Our Mate Diane
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

This story begins with an actual instance referred to in a TV documentary about cross-dressing.  The programme included the story of a young man (let us call him Dave), a motor mechanic from down-under who had enjoyed his other side privately when living there, but hoped that he might be more open when living in London away from his friends who would be shocked to learn of his feminine side.  The sequel to that (my fictional story) begins with the arrival in London, England, of Dave’s two friends Frank and Simon, with Simon taking up the story.  A year after Dave left, Frank and Simon have arranged to meet Dave in a pub in central London.  Dave had sent a series of post cards and the reunion had been arranged by an exchange of emails …

So Frank and I sat down with a couple of pints of local lager and looked forward to Dave’s arrival.  Dave was a little late (which was not his style when drinks were being served) so we were almost ready for a second round when I noticed an attractive young woman enter the bar.  I
remember the first glance because she appeared over Frank’s shoulder and she smiled at me, I smiled back but then I was distracted by Frank rising to get more drinks.  The imprint of that first glance is now history - I remember thinking that she was the perfect English rose and the kind of woman that I could fuck stupid and who could bear my children.  So imagine my shock when she can right up behind Frank and said: “My round I think”.

I remember that it took some time for both of our brains to engage.  It was stupid really because Dave’s face was there, or at least the face of Dave that we had seen on TV two weeks after he had left the country.  But yet there was no man visible.  Her face was round and her skin flawless. Her eyes were bigger and lips fuller than Dave’s.  Her eyelashes were long and dark - perfectly made up.  Her eyebrows were dark and shaped in an exotic curve.  Her hair was no wig - it was drawn back from her pretty face quite loosely, into a knot of dark curls on the top of her head. 

Dave was never that tall but this woman appeared taller in smart black heels with full but shapely legs to a mid length blue dress.  There was a black coat over it unbuttoned as she entered, and an ample bosom was evident above the cut of her dress.  A coloured scarf proof against the London winter was now drawn from her pale and smooth neck, and her long pink polished nails toyed with it playfully.

Frank said “Jesus!”.  I was simply speechless with mouth hanging open. 

She asked “Two lagers for you guys?” and she turned to the bar.  I looked at Frank and he looked at me, and we both looked at her fulsome bottom.  The barman said something like “Coming right up, sweetheart,” and she turned to us and smiled.  I remember the hairs on the back of my neck rising and some stirring in my pants.  I found myself wondering if I was not a little perverted for thinking whatever I was thinking.

Frank and I had still said nothing when she sat down with beers for us and a pink coloured drink for herself (was it Campari?).  She said “I suppose you are a bit surprised”, which, of course, we were. 

She told her story in a voice which was equally remarkable.  It was a low voice but a woman’s voice, without being an effected effeminate voice.  It was so natural that to close your eyes it was clearly a woman, but it was still recognizable as Dave.  She explained …

“I was Dave when I arrived last year, but since then I have been living as Diane.  It was just about taking the opportunity.  My appearance on TV back home broke down so many barriers for me personally.  That was really the first time that I had appeared dressed publicly (apart from gatherings of support groups and a few daring visits to a shop late at night to test myself).  So when I started looking for a flat here I learned that single girls were more likely to get a flat than single men.  I had brought a few feminine items with me so I took a flat as Diane.  For a few
weeks I went through the huge effort of living at home as Diane and either sneaking out as Dave (because the landlady living next door frowned on male visitors) or changing out of feminine clothing in public toilets.  My first few weeks were all about sightseeing and putting out feelers for jobs.  Once out of the flat I found it just as easy to be Diane as Dave, so my days as Diane increased and I started to look for jobs as her too.  I simply decided that the first job that I got would determine how I would live.  It seems like a crazy thought now, but I was
just enjoying living fully en femme as a change from years of suppression of these thoughts back home.

The job I got was working with a motor spares department for a major manufacturer.  The job was clinched by my advising that I had 8 years’ experience in automotive engineering and a brief interview with my first boss.  You will laugh at this but I decided to really dress for the interview and lay it on.  I arranged to visit a feminising salon in central London on the morning of the interview and I got the whole treatment: full wax job, eyebrows, make up, ears pierced.  This was like no going back to Dave for at least four weeks.  My prospective boss was totally
floored when I walked in, but when I was able to recognise all of the 10 different parts he had for me to check I had to get the job.  I was even able to give him make and model on three of the parts.

The truth is that I was so good at the job that I was moved out of that second hand parts section into new parts and then into national distribution.  I have a great job and really good prospects.  No grease on my hands now (she held up perfectly manicured feminine hands).
So with a flat as Diane and a job as Diane I found myself pushing the limits little by little.  I started with a home electrolysis kit, zapping facial hair as it appeared, and I grew out my hair.  Hormones were the big step.  They had been suggested to me at the feminising salon just to improve the appearance of my face, but I found that my body was particularly receptive and I developed a substantial pair of tits and much bigger hips than I expected.  I was told that the downside was a drop in sex drive, but I have to say that being Diane has not allowed much opportunity to look for girls.  In fact, most of my social life these days seems to be fighting off men.  The truth is that I like being attractive to men, that is an important part of being a woman.  But I have definitely not turned queer.

