Aliens make contact and, well… Note the date.

April: First Contact

On that first Sunday in April 2007, the weather in northern Vermont was not quite perfect but close enough. By mid-day the temps were in the mid fifties, the sun filtered through high clouds, not too windy. Shortly after one o’clock the alien ship appeared above the Queen City and almost every person who had already gone through puberty found themselves swapped.

It was determined later that everyone swapped with the person of the opposite gender that she or he was physically nearest. There were exceptions: It seems that anyone with violent tendencies, those who were near death and those enduring extreme mental duress did not swap. But pretty much everyone else did.

There were a few car accidents, particularly on the nearby interstate. A study found that there were no major injuries or death: most accidents were minor fender benders. Some people reported that they found themselves hurtling at high speed towards some object like a tree or bridge abutment and time slowed down as they decelerated and finally made contact at a very low speed. The traffic tie-up lasted for hours. The city cops were all swapped — that took some sorting out. The state troopers called in couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on.

Over the next few years the experiences for those involved were documented by many different means.

The first blog post was found to have been posted on a transgender fiction site within ten minutes of the change by a 45 year old male cross-dresser who found himself as his twenty-something neighbor seated at her computer. Now he was a Windows user and she had a Mac. But the browser was open and he did a quick post of what had happened. Most of the regulars on the site thought it was yet another of his “OMG! I’m a girl” stories. When the community there found out the truth the next day, the comment count was soon in the hundreds.

Blogs, MySpace pages and YouTube videos recounted what happened from many different perspectives.

The “Burlington Body Switch” Wikipedia page was up by 8:00 that evening.

A project was started that week to document the experiences of those who swapped.

It being Sunday, couples were reading the Sunday paper on the couch, or enjoying brunch at some downtown eatery or just walking or biking along the waterfront together. Lots of these individuals found themselves looking at themselves. In many, many cases, this led to having sex. Lots of sex. The local medical center reported a 20 percent spike in births during the following late December, early January time period. Another study, twenty years later, found that couples who swapped were forty percent more likely to still be together.

And up the hill at UVM, the University of Vermont, good old Groovy UV? Well suffice it to say that, on that particular Sunday afternoon, the students upheld the longstanding reputation of UVM as one of the premier party schools in the country. The couplings that day are noted, even now, twenty-five years later, as legendary in the history of campus sex. If the Guinness Book recorded such things and anyone on campus had cared to record the same, UVM that day would have gone down in history for the quantity and quality of scholarly intercourse.

Other swap stories were more unusual.

Members of the local Boy and Girl Scouts troops were each matched with residents of retirement and nursing homes in the city for outings to movies, or the Fleming Art Museum, or a concert at the Flynn Center. The elderly, many now in teenaged bodies, albeit of the opposite sex, mostly got up and moved; savoring the lack of pain or stiff joints. Some just walked around downtown — happy to be unfettered and mobile again. Others, maybe realizing this could be fleeting, found another “Switcher” (as they came to be called) and did what couples throughout the city were doing; they made out, they had sex. Many of those winter births were to teenagers.

Almost to a person, the teens who changed into older bodies just sat, trying to understand why it hurt to move. Many, in adulthood, it is said went into the human services, or physical therapy or medical fields, but the evidence is all anecdotal.

The oddest swap stories came from a meeting being held at City Hall. Members of the many area conservative churches and leaders of the local LBGT community had been brought together by pastors of some of the more liberal congregations for a summit to try to engender some understanding between them. The organizers were the only ones who believed any real change could come from such a meeting. Most participants who were on the extremes of the left or right thought it was a waste of time. But they agreed to participate so no one could accuse them of being obstructions to understanding.

Seating was arranged such that members of opposite camps were intermingled. When the change came all kinds of chaos broke loose.

A matron of one evangelical church changed to the body of a gay software entrepreneur with nipple rings and other piercings she’d never thought possible.

A lesbian artist found herself in the body of a particularly vehement and virulent pastor: wearing a bra and panties and a garter-belt and stockings underneath his three-piece suit. Now there was a revelation.

Many on both sides felt revulsion at the body with which they swapped, others: puzzlement. And some started talking with the people around them. No great epiphanies resulted for most. But for some…

Meanwhile…

As soon as the object arrived, the Vermont Air Guard scrambled their F-16s which took up an orbit, at some distance, around the alien. But lacking any guidance from the higher chain-of-command, they only observed. The ship itself just hung there, about a mile above the city. Regular Air Force units soon joined the monitoring but they also had not received instructions regarding how to proceed.

In Washington the Administration and Pentagon were at odds as to the best course of action. The Vice-President wanted to “nuke the damned thing” while the Secretary of Defense cautioned against any “rash, preemptive, action.” The president demanded to know if al-Qaeda or Iran were involved.

So the planes watched but did not threaten the ship while the national command structure dithered.

Finally at 4:02:23 PM. EDT the ship faded away and those who’d swapped returned to their own bodies. Most recovered without problems. Some not so well. The hardest hit were those transgendered individuals who had a glimpse of their true bodies for a short period, only to be slammed back into their real ones. Later the city set up a fund, supported by many grants, to help them with counseling and, for many, surgery.

All the time the ship hovered, it broadcast a message on all radio frequencies. A message that repeated constantly. Military and civilian agencies all tried to decrypt the message with no luck. They knew it was short but could not understand it.

Many years later the world had a second contact. After the Burlington incident we, obviously, knew we were not alone in the universe. But the second contact showed how not alone we are: There are millions of populated systems out there.

It wasn’t until several weeks after the second contact that someone thought to give recordings of the Burlington messages to the alien delegation. What came back was a complete surprise and the delegation seemed embarrassed and apologetic about what had happened.

Apparently there is a ship that explores the galaxy, looking for worlds not yet contacted by the galactic trade councils and pulling stunts like it did in Burlington. The terms used by the delegation to describe them were translated as “hackers” or “pranksters”.

And the message broadcast?

It said “April Fools!”

Copyright 2007 JLW

Best Friends

By J. L. Wendelin

We’ve always been a pair, haven’t we?

Ever since we met, that first day of fifth grade, both of us new to town and, who was it, Tommy Ridgeway I think, was giving you a hard time. You had on your Red Sox hat with your long hair pulled out through the back. He kept trying to take your cap but you were faster. You were toying with him almost, letting him get close only to duck away at the last second. Boy, was he pissed. Then he called that jerk — you know, the big guy, never washed his hair, I forget his name. Anyway, when the two of them started after you I came over to help you. We sure gave them what for!

You ended up with a bloody nose and I got a black eye. But the whole playground cheered when you kicked Tommy in the nuts — he’d bullied everyone for so long. Oh, and the dirty look the principal gave us when he came into the office and there we were, reliving the blow-by-blow, giggling about it, you holding a towel to you nose and me with an ice-pack on my eye. Never bothered us again ’though, did they? Or anyone else when we were around.

Who woulda thought that day we’d be here, fifteen years later.

You always played the “tomboy”, tough-as-nails, but so kind and sentimental on the inside. You cried when I accidentally hit that squirrel with my bike. It was hurt bad and I wanted to put it out of it’s misery, but you…you went over and reached down to comfort it. Then it bit you! The look on your face was hilarious: the shock, pain, and confusion. I started laughing at you holding your bleeding hand and swearing, at first angry then laughing yourself. Of course, they had to kill the poor bugger anyway and test it for rabies and you had start those shots in the stomach until the test came back negative. They let me stay with you when you got the shots, even though we were both just kids. You squeezed my hand so hard it hurt — but not as much as your pain from those monster needles. I saw your jaw clench and the tears in your eyes.

Remember co-ed softball in junior-high? Everyone would underestimate that short kid on third-base, until you’d explode into action. No one was faster chasing down balls. Sure, I could hit a lot better but I couldn’t beat you at fielding, or stealing bases for that matter.

I don’t know about you, but I’ll never forget our first kiss. That hot August night, lying in the grass, watching the Perseid meteors streak overhead, just talkin’ ’bout stuff. We both were quiet for a bit until you rolled on to your side and, with your hand holding up your head said, “I think I love you.” You leaned over and kissed my cheek. I was shocked. I mean, we’d been friends, like, forever but I’d never though of it that way. I turned to face you and you reached out, pulled me in and kissed me again, this time on the lips. I liked it. It felt good. It felt right. Soon we were lost in more kisses and more. We kinda forgot about the meteors.

By high school we’d both pretty much given up sports. I mean, I was becoming Mr. Academic and you…well, you started down the art and design path. You were making your own clothes by then and then started creating pieces and even whole outfits for everyone in our group. Some of those early getups were pretty goofy looking, even you have to admit that. Still, we were all of us pretty much outcasts and your clothes helped to reinforce that. You were cross-dressing all of us by then, in some form or another, not just yourself. But damned if we didn’t show them with Midsummer.

Your costumes were perfect. You took moth-eaten crap that had been hanging in the theater’s attic and turned it into a something magical. You outfitted the gods as Victorian ladies and gentlemen and the fairies as sexless sprites. But Nick Bottom and his band were gender-confused, free-spirits. You took what you normally dressed us in, twisted it a bit, (which didn’t seem possible but you did), and gave those “rude mechanicals” a whole new form.

And then there was Titania. Her costume you made from scratch. Flowing and diaphanous, hiding and highlighting the curves of the fairy queen; it certainly drew more than a few comments. I’m surprised Ms. Johnson let Jenny Williams wear it. But she was going to retire that year anyway so I don’t think she cared. And I think she had a thing for Jen. Now that I think about it, almost everyone, male or female, had “a thing” for Jen at one time or another — you and me included. After the show her mom came storming back stage, swearing up and down that “Jen was not going to wear that ‘slutty gown’ tomorrow night”? Ms. Johnson finally got her calmed down. Meanwhile, I had to hold you back so you wouldn’t rip Mrs. Williams’ head off for calling your costume “slutty”.

And here we are…. You’re a successful designer, I’m a struggling writer, and we’re still a couple. Kinda incredible, isn’t it?

Damn, it’s getting late. I think just nodded off there for a bit; this chair is pretty comfy. I’ll just curl up here. I know you’re sedated and haven’t heard a word I’ve said, although, I don’t know. They say even heavily sedated people are at least partly aware of what’s going on around them. So maybe you picked up some of it. Anyway, the doc says the surgery went well and she doesn’t think there’ll be any problems. ’Though you still got a bunch of healing to do and probably some pain for a while, it looks like your sex finally matches your gender.

I’ll be here with you all night and in the morning. And many more beyond. I love you. Goodnight, sweetie.

 © 2007 JLW

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Thanks to everyone who gave this a preview and made suggestions and edits. Angela, Kristina, John, Grover and Janet. (Especially Janet, for the title.)

Mike’s purchase on TG-Bay has unexpected features and consequences.

Caveat Emptor

By Jamie Lou

Edited by Kristina L. S.

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An excerpt from the forthcoming book Phemn by Michelle Novopuella as told to J. L. Wendelin, used by special permission from the publisher.

I used to be Mike. Now I call myself Michelle. This my story of how that happened.

Chapter 1

It started as a typical Wednesday night, well for me at least, I had nothing special to do. Midweek: no date, none of my regular progs on the so I logged into StarCloset/BigDust — looking for any new stories. SC/BD is an anachronism on the net these days. It's one of the few places you can still find words on a page, to read! Of course, the effect in your iGlassesâ„¢ headset is a weird sense of looking at an old-fashioned display screen. It's odd; everything is flat — and pink, I don't know what that’s all about. The best thing about SC/BD is that all the stories there are about cross-dressing or transgender or transformations: it is my sort of place.

SC/BD is also neat if you're into words, reading and writing and not just playing in someone else's VirtWorld. VW is ok but sometimes it's just as much work as living in RL. Reading is like living in another place for a bit, one where everything is done for you and you can just absorb it. (There's an idea! Maybe someone could do that in VW: create a place where it washes over you without you having to do a thing.) A friend told me that Bobrin, the fem who mods the place has been doing it for, like 40 years. If that's true then she must be ancient. I don't believe it. I think it's one of those made up names, like “Dear Abby” or “Ann Landers”, you know those advice ladies, where a new fem takes over every few years but keeps the old name. That's what I think.

Anyway, StarCloset/BigDust is kinda quaint; like those towns in Vermont where they have all the pretty little white houses around the town green, with a church and a general store. Except in Vermont they charge you 100 Euro-Dollars while SC/BD is still free. And they even have those old word ads on the left, the type that you have to klink on — you know, you eyeball them and blink — to follow them. I guess they're trying to give you the experience like when peeps used to click with a hand-mouse.

So they got these ads and I saw one that said “Transgender - Browse a huge selection now. Find exactly what you want today.” from TG-Bay.com and thought it looked interesting. Now my friend Steve got a great deal on a used femsuit there. Yeah, I know what your thinking, “A used bodysuit? Ewww! Gross!” But it was okay — well there was a little stain on the... But that washed right off and it works perfect and he looks and feels like a real fem — well almost anyway. I even had sex with him and I tell you it was pretty damn good. I've been with fems and hems so I should know.

Bodysuits, (in case you’ve been living in the dark ages and don’t know already), are one of the wonders of nanobot technology and neurobiology. They create a second skin on the wearer that interconnects with his or her nervous system so that person will feel sensations as if it were part the natural body. Since they are essentially sex-toys, touch sensations are enhanced, particularly in and around the genitals and, with fem suits, on the breasts and nipples. With the better quality femsuits the nanobots surgically create a cavity into a male body for the vagina so the wearer can feel internal penetration. (The cheaper models, like Steve’s Paris Doubletree, have a simple sheath that lies in the crotch and, even though the sensory integration still happens, the effect is not nearly as real.)

Now, I'd wanted a femsuit, for, like, ever. I mean, I couldn’t afford and wasn’t sure I wanted a genuine transurg. Bodysuits are for peeps like me who want to play at being a different sex but maybe don’t want to change permanently, kind of like cross-dressers in the olden-days. However, new ones are still super-expensive; more than I could afford. So I thought I might look for something like the one Steve got. I klinked on the link.

Most of the stuff for sale was the usual: CD clothes, VW progs, plastic vaginas, dildos. I kept searching and finally hit what looked liked the jackpot: a real “Cherrie Amour” suit. I couldn't believe it. Sure, it's not a top of the line “Stephanie May” but it's up there. Certainly much higher quality than Paris Doubletree or Britney Arrows suits - which need to be rehabbed after a few uses. A manikin-like model of the suit let me move around her in 3D. She was my size, nice butt, breasts not too big. I looked through the specs and warnings — the usual “you are bidding on a…” and “shipping not included” stuff. The seller was new and didn't have many ratings yet but all were “Good” or better. Most of what they’d sold were household things on other sites so I figured maybe someone had bought the suit for a lover who didn’t want to play along. You know how it is: you buy some sexy lingerie or a strap-on for your femfriend and she gives you a half-puzzled, half-disgusted, half-pitying smile that makes you feel like a puppy that peed on the floor, and whatever you bought goes in the closet, never to be seen again.

I tried to go though all the info but the auction would end in a couple of minutes and the bidding was active. I read fast, skimming where I could, adding a slightly higher bid, saw something about “possible mis-shipment” or “may be factory second”, but the clock was ticking down. I upped my bid. The last thing I saw was about it being “completely certified and guaranteed”, so I bid once more, shaking with excitement as the clock hit zero.

“God, I hope I get it,” I thought as I collapsed back onto my chair. And waited. Waited some more and then... Yes! I won. She was my Cherrie Amour, for under 1500 EDs, even with overnight shipping. She'd be here on Friday.

I could barely sleep that night and the next two days at work were pretty much wasted — I got nothing accomplished. I kept a tracking bubble open to FedUps (Motto: “The Only One for Shipping”; which was literally true after all the mergers of the first Jenna Bush administration.) I followed her starting with the pick-up at a private shipping store in Miami using both the gps-loc and the vid from the mincam they mount on all their packages. I even watched as the FU fem put her in the delivery safe at my apartment. She'd be waiting when I got home. I tried to weasel out early but my boss wouldn’t let me. Traffic all the way home seemed twice as slow as usual but I finally made it. I pulled the box from my delivery safe, ran up the stairs to my fourth floor apartment — the elevator would take too long — and started to open the box even before the door was fully closed.

The inside packaging hadn’t ever been opened: the original seals were intact. This was incredible — a brand new, unopened Cherrie Amour. I stepped back and took a breath. I couldn’t believe my luck. And I got it for under 1500.

I broke the seals on the package and inhaled the musky, sexy, intoxicating scent of a virgin femsuit. What a turn-on! I wanted to pop Cherrie on right then, but I had to hold back; I still needed to check the directions. Excited, I may have been; stupid, I’m not. What happened later was not because I didn’t follow the instructions.

I popped the deevdee in my reader and donned my headset; the prog started immediately. The instructions were straightforward. They explained that this most recent version (5.2.8) of the Cherrie Amourâ„¢ Femsuit for Menâ„¢, no longer required the wearer to remove all his body hair. Although it did suggest extremely hairy individuals might wish to trim his hair shorter, depilate it (shave if you’re into retro) or use more of the BodySuit Lotion. Best results for sensation transfer came from better contact with the wearer’s skin and less hair increased surface contact. The lotion works to further enhance contact and bond the suit to the skin. The prog recommended bathing prior to use. Then it showed a hem applying the lotion and pulling on the suit. His transition went in fast-motion. I was fascinated (and turned-on) watching as the suit shrank around him and his hips and breasts filled out.

Men who wanted to use the internal vagina option did have to remove the hair between their legs, apply an adhesive patch that contained the nanobots for that procedure. The patch was about the size and shape of a fem’s mini-pad. The prog demonstrated placement of the nanopad and explained that the suit came with a stock of five and a two-year subscription for as many replacement supplies as needed. You know, that’s what’s nice about the better quality suits: they don’t skimp on the supplies. Most of the cheaper brands stick it to you for the supplies. They’re like those old printers you see in the history progs — the ones you could get for nothing but the ink and stuff was really expensive. I guess those slimy old business models still work.

The directions showed how to clean and care for the suit to keep it in good working order, warnings about how to avoid damage, (and showed common causes of damage the company had encountered), along with how and where to return defective or damaged suits. It included all the normal things you find with any item you buy, nothing out of the ordinary. There were a couple of cautions about allergic reactions to the lotion and some rare side effects from the nanobots but all were mild and there was a net id to contact if there were problems like those. There was also a net link to register the suit, which would activate the supplies subscription and download any software updates. The prog also related that the suit would automatically link and search for updates when it was activated the first time if you hadn’t done so manually before then.

I had my apartment’s netcon server connect and register the suit for me. It reported that the link was successful as was the registration and that it had downloaded a major program update for the suit. My server also informed me that the patch had installed successfully and that information had been relayed back to the update server and acknowledged by the unit at the other end. At the time, I thought it odd that the suit needed any mods at all, as I’d heard Cherrie’s rarely needed patches. However, I was psyched about even having the suit and that I was about to put it on, so I didn’t dwell on it. I should have gone with my gut instinct.

Finished with the instructions, I was finally ready. I stripped, depped the hair not only between my legs, but also around my whole crotch and took a quick shower. Once dried, I returned to my bedroom where I’d laid the suit flat on the bed. As I said earlier, Cherrie suits are high quality though not top of the line. They don’t have the custom fitted feet and hands that the premium suits include. They only come up to the neck so there is no face mask or wig to put on. Lying there on the bed, the suit looked as if it were only an oversized, light-grey, long-sleeved unitard. The color would change to the wearer’s underlying skin tone after a few minutes and all good bodysuits are large so they can be put on easily after which they shrink to conform the shape of your body. Only the cheap ones are tight and stretchy and a pain to get on — like those retro, I think they’re called “catsuits”, you sometimes see peeps wearing at the clubs.

I unsealed the bottle of lotion and pumped bit into my palm. It had a hint of a cherry blossom scent, which seemed appropriate with an iridescent teal/aqua color, which didn’t. The directions showed how the lotion would stain the skin temporarily, fading after the suit had been on for ten to fifteen minutes. The purpose of the staining is so you can easily tell when your skin is covered. And whoa, does that lotion cover! I put the initial dab in my palm onto my chest, started to rub it in the way I would with skin cream and it spread almost by itself. It seemed like I only needed to encourage it and it would find skin to cover on it’s own. In no time my torso, arms and legs were enveloped in a shimmering blue-green. It would have been perfect for a body-paint-only party. My skin felt cool and goose-bumpy but also as if there were something moving on it. Because the lotion itself contains nanobots, something probably was moving on me.

The nanopad between my legs was next. I peeled the cover off the adhesive side, spread my legs and pushed it into place. My crotch went numb. I’d forgotten that section in the directions. Not only did the area immediately under the pad lose all sensation, but it soon spread to the entire region around my genitals. The erection I’d sported in anticipation of what was to come deflated as my prick numbed. I reached down to wrap my hand around it and give it an experimental pump; it was like touching another hem’s cock. I could feel it in my hand but not my hand around it . . . very odd, and kinda disappointing.

I picked up the suit. The back was open from the neckline down about half-way to the butt. As I said earlier, it was quite loose. I sat on the edge of my bed, pulled the suit up my legs like a set of coveralls and froze when it reached my crotch; my penis had shriveled up to almost nothing. You hems may remember as a kid — if you went swimming in cold water how your ball sack would crinkle up tight and your prick would look like the end of your thumb sticking out above it? That’s what I looked like. Now, I’m not hung like a horse, by any stretch of the imagination, but this was disconcerting. Then I figured, what the heck, it’s all part of the process and I’m going have a vagina between my legs soon. I certainly didn’t want my prick getting in the way did I? I put my arms into the sleeves, held the two sides of the back together at the neckline and, sure enough, the rest of the back opening sealed automatically.

I stood and turned to look in the mirror and…let out a giggle. Picture this: A man with shoulder length reddish-brown hair, a slightly feminine looking face — soft chin and high cheek bones, shimmery teal hands and neck from the lotion, wearing a baggy, oversized, beige-grey coverall. Oh yes, and the coverall has two little sagging breasts on the chest and a triangle of hair like a merkin at the top of the legs. I looked ridiculous.

The directions said to lie down during the transition because you tend to get groggy and lose co-ordination. Some users even fall asleep. I climbed onto my bed and settled on to my back, adjusted the suit around me, smoothing out wrinkles, making sure the shoulders were pulled up — it was the same as getting my pajamas comfy. To activate the suit and start the transformation you have to slap your stomach twice, the front of each thigh — left, then right, then your belly again. The slaps don’t have to be hard but they have to be deliberate, in the proper sequence and within five seconds. All the suit companies have an activation method such as this: they want to make sure you are doing this on purpose. I did the sequence: Stomach: slap, slap; left thigh, right thigh: slap, slap; belly once more: slap. Resting my hands beside me on the bed, I stared at the ceiling and waited. I didn’t have to wait long.

From seeing the instructions, I knew to expect the suit to shrink around me as it fitted to my body. I also expected the grogginess that came over me but I didn’t think it would put me to sleep. I tried to fight it, not that I was afraid of it: I just didn’t want to miss anything. The shrinking was noticeable almost immediately. But I got more tired and couldn’t keep my eyes open. I remember thinking that it seemed very tight about my waist as I faded away.

