Becky continues her narrative of her life, constantly weighing the cost of being who she is.

I'm back in my office fighting tears. I want to know who the complainer is but know it's best I do not. If I knew I would run to her, tell her I too know fear, or at least I did. I was able to escape mine, suppressed it for decades while I receiving daily doses of testosterone against my will, becoming a man. Except I feel fear again now sometimes when I walk alone in the dark from Metro to my car. I no longer feel I could defend myself against an attack.

I'm not done with my work but It's time to leave. I change out of my pumps and into my walking shoes for the five block walk to Metro. Many female commuters do the same. It's late afternoon and it will be chilly so I put on my coat and button it. I leave the building and feel a rush of freedom. I'm out on the street where no one knows who I am or who I used to be. I am a happy confident woman like hundreds of others. I wait for my train on the platform deep below the street. It's crowded with rush hour commuters. I love riding Metro, being part of the commuter class sharing a common purpose. I join the throng pushing onto a waiting car. There are no open seats. A well dressed man gives me his, smiling, calling me 'Miss'. He looks connected, important. I want to talk to him but I know the risk. I sit, carefully keeping my knees together with my purse on my lap. I subtly watch people watching me. The man who gave up his seat is married sporting a large chunk of gold on his left ring finger. Lucky woman. I tell myself I could endure being with a man like that if it would make me a complete woman.

I think about dinner. It's my turn to cook and I have a chicken and pasta casserole in the fridge that needs popped in the oven for an hour at 350 degrees. I live with a widow and her two sons. I rent the second bedroom upstairs while the sons live in the finished basement. I like Carol, the widow, the mother, the first woman who knew nothing of my past to accept me. She is ten years older than I but we have become close in the fourteen months I've lived in the bedroom across from her's. Carol's sons are respectful and courteous; friendly to me but cautious.

I'm home, fixing a salad to go with the casserole. Gary, the oldest son, married but separated, comes in from work. He is a deputy sheriff, big and strong in his uniform, badge, holster and gun. I've lived in the same house with him for over a year and he is kind, gentle and sweet; more of a teddy bear than an intimidating officer of the law. He grabs a beer from the fridge, pops the top and sits at the table talking. I listen, still wearing the Jones suit skirt and jacket but wearing an apron. To a casual observer we would be a typical man and woman in a typical kitchen talking about their typical day, except he's doing the talking and I'm doing the listening. I like this. I want to call him 'honey'.

Gary is telling me about an arrest he made today. They received a complaint about a young girl, fifteen or sixteen, soliciting near a shopping mall just outside of DC. They staked out the corner and when they observed the girl posing provocatively, they sent an undercover deputy. When she offered herself to the undercover officer for a few dollars, they swooped in and arrested her, except it was not a girl but a boy, short skirt, halter top with padding, heels, wig. Gary emphasizes 'he' was only fifteen. I hear Gary stress the gender pronoun.

I wonder if he's telling me this because of who I am. He's never asked anything about my past before, or what it is like being me, or why I would want to give up all that being a man brought me. I just assumed he didn't want to know, feared the answers. Frankly, I'm just as glad when people who know my past don't ask. I don't want to tell.

I tell Gary how risky the behavior is and tragic too. I add my prayer that they don't put this boy/girl in juvie with boys. I tell him I could not relate; that when I was fifteen I wasn't trying to be a girl, couldn't imagine being out in public in a skirt, and most definately wasn't considering soliciting men for sex. I laugh nervously and don't want our talk to shift to me and my teen years. Now there is welcomed silence, an aroma of nervous tension.

I'm in my room after I've cleaned up the kitchen. I take my skirt and jacket off and hang them up neatly. The new pair of panyhose survived but would have to be washed. I'm happy to get my bra off. I am thrilled that I need to wear one but after fifteen hours, it is wonderful to be free . I slip on a nightgown, plain, cotton, high neck, comfortable. I remove my makeup, brush my teeth and my hair. In nine hours I will repaint my face. I devote considerable time to maintenance, day-in and day-out routines for appearance and vanity. I hate it but, of course, love it.

I hear Carol come up stairs and go into her room, the master bedroom across the hall from mine. I like this arrangement; the women are upstairs and the men, the 'boys', are in the basement.

As expected there is a knock. Carol and I are close; we talk. I know she is lonely too, as am I; lonely not for a man, but for friendship, girl talk. Her husband died suddenly five years ago. Often she is in my room sitting on the bed sharing stories, sometimes personal, telling me things she would only tell a girl friend she trusted. I share too. She is one of the very few I've opened up to about the years of pain and self-loathing leading to transition.

Carol comes in. She is ready for bed too, wearing a nightgown much like mine, cotton, plain. We nearly match and she laughs at how alike we are with a similar fine boned builds, nearly identical hair styles except her's is red. The exceptions; I'm five inches taller than she is and she is somewhat broader in the hips than I. She even lent me a top or two, and one of my bras inadvertantly found it's way into Carol's dresser, presumably through our shared laundry experience, before discovery and return. We are the same bust size.

Carol asks about my day. She knew I hoped to be released from the restroom restriction. I tell her the details of the meeting. I am crying and she stands and hugs me. I feel her warmth, her softness, her compassion. She tells me how proud she is of me and lectures me how important it is for me to stay strong, not just for myself but for all those girls like me who can't fight. She speculates that maybe someday it won't be a big deal. She mixes a metaphor saying if it looks like a duck, it should be allowed in the hen house. Carol is funny and makes me laugh, but I can't see that future.