Back home we have a tradition that is sometimes jokingly called “mateship”.  That is the notion that firm friends who are “mates” live by a code of mutual support no matter what.  That was pretty much how Frank and I viewed Dave.  When Dave appeared on TV back home it was a real
surprise for everyone who knew him, but particularly his mates.  Dave had never acted gay.  He had had several relationships with women, some longer term than others.  There was no doubt that they were sexual.  His appearance in drag on national TV was a shock and a talking point for weeks after he left.  But there was no doubt that our small group of 4 or 5 guys did not think it excluded Dave from that group.  We made light of it ourselves and when others would joke about what kind of underwear we all wore, we would defend Dave as “an individual”. But he may have gone too far here.  There were no women in our group and it now appeared that (for all practical purposes) he was one.

Still we were new in a strange town and we had a friend well established there.  After a few drinks we exchanged information - we had news from home and Dave spoke about things to do in London.  He spoke about some job prospects - Frank said: “Not if we have to dress up like you”. 

We also spoke about a place to stay.  Dave said: “I have two spare sofas if you need a place short term”.  A mate would do nothing less.

We took a cab to the youth hostel then and there, and collected our bags.  We went to Dave’s place off Kilburn Road, a small garret flat.  We joked about it but I insisted that it would only be short term.  The truth is that I did feel that things were different.  That was confirmed when we
arrived.  It was a single bedroom flat but it was certainly big enough for three of us.  But it was a girl’s flat.  Everything in it was just so feminine that if we had forgotten that our friend was wearing a dress, this reminded us that his change was even deeper.  Everything seemed pink and
prim, with flowers in a vase, frilly cushion covers, women’s magazines on the coffee table.  We looked very out of place as we rolled out our sleeping bags and camped there for the night.

We were woken to smell of fresh coffee and a lilting hum coming from the kitchenette.  I had not realized before how Dave’s voice had changed, so that even a hum seemed pitched a little higher.  When I remarked on it later he described how he had worked hard on a feminine voice early as his job involved a lot of work over the telephone and he needed to avoid his voice being mistaken for a man.

Dave’s hair hung down freely.  It was surprisingly long and the morning sun caught highlights in the dark colour.  It was beautiful hair.  Even more startling was Dave’s bosom.  He wore some kind of black silken dressing gown, and through the opening his large breasts swung freely as he placed plates on the table in front of Frank and me.  Frank made some remark about how cushy it was to have a woman serve us breakfast.  I saw Dave blush.  I was beginning to get some very strange thoughts in my head, and a bulge in my pants.

But I had to say something: “Those are very impressive tits you have there Dave”.  How stupid that sounded, but Dave was hardly flustered. 

“I admit I have added a little to them”, he said, “A big girl like me needs a bit more bust”.

“You mean you’ve had implants”, said Frank. 

Then Dave just did it.  He drew apart his dressing gown and showed us what he had.  I mean Frank and I had seen and groped a hundred pairs before, but these were magnificent.  There was no mistaking what was going on downstairs now.  My penis rammed against the inside of my shorts like a bullet.  I looked away to calm myself and saw Frank’s mouth hanging open. 

Dave was smiling contentedly.  “That’s enough”, he said, “finish your toast.”

Unusually for London, Dave drove to work.  He had been provided with a car and a park at the parts complex that he worked just outside Brent on the ring road.  We caught the tube into the city, to see the sights and look for work.  We had also intended to look for more permanent accommodation, but that did not become a priority.  While things with Dave were undoubtedly weird, the space on the flat would do for a week or so, and Dave had promised to cook us a home style dinner that night.  And when we did finish in the city and caught the train back, we were
running a little late.

When we walked in to the flat we could smell the meal cooking; it was clear that a real treat was in store.  The next treat was Dave.  We collapsed on the sofa and he walked out of the kitchenette, pulling away an apron as he did.  He was wearing a long red dress, split to the thigh and with a plunging neckline.  His hair was up but with a long curled tendril down one side of his face.  His face was made up with the most magnificent eyes looking at us, darkened to show up the limpid green colouring.   

“Excuse me dressing for dinner guys”, he said, “it’s one of the best things about being a woman and I like to indulge myself occasionally”.

“Should we change”, said Frank, clearly slack jawed by the vision before us.

“Don’t be silly,” said Dave, in a girlish sort of way.  “This is just for me.  You should remember - I like to dress up.  That’s all.”

But surely Dave must have known what effect he was having on us?  He appeared to be a beautiful woman dressed to impress red blooded colonial heterosexuals.  But he was not a woman.  He was our mate Dave.  The consequences could only be confusion and then embarrassment.  Surely he could see that?

