“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” The last words of The Great Gatsby   A Blast From The Past Part 1 By Ginger Collins

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It started out as a relaxing morning at a highly recommended hair salon, Lana’s. Lana, by the way is actually, Syvetlana, a vivacious Russian lady who came to the United States about 10 years ago and after two successful divorces had the financial wherewithal to open her own retro style salon on Geary St in downtown San Francisco near Union Square. It’s a small shop, very cozy, and the various chairs, stations, and old-fashioned hair dryers are close together. As a result, gossiping among the clientele is the norm and essentially non-stop. You don’t come here expecting quiet contemplation while you are primped and pampered. Because this was my first visit to Lana’s, thankfully, a gal pal had given me a heads up.

I was there for a major up-do and was chatting gaily with a waitress from the Cliff House who was getting some highlights done. It was all very superficial and delicious. She was young and unabashed and was waxing forth on the joys of her new vibrator when I tensed slightly as I thought I recognized a familiar voice from across the cramped quarters complaining about the imperfections of men. Soon and to my instant discomfort, the voice joined a tall, slender body as the woman came into view to join me under an adjacent hair dryer. She was middle-aged, well maintained, and expensively dressed. I read her dress as a Vera Wang and I could clearly hear her Jimmy Choos as she elegantly weaved her way through traffic to join me. She was toned, buffed, and virtually wrinkle free.

It had been more than 15 years since we had last met and that had been in a lawyer’s office on Montgomery St. I knew there was not the slightest chance that she would recognize me so I relaxed a little and let memories overwhelm me. My silence was immediately noticed as my newly arrived companion commented, “Gee, Hon, you’re awfully quiet. This must be your first trip to Lana’s.”

“It is,” I murmured. To my immense relief, our hookups to the dryers prevented eye contact. She hadn’t introduced herself, but I knew that fate had just seated Sara next to me after an absence of a decade-and-a half. Truly, the gods were laughing!

Their laughter must have erupted into cheering as she launched into a self-serving monologue that seemed endless. Despite her updated version, I had heard a lot of it before. About the only new thing I learned was that after Lana’s, she was going to the Fairmont for a mid-afternoon cocktail. That would be preceded and followed by stops at charity events. Ah, the idle rich!

Understandably, then, I was not caught off guard when she launched into a diatribe against her first husband, Michael, whom she caught cross dressing one early afternoon in her posh Pacific Heights mansion. With great sarcasm and explicit detail she described his humiliation and remorse. She wrapped up this segment with obvious delight by saying, “Needless to say, I divorced the little fairy. Can you believe it? He said his femme name was Michelle. Give me a break!” Lana and other patrons were laughing. Fortunately, my dryer time was up so there was temporary refuge from this harridan as I was now whisked away to a new station where Lana worked her hair styling magic on me and I had new companions with which to share girl talk.

In an hour or so, Lana coaxed the last resisting strand of my usual blowsy hair into perfect place and I was left purring at my image in the mirror. Dog gone it, I looked good! My Macy’s dress and heels were not on a scale like Sara’s, but I was a happy woman and I could hear myself roar inside. I gave Lana a million-candle watt smile and a generous tip that she was not expecting. Then with an inner confidence and dignity I didn’t know I possessed, I walked up behind Sara who was at a hairdresser station two chairs removed from where I had been. “How do I look, babe,” I asked.

“Terrific, Honey. Your man is going to get it off tonight. By the way, what’s your name? Mine’s Sara.”

“I know,” I replied with a wry smile.

“How, dear?” I had gotten her attention as her nearly perfect brow furrowed and wrinkles appeared.

I leaned forward so that I could whisper in her ear, “Because my name is Michelle. Years ago before our divorce when you were balling me, it used to be Michael.” I pirouetted, did my best television commercial impression of a hair flip, and sauntered out the door like a runway model. My adrenaline was in overdrive and I was in the zone. I decided to hell with my afternoon return to work. Instead, I’d catch a cable car to Aquatic Park and sip an Irish Coffee at the Buena Vista Café. Life was good and getting better.

Finis

Sara, my ex-wife, who divorced me 15 years ago after she caught me cross-dressing, declares a truce! Why?   A Blast From The Past Part 2 By Ginger Collins

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“The past is foreign country. They do things differently there.” (L.P. Hartley)

The unexpected encounter with my ex-wife, Sara, at Lana’s beauty salon after a 15-year absence left me with conflicting emotions. After my initial euphoria over my parting and trump (catty) remark to her, defeat and triumph regarding our táªte-á -táªte were now battling furiously inside my mind for possession and a clear winner could not be declared. At best, it was an indecisive victory. At worst, it was a meaningless draw. My warring spirits dictated a change of scenery and I decided that going to work was not an option. Instead, a mini holiday was in order, and, therefore, I would catch a cable car to Aquatic Park where I would luxuriate in one of my favorite watering holes, the Buena Vista Café. I smacked my glossy coated lips in anticipation of the thick, floating whipped cream in the bar concoction that awaited me there.

As a 45-year-old trans woman, I had in effect erased the first two-thirds of my life, which had been spent as Michael. Only my last 15 years as Michelle merited candles on my recent birthday cake. Thus, the re-emergence of Michael’s ghost along with Sara’s bitchiness filled me with anxiety and weariness, but not for long. It was a splendid spring day in San Francisco and the click-clack of my heels on the pavement as I made my way down Geary to Powell was music to my “street sweeper” jewelry-adorned ears. A slight breeze was playing gentle tag with the hem of my light, print dress, and as I checked my image in the reflection of each store window I passed, I started to feel better and better. I really did “enjoy being a girl.”