The transformation usually took about thirty to forty minutes, according to the instruction prog; so when I woke up and realized that five hours had passed, I was surprised. It was almost midnight. That should have clued me, but I gave it only a moment’s thought: I had a new body to play with. I lay on my bed, brought my hands to my chest and cupped my breasts. The sensation was three-dimensional: I felt my fingers around and pressing in on the sides of them, not as if my hands were only flat on my chest or just moving something glued on. As I said before, with femsuits the sensitivity of the chest was enhanced. My squeezing wasn’t just felt, it felt good! And when I gave my nipples an experimental pinch? Not only did the nipples give a wonderful response but they had a direct connection to my crotch. You know when that first stirring of an erection catches you and how good it is, especially if you don’t expect it? Multiply that by ten. I started to reach where that twinge had affected things but held back. I needed to see what I looked like.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed I stood then padded across the room to the mirror on the closet door. I immediately noticed a difference in how my body moved. I was the same height and (I assumed) weight as before but it felt like my hips were wider, and not only from the added padding. My gait seemed subtly odd. Of course there was a little extra weight from my breasts but that didn’t feel as if it should affect me that much. I arrived at the mirror and almost gasped at what I saw.

Now, I’d like to say I saw a perfect beauty looking back at me, that wasn’t the case. What made me gasp was how female I looked. I told you about Steve’s femsuit. His added some padding to his hips and buns and gave him breasts, but his torso was still pretty much the same shape. My torso had changed…dramatically. I had a classic hourglass figure: wide pelvis and hips and a narrow waist tapering up to a chest adorned with round, firm bosoms. I didn’t think Cherrie Amour suits were capable of sculpting a body in this way. As it turns out, I was right, they couldn’t — at least before mine.

I stood there admiring myself and running my hands up and down my sides, across my chest, down my stomach, and lightly through the patch of red pubic hair. I gently touched the outer lips of my new labia without probing beyond them yet. I wanted to save that. At that point I thought, “I gotta call Steve,” and went to retrieve my iGlasses.

I put the headset on and opened a link to Steve.

“Mike!” he said as soon as the link was open. “Where you been all night? I tried calling earlier but got a dead link. Almost came over `cause that’s not like you. `Sup?”

“Stevo, you’re not gonna believe this! Check it out.” I turned to the mirror and upped the vid on the headset so he could see my reflection.

“Yo, Mike. Who’s the fem?”

“Me!” I answered.

“What the…?”

“I got a Cherrie Amour on TG-Bay!”

“Bullshit!” he exclaimed.

“Truth!” I told him. “Watch.” I pulled off my headset but kept it aimed at the mirror. He could now see my whole face and that it was attached to the bod he was drooling over.

“Holy crap,” he said, barely above a whisper. “How…? What…” he started.

“Wanna come over?” I asked. “Check it out?”

“Heck yeah! Be there in half an hour.”

“See ya then! Oh, and bring your own suit. Might be fun.”

“Right!” he replied as he broke the link.

Knowing Mike would be late ‘cause he always is, I returned to my bed so I could check my new equipment. I puffed up some pillows and spread my legs. Between the lips, my fingers found a vagina much like the others they had entered but this sheath also had the sensation of being explored. The enhanced nature of the artificial genitals meant the whole region soon got involved with labia and clit engorging and lubricating. Before long I was rubbing in earnest and approaching a crest of an orgasm when I heard, “Yo! Mikey!”

Steve had arrived.

“Oh frig it!” I muttered.

I should never have given him the pass-code to my apartment.

“Whacha doin’?” he called.

“Coming!” I gasped as I tried to get in a couple more strokes, then gave up. “Be right there.”

I jumped off the bed, grabbed my robe from the closet door and quickly pulled it on. As I tied the belt at my waist, I noted that it enhanced the curve of my hips and the prominence of my chest. For some reason it made me feel good.

When I walked into the living room, Steve’s reaction was a loud, “Whoa! Man!”

I stopped and spread my arms a bit. “You like?”

“Like? Damn! Com’on, lemme see.”

Uncharacteristically, I felt a little shy. Usually I am something of a showoff, but I hesitated.

“Com’on Mike, let’s see.”

So — I undid the tie and opened the robe. Steve just stared with his mouth open. My inner exhibitionist returned; I dropped the robe entirely and did a slow spin for him. As I returned to face him, he closed his mouth, swallowed hard and put his hand in his pocket to adjust his fast growing erection. My reaction to seeing that surprised me: I felt a corresponding stirring in my own sex and I swear I could also smell his excitement. That sight and his aroma were both turning me on.

Both of us moved at once, coming together. He reached out and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Where are the seams?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, “it’s like its part of me.” I didn’t know how right I was.

He slid his hand down to my breast, trailing fire the whole way, bringing exquisite pleasure when he reached the nipple. I closed my eyes and leaned into him. He squeezed gently and I let out a moan. His other hand went around my waist, pulling me closer. Our lips touched then locked in a hard kiss. His tongue pushed between them and I felt it to my core. My labia pulsed, wanting attention of their own. I broke away, grabbed his arm, turned and pulled him towards my bedroom.

“Com’on. Let’s take this sucker for a spin.”

Steve was undressing as we moved, down to his pants by the time we reached the bed. I eased his briefs over his hard-on and pulled those and his pants down. As he stepped out of them, my head was near that massive penis of his. I mentioned before that I’m not well hung; Steven is very well hung. I put my hand around it and pulled it to my lips. This wasn’t the first time I’d done this. He and I have a long history of enjoying sex together, going back to pre-teen years. And, as I said, we tried his femsuit together. Now it was my turn and I treated him to a quick, pre-sex blow-job.

Then I was on the bed, on my back, legs pulled up and open and Steve was crawling up between them, proud and rampant cock ready for action. He lay it on the outer lips and gently slipped it back and forth along my slit so it would rub along the length of my clit, teasing, hard, yet so well lubed there was no friction. He teased me like that for a bit until I was ready to yell, “Fuck me!” when he did. Steve drove hard into me without a warning. I gasped. The feeling was everything I’d hoped and longed for. Soon I was caught in the primeval rhythm of sex and no longer thinking.

We went on for an hour or more and I lost track how many times I came with Steve as my steed. We , finally settled into an exhausted slump. I lay there, half-asleep, spooning with Steve behind me, his soft cock nestled against my buns, an arm thrown over me, and thought to myself, “Wow!”

Mid-morning I awoke to the feel of Steve’s fingers rubbing my tummy and lightly stoking my pubic curls; I on my back, he on his side, head propped on a hand.

“`Morning,” he said.

“Heyya.”

“This thing is pretty incredible. Ya’ sure it’s just a Cherrie Amour?”

“It was in the original packing.”

“Wow.”

He ran his fingers up between my breasts to my shoulders where they explored the geography. He repeated his comment from the night before. “I can’t find any seams. I mean, mine is almost like a tank top around my neck.”

I brought a hand up to my neck and ran it back and forth to my shoulder a couple of times.

“I don’t know how they do it,” I answered. “I’d heard suits were gettin’ better but I didn’t think they were this good.”

Both of us were quiet for a time. His hand returned to my tummy. But I needed to get up to relieve myself so we didn’t start into anything then. Finishing in the bathroom, I asked, “You want some coffee? Breakfast?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, I’ll make some. Why don’t you shower and put your suit on while I do that. Then I’ll shower while you change.”

“Okay. But my suit isn’t as cool as yours.”

“Yeah, I know. But all the parts still work. Right? So it’ll still be fun.”

“Right,” he answered as I headed for the kitchen.

A half-hour later he walked into the kitchen, a towel wrapped around his waist. I poured our coffee as the English muffins popped out of the toaster.

“Continental breakfast, sir?” I asked.

“Why thank you miss,” he answered in his best Cary Grant imitation. He pulled a stool to the counter, sat and wrinkled his nose in distaste as he scooped a couple teaspoons of Sweet’n’Whiteâ„¢ into his coffee.

“I wish we could still get cream and sugar,” he said as he stirred it in.

“Yeah, well, I can’t afford either. All the sugar goes to make ethanol for either drinking or auto fuel and cows fart methane so you’ll have to put up with ‘Shite and White’,” I said. “You’d think… I mean, here we are, almost halfway through the twenty-first century, right? You’d think by now someone coulda made fake sugar that doesn’t taste like crap.”

Steve mumbled his agreement as he reached for an English muffin.

Steve’s chest was hairless. “My suit said you don’t have to dep all your hair for it anymore,” I told him.

“Really? I tried not to last time I used it,” he answered, “I couldn’t even feel one tit. I don’ know, or maybe it’s starting to wear out.

“Maybe,” I agreed, “it is only a PD.”

Finished with my muffin, I refilled my coffee. “I’m gonna shower. Put your suit on and I’ll meetcha in the bedroom after?”

“Yup.”

I took a nice long shower with the spray set soft as a gentle rain, albeit a warm and steamy one. Toweled dry, I stopped to check myself in the mirror. The body reflected seemed even more feminine than last night. Could it be the suit was still modifying my body? I shook that thought aside. Must be my eyes are fooling me.

When I entered the bedroom, Steve was there, on my bed, wearing a baby-doll. He always took his cross-dressing a bit more feminine than I and he was always better at it than I. Stopping to admire the view, I felt a familiar stirring between my legs.

“Hey honey,” he said in a husky, sultry voice, “you jus’ gonna stand there? Or are ya gonna join me?”

Now I felt the blood engorging my genitals. The attraction to the apparent female in front of me was palpable. I thought for a second that the suit made me get more horny, more quickly than normal. The feelings in my crotch were similar to what I’d had last night but there was also something odd. As I started to reach my hand to investigate, Steve gave out a gasp and I looked up. His mouth was opened and his eyes, wide in shock, were glued to my crotch. I looked down. Between the breasts on my chest, I could see sprouting out below my pubic curls the shaft and purple head of an enormous erection.

I felt the light-headed, chest-tightening, goose-bumpy, finger and toe tingling, adrenalin rush of a panic attack. This was wrong. I’d never heard of anything like this before. Frozen — physically, mental — I stood, chaos raging in my mind while I stared at this hard-on that was mine yet seemed foreign. And while I stood in panic, it disappeared.

I don’t mean that it shriveled the way a normal erection does back to a soft penis. It withdrew back into my body. This was more than I could handle; I blacked out.

Chapter 2

“…Mike! Hey Mikey,” the voice called, faint, from a distance; or a dream. “Shit! Mike!” I felt the sting of a slap on my cheek. “Com’on Mike. Wake up!”

I came to — to find Steve hovering over me, concern on his face.

“What…?” I started to ask, started to sit up. Then I remembered and reached for my crotch — no penis. Only a soft triangle of hair in front of a “normal” female slit. I looked at Steve and asked, “Did I have a prick?”

“Yeah. You did.”

“How?”

“I don’know man. It was pretty wiggy. You okay?” he asked.

“I think so. But I need a drink.”

He helped me up and we went into the kitchen. I found the vodka and poured two glasses. I downed mine in a single gulp.

“What happened?” I asked.

“You walked into the room, stopped for a sec and then it just came out.”

“Came out? How?”

“Well… You ever see those progs about monkey pricks?”

“Huh?” I asked.

“You know how they got this bone or somethin’ that gives them an instant hard on?”

I remembered hearing something like that and nodded.

“It was like that. It just slid out like that. Then it slid back in. It was weird, man.”

I sat, trying to absorb this. I’d never heard of a suit that could do that. I thought I really should call the company and find out what the heck was going on.

“I think you gotta call them,” Steve said, echoing my thoughts.

“Yeah,” I agreed.

We retrieved the packaging and found the net address for support on it. I put on my iGlasses, slaved the room’s display so Steve could follow the call, and opened the connection. The woman who appeared had auburn hair with blonde highlights, a thin face, and brilliant blue eyes flecked with the new sparkles lots of peeps are getting implanted these days. She answered with that almost-annoying, upbeat, “helpful” voice that support peeps have been using for decades.

“Thank you for calling Cherrie Amour Bodysuit client service. I’m Billy Jean. How may I help you?”

“Um… Ah, hi Billy. My name is Mike Moliomas and, uh, I think I got problem with one of your suits.”

“Okay. Well I’m sorry to hear that. Let’s see if we can get that taken care of for you. Are you registered with us yet?”

“Yes I did. Look I think there is a real…”

Cutting me off, oh so pleasantly, she said, “Well let’s just check your registration and then see what we can do. May the Cherrie Amour Bodysuit Company scan your PIDIP code?” This question was in the formal manner anyone wanting to scan your Personal ID Implant must use.

Automatically, I answered in kind, “Yes the Cherrie Amour Bodysuit Company may scan my PIDIP code.”

With that she got all my personal information into her system.

“That’s odd,” she said, “we don’t seem to have your information. Well, I’ll add you to our client family. Okay, that’s done, now I’ll ping the suit.”

Everything these days is linked through the net somehow. iGlasses have an interface to query most products on the market these days as do all home com-servers.

She got a puzzled look on her face. “I can’t seem to connect to the suit. Do you have the packaging so I can manually scan that?”

“Yeah,” I said, “Hold on.” I went into the other room where the box was.

“Just point your glasses at the label and I’ll scan the code.”

While I watched, she was busy at her input board and reading her data. Then she froze, for just an instant before she tried to recover her usual helpful, cheery look. I think I knew in that instant that I was screwed. I shouldn’t have had any reason to believe this except for a moment when her eyebrows scrunched together then rose in surprise, after which her eyes got big and, I swear her lips muttered a silent “Oh shit.”

“Um,” her voice had lost its service desk smile. She paused, asked what she never should have, something (I found out later) she’d been specifically told not to ask. Chalk it up to inexperience, she was new to the job after all, or to the surprise of encountering a thing she never expected to run into. But she asked, “You haven’t put it on yet? Have you?”

I started to reply when she blurted out, “Uh can you please wait a moment.” Followed, without pause and before I could react, by, “Thanks.” She cut her feed and left me with MuViZak audio and video: clouds of color and swells sound — you know the crap I mean. Right when I was getting impatient and angry, her supervisor came on.

“Mr. Moliomas, I’m Jerry Martindale. I’m sorry to hear that you have an issue with one of our suits. What seems to be the problem?”

“It turned me into an android.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I’m an android. I’ve got a pussy and a prick.”

“You mean androgynous?”

“Oh! Yeah, right.” I did know the correct term, but I wasn’t really thinking straight at that point and “android” just kind of came out.

“Actually,” he corrected me, “I believe the proper term is hermaphrodite.”

What the…? Now he was correcting my vocabulary! “Listen asshole, I don’t care what you call it. Your suit made me into a freak.” I was more pissed because I was wrong — and embarrassed.

“I’m sorry Mr. Moliomas,” he soothed. “You say the suit has both male and female genitalia?”

“Yes, yes, yes! Except the prick didn’t come out until I saw Steve naked.” Wait, that didn’t sound right. “I mean naked in his Paris Doubletree; when I saw him as a fem. It’s like the clit grew into a hard-on. I need to know how to get it off.”

“Get the prick off?” he asked.

“The suit! The suit, you idiot,” I said. “How do I get this fucking-suit off?”

“There is no need to get upset, Mr. Moliomas. You only have to repeat the activation sequence, then separate top of the back seal. At the neck line.”

“I tried that, didn’t work. And there aren’t any seams between the suit and my skin.”

“There what?”

“There aren’t any seams.”

“That is not possible.” He was sure about that.

I held my wrists in front of my face so the cameras could see them. “Do you see any seams?” I asked. “I don’t. Because there aren’t any. There aren’t any at the wrists. There aren’t any at the ankles. There aren’t any at the neck. There aren’t any, anywhere. It’s like it’s merged with my skin.” I was angry and loud.

“I, ah, see.”

“You see? Well what’re you gonna do about it?”

“We will do whatever we can to solve your problem with your suit,” he said, falling into his “customer service” voice. He paused and his eyes lost focus, as if he were listening to someone else talking to him. This was indeed the case, as he continued by saying, “It sounds like we may have a significant defect here. I’m told to ask if we can get you out here to examine you, and the suit.”

Steve waved to get my attention. “Don’t do it, man. Didn’t you see that story on ‘22 Minutes’ about that place that kidnapped those guys that complained about their prick implants?”

“That was an April Fool’s story you moron,” I answered. “‘22 Minutes’ is a fake news show.”

“Yeah but, That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“Look, just shut up. Okay? I need to think,” I told Steve.

“What was that, Mr. Moliomas?” the customer support rep, Jerry, asked.

“Oh, sorry, I was talking to someone here.”

“Well we definitely would like you to come out here. It would help us to sort out this problem that much faster.”

“I can’t afford to fly to LA.”

“We’ll send the company plane for you.”

My first thought was that this could be way cool, a ride in a corporate jet! Then real life returned.

“I don’t have any vacation time left.” I had taken a week off, less than a month ago.

“We’ll work a medical leave with your employer. I see from your profile that you work for Enter-Tronics. I’m sure they will be reasonable. What’s you supervisor’s name.?”

Automatically I started to answer, “It’s Jack…”, then caught myself. Why were they so eager to see me that they would go though all this trouble?

“I don’t know…” I continued, vying for time to sort this out.

“Mr. Moliomas, ah, Mike, I believe it would help both of us to get you out here.”

“Why can’t you just send a tech to my house and get this thing offa me?”

“We, ah, don’t think it’ll be that easy.”

“Why not? What aren’t you telling me? Any other hems had the same problem?”

“There may be…others,” he said.

“What do ya mean, ‘others’?”

He paused for a moment before answering. Again, it looked like he was being coached. Finally, he said, “We think a few suits may have the same problem. We are trying to find them before they are used.”

“How many?” I asked.

“We, ah, don’t know.”

Then I knew he was lying — and I was in trouble. Companies knew exactly how many units likely shipped with a defect as soon as the problem was reported. Recalls went out immediately. Especially for anything that cost more than a couple hundred EDs; they knew where it was and who owned it, whether it had been used yet. Just like my suit, everything linked over the net, back to the manufacturer or distributor as soon as it got activated.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Mr. Moliomas, we are a reputable company. We don’t have anything to hide.” Now he was defensive.

“Look Mr. Suit, you better come clean with me. You’re actin’ like you got somethin’ to hide. You know the serial number of my suit. You know the numbers of the others in the same lot, with the same ‘bots and the same programming. You know exactly how know many bad suits you have. So fess up. What the hell happened to me. Tell me the truth — or I hang up and you talk to my laywer on Monday.”

“Mr. Moliomas, can you hold for a moment?”

“Yeah, sure,” I agreed. I needed a moment to think myself. But what did I think? I thought — funny how the old terms for things are still used. He’d asked me to “hold”, a term that goes back more than a hundred years to the old audio-only phones. I even saw a telephone in a museum once and it had a button on it, labeled “Hold”. However, my iGlasses cut to an advert for the latest Cherrie suit with the new improved contact lotion. “You’ll be surprised by the difference,” it said. I snorted and muttered, “You sure will.”

Jerry-the-rep came back on. “Ah, Mr. Moliomas, Mike, well the truth is we don’t know how many suits are affected.”

“Yeah right,” I interrupted, “and I don’t know how many toes I got. Good-bye.”

“No wait! Please hear me out.”

I supposed it couldn’t hurt. “Alright,” I said. “Tell me.”

“We aren’t positive, but we’re fairly certain your suit got loaded with non-standard programming. We think when it connect to register it was redirected to an unauthorized server with that software. It also appears that the wetware of the suit itself may be…non-standard.”

“What do you mean?”

“We think one of our researchers, on his own mind you, developed hermaphrodite programming for the suit and also was involved with a project to soften or hide the transitions between the edge of the suit and the wear’s skin. As near as we can tell, those two sets of code got inter-mixed somehow — probably deliberately.”

“Okay,” I said. “But how did that get into my suit?”

“Well, and some of this is speculation still, we think he made a special suit for a ‘friend’ but they had a falling-out and the friend put the suit up for auction and you purchased it.”

“Alright, I’ll buy that. But that should mean mine is the only one affected. Right?”

“Yes and no,” he answered. “Yours, we believe, is the only one with the modified programming to the wetware, but the code which was supposed to redirect only your suit to his update server either had a bug or got corrupted and, well, we think other users got updates from that server too. We’re still trying to figure out how many, if any, got this update. That is why we are unsure how many suits are affected. We know of two others that did download updates from that server but we contacted the owners before they used the suits. Your suit was not purchase from…our normal channels, so we did not know how to reach you.”

That was certainly a bit to chew on. I asked, “So, where is the guy who did this?”

“We would like to know that ourselves. We’re looking for him as we speak.”

“And where does that leave me?” I asked.

“That’s why we want to get you here, so we can give you a thorough exam and see what we can find out. But I need to tell you something”

“What’s that.”

“We have programmers looking at the code, both for the wetware and the software. They’ve found some pretty amazing code that we think will take our products to a whole new level of sophistication and features.”

This guy was starting to sound like an advert.

“Yeah? So?”

“So they’ve found something else that may, and I do mean may, affect you.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“Mike, I’m not sure how to coach this differently…”

This did not sound good.

“We think your change might be, ah…permanent.”

---

Transcript from the Late Night - Sydney Show

Announcer: Welcome back to the show, here’s your host Kristy Ellis

Kristy Ellis: Hello again everyone, glad you could stay with us. My next guest tonight is someone I’m sure you have all been waiting to hear from. I know I have. Please welcome to the show, Michelle Novopuella. Michelle — thank you for joining us today.

Michelle Novopuella: Kristy, Thank you. It’s a pleasure to be here.

Kristy: First of all, thank you so much for letting us be the first to excerpt your new book Phemn on our site as part of your visit.

Michelle: You’re most certainly welcome. Glad to do it — with this the first stop on my book tour.

Kristy: Why did choose to begin your tour here in Sydney?

Michelle: Honestly? I’ve always wanted to come to Australia and, well, I used the tour as an excuse to do that.

Kristy: I see. So this is your first visit Down Under? Got “G'Day mate” down pat yet?

Michelle: It is. ~laughs softly~ No, I still stumble a bit on the pronunciation. Everyone just smiles and says, “Never mind Yank, you'll get there.”

Kristy: ~laughing~ Well, then, welcome. I’m sure, by now, everyone has heard the story of how you became a phemn; how a rogue researcher at Cherrie Amour created a bodysuit that could be both male and female; how you got that suit by mistake and were transformed and how that lead to a whole new way of doing permanent sex reassignments. And also brought us a whole new word — phemn, a word you coined.

Michelle: That’s right Kristy. I wanted a word that combined hem and fem since that’s what I’d become. I started using it and, well, it caught on.

Kristy: And you are the first one.

Michelle: That isn’t exactly true. There were phemns before my change. In fact we’ve been around for ages. My transformation was only a discovery of how to easily let hems and fems make the change for themselves.

Kristy: But, you are the first, shall we say…intentional transformation of this type?

Michelle: Ah, yes… well it wasn’t my intention.

