unlike tennis, in racquetball you can only win points while serving), but Buster was getting his courage back as he came to realize that Phillip wasn't going to deck him on every point.

Then he got stupid. Phillip blasted a cross court backhand, which Buster cut off. But he only hit it weakly into the front right corner. I again started to rush around him, tasting another point, but just as I started to slither past him on the right, he stuck his hip out and knocked me into the wall. I literally bounced off, with an audible squeak escaping from my lips as I fell on my side and rolled over towards the middle of the court onto my face.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Buster said immediately. "That's a hinder (if you prevent your opponent from getting a fair shot at the ball, either of you can call a hinder, and the point is played over).

Phil hovered over me to make sure I was okay, which I seemed to be, although we had to get a couple of towels to wipe up all the sweat I had gotten on the floor. "Did you see that?" I whispered hoarsely to him. "That wasn't an accident." He nodded in agreement.

And then, on the very next play, he decked me again, only this time he didn't use his hip. I was standing just behind him to his left, hoping to get in front of him, when he turned towards his left, as if to look over his shoulder, and caught me with an elbow, right across the top of my chest, just above my breasts. Again I went down, this time flat on my back. Again I squeaked as I hit the floor.

It was clear Buster had been planning this one because as I lay there, he turned on me and shouted, "Why can't you stay outta my way. You gotta give me room to play!"

"What?" I shrieked in disbelief, trying hard not let my anger lower the tone of my voice. "You deck me with an elbow, and then blame it on me? No way in hell."

He snorted at me and turned away.

Now I was fuming. I wanted to jump up and punch his lights out, but while Michael might have tried that (probably to no great effect), Sara couldn't even dream of it. Still, smoke was coming out of my ears. "I'm gonna get that asshole," I whispered to Phil as he again helped me up and made sure I was intact. "And you better back me up."

"Just stay cool. He's trying to get you angry, to throw you off your game. And watch your voice."

*Watch my voice?* I screamed in my head, knowing he was right. *That mother fucker just decked me with an elbow and all you can do is tell me to watch my voice?*

"I think it's time for him to understand just what kind of game I have," I said in a husky falsetto, as I walked back to await Buster's serve. *Just let him give me something I can hit out on, * I wished. I guess he thought he had me pretty rattled by then, because he tried to drive a hard serve into the right hand corner, even though I had been killing that serve all match, usually passing him on his right through the space between him and the wall.

He again failed to stick the ball right in the corner, which is the only chance he had of beating me on that serve. It's just like in baseball, when a pitcher tries to throw a fastball low over the outside corner of the plate, but leaves it further up and in than intended, a good hitter is going to cream it, and that's just what I did. I had a full swing with all my weight over my front foot, plus the momentum from his hard serve. But instead of shooting for the right corner, I hit it right at the back of his pudgy left thigh.

On a shot like that, I probably hit the ball around 100mph (racquetball is a fast game), and even though the ball is made of soft rubber, it stings like hell when it hits you, and leaves a long-lasting, nasty black and blue mark.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," I exclaimed sarcastically in my best girly voice, after the ball exploded against his skin with a rewarding ‘thwak.’ "I so thought you were going to move."

He just glared at me.

That's all he could do. People get hit all the time by accident, and the etiquette of the game and the macho rule for guys say that you just absorb the blow and go on. His next serve was a nice soft lob, something I couldn't get a clean forehand drive out of. But I did hit a three wall shot that ended up bouncing crazily in the corner behind him and he hit a weak return that Phillip simply devoured. Now it was our serve.

Phil served first and Bobby killed it from deep in the backhand corner. My serve led to a brief rally that seemed like it would end when Bobby passed Phillip with a hard backhand drive, leaving him lunging at nothing but air.

But I was there. I caught it on my backhand, simply trying to direct it into the front left corner as its speed almost tore the racquet out of my hand. Bobby was trapped in the back court, and there was no way Buster could get around me in time to get it. But that's not what he had in mind. Instead, he just ran over me, yelling, "Hinder," a moment after he knocked me over and then grabbed me by my left bicep to keep me from hitting the floor too hard.