The cable car ride to Aquatic Park was pleasant and I sat upfront on the outboard, left side. It was fun. The tourists or visitors aboard were chatting gaily about the delights of our city and at almost every stop, the grip man would lean forward and steal a peek at my lace-festooned décolletage. Ah, the wonders of push-up bras!

My Irish coffee tasted like elixir. Its soothing effect led me to follow it up with a scotch and soda, courtesy of the United States Navy. I had forgotten that it was Fleet Week in San Francisco and there was a group of Navy Pilots, resplendent in their Blues with gold braid and wings who were the toast of the Café. One of them, a young lieutenant whom I guessed to be about 30, caught my eye and began to regale me about the joys and hazards of flying F-18 Hornets on combat missions from carriers. For reasons I will explain shortly, he had my full attention if not my love interest. After all, I was his senior by at least a decade-and-a-half. In fact, I really wanted his boss, a lean squadron commander with grey-flecked side burns and loads of chest decorations. Unfortunately, another unattached lady had moved in earlier than I for the kill and was not about to let him go. C’est la vie!

Two scotch and sodas later, my eager Naval companion and I were in a cab and headed downtown to quaff a few at the Top of the Mark and the St. Francis Hotel. By now, I had switched to club soda and lime while Tim, Naval Aviator extraordinaire, continued his assault on Scotland’s finest liquid products.

The Mark Hopkins as always was romantic while the St. Francis was regal, plush, and queenly, my kind of place. Surprisingly, Tim was holding up fairly well under the 80-proof coursing through his veins, although he was certainly in a race wherein the difference between passing out drunk or getting laid would be a photo finish. At every opportunity, I encouraged the latter by ordering appetizers with our drinks.

What saved the occasion for a quick joust between the sheets was when I was able to steer him to one of those delightful Italian restaurants with “Joe” in their name that claim to be the “Original.” There, we wolfed down juicy hamburgers on French bread with large, rough-cut French fries. Afterwards, it was off to the Marines’ Memorial Club, a quasi- military hotel, at Sutter and Mason where he and many of his shipmates were staying.

Upon our arrival we dispensed with any pretense of social formalities and went directly to his room on the eighth floor, which faced Sutter Street. He wanted to rut and so did I, although for different reasons. Face saving is everything when you are a Naval Aviator. Understandably, then, it was most important that when Tim got back to his carrier ready room in the days ahead that he could claim getting laid in San Francisco, even if it was with a matronly lady. (He would, no doubt, describe me to his fellow officers as worldly, sophisticated, and sex starved.) In military parlance, it would be called a “charity fuck.” Not as preferable as balling a young, hot chick, naturally, but still highly acceptable within the warrior community. After all, when you are a member of America’s elite fighter and attack corps, “Pussy is Pussy!” It’s yours for the taking. At least that’s what they tell fledging goshawks in the Naval Air Training Command during Pre Flight at Pensacola, Florida.

My reasons were considerably more complicated than those of Tim, my good natured, albeit alcohol-laden swain for the evening. Unbeknownst to him, as a transsexual woman, I had seen life from the other side as a man. In fact, I was most familiar with Naval Aviation after having spent six years on active duty as a Naval Aviator upon my graduation from the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis, class of 1985. In the Persian Gulf War from late 1990 to early 1991, I had flown 32 combat missions in F/A-18C Hornets with Strike Fighter Squadron 79, the “Jesters,” from the carrier, USS George C. Marshall (CVA 58). Thus, Tim’s braggadocio had not fallen on unsympathetic or unknowing ears. We were one and the same, although he wore pants, and I now wore a skirt.

And speaking of pants, his came off in a hurry. He was impatient and horny. Soon, I was in the presence of an enormous, quivering hard on, a stale breath, and a Johnnie-Walker-Red-fueled passion. I, however, was more cautious and even hesitant. Ever present on your mind as a member of the transgender community is: will I pass? So far so good, but the moment of truth was when you shed your panties and bra and closed the deal so to speak. Throwing my reservations aside, I unsnapped my bra, slipped out of the straps, discarded it on a chair, and stepped out of my satin high-cuts, which then fell noiselessly to the floor. It was crunch time!

At this point, things were becoming surreal. I was about to screw a young Navy pilot, which 17 years earlier, I had once been. Would I measure up? I was about to find out. He was enthusiastic, if not a refined lover, and his groping and grappling had me quickly eagle spread on the bed. Lots of heavy breaths preceded his tongue invasion of my mouth, and I could tell that he loved playing with my tits. For the record, so did I!

Before he could slip his wienie into me, though, I politely asked him if he had a condom. He did not! Anticipating this, I had one ready with which I dexterously sheathed him. Not a beat was lost on his part as he penetrated me and pinned me to the mattress. Four or five energetic thrusts later, he shot his wad and his dick went limp.

“Damn, that was good, Michelle,” was his only comment as Tim’s ardor collapsed like a balloon with a leak in it. He pulled out, rolled over, and in a matter of seconds was fast asleep, and snoring gently. Jubilantly, I assumed that I had passed muster.