Kristy: ~laughing~ No I guess not. You’ve gone through many changes in the last year, including changing your name and becoming a spokesperson for the Cherrie Amour company. Could you tell us which’s been the hardest to deal with?

Michelle: I think the hardest part has been dealing with the celebrity of it.

Kristy: How so?

Michelle: Well, I was always a quiet kind of guy. I had friends, sure, and we would party together. Now, though, the world knows everything I do: when I go shopping, out to a restaurant, to the beach. That’s taken some getting used to.

Kristy: But you got, I gather, a substantial settlement from the company, including stock before it went public. Surely being rich has helped.

Michelle: It sure has. You know the old saying though, “Money can’t buy me love.”

Kristy: Speaking of love — now that you’re a phemn, you can have sex with both hems and fems.

Michelle: Well I did that before my transformation. I’ve been bi for all my life. Now I have, uh, “equipment” that fits everyone.

Kristy: Let’s talk about that for a moment. You are the first person, the first hermaphrodite or phemn, to have sex organs that work quite this way.

Michelle: That’s right.

Kristy: As I understand it previous phemns usually have both a vagina and a penis at the same time. Yours don’t work quite like that, do they?

Michelle: Right Kristy, they don’t. I really have the best of both worlds. My penis and clitoris are really the same organ but it takes a special kind of stimulation for my erection to, how shall I say, manifest.

Kristy: ~giggles~ I bet you're a hit at parties. Particularly somewhere like Sydney which has a large alt- sex population. Perhaps we could have a drink later?

Michelle: Kristy! ~blushing~… well perhaps. Um… oh yes, where were we? Oh yeah. First of all, I have to be in the mood: It won’t come out by itself. Then, I usually have to be near a fem that I am attracted to. It seems that visual and olfactory stimuli are my key ones.

Kristy: Olfactory? You mean like perfume?

Michelle: No. It’s the natural odors that a person releases when they are sexually excited. I am very sensitive to these. It’s a part of the programing we are still investigating. And manufactured perfumes actually mask the natural ones.

Kristy: So you don’t like perfume? ~giggling~ I guess you mean pheremones?

Michelle: Oh no! I mean, yes. I love perfume. That one you’re wearing now is divine.

Kristy: Oh, thank you.

Michelle: You’re welcome. But, what I’m saying is that perfumes don’t stimulate me sexually the way natural pheromones do. Anyway, when the mood and stimulation are both right, my clit extends out to become a regular prick. And you know what the nice thing is?

Kristy: What’s that?

Michelle: When I’m done it retreats back inside; no annoying external “third leg” to get in the way. It’s really very convenient.

Kristy: I would guess so. Sort of streamlining I suppose. Since we are on the subject of anatomy, are both your sets, ah, fully functional.

Michelle: They are. Both male and female reproductive organs are complete. One difference is that my testicles are internal — which brings another advantage.

Kristy: And that is?

Michelle: No one can kick me in the nuts.

Kristy: ~laughs loudly~ Oh! Yes. I can see how that might be an advantage.

Michelle: It certainly could be. Fortunately I haven't tested that yet. But I know the feeling.

Kristy: ~quietly~ Yes so do I. ~normal voice~ One result of your change is the discovery of a whole new method of performing permanent sex changes for those who need it as well as possibly another method to help infertile individuals become fertile. What can you tell us about that?

Michelle: Well our researchers are looking at both of those situations. It looks like both the possibilities you mentioned may be available to the general public in the near future. There is still a lot of testing to do but we are optimistic that we have winning technology here and expect to have approval for general use within a year.

Kristy: Okay. I want to talk about gender for a bit. As you know, I was born a male physically but always saw myself as and felt myself to be female. Luckily, I have very understanding parents who, once they were convinced of the truth of my situation, helped me transition to be myself. There have been males and females throughout history who have seen themselves as the other gender. Notwithstanding those who were born androgynous, society, or western society at least, has always seen the genders as opposites. I don’t want to address the treatment those of us who got stuck in the wrong bodies sometimes experienced. Not that there isn’t discrimination and mistreatment in some places, still. But things are improving. You, however, seem to be a new, third gender: not male or female, rather you are both. What do you see as the implications of that?

Michelle: You bring up a good point but I’m not sure I’m really the best person to try and delve into that subject and do it any sort of justice.

Kristy: But you must have thought about it.

Michelle: Sure. Okay, I believe there are many of us born not exclusively of one gender or the other, but are a mix; yin and yang, lingam and yoni, masculine and feminine, whatever you want to call it. Everyone has both, but for most, one is dominant. Those like me have both equally, no one side rules, if you will.

Kristy: Playing devil’s advocate here, and to use a loaded word, do you think this is “normal”?

Michelle: Oooh, I hate that word. And I imagine you do too. I’m sure you’ve heard it aimed at yourself.

Kristy: I have.

Michelle: Okay, here is my personal belief: I believe gender is a continuum between female and male, not the polar-opposites most people see. I think some of us exist at one end or the other while many of us reside somewhere in-between.

Kristy: And are you in the middle?

Michelle: Almost. I think I’m a bit more female.

Kristy Ellis: And there you are, delightfully, and it seems happily, so. I want to thank you so much for stopping in this evening Michelle. Ladies, Gentlemen, and all you good people in between, Michelle Novopuella. Pher new book is called Phemn. Thank you again.

Michelle Novopuella: Thank you Kristy.

---

Author’s Note:

This piece was inspired by comments that (I think) justme made way back in April regarding the Google ads which appear on BC/TS. One of them had the subject I used for the link here. I started this for submission in the Strangfellows contest but a big dose of RL got in the way. I owe a large debt to Kristina for goading and encouraging me to get and keep going. To say nothing of her proofing, editing and suggestions along the way. As usual, all remaining mistakes are my own.

Jamie

 © 2007 JLW

Dreams Can Change You

by Jamie Lou

In Stowe, Vermont as a covered bridge that is supposed to be haunted by the spirit of a young woman. This is the true story behind that tale.

Emily's Bridge
Part I

By Jamie Lou

Edited by Kristina L. S.

This is a work of fiction. Most of the places mentioned do exist but none of the characters are based on real people and any resemblance to a real person is coincidental.

Thanks, Kristina, for help, suggestions and catching those stupid mistakes all of us make. Any errors that remain are my own

CAUTION: This story includes a somewhat graphic murder scene so please be warned.

Prologue

In the town of Stowe, Vermont, east of the village called Moscow, is a covered bridge known officially as the “Goldbrook Bridge” because it crosses Gold Brook. The locals just call it “Emily’s Bridge” because it is said to be haunted by the spirit of a young woman of that name. Lest you think that I am making this up, go to Google and search for the phrases "Emily's Bridge" and "Stowe, VT" together; you’ll get over a hundred hits that you can read for yourself.

There are many different stories about how Emily’s spirit came to haunt the bridge. The most common tale is that she and her lover were to meet at the bridge and then elope. He never showed and she, in despair, committed suicide by either throwing herself into the stream below or by hanging herself from the rafters. Both of these possibilities seem equally unlikely. As to the first: neither the streambed nor the water in it is terribly deep and jumping in might leave one with a broken arm or leg; more likely a person would only end up with scrapes and bruises. Regarding the second: it does not seem plausible that a young woman, waiting to meet her beau would have a length rope readily available with which to hang herself on the spur of the moment.

Another account has it that Emily was left at the altar. Driving her carriage at high speed to find and confront the unfaithful wretch, she went off the curve in the road at the bridge and into the river, killing herself and her horses. This story is more believable than the previous two legends but one can’t see the spirit of an accident victim hanging around to haunt the place.

Yet another source for the origin of the supposed haunting comes from a woman who claims to have made up the story in the early ‘70s, while she and a bunch of college kids were sheltering in the bridge during downpour.

There are more stories and numerous variations, none of which are true. The bridge was indeed inhabited by a spirit for a while but the real tale is stranger than you would guess.

The account that follows is mostly based the story related to me by my grandmother shortly before she died in the early 1990’s. Parts have been corroborated by contemporaneous newspaper accounts, diary entries and information from some other secondary sources I’ve found at various local historical societies and also at the State of Vermont Historical Society. There is enough supporting evidence for significant portions of my grandmother’s narrative that I believe it to be true. So, I present to you:

The True Story of Emily’s Bridge

By J. L. Wendelin

Emil McAllister, looked up momentarily from his book as the train’s whistle sounded at a crossing in Richmond. He was reading The Well at the World's End by William Morris. It had been published in 1896 but had taken almost a full year to reach a bookstore in Burlington. He’d wondered at that - in this modern age, where steamships could cross the Atlantic in a couple of weeks why should it take a full year for a book to get from London to Burlington? It was beyond his comprehension.

He tried to read his book but his thoughts kept returning to the weekend ahead. Emil was traveling to Stowe to spend the weekend with his uncle and, most especially, his cousin Elizabeth. Elizabeth — Lizzie — was 19, a couple of years older than Emil, and he was amazed she was not yet married. However her father had doted on her since her mother had passed 10 years ago and was sympathetic to her not wanting rush into marriage. He was also a very modern man. He supported women’s suffrage; he was a Unitarian after all and thus, by definition, liberal. Lizzie was to meet Emil’s train in Waterbury and drive him to their house in Moscow where her father, Joshua Acworth, owned the lumber and grist mills, the smithy and general store.

Eventually Emil gave up trying to read and stared out at the Winooski valley passing by as his mind roamed. Lizzie had always been his favorite cousin because she understood him. She understood that Emil really wanted to be a girl.

He didn’t remember exactly why he had told her but it had been 6, no, 7 years ago — he’d been ten and she, twelve. They’d spent the summer together as he helped out around her father’s businesses. One afternoon, late that summer, they were lying on their backs, side-by-side, on the bank of the mill pond when she asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

After a long pause he asked, “Are you certain you want to know?”

She wondered at this. She’d asked it in a light-hearted way and Emil was reacting seriously.

“I was just wondering, Emil,” she answered.

“I…” he started, “I want to be a girl.”

She rolled on to her side and placed her elbow on the ground, supporting her head with her hand. Looking at him she asked, “Truly?”

“Yes,” he replied.

‘But, why?” she asked.

He remained on his back, staring into the clouds. “I don’t know. I feel wrong, as if I should be someone else.”

“I know it’s a sin,” he continued, “but I want to be a girl.”

Lizzie was quiet for a long while before she responded.

“Emil, father says that everyone must be true to themselves. And everyone has one true spirit under God. Maybe your spirit is a girl.”

He rolled to face her and propped his head on his hand also.

“Do you truly think so?”

“I don’t know, Emil. Who knows what God thinks? Maybe you are supposed to be a girl.”

“Oh Lizzie, I don’t know what I should do.”

“Well one thing is certain, you daren’t tell anyone else.”

He hadn’t.

Emil had spent a part of every summer since then with Lizzie and her father. His parents said it was so he could broaden his education and learn from his uncle. He knew they were hoping maybe Uncle Joshua would consider making Emil his heir. Because he only had a daughter and (they assumed) she couldn’t inherit his businesses, and because Emil, being the youngest of four sons of James and Lydia McAllister, would not get any of his family’s enterprise, it was natural for them to expect Joshua might be amenable to passing his endeavors on to Emil.

Of course, nothing like that would ever happen. Emil and Lizzie both knew that her father had no such plans. The three of them had even talked about it and Emil’s parent’s machinations in this regard. It was understood by them all that Lizzie would be the sole beneficiary of her father’s estate. That understanding did not however prevent his uncle from trying to impart some business acumen to Emil or the boy from trying to learn all he could from his uncle.

Lizzie, for her part, tried to do everything she could to help Emil with his problem of being in the wrong body. She had no doubt that this was indeed the case. They spent countless hours talking about it: she would challenge him on it and he would explain his feelings about it. And then there were the clothes.

During his next summer’s visit Lizzie asked him, “Have you ever put on a dress?”

“Not really,” he replied. “I tried mother’s petticoat once but it was much too large.”

Emil’s mother was a large woman — “big boned” was the polite term. He’d been lost in the voluminous fabric of her under things.

“Would you like to try some of my clothes?” Lizzie asked.

He just stared at her.

She saw him take a deep breath.

“Could I?”

“Of course,” she answered firmly. “Father is going to Waterbury on Saturday. We have to oversee the loading at the mill in the morning, but we have the afternoon free. We could try it then.”

She watched as he considered this. His thoughts were almost transparent to her. When he finally realized she meant it and began to understand the implications of that, his face lit up. His eyes welled with tears as her threw his arms around her.

“Oh! Thank you!”

Saturday afternoon they spent in her room, dressing him in various outfits.

First she had him undress completely. This was not completely out of the ordinary for them. They had swum together naked — skinny-dipping, as it was called — a number of times. There was nothing untoward about this or sexual in the least. Both knew about sex; they’d both seen horses, cattle and other farm animals mating, they knew the mechanics of it but did not equate what they were doing with that at all.

“Here,” she said, handing him what looked to him like short breeches, only made out of silk and with frills at the waist and knees. “These are bloomers,” she added, “They go on first. These are like men’s pantaloons. Most of my drawers are open at the crotch but these aren’t. I wear them when I’m riding.”

Emil stopped tying the waist of the bloomers and gave her a puzzled look.

“Why are they open?” he asked.

“Silly,” she answered, “you know girls have to sit when they… when they use the privy?”

He nodded.

“Well the split makes it easier. When you have a dress and petticoats and chemise… believe me it is easier than pulling down bloomers. But closed drawers are much more comfortable and practical for riding”

“Oh,” was all he could offer in return.

After he pulled the on the bloomers she showed him what appeared to be a plain, white dress. “This is a chemise. It’s an under-dress,” she explained. She held it with the skirt open for him to put on. He put his hands together and slipped into it, spreading them into the short sleeves and standing straight to let it settle over him. It seemed very plain and came down below his knees.

“It’s just an under-dress,” she said. “Nobody is supposed to see it. If you were older you would wear a corset over it to make your waist smaller. My mother wore one when she dressed up by I don’t have one yet — father doesn’t think they are healthy for young girls and won’t let me get one.”

She went to her wardrobe and chose a dress for him. It was a plain blue and white plaid with a high neckline and full sleeves. The cuffs and collar were of a white scalloped material. As with the chemise, she held it for him as he slipped it over his head.

As she buttoned up the back she commented, “I always have to ask father to button this one for me as I can’t reach them all myself.”

“Does he mind?” wondered Emil.

“Oh, no! Of course he’s helped me dress since I was a little girl — after mother passed.”

He turned to admire himself in the mirror. The dress came almost to the floor, as did all her dresses. She stood next to him and thought that they looked almost to be sisters.

The dress seemed very natural on him. He was turning left and right as he observed himself. And then she realized how very feminine he looked.

They had spent the rest of the afternoon with him trying on her dresses. It was fun for both. Later as evening approached, Emil returned to wearing his regular clothes as they anticipated her father’s return. They worked together to prepare the day’s supper. Her father arrived at around seven o’clock to find a meal ready for him and was none the wiser.

Over the next few years they had had other opportunities for him to play dress-up; that was how they thought of it, as dress-up. Even though he wished himself a girl, he wasn’t - and wasn’t ever going to be one. He could not be one; he could only pretend to be one every so often.

But now, on Friday October 8, 1897, Emil was traveling to Stowe. He was to spend the weekend with her and she promised they would go to a dance on Saturday. And he was going to go dressed as her cousin Emily.

Elizabeth met him at the Waterbury station with her buggy. This was her buggy, not her father’s pulled by her own Morgan stallion, Stanley, — a horse she also used for riding; Morgans were versatile animals and used in many roles from riding to pulling both farm equipment and wagons or buggies. They put Emil’s bag in the boot in the back, climbed in and headed out of town on the Stowe Road. She drove.

As they traveled north, Lizzie explained the details of their weekend plans.

“Father will be in Montpelier tomorrow and Sunday so we needn’t worry about him. The dance is at Smythe’s farm — they live over on the east side of town, on the Gold Brook Road. They have a huge barn and they clear out the center bay for the dance. It should be great fun — they always have a harvest moon dance in October. I’ve told Mary — that’s Mary Smythe, she’s a year younger than I… I’ve told her I’m bringing my cousin but nothing else. So you can go as Emily. Oh it’s going to be so much fun…”

Lizzie tended to go on like this sometimes. Emil was used to it and just let her chatter. It was so different from her demeanor when she was talking business. In those instances she would be very succinct, to the point, and not distracted by anything else.

Emil thought to himself, “She’s babbling.” But he didn’t say anything. He contented himself with the occasional nod, “Uh huh,” and “Yes.” Mostly though, he half listened as he thought about the dance tomorrow. He was going to go dressed as Emily!

He had dreamed about doing something like this, going out in public as a girl. His mind drifted to skirts swirling about as “Emily” danced with… a boy. He had not believed it could be possible until he had received Lizzie’s letter about the dance and her father being out of town and her idea to invite “Emily”. When he’d read that, his chest got tight and his pulse throbbed in his ears. Now here he was, riding to…

“Emil!’

His thoughts were interrupted by Lizzie’s exclamation.

“What? Sorry, I was day dreaming.”

“I noticed,” she said with a laugh before continuing. “I said; guess what I have for you?”

“I have no idea. What?”

“A corset.”

“A what?”

“A corset,” she repeated. “It’s my old one but it should fit you fine. Although I honestly don’t know why we wear them, they’re terribly uncomfortable. But if you’re going to go out in public, you need to wear one. Everyone expects it and it would be awfully poor taste not to.”

“Lizzie,” he started, “Uh, I don’t know what to say. Um, thank you.”

“Yes, well, thank me again after you’ve been wearing it all evening,” she admonished.

They chatted while driving on. She tried to give him some background on all her friends and other’s he might meet at the dance. She also warned him about the Miller boys.

“They’re good dancers but they always try to grope you, either through your dress or under it. Don’t let them get you in a dark corner. And, whatever you do, stay away from them if they get drunk — and they usually do, get drunk, I mean. They get vicious when they’re drunk — worse if it’s whisky. And since their daddy probably brings bootleg whiskey through Smuggler’s Notch from Canada, they often drink whiskey.”

She stopped for a moment before she continued quietly, almost whispering, “Now, I don’t know this for certain, but I’m quite sure John Miller got Nancy Johnson… with child. She was sent off to New York and no one would say why. That was two years ago and we haven’t seen her since and her family won’t talk about her. I know she went to a couple socials with him that summer.”

“Anyhow,” she added, “You need be careful around them. John. And his brother Isaac.”

They finished the last mile to her house in silence.

That evening around the dinner table and afterwards in front of the fire in the parlor, Emil, Elizabeth and her father held a wide-ranging discussion about the state of the world. Politics, the economy, the weather — all were fair game. Her father felt that the economy had finally turned the corner and was recovering from the Panic of ’93. They all wondered what that meant to both families’ businesses. Elizabeth opined that President McKinley was too beholden to the business combines and trusts; she liked the idea of the free silver movement advocated by Bryant in the last election. This led them to a dialog about the effect the monopolies and banks might have on their lives in small town Vermont. Emil was sure the papers that backed McKinley were fanning the flames for a war with Spain. All three felt that the reasons used to advocate for war were inflated at best and likely completely spurious.

Saturday day dawned clear and warm — for an early October day. Her father got an early start for his trip to Montpelier. Emil and Elizabeth spent the morning and early afternoon at the mill supervising the operations there. They finished before two o’clock, locked the office and returned to the Acworth house.

Once in the house they looked at each other and started giggling, then out-right laughing, hugging and a bit of jumping up and down. The tension they’d held in check all day bubbled out.

“Oh! This is going to be so much fun,” exclaimed Lizzie.

“I can’t wait,” Emil responded.

Now they could start the real work of the day: getting “Emily” ready for the dance.

“All right,” Elizabeth declared taking charge after they had settled down, “first we need to get cleaned up. There’s warm water in the reservoir on the side of the stove and the kettle on top should also be pretty full. We’ll each take a bucket to wash with and then I want to do your hair.”

“My hair?” Emil asked.

“Emil… It looks like you haven’t washed it in a week. I have some scented shampoo that will give it a nice shine. I’ll trim it a little and then give it a little curl. It’ll look great and smell good too.”

“Lizzie… oh, would you?”

“I will. Now go to your toilette. I’ll get you a house-dress to wear while we do your hair. And some clothes for you to try. Oh, and the wash tub is in the closet at the top of the stairs.”

Emil took a pail of warm water to his room and set it the nightstand. He retrieved the wash tub and its attending oilcloth, spread the cloth on the floor in front of the nightstand and placed the wash tub on it. As he prepared to undress, Lizzie entered with the promised house-dress, laid it on the bed and departed.

After disrobing, Emil stepped into the tub and began his ablutions. He poured some water into the wash-basin atop the nightstand and washed his face and hands. Then, using the washing-cloth proceeded to clean this arms legs and torso. He did this with a minimal amount of water to only just wipe his skin with the wet cloth. Soaking and soaping the cloth well, Emil cleaned under his arms then squatted in the tub to thoroughly wash his crotch and behind. He then rinsed both his under-arms and nether-regions with a soaked washing-cloth. Emil liked to be clean. At home in Burlington he was often teased about the time he spent in the bath.

Stepping out of the tub onto the oil-cloth, Emil picked up the towel hanging on the side of the night-table to dry himself. He was pleased that the tub had caught most of the wash water; very little was on the oil-cloth and none had gotten onto the wood floor itself. He carefully patted his skin dry; he couldn’t stand to rub the towel across his skin the way he’d seen his brothers do it — it was irritating.

After placing the towel back on its bar, he went to the bed, picked up and put on the house-dress Lizzie had put there for him. It was a simple garment that he pulled over his head. The sleeves came to his elbows and there were three buttons on front to close the top.

“Are you finished?” called Lizzie from her room.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Would you empty the tub for me and fetch it here, please?”

“I will. Just a minute...”

He emptied the tub into the pail then took tub and oil-cloth into her room and placed them near her nightstand.

“Thank you, cousin.” Then Lizzie thought for a moment before saying, “Why don’t you dump your bucket and then get us something to eat. There should be some bread and cheese in the pantry and milk and… I think there’s still a bit of ham, in the ice box. We shouldn’t eat much as there will be loads of food at the dance. While you do that I shall get cleaned up. Then we can wash your hair.”

“That’s sounds splendid,” replied Emil.

A short while later Lizzie joined him in the kitchen. She emptied her wash water into the sink and pumped a little fresh water into the pail to rinse it.

“It’s almost three so we shouldn’t dawdle,” she cautioned.

They ate quickly and then, with Emil leaning over the sink, she poured a pitcher of warm water over it. Lizzie poured some of her shampoo onto her palm and subsequently massaged it into Emil’s hair.

“I got this the last time I visited you in Burlington,” she explained. “It’s from London. Doesn’t it smell wonderful? The box said it has almond, sandalwood and jasmine in it and the formula comes all the way from India originally. I just love it.”

Emil was reveling in the scent and the feel of Lizzie’s fingers working their way though his hair. He always got goose-bumps when someone else washed his hair and was disappointed when she finished.

“All right, I’m done,” she declared. “Here comes the rinse.”