I shook loose angrily, turning on him and hissing, "That's no hinder. You had no chance to get it."

He looked at me blandly and simply said, "I thought I did."

Again Phil came to collect me, although he refrained from even looking at Buster. As he helped me up, I looked at my arm because it felt achy. It was quickly obvious why. Buster had grabbed me really hard; his hand print was clearly visible in red on my arm.

We lost our serve after that, and Bobby stepped up and hit three straight aces into the back corner so close to the floor that God couldn't have returned them. We won the next point though, and now Buster was up again. I prayed he'd try that hard drive serve again, but he hit one off of three walls that died right in the corner, leaving me no swing. It was now game point for them.

But this time, dear old Buster again answered my prayer. The moron tried another drive serve; he apparently just couldn't believe that he couldn't overpower a "mere" girl. Realizing I was going to kill it, however, he moved closer to the right hand wall, so I had no angle to hit it past him.

In that situation, in a friendly game, I would have called a block, which, like a hinder, allows you to play the point over and keeps people from getting hit needlessly by the ball. But this wasn't a friendly game, so I hit it as hard as I could.

I'm really not sure how it happened, really, I'm like so totally not, but somehow I failed to get it past him, instead nailing him again on the inside of his left thigh. *What a delicious sound,* I thought to myself as the sickening thwack of ball on skin echoed in the small court.

But my joy was short-lived. He turned on me and snarled, "You bitch."

"What's your problem?" I asked, inching over towards, Phillip. "You're the one who moved in the wrong direction. Off hand, I'd say that was as much of an accident as this," and I help up my arm, which now had clearly visible welts where he had grabbed me.

"Hey! Phillip shouted, stepping between us, but finally facing Buster. "This has gone far enough." Then, lowering his voice to a threatening whisper and glaring directly down into Buster's eyes, he went on, "If you two can't play without trying to hurt each other, I just might get a little careless myself."

There was little question about who would suffer if Phillip got careless. But by then, Bobby was there to pull Buster away, which not surprisingly, was remarkably easy to do. It was my turn to snort.

"Listen, Buster," Phillip went on, always the reasonable one, "I'm twice your size, but Bobby and I haven't collided once. There's a lesson there. Learn it."

*Ooooh, my hero,* I thought, batting my eyelashes at Phillip in sarcastic thanks as he turned to walk to the back court. Then I tried telepathy. *You're supposed to beat the shit out of him,* I beamed at his brain. He must have sensed what I was thinking because he turned to me and just stared me down. *Okay, be like that."

We took back the serve, but couldn't score any points, and Bobby served out the game. We broke for some water and to get ready for the deciding game.

By now, there was quite a crowd around our court. It's not that often that women get knocked down, and certainly never more than once, and it has probably almost never happened that a woman who just did a strip tease for the fans, attacks the guy who decked her. Sex and violence, plus a really competitive game, what more could you ask for? People wanted to watch.

"Phillip, what the fuck is your problem?" I bitched as we sat next to each other toweling ourselves off. "That asshole is beating the shit out of me and you're not protecting me."

"What am I supposed to do?" he asked plaintively. "I can't haul off and deck him. I'm way too big for that."

"You mean to tell me that my partner is a former linebacker and I have to get beat up because he's too big to protect me? How fucked up is that?"

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"Why don't you just knock him down once, they way he's been knocking me down?" I responded, pissed off at his lack of empathy.

Just then we heard an "ooofff," and turned in time to see Buster stagger. He had been knocked off balance by the big guy I had winked at, who was now staring down at Buster. "We don't knock girls down here. Know what I mean?"

Again Bobby was there quickly to prevent it from going any further.

"See?" I whispered to Phillip? "At least one guy knows what to do." And I gave a little finger wave to my new best friend.

"Careful Sara, he probably has a real good idea about how you can thank him."