In rapid order, I douched, dressed, refreshed my lipstick, and surveyed the room. It was indicative of a typical military bachelor. Uniforms and accessories were strewn about; an opened B-4 bag was resting at an odd angle in a corner, dirty laundry was piled in the closet, and a half-empty whiskey bottle was on the dresser. Memories evergreen of my former flying days overwhelmed me. I instantly flashed back to numerous BOQ’s (Bachelor Officer Quarters) and shipboard staterooms from my checkered past. I also remembered afterburner takeoffs at dawn, night carrier landings, launching HARM (High-speed Anti Radiation) missiles at Iraqi targets, and dodging enemy SAM’s (Surface-to-Air Missiles). One of my fondest memories was standing tall and proud at a ship’s formation when the Air Wing Commander presented me with the Distinguished Flying Cross for “heroism or extraordinary achievement while participating in an aerial flight” during Operation “Desert Storm.”

Regrets? I had a few. Yes, I missed the flying, the camaraderie, and squadron life, but I also knew that my ultimate destiny was not in flight suits and boots, but in skirt suits, heels, and panty hose. A cross dresser from my earliest recollection, I had endlessly battled my feminine compulsions and conflicting mental thoughts over gender assignment on a daily basis. That’s why I had separated from the Navy. Unfortunately for Sara (my ex-wife) and me, a chance meeting during a booze-filled Fleet Week in San Francisco when I returned from Iraq and just before I was discharged at Navy Alameda had led to our ill-fated and short marriage. The rest is the stuff of soap operas. She caught me dressing up like a Barbie Doll one day and threw me out. As much out of spite as conviction, I went to Colorado and underwent Sexual Reassignment Surgery. Michael became Michelle and never looked back. Sara remained an asshole.

So, ironically, 15 years after I had first banged Sara during Fleet Week at the Marines’ Memorial Club in San Francisco (1994), I had just banged a fellow (?) Naval Aviator under similar circumstances. History has a strange way of repeating itself, doesn’t it? My head was spinning and I wanted to go home, which I did. Young Tim had his trophy and I had mine. We were both satisfied. It was all a matter of perspective.

When I entered my apartment, the light on my telephone answering machine was flashing. I hit the “play” button. The voice message jarred me to my soul. It was truly a blast from the past! “Michelle,” it began. “This is Sara. I need to talk to you. It’s urgent. Please call me. Thank you.” She left a number.

Gone from her normal tone were the sarcasm, vindictiveness, and arrogance of bygone years. I undressed, took off my makeup, changed into a comfortable negligee, poured myself a straight scotch, picked up the phone, and called her.

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To Be Continued...

“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” ~George Santanya   A Blast From The Past Part 3 By Ginger Collins

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With considerable hesitation ameliorated somewhat by a hefty belt of scotch, I dialed my ex-wife’s number. Although it was nearly 11:30 at night, she answered on the first ring. Her “hello” was neutral, but alert. She obviously had not been sleeping. My tone was equally non-committal as I opened communication with her for the first time in 15 years following our accidental morning encounter today at Lana’s salon.

“Sara, this is Michelle. I’m returning your call.”

“Thank you. I called much earlier, about three this afternoon. It’s almost midnight, now.”

“Yes, I know. I just got home. Would tomorrow be a better time to talk?”

“Yes, can you do lunch? I’d like to talk to you in person.”

“Okay. How about Scala’s Bistro at the Drake, say 12 or so? I’ll make the reservations.”

“”12 o’clock at Scala’s will be fine.”

“Very well. I’ll see you then. Goodnight, Sara.”

“Goodnight.” Click. End of conversation. During it, not once did she address me as either Michael or Michelle. Apparently to her, I was neither a he nor a she, but then, what did I expect? After all, she had married a Michael, not a Michelle!

To avoid reading too much into this brief exchange, I turned on the Turner Classic Movie channel for diversion. Nothing caught my interest, however. At this point, I realized what a long, action-filled day I had undergone and fatigue hit me like a falling brick. For respite, I sought sanctuary in my bed. Almost instantly, I fell into a fitful sleep where dreams with the unstructured and ever changing pattern of a kaleidoscope visually played on my unconscious. Although the images were surreal, they were vividly recognizable and sounded silent alarms. They included carrier operations at sea, F/A-18’s over Iraq, a younger and nicer Sara, and lastly, me in various stages of transition from Michael to Michelle. In the Michael/Michelle sequences, I looked awkward and unconvincing as a woman, “a man in a dress.” During one vignette, I was wigless with smeared lipstick, running mascara, and torn hose while being chased through a crowded shopping mall by a pack of vicious teenage girls. They were enjoying my discomfort and were closing in for the kill.

Naturally, being “clocked” or “read” is my worst and recurrent fear. Even in my sleep, it pursues me. Suffice it to say, I am always relieved when I wake up to find out it was only a bad dream. I constantly reassure myself that I really am convincing as Michelle and that I am not challenged in this persona. Besides, today is not a day to exhibit a lack of confidence because in about six hours I will be lunching with Sara. I shed my sweat-soaked negligee and head for the shower.