With his hair cleaned, Emil sat near the stove while Lizzie brushed it out and trimmed a few loose ends. Earlier, she had placed a couple of curling irons on the cooler end of the stove; she tested them now.

“Just right!” she pronounced.

Emil’s hair was a light brown color, tending towards red. He wore it shoulder length which was considered old-fashioned and out-of-style for men but not that uncommon. He liked it that long because it made him feel more like a girl. It was slightly wavy but was by no means curly.

“I’m only going to use these to give you a slight curl at the bottom, “Lizzie told him. I have a comb that was my mother’s. We’ll use that to bring the sides together at the top and then let it fall down the back. All right?”

“That would be nice,” was all Emil could get out — he was almost over-come.

When Emil’s hair was completed the two went upstairs again and into Emil’s room to dress.

Emil quickly donned the drawers — noting they were the open style - and chemise. He stood as Elizabeth picked up a black corset off the bed and handed over for him to examine.

“This is my old one. The bust is a mite small for me now and it’s not terribly fashionable but it’s a perfectly good Gage and Downs. It’s really what they call a corsetwaist and much more comfortable and practical for a working girl than a regular corset. My new one is a different style from the same company. They are good quality and not as expensive as some of the others.”

Emil took it in his hand. The outer material was black sateen with embroidered pink and blue flowers, the lining was plain cotton. It was open at the front with a stiff metal band running up each side.

“It’s a busk,” Elizabeth informed him. “See how one side has the pins sticking out the other the loops the hook over them? You put it on and fasten the front then I’ll tighten the lacing in the back. Come now, we need to get going.”

Elizabeth assisted as Emil wrapped the corset around himself and fastened the busk at the front. She then told him to let out his breath and pulled the lacing snug on the back and tied it.

“I won’t pull it too tight,” she said. “Unless you’re used to it, it would hurt something awful.”

As it was, Emil felt quite constrained around his tummy. But he could still breathe with relative comfort and he noted in the mirror that, even though he did not have a classic hour-glass figure, the profile reflected was decidedly feminine.

Elizabeth followed his gaze. “I believe we must remember that you are Emily from now on.”

“Come,” she added quickly, “Time’s a wastin’!”

Emily pulled on a petticoat which Elizabeth tied at her waist. Elizabeth then handed her several handkerchiefs to stuff into the top for her corset to pad her “bust”, after which Emily put on a corset cover.

“That will smooth the line of the corset and also protects the dress. Now, sit on the bed and I’ll put on your stockings ‘cause I know you can’t bend over to put them on.”

She pulled the black silk stockings up to Emily’s thighs and tied them with a garter on each, one black, the other yellow.

“One is always yellow,” she told him, “for good luck they say. You’re going to have to wear your own boots. But they’re narrow and I don’t think anyone will notice. And if they do, they’ll only think you have no knack for choosing stylish boots,” she added with a laugh.

“Now… Are you ready for your dress?”

Emily swallowed hard and answered, “Yes.”

“Well then, step right this way.” And she led Emily to her room. There on the bed lay the skirt and jacket ensemble that was a pale blue color. The material appeared to shimmer in the light coming through the west-facing window.

“Lizzie… It’s beautiful,” Emily exclaimed as she approached the bed. She reached to touch it but pulled back before doing so, not daring to. “Is it silk?” she asked.

“Yes,” Elizabeth replied, “taffeta.”

“Oh, Lizzie! I can’t… It’s… it’s much too… elegant for me,” Emily demurred.

“You can and you will,” Elizabeth countered. “I bought it for you to wear for this dance.”

“For truth?” Emily inquired.

“Yes!” her cousin answered. “Come. We must finish getting you dressed so that I have time too.” With that said she picked up the skirt and Emily stepped into it.

With Emily holding it up, Elizabeth buttoned it closed at the back and then tied the waistband. The full skirt ended with knife pleats at the bottom that almost touched the floor. Elizabeth held the top so Emily could slip her arms into it.

“It’s more a jacket than a blouse but that is a popular style at the moment. And ‘twill hide the stuffing we used for your bust better than a lighter blouse would. No one will know,” Elizabeth explained. “Now you button it while I get started dressing.”

As she fastened the sixteen buttons that closed the front, Emily examined the jacket both up close and in the mirror on the wall. The sleeves were full and loose on the upper arms but tight on the lower before flaring at the pleated cuffs which echoed those on the skirt. At the tops the sleeves puffed up a full two inches above the shoulders — very feminine. Tucked under the taffeta collar was a white lace one that extended out another couple of inches all the way around her neck. The collar was fastened at the front by yet another button.

When the buttoning was complete and the lace collar straightened and flattened, Emily stood to judge the image in the mirror. The person looking back at her was — a girl, almost a woman. There was no hint of Emil. The jacket slimmed her waist, and combined with the corset beneath gave her a flare at the hips that she did not possess naturally. Her faux bust was adequate though not large and the jacket accentuated what she did have. Her eyes glistened as she realized what she had become: an elegantly dressed, modern young lady.

“You look very sophisticated,” commented Elizabeth, “But you are my cousin from Chicago and you’re supposed to be more elegant than anyone else around here.”

“You don’t think I’ll stand out too much, do you?” Emily asked shyly.

“Of course you will!” affirmed Elizabeth, “That’s the idea.”

“But…” Emily started before being cut off.

“But, nothing!” was her cousin’s retort. “You are a big city girl visiting her country cousin. You are confident, stylish, just a little arrogant but not condescending, and you are not going to let the locals push you around. Do you understand?”

Emily looked puzzled for a moment then glanced back at the mirror and saw the girl Elizabeth had described. She stood a bit straighter, squared her shoulders, thrust out her bosom the slightest bit and replied, “Yes. I do.”

“Good!” answered Elizabeth. “Now come help me with my corset.”

Breaking away from the mirror, Emily turned to assist Lizzie.

Her cousin already had on her stockings and boots and a garment that was a combination of chemise and drawers. She had her corset around her already and was fastening the busk. “I need you to do the lacing for me,” she said. Emily complied and then assisted with the corset cover.

Elizabeth’s dress was a relatively plain affair as compared to Emily’s. A solid rose/burgundy color, when she put it on it flared only slightly — hanging almost straight down her legs. The sleeves were very generous at the top but came to very tight cuffs at the wrist; they joined the shoulders with only a hint of the puffiness that Emily’s had.

The bodice had a wide band around the waist but there was a lace trim that came around the neckline, then down the front to just below her breasts which gave the hint of a vest.

Emily buttoned up the back after which Elizabeth picked up a lace shawl from the bed and draped it over her shoulders.

‘What do you think?” she asked.

“You look very nice,” answered Emily.

“Thank you,” said Elizabeth with a smile. “O.K.,” she continued, “we should get going. It’ll be cold later so you must bring your cape; it’s black and plain and could be for either a boy or a girl so it won’t stand out. I have my own which is similar. Are we forgetting anything?”

‘I don’t think so.”

‘Then let us away,” Elizabeth declared.

The two girls left the house and proceeded to the carriage shed where they harnessed Stanley and hitched him to Elizabeth’s buggy.

“Throw some oats in that feedbag,” Lizzie said indicating one hanging near the stall. “Put it in the boot. And grab his blanket from the shelf there.”

With everything ready, they set off into the gathering twilight. The moon was just rising over the mountains of the Worcester range to the east. It was almost full and appeared huge as it slowly crept up from behind the hills. There was nary a cloud in the sky and it promised to be a brilliant, clear night. The girls looked forward to the dance and the evening’s entertainment as they traveled the two miles across town to the Smyth farm.

When they reached the Gold Brook Bridge, Stanley hesitated, as if he didn’t want to enter the enclosed space and Elizabeth had to flick the reigns to urge him on. A little way future down the road, they heard the sound of the fiddles playing in the distance.

Turning towards her cousin, Elizabeth asked, “Are you ready?”

Emily reached over to squeeze Lizzie’s hand. “I am!”

Elizabeth guided Stanley to a space on the fence just down the road from the Smythe’s barn. There were already many other carriages, wagons, buggies and saddled horses tied up along the roadside. They climbed down and Elizabeth went forward to hitch Stanley to the fence. Emily retrieved his blanket from the back. The two girls settled it over his back, attached it under his belly and around the front so it wouldn’t fall off. It was apt to get chilly later and Elizabeth did not want him to get cold. She noted with disdain that some other owners were not so conscientious as she hung the feedbag over his head. This would let him eat some oats when he needed.

Hand in hand under the bright full moon, they walked up the road towards the sounds of the dance. The barn was built into a hillside. Lanterns, mounted on poles lit the way up a slight incline to the rear of the barn and the second floor entrance.

The upper barnyard was lit by a large bonfire around which were gathered several young men, drinking and smoking pipes or cheroots. A couple of them greeted Elizabeth as she rounded the corner.

To the right of the barn door a man was unpacking equipment from a large trunk. Elizabeth walked up to him.

“Good evening, Mister Johnson,” she greeted him.

He turned at hearing his name.

“Why Miss Acworth. Good evening to you also.”

Realizing what the equipment must be she asked, “Will you be making photographs tonight?”

“I will,” he answered. “Miss Smythe asked me to bring my camera and I was most happy to oblige. It IS a bit nippy outside tonight but I cannot use the flash-powder inside, not in the barn anyhow. Would you and your friend care to sit for a portrait later?”

“Oh, forgive me, I forgot… Mr. Johnson, this is my cousin, Emily Mayfield. She’s visiting for the weekend.”

“Miss Mayfield,” he said lifting his hat slightly.

Emily started to reach her hand out to shake his, caught herself and covered it by pulling her cape around herself.

“Mister Johnson, Pleased to meet you,” she said with a slight curtsy.

“A photograph would be splendid. Don’t you think so Emmy?” her cousin asked.

Emily nodded.

“We will come out for a portrait later, Mr. Johnson.” Elizabeth said as they took their leave.

“Ladies,” he answered and returned to his equipment.

“I almost shook his hand, Lizzie,” Emily whispered.

“Don’t worry about it. You’ll be fine. Come on.”

Entering the barn through a small door built into the large, main door, they stopped to let their eyes adjust. There must have been 30 kerosene lanterns suspended from the overhead beams or attached to hangers mounted on the vertical posts down the center.

Emily surveyed the scene before her. The center section of the barn was about 30 feet wide and 90 feet long. The dancers would have to navigate around the support posts in the center, but then, this was a barn dance. The area cleared for the dancing was normally filled with farm implements stored for the winter: plows, mowers, rakes, wagons and other sundry equipment needed to manage a large, modern farm. Some of this had been stuffed into the last two bays at the far end. Other apparatus, she realized they had passed in the barnyard on the way to the door. On either side, the mows were full of hay, laid in over the course of the summer, as well as, she noted, in some of the bays above the dance floor.

Near the small door through which they had entered was a large woodstove standing on a platform of bricks, its smoke pipe extending outside through a hole in the large, barn door. This stove, along with the heat filtering up from the cows, horses and other animals on the first floor, took the chill off.

She took in the barrels and buckets of water and pails of sand close at hand and also placed intermittently along the hay mows on either side. Fire in a barn could destroy a farm. Emily was surprised the Smythes would risk it but Elizabeth said they had been sponsoring these dances for years.

To the left, beyond the stove, were a number of tables laden with food and drink. Emily noted a couple of hams; at least one goose and two turkeys, still steaming; wheels of cheese; many loaves of bread, rolls and biscuits of various kinds; baskets of apples and pears — a true harvest feast. Nearby were kegs of drink mounted on the “X” shaped frames of saw-bucks. The smaller one, surrounded by younger children, she assumed contained sweet cider. The two larger ones must have hard cider and ale for the adults. She noted there were more kegs nearby.

About half way along the cleared floor, set to one side was a raised floor that looked to be planks laid across some 12” beams. This was the stage for the performers. The band was made up of two fiddle players, a short man with a bass that appeared almost too big for him but which he seemed to handle quite well, a banjo and a man with an instrument Emily had seen recently at other dances — a guitar.

She wasn’t sure this later one, the guitar, would catch on. It didn’t have the volume to get past the fiddles or the banjo. It was fine for accompanying quiet ballads but was overwhelmed by other instruments at dances.

The band was playing a reel and there were a half-dozen couples dancing along with it.

Elizabeth grabbed Emily’s hand and pulled her along the floor saying, “Come! You must meet Mary Smythe, since this IS her dance.”

Lizzie led Emily across the barn to a group of girls gathered at one of the food tables.

“Mary!” she called as they neared the group. “Mary, you must meet my cousin.”

Emily was still flustered from her near mistake with Mr. Johnson and she was nervous. She needn’t have been. Elizabeth made the introduction.

“Mary… My cousin Emily Mayfield from Chicago. Emily… Mary Smythe.”

“Emily, welcome to my party. Elizabeth has told me so much about you. How are you finding Vermont? What a splendid dress. Where did you find it?”

“Girls,” she announced to those gathered around her, “Come meet Emily from Chicago.”

Overwhelmed and barely able to get an answer in, Emily did her best to nod and smile and say “Thank you.”

Then the girls all came to greet and welcome her. She was surprised that most were warm and friendly and honestly seemed happy to receive a stranger in their midst. She soon felt comfortable among them and, at least temporarily, part of the group. Emily grabbed a bite to eat and listened to the other girls gossip about the boys at the dance.

Soon the band’s caller announced the start of a new dance. One of the girls grabbed Emily and pulled her into the line forming for the set. The caller walked the dancers thought the steps and then, after asking if everyone was ready, the band started.

Emily loved contra dance and knew this particular one well but needed to concentrate on being the follow rather than the lead. She found it easier as the dance went on through the figures and the progressions. All too soon the dance was over and she found herself paired with a young man who introduced himself as Sean Flannigan from Morrisville. She, in turn, gave her name.

“You’re Lizzie’s cousin?”

“That I am,” she returned.

“Well, welcome to Vermont,” he declared not realizing that he was at least the tenth person to do so. “Um… would you like something to drink?” he asked hesitantly.

It occurred to her that Sean was not completely comfortable meeting new people, especially girls. He seemed unsure of what to do or say next. She could understand that. Hearing the caller announce the next dance as a waltz, she said, “Thank you but I’m fine.” Then she asked, “I know this is a bit forward but… how about after this next dance?”

Sean looked at her, seemingly relieved that he wouldn’t have to make conversation, and answered, “That sounds good.”

He took her right hand in his and placed his left at her waist. She could barely feel it through her corset but that wasn’t important. She did have to remember to put her left hand on his shoulder, not at his waist as Emil would have done.

The music started and Emily had to concentrate on the dance. Soon, though, she was swept up in the rhythm and the steps and the man leading her through the dance. And it all seemed to flow naturally. Sean, she realized was quite a good dancer; he led with a gentle but firm ease that belied his discomfort talking to her earlier. After what felt an all to short time, the waltz was over.

“Now I’ll take that drink,” Emily informed Sean after they completed the final figure.

The couple proceeded to the cider keg at the end of the dance floor. Sean drew them each a mug full which they sipped while observing the next dance, another reel. Each commented on the talents of various couples while they watched. Emily was enjoying herself immensely. She engaged Sean in conversation and was able to determine that he was a journeyman surveyor, working with a master to set the final borders between several towns in Lamoille County. Some of the original grants dating back to King George or earlier were vague about exactly where one township ended and another began. She found it fascinating that in this day and age, on the verge of the twentieth century, they were still trying to sort out claims and grants made in the 1700’s.

Neither of them noticed the large figure approaching until he declared his presence with a loud, “So you’re Lizzie Acworth’s cousin from Chicago, huh?”

Emily turned and had to look up to meet the eyes of a boy who was over six foot tall. She could smell the whiskey on his breath even at a distance but it was over-powering when he leaned over to say, “Not much to look at. Are you?”

“And you are?” she asked with as much haughtiness as she could manage.

“John Miller,” he replied. “Com’on, lets dance,” he said as he grabbed her arm and started to pull he out to the dance floor. But she stopped and pulled her arm away.

“Let go of me,” she demanded.

He turned, surprised at her reaction. He reached to take her arm again but Emily would not have it. She did the only thing she could think of: she slapped his face.

“Leave me be!” she commanded.

He raised his fist and appeared ready to strike her back when Sean Flannigan stepped between them.

“The lady said no, John, leave her alone!”

The two boys glared at each other. Miller seemed ready to fight Sean when several other people rushed up, including Peter Smythe, Mary’s father and the host of the evening’s dance.

“Miller!” he yelled, “Stop right there.”

John Miller froze and looked at the older man.

“Sir?” he asked.

“You’re drunk John,” Mr. Smythe informed him. “And you’re bothering my guests. You need to leave. Now!”

That final command would brook no dispute. The Miller boy deflated and took his leave grumbling about how bad the party was and sprinkling threats left and right as he made his way to the door.

When Miller was finally out the door Mary’s father turned to address Emily. “Are you O.K. Miss Mayfield?”

“Yes sir. Thank you.”

“I’m sorry you had to endure that.” Then he addressed the others who had gathered around. “Alright, the excitement’s over. Let’s all get back to the evening’s entertainment.”

Emily and Sean watched the current dance as they finished their cider. He then invited her out for the next one. As she swung through the figures and steps, Emily tried to forget the incident with John Miller as her thoughts drifted to the daydream on the drive into Stowe. Here she was living that dream. Her skirts swirled about her as she spun happily. Emily finally felt she was home — where she belonged.

Later, during a general lull in the festivities, Emily and Elizabeth had a bite to eat and then stepped outside to see Mr. Johnson about the promised portrait.

The photographer, it seems, had been busy most of the evening and was down to his last glass plate so the girls timing was most fortuitous.

Mr. Johnson had a large grey cloth nailed on to the side of the barn to cover the wood siding. If front of this was a pair of stools. The girls settled their skirts around their legs as they sat. Johnson slid the large glass negative into the side of his camera and then stepped up and with a muttered an apologetic, ”May I?” made a couple minor adjustments to their positions, fluffed out their skirts a bit and returned to the camera.

“Now,” he said, “You must hold your breath or it will cloud the image. And try not to blink when the flash-powder goes off. Ready?”

They nodded their assent.

“Alright, here we go. A little smile.” He removed the cover from the lens and counted down, “Three. Two. One.”

The flash-powder burned; incredibly bright in the darkness.

“There!” he said.

“When might it be ready, Mr. Johnson?” Elizabeth inquired.

He stopped for a moment to consider this. “I would say Wednesday, Thursday at the latest.”

“I’ll stop by your studio on Friday when I come into the village.”

“Could you make a second print for me, please?” asked Emily.

“Certainly, Miss. That will be no problem at all.”

The two girls went back inside. Emily looked around for Sean and spotted him across the room. However, before she even started over to meet him she was approached by another boy who asked if she would join him for the next dance. She did.

Emily danced with several other partners before she joined with Sean again for another waltz. Whirling around the dance floor she was smiling; this was probably the happiest she had ever been.

Eventually, the evening wound down. Elizabeth found Emily and suggested that they should leave. Emily wanted to stay — she was having great fun — but she realized the night had to end so she reluctantly assented.

Elizabeth and Emily made the rounds to say their goodbyes and then exited the barn. Hand in hand the girls walked down the lane laughing and reminiscing about the evening. They found Stanley, contented, where they’d left him. In spite of the evening’s chill he seemed comfortable. Elizabeth decided to leave the blanket on him for the trip across town; they would not push Stanley on the drive home and the blanket would keep him comfortable.

The sky was clear, the moon was full and the road was lit almost as if it were twilight, not midnight. As they approached the bridge crossing the Gold Brook, Emily realized she should have used the privy before they’d left the Smythe farm.

“Would you stop at the bridge?” she asked.

“Whatever for?” Elizabeth wanted to know.

”I need to pee,” Emily answered.

“Oh.”

Elizabeth reigned in Stanley at the bridge. Emily jumped down and walked to the roadside at the end of the bridge. She squatted, pulled her dress, petticoats and drawers out of the way and relieved the pressure on her bladder.

Climbing back to the roadway she said, “That certainly feels better.”

Elizabeth gave a quick laugh and returned, “I’ll bet it does.”

They both turned at the sound of approaching horses.

“Good thing you’re finished,” said Elizabeth with a laugh.

Her mirth quickly faded as one horse was urged forward and skidded slightly as it was reined in between Emily and the buggy.

“And what have we here?” John Miller inquired. “Well it’s Lizzie Acworth and her bitch of a cousin from Chi Ca Go.” He drew the city name out to three separate words.

“What do you want, John?” Elizabeth asked.

“Shut up bitch. I want your cousin. She owes me.”

At that he jumped down from his horse and walked up to Emily. She backed away, on to the bridge itself, but he grabbed her saying, “Oh no girly. There’s no Sean Flannigan to protect you this time. You’re mine!”

Forcing her to the side of the bridge he pushed his mouth against hers and kissed her. He smelled of sweat and whiskey. He reached down to get under her dress and petticoat.

“I’m going to make a woman out of you, you virgin cunt,” her told her.

She tried to push him away and squeezed her legs together in an attempt to ward him off. Then she heard Elizabeth yell, “You leave her alone, you bastard.”

Emily looked up and John Miller also stopped for a moment to see Elizabeth jump down from the buggy. But Isaac Miller was there in front of her, grabbing her to prevent any interference she might attempt.

John Miller returned his attention to the girl in front of him. He had his hand under her dress and was reaching up. Even though her legs were tight together he slid his hand up her thigh and between the opening in her drawers. But where he expected to find her slit he encountered something else.

“What the…,” he exclaimed and pulled his hand away as if burned. “You’re a friggin’ guy!”

He stepped back, horrified, and Emily thought for a moment she would be okay and he would just leave, until he said, “You sick bastard.” He punched her in the stomach.

Even through the hurt, she felt the boning of her corset break under the impact. The pain of his fist driving into her was outside of anything in her experience.

“You… You…” John Miller sputtered.

He turned, started to move away, but then returned to her. She could feel his rage radiating. He bent and pulled something out of his boot. The moonlight glinted off the steel of the blade in his hand.

Time seemed to slow as her eyes were glued to the blade. She watched, frozen as it came at her. She saw it enter her belly. In a detached way she noted every inch of that penetration. There wasn’t any significant pain - for a second, no worse than a bad cut on her finger. Then, agony. It spread. He twisted the knife and moved it around to do as much damage as possible before he pulled it out.

Emily was in shock. In disbelief she brought her hands to her belly, trying to stop the pain and the bleeding. At some point in the back of her mind she worried that she was bleeding over Lizzie’s brand new dress. Then her knees gave out and she slumped down onto the planking of the bridge.

She saw the Millers leave. She saw Lizzie rush over to her. She felt her cousin’s arms wrap around her and hug her. She heard, at a distance, Lizzie’s entreaty,
”Emily! Oh Emmy…”

Emily coughed and grimaced at the pain.

“It hurts Lizzie.”

“I know. But you’re going to be O.K. Come on. We’ll get you to a doctor.” She started to lift her cousin but stopped at Emily’s exclamation of pain.

“I can’t,” winced Emily.

“Then I’ll go get help.”

Elizabeth tried to extract herself. Emily grabbed her arm, saying, “Please stay. I don’t want to die alone.”