I started to lecture him, "Phillip Jacobson, I'm sure you have the same idea, but neither of you is gonna get anything." I threw my towel back onto my bag and grabbed a dry glove. After putting it on, I turned back to Phil. "If Michael was here, he could protect himself, but Sara can't. I need your help." I hesitated a second or two before going on, "Especially if you want to have even a glimmer of a hope of seeing me in those tight leather pants you're hoping to buy me."

He gave me a little grin.

"And by the way, the price has just gone up. It's not just pants and shoes; I get a jacket too. I need something to cover my bruises." And I help up my arm.

"Oookay, I get the message," he replied, rolling his eyes as if he was the most put upon man in the world.

We were back on the court a few moments later. Bobby was really popping his drive serve into the back corner and got three quick points before Phillip was even able to return one, which he ripped off for a splat into the left hand corner. Now, it was back to Buster and me.

He started with a lob, which I returned by hitting a mediocre cross court shot that bounced to the middle of the court. All Buster had to do was take one step to his left and he could cut it off with his backhand. But as he did, Phillip took a step to his right and they collided. Buster literally went flying back to his right, hitting his shoulder against the wall as he fell.

At first I was elated. Phillip had finally started to protect me. But Buster didn't get up right away, and I immediately started to feel remorse because it was my fault he got hurt. But he pulled himself up just as Phillip got there to help him. Phillip whispered something to him as he helped him up, lifting him easily from the floor to his feet. Later, Phillip told me what he said, "We can play or we can fight, your choice."

I, of course, didn't know this, as I ran off the court to get a couple of towels, one for Buster and one for the floor. While I was out there, my new friend gave me a thumbs up. "I see your boyfriend got the message," he said, as if it was what he did that inspired Phillip to knock Buster down.

I just raised my shoulders and my eyebrows at him in a questioning way and scurried back onto the court. When I got back, Buster was already up, leaning against the wall. So I threw one towel to Phillip and nodded towards the wet spot. Then I walked over to Buster and handed him the towel. I realized that there was an opportunity here for a little bad cop - good cop routine that might really keep Buster off balance. So I tried acting a little deferential.

Trying to sound concerned, I asked, "Are you okay? You really don't want to get Phillip riled up. The last thing we want out here is him in linebacker mode, know what I mean?"

He looked at me dubiously for a second as he started to test his arm, wincing slightly as he raised it over his head. "He did that on purpose, didn't he?" Buster surprised me be asking.

"Oh, I didn't actually see it," I lied.

"Well, he better not get in front of me. You're not the only one who can hit a forehand drive into someone's thigh."

That was such a remarkably stupid thing to say that I was stunned for a moment, standing there with my mouth partly open. Trying to figure out how to make the most out of this, I indicated to Buster that I would take his towel, and then turned to get Phillip's towel from him, throwing them both out the door. As I took my place, to await Buster's serve, I said loud enough for all of us to hear, "Phillip, you better be careful, Buster said he's shootin' for your legs."

Phillip looked at me as if to accuse me of lying, which, given the way racquetball is usually played, actually made more sense than anything else. I mean, no one in his right mind would announce they were going to intentionally try to hurt someone, and certainly not someone as big as Phillip. And even a flea would be smart enough not to say it to the partner of the guy you were threatening?

"She's making that up, right?" Phillip asked Buster.

For a beat, then two, there was silence and you could almost hear the gears working inside Buster's brain. Then he blurted out, "Yeah, she's just trying to blame me for what she did herself." And he glared at me.

But it was obvious to everyone that he had hesitated because he needed the time to figure out what to say.

Phillip just looked at him and said, "Don't do it." Bobby stood at the side of the court shaking his head. I had everything I could do not to laugh.

In any case, Buster didn't run into anyone or hit anyone with the ball for the rest of the match. Plus, he had lost his nerve. Without him threatening me and trying to push me around, I had a pretty free reign on our side of the court, and, as Phillip had noted at the outset, I was better than Buster.

Too bad he wasn't the only one we were playing against. For whatever reason, Bobby turned his game up a notch and was really outplaying Phillip. So after 15 minutes of all out play, we finally got the serve back with them ahead 12-10.