After the morning paper, some stretching exercises, yoga, and several cups of caffeine-free coffee, I start to get organized. “High Noon” at Scala’s will be an epiphany for me, where my past hits the present head on. Promptly at nine, I make lunch reservations for two in my name at Scala’s in the Sir Francis Drake Hotel, downtown near Union Square. Then I begin to glam up. I fret for the longest time over what to wear. Soon my bedroom looks like a department store’s changing rooms in the wake of a hurricane’s path. Silk, nylon, cashmere, and other synthetic fabrics are strewn everywhere. They include suit skirts, one-and-two-piece dresses, sheaths, and all sorts of delicate under things. Men, of course, never face these “monumental” decisions, I muse. The poor bastards are stuck in boxer shorts, one-kind-fits-all suits, and stiff, white-cotton shirts. Their only fashion statement is a red or a blue tie. On top of that, they are forced to sit on their wallets!

Ultimately, I settled on a berry colored one-piece dress topped with an attached sheer-sleeved mock duster. Classic black pumps, a simple, gold baht necklace, with matching tiny, gold-stud earrings, and a knockoff Armani handbag completed my ensemble. As I finished putting on my face, primping my hair for the countless time, and smacking my lips, I was ready to launch. Thirty minutes later I waltzed into Scala’s and was shown to our table. I was early and had wanted to be there first. I imagined that I could hear my wristwatch ticking as well as my heart beating.

Sara arrived promptly at noon and made her grand entrance. She might be a bitch, but I had to give her credit, she was an elegant one. Everything about her screamed money, style, and class. The world was her runway and she was its top model. Although I kept a poker face, I was a little more than envious. It was hard not to be intimidated by her.

Before she was seated, we greeted each other with polite nods and identical salutations, “good afternoon.” A long, uncomfortable silence ensued that was broken only by our drink orders. It continued as we each stared at our lacquered nails until the waiter brought us our cocktails, “Stoli” vodka martinis, straight up. The choice was not mine. I merely matched her selection. She raised her glass in a mock toast without a smile and said, “Cheers.” I returned the toast verbatim along with a blank facial expression. We did not clink glasses.

Her eyes had not been idle, however. They had scrutinized every square centimeter of my upper body as she sat across from me. It reminded me of a Captain’s inspection aboard ship. No doubt she had assigned grades to my attire, makeup, posture, and overall deportment. Finally, she spoke, “Well, you’ve come a long way from the first time I saw you in drag, Michael.”

“Is that a compliment?” I cautiously asked while not letting the “Michael” dig upset my balance.

“As a matter of fact, it is. You look quite nice. Lana’s hairstyling is most becoming on you. How long have you been going there?”

“Yesterday was my first time. It may be my last. I don’t appreciate her giving out my phone number.”

To my surprise, Sara laughed as she said, “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, dear. Lana’s connected.”

“Connected?” I arched my carefully sculptured eyebrows.

“Yes, and to the Russian mafia, which operates here in the United States. Unless you want your car torched or your apartment trashed or acid thrown in your face, I’d leave things alone. Besides, I wanted to talk to you, and I’m one of Lana’s best customers. I’ve been going there since she opened.” She sat her nearly empty glass down.

“Thanks for the tip. I’ll make sure to stay on Lana’s good side. I managed a small, tight smile. The “Stoli” was starting to have an effect on me. Never gulp martinis!

It was beginning to have an effect on Sara too because the next words out of her mouth were, “Michelle, that’s a pretty name, but do you think the privilege of being called it was worth the price you paid, namely, the termination of your Naval career and the dissolution of our marriage?”

I glanced long and hard at my lipstick-stained glass before answering, “Yes, the price was worth it with regard to my Naval Career. I have regrets, however, with regard to our divorce.”

With a wistful look, Sara said, “I notice that you didn’t say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to the price of our marriage, but only that you had regrets. Am I supposed to take solace in that?”

“That’s all I can give you. I didn’t ask to be transgendered. It’s a mental thirst that can’t be slaked. After a while it can take complete possession of you. That’s what happened to me.” I paused to drain my glass before I continued, “I know this sounds trite, but it was probably for the best that you discovered my secret so early in our marriage and threw me out before we developed deeper emotional ties or had kids.”

Sara released a small sigh before she said, “That’s the whole point of this meeting, Michael,” She paused momentarily. “Excuse me, I mean Michelle. We do have a child. He’s 14-years old now and he has two mommies! How about that? Is he lucky or what?”

By now, my “Stoli” was drained and despite ample applications of blush, so was my face color as I exclaimed, “How can that be, Sara? You were on the pill and you were always so careful.”

“I was careful up until the time I let my prescription lapse for a week or so. Then you got me hot, horny, and drunk one night and slipped it to me. Bingo! Three months later after you were long gone following your impromptu diva act, I got a baby bump and a divorce. Nice, huh?”

“What’s his name?”

“Michael, of course, but maybe I’ll change it to Michelle.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“Because he’s a cross-dresser, just like his old man! It must be in his genes. What is it with the men in my life? Why do all of them want to wear my panties? She started to cry softly.

Two more “Stoli’s” were definitely in order and I signaled the waiter. Then I asked with slight trepidation, “Anything else I should know?”

“Yes, he says he thinks he’s gay! If you’re not busy next week, maybe we can go on Oprah or Doctor Phil and sort this mess out.” Her voice was laden with sarcasm and pain.