So Elizabeth held her.

“I’m sorry I’m ruining your dress.”

Elizabeth let out a sob

“Lizzie,” she managed, “I’m cold.”

Elizabeth could feel her shaking and pulled the cape over Emily.

“Emmy, I sorry.”

Her cousin’s voice seemed distant to Emily.

The last thing she remembered thinking, maybe even saying was, “I love you Lizzie.”

And she thought she heard, “I love you Emmy.”

Gray swirled about Emily. She didn’t know there could be so many shades of gray. There was no color. “Why?” she wondered. The dim twilight had no source, it just surrounded her. Yet she could see nothing, not even herself.

She also wondered why she felt no pain. She remembered the dance, the bridge, the knife. What was going on? Where was she? She thought she must be dead — her memories included the blood leaking through her fingers as she held her belly. “What’s happening to me?” she screamed, silently. She heard no voice.

Panic overwhelmed her. Her thoughts raced. She cried. She flailed out but felt naught. She was floating, swimming, it seemed; could touch nothing and feel nothing around her. Other than the gray clouds she saw, (Around her? In her head?), she had no sense of anything else: hot or cold, up or down, time passing. Thrashing about, her hand finally touched something - and something touched her. She explored.

Her hand felt her belly and her belly felt her hand. This was worth pursuing; a sensation in the void. Emily moved her hand up her torso and encountered a breast. She wondered how she could feel a breast when she wasn’t really a girl. But her fingers were touching her own nipple and that nipple was certainly not the tiny male version she’d had previously. As she investigated this new piece of anatomy she felt a connection between that nipple and her crotch — something was reacting down there and it was different from what she remembered as Emil.

Emily began to suspect that a major change had taken place. But still… She slid her hand down across her belly, felt the curly hair she expected but further down… nothing. Well not exactly nothing but not what she’d known before. Emil had timidly investigated a girl’s privates once and that was what Emily discovered at the base of her belly. What she had only explored then, she could feel being explored now. Soon simple examination turned into an almost frantic pushing and stroking and rubbing. When she came, the sensation was much different than what Emil had ever experienced; she felt it in every part of her body rather than concentrated on that one small area.

After a time, she had no concept of how long, she dozed.

She awoke to find herself naked, in a bed in a large white room. Sitting up she noticed that she was, physically, still a girl; it hadn’t been a dream — or she was still in a dream. Emily stood and ran her hands up over her body. Cupping her breasts she felt their fullness. They were larger than some girls she knew, certainly she thought, bigger than Lizzie’s, but they didn’t seem too big. Her waist was much smaller than Emil’s had been and her hips had gained a significant feminine shape. She wished for a mirror to be able to see herself fully.

“Turn around, my dear,” a voice told her.

Emily whirled to see a woman standing in the doorway. She was a large woman, much taller than Emily with an ample bust, and quite large hips. She wore a simple white robe.

Emily immediately felt that she could trust this person but wanted to know, “Who are you?”

“That is not important at the moment. You should turn to your left. There is a reflecting glass.”

Emily turned and saw her reflection and was astonished. She brought her hands to her face in surprise and took a gasping breath. The girl in the mirror was quite beautiful. Never in her wildest dreams could she have hoped to look like this. She ran her hands down over her body again and turned to view her profile.

Turning to face the woman who was now beside her, she asked, “Did you do this to me?”

“I did.”

Emily’s eyes filled with tears.

“Thank you.”

The woman reached out her arms, inviting Emily into her embrace. Emily felt herself drawn in and encircled by the woman’s arms. Her head barely reached the taller woman’s bosom. She was overcome. Everything that had happened came back to her - the tears and sobs flowed.

Cried out, Emily recovered her composure finally and stepped away.

Still sniffing she realized her tears had soaked into the woman’s robe.

“Oh! I’m sorry.” She started to reach towards the woman but then decided she couldn’t do anything about it. “I’m sorry about your robe.”

“That is quite all right, my dear. Do not worry yourself.”

Then she asked, “Are you happy with your new body?”

Emily looked puzzled. “It’s… it’s perfect.”

The tall woman looked down at her and smiled. “It is not exactly perfect. You are still human.”

After this last comment sunk in Emily looked up and asked, “Can I ask? Who… or what are you?”

“Ah,” Again the smile. “There is a question without an easy answer. Come my dear. Let us go sit and talk.”

Emily, suddenly uncomfortable with her nakedness asked, “Um, Ma’am? Could I, ah, get something to put on?”

“Oh! Yes, certainly.” She waved her hand and Emily was clad in robes similar to her own.

They left the room and walked down a long hall until they entered a room with a large doorway at one end. The view was stunning. They were high on a hill looking out over brilliant blue water of a large, half circle bay. Sails were visible on the water in the distance and a large island was visible on the horizon. It definitely was not Vermont. The older woman indicated they should sit on a padded bench looking out at the view.

“Where are we?” Emily asked.

“No place on your world,” was the only answer she received.

Something occurred to Emily.

“Am I dead? Is this heaven?”

“No, this is not heaven, at least as you know it. Although it could be… As to your other question, yes and no.”

“How can I be dead and not dead?”

“You were murdered. You do remember that, yes?”

Emily nodded.

“You now have the choice. You can pass on or you can try to get back to your own world.”

Emily let this sink in. Then she asked, “Are you God?”

That brought a laugh from the other woman.

“I am… one. Of many.”

“Many,” Emily repeated.

“That would certainly surprise Pastor Roberts,” she thought to herself.

The woman laughed and said, “Yes he probably would be surprised.”

At Emily’s confused look Ceres said, “I can hear what you think.”

Emily mulled this over.

“Can I ask your name?”

“You can ask, but I will not tell you. A god’s name is a powerful thing and should be known only to the gods. But I have been called by many names. I am the earth mother to some. The Greeks of your history called me Demeter and the Romans Ceres.”

“The Goddess of Agriculture?” Emily asked. “Your statue is on the statehouse in Montpelier.”

Ceres smiled.

“It is,” she agreed, “although that one does not look much like me. Your ancients in Greece and Rome made better images. I wish I had been there when Larkin Mead was carving that image but… Still, it is nice to nice to have your kind still honor me.”

“But why would you, a goddess, help me?”

“Because I care for your kind, for women and their birth cycles, for mothers and their children; I am one of the few deities that take an interest in the affairs of humankind. I help things grow, and not just plants but humans and animals also. And you are one who should nurture others.”

“But I’m not really a girl, or least I wasn’t before you changed me.”

“Yes you were. But you were in the wrong body. Sometimes that happens. I try to correct it when I can.”

Emily was quiet for a long while after hearing this. Then she remembered something Ceres had mentioned earlier.

“You said I could go back?”

“I did. But you have to work for it.”

“Why? How?” Emily wanted to know.

“My, but you are a curious one,” Ceres commented. “Do not you know better than to question a god?”

“No I don’t,” complained Emily with a stamp of her foot. “All I know is what they preach in church about God in heaven and Christ on Earth. And you’re not Him. And I’m dead but not in Heaven, or hell. I don’t know what to think.”

Ceres reached over to pull Emily closer.

“There, there, my dear. Do not worry yourself. You have to work to get back because, even though I am a goddess, I am not all-powerful. I cannot simply put you back on your world. I could not even get you here with out assistance from another — you might know her as Phoebe or Artemis. The strength needed to bring a mortal across the bridge into the realm of the gods is more than I possess; very few gods do. I needed her help to pull you from that wooden bridge on your world. If you want to get back, you can. That is simpler than bringing you here although it will still not be easy for you.”

“What do I have to do?” asked Emily.

“You must get someone from your world to touch you.”

“Is that all?”

“That is all. However you can only appear in that world near the bridge where you were murdered and you can only come out on nights with a full moon.” Seeing Emily’s confused expression she continued, Do not ask child, it has to do with the balance between worlds, spirit and flesh.”

Thinking over the implications of this kept Emily silent for a while.

“What happens to me between full moons?”

“You will sleep. It will be as if a single night had passed rather than a month. Although your dreams maybe… disquieting.”

“What happens if I decide not to try to go back? Where do I go?”

Ceres looked pained, as if she did not want to answer. Eventually, she did.

“I cannot tell you. I am sorry but there are rules that you must live by and there are also those that I must live by.”

“Can you at least give me a hint?” Emily prodded.

Ceres smirked, spread her hands and shrugged her shoulders in an all-too-human apology.

Emily just sat for a long while. Ceres, beside her, waited with hands folded in her lap.

After a while, Emily stood, walked over to the edge of the portico and stood watching the scene before her. There were boats on the bay. She could just make out people moving in the town below and wagons entering and leaving the same. Turning back to the woman seated behind her she wondered, “Are they all real? Could I go down there and touch them? Could they see me?”

“They are real,” Ceres answered. “They are human and live their lives much as you would. But, no, you could not touch them, nor would they see you. You do not exist for them on this world.”

Emily sat on the rail at the edge of the porch.

“So!” she said. “I can’t stay here, right?”

Ceres nodded her assent.

“I can pass on to some… place. But you can’t tell me where. It might be good or it might be bad.” Then something else occurred to her. “Or, it might be nothing at all. And you can’t tell me. Right?”

Again Ceres nodded.

“Or… I can try to get back home, with no guarantee of success?”

Yet another nod came from the goddess.

There seemed to be no choice at all to Emily.

“I want to try to get back to Vermont,” she said firmly.

“So be it,” stated the goddess.

But Emily could not quite let it go at that.

“Can you not tell me anything?” she implored.

Ceres looked at her for a moment before saying, “I think you will be an excellent mother someday.”

Emily was shocked. She had never even considered such an idea.

“Truly?” she asked.

Ceres just looked back, her face betrayed nothing.

“O.K. You can’t say anything. But thank you.”

The goddess smiled.

“What do I have to do?” Emily wondered.

“Not a thing,” Ceres told her. “Tonight you will fall asleep. The night of every full moon you will awaken on the bridge where you will try to make contact with the people of your world. But you must know, they will see you as a specter and may be afraid. You may need to wait a very long time before someone will let you make contact. It is very likely they will be fearful and try to avoid you. Remember that the only way for you to succeed will be for you to be very patient and not give up.”

“One more thing you must understand. Once you choose this course, you may not change your mind. You might stay on that bridge forever if you cannot make contact with someone. Do you understand?”

“I do ma’am.”

“Then that is how it will be. However there is a thing you need to know.”

“What’s that?” Emily asked.

“The link between this world and your world is a tenuous but powerful realm. Things often will be exaggerated.”

“How do you mean?”

The goddess looked thoughtful for a moment, then continued. “You can do great damage to the others of your people that you encounter. Your fears can overpower them, your despair will amplify their own, and your anger can do them great harm. You must be very careful, especially because you need one of them, to touch you. And remember this; they have to reach out on their own to touch you, not the other way around. That is the way of it.”

Emily turned back to look at the view while she pondered this information. She saw the greens and browns of the hills, the sparkling blue-green of the bay, the azure of the sky and the brilliant whites of the few high, puffy clouds. She let the images wash over her as she contemplated what she should do.

She looked back at Ceres, still seated waiting for her decision.

“I still want to try to go back,” she told the goddess.

“I expected you would.”

“May I ask one more question?”

“Only one?” asked Ceres.

Emily laughed. “I think so… Will I ever see you again?”

End of Part 1

Copyright 2007 JLW

Jamie, Wendy, Christmas

This is my first contribution and, I hope, a Christmas story the community might enjoy.

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Admin Note: Originally published on BigCloset TopShelf on Thursday 12-28-2006 at 8:17 pm, this retro classic Christmas Special was pulled out of the closet, and re-presented for our newer readers. ~Sephrena
 

Jamie

We’d been dating since late winter. In August we were sharing an apartment. My roommate for the last school year had transferred and Wendy’s lease had run out on the first of June so we decided to spend the summer together. We wanted to see if we should to move in together for — well, maybe, permanently. Both of us were working full time but we’d finagled it so our schedules were approximately the same.

Of course, lovers spending the summer together is such a stereotype, but we didn’t care; we lived it for all it was worth. We spent warm evenings on the porch reading or on the couch watching videos; mornings reading the newspaper together — Sundays we’d splurge on the New York Times; days at the beach and nights on the town; breakfasts at a local diner or dinners at cheap restaurants — we were both twenty, not-quite-poor college students and in love.

And we learned about making love. Now neither of us was a virgin and we’d had our share of sex together while dating, but that summer we found out so many new things about how to please each other. We tried the different positions and places; played the games and roles; bought a couple of toys; tried trying each other up and giving “sensuous” massages. Neither of us were very good either of these latter two; we’d usually end up giggling. We found out what felt good and what felt great, what was uncomfortable and what hurt; what worked for us and what didn’t. Exploration and discovery were our modus operandi.

Mostly, though, we learned much more about each other; the family stories, our fears and dreams, our likes and dislikes. Each found more about the other’s habits — some that were endearing, others that were annoying. Gradually we started to live as a couple not just as bedmates.

The one thing I hadn’t told her about was my “Big Secret” — and I mean that with the capitals and the quotes. I was truly in love with Wendy and felt that this might be “IT” — might be the life-love most of us long for. But I knew that before we settled in together for the fall semester I had to tell her.

I had to tell her that I’m a cross dresser.

I really don’t know where it all began. No… that’s not quite true I do know when I first wore “girl’s” clothes. It was during a Christmas pageant in kindergarten. Whatever my costume was — I was probably an elf - I got to wear tights — white tights. And they felt good. My sisters wore tights. I wanted to keep them. I was in tears when told they were only for dress-up and that “boys don’t wear tights.” I remember thinking, “Why can’t I wear them for dress-up?”

You should know that I have four sisters: three older, one younger. Always, their under-things were in the laundry or hanging up to dry. All I had were jockey shorts and tee shirts. That is probably what started it.

In my family everyone had their turn at doing the laundry (and the dishes and cooking for that matter.) Once I was old enough, I was part of the rotation for laundry. I should note that everyone also lent a hand milking the cows, mucking out the manure and doing the haying; it was an equal-opportunity family — everyone had to do everything. Once you could lend a hand, you did.

But I digress…

Granted, in kindergarten I wasn’t yet doing the laundry but I did know that girl’s clothes were much nicer than boy’s. Later, my sisters’ undies — panties, bras, nylons, tights — were in the clothes that I washed and folded. They always seemed so much prettier and more exciting than any of my clothes. I tried them on whenever I could.

Sometime along in first or second grade, my mother surprised me while I was in a sister’s dress. I was lost in admiring myself in the mirror when she came through the door and froze.

“Jamie,” she said gently, “Come here.”

I skipped over to her and asked, “Don’t I look pretty?”

She made I noise that I now suspect was a cut-off sob. Sinking down onto her knees to be at my level, she reached out and put her hands on my shoulders.

“Jamie dear, you have to listen to me. Okay?”

Looking up at her seeing how serious she was, I was suddenly scared.

“Uh huh,” I said.

“Sweetie, you’re a boy. Boys shouldn’t wear girl’s clothes. Do you understand me?”

Then I knew I’d done something wrong and could only look down at the floor.

My mother put her hand under my chin and made me look up at her.

“This is very important, Jamie,” she admonished me. “You mustn’t ever let anybody see you in your sister’s clothes. I know you want to put them on but you’re a boy. And boys don’t wear their sister’s clothes.” She said this very slowly so it would sink in.

Then she repeated, “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, mama.”

“Okay,” she said. Then added, “And yes, you do look very pretty. But you have to promise me; don’t ever play dress up when anyone else might see you. You make sure you are alone and don’t let anyone else find out. Okay?”

“Okay, mama.”

“Good,” she acknowledged. “Now, take that off and put your own stuff back on. Daddy’s making ice cream and it’s almost ready!”

Looking back, I know I remember it clearly; she didn’t say don’t do it, she said don’t get caught. From then on though, I was always very careful.

But then one Halloween, I must have been in fifth or sixth grade, I forgot all that she’d said. A couple of my sisters thought it would be a good idea to dress me up as a girl for treat or treat. I don’t know if one or more of them really knew my secret, I suspect they might have. I couldn’t have been more thrilled - big mistake.

Most of the details of that night have faded. I do remember I wore a white blouse, a full slip, a blue jumper and shiny, black Mary Janes. And white tights. My sisters also applied red lipstick and a pair of my grandmother’s clip-on earrings. I don’t recall what we did about my hair but it didn’t matter. I was so happy that night.

The next day was another story. The next day was hell. Classmates had seen me. I was teased and taunted for being a sissy and a pussy. And it never let up — my reputation never recovered. Then I remembered my mother’s warning. It’s stayed with me ever since — dressing-up (as I then thought of it) could be a dangerous thing.

Luckily we sold the farm and moved across the state the next spring.

In spite of all the bad stuff, I was hooked.

Whenever I could I’d put on my sisters’ panties, pantyhose, blouses, dresses, skirts: if it fit I would try it. Later, after most of them moved away or went to college or I left for college myself, it got harder. I still dressed when I could, but I was very, very careful.

Living in a dorm freshman year wasn’t conducive to my “hobby.” Then, for my sophomore year — freedom; I got an apartment off-campus. Even though I shared the place with another guy, we each had our own bedroom so I had more opportunity to indulge my inclinations — even if only in the confines of my bedroom. Privacy is a wonderful thing. I was able to purchase my own women’s underwear and clothes at thrift shops and on sale without any of my acquaintances knowing. I could wear panties, sometimes pantyhose and during colder weather, when layers of clothes would cover what lay beneath, even bras and camisoles.

Since my disposable income was quite limited my collection of ladies under things was not very extensive. Still, I enjoyed what I had. But I’d learned to never let on to anyone. In the years since, that Halloween, no one has found out my secret. I had a couple heart-pounding close calls but was never discovered.

Then I met Wendy.

Wendy was everything I could have asked for in a girlfriend. She was widely read — we talked about books; she was a film buff — we compared directors and actors; she knew art — we discussed Impressionism, Post-Modernism, Dadaism even.

And she liked baseball.

Okay. So I grew up in New England. I couldn’t have rooted for anyone but the Red Sox: to do so would be a worse sin than… well, cross-dressing. Wendy is from New York — City - Queens actually. Thank goodness she and her family are all Mets fans. We could watch each other’s team and cheer them on together. Even when they competed against each other we would applaud the good plays and cringe at the bad ones — no matter who made them. If she’d been a Yankees fan, I don’t know… we probably wouldn’t have made it past the third date — we certainly wouldn’t be living together.

I’d been worrying all summer about how to tell Wendy about cross-dressing but could never get up the nerve. Of course I was a bit afraid she would reject me outright. I thought I knew her well enough and was pretty sure she wouldn’t reject me over this but still... the lessons of my youth remained.

And cross-dressing was not the same as how you folded the towels or whether the toilet paper came over the top or down behind. I was deeply in love with Wendy and I thought the feeling was mutual. However, this was a part of me she would have to accept if we were going to spend our lives together. I had to tell her soon.

So…

One Sunday morning I decided to let her “discover” my fetish and I’d accept the consequences. We made breakfast and went for a run together; grabbed a Times and returned to the apartment. I took a shower and then turned the bathroom over to her. She rinsed the sweat off quickly and then ran a bath — luckily our place had plenty of hot water. While she was shaving her legs and then soaking in the tub I got ready.

Actually, “got ready” is a bit melodramatic. All I did was put on a pair of bikini briefs that had a bit of lace detail around the waist — nothing terribly sexy but they were comfy and one of my favorites. Then I just pulled on my shorts and a tee.

I was puttering around the kitchen, putting away the dishes, when she rejoined me. I turned to kiss her and, as I thought she might and she often does, Wendy slipped her hands around behind me and down under my shorts to caress my butt. When her fingers touched the unexpected lace they stopped. I felt them double-check — confirming what they had encountered — then they froze for a moment before retreating. She took a step back, a puzzled look on her face.

“Are you… Are you wearing my undies?”

She did have a pair of the same kind.

“No,” I replied, paused for a second and continued quietly, ‘They’re mine.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said… they’re mine.”

Wendy let that sink in. She gave a little shake of her head in disbelief.

“Yours? They’re yours?”

I nodded.

“Huh?” She stopped, obviously still trying to absorb this idea. “Wait a minute. You have your own?”

“Yeah.”

She stood there, just looking at me, at a loss for words. Her hands were up near her shoulders, palms forward, fingers curled over into loose fists; defensively ready to ward off… something.

“I like to wear women’s clothes.” There. I said it. Tense, almost shivering with fear and waiting for her reaction, I stood, holding the sink behind me for stability.

She backed up another step, crossed her arms over her chest in an unconscious shield. Her brow furrowed; a lost, bewildered, indeed almost panicked, look on her face.

“Jamie,” she said quietly, “I don’t understand.”

“Wendy, I been trying to figure out how to tell you, like… well, all summer. I’m a cross-dresser. I like to wear girl’s clothes.”

“Ookay..” she said, dragging the word out. She paused for a moment and then, all in a rush asked, “Like, what? What do you wear? No, wait a minute. Why?”

Another pause and she repeated, “Jamie, I don’t understand.”

“It’s a long story,” I said and then asked, “Can we go sit down?”

She just nodded.

Grasping for any delay I asked, “You want more coffee?”

Breaking out of her somewhat dazed attitude she glanced briefly over at the coffee maker and then slowly returning her eyes to me she said, simply, “Yeah.”

Then she gave a shake, added, “I’ll be in the living room,” turned and left the kitchen.

It took me a second to release the sink I’d been gripping so hard and go through the motions of making cups of coffee.

I entered the living room. She was sitting at one end of the couch, feet up on it, hugging her knees against her chest, looking tense - like a scared kid - like her whole world had been upended on her. Well, I suppose it had.

I gave her the coffee — she took it with both hands and held it on top of her knees - a wall between us. Wendy would normally keep her coffee near her while reading or working, reach for it without looking, take a sip and return the mug to it’s parking place — hardly even noticing the whole procedure. This has led to the occasional spill when she’d let go while setting it down on the edge of a table. Her hiding behind it like this was not good.

I sat down at the other end, tucked my feet up under me and took a sip before beginning.

Starting with a deep breath I related my story; about growing up wanting to be like my sisters and having their nice clothes; about the Christmas show and the white tights; about the Halloween dress-up and how white tights again made an impression on me; about how wearing pretty under-things made me feel nice; about buying clothes at thrift shops. I told her honestly that sometimes cross-dressing was a sexual turn-on but generally it was just comforting and felt good, felt right; sensual maybe, but mostly it seemed natural.

Eventually my tale wound down.

She just stared at me; actually, her eyes seemed focused beyond me. Wendy had the look she gets when she was puzzling through a tough problem — working it over in her mind until she resolved it or decided on an alternative approach.

She re-centered her attention on me.

“You’ve been doing this since you were a kid?”

“Yes.”

“And you have your own — girl’s — clothes?”

“Yes.”

“Here?”

I nodded.

“Where?”

“That old suitcase in the back of the closet.”

“Okay,” she said. With both hands still cupped around her coffee mug, she took nervous sip. I was amazed she had any left; I’d gulped down mine and set my aside my cup minutes ago. I could tell she was on the verge of a question but she appeared hesitant about asking it or maybe uncertain about hearing an answer.