I am sure that something in Dave made him flirt with us.  It was like to be a real girl he had to have the effect of a girl on us.  If so, then this was just a game.  We needed to remain unaffected by it.  That’s what I told myself.

Dinner was apricot stuffed boned lamb with roasted vegetable salad and some kind of mash, washed down with French wine (Frank drank beer).  It was delicious.  I cut up the meat and drew the cork from the wine because (Dave explained) he had become curiously inept at simple male chores like these, in recent months.  Clearly he had made up for it in developing a cooking skill. 

We finished the wine with a little Danish cheese, sitting in the living room while we talked about our day in London.  I had grabbed the smaller sofa and had spread out on it - Frank and Dave shared the large sofa.  Dave talked about some feelers for work that he had put out.  He was doing a lot for us.  As the night wore on I started talking about my plans to visit places in Europe.  I must have gone on for quite a while because when I looked around I saw that Dave was leaning back against Frank, with his dress pulled up and his legs folded under him.  Frank appeared to have his nose in Dave’s hair, inhaling her perfume.  I quickly averted my gaze.  Where was this leading?  I felt I needed to draw the line: “You two are looking comfortable”, I said almost sneering.

“You don’t mind too much do you?” Dave said to Frank.  As he turned to him, their faces were very close.  Surely Frank would snap out of it.

“No”, he said, gently, softly.  Then his arm draped over Dave’s shoulder and pulled him a little closer.  He looked at me as if to say  “…you were saying?”.

I confess that I was totally disarmed by this.  I felt it needed to end so I said: “I might turn in now, get an early night, start job hunting and flat hunting early.”

Dave slid off the sofa but as he stood he turned and took Frank by the hand.

Frank said, completely out of the blue: “I’m not a queer you know”.

“Neither am I”, said Dave, and he led Frank to his room and closed the door behind them.

Frank and I had known one another for years.  He was not a queer.  How could I sleep.  I did not want to hear anything from the bedroom.  I put cushions from the sofa against the side of my head as I lay back.  I didn’t want to think about what was going on.  I thought about times that Frank and I had spent together and women he had laid.  Plenty of women.  Good looking women. 

Compared to the female Dave they were … well they were women.

When I got up Frank was in the shower.  Dave walked out of the bedroom brushing his long lustrous hair and humming gently.  He could see that I was shocked.

“Simon, I have never been with a man before”, said Dave.  “But now that I have been I have learned something about myself.”

“Obviously” I said.  What I meant to say was “yeah, you’ve learned that you’re gay”, but I didn’t say that.

“I learned that I am not a man at all,” said Dave, as if I would understand that.

“Dave, I don’t know what you are any more,” I said, “but you played Frank like a fiddle last night.  God knows, you plucked a few of my strings yesterday too.” And then: “Where does this leave us?”

“I don’t want things complicated,” said Dave.  “We go back a long way.  You are still welcome to stay, but find a flat when you can.”

“We’ll find something”, I said.

“Frank may stay with me.”

That thought had never occurred to me.  What ever Frank did surely he would reflect upon it now and pull back.  Once you’re gay you’re always gay.  We could put this behind us.  Nobody need know.  It was just one crazy night.  What was Dave doing?

“Dave, this has got to stop,” I said.

“My name is Diane”, he said.  There were tears appearing in his eyes.

We were standing facing one another now.  I was softening and I needed to pull myself on track: “You’re a man for fucks sake!” 

“Look at me!”  He pulled open his dressing gown and it fell away from his body.  

For the first time I saw that new Dave head to toe in the buff.  The breasts were as I had seen them yesterday, buxom, peaches and cream, perfectly shaped, truly magnificent.  My eyes travelled to where his penis should be, but it was hardly visible.  Perhaps the smallest nubbin
nestled in pubic hair shaved to a feminine diamond.  No scrotum obvious.  Below the strangely wide hips the legs were shaven smooth and fulsome in shape.  Painted toenails highlighted dainty feet.  I looked up.  Her face was so pretty, framed by that beautiful hair.  Her eyes dewy.  Her lips moist as her perfectly white top teeth nibbled nervously on her naturally reddish lower lip.  

“I passed the point of no return long ago,” she said.

Frank appeared beside her.  A towel was wrapped around him but he let it fall as he got to her, placing his arms around her and letting his limp penis nestle between the cheeks of her bottom.  He brushed her hair away from one ear and delicately kissed her cheek.

“We’ve decided - she’ll soon be a complete woman”, said Frank. 

Dave/Dianne said: “I wasn’t sure before.  I am now.  I am a heterosexual woman.”

And I was a spare dick at a wedding. Dave and Frank, my two best mates, in love.  French kissing there in that London flat.  Me just standing there.  Who could believe it?

The End

© Maryanne Peters  2018