TO BE CONTINUED

“We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget.” ~Joan Didion   A Blast From The Past Part 4 By Ginger Collins

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A Blast from the Past

(Part 4)

By Ginger Collins

It was turning out to be quite a lunch! Only 30 minutes or less into it, and I had found out from my ex-wife, Sara, that I was the father of a 14-year-old cross dresser and possibly gay son. I should have been upset, but I wasn’t. I admit that the news that I had a son startled me, but obviously not the cross dressing or even the possible issue of his homosexuality. No doubt my own transgendered background, which had included MTF Sexual Reassignment Surgery 15 years earlier, had conditioned me. Who, other than God was to say? My concern of course was for our child’s happiness and future success. At this point, my role was muddied. Yes, I was the biological father; but I looked, acted, and dressed like a second mother, which created an unbalanced family equation. Moreover, I was too young to be a grandmother. Where would I fit in? Maybe, Sara would allow me to be an aunt. I hoped so.

Now, that the “shock” and “awe” of our first, post-divorce meeting was evaporating, both Sara and I went from gulping our “Stoli’s” to sipping them. We also started loading up on the delicious, freshly baked Sour Dough French Bread with heaps of fattening butter to slow the alcohol’s path through our bloodstreams. Additionally, we ordered half portions of linguine with clam sauce along with small House Salads as a further foil to the booze in our systems. Our respective vodka buzzes had peaked and now we were feeling quite mellow. This opened up all kinds of conversation avenues that led to juicy disclosures.

Sara led off: “For obvious reasons, I can’t call you Michael anymore, but at the same time, I have trouble calling you Michelle because I remember when you wore pants instead of a dress. How about if we compromise and I call you, Micki? That’s a variant of Michelle.”

“I don’t have a problem with that, Sara,” I replied.

She smiled mischievously and said, “Good. Next question, Micki: Are you married or in a relationship?”

“No to both. How about you?”

“Yes, I’m married, but in name only, thank goodness. I did it for our child’s sake. He needed a name. My husband is David Cronenburg. He’s an investment guru or at least up until recently he was.” She made a face as she said, “Cronenberg Financial Group. Yuk!”

“What’s the ‘Yuk’ for?”

“That’s for our marriage and for his financial group. Both are shams.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, on our wedding night, and by the way, we were staying in a luxury suite at the Royal Hawaiian, he pulled out this special suitcase from under the bed and began to unpack. Guess what? It was loaded with sex toys and kinky paraphernalia. It was unbelievable! He wanted me to wear this bizarre dominatrix costume complete with a black mask, boots, and a bullwhip. Meanwhile, he was going to wear a matching black bra and panties set and I was supposed to beat and humiliate him as part of foreplay. He was absolutely buoyant when he began describing some of the routines he wanted to undergo at my hands to include physical restraints, ball gags, and a choking device.”

As Sara paused to catch her breath, I interjected, “What’s a choking device?”

“I’m not sure of the technical points involved, but apparently it’s a rope that’s tied around the neck and the penis that is adjusted to cut off temporarily the flow of oxygen to the brain. It’s then released immediately before the male climax to heighten the orgasmic sensation. As a matter of fact, I didn’t know what this sex act was called until last week when the media reported that David Carradine was found dead in his Bangkok hotel room. His cause of death was termed autoerotic asphyxiation.” She continued, “Suffice it to say, I was speechless at first. Then the enormity of it all hit me like a splash of cold water, and I stormed out of the room. The next day, I was on a plane back to San Francisco, alone.” Sara shook her head in disbelief as she concluded, “Now, do you understand when I use the word, ‘Yuk,’ to refer to my marriage?”

“I certainly do. But more importantly, what happened after your ugly encounter with him in Honolulu?”

“Neither of us ever mentioned the incident again. We also never consummated our marriage in the traditional sense. We have separate bedrooms and share no intimacies. It truly is a marriage of convenience. He has a trophy wife and I have a picture-perfect father, for my son. He’s tall, graying, rich, and handsome, a veritable pillar of the community, if not the bedroom. Fortunately, we both signed pre-nuptial agreements to protect our respective estates. Thus, he can’t make a run on mine, and the irony is that legally, he doesn’t have any of his left.”

That caught my attention so I asked, “What do you mean, Sara?”

“The son-of-a-bitch was a co-conspirator with Bernie Madoff. They were great friends, and had been for years that date back to their time together on Wall Street. Bernie, his wife, Ruth, and David liked to call themselves the ‘Three Musketeers.’ In fact, my husband’s firm was nothing more than a funnel to pump funds into Bernie’s Ponzi scheme at a handsome profit for them. Naturally, when Madoff was arrested last December, David’s business collapsed immediately or went ‘tits up’ as you used to say when you were in the Navy.” She laughed heartily before she added, “I am assuming that you no longer use that expression since you have a set of your own now.”

“Right on,” I smilingly reposted. “Wearing heels and hose full time has made me an ardent feminist. But tell me, where is David now?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. The little prick is hiding out somewhere, probably overseas in Southeast Asia. His personal and financial group accounts are all frozen, of course, but I suspect he has a considerable amount of funds stashed away, no doubt in a Swiss Bank. We’ll see. A lot of people are looking for him, namely, the Feds, angry investors, and according to Lana, Russian Organized Crime.

My only reaction was, “Huh?’ This was the stuff of tabloids!

“That’s right,” she began. “It seems that as Madoff’s scheme began to unravel last fall with the tanking stock market, Bernie put lots of pressure on David to solicit new investors so he could pay off old investors who were cashing out. That’s when David got involved with the Russian mafia, and he imprudently lured a west coast group of them into Madoff’s falling empire. Shortly afterwards, though, it all came crashing down and the Russians were out millions as well as royally pissed. For David’s sake, he had better hope that the Feds get to him before the Russians.”