As Phillip got ready to serve, I went over to him and put my arm around his really thick and disgustingly sweaty shoulder and turned him to the front court so Bobby and Buster couldn't hear us talk. "Hit him some lobs, will you? He's killing your drive serve. Don't be as stubborn as Buster and keep hitting something he's gonna kill."

Phillip furrowed his brow at me. He and Bobby had been pounding the ball at each other all match. They were like two heavy weights, slugging it out. It was like there was some unwritten code that the only way you could win was to be tougher than the other guy, even if being smarter made more sense.

"Huh," he grunted in a noncommittal way, as if I had just pointed out that his shirt was wet. But when he served it was a nice soft lob that forced Bobby to hit a defensive shot. This drove Phillip all the way to the back wall as well, but Phillip hit it to Buster, who hit a decent but not great shot back to Phillip. Phillip in turn hit it back at Buster, and this time, Buster hit a much weaker return. I had the front court all to myself and was able to cut his shot off and easily put it away. Two more of those and it was 13-12.

When I couldn't score on my serve, Bobby was up again. Quickly, he hit his low drive into the backhand corner. It was perfect, bouncing twice before Phillip could get to it. But Phillip did get the next one, and after a brief rally, I again found myself all alone up front and hit another winner, this time hitting a hard drive past Bobby's backhand as he charged towards the right front to get the shot he thought I was going to hit. Phillip and I grinned at each other. If Bobby wasn't serving, we still had a chance.

But Buster finally beat me in the forehand corner, his knee high drive serve hitting right in the crack, spinning out, and leaving me swinging at the air like an uncoordinated ditz. Game point for them. Fortunately, even though he was only about one for ten on that serve, he tried it again. All of us, including Michael, would have done the same thing. You just want to win on your best serve, not some wimpy lob. Instead of trying for an outright kill, I hit a defensive shot to the back corner, which Buster never expected and he had a hard time turning to get back there. Bobby, realizing that Buster might not get there, also charged over and they ran into each other. It was 13-14, but now, it was our serve.

Phillip got ready for his serve, crouching down to hit his drive serve again. "Hey," I urged gently, shaking my head.

He pursed his lips at me, like I was some kind of annoying teacher who had yet again caught him talking to the cute little girl in the next row, but he stood back up and thought for a second. Then he ripped a hard three wall serve that caught Bobby by surprise as it took a weird bounce out of the backhand corner. Still, he managed to return it, driving me back to the wall on my side. I hit a defensive shot that put Buster in the back corner, and even though he hit a pretty decent return, Phillip was all the way up front and ripped it for a kill.

In racquetball, you have to win by two, so even though the score was tied, we still had our work cut out for us. Phillip had now figured it out and hit another three wall serve, this time much softer, that not only took a weird bounce, but left the ball way up high, where Bobby could only hit a defensive return. This led to a brief rally that ended when Phillip again took a shot out of the air and killed it.

Phillip's next serve wasn't as good as the previous two, and Bobby was able to kill it even though he was deep in the backhand corner. I could only shake my head in wonder. I had to be six feet closer to the front of the court to hit a shot like that, and Bobby was skinny. Now it was my serve. I knew better than to try a drive serve, so I just hit a lob that Buster returned into the back corner, forcing me to the wall. I tried to hit it to the back corner again, but didn't catch it clean, leaving Buster a chance for a kill. But his splat to the right corner was a little high and Phillip dug it out, forcing Buster back again. This time, though, Buster had Phillip trapped up front, so he hit a low drive off the middle of the front wall that angled towards the backhand corner, passing Phillip.

I don't know how I knew where it was going, woman's intuition perhaps, or simply good game sense, but as the play developed I slid to the left side of the court, behind Phillip. As Buster's shot passed him, it came right to my backhand. My position gave me a perfect angle for my favorite shot, a splat into the front right corner, and I started to set it up, my backswing passing over my chest and compressing my fake boobs.