I saw the point where she firmed her resolve, slowly and deliberately Wendy placed the mug on the window-sill behind the couch, brought her arms back to reinforce the barricade created by her knees. Looking straight at me she asked, “Do you want to be a girl?”

“What?” I was totally surprised by the question. I suppose I shouldn’t have been; Wendy wasn’t stupid and it was a logical connection to make even if, usually inaccurate.

“Do you want to be a girl?” she repeated. “Are you a, what is it, um, transsexual, transgendered, whatever it’s called? Do you want to be a girl?”

‘No, I don’t.”

“Honestly?” she asked.

“Honestly!” I said.

Her shoulders, which had been drawn in and tense, slumped. “Oh thank God!” she exclaimed.

At that she pivoted over the balls of her feet, dropped her knees to the couch and launched herself at me. The tears were flowing before she reached my end of the couch and wrapped her arms about me.

“Oh Jamie,” she sobbed, “I thought… I was so afraid...” and buried her head on my shoulder.

Wendy

I don’t think I’d ever been more shocked than the day I reached into Jamie’s shorts and encountered those undies.

The only time that comes close was when a good friend in high school came out that she was a lesbian. But with her… well I think I had unconsciously suspected. And it wasn’t like she was in love with me, quite the opposite. She just let me know one day that she wasn’t attracted to boys and she had a Girlfriend (with a capital “G”).

So I listened while Jamie told me about his - his what? his fetish? his need for women’s clothes? Anyway, I grew more concerned that this was more than just — cross-dressing. I thought maybe he was trying to tell me he was transgendered. Actually I believe my thinking at the time was more on the line of, “Oh shit. He wants to be a girl.”

Now, I’m not narrow-minded — I knew a number of kids in the LGBT community on campus. Some were good friends. But I’m straight. I’ve never been attracted to girls and, as I listened to Jamie, I kept reading into it that he really wanted to be a girl. I was on the edge of panic. I was in love with this man. It sounds a cliché but I thought he was my soul mate. I keep thinking about a future together but now… I didn’t think I could love him as a her. When his account finally came to any end, I asked him. My fingers almost hurt I’d been holding that damn coffee mug so hard. When he said “no” the dam broke. I cried — hard and long. All the while he held me, stoking my hair, trying to calm me, telling me it was okay. But he was crying too.

When I’d finally, we’d finally, cried ourselves out, we separated a bit. He handed me some tissues and grabbed a couple for himself. We went through the classic wiping of tears and blowing of noses and then sat, facing each other, cross-legged. He reached over and took my hands, looked directly at me and said, “I love you, Wendy.”

“I know, Jamie. I love you too, but, this is, I don’t know… I need some time… Damn it, Jamie! I don’t know what to think.”

“I know,” he acknowledged.

After a while of just sitting, holding his hands and looking at him, it hit me. “This is real, isn’t it?” I asked.

He nodded his head.

Quiet filled the room. I mulled over what he’d said. Questions filled my mind. Could I live with and love a man who did this? Would it be different if it was hidden — like if he just wore under-things? What if he wanted to, say, wear a dress all day? Around the house? Or even outside? Could I deal with that? Would I want to be seen with him?

Then, unbidden came the thought: what would he look like in a dress? I raised my gaze to his and that notion was driven away by seeing the anxiety on his face.

“Oh sweetie,” I said. “We can deal with this. I think… I need to get used to it, though.”

At that point I again noticed the pressure from all the coffee I’d consumed - I’d been ignoring it

Jumping up I said, “I need to pee.” I rushed from the room, partly from urgency and partly from a need to escape. I sat for the necessary relief and then for much longer, chin on my hands, tracing the pattern of the floor tiles with my eyes, contemplating what to do. Finally, I decided on a plan of action, finished in the bathroom and steeling myself to accept the consequences, I returned to the living room.

Jamie was looking forlorn, still sitting as when I’d left. I walked over, grabbed his hand and, saying “Come on!” dragged him off the couch and pulled him into the bedroom.

“Get out your suitcase,” I told him.

A look of panic crossed his face.

“No!” I said. “We need to do this now - before I lose my nerve.”

You’ve heard the phase, “moving like a condemned man”? Well I think I understood it somewhat that afternoon in our bedroom. Jamie approached the closet hesitantly. Then I could see a change as if he firmed his resolve to act this drama through to its conclusion and accept the consequences. I was learning Jamie was like that — he might agonize over a decision, but once made, he followed through.

He moved a couple boxes out of the way, pulled the bag out and put it on the bed.

A question came to me.

“How did you get out the undies you have on?”

He gave a little smirk.

“I didn’t. I had them buried under some stuff in the dresser.”

Jamie opened the suitcase to reveal his stash — all very painstakingly packed away. I must say it was a bit incongruous. Jamie isn’t sloppy — I mean he doesn’t throw his clothes all over the place — but he is a bit careless about how he puts his stuff away. Sox and undies get jammed into one drawer, tee-shirts, half-folded, into another. Shirts don’t really get hung on hangers — more the hanger gets hung with a shirt stuck on it. But here he had a suitcase with his — girl clothes — carefully, neatly arranged.

He gently placed his items on the bed.

There was a pile of panties, all painstakingly folded. And not just plain cotton briefs but satin and lace and mesh; bikinis, hipsters and boy shorts. I remember thinking that some of them were nicer, sexier, than my own.

He had: three bras — two plain white and one a black, lace, demi; a half-dozen camis and tank-tops; several blouses — most simple, cotton or poly prints but one a very elegant light-blue silk number. There were several skirts — a demin, mid-thigh, mini; a very nice pleated, grey, wool, A-line, one; a few others including a couple, India print cotton “hippy” skirts and a couple pair of slacks and women’s shorts.

There were several pair of pantyhose, a full and a half slip, a couple pair of trouser socks and, I couldn’t believe it, a garter-belt and hose. “Damn,” I thought, “I don’t even own a garter-belt.”

And he had two dresses. One was a light, yellow, sun-dress and the other was a solid blue, half-sleeve, button-down-the-front, shirt-dress.

There were three pairs of shoes: one of simple black flats, on pair of simple sandals and finally, dark-blue, sling-back pumps with about a 2” heel.

All this he laid out on the bed. Watching him I got the sense that he was almost reverent about this, his treasure-trove. But then, looking closely as he picked up the sun-dress and held it up, seemingly oblivious to my presence, I realized that he had the look I’ve seen on girl-friends when shopping: he was visualizing how it would look on him.

Finally, the last thing out was a small black, nylon bag.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Huh?” he came out of his reverie. “Oh! Um, make-up, jewelry and,” he hesitated a moment and blushed, “uh, breast forms.”

“Excuse me?”

“Breast forms,” he repeated. “You know? You put them in your bra to…” he started to explain.

I cut him off - “I know what they’re for!”

But I couldn’t say anything else; I didn’t know what to say.

When the suitcase was empty he stepped back, tried to put his hands in his pockets, remembered he had none in his shorts - finally just crossed his arms defensively across his chest and looked inquiringly at me. I just stood for a moment trying to absorb it all.

I stepped over to the bed and examined what was laid out before me. This was way more than I expected when I decided to drag him in here to show me his “dress-up” clothes. I don’t know what I was expecting — maybe a couple pair of panties, nylons and, I don’t know — a dress? But this? This was… serious.

I picked up the shirt-dress and examine the tag — Donna Karan. And the panties some were name brand too. There was stuff here from Nordstrom and Macy’s as well as Target and Penny’s.

Then something else stuck me — we were the same size! Now, I’m 5’-6”, but Jamie is only 5’- 7” and we are both pretty slim. I’m not anorexic or anything but I run, I work out — my hips a pretty small — for a girl. Jamie’s hips are smaller than mine (I may be an athlete, but I’m still a girl.) I don’t have an hour-glass figure, by any means but my waist size is less than his and my butt is bigger. Looking at his panties, I realized that I could wear any one of them. Some better than others maybe, but all would fit.

I picked up one of his bras — 36B — exactly my size. I used to be self-conscious about my small bust but had long since gotten past that. And Jamie had never shown any disappointment with my lack of endowment. Indeed, he was very attentive to my breasts during our love-making.

But this… okay, the clothes were a surprise: both the quality and the quantity. But the same size? This was just getting weird.

However, I could deal with this — I thought. I loved Jamie. It’s just clothes I reflected — he’s not gay, he’s not trans-gendered, he just likes to dress-up. He’s still my Jamie.

Okay! What do I need to do? I need to be non-judgmental - this coming from some psychology class I’d taken. I need to let him know it is OK.

“Is it OK?” I wondered. I wasn’t sure.

Not certain how to react, if I should react or keep silent, but then feeling I had to say something, I blurted the first thing that came to mind, “Jamie, how… where did you get all this?”

“Oh,” he responded, seeming relieved to say something. “Actually it’s pretty easy. Most of it is from Salvation Army and Goodwill and that thrift-shop over off State.”

“You bought used undies?” I asked dubiously.

He relaxed some and laughed.

“Ah, no. Mostly ‘Our Semi-Annual Lingerie Sale’,” he said using a ‘TV-commercial’ voice, quoting a newspaper insert. “Or,” he continued in a normal tone, “Christmas, Valentine’s Day. It’s pretty easy if you find the right sales lady - older if you’re looking for plain ones, younger if you want something sexy. You just have to put on the right air of helpless embarrassment about wanting to get something for your girlfriend and they’ll go out of their way to help.”

I tried to picture him doing this and found I could easily do so. Jamie was a natural actor and mimic. I’d been with him when he’d pulled similar stunts in a grocery store — trying to find some unusual mushroom he’d ‘seen’ on TV - or in a book store asking for an obscure history of Victorian era novelists some ‘professor’ suggested he read. I had to shake off those thoughts to get back to the present.

Gathering my thoughts, quelling my nerves and choosing my words carefully, I reached out. He stepped over to embrace me but I grabbed his hands instead to hold him at arms-length.

“Alright,” I started, “I’m still… I don’t know about this. I understand it’s a part of you but I, I don’t know. It’s hard for me… I need to get used to it.” I looked straight at him and almost pleaded, “Can you understand how hard this is?”

“I think so,” he responded.

“Okay,” I took a centering breath, “we’ll try it. You pick something to wear this afternoon. Put the rest of this away,” I swept my hand over the clothes on the bed. “And I mean in your dresser and hanging in the closet, not hiding back in that suitcase.”

“Okay?” I asked him.

“Okay,” he almost choked on his assent.

“I’ll be in the living room.”

I turned and left - escaping.

Back on the sofa I paged through the paper, reading the words but not absorbing a one, waiting for him to rejoin me. But I listened intently as he moved around in the bedroom. I heard the drawers open and close, the hangers rattling on the bar in the closet and then the water running in the bathroom. The latter didn’t make sense — I couldn’t place what he was doing. Eventually, there was silence and a long pause. Then I heard him approaching. He came out of the hallway into the living room and stopped, waiting for a reaction. I put the paper down and just stared at him. I consciously stopped my jaw from dropping.

Jamie is slight. As I said, he’s about five-seven and thin. He has high cheek bones but not much of a chin. His light-brown, almost blond hair comes down to his shoulders and he doesn’t have much body hair — what he does have is very light and not really noticeable. While he could never be taken for a macho-man you would never call him effeminate either. He always carried himself with a quiet confidence that seemed to project that he was not one to take lightly. That, however, was not who I saw standing across the room.

There stood a person I barely recognized, wearing the sandals and the yellow sun-dress. I wondered for a moment what he had on underneath but let that pass as my eyes were drawn to his face. He’d shaved — obviously that’s what the water was running for earlier. There was a hint of rouge on his cheeks and very pale gloss on his lip. The hair was pulled back with a barrette on each side. While he couldn’t quite pass for a woman, I don’t know… pluck those brows a bit to give them a bit more arch, do a little something around the eyes, shave the legs, touch up the hair a tad, add earrings, a bit of jewelry and nail color and you might have something. I also observed he’d not used the breast forms; I wondered why. They would have added a lot to add to the effect. As it was…

He seemed to quail somewhat under my gaze and, apparently wanting to break the tension, did a twirl, fast enough that his skirt flared out. Spreading his arms down and out in front as he faced me again, he said, “Ta Dah!” Then, seeming to re-think that dramatic gesture, he dropped his hands to his side and asked, almost shyly, “What do you think?”

What DID I think? Other than this was totally whacked? Actually that was the first thing that came to mind. Remember that this was - what? — barely an hour after I’d found out my boy-friend was a cross-dresser. I was still trying to take in all of this; I hadn’t had a chance to integrate it all. So, yeah, my first thought was that it was just too weird. Then I shook it off. I knew, rationally, that cross-dressing, in the grand scheme of things, was a fairly tame… thing? obsession? fetish? But still…

So I tried to be neutral. I mean I loved this guy. I knew it deep down. I didn’t want to say something hurtful. Then I thought of something and I meant it and it was true.

“Cute.”

“You think so? Really?” he asked, as he walked over to the couch.

“Yeah,” I said. “Although…”

“What?” he inquired.

“Well, you probably need to shave your legs to really pull it off.”

Jamie settled on to the couch, pulling his feet up under himself and spreading the skirt over his knees.

“Yeah,” he acknowledged, “But I can’t - until cold weather.”

I knew what he meant — he couldn’t wear shorts, as a guy, with shaved legs.

All I said was “Right.”

“Anything good in the paper?” he asked as he picked up the front section I’d put down, almost unread, a moment ago.

“How the hell should I know! You expect me to read the God-damn paper when you just did this to me?” I wanted to yell. But I didn’t. It occurred to me that he was on the edge himself and was also trying to grasp some semblance of normalcy.

So I just said, “Not really. But I haven’t read much yet.”

And we settled into a — sort of — normal Sunday afternoon. It was good, actually, to have the distraction and ordinariness of reading the paper and watching a ball game. We were both trying to ignore the 500 pound gorilla in the room — namely that yellow dress. Although, if you were to ask me then what happened in the world that week or even who the Sox played that day, I couldn’t tell you.

At some point, I dropped the Book Review into my lap and asked, “Why did you tell me today?”

“Oh!” he responded, “I figured there’re three weeks until the first and we’d both have time to find new room-mates. If you decided to leave…” He kind of trailed off.

This time my jaw did drop.

“What? Huh? What are you talking about?” I stammered.

“I thought if you left now you could still find another apartment.”

“You thought I’d leave?” I was still flabbergasted.

He took a deep breath. “Wendy…” he started and then stopped, gathering his — thoughts? courage? He began again. “I wasn’t sure how you’d react. No - I didn’t think you’d leave but I thought it was a possibility. Look, I’m pretty sure I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Okay?”

I could only nod, speechless - partly because he’d never said this to me before.

“So I had to tell you this now ‘cause… well…The thing is, is this is what you get, warts — or panties — and all.” He gave an embarrassed little smirk and then continued, “I don’t think I can give this up. And I don’t want to try and hide it from you anymore.”

“I couldn’t wait much longer ‘cause I figured if we stay together for September that’s, like, a real commitment. And what if I were to tell you then and you couldn’t accept it and it’s mid term and you weren’t able to find another place?” This all came out in a rush. “What kind of schmuck does that make me? So this is my last chance to give you an out and not be a complete jerk and not fuck up your whole semester”

Sitting there I could still only just look at him. I didn’t know what to say.

“I can’t believe you thought I’d leave you,” I finally told him after a few moments.

“Wendy, do you know how long I’ve lived with this? Lived with hiding this? I couldn’t be sure how you’d take it. I’m still not sure. Are you sure yourself? Honestly?”

I looked at him. His eyes were watery — the way eyes get before tears break out and start rolling down your face.

“Oh, Jamie,” was all I could say.

I brushed the remaining papers off the couch and we came together into an embrace. And damn, if the tears didn’t start again.

Finally they ebbed.

I sat back a bit so I could focus on his face while saying, “I love you Jamie. I don’t know how we’re going to deal with this but I don’t think its going to kill this relationship. Understand?”

He sniffed and nodded. Our eyes met again, “Damn good thing you didn’t put on any mascara or you’d be a mess now.”

That brought on a laughing/crying hug.

Eventually we settled down with him sitting and me stretched out with my head in his lap. A question that had been bothering me came to the fore.

“Why didn’t put on the breast forms?”

“I didn’t want to push my luck,” he replied.

“But rouge and lipstick were okay?” I asked with a small laugh.

I felt him tense up and realized I’d made a mistake. Sitting up, I said, “Sorry. That was inconsiderate… and mean.”

“No,” he said, “it’s okay. I just, well, it’s been so long. I wanted to do a little make up. The breasts… I wanted to but I didn’t want to scare you. I figured they might be too much.”

I raised an eyebrow. “After everything else today?”

“Yeah… Well… I didn’t say it made sense.”

I laughed then. He smirked back at me and then started laughing also. Laughing was as good a release as crying and soon we were hugging again.

Then I asked the other nagging question I had. “Did you mean what you said about spending our lives together?”

“Nah,” he answered. “I just said that to butter you up.”

I blinked before I realized he was pulling my leg. So I grabbed a chunk of the paper and hit him with it.

“You brat, I’m serious.”

“I know sweetie,” he countered. “And yes, I think I do.” Then he turned really serious and asked, “What do you think?”

“Yeah, I think… maybe.”

“What about this?” he waved his hands down his front, indicating the dress.

“I still don’t know,” I said honestly. “I mean, it’s still a bit of a shock. And… I’m not sure. But, well, it doesn’t scare me the way it did… when you… well a couple hours ago.”

Feeling a pang, I glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost 6:30.

“You hungry?” I asked. “Want some supper?”

“Sounds good,” he responded. “Pizza?”

“There’s a couple in the freezer,” I said. “Or we could order one.”

“Frozen’s fine for me. You?” he asked. When I nodded he added, “I’ll get it.” And he headed into the kitchen.

I stayed on the couch as he went to deal with the pizza, still trying to grasp this whole afternoon.

He stuck his head back through the kitchen door. “White or Margherita?” he wanted to know.

“Um, Margherita. Do we have any pepperoni?”

“I think so.”

“Throw some on. Would you please?” I asked.

“Okey, Dokey,” he responded with a grin and returned to the kitchen.

A couple minutes later he zipped through on his way to the bathroom. I wondered how he dealt with that and after he returned to the couch I asked.

“Do you stand or sit?”

His cheeks turned red.

“Ah… I sit.”

“Just wondering.”

I grabbed the flicker and turned on the news. It was depressing; more bad news from the Mideast, congress people saying stupid things again, the president… well let’s not go there. At some point the pizza was done. I was content to let him serve me.

As he came and went, it struck me that he was completely comfortable sashaying back and forth in a dress. He acted like it was completely natural. He smoothed it under himself as he sat and spread it over his knees afterwards or when he brought his feet up under himself. He seemed completely at ease. I wondered if I could deny him this. I wondered if it bothered me.

Later, as we each settled into our current books - he was into the latest S. M. Stirling alternative history trilogy about the Pacific Northwest after all technology stopped working. I’d just picked up “Mistral’s Kiss” at the library the day before. I was a bigger fan of Anita Blake than I was of Merry Gentry but anything Hamilton wrote was fine by me. Anyway, we were both immersed in our respective books. I suspect he was having an easier time reading than I; I kept getting distracted by his dress and all that it implied.

Some where along during the evening, a thought struck me. I put my book down and asked him what was bothering me.

“Jamie?”

“Huh?” He broke away from his book. “What?”

“Have you ever worn any of my clothes?”

He got a very uncomfortable look on his face.

“Oh crap!” I thought to myself. But I asked, maybe more harshly than I should have, “What? What have you worn?”

Now he looked even more uncomfortable.

“Jamie?”

He looked at me and said “Um. Okay. You know that blue blouse with the flower print?”

“Yes.”

“That,” he said, “And the blue-grey skirt with the pleats?”

I nodded. Those were two of the nicest items I owned and they went well together. But I had to ask. “Nothing else?”

“Nothing else,” he affirmed. “I wanted to. But after I tried those two, well I felt kind of bad, like I’d violated you somehow. I don’t know, but it didn’t feel right.”

I could only stare at him.

“Nothing else?” I repeated. “You never put on any of my undies?” This was important to me.

“Never.” he affirmed.

I don’t know why, but I said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Why that was significant I don’t know. No that’s not right: his use of the word “violated” was appropriate. That’s exactly what I would have felt.

And I knew he was being truthful. I knew him well enough at that point that I could trust him on this. I don’t think he’d ever lied to me. I was slightly pissed that he’d hidden his cross-dressing from me for so long but I could understand why.

“Jamie?”

“Yeah?”

“I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything,” he responded.

“Promise you’ll never wear anything of mine again… without asking first.”

He looked at me and said, almost formally: “Wendy Davidson, I promise - I will never borrow any of your clothes without your permission.”

Then he grinned and added, “Except maybe your bathrobe. I still might need to use that on occasion.”

“Okay!” I said with a laugh, “But that’s it.”

Jamie

So I’d told her.

Deciding to and then doing so were the hardest things I’d ever done. And that afternoon was, well, I don’t want to say it was hell but it sure was hard for both of us. Now she knew and the load off me was tremendous. But now she had to deal with it. I’d never wanted to put her through this but knew I’d had to tell her or else live a lie. So I felt good and I felt bad.

But we stayed together and that was something. Soon we each started our junior year and were back into the rhythm of classes, papers and tests. Now that Wendy knew, I could at least wear underclothes when I wanted to. Even so, I was self-conscious about it and I was careful to be discrete.

For instance — when dressing - putting on panties - I tried to stay out of her sight. She knew and I knew she knew but I didn’t want to rub it in. Not having it right in front her, I thought made it easier. So we had an uneasy peace. I didn’t repeat putting on a dress in her presence for a while after that first revelation.

Then, sometime in late September, I was at Salvation Army and found this cute nightgown. A light cotton floral print with some nice lace detail around the neckline, it was the kind of thing I’d wanted for a while — so I bought it. But I was still not quite sure about Wendy’s reaction so I played the same kind of “let her discover it and see what happens” game I’d done back in August. Now we hadn’t had any more talks about my “special” clothes but we’d done laundry together where my panties and camis were in the mix and she’d just sorted them into my pile without comment. So I felt pretty okay about it. Still I was kind of shy about dressing in front of her.

So I put the nightgown in my dresser and that night, while she was in the bathroom getting ready for bed, I put it on and pulled the covers up over my shoulders.

She finished up, joined me in bed and turned out the light and reached over to give me a hug and kiss goodnight. As soon as she touched the nightgown she froze.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“A nightgown. I got it at Salvation Army today.”

“Shit! Jamie! You can’t do this to me. I had a shitty day. I can’t deal with this right now. Take it off… just take it off.”

I got up, took it off and put on a tee-shirt.

When I crawled back into bed, her back was to me. I reached over to put my hand on her shoulder; she just pulled it away.

I lay there for a time, trying to decide if there was something I could say. Eventually I gave it up as a bad job and rolled over so we were back-to-back.