“Do you fear for your own safety or for that of Michael,” I asked with considerable unease.

“Not so far, but you never can tell. Unlike Ruth, Bernie’s wife, I was never closely associated with my husband, let alone with his business. In fact, I can’t ever remember going to David’s office.” She shrugged her shoulders before she said, “Someone recently trashed his Mercedes and Porsche, though. That’s why I only take taxis nowadays. I also switched to an unlisted phone number without an answering machine. I was in receipt of too many vile voice messages with decidedly European accents.”

By now, our lunch was way past, and we were sipping strong, Kona coffee with large snifters of Italian brandy (Tuaca) on the side. Our waiter had long given us up for an early departure and only occasionally and perfunctorily checked with us regarding our needs. That was fine. This was a time for serious talk and not needless interruptions.

I could sense that a change of serve was in order, however, and Sara did not disappoint as she aced me by asking, “ Hey, Micki, that’s enough about me. Now, how about you? What’s it like to lose your dick, grow boobs, and become a chick?” She was smiling broadly.

“Glorious! I don’t miss that vulgar appendage or those clanging balls one bit. And let me tell you, I love having breasts. Perhaps this will put it in perspective, Sara. Would you like to be a man?”

“Of course not.” Disdain was written all over her face.

“Okay, then, I rest my case. From my earliest recollection, I identified with women, not men. As I grew older, this identification became an obsession and I constantly toyed with taking the big leap to the distaff side. For all sorts of reasons, though, I wavered until your divorcing me pushed me over the edge. My cross dressing was only a symptom of my internal struggle, not the cause, namely, female gender identity. The day after we settled in your lawyer’s office on your terms, I took off my pants, donned a dress, and have never looked back, until yesterday when by chance we met at Lana’s.” I drew a deep breath and said, “Sara, what you see before you is what you get. I am your ex husband, the father of our child, Michael, and although my legal name is Michelle, I am Micki to you, a transsexual woman. Take it or leave it. From what you have told me this afternoon, your life story hasn’t exactly been a Norman Rockwell painting either.”

Sara put her snifter down, reached across the table and clasped both my hands. “Micki,” she quietly said, “This is not easy for either of us. Let’s work on it. I’ll get off my high horse if you’ll put away your bitterness. We have a son to worry about. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Flexibility is the hallmark of Naval Aviators. Even a former one like me who voluntarily had his dick chopped off. I’d like to meet him. May I?” There was no rancor in my voice. I was sincere.

“How about in 30 minutes? I told him I’d be home by six.”

“Six?” I was incredulous. “It’s only three, now,” I protested.

“Hey, girl,” she replied sprightly. “He’s a cross dresser, remember? I told him six so that we could ease home early and catch him playing dress up with my clothes. No offense, but like father, like son!”

“Touché, Sara,” was all I could say. We signaled the waiter for the bill, split the tab, hit the ladies room, and left Scala’s Bistro more as friends than as enemies. As we click-clacked our way out in unison, I fervently hoped that my son possessed solid moral fiber, had good taste in clothes and didn’t overdo his makeup. We caught a cab. Soon, I would find out!

TO BE CONTINUED

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Traps?” I questioned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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To Be Continued...

“Who controls the past controls the future.” --George Orwell

Musing on my son’s sexually suggestive tattoo on his exposed lower back along with his obvious preference for black, lace panties didn’t allow me much contemplation or speculation because almost as if scripted by a screenwriter, Sara’s telephone rang. My ex wife answered it on the first ring. Was this the result of a premonition of ill tidings on her part or quick reflexes? I soon found out and it was the former. The conversation was one-sided and Sara did most of the listening. This did not bode well as I saw Sara’s face turn ashen as she asked in staccato burst succession: “What?” “When?” and “Are you sure?” Then all hell broke loose.

She hung up the phone with a slam, turned to me, and in a frantic voice said, “They’re coming for Michael.”

Michael’s reaction, of course, was “Huh?” He alternated his quizzical look from Sara to me like it was a prolonged volley between two players in a tennis match. He had no inkling of the danger that he was in.

There was no doubt in my mind, however, that “they” were the Russian mobsters who had been duped of several million bucks by Sara’s missing husband, David Cronenberg, as part of Bernie Madoff’s Ponzi scheme. It would soon be reminiscent of Cossacks razing a defenseless village. We had to act fast!

“Was that Lana?” I asked in a tone more panicky than I had intended. Although I wasn’t sure of Lana’s motivation as the owner of the beauty salon that Sara frequented, my ex wife had told me that Lana was connected to the Russian mob and I took that at face value. Now was not the time to question her credentials.

“Yes,” Sara gasped more than uttered.

“Do you trust me, Sara?” I asked.

“Yes. Please tell me what to do.” A sense of semi-calmness had returned to her person. This in turn caused my inner gyros to stop tumbling.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” I said. “We have about five minutes or so to do a makeover on Michael. Until this nightmare is behind us, he’s going to be my daughter and not your son.” To emphasize my point, I rose abruptly from the couch, grabbed a confused Michael, by the arm and shepherded him into Sara’s bedroom. She followed rapidly in trail.

“Michael, strip down to your panties,” I commanded.