But again, something told me what to do. At the last moment, I switched directions and hit the splat into the front left corner. And just as it left my racquet, Bobby flew past me angling left to pick up the shot he thought I was going to hit towards the forehand corner, and which would bounce left. Even though my splat wasn't perfect, in fact, it was pretty mediocre, it didn't matter. Both Bobby and Buster were out of position and it bounced twice for a winner.

Our game 16-14, and our match 2-1. Phillip turned to me with a big smile on his face, and then threw his arms around me in a big wet hug. At first I was thrilled, caught up in the joy of winning a hard set and tickled by his enthusiasm. But a moment later, I realized what he was doing - hugging me with his gigantic, hot, sweaty body.

"Phillip!" I sort of squealed. "What are you doing?"

"Celebrating our victory," he said, his voice still full of joy.

"You're gross!" I complained, figuring that was better than saying I didn't want a man hugging me while I was at the gym.

"I'm gross?" he boomed at me, as Bobby and Buster looked at us mildly dumbfounded at what was going on between us. We were not behaving like racquetball partners.

So he let go of the hug and instead put his hands around my ribs and lifted me into the air so we were face to face. "You're terrific, Sara Cohen," he whispered sincerely right to my face. "Why did it take me so long to meet you?" And then he planted a big wet kiss on my lips.

Before I could react, he let it go, leaving me gasping, open-mouthed, and, although I couldn't admit it to myself right then, thrilled. It was only in retrospect that I understood that had he held it a moment longer I might have opened my mouth for more.

"Put me down, you gigantic monster," I managed to splutter out. I somehow thought I should be angry even though I was as far from angry as a person could get.

"Sure, darlin'," he replied confidently, lowering me to the floor as if picking me up in a huge hug had been no different than briefly saying hi. I was trying to glare at him, which is hard to do when you're staring up at someone. But just like last night, he wasn't going to let my little scene bring him down. He continued to smile at me like a teenager.

He had never turned his personality on like this when I was a man. Now, he was totally engaging: a force of nature, nearly. I knew that if I continued to look into his eyes, he'd melt me, and all I'd want to do was caress his face with my hand, and then pull him down into another kiss. But I just couldn't let that happen. So I straightened up, turned away and headed for the door of the court.

I had been sitting on the bench, having loaded all my gear into my gym bag and trying to dry myself with my sweaty towel, when he came out and said, "So, Sara, my love, when are you gonna let me buy you those tight black leather pants?"

Every eye and ear in the place instantly snapped onto me, the stripper queen, to see how I would respond.

After recovering from nearly having choked on my own saliva, it was easy. Really, it was easy. As long as they're not touching you and making your tummy go all gooey, guys are a snap. I stood up slowly, grabbed my bag and made a big deal of hefting it onto my shoulder. Then, I straightened myself out, and as clearly as I could, I responded, "In your dreams." Then I turned and sashayed towards the lobby, swiveling my hips for all I was worth.

The place exploded in laughter behind me, and I couldn't help but let a huge grin over take my face. It hadn't been my plan to just leave Phillip behind like that, but the scene was too good to give up. So I just got in my car and drove home. I figured it would take him about an hour to call. Despite what I had said, I fully intended to get those leather pants. And I knew just where to find a pair of oh-so-soft glove leather ankle boots with three and a half inch spike heels. I was sure Rebecca would help me with the jacket.

***

"Rebecca, I'm home," I shouted as I came in the door, keeping my voice in its girly range. I dropped my gym bag by the steps in the foyer, like I always did.

"In here, love," she called back from the sun room we had added behind our living room. It was one of our favorite places to work on the weekends. Its all around windows, airiness, and comfortable furniture made it irresistible. I'd little doubt she'd be there.

So I bounded into the room, thrilled and delighted with myself, and still out of breath despite the 20 minute ride home from Michael's club.

"Oh my! Look At you!" Rebecca exclaimed as I fairly burst into the room. My hair and clothes were soaked, but my face was radiant, flushed with both exertion and exhilaration. The whole afternoon had been an incredible high. "How did't go?" she asked, looking eager to hear my story.