The next morning, over breakfast, she said to me:

“Jamie. You can’t just, spring shit like that on me. I’m sorry I snapped at you like that, but I had a lousy day, my poly-sci class is not going too well. I can’t deal with surprises like that.”

“Okay. I’m sorry,” I said. “I won’t do it again. I was just… well I really liked it and… I don’t know. I’m sorry. I…”

“No,” she interrupted. “Please… Just don’t surprise me like that again. Okay?”

“Okay,” I assented.

I thought to myself, “Jamie you are a total asshole!”

But I never surprised her like that again.

Eventually I asked if it would be alright for me to wear it to bed and she consented.

One night as I wore it and we were cuddling I got an erection. We were starting into some serious foreplay when Wendy just stopped. She scooted back away from me, far enough to be able to see me and said, “This isn’t working for me.”

“I don’t think I’m ready to make love with you dressed as a woman. I’m sorry. But can you take it off?”

She was gentle about it but obviously it bothered her.

So I took it off.

It took a while for us to get back in the spirit but we did. Later, spooning with me behind, she said, “Jamie?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just… I couldn’t get past the night gown. I mean, I’m ok with you wearing it to bed but when we started… getting going… I don’t know, it just seemed to get in the way. It was almost like I was seeing you as a girl. And I couldn’t take that.”

At that she rolled over. Even though the lights were off and we couldn’t see well in the dim glow of the city filtering through the curtains, it seemed that she needed to address me directly.

“Jamie, I will never ‘put up’ with something if it really bothers me. Alright? I can’t do that. I may take it even if it makes me uncomfortable — once. But not if it’s truly bugging me. Okay?”

“Yeah, sweetie, it is,” I reassured her.

“I’m still trying to take this in — and I’m not there yet. Intellectually — I understand it and it’s okay. But emotionally — sometimes it’s just too much to take. Does that make sense?”

I was quiet for a bit: trying to frame a response. I must have taken a little too long.

“Jamie?” she asked.

“Yeah. Sorry. I was thinking.” I stopped for a moment before continuing.

“Lovie,” I said, “I know give and take is part of every relationship but I don’t want you to surrender to things that bother you and be the only one giving. I know it’s hard for you to accept my cross-dressing. If I push it too far you need to tell me. And, if you hit a point where you can’t deal with it at all, you need to tell me that too. Okay?”

“Yeah, Jamie, okay.”

“I love you,” I told her.

“And I love you too,” she answered.

We kissed. She rolled back over. I snuggled up to her and kissed the back of her head.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Jamie.”

Towards the end of the month we were talking about the big, campus Halloween party. She wondered if I wanted to go. I did, and I told her so.

“Any ideas for costumes?” she asked.

I did and took a deep breath be fore asking, “Could you handle it if I went as a female vampire?”

She looked at me, an eye-brow ached up and she asked, “Really?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“What would I go as,” she wanted to know.

“Well you could go as a vampire too.” I hesitated before asking, “Maybe a male one?”

She just stared at me. But I continued.

“I figured it’s a safe time for me to go out, dressed up, in public. I really want to. And you could switch roles too, and maybe get an idea of what it’s like for me.”

I tried not to sound pleading but I truly wanted to go out dressed as a woman. Halloween was the perfect cover. And maybe there was some remembrance of a Halloween past…

“I don’t know Jamie…”

“Look,” I said, “you could be sort of androgynous. Or maybe we could pretend to be each other.”

“But what would I wear?” She looked doubtful.

“Some kind of dark suit — I know we can find something at one of the thrift shops.” I had a sudden inspiration, “Or better yet, maybe we could find something light, and seventies — something kind of Bowie-esque? Talk about androgynous.”

“I don’t know…” she started. After a moment of staring through me she refocused on my face and added, “Let me think about it. Okay?”

That Saturday we were combing through thrift-shops and second-hand stores searching for costumes. She was okay with me as a female vampire and had agreed to at least look for possible male get-ups that would work for her. We had a full week before the party. There was lots of time to come up with an alternative if she didn’t like anything that we found today.

We had a lot of fun. We told the sales people what we were trying to do and most of them got into it. Except the folks at Salvation Army; I don’t think they wanted to assist with two evils — cross-dressing and vampires. But they didn’t throw us out either.

The coolest thing was that I got to try on dresses — in public. It was so much fun. And Wendy got into it - which was even more enjoyable. She picked out dresses, helped me check their fit and style (or lack of style), made comments about how well (or not) it would work for our intended plan. Ultimately we settled on a black satin party dress with half-sleeves, a high neckline, empire waist and a hemline at mid-thigh. Whoever thought it looked fashionable once must have been high - but we figured it would serve our purpose. The bosom was bigger than my breast-forms, probably a C- or D cup but we could pad it. And it was just goofy enough. Add a little blood, over the top make-up, fishnets and you have a vamp slut with no taste who thinks she looks good.

Wendy was having a great time and getting into the swing of things after starting the day kind of skeptically. We started looking for her outfit in earnest. She had as good a time trying on the suits as I did with the dresses. We eventually found an elegant, two-piece linen ensemble that we figured we could combine with a ruffled blouse she owns to give the impression of a southern dandy - maybe in the French Quarter as a kind of low-rent, faux-Lestat. On the way out I found the perfect accessory — a cream colored fedora with a powder-blue band.

“This’ll top it off perfectly,” I told her.

I had to jump away as she groaned and took a swing at me with the bag she carried.

But we bought the hat.

Wendy

Halloween was my turning point.

Jamie came up with this idea of us cross-dressing as vampires. I know a big part of it was him wanting to go out as a girl — he even said so. I wasn’t so sure. I was willing to let him play the game — I knew how happy it would make him. As for me, well I could play along just this once. It wouldn’t kill me. But I was not really looking forward to it.

Then we went out shopping and it was a gas. It was like shopping with a girlfriend.

Jamie and I had never shopped for clothes together, only groceries and household stuff. This was a completely different experience. Partly this was because it was like a holiday — we were play-acting, goofing around. But he had taste. He pointed out a couple blouses and a skirt he thought I’d like and noted how they matched or complemented pieces I had already. He was right. And I bought them.

So we we’d found our costumes. We got some cheap, theatre makeup so we could have pasty white skin along with vampire fangs.

I’d been thinking about him in that black dress. I felt there was something missing and finally hit upon it. “I think you need to dye your hair black or a very dark red,” I told him.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Your light hair doesn’t go with the whole theme of vampire temptress. You’re supposed to be scary-dangerous - not air-head bimbo.”

“Okay… maybe… probably,” he replied slowly, as if chewing over the consequences, between each word.

Then he asked, “You sure?”

“I am!” I asserted.

“Okay. I’ll trust you on this.”

“It’ll look great,” I assured him. So that’s what we did.

Getting ready for the party was an eye opening experience. The times I’d seem Jamie putting on his women’s clothes he’d dressed pretty plainly: mostly it was a matter of him putting on panties, a camisole or tank-top, once or twice his sun-dress and a couple, two or three, times that night-gown.

But for the party he was going all out. It was fascinating to watch — and be a part of.

First he used a depilatory to remove most of his body hair below his neck. (I was amused later when I saw he’d trimmed his pubic hair into a little, heart-shaped patch.) He showered and then asked if he could use some of my bath-beads. I came in later to find him soaking in a lavender-scented tub. He opened his eyes and looked up at me.

“Comfy?” I asked with a grin.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“Good,” I responded, “But we only have about an hour so you better get going.”

“Okay,” he sighed.

“Oh. And make sure you use some of my moisturizer. Here.” I put the skin cream on the sink. “That hair removal stuff can be kinda rough on your skin.”

My outfit was a light-colored linen jacket with matching trousers and a ruffled blouse. We wrapped an ace bandage around my chest (over a sports bra) to flatten my breasts. It wasn’t too comfortable but I could take it for an evening. We slicked back my hair into a pony-tail tied with a piece of black leather. The fedora, a penciled-in mustache, fangs and bit of painted-on blood trickling out of one corner of my mouth completed my costume.

After helping me, Jamie dropped the bathrobe he’d worn into our bedroom and proceeded to get dressed.

I was dumbfounded as he dressed and transformed himself into a stunning looking — woman.

He pulled on a thong, then the stockings: He rolled those fish-nets up his legs and smoothed them carefully into place. He was so deliberate and careful it was obvious he had done this before — and often. Jamie clipped the garter belt around his waist and then attached it to the stockings.

For a bra he chose a fairly plain white one. We stuffed the cups with panty-hose from both of our drawers. The biggest bra either of us had was a B-cup. His dress needed at least a C. So we over-stuffed and stretched the bra — probably ruining it for ‘normal’ use again.

Then he put on his dress. I zipped the back for him and he turned around. The effect was stunning. Seeing him previously in his sun-dress, I’d thought he looked OK but would take some work to pass as a female. Now, here in front of me was a person who was almost there. I let took in a quick breath.

“That good?” he inquired.

“I’m… amazed,” I replied. “Can I do your make-up?” I asked in return.

“Would you, please?” a shy inquiry from him.

“Of course,” I assured him.

When I was finished, Jamie got up and turned to the full-length mirror across the room.

He brought his hands up to his cheeks. Then he lowered them to his “breasts”, slid them down his waist, ending at the skirt he wore. I was behind him, looking over his shoulder has he checked the image in the mirror. He grabbed the skirt in either hand and gave it a swish, turned left and right to get side views and then turned to face me.

There were tears in his eyes.

“Thank you!” he exclaimed. Then more quietly, almost a whisper, “Thank you.”

“Careful, dear,” I told him, “You’ll ruin your makeup.”

He sniffed, started to bring his hands up to rub his eye but halted before doing any damage.

I found a tissue and handed it to him. “Here,” I said handing it to him, “Dab carefully. Don’t rub.”

It stuck me then, how much this meant to him.

When that emotional crisis was past I touched up his make up and we left.

The details of the party are kind of blurry now. We danced: with each other and with others — some of the opposite gender, some opposite of our ersatz genders. Mostly we had lots of fun — there was a freedom gained from being behind masks such as we wore. I watched him throughout the evening. Jamie was comfortable in this role. Sometime over the course of the night I realized what this was for him: it was a role, an act, a shell to put on. I was doing the same kind of thing during that party. Maybe not as seriously as he but I was enjoying that act.

He’d been right earlier when he said I might “get an idea of what it’s like” for him. I think I finally did.

Lots of our friends commented that evening about how good our costumes were and how great we looked. I felt some pride for us. We didn’t win the best costume prize — that half-naked, alien couple did. I wondered how she pulled off those realistic, four breasts and how he’d managed to exaggerate his “equipment” so dramatically. We did, however, take third place. I felt pretty damned spanky about that. Jamie was flying high.

We got home at last about 1:00 - still buzzed. Collapsing on the couch, we re-lived the night, relating our reactions to various outfits — both good and bad. Winding down finally, we ended resting against each other.

On an impulse, I turned and kissed Jamie — aggressively. He melted under my assault. We made out on the sofa for a while before I stood and reached out to pull him up. I felt empowered by my costume and led him into our bedroom and onto our bed. Pushing him onto his back, I crawled up over his legs and leaned down to kiss him — forcefully once more. Then, inspired again by the vampire persona I’d worn all night, I moved my mouth down to his neck and pressed my teeth into him. It wasn’t that hard but it was sufficient. The whimper that I heard was enough. I attacked.

His dress was thrown up and that thong pulled aside. He was hard. Quickly getting off the bed, I removed my pants and boxers and returned the task at hand. I spread his legs, got between them and mounted him. I was horny and slick. I pounded onto him and ground against him — he was mine to take. We didn’t last long. Rare for me, without his being very attentive, I came first - but he wasn’t far behind.

Later we undressed and took a quick shower together to get all the makeup off. By the time we got under the covers for sleep, it was well after two.

Lying together, I was behind him with my arm thrown over him, I queried, “Jamie?”

“Yeah?” He was almost asleep.

“I think I understand.”

His chest contracted several times in kind of dry sobs, almost like a hiccups — not quite crying. He knew what I meant.

We slept eventually.

Christmas

Wendy’s and Jamie’s relationship changed after that October night. Each was more attentive to the other — if that was possible. Wendy was certainly more accepting of Jamie’s dressing in women’s attire. Jamie was less shy about donning those clothes in her presence. The two also shopped together. Each asked the other for advice and assistance when evaluating clothing. Sometimes they’d disagree about an item but they would at least listen to the other’s opinion. They did not purchase, or even look for, any more feminine clothes for Jamie — mostly because it was end-of-term; they did not have much spare time for shopping.

For Thanksgiving they went to New York; it was not very comfortable for either of them.

Wendy was an only child. Her parents had always been very protective. Even though Jamie and Wendy had been living together for nearly six months, they had to sleep separately at her parent’s house. It was not a completely comfortable holiday for either of them. But they enjoyed the Turkey-day feast. Her folks accepted Jamie although he did have to endure — well grilling is probably too harsh a word — an interview by her father. Her father wanted to know Jamie’s “intentions” and “prospects.” Jamie answered the queries as well as he could but came away with the impression that he would never quite live up to the expectations of Wendy’s dad.

Christmas was another story. For Christmas they went to Vermont to spend the holiday with his family.

The two of them had visited the Vermont homestead a couple of times already — once during the summer and again during foliage season when the hills seemed aflame with autumn colors. Wendy had met all his family so the December visit was not an introduction, it was just - “Jamie’s girlfriend is coming for Christmas.”

Wendy was kind of overwhelmed by it all — she was simply accepted as another member of the extended Mackenzie family. Being an only child, she was not used to being around other siblings and two aunts and one uncle were not close to her folks. In Jamie’s family not only were there four sisters and two brothers-in-law, but there were Jamie’s three nieces and nephews. She was taken aback the first time she was called “Aunt Wendy.” But it was nice; it felt… well, it felt, normal.

And the two shared a bedroom. His parents didn’t have problems with this - quite the opposite. The Mackenzie’s treated them as adults and as a couple.

On Christmas Eve, after settling into bed for the night, Jamie asked, “Should we ‘announce’ it?”

She’d been wondering about it herself.

On the train back to Boston at Thanksgiving they had first discussed the subject seriously. Previously, they had skirted around the subject and made jokes about being married but had never approached the idea directly. It was nothing as dramatic as Jamie getting down on his knee; he simply asked, “Do you think we could do this for life?”

“Like, getting married?” she asked after a lengthy pause.

“Yeah,” he replied.

There was another long silence,

“Next summer?” she asked.

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“Okay,” she said.

Then, as the import of what they had just done finally sank in, they hugged and they kissed and they shared some tears.

So, somewhere in the middle of Connecticut, on Thanksgiving weekend, they had decided to get married. Although they talked about it more over the next few weeks, on that train trip they’d made the commitment.

Returning to the present, she asked, “When do you think?”

“How about after Christmas dinner?”

She mulled that over for a bit before answering, “Okay. I’m ready if you are.”

“I am!” he affirmed. “I only wish we could afford to get you a ring; that would make it perfect.”

“Oh you!” she admonished him, “it’s perfect enough. Besides, it’s you I want. I’m not worried about a ring, so don’t you be.”

Seated around the table after dinner was over, the adults sipped coffee or tea - the kids had cocoa in the living room where they played with their new toys. As was often the case with this group, conversation flowed around the table; sometimes as many as four were going. Every now and then these would merge into a single, table-wide discussion which would invariably break up again into smaller ones.

Jamie’s mother sat back at one point to take in her family and smiled to herself. “They’re a pretty good brood,” she thought, “We didn’t do half-bad raising them.” Her eyes were drawn again to Wendy and Jamie. She’d been observing those two for most of the day. If she had ever seen two youngsters more “in love”, she couldn’t recall it. Little things all pointed to it — gentle touches, finishing each other’s sentences, exchanged glances and smiles, the way each one’s face lit up when the other entered a room.

And, especially, she’d watched Wendy. Here was a girl who could fit into this family. Wendy had held her ground in arguments, defended positions taken by others, laughed at and made bad puns with the rest. Once the girl had gotten over her initial shyness at meeting the Mackenzie tribe, an ordeal which could be very intimidating — several boyfriends had not survived that test - she fit in as if born into the clan. Wendy could take it and dish it out with the best of them with humor and wit. Jamie had finally “found” someone.

She was looking at them during a lull in the conversations around the table. Maybe lull wasn’t the right word; it was more a slight lowering of the general background roar. Anyway, she noted when Wendy leaned over to Jamie and whispered something to him. He in turn reached out to take her hand, turned to look at her directly and nodded. Jamie’s mother had seen that scenario before — at this very table, she knew what was coming and she choked up. Her husband, sitting next to her noted this and reached over to her. She just leaned over and said quietly, “Jamie,” and nodded her head towards her son.

His father looked over just as Jamie announced, “Hey everyone! Can I say something?”

The place went silent — except for the kids rough-housing in the adjoining living room.

With all the attention on him, Jamie said, “Wendy would like to address this august body.” That drew laughs.

Wendy lowered her voice and said, as if addressing a convention, “Thank you for that introduction, Mr. Mackenzie.” Then, after the whistles and catcalls died down, continued in her normal tone. “I wanted to say thanks for letting me share this.” She spread her hands to indicate the whole table before going on. “I’m an only child and this kind of Christmas get-together is a new experience, so thank you. It’s been a real treat to be part of this holiday with you.”

Lots of “You’re welcomes,” answered that statement.

“I can see now where Jamie gets both his gentleness,” here she reached over to take his hand, “and his weird sense of humor.”

Chuckles and outright laughter greeted that comment. And Jamie asked, “Wait a minute! Weird?” — to further laughter.

Wendy ignored that. She looked directly at Jamie’s mother, then father and said, “Mrs. Mackenzie, Mr. Mackenzie, thank you, so much, for welcoming me in to your home.”

At that Jamie’s mother reached across the table to take and squeeze Wendy’s hands. There were tears in each of their eyes. The room was still; others now knew what was playing out in front of them.

“Anyway,” she kept going, “Jamie and I…” she reached over to take his hand, “we wanted to know if, maybe you’d like to come to our wedding next August?”

A stunned silence followed, for maybe two seconds, before all hell broke loose.

There were hugs and back-thumpings and “Congratulations!” greeting the couple from all directions.

Jamie’s mother’s first reaction was “That was different.” Meaning usually the family member made the announcement. She met Jamie’s eyes and he mouthed, “Gotcha!”

She laughed. And the laugh turned into tears as she threw back a kiss.

Later that evening, after most his sisters and their families had left to return to their own homes, Jamie went upstairs to retrieve the book he was currently reading. As he walked past his parent’s bedroom he heard his mother’s call, “Jamie! Honey!”

He did an about-face and entered the room.

“Mom?”

She was sitting on her bed, hands on her lap. She seemed to him, a bit tense.

“Come here a minute,” she commanded and patted the bed beside her.

He went over and sat next to her.

“Sweetie,” she began, “Wendy is wonderful. I’m so happy for you.”

“Thanks, mom. I love her, a lot.”

“I can tell,” she replied. She wondered if she should ask the question that was hovering in her mind. But she and he had always had a pretty open and honest relationship. So she risked it.

“Does she know about your cross-dressing?”

She felt him freeze.

“How do you know about that?”

“Sweetie, I’ve known it for years, going all the way back to when you wore Anna’s dress and asked me if it was pretty. What were you? Six? Seven? You weren’t as careful as you thought over the years. And last Christmas… you left a pair of panties in the laundry. So I knew you still did it.”

“Oh mama!” he exclaimed.

She reached over to hug him.

He hugged her back and broke into tears as she held him.

Eventually, after he settled down, she asked, “Does Wendy know?”

“Yeah, mom, she does.”

“And she’s okay with it?”

“Yeah. She is.”

“Good. I’m happy for you,” she told him.

Then she asked, “Jamie dear? Do you know what the key to a successful marriage is?”

“No. What?” he asked.

“Honesty.”

“Honesty?” he asked.

“Exactly,” she answered. “Don’t ever hide anything from her.” Then she smiled at him and added, “Of course, it helps a lot if you don’t do anything that you have to hide.”

He looked at her and saw she was smiling. He laughed and said, “Thanks mom.”

“You’re welcome honey.”

They hugged again. As they separated, she got up off the bed. He started to rise himself but she stopped him.

“You stay there a second,” she told him.

He watched as she walked across the room and took something out of her dresser. She returned with whatever it was hidden in her hands and sat down next to him again.

“Obviously, you haven’t bought a ring for her. Have you?” she asked.

“No,” he said, “I wanted too but…”

His mother took her hands out of her lap and offered him what she held.

“This was your grandmother’s. She wanted you to have it.”

Jamie looked down and saw a small box that could only contain a ring. He took it and opened it. Inside was a simple, rose-gold engagement ring with a single diamond. He had no idea how big it was. He didn’t know anything about diamonds. But it looked like the most beautiful thing in the world to him.

“Momma!” He threw his arms around her yet again. His tears flowed again — for the ring, for her love, for her acceptance.

Over the course of that evening, Wendy sensed that something was up. She couldn’t put her finger on it but Jamie seemed out of sorts, more fidgety than normal. Later, back in their room, sitting on the bed as she took off her earrings, she saw he was standing there, looking kind of lost.

“Jamie?” He jumped at her inquiry.

“Huh?”

“Honey. What’s the matter?” she asked.

He turned to her and came across the room. She was puzzled as he knelt in front of her. He pulled something out of his pocket, cupped it in his hands, manipulated it somehow and then offered it to her.

Her eyes were glued to the ring he presented to her. She almost didn’t hear as he asked, “Wendy, will you marry me?”

“What?” she asked. “Where… where did you get this?”

“It was my grandmother’s. Mom gave it to me tonight… to give to you.”

She took the box and examined the ring, pulled it out and held it. It was a simple setting, just the diamond on the band. She started to put it on but then changed her mind. Handing it to Jamie, she said, “I think you’re supposed to do this.”

He accepted the ring, took her left hand and slid the band onto her ring finger.

Wendy brought her hand up to look at it for a moment and then reached out to pull Jamie up to her. They hugged for a second before she started crying - soon he was also. It was a while before they settled into bed and sleep.

On the twenty-sixth they drove back to their home — it felt like that now. All the way Wendy couldn’t stop fiddling with her new ring. She had not expected an engagement ring — she knew Jamie couldn’t afford one - but now that she had one she was completely enamored with it. And it was so new and different she kept touching and playing with it. That it connected her to his family made it even more special.

They got back to their apartment at about six that evening. Jamie was lounging on the couch at eight, flicking through the channels, when Wendy joined him. She had a wrapped present with her.

“I’ve got one more thing for you,” she said. “I didn’t want to give it to you in front of everyone else. It’s… well it’s just between us. Okay?”

Jamie was puzzled. He couldn’t think what she would want to give him that had to wait until now. Looking back afterwards, he wondered how he could have been so thick.

Wendy was sitting next to him as he opened her present. She was very tense, worried about his reaction, hoping he’d like what she’d gotten him. She wanted him, needed him to understand the spirit it which it was given. He needed to know that she accepted him - all of him. She wanted him to see that who he was, was okay with her. So she watched for his reaction.