He started to protest, but I cut him off: “Michael, I know all about your cross dressing. Believe me, dear, this is no time for discussion. Just do as your mother and I say. We don’t have much time.” With that his mouth closed, his polo shirt came flying off, and his cargo pants dropped to the floor. So far, so good!

“Ditch the shoes and sox, too,” I directed. He did and they joined the accumulating litter, which Sara quickly scooped up and dumped in a clothes hamper minus the shoes. They went under her bed. While this drama was playing out, self-consciously, he crossed his legs and covered his non-existent bare breasts. I wasn’t sure if I was staring at a boy-girl or a girl-boy! The British model, Twiggy, when she was young, immediately came to mind.

“Sara,” I commanded, “Get Michael something simple, a blouse and skirt outfit would be best.” Simultaneously, I was rummaging through one of Sara’s lingerie drawers looking for a bra and slip. Most of the bras were too big, though, and the slips too long. Finally, I settled on the smallest bra I could find (an older one?) and a half-slip. Tossing them to Michael, I said, “Put these on, quickly.”

Deftly, he slipped into the bra and fastened it. This boy had had practice! Once the bra was installed on his thin frame, though, his empty cups looked like a deserted city. For what it’s worth, I had downtown Detroit in mind. Fortunately, some stuffed hose on each side soon gave him the appearance of a prosperous Motor City suburb. The half-slip was still too long, but Sara rolled it up at the waist to adjust it to the proper length. Then she had him don a multi-hued, long sleeve blouse that was simple, yet, stylish. He then stepped into a blue flat-front skirt with a back-kick pleat and a hemline just below his knees. In the meantime, I was poking through Sara’s shoe selection for a pair of flats and selected a pair of Navy blue loafers. We didn’t have time for hose. Nor for much makeup other than lipstick, some subtle eyebrow attention, and a blue, floral print hair scarf that did wonders for his “updo.” Before our very eyes, Michael had disappeared and a yet-to-be-named female teenager had taken his place. As we rushed back into the living room and grabbed seats, we hoped the Russians would feel the same way.

Within moments of our return, a loud, pounding knock was heard on the front door. Sara looked terrified, Michael looked confused, and my facial expression was somewhere in between. I flashed a false smile to Sara and gave her an “okay” hand gesture with my left forefinger and thumb. This was followed verbally by, “Get the door, Sara, and stay cool. Remember, Michael is not here. This is my daughter, Margo.” I smoothed my skirt nervously, crossed my fingers, and said a silent prayer. As Sara reached for the doorknob, I whispered to Michael, “Remember to answer to Margo and to call me Mom.” Where did the name, Margo, come from? It was strictly spur-of-the moment. We would shortly see if it worked.

Apparently it did, because the three, burly Russians males who entered Sara’s apartment like a blast of cold, Siberian-swept air soon thawed at the sight of three non-threatening females, one of whom was a young girl, and nary a trace of Michael. Margo’s scream, “Mom!” helped to tilt the mise-en-scene in our favor. So did her subsequent play acting hug of me. Our potential assailants were perplexed and obviously caught off guard because their information was wrong. Instead of malevolent thugs, they came across as polite, albeit rough-around-the-edges stooges. They had been briefed to expect that Sara and Michael would be there alone. Instead two middle-aged women and a teenage girl met them. In disorganized response they proffered guttural apologies to the effect in broken English that they were in the wrong apartment and stumbled back out. So much for the sophisticated images we see of high-tech and organized criminals on TV and in Hollywood thrillers. Surprise, Surprise! Life does not always imitate art.

We waited a few minutes for a Russian encore, which didn’t happen, before I told Sara, “I’m going to take Margo home with me for a few days or until this drama plays itself out. We’ll stay in touch by cell phone. No visual contact. Okay?”

She nodded consent. “Okay. It’s 4:15, now. After you leave, I have an errand to attend to. I’ll call you tonight around seven.”

By now, Margo knew that bad events beyond the disappearance of the man he knew to be his father, David Cronenberg, were in motion that he did not understand, but that he had best leave his fate to me. Margo and I departed Sara’s apartment hand in hand; however, it was not a clean break. All of us were worried. To my dying day, I’ll never forget the expression on Sara’s face as we made our way to the elevator after she had embraced Margo and clasped my arm. It was a portrait of innocence, resignation, and bewilderment. Her parting words to us were, “Take care, both of you. God bless.” All of us hoped that He would.

With a sharp sense of uncertainty, Margo and I walked over to Powell Street and caught a cable car down town. If he was going to masquerade as my daughter, he needed some clothes. Macy’s was my store of choice for convenience. Just before entering, I asked him, “Have you ever shopped dressed up like a girl before?”

“Gosh, no. Do you think I’ll pass?” was his nervous reply.

“We’ll soon find out. So far you’re doing great.” I smiled and squeezed his hand in further affirmation. “Let’s try the lingerie department first.”

Talk about the proverbial fox in the chicken coop. Margo went from hesitant and unsure to eager and confident as he fingered the various clothing intimates. This was a wet dream come true! I literally had to pry him away to other departments after selecting a wide array of panties, bras, slips and hose for purchase. “Aunt Micki,” he whispered, “This is so much more fun than shopping for boy stuff. You probably don’t know what I mean, though.”

I laughed as I answered, “Yes, I do, dear. Believe me, I do. And don’t forget to call me, Mom.”