"It was great!" I replied bouncing up and down on my toes, my hands fluttering around my face as if they had a life of their own. "We won this great match and I played great and Philip promised to buy me these great leather pants if we won so he could walk behind me to watch my ass and everyone saw my nipples!" I started to take off my warm up jacket and jut out my chest to show her how they looked.

Rebecca looked at me as if I was a Martian. "Whoa, Nelly," she said, "Slow down there a bit could you?'

"Where should we go for the pants?" I asked, peeling off my jacket, without any awareness of her cute attempt to get some control of the situation. "He's gonna buy me boots and a jacket too!"

"Sara, honey," she replied slowly, running her hand through her hair, "Are you on cocaine or something? You really do need to slow down."

It was starting to sink in. "Huh?" Was all I could say through my dim realization.

"I see you had a good time." Her raised eyebrow-cocked head-rueful smile combination finally brought me back to reality.

"Uuhh... Yeah. I did." I grimaced, finally starting to talk at about the normal speed for an adult. "But I think I became a legend at the gym."

"Well, my love," she countered gently, "you're already a legend here, so I'm not surprised."

Suddenly, I realized who and what I really was: a sweated-through, crossdressed husband talking to his wife after returning from a racquetball game, which he had played in drag with a guy partner he claimed he didn't want to be with, but who made him feel exhilarated. And he had just blurted out that everyone had seen his nipples, which his wife, who was now standing in front of him, had made him put on.

"Omigod!' I blurted out. "Am I horrible?"

"Oh no, love!" She replied instantly. "You're amazing, and totally surprising. But what happened to your arm?"

"Oh, that," I replied, glancing down at the obvious red welts. It's amazing how it stopped hurting after we won. "Buster thought he could win by trying to beat me up. But we took care of him!' I was starting to get excited again.

"I'll bet you did," she responded quietly, obviously not interested in the details right now. "And just how did everyone see your nipples?"

I threw back an embarrassed, grimace-like smile, and then pursed my lips tightly together, like I was trying to make a hard decision. "You set me up, didn't you? You knew I would eventually have to show them." And just like I had with my t shirt at the gym, I peeled off my tank top, and pushed out my chest, making the nipples clearly visible through my sports bra.

Rebecca burst out laughing. "You hussy!" she screamed. Did you do that at the gym?"

I grimaced again. "Well, sort of, I guess," I said softly, allowing my chest to deflate, although that did nothing to hide the nipples.

"So? Tell me!" Rebecca immediately responded. She obviously thought this was going to be fun to hear.

So I told her. I really was clueless when it happened. I mean, it was unintentional, but in the retelling, it somehow took on a more lurid cast, which could only have come from my dirty little mind.

But Rebecca didn't seem the least bit upset, simply shrugging her shoulders. "I'll bet Michael would have loved to have seen that, wouldn't he?"

I wasn't sure what she was getting at, so I imagined myself watching..., and immediately snorted out a laugh. But then I had an inspiration. "Specially if it was you!" I said, as lasciviously as I could.

“Ohhh, you do have a dirty mind don't you?" She replied, a smile lighting up her face.

"I love to think dirty thoughts about you," I responded, wiggling closer to her.

She wrinkled her nose as I got within arm's length and said, "Well not right now. You really do need a shower, and until you take one, you can forget about touching me."

I wasn't going to be put off that easily. "Not until you tell me why you made me wear these nipples!" I shot back, again thrusting out my chest and wiggling my shoulders so my boobies would bobble in front of her nose, except they didn't because of the sports bra.

She cocked her head and hesitated for a moment, ensuring she had my full attention. Then she said, "You're really very cute, you know! Not only do I have a sexy husband, but I have a girlfriend as well, and she apparently thinks she's a teenager!"

"What does that mean?" I asked, not positive I wanted to hear the answer.