Jamie removed the wrapping paper and opened the box. Inside was tissue paper. He folded the paper back and pulled out what was inside and held them up. In his hands he held a pair of white tights.

Notes:

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A young woman finds a way to escape from the mother who made her so.

Sam's Escape

by J. L. Wendelin

“Mother,”

Samantha would never start with a “Dear...” or a “Mom”.

Sam had always referred to her as “Mother” as a young boy. Now, as a young woman, she had no inclination to be endearing. She agonized over whether to even use that parental noun.

Samantha continued reading her final letter to her mother.

By the time you read this, it will be too late for you to do anything to stop me. I am determined to end this. And your pain when you read this is… Well would that I was there to see it. Almost… But I am gone - and you are alone.

How does it feel?

I look back to when this started; the white tights and pink dresses when we’d play “dress-up”. How old was I? Six? Seven? The shirts that you said were “the latest fashion…” Blouses, mother?

And then, puberty: the “vitamins” and that “therapist”, what was her name? Actually, I don’t care anymore. She was SO helpful guiding me to find my “true” self. I hope she cost you a pretty penny.

And you? Such a loving and supportive mother. You assisted your poor, confused son to find the girl within. Except there wasn’t one to start. Was there?

Do you know how hard high school was for me being the only “transgendered” kid in school? The harassment — physical and psychological? The guidance counselors trying to understand and cope with me - some supportive, some trying to hide their revulsion to the freak before them. Or was that part of your plan?

And my RLE? Senior year was so wonderful; I wish I could do it again. Not!

You were at my bedside and held my hand as I returned to consciousness after my surgery. It was comforting to see you; even as I felt that I had not gained but rather had lost something. I thought this was what “I” wanted — even through the pain. How wrong I was! Now I know it wasn’t my need but yours. You wanted a daughter. No matter the cost to me. You always despised your son — didn’t you?

What followed was agony. I thought I finally was who I wanted, needed, to be. I wasn’t though, was I? I became your ideal. Didn’t I?

I can see that now.

So here I am, five years after my surgeries, graduated college, Cum Laude, as it were. Who woulda thunk it? So nice of you to fly in for graduation. You were beaming at your achievement; such a successful daughter.

I wanted to barf.

So I am ending it. You destroyed your son. Well, you can’t have your daughter.

I only wonder: How could you do this to me?

Good bye.

Samuel

Samantha scanned the letter one more time, thinking, “I wish I could be more cruel. She deserves it.” Yet, somehow, she could not bring herself to do so. Still, the signature “Samuel” was nice little dig.

She folded the sheet and sealed it in the envelope, addressed it and retrieved a stamp from her purse for it. And sat there, not wanting to move.

Her thoughts wandered over the last four years. She thought that the upcoming move west would be her escape but coming here to college had been the real one. It had let her finally get out from under her mother’s controlling… everything.

The anger she hadn’t understood she had suppressed by focusing everything on her studies. Until one day it turned in on her and… well, better not to think about that attempt.

But she got help. And over the next couple of years in therapy came to see exactly what had been done to her.

Samantha knew she was running away again. And her mother still controlled her to some extent. Maybe not directly anymore but some influence still held. One day she might confront that demon. But she wasn’t ready yet and might never be. Until then, she’d cope as well as she could.

“Sam!” Amy called from the hallway.

“Yeah!”

“You done?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Well com’on, let’s go!”

Amy entered the room and saw Samantha frozen at the table. She came up behind Samantha and wrapped her arms around her lover. “You okay?”

“No!” Samantha choked back a sob.

“It’s okay sweetie. She’ll never find us. We’re moving ‘cross country, for Christ’s sake”

“Yes! She will,” replied Samantha.

“Sam! We’ll be 2000 miles from here. And even if she does find us, what can she do? We have each other.”

“She’s evil.”

“Yeah? So?”

“She’ll find out I didn’t kill myself.”

“I know. But how sweet is it that she might think so? Even for an instant?”

Amy spun the chair around and pulled Samantha to her feet. Hugging Samantha hard she said, “Com’on, We have a country to cross.”

Samantha hugged her back.

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Down the block, Amy pulled the car to the curb. Samantha got out and dropped her letter into the box.

Samantha got back in, took a deep breath and held it for a second before letting out a long sigh.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Copyright 2007 JLW

A mother shares a secret with her daughter.

Saturday Afternoon In The Kitchen

By J. L. Wendelin

Recently I found a box of my mother’s pictures and sat at the kitchen table looking through them. Little did I know that my trip down memory lane would lead to a conversation with my daughter about a subject I’d long avoided. Kelley, at 15, was old enough now to understand — probably well past; the subject needed to be broached. I’m a wimp and always hate the hard parental subjects such as sex, drugs, drinking, smoking — and the occasional bad grade. However, we have a good relationship, better that most I think, and I’ve always answered her questions about anything she’s asked. She’d never asked about this before; I never volunteered. She would today.

“Hey, Mom. Whacha doin’?”

“Looking at some of Grandma’s pictures.” In that instant I felt a brief wave of panic; I knew this would be it.

“Cool. Can I see?”

“Sure,” I said with a nonchalance I didn’t feel. “Grab a chair.”

We leafed though the first album; mostly pictures of my older sister and brother and me as toddlers. One the first page of the second album was a picture of me, on my eighth birthday, in a cowboy hat.

“Who’s that?”

“Me. My birthday.”

“That’s so cute,” she said. “That hat.” She picked up the book to look more closely. I held my breath. Her forehead wrinkled. “Why does it say ‘Happy Birthday Bill?” She looked up, “Did they make a mistake with the cake?” This asked with a grin.

I let out my breath. “Honey, you need to know something.” Her grin disappeared at the seriousness of my tone. I stalled. “You know that I can’t have children?”

“Yeah. That’s why you and Dad adopted me.”

“Okay. You know your friend Sarah?” Sarah had recently moved to town. She and Kelley were becoming close friends. Kelley had told me about her a couple of weeks ago.

“Yeah?” That threw her for a loop; she was completely baffled.

“The thing is, is…I can’t get pregnant because I’m like Sarah. I was born a boy.” There, I’d said it.

She looked at me for several seconds while the gears turned and she tried to get her thoughts around this. Finally, very slowly, she said, “Holy shit.”

I didn’t bother to scold her for that. Another few moments passed.

“But… Wait a minute. How come you never told me this before?” — a hint of, almost, anger there.

“Well,” I started, paused to collect my thoughts; I’ve never been very good at speaking under pressure. “It’s hard. I didn’t want to tell you when you were younger because…because there’s still enough discrimination out there, at least in this town, that I didn’t want it to get out. I didn’t want you hurt because of it, and you might have been. I was afraid, for you, for me, for Dad.” I was on the verge of tears but trying hard to hold them off. “It’s better now. People are more accepting. But it’s still not easy; look at all the…the problems that Sarah has had. I’m still not sure they would accept me at work.”

“But that’s discrimination. That’s illegal, isn’t it?”

With a snort, I said, “Not in this state, honey. Not for people like me.”

“Oh.”

“You told me how hard it’s been for Sarah. I did this twenty years ago. It was harder then. I transitioned and left behind Bill for good.”

“Oh, Mom.” She came over to me and hugged me. “Will you tell me about it?”

So I did.

We spent most of the afternoon talking. I told her about growing up confused, finally figuring out who I was, transitioning, the whole story. She asked questions about what it was like, if friends helped, things like that. I think she was, to some extent, thinking about Sarah as much trying to learn about me. We had a couple good cries and came away closer that we’ve ever been.

As we finished some tea we’d made towards the end, she asked, “Can I tell Sarah?”

I’d expected that. Had some reservations but said, “Okay.” She hugged me again. If nothing else, I’d gotten more hugs this afternoon than in the last couple years. I wondered if I had made a mistake giving her permission when, a few minutes later, I heard her on her phone say, “Sarah? You’re not going to believe this…” in a classic teen way. Oh well, the cat’s out of the bag now. If it can help Sarah get through… Maybe I’m too paranoid. Maybe things have changed enough. Maybe…

A short while later, Tom returned from his golf game. As he came in the door from the garage I asked, or started to, “How was your ga–?” Kelley came bustling through the kitchen. “Hi Dad,” to him, “I’m goin’ to Sarah’s,” to me. She then gave me another hug. “Love you Mom.” And she was gone.

“What was that all about?” he asked as he watched her leave.

He turned and saw the tears returning to my eyes.

“Honey?”

 © 2007 JLW

The Christmas Letter

By Jamie Wendelin

I sat with the blank document on my screen. After paying the bills and balancing all the account registers I had opened Writer then, nothing

–What do I think I’m doing? I’m not a writer;I only pretend to be one online. Haven’t even done that in a while. Hell, I’m not even TG: I just wish I were. So why do I only think of TG stories to write? And why does everything end up as some weird fantasy? Stop it, just write something.

“Hey,” my wife said, as she came into the room.

I turned away from my screen. “That the mail?” I asked, glad for the interruption.

“Yeah.”

"Anything good?"

“Um… Power bill, bank statement, credit card offer, another - one for each of us - L.L. Bean, Penneys… Ah, we got a card from your Mom." She handed that to me. “And one from Sandy – her Christmas letter, I expect."

We opened our respective cards. Mom’s was a typical Hallmark winter scene, wishing us a joyous holiday season.

"What’s your sister say?" I asked.

"You wanna read it?”

“Not really," I replied. "Just tell me the high points.”

“Let’s see… um, Jack’s got a new job.”

“Again?”

“Guess so – ah…pharmaceutical sales.”

“Pushing drugs,” I muttered. She ignored me.

"Let’s see…Um, Jenny’s a Freshman at Middlebury.”

“Of course she is.”

“Well she’s smart.”

“And we’ve heard how smart, every year, since she was in diapers.”

“Oh, stop.”

“It’s true.”

“Actually… It does say how smart she looked in her cap and gown.”

“See!”

“Okay. Okay… Um, what else? Oh! Sandy had a face lift.”

“What?”

“Yeah.”

“She wrote that?”

“No. But look at the picture,” she said as she handed it to me

“You’re right. Doesn’t even look too bad, no eyes stretched back to the ears.”

“Be nice,” she said as she swatted my arm with the rest of the mail. Over my shoulder she saw the blank document on my monitor. “You writing?” she asked.

I glanced back at the screen. "Trying."

"What?"

“Don’t know yet. Something Christmassy, maybe.”

“You haven’t written anything in a while…”

“Yeah.”

A pause. “Why not?”

“I don’t know,” I evaded. She waited for more.

“I haven’t been able to start anything. I have ideas but can’t seem to start anything."

"It’s okay." She kissed me on the top of my head. "It’ll come. You’ll see," she said as she turned and left.

I returned to my screen. The blinking cursor taunted me.

My thoughts wandered, as they are wont, and drifted around to Sandy’s letter. She’s always nauseatingly…chipper - doesn’t matter that Jack drinks too much and Jenny is anorexic - Sandy’s Christmas letter is always sweetness and light.

–And what’s wrong with that? She’s supposed write about the bad stuff? It’s a freakin’ Christmas letter you idiot!

Dear Everyone,

Jack’s a lush and Jenny doesn’t eat anything…

–Right! I’d like to see that in a Christmas letter sometime. What is she thinking when she writes that thing?

I looked at Sandy’s letter and back to my screen.

–What IS she thinking?

---

A Christmas Letter

Lisa stares at the blank document on the screen, takes a deep breath and lets it out through pursed lips.

–Well this one will probably shake a few branches in the family tree.

She starts to type.

Dear Everyone,
Well here we are, wrapping up another year along with our presents.

–There! Good start. Keep it chipper.

We’ve had many changes in our family this year.

–To put it mildly.

New schools and a move to the bustling metropolis of Saint Johnsbury from the rural hinterlands of the Northeast Kingdom (as our lovely corner of Vermont is known).

Jenny graduated high school and started at the University of Vermont in September as an education and English major.

“Mom! Middlebury gave me a scholarship and everything! And I don’t want to go to UVM. Everybody goes to UVM,” Jenny had said when I finally told her I couldn’t afford Middlebury.

“Honey, I know. But it would be fifteen thousand dollars a year more to send you there. I just don’t have it and I’m already borrowing as much as I can”

“It’s not fair!”

“I know dear but…” I started; she cut me off. “You guys said if I got in I could go. Dad promised.”

Jenny glared at her mother for a moment then turned and stomped off down the hall.

“Yeah. He promised a lot of things,” Lisa muttered to the slamming bedroom door.

She doesn’t get home to the NEK as much as we’d like her to but she’s enjoying being off on her own for the first time.

“I HATE IT HERE!!!,” Jenny wrote in her first email. “I don’t know anyone in my dorm. My roommate’s from Manhattan. We don’t have anything in common. She came home DRUNK last night and THREW UP in Grammy’s sap bucket!!!” Jenny’s trash can was a sap bucket on which Lisa’s mother had painted a scene of a sugar-house in full boil. It was a prized possession. This had not seemed to bode well for the relationship with the roommate.

Those first few weeks away were hard for both mother and daughter but soon Jenny’s emails and phone calls became more positive as she established routines and made new friends. When she came home over Columbus Day weekend, her roommate came with her and they obviously were good friends.

“Mom, Tina’s not so bad after all,” Jenny had confided. “She just went kinda overboard that first weekend.” Lisa assumed the trash can incident was forgiven.

While the work has been hard, she likes most of her professors and feels she is doing quite well. She spent most of Thanksgiving weekend either reading or writing or both; computer on her lap and a book propped beside her. We are looking forward to her having her here over the Christmas break.

Jack is

–What do I say about Jack? How about: “Jack’s an asshole and a bigoted macho jerk!”

“You’ve coddled and spoiled him his whole life and that’s what led to this.”

“That’s not true and you know it. You don’t understand how this has torn him apart? He needs our help. He needs our support,” Lisa countered. “But you’re never here,” she added and instantly regretted.

“Don’t get started on that. You knew when I took this job I’d have to travel.”

The call was not going well. He was in Singapore doing whatever it was he did: she didn’t even know anymore, that is how bad their relationship now was. And now, when she needed him, he was either unwilling or unable to come home.

Lisa, stopped to regroup. She didn’t want to go there; that was another argument. She tried a different tack, “Doctor Jacobs says…”

Jack cut her off. “Jacobs is a quack, damn shrink, and all of his psycho-babble.”

“Jack! Our son tried to kill himself.”

Jack dismissed that. “He’s just trying to getting attention.”

“How can you say that? He took a half bottle of your Tramadol. If my appointment hadn’t been cancelled, if I hadn’t come home when I did, he would be dead. They said an hour later he’d have been dead.” She gripped the handset like she wanted to squeeze his neck, blood pounded in her ears – very slowly she said, “He was not ‘just trying to get attention’.”

“Well, you do what you want,” he replied. “You always do anyway.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Jack said something, she could not remember anymore, and she said something back and the whole thing degraded into a shouting match. Eventually she told him to go fuck himself – that she did remember – and hung up on him. When she got back from the hospital later, there two messages from him; she deleted each as soon as she heard the “Lisa, it’s Jack…”

–Stop it, it’s over.

She returns the present task:

Jack’s new job keeps him on the road. When he is not traveling he spends most of his time at company headquarters in Boston. We separated in June.

Four words to summarize the disintegration of a marriage. Should she say more? Or less? She stares at her last sentence for a moment, then adds:

He will be here for Christmas.

–There. Okay, now for the hard part.

Terry had a pretty rough first half of the year but Junior year at St. Johnsbury Academy has started out well.

Lisa sat by the bed watching and listening to Terry breathe. She wished she hadn’t had that last cup of coffee; wished she’d brought a jacket because it was cold under the air vent; wished Jenny wasn’t on that damn class trip to England, wished, for the hundredth time, none of this had happened. The same questions kept returning: Why hadn’t she seen the signs? Could she have done anything? Was Terry going to be okay? Was it finally over between her and Jack? Why can’t they turn off this damned AC?

She wondered how her world had gone so astray. She thought she knew her husband; she thought she knew her child. She’d been wrong about both.

She nodded off for a bit, in spite of the caffeine, but sat up instantly when Terry stirred. His eyes opened and he looked around the room, seeming confused, disoriented. She reached out and took his hand and he turned and tried to focus on her.

“Mom?” he whispered.

“I’m here honey.”

“Where?”

“The hospital. In Saint J.”

His forehead wrinkled as he puzzled through this. When the realization hit him he squeezed his eyes closed and the pain of it etched his face. “Terry!” she said, more sharply than she intended. He opened his eyes again but looked away from her. “Terry. Honey. It’s okay. I’m here.”

He turned back towards her. “I’m sorry mom.”

“I know.”

“I couldn’t take it anymore, they were on me all the time.” His voice trailed off, his eyes teared up, he looked away.

“Terry. Look at me.” He did. She took his hand in both of hers. She wanted to ask why he hadn’t come to her, why he hadn’t said something but knew that was not what he needed to hear. He needed her reassurance, he needed her strength, he needed “Mom”, She gave it to him: “We’ll get through this. You and me together.” Then, after she’d heard what she had just said, she added, half singing “Yes, yes,”

One week during the previous summer, the Dave Mathews song “You and Me” always seemed to come on the Lyndon State College radio station as they were cleaning after supper and they’d started singing it together. Often, they made a game of doing terrible things to the lyrics. It had been a fun summer for them both; the summer Jack had started traveling. The summer of calm before the storm? She wondered.

He looked up at her. A thin smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes touched his lips, “We cud chew anything, Bambi.” This was their favorite mangle of the lyric “We could do anything, baby.”

Then her tears came and she stood to lean over and take him in her arms as they cried together, he saying ”I’m Sorry,.“ over and over, she repeating, ”It‘s okay.“

Looking back, she sees this as the point when the healing, and the transition, began for both of them.

Her anger and guilt came later, after the visits with the psychologist, after the meetings with principal and after conversations with two of Terry’s friends. Anger at how pervasive, vicious and cruel the bullying had been; guilt at how blind she had been to Terry’s internal conflicts. She had either missed or misread the signs. Ahead would be turmoil, confusion, hardship and pain, but at that moment, beside Terry’s hospital bed, a new bond formed that would see them through it all.

You may not have heard, but Terry is now living full time as a girl. This past summer we came to understand her true nature.

“Mom?”

Lisa was sitting on the couch reading a couple of days after they came home from the hospital. She looked up to see Terry at the door. Now, she sensed, would be “the talk”. A couple of times she was going to start a conversation with him but had chickened out – kicking herself for that: wasn’t she the one who had said “you and me together?” She put down her magazine. There would be no backing out this time.

“Terry?”

“Can we talk?”

“Sure honey, come, sit down.”

Terry came in and sat at the other end of the couch. Lisa drew a foot up under herself and turned to face her child.

“Whatcha reading?”

Lisa looked down at the magazine that lay, cover up between them. “Last week’s Newsweek,” she answered. “I didn’t get a chance with… everything that happened.” Her voice trailed off as realized what she was saying.

Both were stalling and knew it. The pause drew on.

Terry took a deep breath and finally said, “Mom, I think I’m a girl.”

There it was. Lisa knew it would be coming after meeting with the counselor at the hospital, but hearing Terry say it… She felt an adrenaline rush of panic for a moment, then relief that it was out, then at a lost as to how she should respond.

Terry watched her, obviously trying to gauge her reaction, Lisa could see the tension. She tried to keep her voice neutral, “Okay? Why do you think that?” It sounded inane, she knew, but it was all she had. She had played this conversation out in her mind numerous times over the past couple of days. Now that it was happening, she could not remember all those things that she had planned to say.

“I don’t know… I mean ever since I was a kid I wanted to be like you…and Jenny. You’re always so strong and loving, even when your mad at me. I never feel like you’re angry at me; just mad at me being, doing something stupid. And Dad’s so… well he treats me like I’m somehow – defective – if I don’t do something his way.”

Lisa knew what Terry meant: Jack treated everyone that way. Unless, of course, he was trying to sell them something. She shook that thought off and returned to the present. “But honey, that doesn’t mean you’re a girl. It’s not just a female thing. There are lots of loving, caring men.”

“Yeah, right. Name me one,” Terry asked.

She drew a blank. Okay, wrong approach she thought to herself. As she was about to ask for more reasons, Terry continued.

“Mom, it’s more than wanting to be like you and not wanting to be like Dad: it’s like…”

“Yes?,” Lisa prompted when Terry paused for too long.

“It’s like my body is wrong, like it’s not mine, that I’m just wearing it like a costume. Like it’s growing out in the wrong places. Mom, I look at girls… breasts, and curves and I want them – I mean, I don’t want a penis, it’s… it’s not right. And hair everywhere like Dad.”

Jack was hairy – something that Lisa had to admit, attracted her.

“Mom, I don’t want to grow up like that.”

“Is that why you… took Dad’s pills?” she asked.

“Partly.”

“And the bullying?”

Terry looked up to her and nodded. “It was awful Mom, all the time, and I couldn’t see any other way. I’m sorry, Mom, but I didn’t know what else to do and I couldn’t take any more.” This last was forced out though a sob. Lisa slid down the couch to take Terry in her arms. To comfort and soothe her son – for that is how she still thought of Terry then.

Even now, as she looks at the last couple of sentences of her letter, she wonders if her son is truly gone. But she shakes that thought off – she will support her new daughter, even if that means she has to mourn her son. She will do… must do whatever is needed: she will not let Terry sink into that abyss again.

–Come on girl finish the letter.

Terry and I moved to Saint J in August and she has made a fresh start at the Academy and is very active in the Lesbian, Gay, Bi and Transgender support group.

–Go ahead, as long as you’re shocking everyone, might as well rub their faces in it.

She remembers an overcast, windy Saturday in November, she and Jenny listening as Terry addresses the rally at the Statehouse in Montpelier.

“I tried to be one of those whom we mourn today,” Terry had said. “I felt lost and alone and could see no way out. I felt surrounded by darkness and could see no light. I did not know that there were others out there just like me; just like us. I was very lucky and am very thankful that my Mom found me and saved me. Saved me in more ways than one. We need, all of us, to work so that there are not more to mourn at next year’s Transgender Day of Remembrance.”

Terry’s transformation not just to living female but also to almost militant transgender activist continues to astound Lisa. In spite of missing her son, she is in awe of the strength that Terry has found within herself.

We three wish you all the joy and peace that this season represents. May your days be merry and bright, your Christmases white and may your 2011 be full of love, health and prosperity.

Lisa & Jenny & Terry

–There. Done. I’ll wait until next to tell them about my chemo…

---

“Cancer?” my wife asked after reading the story. “You can’t give her cancer! Who is she, Job?”

“But it fits with the rest of the story,” I offered.

“Forget it. She’s suffered enough. Either leave it on a high note or don’t say anything after the letter.”

“Okay. I’ll take that out. What about the rest; do you like it?”

“Well, it’s kind of a tearjerker but, yeah, I do. I like that Lisa is ambivalent but still trying to be a good mother and support Terry.” She turned back a page to reread something. “But is that what you think, that you’re wearing the wrong body?”

©2010 JLW

Dave Mathews Band performing "You & Me"

The Northeast Kingdom of Vermont