She takes my hand and pulls me toward the hall and into her room. She is saying she has something she wants to show me. She asks me to sit on her bed. She's reaching for a box in the top of her closet. She puts the box in front of me and tells me to open it. The box is from Saks. I lift off the top and pull the tissue to the side. I look at Carol who is smiling, watching my reaction.

I gush. I exclaim how beautiful it is, a mint green peignoir set, exquisite silk and nylon with floral cream satin applique. It is neatly folded. I feel there is a story Carol wants to tell. I look at her. There are tears forming. I tell her how beautiful it is. I touch it, let my fingers float over the material, over the raised satiny threads of the applique as if I was reading braille.

I try to ask but cannot find the right words. She begins a story, a love story. I know she was married to Carl for thirty five years when he died while on a business trip. I know how strong their love was. She has told me, showing me pictures of their life together. I see how she keeps his dresser just as he had left it, his slippers still next to his side of the bed.

Now the tears fall as she explains what is in the box was a gift from Carl just days before he died. She is looking into my eyes. I hear her sadness as she says they had planned to go away to celebrate their anniversary just as soon as he got back from the trip. He didn't get back, she says, they didn't go on the vacation and she never wore the peignoir set, never took it out of the box.

We are both crying now and hugging again. I love her, and feel her pain as I know she feels mine. I start to put the lid back on the box but she stops me asking if I didn't want to pick it up, examine it. I hesitate but she insists. I lift the robe and gown together. I have not touched anything like it, wonderfully made, elegant, divine. I separate the robe from gown examining the detail. I am enthralled.

I start to fold it but she stops me. I hear her tell me to try it on. I immediately resist. I can't. It's almost sacred, laying dormant all these years since Carl died, a metaphor for Carol's grief. I just can't. She insists. I know I must give in, or risk insult.

I stand and hesitate. Carol senses I am uneasy disrobing in front of her. She sits at her vanity with her back to me as I lift the nightgown I'm wearing over my head and drop it on the bed. But there are mirrors and she sees me, all of me from different angles. I see her seeing me. I blush even though I have been in this state with women before, topless in the locker room at the pool where I do laps twice a week. I reach for the virgin gown when Carol turns and watches. I'm well confined as always with panties over thong, so there is nothing revealing below.

I pause holding the gown close to me and let her watch. She is enjoying this moment and I can't deny her. She is speaking, using my name, telling me I am beautiful, a beautiful woman. I lift the gown over my head and let it fall over me. I am transformed, covered in joy, overwhelmed with affirmation. The gown gently hugs me falling to my ankles. The bodice cups each breast tenderly, accenting their modest size and coyly giving my nipples a gauzy prominence. I'm enveloped by the gown's sensuality, and enjoy the spiritual arousal it brings, along with a tiny physical one.

Carol asks me to turn around and I do trying to twirl like a schoolgirl and almost falling. We laugh and she hugs me. Carol now holds the matching robe. I slip my arms in and feel it loosely covering me modeling the gown, but barely hiding anything. I twirl again for Carol feeling the material swirl around me, and then settling back in place. We laugh, and talk, and cry. I tell her how fun this is, how much it means to have her in my life, and how honored I am that she shared the peignoir set with me and let me try in on.

I hear her words but say nothing. She is telling me she wants me to have it. I'm speechless. No, I tell her. It wouldn't be right. She disagrees. Through tears Carol tells me she has thought this through; she would never be able to bring herself to wear it, ever, without Carl. She laughs saying she thought about asking to be buried in it so he could see it when they meet again. She adds Carl would have liked me and would want me to have it. I'm filled with emotion. I thank her profusely as she pushes me out of her room reminding me that we both have to work in the morning.

In my room I take the robe off and lay it at the foot of the bed. Under the covers I feel nothing but joy. I drift off to sleep peacefully not once thinking about Frank, or the restroom restrictions I will again endure at work tomorrow.

I'm awake and it's early. I need to be at work so I can meet Janice in Alexandria after work. I'm on my way down the stairs and almost to the kitchen to start coffee. I turn the corner in the dark and am nearly knocked off my feet. It's Gary. I didn't hear him and he didn't hear me. I'm falling but am stopped. Gary's right arm cradles me and breaks my fall. His left hand inadvertently lands on my right breast, a necessary, and not unwelcome, action. It was that or we both would be on the floor. He’s holding my breast through the exquisite gown his father bought for his mother. Instantly I wonder if he’s seen it before, knows the story. Would he approve me wearing it, owning it?

Gary is wearing only boxers and a tee shirt. He pulls me back to my feet and we are briefly holding each other, man and woman. An instant passes where I could yield, his strength nearly irresistible. He apologizes. I do too. I can't see his face but I feel warm. I'm blushing. I hug myself trying to hide the breasts he can't see in the dark. He turns and retreats to the basement. I quickly start the coffee and also retreat.

I'm in the shower washing my hair, shaving my legs, thinking of Janice and trying not to think of Gary, and how effortlessly he saved me from falling while I was wearing next to nothing. I towel dry my hair and am just fastening my bra when there is a knock on the door. Thinking it is Carol I open it only to see Gary with a cup of coffee. I should ask him to wait while I don a robe but don't. Instead I open the door wider, enough for him to hand me the cup, enough for him to see nearly all. He's surprised and nervous, but his eyes smile and dart from place to place. Has he not seen a woman in her bra and panties before? I feel naughty and empowered, but reason he deserved a reward for saving me and for bringing me coffee. I deny there is any more than that to my impulse. I thank him and close the door.

I have remorse for what I just did. I ignore the excitement it brings, the hint of arousal, and repeat my vows of chastity until after surgery, and proclaim again to myself in the mirror that I am attracted to women, not men.