She got up out of the chair she had been reading in and came over to me. She kissed me gently on the cheek and took my hand in hers. "C'mon honey. You really do need a shower. We can talk after that.”

It always feels good to peel off sticky gym clothes, especially once they have started to dry and harden against your body. This time was a unique treat. First to go, with great relief, was the intentionally too tight sports bra, which, I discovered with some dismay, had left some impressively deep welts around my chest. Removing the gaff and freeing my cock and balls from their even tighter prison was even better. Reflexively at first, but then gratefully as I became aware of how good it felt, scratched, rubbed and stroked them as they finally unfurled down between my legs. It took almost a minute before they felt normal again. When I had finished, I was glad that I was in the bathroom with the door closed. For some reason, this little celebration of my newly unbound masculinity on my otherwise feminine body embarrassed me when I became aware of what I was doing. Not wanting to think about it, I jumped into the shower and enjoyed a thorough cleaning. I especially enjoyed washing my latex nipples, and making believe they were real.

*Real breasts, is that what I want? And if I had 'em what would Rebecca think? Could she deal with that (them!), or...* I stopped right then; there are some questions that just don't have to be answered.

Rebecca watched me emerge from the bathroom rubbing my hair with one towel and with another tied above my breasts. I had already applied eyeliner and lipstick, a nice coral red this time, and had plucked a few more hairs from under the arch of my brows. I really wanted to keep going, but I also realized that if I did, I would end up a little too femmy looking when I wanted to pass as a guy.

"Aren't you just the cutest thing?" she teased, sitting propped up by pillows on our bed.

I was still in a great mood, so I flashed her a huge smile and dropped a small curtsey. "Thank you ma'am. I like to think so." You know all those pictures of t-girls you see on the web? You ever notice how few of them are smiling, and how the ones who have great smiles look the most like real women? I guess I was just lucky, but I was blessed with one of those of smiles, and I learned early on how to use it, which was frequently. Men, of course, will fall all over a woman for a smile. Women respond to men pretty much the same way.

"I think you are," Rebecca said thoughtfully. "I really do think you are. It's amazing."

That of course got her another huge smile.

"You gonna do something about that?" I asked, dropping my towel I had been using to dry my hair and swiveling over to the bed. "I'm clean, sweet smelling and sanitary?"

"Uuuhhh," she replied, clearly not sure what to do. Then she gave a slightly pained smile before saying, "You know what love? I think not. I'm afraid I still don't find those fake boobies of yours much of a turn on."

I stopped, standing over her right next to the bed, and my face fell. That had totally shattered my sweet illusion. A dispirited "Oh," was all I could get out.

"But how 'bout if I dry your hair for you, and finish your makeup. And I think I know just the place for you to buy those leathers you were talking about," she finished, nodding her head and smiling, obviously trying to make up for her previous comment with a consolation prize of non-sexual attention.

"No," I replied, sounding petulant in spite of myself. "Maybe it's time for me to be Michael again. I forgot that you found me selfish when I indulge myself like this." By the time I had finished I was sounding downright sarcastic.

"Oh Mic... Sar... Michael, don't. I really do like Sara. Really. It's just hard for me to have sex with her. There're lots of things Sara and I can do together without having sex aren't there?"

"But what about Becca? She liked to have sex with Sara didn't she?"

She gave me another one of those of pained smiles. "Honey," she began, in a way that made it clear this wouldn't be good news either, "Becca was very hard for me to pull off. It was kind of a rush, and lots of fun, but she's just not me. I really don't look forward to being her again."

"So you'd be just as happy if I was never Sara again, wouldn't you?" I half asked, half accused, my resentment again slipping out.

"Truthfully?" she asked, then hesitating to see what I'd say. But that hesitation was all the answer I needed.

"I'm changing," I said. I can see I've already had too much fun this weekend."

"Don't you dare be petulant with me! This has been one of the best weeks Sara has ever had, and I feel like I've been very generous, and I'm willing for it to continue. I think you just need to accept the fact that I don't really want to have sex with Sara, especially not when she's wearing fake boobs. Can't you accept that?" she finished almost plaintively.