“Yes, Mom.” His face lighted up like brilliant flare on a dark night. “Wow, how many kids have two mommies? I’m lucky.”

I only winked back at him. I couldn’t think of an appropriate comment.

An hour later, we left Macy’s with both of us carrying his new wardrobe in shopping bags in each hand. Nothing elaborate, just the essentials, which for a 14-year-old girl is a lot. His mood had gone dramatically from subdued to effervescent, as our shopping sojourn had progressed. So had mine. It was like watching a caterpillar become a butterfly. It also took my mind off of Sara and those Russian goons.

When we got back to my apartment, I ordered Chinese food from a local restaurant, which Margo and I dove into with gusto. It had been a long day. Next, seven o’clock came and went with no phone call from Sara. Nor did she answer when I called her. This had me anxious. I became even more anxious when my phone did ring and the caller who asked for me identified himself as Richard Dawson, Sara’s personal attorney.

After his brief introduction, he asked, “Have you seen the evening news?”

“No,” I answered. “We were watching a movie.”

“All the local stations are reporting that Sara’s been killed,” were the next words out of his mouth.

“What?” I exclaimed loudly. My worst fears had been realized. Margo turned to look at me. His newly shaped eyebrows were raised in question-like anticipation. As he sensed the implications of my exclamation, his smile faded.

“That’s right. Apparently it happened just after she left my office about 45 minutes ago.” He paused to inhale deeply before he continued. “Hit and run. No witnesses. We need to talk. Given that Sara’s husband was David Cronenberg, an associate of Bernie Madoff, the media’s going to have a shark feast with this. Plus, if they find out that you were Sara’s first husband, it will only add more blood to the orgy. Most importantly, we need to protect Michael. Agree?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good. I’ll see you in about 15 minutes.” Click, the receiver went dead. Sara had obviously given him my address. I hung up the phone and turned to face Margo. The task before me would not be pleasant.

And it wasn’t. How do you tell a 14-year-old boy who is happily dressed as a girl that his mother has just been killed, and that his real father is a transsexual woman now posing as his Aunt Micki, and not David Cronenberg hiding out in Southeast Asia? You don’t, and I didn’t, at least not completely. That would take time, love, and lots of discretion. Instead, I only told him about his mother’s death. That was more than enough. Despite my deep sorrow, a small ray of optimism prevented my complete emotional overcast. Michael/Margo still had one living parent to care for him. A loving parent as well, I thought, as I went to the door to meet Mr. Richard Dawson, Attorney at Law.

EPILOGUE

RUSSIAN ORGANIZED CRIME (ROC) goes under many names, for example, Russian Mafia, Red Mob, etc. Since the fall of the USSR in 1991, ROC has accrued considerable influence and power worldwide. This “brotherhood” operates in Russia, Europe, Canada,
South America, and the United States. It deals in drugs, murder, theft, extortion, theft identity, assault, prostitution, and so forth. In San Francisco, it is believed to be lurking in the Tenderloin and Richmond Districts.

LANA, the proprietor of Lana’s beauty salon where Michelle and Sara met by coincidence after an absence of 15 years, was a member of the large Russian community in San Francisco and lived in the Richmond. Despite some bloodlines to the ROC, she was an FBI informant. At substantial risk to herself she warned Sara that Russian Mafioso were coming to abduct Michael. This allowed Michael to escape disguised as Margo in Michelle’s company. It also put Sara at risk because the Russians would not be happy over the bungled kidnapping.

SARA alternated between being a “bitch” to Michael, now Michelle, when she discovered him cross dressing early in their marriage and a good mother to their son, Michael, now masquerading as Margo. She didn’t understand transgender issues or how to cope with them. She had lost her first husband to the thrill of wearing heels and hose and desperately did not want to lose her son to the same fixation. To her credit, however, she unhesitatingly went in harm’s way to save her child as he swished out her apartment door a few steps ahead of the pursuing mobsters. In fact, her last action before she was gunned down with a car had been to visit her lawyer. There she had made Michelle the executrix of her sizable estate on behalf of their son until he reached the age of 21.

DAVID CRONENBERG, Sara’s second husband and one of Bernie Madoff’s accomplices, who defrauded ROC of millions, has yet to be found. I doubt that he ever will be. The Russians through underworld connections will probably get to him first. His death will be slow and painful. If his body ever turns up, it will be missing fingertips and teeth. The ROC leaves nothing to chance.

MICHAEL (also known as) MARGO is entering an entirely different world from the one he left at the Clay-Jones Apartments with his mother, Sara. There his cross-dressing was elective and furtive. Now, with ROC always in his rear-view mirror, it is mandatory and open. We will soon find out if he really wants to be Margo. If he wants to stay in San Francisco, he will have to. At this point, I think he does. Either way, Michelle will support and protect either him or her.

MICHELLE will be busy whatever decision Michael/Margo makes. Parents know that raising a child is not easy, especially, under circumstances as traumatic as these. Already Michelle is consulting appropriate medical persons with regard to the Benjamin Standards that are associated with Sexual Reassignment Surgery. Administering Sara’s estate in her child’s interest also keeps her on the go. So too, is the need to invent plausible cover stories for both of them and to stay off the media’s radar screen. From her own transwoman experience, she understands George Orwell’s astute observation that “Who controls the past controls the future.” Guiding Michael/Margo into the future will be her life’s most important work.

FINIS