The look on her face made me realize how selfish I had just been. She was right. I did have a great week, and she had been not only been supportive, but enthusiastic as well. She had stayed home while I was out on a date, and then, essentially a second date this afternoon. I felt like a heel. "I'm so sorry," I said. "You're right. You have nothing to apologize for. I guess I just got carried away by my enthusiasm." And then after a brief pause, "And I do love you, and it felt so intimate, the way we were teasing when I got out of the shower, I just naturally..." And I held my hands up to my sides, palms up, showing I had no more to say. But before she could say anything else, I blurted out, "Can you forgive me?"

She gave me one of those indulgent smiles women use on men when the guy realizes he has done something thoughtless, like leave the toilet seat up, and then said, "Oh honey, of course I do. I told you last week that I want this to be fun for you, but I guess we'll have to figure out how to deal with some issues. Having Sara around so intensively is new. We'll figure it out. I know we will." And she threw her arms around me in a big hug, which I gratefully accepted. At least until I felt her breasts press against mine, and then I felt uncomfortable because she said she didn't like them, and I pulled back a little, as if I could hug her without our breasts touching.

"Don't be silly," she said, pulling her head back and looking into my eyes. "Women hug all the time, and we really enjoy the intimacy." She emphasized the word intimacy, drawing it out. I guess she was trying to teach me that there were different kinds. "But you well know..., or maybe not, cause you're a man," she tossed me a pitying smile, "you can be intimate without it leading to sex. Now give me a wholehearted hug. I need it. I haven't seen that much of you over the last two days."

So we hugged and just by readjusting my point of view a little, I could almost see what she was saying about being intimate without it leading to sex, although I was still sure that having it lead to sex was better. As for right now, the hug felt pretty good.

***

Phillip called about 30 minutes later, and we arranged to meet him at a boutique that Rebecca said had great leather. By the time we were done shopping, the morning's racquetball win turned out to be the most expensive ever for Phillip. But he could easily afford it, so I didn't care. I was totally thrilled, and when I looked at myself in the mirror, with my new pants, cropped jacket, and three inch spike-heeled boots, I thought I would just cream in my pants. I was hot! And I started to wish I had long blonde hair. I imagined myself tossing a corn-silk blonde mane off my face as I turned around to confront some guy who had been staring at me. He creamed in his pants. I smiled smugly.

Looking at me, and then apparently seeing, or at least imagining, an envious look in Rebecca's eye, Phillip decided that he had to buy her something too. She of course objected, but he was persistent, finally arguing that she had fixed him up with one of his best dates ever and she deserved a reward. She selected a stunning pair of red crocodile-print sandals with a tall heel and several thin straps that crossed over her instep. They weren't Jimmy Choo's, but for what they cost they might have well been.

Then Rebecca and I decided we had to take Phillip out to dinner. We decided on a local steak house that was one of those real guy places: wood paneling, cigars and big steaks with expensive cabernets. It was a good pick too because Phillip met several friends and acquaintances, and was just beaming with pride as he showed off his two dates. The tall, thin one in the striking black leathers, and her slightly shorter but much more attractive friend, in her red mini and fuck-me sandals.

Sunday night finally found me sitting cross-legged on my bed, using a solvent to remove my beautiful blue nails. I hated the way my hands looked when I was done and decided I would grow my nails out a little more even when I had to be in guy mode. When I was a kid, my nails were very soft, and broke easily. But as I matured, they started to harden. At times, I had grown them out to half an inch, and they would be hard and strong. But my pattern was that I would let them grow overly long, though I never manicured them into a feminine look, and then cut them all the way back to a standard guy length. I hated to cut them. Now, I decided to grow them out and leave them longish. I felt very proud of myself. And as long as I was rebelling, I decided to leave my toes, figuring that no one would see them anyway, and I could wait until they chipped to clean them up. At least that's what I told Rebecca. I really thought that once they needed to be redone, I could just switch to another color, and no one would see that either.